by Mary Hooper
I tried to memorise what people were wearing to tell Sarah later, for it seemed to me that each group was more dazzling and brilliantly dressed than the one before. The men were mostly in velvet breeches in rich colours, gartered in gold at the knee, with handsome thigh-length black coats which bore silver-and-gold embroidered cuffs. Some carried swords or three-cornered hats with vast plumes, and some had short periwigs. The very finest wore elaborate curling wigs and their faces were powdered and patched almost as carefully as those of the women.
The women themselves were like birds of paradise in summer gowns made of lace, spangled satin, muslin or watered moiré in all colours of the rainbow: jade green, palest ivory, rich plum, lavender and dusky pink. Most of them had tumbling blonde hair (all false, Abby said in a whisper) and their whitened skin contrasted greatly with their dark eyebrows and sweeping lashes. Their bodices were low – so low, in fact, that it was a wonder that their voluptuous bosoms did not spill out of their gowns – and most carried elaborate, feather-loaded fans. Those who did not affect to hide behind their fans were wearing vizards or masks, held up to their faces on sticks.
It was difficult not to gawp, and in the end Abby had to tug my arm to make me move. ‘Do come on, Hannah,’ she hissed. ‘You’re staring about you like a country bridegroom at a whorehouse.’
‘Sorry,’ I murmured, for my sights had just been engaged by a woman wearing a striking bright fuschia-pink dress with pearl-grey under-skirt and the largest, most ludicrous headdress of flowers and dressed hair I had ever seen. She was an old woman, at least sixty, and her face and upper body were painted waxy-white and covered in black, spangled patches. Her lips were blood red and her eyebrows painted on in large semi-hoops, giving her a permanent expression of surprise.
‘Who is she?’ I asked Abby in a low voice. ‘Someone’s mistress?’
Abby looked where I was staring and shuddered. ‘Years ago, maybe,’ she said. ‘And now she wears whitening and patches to hide the wrinkles and pox marks. Pray God you and I find good husbands who live long, Hannah, for I would not like to be on the market again at her age.’ She tugged my arm. ‘Come on, I have to get some silver ribbons for Madam. She’s feeling a little better and has a fancy to bedeck herself.’ She stepped confidently towards one of the small shops and I scuttled behind her, my eyes darting everywhere.
The little shops sold a thousand varieties of luxurious things: tortoiseshell boxes, silver comfit holders, velvet capes, soft leather gloves, jewelled bags, satin petticoats, watches and clocks, masks, birdcages, linen handkerchiefs and every possible item of haberdashery. The one thing I did not see was a confectioners, and I immediately began to dream of having a shop here, of me and Sarah being at the Royal Exchange, our Sugared Plum sign hanging here amongst the glittering signs of so many others.
Abby made her purchase and, very reluctantly, we set off for home, but not before we’d taken a turn of the inner court once again and seen a most beautiful, very elegant tall woman in flame-coloured silk whom Abby said was Barbara Castlemaine, the king’s mistress. I was able to see little more than this lady’s head and fine shoulders, however, because a small crowd of gallants were surrounding her, each, it seemed, trying to outdo the others in swaggers and elaborate courtly gestures.
I left Abby at Belle Vue, the house where she was in service. It was a handsome five-storey dwelling set in a cobbled and flowered courtyard, with stables alongside, and Abby promised that the next time the master and mistress were out, she would show me around it. ‘We’ll be quite safe,’ she said, ‘for the cook spends her afternoons drinking and playing cards with the grooms and the housekeeper has a lover and is never here. When Mr Beauchurch is out and the mistress is asleep I have free run of the house.’ She eyed me quizzically. ‘But talking of lovers . . . you have not spoken of your beau. Tom, isn’t it?’
I blushed. ‘Really, I hardly know him,’ I had to confess to her.
‘Is that so?’
‘Although, if knowing him could be advanced by thinking of him, then I own I know him well enough to marry him!’ I said.
She laughed. ‘You’ll have to contrive another meeting. ’Tis easily done. My sweetheart is ’prenticed to a bookbinder and I find all sorts of excuses and reasons to go in and question him on the book business, although I find it horribly dreary.’
I said I would think of something, and see her soon, then we kissed and parted.
When I got home, I told Sarah in great detail everything I’d seen at the Exchange, and also assured her that I was determined that one day we would have a shop there.
She was in a happy mood and joined in, saying that we might easily do that – for she had done well that day and almost sold out of our fairy fruit. ‘Everyone who passed admired it,’ she said, ‘and several ladies said they would tell their friends about us. There is just one thing —’
‘What’s that?’ I asked absently, my mind still on all the things I’d seen.
‘We must close the shop early this afternoon and set to making some more,’ she said.
Inwardly, I groaned a little, thinking of the cracking of the almond shells and the laborious peeling and pounding of the nut kernels, but did not say a word.
That evening, while Sarah and I were still grinding nuts, the crier came to say that because of fear of the dread visitation, that very day the king and his courtiers were leaving London for Isleworth. Meanwhile, to try to avert the sickness, his people were ordered to take to the churches and observe some days of fasting and solemn prayer, the first of which was to be the following Wednesday. On this day all shops, markets and taverns were to be closed and everyone was to attend church at least once. Hearing this, I immediately thought of Tom and what a chance it was to see him – for I would make sure to attend the church in his parish as well as ours – and how fine I would look in my new green dress with its matching petticoat.
When, though, three days later, the new Bill of Mortality was published with the news that across London, five hundred persons had died of the plague in that first week of July, I upbraided myself for my vanity and made a silent promise that I would attend church as devoutly and sincerely as a nun, and not give another thought to how I looked that day.
I did not see Tom at church, and indeed it was a most grave and seemingly never-ending sermon in St Mary at Hill, so that I was mighty sorry I had decided to attend it and not go back to the shop with Sarah after the service at St Dominic’s. The vicar there wore a rough woollen shirt and had ashes on his forehead, and he roared from the pulpit that if the plague struck in its full terror, then we were all to blame by our corrupt behaviour. He said that if we wanted to avert the full might of it then we must change our sinful ways.
I looked round at my fellow men, wondering what they had to confess and thinking that they must all have souls as black as those of heathens if the vicar was right. Try as I might, however, I could not think of a single really bad thing of my own to confess. There was vanity, of course, but I had quite given up on my freckles and was almost resolved to live with them, and could such a seemingly small thing like wishing to have darker hair and finer gowns really bring down the wrath of God on us?
That afternoon, while we were supposed to be fasting in silent contemplation of our fate (in reality, partaking of bread and cheese and talking of home) there came a tap on the door of the shop.
Going through, I was disconcerted to find Tom standing there and, moreover, Tom in Sunday best starched shirt and red fustian breeches, a felt hat on his head.
He gave me a slight bow, his eyes raking my face and smiling, and bade me good day. I curtsied and bade him the same, but then I was stuck and did not know what was the correct thing to do. At home in Chertsey I would have invited him in to take some small beer, but here in London I did not know if it was appropriate. Sarah, though, seeming to sense I was at a loss, called to me.
‘Don’t leave Master Tom standing on the doorstep like a boot scraper,’ was what she said, and it mad
e him laugh. He tugged off his hat as he came through to our back room, and his eyes fell on Mew. I had tied an old ribbon around her neck and she was rolling across the floor playing with the fraying edge of it. ‘Oh, haven’t you heard?’ he exclaimed.
I looked down at Mew in some concern. I feared that he was going to say that Mew belonged to someone important and was being sought by them, for I’d grown very fond of the kitten and would not have liked to give her up.
‘Heard what?’ Sarah asked.
‘By order of the Lord Mayor all the cats and dogs . . .’ He hesitated. ‘All cats and dogs are to be killed.’
Sarah and I both gasped, and I picked up Mew immediately and held her tight.
‘Why?’ we both asked together.
‘They think the sickness may be caused by cats and dogs running abroad and spreading it to different houses. Doctor da Silva does not believe this is possible, but . . .’ he shrugged, ‘this is what the authorities say. There are carts going round and the drivers are being paid two pence for the body of each dog or cat they club to death and bring in.’
I gave a little scream.
‘Is that really true, Tom?’ Sarah asked. ‘You would not joke with us?’
‘Indeed not!’ Tom said. ‘I can see how fond you are of the little thing.’ He put out his hand to stroke Mew’s soft fur. ‘All is not lost,’ he said, ‘for if you keep kitty inside they won’t see her. The men have no authority to come into the house and club the animals there – although in view of the bounty being paid, some no doubt will try to do so.’
‘Then we must keep Mew indoors!’ Sarah said.
I nodded. ‘From now on she mustn’t even go out in the yard.’
Sarah pulled a slight face, turning up her nose, for she took pains to ensure that our shop and living quarters were always clean and sweet-smelling.
‘She could go outside on a leash of string,’ I said. ‘And you or I will watch her to see that she doesn’t bite through it and get away.’ I held Mew at arm’s length and she seemed to look at me reproachfully with her big round eyes. ‘It’s for your own good!’ I said. ‘And when all is well with the world, then you can go out properly once more.’
Tom gave a slight cough. ‘Miss Hannah. I came to ask if you wished to come picking violets with me,’ he said.
I smiled at him, pleased and excited to be asked.
‘Where do you intend to go for them?’ Sarah wanted to know.
‘To Chelsea,’ Tom said. ‘Doctor da Silva is busy now preparing a great many remedies against the plague and he needs several herbs which only grow wild. I know you use violets a great deal yourself, and there is a patch known only to myself on the banks of the Thames there.’
I glanced at Sarah, who was nodding. ‘Violets – yes, we always need many!’ she said. ‘It has been harder to buy them at the market lately. And if you should see any wild strawberries, Hannah, or borage, I would have some of those too.’ She glanced at Tom. ‘But of course Master Tom must have first pick.’
Tom smiled. ‘There is plenty enough to go round,’ he said. ‘I know all the secret places.’ He patted the canvas bag which he carried over his shoulder. ‘This will be full by the time we come home.’
Sarah found me a trug, and asked me in a low voice if I would rather not change out of my green gown and into another more modest one. I stopped her words with a frown and shake of my head, however, and she smiled and let me go.
Chelsea was about five miles away but a pleasant walk once we got through the press of London, and it only took us just over an hour to reach the meadows Tom had spoken of. We talked all the way. Tom told me about Doctor da Silva, saying that he was a clever man and a good master to his apprentices – which seemed just as well, for Tom still had another four of his seven years to serve. He told me that his mother had died in childbirth several years ago, his father had married again and it was then that Tom had been bound to the doctor.
‘’Twas to get me away from home, for my stepmother can’t abide me,’ he said. ‘She has no time for the children born to my father before she came.’
I hadn’t had such an interesting life, but I told Tom about my family in Chertsey, and how Sarah and I were faring in the shop, and also about meeting Abby again. Then I told him about our visit to the Exchange and all the elegant and fashionable people we’d seen.
‘There won’t be so many of these elegant people around soon,’ Tom said. ‘Now that the king and his court have left London, they’ll all be going after them.’
This led to us talking about the plague, and I asked what remedies were most effective. Tom said that everyone had different ideas. ‘Some say the best thing is to hold a coin of gold in your mouth whenever you go out – and the best of these is an angel from Elizabeth’s reign,’ he said.
I shook my head, astonished. ‘I have never even seen a gold angel,’ I said, ‘much less have a spare one to put in my mouth!’
‘There are many other remedies. You can hold a piece of nutmeg in your mouth. Or a sprig of rosemary. Or a clove,’ he said, laughing. ‘Or a roasted fig, or some tobacco, or a quantity of snails without their shells.’
I shuddered.
‘The doctor has all cures for all prices. For the rich he will provide a cordial made from unicorn’s horns and honey, for the poor a decoction of clover and cat’s-foot. There is a great deal of money to be made from the plague.’
‘So is he a quack, then – your doctor?’ I asked wonderingly.
Tom shook his head. ‘Of course not. What he prescribes he truly believes in.’
‘What then will you take against the plague?’
He thought for some time. ‘The seeds and leaves of cornflowers taken in wine are said to be most effective for those born under my planet.’
‘And should I take the same?’
‘You’re a sun subject – so the doctor told me,’ he said, and I felt a moment’s pleasure at the knowledge that he had been talking about me. He thought for a moment, frowning. It caused a small line to appear between his eyes which I had a longing to smooth out with my finger. ‘The peony is a flower of the sun,’ he said at last, ‘though I have not studied enough to know . . .’ His face cleared, ‘but it is well known that chopped with rue it will promote pleasant dreams and take away fears, and this is all to the good.’
I nodded. ‘And where shall I get these things?’
‘I shall steep the leaves and begin making you a decoction tomorrow, Hannah.’
There it was again, his voice, saying my name in that soft way. I stopped walking, turned to him, and caught him staring at me. We smiled at each other and I felt a shiver run through me, moving down my spine like a trickle of iced water. He said nothing, but he caught hold of my hand and held it to his face for a moment before letting it go. I felt that we both wanted to say or do something but, ignorant of what this thing should be, we just walked on.
Chelsea was a pretty little village on the Thames, its thatched cottages, farms and uncrowded streets reminding me a little of Chertsey. A field fronted the river, a field thick with lush grass and bright with starry white daisies and golden marigolds. Tom led me through this pasture to the river edge where green rushes grew thickly, and tangled masses of reeds floated out like green hair. We took off our shoes and sat peaceably for some time with our feet in the water, watching the river craft go by and listening to the birdsong. I said there seemed to be more boats about and Tom told me that because of the fear of plague, many people had taken to the river, intending to live on barges and makeshift craft until the danger was over.
Tom had a list of flowers and herbs which the doctor needed. These included angelica, cornflowers, wild garlic, scabious, chervil and sage, all of which he said would be used in plague remedies. Along the edges of the field and in certain places already known to Tom he collected these, snipping off the flower heads and putting them into muslin bags and then into his canvas holdall. Afterwards, he showed me where the patches of wild violets were, and h
elped me gather a large number to put in my trug. There were many borage flowers, too, which I knew Sarah wanted to candy. Tom took some of these as well, for he said that an infusion made from the flowers expelled melancholy. ‘The doctor always says that a merry heart does good like a medicine,’ he added.
Setting off for home, we were light-hearted, but as we neared London an invisible pall seemed to gather over us and stifle our laughter. A stillness lay upon the city (Sunday being the day of atonement) as if it was waiting, hushed, for something to befall it. I shivered for I knew now that this thing was plague.
As we reached the shop Tom moved near to me, took a lock of my hair and, looking into my eyes, curled a ringlet around his finger so that I had to move my face closer and closer to his. I was quite breathless, thinking he was about to kiss me, when suddenly there came down the quiet street the loud clattering of clogs on cobbles, and Tom and I sprang apart from each other. Two women appeared – but such women! Frightening old hags, clad in sacking, with deep hoods over their heads, carrying long white staves in front of them.
I instinctively shrank back, fearing their very appearance, and Tom did too, pressing into the shop doorway beside me.
‘Who are they?’ I asked with a shiver as they passed us. ‘Where are they going?’
‘They are the searchers of the dead,’ Tom said. I looked at him, alarmed, and he added, ‘They are employed by the parish. In the event of a death it is their gruesome duty to search the body and ascertain why that person has died. If they find the plague marks on them then the sexton has a grave prepared and sees that their house is shut up for forty days.’
‘But there have been no cases of plague round here!’
His expression grew solemn. ‘I fear there may have been,’ he said. He squeezed my hand. ‘But go in and tell your sister what you’ve seen – she may know something further.’ He caught my eyes and smiled. ‘Try to be of good heart whatever the news is. I shall call on you with your cordial as soon as it is made.’