London in Chains

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Susan turned frightened eyes on Lucy.

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said Lucy. Despite what the apothecary had said, she thought the cowpox would protect her – in Leicestershire they said it did – and how could she leave Uncle Thomas now?

  Susan came over and hugged her. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Lucy, my ma died of smallpox, and I was sick to the heart at the thought of staying here alone! But you’ve never had it; should you—’

  ‘I’ve had the cowpox,’ replied Lucy resolutely. ‘That’s as good. And the apothecary says that most men survive if they have careful nursing, so I think Uncle Thomas will need both of us. One of us can watch while the other rests.’

  She wrote notes to White and to Mabbot, telling them why she could not come in to work, found a boy to deliver them, then set herself to looking after Uncle Thomas.

  It was weirdly peaceful to stay at home, warm and dry, listening to the wind whistling in the eaves, when she should have been jostling through the dirty streets to work or struggling to set type with cold-numbed fingers. She and Susan made up a bed for Thomas in the kitchen where it was warm, and helped him down the stairs to it. He was an undemanding patient: quiet, obedient to all instructions, deeply apologetic for putting them to any trouble. They gave him the apothecary’s tincture, mixed with water, and Lucy read to him from the Bible. When night fell, Lucy and Susan made up another bed for themselves opposite Thomas’s: neither of them wanted to go up alone to the cold loft while death stood at the threshold.

  Over the next few days the disease followed its usual hideous course: the rash turned into blisters, the blisters into pustules that covered Thomas from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He was feverish, sick and in pain, but still apologetic and sweet-natured. The long-winded St Olave’s preacher redeemed himself in Lucy’s eyes by coming to visit and pray with the sufferer. A worried note from Hannah was delivered: ‘My Mother saies I showd not come to see you, for fear the ill showd strike me and the babe unborn, and for the babe’s sake I heed her, yet knowe that my thowts are with you, deerest Father, and my prayers each oure of the daie.’

  Thomas smiled at the letter and had Lucy pen a reply: ‘Indeed you must not come, for the babe’s sake and your owne. Your thoughts and prayers are precious to me beyond rubies, deare Child, and I blesse you with a full and lovinge hart.’

  On the fifth day after Agnes left, Thomas’s fever soared and he fell into a childish daze. He pissed in the bed and cried when they changed the sheets. They boiled the linen and hung it to dry in the master bedroom, though it was sure to take days to dry in the cold wet air. Lucy and Susan took turns sitting by the bedside, wiping Thomas’s blistered skin with the vinegar-and-powder solution and dribbling tincture into his disfigured mouth. It didn’t seem to help: he moaned when he was touched, and most of the medicine simply ran out from his swollen lips. This misery continued all night and all the next day, and all the day and night after.

  The following morning, however, the fever dropped a little. Thomas took some of the tincture and kept it down, and he seemed to be resting more comfortably. Lucy slumped in the chair at the bedside, exhausted by the strain and the broken nights; in the other bed, Susan was asleep.

  ‘Bess!’ said a voice, and she looked up to see Thomas smiling at her, his blistered face alight with joy.

  ‘Uncle Thomas!’ She bent for the cup of watered tincture.

  ‘I’ve missed you so,’ whispered Thomas. ‘Sweet sister!’

  She realized that his fevered mind had mistaken her for her mother. She started to correct him, then stopped herself. Why should she break the fantasy if it made him happy? She held the cup to his lips, supporting his head to help him drink. The blisters on his forehead were just starting to sag and dry: the disease had passed its peak.

  ‘Do you remember how we hid the puppy in the hayloft?’ asked Thomas. ‘Da was so angry! Soft-hearted folly, he called it, and yet he turned out a good dog in the end.’

  Lucy smiled helplessly. She picked up the basin with the vinegar and powder.

  ‘I never wanted you to marry Daniel Wentnor,’ Thomas whispered. ‘He was ever a son of clay, and you were so bright, like the sun upon frost. Ah, but you had the right of it, too, I should never have wed poor Agnes. I thought I might make her happy because I loved her so dearly, and all I’ve done, it’s come to naught but loss. It’s an ill world! Pardon my sins, O Lord, and wash away all my iniquities with the most precious blood of your dear son Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Amen,’ whispered Lucy, wiping his face gently with the cloth.

  Thomas said nothing more, and it wasn’t until Lucy had finished washing his face and hands that she realized he’d ceased to breathe.

  Twelve

  Thomas was buried on a cold day in the middle of November. The gravediggers had to use pick-axes to break the frozen ground, though below the icy crust the earth was heavy with water. Ooze puddled in the hole, and when the shrouded body was lowered into it there was a slopping sound that made Lucy’s teeth ache.

  Despite the weather the churchyard was crowded. Southwark neighbours stood soberly beside members of the Mercers’ Guild, and parishioners of St Olave’s touched elbows with Levellers: Thomas had had many friends. Many of them were Levellers – William Browne and his daughter, Katherine Chidley and her son Samuel, Mr Tew, Mary Overton, William Walwyn. None of the Army men were present, however: Lucy supposed dully that they’d gone to the rendezvous. Ned was absent, too. Agnes had come from Stepney with Hannah and her husband, and she glared at the Levellers across the open grave.

  The preacher mumbled a long prayer, then tossed in the first handful of icy earth. The other mourners copied him, and finally the sexton began shovelling the sticky mud into the grave. The crowd watched for a little, then ebbed slowly to the churchyard gate and stood about uncertainly. There was to be no funeral feast – Agnes had declared such celebrations heathenish and unsuited for the sober times – but no one wanted to be the first to walk away.

  Will Browne went over to Agnes and offered her his hand. ‘I am deeply sorry for your loss.’

  She grimaced. ‘Indeed.’ She turned away deliberately.

  Hannah came over to Browne and hugged him. ‘Forgive my mother,’ she said. ‘She is all adrift.’

  ‘Aye, poor woman!’ said Browne with pity. ‘What will she do now?’

  ‘She will come live with me and Nat,’ replied Hannah with an affectionate glance at her husband. ‘Help me with the babe, when it comes.’

  Lucy felt a touch on her shoulder and turned to find Mary Overton looking at her anxiously.

  She liked and respected Mary. Their acquaintance had deepened towards friendship ever since Lucy was released from Bridewell: several other inmates had asked after Mary, and Lucy had passed the messages on. ‘He died a most Christian death,’ Lucy said now, to forestall the expected condolence. ‘I have no doubt that he is rejoicing now in Paradise.’

  ‘Aye, he was a good and godly man,’ agreed Mary Overton. She hesitated, then swallowed nervously. ‘Lucy, I hope I will not add to your grief, but . . .’ She stopped.

  Lucy frowned, wondering what was wrong. Mary was a strong-willed woman, and nervousness wasn’t like her.

  Mary Overton drew a breath and continued, ‘What I must confess is that I have taken your place at work.’

  Lucy stared in shocked bewilderment.

  Mary winced. ‘Forgive me! When your good uncle fell ill and you stayed home to nurse him, Mr Mabbot asked me if I would manage the printing of The Moderate.’

  ‘He said nothing of this to me!’

  ‘How could he, while you were locked away? I—’

  ‘He might have sent a note! He . . . I . . .’ She didn’t know how to go on, and at last finished plaintively, ‘I’m not to come back to it?’

  ‘Forgive me!’ said Mary again. ‘I hoped it would not be a heavy blow, but I see it is.’ Her pocked cheeks reddened. ‘We needed the money.’

  Of course she di
d. Mary had been struggling ever since her husband was arrested. The family’s finances had improved only slightly since his release from Newgate: he earned small sums from writing or copying, while Mary set type and stitched pamphlets for one small printer or another. The Overtons had children to support: of course Mary had leapt at the offer of well-paid work on The Moderate.

  ‘Mr Mabbot said he would have employed me at the first,’ Mary continued, shamefacedly, ‘only he feared that the children might distract me from the work – but now Richard’s taken on some of the writing of the newsbook. That tipped the balance.’

  ‘Your husband is writing for The Moderate?’ Lucy asked, still bewildered. ‘When did that start?’ Even as she asked it, she saw that it was a natural development: Richard Overton was one of the Levellers’ most gifted writers, and The Moderate had become a Leveller newsbook.

  She had been numb inside since Thomas died: now she was filled with an agonizing mixture of rage and despair. Even so, she couldn’t unleash that rage on Mary – how could she blame her for taking work when it was offered? ‘Why did Gilbert Mabbot say nothing of this to me?’ she demanded instead. ‘Why did he leave you to tell me – at my uncle’s burial?’

  ‘Perhaps he did not wish to intrude upon your grief,’ said Mary uncertainly.

  ‘Aye, and perhaps he knew he was playing me a foul trick and feared to do so to my face!’

  She’d spoken loudly, and several mourners looked round at her in shocked surprise. Mary made hushing gestures with her hands.

  ‘I have lost everything!’ Lucy howled. ‘My home, my savings, and now my place as well – and that cozening hypocrite Gilbert Mabbot didn’t even dare tell me so to my face!’

  Agnes, scowling, marched over. ‘For shame! Will you shout thus at the church gate, and your uncle just in his grave! For shame!’

  Lucy wanted to scream and hit her: only the consciousness that she was at her uncle’s burial held her back. She heaved a deep breath and pressed cold hands against her eyes. The tears flooded hot against her fingers, and she drew another choked breath, then another.

  Will Browne hurried over to her in concern. ‘What’s this about losing your home?’ He glanced at Agnes. ‘Oh!’

  Agnes would stay with her daughter and son-in-law in Stepney: the house in Southwark would be let. The new lessees would never allow the owner’s niece rent-free lodging in the loft. Lucy had realized that the evening of the day Thomas died, and she hadn’t been surprised when Agnes confirmed it in a note she sent round the following morning:

  A pore widow must get whatte godes I cann, & you must goe, home to youre rite kin in Lesstershirr, & why you shud have cum to Lundun & staid soe longe i no nat, but home you must goe, for ther’s no plays heer for you, it’s a smal hous & scarse monie to keep oure owen.

  Browne turned to Agnes. ‘You cannot mean to turn our Lucy out into the street!’

  Nathaniel Cotman, Thomas’s son-in-law, hurried over. ‘Of course she will not be turned out into the street!’ he said with a stern glance at his mother-in-law. ‘We have writ to her father, and I expect he will . . .’

  ‘I will never go back to Hinckley!’ Lucy cried vehemently.

  ‘Yes, you will, miss!’ hissed Agnes furiously. ‘You will go, or I will have you taken up as a common thief! There were sixteen shillings and eightpence in the shop till when I left the house, and when I looked this morning it was all gone!’

  ‘Aye!’ Lucy shot back. ‘And every penny of it went on medicine for my uncle! You foul greedy woman, do you grudge that cost? Christ Jesu preserve me from malice and slander!’

  Agnes lunged forward and slapped her so hard she staggered. Mary Overton caught Lucy’s arm to steady her, then hugged her tight. Lucy struggled to get loose again, blind and breathless with fury. ‘Peace, peace!’ Mary whispered, holding on. ‘Don’t shame your uncle!’

  Lucy stopped struggling, and Mary let her go. Nat Cotman and Hannah, meanwhile, were holding Agnes, who was bright red in the face and crying. The rest of the mourners were staring at her, aghast. ‘Forgive my mother!’ Hannah begged the company at large. ‘She’s distraught.’

  ‘You impudent inky strumpet!’ shouted Agnes. ‘You provoked me to it! I am a decent God-fearing woman, but you would provoke an angel!’

  Lucy turned around and walked off, blind with tears.

  She went back to the house: she presumed that she could stay there until someone was found to rent it, though how she would keep warm and fed she didn’t know. She was flat out of money. The medicines for Thomas had in fact cost eighteen shillings: she’d had to raid her savings to supply the difference. There’d been bills to pay after Thomas died, too: all the local tradesmen had come round to the house wanting payment for coal and bread and butcher’s meat. She’d tried to send them to Nat Cotman in Stepney, who would inherit the estate and all its debts, but they’d been insistent, unwilling to wait until the estate was settled, doubly unwilling to deal with strangers across the river. Lucy had been numb and weary, and nearly out of coal for the fire: she’d given in and paid them until she ran out of savings. She’d been careful to take a note of what she paid and to get receipts, but she was bitterly certain that with Agnes involved it would be a long time before she saw any of that money, if she ever saw it at all.

  She let herself into the house and went to sit in the kitchen. Even that room was cold now: the fire had been banked down to almost nothing, leaving only a ghostly residual warmth in the bricks of the chimney. Susan was still at the churchyard, and the house was deserted. Thomas’s empty bed stared at her: she and Susan had stripped off the stained sheets and boiled them, but hadn’t carried the mattress up the stairs again. Lucy sat down on the floor with her back against the chimneypiece and hugged her knees.

  She had come to London to make a new life for herself. Through hard work, daring and luck she’d succeeded – and now that new life had shattered around her, just like the old one. She remembered Thomas saying that her mother should never have married her father, and she wished with sudden vehemence that she hadn’t and that she herself had never been born. She pressed her hands to her mouth to stifle a howl and began to rock back and forth, whimpering.

  There was a knock on the door. She ignored it, but it sounded again. She got up angrily and went to open it.

  Mary Overton stood there with Will Browne and Liza, all three of them looking worried. ‘Might we have a word?’ asked Will, taking his hat off.

  Lucy made an inarticulate noise, wiped at the tears with her sleeve and gestured them in.

  They sat down in the cold parlour. ‘I am sorry to have cost you your place,’ said Mary cautiously.

  Lucy made another noise and wiped her face again. ‘No blame to you. You’ve children to feed.’

  ‘It’s true, five shillings a week are a mercy,’ agreed Mary, ‘but—’

  ‘Five shillings?’ asked Lucy. ‘He only paid me four!’

  Mary sniffed. ‘Small wonder, then, that he went first to you and not me.’

  The sly meanness jolted Lucy out of her despair. She snorted, wiped her face again and looked around for a rag on which to blow her nose. Liza got up, handed her a handkerchief, then hugged her. Lucy muttered inarticulate thanks.

  ‘I’d be glad to make what amends I can,’ said Mary. ‘I can offer you a place to stay, at least until you find other work. In the ordinary way you’d want to stay with your kin, but your aunt seems a most ill-natured woman . . .’

  ‘She’s the most cursed shrew that ever was!’ said Will Browne sourly. He seemed to have forgotten his pity for her.

  Mary nodded curtly. ‘So it would be better if you lodged with friends.’

  Friends. Lucy wasn’t on her own: her new life might survive this blow. She could go to some other, warmer house and be welcome. The thought set off fresh tears, and she dabbed helplessly at her eyes with Liza’s handkerchief. ‘Thank you! I should like that very much!’

  ‘We have but the two beds,’ Mary admitted. ‘I sold
the other while Dick was in Newgate. You would have to share with the children.’

  ‘In this house I shared with the maid.’ She blew her nose again, glancing round them. ‘She’s out of a place, too – Susan, I mean: my uncle’s maid. She well deserves another one. She’s a good, kind, hard-working girl, and faithful. She stayed with me to nurse Uncle Thomas while Aunt Agnes fled across the river.’ Her lips curled with anger.

  ‘I will ask among my friends and relations,’ promised Mary. ‘Indeed, I will mention it at the next council meeting! I am sure we will find another place for your uncle’s maid, and for you, too!’

  Browne cleared his throat. ‘In the meantime, I can find you some piecework with a bookbinder. It won’t pay what Mabbot did, but half a loaf’s better than none if a man be a-hungry.’

  There was the sound of the shop door opening, and they looked round to find Nathaniel Cotman coming in, with Susan on his heels. He stopped short when he saw the gathering in the parlour. Lucy noticed, with a stab of resentment, that he did not take off his hat: he now considered himself master of the house. She remembered with a shock that now that was exactly what he was.

  Mary Overton got to her feet. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I came to offer Lucy room in my house, since it seems she is not welcome in yours.’

  Cotman’s face reddened. ‘She is welcome in my house until her own kin come to fetch her home!’ He frowned at Lucy. ‘You have kin, Lucy Wentnor; you have a father, and a brother who was anxious to take you home last summer! There was no call for you to shame us in that ungodly fashion, pretending we would turn you out into the street!’

  Lucy looked him in the eye. ‘I pretended no such thing, sir: it was what others concluded from your half-heartedness. To say you’ll keep me until I can be fetched back to Hinckley can scarce be reckoned a welcome! And I think even that much would be denied, were it my aunt’s to dispose of me.’

  ‘You owe your aunt a duty of respect and obedience,’ said Cotman disapprovingly.

  ‘Sir, I have ever tried to pay it! My reward was to be termed a thief before all those people, and then struck when I rejected that foul false name! Shall I show you the receipt, sir, for what I paid the apothecary? And what does it say of her, that before her husband was even buried, the first she was back Southwark since his death, she came creeping back without my knowledge to look in the till for the money that was left there?’