The Second Mrs Thistlewood

  About the Author

  Dionne Haynes spent most of her childhood in Plymouth, England. She graduated from medical school in London and enjoyed a career as a doctor for over twenty years. After returning to Plymouth, she traded medicine for a career writing historical fiction. The Second Mrs Thistlewood is her second novel.

  For more books and updates:

  www.dionnehaynes.com

  ALSO BY DIONNE HAYNES

  Running With The Wind

  The Second Mrs Thistlewood

  Dionne Haynes

  Published by Allium Books 2020

  PO Box 208, Plymouth, PL2 9DB

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  Copyright © Dionne Haynes 2020

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  Dionne Haynes asserts her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

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  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

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  First published by Allium Books in 2020

  www.alliumbooks.com

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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  ISBN: 978-1-9162109-4-3

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  Cover design by Robin Vuchnich, Mycustombookcover.com

  For my mum

  Contents

  1814

  1815

  1816

  1817

  1818

  1819

  1820

  Afterword

  Select Bibliography

  Acknowledgments

  1814

  Chapter 1

  Sugar plums. Bittersweet almonds surrounded by a smooth sugar coating. My favourite confections. I select a pale pink pebble from the top of the mound, then replace the lid on an elegant decorative bowl given to me by my mother. Arthur has never liked this bowl. He says the blue forget-me-nots are crudely painted and the very idea of a sugar bowl is extravagant and inappropriate while the poor starve in hovels they call home. I dread to think how he’d react if he knew I was hiding these little treasures within it.

  I pop the comfit into my mouth and run my tongue over the smooth coating. The quality of the coloured shells varies between confectioners. This batch is perfect. The impulsive purchase forced me to settle for a cheap cut of meat for dinner, but with a decent gravy, I doubt Arthur will notice.

  Arthur’s right, of course. It’s wrong to enjoy expensive treats while children run around in ragged clothes, their bellies hurting with hunger. Factory owners grow wealthy from the efficiency of machines, but the unfortunate souls who operate them live in squalor, barely able to put food on the table.

  The sugar melts away and now it’s a bitter almond’s turn to assault my senses. I cannot help but crunch it before swallowing, savouring a flavour reminiscent of earthy wood. The truth of the matter is that if I stopped eating sugar plums, those men, women and children would continue to starve. They’d still lack warm clothing and suitable shoes, and their homes would remain unheated. And so, with a clear conscious, I swallow and digest the tasty morsel, reassuring myself that Arthur is doing everything he can to ease the plight of those who are suffering. His vigour and devotion to the cause is admirable, and he has my full support.

  Arthur is reading the latest edition of the London Gazette. The lines in his furrowed brow appear deep because of shadows cast by the candles on a small table next to him. I’m mesmerised by orange flames flickering in the hearth and enjoying the soft ticking of burning coals. Now and then a downdraught strikes the coal basket and puffs pungent clouds of smoke into the room, causing us both to cough.

  I draw my gaze away from the fire and drink in the vision that is my husband. Arthur is of slender build with eyes the colour of hazelnut shells and neatly cropped dark brown hair swept forward to frame his handsome face. His long sideburns are precisely trimmed, and he cuts a striking figure in a white shirt, blue pantaloons and a long blue coat. His image is still smart and his bearing commanding despite his military career ending several years ago. Arthur’s only blemish is a slight scar beneath his chin. And don’t let his Lincolnshire accent fool you. This gentleman is well educated. Although he appears sombre and brooding, he’s simply preoccupied, processing information, thinking, seeking a way to overthrow the constitution and improve the lives of the many who are far less fortunate than ourselves.

  Things haven’t been easy for us. When Arthur sold his inheritance for an annual income bond, our new-found financial comfort evaporated eighteen months later when the purchaser of the estate went bankrupt. Reliant upon Arthur’s savings and investments, I run the household on a tight budget and without the help of a maid. But I am one of the lucky ones.

  It’s a wonder Arthur was ever attracted to me. I’m plain and unremarkable with mousy brown hair, grey eyes, and lacking the elegant curves that most men desire. But I’m smart of mind and share Arthur’s political views, and I do my best to encourage him in the fight against tyranny.

  ‘I’ll be out until late tomorrow evening.’ Arthur folds his newspaper in half, then in half again. ‘I’m meeting with Watson, Ings and Davidson, and expect a few others to join us. We’re setting up a group called the Society of Spencean Philanthropists. Thomas Spence may have gone to the grave, but we will keep his ideas alive.’

  I dip my head in acknowledgement. Mr Spence had been a revolutionary thinker, demanding annual parliaments, elected representatives and universal suffrage. He proposed the fair distribution of land between every man, woman and child.

  Arthur slaps the newspaper against the arm of his chair. ‘What gives the lords and their followers the right to partition common land and claim it as their own? It belongs to us all. They should tear down the walls and fences and give everyone their rightful share.’

  The latter ideal is one I’ve always had trouble accepting. ‘A noble principle, Arthur, but is it practical? What happens when more children are born? How will the land be redistributed? And what about when someone dies? It would become a legal nightmare and could lead to disputes and division within communities.’

  Arthur clenches his fingers and I recognise the warning to press no more on this matter. Instead, I try to win back his favour. ‘Complex it may be, but I have faith in you. You’ll resolve this and other troublesome issues during your meetings. If only I could attend them too.’

  ‘Perhaps one day, Susan. But for now, we plan to meet in public houses and I’d prefer you to stay out of those. They’re not suitable for a respectable woman.’

  I bristle at Arthur’s condescending tone even though I realise he’s protecting my reputation. I have no issue with the clientele of public houses, but meetings can become rowdy with the occasional outbreak of fist fights.

  Arthur is quiet again. His chin tilts down, but his eyes are b
oring into me. When I meet his gaze, he smiles. I know what’s on his mind. I’m not in the mood, but ever the dutiful wife, I throw him a coquettish smile.

  ‘Come, Susan. It’s getting late. Let us retire to bed.’

  My stomach twists. Maybe I’ll conceive a child. Julian’s a delightful boy, a fine stepson, but not of my flesh. Arthur reaches for my hand. I yield to his warm grasp and he leads me along the corridor. I’ve not angered him this evening, so I’m hopeful he’ll be gentle with me.

  Chapter 2

  Spices tickle my lips while liquid chocolate coats my tongue in a veil of velvety luxury. Christmas is fast approaching, and Mother has arrived in London for a brief visit.

  ‘Are you happy, Susan?’

  A mouthful of chocolate sticks in my throat. ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  Mother reaches out to stroke my cheek. ‘You’re pale, your eyes are dull, and your smile no longer sparkles.’

  My attention drifts to the windows coated with condensation. ‘I’m very well,’ I say, redirecting my eyes to meet my mother’s penetrating gaze. ‘In fact, I couldn’t be better.’

  Her eyebrows lift. ‘Susan? Are you expecting?’

  I grin, feeling a glow bloom in my cheeks.

  ‘Why did you hold back such wonderful news? We must celebrate! Does Arthur know?’

  ‘Not yet.’ A shadow falls across the windows of the chocolate-house. The temperature drops and I stifle a shiver. ‘It’s too soon.’

  ‘When did you last bleed?’ She envelops my icy fingers with her warm hands. The gesture is loving, reassuring, protective.

  ‘Six or seven weeks.’

  ‘Then say nothing until after Christmas. I’ll tell your father and you tell Arthur. We’ll write to each other and describe their reactions. What fine news to start the new year!’

  The affection in her eyes causes tears to well up in mine. How I miss her! The snatched moments during brief visits to London are little compensation for the long months spent apart. She’s more than a mother to me. She’s my dearest friend.

  ‘Look at you.’ Mother laughs, then adds, ‘Stone Cold Susan starting to melt and all because of a baby.’

  Her comment surprises me. ‘What do you mean, “Stone Cold Susan”? You make me sound uncaring.’

  Mother draws her hands away from mine and lowers her voice. ‘You’ve altered since marrying Arthur, and I worry for you. His passion for changing the state of the country is tipping towards something dangerous.’

  ‘You think Arthur will turn violent?’ I’m horrified by the thought. ‘Mother, he only wants to encourage the common man to stand up for his rights. He’ll campaign with rhetoric to urge the repressed members of society to take a stance against tyranny. He’ll not promote bloodshed!’

  Mother dabs her lips with a lace-edged square of linen. ‘I fear his words will incite a mob and have them baying for the heads of political leaders.’

  ‘Mother, you worry too much and overestimate Arthur’s influence. The Spencean group meets only to share common ideals and a dream of equality across the nation. How could such a meeting ever tip the balance towards the massacre you speak of? Arthur’s a gentleman. He’ll find a peaceful way forward.’

  ‘Arthur has a violent streak, Susan.’

  I fidget on the padded chair, shifting my weight to relieve the pressure on my bruised flesh. ‘He’s a retired soldier. Violence is an inevitable part of his character. The important thing is that he keeps it for the battlefield.’

  She fixes me with piercing eyes. ‘And does he?’

  I force myself to meet her gaze but say nothing. Mother shakes her head and drains the chocolate from her cup.

  It saddened me to watch Mother board the stagecoach, but I put on a brave smile and waved goodbye. I can still smell her lily-of-the-valley fragrance while pretending she’s beside me as I walk home.

  Frigid air lingers indoors, the fires long since extinguished. There’s an emptiness now Mother has gone. Arthur’s at a meeting and I’m glad to have time alone. A mild cramp niggles at the bottom of my belly. I imagine a baby growing inside, pushing my innards aside to make way for lengthening limbs. I rest my hand above the ache and press with my palm to ease the pain a little, taking comfort from the knowledge that I’m to become a mother.

  I set the fire and watch a flame reach towards the chimney flue. I hold out my hands to warm them, then struggle to my feet. The fire will take at least an hour to heat the parlour, so I need to fetch a pelisse.

  Our bedroom is bitterly cold. Arthur will not allow a fire to burn in this room, insisting we have enough blankets to warm us while we sleep. I open the clothes press and remove my newest pelisse from the top shelf. As I close the door, something catches my eye. Nestled on a pile of shifts is a small parcel wrapped in coloured floral paper and tied with green ribbon. A gift from my mother. I unwrap the bottle of perfume and admire the pale amber liquid. A thin wax seal holds a smooth stopper in place, and after I’ve removed the seal and inhaled the scent of white rose, I notice the gift is from Floris. Arthur would never allow such an indulgence at an expensive parfumier. I dab a few drops on my neck and wrists, then stow the bottle in the press to save the precious liquid for special occasions.

  I have an urge to empty my bladder. Squatting over a chamber pot, the pleasure of the unexpected gift recedes to nothing and I’m left with a void in my soul. I pull the chamber pot from beneath me and gaze at the contents. A pool of blood confirms my fears. God does not want me to bear a child.

  Arthur returns home reeking of ale and sweat. He kisses me on the cheek and says he loves me. Tears trickle, and within moments I’m blubbing like an infant. His expression softens, and he hugs me to his chest.

  ‘Susan, whatever has happened?’

  I wipe my nose and work hard to calm myself. ‘I was with child, Arthur. But it was not to be.’

  Arthur holds me at arm’s length, his face contorting as he processes the disappointing news. Then he turns his back towards me and storms out of the room.

  1815

  Chapter 3

  The aroma of warm gingerbread draws a gurgle from my stomach. I inhale deeply and admire the little cakes fresh from the oven. I’m always a competent baker, but this is my finest batch to date.

  A commotion at the front door announces Arthur’s arrival. My limbs tense. He was not due home until later this afternoon.

  ‘Susan?’ His loud voice is laced with agitation.

  ‘Here, Arthur.’ I rush into the hallway to help him remove his overcoat. I shake out the wrinkles and hang the coat on the battered stand by the door.

  His face is taut with concern, his eyes muddied by angst. He sniffs the air and his grimace slackens into a boyish smile. ‘Gingerbread?’

  Arthur always chides me for having cakes or pastries in the house, for it’s insulting to indulge in such niceties while others dare not dream of them. But today is a special occasion. It’s the start of a new year.

  Arthur holds my hand and raises my fingers to his lips. ‘This will be the year we overthrow the tyrants in government and give the common man the fair treatment he deserves.’

  He smiles and pulls me closer.

  ‘Do you have a plan?’

  ‘A few ideas.’ He grins and bends forward as if to kiss me when the front door flies open. He pulls away and stands erect as Julian, my stepson, stumbles into the house.

  Arthur’s smile fades. ‘You’re unsteady on your feet, Julian.’

  The twelve-year-old grins. ‘Tripped on the top step.’

  Arthur grabs a fistful of Julian’s wool coat and pushes him against the wall. ‘Have you been drinking?’

  I dislike the ominous tone.

  ‘No, sir.’ Julian pales. ‘Just running about with my friends, that’s all.’

  Arthur clenches Julian’s jaw and forces his mouth open, sniffing his breath. I avert my eyes and stare at the stained tiles on the floor. I know what’s coming.

  ‘What have you had?’

&n
bsp; Arthur is too strong for the boy and Julian’s feet hover an inch or two above the floor. No matter how often this happens, I cannot get used to it.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Truly. It won’t happen again.’ The tremor in his voice tells me he’s crying, but I dare not intervene.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Gin, sir.’ A sob. ‘I had to. Everyone else was. John Martin found a bottle and shared it. I tried refusing, but they started on me and I had to take a few swigs to shut them up.’

  ‘So you were weak-willed. You’ll not grow into a fine gentleman if you’re easily swayed by friends. I’m disappointed, Julian.’

  I suppress a comment about Arthur’s own gullibility. His migration towards radical politics coincided with the discovery of new friends at card tables. No doubt his poor investment choices were similarly misguided.

  Arthur releases his grip and takes a step back. I clench my fingers and close my eyes, tight. A loud whack echoes around the hallway after Arthur’s palm connects with Julian’s face, then a dull thud as Julian’s head strikes the wall. I look up. Julian’s cheeks are shiny with tears and a livid red handprint lingers on his cheek. Blood seeps from his left nostril.