He sat down on the bed, now stripped bare of its bedding, and stared into the closet. Unused for some time, by the look of it, were Thomas’s bespoke riding boots, the black and tan leather polished to a high sheen, their wooden trees still inside. They were too good to waste. He dragged them out, removed the trees and levered them on. They were a perfect fit. The soles were hardly worn; Thomas must have been saving them for some special occasion. And now that occasion would never come. Christmas had been and gone without him. Titus stood in his brother’s best boots and bit back the tears.
‘Damn you to hell.’ He spoke to no one in particular, but strode out of the house with the fire of it still stoking his belly. He rode away, digging those boots into the horse’s flank until it was galloping and foam flew from its mouth.
Now he wore the boots all the time. He glanced down at them under the table. They were scuffed and muddy, but he would wear them out before he gave up looking for those girls.
He would recognize the girls again if he saw them. The younger one particularly. Even in the twilight in the filth of Bread Street he had seen that raw patch on her face, like a map stretched over her eye. If only he had been younger and fitter, he might have caught up with them, but they slipped out of sight, and finding them in the stews of London was like looking for a woodlouse on a ship.
Tracking down the Appleby sisters was going to take time, he realized, so in the end he had fetched Isobel and now he was prepared to stay in London for as long as it took. Thomas’s cook, Mistress Tansy, had helped him make an inventory of what was missing from the house so he could trace any goods that might be Thomas’s. He glanced at the next table. He supposed he’d better get on with it, even though these men looked like they hadn’t a peck of common sense between them.
‘You seen two girls round here? One with a port-wine stain on her face?’
The men looked up, but then ignored him and carried on their conversation. Aggrieved, he placed a newly printed notice on the table in front of them and, following it with a finger, began to read it to them.
‘Reward,’ he said loudly, ‘for the apprehension of two savage sisters, serving maids, who on the 28th October last, did murder their employer in cold blood, and so forth . . . Furthermore, they stole a quantity of silver plate, jewellery and other items –’
He checked to see that his audience were listening to him. ‘Have you seen them? Two serving maids from the northern counties, one with a great red birthing-mark?’
The men shook their heads, suddenly ill-tempered. ‘No. Never heard of them.’
‘They’ve not been in here,’ the pock-marked man said. ‘We’d have seen them, sure we would. We’re in here every night. Have you tried asking in the tannery? They was taking on girls not so long back.’
‘Yes,’ said another, ‘and you could always ask at Old Feverface’s. She has nearly twenty girls in her shop.’
‘Fever face?’
To Titus’s irritation they laughed raucously, sharing the joke between themselves.
‘This is a serious affair. You have a duty to help me,’ said Titus, trying to establish some order, ‘it is a matter of the law.’ But the men ignored him again and carried on whispering and nudging each other.
Titus felt anger rise up inside his chest. Stupid feeble-minded drunks. He picked up their jug and slammed it down on the table, so the dregs sloshed out. The men jumped and sat upright. The sailor stood up, his fists out. ‘Waste our good ale, would you? I’ll teach you to waste our ale—’
‘The hell you won’t,’ Titus said, springing to his feet. ‘Tell me where I can find this Mrs Feverface. If you do not, I will send for the constable and have him clap you all in the cells for drunken behaviour.’
‘Now just hold on a minute, mister.’ The cellarman appeared from behind the bar.
The sailor made a lunge with his fist.
Titus dodged it. He was panting now, in a great rage. ‘I have warned you.’
‘Don’t, Ted, he might mean it. We can’t afford to fight with the likes of him.’ One of the others staggered to his feet and placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. ‘It’s the perruquier’s, sir. Madame Lefevre. Under the sign of the wig stand, round the corner.’
With that Titus swung back his fist and slammed it straight into the sailor’s face. His knuckles made a satisfying crunch against the man’s nose. The man swayed and toppled. Titus felt as if there was quicksilver running through his veins. He stalked out of the door, hearing his own blood pounding in his ears.
Chapter 16
The next day Sadie waited again till Ella had left before creeping down the stairs, carrying her clogs in her hand, so that Dennis’s mother, Widow Gowper, would not guess there were two girls and not one. She had got Ella dressed and ready in whispers. Otherwise, Dennis’s ma might think the girl upstairs was touched in the head – talking to herself. Ella had told her to stay indoors, but Sadie was determined to ignore that, she needed to say goodbye to Corey and Pegeen. Corey had been good to her since Ella left, sitting next to her in their snap time, sharing her bit of bread when Sadie had none. If she got there early she might be able to talk to them before Madame Lefevre arrived, tell them she would not be coming back and not to ask questions.
Once outside, Sadie shook her head so her hair fell over her eye and pulled her hood well down over her face. As she hurried along, it seemed as if everyone was staring at her. She hugged the buildings, walking under the overhangs, darting in and out of the shadows. She said a silent prayer every time she heard footsteps behind her, her shoulders hunched in case any moment someone might spin her round and see the stain on her face that marked her out.
Outside the fruiterer’s was a mounting block with a rail behind it and she stopped short. There was one of the notices tied to it with string. It flapped slightly in the wind, but she was sure it was the same as the one the constable had given Ella. The sight of it filled her with dread. As she passed, she grabbed for it and ripped it down, crumpling it under her cloak. By the time she reached the corner of Cheapside she had a thick wodge of paper balled in her hand. But she knew it would be nigh on impossible to take them all down.
What if Madame Lefevre had seen one of the notices and the constable was already lying in wait for her there? Her palms were sweating as she squeezed the pieces of paper together, looking to her right and left as she went down the street. Just before the turning into Friday Street she saw Corey hurrying along, her head bent low against the biting wind. She stuffed the ball of paper into a crack between some shop shutters.
Several other girls pushed past her on their way to the wig shop, bantering good-naturedly. Sadie hurried over to greet Corey.
‘Mornin’,’ Corey said.
Sadie took hold of her arm. ‘Come away, Corey. I’m after talking with you.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Corey’s eyes searched hers.
‘I’m giving notice.’
‘Let’s get inside into the warm then you can tell me.’
‘No, I’m not coming in.’
‘But why? What’s up?’
‘I can’t tell you, but I just wanted to—’
Something caught Sadie’s eye and she looked up. It was Mercy Fletcher, bouncing down the street in her black bonnet, and with her was a loutish-looking Puritan lad in a black wide-brimmed hat, likely her brother, Jacob. His face was set in a scowl. Mercy caught sight of Sadie and something in the way she stared just a fraction too long made the hairs rise up on the back of Sadie’s neck.
She knows, Sadie thought.
‘Look, Corey, I have to go now,’ she said, flustered, unhooking her arm from Corey’s.
‘Wait a minute, tell me—’
At that moment she saw Mercy point and Jacob pulled off his hat and broke into a run.
‘Sorry—’ Sadie turned on her heels and ran as fast as she could back up Friday Street. She heard Corey’s shout – ‘Sadie!’ But she did not stop. The street was busy and there were crowds of yo
ung folk going down to the brewer’s and the lime-burner’s, in groups of two or three, arm in arm or gossiping together, and carts and drays with the morning milk, but they were all coming towards her and it was like swimming against the tide. Her hood fell back but she put her head down and one hand over her face and, thrusting through the chests of those coming the other way, kept running up Wood Street. When she thought her lungs would burst she stopped and turned, scanning above the carriages and crowds for the blond head of Jacob Fletcher. But there was no sign of him. She slumped back against the wall of the vintner’s and wiped her forehead.
Ella was right. They were all looking for her now. A dread engulfed her. She hauled the hood back over her head and retreated into its gloom. She took the long way home, in and out of the back alleyways, like a wary fox, eyes skinned for Mercy and her brother.
When she got to Bread Street she paused again to check nobody was behind her, looking up and down the street. It felt faintly absurd, to be skulking like a criminal. It was only then it dawned on Sadie that in other people’s eyes that’s what they were, for they had done nothing but run since the day they left Netherbarrow.
She swung the front door open and pushed it shut behind her, leaning against it a moment as she realized she was shaking from head to foot. Her legs were trembling as she dragged her way back upstairs. She turned the key carefully in the padlock to open the door, lest it should chink and alert Ma Gowper.
When she closed it on the world behind her she lay down on the bed and listened to her heart beating, terrified they might have followed her home. Titus Ibbetson, the constable, or Mercy and Jacob Fletcher. And now those notices were up, who else might be out there looking for a girl with a face like hers? Outside, a horn sounded from one of the barges and, startled, she leapt up. When she realized what it was she lay down again, pulling the shawl close over her face like a comforter, stroking the rough texture of the darned patch with her fingers, smelling the wet wool of Westmorland. Eventually she slept.
When she woke up it was dark and for a moment she was disorientated; she had forgotten what day it was, even where she was. When she remembered, a new wave of fear washed over her and in a panic she felt for a rushlight and struck a flint, blowing on the burning tip of the wax until it flared then settled into a tiny flame. In its meagre glow she splashed her face with water from the pail, ran her fingers through her hair to tidy it. On the table the mirror winked, left lying there by Ella, surrounded by a scatter of bone hairpins.
She brought the candle over and looked at her reflection, turning the mirror this way and that. Whenever she did this, she felt a pang of disappointment. The face that stared back always seemed to be somehow different from what she thought she was, more ordinary. Just a thin-faced girl with mousy hair. Tonight in the eerie shadows her face just seemed a little darker on one side. It looked just like anyone’s face, yet everyone made such a fuss about it. Folk stared at her, and when they talked to her their eyes scanned back and forth as if they could not decide which side of her face to look at. Ella used to tell her that the red mark was the spot where God had left his hand just a little too long and the heat of it had branded her. She said it was a secret sign and that it meant God was looking after her. Sadie had stopped believing the tale a long time ago, knew it to be just one of Ella’s fantasies, but she wanted it to be true, wanted to feel that there was someone strong to rely on, to watch over her. She set the glass back on the table, face down.
The cacophony of bells from the local churches tolled six. From habit, Sadie began to gather up her cloak for the nightly wood-gathering. She put on the cloak, but it was a full fifteen minutes before she moved. Dare she go out? There was a little oatmeal left to make flatbreads and she badly needed the cheer and warmth of a fire. Recently the weather had turned bitter. She could see her breath. Already there was talk of beggars dying from the cold, their clothes frozen into the mud so they had to be prised away before they could be dumped outside the city gates. The ground was too cold to dig.
Besides, Ella would not be back yet. Come on, girl, she said to herself, it’s a moonless night, best chance yet to get a few sticks. She mustered the courage to go outside. On the stairs she shivered, half from cold and half from fear.
‘Is that you, Dennis?’ A querulous voice drifted up from the hall. Sadie halted and listened, rooted to the spot. She heard no movement from the rooms downstairs. Dennis had said his ma was bedfast, thank goodness, so she would not come out to the hall. A whisper of air sucked in as she opened the front door.
Outside, the world smelt of mildew and water. The Thames slid by like a cold black snake, with scales of thin ice that parted and re-formed, never quite solidifying. It had frozen over once, they said, and become a solid white road, turning into its opposite overnight. They said that in Bess’s reign horses and carriages drove over it, while the ice creaked and moaned like an old lady with an attack of the croup. And London came to a standstill, its throat cut, with no trade able to get in or out of the city.
Today it was alive with the black shadows of wherries and skiffs and looming barges with oilskin-covered loads. In the darkness their moving lights sometimes made the ice fragments glitter so that the river became momentarily enchanted, before descending again into watery gloom.
On the banks there were a few other dark figures scavenging. Sadie had a length of twine wrapped around her hand to tie up anything she might find. She tucked her skirts into her waistband and looked for any jagged shapes sticking out of the mud. She pulled out a few claggy pieces of driftwood and tied them together. When she stopped to recover and looked up, her breath stood in white ghosts before her.
Over by the bridge was a group of silhouettes all pulling at something. Curious, Sadie moved closer so she could see what they were doing. There was a lot of activity with shouting and people running hither and thither carrying off loads in their aprons. Sadie saw a woman dash past, her apron full of something black.
Coal. A barge must have spilt its load of coal. Three lads stood up to their waists in the icy water hauling out the heavy sacks from the sludge. They cursed and yelled at those on the shore who had slit open the sacks they had already landed and were making off with it whilst they watched, helpless, in the current. Sadie did not even have to think. She ran towards the group, her small bundle of sticks banging against her back. A small curly-haired boy in oversized boots was trying to drag one of the sacks away, but it still had too much coal in it to move easily and he struggled to shift it.
‘Shares?’ panted Sadie.
The boy nodded. Together they dragged the sack up the bank. An old woman hobbled after them and tried to get her hands into the sack as they towed it by, but the lad kicked out at her legs until she tripped and skidded in the mud, tumbling away down the bank.
The boy was wiry and determined. She let him lead her, like a terrier dragging a hare. Hiding behind the shelter of a boathouse wall, they stopped and silently divvied up. A light spilled out of the tavern further up the street giving them just enough light to see by. The boy had a small pallet waiting there with strapped-on wheels. It was already loaded with a fish crate half full of sticks and rags, as well as a collection of metal horseshoes, clog irons and wheel bands. They shook half the coal into the crate, looking behind them all the while lest someone should hear and take it off them. That left Sadie with the sack, which was about quarter full.
The boy stuck out his hand. Sadie smiled and took it. He looked up at her, a gap-toothed grin splitting his face before it was replaced with a sudden look of puzzlement. Oh mercy. She had forgotten about her face. In a flash Sadie covered her head again with her hood. He had seen it. She wordlessly shouldered the bag of coal and hurried away.
She kept hobbling as best she could until the end of their street, where she stopped and put the load down for a breather, scanning behind her before turning into the blind alley. There was no sign of the boy, or anyone else. She broke into a half-run again, anxious to get safely ind
oors. She dumped the coal and sticks by the door and eased it open.
‘Dennis?’
Blast. Ma Gowper had heard her again. She must have sharp ears – she seemed to be able to hear a needle drop. Sadie paused, keeping still. The tap of footsteps behind her.
‘Sadie?’
She whipped round to see Ella coming up behind her.
‘Hush.’ Sadie put her fingers to her lips.
Ella grasped Sadie’s shoulders and shook her. ‘What are you about? I said to stay indoors. You’re too easy to get a fix on.’
‘Sshh.’ Sadie indicated the Gowpers’ door. ‘She’s awake.’
‘Good evening, Widow Gowper,’ called Ella loudly. ‘It’s only me, Miss Johnson. Dennis will be along shortly.’
‘Who’s that with you? And what’s with all the racket?’ shouted Ma Gowper.
‘No one, just me.’
‘Come along in then, won’t you, and give me the time of day.’
Ella raised her eyebrows. ‘Upstairs,’ she mouthed, before entering the Gowpers’ rooms. A waft of stale urine filled the hall.
Sadie left her clogs at the bottom and carried her load up the narrow staircase. Even though she trod carefully, the sticks crackled against each other and the coal rattled in the sack. Ella’s face appeared again from the door and glared up at her.
The Gilded Lily Page 16