The Gilded Lily

by Deborah Swift

  The notices were something she had not bargained on. They were certain to have a description on them or they would be useless else. She could dye her hair, they’d not recognize her from the notices then, but what on earth could she do about Sadie?

  Dennis was still keeping pace with her when they arrived at Whitgift’s sign. When they reached the gates, she frowned.

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘I won’t let on where you are, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Will you take this to someone who can read? I don’t know nobody who can.’ She handed him the folded notice.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Make sure it’s no one that knows us.’

  ‘What do you take me for?’

  ‘Thanks, Dennis.’ She made an effort to smile. He touched his hat a little too obviously and gave a mock bow, before moving off towards the offices. Pray God Sadie was right and she could trust him.

  She paused a moment to look up at the brand new sign hanging from its wrought-iron bracket. It was artfully and brightly painted with a gilt-edged lily and a realistic-looking glass perfume bottle in front of an oriental fan. She admired it a moment before turning sharp right and pushing open the side door with its frosted glass panels, hearing the tinkle of the little bell as she shut it behind her. The wave of heat from the banked-up fire was almost solid.

  ‘Miss Johnson. You’re late. Quick, quick.’ Mrs Horsefeather fussed around her. ‘The doors will be opened at the next strike of the clock.’

  Ella hung up her cloak and smoothed her skirts.

  Mrs Horsefeather scowled at her and heaved herself round the back of the counter, where she took a list from a drawer. ‘Today’s callers. Lady Ireton, the Honourable Misses Edgware – they are quite spoilt by their father, make sure you show them everything – Miss Rokeby, and the Countess of Maine. The Countess of Maine never buys anything. She’s a title but no money. She’s just paying us a visit to be nosy. The husbands and fathers all have business with Mr Whitgift Senior, so don’t let the ladies leave until you have persuaded the husbands to open their purses in the warehouses.’

  Ella nodded, trying to remember all the names.

  ‘I shall be positioned in one of the chairs outside in the vestibule,’ went on Mrs Horsefeather. ‘The gentlemen may wait there for their wives and daughters. Servants to wait in the yard.’

  The door tinkled again and a small barefoot girl came in, nearly tripping over the rug as she stared in blank amazement at her surroundings.

  ‘This is Meg,’ said Mrs Horsefeather. ‘You need a girl by you to mend the fire, fetch refreshments and take messages to the ostlers for the carriages.’

  ‘Meg, this is Miss Johnson.’ Meg bobbed her head.

  Ella was cock-a-hoop. Her own servant! Never mind that Meg was probably only eight or nine years old and looked barely able to lift a coal scuttle. She smiled at Meg broadly, then pressed her mouth into a more ladylike expression.

  Meg seemed to be well trained for she was already trimming the wicks in the wall-sconces.

  ‘Ah, listen. That’s the first carriage now. I’ll go and see who it is.’ Mrs Horsefeather puffed out of the door.

  Ella hastened over to the lacquered table and picked up a hand mirror to check her appearance again, even though she had only just done so. The mirror was a glass one, not a tin one, and gave a very clear image. It showed a pale oval face with wide-apart blue eyes. She pinched at her cheeks a little and patted her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, they are a little unruly.’

  Ella jumped. Jay had come in unannounced. She quickly replaced the mirror on the table, face down, her face scarlet.

  ‘In London, heavy eyebrows are the sign of a labouring man. Ladies usually pluck them, with iron tweezers, to make them lighter. You may wish to do the same.’

  ‘Oh.’ And then, realizing it was clearly an order and something more was expected of her, ‘Yes, sir. Indeed I will.’

  ‘Good. But it may wait. I came to bring you this.’ He held out a small notebook. ‘You will find the inkwell and pen in the top drawer of the counter.’

  Ella reached out to take the book. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I want you to make notes. If anyone tells you they are to be away from home, or that their house is to be empty, I would like you to write down the dates.’

  ‘I can remember them, sir, there won’t be no need to write them down.’

  ‘I prefer the information in writing. So that I can advise them to put their valuables in our cabinets for safe-keeping, of course.’ He smiled and caught her eye.

  She wondered whether she could ask Dennis to write them down for her, but realized that it would not work. Mr Whitgift would recognize his penmanship. There was nothing for it, she’d have to tell him. ‘Sorry, sir, I can’t.’

  Jay frowned.

  ‘I can’t write, sir. Nor read, ’cept my name and common stuff like figures on coins and inches on a yardstick.’

  Jay Whitgift tutted. Ella was crestfallen. She did not want to disappoint Jay. Hastening to reassure him, she said, ‘But there’s naught wrong with my memory. I can keep the dates up here – in my head.’ She tapped her temple. ‘I might not be able to write, but I’ve not got cloth between my ears. I’m that sharp I’m almost a danger to misself.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He seemed amused again. ‘We’ll see. I’ll come by at the end of the day and we’ll try a little test.’

  He strode towards the door, but then turned and gave her a smile that made her so flustered she brushed down her skirts again and tried to look busy with some pots of marigold cream. Her mind was racing with excitement. He was going to come back later. She patted her hair to check it was still in place.

  The main door tinkled and Mrs Horsefeather ushered in two young ladies in mantles and muslin caps. Their faces were porcelain-white and their hair curled stiffly at the side. They ignored their surroundings completely and came straight to the counter. The taller one said, ‘We want some eyebright. And it says on the billboard you have a skin balm that removes freckles.’ She dropped her fan on the counter with the lazy air of one who is used to being waited on. Ella presumed these to be the Misses Edgware, with the rich pa.

  ‘Yes, lemon and rosemary,’ said Ella, reaching under the counter for the flat-lidded dishes tied up with ribbon. ‘And the belladonna is in these phials, with the dropper. Here, let me show you a sample.’ She put on her best accent. ‘Would you like to take some refreshment?’

  ‘I’m not sure we—’

  ‘Meg, fetch hot chocolate.’

  To Ella’s great satisfaction, Meg hastened away and returned a few minutes later staggering under a laden tray. By this time, the door had opened twice more and two other young ladies had arrived.

  The Misses Edgware sat over to one side, where there was a row of comfortable chairs upholstered in horsehair and leather. They chattered in high-pitched giggles. The two other ladies seemed to know them and the four were soon engaged in a lively conversation about a forthcoming concert. Ella listened hard – so hard in fact that one of the girls caught sight of her and turned her back, indicating to the others with her outraged glance that they should lower their voices.

  Ella did not care. She stuck out her chin and continued to listen as Jay had asked. She had overheard by this time that Jay was going to the concert. She had never been to a concert, but she knew that she had neither the right manners nor the right clothes. Concerts were not for the likes of her. But it was a hard thing to hear them talk about it and know that she would never be invited herself. And she looked sideways at the Misses Edgware with their slender necks and thin, bird-like faces, and hoped that Jay did not find them attractive.

  He was right, though. All the ladies had very scant eyebrows, like a line of single hairs, where hers appeared to be rough, like a man’s. She was embarrassed about this. Why had she not noticed it before? She saw too that the other ladies all had very white skin. When she showed them the lemon and ros
emary balm her arms were dark and brawny next to their white flesh. Their blood seemed to run blue, too. She saw the fine pattern of veins when she turned their arms over to put the lavender on their wrists.

  She was able to convince them to buy quite a few items before they left, blanchinette for their complexions and ruby-red lip madder. She loved piling up the ribboned packages in the brown paper and tying the string into a handle. And even more, she liked shouting Meg’s name and hearing her reply, ‘Yes, miss.’ Then she would hand Meg the parcel to take to the carriages whilst the lady customer drew on her rabbitskin gloves. By lunchtime, the wooden drawers were heavier to pull than before and the pile of coins satisfyingly deep.

  After they left, she hurried upstairs and slathered a good quantity of the lemon and rosemary balm over her arms and face, rubbing it in well. The bell on the door went again and she had to rub hurriedly at her arms to get the greasy white stain to melt and disappear into her skin. The shop was busy. The bills of trade had attracted attention and quite a few callers had not sent word in advance. At one point, there were so many ladies in the room that Meg had to be sent over to the pop shop for more chairs, and the assortment of furniture got odder and more mismatched with every visitor.

  Everyone seemed to want refreshment at once and little china bowls with their slops seemed to litter every surface. Mrs Horsefeather’s creaking voice drifted in through the door as she tried to calm the gentlemen who were waiting outside. Ella could hear her saying, ‘But, sir, no gentlemen are permitted in the Gilded Lily. Let me go and see if your wife is ready.’ And her perspiring face would appear round the door mouthing, ‘Lady Ireton. Your husband is waiting.’ But Lady Ireton was not ready to leave until she had heard the end of the story about her neighbour and her black manservant, and so the gentlemen became more and more impatient.

  In desperation, at five o’clock Mrs Horsefeather rang a bell, there was a last-minute flurry of purchases and everyone was finally persuaded to leave.

  ‘My dear! What a day.’ Mrs Horsefeather sank into a chair that seemed to exhale under her weight. ‘In a minute I’ll bag the takings. Just give me a moment to rest my feet.’ She fanned herself with her hand.

  ‘I’ll see to it, Mrs Horsefeather.’

  ‘No. Mr Whitgift was most particular that I should do it and tally it against the items sold. Have you ticked them off on the slates?’ Ella had. It had given her a sort of pride to notch each purchase with chalk on the small slate next to its display. She was a little vexed he had not trusted her to do it. She might not be able to read, but she could count well enough.

  She knew, for example, that the lavender water had sold so well it had nearly run out of the door. But then, that was not surprising, given that Londoners were the rankest, foulest-smelling people she had ever met. It must be the air. People did not smell so bad in Westmorland.

  She watched Mrs Horsefeather gather up the slates and count the money.

  ‘Please, ma’am, will that be all?’ Meg’s voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘Oh Lord, are you still here,’ said Mrs Horsefeather. ‘Well, judging by today, I guess we will be needing you again tomorrow.’

  ‘Should I take them chairs back?’

  There was still a collection of odd chairs stuck in the middle of the room.

  ‘No, just push them up against the wall,’ said Mrs Horsefeather. They watched her lug them over and line them up.

  ‘You may go,’ said Ella imperiously, when she had stacked the last one. Then she turned back to place the chalk in the box on the cabinet. Meg left silently, like a ghost.

  ‘Sit here.’ Jay had pulled up two chairs next to the cooling embers of the fire. He patted one of them, and Ella sat down.

  ‘So, tell me where the Misses Edgware live.’

  Ella thought. They had not said where they lived.

  ‘They didn’t say, sir.’

  ‘Not good enough. Try to think of anything they said that would lead you to deduce where they live.’

  Ella thought. ‘They said they would need to hire a carriage to take them to the concert, and that the concert was in St Giles, Holborn . . .’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘. . . and one of them said it would take a quarter-hour by carriage to get there,’ she said, with growing excitement, ‘so they must live a quarter-hour from St Giles.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘One of them said that they would only be at home a few more weeks, and this would be the last outing in town before they went back to the country. Oh yes, their father has to return to his country seat in Kent.’ Ella had found this phrase puzzling, so she had recalled it well.

  ‘When? Did they say when?’

  ‘Yes, the tenth of next month, they said. Yes, I’m sure I’m right.’

  ‘Well done, Miss Johnson. The Edgware family will be most appreciative when I suggest they should lock away their valuables.’

  Lock up their valuables, my foot. Ella was not sure if he really expected her to believe him, so she kept her innocent face pinned on and sat up straighter in her chair. He was pleased with her. She had done well to remember it all, like he said. He was smiling at her now and getting something out of his waistcoat.

  He handed her a sixpenny token, pressing his fingers against hers, then closing her hand round it. She was slightly disgruntled to be tipped like any common servant, but she clasped it tight. Sixpence! The leather was warm, where it had been next to his chest. His hand held her closed fist, and his other hand settled over it. His touch sent a shiver through her. She did not dare move.

  He leaned in and whispered, ‘There’ll be a few extra pennies every time you help me.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘But it is our secret.’ She nodded. ‘This is business. A man has to look out for his business. You understand?’

  Ella looked up into his dark eyes. ‘Oh yes, sir. I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Then you will be here tomorrow evening again after the chambers close.’ He released her hand. She withdrew it, but remained sitting.

  She toyed with a curl that had escaped from the tightly wound coil at the back of her head. He watched her, and she blushed, the air seemed to grow thick and cloying. Behind her a clock ticked. She saw him press his teeth into his bottom lip.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ His eyes dropped away. He stood up sharply. ‘Mrs Horsefeather has cashed up?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Then I will see you tomorrow.’ He brushed some imaginary dust off his cuffs and hurried out of the door.

  Ella smiled to herself. He must think her wet behind the ears to believe all that about locking away their valuables. He was a charmer and no mistake. But she knew that trick. He knew how to get away with bending the truth, just as she did herself. They were alike. He’d be a catch, that one, but she’d have to play him right, after all she was nobody and he was heir to all this. And if he had any sense at all he’d be looking to better himself with a marriage into a high-class family, maybes even a title, so it wouldn’t be easy. But she knew she was right for him – they would understand each other. If ever there was one, a match with Jay Whitgift was definitely a prize worth shooting for.

  She hurried up the stairs, pulled her old clothes off the chair and tied them in a bundle. She would not wear them again. She was a lady now, and would have to learn to dress and behave like one, if she was to compete with the frail and slender beauty of the Edgware sisters. And she had sixpence now towards a pair of gloves to protect her hands. Soon her chapped fingers would be soft and white, like the Misses Edgware, not rough and red like Sadie’s.

  Chapter 15

  Titus Ibbetson pushed his wig further back on his head, exposing his pale freckled forehead. He had bought a second jug of ale and it sat in front of him. He had drunk most of it, but he prided himself on being able to hold his liquor. He looked disapprovingly at the table next to him where a group of untidy young men were raucous with drink. They were armed with short swords and one of
them had scars cut into his forearm in the manner of a sailor. They eyed him covertly and whispered and laughed amongst themselves. He ignored them, frowning into his tankard. Why was it that men of such a class were always so ugly? He stared morosely at one of the men with protruding teeth and a complexion pitted by the pox, before pouring more ale.

  He took a draught of the thin yeasty liquid. He needed a drink. He still could not come to terms with the fact that Thomas was dead. When he had lost the trail of the Appleby sisters he had gone back to Coventry to fetch Isobel, and then returned to Netherbarrow to see Thomas buried. A bleak occasion with few mourners and the wind like a blade, whipping round the headstones. Afterwards, everything was made more complicated by the fact that the gaol could no longer account for the whereabouts of Alice, Thomas’s wife, and there was no will that they could lay hands on. There was delay after delay. The inefficiency of the Westmorland legal system when they could give him no answers and seemed to be doing nothing angered him even more.

  In the meantime he had spent long days sorting through the remains of Thomas’s things, hoping to find some clue as to where Ella Appleby might have gone. It had shaken him that there was hardly an item of value left. No coin, no silver. Thomas’s watch was gone, and his gold seal. On their twenty-first birthday their father had given them matching seals – rubies, engraved with their initials – and though he turned out every drawer in the house looking for the seal, it was nowhere to be seen.

  When he opened the closet to search through Thomas’s pockets, it had given him a peculiar sensation – the clothes looked so much like his own. Except that his own were hung in neat rows. Thomas’s clothes were bundled together as if they had been hurriedly thrust inside. His dark working suit, almost an exact replica of Titus’s own, drooped off its hanger, his two Sunday outfits crammed one over the other dangled lopsidedly from the hook. His shoes were discarded in an untidy heap of unmatched pairs. A mound of dirty undergarments and shirts had been jammed into a drawer. When he opened it the stench made him retch. It took him aback. No woman had cared enough to make sure his house was in order. A lump came to his throat. That slattern of a housemaid must be responsible. He closed the drawer again, unable to bring himself to touch it.