I smile. ‘His name is William, and he’s an officer from the magistrates’ court at Bow Street.’
My friends beam at me, urging me to continue.
‘He’s the most charming person I’ve ever met, and he’s collecting me at five because I’m having supper with him and his mother.’
‘Then leave at once!’ Beckey jumps to her feet and wraps my shawl around my shoulders. ‘Tell me more when I see you next.’
By the time I return home, it’s late in the evening. William insists on escorting me to my door, but I cannot leave him standing on the doorstep while we say goodbye. Laughing, I grasp the lapels of his coat and pull him inside, kicking the door shut behind him. We know our secret meetings will be rare after Arthur’s return. As a result, the farewells take longer and longer.
We caress each other’s faces and the flame of desire intensifies within me. The fire grows, burning at my core, and my lust reflects in the black pools of William’s pupils. I take a step backwards until I’m pressed against the wall. William leans against me and his hardness teases against my groin. His fingertips graze the top of my bodice and travel across the exposed mounds of my breasts. I shudder and gasp, tilting my pelvis forward so it presses against him. How I long for his flesh to move against mine and to experience tender lovemaking in the arms of a man who adores me. Thoughts of Arthur cast grey clouds over my joy, holding my actions in check. William plants feather-light kisses on my neck. I draw his face back towards mine and close my eyes, savouring the softness of his lips. How I yearn to peel off my clothes and lie with him! But I can’t.
Not yet.
Chapter 33
It’s early for sipping gin, but I need something to dull my senses. Today is the day of Arthur’s release. There was a problem securing sureties, but somehow these difficulties were overcome. I wish we’d encountered more problems, but fate was not on my side.
My stomach is churning. Arthur is at the door.
‘I expected to see you outside the gaol, Susan. Were you not eager to celebrate my freedom?’
‘Forgive me, Arthur, but I had to work this morning, although Mrs Hooper was gracious enough to allow me the afternoon off to spend a few hours with you.’
‘No matter. The journey would have wasted your well-earned coins. We’ll need every spare penny in the coming months.’
‘We will?’
‘I’ll need a few weeks to sort my finances – what little remains of them. It’s up to you to feed and clothe us from now on.’ He moves closer and grips my upper arms. ‘There are things I must do, Susan. The country’s in decline. I didn’t think it could get any worse, but I was wrong.’
‘I’m relieved you’ve kept your fighting spirit.’
Arthur laughs. ‘Someday we’ll put the country right. Fear not, Susan, plans are afoot and we’ll be more careful this time.’
I smile, praying for him to return to gaol as soon as possible.
‘You’re thin, Arthur. Are you unwell?’
‘Prison food is not up to your standard of cooking.’ He sniffs the air. ‘Nothing roasting yet?’
‘I wasn’t confident of your arrival time. And I thought it best to keep meals simple at first to allow your stomach a chance to readjust.’
He smiles. ‘And there I was, worried your affection might subside while I was away. I’m pleased you still care.’
I cringe as his bony fingers stroke my face. When they slide towards my shoulders, I shudder with disgust.
He feels my muscles twitch. ‘Come, let us enjoy a sweet reunion.’
‘But, Arthur, it’s mid-afternoon.’
He places his fingertip under my chin and tilts my face towards him. ‘Is there somewhere you need to be?’
‘No.’
‘Expecting a visitor?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the problem? You trembled. You want this as much as I. Don’t be prudish, Susan. Come upstairs.’
I need more gin, but an entire bottle could not numb me from this dreadful situation.
When Arthur removes his clothes, I’m appalled by his skeletal appearance. Only his manhood was unaffected by incarceration. Meanwhile, I have gained more weight than he has lost. I have a full figure, like Titian’s Venus, and Arthur explores my body, mauling every ample curve and nuzzling against my flesh.
I bite down hard on my lower lip, desperate to keep tears from spilling and soaking my cheeks with regret. How often must I endure such humiliation?
‘What’s wrong?’ Arthur’s on his hands and knees, hovering over me, a grim expression on his face. ‘Why do you not respond to my attention?’
I force myself to smile. ‘Arthur, it’s been so long since we were last intimate, and it will be… difficult… at first.’
His lips curl upwards at the corners and his eyes sparkle. ‘It’ll get easier with time.’
He lowers his body onto mine. I grit my teeth. As Arthur forces himself into me, I think of William and how his delicate kisses set my skin alight. If only he were the one thrusting into me now.
It takes an age for Arthur to sate himself, and there is no pleasure in it for me. Instead, I experience a sense of detachment. My soul leaves my body and floats above, watching Arthur use me as if I’m nothing more than a workman’s tool.
I loathe him.
Out of gaol for less than a week, Arthur’s already attending rallies. I’m both anxious and relieved. For my safety, I must convince him of my support, but it’s been a long time since my opinions echoed his.
The shop was quiet this afternoon, so I left early in return for taking a small pile of mending to attend to at home. An ideal opportunity to visit Paternoster Row.
When the bell rings above the door to Mr Brown’s bookshop, two pairs of eyes turn towards me. My broad smile reflects my joy – William is here. Mr Brown dips his head in greeting and hurries towards me. I’m surprised to see him scurry past and turn the sign in the window from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’. Then he mumbles something about paperwork, retreats to his office and closes the door.
William grasps my fingers and guides me to a narrow aisle between two bookcases. Our silent reunion takes several minutes. We haven’t seen each other for six weeks and have both suffered for it.
‘How am I to cope with seeing you so infrequently?’ I say, regretting the whine in my voice.
‘It’ll not be forever.’ William holds me tight against his chest.
‘You don’t know that!’
He looks deep into my eyes. ‘I’m sure of it. It’s only a matter of time before a solution to our problem becomes clear. We must be patient. How long can you spare this afternoon?’
‘Not long. Arthur’s out of town for a rally. He’s been away two nights already and is likely to return home today.’
‘Then we’ll go to my mother’s. She’s visiting her sister so we’ll have the parlour to ourselves for an hour before I must leave to interview a witness. We’ll take bread and cheese, and you can tell me how things are at home.’
I nod meekly. One hour with William is simply not enough.
Chapter 34
‘William will be here soon.’
I choke on a morsel of fatty sausage.
‘A hard-working fellow who suffered at the hands of the government, and now an asset to the Spenceans.’
Not my William, thank goodness. ‘Why is he coming here? Are you to hold meetings at home now?’
‘No. He offered to fix the warped door on the clothes press. I don’t like it hanging open all the time. Looks untidy and I keep walking into it. William owes me a favour and said it would be an easy fix. We’ll head off to a meeting afterwards.’
The press door has been a problem for years and I wonder why Arthur’s bothering about it now. Perhaps because there’s no cost involved.
Arthur glances at his pocket watch. ‘Tidy this away, Susan. We don’t want our guest to think we’re reduced to paupers’ rations.’
A greasy sheen shimmers on my plate b
eside remnants of my meal. It was embarrassing asking a Clare Market butcher for this dreadful meat. Arthur insists on taking my earnings and gives back too little with which to buy decent food. Fortunately, he’s unaware of my exact wage. I didn’t declare the correct total from the outset and I’m building a small kitty to prepare for a future without him.
Men’s voices drift from the hallway. I finish stacking clean dishes before emerging from the kitchen to greet our visitor. Arthur and his guest have moved to the bedroom by the time I complete my chores.
As I step through the doorway, I’m confronted by a man on his knees, fiddling with the lowest hinge of the press door. He turns his head towards me and flashes a gleaming smile.
‘Mrs Thistlewood.’ He scrambles to his feet, takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips. ‘William Davidson at your service – literally.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Davidson.’
I smile at his smooth charm. His eyes sparkle with humour as he looks me up and down. Mr Davidson is handsome with a prominent forehead, dark brown eyes, black curly hair and chiselled cheek bones. His outfit is smart considering the task at hand, and he appears untroubled by wood dust clinging to his coat. The chestnut hue of his skin gives him an exotic appearance.
Mr Davidson faces Arthur and grins. ‘Your wife’s pretty. Why didn’t you warn me? How am I to concentrate while Cleopatra watches me work?’
‘Fetch a jug of ale, Susan,’ snaps Arthur. ‘The dust dries our throats.’
Mr Davidson turns back to me and gives an exaggerated shrug. This is a ladies’ man.
When I return with the ale, the job is complete.
‘Now you may shut the door on your clothes,’ announces Mr Davidson, showing the ease with which the door now moves.
‘It was generous of you to repair it for us,’ I say.
‘It was a simple task.’
Arthur looks agitated. ‘We’ll have drinks now and leave in half an hour.’
I follow the men into the parlour and top up their cups. I’m about to retreat when Mr Davidson says, ‘Mrs Thistlewood, don’t go. Business can wait. Grace us with your charm for a few minutes.’
Arthur’s curt nod tells me to sit on a hard-backed chair at the table while he and Mr Davidson enjoy the comfort of the armchairs.
‘You have an unusual accent, Mr Davidson. Are you from outside London?’
‘Well spotted, Mrs Thistlewood. I was born in Jamaica, but my mother sent me to school in Edinburgh. After that I moved to Liverpool, interspersed with unpleasant episodes at sea. A few years ago, I moved to London. My accent is a mix of breeds, much like myself.’
‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Oh, I’m not offended. I used to teach at Sunday school and am accustomed to curious enquiries from children, including my own. It’s refreshing for an adult to show interest.’
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Six. My wife already had four when we married. Children put sunlight into each day, don’t you think?’
The very thought of Julian brightens my day.
‘They do. Arthur’s son knows how to cheer me whenever I’m out of sorts.’
Arthur scowls. ‘Enough small talk. We should leave now, William, and discuss the rally planned for Manchester next week. It should draw a sizeable crowd and I’m inclined to attend.’
We all stand. Arthur bids me a curt farewell whereas Mr Davidson’s is as warm as his greeting. I’m still smiling when I close the door, relishing the prospect of an evening to myself. It would have been an opportunity to see my William, but an investigation has him working all hours, so I content myself with a few chapters of Emma. A treasured reminder of when we first met.
‘You seem different.’
‘How so?’
Arthur’s reflection glowers from the mirror.
‘More confident.’
I swivel to face him. ‘Arthur, that should come as no surprise. Left to support myself for over twelve months, I had to become assertive and attend to matters you used to address. A timid woman can’t fend for herself in a city such as London. I couldn’t risk appearing vulnerable.’
‘There’s something else. You’ve become flirtatious and too relaxed in the company of men.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
Arthur rises from the bed and strides towards me. He beckons me to stand. I do as he commands and hold his gaze.
‘You were disrespectful today.’ His bottom lip trembles. Muscles twitch at his temples – a sign he’s clenching his jaw.
I divert my gaze to a thin rectangle of faded carpet on the bedroom floor.
‘You flaunted yourself in front of Davidson.’
‘No, Arthur. You’re mistaken. Mr Davidson was friendly and charming, but I did nothing to encourage his attention.’
My eyes flick back to Arthur. He interprets this simple reflexive action as a challenge and slaps me hard across the cheek. I stumble backwards, knocking over a chair and crashing down on top of it. The wood makes a sickening crack as a leg breaks off, thrusting a sharp shard into the back of my thigh. Whimpering, I stagger to my feet, but my fighting spirit enrages Arthur. He clenches a fist and thrusts it into my belly, knocking the air from my lungs. Falling to my knees, I raise my hands and plead with him to stop, but my voice is silent, buried beneath a thick blanket of pain.
‘You’ve become a whore. That was clear today. You wanted that man to bed you, I could tell.’
‘No.’
Arthur’s foot connects with my chest, kicking away my denial.
Tears blind me. I can’t imagine what has angered him like this. I curl into a ball, bracing for the next blow. It doesn’t come.
‘Take my hand,’ says Arthur, before heaving me upright.
I would have preferred to stay put. The act of standing pulls hard on my bruised body, preventing me from straightening up. My chest aches with every breath as if I’m suffocating.
‘Lie down.’
I sit on the edge of the bed, light-headed and nauseous. Arthur lifts my legs onto the mattress, twisting me round, forcing me to fall back against the pillows. My eyelids stick together as if glued. I refuse to look at him.
‘Open your eyes.’
I taste bile, and my stomach clenches. Please, God, don’t let me be sick. Not now.
‘I said, open your eyes.’
‘I’m trying, but I don’t feel well.’
Arthur slaps my cheek and the stinging pulses like an echo of his violence. I force my eyelids open. He leers and grasps my shift in both hands, renting it apart to expose my nakedness. Then he peels off his own nightshirt, revealing his lust in its engorged ugliness.
‘This is how a man treats a whore.’
Arthur holds my neck with one hand and uses the other to force my thighs apart. I try to think of William but can’t associate his image with such defilement, so I erase him from my mind and focus on surviving.
At last, Arthur rolls off me with a smug smile. ‘Get up.’ There’s a sinister edge to his voice. ‘Clean up the mess.’
I struggle into a sitting position. The gash in my leg has bled onto the sheets. My thigh is throbbing, and I must attend to it soon or it will heal with an ugly scar.
‘Never flaunt yourself again,’ says Arthur.
I look into his eyes. ‘I promise I will only ever flaunt myself to the man I love.’
Chapter 35
‘Susan?’ Confusion flickers across Mrs Westcott’s face. ‘Forgive me, my dear, I wasn’t expecting you.’
The curious eyes of William’s ancestors stare from portraits on the hallway walls. Their scrutiny is unsettling.
‘My apologies for interrupting your afternoon, but I must speak with William. I went to Bow Street, but they said he was attending to a personal matter.’
Mrs Westcott gives me a pitying look. ‘He’s gone away for a few days. But, dear Susan, it’s delightful to see you. You know you’re welcome anytime. Come and join us. Share the joyful
news.’
‘Oh, no! I mustn’t intrude.’
She links her arm through mine and grasps a walking stick in her other hand before leading me towards her parlour. ‘No objections. I want you to share this special occasion. William would insist.’
It’s my turn to look confused. Three elegant ladies replace teacups on saucers and rise in unison to greet me.
‘This is our dear friend, Mrs Susan Thistlewood,’ says Mrs Westcott, beaming at me.
The youngest of the ladies steps forward and reaches for my hands. ‘Mrs Thistlewood, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Miss Jane Hurst. This is my mother, Mrs Margaret Hurst, and my sister, Mrs Charlotte Harris. Louisa has told us all about you. I understand your embroidery is exquisite.’
‘The best in the city,’ declares Mrs Westcott. Turning to me, ‘Make yourself comfortable, my dear, and take tea with us.’
I stifle a grimace as I lower myself into a plush armchair. The soft cushion pad is no match for the scars of Arthur’s brutality. My eyes drift back towards Miss Hurst. Her oval face radiates beauty from a clear complexion, and her silver-grey eyes twinkle with joy. Her rosebud mouth crinkles at the corners as it widens into a warm smile, and her fashionable dress sits well on her elegant figure.
Mrs Westcott pours a cup of tea and passes it to me. My hand trembles, causing the fine bone china cup to rattle in the saucer. I steady it with my other hand, hoping the ladies present are oblivious to my discomfort.
‘Susan, you’ve become a dear friend, and so it’s my pleasure to share the most delicious news with you. Miss Hurst is to become Mrs Westcott. Isn’t that wonderful?’
The cup and saucer fall from my hands, filling my lap with a puddle of hot tea. The heat is a welcome distraction from my pain. Mrs Westcott opens the parlour door to call for her maid, while Mrs Hurst dabs at my soaked skirt with a square of lace-edged linen.
The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 15