The Second Mrs Thistlewood Read online

  A scuffle outside in the corridor. I tense, and Julian stiffens beside me. There’s a mumble of words, a slight rattle of the door handle, then the patter of several pairs of footsteps moving away. A simple case of mistaken cabin. I let out a slow breath.

  ‘Ma?’

  My skin tingles at Julian’s decision to address me thus.

  ‘Should we go up on deck? Father won’t know which cabin to come to.’

  I chew my top lip. ‘The instruction was to wait inside so as not to draw attention.’

  ‘Other passengers are on deck, waving to family and friends. What we’re doing is unusual.’

  Julian has a point, and it throws me into turmoil. I mustn’t annoy Arthur and jeopardise our fragile relationship by going against his word, but our absence on deck is unlikely to cause a stir because no one else here knows us. We can’t hide in a cabin for the duration of the six-week voyage.

  ‘Give it a few more minutes,’ I say.

  Julian shrugs, then asks, ‘Will he be glad to see me?’

  I put my arm across his shoulders. ‘Your father has mellowed, Julian, and realises his behaviour was intimidating. He doesn’t want us to fear him any more.’

  Julian lowers his head. ‘It won’t be easy.’

  Twenty minutes pass with no sign of Arthur. My mouth is dry, my palms clammy. What if Arthur arrives too late? I can’t go to America without him.

  ‘Come, Julian. Let us wait on deck, after all.’

  Julian’s face is pale, jaw muscles taut. He forces a smile, then opens the door.

  The fresh air is a welcome respite from the stale air of the cabin. A sizeable crowd has gathered on Gravesend dockside to wave off the ship and the hubbub of noise is reassuring. A glance at other passengers reveals travellers with varied emotions, some eager to be under way, others mourning the severing of family ties.

  ‘There! Look, Ma! There’s Pa.’

  Julian waves to attract Arthur’s attention, but Arthur ignores him. I frown. Something’s wrong. Arthur is with three other men. One resembles Mr Moggridge – he didn’t mention accompanying us when I paid for the tickets. I clutch my reticule with Father’s beneficence inside. Most of the money remains intact because Mr Moggridge charged only twenty guineas for the cabin and ten guineas for his trouble.

  ‘Ma?’ Julian’s voice trembles. ‘What’s happening?’

  Two official-looking gentlemen approach Arthur. A debate takes place, and I pray that Arthur remains calm.

  ‘Come. We should go to your father.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  It’s a struggle to hide my concern from Julian. I lack the confidence to sail without Arthur and so I push Julian ahead of me towards the gangplank.

  ‘We cast off in two hours, missus.’

  I nod at the deckhand, afraid to use my voice in case it betrays our subterfuge.

  ‘Wife,’ says Arthur, reaching for my hand. He squeezes my fingers then releases his grip. ‘We need permission from the Alien Office inspector to sail on the Perseus.’

  ‘Why? We’re leaving the country, not arriving from somewhere else.’

  ‘Mrs Wilkinson, I presume?’ says a portly gentleman with an authoritative air.

  I nod, relieved to have remembered my assumed name.

  ‘There’s no cause for alarm.’ His voice is soothing. ‘We carry out routine checks on passengers leaving and arriving, particularly when there are persons of interest who want to leave England.’

  ‘Persons of interest?’ asks Arthur, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes, sir. You know, criminals, spies and the like.’

  Arthur chuckles. ‘I guarantee you, sir, we’re not spies. We’re embarking on a family adventure to seek opportunities England cannot provide. I’ve accepted an offer of work from a family friend in America.’

  ‘Very good, sir. That simplifies things. After the inspector has seen your papers, he will record your details in a ledger and you will be free to go. This way, if you please.’ The inspector leads us to a small boat.

  I hesitate at the quayside. ‘A wherry? Where are we going?’

  He points to a moderate-sized craft anchored nearby. ‘Just there, Mrs Wilkinson. No further, I assure you.’

  A few strokes of the oars and we reach our destination. My legs shake as I’m helped aboard the Alien Office inspector’s ship.

  ‘Right then. This way to the office. Follow me.’

  We traipse along behind him, passing a row of doors. He opens one at the very end and instructs us to enter. Inside is a single table and two chairs. Arthur flicks his hand towards a chair, and I sit.

  ‘The inspector will be here soon.’

  The official closes the door and I hear the creak of metal as a key turns in the lock. I catch Arthur’s eye and can tell he heard it too. He gives a tiny nod and I know to hold my tongue in case someone is listening on the other side.

  Minutes tick by and I worry the Perseus will leave without us. The sound of heavy footsteps announces the inspector’s arrival. At last.

  The cabin door flies open and my heart skips several beats. Casting his shadow into the cabin is a Bow Street principal officer. His cheeks are red, his eyes hawkish.

  ‘Arthur Thistlewood, it’s my duty to arrest you—’

  ‘On what charge?’ blusters Arthur.

  ‘High treason.’

  ‘No!’ I jump from the chair and rush to Arthur’s side. ‘You’re mistaken.’

  A second officer enters the cabin. ‘Alas, we are not, Mrs Thistlewood.’

  ‘You?’ My cheeks flame.

  A ripple of thunder passes across Arthur’s face. ‘You know this man?’

  ‘Not well. We were patrons at the same bookshop in Paternoster Row.’ Thank goodness Arthur has never asked about the little blue package that now almost fills my reticule.

  The scowl on Arthur’s face says he thinks I betrayed him.

  ‘Arthur, it wasn’t me. Beckey, Samuel and my parents knew our plans, and Mr Moggridge whom you trusted to pay for our cabin. But I swear, I told no other person.’

  Mr Moggridge wears a hint of smugness. Did he betray us?

  ‘Please come this way.’ Mr Westcott makes eye contact with me and I try to read his thoughts. What low opinion must he have of me now? I lower my gaze to the well-worn deck boards. Arthur is handcuffed and bundled out of the cabin. Julian shuffles out after him.

  ‘What about our travelling trunks on the Perseus?’ I ask Mr Westcott.

  ‘They must stay where they are. Our instructions are simple – none of you may leave the country.’

  ‘But it won’t take long to retrieve them. Our clothes are there. And jewellery. How will we get it all back?’ I have only a few of my own possessions, but their sentimental value is huge.

  Mr Westcott shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  I follow Arthur and watch in horror as he falls into the wherry, unable to steady himself with restrained hands. He sits on the furthest bench seat, blood trickling from the corner of his left eye. I try to move forward to join him but Mr Westcott grasps my arm to stop me. I sit and stare at my lap, picking at a loose thread, wondering what will become of us.

  Arthur is bundled onto a cart and driven away at speed. Julian and I climb into a small carriage, followed by Mr Westcott. Once again, he sits beside me.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ I ask.

  ‘Bow Street. You’ll both have to answer a few questions and after that, I expect they’ll let you go.’

  I nod. The three of us fall silent as the coach rumbles over cobbles. The uncomfortable rattling and shaking are the least of our troubles now.

  ‘You should have come to me,’ whispers my temporary gaoler.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Why didn’t you seek my advice? I could have stopped you getting mixed up with this.’

  ‘Why would I visit you to discuss our troubles?’

  ‘The note.’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘I wrote a brief no
te and asked Mr Brown to place it inside the cover of Emma, so you’d find it.’

  I hug my reticule. It’s straining at the clasp because the book only just fits inside with the bundle of cash nestled beneath the lining. ‘I didn’t unwrap it. It was inappropriate to accept a gift from an unfamiliar gentleman.’

  He nods as if he understands. I wonder what he wrote.

  We arrive at Bow Street faster than I would have liked. A constable takes Julian and me to a plush room where a magistrate bombards us with questions. I’m reprimanded for supporting Arthur’s subversive behaviour and travelling under a false name, then dismissed with an informal warning.

  Mr Westcott escorts us to the exit, where a hackney carriage awaits. I have given Beckey’s address to the coachman, for she and Samuel are sure to take us in until we find new lodgings of our own.

  I’m about to step inside when Arthur comes to mind. ‘Where’s Mr Thistlewood?’

  Mr Westcott puffs out his cheeks before answering. ‘They’ve taken him away.’

  ‘To where?’

  He gives me a pitying look. ‘The Tower of London.’

  Chapter 22

  Settled at the back of the courtroom, I chew a dried apricot.

  ‘How can you eat at a time like this?’ says Beckey, her eyes glistening with sympathy.

  I shrug. ‘Food’s comforting. Concentrating on the flavour helps take my mind off Arthur.’ The memory of his prison cell slides into my consciousness. It was horrific. Dark. Damp. Cramped, with insufficient headroom to stand. I’m surprised Arthur held on to his sanity, bent double from morning until night and guarded as if he were one of the Crown Jewels. I take time to select my next apricot. As I bite into it, someone gives the order to rise and everyone stands while Mr Justice Bayley glides behind his bench. An officer of the court gives a signal for us to sit and then the jurors are sworn in.

  Mr Justice Bayley clears his throat before his voice booms across the courtroom. ‘Gentlemen of the grand jury. You are assembled as grand jurors for this county, to discharge the duty of that service.’ His voice is deep and captivating. I’m mesmerised by the tone until he utters words that capture my full attention. ‘There is likely to be brought under your consideration a charge different from those which ordinarily occupy the attention of the grand jurors in this place – a charge of the highest crime that can be committed – the crime of high treason.’

  A murmur ripples through the public gallery. Observers exchange whispers. Even I want to comment to Beckey but stop myself. It is Arthur who stands accused. Only the jury’s opinion stands between Arthur’s life and execution. Sobs catch in my throat and heads turn to look at me. Beckey hugs me until I calm myself.

  Mr Justice Bayley is still speaking. His voice is irritating, monotonous and threatening.

  ‘The charge of which I have spoken as likely to be brought before you will consist, I believe, of four different descriptions of treason. There will be – the first, compassing and imagining the king’s death; second, compassing and imagining to depose the king; the third, levying war against the king; and the fourth, not actually levying war against the king, but conspiring to levy war, to force the Crown to change its measures and counsels.’

  I have endured Arthur’s tirades against the Establishment and his proclamations of fighting the government. I encouraged talk of violence, endured beatings, and dreamed of his arrest. But Arthur promised to change. This trial is happening before we had the chance to start again. I fix my gaze on Arthur, willing him to look in my direction. But Arthur does not turn his eyes towards me. His haggard face glares at the judge, hating every miserable word.

  The directive rumbles on until, at last, the judge’s tone changes. ‘I am sure you will give this high and heavy charge the fullest and fairest investigation; and you will not return a bill against all or any of these persons unless it is proved, to the satisfaction of your minds, that they are guilty of all or some of the charges.’ He gives one more instruction before the jurors rise from their wooden bench seats and file out of the courtroom.

  ‘Where are they going?’ I ask Beckey.

  ‘To another room. They’ll read the bill of indictment, then come back for the witness statements and decide whether there’s a case for Arthur and the others to answer.’

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach makes a loud grumbling noise and I try to silence it with another apricot. I will have to sit on this uncomfortable wooden bench for many hours yet.

  The jurors return and Arthur sits up straight, chin jutting forward, face rigid with concentration. I wonder what thoughts pass through his mind and worry for him. His face shows no fear and I take reassurance from that.

  The day drags on, one witness after another, until half-past five when we are told the case will continue tomorrow.

  The foreman of the jury stands. ‘We find true bills against Arthur Thistlewood, James Watson the elder, Thomas Preston and John Hooper, for high treason.’

  The Attorney General addresses the court, but I’m deaf to his words. Arthur is one step closer to the scaffold. I sit there, numb, unable to make sense of what’s happening around me. It’s like trying to hear the softest whisper against the incessant banging of a loud drum. My head hurts. My chest aches. How am I to endure this?

  Arthur enters the court escorted by two yeomen and my heart lurches. How he has wasted away in the past two weeks. He’s wearing a sailor’s jacket and trousers that sag from his skinny frame. I wonder who loaned him the clothes for they are not his own. A light-coloured waistcoat makes a feeble attempt to present him as the gentleman he is, and a red neckerchief stands out as a token of rebellion against his current predicament. His eyes appear sunken, his face grey, but his resilient spirit fights on. He perks up when he sees his friends. They bow and greet each other and the solicitor for whose services Samuel contributed generously.

  The court is quieter than usual because the arraignment date was not made public. For this, I give thanks. Formalities begin, and the accused men line up before the bench.

  Lord Ellenborough, Lord Chief Justice of the King’s Bench, addresses them. ‘Would all, or any of you, wish to have counsel assigned? Thistlewood, would you?’

  Arthur’s back is towards me, but his words are loud and distinct. ‘Certainly, my lord.’

  ‘Would you name him now, or would you wish to have until Monday or Tuesday to name him?’

  ‘My lord, I will wait, for I have not decided yet.’

  I wonder how we will pay for Arthur’s counsel. I cannot concentrate on what follows thereafter for worrying about securing funds for Arthur’s legal fees. What if I can’t? Will they execute Arthur without a trial? I shuffle and fidget in my seat. Beckey strokes my arm, but the gesture does little to calm me.

  Words float across the room, partial sentences referring to destruction of the government, assembling weapons and making war. Even the accused cannot focus and talk among themselves while passing notes back and forth.

  My ears prick up when someone calls Arthur’s name.

  ‘Arthur Thistlewood, are you guilty of the premises charged in the indictment, or not guilty?’

  Arthur’s voice rings out across the court. ‘Not guilty.’

  The Lord Chief Justice asks each accused man the same question. Each man gives the same answer.

  ‘How will you be tried?’

  ‘By God and our country,’ they reply in unison.

  The accused men confirm they have received copies of the bill of indictment and lists of the jury and witnesses. A trial date is set for three weeks hence. Arthur makes a point of looking for me this time. He smiles and my heart lifts.

  But then the Attorney General kills the moment with his proclamation. ‘My Lord, I have now to move that the prisoners be remanded to the Tower.’

  Chapter 23

  A small mouthful of jellied eel hits the back of my throat and it’s a struggle not to gag. I have never understood the fascination for this East End dish, nor Beckey’s desire for her c
ook to recreate it in her kitchen, but I don’t wish to offend her by declaring my distaste for it.

  Arthur devours his as if he hasn’t eaten for weeks. Beckey closes her eyes and savours every mouthful. Samuel, however, pushes his food around with a spoon, lost in contemplation. I think of a sugar plum, imagining the taste of the sweet, hard shell while wet vinegary jelly slithers towards my stomach.

  My spoon taunts me with an enormous piece of chopped eel and I shudder. It’s too big to swallow whole, so I hold my breath, force the mouthful of punishment between my lips, and chew.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s something I need to say.’ Samuel’s spoon clatters against the delicate rim of his china bowl. ‘Arthur, it’s time you moved out.’

  ‘Samuel?’ Beckey looks as shocked as I feel.

  Samuel raises his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘I didn’t want it to come to this, but I can’t tolerate it any longer.’

  ‘Samuel, I’m sorry. I’m trying to…’ My voice trembles and my fingernails dig into my palms.

  ‘It’s not you, Susan.’

  We all look towards Arthur.

  He draws himself to full height and glares at Samuel. ‘And what have I done to offend your delicate sensibilities?’

  Samuel remains calm. ‘That’s it there, Arthur. Your tone, your manner, your complete disrespect for anyone other than yourself. After the judge directed a ‘not guilty’ verdict, we welcomed you here. But as each day passes, your mood blackens and your language becomes more aggressive. No doubt it’s only a matter of time before you engage in violence, and I’ve no wish to associate with such a man. I’m disappointed because I hoped we would become the closest of friends.’