The Second Mrs Thistlewood

by Dionne Haynes

  Arthur turns to face me and my legs quiver.

  He beams at me. ‘Time to eat that delicious-smelling gingerbread.’

  Julian and I exchange fleeting glances. I want to embrace the boy, reassure him that all will be well, but I daren’t. Instead, we troop towards the kitchen and settle at the table, pretending to enjoy the gingerbread that sticks in our throats.

  ‘I need fresh air,’ I say, preparing to push myself up from my chair.

  ‘It’s too late to be out by yourself and I’m expected at Watson’s this evening. You’ll stay indoors.’

  I glance at the window. It’s bright outside with dusk at least an hour away. Julian discreetly clears his throat.

  ‘Julian can escort me,’ I say. ‘It’ll be an opportunity to show his maturity.’ I look at Julian and he gives a small grateful smile. ‘Arthur? Will you let him go with me for one turn about the park?’

  Arthur rises to his feet, the chair legs screeching across the flagstones. ‘Stand up.’ His left eyebrow twitches and his nostrils flare.

  I catch my breath and do as he commands. My knees tremble and I bite down hard on my bottom lip.

  ‘I said you will remain indoors.’

  ‘But Arthur, it’s still light.’ I regret uttering the words the moment they fall from my lips.

  Arthur steps towards me, his eyes narrowed and upper lip twitching. I should apologise, but the words remain buried in my throat. I lift my head and we lock gazes. Julian slips out of his chair and stands beside the table. I raise my hand to offer him reassurance when I’m struck by the full force of Arthur’s palm against the left side of my jaw. The blow knocks me sideways. I stumble and fall, landing on my right side. My cheek stings and my hip throbs. I try to get up, but my legs have turned weak and I flounder helplessly.

  Veins bulge in Arthur’s neck. Saliva bubbles at the corners of his mouth. His staring eyes are flinty and there’s a tight smile on his lips. He reaches for me with one hand and grasps my wrist, pulling me upright. As soon as I’m standing, he drives his knee deep into my belly. Doubled over, I fight for breath, but the air won’t come. My vision greys and I sink to my knees, then collapse onto the unforgiving floor.

  The cold flagstones revive me. No husband should treat his wife this way. I feel a rush of energy, and rage surges through my veins. I drag air into my lungs and take a moment to gather my senses. The strength returns to my muscles and I clamber up from the floor. Howling, I lunge at Arthur, pommel his chest and kick hard at his shins, eager to give him a fraction of the pain he so often inflicts upon me. Arthur’s strong. He grasps my wrists and throws me against the kitchen table. I glance around, desperate for Julian to intervene, but he has left the room. Arthur pins me to the table top, then wraps his fingers tight around my neck.

  He snarls like a vicious dog. ‘You took a vow to obey. Do not disrespect me again.’

  Arthur cocks his head to one side and watches me thrash about, fighting for air. There’s a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when I attempt to kick him away, but he presses his thighs against my shins, and I waste my effort. He relaxes the grip on my neck, and I take gulping breaths. Arthur smooths away invisible creases on his jacket, then turns to leave the kitchen.

  I lie there on the table, gasping, staring at deep cracks in the ceiling. My heart pounds and my chest aches. Every day, from the moment I wake, I fear Arthur’s violent tempers.

  I have to end this marriage.

  Chapter 4

  We huddle together in front of the fire, slices of bread skewered to the ends of our toasting forks. Usually I toast the bread alone and deliver it to the table, but the bite in the air and Arthur’s good humour have brought the three of us together by the warmth of the hot coals. Julian is impatient and insists on removing his fork from the heat too soon, so his slice remains pale, limp and unable to draw the butter into its fabric.

  Wisps of smoke rise from the bread, fragrant with the delicious aroma of breakfast. With our slices evenly coloured, Arthur and I make a dash for the table. After dabbing several small chunks of butter on to the toast, we watch the golden yellow puddles melt, then add a sparing layer of home-made apple jam. This March morning started with a frost and the fire is struggling to heat the kitchen, so we are all dressed in extra layers and relishing the warm sweet tea in our cups.

  Arthur finishes his breakfast and blots his mouth with a corner of the tablecloth. ‘The cost of bread will rise again soon,’ he says, his expression turning serious. ‘Time to be frugal with your spending.’

  It’s already a struggle to buy decent meat and undamaged vegetables on the pittance Arthur gives me each week. ‘They intend to pass the Corn Bill?’

  ‘They do. Fools! They’ll inflict poverty, the scale of which this country has never seen.’

  ‘Why would parliament pass such a bill? Do they not see those already starving on our streets?’ Every time I step outdoors, I’m confronted by young children begging for scraps.

  Arthur sighs. ‘The country’s governed by men who refuse to acknowledge the effects of their selfish actions. They’ll forbid corn imports until the price at home rises above ten shillings a bushel.’

  ‘Ten shillings! That’s extortionate.’

  ‘It is. Landowners and farmers won’t complain. They’ll make more money. With war in France likely to end soon, we should start importing corn again, but the rich whoresons are blocking the competition and dashing every hope of lower prices. With workers spending most of their wages on bread, they’ll not be able to afford much else, so all prices will rise. Clothes, shoes, linen, coal, everything.’

  The larder already holds little in reserve, and Arthur is unlikely to raise my housekeeping allowance so I’ll have to make sacrifices like thousands of other women.

  Arthur sniffs. ‘We’ll do what we can to protest but we can’t stop the bill from passing.’ He turns to Julian. ‘I hope to have splendid news for you within the next few days.’

  ‘What news, sir?’ asks Julian, eyes bright with expectation.

  ‘Thanks to a worthy contact or two, I expect confirmation of a place at Charterhouse.’

  ‘What’s Charterhouse?’

  ‘A school. It’s time you had a decent education. Your stepmother has performed well, but her breadth of knowledge is limited.’

  I clamp my lips together and work hard to keep my expression impassive.

  ‘If things were different, I’d oversee your lessons, but I’m occupied with affairs of my own and cannot commit the time required for a proper schoolroom, therefore you must go away to learn.’

  Julian’s face drops.

  I place the tip of my index finger beneath his chin and force him to look at me. I want him to understand this change will be good for him. ‘Charterhouse has an excellent reputation.’

  Although we’ve heard tales of bullying at such institutions, Julian will fare better there, for neither of us is without bruises these days.

  Arthur is oblivious to his son’s disappointment. ‘I see a glorious future for you, Julian. I hope you’ll continue your studies at Oxford or Cambridge before embarking on a career that will improve the lives of our fellow countrymen.’

  ‘What type of career, sir?’ Julian asks, his voice cracking.

  ‘Perhaps law, or politics?’

  Julian hangs his head. ‘I had hopes for an office apprenticeship. I’m competent with numbers and my handwriting is tidy.’

  ‘You want to sit at a desk all day, hunched over a page of numbers? Has your stepmother turned you soft?’

  Arthur pounds his clenched fist against the solid oak table top, causing us both to jump. I study scars left in the wood by the previous occupants of this house. There are deep gouges and black scorch marks, and I wonder if they appeared during happy family gatherings or volatile confrontations.

  Julian clears his throat. ‘Just a passing thought, sir. We must all do our bit to help those who are less fortunate and a career in politics would achieve that. My stepmother ha
s often said I should use my knowledge for the greater good.’

  The boy is a wonder. For several years, we have supported each other against Arthur’s volatile moods. My heart will fracture when he goes away to school. But with Julian absent from the house, it will be easier to leave Arthur and not worry about the repercussions for my stepson.

  ‘Thank you for securing this opportunity, sir. I promise to work hard at my studies and make you proud.’

  Arthur’s eyes are alight with pride and Julian forces a smile.

  Arthur excuses himself from the table. Julian waits for creaking sounds to announce Arthur’s ascent of the stairs. He rises from his chair and hesitates long enough for me to see tears in his eyes, then hurls himself at me and clings tightly.

  ‘Will you be safe here without me?’ he says.

  Arthur flings open the kitchen door, creating a waft of chilly air. He staggers towards me, and I step back to avoid his flailing arms. I can’t remember the last occasion Arthur was in such a state. He lowers himself onto a chair and tugs at his boots, removing one at a time and flinging them across the room. He rests his head on the kitchen table and closes his eyes. Cautiously, I approach. The flickering candlelight distorts the features of his face, making him ghoulish. His lips are parted and the cadence of his breathing suggests he has fallen asleep. I ease off his coat, praying I succeed without waking him. There’s a long tear on one side which I must repair at first light because Arthur has no spare. Arthur stirs and heaves himself upright, groaning. I gasp and cover my mouth with my hands. There’s a large bloodstain on his shirt.

  Arthur opens one eye and peers at me from beneath a drooping lid. ‘What?’

  ‘Your shirt’s covered with blood. Were you in a brawl?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he murmurs.

  ‘But you’re injured.’

  Arthur puts his elbows on the table and props his forehead on his hands. ‘’Tisn’t my blood.’

  He reeks of stale alcohol.

  ‘Whoremongers did it.’ He waggles a finger at me. ‘Passed the Corn Law. I’ve had a… gruelling day.’

  ‘At a Spenceans meeting?’

  ‘No. Better. I stupported… supported a protest.’ He belches and grins. ‘Broken glass everywhere. From the rocks.’

  ‘You threw rocks?’ I can’t imagine Arthur doing such a thing.

  He stares into the distance. ‘At Robinson’s house. Asked for it. Pushed for the Born Kill… Corn Bill.’ Arthur strokes the patch of dried blood. ‘Troops fired.’ He hiccoughs. ‘Proper bullets.’

  ‘Surely not!’

  He laughs. ‘Bullet killed a man. Brains blown out. Time for revloo… revolution. A proper war.’

  Arthur’s lids slide over his eyes and his breaths become slow and regular. As I watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, hatred boils within me. I know he’d refuse to grant a divorce, and I’ll not risk a beating by asking. I imagine plunging a knife deep into his chest and watching him draw his final gurgling breath. A butcher’s daughter, I’m not squeamish and have slaughtered many chickens and lambs. But my liberty would be short-lived, and I’d hang for my crime.

  I deserve a better life than this. No matter how long it takes, I’ll find a way to set myself free.

  Chapter 5

  I feel sick, but whether it’s because of the smell of greasy juices oozing through the pastry casing of a mutton pie or the unseasonably chilly weather this April, I cannot tell. I angle my face towards the cloudless blue sky and take a deep breath before attempting another mouthful of fatty meat. Arthur is watching me, so I dare not leave this rare treat unfinished or I will suffer for wasting food and money. Bile rises to the back of my throat. I close my eyes and sink my teeth into something that should be pleasurable, fighting the urge to spew it over Arthur’s shiny boots.

  A carriage passes, kicking up a cloud of dust that coats my shoes. I give the fashionable female occupants my complete attention, envying their joyful faces and extravagant hats, while ignoring the nasty flavours assaulting my tongue. They make slow progress, these women parading through the park, exchanging secrets and giggling, no doubt discussing which eligible bachelors have taken their fancy now the London season is in full swing.

  Julian is remarkably cheerful. After the initial disappointment of a confirmed place at Charterhouse, he now embraces the prospect of living anywhere but in the same house as Arthur. I cannot blame him. Arthur’s fuse shortens by the day.

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’ Arthur watches me dab my lips with my fingertips.

  I force a smile. ‘Yes, thank you. It’s rare for the three of us to venture out together as a family. We should do this more often.’ Outside, in public, he cannot hurt us.

  Arthur grunts. ‘He’ll do well at school,’ he says, nodding towards Julian. ‘He’s a confident boy and should soon settle into the Charterhouse routine. The strict discipline won’t shock him.’

  No, it won’t. Life will be easier at school. Julian is playing a game of marbles, his face beaming as he enjoys the companionship of new friends. I try to picture him sitting at a desk, absorbing information, scribbling notes with his quill, and immersing himself in the leisure activities permitted after lessons finish for the day. School will suit him.

  ‘Right,’ says Arthur, rising from the park bench, brushing flakes of pastry from his breeches. ‘Now we’ve bought or ordered everything Julian needs, it’s time to sort you, Susan.’

  ‘Me?’ I’m in my second-best dress, covered by a thick pelisse to prevent the breeze cutting through the muslin and chilling me to the bone.

  Arthur’s brow puckers and one corner of his mouth rises into a condescending leer. ‘Can’t have you looking like that when we deliver Julian to school. Your dresses are too plain, and your shoes… I’ve seen beggars walk in better footwear. We must invest in attire befitting of a Charterhouse parent.’

  Nausea grips me. I dash behind a clump of bushes and empty the contents of my stomach. Light-headed and embarrassed, I hurry back to the bench. Arthur has disappeared. I study the group of boys, hoping to see Julian, but he too has gone. Then I rush towards the gate, fighting back tears, apologising to countless strangers as I press through a crowd of fashionable men and women. I fear Arthur has abandoned me and I must struggle with the long walk home.

  At last, I spy Arthur and Julian laden with purchases, standing at the hackney coach stand on Hyde Park Corner. Arthur beckons to me. I quicken my pace and reach them in time to clamber into the last coach. It’s a rickety affair with faded, peeling paintwork and straw spilling from holes in the tatty seats, but I prefer it to walking the stinking city streets.

  I settle back and watch London slip past the windows. The winter smog has lifted. A pale mist hangs above the streets with skinny rays of sunshine poking through and reflecting off grimy window panes. The carriage stops at Cornhill near the Royal Exchange. Arthur jumps down from the carriage and holds out his hand, encouraging me to alight like a lady. He tosses coins to the coachman, then steers me towards Wood, a shoemaker’s shop. I peer at Arthur, confused. This shop is notoriously expensive. He holds the door open and gestures for me to enter. Julian follows and makes straight for a chair where he sits and reads a chapbook. Ghost stories are his current tales of choice.

  I am shown to a seat by a youthful man in smart attire with an apron tied at his waist. He kneels and places a wide strip of linen at my feet, then removes my tired old boots. I cringe as he handles my scuffed footwear, treating my boots with utmost care. Perhaps he fears they will disintegrate in his hands. Hiding my shame, I admire the merchandise displayed around the room. Exquisite shoes sit in neat pairs, in an array of colours, styles and decorations. They employ skilled craftsmen here.

  An older man approaches. ‘Mrs Thistlewood, it’s a pleasure to welcome you today.’

  I tilt my head in acknowledgement. Lost for words, I glance at Arthur. He smiles, then sits beside Julian and selects a newspaper from a selection laid out on a low rectangular table. Reassured b
y his demeanour, I relax and allow myself to enjoy this unexpected shopping experience.

  ‘Do you have a preferred style?’

  I survey the room until my gaze lands on a pair of lilac-coloured shoes. ‘Something like those,’ I say, pointing.

  ‘Ah, yes. An excellent choice, madam. Similar styles have proven popular with several customers in recent weeks.’

  ‘But not in that colour,’ I add hastily.

  ‘May I suggest a mix of slate and dove grey? The two shades together are a pleasing combination and flattering to most outfits.’ He reaches for one of the lilac shoes. ‘This lower section would be in slate leather which has a subtle blue tinge, and I recommend finishing the upper with a lighter dove silk inset which takes on a silver hue in soft lighting.’

  ‘Silk! Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps too fine for everyday wear?’

  ‘There is an alternative. Excuse me for a moment.’ He shuffles to the far side of the shop and disappears into what I presume is a workroom at the rear. He emerges bearing a fresh pair of shoes with sturdy heels and rounded toes. ‘Do you prefer something like this? The top section of the shoe is a brocade woven with exquisite floral trails and the fabric is hard-wearing. With warmer months approaching, you’ll find these easy to wear. The brocade will look elegant in the dove grey and, dare I say, fashionable?’

  ‘Take his advice, Susan,’ murmurs Arthur.

  ‘Perfect, thank you.’

  ‘For the fastening, I recommend narrow straps of leather brought across from each side and secured in the middle with a small buckle.’

  I nod my agreement. The junior assistant stands before me bearing a tray of buckles of various shapes and sizes.

  ‘This one caught my eye.’ I pick out a silver-coloured oval, sculpted into a chain of forget-me-nots.

  ‘A perfect finishing touch.’ The older man steps aside to make way for his younger colleague to take careful measurements of my feet.