‘What are we going to do, then?’ She waved the pudding cloth at Ella. ‘How am I supposed to make a pudding with no vegetables?’
Ella had shrugged her shoulders and said they would eat plain pudding. And Sadie had retorted that if she, Sadie, was not able to go out to market to buy, then Ella must do it. Ella had looked sulky, and sat in the corner all evening cleaning and pushing at her fingernails with a pointed stick.
So this morning as Ella was getting ready to leave the house, Sadie said, ‘Ask Jay for an advance, won’t you? We can’t live off fresh air. If he’ll buy you them gloves, he’ll surely not grudge us a few onions. Get some vegetables in, won’t you? Please?’
Ella’s thin eyebrows lowered and her mouth took on a stubborn cast. ‘It’s difficult. It’s one thing to be given a gift. Another kettle o’ fish to ask favours.’
‘Just try it, won’t you. It’s not a favour. You’re owed a week’s wages by rights already.’
‘Oh, give up grizzling. All you have to do is laze about here all day.’ And Ella dragged her cloak off the back of the chair and made a great noise of going downstairs. So all Sadie could do was wait, and hope Ella would bring something home. But it was a long wait every day, and Sadie found it frustrating to have so little to do. The little pot of white cream still sat on the table where Ella had left it. She lifted the lid and looked at where Ella’s finger had poked in and made a well in the cream. Her birthday present. She blinked back tears, tied the lid back on tight, picked it up between her finger and thumb and dropped it into the jug with a broken handle. Then she pushed it to the back of the shelf out of sight.
Ella must have talked to Jay, for a few days later she did bring home a half-dozen pigeon eggs and some breadcakes. But as the week passed, she was erratic with her purchases, there was no rhyme or reason to her buying. Often the ingredients would not make a meal, for Ella had no proper practical knowledge of cooking. After all, there’d been a cook at the Ibbetsons that did all that. She’d not had to fix for her da every day like Sadie.
Da. Sadie thought back to her life in Westmorland. There she had lived in the terror of Da’s belt, but now that fear was like a phantom. She could not feel it any more, but it still haunted her. Would he still be thinking of her? Surely he could not forget his own flesh and blood. If they were caught, would he come then? Ella said they would be sentenced to burn if they were found, and she imagined him coming just too late. She scrubbed hard at the table again until it was bleached white, tried not to remember the woodcut images of Tyburn, where the pyre provided another noonday’s entertainment and guaranteed immortality in one of Dennis’s chapbooks.
The next night Ella came home with a pot of lye and a tiny paper twist of saffron and dyed her hair a dull yellow. Perhaps it was a good idea to disguise herself, but the colour looked strange to Sadie’s eyes. Ella’s hair had lost its lustre and shine.
Every day Ella went off in her fine red dress and green cloak, leaving Sadie behind in the tiny box above the river. Within a week, Ella had grown impatient with Sadie’s questions about her day, and when Sadie asked her with a simple, ‘Well?’ she said, ‘Just the usual. Rich old magpies and their gossip.’
Sadie was agog to hear all about fashionable London and pressed Ella for tales of what went on at the Gilded Lily. She asked about Jay Whitgift and about Dennis, and loved to hear of Mrs Horsefeather and her frowzy gowns. Ella had always loved to be the first to tell of all the goings-on in Netherbarrow, but here it was like the cat had got her tongue. Sadie knew better than to ask too much lest they get into another fratch.
Spring was still a long way off, the weather worsened, the wind howled through the window despite its sacking covering, and oft times Sadie was reduced to pacing up and down to keep warm. She put on all the clothes she had, one on top of the other. Her usual skirt and bodice, underneath her flannel nightgown, with one of Ella’s too-big grey gowns over that. It did not matter what she looked like in the day, for she never went out, and there was no one to see her. She dare not wear her clogs, in case she alerted Ma Gowper, so she wrapped her feet in rags in the daytime to keep the cold at bay.
At night, though, she tidied herself and sponged down her good brown dress in case Dennis should come by. She combed her hair until it shone. He had been up twice, to tell her tales of his father’s ship, his voyages across the seas to the Barbary Coast, and to share a cup of warm skemmy with her. She did not tell Ella of these visits – they were private, something she could relive in the tedious hours whilst Ella was out at work.
The first time Dennis asked her if she might like to walk with him to fetch his mother’s physic, but she had said no. She daren’t go out, she said to him, in case someone followed her home. She would not want Ella to be caught on her account. It had felt bad to turn him down, and afterwards she went over to the cupboard to fetch the pot, with the idea of painting her face. But in the end she left the paste in the jug. The smell of it was enough to give her gooseflesh. And without a gown to wear with it, she would look preposterous. And whereas Ella and all the fine ladies would only need a light touch over their peachy complexions, she would need it thick as curds.
But the next day Dennis turned up again as usual with more of his chapbooks in hand, and she grinned with pleasure that her refusal had not offended him. He sat close to her as they pored over the pictures together. She always made sure she sat with her good side next to him. He had a way of telling that made the stories come alive in the room, like he was weaving a vast tapestry before her eyes. She enjoyed his lively expressions and the way he moved his hands like a conjuror.
They were yarns his father had told him, thrilling tales of pirates and slave ships and a giant fish that nearly swallowed the ship. She asked him whether his father had been involved with the fighting in the days of shaking.
‘No,’ he said. ‘He went back to sea. Never could stand the fighting. Told me a story about it once, and it made me think he was right.’
‘Oh, tell me it, Dennis, I’d love another tale. Especially one from your father.’
He pressed his lips together trying not to grin. ‘Wait whilst I think on it a while,’ he said, ‘I need to get it set in the right order.’ Then he began, his eyes rolling up under his eyebrows as if he was bringing the story from the realms above him.
‘There were once two villages,’ he said, ‘and there had been haggling over the land that lay between them for many generations. Finally the arguments got so hot that they decided the only way to settle it was to raise armies and fight a war over the land.’
Sadie propped her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands, settling down to watch Dennis’s face as he talked.
He glanced to check she was listening, then continued. ‘Now each village had a standard-bearer who carried the emblem of the village on a flag, and these two men were the most guarded men in the village because they each carried the symbol of their village’s honour. When the signal was given, the battle began. But both sides were equally matched, and all around them men were falling –’ he mimed thrashing to and fro with a sword – ‘and many fell,’ he said, ‘but these two standard-bearers were protected. Day after day, the war was fought, first with one side having the upper hand, the next day the other. The terrible slaughter waged on until the men of both armies lay either dead or wounded, and eventually at the end of the seventh day only the two standard-bearers remained. “We will duel,” said one, “and finish this dispute for good.”’
‘Oh,’ said Sadie, caught up in the tale. Dennis smiled before resuming.
‘“Very well,” said the other, “but we have been fighting all day. Let us sleep first and fight at dawn when we are fresh.”
‘“I agree,” said his enemy.
‘So they lit a camp fire and sat one on either side. As the night wore on, and it became dull just to sit in silence, one of the men began to talk. He told of his wife and child, and life in their village. About how the last year’s harvest had been bad.
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‘“Ours too,” said the other man, and began to tell of life in his own village, of his parents, and his son’s difficulty in learning to ride a horse. So they shared the little details of their lives with each other, the things that were the same, the things that were different.
‘When the sun peeped over the horizon both men were ready. The standards were shoved into the ground behind them, the flags flapped in the wind. Their comrades were dead, they stood alone on the plain facing each other. Before the first man could even touch his hilt, the second drew his blade, but then slowly, he sheathed it again. Seeing his enemy unarmed, the other knew he could finish him and whipped out his sword, but he too could not strike the blow, but returned it unused to its scabbard.
‘Ever since then,’ Dennis went on, ‘the villages have met once a year on the anniversary of the battle to celebrate their kinship one with another and to light a beacon together, and both villages lived in harmony and happily ever after from that day forth.’
Sadie clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. I haven’t heard that one before.’
Dennis grinned. ‘It’s one of my favourites. I used to ask for it again and again when I was a boy. I used to want to be a standard-bearer. It sounded grand. What’s your favourite story?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to think.’ Though immediately the tale of Snow White and Rose Red had come into her mind. It was the only one she could remember her mother telling, such a vague memory really, just the names, and her mother’s hopeful expression. But somehow she didn’t want to tell Dennis, it gave too much away.
‘You know,’ Dennis said, ‘when my father told me that tale he used to say, “Always remember, you can’t hate someone if you know their story.” People sometimes used to call my father a coward when he wouldn’t fight for king or parliament, thought he was running away. It hurt him that, and it hurt me to think they didn’t think well of him. But I knew him, and the story, and knew the thought behind it.’
Sadie could feel the emotion in his voice. ‘He sounds like a good man,’ she said quietly. She placed her hand on Dennis’s arm where it lay on the table.
‘The best. One day, you must tell me about your family,’ Dennis said, looking into her eyes. He did not move his arm, but left it where it was.
A vision of her da, his face twisted with anger, came into her mind. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, glancing away, knowing she probably would not. It made her ashamed to think she was related to such a person.
‘Look, I brought you something,’ he said, withdrawing his arm gently as the clocks chimed.
‘Another chapbook?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, looking embarrassed. He brought out a piece of lavender ribbon and held it between finger and thumb. ‘I thought ’twould suit you, the colour. And you could use it to tie up your hair.’
‘Oh you shouldn’t have. It’s not my birthday now.’
‘Take it, won’t you?’ He dangled it out towards her.
‘All right,’ she said, and she reached out to take it. ‘I look forward to your visits,’ she said shyly.
‘Me too,’ he said.
And she had tied the piece of ribbon into the neck of her shift, next to her skin, for she did not want Ella to see it. She might laugh, and Sadie knew she could not bear that. And as she did her chores, she treasured his words over and over, reliving the story.
The next day, the snow came. They woke to a tangible hush as the clattering hooves and cartwheels outside were muffled by a thick wad of white. Sadie pulled open the curtain and saw the swirling flakes falling down onto the drift below. The river was a streak, like a black scar, through it.
‘Snow,’ said Sadie, with great excitement.
‘Oh bother,’ Ella said. ‘What a nuisance. I’ll have to wear my clogs. It’ll be slippery walking in those. Wish I could take a carriage.’
‘Fat chance,’ said Sadie. ‘Bet even the gigs can’t go far in this. It’s thick as thatch.’
For the last week Ella’s feet had been shod in dainty leather bootees. Sadie had not asked where they had come from, but the thought pained her that they must have been dearer than the cost of a new gown. Ella was late, and flustered enough already. Ella put on her clogs and began to wrap her bootees in Sadie’s shawl to carry to work.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ll need to carry my boots.’
‘Not in my shawl, you won’t.’ She took hold of it to take it back, but Ella dug in her nails and clung on.
‘It’s not fit to be worn, that. Leave go.’
‘No. It’s mine and you’re not having it.’ She wrestled it free and Ella’s bootees spilled onto the floor. ‘Carry them in your own.’ Her eyes were hot with tears.
When she had gone, Sadie hugged the shawl to her chest, rocking it back and forth for comfort. Later, she scoured the corner of the room for any remaining sticks. She scraped them together into a bundle – not enough to have a proper fire. Somehow she could not see Ella scavenging for wood. Not now she was so finely dressed.
Sadie went to her usual vantage point at the window and pushed her head out to inhale the snow in the air and to catch a few stray flakes on her fingers, where they melted into glistening drops. The river was unusually quiet, only a few row boats, and the snow had almost stopped falling. She longed to touch the soft white crust below so much that she ached with it. Why had Ella grumbled about the snow? Even London looked beautiful, veiled like a bride.
She heard shrieks of glee from below. Two lads were throwing snowballs at each other. One of them she recognized straight away as the little lad who had helped her lug the coal up the bank, the other was obviously his big brother, for they had the same curly hair and flattened features. She watched with interest as the younger boy squashed a pie of snow in his hand and hurled it inexpertly at his brother.
The brother ducked and yelled, ‘Nah! Missed!’
He was ready with his own snowball prepared, and lobbed it hard at Sadie’s friend, who caught it full on the chin.
‘Ow. That hurt.’
Wiping the snow clumsily from his face he blindly gathered more snow for a second shot and threw it haphazardly back. By some miracle, it hit his brother square in the face and he staggered backwards and tripped over an upturned skiff, landing on his behind in the snow. Before she could stop herself Sadie let out a whoop, and the boy shot a curious glance at her window.
Sadie pulled instantly inside, her heart thudding.
She must be careful – no one must know she was here. If she had to go on the run again, perhaps they would not find it so easy to hide next time. Everyone would be looking out for them, all the booty hunters. Nobody would care that they were innocent, just so long as they could claim the reward. They would be fodder for the scaffold and someone would line their pocket at their expense.
She shivered and tied her shawl in a tight knot in front of her chest. It would do no good to dwell on it. Happen, good things might be round the corner. She could go out at night, like she had last night, to stretch her legs and breathe in the fresh air. And feel the snow crunch under her feet, and maybe suck on an icicle from the eaves.
She had got used to walking at night now, her hood over her face, creeping in the shadows of the alleys lest anyone should see her. It was risky, and it made her chest pound and her palms sweat, but it was worth the fear, just to get out from the four walls. She never talked to anyone. It was this that was the hardest, the lack of company.
She missed her work. She was unused to having idle hands, and had asked over and over for Ella to bring her something to do. Maybe labelling up bottles, or mending – anything to while away the time. But Ella brought nothing home, and it was plain she’d never leave Whitgift’s – her heart was set on sweetening Jay, and she was that stubborn. Except once, the button had come loose on Ella’s boot, and Ella had arrived with needle and thread to mend it. Sadie had it finished in no time, and used the thread to repair all the clothes she
owned, until all her clothes were stitched with brown thread, even her chemise. She had even begun a small sampler on a scrap cut from a petticoat.
She had painstakingly embroidered Sadie Apleby. Borne 164— but the thread finally ran out, and her hands lay still again in her lap.
She imagined all the girls bent over their wig stands at Madame Lefevre’s. Little Betsy, Alyson, Pegeen, plain-faced Corey. Even Madame Lefevre did not seem so harsh. She thought almost fondly of her black crow-like presence now. She remembered when Ella and she had walked to the wig shop together, and they had all sat whispering at break suppressing giggles over one of Ella’s outrageous anecdotes.
Sadie sighed and sat down at the table, and ran the scrap of beeswax and the polishing cloth over it for the hundredth time, her thoughts still with the girls at Madame Lefevre’s. When her thoughts were not with the girls, she stared at the cover of Barbary Bess, with her tumbling curls, imagining a life for her full of swash and daring.
Chapter 20
Madame Lefevre banged two wig blocks together to get the girls’ attention.
Corey jumped and sat up obediently like the rest of the girls, curious about the visitor who had just come in. He was a stout hunch-shouldered man, with a large pale forehead, jutting eyebrows and a mouth that appeared too small for his face. She noticed dried spittle at the corners of his lips.
Madame Lefevre introduced him as Mr Ibbetson, but before she had finished telling them why he had come, he interrupted her and pushed his way to the centre of the room. He must have ridden there, despite the snow, for he was still in his heavy wool mantle and riding boots.
‘The good lady here tells me there were two sisters that worked in this establishment up until a few weeks ago. Country girls from Westmorland. Ella and Sadie Appleby. You remember them?’
The girls nodded mutely. They had smelt his authority as soon as he opened his mouth.
The Gilded Lily Page 20