The Second Mrs Thistlewood

by Dionne Haynes

  Beckey’s right. ‘I have Julian,’ I say. The thought of him makes me smile. ‘That boy brings so much pleasure and I’m counting the days to his return home for the summer holiday.’

  ‘There, you see? You’ve not lost everything. Now try to sleep.’

  A rap at the door. It startles us both. Beckey says farewell, promising to return tomorrow, making way for Arthur to come to my side. He sits on the bedroom chair and stares at me.

  ‘I’m told you’re better now. That’s good. And I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for your loss.’

  I roll onto my side, turning my back towards him. ‘Our loss, Arthur. Our loss.’

  Chapter 11

  Beckey rummages in her basket and withdraws a small wooden box. She prises open the lid and reaches inside with finger and thumb.

  ‘Here, this will help,’ she says, dropping a hard, transparent drop onto my palm.

  The smell of mint with a hint of lemon sets my mouth watering. ‘Thank you,’ I say, before popping the confectionary treat into my mouth.

  ‘Try not to crunch it, Susan. You’ll want to savour the mint for several minutes while your senses adjust.’

  It can’t be worse than the stink of the street. Stale effluent festers where it landed after being tipped from a chamber pot from an upstairs window. Rotten food decays in the warm summer sun, too far gone to tempt the scavengers that prowl the streets. We pause outside a ramshackle building, part of a terrace of tall houses all in a similar state of disrepair. Beckey appears to be preparing for some kind of horror indoors.

  ‘Time to go in.’ Beckey takes a deep breath and nudges the door with her shoulder, using the full force of her weight to prise it open.

  The air indoors is dank despite the warmth outside. We climb a rickety staircase flanked by faded ancient wallpaper peeling in strips. Several doors lead off from the first-floor landing, most soiled by countless dirty hands. I wonder which door we will pass through and breathe a sigh of relief when Beckey reaches for the handle of the cleanest one.

  I roll the sweet across my tongue, moving it from the inside of one cheek to the other. The peppermint essence warms my throat, and the aroma fills my nostrils. It tastes almost as delightful as my beloved sugar plums. A flush of guilt warms my face – I ate three before leaving home.

  I follow Beckey into a dim room. ‘Dear God!’

  My cheeks burn and my ears flame.

  Beckey pats my arm. ‘It’s fine, Susan. I had a similar reaction when Samuel first brought me to a place similar to this.’

  I’ve heard others speak of poor housing conditions and I’ve read many articles about those struggling with poverty, but never imagined that real people live like this. The stench of a stagnant chamber pot makes me gag. Beckey slips me another peppermint drop before moving forward a few paces. It’s only then that I realise someone else is in the room. Through the gloom I make out the shape of a woman curled on a bed, her dark hair matted and trailing across a filthy pillow. I head for the window and try to release the catch, but it’s stuck fast. The stifling air is heavy with odours of stale food, disease and sweat. I want to smash the window to let fresh air gush in, but the stricken woman would not thank me for it, especially come winter. Frustrated, I turn my back to the daylight. My eyes adjust to the gloom and reveal what a hovel the room has become. The walls are wet, blackened with damp, and the amenities are basic – two chamber pots, both in need of emptying; a washstand with a chipped jug; two cooking pots on a narrow hearth; two cracked bowls; a line strung across the room adorned with a stained shift and scraps of stained linen; a table covered with folded clothes; and a box filled with sheets at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Susan?’ Beckey beckons me towards her. ‘Help me change the bedlinen. I’ll support Anna while you start with the pillow.’

  I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Beckey ignores my indiscretion.

  ‘Quick as you can. I can’t hold Anna for long.’

  If Beckey can hold the woman against her, I can change the cover on a pillow. I work fast, taking care with the threadbare fabric, replacing it with a soft white cotton cover from the top of Beckey’s basket. I plump the pillow, then Beckey lowers the woman towards it. Together, we roll her emaciated body one way, then the other, changing the sheet beneath her. Beckey shows no sign of disgust at the soiled cloth. Following her lead, I conceal my revulsion.

  A mewling sound floats through the air.

  ‘A cat must have followed us into the building.’

  Beckey shakes her head but stays focused on Anna.

  I notice a flicker of movement among the box of sheets. I approach with caution in case the animal leaps out and scratches me. But there is no cat. A young baby shakes a feeble fist and the sight of him makes me cry. My distress coincides with his and our volume escalates.

  ‘Poor little lamb,’ says Beckey. ‘Anna’s milk dried up and the other nursing mothers in this building refused to help. Samuel suggested diluted cow’s milk mixed with a large spoonful of sugar but so far it has caused the most dreadful diarrhoea.’

  Beckey lifts the baby from the box and paces the room, muttering soothing words in his ear. He settles and nuzzles against her, but the respite is brief and soon he is wailing again.

  ‘How old is he?’ I ask.

  ‘Eight weeks.’ She eyes me strangely as if waiting for a reaction.

  Then I realise. ‘To the day?’

  Beckey’s lips stretch into a thin smile. Anna’s child was born on the same day I lost mine.

  ‘He looks younger. Little more than a newborn.’

  ‘He’s starving. Anna’s stopped producing milk.’

  She lays the baby on the bed then peels away his soiled linens, exposing a large patch of angry skin speckled with weeping sores. A pungent odour of stale urine rises from him. His mother weeps.

  ‘We need water, Susan.’ Beckey nods towards the cooking pots.

  I reach for one and lift the lid. ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘There’s a water pump at the end of the road. We passed it on our way here. Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I’m driven by an overwhelming urge to help these wretched souls. I hurry about my errand and return to find a fire burning in the grate. Beckey gestures for me to put the water on to boil.

  ‘Exposing the skin to the air will help and I have a pot of soothing balm. Samuel said to bathe the sore patch of skin before applying it. I must ask him to send someone to fix that window. It’s doing them no good being shut up in here in the summer heat.’ She strokes the baby’s face. ‘Poor little mite.’

  Anna has not uttered a word since we arrived, although her eyes are open and follow me as I move around the room. I bend to whisper in Beckey’s ear. ‘Does she speak?’

  Beckey chuckles and smiles at Anna. ‘She’s the most garrulous person I know, aren’t you, dear?’ Turning back to me, she adds, ‘But now she’s less inclined to speak and not only because she’s unwell.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Beckey sighs. ‘Because Anna’s French. Many residents in this tenement block became penniless widows when their husbands were left strewn across battlefields in France. They associate Anna with their loss and hold her, and others like her, responsible.’

  ‘But it’s not her fault!’

  ‘I agree. None of us choose our country of birth. But so many women here are grieving. They’re angry and need to vent their rage. Anna’s too convenient for them. Mind you, they were eager enough to treat her as one of their own when she repaired dresses for free and helped look after their children – until their husbands lost their lives at Waterloo.’

  ‘How did you meet Anna?’

  ‘An old client of hers expressed concern to Samuel. My husband’s done the best he can for now and asked me to keep a watchful eye. He’s unsure what has stricken her thus but expects her to recover.’

  Anna reaches out a skeletal arm towards Beckey. ‘I feel a leetle better.’ Her words fracture into soft croaks.r />
  ‘That’s excellent news,’ says Beckey. ‘I brought soup. Susan will warm it while I attend to little George.’

  I lift a china bowl from the basket. The contents have turned to jelly but will soon revert to liquid when heated. I scrape the soup into the other cooking pot and set it in front of the fire. I’m sweating. The heat from the flames is intolerable, but my suffering is insignificant compared with Anna’s. I pour boiling water into the cracked china bowl. Beckey tops it up with a glug of cool water from the jug, then sets about bathing George’s skin.

  Anna stares at me with large brown eyes. Her gaunt face bears the scars of recent flea bites, but I can see a natural beauty will return when she’s back to good health. She takes the bowl of soup from my hand, nods her thanks, then concentrates on taking small sips. I take the empty bowl from her, swill it with hot water and tip it over the coals. It will not matter if the fire dies now.

  Then I surprise myself. ‘Shall I help you wash and change into a clean shift?’

  Anna smiles. ‘Oui. I’d like that very much.’

  When we step into the street, a woman pelts us with rotten vegetables.

  ‘Mrs King!’ Beckey glares. ‘I expect better behaviour from you.’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing coming here to help that French whore?’ The same woman hurls a fistful of stinking peelings. A toddler clings to the back of her skirt and peers out from behind her mother’s legs.

  ‘A Waterloo widow?’ I whisper.

  ‘She is,’ comes the muttered reply.

  ‘If I see you coming out of her place again, I’ll chuck stones next time.’

  ‘You punish me for offering kindness to a woman who was once your dearest friend?’

  ‘Was. Until they Frenchies took me husband from me.’

  ‘I don’t believe it was a personal thing,’ says Beckey.

  ‘Mrs King,’ I say, taking a tentative step towards her. ‘I’m sure if things were different, and you were alone with your child in France, Anna would help you. I hear she’s looked after you before now. You and several others.’

  Mrs King frowns. ‘She has. But things have changed.’

  ‘How so? Anna’s the same charming woman who became a widow herself only six months ago. Her life is as much a daily struggle as yours. She wishes you no harm and is as saddened by your loss as she is by her own.’

  ‘Where’s your compassion, Mrs King?’ says Beckey, in a kind but firm tone. ‘If you want free advice from my husband again, you must prove yourself worthy of his time. Be as charitable towards others as he is to you.’

  Mrs King’s face works through a range of expressions.

  Beckey presses on. ‘That’s right. Think about the kindness shown to you. Who cared for little Nelly when you took to your bed? Who used her savings to pay the apothecary when you needed medicine? And who promised to care for your daughter if you died? It was Anna, wasn’t it?’

  Mrs King lowers her head and clears her throat. ‘I’m sorry for losing me temper and I hope you can find it in yerselves to forgive me. I’ve let the opinions of others sway me. Won’t happen again, I assure you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a friend who needs me help.’ She strides towards the door to the house, her daughter trotting to keep pace.

  Beckey and I exchange smiles. We blot vegetable juice from our dresses and head for home.

  ‘Arthur?’ I close the front door behind me, listening for a response.

  I make straight for the kitchen expecting Nancy to be there, but I’m alone. Dirty dishes sit in piles on the table. I wash them and tidy them away, grateful for the time to myself. While Arthur champions his political campaign for change, I will do what little I can to help some of those who suffer so near to our home. Beckey was delighted when I volunteered to go with her again – Samuel often asks her to visit those he has treated and, as she said, two pairs of hands are better than one. Their kindness knows no bounds. I am determined to become more like them.

  An unpleasant odour wafts up from the stains on my dress, so I hurry upstairs to change before Arthur sees me. As I reach the landing, I spy Arthur making his way down from the garret.

  ‘You’re home,’ he says, tucking his shirt into his breeches, then fiddling with the cravat that dangles loose at his neck.

  ‘What were you doing up there?’

  ‘Nancy’s window was jammed,’ he says. ‘I fixed it. It’s stifling up there in this hot weather.’

  Nancy appears behind him, cheeks flushed. ‘Mrs Thistlewood,’ she says, bobbing a minimal curtsey before scurrying down the stairs.

  ‘Is the window open now?’ I ask.

  Arthur leans against the wall and puffs out his chest. ‘It is.’

  ‘Excellent. I know of another one requiring your attention.’

  His brow puckers and I suppress a smile. I turn away and glide towards our bedroom, hoping Arthur’s attention was on more than the window while he was with Nancy in the garret.

  Chapter 12

  Nancy’s mutton stew is delightful. The red wine gravy is a little extravagant, but Arthur does not seem to notice. The sharp tang of rosemary is warming on such a cold autumnal day, and the onions add a surprising sweetness. I wipe my plate clean with a crust of bread and then watch Arthur do the same.

  I take small sips of ale, waiting for Arthur to drain his cup, and then I say what’s on my mind. ‘Arthur, we have a serious issue to discuss.’

  Arthur raises his eyebrows. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Nancy.’

  He places his knife and fork on his plate and sits back in his chair.

  I lean forward and lower my voice. ‘Arthur, I think she’s pregnant.’

  The colour fades from his cheeks. ‘That’s quite an allegation. Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. Have you noticed how her face is radiant, her figure full? You can’t ignore the swelling of her breasts. I swear they’ll soon burst from her bodice!’

  Arthur splutters. He rises from his chair and paces the room. This revelation has set him on edge, and I’m heartened by his reaction. At last, freedom is possible.

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to discuss it with you first. Lord knows how she got herself into such a state, for she’s rarely out of the house. But then, a few stolen moments of passion can leave a lifetime of consequences. Could have happened on a day off, I suppose, although I’m not aware of a young man in her life.’

  ‘She… she’s not mentioned anyone to you? I thought you were close.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Arthur. I’m no more friendly with her than you are.’

  Arthur runs his hands through his hair. ‘How did this happen?’

  ‘Girls dream, Arthur. They have a natural urge to find a husband and bear children.’

  His face reddens, and he bangs both fists hard against the kitchen table. I brace, expecting him to turn on me.

  ‘What was she thinking?’ His face is pale, his brow crinkled with concern.

  ‘Shall I dismiss her?’

  ‘No. I’ll talk to her. She should have taken steps to avoid getting a babe in her belly.’

  ‘Either she’s had a lapse of judgement or she’s planning a future with the child’s father.’

  Arthur shakes his head. ‘No,’ he murmurs. He lifts his head and meets my gaze. ‘Where is she? I’ll speak to her at once.’

  ‘On an errand. I sent her out as soon as dinner was ready, to guarantee privacy while we discussed the issue.’

  ‘Send her to my office the moment she returns. I’ll give this matter the urgent attention it deserves.’

  I pray Nancy is with child. If I can persuade her to confirm the child is Arthur’s, my freedom is as good as guaranteed. This delicious idea overwhelms me. I choke back tears of hope and start clearing the table.

  Ten minutes pass before I hear Nancy at the front door. I rush out to relieve her of packages of linen and ribbons and instruct her to go upstairs to Arthur’s office.


  Her face contorts. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

  ‘Mr Thistlewood will explain. He has questions for you.’

  Nancy hangs her cloak on the coat stand before climbing the stairs. Her footsteps cross the hall and a door closes. I resist the temptation to listen outside – I cannot risk Arthur finding me lurking there. Instead, I tear myself away from their muffled voices and seek refuge in the parlour. I treat myself to a sugar plum and open a book of poetry.

  When the clock strikes the hour, I realise Nancy has been in Arthur’s office for over twenty minutes. Unable to contain my curiosity, I climb the stairs. Before I reach the landing, a door opens releasing the sound of Nancy’s delighted giggles followed by a deep throaty chuckle from Arthur.

  ‘Oh! I didn’t expect to see you there, Mrs Thistlewood.’ Her cheeks glow, framed by unruly locks escaping from beneath her cap. Arthur loiters behind her, smiling.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Why the laughter?’

  It is Arthur who replies. ‘There’s been a huge misunderstanding.’

  Nancy clasps her hands across her belly. ‘Master said you thought I might be pregnant.’

  My eyes drift to the pale mounds of flesh bulging through the opening in her dress.

  ‘I’m just a well-nourished maidservant,’ she says, interlocking her fingers and lowering her head. ‘My master and mistress are generous employers.’

  ‘And you’re not with child?’

  Nancy frowns. ‘No, mistress.’

  ‘I’ve reassured her she’ll stay here at least until the twelve months are up,’ states Arthur.

  It takes all my effort to avoid crumpling to the floor. I’m destined to spend the rest of my life suffering at the hands of Arthur.

  1816

  Chapter 13

  Oysters glisten on a plate, fanned around half a lemon. I’m eager to pick one but know I must wait. My stomach gurgles. Beckey insisted on an early start this morning to be sure we’d have the pick of the freshest fish at Billingsgate market. Now, with our packages stowed on a chair, we can enjoy an unusual breakfast at a reputable inn. A serving girl brings another half of lemon, two more plates and a tray of bread. Beckey slips the girl a coin, then squeezes a little lemon juice over the oysters. She gestures for me to take the first pick.