She had walked home from the gunpowder works and that was why she was so late home. She had made the journey there by boat, but it had made her queasy to be atop such a body of water, when you did not know how deep it was or what lay beneath. She could not bear to be near water after dark.
She hated the sound of it; it carried the memories, no matter how she quashed them. She had never told Sadie the truth – what was the use? No truth would bring Ma back; better for Sadie to believe Ma had done something to make her proud. Better to imagine a glorious heroic death. Sometimes the truth was just too much to bear.
The sound of the water lapped at her thoughts as she watched the flicker of the candle eddy round the walls. She was seven years old again. She absentmindedly balled her hem in her hand and crushed it, just the way she had as a little girl, standing on the shore all those years ago. She remembered covering her ears to the screams of the horses as the carriage overturned and they thrashed in their traces, spraying up salt water and wet sand. She remembered she was winded and it was a moment before she rolled over. The fine ladies sprawled on the ground, their skirts blowing and billowing, showing the tops of their stockings. One by one they sat up, rubbing at their backs, the gentlemen rushing to help. Ma’s mistress was making a mighty fuss, groaning and a-carrying on. Ella cast about looking for Ma, but couldn’t see her. A man came over to Ella and bounced her back onto her feet. She began to cry and it was then that she heard her mother’s voice. ‘Over here, help me.’
The men in their dark suits took a few steps forward but then retreated. They were talking in low voices. All Ella could make out were the words ‘not safe’.
At first she thought her mother was kneeling down, but then saw she was buried in the sand up to her knees. The sand squirmed around her skirts like it was alive.
‘Ma!’ She ran towards her, thinking to join in the game, but cold wet hands grabbed her round the waist and pulled her back. At the same time, her mother shouted, ‘No! Stay there, pet, stay with the gentleman.’
‘Listen, the bore’s a-coming!’ A woman’s panicky voice. Everything seemed to happen quickly after that.
Mistress shouted, ‘Get the child, there’s no time.’
Someone picked her up under his arms and began to run with her towards the shore. It made her teeth rattle in her head. She had a sideways tilted view of men uncoupling the horses and setting the ladies atop. They clung round the waists of the men, their bare legs showing as they were forced to ride astride. She began to howl. It was all noise and commotion.
The horses galloped up behind them, the three ladies from the carriage clinging onto the manes, skirts flapping against the bare backs. One of the gentlemen was riding up front.
‘Get up,’ Mistress said to the other man.
‘What about the girl?’ the man said, helping her up. The heavy bunch of keys the mistress always wore at her waist clinked.
‘No room,’ Mistress said, from the back of the horse where there were already two of them astride. ‘Come on, we’ll fetch hands from the village to deal with their own.’
‘Wait there, maid. We’ll go fetch help.’ She remembered the sound of her own blubbering as he paused, looking at her in consternation as if he wished she would stop. Then he leapt onto the second horse so there were three riding together and they galloped away.
It was suddenly quiet. The sound of a gull screeched overhead.
Why didn’t her mother come? But she could not. She stayed where she was, her skirts weighed with water. Her face was fixed on Ella. A little way off the carriage lay on its side, sticking out of the sand, one wheel askew.
There are those who say the bore that comes in from Morecambe Bay can outrun a man, that it moves quick. But Ella knew that to be a lie. That day it crept leisurely as you like, the fingers of the tide creeping slow up the bare leg of the estuary, filling the undulations until the crests of grey-yellow sand became just grey. Several times she called, but whenever she set foot on the sand her ma shouted, ‘Get back, by Christ, or I’ll get your da to leather you. Help’s coming.’
So she waited, silent and shivering, the drizzle soaking her hair. When the flat expanse of water was up to her mother’s waist she was like a small rock jutting out of the sea. By that time she had stopped calling, stopped saying anything at all. Ella waited until the rock was a tiny dot before she began to cry silently at her own helplessness.
Ella felt the hot tears on her face even now, all these years later. She stood as she had then, her hem tight in her fist. Ma’s mistress did not come. Nobody came. She had waited there until it faded into dark and the wheel of the carriage disappeared and the sea and sky became one black void.
It was the constable who came in the end. ‘It was too late,’ he said. ‘We couldn’t have got to her. The water moves too quick.’
He had to drag her away for even at seven years old she knew that if she gave up waiting then her ma would really be lost. She fought with her fingernails and the metal tips of her clogs, but he was strong as wire and pulled her down the road till she had no scream left in her. He told her it would be a kindness to her father and to her sister to say Ma had died from hitting her head and been washed away. Ella had glared at him as he had told them, watched her father’s face drain. She knew it to be another lie, but she had stayed dumb, that way it was bearable.
And now here was Sadie asking for the truth. She dropped her skirt and rubbed at her eyes, took up the candle and shut the shutters against the dark with a slam. In church they talked of the forgiveness of sins, God help her, but she could not forgive.
Chapter 8
The next morning when Sadie awoke, Ella looked pale and pinched. The rain was unrelenting – icy needles that pierced her cloak. Sadie scurried out of the door and hastened to work, dodging under the overhanging eaves to stay dry. Ella left at the same time for the streets around fashionable Whitehall, saying she would knock at back doors and see if she could be taken into service. Ella wore her best blue gown, but the hem was sodden even before she reached the end of the alley, and it was with no surprise that when Sadie returned from the perruquier’s she was already sitting disconsolately at home.
‘I must have knocked on a hundred doors,’ Ella said. ‘Some of them were so rude they shut the door in my face. Soon as I said I had no letter, I never got a look in. My feet are that sore.’
The rest of the week was no different. Ella’s gown got more and more bedraggled, stained at the hem from walking the streets in the January wet. Her face took on a pinched and glum expression. One day she did not even bother making ready, just sat in her shift.
‘Not going out?’ Sadie asked.
‘What’s the point?’
‘Come on. You won’t get taken on tarrying here.’
‘It’s all right for you. You haven’t walked all the streets of this bloody city till they’re worn flat. You’ve got work in a nice dry shop.’
Sadie bit her tongue. She wanted to say ‘But it’s all your own doing’, but she didn’t. Ella was not beyond slapping her, even though Sadie was nearly as tall now.
‘There’s only one place left to try,’ Ella said. ‘The gunpowder works. They said they’d be taking on girls, I suppose I could go see if they’ve got anything.’
‘Not there, Ella. You said it was dangerous.’
As if to spite her, Ella stood up and began to pull on her good dress. ‘Well, I’ve tried everything else. How bad can it be?’
‘Do you have to?’
‘You got a better idea?’
Sadie watched Ella’s back as she marched off towards the wharf to get the ferry upriver. The rain had eased at last and the dawning day was chill and grey. She wrapped the bulk of her woollen shawl over her head. At first she had been embarrassed about this rough grey garment, it marked her out as a country girl, but it was warm, unlike the fancy silks worn by the Londoners, and she was grateful for it. She rubbed her hands together and then folded them under her arms to keep the cold away.
Without thinking, she negotiated the maze of streets to the wig shop for the route was familiar to her now. When they first arrived in the city she had been horrified by the rotting piles of ordure in the road, the animal bones and vegetable peelings, but now she had become used to sidestepping it like a nimble goat. Some of the doors she passed were marked with the red cross, but there had been few reports of spotted fever in the last few months so her fear of it had somewhat abated. Nevertheless she still made a muttered ‘God save us’ as she hurried by.
Under the garishly painted sign showing a full-bottomed wig on a stand, she veered into the shop, then straight inside and down the stone stairs. She could have found her way blindfold, by the smell of it alone. Some of the younger girls were already there, sorting piles of horsehair from big sacks into colours and grades. The horsehair was used for cheaper wigs, or to bulk out the good hair when Madame Lefevre thought they could get away with it. The knotters were hunched over the work on their benches. Sadie took up her place next to Corey as usual and began work on the row of hair she had left unfinished yesterday.
The curtain rings rattled and they looked up to see Madame Lefevre arrive with another girl in tow behind her. She showed her to where Ella used to sit. Sadie and the others stared with frank curiosity.
The newcomer was a light-boned girl with a round pink face and thick gold-coloured hair in side bunches that jutted out from her cap, which was tied very tightly under her chin. She tripped in as though she already knew where she was going and settled down on Ella’s stool as if she had been sitting there all her life. She sat very upright with her shoulders back and smoothed her hands over the folds of her dark skirts. Sadie did not like someone sitting in Ella’s place.
‘This is Mercy Fletcher,’ Madame Lefevre said. She turned back to Mercy. ‘Johnson will tell you where everything is and help if you should go awry.’
Corey smiled, and Mercy smiled back at Corey, a smile that did not show her teeth. Madame Lefevre nodded in satisfaction.
When Madame Lefevre had gone, Mercy turned to Corey, arched her eyebrows and said, ‘I shouldn’t think I’ll need your help. I used to work for M’sieur Alphonse in Three Needle Street. It was a much bigger place than this, and we made all the new French styles.’
‘If it was so fancy, why d’you leave then?’ Betsy said, looking out of the side of her eyes at Corey, and getting in a dig.
‘My brother had an argument with the proprietor.’
‘Why was that then?’ Pegeen asked.
‘He couldn’t get along with M’sieur Alphonse. Called him the king’s fop. And the men used to sit round during fittings in their shirtsleeves exchanging lewd stories. Jacob didn’t want my ears sullied with their filth, so he had a word with him about it. M’sieur Alphonse tried to make excuses, but Jacob won’t take false talk from anyone, so he just put out God’s fist at him. I’ve not been allowed to go back since.’
The girls stared and giggled, until Madame Lefevre put her head round the door.
‘What’s this “God’s fist” she was talking about?’ Sadie asked Corey later during the snap break.
‘Jacob Fletcher’s got a reputation on him,’ Corey said. ‘I’d no idea Mercy was his sister. He’s a Puritan bully boy. He was the one roused a mob to torch the mercer’s – on account of them being Catholics. The place went up whoosh! Like tinder, and the poor woman still abed inside. Terrible, it was.’
Sadie thought of Ella at the gunpowder factory. She hoped it wasn’t true about the explosions. She didn’t like the sound of Jacob Fletcher and she wished Ella was still working here at the wig shop, not Mercy.
After their dinner break, the girls knuckled down to their work under the watchful eye of Madame Lefevre, who was keeping a half-eye on Mercy Fletcher to see how she fared. Sadie could see Mercy’s hands moving like quicksilver over the wig block. She was obviously an experienced knotter. Later in the afternoon, the bell sounded and Madame Lefevre clacked away to answer the door. A few moments later she appeared again round the curtain and pointed a finger in Sadie’s direction.
‘Mr Whitgift’s asking after you.’
She stood up. All the girls paused in their knotting. From the way Madame said his name, it could have been the Good Lord himself.
‘Says he wants to speak with the girl with the great red stain on her face.’ Madame did not spare her embarrassment. ‘Get a shift on, he’s waiting.’
Sadie rubbed her hands on her apron and brushed the clinging hairs from her bodice as she went through into the shop. He was lounging against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his fancy hat in his hands. He held the door to the street open, with a long arm.
‘Step outside with me a moment,’ he said.
She ducked under his elbow, and smartly he shut the door in Madame’s face. Sadie suppressed a smile, but was unsurprised when moments later Madame’s dark shape appeared inside next to the window.
Sadie shivered; the air bit through her thin sleeves. He was trying not to stare, but he gave the sideways glances that people thought she did not notice.
He drew her away from the shop. ‘Your sister does not seem cut out for the wig trade. Is it true she lost her position?’
‘No, sir, I mean yes, sir,’ she said, amazed that he should have come and asked for her. She clasped her hands and waited, her eyes cast down. It was safest to be quiet and keep her face blank.
‘Tell her to call at my yard tomorrow after noon and I will arrange a new employment for her. Here is a bill with the address. If she points to my signature she’ll gain admittance. Friargate.’ He pressed a paper into Sadie’s hand. She looked down at it but could not make out any of the words, it was fancy writing.
Sadie opened her mouth to tell him Ella had gone to the gunpowder factory, but then thought better of it. Instead she gave a little curtsey.
‘Make sure to tell her now. I’ll expect her tomorrow.’ He lifted his hat and crammed it back down on his head so that the three pheasant feathers bobbed and shivered. Then he gave a nod and turned on his heel.
Sadie hurried into the shop, the folded paper with its torn edge tight in her hand. As she went downstairs she was arrested by Madame Lefevre, who took her by the shoulder and spun her round.
‘What was he after?’
‘He was asking after my sister.’
‘What did he want to know? Was it about me?’ Madame Lefevre’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and her fingers dug into Sadie’s collarbone.
‘No, madame, naught like that.’
‘He gave her something,’ piped up Mercy. ‘I saw her stow it in the front of her apron.’
‘Show me.’
She sighed, glared at Mercy and reluctantly brought out the paper.
‘I’ll take that,’ said Madame Lefevre, snatching it out of her hand and holding it aloft. ‘Gentlemen are forbidden on these premises unless they are buying, and you will not conduct personal business in my time. I won’t stand for it, d’ye hear? You are not to leave your bench.’
‘Yes, madame.’
She sat back down. During the rest of the afternoon she wondered about Mr Whitgift and the promise of work for Ella. He had said nothing about offering Sadie a position. She knew why, of course. It was because Ella was pretty and she was plain; she supposed it was too much to ask that he might find a place for both of them. She sighed. She couldn’t cover the stain. When she was eleven years old Ella had tried to help by bringing home a powder to try to bleach it out. She’d got it from a travelling man who swore that when mixed with water it would make your skin soft and white.
‘I’ll tip it in and you stir,’ Ella had said.
Together they peered into the basin whilst Sadie blended the powder into a thick lumpy paste.
‘What is it?’ Sadie asked.
‘Don’t know. He said just to mix it with water, leave it on. Said it would make anything white, that.’
‘Here then, pass us the mirror.’
Ella held up thei
r ma’s old tin mirror for her to look, and Sadie scooped the mixture out of the bowl and daubed it all over until the livid red stain was completely covered.
It was a moment before she realized the paste stung and her face and hands were burning. She ran screaming to the pail, but too late.
The swollen eyes and blisters lasted weeks.
Just the memory prickled her skin like a nettle. And Pa had leathered them both. Even now her skin was likely to flare up if she put anything on it, so she was wary of soap, and would only wash with plain water, lest it bring the hives back. It was not Ella’s fault, she’d only tried to help. But that’s Ella all over, isn’t it, Sadie thought. She never stops to think.
When her skin had finally healed, the mark was still there, redder than ever. So it was no wonder Mr Whitgift didn’t want her serving in his shop. She would probably have to work in the wig shop for ever. She tried not to let the idea of Ella’s good fortune bother her, picked up the wig hook and set to knotting again, but it gnawed at her insides, the sense of being looked over.
‘Stop daydreaming!’ Madame’s tape shot out and caught Sadie on the back of the wrist. Instinctively she withdrew her hand and put it to her mouth to suck it. The rest of the afternoon she sweated over her work in a high dudgeon.
She worried that she should have been quicker to put Whitgift’s paper away. It was gone for good, and what would Ella do to her when she got home, if she knew she had let that old crow have it? Perhaps better to hold her tongue and say nothing about it. She did not like Whitgift, the way he lounged against the alley wall as if he owned every stone of it. Anyway, Ella might have got taken on at the gunpowder works, and what would a girl do with two positions? Maybe she need never know Whitgift had asked after her. She’d see how the land lay; could be that Ella was fixed with something by now.
The Gilded Lily Page 8