by Death
‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s easy to forget how awful it is when you start.’
We were quiet, each of us with our own thoughts. Eventually Polly spoke, her voice deliberately cheery.
‘But Lizzie, do tell us, how was your delightful companion this evening?’
I groaned.
‘That good, eh?’ She was laughing at me. ‘I’m so glad that you took him out of the tavern. I thought I was going to faint at his tedious conversation.’
Lucy began to look interested. She had not been with us earlier, owing to an engagement in a gentleman’s town house. Emily had been upstairs and busy all day from the hard look on her face.
‘Who was it? Lizzie, do tell.’
‘A cloth merchant from Norwich. He was fat and he grunted, and he struggled to get it up.’ It was an accurate summary.
‘Why on earth did you bring him home, though?’ asked Polly. ‘He was dreadful. He’s been in the White Horse for the last four nights – you’ve not had to put up with him until now. Yesterday he spent at least half an hour telling me about a particular sort of weave, I forget even what it was. And then there was the business with his handkerchief earlier.’
‘His handkerchief?’ Lucy’s dark eyes sparkled with amusement now.
‘Oh, he has an extremely large silk handkerchief with his initials embroidered in the corner,’ I said, ‘G. R. for George Reed. It’s nothing special, except that he needed us to know most particularly that G. R. stood for George Reed, and that this kerchief did not belong to His Majesty. He insisted on pulling it out of his coat pocket and waving it under our noses for inspection.’
‘You are teasing, Lizzie.’
‘No, I’m not. He really was bone-numbingly dull.’
‘I would have dropped him off with a streetwalker,’ said Polly.
‘Ah, but you didn’t see his waistcoat, then,’ I said quietly.
‘What about his waistcoat?’
‘I have rarely seen finer silk embroidery.’
‘What of it?’ Lucy was curious. She didn’t understand the importance of my comment, even though she’s normally such a grasping little minx.
‘I guessed that if he could afford such quality then he was obviously carrying a very heavy purse. I thought that I might relieve him of some guineas while he is in town on business.’ I grinned at them. ‘I was right about the purse.’
I relished my moment of triumph as I saw their faces.
‘Lizzie, I do wish I had your keen eye sometimes,’ said Polly.
‘I’m good,’ I admitted with a smile. ‘And for a few minutes grappling with that enormous belly I earned five guineas.’ I had received more, but the remainder was stowed away in my secret store: my retirement fund.
‘Five guineas,’ Lucy gave a whistle. ‘Not bad.’ She examined the jewels on her fingers. ‘Of course, not nearly as much as I earned this evening with Mr Gideon.’
No, it wasn’t as much as Lucy earned. Miss Lucy Allingham, raven-haired and always impeccably dressed, was the serious talent, after all – even if she could whistle like a fishwife. She was setting her sights on a man who might keep her as his mistress, in the hope of gaining her own apartment, an easy life and a steady stream of income. She had several suitable candidates in her thrall and was working on each of them in careful rotation. Mr Gideon was one of the poor creatures; a wealthy but somewhat hesitant Jewish gentleman.
Polly bristled slightly, which suggested that her own evening had not been profitable.
‘Good for you, Lucy,’ I said. ‘I hope he was as courteous as he was generous. But now, tell me, what has Ma got planned for tomorrow? Who is going to be here?’ I drummed the table with pretended excitement.
Polly dived in immediately. ‘Mr Stanford is coming. You know he adores you, Lizzie.’
‘Charles Stanford? How lovely.’ A young rake recently returned from the continent and keen to spend the sizable fortune he had lately inherited from his uncle. His lively wit and livelier body meant that his attentions were as pleasing as they were profitable. I had entertained him a few times.
‘I hope you share him,’ said Emily. ‘He’s more fun than most.’ Miss Emily Greville, the oldest of us, has to work harder these days to make the money that once came easily. She has grey in her unimaginatively-mousy hair. She covers it in powder to hide it, but we all know it’s there.
‘He’s bringing some new friends,’ said Polly, clapping her hands. ‘Two men, a Mr Herring and a Mr Winchcombe. They were in the White Horse yesterday, and I can report that they are both young and handsome.’
‘Thank goodness,’ I said. ‘Last time we had a masked ball it was full of elderly men. Oh no!’ I dropped my head in my hands, groaning.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve just remembered that I invited Mr Reed.’
‘George Reed? The man with the handkerchief and the wilting maypole?’ Lucy looked aghast. ‘Ma will kill you.’
I raised my hands in apology. ‘I had to get him off me. I wanted him out of my room. Inviting him to the party seemed like a good distraction.’
‘As long as none of us ends up with him. Lucy’s right, Ma won’t be happy,’ said Polly. ‘We can offer him to one of Mrs Hardy’s girls. They’re joining us for the evening.’ We liked the Hardy girls. Mrs Hardy’s establishment, though vastly inferior to ours, was nearby and we sometimes welcomed them to share our parties.
‘Well for once I’m glad they are coming.’ Lucy usually thought that inviting the Hardy girls was an unnecessary act of charity. ‘They can take the weak and ancient and we can keep the young and the rich like Charles Stanford and his friends, Mr Herring and Mr Winchcombe.’
‘I think that we had better get some beauty sleep before tomorrow’s exertions,’ said Polly, blowing out a candle. ‘The masks will only cover our faces for a few brief minutes, after all.’
‘And they do only cover our faces.’ Lucy winked as she got up.
‘Don’t be lewd,’ I said. ‘Ma will get uppity.’
‘She’s too preoccupied with her little sparrow to worry about my lack of refinement.’
True. Somewhere upstairs Amelia Blackwood might just be realising that a new career on the town was calling her. If she had worked that out, then the comfortable bed would offer little sleep.
Chapter Three
Fingers of sunlight poked their way through the shutters of my room. I lay in bed, listening. The house was very still, which meant the girls were probably still asleep. Ma and the servants would be long gone, buying more food for the party. I strained to make out the different noises from outside. An oyster girl was on her way home, crying out to anyone who would listen that she had but a few left. I imagined the girl weaving her way, basket balanced on her head, shawl knotted around her shoulders to keep out the chill. It was the end of March, and the sun, although bright, would surely be weak. A church bell, somewhere, began to ring and then others took the hint and joined in. Noon.
I didn’t fancy oysters, but bread and cheese would be welcome, or a pie. My stomach growled. The kitchen would be forbidden to anyone except those prepared to chop and cook, so there was nothing to be done except wander out to find something from the streets. It was probably wiser to leave for an hour or two, anyway. Very soon a predictable chaos would strike the house and suck me into a whirl of people wielding hair curlers, powder and gowns with all the energy of a wild storm. I wanted to avoid that for as long as possible.
There was a pitcher outside my door. The water had probably been hot a couple of hours ago, but now was decidedly cool. I washed my face, used my pot and dressed. Ma would have been horrified at how little attention I paid to my toilette, but hunger was tugging me outside. There was no need to make myself too attractive: I was searching for pies, not business.
* * *
Stepping out of the house and down the stairs onto Berwick Street I could hear a crowd in the distance, off to the left, towards Oxford Street. My favourite pie seller is usually in Thrif
t Street or Greek Street around midday, but, sufficiently intrigued, I turned and walked in the opposite direction to see what was going on. Oxford Street was filled with scores of people, many of them women. They were waiting for something, or someone, chattering with excitement, laughing and squealing. While they waited for whatever it was, local traders obligingly sold them food. Costermongers, oyster girls, pasty sellers, all moved in and out of the throng with baskets and carts full of tasty treats.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked the thin-faced man who put down his pasty cart for a moment. ‘A pie, please. Beef if you have it, mutton if not.’ I reached for my purse.
‘One beef pie left, sweetheart, just for you. Here you go!’
‘Why the crowd?’ I asked again before he moved off.
‘They’re bringing John Swann to Newgate today,’ he said, nodding towards the west. ‘It’s why all the ladies are here. Didn’t you know?’
I knew well enough who John Swann was. It had been difficult to hold an intimate or intelligent conversation in the taverns for the past week without my ears being assaulted by the latest ballads offered in his honour, or loud announcements of his capture. Highwaymen are no longer quite the scourge for travellers they once were, but the fascination for them has not dimmed. They attract a ridiculous amount of attention; much of it female. I’ve never seen the attraction myself but, apparently, they are extremely dashing, and usually handsome. John Swann was especially so, at least according to the musicians.
‘Ah. Of course. I’d forgotten it was today. You must be doing brisk business.’
He was. I was talking to the back of his coat as he trundled off to find love-sick women in need of warm pies.
You can suffocate in crowds like this. Elbows rammed into my ribs and boots trod over my skirts, making it difficult to move, let alone breathe. Every so often a voice cried out ‘’Ere he is!’ and the masses cheered and swelled forwards like a wave to catch a glimpse, only to ebb back with a sigh when they realised it was not him at all.
A few feet along the street there was a gap between the buildings. It was a place of assignation after dark, and normally to be avoided by the more decent working ladies, but there was a chance it would be empty. I pushed hard against the tide, head down and pie in hand, until finally I popped up like a cork. I was right: there was no one there. No wonder; it stank of the grime and waste of the previous occupants. There was a discarded box further into the cleft. It would be useful to stand on to see the procession. I held my breath and pulled in my skirts, still clutching the pie, and inched towards it. With my toe, I flipped it over. A rat bowled thorough my feet towards the crowd, twitched its tail and scurried off. The box was strong enough to hold my weight and, several inches taller, I leaned my back against the alley wall, watching the crowd, and eating the pie. It was no longer warm, and it had never been beef, but it wasn’t bad, and it was good enough for breakfast. Where had these people come from? From across London and beyond, by the look of it. All bewitched by the myth of John Swann the highwayman.
The talk of the taverns was that he had been working the roads north of London with a small band of men, attacking carriages and robbing houses – taking money from terrified property-owners at pistol point. His weakness, of course, had been women, whom he had loved a little too widely. One disgruntled doxy, no doubt unhappy at sharing him, had decided to reveal his whereabouts to the law men. The means of his capture – naked, save for a bed sheet and his hat – had only added to his charm and notoriety.
There was a shout from somewhere west and then the noise began to build, steadily this time, a low hum becoming a full-throated cheer. Faces suddenly appeared in the windows of the houses opposite. Those who dwelt in this part of town knew the right moment to gaze upon criminals who journeyed up the road to face their trial or back down it to their doom. No disappointment this time: here came John Swann. Indeed, he was handsome; dark curls hanging about his shoulders, waving his hat to the people, behaving more like their newly-crowned monarch than a violent thief. No wonder the ladies had swooned. The constables in the cart remained seated, allowing him this moment in the sun, confident that he would be riding back down the road towards Tyburn before the summer.
The masses pushed forward, clamouring for his attention, his benediction. The cart struggled to move down the street, so the constables stood up and shooed away the people as if they were excitable dogs.
Behind the onlookers, one young girl threaded swiftly in and out of the crowd. She navigated her way easily in her rags, where I had been encumbered by my full skirts. I watched her, fascinated. She was tiny; limp-haired and thin from lack of food. As men and women swayed and stood on their toes to see the criminal, she moved with them, deftly sneaking her hands into bags and pockets. They were oblivious of her; their attention was fixed on their charismatic king riding off to court. The scrawny girl could not see, as I could from my vantage point, that the cart had nearly passed. In a moment, the company would disperse, and she would be caught loosening the strings of someone’s purse.
We all play with fire in this city, but, on an impulse, I decided that this little one would not be burned today. I sprang from the crack in the wall and grabbed her wrist just as she was about to make another dive. Her head jolted up, eyes wide with panic.
‘I wasn’t doing nothin’, miss, really.’
We needed to get away as quickly as possible. I held her wrist tighter and pulled her behind me.
‘Don’t struggle,’ I turned and hissed in her face as she began to whine. ‘And don’t cry at me. I’ve probably just saved your life, stupid child. Come on.’
We marched firmly along until the crowd were far behind us. Some were only now beginning to feel for their purses and realising that, even as they cheered the great thief, a lesser one had relieved them of their goods.
I kept hold of her wrist but slowed the walk.
‘How much have you lifted today?’
‘I’m not a thief, miss. Honest.’
‘Of course not. You accidentally fall into people’s pockets.’ I glared at her. ‘That’s what you’d tell the magistrate, obviously.’
Large globes of tears began to drop from her eyes. She would get no sympathy from me until I had heard the truth – although I could probably guess it.
‘I mean, I’m not normally a thief. I don’t take from people’s pockets. It’s just that…’
She sniffed back some of the snot that was now running along with the tears and wiped a grubby sleeve across her face.
‘Well?’
‘I’ve not had much luck with the gentlemen recently. I haven’t eaten for days.’
One of us – except without the decent clothes, the good food and the bed. If she didn’t have the pox she was certainly riddled with lice. I could see them in the lank strands of brown hair. She stank of stale drink. No wonder she wasn’t making any money.
‘Where have you been working?’
‘I was on the Strand for a while, but some new girls moved in and took my regulars, so I moved out west. Covent Garden was too busy.’
You can hardly move for the whores around there, it’s true.
‘I just got hungry. And I saw the crowd and they were all watching the cart and I just, well I just had a go at it.’
‘You’ve lifted purses before, though, surely? If a gentleman has had too much ale?’
She looked at her feet and then peeped up at me from under her lashes. The street girls all do it. Gives the rest of us a bad name.
I frowned, and then tucked her arm firmly under mine, releasing my hold on her wrist.
‘I’ll take you to a decent tavern and fill you up with food. Then you can use your stolen money for some new clothes and a pretty ribbon. Perhaps you’ll have more luck with a better gown… and a wash. What’s your name?’
‘Sallie, miss.’
‘How do you do, Sallie.’ I turned, made a deep curtsey and winked at her. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance. I’m Lizzie Hard
wicke, of Mrs Farley’s establishment on Berwick Street.’
She tugged her arm from mine and looked me up and down, recognising me for what I was.
‘Miss Lizzie Hardwicke, I am forever in your debt.’
‘You are. You’d better learn to keep your hands out of other people’s pockets, or you’ll be following John Swann to Tyburn.’
Her face darkened with fear again.
‘Cheer up, Sallie, there are taverns and bawdy houses opening further west every day. There’s more than enough work to go around.’ All the smart bawds, like Mrs Farley, were moving out of Covent Garden.
She had fallen too far for me to find her a respectable trade – any more than I could find one for myself – but I could help her out as best I could. There, but for the grace of God, walked I, after all.
We turned off Wardour Street into Compton Street, stepped around the young lad grinding knives in his usual spot, and into the White Horse tavern, where there was always a warm welcome for Ma’s girls – even in the early afternoon. Anne Bardwell, mistress of the tavern, was standing, hands on wide hips, watching over her domain with flinty eyes. Harry Bardwell, round-faced and equally portly, but jollier than his wife, was carrying a tray of beer to a group of customers. He saw us and hurried to set down the tray before bustling over to greet us.
‘Lizzie! My favourite lady in the whole of London!’
Every woman was his favourite, especially if she was sitting in his tavern and attracting men through the doors. But he was decent and fair, and had not once, in the time I had known him, tried to shove his hand up my skirts. He wouldn’t dare with a wife like his. I laughed back at him.
‘Mr Harry Bardwell, allow me to present to you my newest friend, Miss Sallie… Sallie, do you have a name?’
‘If I do, then I’ve forgotten it. I’m always just Sallie.’
He lifted her hand to his lips as if it belonged to the queen herself. As he did, I saw him take in her sparrow-thin arms and hollow cheeks.
‘Well then, Just Sallie, as a friend of Miss Hardwicke you are most welcome here. I assume you would like a bite to eat?’