The Gilded Lily

by Deborah Swift

  Isobel pushed her head out of the carriage window. ‘Oh hurry,’ she called to the driver. The horses sprang forward.

  ‘Don’t shout like that,’ Titus said.

  ‘But will you look there,’ Isobel said, ‘that dolt of a housekeeper’s left the front door flapping open, in this weather.’

  He peered out, and immediately pulled his head back in. He got out a kerchief and rubbed a spatter of mud from his face as they pulled to a halt. ‘Wonder he puts up with her, letting the heat out like that. Mind, there’s no smoke from the chimneys, so I guess there’s no fire lit.’

  They looked at each other. That was not right – no fire, and Thomas ill abed. Titus rubbed his palms together, surprised to find them sticky with sweat.

  ‘Stay in the carriage, whilst I go in,’ he said, but Isobel had already alighted and pushed past him towards the gate.

  The door was open but the hallway was gloomy and still. Once inside the front door he called out, but there was no reply. Their footfalls rang loud on the flagstones, and the rest of the house was ominously shuttered and dark.

  ‘Wait there, I’ll get these open,’ he said. He tugged at the shutters in the drawing room so that the grey light flooded in, revealing gaping cabinets and all the drawers wrenched out of the side table and cast aside. Concerned now, he strode past Isobel in the dim hallway and took the stairs.

  One look through the door was enough.

  He pulled out the muddy kerchief and held it to his nose, panting for breath.

  ‘Isobel,’ he shouted, ‘have the carriage take you to the rectory, and call for the curate.’

  ‘What is it? Is it Thomas?’ He heard the rustling of her skirts on the stairs.

  ‘No, don’t come in.’

  ‘Is he –? Let me see.’

  ‘I said don’t –’ He tried to usher her out of the room.

  She pushed past him, but stopped dead. Her throat made a small choking sound. She opened and closed her mouth, lost for words. But then she raised a quavering finger. ‘God preserve us. Look,’ she said, ‘look at that.’

  ‘What?’ he said, having no desire to look further.

  She pointed again. The feather pillow was not where it should have been, under Thomas’s head, but on the coverlet next to his face, as if someone had just put it down. She moved closer.

  ‘Look at his face,’ she said. ‘Someone’s killed him. Suffocated him with his own pillow and left him for dead.’

  ‘No, surely not. Not Thomas. No one would want to kill Thomas.’

  ‘But –’ She touched a forefinger towards the pillow, her eyes wide.

  ‘Calm yourself. You are being fanciful.’

  ‘Your own brother lying there like that, you cannot tell me it’s not suspicious. I tell you, Titus, ’tis not right. I have a feeling, just here.’ Her hand pressed the space between her eyebrows.

  ‘You and your feelings. Not now, I say. Come away and leave him in peace.’

  Isobel’s narrow eyes ranged around the chamber, taking in the open kist, the strangely bare surfaces. ‘Odd things have gone on here – Devil’s work. His wife accused of witchery, and now this.’ She pointed to the kist. ‘Look at that, not a speck left, not even a button.’ At this she began to weep and he had to drag her away, prop her on his arm to help her down the stairs.

  Titus could not quieten her. It was as if he was viewing her through thick glass, standing outside a window looking in. He bundled her in the carriage and sent a farm boy for the local constable. The news of Thomas’s death soon seeped out, with villagers arriving in dribs and drabs to stand silently watching them whilst they waited for the wretched constable to arrive. Titus slammed the door on the locals and shut himself in the cold parlour. He was shivering, his teeth chattered together, the noise of them penetrating the silent room. Here too all the drawers were out and there were half-empty cutlery boxes on the floor as if someone had left in a hurry. He began to put them back, to tidy it, to restore order.

  A sound in the garden made him jump and he spun round. He ran to the door and hurled a lump of coal from the scuttle to shoo some barefoot lads away – surely they had something better to occupy their time? Soon more gawping strangers clustered at the windows of the carriage where Isobel had shut herself in and was weeping, her veil pulled over her face. Titus rubbed his coal-stained palms on his buff breeches, where they left a black smear. He stared at it thinking, no matter, he would be in mourning tomorrow and all his clothes would be black.

  Surely Thomas had not been suffocated. Isobel was mistaken, he was sure; her weaker constitution made her prone to the vapours and these odd notions. Nobody had any reason to dislike Thomas, he had always been the good one: mild-tempered, easygoing – some might say idle – nodding at everyone and everything like he was still a small boy. His mother had told everyone that he, Titus, was the roguish one who would get himself into trouble, and not the beaming angelic-faced Thomas. Thomas had never had any self-discipline or sense of duty at all, thought Titus. A lump came to his throat. He swallowed and drew himself upright. He would not cry. He had always had to help Thomas, ever since he was a small boy, whereas he himself had never in his life asked anyone for help. Silly fool. He couldn’t help him now.

  When the country constable finally arrived, in his too-small coat, he insisted on interviewing Titus as if he was at fault. Isobel remained in the carriage, pretending the whole affair was beneath her. It became clear from the constable that the housekeeper, Ella Appleby, and her sister had planned the whole robbery together. The mule and cart were missing from the stable, and nobody had seen either girl since the night before. The constable rocked on his heels and asked questions in his barely intelligible Westmorland drawl. Titus gritted his teeth. It was frustrating, to be confined in Netherbarrow when the Appleby sisters could be halfway to Lancaster by now.

  Finally, he could bear the constable’s questions no longer.

  ‘Should you not take horse after them?’ he asked.

  ‘Better give me full particulars first. Let us make a stock list of the items missing from the gentleman’s cabinets.’

  ‘Good sir, I do not know all my brother’s possessions. And besides, it is of no earthly use to inventory items of cutlery when my brother is dead, his house has been ransacked and the miscreants are galloping further away by the minute. If you will not go after them, then I will do it myself. Excuse me.’

  ‘You’ll not be catching them now. Not before nightfall any-hows.’

  Titus scowled and climbed into his carriage. ‘We’ll see,’ he shouted. ‘Lancaster,’ he said to the driver, despite Isobel’s teary protestations. As the carriage lurched forth, he caught sight of the Rector and Mrs Goathley hastening towards them up the hill, so he leaned out of the window and requested that they arrange for someone to sit with his brother until he returned. Mrs Goathley said she would sit there herself, though no harm would come to him, no more than he had already suffered.

  As the carriage lumbered down the track, Titus turned and looked back at the diminishing village. He suppressed the overpowering urge to go back, to tell Thomas to stop jesting, to stop being so idle and to get up and get dressed. He felt a lurch in his stomach, like a child’s seesaw when someone suddenly jumps off. Their lives were bound together. That Thomas could be dead was impossible. Thomas had always been a part of his life, since he was a few minutes old and had slipped out of the womb after Titus, his cord still wrapped round Titus’s ankle.

  A lump rose to his throat; he gripped Isobel’s hand as the carriage bumped on the uneven track. He wished he had visited his brother more often, but he was always so busy. And Thomas was always needing something. His business ventures often ran into trouble and then he would come bleating to Titus for help. Lately his requests for assistance had become tiresome. Titus owned he should perhaps make more effort to stay in touch. He would make the time. But then he realized there was no more time.

  ‘You’re hurting,’ Isobel said, pulling her hand away
. ‘Thank goodness we are leaving this festering climate. I cannot wait to be home. Some strange malady is at work here, best not to tarry.’

  ‘We are not going home. Not until we find them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. You were witness to the exceeding speed of the Netherbarrow law,’ he said. ‘If you want something doing properly, best to do it yourself. I have no confidence in that constable. I am going to find those girls and make them return every last farthing.’

  ‘But I have a dressmaker’s appointment the day after tomorrow . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake, Isobel, have you no sense of propriety? My brother is dead and you see fit to chatter about your dressmaker? One word more, and I’ll put you off and you will walk home from Netherbarrow.’

  Isobel turned her back to him with a heavy sigh and they continued the journey in silence. After a while, Isobel said, ‘What about Alice?’

  Titus did not answer. Of course he knew they should inform the wife, but Titus had never been able to bear her. She was no use at all to Thomas as far as he could see. Titus never saw the point of her wasting her time with her insipid paintings, her hair all hanging wild and in disarray, her sleeves dribbled in paint. And besides, the constable had informed him she was in the gaol at Lancaster. Accused of meddling in the black arts. It was outlandish – bizarre – that any member of his family should be so accused. He would not want his hands tainted with that. Did not he have enough to deal with? His friends in the guild would laugh at him. No, he told himself, find the thieving sisters first and restore order to Thomas’s estate. The wife would have to wait.

  Lancaster. Preston. Warrington. Newcastle-under-the-Lyme. Eccleshall. At each town they had reports that the girls had just left. Desperate and sleepless, for this was now Titus’s fourth uncomfortable day in a tooth-rattling carriage, he made several wild goose chases, until he got word of a mule and cart sold just outside Lichfield. They galloped there, to discover no trace of the girls or the goods.

  Isobel refused to get back in the carriage. ‘No more,’ she said.

  ‘We will try Coventry, now get in.’

  ‘No. I refuse to go a single furlong more. What if we never find them?’

  Titus looked at her blankly. ‘Get in, or I shall go without you else. You are wasting time.’

  Isobel sat down on the carriage step and began to weep. ‘I want to go back.’

  ‘I will not return to Netherbarrow until I find them.’

  ‘Not Netherbarrow,’ she blubbed, ‘home. I want to go home.’

  ‘We are going to Coventry. Now stop greeting, it does nobody any good,’ he snapped. Her crying annoyed him. Men were not allowed such displays of feeling. She didn’t understand, he could no more think of Thomas not existing than he could think of waking up without an arm.

  Isobel wiped her eyes again and climbed back into the carriage. She twisted her kidskin gloves in her hands and stared out of the window.

  ‘We will take respite at an inn on the way,’ he said, but Isobel did not reply.

  That evening Titus was forced to leave the coach and four at Coventry, for he could not make the beasts go any further no matter how much he told the driver to apply his whip. The ostler at the inn had nearly set on him and had insisted he change horses. But there were no matching pairs to be had, so he had been forced to take a single mount. It wasn’t much of a horse for the money, a ridge-backed roan with splinty legs. He thwacked it a cutting blow to keep it to speed. A great anger had seized him, he scarcely knew what he did.

  Isobel had not hidden her relief that the lack of a coach meant she had to stay behind in Coventry. He had shouted at her like a common man then, but worse, he had also had to leave behind his driver and negotiate the wild countryside to Banbury unaided, and be forever unsure if he was on the right road.

  But they couldn’t be that far ahead, and he was convinced he was on their tails. The bitter wind drained the blood from his hands and blew his sparse hair into his eyes. He was cold and hungry, and unused to the saddle. Rage at the fact that he was forced to take horse like this made him kick the horse’s ribs until it galloped wildly into the wind. The cold stung his eyes, but then he could tell himself it was the wind, not grief, that made his eyes water so.

  Chapter 4

  Madame Lefevre’s, Perruquier, Friday Street, London

  January 1661

  Sadie heard the slap of the leather measuring tape a fraction before she felt its sting on the back of her neck. Nobody spoke. It was silent except for her sharp intake of breath. She shot upright in an instant, the back of her neck hot and tingling, but she knew better than to turn round, for Madame Lefevre would still be there, raking the room with her eyes, ready to pounce on any shirker with the stab of a pin in the back. Or worse, the whip-like crack of the measuring tape, perfected through years of vengeful practice. This was her usual habit, to punish the nearest girl if any one of them stopped for breath.

  Sadie watched Ella hurriedly grasp the bone handle of the hook and bend again to the wig block, her face flushing scarlet, for she was the one who had been staring into space.

  Still smarting from the lash of the tape, Sadie doubled her speed, her thin white hands flashing over the pins, working each single hair through the tulle netting, twisting and knotting it before laying it flat against the base. Half the block in front of her was already covered with a long dark fall of hair. She looked down. Her fingers were thick with grease, the skin rough with tiny cuts. You would not think that horsehair could be sharp, but it was – edges like razors making countless small cuts. The hairs snagged in the cuts making her work slow and painful.

  In, out, twist, pull. In, out, twist, pull. Over and over, twelve hours a day.

  Across the room, Ella’s work remained a small patch, sprouting like black moss. Madame Lefevre clacked across the room on her heels and poked Ella in the back.

  ‘Get on with it, or she’ll get another.’ She came round the front of the bench, swept up the wig block and inspected it. ‘Barely covered a farthing’s worth. No dexterity. Your fingers are too fat and clumsy. Like potatoes.’

  Madame Lefevre held the wig block up above her head to show it to everyone. Her eyes were like cinders even through her thick glass lunettes.

  ‘Look at it. Just about fit for a farm labourer. And how many of those do we get in here?’ She gave a mirthless laugh.

  Some of the other girls sniggered, until silenced by a look. Madame Lefevre was the only one allowed a sense of humour in the wigmaker’s. She banged the block back down so the pins on the bench sprang up.

  Ella stared back at her, her blue eyes unblinking. Sadie was uneasy. She knew Madame Lefevre detested this the most – not Ella’s lack of skill, but her refusal to be broken. Madame Lefevre expected to be able to pull everyone’s strings, to dandle everyone to do her bidding. Ella’s mutinous demeanour was guaranteed to rile her, but so far she had kept her on because Sadie had an uncanny knack with the knotting.

  The bell on the door sounded. Madame Lefevre reluctantly let Ella fall from her gaze, like a cat dropping a mouse to which it would return, and hurried upstairs into the front of the house, hitching up her stiff black skirts. Sadie watched her slightly stooped, angular figure go.

  ‘Sow,’ Ella muttered under her breath.

  Madame Lefevre disappeared into the upper room, where she received the gentlemen for their fittings, talking now in a singsong, in what Sadie had nicknamed her ‘parlour voice’. Sadie heard a man’s voice greeting her with her proper name, Widow Lefevre, which he pronounced in the English way as ‘le fever’ and not in the French way. The girls themselves called her Old Feverface when she was out of hearing. Widowed when her French wigmaker husband had been trampled by a horse, she had continued his business with the grim air of someone determined to prove she could run the business better than he ever could. And now that the fashion was for ever more opulent wigs, she was making a good living. She never dressed in anything but black, her flapp
ing skirts and shoulder cape reminiscent of a nun, keeping order over about ten young girls, heads bowed over their wig blocks as if in prayer in the dingy back room of her workshop.

  Whilst Madame Lefevre was occupied with the customer, the girls took their chance to chatter amongst themselves in low whispers. Corey Johnson was always the first to start a conversation. She was a short fair girl, broad-boned with a pugnacious face and stubby capable fingers, and amongst the girls she was the one who had worked there the longest.

  ‘Buckingham’s up to his old tricks,’ Corey said, pushing her cap back behind her ears. ‘My mam heard it down the flea-market.’

  ‘What?’ Ella asked.

  ‘The Duke of Buckingham. His new club. It’s called the Wits – all the well-to-do gents are in it, but they’ve caused no end of a ruckus in the Pelican Coffee House. They got well leathered and kidnapped one of the serving maids. One of the dandies stole her clothes and made her wear his. They found her later wandering the streets, wearing only a man’s breeches. Raving, she was.’

  Sadie shook her head, it sounded a far-fetched tale to her. ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, won’t someone go after them, these Wits, or whatever they’re called?’

  The other girls laughed. ‘Them? No, you goose. Nothing’ll happen to them.’ Betsy giggled. ‘They’re friends of the king. And a right merry king he’s turned out to be. No, there’s different rules for them and us, same as always. We had one of them in here once, just afore Yuletide I think it was. He’s one of the Wits now, Lord Buckhurst. You never saw such fancy clothes in all your life.’

  ‘What sort of fancy clothes?’ Ella asked.

  ‘Pale tabby satin suit with real gold embroidery. It even had little red poppies fashioned on the pockets, with scarlet buttons,’ Betsy said. ‘And his cuffs were made of acres of Brussels lace, and shoes with diamond buckles. I’m not jesting, each of the diamonds must have been the size of a knuckle.’