The Second Mrs Thistlewood Read online

It takes all my courage to keep my face impassive and stop my body from tensing. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Sometimes I’ve encountered situations I wouldn’t usually countenance, but after careful consideration I’ve known them to be right for me.’

  ‘For example?’

  My blossoming relationship with William, for one.

  ‘Planning to emigrate to America. It would have been a wonderful fresh start for us, and such a pity it wasn’t to be. My decision to work for Mrs Hooper is another example. You’re a gentleman, Arthur, and might have considered it unseemly for your wife to work, but I didn’t want us to fall into debt and did what I thought was right. I don’t regret my decision to work. In fact, I’ve flourished. I’ve dared to dream that one day you’ll allow me to open a dress shop of my own.’

  ‘We’ll wait and see about that. If plans unfold as we hope, I’ll be organising a new government and won’t have time for your foolish fancies. And anyway, owning a business is very different to working in someone else’s. What makes you think you could make it a success?’

  ‘Mrs Hooper established her business from nothing. I’m not afraid of hard work. I believe I could do the same.’

  Arthur snorts as he releases me. A rapping at the door brings a welcome distraction.

  ‘It’s probably for you,’ I say. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen.’

  A visit from Mr Edwards restores Arthur’s good humour. Mr Edwards has become a frequent guest, inciting Arthur’s bloodthirsty ambition and proposing violent ideas. I cannot help but like the man, for at every visit, he treats me with respect. And despite the theme of their conversations, Arthur remains in an agreeable mood for many hours afterwards.

  I purchased four ounces of tea this morning and it gives me pleasure to prepare a tray with new cups and saucers. Mother sent a note to say she fell in love with this delicate chinaware and thought I might appreciate a few pieces for myself.

  ‘A refreshing change from wine and ale,’ says Mr Edwards, with a kind smile.

  ‘I know it’s not the usual choice for a gentleman,’ I reply, ‘but I thought you’d want something warming after being in the snow.’

  Mr Edwards nods his approval and watches me pour. I feel a flush of pride because I suspect he’s admiring my physical attributes. I still carry plenty of flesh but having reduced the frequency of my sweet treats and preferring to load my dinner plate with vegetables these days, I know I have become more appealing to the eye. William said so.

  Arthur’s engrossed in an item in today’s New Times.

  ‘Arthur? What are you reading?’

  ‘A notice,’ he replies. ‘Lord Harrowby’s hosting a dinner. Look at this.’

  Arthur turns the newspaper so Mr Edwards and I may read. Printed on the second page is an announcement in bold print declaring a grand Cabinet dinner planned for tomorrow at Grosvenor Square. I have often wondered about this practice of publishing social events involving high-level political figures, for it informs discontented individuals of the whereabouts of those who have aggrieved them. But now, I’m grateful for it.

  ‘We must find the other committee members.’ There’s a glint in Arthur’s eyes. ‘Drink your tea, George. We have work to do.’

  Chapter 45

  A dish of candied walnuts sits untouched on the counter. My appetite is poor today.

  I struggled to sleep last night. The hours passed in a haze of anxiety as I tossed and turned, my night chemise sticking to my skin. Now, my mind will not attend to any one thing in particular, and I cannot tell a soul what troubles me. If Arthur persists with his plans, I will soon become a murderer’s wife.

  ‘Susan, are you sickening for something?’ Mrs Hooper considers me with her large honey-brown eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Hooper. I’m not myself today.’

  ‘Would you prefer to work in the sewing room, away from public view?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’d rather spend time with the customers. Conversation is a welcome distraction.’

  A tinkling sound from above the shop door signals the first patron of the day. Mrs Ridlington, an elderly lady of considerable charm and many a tale. I could not wish for a more talkative individual to keep me engaged for an hour or two. Mrs Hooper and I exchange smiles, and I step forward to welcome my favourite customer.

  While Mrs Ridlington chatters about her grandchildren, I wonder if William received my message that Arthur’s assault on the ministers is going ahead this evening. The day drags towards closing time. I have an ache deep behind my eyes and crave the comfort of sleep, but after work I excuse myself from walking home with Anna, using the pretext of a personal errand. My loyal friend does not pester for details but gives my hand a reassuring squeeze and urges me to be careful.

  Dirt and rubbish swirl at my feet and a biting wind whips at my inadequate coat. The air is thick with dust from coal fires, and my chest tightens as I scurry through the smog towards Mrs Westcott’s house. My eyes rove the murky streets, seeking any man, woman or child who might recognise me and report me to Arthur. While Arthur risks his life for his ideal, I risk mine as a Bow Street officer’s informant.

  When the house comes into view, I shrink towards the shadows of a narrow alley and check the street in both directions. A coach rattles by, the coachman’s eyes fixed on the road ahead while the occupants remain hidden behind a curtain. After what feels like several minutes, I run across the cobbles and knock twice on Mrs Westcott’s front door.

  ‘Please, come in,’ says a liveried butler, a recent addition to the household staff. ‘Mrs Westcott is expecting you.’

  I hesitate by the parlour door, but Mrs Westcott is quick to welcome me.

  ‘Susan, you’re here at last.’ Her smile fades and her expression turns grave. ‘William mentioned something serious might happen today and hoped you’d come here with information rather than risk being seen at Bow Street. He’s due home any time now.’

  I nod. A fluttering in my chest makes me nauseous. I try to ignore it.

  ‘Come, dear. Sit by the fire. You look as though you might freeze to death. Let us take tea. It will warm you.’

  Many hours have passed since I ate or drank, and I hope a cup of tea will ease my headache. I watch golden-brown liquid fall from the spout, then relish the fragrant steam rising from my cup. Mrs Westcott makes a soft, satisfied sigh, and we sit in companionable silence. A long-case clock announces the end of every quarter hour. Mrs Westcott does not push for conversation. Instead, she concentrates on a book and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

  When the clock strikes seven, my jaw muscles clench and my breathing quickens. ‘I should go.’ There’s a tremor in my voice. ‘If Arthur arrives home and I’m not there…’

  Mrs Westcott nods. ‘William will be sorry he missed you.’

  I drag myself to my feet, reluctant to leave.

  ‘You’re welcome here any time, dear, you know that don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ I reach inside my reticule and pull out the folded sheet of paper intended for William. ‘Does it bother you that I have feelings for William when I’m married to another man?’

  Mrs Westcott shakes her head. ‘Not at all. William has said enough about Mr Thistlewood for me to understand he isn’t a fit husband. No wife should have to endure a loveless marriage. I pray that, one day, women can petition for divorce from the monsters who masquerade as charming men. My son derives great pleasure from your company, my dear. I cannot ask more of any woman.’

  I pass the piece of paper to her. ‘If they don’t capture my husband tonight, it’s likely he’ll seek refuge at White Street in Moorfields. This is the address. Burn it when William has seen it. I can’t risk anyone discovering it was me who betrayed Arthur and his men, or that you were party to the information.’

  Mrs Westcott tucks the paper into the bodice of her dress. ‘Understood. My carriage will take you home.’

  ‘No! I mustn’t do anything unusual. I’ll walk.’

  ‘Then it will drop you at Drury Lane
. Don’t wander the streets alone, my dear. Not tonight.’

  I wonder how much she knows.

  Despite exhaustion, sleep eludes me for a second night. Arthur’s space in the bed stays cold while I fidget, wondering what has become of him. The street outside is eerily silent. There are no shouts of shocking news, no banging at the front door from officers seeking Arthur. Did he abandon the mission? It’s the not knowing that’s hard to cope with. Please God, let Arthur be dead. Or, at least, a wanted man.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A gaunt image stares back, violet-grey shadows highlighting tired red eyes. My face looks narrow and pinched, my hair flat. I consider returning to bed, but my loyalty to my employer prevents me from doing so, and Anna will be here at any moment.

  At a quarter after eight, I open my front door. Anna is standing there, as I knew she would be, but she’s not alone. A tall gentleman stands next to her and strikes a confident pose in a double-breasted jacket and hunting boots. I recognise him from Bow Street. William once addressed him as Fernside.

  ‘Mrs Thistlewood,’ he says, his face solemn.

  ‘I will make your excuses to Mrs Hooper,’ offers Anna. ‘She’ll understand.’ Anna gives a sympathetic smile before bidding us both a farewell and resuming her walk to work.

  ‘Is Mr Thistlewood home?’

  I shake my head. ‘Haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.’ Curious onlookers stand in the street, gawking. ‘Come in.’

  Officer Fernside steps through the door and I close it behind him. We stay in the hallway, facing one another.

  ‘Were you not concerned by his failure to return home? Is it usual for your husband to stay out all night?’

  ‘It’s not unusual. He enjoys the company of like-minded men and they often discuss politics late into the night.’ I choose my words carefully. William does not want his fellow officers to know of my informant role.

  ‘Do you know what happened last night?’

  ‘No. Is my husband injured?’ I swallow hard, bracing myself for the news he is about to share.

  ‘Arthur Thistlewood killed a man.’

  The news falls like a blow to my stomach, and I stumble backwards. At last he’s in serious trouble, but it cost someone their life.

  ‘There’s a warrant for his arrest, and the magistrates have dispatched a group of officers to pick him up.’

  My breaths are fast and shallow. The walls ripple and blur. ‘A group?’

  ‘Your husband fled the scene of a murder. Others are on the wanted list too, but your husband dealt the fatal blow.’

  ‘You’re sure it was Arthur?’

  ‘There were witnesses.’

  I lean back against the wall and press my palms against the striped paper. The hallway seems to tilt. I’m giddy with relief. ‘Who did he…?’ My voice fades. I’m loath to acknowledge the true cost of my happiness.

  ‘A young fellow by the name of Smithers. He didn’t deserve to die. Murdered by your husband’s sword.’

  A mother and father have been robbed of their son and I’m saddened by this.

  ‘My husband did what he thought best for the country. I’m sure he didn’t intend for Mr Smithers to die.’ My words lack conviction, but I must play my part of loyal wife.

  ‘So, you support his actions?’

  ‘Not at all. But I share his dreams of an honest government and improved rights for the common man.’ An image of a stricken officer enters my thoughts. I see Arthur run him through with a long sharp blade and the man collapses in a pool of blood. ‘A life should not have ended.’

  I thank God only one life was taken when many more murders were planned.

  The officer gives me a hard stare. ‘We have to search these premises.’

  I straighten my posture and look him in the eye. ‘Now?’

  ‘Later. First, you’re wanted at Bow Street for questioning.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  Steeling myself for a gruelling day, I open the front door. The officer steps outside and extends his hand for my door key. He must worry I’ll return to conceal evidence. We walk side by side. Every now and again I break into a trot to keep pace with his long strides. I hear Bow Street before I see it. A large crowd is assembling in front of the magistrates’ offices, and the mood is angry, women as vocal as men. It’s hard to make out their words but I hear Arthur’s name several times. A coach arrives at the far end of the street and the mob surges towards it. Several officers swarm from the building, creating a divide in the throng of protesters. One officer opens the door to the coach and the shape of a man emerges. For a moment, I pity that man. He looks old, withered and shabby. He removes his hat and waves it in the air as if celebrating good news. Then I realise it’s Arthur.

  ‘Murderer,’ screeches a woman.

  ‘Hang the villain,’ shouts a man.

  The crowd echoes the protests, chanting them over and over. They press forward, each individual trying to get near to Arthur and shove him or spit in his face. Four Runners move in to surround him, while others clear a path towards the court house.

  ‘Come,’ says Officer Fernside, slipping in behind Arthur’s escort and dragging me by my sleeve.

  Once inside, they lead Arthur to an anteroom next to the courtroom, kicking the door shut to deny him the chance to see me. I’m taken to a small office upstairs and instructed to stay put until another officer is available to question me.

  I relish a few minutes alone, reliving the magnificent spectacle of Arthur under arrest. He cannot hurt me now.

  Chapter 46

  Last night, I slept well, but whether because of fatigue or relief that Arthur is no longer a danger to me is hard to say. It may have been for both reasons. Thank goodness Mrs Hooper was generous enough to grant a leave of absence for a few days while I adjust to my new circumstances. Plenty of other employers would have dismissed a killer’s wife, but she refused to hold me responsible for the actions of my violent husband.

  A steaming bowl of oatmeal sits on the table, taunting me. A large knob of butter rests on top, melting into a glorious, unctuous yellow liquid that will add richness to my breakfast when I stir it in. I’ve indulged in adding a spoonful of my best leaves to the teapot, and steam climbs from the teacup in delicate fragrant curls. When I raise the cup to my mouth, a fierce hammering at the door destroys my peace.

  ‘Stand aside.’ A hefty Bow Street Officer steps across my threshold, beckoning three others to follow.

  William is among their group. Our eyes meet and he makes a subtle gesture to reassure me all will be well. My house has already had a preliminary search, and a constable returned my key. No doubt they intend a more thorough job this time, and they’re welcome to it. I’ve already checked that Arthur had neither blades nor shot hidden here.

  The four officers turn out chests and drawers. Determined to maintain my composure, I return to the kitchen, hoping my oatmeal has not yet gone cold. A puddle of butter waits to be mixed in, and I sit at the table to give it the attention it needs. I’m relieved to see it’s William who searches the kitchen. He stifles a chuckle at my reluctance to let wonderful food go to waste and watches me load the spoon and raise it to my lips.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to do this,’ he says in a quiet voice, removing a lid from a pan and sending it clattering across the flagstones.

  I shrug and continue eating. ‘It’s your duty.’

  Heavy footsteps thud across the ceiling, followed by the sound of floorboards being ripped from their fixings. I take a sip of tea and wonder about my future. I have no wish to stay in this house. It reeks of Arthur. The smell will fade with time, but the rooms echo with unpleasant memories. Later I’ll discuss it with Anna. Perhaps we might share lodgings in a better location away from the slums. Somewhere safe to raise George. The thought makes me smile.

  William reaches for the canister of flour and my smile fades.

  ‘Must you look in there?’

  William pauses.

  ‘Find anyth
ing?’ asks the burly officer in charge of this operation. He takes the canister from William and wrenches off the lid. ‘What’s this?’ he asks, withdrawing a flour-coated hand clutching my precious cloth parcel.

  ‘Savings,’ I reply, keeping my voice steady.

  ‘Money for weapons, more like.’

  He’s trying to goad me. I must stay calm. ‘My wages don’t stretch far, but I try to put a little aside each week. I doubt it would be possible to buy arms of any significance with that paltry stash.’

  ‘Anything else hidden?’

  I shake my head. My treasured possessions are all on display in the parlour where I can enjoy them.

  ‘You’re very calm, Mrs Thistlewood.’

  I press my fingertips together and tilt my head to the side. ‘Because I’ve done nothing wrong. I agreed with my husband that action was needed to improve the running of this country, but taking innocent lives would never achieve it.’

  ‘So, you knew about the plan?’

  William gives a quick shake of his head.

  ‘Not until yesterday after my husband’s arrest.’

  The officer glares, then storms into the yard to continue his search.

  William moves towards the hallway. As he draws level with me, he whispers, ‘Keep heart, my love, this will soon be over, and we’ll continue from where we left off.’

  I smile. ‘I long for that day.’

  His hand brushes against my shoulder. ‘Until then, resume our routine at Paternoster Row. No one must suspect a thing between us, for both our sakes.’

  I nod and he leaves me alone with my cold breakfast. Fat globules sit on the surface of the oatmeal, and my appetite evaporates.

  Last night I had a dream that Arthur was back at home and beating me for not visiting him in gaol. The nightmare left a flicker of doubt in my mind, and I must protect myself in case he is ever freed.

  Arthur’s in the Bloody Tower guarded by yeoman gaolers. To keep the façade of a devoted wife, I visit in the afternoon.