The Gilded Lily

by Deborah Swift

  Tindall tutted and looked to his father.

  ‘Then you’d better think on,’ said his father. ‘I trust Nat’s judgement. He’s always spot on. So if he says it’s right, then I’ll give you six months. If not then I’ll tear that wretched papering down myself if I have to.’

  The next day, Jay humoured his father by giving him the dates he asked for. When he dropped the parchment on the desk in front of him, his father had smiled and rubbed his hands together as if it had been a royal writ. Gullible old fool. Astrology was a dead end. The only way to make a fortune was through your own craft and cunning, and knowing the right people in society. By the time he was thirty he wanted that big house in Whitehall he’d set his sights on, and a baronetcy to go with it.

  Jay walked across the yard to check on the Gilded Lily. He hoped the dates he gave Tindall were auspicious, it would be less trouble if they were. He didn’t want to argue with his father and lose the business he had been grooming for so long. There were rumours that the king was to grant a dispensation to pawnbrokers, and the millwheel of his father’s ramshackle yard could be sold on for a pretty penny as soon as he did. Meanwhile, he could build up his collections, hive off the most appealing trinkets ready for his new house and offer judicious loans to gentlemen in hard times who would pay him a fine fee. As for his future in the stars – it was all nonsense. Old ideas that should have died with the old king. But he sensed trouble – he suspected that Tindall would say the stars were opposed to the Gilded Lily just to put the wind up his father.

  Sometimes when he saw his father crouching at his desk, his papery skin stretched over his dome-like skull, he wished he would get on with it and die. Once or twice it had even crossed his mind that he might hire Stevyn Lutch to do the deed for him. But so far, he had been too squeamish. And his father deserved a gentler end than that, the old fool. Besides, he did not want to risk the taint of blood anywhere near him. Too many people he knew had ended up on the triple cross at Tyburn.

  He opened the door to the Gilded Lily and inhaled the slightly sickly smell of face powder. As he passed the counter he straightened the row of neatly labelled bottles of lily-of-the-valley and stood the evergreens up more stiffly in the vase. Miss Johnson was leaning over the counter showing some velveteen patches to a lady in a broad-brimmed hat. Miss Johnson was wearing a patch herself, on her cheekbone. Her face was very white and she had plucked her eyebrows. Her breasts rose and fell as she talked; she waved her hands in little expressive gestures, like a fluttering moth. Her features were animated. The ceruse would soon crack if she carried on like that. He hoped she was listening as well as she was talking.

  He went straight upstairs to the attic above and sat on the bed. A routine had become quickly established. She knew now that if he came in, she should go up straight away. He heard her footsteps clatter on the stairs. She launched straight in with a breathless report on the young woman in the hat.

  ‘Her father’s come in to get his carriage clock out of hock. He’s won a wager with his brother, over a bantam fight. She says the clock sits on top of the spice cupboard,’ she puffed. ‘Fancy that!’ She suddenly remembered to lower her voice. ‘You’d best be telling him that don’t sound like a fitting place.’

  ‘Good. Anything else?’

  ‘No. Not that I can think of.’

  ‘What about that brooch she had pinning her cloak?’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t notice.’

  ‘Diamonds, with a drop pearl. I pay you to notice these things, Miss Johnson. Next time, be more observant.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ He saw with satisfaction that she was deflated.

  ‘Her address, Miss Johnson. We’ll need her address to send our handbill.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s easy,’ she said, brightening. ‘I’ve got a ledger, like a visitors’ book. Mrs Horsefeather fetched it for me. I get them all to write in it afore they go, those that can, with their name and where they live. They likes to see who else has been in, and when they ask I tell them what the others bought.’ She smiled. ‘Well, truth be told, I tells them they’ve bought the dearest goods, so that will push them to buy.’

  ‘Miss Johnson, that is very well done. And might I say that the powder and patch become you. Though it finishes a little abruptly. It is permitted for you to take more powder for your . . .’ He patted his finger lightly on her chest.

  She blushed, a flush that was visible only on her neck, which became inflamed with colour. He stepped away, brushing his hand down his coat. He did not like the thought of Miss Johnson’s blood rising to the surface of her skin.

  She looked confused and lowered her gaze to the ground.

  ‘You may return to your customer now, Miss Johnson,’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and hastened away.

  He must send her for some more suitable footwear. The noise of her wooden soles gave away her background.

  As she went, he heard someone else coming up the stairs and muffled exchanges of apology as they passed each other. He went to the landing to see who it was. It was Foxy Foxall.

  ‘Was that her? The girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it was. What are you doing in here? It’s ladies only.’

  ‘She don’t look bad. But I bet she’s still a bit rough round the edges to be set up here, with your kind of folk. Her feet don’t half make a clatter.’

  Jay found himself on the defensive. ‘I’m employing the girl, not marrying her. She’s forward enough to make a sale, and she’s biddable enough that I can mould her manners.’

  ‘Biddable, is she?’ Foxy looked relieved.

  ‘She’s given us some addresses, and the dates the occupants are out of town. It’s working like a dream, just as I said it would. Tell Lutch your next job will be on the fourteenth. If all goes to plan, next outing will be Friday. The Rowlands’ house in Ham. The family are attending a concert I’m inviting them to. There’ll be servants about. But the house is a large one by the river, and by eight of the clock the first floor should be empty. You can get there by boat. Go for the ladies’ jewellery. In particular, there’s a gold cartouche with a sentimental inscription on it from the husband. The girl told me she was wearing it when she came in yesterday. When it ends up here, they’ll pay over the odds to buy it back – oh, and anything else small and valuable – those newfangled tea caddies, silverware, porcelain, the usual.’

  ‘Remind me never to dine with you,’ Foxy said, with a grin.

  ‘I’d never invite you, that is, unless you had the Crown Jewels.’

  ‘Huh. Next on your list, are they?’

  ‘So?’ Jay raised his eyebrows in question.

  ‘We’ve got our hands on that book you were after. The calfskin diary.’

  Jay held out his hands but Foxy slipped his own hands into his pocket and shook his head.

  ‘No, I didn’t bring it with me. Lutch has it put safe by.’

  ‘Why did you not bring it?’

  Foxy shifted his weight uncomfortably. ‘Thing is, we reckoned it might be worth more than you’re telling. Being that you’re so keen to have it, like. And we thought it best to protect ourselves. We’re thinking on having it read.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Well, if our names are in it, we need to know.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that? We’re all in this predicament together, aren’t we? Once it’s in my hands it’ll be safe with me.’

  ‘It’s awkward. You could put the press on Allsop, and if he don’t play ball, you could sell it on, and we don’t want that. Not if it has our names in it. We need a bit of warranty, so it seems to me safest we hang on to it till we’ve had it read. If we’re clean, then we’ll pass it on to you, but if any business is to be done with Allsop, then we’ll expect a decent cut.’

  ‘We’ve had this out before, Foxy. We made an agreement. Seven per cent.’

  ‘It was eight,’ Foxy said sharply. ‘Happen we’ll go to the gent ourselves, and do our own deals.�
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  ‘If you do that, then a little bird might tweet about your activities,’ Jay said. Seeing Foxy’s face darken and his mouth open to protest, Jay carried on. ‘I’ll send word to Allsop today. Come back tomorrow, Foxy. And next time bring the book. Haven’t I always done right by you?’

  ‘Maybe, and maybe not. But times is hard now, right enough, and a man’s got to look to his own.’ Foxy squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll be on my way. Lutch and I will drop by at lighting-up time tomorrow. Right?’

  ‘Tomorrow it is,’ nodded Jay. He watched Foxy leave, with an uneasy feeling. Something was out of kilter. He did not want to bargain under the looming presence of Lutch. And anyway, it should be him setting the times, not Foxy Foxall.

  Ella pulled absently at the lace on her cuffs; she was on tenterhooks. The notices were up everywhere. She recognized the words at the top of the bill now. Savage Sisters, it said. Dennis had asked the curate at St Margaret’s to read it for him. Earlier, Mrs Horsefeather had been disgruntled when Dennis had called at the Gilded Lily door to speak with Ella.

  ‘I’ve had it read,’ he said, ‘and it don’t look good.’

  ‘What? What does it say?’

  ‘At the top it’s got the words Savage Sisters in great big letters. He’s offering fifty pounds reward.’

  Fifty pounds. Ella’s heart fell. ‘Does it say what we look like?’

  ‘Not half. It gives a good description.’

  ‘Does it say about Sadie’s face?’

  ‘It says you robbed and murdered Thomas Ibbetson. Curate told me it said he was a “squire of gentle manners and good standing”.’

  ‘It’s a lie. I’m telling you, we just took a few bits and pieces, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, there’s one of them notices pinned up on the Si Quis door of St Paul’s – saw it this morning, so look after your sister.’ He had stared at her then as if she were some curio from a sideshow. ‘I’m not sure what to make of you,’ he said.

  ‘Naught,’ she said. ‘Unless you’re after claiming that reward.’

  ‘Course not,’ he said. ‘You trust me, don’t you?’

  She was forced to nod and smile at him then, until she was interrupted by Mrs Horsefeather’s disapproving cough from behind, whereupon she had turned her back and gone inside with her head held high.

  After that she fretted every moment about the notices. It con-firmed her worst fears: Titus Ibbetson had not given up looking for them, even after all these weeks. Ella had not forgotten the look of fire in his eyes when he had caught up with them in Bread Street. The memory of him was odd, as if he were somehow her own Thomas turned evil against her. And what if Jay were to read one of the notices and remember her sister from the wig shop? He’d soon put two and two together. Whenever the doorbell tinkled, Ella looked to the door in a panic, but so far it had just been well-turned-out ladies and their dowdy chaperones, eyes greedy for potions, patches and paint.

  Later in the afternoon she had nearly bolted out of her skin when a redheaded man came in. He’d come in when she was upstairs, but she heard the door go as she was on the landing and she had paused mid-step, her heart in her mouth. Next moment he was halfway up the stairs to the storeroom. He must be a cheeky cobber to ignore the ‘Ladies Only’ sign – or most likely couldn’t read. She’d tried to stop him as he passed, but he introduced himself as Mr Foxall and said Jay knew him well and would let him up.

  She wondered what he wanted, but warmed at the thought of Jay’s approval that she had let him by. Not that she could have stopped him, anyroad. The redheaded man didn’t look the type Jay would give time to, though – too rough. But he hadn’t left yet, so they must be doing some business.

  Her thoughts swung back to Jay. Even when she wasn’t thinking of him, his presence seemed to shadow everything she did. She said his name to herself under her breath, though she was ever careful to call him Mr Whitgift to his face. Ella Whitgift. It sounded fine, like a proper lady. Johnson was too plain, and Appleby reminded her too much of orchards and Westmorland. She could not rid herself of his image, which bit into her thoughts the way frost gradually creeps over glass, its ferny patterns obscuring the view.

  She replayed their last meeting. He had praised her, hadn’t he? And she could still feel the spot on her chest where his finger had lingered, a slight warmth on her cold skin. She hoped he had not noticed her blushes, and she recalled how he had pulled his hand away like he shouldn’t have touched her. Perhaps he did not want to offend her, and this thought, that he might be considering her feelings, brought another rush of heat so that she had to pat her brow with the back of her hand. Though she was embarrassed that he had said her powder stopped too short; her front would be powdered more thoroughly next time she saw him.

  ‘Are you awake, girl?’

  She jumped to attention and fixed a smile to her face.

  ‘Give me a sample of that.’ An elderly woman in a dark green suit pointed to the row of pots behind her and Ella absent-mindedly passed her a jar of marigold cream. Another customer was tapping her fingers impatiently on the counter. The elderly woman gave Ella a sharp look and raised her eyebrows at the woman who was waiting. She pursed her mouth and swept up the jar, and both women crossed over to the mirror where two more of their crab-faced cronies were already peering disconsolately at their creased reflections and trying to tease their greying hair into side curls.

  Ella listened out for Jay coming downstairs. She had been certain he found her attractive; after all, he had come back to the perruquier’s and asked for her on purpose, hadn’t he? When they had been upstairs earlier, it had all been proceeding beautifully. She thought he might embrace her, but then she had caught the sudden retreat in his eyes. She did not like it when he blew hot and cold like that.

  Footsteps on the stairs made her look up, with a ready smile on her lips, but it was the male visitor who came down first, hurrying by with his cap in his hand and his gingery head down, as if afraid the ladies might bite him.

  Ella tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and came out from behind the counter. But Jay passed by frowning, as if intent on his own thoughts, and he merely glanced at her distractedly as he passed, without even a nod. Ella watched his tall frame go, admiring the swing of his navy coat, the length of his stride. He cut a fine figure in his dazzling white lace neckerchief and flowing cuffs; her heart constricted with longing. Thomas Ibbetson had been portly and solid, full of aches and pains, not like this handsome young man at all.

  Shortly afterwards the last of the cluster of customers left, and Ella hurried upstairs, a porcelain pot in her hand. A glance into the yard showed two carriages leaving, and no new arrivals. She stood in the centre of the room. It was silent. She walked over to the bed. There was a slight pressure mark where Jay had sat down, the cover was a little ruckled. Ella ran her hand over it, but did not straighten it. Her fingers lingered there a moment on the warmth of where he had been sitting.

  She opened the pot and trailed her fingers into the cool white cream. Slowly she smoothed the white over her collarbone and further down over her breasts. She picked up the hand mirror. Her skin bloomed white under her moving touch. As she watched, the backs of her hands appeared brown next to her white bosom, as if they did not belong to her. For a moment she imagined these were Jay’s hands slowly caressing her, and her lips parted. She would have him – him and his warehouse empire. He had worked his way up from the gutter, same as she – it was the perfect match. No matter what it took, she would be Ella Whitgift.

  She surveyed herself with satisfaction, her skin bloomed pale as the moon. She wondered whether the pearly cream would be heavy enough to make Sadie’s face white too, and hide the red stain underneath. Well, she would take it home and try it on Sadie’s face tonight. Nobody would know if she slipped the pot into her basket when she left.

  Chapter 18

  When Sadie heard the noise of the door latch, she patted down her skirts, half hoping that the friendly lad from dow
nstairs might come upstairs again. But then she chided herself. Why would he do that? He had taken the rent money already, so there was no good excuse for him to come up. She heard the door into Widow Gowper’s chambers opening and let out a small sigh. The room was neat as a pin, the empty shelf scrubbed clean. In a rush of enthusiasm she had spring-cleaned the whole of their lodgings for something to do, not that you could call it ‘spring’-cleaning in the freezing sleet of the last few days. She had washed and combed her hair. He seemed good-hearted, the landlady’s son, it would have been nice to have a little company. She missed listening to the banter in the wig shop already, any small noise echoed in the room – after the perruquier’s it was just too quiet.

  She had tacked the curtain across the window and lit a fire ready for Ella coming home. A bundle of rushes from the store cupboard lay on the table. When the fat was melted she dipped the rushes in one at a time, twirling them so they were well coated before leaving them standing in a ewer to set. Might as well make a goodly stock – Ella seemed to want to burn more and more. It was extravagant, this sudden need for light. It was almost as if Ella was afraid of the dark. First thing she asked for when she came in from the Lily was always more light.

  She had made about a dozen rushlights when she heard his footsteps on the stairs. She knew it was not Ella because of the heaviness of the tread, but she was still surprised to hear a polite knock on the door. She smoothed her hair and went to open it. It was him. She smiled and waited.

  His hands were full of white pamphlets. He struggled to pull out something from amongst them. ‘The rent agreement,’ he said. ‘Ma likes to know what’s what, so one of you will have to make your sign on here.’ He waved a folded parchment.

  ‘Best be my sister then, she’s the eldest and she can make a better sign.’

  ‘Today’s the twenty-sixth, isn’t it. Your birthday. See, I remembered.’

  She smiled; she had forgotten all about it.

  ‘Many happy returns of this day,’ he said in a strangely formal tone. ‘I’ve brought you a few of my penny chapbooks, thought you might like to choose one as a gift, like. I’ve been collecting them since I was a nipper.’