by Kim Wilkins
“Morning, Miss Milton,” he said.
“Morning, Sir Wallace.”
When he was out of earshot, Deborah asked, “A new conquest, Mary?”
“Not yet. Maybe.”
“He must be ninety.”
“He’s less than fifty.”
“Here c-comes Betty,” Anne said, as their stepmother walked from the church, spotted them, and strode over confidently.
“Where’s Father?” Mary asked.
“He’ll be along shortly,” she said smiling. “He’s discussing theology with Master Allard. I wanted to speak to you girls.”
“What about?” Anne asked, suspicious.
“Your father and I have changed our plans. Anne and Mary, you will be going to Surrey after all.”
“Surrey? What’s in Surrey?” Mary asked, but then realisation dawned. “What? The lacemaker?”
“And you needn’t think to manipulate your father with all that nonsense you tried last time. I have put paid to those concerns. He has left it solely up to me, and it has all been arranged. You are to join the lacemaker directly after Twelfth Night.”
Anne tried to speak but couldn’t. Even Mary was too shocked to find words for arguing.
“I’m going inside to fetch your father,” Betty said, turning to leave.
Deborah watched her go, then turned to her sisters with an anxious expression. “This is awful.”
“What do you care, lickspittle? You get to stay here,” Mary said.
Anne couldn’t bear to see them fight. “Please —”
“But we’ll be split up. I’ll be lonely.”
“I’ll be a lacemaker! ’Tis far worse. Apprenticed out like some pauper.”
“How far away is T-twelfth Night? Two months?”
“Yes,” Mary said. “Do you think it is enough time to reverse this business? To convince Father he’s making a mistake?”
“P-perhaps.”
Mary rounded on Anne. “You have let me down. You have let us all down. I have kept quiet about this for months now, in consideration of your feelings, but now you must consider mine. Mother gave you the responsibility of our guardian angel, who was charged to protect us if adversity such as this arose, and you have made a decision on behalf of all to keep him from us.”
Anne was startled, made so guilty she almost blurted out the summoning. But then, in her imagination, she could suddenly see Betty pallid and unmoving, just as Johnny had appeared that awful morning. And she knew she could not be a party to it. “I c-can’t r-r-r —”
“Oh, don’t stutter like an idiot!” Mary roared, and stormed off.
Anne dropped her head. Her hands were quite frozen by now, and she inched them further under her skirt, pressed them against her warm shift.
“I wish it were true,” Deborah was saying. “I wish there were a guardian angel to protect us and keep us together.”
“Th-th—”
Deborah smiled down on her sister. “Anne, leave it be. I am not so gullible as Mary. We are nearly grown, and we cannot expect to stay together much longer.”
An enormous surge of feelings was caught in Anne’s throat: guilt, love, desperation. All of it remained trapped behind her tongue. It was her curse to have so much to say, to explain, to express; but to be doomed to silence.
As the afternoon drizzle turned to rain, Mary walked under the jetties on Leadenhall Street. She went slowly, looking for any evidence that a wise woman might live nearby. She considered knocking on every door, but the street was long and narrow and dark, and she was aware that night was descending. A man burst out of one of the houses and walked briskly past her.
“Excuse me,” she said, “do you know of a wise woman living in this street?”
“Women can’t be wise,” he muttered, not breaking his stride.
“I mean …” She watched him walk away. Hopeless. Why couldn’t Anne co-operate? Didn’t she realise how important this was? Mary didn’t want to be a lacemaker in Surrey; she could imagine nothing worse. If she bided her time, laid the right bait, she could marry a rich widower and live a life of extravagance. Sir Adworth’s wife could die soon, for instance, and he could send for her. Men didn’t like to stay unmarried, she knew, and Adworth adored her immoderately.
Darkness was closing in so she turned for home. Anne may have been quick to accept they would be split up, apprenticed out like ragged boys, but Mary wouldn’t accept it. She was determined to thwart such a destiny.
“Don’t worry, Max, Mary will be home soon.” Deborah lit the candles in the iron holder on the dresser and gave the little dog a pat on the head. He had been fretting for an hour, trotting from the bedroom door to the window and back. She turned to Anne, who sat despondent on the bed.
“Anne, don’t look so distressed.” She settled next to her sister.
“I’m n-n—”
“You will enjoy lacemaking, I’m certain. And you will be good at it. You have always been clever with your hands.”
“M-Mary is very angry with me.”
“Mary is too bossy for her own good.”
Anne gave her a shy glance. “And I shall miss you, Deborah.”
“I shall miss you, too. You aren’t to worry, Anne,” Deborah said, smoothing her hair. “It will all work out. Would you like me to comb your hair for you?”
Anne nodded. Deborah went to her drawer and pulled out her boxwood comb, and returned to sit by Anne. She carefully unwound the tight bun and eased Anne’s hair down around her shoulders. Anne never fussed with her hair as Mary did, and Deborah thought the tight style far too severe for her.
“You should wear your hair loose,” she said, pulling the comb through the dark strands. “It looks pretty.”
“’Tis too straight,” Anne replied. “You’re so gentle, Deborah. Mary always tugs.”
“Mary hasn’t the patience for anyone but her dog.” Deborah ran the comb in careful strokes. She could feel Anne begin to relax, her shoulders easing forward, her hands becoming still in her lap. When just the two of them were together, Anne’s stammer nearly vanished.
Liza brought their supper and left, and still Anne sat motionless in the firelight while Deborah tended to her hair. Deborah wondered if a physician would feel such a sense of gratification, easing people’s sorrows, aiding in their comfort.
Suddenly the door flew open and Mary was there.
“Did you enjoy your solitary walk, sister?” Deborah asked, dropping the comb and advancing towards the supper tray.
Mary walked quickly towards the window. “Girls, I discovered something while in the street downstairs.”
“What is it?” Deborah asked, picking out some cheese.
“Never mind about supper,” Mary said, “this is much more exciting.” She lifted the sash and pushed the window open, beckoning to them. They crowded about the window with her. Deborah could feel a cool autumn breeze on her cheeks as they looked down into the street. Max whimpered for attention near their ankles.
“The shop next door is boarded over. It has closed down. I checked from the garden and the street, and I can see no lights in any of the windows. I believe ’Tis empty.”
“And?”
“There is a ledge, between this window and the empty house.”
“And?”
Mary turned crossly on Deborah. “Death! Don’t be a stupid baby. It means that I can have my own room after all.”
“M-Mary, you’re not thinking of —”
“Keep an eye on Max.” She hoisted her dress up around her thighs.
“Be careful, Mary,” Deborah said. “Are you sure the ledge is stable?”
“It d-doesn’t look very w-wide.”
“Oh, stop fussing.” She sat on the windowsill and swung her legs around. “Hold my hand, Anne, while I test the ledge.”
Anne grabbed her around the wrists, and she carefully found her footing on the ledge below.
“You can let go now,” Mary said. “It is stable.” She began to inch her way along t
he ledge. Deborah leaned out the window to check her progress.
“Don’t fall, Mary, for I know not how I would explain that to Father.”
“We can’t have you being out of favour with Father,” Mary replied caustically, her voice nearly carried away on a passing breeze. Deborah saw her stop and fiddle with the neighbouring window.
“Aha!” she called. “’Tis unlocked. I’m going in.”
“Don’t be long.”
Mary disappeared into the window, then leaned out again and waved. “It is enormous! And all mine.”
“Is it not cold?”
“Yes, but there’s a fireplace, and somebody has left some old mats in here. Come and see.”
Anne and Deborah exchanged glances.
“I doubt that I’ll manage,” Anne admitted. “You go.”
Deborah nodded. “I shall look and return directly.” She picked her skirts up and slid out the window and onto the tiny ledge. From up here, she could see all the way to the bottom of the street and the trees waving along the edge of the Artillery grounds. She took a huge gulp of the fresh autumn wind, relished it on her bare legs, almost laughed at herself for being so uncharacteristically liberated.
“Come, Deborah, the ledge is perfect secure.” Mary leaned out her window and beckoned, an enormous grin on her face.
“’Tis cold out here.” Deborah inched along the ledge towards Mary, who caught her hand and helped her inside.
“Look at you, Deborah, your eyes are shining. Enjoying the mischief?”
Deborah glanced around. The big dark room was empty and cold, the wooden boards bare but for three sad, thin mats. “’Tis large.”
Mary indicated the door opposite the window. “I’ve tried the door. It must be boarded on the other side.”
“We’ll have to come here by daylight to see it properly.”
“I shan’t wait for daylight. I’ll bring back candles and coal after supper, and those old hangings Betty intended to throw out.”
Deborah turned to Mary, considering her in the dark. “You’re serious then? About having your own room?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“How will you get Max across here?”
Mary frowned. “I shall make a little sling for him, bind him against me. He’ll be frightened, though.”
“And where will you sleep?”
“On the floor. I’ll bring some blankets over, start a fire.” She frowned, and Deborah doubted she would ever actually spend a night here.
“Mary? Deborah?” Anne called querulously from the window.
“Just a minute, Anne,” Deborah replied. “And what will you do when the shop is let again, and somebody wants to live here?”
Mary shook her head. “Anne and I are only here until Twelfth Night anyway. And if that is so, if Father and foul Betty are determined to send us away, then I shall not care what trouble I cause. Why, I might invite Sir Wallace up here for an illicit exchange.”
“Mary, you shouldn’t endanger the reputation of all of us,” Deborah remarked, feeling her temper rise. Mary’s flightiness and rages she could live with, but not her unchaste excesses.
Mary punched Deborah playfully. “’Tis little wonder you’re the only daughter Father wants to keep by him. You are so virtuous. Sir Wallace is probably too infirm to climb up here anyway.”
“Mary?”
“Yes, Anne, we’re coming!” Mary cried.
“Be easier with her,” Deborah said as they moved towards the window.
“As soon as she tells me how to summon our guardian angel, I will be easier with her,” Mary huffed. “Until then, she’s a traitor to our family, to us.”
Deborah followed Mary back to their attic room. Her sisters were both determined to believe this guardian angel story, but surely such things didn’t exist outside of nursery rhymes. They were no longer children. Mystical beings wouldn’t take care of them; they had to rely upon themselves.
“Mary! You have a letter!”
Her sister’s voice came from deep in the house. Mary was kneeling on the grass in the tiny garden, combing tangles out of Max’s coat. “Who’s it from?” she called. Max wriggled this way and that, whimpering intermittently. “Shh, Max, sit still. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Uncle William.”
Mary turned. Deborah stood in the doorway holding the letter out to her.
“Uncle William?”
“Do you want me to throw it straight onto the fire?”
“No, no. I’ve asked him for some information.” Mary stood and Max instantly fled inside. “Here, give it to me.”
Deborah passed her the letter. “What information?”
Mary tapped Deborah’s forehead with the corner. “Don’t be so curious.” She picked off the seal and quickly scanned William’s uneven handwriting.
Mary,
I have found the address of the wise woman your mother knew. Her name was Amelia Lewis and she lived at Leadenhall Street 251. Now, even if you don’t find her there, if she is dead or has moved, you must honour your part of our bargain. Next time we find ourselves together, I expect to receive WHAT I AM OWED.
Mary squeaked with excitement. She folded the letter hastily and grabbed Deborah’s hand. “Come walking with me.”
“Where?”
“To Leadenhall Street.”
“What’s on Leadenhall Street?”
“Just come with me.”
“Should we ask Anne if she’d like to walk with us?”
“No, just you and I.”
“Mary, you’re acting strangely.”
“I’m mightily excited,” Mary said, then leaned in close to whisper, “I know where the wise woman lives.”
Deborah’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Mother’s wise woman?”
Mary nodded. “I can barely keep my skin on, Deborah.”
“I’ll come with you, but you should not expect to find anything there.”
“Come, we’ll go over the garden wall so nobody sees us.”
Mary led Deborah via a back route down to Mooregate, then across the city until they reached St Peter’s on Bishop’s Gate Street. The tall smooth trees in front of the church stood deep in piles of shed leaves. A brisk wind gusted up Cornhill, making the leaves rattle against each other.
Deborah shivered. “Where are we?” she asked.
“We’re here,” Mary said.
“She lives in St Peter’s?”
“No, she lives at Leadenhall Street. Number 251.”
“Then why are we standing here? Why are we not walking up Leadenhall Street?”
Mary turned to her. “I think I’m frightened.”
Deborah laughed out loud. “You’re not frightened of anything.”
“Anne is so determined that it would be wrong to call the angel back.”
“So you really believe Anne’s story?”
“Don’t you?”
Deborah shook her head. “I am uncertain. I find it impossible to imagine us commanding an angel.”
“Then why is Anne so affected by the idea? If it is not true?”
“Perhaps she dreamed it.”
Mary grabbed her hand. “Deborah, when we speak of the angel, Anne becomes pale and shakes. Does any dream of your childhood affect you so fiercely?”
Deborah considered. As a child, she had often dreamed of being publicly decapitated: the filthy, screaming crowd, the cold block beneath her cheek, the bite of the axe. It had terrified her when she was young, but now it hadn’t the power to affect her. “I suppose …”
“Sister,” Mary said, her voice solemn, “what if it is true?”
A cold twist of fear moved in her stomach. She hadn’t considered for a moment that it might be true. “I … I know not.”
“Do such things exist in the world? If we can believe in God in his Heaven, can we not believe his angels are here on earth?” Mary placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders. “What power might such a creature have to heal? What might he teach you of phys
ic and the working of the body?”
A sudden wave of anticipation washed over Deborah. “Perhaps …” Some of the most respected writers on natural philosophy had mentioned communing with angels. If it was right for them, it should not be wrong for her.
“There is no harm in trying to summon him. Can we not believe in more than can be seen? Can we not believe in magic?”
Deborah nodded slowly, feeling her excitement grow. “The whole hidden universe … he may be able to tell me of it.”
“Let us find her.”
They walked quickly up the street. The traffic was heavy, and carts were parked along the way. The strong smell of horse sweat and dung filled the air. Deborah stepped carefully over the filthy cobbles. In the distance, somebody played a tune on the harpsichord. The solemnity of the music seemed out of place on the dirty, crowded street.
“There!” Mary exclaimed, pointing to the last house in a row. It was constructed of black wood and was unusually narrow, as though it had been built on the corner almost as an afterthought. The front path was laid with old straw and two gaunt trees bent over the front door, their pale branches a severe contrast against the dark wood. A shingle hung from the front, an eye inside a triangle.
Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “My heart is fit to burst. I do not know if I’m more terrified than excited.”
“We need not be terrified, I am sure. Mother wouldn’t have done anything foolish, would she?”
“I know not. I was only little when she died. And knowing the rest of her family, Grandmamma and Uncle William …”
Deborah laughed. “Oh, pity us, for that is the line from which we must draw our inheritance.”
They giggled for a moment, then turned to face the house together. “Come, then,” said Mary, “knock at the door.”
“You knock. This is your idea.”
Mary squared her shoulders and moved down the path, Deborah following close behind her. She had heard tales of witches, crones with the devil’s eyes in their heads. Mary lifted her hand and knocked. In a few moments, the door opened a crack and a hunchbacked old woman with a black veil over her hair peered out.
“What is it?” she asked in a heavily foreign croak.
“Are you Amelia Lewis?” Mary asked.