The Road to Newgate

by Kate Braithwaite

  I put down the paper and turn to embrace him. “We will win this,” I say.

  His mouth is in my hair. I tug at his shirt to run my fingers across his back. I want my husband. I take his hand and lead him up the stairs.

  ***

  Afterwards, we’re in the mood to celebrate. We hurry to Henry’s print shop, deposit Nat’s work, and propose a trip to the theatre. Henry demurs – he has meetings with an illustrator and, he says, waving Nat’s papers, some fireworks to light. Our optimism, in Henry’s case, is infectious. He embraces us both and sends us on our way with good cheer. William is another story, but we drag him out. He is more in need of a diversion than anyone.

  Our friend is quiet all the way down Drury Lane, but Nat maintains a steady stream of observations and is in high humour. At the theatre door, we join a press of people waiting for the ticket booth to open at midday.

  “No, no. Let me.” William reaches for his purse, but Nat insists this is his treat. Nine shillings procures us three tickets for the pit.

  “You wouldn’t have preferred a box?” he asks, as we push our way down a narrow hall and into the amphitheatre.

  “Not at all. There’s so much more to see here. From above, we are a sea of wigs and shoulder padding. Whereas here,” I gesture across the rows of green cushioned benches that are filling quickly, “there is much more to meet the eye.”

  “Look!” Nat nods at an enormous old lady, dressed in reams of purple silk. “Very fine! And there, see?” He points to a narrow stalk of a man in a tight coat and curling wig. He’s perched at the end of a bench, taking snuff while attempting to keep his chin up, stiff as an artist’s mannequin. “What does he look like?” Nat whispers. William, to my relief, joins in with the game.

  “Look at that gold lace,” he says. “And over there. The buttons, the ribbon.”

  “I’m not sure that young lady’s intentions are entirely honourable,” Nat says, and I clamp a hand over my mouth as the woman in question bends over a timid-looking fellow whose face grows red and hot at the glorious vista she’s placed before him.

  “Don’t even look, William,” Nat says. “It’s all very shocking!”

  Smiling, William offers to buy some oranges. We have heard that the theatres have suffered while the city has been so disturbed by rumours of plots and fires, but there’s no evidence to support this. Londoners of all qualities, plumed, perfumed and powdered, squeeze their way onto benches.

  The play begins at last. It’s a comedy, and slightly bawdy, as one might expect. The audience is even noisier once the performance starts. With thick candles on the stage and more swinging high overhead, there’s plenty of light for Nat to continue observing the audience as much as the players themselves.

  “Did Matthew ever play here?” I ask William.

  He shakes his head. “He would not have thought much of this.”

  I have to agree. I glance to my left to see if Nat is enjoying it, but his eyes have strayed up towards the boxes to my right. He is staring, lips slightly open and nose pinched tight.

  At the front of the box are three figures in a row. They’re all men – the two at each end quite young, good-looking fellows, with lace generously crowding their throats and wrists. The man in the middle, however, wears a plain surplice, and in front of his chest holds his familiar wide-brimmed black hat, trimmed with silk ribbon. Above the hat, there is the chin. And atop the chin, the nasty little eyes and mean forehead of Titus Oates.

  Nat’s face is white. His jaw is tense, his hand lifeless when I take it in mine.

  Everything: the buffoonery on stage, the people shuffling and shifting on the row behind, the woman in front, primping at her hair, all these distractions disappear. There is only Nat’s face, his naked anger and pain. For a moment, I hesitate, not knowing how to respond. Then William is out of his seat. He’s also staring up at Oates, and now Oates is glaring down at us.

  Nat stands, too. He moves as if to take William by the shoulder and pull him back down, but his fingers slip off the wool of his coat as William lurches away. He pushes and shoves along our row, his eyes still fixed on the box, not caring whose dress or feet he tramples. Nat dives off after him and I follow, my head in a spin.

  “William!” Nat calls, running after him through the stalls, but I doubt William can hear him in that well of chatter, even if he’s disposed to listen. What is William thinking? He’s making for the stairs. Nat looks back at me for a second and then takes off after William.

  “I’ve come to pay my compliments to Dr. Oates,” William says loudly, as I come up the stairs behind them.

  The hallway is narrow and dark, its red walls lit by a series of flickering candles in brass sconces. I hang back, hoping to stay out of sight. The door to the box is open, and William tries to push his way in past two of Oates’s friends. Nat stands a foot or two behind.

  “Dr. Oates!” William raises his voice. “Titus! No time for an old friend?”

  But there’s nothing friendly in William’s expression or stance, and when Nat calls to him he just lifts one hand as if to warn him off. Then comes the familiar voice.

  “William Smith. What a surprise. I didn’t think you were much inclined towards the theatre these days.”

  “Or I you, Titus.” William steps back as Oates comes out into the narrow hall. “Developing a belated taste for culture?”

  “Oh, not at all. I’ve always had an affinity for the stage.” On the word ‘affinity’ William takes a step forward, his fists clenched. Oates’s friends don’t like that.

  “Not enough of an affinity, as it turned out,” says William. “I don’t know how you can live with yourself!”

  But that only makes Oates giggle. “Oh, believe me, my darling, I live very well, very well indeed. As you see, I have some charming new friends. They’re very protective of me; that’s more than can be said for you. Still missing Matthew? I did hope you’d move on with your life. But I gather I hoped in vain. Choice of friends says a great deal about a man, you know.”

  Oates looks over William’s shoulder now, glaring at Nat. Nat steps forward, but again William waves him off. He looks pale, but very calm.

  “You really are quite poisonous, aren’t you, Titus? I’ll never understand how Matthew tolerated you. Perhaps there’s a sickness in you. Indeed, your mother implied as much to me when she—”

  There’s an angry cry and Oates bursts forward. He shoves William up against the opposite wall with one hand around his throat.

  “Never mention my mother!” he shouts. “Never bring your long, ugly face near mine again. Or do you want to end up like your beloved Matthew? Do you?”

  Nat clears his throat and taps Titus Oates on the shoulder. “I’d be grateful if you released my friend.”

  Oates slowly turns his head, his face marbled purple and his eyes bulging. “Don’t speak to me!”

  “I hadn’t the least intention of it. I have been far too busy imprinting the scene in my mind. A fine picture of a man of the cloth at play, don’t you think? And I have a meeting with my illustrator later this afternoon. I’m sure he will do the situation justice. But I’ll need to work on a title.”

  How I love my husband! Oates’s hold on William weakens as the door of every other box opens and the hallway fills with of spectators. This drama quite trumps the one they’ve paid to see.

  “Doctor Oates on a matter of doctrine?” Nat muses. “Or The grateful pupil perhaps?’

  Oates lets go of William. He turns and shoves his friends back towards their box, but Nat is not done with him. He grasps Oates’s shoulder. “Oh, come now, Titus! Don’t hurry away,” he says. “We meet so rarely, and yet I know so much about you.”

  “If you don’t release me at once, you will know more of me than you want to.”

  “Promises, promises, Titus. But the game has changed.” Nat lets go of him, turns and smiles at the crowd of onlookers.

  “I’m afraid the good doctor is a little out of sorts today and cannot en
tertain us further. But do not worry, my friends. There will be much sport to be had with him soon. Look out for the next edition of The Observator. Indeed, the next several editions. There is much to be learned there about the true history of Mr. Oates, of his so-called plot, and the so-called murder of Sir Edmund Godfrey. He has sent many men to Newgate. Perhaps it’s time someone sent him there.”

  Oates’s eyes narrow and his chin juts forward, but instead of attacking, he whirls around and disappears into his box. Nat bows to the onlookers and they too return to the play. Within a moment, there are only the three of us left in the hallway.

  “By God, I enjoyed that!” Nat says wrapping one arm around my shoulder and his other around William’s.

  Fools that we are, we laugh all the way home.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  William

  I can’t sleep.

  Have I lost my mind? What possessed me to attack Oates in the theatre in that way? So many things. It was his face. It was his intrusion on one of the few happy days I have had in months. It was the never-ending presence of Titus Oates, and the fact that he is there, always there, when others do not live and breathe any more because of him. I wanted to kill him. Instead, he intimidated me, and only Nat’s friendship and sharp tongue rescued the situation. Afterwards, Nat and Anne were elated. They truly believe that Titus will soon be disgraced. I hope they are right, but remain very much afraid of what he will do in the meantime.

  At night, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling. During the day, I suspect people are following me. I almost ask Henry about it, but I am afraid that he will think I’ve lost my mind. Earlier today, I had that sense, that prickling of the hair on the back of my neck, on the way back from church. Titus has men watching me, I am almost sure of it. I call at Nat and Anne’s house to see if Anne will come and help me in the printshop, but she is already out. Even Kitty is absent. It is early. I decide to go and see if Anne is at Martha’s graveside, and then wander back again. It is a fine morning and the sky is a calm, pale blue. The streets are busy with people with places to go, but my senses are smothered. Nothing seems real. Nothing is clear.

  She is there. I don’t disturb her, just sit and wait while she talks to her daughter in peace and privacy. When she straightens and turns, her kind smile warms my skin. I swallow the worm of guilt that is my perjury in Titus’s favour, and smile back. We stroll slowly back to her house and the world comes back into focus.

  But as we turn the corner to Nat and Anne’s home, she drops my arm. There’s a knot of people in front of their door. There are men with buckets. We rush forward and hear the worst word for any Londoner. Fire.

  Anne is pushed away before she can reach the door.

  “I don’t understand it,” she cries. “We have not so much as lit the fire this morning. Nat left early and Kitty was at her mother’s house last night. How can there be a fire?”

  I point at the window. It has been smashed inwards, there is no glass on the street. I have no doubt that Titus is behind this. This is our punishment for laughing at him. Anne stares dumbfounded as the flames take hold of the second floor. Smoke billows out and fills our nostrils. Heat forces us back. This is a full scale attack.

  “What chance you can save it?” I ask one man who has been trying to fight the fire.

  “None. Nor the poor bastard who pushed his way in there and ran up the stairs.”

  Anne has not heard. Neighbours envelope her and steer her away.

  I can hardly bear to say the words.

  “The husband? Nathaniel?”

  “Not him.”

  All the blood that has drained from my veins rushes back through my body like a tidal wave.

  “Then who?”

  “A fat, old fellow. Shoved his way past us and up the stairs calling for the wife, but I’m told that no-one was home.”

  “You need to let me in.” I shove him and run for the door, but another man stops me and the first one grips my arms behind my back.

  “No! No-one else is going in there. If I have to tie you down, I will, do you hear me?”

  He pulls me from the door and throws me across the street. Sprawled on the cobbles, I stare up at the house engulfed in flames.

  With my eyes closed, I see smoke climb up to meet him. It spikes up his nostrils and oozes down, to settle like treacle in his lungs. His flesh is on fire, his hair, his hands, his mouth, his eyes. I imagine him screaming.

  Henry.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Anne

  The fire has been out for several hours before Nat and I learn that Henry has died. When Nat arrives at our neighbour’s busy house there is much lamenting and talking and discussion before anyone tells us that someone has been killed. In that moment the nightmare of the day expands like a fissure in ice. When we realise that it is Henry, everything collapses. Now we are truly drowning. I have been thinking of clothes and furniture and letters – of nothings – and all the while, Henry is dead.

  We stagger out to look. Only the shell of our house remains, black and smoking, gaping open like death’s dark jaws. Nat hurries me to Sarah’s house, where my sister, bless her, takes control.

  ***

  In the days that follow, we have another funeral. Hundreds of people attend. Henry had a rich life. It’s hard to believe there is a soul in London that does not want to shake Nat’s hand. Our private loss becomes public. Nat finds it all so hard to bear, especially when William fails to appear.

  “What would you have me do?” asks Nat. Sarah and James have left us in their little sitting room for the evening while they attend some party or other. It is dark, and we have not lit all the candles. It is hard to be in brightness at such a time.

  “Do?”

  “I could shut up the print shop. We could leave London.”

  “Nat!” I am shocked. This is not the way my thoughts have been tending.

  “It’s my fault.”

  “No!”

  “It is. This pursuit of Oates. Henry warned against it. I brought this violence to our door.”

  “Henry warned against it in the beginning, yes, but that was long ago. He printed your words. He read them. He was proud of you. He had faith in you. I saw it in him every day.”

  “Yet how can we continue? Henry is dead. William has abandoned us. What danger are we placing your sister in while we stay here?”

  That gives me pause. “We must move.”

  “You shouldn’t be living like this. You need a home. We ought to be living like a family, not like vagabonds.”

  “Enough! Enough of what you believe I need, or think you are duty bound to provide.” Surprise lights up his eyes but I barrel onwards. “Here is what we will do. Tomorrow you will take lodgings for us – somewhere small, somewhere out of the way, and in false names. We won’t tell anyone where, not even Sarah. You will write. We will bombard the city with the truth about this man until he cannot show his face in public. You will see Robert Southwell and demand he find a way to arrest Titus Oates. Some way – any way – must be found to put him in prison, and we must not rest until we find it.”

  “Are you serious, Anne?” He bends and peers across the candlelight at me.

  “Never more so.”

  “But how can we publish? The boys cannot run the print shop. Where the hell is William?” Nat slams his hands against the arms of his chair and slumps back. “We can’t just hire someone. I trust no-one.”

  I take a deep breath. “But you do trust me.”

  “You know I do, but Anne—”

  “No buts, Nat. I will run Henry’s presses. Indeed, I have been doing so this many months.”

  “What?”

  “While William has taught the boys to read and count, I have worked with Henry.” I stumble here, not quite sure in this moment why I haven’t told him before now, not quite sure how to say this right. “I wasn’t certain you would be happy to have me do it. You have always been so set on providing for me. But I wanted something, I needed some
thing to do after Martha. Henry let me try the work. I can do it, Nat. If you will let me.”

  “Let you?” His voice is a whisper, and I am afraid for a moment that this will not end well. “My God, that we should talk of me letting you do anything! You can run the print shop, Anne? You can move to some secret place and work with me to pull this monster down? You do not need my permission, not for this or anything.”

  He opens his arms and I walk into them, happier – despite all this unhappiness – than I ever thought to be. His kisses are on my neck and his hands find my skin. I have one last thought before we seek a quiet oblivion in each other’s arms. But I will not raise hope in Nat when it may all come to naught.

  The next morning, he sets out to find us new lodgings and I seek out Sarah. I tell her we are going to visit Mother. I need to talk to her about Valentine Greatrakes.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nat

  Strengthened by Anne’s resilience, I set out to secure us a room south of the Thames where we can hide from Titus Oates. It’s a grey morning. Low cloud settles only inches above the rooftops, threatening rain. Cold air bites at my fingers and feet as I brave the river crossing, but I welcome the sensation. Pain is good. Pain is being alive, when Henry is not. The reality of his death is hard to grasp. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s gone. I close my eyes to fool myself that none of it has happened. It is easy to conjure him in my mind. He is at work, as usual. He shouts at the boys and mutters as he reads. There is a war going on in my head between what I long to be true yet know to be false.

  It does not take me long to find a room, and a woman working at a nearby tavern promises to clean it for me by the end of the day. In short order I’m back waiting for a boat, listening to the rhythmic slap of water on timber. By the time one arrives, I’ve made a decision. And at this hour I stand a good chance of finding Sir Robert Southwell at home.