Mistress of Lies

by Holly West

  “You didn’t have anyone check on the shop before you left?”

  “I called upon a trusted colleague who’d remained in the city to check that the vault was secured,” he said. “He reported that the shop was locked up and nothing seemed amiss.”

  “Aside from the fact that Adam had disappeared.”

  “Well, yes.”

  My next question stuck in my throat. I didn’t want to raise the subject of Sir Richard’s daughter, but I needed clarification. “And Margaret? Did she go with you to Oxford?”

  Sir Richard swallowed. “You know she didn’t, Isabel. Margaret contracted consumption in mid-July of that year. She was dead within a week.”

  I bent forward and put my hand upon his. “I’m very sorry. You know how much I loved Margaret. I still miss her greatly.”

  “She was betrothed, did you know?”

  It was something I’d forgotten, but now that he mentioned it, it came back to me. Sir Richard had arranged for Margaret to marry the son of a family friend. By all appearances, he was a good match, but Margaret had been distraught. She didn’t love him.

  “The poor boy was devastated by her death, as you can imagine,” Sir Richard continued.

  We sat in silence, taking a moment to remember Adam and Margaret. Finally, I said, “When did you return to London?”

  “By January, it appeared that the worst of the sickness was over. James returned first, and Lady Winser and I followed in March.”

  “And your business remained intact?”

  He nodded. “Most of the goldsmith bankers retained their assets during this time, as did I.”

  “What did your colleagues who’d remained in the city tell you about it?”

  “It was chaotic, that was certain. But I needn’t have worried about my business. Members of the guild—the Goldsmiths’ Company, I’m talking about—have always taken care of their own.”

  I didn’t quite know what Sir Richard meant when he said that the goldsmiths’ guild always took care of their own. It sounded rather ominous to me.

  “You talk as though it’s some secret brotherhood,” I said.

  He laughed. “I simply mean that we know what’s at stake if the public loses confidence in us. If goldsmith banking were to fail or even falter, the financial future of England could collapse. And when it comes down to it, what else matters more than money?”

  Having had my share of financial troubles in the past, and now facing more of them, I couldn’t argue. Still, I’d never heard Sir Richard speak this way before. He’d always struck me as the sort of man who put family and people first and left the petty wrangling over pounds and pence to others. To my mind, it was what made him so successful—he knew what was really important in life.

  “I found banknotes among Adam’s things,” I said, “dated 20 July 1665. They bear his signature but they’re in your name. Do you have any records signed by Adam after that time?”

  “Perhaps. I can find them if you insist upon seeing them, but it might take a day or two.”

  His tone was clipped and all of the friendliness had drained out of him like water from a leaky jug. I regretted that I’d upset him, but I didn’t see how I’d had any choice.

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Someone knocked. “Come in,” Sir Richard said. A tall, thin man, impeccably dressed in black-and-silver livery, entered the room. He didn’t so much as glance in my direction.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he said, “but I was told you had a visitor and I wondered if you wanted some refreshment.”

  “Ah, Wilson, look who’s come to visit. It’s Isabel.”

  Thus prompted, Wilson turned his attention to me. He’d served as Sir Richard’s devoted manservant when I lived at Bingley House. He was a stiff, formal sort of man, the kind to whom propriety and loyalty was paramount.

  “Of course,” Wilson said, bowing slightly at the waist. “How good to see you, Lady Wilde.”

  “And you, Wilson,” I said.

  These mundane pleasantries out of the way, Sir Richard returned to the original question. “It’s only eleven—a bit early for dinner, I’d say, but would you care for a bite to eat, Isabel?”

  “Thank you, but no. I’d best be on my way.”

  After a few more minutes of inconsequential conversation, I bid Sir Richard and Wilson goodbye, lamenting the fact that I’d not learned very much more than I’d known in the first place. Sir Richard escorted me to the front and I promised him that I would visit again soon.

  Chapter Eight

  I exited the shop, dismayed to find that the weather had grown even more dismal than it had been earlier. The chill in the air was exacerbated by an onslaught of heavy sleet. I’d intended to walk, but instead I hurried over to where Elijah stood waiting with my carriage and asked him to take me the short distance to Mrs. Downey’s house on Lad Lane.

  When Adam brought Lucian and me to London in 1659, we had only the small inheritance left by our father to live on. Adam found an inexpensive room in Mrs. Downey’s lodging house, close to the goldsmith’s shops in Cheapside. We hadn’t lived there long, less than a year, when Sir Richard invited us to live at Bingley House.

  Now, as Elijah navigated the carriage through the area, I became melancholic. So much of it had burned in the fire, and as a result, it resembled nothing like I remembered. The shop on the corner, which had once belonged to a butcher named Mr. Wesley, was now occupied by a tailor. I wondered what had happened to Wesley and his wife, who would, on occasion, cook up a pan of salty bacon or a flavorful beef pasty for the three of us to have as supper. They’d always been so kind to us.

  Likewise, Mr. Peabody, who sold pewter goods from his small storefront at the end of the street, had left. A three-story brick house had replaced the shop. The pewter flagon and cutlery I’d found in Adam’s valise had been purchased from him.

  The dressmaker who’d made my first dress had also vacated. Adam had saved up for months so that I could have a proper gown, and when I turned fourteen he surprised me with a quantity of blue satin—then my favorite color—and a length of pale pink lace, which we took to the dressmaker. He’d been so proud of it, declaring me the prettiest lass in London the first time I put the gown on. It still hung in my wardrobe, though it was now many years out of style and I’d long since grown too large for it.

  Worst of all, the parish church where we’d worshipped had burned to the ground. All that remained was the foundation; evidently the site had been cleared of rubble but the church hadn’t yet been rebuilt. If it were true that Adam had married, I reckoned it would’ve been here, but I couldn’t guess what had become of all the church records.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I arrived at Mrs. Downey’s house. Lucian had told me that her house had also burned in the fire, but that she’d had it rebuilt and continued to live there. But that had been more than ten years ago—there was every possibility that she had died by now. When a much younger woman answered the door, my fear was confirmed.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Lady—”

  She laughed. “Why of course I know who you are, Isabel Barber! But is it possible you don’t remember me?”

  I appraised her more closely and realized she was Mrs. Downey’s daughter, Sally.

  “Of course I do. Hello, Sally.”

  She invited me into the drawing room and we sat down. Sally was older than I was by a few years and when the three of us had lived in the house she’d teased Lucian and I mercilessly. She’d all but convinced me that the house was haunted, and for weeks I couldn’t sleep for fear of the ghost that lived in the kitchen cupboard. Much to my relief, she married—I couldn’t recall his name—a year later and moved out of the house.

  She seemed friendly enough now, however. She wore no paint and her dress was a plain blue
frock with a red striped petticoat beneath it. A shawl the color of clotted cream was draped over her shoulders, and a white cap covered most of her blond curls.

  I was relieved when she said, “Mother will be so happy to see you, Isabel. She was so fond of you and your brothers and still speaks of you often.”

  “Ah, but I’m no longer Isabel Barber,” I said. “I’m Lady Wilde.”

  “Are ye now? You always were such a pretty one. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn you married a nobleman.”

  Sir Ian Wilde had not exactly been a nobleman. When I’d found myself pregnant with the king’s child he chose Ian for my husband, to give the child a name. Ian was then a member of the king’s Guard, and Charles made him a knight in order to make the prospect of marriage more enticing to me. Ian’s title had never meant anything to me; in the end I married him because I was convinced it was the best thing for my child.

  How wrong I had been. My daughter had been born several weeks too early, the result of one of the beatings I’d suffered at Ian’s hands. She died the next day.

  “I’m here about my brother, Adam,” I said, anxious to leave the subject of my now dead husband. “I have some questions about his death.”

  She frowned. “Such a shame, what happened to him. To all of us, really. My husband lost his mother and brother during the plague.”

  “The parish has changed so much since I was last here. I saw the church was burned to the ground. Have you any idea what became of the records?”

  “Nearly everything before 1666 was destroyed,” she said. “They’ve not gotten around to rebuilding it, as you probably saw. Of course, Mother was fortunate to rebuild, as were many of our neighbors.”

  “Is your mother here? It’s been so many years since I’ve seen her.”

  “Aye. I’m afraid she doesn’t often leave the house anymore. She’s been infirm for a while now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Mr. Harrison and I moved in to take care of her two years ago.”

  Harrison, that was her husband’s name. “May I see her?”

  “I think it would be all right,” Sally said. “But don’t be dismayed if she doesn’t remember you. Her memory’s not what it once was.” She uttered a hollow laugh. “Sometimes she doesn’t even recall who I am.”

  I followed her to a bedroom on the second floor. She knocked lightly on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply.

  “You’ll never guess who’s come to see you, Mother.” Her voice was artificially bright as she turned and encouraged me to come inside. “It’s Isabel Barber!”

  The room was oppressively warm and I was nearly overcome by the stench—fetid breath, the contents of the chamber pot, tallow. The curtains were tightly shut and I wondered when it was last aired out. Probably not for several weeks, at least. Without comment, Sally strode over to the bed to fetch the chamber pot, opened the window and dumped the contents into the street below. It had little effect in diminishing the odor.

  Mrs. Downey lay in her bed, propped up with pillows. She’d been mending a garment and now she set it aside.

  “Hello, my dear,” she said with a befuddled smile.

  Sally returned the pot to its place under the bed. “It’s Isabel, Mother. You remember the Barbers, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” she replied in an irritated tone.

  “Please, sit down.” Sally indicated the chair next to Mrs. Downey’s bed.

  “Hello, Mrs. Downey,” I said, taking the seat. “How’re you feeling today?”

  “The Lord’s not seen fit to claim me yet.”

  “Isabel’s a Lady now, Mother—Lady Wilde,” Sally said. “She’s married a nobleman, can you imagine that?”

  Mrs. Downey regarded me skeptically. “Is that right?” Something about the way she said it unnerved me a little, as though she were keeping a more disparaging thought to herself.

  “Isabel’s come to ask you about her brother, Adam,” Sally continued.

  “Sally,” Mrs. Downey said suddenly, her voice loud and clear. “Bring us some sherry, will you, please?”

  “Of course, Mother. You two sit and get reacquainted.”

  She left the two of us alone and I smiled at the old woman. “You’re looking well, Mrs. Downey.”

  “Sally said you have questions about Adam,” she said abruptly.

  I pulled the embroidered handkerchief I’d found in Adam’s bag from my inside my sleeve and held it up for her to see. “I do, but before I forget—do you recognize this handkerchief? I found it among Adam’s things and I wondered if it might belong to you.”

  She squinted at it so long that I began to think that she might benefit from a pair of spectacles. But finally, she shook her head. “’Tisn’t mine.”

  I returned it to my sleeve. “I know it’s been a long time since we last spoke, but the subject of Adam’s death has come up recently and I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.”

  She stared at me blankly and I took this as a sign to go on. “You told me that Adam left and went to a pesthouse when he displayed signs of the sickness. Are you certain that’s what he did?”

  “It’s what he told me.”

  “Do you remember which one he went to?”

  She continued to stare at me but said nothing. “Mrs. Downey,” I said. “Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Do you know which pesthouse he went to?”

  Again, she met me with silence. But her eyes misted over, evidence that she’d heard my question.

  “Mrs. Downey?”

  “Terrible places, those.”

  “I know it,” I said. “And I’m very sorry to remind you of it. But I assure you, it’s very important.”

  She huffed. “It was the City pesthouse, on Old Street.”

  “Do you remember if he left your house in July or August?”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. She frowned and hissed, “How dare you come back here, asking me all of these questions?”

  I recoiled as though she’d slapped me. “Pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  Her face was angry, her tone belligerent. I couldn’t imagine what the matter was and wondered if she’d gone a little mad in her old age. “Have I done something to offend you, Mrs. Downey?”

  “Who’re you to question me?”

  “I’m very sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you? You come back here after so many years, asking why I made your brother leave this house?”

  “No, that’s not it at all. You told me he left on voluntarily when he got sick.”

  “You ran off and became the king’s whore and left him here to die alone.”

  I sucked in my breath. She’d narrowed in on the insecurity I had regarding my brother’s death, and I realized then that she knew exactly who I was and had since the moment I’d walked in. What I didn’t understand was why she’d turned on me. During our last meeting, just after I’d returned from Amsterdam, she’d been nothing but sympathetic and sweet.

  “I didn’t abandon him, Mrs. Downey.”

  “I loved Adam like a son. It broke my heart to send him off. But what choice did I have? When a person got sick with the plague it was reported to the parish. A guard would lock up the house and a red cross painted on the door. The entire household would’ve been quarantined.”

  “I know that—”

  She was crying now, sobbing like a child. “I had to think about the others in the house. My own family. I had no other choice but to ask him to leave.”

  Sally came into the room carrying a tray with drinks on it. She set it hastily on a table and ran to her mother’s side. In her upset, Mrs. Downey had begun to cough and choke.

  “Moth
er, what is it?” she said, tending to her mother. “Isabel, what happened?”

  “She became distressed when I mentioned Adam,” I said.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing that should’ve upset her like this.” I stood there feeling helpless as Sally soothed her mother. Mrs. Downey’s accusation had shaken me deeply. Was she right? Would Adam still be living if I hadn’t gone to Amsterdam?

  Sally’s voice brought me back to the present. “You should leave, Isabel.” She mopped at her mother’s face with a cloth and whispered, “There, there.”

  “I’m so sorry—”

  “Please, just go.”

  Chapter Nine

  It took some time to travel from Cheapside to Old Street, more so because of all the traffic that had built up at Aldgate. As I waited impatiently in the long queue of carriages and carts to exit the city wall, I thought about what Susanna had told me. If Ann Sutton had been Adam’s nurse, he might not have ended up in a pesthouse at all. Had he simply moved out of Mrs. Downey’s house and found other lodgings where city officials had quarantined him after he’d requested a nurse? If so, the long trip to the City pesthouse would be a complete waste of time.

  With nothing else to do but stew about Mrs. Downey’s unexpected reaction to my questions about Adam, I thought about why the conversation had been so upsetting to me. The last words I’d had with my brother had been spoken in anger. On the night before my ship to Amsterdam was to set sail, Adam tried one last time to convince me to stay. As I packed the trunk he’d reluctantly bought me to carry my new belongings—I was to pose as the niece of a wealthy English merchant come to Holland as part of a European tour—he stood before me and pleaded.

  “I tell you, you’re a fool to go,” he’d said. “You know what kind of man the king is. Once you’ve gone, he’ll find another naive girl to fill your place. There’s likely one already waiting.”

  It wasn’t the first time Adam had said such a thing. He’d said it so often, in fact, I’d learned to ignore it. But now I was nervous as a cat at the prospect of leaving and his words wounded me.