The Gilded Lily

by Deborah Swift

  ‘And I was putting away the pattern book when he came in, and Old Feverface’s jaw nearly hit the ground when she saw him,’ Alyson said.

  ‘You’re making it up. Who’s up there with her now?’ Ella said.

  ‘Don’t know. Didn’t recognize his voice. Can you see?’ Corey leaned over her bench to look.

  Sadie watched Ella peer up the stairs to where Madame Lefevre seated the gentlemen in a big chair. Usually the girls could not see anything, because there was always a heavy mustard-coloured curtain dragged across the doorway – whether to shield the customers’ privacy, or just because the front room was Madame Lefevre’s exclusive territory, she did not know. Or perhaps it was because of the steam and stink in the wig room below – the smell of unwashed horsehair, sheep’s wool and the greasy locks of the nuns. The best wigs were made of imported hair shorn from the heads of Italian nuns. It made Sadie shiver to touch the hair shorn from those poor Italian girls.

  But today the curtain was left open by mistake.

  As a child Ella had always loved to peer through keyholes, over fences and in through back doors. She could never resist looking where she was not supposed to look. Unlike Sadie, Ella had noticed the curtain straight away, and leaning backwards on her stool she had a clear view of a shaven-headed man sitting in the wing chair.

  He had probably just come from the barber’s next door, Ella thought, for his head was smooth as an ivory ball, and his cheeks, pink and shining, showed not even a sign or shadow of a beard. He had a long aquiline nose and expressive dark eyebrows. She looked him over, to see if he was dressed like the man Betsy had just been telling them about. It was an incongruous sight, a young man in fine navy silk breeches and flowing shirt, all flounced lace and ribbons below, but topped by an impossibly small head. Ella could not resist a smile as she watched Madame Lefevre stretch the measuring tape around his naked temples and chalk the numbers onto a slate. Madame Lefevre treated everything as if it was her personal enemy – her lips pursed in concentration, she splintered the chalk as she stabbed down the figures.

  Whilst she was writing, the man caught Ella staring at him, and without moving his head or changing his expression, he slowly raised his eyebrows. She fixed her eyes back on her wig stand, annoyed to have been caught looking. She threaded a hair into the hook and dug it under the mesh again, pulling a few more strands of the dark hair through before she dared to look up again. He was still staring at her, like a hawk fixes its prey. She felt herself blush as their eyes met. He kept glancing at her, keeping his head still as Madame Lefevre fussed around him, measuring across the top of his head. She pretended to be working, all the time conscious of his eyes watching her. Eventually she dared a small smile. Madame Lefevre, sensing there was something going on she had not sanctioned, glared at Ella, grabbed hold of the curtain and yanked it shut.

  Now she was out of Madame Lefevre’s view, Ella stretched her back and circled her shoulders, which were stiff from hunching over the wig stand. She glanced at Sadie, who was still industriously knotting. The room grew darker, the day’s sunlight had passed the two small windows and they were shadowed by the building opposite. None of the girls would have the welcome squares of light from the windows over their workspace now. Madame Lefevre was stingy with the rushlights, waiting until nightfall before handing them out one at a time. Each day as evening came, they had to bend closer to the work, straining to see the minute filaments of tulle and hair.

  Ella saw Sadie gingerly feeling the back of her neck, and mouthed at her, ‘Does it hurt?’

  Sadie shook her head.

  ‘Let’s look.’ She stood up and went over. Sadie’s brown hair hung over one side of her face as usual.

  The other girls crept over too, full of ghoulish curiosity.

  ‘Move your hair, so’s we can see,’ Corey said.

  ‘No,’ Sadie said, but she tilted her head forward to expose her neck.

  ‘That looks nearly as sore as what she gave Kitty Hazlitt,’ Corey said, ‘but not as bad as the time she caught—’

  Suddenly the mustard curtain was hauled aside again and the girls scurried back to their places and bent over their work. The man ducked under the lintel and came down the few steps into the room, immediately followed by Madame Lefevre pecking at his heel. From a sidelong glance Ella saw that he was sporting a simple dark tied wig, and that his head now appeared to be of normal proportions. He was fingering the brim of his hat and looking at her again.

  Madame Lefevre was obviously uncomfortable with the visitor’s venture into the back room.

  ‘There’s not a deal to see, Mr Whitgift,’ she said, ‘the girls are only just beginning this week’s orders. If you would care to return to the parlour I will show you some of the finished periwigs.’

  He picked up a hook from the bench, juggling it in his fingers.

  ‘But I like to see how they are made. I enjoy good craftsmanship.’ He flashed Madame Lefevre a smile that showed surprisingly white teeth. ‘Does each girl take on the whole article, from start to finish?’

  ‘Usually yes, though for ladies’ styles there are two Frenchmen who come in to curl the wigs on a Friday. Gentlemen’s styles are not so difficult and can be styled by my good self. But the girls do all the knotting. Never fear though, sir, I have hand-picked them for their skill.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I would like this girl to make mine.’ He waved his hand at Ella. She was mortified and felt her face grow hot and red.

  Madame Lefevre’s mouth fell open, before she clamped it shut again.

  ‘Sir, I am sure we are most flattered, but this girl is new, her training is not yet complete – O’Malley over there is a more experienced knotter, she does a very neat job.’ Pegeen lowered her head as if she wanted to disappear into the pile of black horsehair on the bench.

  ‘No, I have made up my mind. I want this girl to make it.’ He gave Ella a dazzling smile. Ella saw Madame Lefevre’s eyes on her and kept her expression stony.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘she will weave it beautifully, I can see it.’

  Ella bobbed deferentially. Mr Whitgift seemed amused by this coyness and tried to smother a smile.

  Madame Lefevre pursed her lips. ‘Very well, sir. Her sister can help her. Are you listening?’ Sadie tilted her head from under her hair. ‘Now then, please follow me through to the parlour and we will look at a few styles in the book. Buckingham sports side curls now and all the gentlemen want them.’ Madame Lefevre guided him back to the curtain like a bad-tempered collie rounding up a stray sheep. She herded him back upstairs, threw Ella a malevolent glance over her shoulder and whipped the curtain shut.

  ‘Who is he?’ whispered Ella to Corey, who was known to be a storehouse of names and faces, having lived in London all her life. Most of the other girls were incomers – Irish or Dutch.

  ‘Josiah Whitgift, son of Walt Whitgift, the pawnbroker down by Broken Wharf. People call him Jay, you know, like the bird.’

  Ella strained her ears to hear what might be going on upstairs, but the voices were muffled and indistinct. She swallowed, unease settled on her shoulders like a cloak. Her knotting was clumsy and she knew it. She caught Sadie’s eye and Sadie shook her head. And this Mr Whitgift – he was well-to-do. You only had to look at his clothes to see that. She had been too rash, she should not have been so brazen as to exchange glances with him. Madame Lefevre would be on her back all the time now with her eagle eye. And clearly the gentleman would expect something in return. She did not want to be beholden to anyone. She knew well enough men like that only single you out for one thing.

  Ella turned back to Corey and hissed, ‘Are you sure he’s a pawnbroker’s son? He doesn’t look or sound like one. Too flash.’

  ‘His pa’s shop is the grandest in London. It’s nearly as wide as the Thames.’ Sadie and the rest of the girls leaned in to hear Corey’s conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s not supposed to be a pop shop, just a second-hand shop, but we all know it as the pop shop. They say if
a lord gets burgled or set upon by a highway thief, there’s only one place he should look for his missing watch – Walt Whitgift’s.’

  ‘Is he a rogue then?’ Sadie said, with a worried frown.

  ‘I’m not saying that. Walt Whitgift’s got a reputation for being straight as an arrow, see. But there’s always rumours about him.’ She wagged her head in the direction of the curtain.

  Corey opened her mouth to continue, but buttoned up again as Madame Lefevre appeared like a bitter gust of wind through the curtain.

  ‘You.’ Madame Lefevre clawed Ella’s arm with her gloved fingers and hoisted her to a standing position. ‘What did you say to him?’

  Ella remained silent, her face unmoving, eyes staring ahead like a wax doll. Madame Lefevre started to shake her.

  ‘She didn’t say a thing, Madame Lefevre,’ said Sadie. ‘Nobody did.’

  Madame Lefevre pursed her lips into a round, hard hole and thrust Ella back down onto her stool.

  ‘Get those fat fingers moving. He wants the wig Wednesday week.’

  She did not respond, and Madame Lefevre moved around to the front of the bench and brought her face up close. She addressed the top of her head as if she would spit on it.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Ella closed her nose against the sickly sweet odour of Madame Lefevre’s breath and gave a barely perceptible nod. Her eyes stayed downcast, watching a flea appear and disappear between the sprouting hairs on the work in front of her.

  ‘And you –’ Madame Lefevre’s eyes alighted on Sadie – ‘I can’t have dead wood cluttering my shop. I’ve got my reputation to think of. There’s plenty more out of work and looking. It’s got to be right, or she’ll be out. Make sure she ties it neat and proper.’

  ‘Oh, she will, madame – it’ll be as fine as any wig in London, ain’t that right, Ella?’

  Sadie looked to her in appeal. Ella lowered her eyes guiltily. Half of her wanted to placate Sadie and avoid trouble by becoming a model worker overnight, to surprise them all by making a perfect wig, but the other half of her wanted to spite Madame Lefevre and the world in general by refusing to lift a single finger to the task. She heard Sadie give a small sigh, and knew that her sister had understood all of this without a word being exchanged between them. Her guilty feeling increased all the more.

  ‘He’ll be back Friday for a fitting and he wants you there.’ Ella flinched as the words were accompanied by a sharp dig in the back. ‘Lord knows why. Or in your case – the Devil knows why. This is your last chance.’

  Ella slowly and deliberately picked up the hook and separated a hair very carefully from the foul-smelling heap by her elbow. She relished the slowness of her movements because she knew it was guaranteed to goad Madame Lefevre all the more. She enjoyed the feeling of everyone’s eyes upon her, it gave her a sense of power to have all their attention. She drew the hair inchmeal through the mesh. It was almost with satisfaction that she felt the thwack of the measuring tape sting the back of her neck. She did not falter but continued the slow pulling of the hair. Shortly afterwards she heard the tap-tap of Madame Lefevre’s wooden heels as she swept away into her private quarters, followed by the slam and rattle of her door.

  When she raised her eyes it was to see Sadie looking at her with a mixture of fear and reproach. She quickly returned to her work but her stomach squirmed, and when she tried to hook the next hair through, she fumbled and got it all tangled. ‘Devil fetch it,’ she cursed.

  Chapter 5

  Bread Street

  ‘Come on, you’ve not eaten enough to keep a mite alive.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Sadie said, pushing away her half of the cold potage. ‘I’m afraid, Ella. What if Madame Lefevre gives us the elbow? How’ll we pay our way then?’

  ‘Are you saying my knotting’s no good?’

  ‘No, Ell. No. It’s just she picks fault in everything. I’m afeared she’ll find something ill with it and throw one of her rages.’

  ‘She won’t get rid of us. You’re her little pet. Soon as you showed your needlework, she knew you’d take to the knotting. You’re quick as a fox. She’d be a bedlam fool to let you go. Nah, she’ll keep us both on.’ Ella slicked the remaining potage from her bowl with a wipe of her bread, unconcerned.

  ‘But what if she don’t?’

  ‘Tush, Sadie. We’ll brook that when it’s in front of us. No point thinking of that now. Anyway, we’d get taken on someplace else. I’m not after being stuck in that scum-hole for ever, not me. I’ve got my eyes peeled for something better.’

  ‘Wig shop pays scarce a scab, I know, but work’s hard to come by. I reckon we’re lucky. It’s not bad work, not like the fishwives, or tanners. And we’ve got a house to live in, and food on the table, it’s more than most.’

  ‘Lucky? Huh. Some place. I sure as eggs don’t want to live here for ever.’ Ella screwed up her face at the thought of it. ‘Eat up, don’t waste it.’

  Sadie spooned another mouthful of the grey oatmeal, forced herself to swallow. She had realized within hours of coming to London that the poor here were always hungry, for nothing grew here. Livestock was not fed corn, but existed on scraps hurled from the back doors, if they could get to it before the foraging packs of yellow dogs that hung on every street. She had seen an old man bloody another’s nose when he thought his neighbour was trying to steal his mangy chicken – poor pathetic creature, surely all gristle anyway.

  Ella had been used to better, Sadie thought, what with living in as a housemaid at the Ibbetsons’. But to Sadie it was no worse than the house she had come from, except of course it was crammed up in Cooper’s Yard with a score of others. London was tight as a closed fist round them, so tight you could smell its sweat.

  The dwelling was furnished with only two chairs, a table and the trunks they had come with. Dingy and smoke-stained, it was a single room of crumbling lath and plaster more often than not damp and cold. As yet there was not enough money from their earnings for a fire in the hearth every day, only on the coldest days or cooking days. Up a splintered ladder at the back of the room there was a sleeping platform, partitioned off. Inside, a sagging truckle bed leaned against the wall, and under it a pot. By the door stood a bucket and ewer for washing.

  But it was their own. Ella had insisted on that when they fled Westmorland. London was full of shared rooms where two or three families were crammed together, and everyone hung on each other’s shirt tails. No, Ella had said, no shared lodgings for them. She’d had her fill of being at someone else’s beck and call.

  They sold most of the goods straight away at Ella’s insistence – anything that wasn’t too valuable or ostentatious: the unremarkable watch, the lace and linen, all the silver plate. She knew how much Ella had wanted to keep it all by the way she handled the goods as she parcelled them up to be sold. But London was expensive, much more expensive than Ella had reckoned on, so the proceeds had only been just enough to rent this small chamber on Bread Street on a three-month lease. Bread Street was not as wholesome as its name, ramshackle and with a ditch running down the centre always full of pigshit. The yeasty residues and bakery waste attracted the pigs, but at least there were ovens going most of the day and that meant it was warmer than other places.

  When Sadie had first seen it, she had mistakenly queried whether Ella had made a good bargain, and Ella had cuffed her and said she had not wanted to haggle and draw attention to herself – she did not want Thomas Ibbetson’s family to trace them. Sadie had watched as she had a smith put a great iron lock on the door straight away.

  Just looking at that lock still gave Sadie gooseflesh.

  She put down her spoon, the bowl empty except for a ring of dried crust. She followed Ella’s eyes as they ranged round the room. ‘Do you think he’s still looking for us?’

  ‘I don’t know. No. Shouldn’t think so. Not after all these weeks.’

  Sadie swept up both bowls to take them for scrubbing in the sand pail.

  ‘It’s a ke
nnel,’ Ella said, still looking about her with a disgruntled air, ‘but at least it’s our own, and I suppose we’ll get by.’

  ‘Then promise me you’ll be right particular with Mr Whitgift’s wig. Old Feverface will throw us out if it’s not up to the mark.’ She grabbed Ella’s hand and squeezed it, searching her face, looking for an agreement.

  Ella slid her eyes away, avoiding her, so Sadie dug her fingers further into Ella’s hand. Eventually Ella sighed. ‘If it means you’ll stop looking so mardy. But I’m telling you, Sadie, when I see her claws picking over my work as if I’m somehow not good enough, it makes me so mad I could grind her bony fingers into dust under my boot.’

  Sadie withdrew her hand, shocked by the venom of her sister’s words.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. You know as well as I, she never shows her real face in the shop, acting all meek-mannered with the customers under her fancy black lace. But we know the sting of that tape. I’d like to see her grovel. Her, and all the folk like her.’

  Ella’s face darkened and a shadow passed over it, the way clouds alter the colours of the hills as they drift by. ‘It’s always us or them, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aw, come on, Ell, don’t start on that again.’

  ‘Or at least, mostly.’

  Astonished, Sadie saw that Ella’s eyes had grown full of tears.

  ‘He weren’t like that though – not Master Thomas,’ Ella said.

  Sadie put down the crocks and went over to put her arm round Ella’s shoulder, but Ella shrugged away, as if she wanted to gather herself together, folding her arms tight across her chest.

  ‘I never would have thought it, but I miss him that sore. Before he fell sick, he were kind, and he treated me like a proper woman, not a servant. Oh aye, I had to roll over for him like any man, but come morning he’d help me dress, bend down and put my two clogs side by side for me to slip my feet into, just like I were any lady.’ She stood up hurriedly and moved over to the grimy window. ‘But I don’t know that I deserved him.’ Her mouth twisted into a wring of pain, her voice was choked as though in mid-swallow. ‘He shouldn’t have died. We were happy. Comfortable. He should have got better, the physician said so. But then he went and—’