He manoeuvres the frightened bird out of the entrance, seals the cage and presents me with it, in one dextrous movement.
‘Like the look of this little fellow?’ he asks, holding up the chirruping starling.
I examine the creature, which the birdman holds with remarkable gentleness.
I nod again and smile.
‘He’s going to join the others?’ asks the birdman, with a wink.
‘Yes,’ I reply, handing over my penny. The birdman pockets the coin and inserts the bird into a roll of paper, twisting both ends shut.
‘Here you are.’
I take the parcel, marvelling, as I always do, at the lightness of the warm paperbound little body. Then I cross the street to St James’s Park and find myself a patch on the grass where no one is walking.
Closing my eyes, I settle myself to calmness. I draw a picture of a new life into my head. One that is free from heartache and horrors, debt collectors and false suitors. I see myself well-fed, in fine clothes, with my own independence and maybe even a man to treat me kindly.
Slowly I twist open the paper.
‘Out you come, little bird,’ I whisper, unstopping the end and tipping it down.
The bird’s tiny claws scrabble against the paper and then he’s out on the grass, twisting uncertainly in the light.
The bird reminds me of us girls, when we first fled Mrs Wilkes. Blinking in the sunlight, afraid of the sudden big wide world before us.
The creature takes a few bobbing steps, growing bolder now, hardly daring to believe his luck. And then, in a split second, his wings are open and he streaks through the air, vanishing into a large leafy oak tree.
I close my eyes and feel my heart go with it. Then I hear birdsong. I open my eyes again and now I cannot tell which bird was mine, from all the other starlings chattering in the oak. I smile.
The memory of my last failed liaison still aches. But I know I will survive. I’m going to get up again. I’m going to try harder.
And one day, I promise myself. One day. I will be as free as that bird.
I crumple the paper prison in my hand and stand, feeling happier.
It’s time to find Kitty. And get to work.
Chapter 4
I am always glad of my resilience. My soul feels lighter as I walk towards the gin shop.
Perhaps the men from last night will seek us out again. Or Kitty and I will find our way into a ball. We did that once, and you could barely move for drunk and wealthy men believing you to be a real lady. Were it not for Kitty’s temper, throwing drink in a man’s face, it would have been rich pickings.
I turn off Piccadilly into a smaller backstreet. A jumble of overhead signs announces this is a cork-cutting street, and the squeak of the working knives closes around me.
I catch sight of a familiar face, huddled in a doorway, and for a moment my brain struggles to match the image.
Then it does and I feel a sickening surge of recognition.
Emily-Jane.
I knew her from the gin shop, last year. When she was fresh-faced and charming.
Now she holds out a hand, begging. Now her face is sallow and sunken, and she has only a few teeth left in her mouth.
I struggle for the memory of why she left Piccadilly.
She was put in the debtors’ prison less than a year ago. It has aged her ten.
The woman does not recognise me, but assesses from my powdered face and low-cut dress that I am not one of those ladies who can afford to give charity. So her attention is elsewhere as I approach.
I move nearer, meaning to offer her some sympathy. But at the last minute I change my mind and walk on. It would be cruel to stop and raise her hopes, with no money to give her. She is in need of more than kind words.
Kitty’s favourite gin shop has an innocent-looking door and a large sign, displaying a bottle. I push my way inside, to the familiar acrid smell of liquor and the din of drunks.
The gin shop has a sturdy bar in front of a neat row of barrels. The owner, a vinegar-faced woman known as Gin Joan, is filling a glass bottle from the nearest barrel. She turns as I enter and begins refilling the glasses of a cluster of drinkers who are crowded in.
Into the night, the gin shop can get full to busting. But it is early evening and only a handful are here. So the atmosphere is yet to turn unruly.
I scan the collection of drinkers for Kitty. A young woman with bad teeth is raising a glass to be filled in one hand and holding a ragged toddler with the other. She wears the relative finery of a streetwalker and, judging by the stoic look on her face, is steeling herself for a long night.
A middle-aged woman in a plain wool dress has her arm looped around a man I take to be her husband. They are both shouting cheerfully across the general din. Other little pockets of men and women play at cards or dice. A few rough-looking characters are lounged around with far-away looks, sipping gin like it’s a reflex movement.
I see Kitty by the bar. The contrast of the other plainer women makes her appear even more striking. Her feline features are deepened by the gloom of the gin shop, blackening her eyebrows to dramatic arcs over her sultry green eyes.
Kitty has black hair, deep pink lips, high cheekbones and a gap between her front teeth, which adds a roguish air to her seductive appearance. As though she’s ever-poised to say something shocking.
She catches my eye and her wide-apart eyes come alight like a cat’s. Her delight in seeing me is closely followed by a false, guilty smile. Kitty is famous for having a smile that makes men want to go to bed with her. But her allure stops short at the bedroom. Men want her for a mistress, but she’s too much trouble to be a wife. And she somehow belongs more to this crowd than anywhere else, despite her fine silk dress.
‘Lizzy!’ She raises her glass and straightens with effort. Kitty is slight, with small breasts pushed up towards her collar bone and a narrow waist that emphasises the wide bulky span of her stolen skirts. Her movement in grand clothes is never completely easy.
As usual, she has a little bevy of reprobates around her. She is arm in arm with Susie Sweetlove, who she must have made amends with, because they clawed each other’s faces last week.
Pete and Leo, two card sharps from London Bridge gambling house, are hanging around her, hoping they will get some of Kitty for free if she drinks enough.
I move towards the bar and see Kitty is not so drunk as I feared. Perhaps she hasn’t yet spent all of yesterday’s money.
‘Do not allow her credit,’ I whisper fiercely as I pass Gin Joan, who has taken a break from pouring to tip a slug of gin down her own throat. Joan swallows, wipes her mouth, then points wordlessly to a chalked line of numbers.
I make out Kitty’s scrawled initials next to the spiralling column of figures and my heart sinks.
Kitty sees me looking at her debt.
‘Lizzy!’ she announces with exaggerated cheer, throwing out an arm to pull me close. In the process she drops her hold on Susie Sweetlove, who glowers at me as an interloper.
‘Come join us,’ says Kitty, though she knows I do not drink gin.
As always, Leo attaches himself to me the moment I step near Kitty.
‘Come for a gin today, Queenie?’ he asks. ‘Or are you above us again?’
His hand snakes around, pressing into the small of my back.
I try to make my face belie my feelings. In my current mood, Leo’s poorly judged seductions are the last thing I need. But he is vengeful when crossed. Angering him is unwise.
‘Maybe later,’ I lie.
Leo considers, and I think for a moment he is displeased. Then his face breaks into a predatory smile. ‘A woman who doesn’t like gin,’ he says. ‘You will make a fine wife, Lizzy.’
Leo could be handsome, were it not for his weasel-like expression and a lurid knife wound running from ear to chin. He always reminds me of some feral creature, forever sniffing for a way to press an unfair advantage.
I make a face at Kitty, and to her credit, she
registers my meaning immediately.
‘Liz and I will talk outside,’ she announces, taking my hand and tugging me out of the darkly fragrant confines of the shop.
We break out onto the street and I turn angrily on Kitty.
‘A debt collector visited today,’ I say.
‘Oh?’ She looks unconcerned.
‘For you,’ I say, ‘for the dress you took. From Mrs Wilkes.’
Her gaze drops to the dress she wears. A huge silken thing, many times more valuable than mine. Though Kitty has managed to lose her gloves and no longer bothers with a hat.
In fact, Kitty seemed to throw off as many of Mrs Wilkes’s teachings as she could, with reckless, riotous abandon, revelling in her descent to street level. I remember the lessons as best I can. But it is hard, for we have less chance to practise them than we did in Mrs Wilkes’s house.
‘You need not be always so fearful,’ says Kitty. ‘She must forget the debt soon. It has been months. This is freedom, Lizzy. We’ve made it. We escaped.’
She gives me a wide grin.
‘It doesn’t feel like freedom to me,’ I mutter, looking at the sloping eyes of a few drinkers who have arranged themselves on the street outside the gin shop.
‘Would you go back?’ asks Kitty. ‘Would you rather work for Mrs Wilkes, like a slave? On your back ten times a night, for any decrepit old man who pays her the right money?’
‘No. I would not,’ I reply. ‘I should rather we lived in hope that some young lord or duke will fall in love with us. And I did not like it that we had to give Mrs Wilkes part of our money.’
‘Most of our money,’ corrects Kitty. ‘The old hag took almost all.’
She runs a hand through her long black hair. Mrs Wilkes also brought in very rich men. We do not earn as much on the streets as we did in her house. But I have lost the will to argue.
At least we make our own destiny, I remind myself.
Then I remember the beggar girl.
‘I saw Emily-Jane on the street,’ I admit, my fears suddenly returning in lurid detail. ‘Remember her? From the gin shop last year.’
Kitty rubs her forehead foggily.
‘Oh. Yes,’ she agrees.
‘She is begging on the street,’ I say. ‘She looks over forty and can only be twenty-five.’
Kitty looks unconcerned.
‘Emily-Jane had no one to bail her,’ she says. ‘Else she would never have spent a year in the Fleet Prison.’
My face must look distraught, because Kitty’s face twists. ‘Has she lost all her looks?’ she asks.
I nod, the terrible image of the haggard face floating before me.
Kitty puts her arm around me and squeezes me tight.
‘Half the women in London prostitute themselves at one time or another,’ she says. ‘Not all are made for Piccadilly.’
‘Neither are we,’ I insist. ‘We will rise above all this and find ourselves fine men. Men who will keep us and give us an annual wage.’
Kitty only shrugs. Then her eyes widen suddenly.
‘Holy Mary!’ she says. ‘Did you ever see such a thing outside Westminster?’
I follow her gaze and see a glossy racing stallion bearing a handsomely dressed rider, who seems to be struggling for control in the noisy mayhem of Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘That is a thoroughbred,’ I murmur, taking in the shape of the fine-looking horse. ‘That is a foolish animal to ride in a city.’
‘The rider must be a lord,’ decides Kitty. ‘Look at his boots and coat. And he cannot be above thirty.’
I had been preoccupied by the horse, but now my gaze takes in the rider. There is something striking about him, even from this distance. He has a solid poise that hints at a muscular frame beneath the lordly clothes, and a quiet determination, even as he grapples with the temperamental horse.
Kitty nudges me, her eyes shining. ‘Rich pickings.’
I nod slowly, following her line of thought.
London attracts young titles. They come to town to spend their money and avoid their lady wives. A girl who catches a newly arrived lord might do very well.
Kitty licks her lips, considering.
‘You should go,’ she decides. ‘You have more grace with fine folk.’
I can tell she’s thinking of the five guineas she owes. Her eyes slide along the pavement, taking in the array of painted faces that have also seen the rider. ‘I will make sure none come to trouble you,’ she adds.
I am frozen with self-doubt, aware of my poor quality dress and worn out gloves.
‘Lizzy, you are the most beautiful girl in Piccadilly,’ Kitty reassures me, reading my uncertain expression. ‘Men see faces before finery.’
She leans in, fanning my chestnut curls across my shoulders. Then she adjusts my shepherdess hat so the brim comes a little lower.
‘Go,’ she adds, pushing me into the street. ‘Before another girl gets to him.’
Chapter 5
I move from the pavement onto the dirt of the road, picking my way between the muddy patches to spare my shoes.
The horse has stopped moving forward now. It stands, tossing its head and flexing its legs as if working up to rear. The rider seems to have temporarily given up on urging it onward, running his hands soothingly through the animal’s mane.
I’m close enough to get a good look at the man now. His shoulder-length brown hair falls into a slight wave. And as my eyes reach his face, I see his features are fine, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. You could almost think it a feminine face, were it not for the broad jaw.
I am struck by his eyes. So deep brown they are almost black. A girl could get lost in those eyes. They seem to tell a story all of their own.
The rider’s attention flicks to where I’m standing, and I realise I am staring. Instinctively I look away. The focus of that dark gaze is so intense that it seems to pierce right through me.
My eyes drop to his well-worn riding boots. The butter-soft leather has faded to grey, looping in large folds at mid-thigh. The pirate style suggests he’s new here. City lords wear stockings and shoes.
Courage, Lizzy, I admonish myself, you are not a girl to be cowed by an aristocrat.
Frowning at my lowered gaze I force myself to look upwards. I take in his long black frock coat, hanging open at the front, with large rolled cuffs, and French lace at his wrists and at his neck. My eyes flick defiantly to the rider’s face and I see his expression has changed. Before it seemed as though he was assessing me very deeply. Now there is something almost challenging there, as though he is waiting for me to disappoint him.
I take a determined step forward and his horse snorts as I near the flank. I reach out a hand to pat, feeling more confident. I’ve got a way with horses. This animal is wet with nervous sweat and I rub him soothingly.
When I look back up to the rider his head is tilted and the dark eyebrows are slightly raised. Perhaps he is outraged that I have been bold enough to touch his horse but I cannot tell. ‘Are you looking for business?’ I ask, the universal question of prostitutes all over London.
He sweeps me with that appraising stare again. I cannot decide if it is unnerving or flattering to be the object of such undivided attention. This time I refuse to look away.
‘I am looking for an ostler,’ he replies eventually, giving no indication my lack of servility offends him. The horse twitches beneath him as he speaks. ‘I need blinkers to get this animal to Mayfair.’
His voice is not loud. But it has a smooth authority that makes his words resonate easily through the Piccadilly hubbub.
‘What is your horse’s name?’ I ask, trying not to be unnerved by the command in his voice. His accent is upper-class with a slight country burr making him sound warmer than most aristocrats. There is a calm power there.
The rider frowns, studying me, as though I could be working some confidence trick. ‘Samson,’ he says, after a moment.
‘Easy, Samson,’ I whisper, patting the flank. ‘Easy.�
��
The horse lets out a disgruntled snort. As though he’ll take pacifying for the moment but it won’t wash in the long term.
I look up to the rider. ‘Your horse thinks to bolt,’ I explain. ‘You will not easily get him to an ostler, and blinkers will not help. It is the noise that frightens him, not the sights.’
I consider for a moment.
‘If you like, I will guide him to Mayfair, with you atop. It is only a few streets from here. He will be easier with another person alongside.’
The man nods, acknowledging the truth of this. ‘I would be grateful,’ he says. The tone suggests he is not used to being beholden to people.
I make an assessment of his hanging pocket. ‘You must pay me three shillings,’ I add.
The man’s eyes widen and I see him make a swift calculation of his options. I’m on surer ground now. We both know he will not easily get to Mayfair alone. He must take my offer or risk injuring his horse.
‘Very well,’ he says, after a pause. For an instant I think I see a glint of admiration in his face, and then it is gone.
‘You should be ashamed of your lack of charity,’ he adds, his face hardening to an expression more familiar to men of his rank. ‘I am a visitor to the city.’
I take hold of the bridle.
‘It is not you who needs charity,’ I say easily, wrapping the reins around my hand. ‘And shame costs money.’
We set off in silence, at a slow walk, and Samson calms considerably with someone to lead him. I plot a path to avoid the squawking cockfights on Cockspur Street and away from the hustling sedan chair carriers on St James.
‘What is your name?’ I ask the rider, since he’s making no effort to speak.
‘Edward,’ he says. But he does not ask mine. He seems transfixed by the squalor of Piccadilly, and I wonder how often he visits the city.
We walk on a little more.
‘Samson is a fine horse,’ I say, reverting to the easy small-talk that has become part of my working girl persona.
‘How do you know about horses?’ Edward asks after a pause. I get the feeling he would rather not ask. But his curiosity has got the better of him.
Masquerade: Can a street-girl become a lady? Page 2