The Second Mrs Thistlewood Read online

  Samuel’s right. Arthur has slipped back into his old ways. For two days, he was a kind, attentive husband, complimenting me on my appearance and making promises about a contented life. On the third day, he dropped the pretence. He pummelled me for knocking his snuff tin off the nightstand and spilling the contents across Beckey’s thick pile carpet. He has resumed weekly sessions at the Spenceans and, judging by his frequent absences during the evenings, several clandestine meetings elsewhere. The jingle in his pocket speaks of gaming tables and there’s an odour of debauchery clinging to his skin.

  Eel sticks in my throat. What a fool I’ve been! Tiny cracks form in my heart. I can’t imagine resuming a life with only Arthur for company. I’m safer here.

  ‘We’ll move out tomorrow,’ declares Arthur.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ My heart skips a beat and my vision blurs. ‘So soon?’

  ‘We mustn’t inconvenience the wonderful doctor and his wife. You still have most of your father’s money, which will pay for modest lodgings.’

  Beckey’s pity envelops me like a shroud. Our eyes meet. There’s no need for words.

  Fetid city air seeps through gaps in the window frames. I consider blocking them with strips of old linen and paper, but any draught is welcome in the stifling heat of our living room. I try to convince myself that our home is not so awful. The aged building is shabby from the outside but the neighbours are quiet and clean. We have only basic furniture – two armchairs by the fire; a battered old table with two rickety chairs; a bed; and a cupboard for clothes. Beckey donated a few pots and pans for the narrow kitchen, and several plates and cups.

  I’m struggling to accept such reduced circumstances. Mother wrote with news that Father has paralysis on his right side and cannot speak after an attack of apoplexy, so I cannot seek their help. I must take responsibility for myself and the choices I have made.

  Arthur has written to the Home Secretary, demanding compensation for the items we abandoned aboard the Perseus at the time of his arrest. Aside from the sugar bowl given to me by my mother, I no longer miss any of them. My only remaining treasured possession remains wrapped in blue paper and stowed in my reticule. I’m never without it because I cling to the hope of a story with a happy ending. I wonder about the note tucked inside the book but resist the urge to tear at the blue paper to retrieve it. While the note remains unread, it offers a spark of hope to guide me through the dark gloom of my future.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘Ready?’ Anna beams at me from the dirt-strewn pavement.

  ‘I am.’

  I close the door and smile as Anna links her arm through mine. We are as good as neighbours now.

  ‘How is Mrs King faring?’ I ask.

  Because of a frailty of her lungs since her last illness, Anna can no longer cope with caring for her neighbours’ children. Mrs King surprised us by volunteering to take over the task.

  ‘She’s doing well. Her nature has softened, and she’s become a friend.’

  Anna has lost most of her French accent by modelling her speech on the well-to-do ladies who frequent the shop where she now works as a dressmaker. I doubt anyone could guess at her heritage.

  She squeezes my arm. ‘You’ll enjoy it, Susan. Just you wait and see.’

  Butterflies tickle my insides as a small brass bell announces our arrival. An immaculately dressed woman rushes forward. She looks to be in her mid-forties with grey hair bundled at the nape rather than sculpted on top of her head as is the trend. This simple act of fashion rebellion radiates confidence and charm.

  ‘You must be Mrs Thistlewood,’ she says taking my hands in hers and smiling. ‘Anna has told me all about you. I’m Nelly Hooper.’ She gestures towards a door at the rear of the shop. ‘Ellen and Martha are in the workroom. Anna will introduce you later.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Hooper.’

  She looks me up and down, causing my cheeks to burn, for I know my clothes appear tired.

  ‘You have an eye for fabrics that complement your complexion,’ she says. ‘A sign you’re suited to this trade, my dear.’

  My days of helping the sick and the poor with Beckey have ended. With Father’s gift dwindling and Arthur unable to secure enough money to meet our needs, I persuaded him I should earn a wage. Julian has settled as an apprentice clerk – we couldn’t return him to school after his father’s arrest. He’s older than most new apprentices, but content with his career choice and comfortable in his small rented room at his master’s house. Julian’s a bright boy and I’m confident he’ll do well.

  ‘Your role is to greet customers and make them comfortable. Most of the ladies bring fabrics purchased from drapers, although recently I’ve bought a range of cottons and silks to keep in stock. The customers enjoy browsing the samples, so offer them if you think it appropriate. While Anna and I measure, pin and tuck, you will tidy up behind us. The amount of dust created is surprising. Handling and cutting fabric is not as clean a job as you might imagine.’ Mrs Hooper’s voice is gentle but I detect an air of authority hidden within her warm tone. ‘Some customers are with us for over an hour, so offer those ladies refreshment. And finally, you will manage the appointment diary. We run a strict booking system, but walk-ins must believe there is no better place than here to have dresses created. If the diary is full, make the customers feel privileged to wait for attention. I will handle all bills and payments. Questions?’

  ‘No, Mrs Hooper. Not at the moment.’

  ‘Ask if there’s something you’re unsure about, but I believe you’ll soon settle into your role.’

  The little brass bell snatches our attention and I step forward to welcome two ladies into the shop. As my greeting floats across the room, Anna grins. I invite the ladies to take a seat, then return Anna’s smile.

  Chapter 24

  I tidy away the breakfast dishes and lick marmalade from a spoon. The tangy syrup coats my tongue with delicious sticky residue, and my taste buds tingle beneath the intense flavour of orange.

  I reach for Arthur’s empty cup, taking care to avoid brushing against him. He’s engrossed in writing a letter. Curious, I glance over his shoulder. I can only make out a few words, and they spell out a chilling message:

  Should you deem this unworthy of your attention, I will have to take drastic action. Ignore this at your peril.

  My pulse quickens and I stifle a gasp. Several letters preceded this one and I wonder if Arthur wrote them in similar tones.

  ‘Who are you writing to, Arthur?’

  He glances at me and snarls. ‘Sidmouth’s Under Secretary. The whoreson refused to compensate us for the items left on the Perseus, choosing to overlook the ‘not guilty’ verdict. They had no right to force us to abandon our possessions in such a humiliating manner and there’s no justification to withhold recompense.’

  Arthur reloads his quill with ink and glares. His eyes are muddy like the River Thames in a storm. I look away and am relieved when he resumes scratching ink across the paper.

  An October breeze rattles the window, inviting me to peer through the glass. Leaves drift along the street, rising and falling on unseen waves, sticking to cloaks and tickling horses’ hooves. I’m mesmerised by figures appearing through the mist as if stepping through a doorway from one mystical world to another.

  With silent footsteps, I creep up behind Arthur and peer at the letter in his hand. As he reads it through, I strain to make out the words on the paper. There’s a list of demands and insistence upon the return of our belongings. I spy the calls for a mix of items including shirts, pantaloons, waistcoat and hat, inkstand, writing books, music books and goose-quills.

  ‘Trousers for a little boy! At fourteen years of age, he’s almost a man.’

  I regret my outburst. Arthur rises from his chair. His jaw muscles tense. I swallow hard and take a step back to increase the distance between us. He stands facing me and tilts his head.

  ‘What did you say?’

  I shrink away from him,
but he steps closer, clenching and unclenching his fingers. I reach behind my back for something to cling to, finding nothing but air.

  ‘They won’t take kindly to a lie,’ I say, stammering. ‘It may get you into more trouble.’

  Arthur snorts. ‘They’re more likely to be sympathetic if they believe they robbed a child of waistcoat and trousers.’

  I know better than to push him further.

  Arthur folds the letter ready for delivery. As he scrawls the name ‘John Cam Hobhouse’ across the front, I realise that only one thing of mine was on the list, and something of no importance. An umbrella.

  It takes several minutes to conceal the bruise above my left eye – a reminder of Arthur’s temper after I tried to refuse his amorous advances last night. With judicial use of powder, I have reduced it to nothing more than a faint shadow, but it does not fool Anna.

  ‘Susan, I fear for you. If your husband strikes you like this, you are in danger. Please stay with me. My home is small and George will pester for attention, but you’ll be safe.’

  Her kindness is overwhelming, and I smile at her with tear-filled eyes. ‘That’s generous, Anna, thank you.’

  ‘Has he done this before?’

  I nod.

  ‘I should have offered sooner.’

  I’m relieved she knows nothing of my other injuries, although she will notice my discomfort when I try to sit down.

  ‘Come home with me this evening.’

  ‘I’ll need to fetch some clothes.’

  ‘A spare dress and shift is all you need to start with, and perhaps one or two personal items. We’ll collect them later, together, after work.’

  ‘But if Arthur sees…’

  Anna looks at me through large, pitying eyes. ‘If he’s at home, tell him I’ve offered to alter one of your dresses with embroidery on the bodice or something like that. Wrap any other items inside the dress and I’ll take them, then you can slip away later when the moment is right.’

  We complete our walk to work in silence. I’m nervous about moving in with Anna, but grateful Arthur does not know her address.

  My hands shake as I open the front door.

  ‘Arthur, I’m home.’

  I stand still in the hallway. Silence. Anna taps me on the arm, urging me to hurry. I nod and walk towards the parlour door. I peer into the room. Arthur’s chair is empty and no fire burns in the grate. I check the kitchen. No sign of him there. Finally, I step into the bedroom. Arthur’s coat is missing and I’m reassured that he’s attending a meeting.

  I spread my favourite dress on the bed and lay two shifts on top. Then I add a little pot of face powder and my hairbrush. It amounts to so little, but with time I’ll rebuild my wardrobe and collect new little trinkets. As I’m about to walk through the door, I remember the package concealed beneath the mattress. The ribbon has frayed at the ends and the paper worn thin on the folds. I doubt it will hold together much longer. I push it into my reticule and hurry to join Anna.

  Chapter 25

  The day drags at Mrs Hooper’s shop and I can’t resist the temptation to eat the last three lemon jam tartlets provided for the customers. The girls are busy in the back room adding finishing touches to garments while Anna and Mrs Hooper cut pieces of silk for new dresses. I accept two deliveries from home-workers who’ve added exquisite embroidery to evening dresses, but the appointment book remains empty. Dreary weather keeps genteel ladies at home. I have buffed and polished every surface, swept every inch of the shop floor, and tidied shelves and storage boxes. Even the windows endured a scrubbing. Mrs Hooper permits me to finish early, providing an opportunity for a special treat. A visit to Paternoster Row.

  Keeping a brisk pace, I reach Mr Brown’s shop in less than an hour. Mr Brown opens the door, welcoming me with his friendly face and smiling eyes. The fragrance of books wafts through the air and my eager eyes scan the shelves. I fancy a poetry book today, something to dip into whenever I need to escape to a better world.

  As I turn the pages of an illustrated anthology, I stumble across a poem by William Wordsworth, a modern romantic poet. The opening line tugs at my heart because it encapsulates the way I have been feeling for many months.

  ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’ I murmur, reading the poem aloud. By the time I reach the end, I’m absorbed in Mr Wordsworth’s image of yellow daffodils dipping their heads in gentle winds, casting light to kill darkness and lifting the bleakest of moods. When I raise my head, I’m surprised to see Mr Brown beside me.

  ‘Months have passed since your last visit,’ he says.

  ‘I wish I could visit more often, Mr Brown.’

  ‘Do you want to buy that one?’ he asks, nodding towards the little book clasped in my hands.

  I shouldn’t. It would be an insult to Anna’s kindness. I need every spare coin to contribute towards the food we will eat tonight. ‘Another time, perhaps.’

  Mr Brown squints at me. ‘I don’t suggest this to many customers, but if you’d like to take it today, you can have it on account and pay another time.’

  My skin tingles and I feel queasy. Has he guessed at my reduced circumstances? If I save the odd coin here and there, I’ll have enough to settle the account in six to eight weeks. Pride stops me refusing the offer.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Brown.’

  ‘I’ll wrap it. We don’t want the damp air to ruin the pages.’

  His talk of wrapping compels me to reach inside my reticule and run my fingertips over the precious blue package. It’s reassuring beneath my touch, promising happier times. I remove enough coins to pay a small deposit for the poetry book, then close the reticule to shut out the memory of Mr Westcott’s generosity. Mr Brown hands over my parcel wrapped in cream paper and tied with a length of purple ribbon. He holds the door open and as I step outside into the miserable autumn air, I realise I’ve been harbouring a foolish fancy that I might see Mr Westcott today. I glance along the street in both directions, willing him to emerge from the shadows.

  Disappointment settles like snow. He’s nowhere to be seen.

  There’s a break in the thick grey clouds and the sunlight beyond creates an alluring silver shimmer. The vision is ethereal, hypnotising, and for a few brief moments, I believe I have found contentment.

  A powerful arm wraps around my body, pinning my elbows to my sides. A hand clamps across my mouth and I’m pulled backwards into a narrow alleyway. My heart beats so fast I fear it will burst. I try to wriggle free, but the arm tightens. I breathe through my nose but cannot get air to my lungs. My vision greys, the alleyway ripples and fades. And then, nothing.

  When I come to, I’m lying across a seat inside a scruffy coach, bumping and jerking over cobbles. A man sits opposite, his legs clad in dark trousers. My head throbs and it hurts to move my eyes, but I lift my gaze to see who has rescued me.

  ‘Susan.’

  My stomach lurches. There’s a roaring in my ears. This man is no rescuer.

  ‘Two nights away from home but no message to tell me where you are. What were you thinking by leaving without telling me?’

  ‘How did you find me?’ My voice is a ragged croak.

  Arthur laughs. ‘You made a poor job of hiding. Your employer has a memorable name, and it wasn’t difficult to find a dress shop near Oxford Street run by a woman called Nelly. I had someone watch the store and when he sent word that you’d finished early today and gone to Paternoster Row, I came straight away.’

  I touch the top of my head to discover a sizeable tender lump and my fingertips come away sticky with blood.

  Arthur leans forward, lips stretched in a tight smile, his gaze intense. ‘As my wife, you belong at home with me. You took vows to serve and obey me for as long as we both live, and you will honour those vows. Otherwise, I’ll kill you.’

  Chapter 26

  Crisp, firm chocolate biscuits fail to lighten my mood. Nevertheless, I help myself to a third, seeking comfort from the rich taste of quality cocoa. Mrs Hooper sent out for them this
morning – Lord knows we needed cheering up after learning Princess Charlotte gave birth to a stillborn son last night. We’re all tearful at the news, as is most of London. Every time I think of our gentle princess, tears prick at my eyes. Singing before her wedding made me feel closer to her. It’s as if I’m mourning a dear friend.

  ‘To work, ladies, if you please.’ Mrs Hooper gathers empty plates and cups while the rest of us resume our tasks.

  A steady stream of bookings keeps us busy. By mid-afternoon, there’s a shift in atmosphere. The mood darkens further and Lady Tylney, known for her punctuality, is already running twenty minutes late for her appointment. When the clock strikes three, we predict something is very wrong. We gather by the doorway and windows and peer into the empty street.

  ‘What on earth has happened? Where is everyone?’ Mrs Hooper’s brow is furrowed.

  I point across the street. ‘The drapers are as bewildered as us.’

  ‘Martha, be a dear,’ says Mrs Hooper. ‘Hurry to Oxford Street and find out what the devil has happened. Everyone else, back to work.’

  The counter tops are gleaming, the floorboards clear of threads and scraps. Scissors slicing through cotton make an eerie sound against the background silence. We are all lost for words. Something terrible has happened.

  Martha flings the door wide open. Her face is ashen, glistening with tears, and strands of hair cling to her wet cheeks. A newspaper trembles in her hand.

  Mrs Hooper flies to her side. ‘Martha, whatever has happened?’

  We all stand still, watching Martha, waiting.

  ‘She’s… she’s…’

  ‘Who, dear? And what is she? Take a breath. Tell us what upsets you.’

  My legs tremble. The deserted street tells of momentous bad news.

  ‘It’s the princess,’ Martha blurts out between sobs. ‘She’s dead!’