And there were so many people. I clung to Nell as for dear life, sure I’d be unable to take another step without her. We passed a rag-and-bone shop and a man sharpening knives. It was only then that it occurred to me I had no idea where we were going.
‘Are we walking far? Forgive me for being so slow.’
‘It’s a fair distance yet, I’m afraid. I couldn’t afford to stay in a fancy part of town like this.’
Just then a rat scuttled past my foot. I wobbled, straightened again with a lance of pain. If I had to dodge vermin in this respectable area, I didn’t like to think of the district I was headed to.
Could I really survive out here? I was better, but hardly fit to work. My plan had been to spend my days calling at dossing and sponging houses to find a trace of Ma. How would I gather the strength for that?
‘Is it honestly all right for me to stay with you, Nell? I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I haven’t money to pay you . . .’ I trailed off, wondering what on earth I would do if she said no.
But Nell squeezed my arm. ‘We’re in this together now. The survivors of Metyard’s.’
‘Do you have some money, then?’
‘A little,’ she answered, a bit cagily. ‘It won’t last us for long. We need to find work as soon as we can.’
‘But where did you get it?’
She became very interested, of a sudden, in the pavement beneath our feet. ‘Never you mind.’
I’d feared as much. A well-shaped girl like Nell, with her pretty hair. I didn’t blame her. Only it caused a sort of spasm within my heart, to think of her selling herself to a man. Hadn’t she suffered enough? And was I really to live off that hard-earned coin?
We went along in silence after that, awkward with one another. Little by little, the streets became darker. Soot stained the brick walls, which were chipped in places. The buildings seemed to grow higgledy-piggledy, their uneven rooves making a thatch that covered the sky. Every so often a window opened and the contents of a chamber pot splashed into the road. Nothing hit us, but that was hardly a comfort. There was nowhere safe to put your feet.
Street urchins tossed stones at one another. Some of them shouted at me, called me ‘hop-along’. I grappled against a wave of giddiness. Already, my stomach had started to gurgle with hunger.
Had Ma been living this way since the moment she left me?
By the time Nell tugged at my elbow and said, ‘Just here,’ I was fit to drop. The area didn’t look nice: a narrow maze of streets with an open sewer running down the middle of the road. Still, I limped the way she indicated, looking forward to a sit-down and maybe something to drink.
I was wrong.
Before we’d taken two steps inside, a hefty man erupted from the shadows. Broken veins purpled his skin.
‘Thruppence each.’ He thrust out a hand gloved in dirt.
Nell rummaged and produced some tarnished coins. He took them so quickly, it might have been a parlour trick. He bit each one, eyeing us warily the whole time. ‘That’s one night. First on the left.’
Later, I’d learn that there were four lodging rooms, each sheltering a score of people per night. But at that moment, I was too tired to take stock of the house as a whole. I just followed Nell.
You couldn’t see much, with the grime coating the window. That made it seem dark as night inside, even though it was only early afternoon. But I could see enough to understand it was sheer robbery to charge a person threepence to sleep here. The place was more suitable for keeping pigs.
We shuffled to the far corner, where there were no people. We did sit down, but not on any kind of chair: only the hard floor and a pile of bedding that felt, and smelt, damp. I had to stretch my bad leg out in front of me. Something kept dripping from the ceiling on to my head, like rain. I looked up, but it was too dark to tell if there was a hole in the roof.
‘Have you been staying here all this time?’ I asked Nell in disbelief.
She shrugged. ‘I’m used to it now.’
I didn’t think you could grow used to it, that kind of filth and squalor. Pestilence stifled the air. Over the other side of the room, two old men with monstrous beards were beginning to squabble. I heard a thump, a curse. Those sitting near to them edged away.
To tell you the truth, I would have preferred the coal hole at Metyard’s.
‘Where’s the privy?’
‘There’s a pail, in the middle of the room.’ Nell pointed. ‘Do you see it?’
I stared at her. ‘One bucket, for all these people? You just . . . go in front of everyone?’
She shot me a rueful smile. ‘I told you we need to find work.’
A thin wail echoed through the darkness. A baby. Living here. God above, I’d thought Naomi’s life was bad.
I peered around the room at the desolate, pinched faces, hoping even now to find Ma’s features under the grime. After more than a year of want and deprivation, she might not look the same. It terrified me to think I might tour all the lodging houses in Oakgate, stare over the paupers and fail to recognise her.
Still the baby cried.
My arm was itching. I scratched at it. Heaven only knew what sort of lice lived in this place. ‘So have you tried to get employment yet?’ I asked Nell.
‘Of course I have!’ she flared. ‘I’ve been to nigh on every seamstress and milliner in this town. They won’t have me. Not with the taint of Metyard’s on my needle. Looks bad for their establishments, they said.’
Trepidation bloomed in my breast. Would the same trouble dog me? I’d counted on making a living and supporting Ma with my embroidery. There was nothing I could do well to earn my bread except sew.
‘Why did you tell them you’d worked at Metyard’s? You could have pretended you’d come from somewhere else.’
‘Not in this town. They would check. Besides, I could hardly hide the fact. The journalists printed all our names in the newspaper.’
I hadn’t realised that. Just when I thought I was free of Mrs Metyard, there she was, pressed into my skin like a branding iron. ‘Make up a name?’ I suggested.
Nell sighed, closed her eyes, as if she were explaining to a child. ‘They still want a reference, Ruth. A character letter. Haven’t you gone for a position before?’
Of course I hadn’t. Nell’s words made me feel hopelessly naive. As if the world I’d imagined was shrinking around me to a space no bigger than this awful rat’s nest. ‘Perhaps it would be better for us to move on to another town,’ I said, a little shy this time. ‘One where they won’t recognise our names. Mim was going to London.’
Nell snorted. ‘No, she wasn’t. I’m sorry, Ruth, I don’t mean to speak badly of her, but she was a dreamer. She had no money for the stagecoach. She might have tried to tramp it on foot, but without food and drink, she never would have made the walk.’ She nodded significantly at my outstretched leg. ‘I doubt you could walk to the next town. And even if you did, you’d be in such a state, no one would want to employ you. You’d look like a beggar by the time you got there.’
I swallowed painfully. Of course it was the truth. The steely, cold truth of a girl abandoned from her very birth, who knew life was tough and no one was going to grant her any favours. Beside Nell I sounded like Ma, with her hope that people possessed good hearts.
‘What are we going to do, then?’ I was ashamed to hear that my question sounded like a whimper. ‘I already look tattered. A few more nights here and I’ll be . . .’
‘Alive,’ Nell finished, stern. ‘And free. Which is all that matters. Come on, get some rest. You’re still poorly. Everything will look better tomorrow.’
I doubted that. With the baby squalling, vermin scratching and the old men grumping, I’d never sleep. ‘How?’ I sulked. ‘How will things possibly be better tomorrow?’
‘Because tomorrow,’ Nell grinned, ‘Mrs Metyard will be hanged.’
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br /> 41
Dorothea
How swiftly a day can turn from joy to utter, utter sorrow!
The early showers had cleared, leaving silver pathways and a sweet, dank dew. Graymarsh prepared the carriage and we drove to the post office, that I might send my letter to Sir Thomas Biggleswade without Papa’s detection. A great weight lifted from my shoulders as I passed the envelope across the counter to the old postmistress, who pushed her spectacles up her nose to read my direction.
‘Will that be all, miss?’ She savoured my title, hoping, no doubt, to unsettle me. An unmarried lady, writing to a man! Her beady eyes said I know very well what you are up to, but I did not permit myself to become flustered.
‘That is everything, thank you,’ I said, doling out my coin and leaving the office.
Air rushed into my lungs, tasting of freedom. How pleasant it was to know the thing was done, and Sir Thomas rejected! Compassionately rejected, with much delicacy and gratitude threaded through the words. He can be in no doubt of my regard, even if he does not possess my heart. Mama would not blame me for such a kind answer to her friend’s kin. Papa, however . . . Yet I hope David and I shall be safe in London before he makes the discovery.
From the post office we headed to the botanical gardens, where all of nature’s beauty began to unfold. Wet spiderwebs hung in sparkling chains across the hedges, concealing the violets and primrose within. Petals of blossom flecked the lawns, a white and pink confetti, but none remained in the trees. Buds had exploded into leaf, bulbs had pushed their heads far above ground, and nothing remained buried beneath the soil.
My conversation with David was short, but no less satisfying for that. Our seconds together hung like the raindrops on the branches. He had not heard any news about the position in London, but for the first time the future felt truly within our reach. Palpable, our new life as a married couple an event that would certainly happen, and soon.
‘You look mighty bright today, Miss Truelove,’ he smiled.
I did! Would that I had stayed there all afternoon with the damp-wool scent from his coat on the breeze, and Tilda clucking behind us. But I came home.
And everything went awry.
The carriage caught my eye long before we had reached the house. I recognised those matched greys with a sinking feeling. What business had she in my home? It was not my time to receive calls, she should know that I was out on my errands.
But then my cheeks glowed hot. Perhaps she did know. I peered through the glass and saw that her carriage was vacant. They would have told her at the door that I was not present, yet she had crossed the threshold all the same.
Gone inside to be alone with Papa.
‘Looks like you have a visitor, miss,’ Tilda remarked. She did not sound overly surprised.
We walked in silence through the front door into the reception hall. Nothing looked real. It was a doll’s house, not my beloved home. As Tilda took my bonnet and gloves, a high-pitched laugh jangled through the corridors and sank into my back teeth.
‘I will go to my room,’ I announced.
But fortune did not favour me. They must have heard the carriage pulling round to the stables, or my feet clacking across the floor, for Papa’s voice boomed behind the closed library door.
‘Dora? Dora, is that you?’
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, trapped. My instincts told me to ignore him and run, as fast as I could, to my room and shut the door like a little girl. Yet there was Tilda, watching me, and a footman standing on the landing. How could I disobey Papa before them?
A bump from the library. ‘Come here, Dorothea. I wish to speak with you.’
Every step cost me the agony of walking upon broken glass. I remembered Ruth, relating how she had trembled her way towards the captain’s room alone in the dark. That was how I felt now.
I opened the door.
The red curtain had been pulled across the window. Steam misted the cases containing the raven and the snarling fox.
Papa stood behind the desk with Mrs Pearce, their hands clasped.
‘My dear Dorothea!’ she beamed.
Her lantern jaw, her mustard gown, the ridiculous hair sculpture fallen crooked on her head: all of these were an affront to me. But to hear my Christian name, my mother’s name, upon her lips – that was the sting.
It was only with great difficulty that I composed myself sufficiently to bob a curtsey and wish her good day.
‘I have glad tidings for you, my dear,’ said Papa. His collar had not been buttoned on properly. A sheen of sweat sat upon his forehead. ‘Prepare yourself for something wonderful.’
I knew what he was going to say. Part of me yearned to dash over, place my fingers upon his lips and beg him to never, ever speak the dreadful words. But I could only act in this manner towards my papa. And this was not him. I saw another man, a base creature, no relation to me at all.
‘I am delighted to inform you that Mrs Pearce has agreed to become my wife. I am the happiest man alive.’
She simpered. ‘Oh, Reginald.’
Curious, to look back upon it. What shocks me most is my detachment. I felt dispassionate, cold, removed far from the scene and these people, who were strangers to me. Only my lips, curling back from my teeth in disgust, betrayed any emotion. ‘Well, fancy that.’
Papa’s eyes turned a deeper shade of grey.
‘Will you not congratulate us?’ he demanded, straightening his jacket. ‘Will you not kiss your . . .’ Our eyes met.
Do go on, a wicked part of me willed him. Say it, say what you truly mean.
But it was Mrs Pearce who bumbled forward, thrusting out her nauseous cloud of jasmine. ‘Come and kiss your new mama.’
42
Ruth
Have you ever been to a hanging? The strange thing is, it’s rather jolly. There were hordes of spectators that day, blotch-faced and drunk, all shoving for the best place. Children skipped and clapped, singing in high voices.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed
And here comes the chopper to chop off your head.
Chip chop, chip chop, the last man’s – dead!
Woodsmoke and meat warmed the air. I couldn’t smell them now without feeling ill, remembering Mim’s hand on the fire.
Nell wasn’t troubled by my memories. ‘Wish I could afford some chestnuts,’ she grumbled, gazing doe-eyed at the hawker.
I held her arm close in mine, still dizzy from pain and hunger too. Rough men pushed past me. Everywhere I turned were bobbing heads and bared teeth. I thought I might faint.
The scaffold waited before us, dangling its nooses as a promise of treats to come. Three. Who else would die beside Mrs Metyard?
It should be Kate.
It should be me. Justice for Naomi, Pa, Rosalind and whoever else had worn my gowns.
I felt a strange thrill then, imagining the weight of the hemp around my own neck. Would hanging hurt as much as losing my toe? I hoped it would hurt a lot more.
Sunlight slid free from the clouds just as wheels clattered on the cobbles.
A roar.
‘Where is she? Can you see her?’ Nell cried.
I couldn’t. I only heard the sound of that tumbril, driving relentlessly towards death.
Figures massed around the cart, spitting and clawing. A man yelled, ‘Give me a kiss, sweetheart!’ There was laughter, shouts of joy. It looked like a lark, not a prelude to the grave.
‘That must be them!’ Nell exclaimed. Her eyes were wide as a fanatic’s. ‘Let’s get close to the scaffold while everyone’s busy.’
I let her tug me along. She chose a pitch close enough to hear the rope twisting in the breeze.
‘Perfect.’ Nell gazed up with relish. Her hair shone in the sunlight. ‘You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this day, Ruth.’
Even longer than me. No wonder she was champing at the bit.
Finally, the cart lumbered to its destination. The three prisoners unloaded were dishevelled and pulled about by the crowd. Mrs Metyard stood at the back, her hands bound as if in prayer. Although she’d lost weight, she had the same figure, the same upright bearing.
‘There she is!’ Nell’s nails buried themselves in my arm. ‘I hope she pisses herself!’
To our disappointment, she didn’t look afraid. Drawn, perhaps, and weary, but not like the others. One was a broad woman with hands like hams. She swore and fought with the guards. The third was a girl a little older than me, perhaps eighteen, and her face was drenched with tears. But Mrs Metyard stalked through it all with her head held high, her features fixed in a terrible scowl. I recognised it. She was the captain, facing enemy fire.
She refused the hood. The other prisoners had their heads covered with sacks, but she remained indomitable, the noose tied close to the skin of her neck.
‘That’s a bit of luck,’ I whispered to Nell. ‘We can watch her suffer.’
She nodded. We were each of us as bloodthirsty as the other.
The chaplain shouted a prayer, but few words were audible. Raucous cries of ‘Amen’ came back from the crowd.
There was a clank, which vibrated through my ribs, and the trapdoors lurched open. Three pairs of feet dropped.
I’d read, at some point years ago, about a hanging where they’d tied the rope too long. That prisoner had their head pulled clean off. Part of me hoped that would happen to Mrs Metyard, but it didn’t. She wriggled and danced with the rest of them.
My eyes never left her face. I saw the skin turn puce, the features swell. Blood vessels burst in her eyes. The crowd huzzaed and cheered.
The captain. Mrs Metyard. The captain again. Two personalities flickered across that tortured, bloated face. Then, at last, there was foam at her lips. Her feet lost their momentum.
Either side of her, the hooded women drooped. They looked like scarecrows. Slowly, the movement sputtered out, subsided from kicking to twitches.
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