The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 17

  His tone confirms his lust for bloodshed is waning. Innocent lives will not be taken, but my dream of happiness is ruined.

  He sniffs the contents of the glass bowl I’ve set before him. ‘Pineapple,’ he says with a glimmer of a smile.

  ‘A bargain from the market. The season’s ending and they’re no longer at their best. This one had a large bruise.’ It’s almost the truth. Much to Beckey’s amusement, I won a small discount after persistent haggling. But the damage occurred after I paid for it.

  Arthur skewers a chunk on his fork and closes his eyes, relishing the sweetness. I’ve already eaten my share and a piece or two of Arthur’s while waiting for him to return home. Beckey counselled me against sweets and other such treats when insisting I lose weight. She fears I may succumb to a diseased heart or lose more teeth. She said Samuel often ranted about the perils of overeating. I’m substituting fruit for the treats I enjoy, but I’m always hungry. I’ve no choice but to follow Beckey’s advice because there’s not enough spare fabric to let out dresses again.

  With the dishes cleared away, Arthur beckons me to join him at the table.

  ‘I’ll be out late tonight. There will be a spate of evening meetings as important matters have arisen that are difficult to resolve.’

  ‘Where do you meet at such a late hour?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  I reach for his hand and my skin crawls at the contact. ‘I fear for your safety. It sets my mind at ease if I know where you are.’

  Arthur raises his eyebrows at my uncharacteristic concern. I’m trying to gauge how long I will have to enjoy myself alone at home before I must resume the pretence of being a dutiful wife.

  ‘It’s better you don’t know,’ he says. ‘If the authorities discover the locations of the meetings, there’ll be repercussions. This way, if they question you of my whereabouts, you can honestly say you do not know.’

  His reply has an ominous undertone. My heart lifts. ‘Arthur, what are you plotting?’

  ‘We’re exploring options,’ he says, wearing a thin smile. ‘It’s growing ever more unlikely that we’ll start a revolution in London, but we expect our friends in the North to be more obliging.’

  I’m relieved the flame of revolution still flickers.

  Arthur toys with the lid of his snuff box before plucking out a pinch of powder and snorting. ‘Time to get going.’

  ‘Arthur, I have disappointing news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby.’ I pause, preparing to release the rest of the lie. ‘It wasn’t to be.’

  Arthur stands and catches the chair with his legs, tipping it backwards. He returns the chair to its feet, then strides towards the door. He pauses and turns. ‘We can’t afford another mouth to feed, so it’s no loss. Don’t wait up.’

  Less than a minute after Arthur leaves the house, there’s a loud rapping at the door.

  ‘Letter, miss.’ A boy stands on the step offering me a folded piece of paper. He’s young, about ten years old, and scruffy. Thick green mucus creeps from his left nostril. He sweeps it away with the heel of his hand, leaving a shiny streak on his grimy cheek.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The boy shrugs. ‘Dunno, but he paid me to bring it you.’

  I glance up and down the street. ‘Is he here?’

  The boy shakes his head and waves the letter. When I take it from him, he scampers away and soon disappears from view. I unfold the paper to find the signature of the sender, but as soon as I see the handwriting I freeze. Gathering my senses, I check the street for Arthur. My mouth is dry, and I’m dizzy. I close the door and lean against it, gasping for air. The letter is from William.

  Dearest Susan,

  Mr Brown said you’ve deserted him as a customer and that’s why you did not receive my notes. Is all well, dearest? I worry. Please reply to this letter, or better still, visit Mother and reassure us both that there’s no cause for concern.

  Not a day passes without me thinking of you. Mother thought you looked peaky the day she shared news of the wedding. Did you not find Jane charming? At first, I was glad you made her acquaintance. Now I worry her presence has affected our relationship.

  I’m at risk of rambling. Your husband is a dangerous man. I beg you to put our minds at rest.

  I long for your company. Without you, I am incomplete.

  Forever yours,

  William

  How dare he! I hold the letter to a candle flame and watch it burn to nothing. His promises of being together were as empty as Arthur’s heart. Did he think because I’m trapped in a loveless marriage, I would bless his union with the delightful Miss Hurst and continue to meet in secret? There was a time when I imagined becoming his wife. I didn’t realise he wanted me as a concubine. The tone of his letter confirms enduring feelings, but can a man love two women at the same time? Is it possible Miss Hurst knows of his affection and is unbothered?

  May God forgive me for falling in love with William. So many nights have passed when I have dreamed of uniting my body with his. From this day forward, I will push him from my mind. Forever.

  Chapter 38

  The aroma of baked apples fills the room. It reminds me of carefree autumn days spent in my mother’s kitchen rolling pastry, stewing fruits and making preserves. Mother was planning to visit this month but has succumbed to a malady of her chest so it would be unwise for her to inhale the filthy air of London. And anyway, my father needs her. He recovered well from his apoplexy two years ago but has become forgetful.

  ‘Baked apples again?’

  Arthur looks like he’s swallowed a wasp. The recent change to our eating habits has affected him adversely. While I relish the slackening of clothes against my shrinking flesh, Arthur is gaunt and short-tempered.

  ‘I don’t earn enough to provide us with hearty desserts,’ I reply. ‘Most of my wages go into the coffers for the cause.’

  Arthur huffs and puffs but tucks into his dish of two baked apples, making approving grunts with every mouthful. ‘You’ve done something different.’

  It’s unusual for him to notice.

  ‘I replaced the sugar with honey. We were each given a pot after our performance yesterday.’

  He scowls at this. The concert was part of a fundraising event organised by the wife of a government minister.

  ‘It was for a good cause, Arthur. You can’t hold a man’s wife responsible for the foolish ways of her husband.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘How was your meeting last night? Do you see a way forward?’

  To an outsider, it will appear as if Arthur has my full backing for every one of his decisions, but I loathe the man he has become and will do whatever it takes to part from him. I believe the only way to end my marital misery is to play the role of dutiful wife and encourage behaviour that will lead him back to gaol. I can only be free when Arthur is behind bars.

  Arthur shakes his head and lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘London is awash with lily-livers. There’s no prospect of starting a revolution here.’

  ‘So what will you do?’

  ‘The rebellion will start in Northern England. I would have preferred it to be in London, but the North’s more viable. We’ve a new fellow working with us, and he’s as eager as I to instigate change. He has the energy and passion required to persuade the other leaders to pursue a new direction. We’ll see how things go at tonight’s meeting.’

  A loud knock has Arthur rushing from the table towards the front door. ‘That’ll be him now. I told him to come here first. I have some ideas to run by him before I present them at the meeting.’

  A thin, pale-faced gentleman steps into our hallway. Arthur introduces him as Mr George Edwards. He’s of short stature, perhaps an inch or two shorter than me, and has a straight nose and grey eyes that give him a weasel-like appearance. Arthur escorts him to the parlour and makes a point of closing the door to prevent me from joining them.

  ‘How much money do you have?’ Art
hur’s face is florid. The skin at his temples flickers in tiny waves, betraying his repressed anger. ‘Empty your reticule.’

  I do as I’m bid and tip the contents onto the table – a simple tortoiseshell comb; a lace fan with a slight tear at the centre; a folded square of linen; and a handful of coins.

  Arthur sweeps the coins towards him. ‘Three shillings and sixpence. Is that it? Any money stashed in a hiding place?’

  ‘No, Arthur. You know we use my wages for your campaign leaving barely enough to cover the cost of food, candles and coal.’

  His eyes darken. I clamp my lips together, afraid I’ll say something inappropriate. Sometimes he gives me coins for an extra sack of coal, but I know nothing about the source of Arthur’s income. I suspect he’s reliant on his wits at gaming tables. Arthur storms out of the kitchen and his feet thud upstairs to our bedroom. I hear drawers being ripped open and cupboard doors banging. I hurry to join him.

  ‘Arthur, what are you doing?’

  ‘There must be money somewhere.’

  ‘Have you checked your pockets?’

  His glare suffices for an answer. He grasps the bedroom rug and heaves it to one side, throwing up a cloud of dust. My heart quickens as he studies the floorboards, then drops to his hands and knees.

  ‘Old houses like this often have hiding places beneath the boards.’ He removes a small dagger from somewhere inside his jacket. I’ve never seen this weapon before and wonder if he carries it all the time. Hairs rise on the back of my neck.

  He inserts the blade between two boards and manoeuvres it back and forth. ‘I knew it,’ he exclaims as one board lifts.

  My dress clings to my damp armpits and my palms turn clammy. I can’t recall whether I removed all my treasures from their hiding place or if I took only a few to conceal them in the yard. Arthur pulls out a small cloth bag. He turns it inside out and buttons tumble to the exposed floorboards. They resemble silver filigree but are mere imitations, remnants from a dress Mrs Hooper asked me to finish. I didn’t think she’d mind if I held on to a few spares.

  Arthur throws the buttons aside, scattering them in all directions. ‘Waste of time hoarding those.’

  ‘I think they’re pretty,’ I say, crawling to retrieve them, speaking in a tone that suggests I’ve not seen them before.

  Arthur sits back on his haunches. ‘Anything hidden in the kitchen?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Let us double-check. A bag of coins may have been stashed on a shelf for safekeeping and forgotten about.’

  With hesitant steps, I follow him back down the stairs.

  Arthur’s about to sweep a row of jars from a shelf when I reach out and grasp his arm to stop him. ‘No, Arthur! I can’t afford to replace the contents if you knock these to the floor. They’ll smash on the flagstones. Allow me.’

  My chest tightens as I lift down pots and jars. Arthur watches wide-eyed, unblinking, like a hunter stalking his prey.

  When every shelf is bare, Arthur staggers towards the table, his chin wobbling.

  ‘Tell me, Arthur, why such desperate behaviour?’

  Arthur slumps into a chair. ‘I need money to travel to Manchester. I thought the others would contribute, but between us we can’t raise sufficient funds. If we don’t go north and speak to our followers, their support will wane like everyone else’s.’

  I leave him to ruminate in silence while I clean the shelves and reload them with the pots and jars. At last, Arthur drags himself to his feet and shuffles into the hall. After putting on his winter coat, he leaves the house, slamming the door behind him.

  With slow deep breaths, I count to fifty, then hurry to look through the parlour window. The street is deserted. Satisfied Arthur’s not about to come back through the door, I dash to the kitchen and reach for the largest storage jar. I plunge my hand deep into the flour and retrieve a muslin bag. The weight of it confirms my savings are intact. For now.

  Chapter 39

  The soup is watery and disappointing. I begrudge the time spent boiling the carcass, skimming fat, and picking out the best bits of weary vegetables.

  Arthur has been subdued for days.

  ‘You mustn’t give up, Arthur, not after investing so many years trying to improve the plight of our people. You’ll think of an alternative way forward, I’m sure of it.’

  A newspaper lies folded on the table, and Arthur stares into the distance. His brow crinkles, but he says nothing.

  ‘Your mission’s important, and the real workers of this country need you. Someone has to overthrow our corrupt and selfish government, and that someone is you.’

  We spend the rest of the evening in silence. I sit and read, struggling to concentrate, fearful Arthur will abandon his cause. With no focus for his violent mind, what will become of me?

  Arthur fidgets in the armchair nearest the hearth. He takes out his snuffbox and flips the lid open, then snaps it shut and thrusts it back into his pocket.

  The fire dies. The temperature of the room plummets. Reluctantly, I close my book. It’s time for bed.

  As I turn the handle of the parlour door, Arthur says, ‘You were right, Susan.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The solution has become obvious. Now I know what to do.’ There’s a pause, then Arthur says, ‘I can’t think why I didn’t consider it before. There’s only one option.’ His smile is joyous and genuine.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say, reflecting his good humour.

  ‘Revolution’s not the answer. I must target members of the Cabinet.’

  ‘Target them for what?’

  ‘Assassination,’ he replies with a grin.

  Chapter 40

  A street vendor offers me a pear. I admire its perfect form and golden hue, then hand over a coin without a second thought. I didn’t intend to eat it right away, but as I navigate the dirty city streets, I clamp my teeth against the crisp autumn flesh. The pear is disappointing, the promise of juice unfulfilled and the fruit bland and lacking in sweetness. Things are not always as they seem.

  An elderly woman is kneeling on a street corner by Leicester Square and extends a clawed hand to every passer-by. Her face is dotted with scabs, her front teeth missing. I wonder what misfortune reduced her to such a pitiful plight and offer her the pear. She shakes her head and points to swollen gums before giving me a toothless smile. I’m ashamed of my thoughtlessness and hand over the last of my change, hoping she will find something warm to eat on this bitter December night.

  I finish the pear and drop the core into the gutter, adding it to a pile of detritus. The old woman has unsettled me. Anyone could end up in reduced circumstances. If Arthur went to prison, my wages would be adequate unless I became incapable of work.

  I cover my chin with my scarf, wishing I owned a thicker winter coat. I have enough money to buy one, but I’m not prepared to use the bulk of my savings. And how would I explain the extravagance without revealing my secret hoard?

  Arthur isn’t coming home this evening. These days, his meetings continue through the night and he stays out until morning, preferring not to risk catching the eye of a night patrolman. I consider a detour to Paternoster Row. I haven’t been there for so long, but it would add at least forty minutes to my walk, and I have no money for a coach. A flurry of snowflakes forces my decision and I head for home.

  There’s an eerie glow as darkness falls. The icy air stings my face, but the promise of a warm fire propels me forward. This evening, I will start reading Emma for the second time.

  A small stone works its way into my shoe. It’s sharp against my skin and I have no choice but to stop and remove it to prevent staining the grey fabric with blood. I have no other decent pair. Winter bites at my toes, my stockings offering no protection. The tiny jagged rock falls to the pavement. A pretty thing, grey and white with streaks of silver. It’s a wonder something so small can cause such discomfort. As I slide my foot back into the shoe, a horse and cart rumbles past, steam puffing out in clouds from the hor
se’s nostrils. His shoes clang against the cobbles at a tempo that encourages me to quicken my pace. I can’t keep up with the horse and am disappointed when it turns a corner, disappearing from view.

  When I reach Drury Lane, I stop dead. An echo repeats one… two… three times. My heartbeat quickens and I glance up and down the street. Even the prostitutes prefer to remain indoors tonight. A customer emerges from a gin shop and collides with me. He apologises then scuttles away, huddled over his purchase. I try to keep pace with him, noting his footsteps create no echo. He enters a dilapidated building, leaving me alone once more. I break into a run and turn into Prince’s Street, my skirts wrapping around my legs, threatening to tip me over. At last, Stanhope Street appears, and I gasp for breath at my front door. I turn the key in the lock and stand on the threshold, pausing before entering my home. A man turns the corner and stops. He holds my gaze until I withdraw from view. Whoever he was, he’ll not see me again tonight.

  Walking home alone for the third day in a row, I long for Anna’s companionship. George tumbled partway down a flight of stairs at the weekend and has been getting nasty headaches.

  A toy-trader has a wheeled horse on offer at a reduced price. There’s a tiny chip on one of the back legs, but it’s been rubbed smooth so as not to hurt a child. George will like it, so I spare a halfpenny hoping the toy will distract him from his suffering. The horse has a russet body with a golden mane and a white patch on its face. The wheels turn smoothly and there’s a length of string tied about the horse’s head, like a set of reins, so a child can pull it along.

  With the gift wrapped in brown paper, I continue on my way home. Anna lives three streets to the east of mine, so I ignore the turning for Stanhope Street. The neighbourhood is busy tonight, and I sense I’m being followed again. I take a sharp left then right and flatten myself against a brick wall. Beads of perspiration bubble on my brow. I count to twenty, wondering what to do if the stalker should appear before me. Nerves get the better of me and I scuttle towards Anna’s home. I glance over my shoulder and recognise the man behind me – the same one who followed me before. At the entrance to Anna’s building, I gasp with relief. The door is ajar. I dash inside and slam it shut, my heart hammering against my chest. Tears cascade down my cheeks. There’s a small boy playing in the doorway to his tenement and he looks up at me with wide eyes. I force a smile, then climb the stairs to Anna’s.