The Gilded Lily

by Deborah Swift

  Ella stared at her poker-faced, playing with the gold points of her laces. Her calmness made Sadie want to hit her. Perhaps Ella really meant it. A sob bubbled up from Sadie’s throat. ‘I’ve had enough. I don’t care if they do catch us, I don’t care if I burn, there’s no one cares enough to bother anyhow.’ She was crying now. Great tears rolled down her face. She had to get out. She turned and clattered blindly down the stairs.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Ella said. She stood uncertainly on the doorstep looking right and left up the street. Sadie was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Miss Johnson,’ came the quavering voice from behind the Gowpers’ door, ‘is that you?’

  ‘Oh, put a gag in it,’ Ella shouted and thumped her fist loudly at the door panel. ‘Bloody stupid old hag.’ Behind the door she heard the old woman cry, ‘Help, Dennis!’ Ella aimed a few vicious kicks at the door with her clog.

  She sat on the stairs to organize her thoughts. She had a bad feeling pricking in the pit of her stomach. She knew that when she got angry the bile took over, that she’d say things she’d regret. And maybe she’d been a bit harsh with Sadie, but she’d only spoken the truth. It would be foolish to go haring after her, the safest thing was to keep separate. She’d come back anyway, there was nowhere else she could go. The snow was still slick on the ground so she’d be bound to come home.

  Ella ignored Widow Gowper’s querulous calls and went back upstairs to wait. The room was oddly empty without Sadie there. Sadie had become as much a part of the furnishings as the dealwood table and the oak stools. Ella went to the window. The landscape looked milky and pale, divided by the black Thames. As time went by and Sadie still had not returned, she began to fear that her sister had been caught. If she had, how long would it be before the constable came for her too? She imagined she could hear shouting, footsteps coming up the alley. Her hands started to sweat. The room seemed to grow smaller, to hem her in.

  She peered out of the tiny window at the narrow ledge beneath. How on earth had Sadie balanced on that? She did not fancy her chances of escaping that way, if they came for her; there was a sheer drop below, and no way down to street level. Fear snaked up her spine. She grabbed her cloak and threw it on, not caring it was inside out, and half ran, half tripped down the stairs again. She looked quickly over her shoulder, to check she was not being watched or followed, then ran pell-mell, skidding down the dark alley.

  Sadie huddled under the jetty, where it was thick dark and there was a little shelter. It was sleeting now, stinging icy water. She sat on a broken stone pillar from an older wharf that must have been washed away in years gone by. Melting snow dripped through the gaps between the boards, and every now and then a wash from a passing ship threatened to swamp her feet. She picked up a stick and stabbed through the snow to the mud, feeling the crust of ice break, over and over until the stick snapped. She scraped the mud into furrows and swirls with the broken stump.

  She shivered in her thin sleeves, she had not picked up her cloak. Best stay in the dark where nobody could see her. It wasn’t her fault she was born this way, she thought. What had happened to Ella? She didn’t seem like her sister any more. When had she turned so hard and mean? Sadie thought back to when they were small, and Ella slapping the baker’s boy when he dared to taunt her about her face. At night Ella used to kiss her on the head, rumple her hair, tell her she was God’s favourite, and they had curled up close together under the knitted blanket in the big creaking bed. She had fallen asleep listening to some tale of Ella’s, like the one about a beautiful girl who had married a monster. But then the monster had turned into a prince, so he wasn’t a monster after all. In stories ugly people always turned into beautiful people in the end; there were no stories where the ugly person just stayed ugly.

  Sadie’s shoulders heaved and she wiped a tear on her sleeve. She remembered her da, and the way bitterness seemed to have wormed into everything he did. Until she was eight, her da was kept busy gardening for the squire. He took out his sorrow and anger at Ma’s death by digging and hefting and lugging. Then as if it had suddenly shifted out of kilter, the world turned into a darker place. Cromwell came with his parliament, and there was to be no May merrymaking, and people were to be sober and quiet. The squire’s house had been ransacked, and her da was told there would be no more garden work for him. He put away his yellow jerkin and began wearing temperance colours. Then somehow in their house the darkness and sadness had turned inwards, and like many folks, they hid their troubles behind closed doors.

  Da changed, and he’d leather them for no cause at all, but on account he’d had a skinful, had nothing to do and felt like it. And Ella’s pinching had started. Sometimes Ella would be blithe and happy, but other times she would suddenly turn on her, scratch her or pinch her as if she hated the world, and Sadie was the butt of it. Ella was like two people at once. Sadie had tried to be good and act small. She had tried to keep Ella merry, watching her face for any sign of a shadow. And if the shadow came, to dodge out of the way of her nipping fingers.

  Despite this, when Ella had gone into service with the Ibbetsons she had missed her so badly. She prayed Ella would come for her, take her away from Da. She had forgotten about the pinching. But now it came back to her in a wave of self-pity.

  Sadie looked at the river. The surface of the water fluttered with the currents of all the different craft and glassy flakes of ice floated on its surface. It was deep and black underneath its moving skin; it would be easy to walk into it and disappear. Then Ella would be free. They would both be free. Her da had not bothered to come looking. She stood up and walked towards the edge where the snow had melted into streaks and the mudbank fell away. Fragments of ice in the wash slapped with a strange chink against the posts of the jetty. She stared at it in a trance.

  A wash from a passing skiff slopped icy water over her ankle. The next wave came up to her knees. It was so cold it burnt. She shuddered and jumped back. A tall ship was approaching, gliding slowly, its masts like glittering fingers in the light of the ship’s lantern. The wash made the surface ripple outwards with a tinkling sound as her skirts began to float up from her ankles. Her feet were already numb. She took a few steps back to the shore. She wondered again what it would be like to wade in . . . just a few steps, she mused to herself, and it would be over, and Ella would be free of her. What happened when you died, she wondered. How did Saint Peter decide who was fit for Heaven?

  The bottom was uneven and the stones slippery. Suddenly she lost her footing, her arms flailed and her legs struggled to stay upright. She felt her body instinctively clinging to life, desperate to right itself, not ready to give up. She staggered to stand.

  Just then the ship unfurled its sails. Sadie gasped. The noise was like a gunshot. A crack of sailcloth and the ship pranced forwards. The great expanse of canvas, like a rolling cloud, pulled the ship through the water. She turned her face towards it, her heart jolted in her chest.

  She stood in the muddy water up to her knees, her skirts dragging heavier and heavier, but she could not move. She was entranced by the ship, ploughing its way downriver, its white sails filled with wind. She thought of Dennis’s father, his adventures in foreign lands. The pictures swam in front of her eyes, all the colour and drama. And then she thought of Dennis, his slightly furrowed eyebrows as he pointed to the pictures in his books. The ship was right opposite her now. It filled her with a sense of joy and freedom. It moved fast, slipping away through the water towards the open horizon.

  Sadie staggered up the bank. She hauled on her wet skirts, plunged noisily back towards the shore and the lamps of London, cursing her stupidity. She wrung out the dripping material as best she could. She watched, shivering, as the ship’s sails became a mere pinprick in the dark, before turning her face and running hell for leather towards Old Swan Stairs and Blackraven Alley.

  Chapter 23

  Sadie paused just inside the door, her teeth chattering, hearing the sound of crying and coughing from the Gowpers’ cham
bers, and the murmur of Dennis’s voice soothing her.

  He’s a good son, she thought to herself.

  She took off her clogs and tiptoed upstairs, where she was surprised to find the door was ajar but Ella’s cloak gone from the peg. She checked all round the room, but there was no sign of it, so Ella must have gone out. But the door was unlocked. It was unlike her to leave it open; she hoped it did not mean the worst. What if Ibbetson had tracked them down? She closed the door but left it open a crack to listen out for Ella, and took off her sodden skirt and boots and put on some old petticoats. She rubbed her feet hard until they began to tingle and the toes lost their pallor and turned red. The smell of the Thames seemed to fill the room. With a pang of guilt, Sadie reasoned that perhaps Ella was still out searching for her, and by now she must be worried to death.

  A rap at the door. Sadie jumped, and turned round.

  ‘Can I come in?’ said Dennis’s voice.

  Oh no, not now. ‘Wait on.’ Sadie hastened to the trunk and wrapped an old apron around her waist to hide her petticoat, though she knew she looked dishevelled and her hands were still muddy. She swirled them in the pail and dried them on her sides. She hoped her eyes were not too red – she did not want him to know she’d been crying.

  Dennis sidled in, looking uncomfortable. He held his cap in one hand, and the other plucked nervously at the seam of his brown tweed breeches. He gazed down at the space in front of her feet, as if addressing the floorboards,

  ‘I got home and found my ma in a right old state. She’s that upset it’s taken me near on an hour to quieten her. Someone’s been a-hammering at our door and shouting at her.’ He looked into her face in appeal. ‘I told you, she can’t stand trouble. She says it was Miss Johnson from up the stairs. Is that right? Was it your sister?’ He paused. ‘Or was it you?’ His eyes rested on her face briefly but then flicked downwards again.

  ‘It wasn’t me. I’m sorry. It must have been Ella. She’s upset. We had a disagreement.’ She avoided his eyes, aware that this hardly described what had passed between them.

  The pair of them paused, both staring ridiculously at the floor. Eventually Dennis looked up and said, ‘Sorry, Sadie, but I can’t be having it. I said – if there’s trouble, then you’ll have to find somewhere else.’

  ‘Oh, please, no . . . don’t say that. It won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll talk to her, honest.’

  He looked doubtful. ‘No. When I first said you could have the room you looked like nice country girls, and I was sorry for you because them lads were after you. Then I finds out you’re on the run. I should have turfed you out there and then. But I didn’t. God knows why not. Now this. Sorry, but Ma says the girl’s got to pack her things and go.’

  ‘We can’t. You know we can’t,’ Sadie said, tears starting to prick in her eyes again. ‘There’s notices out all over London. If I’m seen, then we’ll both hang. Have a heart, don’t put us out, Dennis.’

  Dennis squeezed his cap between his hands and shifted from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. ‘Ma’s already suspicious. She says she can hear noises and shouting from up here. She thinks your sister’s entertaining menfolk and she’ll not stand for it. I didn’t think you were like that.’

  ‘I’m not. You know it’s not that. I try to be quiet as I can, but it’s hard, cooped up here every day. I’ll talk to Ella, we won’t be no more trouble, I swear. Just give us a bit more time, till the hue and cry has gone. Then we’ll move on, if you like, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t know. She was right upset, thought it were some beggar breaking in again, till she heard a girl’s voice shouting through the door.’

  ‘Sorry if we upset your ma, Dennis. We’ll be quiet as the grave. But please don’t put us out. Where could we go?’

  ‘Sorry, Sadie.’ Dennis twisted his cap in his hands and hurried to go out of the door.

  ‘I’ll do anything.’ Her voice broke as she called after him. ‘I’ll do all your mending, or anything. Just let us stay.’

  ‘No,’ he said, turning, anger flaring in his eyes. He softened. ‘You don’t need to do that, I mean . . . if you stay, there’s to be no more fuss, and no more bothering Ma.’

  ‘There won’t be, I promise. Please, Dennis?’

  ‘Well, I . . .’

  ‘You’ll let us stay?’

  He inclined his head with a barely perceptible nod. ‘Don’t know what I’ll tell Ma.’

  She rushed towards him as if to hug him, but stopped short and mumbled instead, ‘Beg pardon, I mean . . .’

  ‘I must be mad,’ he said. ‘But if you went, I couldn’t stand to hear you’d been caught and hanged and be thinking it were all my fault.’ He turned to leave, but she followed him to the door.

  ‘Thank you, Dennis. You won’t hear another sound, promise.’

  ‘It’s a big favour I’m doing you, so I hope you’re mindful of it.’ His face creased into a smile. ‘Keep safe now, and tell that sister of yourn I expect her to come apologize to Ma.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ Sadie said, knowing there wasn’t a hare’s chance. ‘Sorry’ wasn’t a word generally in Ella’s vocabulary.

  When he had gone Sadie tiptoed down to look out of the door to see if there was any sign of Ella. But the street was empty, the night was frosty and most sensible folks were inside by a warm fire. She came back up the stairs shaky from the strain of it all. She put her hand to her chest, felt the scrap of lavender ribbon there and the reassuring thump of her heart. She was ashamed that Dennis had had to come up, uncomfortable that he should think ill of her. She could still see his rueful expression in her mind’s eye, and it pained her, a sharp ache in the pit of her stomach.

  She roused herself to make a tin cup of watered ale, added a pinch of allspice and heated it over two candle flames until it bubbled. Then she sat with it cradled on her lap, keeping the scalding metal moving in her hands, waiting for Ella’s return.

  At length Sadie found her head nodding. She sat up with a start. Still no Ella. Befuddled with sleep, she closed the gaping door. She pushed away the thoughts that Ella might have been recognized, or something untoward might have happened to her. She was just too tired to worry about her any more. Her legs were leaden, her eyes smarted and her head ached. She took herself to their shared bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She stroked the lint of her shawl between her finger and thumb, the way she had when she was a child, and when she fell asleep, she slept for a long time.

  Some time in the night Ella must have returned, because in the morning Sadie awoke to find that there was a bowl on the table, with the remains of some millet gruel, and a bone comb lying there. Sadie let out a great breath of relief. Ella must have been back and gone out again to work as usual. By the fire stone was a tiny poundweight bundle of kindling such as you might buy from a shop. These signs of normality lifted her spirits and she happily washed Ella’s platter, as she was wont to do, and when she found Ella’s dirty chemise cast onto the floor, she picked it up and put it in the buck tub along with her wet things from the night before. She moved slowly, so as not to make a noise, and she was leisurely with these tasks, for she knew time would hang heavy on her hands through the daylight hours, and she could not risk going out until after dark.

  That day she lit a fire, taking cheer from the crackle and spit of the wood. Widow Gowper would never know, she never went out. The wind whistled its hollow song through the chimneys and spires of the city, and the water began to melt in the jug. She trimmed the wicks on the rushlights, boiled down the saved candle-ends to make soap and gazed out of the window at her friend, the river. There were plates of ice now stretched out from the bank, like ragged shelves. The sea birds were standing on them squawking their hunger to each other. She could not wait for nightfall – to go out, feel the fresh air nip her nose and go back to the water’s edge to watch for tall ships from the jetty. She might find more fuel too; the fire was like a beast, always needing to be fed.

  She knew the hours between
four of the clock and dusk always felt the longest; it was at this time she began to get restless. She put on her cap and shawl and her hooded cloak, long before the dark. Standing by the window, impatient, she watched the setting sun bleed into the sky, saw the few buildings on the opposite bank flame and then fade to featureless shapes, becoming blank holes in the landscape.

  She watched the night ferries go by, rejoicing at each passing lantern. When she could see a dozen lanterns, surely then it was dark enough for her to venture outside, though she worried about the reflected light from the snow. When night finally fell and she turned back into the room it was darker than she anticipated, but she did not bother with a taper as she knew every inch of the space. She wrapped her shawl tight about her head and face, cowled the hood of her cloak into a deep cave.

  She felt for the door and found the thin metal latch that served as a handle. She pressed it down and pulled the door.

  It wouldn’t shift.

  She fiddled with the latch, thinking it must not be fully disengaged. Another hard pull. It was stuck.

  Perhaps it was frozen. She knew this was unlikely. She tugged even harder, but it still didn’t open. She could hear the hasp rattling on the other side. Frustrated, she went to light a stub of candle. She held it up to the door to see where it might be jammed. But she could not see anything, just a thin sliver of darkness. She leaned back on the latch with all her might but it did not give an inch. She dare not rattle it too hard, and she could not shout to anyone for help.

  She paced the room, hoping that when Ella came home from Whitgift’s she would be able to get it open from the other side somehow. But as the night grew on, there was still no sign of Ella. She went to the window again, drawn as always by the view of the life from which she was excluded. The odd flake of snow drifted past on its leisurely journey to extinction in the river. Shortly after the bells struck eleven of the clock, she heard a noise outside.