The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 8

  ‘Hence the demand for revolution,’ mutters Arthur.

  ‘The entire system is wrong,’ declares Mr Hunt, his voice gaining volume as he rehearses for Friday. ‘With fences enclosing what was common land, the poor can’t trap wild animals to feed their hungry children. The middle classes can’t vote because they don’t own enough land to meet the eligibility criteria, and the rich grow richer and abuse their position by making inappropriate decisions for the running of our country. How is that fair? And how will things improve if the wealthy members of our society continue supporting each other’s ambitions while depriving those who would take them on in a fair fight?’

  ‘How do you propose to bring about change, Mr Hunt?’

  Words are all very well. I want to know what action he proposes.

  ‘After attending rallies and hearing about the need for change, men and women will unify into one loud voice, petition the government, and make themselves heard. Such mass cohesion will instil a fear of riots and that fear will be enough to provoke Lord Liverpool and his men to change.’

  Arthur sucks in his cheeks and stares at me, unblinking. ‘Leave us, Susan. We have things to discuss in private.’

  ‘As you wish. Farewell, Mr Hunt.’

  I stack the emptied plates and carry them to the kitchen, irritated by Arthur’s dismissive attitude.

  ‘The political tide will soon turn.’ Arthur’s black mood has lifted. He smiles, watching me undress and prepare for bed.

  ‘That’s marvellous news,’ I say, discomforted by his scrutiny. ‘Mr Hunt has a captivating presence about him. No wonder he attracts a crowd.’

  ‘That’s why we want him at our rally,’ says Arthur, clambering into bed beside me and dragging chilly air beneath the sheets. ‘As he said, we must instil fear into the government if we want change. When words fail, and they will, we’ll use weapons to frighten those who are ruining this country.’

  As Arthur rants about a need for revolution, I realise his lust for bloodshed could give me the freedom I yearn for.

  Especially if he’s caught doing something illegal.

  Chapter 17

  Arthur’s pensive when he arrives home. It’s not until Nancy serves the most delicious poached pears that he relaxes and starts talking about his day.

  ‘Hunt was as popular as we hoped with the crowd. We definitely have more supporters now.’

  Juice drips from my spoon to my dress, narrowly missing the white lace trim of my bodice. I dab at my skirt, regretting the wastage. ‘I’m not surprised. He’s a rousing speaker and has an aura about him.’

  Arthur grunts and slurps red wine syrup from his bowl. ‘I think interest will continue to grow. There were a few thousand disgruntled citizens present today. They’ll spread the word and swell the crowd even more for our next meeting.’ He leans forward and waggles a finger at me. ‘The political tide is turning, Susan.’

  I study the lines and creases of his face and the cold glint in his eyes. This man is a monster.

  ‘What will happen when you get the level of support you seek?’

  A flicker of a smile ripples across his lips. ‘Go to war.’

  Images of maimed bodies rush into my mind. I shudder.

  Arthur narrows his eyes. ‘You sympathise with Liverpool and his cronies now, do you, Susan?’

  ‘No. Far from it.’ I soften my voice. ‘I dream of better lives for everyone. Something must be done, and soon. Mr Hunt’s advice to use intelligence in preference to force is all very well, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  I breathe in and out, steadying my nerve. What I’m about to do relies on grown men having the strength to defend themselves against Arthur. I’m putting other people in danger, but it’s for my own safety, and I’m relying on Arthur being arrested before anything serious occurs.

  ‘Words are easy to forget, but actions are memorable. Do something that will cost the Cabinet members personally, and by any means necessary.’

  Arthur’s expression softens. ‘Good to know I have your support. Can I trust you?’

  ‘Trust me with what?’

  I stare towards the measly fire dying in the grate. Arthur insisted I was frugal with coal.

  He sniffs. ‘Now and again you might hear things. I don’t intend to hold many meetings at home, but if I do, you must speak of them to no one.’

  ‘Your campaign’s no secret.’

  ‘No, but successful battles rely on the precise sharing of information, telling only those who need to know and when they need to know it. Timing is crucial.’

  ‘I’ll not divulge anything, Arthur, I swear.’

  Arthur considers me for a moment, then grins. ‘We plan to seize the Tower of London.’

  The man’s a fool! I stifle a laugh. ‘The Tower?’

  His face is aglow, his eyes gleaming. ‘The Bank of England too. And, Susan, we’ll destroy the bridges over the Thames and take control of the city.’

  ‘How?’

  Arthur sits up straight and fiddles with his cravat. ‘I have visited barracks and guardrooms where discontent is rife. Many soldiers have pledged allegiance to us. The hungry, ill-treated workers will see we’re building a proper army, and we’ll rise together. It will be a perfect storm.’

  Arthur’s insane. I smile. He interprets my smile as admiration of the plan and we sit in silence for several minutes, each lost in our own thoughts.

  Arthur takes out his snuffbox and flips open the lid. ‘I regret to share disappointing news now.’ He selects a pinch of snuff as if it were a precious jewel. ‘We’re running out of money. Nancy has to go.’

  ‘Oh.’ I lower my gaze to my lap and pick at a caught thread. If Nancy leaves, Arthur will expect me to stay at home to cook and clean. I’ll have less time to spend with Beckey and Anna. My happiest hours are those I spend outside the house. ‘Shouldn’t we honour the agreed twelve-month term?’

  Arthur snorts. ‘Under normal circumstances, yes, but I’ve found an alternative position for her. Mr Castle has agreed to take her on.’

  ‘In what capacity? He didn’t strike me as a gentleman in need of a housemaid.’

  Arthur ignores my question. ‘Julian will leave Charterhouse, too.’

  ‘No!’ I won’t let Arthur’s madness ruin Julian’s future. ‘He has a scholarship. You don’t pay fees.’

  ‘But I have to clothe him, buy books and dress you to a standard befitting of a Charterhouse parent.’

  ‘But, Arthur, my clothes are in fine condition and I handle them with care. Julian has plenty of room to grow into his uniform. Bringing him home will add another hungry mouth to feed, so isn’t it more cost-effective to leave him where he is?’

  Arthur sighs. ‘I suppose so. We don’t have to visit the school so he can stay for now. And there’s one more thing,’ says Arthur, fiddling with his spoon. ‘We can’t stay in this house. We’ll move to cheaper lodgings.’

  ‘Dear God!’ My hand flies to my mouth as I struggle to resist a torrent of sobs. ‘Where will we go?’

  Arthur shrugs. ‘We’ve no need of this grandeur. I’ll find somewhere with fewer rooms. Something easy for you to manage alone.’

  I’m speechless. Arthur has enjoyed opulent surroundings in the past – as have I. My father’s butchery business provides a large income and a spacious comfortable home for my mother, but Arthur and I have only two bedrooms and the garret. Thousands of families cope with properties smaller than this and I should not be ungrateful, but must we live like paupers?

  Arthur takes my silence as acceptance.

  ‘That’s settled then. I’ll be out until late tonight, so don’t wait up.’ He rises from his chair and strides out of the room.

  When the front door closes behind him, I flee from the parlour and scamper up the stairs, eager to avoid Nancy. As I enter the bedroom, I glimpse the blue wrapping paper of Mr Westcott’s gift and fall to my knees, distraught. If our funds are as low as Arthur suggests, my trips to Paternoster Row are over. I reach out and car
ess the ribbon, vowing to keep the package wrapped as a promise of a happier future while I pursue a campaign to rid myself of Arthur.

  A creaking on the stairs announces Arthur’s return. He creeps to my side of the bed. I keep my eyelids closed, feigning deep sleep, and resist the urge to wrinkle my nose at the revolting concoction of odours emanating from his body. The bittersweet fragrance of burnt tobacco and the stale tang of sweat mingle with fumes of gin and cheap wine.

  Arthur’s fingertips brush against my cheek. I hold my nerve and do not flinch, keeping my breaths slow and regular. At last he shuffles away. I’m alone in the room, and the tension evaporates from my muscles.

  Arthur’s footsteps retreat along the hallway, heading towards the staircase. There’s a moment of silent hesitation, then the groaning of stairs. My heartbeat quickens and I sit up in bed wondering if my ears deceive me. Footsteps creak above the ceiling, confirming Arthur is in the garret. Curious, I wrap myself in a blanket and slip out of bed. I make my way to the bottom of the staircase, avoiding the squeaky floorboards, straining to detect noises from above. Several minutes pass. Nothing. But then my patience is rewarded. A muffled conversation with no distinct words. I mount the lower stairs, placing my feet to the sides where I know they’ll make no sound.

  Halfway up, I pause and listen. Silence. Arthur and Nancy must be sleeping. Fatigue engulfs me and I turn to head back down to the bedroom. As I lower one foot to the step below, a noise stops me. Hands gripping the banister, I stand still. There it is again. A soft smacking sound of lips joining and separating in passionate kisses.

  A giggle tumbles down the stairs followed by the creaking of a bedframe. Muted moans ricochet off the walls.

  ‘Shh!’ says Nancy.

  There’s a volley of panting, then a loud, satisfied sigh.

  I perch on a stair, cocooned in darkness, brimming with optimism. If I can prove Arthur’s adultery and violent mistreatment, I will have legitimate grounds to petition for divorce.

  Chapter 18

  The bread tilts and flops from the fork, landing between flames and settling on dusty coals. It doesn’t matter. I have no appetite for breakfast – a small blessing as Arthur has finished the rest of the loaf. With a busy schedule today, he won’t have time for another meal until this evening.

  Our new routine suits me well. Arthur stays out late most days, and when he comes home, it’s not my sleep he disturbs but Nancy’s. My bruises are fading, the tenderness gone, and I am almost whole again. This is a mixed blessing because if my life is not in danger, I cannot petition for divorce. But I’m willing to bide my time. It won’t be long before Arthur crosses to the wrong side of the law.

  My relationship with Nancy has altered. While my husband favours her with his attention, we cannot pretend to be friends, so I’ve insisted she respect me as her mistress. She may no longer call me by my given name and will attend to her chores without my help.

  Arthur has enjoyed a winning streak at the gaming tables, so much so that he has given me a large wad of notes from which there will be enough to pay Nancy and the rent for a few months yet. As delighted as I am with this windfall, I dread to think what state we’d be in now if he had played and lost. I’ve stowed the money in a hiding place known only to me, ready for when Arthur’s luck changes.

  And so Nancy continues working for us. Her fulsome breasts attract Arthur’s gaze as she leans forward to remove dishes from the table. It’s a welcome sight. While she keeps Arthur’s attention, I need not fear what he’ll do to me.

  Flames curl at the edges of the stricken slice of bread. It blackens and releases acrid smoke that makes me cough. As I wave a newspaper to clear the air, a piece of coal spits onto the rug, releasing the stench of burning wool. I grasp a pair of tongs and fling the coal back into the grate, then stamp on the charred carpet. This little drama unsettles me. Now I have an unpleasant feeling about the day ahead.

  Dear Anna is poorly. The cool damp summer followed by a sodden autumn has encouraged mould growth on the wet walls of her home. The harvests were poor, and food prices have risen so high that Anna cannot spare money to buy coal. To think we could have been neighbours, and I might have shared her plight. This sobering thought makes me more sensitive to her suffering.

  As Beckey unloads a basket of food, I perch on Anna’s bed and rub her back. It’s heart-breaking to watch her fight for breath while her chest rattles, clogged with infection.

  ‘Here, take this.’ I press a shilling into her hand.

  Anna widens her eyes and tightens her fingers around the coin. ‘Thank you,’ she says, before a fit of coughing steals her strength and colours her lips blue. How desperate she must be to accept my charity without protest. I rearrange her pillows and cushions, propping her up to make it easier for her to breathe, then Beckey feeds her several sips of a thick syrup.

  ‘What are you giving her?’

  ‘White horehound. Samuel suggested hemlock, but I’m wary of giving Anna something that might poison her while she’s weak. The horehound will improve her appetite and help clear her lungs.’

  George sits in the corner, eyes wide with fear, watching his mother suffer.

  ‘Come here, little man,’ I say, scooping him up with my hands and hugging him close.

  George touches my face with pudgy fingers and my heart swells with affection. Tears prick as my yearning for a baby returns, even though it seems unlikely I’ll have a son or daughter of my own. I inhale the childish scent of George’s skin and nuzzle his neck, eliciting a torrent of giggles.

  ‘Who’s looking after the little ones while you’re unwell?’ I ask, for Anna is in no fit state to care for her neighbours’ children.

  ‘Mary King,’ replies Anna, between gasps.

  ‘Mrs King?’ I exclaim. ‘The same Mrs King we had the pleasure of meeting not long after you had George?’

  Anna manages a weak smile and nods.

  ‘Just goes to show how terrible times bring out the best in people,’ says Beckey.

  ‘Shall I ask her to look after George so you can rest, Anna? I’m sure sleep will help you recover.’

  Anna reaches for my hand. ‘Mary offered… but George screamed... He might… settle with her… now.’

  ‘Upstairs, two flights up, directly above,’ says Beckey.

  ‘Shan’t be long.’ I capture George’s attention by bouncing him in my arms and pulling funny faces.

  I hear the noise from Mrs King’s home long before I reach the top of the stairs. There’s a brief lull in the shrieks and laughter of happy children, and I take the opportunity to knock three times.

  A girl who looks about eight years old pulls the door open. ‘You’re not George’s mother.’

  ‘His mother is sick, and I was hoping Mrs King might take George for an hour or two.’

  ‘Ma, George’s ’ere,’ shouts the girl, keeping her eyes fixed on me.

  Mrs King looms behind her. ‘At last, Anna has come to her senses and accepted me offer,’ she says, taking George from my arms.

  I glance inside the room and count six children excluding George.

  Mrs King smiles. ‘Seeing me differently now, aren’t you? I’m not a wicked person, you know.’

  ‘Can you cope with so many children?’

  I expect a sharp retort, but her tone remains amicable. ‘I’m the eldest of eight, so Ma always relied on me. I’ll be fine, but you’re welcome to stay awhile.’

  Her offer is genuine and unexpected. With regret, I decline. ‘We have to make more house calls. Perhaps another time.’

  I blow a kiss to George and hurry back downstairs. As I bustle through Anna’s door, Beckey puts a finger to her lips and we creep around gathering our things. Anna has fallen asleep.

  I sit in my armchair, wiggling my toes in front of the fire. I’m tired. Heavy rain has dampened everyone’s spirits, and together with the ever-increasing cost of buying food, it has left the poor hungry and vulnerable to illness. Coughs and sneezes reverberate in every bu
ilding and it’s a wonder I haven’t succumbed. Most of those we tended to today were children, their widowed mothers almost penniless and unable to pay for medicine. Beckey and I did as much as we could, drawing on Samuel’s generosity and a few coins from my secret hoard.

  I close my eyes and rest my head against the back of the chair, but the moment I drift off to sleep, I’m disturbed by a visitor pummelling at the door.

  ‘On me way,’ yells Nancy as she hurries from the kitchen.

  I sit bolt upright in the chair, straining to hear a muffled conversation and learn what brings a caller so late in the evening.

  Nancy taps on the door to the parlour, then steps inside without waiting for my invitation. ‘Sorry to bother you, mistress, but there’s a youth here to see you. I tried to shoo him away, but he’s having none of it. Says he won’t leave until he’s spoken to you in person.’

  A skinny boy follows Nancy into the room. He’s panting and his cheeks are crimson. ‘Sorry to barge in, missus, but you’ll be wanting to hear this.’

  The boy wears shabby clothes and his skin is grey with grime. He looks about twelve or thirteen years of age, and it would not surprise me to learn he works long hours in a factory. The tension in his facial muscles suggests now is not the time for casual conversation.

  ‘Well? What do you wish to tell me with such urgency?’

  The boy squirms. ‘There was chaos.’

  ‘Where?’ My mouth has gone dry. Let him be the bearer of the news I’ve been waiting for. ‘Is Mr Thistlewood injured?’