His voice is deep, mellow and comforting.
‘The first edition you requested has arrived,’ says Mr Brown, retrieving a package from beneath the counter and handing it to the delightful gentleman. ‘The quality is superb. I’m confident you’ll be pleased.’
I cannot tear my gaze away, curious to know the title of the book this gentleman is purchasing. He unfolds the paper wrapper to reveal an exquisite leather-bound volume with pristine gold lettering along the spine.
‘Mansfield Park,’ I exclaim, daring to look into his pale grey eyes. ‘Written by the lady who wrote Sense and Sensibility. You enjoy her novels?’
He shakes his head and smiles. ‘Not me. This book is a surprise for my mother.’
‘Your mother is a fortunate woman to receive such a lovely gift.’
His eyes lift at the outer corners and his lips twitch as if trying not to laugh. Then I realise I’m contorting my face while struggling to dislodge a sticky clump of confectionery with the tip of my tongue. My cheeks burn and I turn away from his scrutiny.
‘Do you enjoy reading this lady’s novels?’ he asks.
I summon the courage to face him again. ‘Very much. As a matter of fact, I’ve read them all.’
‘Perhaps not all,’ interjects Mr Brown. ‘The publisher released another just a few weeks ago. Emma.’
I frown. ‘No, I haven’t read that one. Is it in stock?’
Mr Brown bows his head. ‘Four arrived last week, but there’s only one remaining.’
‘Then I’ll buy it today. May I browse while you serve this gentleman first?’
‘Browse at will, Mrs Thistlewood,’ says Mr Brown, gesturing that the shop is mine to wander about as I please.
‘Mrs Thistlewood?’ The other customer has an amused expression.
‘Yes. Have we met before?’
‘No. Forgive my impertinence. Thistlewood is an uncommon surname, and I should not have reacted so.’ A discreet bow accompanies his apology, followed by an engaging smile.
I move to the furthest aisle, giving the gentleman privacy to make his purchase. A collection of travel journals provides adequate distraction, and I take my time to admire an atlas filled with maps coloured by a careful hand. The tinkle of a bell and the roaring of windswept heavy rain announce Mr Westcott’s departure. I hope the foul weather eases soon because Arthur is expecting me home to greet a guest for dinner and I mustn’t have my clothes looking as though I dragged them straight from the laundry tub.
‘Does anything else appeal today, Mrs Thistlewood?’
‘I’ll just take Emma please.’
Mr Brown slides a package towards me. It’s wrapped in pale blue paper and tied with a dark blue ribbon.
‘You’ve already prepared it?’
‘While you were browsing.’
I rummage in my reticule for coins. ‘The price please, Mr Brown?’
‘There’s nothing to pay.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Mr Westcott paid for this book when settling the account for his other purchases.’
‘That’s unacceptable. I must pay, and you will reimburse Mr Westcott when he visits next.’
Mr Brown raises his hand. ‘No, madam. Mr Westcott is a loyal customer. It would offend him to refuse his kindness.’
‘Then I must thank him. May I have a piece of paper to write a note for you to give to him?’
‘With pleasure.’
He disappears into his office, then beckons me to enter.
‘I thought you’d be more comfortable writing at my desk, so I’ve cleared a space.’
After settling on Mr Brown’s well-worn chair, I spend a few moments considering my words. I settle on a simple statement of gratitude and regret that I could not thank Mr Westcott in person. After folding the paper twice, I write his name on the outer surface, then return to the shop counter and hand the note to Mr Brown. As I prepare to step outside, I’m relieved to see the rain has eased. I pull my cloak around me, cover my hair with the hood and bid farewell to Mr Brown before scurrying along the sodden streets with the book pressed to my chest.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Arthur’s face is pinched and pale.
‘I went to the bookshop at Paternoster Row.’ I keep the tone of my voice light and submissive to avoid further aggravating Arthur’s mood. ‘I mentioned it at breakfast and offered to buy a book for you.’
He grunts and scowls. ‘Our guest arrived an hour ago. It’s time we ate dinner.’
I place my parcel on a side table, then remove my rain-soaked cape and drape it over the banister to dry. The air in the hallway is cold and there’s a draught around my ankles. With a guest in the house, Arthur will have a crackling fire in the parlour, and I crave the heat of the flames. I hurry to the kitchen, where the air is warm and welcoming, thick with the aroma of roasted meat and rich gravy. My stomach grumbles. I ask Nancy to serve dinner in the parlour, then retreat from the kitchen to join Arthur.
Arthur’s guest has settled in my armchair and does not introduce himself. I sit at the dining table and wait for the men to join me.
‘This is my wife, Susan,’ says Arthur, glaring at me, as if I were the ill-mannered one.
I look at the guest. He says nothing.
‘And you are…?’ I ask, forcing a smile.
‘John Castle.’
His tone is gruff, and I take a dislike to him. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Castle.’
Arthur seems satisfied with the introductions. ‘Castle’s a recent recruit to the Spenceans and we’ve asked him to serve on the committee.’
‘You must have made a good impression,’ I say to Mr Castle. ‘My husband likes his committee members to be articulate men with excellent planning skills.’
‘I try my best.’
I study his clothes. His shirt is of rough linen and his jacket is threadbare at the elbows. ‘Do you work, Mr Castle?’
He exchanges glances with my husband. ‘Yes.’
‘What line of work?’
‘Well… I—’
‘He was a whitesmith,’ interrupts my husband, coming to the aid of his guest.
‘Was?’
‘He’s committed to taking action along with the rest of us. His tin-polishing skill is no longer a priority. A revolution is coming, Susan. Castle has contacts that will help us gather soldiers for a new style of army.’
The room seems to tilt and I’m light-headed. Arthur has spoken of a revolution for many months. I thought he was using rhetoric to glorify a vocal campaign against the government, but Mr Castle’s presence casts doubt over that and has put me on edge. Something about the man reeks of cruelty and I fear he will draw out Arthur’s darker side.
‘Do you plan protest marches?’ I ask, struggling to steady my voice.
Mr Castle leans towards me and I recoil at his sour breath. He sees my reaction and smirks.
‘It’ll take more than a parade,’ he says, sneering. ‘The country’s collapsing. We were victorious at Waterloo, but now we’re taxed to the hilt to pay for it. Bread’s a luxury, and thousands live in poverty while the Prince Regent primps himself and throws lavish parties. Let’s hope something happens to him so he never becomes king.’
‘We’re planning a big rally,’ says Arthur. ‘Castle thinks Henry Hunt will speak for us.’
I’ve read detailed reports in Arthur’s newspapers about Mr Hunt’s great orations. ‘He’s an acclaimed speaker. Do you think he’ll oblige?’
‘Nothing to lose by asking,’ growls Mr Castle, watching Nancy approach with plates of food.
‘I’ll write to him,’ says Arthur. ‘Tell him what we want him to say. He has radical views of his own, so a well-penned letter is certain to persuade him to support our cause.’
Mr Castle leers at Nancy as she pours extra gravy over his dinner. He raises his eyebrows and licks his lips. Nancy giggles and stifles a smile as if a familiarity exists between them.
Arthur frowns and clears his throat wit
h a loud cough. ‘Fetch dessert,’ he snaps. ‘We must leave soon to attend a meeting.’
I take a mouthful of potato and chew as if it were a chunk of tough meat. I struggle to swallow, worrying that Arthur wants an English version of the bloody French Revolution. And Mr Castle is providing ammunition.
I’m at the foot of the staircase on my way to prepare for bed when Arthur stumbles through the front door. His gaze softens when he sees me, and he runs his tongue across his upper lip. My instinct is to turn and withdraw to the kitchen, but Arthur is too quick for me. He lurches forward, wraps his arms around me and kisses me hard on the lips. The tang of sour wine turns my stomach.
‘Today was a splendid day,’ he slurs. ‘At last, we have a plan. Action this time. Not words.’
My heart is pounding. I try to wriggle out of his embrace.
‘Don’t be difficult,’ he says, pulling me closer, nuzzling against my neck.
I press my palms against his chest and try to push him away. Arthur grasps my shoulders and presses my back to the wall. His body is heavy against mine and I can’t take a full breath. He fumbles with the bodice of my dress.
‘Arthur, stop.’ My voice cracks as I plead with him.
Suddenly, his hands clamp around my neck and propel me downwards, pinning me to the lower steps. My ribs collide with the edge of a stair, and I cry out.
‘Be quiet,’ he growls.
He wrenches on my skirt and shift, ripping them both, raising them to expose my thighs. Pinning me down with one hand squeezing my neck and a knee on one of my thighs, he releases himself from his pantaloons and rams into me. Again and again, he lunges, struggling to find the release he seeks. At last, he judders, draws away and runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Through my tears I see Nancy and her expression confirms she witnessed the whole sordid event. She helps me to my feet and dabs at my cheeks with the corner of her apron before leaving me alone with my shame.
My heart aches. My body trembles. It’s not the first time Arthur has forced himself on me with such violence. It will not be the last. The law permits a husband to use his wife’s body in any way he chooses. But I refuse to believe that all gentlemen behave like Arthur.
Chapter 16
Sips of hot sweet tea improve my mood. A few weeks have passed since the humiliating incident at the foot of the staircase, but Arthur’s rage persists. Each day, from the moment I wake, I dread bedtime. Our bedroom has become a war zone, and I am defenceless.
Fresh bruises encircle my neck and colour my arms. It’s winter so I can hide my arms beneath sleeves, but my neck bruises rise above the collar of my dress and I have no wish for others to see the scars of my marriage. I press lightly on a livid green thumbprint at my throat. It’s tender to touch and a reminder I must try harder to avoid angering Arthur again.
How long must I tolerate this life? As Arthur’s campaign plans become more violent, so too does his treatment of me. I cannot bear to look at him and shudder at his slightest touch. The marriage vows that were once so dear to me are a gaol sentence now. God has forsaken me.
‘Susan, I have an idea.’
Nancy’s cheerful voice interrupts my troubled mind. I turn to face her, conscious that my hand is shielding evidence of Arthur’s most recent assault.
‘You could wear this around your neck.’
‘A sash? It belongs at my waist, Nancy. My friends will think me mad if I tie a giant bow at my collar.’
Undeterred, Nancy chuckles. ‘I thought you could drape it like a scarf.’
‘A scarf? Indoors?’
‘It’s as light as air and compliments your dress.’
I take the pale blue length of muslin from Nancy and hold it against me. She’s right. It picks out the light blue spots woven into my midnight blue dress. I glimpse her smile reflected in the mirror. She takes the sash from me and wraps it around my neck, not too tight, then ties it at the front.
‘There. Now only you and I know what lies hidden beneath.’
‘But what excuse can I give for wearing it indoors?’
‘Say you’ve had a stiff neck. Tell them the warmth from the scarf has helped ease the discomfort.’
I nod. ‘Thank you, Nancy. Is Arthur home?’
‘No. Someone called by in a cab an hour ago and he left. Took all those handbills too.’
‘Good.’
‘There were so many. What were they for?’
‘A campaign. The handbills are for members of the public, to encourage them to join the crusade.’
Arthur and his fellow Spenceans want a reduction in the price of bread and the return of common land to the people. They demand that ministers resign and make way for a new enlightened government. I’m relieved Nancy couldn’t read the handbills for herself. The message was a call to arms with a promise of violence, and I fear that if they achieve the desired effect, we will move towards something like the revolution that massacred so many soldiers in France. Thank goodness Julian is at school and out of harm’s way.
I pass a pleasant afternoon with Beckey, aiding the sick and delivering food to the poor. Arthur has restricted my housekeeping allowance and I cannot contribute much to our impoverished neighbours and friends. But Beckey appreciates my company and my shared dedication to improving the lives of others. Anna’s English has improved, and with baby George now a sturdy toddler, she has found her calling, helping other widowed mothers with childcare while they seek honest ways of earning money. From the looks of them, some women still trade with their flesh, but others commit to tasks such as stitching, hawking and housemaid work. Alas, it will take more than our tiny contribution to stamp out poverty and suffering, but we’ve helped improve circumstances for a few. They no longer spit or hurl abuse, but welcome us as visitors to this deprived neighbourhood. The greatest pleasure for me is spending time with the children. I grieve for those I’ve lost, but the sweet smiles and cheeky faces of the youngsters under Anna’s care are enough to warm any heart.
It’s a chilly day to be riding in a carriage and I’m relieved to reach the door to my home. As I step inside, I hear voices from the parlour. Arthur sounds cheery, but I’d prefer not to endure his company, so I continue towards the kitchen.
Nancy looks harassed.
‘Do we have an unexpected guest for dinner?’
She nods. ‘Don’t know who he is, but he looks important. Talks loud, too.’
‘But what will we serve him? We didn’t plan on feeding an extra mouth today.’
‘It’s no bother, the mutton will stretch to one more. I’ve thinned out the gravy, so you’ll have to mop it up with bread, but that should do to fill the gent’s belly.’
‘Clever of you. Well, I suppose I’d better join them.’
This time our guest stands for an introduction.
‘Mrs Thistlewood. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Henry Hunt, at your service.’
I gasp. ‘Oh, Mr Hunt! Welcome to our home. Forgive me for not being here to greet you when you arrived.’
‘Please, don’t worry. It was a last-minute thing. Your husband wrote to ask me here once before and I was remiss in not replying. So today when he invited me for dinner, it was my pleasure to accept.’
‘We would have prepared something more palatable had we known you were coming.’ I’m gabbling, I know, but Henry Hunt is a familiar name across the land. I turn towards Arthur. ‘I trust your day went well?’
Arthur nods, beaming. ‘Mr Hunt agreed to speak at the meeting at Spa Fields on Friday. He’ll draw a crowd and set hearts racing. They’ll be clamouring to join us in battle by the time he finishes his speech.’
Mr Hunt clears his throat. ‘Indeed, sir, but I don’t believe in promoting violence. We want supporters to show mental resilience, not brute force. An intelligent approach is more likely to convince the hierarchy of the requirement for parliamentary reform, not a marauding pack of rabble raisers.’
Arthur dips his head in acquiescence. There’s something about his expression that
tells me violence is precisely what he desires. I excuse myself and ask them to take their seats at the table while I help Nancy serve the dinner.
Nancy has worked wonders with the food. With limited funds for purchasing groceries, she could not afford a decent cut of meat, but by simmering a mutton stew, she has produced a tender, delicious dish. The gravy is thinner than we are used to, but wonderfully seasoned and flavoured with rosemary. Oblivious to our frugality, Mr Hunt is bent over his dinner plate, mopping up every drop of juice. His grey hair glistens with silvery streaks, his neck is thick and his clothes strain at their seams. He is the most unlikely person to be campaigning for those who endure deprivation and squalor.
‘During my speech, I’ll refer to the demand for secret ballots and universal suffrage,’ he says, wiping grease from his lips with the back of his sleeve.
‘For women too?’ I ask, for I believe universal suffrage should include everyone.
‘Women?’ Arthur guffaws. ‘One step at a time, Susan. Let us win votes for men first, for they are the decision makers.’
‘Women make decisions too,’ I say, keeping my voice level.
‘About dresses and groceries.’ Arthur sneers and looks to Mr Hunt for his agreement, but Mr Hunt remains silent, his face impassive.
‘Women run businesses,’ I say, bravado getting the better of me, ‘and they make decisions about staff members, stock and wages.’
‘Widows,’ Arthur replies, fixing me with a haughty stare. ‘Widows, continuing businesses established by their husbands and using existing knowledgeable employees to keep things operating.’
I dare not press my point. Anna is the only woman I can think of who runs a business she set up herself, and I doubt Arthur would accept a French woman, paid for childcare, as a suitable example.
‘It is men who must make important political decisions.’ He chuckles and smiles at Mr Hunt. ‘She’ll be advocating a vote for children next.’
Mr Hunt gives me a weak smile, then says, ‘Annual parliaments. That’s something else we should demand. If an elected government can’t fulfil its promises to the nation, the people should be able to choose a new one. If a government fulfils its promises, then it can be confident of re-election. A universal vote today would end Liverpool’s run as leader. He’s allowed machines to replace artisans so workers are losing their skills and doing menial tasks with no pride in their work, enduring longer hours for meagre pay. Meanwhile, the capitalists accumulate yet more wealth. We live in an unfair society.’
The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 7
