The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 13

  I have no desire to see him. While he’s been under lock and key, I have flourished.

  ‘What will you do while I’m with Arthur?’

  Beckey smiles. ‘The town has plenty to keep visitors occupied. Don’t worry about me. One or two shops have caught my eye, so I’ll take my time looking at hats and trinkets, then return here for another pot of tea. Now, go.’

  I lick the last traces of ice cream from my spoon and brace myself for the heat of summer. As I cross the road towards the gaol entrance, my pulse quickens. Sweat trickles down my back and my shift sticks to my damp skin. The weather is not entirely to blame for my discomfort. I’m here because Arthur sent for me. He may be behind bars, but with the help of his cronies he can still reach me.

  At first glance, the gaol is imposing. A grand two-storey red-brick building stretches before me with wide steps approaching a central door. Conditions cannot be so bad if Arthur’s cell is in a fine building such as this. My attention drifts to a small group of dishevelled women being herded through a high arched entrance on the left. Each woman has something in common with me – she’s a felon’s wife. I follow along behind them with my head bowed. I don’t want to be here. One by one we approach a guard seated at a table. His facial expression lacks warmth and his eyes confirm he derives no pleasure from working here.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Susan Thistlewood.’

  He switches from one sheet of paper to another, running his fingertip over a column of names. ‘Not on the list.’ He flicks his hand towards the archway. It’s my signal to leave. ‘Next.’

  ‘No, I’m Susan Thistlewood.’

  He rolls his eyes.

  ‘Here to see Arthur Thistlewood.’

  He reverts to the previous sheet. ‘No. Still not listed.’

  ‘There must be a mistake.’ I pull out Arthur’s letter from my reticule. ‘My husband wrote instructing me to come today.’

  He takes the letter and disappears into an office. Irritable women shuffle in a short queue behind me and I sense I’m depriving them of precious minutes with loved ones they long to see.

  The guard ambles back and waves the letter beneath my nose. ‘This is unusual practice,’ he grumbles. ‘Your visit’s allowed. Special privilege from the Governor.’

  I glance towards a deserted courtyard. ‘May I ask where I’ll find my husband?’

  The guard smirks. ‘First time, eh? Cross the courtyard, turn right, pass under an arch then turn left. You’ll see an entrance straight ahead. Someone else will direct you from there. Next.’

  I mumble my thanks, but it goes unheard as another visitor knocks against me, forcing me to move aside. I walk into the courtyard and am struck by the gravity of my surroundings. There’s no shade apart from a thin strip of shadow running along one side of a very high wall which even the sun cannot penetrate. Maniacal shouts come from a nearby building. My eyes focus on the sign above the door. Infirmary. I wonder what torturous procedures take place within its walls. As instructed, I turn right and pass through a lower archway, then left into a small courtyard. The atmosphere is oppressive. Grunts and groans emerge from a long shed, the noises made by men struggling with hard labour. Not daring to look towards them, I scuttle across the courtyard towards a block of cells.

  ‘I didn’t think to bring food.’ The man standing before me is a shadow of his former self. Skin hangs from his cheekbones and deep crevices line his face. Arthur is unrecognisable.

  ‘I’d rather not have it,’ he says sadly. ‘It would be a painful reminder of what I’m missing at home, and I’ve too many months to endure before I leave here.’

  ‘Nine,’ I say.

  Arthur approaches the bars and reaches for my hand. I make a show of gazing up and down the corridor, pretending not to notice.

  ‘You’re counting the days too. Why didn’t you come sooner?’

  A rat scuttles past my feet, brushing against the tip of my shoe. I shudder and watch it disappear into the cell next to Arthur’s.

  ‘It’s difficult, Arthur. I’m working all hours and using every moment of spare time for housework and grocery shopping.’

  ‘No time to yourself?’

  ‘Not enough to travel this far.’ The lie slides easily from my lips. ‘Mrs Hooper granted me time off for this visit.’

  ‘I hear there have been strikes since my arrest.’

  ‘The spinners in Manchester. And riots, too. There’s been talk of attempts to form a General Union of Trades. Lord Sidmouth insisted the magistrates put a stop to it, and they responded by making arrests. I can’t see the strikes continuing much longer though. The workers and their children are hungry enough as it is. Arthur, newspapers report that desperate parents drag their children out of bed to walk to work before the sun is up. Children as young as six years old!’

  Arthur sighs. ‘Evidence we live in a cruel country.’

  ‘Julian’s doing well.’

  ‘He’s my son. He’ll make a name for himself one day.’

  Odd that Arthur thinks Julian will do well when he himself has achieved so little. But he’s right. The signs suggest Julian will achieve great things. He’s hard-working and determined.

  The cell is claustrophobic and I can’t imagine how Arthur tolerates it from one day to the next, but I suppose that’s the idea. Part of the punishment package. ‘Why are there two beds?’

  Arthur grunts. ‘It’s a single-man cell but sometimes the gaol gets overcrowded and we have as many as three in here.’

  The linen on the other bed is grimy and dishevelled.

  ‘Are you sharing at the moment?’

  ‘I am, but my companion’s in the labour shed. You’ll have left before he reappears.’

  We fall silent, each minute dragging. The rank air of the gaol coats the inside of my nostrils and clings to my clothes. I must wash this dress before I wear it again. It’s my favourite, crafted by Anna from remnants Mrs Hooper allowed me to buy for a single shilling.

  ‘Tell me about your duties at work. It’ll give me something to think about while I sit here staring at the walls.’

  It cheers me to tell Arthur about Mrs Hooper and the young ladies at work. I smile as I describe the regular customers and Arthur chuckles at some of my stories.

  A banging on a cell door further along the corridor announces it’s time for visitors to leave. It’s easy to abandon Arthur for another nine months in this mouse hole of a cell. He made my life miserable. It’s what he deserves.

  ‘Will you visit again?’

  ‘I’ll try, Arthur, but it’s a struggle.’

  His shoulders sag and he hangs his head.

  ‘Goodbye, Arthur.’

  I step into the passage, a long, dark corridor flanked on each side by a line of cell doors. A scrap of daylight beckons from the entrance.

  ‘Wait!’ The urgency in Arthur’s voice causes me to spin round and stumble. He’s clutching a bundle of letters. ‘These are the reasons for asking you to visit. They’re about the conditions here. No threats, I promise. I’ve written before, but the guards… well, I can’t rely on them.’

  I take the bundle and study the name scrawled across the top. Arthur’s harassing the Home Secretary again. I’ll burn the letters later.

  Keen to leave Arthur to his small, damp, reeking cell, I stuff the letters into my reticule and stride away in search of Beckey.

  Chapter 29

  This is the first time I’ve tasted blackberry trifle. The sharp undertones of the berries contrast with the sweet richness of creamy custard, and it’s a struggle to resist the temptation to scrape my bowl clean with my spoon. Mrs Westcott must not think me uncouth.

  ‘Time to leave,’ says the elderly lady, her neat silver chignon bobbing up and down. Her faded blue eyes sparkle with delight. ‘William tells me this will be your first experience of the theatre at Covent Garden.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m so looking forward to it.’

  An affectionate glance passes between mother and son. I sta
re at my lap, not wishing to intrude on the silent exchange. It has taken me the duration of the meal to relax because with each delicious mouthful I feared Mrs Westcott would ask about Arthur.

  A maid places a shawl across the elderly lady’s shoulders. Despite her age and thin frame, she cuts a striking pose. Her turquoise dress has silver buttons on the bodice, and the peach French-style shawl has an exquisite trim of embroidered silver leaves. For once, I feel at home with such elegance because Beckey insisted I wear one of her dresses for the occasion, and the graceful cut of the smoke-grey fabric is flattering to my ample shape.

  When the coach stops outside the theatre entrance, a thousand butterflies beat their wings within my chest. William reaches for my hand to help me step down to the dusty pavement.

  Four tall fluted columns welcome our happy threesome, encouraging us to step inside. My eyes rove around a large vestibule with a grand staircase set to one side. The inside of the building is more majestic than I imagined from admiring the grandeur of the exterior walls. Our progress up the stairs is slow. Mrs Westcott’s limbs are no longer agile, and she leans on her son for support. I’m glad of the slow journey because it gives me time to admire my surroundings and the fashionable people of London in attendance this evening. The atmosphere is vibrant with men and women greeting each other and exchanging kind words. This joyful world is alien to me and it’s a world I should very much like to visit again one day regardless of whether I enjoy the play.

  An usher shows us to a box where Mrs Westcott greets friends of a comparable age. My limbs tense. I did not know we would socialise with others. As I brace myself for introductions, I hardly dare catch my breath.

  ‘Oh, how rude of me,’ exclaims Mrs Westcott. ‘I must introduce you to Mrs Susan Thistlewood, a dear friend of the family.’

  Mature women fuss over me like mother hens. My tension eases. I’m a welcome guest here.

  ‘Any relation to—’

  The ruddy-faced gentleman’s question is halted by his wife tugging at his sleeve.

  ‘Look, dear, Prince Regent is in the royal box.’

  Mr Westcott and I exchange relieved glances. I swallow a nervous giggle and sit next to his mother. Conversations take place around me while I marvel at the theatre. There are three tiers of boxes and we are in the middle tier, not too far from the stage, and our seats are set at an angle so we may admire the full extent of the set. A heavy red curtain conceals the scenery and I try to imagine the spectacle beyond. A lofty arch frames the stage, and on each side there are ornate female figures holding laurel wreaths and trumpets. The ceiling is decorated in the image of a grand cupola, and the buzz of impatient members of the audience diffuses throughout the horseshoe-shaped room. The theatre is warm and comfortable, illuminated by an impressive chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and the acoustic design amplifies even the slightest tut or sniff.

  A bell announces the imminent start of the performance. Those still standing take their seats, and to my surprise, Mr Westcott sits beside me. Scarlet velvet curtains twitch and glide open. The audience falls silent. The play begins.

  I’m enthralled by the first act with its exquisite costumes, stunning scenery and lines that make my face ache with laughter. The Clandestine Marriage is a comical production. Never have I laughed so much. Funny though it is, the tale is superbly enacted.

  ‘You can see why it’s one of my favourites, can’t you?’ Mr Westcott leans so close that I can feel and hear his soft whisper.

  ‘It has to be the most entertaining thing I’ve ever seen,’ I reply, relieved the heat burning in my cheeks is invisible to him.

  ‘Mother was thrilled you agreed to come with us this evening.’

  It was a delightful shock to receive the formal invitation from his mother. How fortunate that Mrs Westcott should be a long-standing patron of Mrs Hooper’s. We’ve enjoyed many lengthy conversations during her visits to the shop because of her tendency to arrive thirty minutes early for each appointment.

  ‘You must join us again,’ whispers Mrs Westcott in my other ear, during a pause for a change of scenery between acts. ‘You’ve proven popular with my friends.’

  ‘It’s a joy to share this treat with you, Mrs Westcott, but you must let me pay for my ticket.’

  She rests her bony hand across my wrist. ‘Goodness, dear, no. It’s good for us old folk to mingle with youngsters from time to time. Keeps us young at heart.’

  I chuckle. ‘I’m not a youngster.’

  She pats my arm then removes her hand to whisper something to the friend seated to her other side. Seconds later, the action on stage resumes.

  Mr Westcott adjusts the angle of his seat and our arms brush against one another. I should adjust my position to sever the contact, but something stops me. For the rest of the play, my skin tingles at his proximity.

  After a brief interlude, we take our seats for an afterpiece, a short play entitled Love, Law and Physick. It’s a farcical piece, although I don’t understand the story because my attention is on the gentleman sitting beside me. Our forearms rest against each other and I sit still catching my breath in soft shallow gasps, reluctant to break the spell holding us together. For a brief moment, our eyes meet. When I look away, I’m confused by my feelings for him.

  When the curtain closes for the last time, a shadow of sadness falls over me. I have enjoyed a wonderful few hours, an experience I am unlikely ever to repeat. With great reluctance, I step into the carriage and settle next to Mrs Westcott. She covers our legs with a blanket and squeezes my fingers before instructing her son to direct the coachman to my home.

  ‘Please, don’t go out of your way,’ I say. ‘It’s no trouble to walk from your house.’

  ‘I won’t hear of such a thing,’ replies Mrs Westcott. ‘William, make sure the carriage goes to Stanhope Street first.’

  ‘Please! There’s no need.’

  Mrs Westcott turns my face towards her. ‘My dear, I will not sleep easy in my bed if I cannot be sure you arrive without incident to your home.’

  ‘But the area is nothing compared to where you live.’

  ‘One’s neighbourhood should never be a cause for embarrassment. My husband may have provided well for me, but I started life in humble surroundings. Who knows what fate awaits any of us?’

  ‘Who knows, indeed,’ I mumble, settling back against the padded lining of the coach and ruing the day I met Arthur.

  The journey passes in a flash. When the coachman opens the door, Mr Westcott steps out first and offers me his hand. It’s all I can do not to cling to his fingers, and in my best impersonation of a lady, I step down from the coach.

  ‘Thank you for a most wonderful evening,’ I say, plucking up the courage to gaze into his eyes.

  ‘The first of many, I hope.’

  I sigh. ‘I regret the future does not hold such luxuries for me. A few months from now, I will lose this freedom.’

  ‘Have faith and keep courage. One day you’ll find a path to happier times.’ He places his hand on my upper arm and lowers his voice. ‘You can always contact me via Bow Street.’

  I murmur my thanks and walk to my front door. Once inside, I turn back towards the carriage to see Mrs Westcott smiling at me. She waves with a flutter of her fingers, then lets the curtain fall. I close the door and study my reflection in the hall mirror. I’m smiling.

  This is a lifestyle I would enjoy.

  Chapter 30

  A glass of elderberry wine sits half-finished on the freshly scrubbed table top. It was a gift from Anna, and now I regret opening the bottle. The deep-red wine, balanced and mellow, caresses my throat with every mouthful, but I must not drink too much and say or do something inappropriate later. After chiding myself for lacking confidence, I replace the stopper in the bottle and set it on a high shelf. The glass taunts me while I wield the broom, sweeping the spotless kitchen floor. The webs between my fingers crack and bleed from scrubbing at imaginary stains that I feel the need to get rid of
in case my visitor enters the kitchen. A streak of blood soaks into my skirt, diverting attention from my home to my appearance.

  I hurry to the bedroom mirror and sigh at my reflection with its dull eyes, ruddy cheeks and lips darkened by the wine. I look as harried as a washerwoman after a day’s work rather than the mistress of the house preparing for a social visit. After a quick prayer for the high colour in my face to subside to a rosy glow, I shed my bloodstained dress and ease into something more elegant. Employment at Mrs Hooper’s has its perks. My dress collection has swelled to eight in recent months, with five distinct from work attire but just as well made.

  I brush my hair until it shines, then encourage it into a chignon. I turn my head one way, then the other, and cannot help but think there’s an elegance to the shape of my exposed neck. There’s no scrawniness nor wrinkling despite the recent tough years, and I believe I’m more attractive now, in my early thirties, than I was in my twenties. A few stray locks frame my face and I leave them there to do as they please, adding a hint of playfulness to my rounded cheeks.

  Because of the Perseus incident, I have neither jewellery nor perfume. Undeterred, I drape a scarf around my neck – an elegant strip of sheer pink fabric, embroidered with tiny white flowers.

  A rap at the door catches me unawares. I dart to the parlour and check the time. He’s early. I hesitate. Something tells me I’m about to make a mistake. Arthur’s warning about our marriage vows echoes in my mind. Forsaking all others, as long as we both shall live. He may have someone watching me. The risk is considerable, I should ignore the door and allow the moment to pass. Another large gulp of wine. The decision is made. I will not answer.

  Another rap. Louder this time. I stare ahead, challenging the door to do its worst. Holding my breath, I wait for the patter of receding footsteps. Nothing. I tiptoe closer. Still no sound. I steady my breathing and congratulate myself for seeing sense, then shape my lips into a smile.

  But then comes a gentle tap. Before I can stop myself, my feet carry me forward and my hand pulls the door open. Mr Westcott stands on the doorstep with an expression that says he’s delighted to see me – an expression I have read about in love stories and now I’m seeing it for real. The heat returns to my face, but my visitor does not laugh nor tease.