by S K Rizzolo
The little boy regarded Sarah gravely. He had his mother’s red hair coupled with lucent green eyes. As his sensitive mouth parted in a smile, Penelope felt herself relaxing. If Sarah took one of her sudden likings to him, all would be well.
A few minutes later Sarah and Frank were sitting on two chairs examining the contents of his pockets—bits of yarn, rocks, and marbles. When Penelope stooped to kiss her goodbye, Sarah’s lips came up willingly, her arms encircling her mother in a brief hug.
“I’ll see you established before I depart,” said Miss Minton as she and Penelope walked to the sewing room. “Your duties are simple really. Sit with the women and keep them to their work. You may choose to read aloud from the Bible or converse on improving topics. Later in the day, they will have a reading lesson, but I shall be back for that. Satisfactory, Mrs. Wolfe?”
“Yes, indeed, ma’am.”
The women were seated at the round deal table. As Miss Minton introduced them, each in turn stood and curtsied. They all wore the same demure, dark gown with an apron. White caps covered their hair. Slipping into her place, Maggie lightened the rather somber mood with a broad wink at her companions which the directress, fortunately, did not see.
“It might be helpful for you to know something of their histories.” Miss Minton indicated a woman to her right who was small and thin with a wrinkled face and sharp, birdlike features.
“Dorrie here was once employed in a cotton mill until the joints in her fingers swelled, and she could no longer work expeditiously enough. They turned her off, and she made her way to London where for a time she became a beggar and a hawker of old clothes.”
Next, Miss Minton held out her hand to a young girl called Fiona who rose and listened quietly. Tall with delicately rounded arms and fine-boned wrists, she had a lovely, artless face.
In a hard, colorless voice, the directress said, “Fiona came from the workhouse originally. At the age of eleven, she was apprenticed to a mantua maker who abused her without ceasing for some years. She complained to the parish overseers and was discharged with no means of subsistence. In desperation she turned to petty thievery until she found her way to us.
“And here is Nora. For many years she kept a green stall selling turnips and radishes in the Fleet Market. Unable to earn enough to keep her family, she was compelled to resort to unclean acts and was frequently sent to the Bridewell…”
After Miss Minton departed, Penelope and the women sat down to their work. Though it was early afternoon, they needed working candles since shadows played across the circle of faces. Penelope took up one of the pocket handkerchiefs to hem, and for a time the room was quiet, the women obviously feeling awkward with a stranger in their midst. Penelope too felt shy. She wanted to talk to them, yet didn’t want to seem intrusive. But they had listened to Miss Minton’s introductions with no trace of resentment in their expressions, had seemed, in fact, to approve.
A woman called Lil broke the silence. “Miss Elizabeth brought my old mistress to mind. Ah, but she was a downy ’un.” Lil’s former mistress had been a fruit-seller until sent to debtor’s prison, Penelope recalled.
A few of the others gave Lil a quelling look, but she just grinned, showing blackened teeth. “She had a proper good lay going with oranges, particularly. You boil ’em, and they plump up beautiful. Makes them look fit for a lord, it does, and they sell right brisk. But when the flat gets ’em home, they turn black as coal in a couple of days.” A general laugh went up.
“For shame, Lil,” hissed Dorrie.
Lil ignored her. “My poor mistress. She was doing just fine till she took that rakeshame to her bed. He feathered his nest nicely with her money.”
Thinking that this hardly qualified for “improving” conversation, Penelope found it expedient to intervene. “Shall we have a story?”
“From the Good Book?” asked Lil, her face falling.
Penelope smiled. “Well, something else perhaps.”
The faces swiveled toward her. “Oh, yes, miss,” breathed Fiona. “Miss Constance used to tell us a tale for working hard. Days like this specially when the sun is never coming out.”
“We had a bang-up one last time,” said Maggie. “I didn’t sleep for a week I was that scared. Do you know any ghost stories, mum?”
An idea came to Penelope: an old folk tale she hadn’t thought of in years which seemed somehow appropriate for this gloomy day. It had certainly given her a few nightmares when she had first heard it as a child. Still, it did have a moral, one she would want Sarah to understand when she was older.
The current attitude toward fairy stories puzzled Penelope. So many condemned them as irrational, superstitious nonsense that only encouraged profitless fantasy. But she knew the imagination craved stimulus; indeed, she suspected that without healthy nourishment, it could turn dark and perverted. Perhaps that had happened to the villain in this tale.
So she told of the young woman and her sister, both courted by the charming, powerful lord with the long blue beard. Though he was extravagantly rich, the world whispered about Bluebeard, for he’d already married several wives and nobody knew what had become of them.
“Ultimately, it was the youngest and most naive of the sisters who succumbed to Bluebeard’s lure, wed him, and went to live in his castle. And she was content there until her husband, embarking on a journey, left her with a ring of keys to the castle’s numerous doors. She might open all the doors except one, he said. But then, of course, her curiosity allowed her no rest…”
Outside, the wind lashed against the trees, making them creak and groan. Penelope saw that sinuous fog snakes curled about the windows. She went on, not stopping to chastise the women for having abandoned their work.
“At the end of a long corridor, the young wife came upon the forbidden chamber and opened it with her key. It was too dark to see, so she lit a candle—and screamed. She had discovered the corpses of Bluebeard’s former wives: rows of skulls and piles of bones.”
Penelope’s audience sat up straighter, eyes unblinking, then gasped with relief as she described how the woman fled the evil chamber.
“She was safe, it seemed. The young wife removed the key, intending to restore it to her pocket. Yet when she looked down, it was oozing blood in fat, round drops that were no sooner wiped away than they welled up again. No matter how hard she scrubbed, the bleeding continued. In due course Bluebeard returned and asked for the key.”
“Gawd,” said Dorrie, “she better watch herself.”
“Shhh,” said the others, and Fiona looked as if she expected Bluebeard to jump out at her.
Maggie spoke up. “You know, this fellow ain’t so very different from the general sort of man. They all have their secrets, though I don’t expect they murder their wives usually. And they’re cross as bears if you ask too many questions.”
“That’s so.” Nora nodded. “Why, my Gordie used to keep back a few shillings from his pay. It got to where I’d be turning out his pockets every night.”
A spirited discussion about the perfidy of husbands ensued until Fiona said plaintively, “I want to know what happened to the lady in the story.”
“Oh, the bride’s brothers rescued her in the nick of time, and they ran Bluebeard through with their swords.” Penelope glanced around the table. “Please continue your work now. Miss Minton will observe, in justice, that I have encouraged you to waste your time with frivolity.”
“No, indeed, mum.” Fiona obediently took up her needle. “I learned something important. I’d not be disobeying my man. He told her not to look in that room.”
“Heaven’s above!” cried Dorrie. “How’s she supposed to know she wed a monster?”
Upon these words, the door banged open, and Winnie lurched in, weaving on her feet, her face covered with the sheen of perspiration.
“You been tippling?” demanded Nora. All the women gathered around, talking at once.
“Quiet now.” Penelope took Winnie’s arm. “Are you sick?”
The old woman’s eyes bore into hers. “I couldn’t help myself, miss. Is you aiming to tell Miss ’Lizabeth?” She slumped forward.
Together Penelope and Dorrie lowered Winnie into a chair, and Penelope laid a hand on her forehead. “She’s burning up. We shall have to fetch some assistance.”
“It’s the Comet Fever,” said Dorrie.
“Nonsense. Is there an apothecary nearby?”
Nora shook her head. “Mostly Miss Constance and Miss ’Lizabeth dose us, ma’am. Though when Ursula were so desperate sick, we sent for the surgeon.”
As Winnie moaned and thrashed, Maggie said, “I reckon you ought to go look in Miss Constance’s cupboard. There’s raspberry vinegar and some fever powder in there for emergencies.”
The door opened, and the nursemaid entered, carrying Sarah.
“Mama, I want you.” Though clearly ready for a sleep, Sarah would not settle in a new place without her mother. But Penelope had Winnie to cope with, and she didn’t want Sarah anywhere near the sick woman. Heart pounding with fear, she started forward, but Maggie got there first.
“No closer, Bet. Not to worry, mum. I’ll look after the child while you tend to Winnie.” She shepherded the nursemaid and Sarah out of the room.
“Go fetch the medicine, mum,” urged Dorrie.
“Yes, directly. We shall need something to keep her warm as well.”
Penelope sped to Constance’s office, approached the armoire, and threw the doors wide. Rummaging through several drawers, she located a canister labeled “Dr. James’ Fever Powder,” a bottle with cherry colored liquid, and a flask of brandy. Now if she could only find a blanket and a pillow, they might make Winnie more comfortable. Her gaze swept down to the bottom of the armoire and lighted on a woolen blanket. Reaching down to snatch it up, she knocked something over.
It was a woman’s boot: a sturdy walking shoe of nankeen. She set it upright next to its mate and was stepping back to close the armoire door when a thought suddenly struck her. If these boots had belonged to Constance Tyrone, why were they still here? Deciding they must have been forgotten when Miss Minton returned the dead woman’s belongings, she shrugged and shut the armoire.
The women looked up in relief when Penelope re-entered the sewing room, carrying the blanket and medicines. Winnie was still slumped over mumbling to herself and shivering, but she had a little more color.
“I been sponging her with cool water,” said Fiona.
Somehow this little mouse had established herself at Winnie’s side, and observing her gentleness, Penelope was glad of it. Dorrie and Lil, who argued in loud whispers and chafed the victim’s hands unmercifully, were another matter.
She glanced around the group. “You’ve all been of enormous help, but she will need some quiet. And if her complaint is infectious, we should remove her to another room as soon as possible. Is there someplace she might rest?”
Two of the strongest women supported Winnie down the hall to Elizabeth Minton’s shabby sitting room, small enough to warm quickly, Penelope saw with relief. As Lil built up the fire in the tiny grate, Fiona helped Winnie to the divan and wrapped her in the blanket. The old lady shook her head at the fever powder and the raspberry concoction, reaching instead for the brandy.
“Let her have a nip, miss,” urged Dorrie. “It’ll warm her much better than that rot.” She looked with loathing at the medicines.
After a few generous swigs, Winnie lapsed into sleep, snoring loudly. Reassured, the women trooped out.
Left alone with Fiona and the sick woman, Penelope said, “You seem to know just what to do.”
“Yes, miss. You see, I was used to looking after my grandma before she passed on. Of course, that was when I was quite little, but she used to say I had the healing touch.” Fiona spread her fingers on her lap, palms up. Her hands were gracefully shaped, but toil-reddened and marred by prickly-looking blotches.
As Winnie whimpered in her sleep, Fiona moved to her side to touch her cheek. “She don’t seem so hot now, miss. I’ll keep wiping her down.” She bent to her basin of water and dipped the cloth.
Winnie opened her eyes. “I ain’t been right since that doctor dosed me. The Lord never intended such mucking about with a body’s innards.” She stirred restlessly. “I needed the money for food, or medicine maybe. All’s I did was leave the window open…”
Fiona said, too fast, “Oh, she’s talking about the vaccination for the smallpox what Mr. Strap give us. Hush, you silly old thing.”
Penelope said, “Do not worry, Fiona. Winnie will come to no harm from me. She is too ill to realize what she says.” All the same, she thought, if Winnie had accepted a bribe from Daniel Partridge’s minions in exchange for leaving the window ajar, John Chase would have to know.
Fiona looked down at the old woman’s feet. “You think she’d be easier with her shoes off? It’s warm enough.”
Agreeing, Penelope was reminded of the boots she’d seen in Constance’s office. “Fiona, when I was fetching the medicine, I noticed some walking boots in the armoire. Do you happen to know to whom they belong?”
“Why, to Miss Constance.” She bent to pull off Winnie’s cracked, old boots. “I put ’em there myself. But I’d have thought Miss Elizabeth would’ve sent them back to the family.” Reaching into the pocket of her apron, she took out a knife and began scraping at the dirt on the soles.
“Well, they were partially hidden under the blanket, so perhaps she didn’t see them.”
Fiona nodded and went to the door. “I need a bit o’ rag to do them proper.” A moment later she was back, kneeling at the fireplace and rubbing away at the other boot. Penelope watched her, troubled by some half-formed thought that tickled the edge of her consciousness.
“She wasn’t wearing them then?” she said slowly.
Fiona stared in wonderment. Then she looked from the shoe in her hand to Winnie.
“No, no. I meant Miss Tyrone. Why wasn’t she wearing her boots the day she died? The weather was wretched, remember? And when she was found the next morning, she had on only one thin slipper.”
Fiona dropped the boot and covered her face. She began to cry silently, her shoulders shaking.
“What is it?” Penelope went to her. “Don’t cry, Fiona. Tell me what I’ve said to upset you. Is it hearing me speak of Miss Tyrone?”
“I’m that sorry, miss. The others are always saying I’m a wet goose. But she was kind to me, you see.” She pushed Winnie’s boot away and took several deep breaths, her eyes far away. Then she resumed her task.
“Why did you put the boots in the armoire?”
Fiona looked at her as if she were ripe for a lunatic asylum. “To keep them safe, of course. They were covered in muck, miss, and I was afraid they’d be spoiled. So I cleaned ’em pretty before putting them away.” She added anxiously, “I didn’t know Miss Elizabeth would miss them when she went to pack up. I done right, haven’t I?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I found them underneath her desk when I was closing up for the night. And the next day when I come in, Miss Elizabeth told me…” She faltered a bit, but sniffed bravely and wiped her eyes.
It was Penelope’s turn to look blank. “Fiona, what are you saying? Precisely when was it you found those boots?”
“’Bout half past five on Monday last, mum. I remember distinctly. Winnie had gone home, and I was to set all to rights.”
She sounded thoroughly frightened now, and Penelope forced herself to soften her tone. “Fiona, listen. This is important. Would anyone have seen Miss Constance leave for her errand that afternoon? Anyone at all? Please think.”
“Not likely. We were all in the sewing room, you see. Not unless someone had to go to the necessary.”
“I imagine Mr. Chase has already inquired about that,” said Penelope with regret.
“Why don’t you ask, mum, just to be sure?”
They had both forgotten Winnie. With a guilty start, Penelope heard her stir. Fiona
got there first, cloth in hand, and resumed her sponging.
“Better now,” she said.
The door opened, and Maggie came in. “I came to tell you young Sarah’s gone down for a sleep,” she announced.
Penelope thanked her.
“How’s Win? She looks like she’s resting fine.”
Penelope said, “She seems to be. Maggie, do you know if anyone at all would have seen Miss Constance leave on that last afternoon?”
“I saw her.” Maggie strolled to the fire and sat down near the warmth.
Penelope restrained her excitement. “Have you told anyone?”
“No one asked. I was on my way back from the privy, and I saw her walking toward the gate. I didn’t call out because I knew she’d send me about my business. Truth to tell I was taking a wee rest on the bench.”
“I told you, mum,” cried Fiona. “Didn’t I say it might’ve been someone as had to go to the privy?”
“Maggie,” said Penelope urgently, “did you happen to notice what Miss Tyrone had on her feet?”
She looked surprised. “Why her nankeen boots, mum. Them what she always wore.”
Struck silent with amazement, Penelope looked from one to the other. If the victim had been wearing those boots when she left at two o’clock that afternoon and Fiona had cleaned them at half past five, there was only one conclusion. Constance Tyrone had returned after all.
Chapter Ten
Having received yet another summons from the St. Catherine Society, Chase duly presented himself in the morning. As he walked through the churchyard, he pondered the information about Daniel Partridge, M.P., provided by Noah Packet the prior evening.
Chase was lucky Partridge was even in town, for many of the upper classes had retired to their country estates until the next Parliamentary session began in the new year. But, as Packet had said, Partridge rarely slowed down, his charities and speaking engagements keeping him and his family in the metropolis. Not that the M.P. didn’t enjoy the usual pleasures of a gentleman. He dined often at Brooks’s club and attended the Whig elite’s soirees at Holland House. His wife was also an asset, Chase gathered, for she was of good family and an accomplished political hostess.