The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 12

  I cannot breathe. My chest aches. ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Martha thrusts the newspaper into Mrs Hooper’s hand.

  I lower myself to a chair. My brain turns to bubbles, each one bursting as I try to make sense of this news. Princess Charlotte was adored by everyone.

  Mrs Hooper wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, then flattens an extraordinary edition of the London Gazette on a countertop. She takes a deep breath, then reads aloud. ‘Her Royal Highness, the Princess Charlotte Augusta, daughter of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent and consort of his Serene Highness Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg was delivered of a stillborn male child at nine o’clock last night.’ Mrs Hooper pauses for a few long seconds. This news we know already. There must be worse to come. ‘About half-past twelve, Her Royal Highness was seized with great difficulty of breathing, restlessness and exhaustion, which alarming symptoms increased till half-past two this morning, when Her Royal Highness expired.’

  I bury my face in my hands. Dear, sweet Princess Charlotte. Dead.

  With puffy faces and quivering lips, we console one another. No wonder the streets are empty. A period of national grief and mourning has already begun. We gaze from one sad face to another, dumbstruck.

  Mrs Hooper interrupts the silence. ‘Ladies, finish what you were doing and go to church to pray for her soul. Then find comfort at home with your families. Do whatever helps you move forward from this sad moment because tomorrow we will be busy. London will want to wear black.’

  Anna and I take quiet steps towards the church. When we turn a corner, we see a crowd before us, a silent swarm of mourners. We join the back of the throng and await our turn to enter the church. As each sad face leaves its god behind, a new one steps through the large arched doorway, seeking answers to questions and comfort for grief. We find space on a crowded pew near the front of the church where the altar is swathed in black silk. Weak strands of November sunlight filter through the stained-glass windows, casting a sad grey-blue light on dipped heads. We sink to our knees and pray as if our lives depend upon it.

  A feeble fire burns in the grate, dwindling from lack of attention. Arthur’s in his armchair, fingertips pressed together, head lowered. He lifts his head and glowers at me when I enter the room.

  ‘You’re home early.’

  A small flame rises among the coals. It flickers and fades.

  ‘Isn’t it the saddest news?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Princess Charlotte.’

  ‘What of her?’

  ‘You haven’t heard? Her son was stillborn last night and then…’ I take a moment to suppress my grief. ‘Arthur, she died.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  ‘Is it not heartbreaking?’

  He snorts. ‘Worse things have happened.’

  ‘Like what?’ I struggle to control my exasperation.

  He leans forward with menace in his eyes. ‘Susan, have you forgotten already? The death of an overindulged privileged woman has taken attention away from the plight of our people! While the wealthy hurry to outdo one another with expensive black silks, the poor go without food and watch their children die of hunger.’

  ‘I feel as if I’ve lost a friend.’

  Arthur roars with laughter. ‘No member of the royal family would ever be friends with you, a commoner with nothing to offer except home-made preserves and biscuits. You need money to mix in those circles, and plenty of it.’

  I keep my voice calm. ‘I was at her wedding, Arthur.’

  ‘Did she speak to you? Did she say, “Good evening, dearest Susan. What a pleasure to see you”? I wager she didn’t even glance at you. Did you attend the ceremony, or were you lurking in a service corridor?’

  I recall the shimmering apparition that passed by as we sang like a choir of angels. Her gaze did not flick towards me because her eyes sought her husband-to-be beyond the door to the room where the marriage service was about to take place. I shake my head.

  ‘You were a nobody to her, Susan, like every other commoner. Anyhow, it leaves one less member of the family to grieve for the regent when he dies.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I have images of our bereaved Prince Regent so stricken by grief that he has taken to his bed.

  ‘Peaceful protest didn’t put our country right so now we need drastic action. Hunt and his reformers have achieved nothing; therefore, I will lead an army against the Establishment. And don’t underestimate me because I’m a soldier and I will spill blood.’

  The danger lurking within Arthur’s voice chills me more than ever before. I cannot bear to look at him, so I stand and withdraw from the room.

  Perched on the edge of the bed, I’m defeated. Sad. Lost. There is one thing I know will lift my spirits. The time has come. I reach into my reticule and ease out Mr Westcott’s gift.

  The paper tears easily and slides away from the book. The leather cover feels warm and comforting in my hand. I run my fingers over the gold embossed lettering on the spine, then rest the book on my lap. As I open the front cover, my heart quickens. A folded piece of paper sits pressed against the flyleaf with my name written across it in flamboyant script. I lift the note between thumb and finger and stare at the elegant handwriting before replacing it and slamming the cover shut.

  My heart pounds behind my ribs, beating out a tune of infidelity. Sweat soaks my dress where the fabric rubs against my armpits. I concentrate on taking a few steadying breaths, then open the note and read.

  Dear Mrs Thistlewood,

  Forgive me for being so bold as to purchase this gift for you today. I assure you it’s not my habit to buy a novel for a stranger, but there was something about you that compelled me to do so. I sensed a shadow lurking deep within your soul and I hope my gift will shine a light to shrink the darkness that stalks you.

  Be assured that I am no predator. Mr Brown will vouch for me should you ever wish to know more about my person.

  I pray it never befalls you, but if a day should come when you need assistance of a serious kind, I am, and always will be, your humble servant.

  William Westcott

  c/o The Magistrate’s Office at Bow Street

  London

  I read the note a second time. And a third. The text is brief but fills me with hope.

  I think back to Arthur’s comment about leading an army against the Prince of Wales and the Cabinet. Did he mean it? Could he achieve such a thing? Does he intend to maim them… or take their lives?

  ‘Oh!’ My hands fly to my mouth to stifle my gasp. The note slips from my fingers and grazes the bed as it slips towards the bare floorboards. To murder a Cabinet member is to commit treason. The penalty for treason is death. If Arthur dies, I will live.

  I bend forward and retrieve the note, my chest bubbling with possibilities. This gentleman, an officer of the law, has offered his professional help. Somehow, Mr Westcott will cut the ties that bind me to Arthur.

  1818

  Chapter 27

  I make myself swallow a spoonful of chicken broth, though I have no appetite. For weeks now, Arthur’s attitude towards me has been as frosty as the ice that spreads across the interior of our windows.

  Life has become more difficult. Food prices have risen, rent has soared and my wages cover the bills with nothing spare to replace worn-out clothes. Arthur has a trivial income, though the source is a secret, and pennies slip through his fingers like fine grains of sand, leaving no trace. It was a relief to me when Mrs Hooper introduced a uniform dress for work. So in front of customers at least, I am adequately attired.

  ‘Arthur, you look troubled. What worries you?’ Arthur’s mood has grown sombre these past few weeks and I fear he’s losing momentum for his campaign.

  He considers me a while before answering. ‘England needs decisive action but I’m alone trying to save our country and I don’t know which way to turn.’

  Disappointment floods my veins. An army of one man cannot take on the Prince Regent and the Cabine
t. ‘What about the Spenceans? Has their support dwindled?’

  ‘My friends believe the state of the country is improving. The beggars on the streets don’t corroborate their claims, nor the hovels housing desperate families forced to share a room. Watson runs about on chicken legs fearing words will have him executed and interests have become selfish. He’s no longer the best person to speak on behalf of the people.’

  So Mr Watson has seen sense. I pray Arthur does not do the same.

  ‘We demoted Watson from senior leadership of the Spenceans. The man’s a coward and I want nothing more to do with him, but I fear his lily-liver might weaken the boldness of others.’ Arthur finishes his broth before continuing. ‘Sidmouth ignored my letters, no doubt laughing at me from behind closed doors. He’ll know the drive for change is waning. But I’ll show him. My courage is strengthening, not dwindling. He can’t ignore me forever.’

  ‘You’ve committed years to bringing about change so you mustn’t give up now. What will make Sidmouth listen?’

  Arthur smiles. ‘I’ve challenged him to a duel.’

  ‘You’ve what?’ There’s a flutter in my belly. My lips widen into a smile.

  Arthur shrugs. ‘It’s the best way for two gentlemen to settle differences. Sidmouth’s letting the country slide towards the gutter. And he refuses to reimburse me for my losses on the Perseus despite my ‘not guilty’ verdict and confirmation of wrongful arrest. If not for him, we’d be in America now.’

  He’s either confused or deluded. We planned to emigrate because Arthur was a fugitive and we were to use the opportunity to start afresh. He incited violence, placed himself at the mercy of the law, and was lucky to get away with it.

  ‘Arthur, I presume you’re aware that duelling was outlawed a long time ago?’

  ‘Your concern is touching, Susan, but you know nothing of the ways of gentlemen. It’s a matter of honour. Sidmouth will be as eager as I to resolve the issues.’

  ‘How did you make your challenge?’

  ‘By letter.’

  My legs tremble as I hurry along icy streets. When the building comes into view, I slow my pace. I haven’t been here since Arthur’s arrest. I take a moment to calm my nerves, admiring the grandeur of the architecture. A large lantern hangs from a portico entrance and columns stand sentry on either side, waiting for the undesirable characters who appear before the magistrates on an all too frequent basis.

  Nerves get the better of me and I suspect my revelation would not be taken seriously. I scurry across the road towards the Covent Garden theatre and study a poster advertising Zuma; or, The Tree of Health. I haven’t visited a theatre since I married Arthur. The last performance I attended was before I left my family home, a Boxing Day Harlequin pantomime, I think.

  ‘Mrs Thistlewood, what a surprise to see you here. Are you considering purchasing a ticket?’

  The gentleman’s voice is familiar, and I worry my eyes will betray my joy.

  ‘No,’ I say a little too quickly. ‘I was curious about upcoming performances.’

  The exchange hangs between us, a brief little cloud of words frozen in time.

  ‘There’s nothing like the pleasure of a theatre performance to distract from the troubles that plague us day to day, wouldn’t you agree?’ Mr Westcott’s voice is deep and mellow, authoritative yet kind.

  ‘We had nothing as grand as this at home, but I always enjoyed a play.’

  ‘Zuma is an amusing opera and well worth the price of a ticket.’

  ‘Alas, my husband is not a man who appreciates the arts.’

  ‘Perhaps you could go with a friend?’

  Arthur would not allow me to attend an opera or play with anyone. He stopped me singing with Beckey’s ladies after my attempt to move in with Anna, and my visits to Beckey are infrequent and clandestine because Arthur hasn’t forgiven Samuel for evicting us.

  I shake my head. ‘My friends have commitments that spare them no time for such entertainment.’

  Mr Westcott nods, sympathetic understanding shining in his eyes. ‘My mother enjoys the theatre, and it’s a regular pleasure for me to escort her. Perhaps you might join us?’

  I would love to.

  ‘With regret, I must decline. I work six days a week, and domestic chores fill the evenings.’

  ‘A pity. Mother would have enjoyed your company.’

  We gaze into each other’s eyes. My heartbeat quickens and my pulse thrums in my ears. His grey irises sparkle with tiny streaks of silver like sun-dappled water.

  ‘Some other time.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I force myself to resume scrutiny of the poster.

  ‘Forgive me for saying, but if you’ve no intention of seeing a performance, did some other purpose bring you here today?’

  How do I put my concerns into words? The taste of blood tells me I’ve bitten a small chunk from the inside of my cheek. It’s something I do whenever I’m troubled. No doubt I’ve been pulling a comical face while gnawing at my flesh.

  Mr Westcott takes a step away from me. ‘Please, it’s cold out here. Let’s go indoors and find a quiet office where we can speak in private.’

  With his left arm he gestures we should move towards the Bow Street Magistrates’ Court. I nod and take apprehensive steps across the slippery cobbles, relieved to have Mr Westcott by my side.

  The office is cluttered with people and untidy desks, but we sit at a battered table in one corner and no one pays us any heed. Mr Westcott sits across from me and waits for me to speak.

  Sweat moistens my palms. ‘I have information about my husband.’

  He stiffens. ‘I see.’

  ‘He plans to do something foolish, and you must be ready to arrest him.’

  Mr Westcott says nothing. Silence stretches like a chasm between us.

  ‘My husband challenged Lord Sidmouth to a duel.’

  Mr Westcott remains impassive, his lack of reaction surprising.

  ‘He means it, I know he does. If Lord Sidmouth refuses to meet his demands, Arthur will not shy away from murdering him with a bullet.’

  ‘You’re brave to share such news with me and you’ve taken a risk coming here with such an allegation.’

  ‘I was careful. Mr Thistlewood is a wicked man and deserves to have the full weight of the law pressing on him. This current plan of his is but one of many, and others are more serious. Tell me, Mr Westcott, isn’t attempted murder a serious crime for which the perpetrator may be gaoled, or even hanged?’

  Mr Westcott nods slowly. Something in his expression troubles me.

  ‘Why aren’t you concerned? I thought you’d want more details.’

  ‘Alas, madam, this is old news. We are aware of your husband’s countless efforts to engage the Home Secretary in correspondence. In fact, it was hard to miss because your husband had the letters published, including the challenge to Lord Sidmouth. I regret to say that Mr Thistlewood seems hell-bent on a course of self-destruction. No good will come of his actions.’

  ‘The letters were published? In the newspapers?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. It appears I’ve shocked you, Mrs Thistlewood, and I apologise. Your husband’s activities are of grave concern. I’m both grateful and relieved that you want no part in his dangerous games.’

  ‘I confess to sharing his wish for a better England where children can expect nourishing food and a change of clothes, but I worry about how my husband intends to achieve it.’

  ‘We have the same vision. There are appropriate ways of campaigning and there are illegal ways. Your husband has chosen a path that does not conform with that permissible within the boundaries of the law.’

  ‘And that is why I came here.’ I twist my wedding band around my finger. ‘I must go. If Arthur returns home to find me absent, I will suffer for it.’

  ‘You must go home, that’s true. But Mr Thistlewood won’t be there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because we have placed him under arrest.’

  �
�I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Mr Thistlewood is under arrest for high treason and for sending a challenge to our Noble Lord, the Home Secretary.’

  A relieved giggle escapes my throat. I study Mr Westcott’s face. His expression is serious, but kind. My thoughts drift to his handwritten note. He’s a gentleman, an officer of Bow Street, with a clear understanding of right and wrong. He makes Arthur look a fool the way he lusts after violence and bloodshed. My choice of husband was a poor one. I’m sure he was a kind man once, but when I cast my mind back, I recall Arthur’s controlling traits and eagerness to quash my opinions and sway them towards his own. I was naïve and made a grave mistake by marrying him. Arthur has evil gushing through his veins.

  ‘His wrongdoings are his own,’ I say. ‘I had no involvement.’

  ‘You’re a respectable woman, Mrs Thistlewood, an upstanding citizen. Go about your life with confidence and a clear conscience. If you need help or advice while Mr Thistlewood is unavailable, please ask.’

  As I step outside into the wintry February afternoon, I feel as if a burden has been lifted, for surely Arthur must be on his way to the gallows? With a lightness of step, I hurry home, eager to visit my dear friends and enjoy my first day of freedom.

  Chapter 28

  Fresh strawberry ice cream calms my fevered mind. As each cold spoonful slithers down my throat, I feel a delightful cooling sensation behind my breastbone. It was too hot for travelling. The horses protested all the way to Horsham, and the journey seemed to take forever, but Beckey sat uncomplaining next to me while doing her best to lift my spirits.

  Since dear Samuel’s passing, I’ve spent every one of my days off with Beckey. Our friendship has blossomed once again and there’s talk of reviving her musical gatherings. We’ve also used a few spare hours to help the needy, keeping my mind occupied and distracting me from the miserable diversion that is Arthur.

  ‘You should hurry, Susan. Arthur’s expecting you.’