I’m flattered she thinks of me so. We’ve grown fond of one another after spending time in each other’s homes every Tuesday and Thursday morning since she moved to the neighbourhood. ‘Very well. I’ll join you tomorrow evening.’
Beckey claps her hands. ‘Come and see the music room.’ She rises gracefully from her chair and bustles out of the room.
I follow her across the hallway, and she opens a door with a flourish. Now I know why two dozen chairs arrived at the house. Most of them are in a large semi-circle with a modern pianoforte just off-centre and a large harpsichord next to it. Music stands are situated for sharing between musicians, and armchairs linger at the sides of the room for the comfort of observing guests. Paintings adorn the walls, each with a musical theme – angels playing flutes and violins; still-life studies of pipes and drums; and a youthful woman sitting with a harp, eyes closed, absorbed in a sweet melody.
‘It’s magnificent,’ I say. ‘How I would love something similar.’
Our home is narrower than Beckey’s, with fewer rooms. I have neither the space nor social standing to need a dedicated music room.
Beckey places her hand on my arm. ‘Come to every recital! You’ll always find a welcome here. May I teach you how to play the violin?’
‘Perhaps one day. For now, I prefer to listen.’
It takes over an hour to decide what to wear, even though I have only four suitable dresses. I want to make a good impression when I meet Beckey’s friends this evening. I was nervous about what Arthur would say, but he was glad I accepted the invitation. He said that one day we might have to canvas their financial support for his cause, and their husbands will be at least as wealthy as Dr Wilkinson with consciences to match. No doubt he’s right, but my priority is to make friends.
Eventually, it’s Nancy who decides for me. ‘You want to appear fashionable, but not overdressed,’ she says. ‘Wear a dress that looks expensive but won’t put every other lady to shame.’
I don’t own an expensive dress. ‘This is the one I keep for best,’ I say, lifting a sky-blue cotton piece from the bed.
Nancy pouts and points at the frills surrounding the bottom of the skirt. ‘Too fussy. This one’s better.’ She holds up a blossom-pink dress, embroidered with sprigs of rose-pink flowers around the hem. ‘Not only is it elegant, but it sits well with your pale complexion and you’ll feel comfortable in it.’
‘I like that one too. It’s my favourite.’
‘So it’s the obvious choice.’
Nancy gives a reassuring smile and helps me change. She ties the laces at the back of the bodice and turns me to face her.
‘You look divine,’ she says. ‘The ladies will love you. Now, let me see to your hair.’
The evening passed swiftly, and I revelled in the company of Beckey’s delightful companions. There were no prying questions, only straightforward queries about my musical tastes and other interests. I sat to one side listening to violins accompanied by the pianoforte, and a harp interlude. Then I found the courage to join in with a trio of ladies singing a familiar song. My voice faltered on the high notes, but I persevered.
‘You made a fine impression tonight,’ says Beckey, flushed with the success of the evening.
‘I can’t think of a better way to spend a couple of hours,’ I say, beaming. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed an evening as much as this.’
Beckey tilts her head. ‘You know, I think we should train that voice of yours. What do you say? Shall we work on a solo for next time?’
‘Are you sure? I’m not known for my singing.’
‘It’s a game of confidence, my dear. With practice, you’ll be able to sing like a nightingale. Among friends, you’ll lose your fears, and if you enjoy the music and relate to the words of the song, you’ll sing as well as anyone. Remember, we do this for pleasure, sharing a passion for music and song. We’re not competing and we’re not judging. Away from the menfolk, we are who we should be – cheerful, confident individuals.’
Beckey’s truth rings in my ears. I’m a butterfly spreading its wings for the first time, realising its true potential and venturing towards its destiny. But two thoughts niggle. Will Arthur notice the fully fledged version of me? And if he does, will he punish me for it?
Chapter 9
A thick slice of lean ham glistens on my plate. I haven’t felt this hungry for weeks. I load my fork with meat and a chunk of pickled onion, then raise it to my lips while inhaling the scent of vinegar and spices.
‘They say Bonaparte’s readying troops again.’ Arthur rips off a wedge of bread.
‘Dear God, no!’ I shudder at the thought of bodies on a battlefield, bloodied and lifeless. ‘Too many lives have been lost already. Do we have an army capable of ending his domination of Europe?’
Arthur shrugs. ‘Our army is but one of many. The allies will taste victory soon, I’m sure.’
I think of the countless soldiers begging on London’s streets. So many young men maimed by war, reduced to a life of poverty, disregarded by society and surviving on scraps. No doubt they dreamed of a hero’s welcome, not another living nightmare after the one they left behind.
‘Pregnancy suits you,’ says Arthur, taking me by surprise.
I stop munching to study his face. He appears sincere, and I cannot help but smile. I rest my fingers on my lower abdomen, revelling in the slight thickening of my waist.
We finish supper in silence. When Nancy clears away the plates, she drops Arthur’s knife. The loud clatter of metal on stone makes me tense. I close my eyes, waiting for a tirade to burst from Arthur’s lips, but nothing is forthcoming. Apprehensive, I open my eyes and look towards him. He’s leaning from his chair, retrieving the knife from the floor and passing it to Nancy.
Nancy’s face is scarlet from brow to neck. She accepts the knife from Arthur and mumbles an apology. Arthur glances at me, then lowers his gaze to his pocket watch. He rises from the table and strides to my side.
‘I’ll be home early tonight.’ He takes my hand and presses my knuckles to his lips. When he releases me, I wait for him to turn away, then wipe my knuckles on the tablecloth.
Beckey has a remarkable skill for training voices. I had an extra lesson with her this evening to prepare for the next soirée two weeks hence. The melody repeats in my mind and I’m singing the enchanting verses of ‘Greensleeves’ when I walk into the parlour. Nancy jumps up from my armchair, but I’m in no mood to chastise her for snatching a few minutes of comfort. She worked hard today. Not only did she beat the dirt from every carpet, but she also scrubbed the walls and floor of the small bedroom that will become the nursery.
Nancy apologises and I raise my index finger to silence her. I place my palm on her arm as a gesture of reassurance. She gives a thin smile then slinks from the room.
Weary from the excitements of the day, I flop onto the well-worn cushioned seat, settle my head against the back of the chair and lower my eyelids. I ease my swollen feet from my shoes and wiggle my toes. Once again, I cannot stop myself from singing. As the pitch rises with a lilting melody, I know my voice is in tune. My confidence enhanced, I sing louder and continue to the end.
‘Bravo!’ announces Arthur, stepping away from the window, clapping. ‘You sang well, Susan.’
‘Arthur! How long have you been home?’ I stumble over my words. ‘I didn’t hear you come through the front door.’
Arthur opens his snuffbox. ‘About an hour ago.’ He grins and deposits a small pinch of snuff at the base of his left thumb. ‘Your entertainment was exquisite.’ He presses against his right nostril and inhales the snuff through the other.
A hot flush spreads from my neck to my face and I smile meekly. How did I not notice him? Then a sensation overwhelms me, one I’m less familiar with. Suspicion. It’s so unlike Arthur to allow a maid to sit in the parlour. I think of Julian, the bastard son of a maidservant, passed off as Arthur’s legitimate heir. I watch Arthur for a minute or two. He’s relaxed, unruffl
ed, his attention absorbed by today’s newspaper.
I can’t believe Arthur would risk making the same mistake twice. But what if he did? Thoughts tumble and collide, and it’s difficult to make sense of them. I am bound to Arthur by law and unable to leave him without his permission – unless he commits adultery.
Chapter 10
I glare at a bowl of broth with globules of grease glistening on the surface. I wish it would disappear. The broth is like me – pale, cold and weak. I push the tray towards the edge of Arthur’s side of the bed and sigh as liquid slops over the rim of the bowl. The bowl is no better than me at clinging to its precious contents.
My mind is numb, my heart aches, and I plead with God to release me from misery. I cannot sleep, nor can I drag myself from beneath the covers. My hair hangs limp in tangled tresses and my shift reeks of stale sweat. But what of it? Life continues outside this room. I can hear the hustle and bustle of the street outside – carriages clattering past; street vendors hawking their wares; children calling to each other as they hurry to school. Children. My eyes mist with tears and I lower my eyelids, but then I see blood and lots of it. God must think me a dreadful sinner, because I’m trapped in purgatory now.
The bedroom door opens, and footsteps cross the room. They’re not Arthur’s footsteps, for they have a woman’s light tread. I should turn to look but cannot. Someone holds my hand, their touch warm and comforting. My vision is blurred, but I know who it is.
‘Mother.’ My voice cracks and tears slide across my cheeks. I convulse with sobs, consumed by grief.
My mother cradles me in her arms and coos with soothing sounds, reminding me of childhood and an easier life untainted by fear. How times have changed. The fragrance of Mother’s perfume is a balm to my aching heart and I nestle against her, relishing the contact and her outpouring of love. The long-case clock in the parlour strikes the eleventh hour, the sounds muffled by the bedroom floorboards. Mother strokes my brow, and I drift into a troubled sleep. When the clock announces midday, I open my eyes again.
‘Who asked you to come?’ I whisper.
‘Your friend.’
‘Beckey?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Arthur?’
‘No. Not Arthur.’
‘He’s busy with meetings.’
‘No doubt.’
‘Mother, there’s something I must tell you.’
She tilts her head, waiting for me to continue.
‘I can’t… don’t want…’ Words desert me. My parents enjoy a marriage of mutual love and respect. How can I tell her I long to end mine?
‘My dear, you need say nothing. When the day comes, Father and I will gladly have you live with us.’
‘How did you know?’
‘When a mother and daughter share a bond as close as ours, such things are obvious.’
‘I wish I could leave now.’
‘As do I. But our home would be the first place where Arthur would search for you, and no doubt he’d beat you for your trouble.’
More tears while I grieve for everything I have lost.
Mother allows me several minutes of self-pity. She reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers. I turn to face her and see that she too is grieving for me. ‘Susan, you’ve been in this room for three days. It’s too long.’ She releases my hand and stands. ‘It’s time you started looking after yourself again. I’m going to the kitchen for a fresh pot of broth. Will you take it this time?’
I nod. ‘I’ll try. But I’ve no appetite.’
Mother kisses my brow, then glides from the room.
I gaze at the window while I wait for her return. Thick bands of sunshine stream through the glass, striking a bright puddle of light on the oak floorboards. If only I could step into that bright circle and disappear to a life where loss and grief do not exist.
The door creaks. This time I turn towards it, but it’s not my mother who comes bearing the broth. It’s Beckey. Tears fall again.
Beckey places the tray on a side table placed by the bed. ‘Dearest Susan,’ she wraps me in an embrace. ‘I’ve been so worried about you.’
I cling to her as if my life depends on it. She is the best of friends. I try to speak but cannot get the words out. When she releases me, she plumps the pillows and eases me back against them.
‘Was I right to send for your mother? I wasn’t sure. Arthur thought it unnecessary, expecting you to be up and about the next day. I explained that sometimes it’s hard to recover from an ordeal like this, so he left the decision to me.’
‘Thank you.’ My face creases. Another onslaught of overwhelming grief.
Beckey strokes the back of my hand and waits for my sobs to settle.
‘Try a few mouthfuls of broth, Susan.’
Holding the bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, she feeds me a small sip of the warm liquid. I’m surprised by how much I savour the taste. It’s bland but I detect a hint of thyme, my favourite herb. The gentle aroma reaches into my nostrils and awakens my appetite. Beckey places a cushion on my lap, then balances the tray on top. I manage a thin smile and take the spoon from her. There’s a hunk of bread on the tray, and I break off a small corner. It has a stale texture, but soaked in broth it’s palatable and almost enjoyable.
I feel a little better after eating, but the days spent languishing in bed have weakened me. ‘I think I’ll fall asleep again in a moment,’ I murmur.
Beckey pats my hand. ‘I’ll pop back later, if you’re up to it.’
I nod and close my eyes.
When I wake, the daylight has faded, confirming I’ve slept for several hours.
Mother hurries to my side. ‘How are you?’
‘Better, thank you. Is Arthur home?’
She shakes her head.
‘Will you help me downstairs to the parlour?’
‘Not now. You’re still weak. Perhaps in another day or two when you’ve eaten more food and regained some strength.’
I look around the room and sigh. I feel the need to do something. ‘Will you bring the newspaper to me? I’m sure Arthur will have bought one this morning. If not, yesterday’s will do.’
Mother hesitates.
‘What is it?’
‘Perhaps a book, dear?’
‘I lack concentration for a book. I’d prefer the newspaper.’
Nancy hollers from the foot of the stairs. ‘Mrs Wilson’s here!’
Mother rolls her eyes at the maid’s lack of propriety. ‘I’ll welcome her and send her up with some reading material.’
When Beckey enters my bedroom, I greet her with a warm smile.
‘That’s better,’ she says, sitting beside me on the bed. She has a book in her hand and a newspaper tucked under her arm. ‘Shall we read poetry together?’
I like the idea of reading together. I’ll study the newspaper after Beckey leaves.
We spend a delightful part of the evening indulging ourselves in poems by Wordsworth, Keats and Blake. Beckey chooses carefully to avoid returning me to a pit of despair. When it’s time for her to leave, she places the poetry book on Arthur’s pillow.
‘And the newspaper?’ I ask.
Her face drops. ‘Please, Susan, not today. Perhaps tomorrow.’
‘Why not today?’ I ask, confused.
Beckey grimaces.
‘Beckey? What is it?’ Even to me, my voice is bordering on hysterical.
‘Very well.’ She unfurls the newspaper. ‘There’s good news and bad news,’ she announces. ‘The good news is that Napoleon was defeated at a village called Waterloo, near Brussels.’
‘Thank goodness,’ I say, my panic subsiding. ‘And the bad news?’
Beckey’s face drops. ‘The victory came at a substantial cost with many lives lost.’
I turn the page and my gaze falls upon a list of officers killed and wounded. The list is extensive but excludes regular soldiers. Images flash through my mind, bodies hacked apart and strewn across grassy fields stained heavily with blood. W
hile I lost my child, thousands of men lost their lives.
I close the paper and pass it back to Beckey. ‘You couldn’t have hidden that news from me forever. With so many mothers grieving for their sons, I’ve no right to indulge in self-pity.’
‘You have every right, Susan. It’s painful to lose a child regardless of circumstance. I understand the agony you endure. I too have visited that dark place.’
‘You have?’
Beckey nods. ‘Grace is not my daughter.’
I’ve seen Grace only once. Her beauty is striking, her demeanour sunny and warm.
‘But she addresses you with such affection!’
‘And I love her as if she were my own. She’s a delight, and it has been my honour to watch her grow into the adorable young woman she is now.’
‘How old was she when you first met her?’
Beckey chuckles. ‘Three. Dressed in rags and streaming from both nostrils. A proper little ragamuffin.’ She laughs at my horrified expression. ‘Grace isn’t Samuel’s daughter either. Her mother died trying to bring a second child into the world. Samuel was summoned by a neighbour but arrived too late. There was nothing he could do. Grace’s mother passed away with the babe still in her womb. Samuel knew the neighbours from earlier visits to Vauxhall and couldn’t bring himself to leave Grace there.’
My eyes widen.
‘Not that type of visit,’ she says, laughing. ‘The ladies of Vauxhall are like many others – in need of guidance and medical expertise, and we do our best to help them. They may be society’s fallen women, but they’re human beings and deserve compassion. I digress. Samuel could not bear to abandon Grace in the state she was in, so brought her home, and it was love at first sight.’
‘Does Grace know?’
‘She does. We didn’t want it to be a secret. Believe me, Susan, a child is a wonder of the world, even when not of our flesh.’
The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 4
