by Sonia Velton
“I told you you’d never be able to get away from me, didn’t I? Now you see that I was right.” I studied her wig, dusted with powder and edged with a smear of face paint. She gave my face a frustrated shake. “Look at me,” she said.
I dragged my eyes to hers. They were set like beads of onyx in her whitened face. Her lips were a vermilion streak beneath them. She made Lucy Carey look like a wholesome farm girl. “How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“Maybe you haven’t made as many friends in your new household as you think.” She smiled, revealing the gap in her teeth again. “They all know what you are,” she continued. “Now you can’t pretend to be a lady’s maid—or whatever it is you think you are.” She let go of me and began to stroke my cheek with a shaky hand, affectionate suddenly. Her face softened, and the skin lay in powder-creased folds either side of her mouth. “Come back to us, Sara. We’ll even take the little one.”
I grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from me. “Leave me alone.”
“What a thing to say to your only friend in the world! I’d try to keep me sweet, if I were you. It’s only me that’s keeping the constable from your door. I should have thought you’d had quite enough of courtrooms as it is!”
I turned to walk up the stairs, but above me small feet in neat shoes were stepping their way down, kicking out frothy skirts with each tread. It was Moll in her best dress, the one she wore to church to sit next to the master, daydreaming no doubt that she was his wife.
“What have you done with my baby?” I said, trying not to sound concerned.
Moll rolled her aquamarine eyes. “It’s with Monsieur Finet,” she replied, her words coming out in impatient little taps, like her foot-steps.
I did not stay to ask her where she thought she was going. I just waited for her to get off the stairs and went straight up to my daughter.
“Good day to you, pretty little girl,” I heard Mrs. Swann say to Moll as she passed.
* * *
My baby was far more interested in Monsieur Finet than he was in her. As I pushed along the row of people to get to them, she was grabbing handfuls of his fleshy jowls and squeezing them. I would have taken her home then and there, but as I plucked her from his hands, I saw something that surprised me. Moll was now sitting in the witness box, tidying the curls away from her face and smiling at the jurors. And they all sat up, those men, and looked at her. Moll behaved as if she barely noticed. She was so used to the attention of men that she simply accepted it, like the sun shining on her face.
Then she started speaking in her quiet elfin voice, taking the oath like a solemn child. The eternal rustling and fidgeting in the gallery stopped. Even the women leaned forward in their seats to hear what the little doll had to say. I lowered myself onto the bench.
“If it pleases your honor, I am able to tell you exactly what happened in the garret that night. I was busy all the time the riot was going on, helping my mistress, Mrs. Thorel, with her lady’s maid. Having a baby, she was, but it was not going well. The baby was stuck fast, like a cork in a bottle, and no amount of tugging or pulling was getting it out. Well, the wee thing was turning gray—at least its foot was. That was all we could see. Madam didn’t know what to do so I said I’d go and get help. It was dangerous outside that room, what with all the rioting and the like, but I wasn’t thinking about myself, just about the babe, who was as innocent in this world as it is possible to be.”
Some of the jurors nodded and smiled at her. Even through the haze of my pain and bewilderment that night, that wasn’t my recollection of what she had done.
“We had all guessed that the father was one of the journeymen. I had seen Miss Kemp go off to Buttermilk Alley with my own eyes, after all, and more than once. So I went to fetch them. Out in the hall, it was quiet. There was plenty going on down in the square, but the house itself seemed to be empty. I was about to run downstairs, when I heard voices from the garret, male voices that sounded like Mr. Lambert and Mr. Barnstaple. I wasn’t sure whether to go up, because it sounded like they were arguing, but I did, for the baby’s sake.”
Moll paused a moment, toying with her handkerchief as if wondering whether to go on.
“And what did you see when you got to the garret?” asked the judge, more kindly than he had spoken before.
“I saw him cut the silk, my lord.”
“Him?” prompted Thorel.
“Mr. Lambert, sir.” Moll turned her almond eyes on Elias Thorel for just a moment longer than she needed to. Then she shifted her gaze back to the judge and jury. “I opened the door and Mr. Barnstaple was shouting at Mr. Lambert saying, ‘Put it down,’ or something like that. They were in a bit of a tussle and Mr. Barnstaple was grabbing at the cutlass that was in Mr. Lambert’s hand. But Mr. Lambert just shoved him aside. Then he grabbed the silk and sliced it right off the loom with that cutlass.”
The judge looked grave. “Do you have anything else to tell the court?”
Moll shook her head. “That very moment the King’s men arrived and, well, they could tell you as much as I from then on.”
The judge nodded and bent his head to speak to his clerk. Moll sat there patiently during their whispered exchange, demurely inspecting her hands, while the jurymen cast her occasional glances and pretended to write notes. She must have looked pretty as an angel to them.
And angels don’t lie.
Esther
Despite all the memories it held, the garret was still one of my favorite places in the house. By the time we had gotten back from court, it was about five o’clock in the afternoon before I could get up there. It was April and the days were longer. Too long. The same light that had been so precious when Bisby and I were weaving was now just time that had to be endured before I could end another day separated from him.
My petticoat lay crumpled on top of the silk where Elias had thrown it. There was no one to hide it from now. I pulled away the material and let it fall onto the floor. I stood there for a moment, struck again by the luminescence of the silk. I trailed my fingers over the flowers as they arced across the gathering roller. Blackberry and Wild Rose. It made me think of myself and Sara to see the wild roses’ steady progression through the silk, with the blackberry, tart and prickly, among it.
Bisby had been right. The run of white threads through the weft lifted the piece and gave definition to the intricate flowers meandering across the warp. I would never have thought of putting them together, assuming that the pale yellow would seem faded against the bright white. Instead it enhanced it and gave it a life it would not otherwise have had. Just as Bisby had done for me.
I walked to the other end of the loom. I had always been the one pulling the lashes while Bisby controlled the rigid limbs of wood and cord. I sat down on the weaving bench. Bisby was in Newgate and Elias had let his obsession with convicting Bisby take over his life. The looms had lain dormant since the riot, lending an unnatural quiet to the house. Mine was the only silk left now. I inspected the edge as it met the heddles, expecting it to end partway through the final repeat, but I saw that it had been neatly finished. He must have done that with Ives after I had told him my visits to the attic had to stop. True to his word: I promised you I would help you weave this silk and I will do it. He had done everything he said he would do, fulfilled every promise, and what had I done in return? Prevented him from finishing his master piece and earned him the wrath of his master. I could not even bring myself to think of the final step, that it might be me who sent him to the gallows. And for what? My love of silk? My love of him?
I picked up the shuttle and raised the heddles. I had not been able to weave before because Bisby had been standing behind me, secure and reassuring, yet maddeningly distracting. It took a few attempts to time the throw of the shuttle with the lift and drop of the heddles, but after a while I fell into a rhythm and the garret was filled with its familiar clack-clack-bo
om again. One inch of plain weave was all that was needed before I could remove the piece. No need for a drawboy, no pattern mechanism to set, just the simple build of warp on weft.
I finished as the light was fading. There was just enough time to release the tension of the warp threads and gather them together to knot. Cutting it from the loom was like severing the birth cord, both an end and a beginning. There was nothing left to bring Bisby and me together, but what I now held in my hands was something new and precious.
42
Sara
She didn’t even hear me come in. She was too busy singing a little song to herself under her breath as she spun the coin on the kitchen table. Every so often it would hit a knot in the oak and clatter flatly on the wood. She didn’t seem to tire of picking it up again and watching its dull golden sides flash in the candlelight.
“I always knew that if you throw a penny up high enough, it’ll land in someone’s pocket.”
Moll looked up at me standing in the doorway, then slapped her hand down over the guinea, quietening its metallic clang.
“Where did you get that?” I said, approaching her.
Moll slid her hand, palm down, across the wood until the coin fell off the table into her lap. “Get what?” she said.
I laughed. “You must think me a fool.”
Moll tipped her head to one side. “I might call you many things, but a fool wouldn’t be one of them.”
“I’m surprised he had to pay you to lie. I thought you would’ve done it for nothing, given what else you do for him.”
Moll gave me an overly sweet smile. “I have no idea what you mean. Don’t make the mistake of judging me by your own standards.”
Her words didn’t sting me. There was nothing this girl could say to me that had not been offered up to the whole parish this afternoon.
“Anyway,” Moll stopped trying to hide the money and cupped it in her hand, “who says I was lying? How do you know what I saw up in the garret? Far as I remember, you were flat on your back at the time, snorting like a sow in muck.”
I dragged out a stool from under the table and sat down. She glared at me, but I ignored her and laid my forearms on the table. “You’ll go to Hell for what you’ve done,” I said.
“Better to go to Hell in a fine gown and a new bonnet than rumble off in a cart to sift cinders at Tottenham Court, which is what you’ll soon be doing.”
“Do you really think he’ll prefer you to her once you’re wearing a fine gown?”
Moll’s eyes left the coin in her hand and searched my face.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re just a scullery maid and she is the quality. Even a hundred guineas won’t change that.”
“You wouldn’t be so nice about her if you knew what I’ve been doing just now.” Moll got up, slipping the guinea into the pocket of her apron. She walked over to the kitchen dresser and brought back a piece of material draped over her arms.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, laying it out before me on the table. “Madam said that she and her sister were christened in it. It’s to be your baby’s token.”
“Token?”
“Yes, the thing your little foundling will take with her to the hospital so that she can be identified later if anyone ever comes to claim her.” Moll gave me a vicious little glance. “Should anyone ever want to claim such a base-born thing.”
On the table was a cream silk christening shawl, edged with intricate lace embroidered with flowers and scrolls. It was so beautiful, I felt compelled to touch it, but Moll whisked it from the table when I reached out my hand.
“Best not have the likes of you touch it, not after I’ve spent so long making it nice. I must say, I’m glad the poor mite will finally be christened. She’s been a nameless bastard far too long as it is.”
If there had not been a yard of oak between us, I would have taken that dainty shawl and twisted it round her neck, and well she knew it. When Monsieur Finet walked in, she scuttled over to him like a dog called to heel and busied herself wrapping the shawl in tissue. Finet sat down heavily in his chair and began to ease off his shoes. “I’m exhausted,” he said, holding them up so that Moll could put them by the hearth. “It’ll be good to get back to normal after all this unpleasantness.” I watched him as he sat back in the chair and reached across his chest to rub at his shoulder. The cat sprang onto his lap and circled round, following its own tail until it was comfortable.
“It was a difficult day in court for you, Kemp,” said Finet, idly stroking the cat’s copper fur. “That’s the thing about a past like yours. You can’t escape it. It marks you forever—like the pox.” Behind him, Moll gave a snigger as she snipped off a length of string to tie round the tissue-wrapped shawl.
I had spent all the time since leaving court wondering how Elias Thorel had known of my connection to Mrs. Swann and where to find her. There was something pointed about Finet’s words, something so deliberate that it made me think of Mrs. Swann’s remark outside the courtroom. She was right: I had made no friends in this household. I got up and walked over to the hearth as if I were about to put on a pot of water to boil, but instead I stopped in front of Finet’s chair. When he saw my skirts in front of him his hand stilled. The cat half opened an eye.
“What is it, woman?” His voice was low and resonant with warning. What did I care? I had nothing to lose.
“How did you know about me?”
Finet thought for a moment, then looked up. “Didn’t do you much good, did it?”
“What?”
“That Bible Mrs. Thorel sent you. If you’d spent a bit more time reading it, and a bit less time at Buttermilk Alley, you wouldn’t be in the trouble you’re in now.”
In the corner, Moll had stopped preparing the parcel and was watching us with eyes as round and gleaming as the fat guinea in her pocket.
“How did you know about the Bible?”
Monsieur Finet chuckled. “Mrs. Thorel asked me to deliver it to the Wig and Feathers. Even then I didn’t know who you were when you turned up on the doorstep. It was young Moll who found the book and brought it straight to me.”
“Found my Bible?” I spoke through gritted teeth, staring at Moll. “You’ve been going through my things?”
Moll ignored me and lowered her gaze back to the christening shawl, tying a neat bow with purposeful fingers. The cat stood up and stretched on Finet’s lap, then jumped onto the floor. Finet got up and pulled out a slab of mutton, hacking it into chunks while the cat looked on with watchful amber eyes.
Esther
You might have thought it would take longer to decide whether a man lives or dies than it would take to drink a glass of port. But that was exactly how long it took. The jury retired for their refreshments after Moll gave her evidence and were ready with the verdict the next morning. There was land to be managed, after all, tea and sugar to be imported and sold, silver to be wrought into trinkets to adorn the wives and houses of those fine men. No more time could be spent sitting in court deciding the fate of common working men.
The defendants were asked to stand in front of the judge one by one. They took Barnstaple first, pulling him by the arm so hard that he stumbled. But those chains did not hang heavy on him for long. The clerk was already unlocking them before the foreman had finished delivering the verdict. Barnstaple brought his newly released hands in front of his face, inspecting them as if someone had just put them there. In the gallery, crowds of journeymen cheered and shouted his name, as if he were a fighter in a ring. Then he tilted his head back and raked his fingers through his thick black hair. Relief filled his cheeks with air and made him nicker like a horse.
Bisby watched Barnstaple intently, as if he were a parody of himself acting out what might be. When it was his turn to stand, Bisby leaned heavily on the clerk’s arm as he walked the short distance to the judge and ju
ry.
Heads you win, tails you lose. But why could they not both be set free? If the jury couldn’t decide who had cut the silk, then surely they could convict neither man. I was wrong to imagine that this trial was some kind of duel to the death between these men. Their fates were linked whether they liked it or not. Barnstaple’s freedom predicted Bisby’s own. It had to, because there was no more evidence to convict Bisby than Barnstaple.
Apart from that pretty little girl, her words spoken like pearls of truth from the mouth of a paragon. Apart from her.
The jury foreman cleared his throat and readied himself. Just that tiny affectation was enough to strip the warmth from my blood. It shifted the center of my being, so that the world seemed to deconstruct around me. Why did the foreman need a clear throat and a straight back to free a man? Elias seemed to tense beside me, becoming more alert, the optimism I had felt moments before being sucked from me into him.
The judge asked him for his verdict on all three charges. The foreman read with perfect clarity. “Charge one, guilty. Charge two, guilty. Charge three, guilty.”
Each one a hammer blow. Each time the word was repeated, a fresh insult, hope receding with every breath.
The judge asked Bisby if he knew of any reason why the sentence of death should not be passed. He shook his head in mute despair. He was neither a woman nor a clergyman, what hope had he to escape the noose? The judge placed the square of black silk on his head, but it sat too far forward so that the corner pointed down almost to his nose. He pushed it back up, dislodging his wig as he did so, exposing an edge of brown hair flecked with gray. A glimpse of the real man underneath all this ceremony.
Then he told Bisby he would die. He said that he would be taken back to Newgate and, on the seventeenth of April 1769, from there to a temporary gallows erected in Bethnal Green so that all who lived there could learn from his example. He told him he would be hanged by the neck until he was dead and that thereafter his body would be buried within the precincts of the prison. By this time, the court was so silent that the judge’s final words were spoken with absolute clarity.