The Penmaker's Wife

by Steve Robinson

  OTHER TITLES BY STEVE ROBINSON

  The Jefferson Tayte Series

  In the Blood

  To the Grave

  The Last Queen of England

  The Lost Empress

  Kindred

  Dying Games

  Letters from the Dead

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Steve Robinson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542006255

  ISBN-10: 1542006252

  Cover design by Emma Rogers

  Cover photography by Jeff Cottenden

  For my wife, Karen

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  London

  1880

  It was barely past daybreak, the gas lamps still cooling in the foggy half-light of what promised to be another fine summer’s morning, yet the woman could already hear the city coming to life around her. Another hour and its busy thoroughfares would be crowded with hansom cabs and swaying omnibuses, the pavements loud with lively footfalls and the cries of the costermongers. But what did any of that matter to her? In another hour she would be floating in the Thames.

  ‘Mummy, let go! You’re hurting my hand.’

  ‘You’re five years old now, William. You must stop crying,’ the woman said, her words conveying a good education and only the slightest hint of a French accent. ‘I’m sorry, but we have to hurry.’ She reasserted her grip on the boy’s hand, their fates intertwined as they made their way along one of Southwark’s dingier streets. It was strewn with straw, and rich with the stench of manure and other unsavoury odours that permeated the air from the open windows of a hundred overcrowded rooms.

  ‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked with a huff.

  ‘To a better place. Now be patient and you’ll see.’

  ‘Is Daddy coming too?’

  The woman gave no answer. Instead, she continued to pull the small boy along behind her, her pace quickening until she was almost dragging him. Every now and then she would look over her shoulder, not at the boy, but further back along the street, peering through the morning fog, watching for the man she was sure had seen her and was now coming after them. It didn’t matter. Where they were going, no one in their right mind would follow.

  They came to Tooley Street station and continued alongside the railway arches at a relentless pace, the boy growing heavier on her arm by the minute. The sudden clack of horses’ hooves startled her as a hansom cab seemed to come out of nowhere, but she did not let up.

  ‘Read all about it in The Globe!’ a newspaper seller called as they turned the corner in the direction of London Bridge.

  What good was a life without purpose or hope? she wondered.

  Such thoughts had been her bedfellows on many a long night, but today she was resolved to silence them. If this was all her life had to offer then she was through with it. As the bridge came into view, she slowed her pace until they were level with the wharf gate. She stepped on to the bridge and stopped, momentarily mesmerised by the stone balustrade that spanned its length. She took another step and her eyes were drawn down to the murky green water of the River Thames, which was flowing fast on the ebb tide.

  Then someone called her name.

  ‘Angelica!’

  She caught her breath. There was now no question that she was being followed. She pulled William onwards, brushing past an elderly match seller who was draped from head to toe in black, out early to catch the gentlemen on their way to work.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she called back, noting the growing number of people around her, some staring at her while others gave her a wide berth as she weaved between them. She supposed it was because of the sudden urgency in her step, the frantic look in her eyes, and the tatty clothes she and her son were wearing. They were out of place among all the fine frock coats, tall toppers and bowlers of the gentrified populace, but what did any of them know about her? She owned a beautiful turquoise gown as fine as any belonging to their wives, but she wasn’t about to waste it on Old Father Thames.

  When they reached the middle of the bridge, where the water was at its deepest, Angelica stopped. Her heart began to pound harder, to the point where she thought she was going to be sick. She took a few slow breaths to help calm herself as she looked out over the balustrade at the various paddle steamers, barges and sail-boats on the river, which at this time of day were mostly moored at the banks. Then she looked further out towards the Tower, which, because of the fog, she was unable to make out. She thought that was good. With the current so strong, it would only be a matter of seconds before they were out of sight of anyone looking down at them from the bridge. Any waterman brave enough, or foolish enough, to attempt a rescue would not find them.

  Without another moment’s hesitation she turned back to William and picked him up, setting his small booted feet down on the top rail.

  ‘Mummy?’ he called to her, fear in his voice. ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to you about this, William,’ Angelica said as she lifted the hem of her dress and climbed up after him. ‘Now give me your hand. There isn’t much time.’

  William did not offer his hand, so Angelica took it, holding it so tightly she thought she might crush it.

  ‘I say! Come down from there with that boy.’

  Angelica spun around and saw a well-dressed man pointing a walking cane at her. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the man who had been following them. He was running, as if to stop her, a squat bowler hat on his head and a limp that gave his approach a somewhat cumbersome gait. She turned back to her son and quickly lifted him into her arms.

  ‘Don’t cry, William,’ she said, his small body trembling in her embrace. She smiled kindly at him. ‘God is watching over us. Today we shall be born again.’

  She felt a tug at the hem of her dress, but it came too late. As she finished speaking, she transferred the boy’s weight to one arm, crossed her chest with the other, and jumped.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Winson Green, Birmingham

  1896

  As the Lord is
my witness, what I am about to tell you is the truth of the matter, whatever the events that follow may lead you to believe, however dark and unimaginable they may appear. It should be noted that even now, after all the terrible things that have transpired, I do not regret falling in love with Angelica Chastain. Neither do I regret the circumstances in which I now find myself because of her. If I had known where our relationship would lead when we first met, I would do it all again in a heartbeat, such is the strength of my love for her. But all that is yet to come. For now, I must start at the beginning, from the events that led to that fateful day when we first met, and my life was changed forever.

  You may in time come to question the authority of my account. You may find what I have to say too unpalatable to accept that it could possibly be true. I can offer no proof save that of my own eyes and my own ears, which you may therefore ascribe to nothing more than one word against another. You may not wish to believe it, but you must, if not for my sake then for the sake of all others who may yet come to know her and love her as I have.

  I have been told much of what follows by Angelica herself, whom you may soon come to regard as an unreliable source, but when the time comes, consider this: why tell me at all? Perhaps she did so out of pity, although I choose to believe it was out of love, however unlikely that may seem once you have heard what I have to say. Either way, she did so knowing no one would believe me, but I implore you to do so, for I have nothing now to gain from lying.

  I suspect the cause of it all really began long before I met Angelica, perhaps as long ago as her childhood in France, or her formative years living in the slums of London. But for the purposes of what I have to tell you, it began when Angelica first came to live in Birmingham with her son, William. That was sixteen years ago now, and I can honestly say that, to a point, they were the best sixteen years of my life. She and William arrived on a train one day with little more than the clothes on their backs. It was an inauspicious new beginning that augured failure even before it began, but despite the dangers and the dire circumstances they would soon face, Angelica was resolved to do whatever it took to succeed in making a better life for them both, particularly for William.

  It was all for William.

  London

  1880

  The London and North Western Railway train from Euston station was running almost ten minutes late, and with every passing second Angelica Chastain became more and more anxious. It was a quiet, mid-afternoon departure, and thankfully she and little William had their second-class compartment to themselves for now. She supposed that would soon change, though, if not by the time the train left, then further down the line as it made its scheduled stops.

  She continued to stare out of the window, wondering what had caused the delay, seemingly transfixed by the large Pears soap advertisement on the platform opposite. It showed an elegant-looking woman at a washstand, and while Angelica was never so vain as to consider herself quite that elegant, she thought they shared many qualities: the pale slender neck and arms, the pinched smile and wide-set brown eyes. Even the woman’s hair, which was loosely piled with a curled fringe, similar to hers, was the same shade of dark brown.

  The advertisement promised healthy skin, a good complexion, and soft, white, beautiful hands. She thought a bar of Pears soap was just what she and William needed after their earlier encounter with the Thames. She turned away and looked across the compartment at William, sitting on his hands in his dark green knickerbocker suit and bow-tie. He looked quite lost.

  ‘Are you absolutely sure you didn’t swallow any of the water?’ she asked him. She had been greatly concerned about the possibility of them both contracting cholera or typhoid, or some other deadly disease. ‘Did you keep your mouth tightly closed after we jumped into the river, just like I said?’

  William nodded emphatically but, for reasons Angelica was as yet unsure of, he avoided eye contact with her.

  ‘Good,’ she said. It was reassuring to have his confirmation again, but she would have to keep a close eye on him, and herself for that matter. ‘I told you that sometimes one has to die to be born again,’ she continued. ‘Well, now it will at least appear that we have. Your hat will be found on the riverbank where we left it, and further down one of your old boots and my bonnet. Plenty of people saw us jump in, didn’t they?’

  William gave another nod, maintaining the silence he’d kept up since Angelica had pulled him out of the Thames with her and carried his wet, shivering body up from the south bank somewhere near Butler’s Wharf. She had taken an unthinkable risk with both their lives, and she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to talk to her, or look at her, but there had been no alternative. As far as Angelica was concerned, it was better to be dead than to live their old lives a single day longer. And besides, she had no intention of staying to face the music after what she had done.

  She reached across to the seat opposite and took William’s hands in her own. She smiled at the boy, wishing his own mischievous smile would soon return. ‘We have a new and better life ahead of us,’ she told him. ‘Isn’t that exciting, William?’

  William looked up from his lap at last, but he didn’t speak.

  ‘We’re going to have a great adventure,’ Angelica promised. ‘Things are going to come good for us, you’ll see. I’m going to build you a castle and keep you safe. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise.’ She pulled him closer and continued to smile, almost to the point of laughing. ‘And I swear I’ll never ask you to jump in any more rivers with me. Now, can we be friends again?’

  William’s stolid expression cracked at last. He got to his feet and threw his arms around her. She felt him squeeze her as hard as she knew he could.

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘In a few hours we’ll be far away from London, and everything that’s happened will soon become a distant memory. Are you going to sit next to me now?’

  She felt William’s head rub against her ear as he nodded. Then he sat beside her and pushed himself up and back into the seat until his best Sunday boots were dangling in mid-air.

  ‘Why do we have to leave London?’ he asked, looking up at his mother with questioning, doleful eyes.

  Angelica did not reply. She just gazed at his beautiful, innocent little face as she went over the reasons in her mind, finding none she could give voice to. How could she tell her son the truth of what had happened? What would he think of her if she did?

  ‘Where’s Daddy? Is he coming to live in our castle, too?’

  Angelica sighed. She began to shake her head. Then she pulled William back into her arms, smothering his face in the folds of her best turquoise gown as she said, ‘No, William. I’m afraid Daddy is dead.’

  William had never been one to show his emotions, but Angelica felt him begin to sob into her bosom now. She began to stroke her hand over the back of his head to soothe him until she heard the train begin to get up steam, then she relaxed at last. They would soon be underway, and how she longed to be rid of London and everything it represented. She turned to the window again and stared up at the tangled framework of wrought iron supporting the train shed roof, wondering what lay ahead for them, until a tall policeman broke her concentration. She saw him striding purposefully along the platform in his blues, and she turned away from the window again to hide her face.

  A moment later she heard the guard’s whistle blow, and the train lurched forward with a jolt before settling into a slow and steady pace. She looked up again, and this time she caught her breath. The policeman had gone, but in his place she saw someone she wished she had not. Moreover, it was clear that he had seen her because he was now running directly towards her. It was the man in the squat bowler hat who had been following her through the streets of Southwark early that morning. His limp did little to slow him this time.

  Angelica jumped to her feet, startling William. How had this man found her again? She rushed to the carriage door, meaning to stop him from opening it if she could. She pul
led up on the handle just in time, but her strength was no match for his. The handle fell with a clunk. The door swung open, and just as it seemed that the train had picked up enough speed to thwart him, the man leapt inside, determination evident in his wild eyes. Angelica backed away. The door slammed shut. On the bench to her right, William, who had clearly recognised the man now that he was so close, pulled his knees up to his chest and cowered like the frightened child he was.

  ‘Angelica Wren,’ the man said in guttural tones, leering at her as he spoke. ‘Well, well. Haven’t you got some talking to do?’

  ‘It’s Chastain,’ Angelica said. ‘I no longer go by my married name.’

  ‘Of course you don’t,’ the man said, stepping closer.

  ‘Keep away from me!’

  The man wore a tatty grey suit with a filthy collar at his neck. He pulled at it and scratched behind his ear as he stepped closer. ‘Now, now, Angelica. That’s no way to greet your old friend Tom, is it? I want to talk, that’s all.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About a good many things.’

  The man glanced down at the boy and caught William peering back at him through his fingers. ‘Boo!’ he shouted, thrusting his head forward and laughing as William whimpered and rolled on to his side.

  Turning back to Angelica, he said, ‘But there’s no rush. We’ve got a nice little journey ahead of us. Where exactly is it you’re off to? Birmingham?’

  Angelica nodded.

  ‘I figured as much, given the line you’re on.’ He pulled a face, as though considering their destination. ‘Birmingham,’ he repeated. ‘I suppose it will do well enough, and along the way we have this fine compartment all to ourselves. I saw to that. I was standing outside, quietly turning people away so we could spend some time together in private.’ He laughed to himself. ‘Of course, I thought it best to make myself scarce when that peeler showed. Imagine my surprise when the train started pulling out. I had to run for it then. I thought I was going to lose you. I’m glad I didn’t.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Angelica asked. ‘What do you want from me?’