‘Please, come inside.’ My voice sounds timid.
‘You have something…’ His words trail away. He frowns and reaches towards my lips but stops before touching them.
I imagine how I appear to him, elegant in a special dress, with the coloured lips of a harlot. My tongue must be similarly tainted. I step aside so Mr Westcott may enter the hallway, but he does not move. My heart sinks. He has changed his mind. Perhaps for the best.
‘A splendid day,’ he says. ‘I thought we might walk together.’
Arthur’s threat forgotten, I snatch my pelisse and bonnet from the coat stand, and step across the threshold.
I do not know where we are, nor which route we took to get here, because I drifted along the streets as if carried by a dream. My gloved hand has slipped behind Mr Westcott’s arm and rests on his sleeve. He looks into my eyes and smiles, a kind smile with no hint of mockery even though my lips will be stained for some time yet.
‘I know what you need,’ he says.
I tilt my head, brow furrowed, but say nothing because I suspect my tongue is more colourful than my lips.
Mr Westcott stops outside a confectionary shop and I remove my hand from his arm. He holds the door open for me to step inside. While I wait by the entrance, unnaturally interested in patterned sage-green floor tiles, he approaches the shopkeeper and makes a request. Moments later he links my arm with his and escorts me back outside.
‘Beautiful,’ he says.
I lift my head to see a small park surrounded by glorious daffodils fluttering in a gentle breeze. A thick carpet of perfect yellow. The colour is a welcome contrast to the grey grime of London. We settle on an elegant bench bathed in early spring sunshine, and Mr Westcott opens a package wrapped in linen.
‘A segment of lemon?’
‘Mother swears by it. Here.’
Mr Westcott tilts my chin and strokes the cut flesh of the lemon across my bottom lip. The gesture is intimate and sends a shiver through me. I wish it would last forever. He attends to my upper lip before removing his fingertips from beneath my chin.
‘The juice removes staining from tongues too, but the bitterness is unpalatable for ladies.’
My heart flutters like the daffodils. ‘I’m willing to try.’
He smiles, then produces another small package, this time wrapped in paper. I peer inside, then look at him in wonder.
‘How did you know?’
His brow creases. ‘Know what?’
‘I’m fond of these.’
He laughs. ‘I didn’t. It’s another of Mother’s tricks to remove traces of red wine. Sugar plums are most effective, she says, because when you crunch them, the tiny pieces act as a mild abrasive and scrape the stains clean away.’
‘A lucky coincidence,’ I say, popping a pale blue one into my mouth. I offer them to him, and he is as eager as I am to eat one.
We sit in contented companionship, munching comfits, and watch daffodils dancing in the breeze. The sun slinks behind a cloud and the air temperature drops.
‘Let us walk to warm ourselves.’ Mr Westcott stands and offers me his arm.
We stroll along winding garden paths, passing other couples enjoying the pleasant weather. Conversation flows easily between us now my mouth and tongue are no longer deeply stained.
The breeze strengthens and the spring warmth fades, so we agree to leave the park. When we arrive at my front door, I’m desperate to extend this happy afternoon for a little longer.
‘Please, Mr Westcott, come inside for a pot of tea. We’re both chilled through.’
He considers my proposal for a moment. ‘I’d enjoy that very much.’
There’s no awkwardness between us while we sip steaming tea and laugh at my poor decision to taste the elderberry wine earlier in the day.
‘Here, try it.’ I giggle and pour a generous glassful.
‘Only if you will.’
My home swells with laughter for the first time since I moved here. We immerse our lips in the dark red liquid, entertaining each other with the frightful consequences. We still have the lemon from earlier and help each other remove the traces of foolishness from our lips. Alas, the sugar plums have all gone so our tongues remain stained, but at least Mr Westcott can hold his head high when he strides along the street to hail a carriage.
I walk him to the door and fear my heart will break when we say farewell.
He touches my top lip with his index finger. ‘You missed a patch.’
My insides lurch, and I resist the temptation to fling my arms around him. His face draws nearer to mine and our lips meet. A gentle brushing, as soft as an angel’s breath. He pulls away and checks my reaction. I press my lips together, trying to trap the kiss forever, but then I part them a little and we kiss again.
Reluctantly, we pull apart.
‘Forgive me, I’m a married woman and shouldn’t behave this way.’
‘I’m the one who should apologise,’ he says. ‘Not because I showed my feelings, but because you deserve so much more than your husband gives. If only circumstances were different.’
My eyes mist as I reach for Mr Westcott’s hand. ‘Arthur will never release me from marriage.’
I dread the day he comes home from prison. Life will be harder than before he went away.
‘We’ll make do with snatched moments and cherish every minute we spend together.’
My heart sings with joy. He intends to see me again.
‘Goodbye, Mr Westcott. It was a wonderful afternoon.’ I offer my lips as a parting gift and he accepts without hesitation.
When we release each other, he smiles. ‘From now on, call me William.’
1819
Chapter 31
Mrs Hooper has a plate of French macarons for today’s customers. The tantalising aroma of sweet almond sets my mouth watering. Willpower deserts me. As I walk past the counter towards the sewing room, I swipe a neat beige disc from the plate and pop it between my lips. It’s a pity I must munch it rather than wait for it to dissolve upon my tongue, but I shouldn’t be eating these delicious biscuits. I lower my eyelids for a few seconds, concentrating on the flavour, then swallow the evidence of my misdemeanour.
‘Susan, are you unwell?’ Anna has a concerned look in her eyes. ‘I thought you might pass out.’
‘Sit down, Mrs Thistlewood,’ commands Mrs Hooper, dragging a chair from the customer waiting area. ‘You’re pale.’
‘Please, don’t fuss. I’m not ill, just… thinking, that’s all.’ Almond dust coats my tongue and I struggle to swallow. ‘Perhaps a little sip of small beer, because my throat is dry.’
Mrs Hooper rushes to the counter and fills a glass. Her gaze sweeps over the plate of biscuits, then she glances towards me and frowns. Heat rises from my neck to my jaw and I dash to the back room before Mrs Hooper sees my shame. I pass a message to Martha about an alteration required, then return to face my employer. She passes me the glass.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hooper,’ I say, my voice lowered so others cannot hear. ‘My husband will come home soon, and I worry we are both much changed.’
‘Your concern is understandable. Every married couple needs a period of readjustment after a prolonged separation. Try not to fret. No doubt Mr Thistlewood will be proud of you for coping so well during his absence. Everything will return to normal before long.’
That is what I’m afraid of.
Mrs Hooper attends to a customer, so I sit in a corner at a little sewing table. During quieter periods, I make basic repairs and alterations, or work on minor embroidery projects. I’m thrilled Mrs Hooper permits me to do such work as my needlework skills are much improved. While my eyes focus on the blue thread moving back and forth through the fabric, my thoughts drift to William. Several weeks have passed since our last encounter. He’s in Basingstoke, working on an investigation. How I’ve missed his company. I don’t know when he will return and dare not visit his mother to ask – nor will I enquire about him at Bow Street. Instead, I co
ntinue fortnightly visits to Paternoster Row and hope there will be a letter soon, as promised before he left.
‘Pleasant day, Mrs Thistlewood.’ Mr Brown holds the door open and greets me with a broad smile.
‘Good day, Mr Brown. Is there a letter for me today?’
His smile evaporates, and he shakes his head. ‘Perhaps next time.’
I stifle my disappointment and make straight for the shelf where the latest acquisition of novels is on display. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse his figure retreating to the storeroom at the rear of the shop. I hope he’ll return with a choice of new books because there’s nothing appealing on the shelf today. Disappointment saps my energy. I migrate towards the poetry collections and choose one at random. Flicking through the pages, I find a poem about a love gained then lost. The words echo my fears.
‘Read something on a cheerier theme.’
‘William!’
I thrust the book back on to the shelf and throw my arms around William’s neck. He holds me tight, pulling me close, and I bury my face into the angle of his neck, relishing the scent of his skin.
‘You were away too long,’ I say, in mock annoyance.
‘I know, but I could do nothing to hasten my return.’
I glance over William’s shoulder. Mr Brown smiles then averts his gaze. He peruses a ledger, allowing us a moment of privacy.
‘There’s somewhere I want to take you while it’s still light.’
I nod and grin like a child who has just received a treat. Mr Brown opens the door and bids us farewell. William slips coins into his hand as recompense for his discretion. We pile into a hackney carriage with a gaggle of strangers and ride arm in arm like two young lovers before alighting from the carriage somewhere on the edge of the city near an area of woodland.
‘Cover your eyes.’
I do as I’m told, and William rests his firm hands on my shoulders, guiding me this way and that. When we come to a halt, he stands behind me, slides his hand around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder. I could stand like this forever.
‘Open your eyes.’
‘Oh!’ A vast sea of bluebells ripples between the trees and the sight brings tears to my eyes. ‘I used to play in a wood like this, hiding from my brothers, darting from one tree to another.’
William’s smile fades. ‘I didn’t mean to sadden you. Because you loved the daffodils so much, I thought this would please you too.’
‘I’m not sad. Far from it. This brings back fond memories of moments I never want to forget.’
I turn to face him. He wipes tears from my cheeks and then draws me closer. As our lips meet, I yearn for something more intimate. I press myself to him and discover he wishes it too.
When I draw away, I take his hands in mine and we spend long seconds gazing into each other’s eyes, sharing the pain of my circumstances. Tears drop to my shawl, spreading grief in damp circles.
‘We should eat,’ says William, with a husky voice. ‘There’s an inn nearby serving delicious roasted meats.’
‘Susan?’ A portly lady bustles over to our table. ‘Susan Thistlewood? It is you! Oh, my dear, how are you?’
I search through my memories, trying to place this overfamiliar woman. ‘Very well, thank you. How are you? It’s been so long.’
‘It has. Beckey said you’ve too many commitments these days. It’s understandable.’
A friend of Beckey’s. I remember now. A pleasant woman from the musical evenings. Although they’ve started up again, I’ve either been too busy to attend because of altering dresses in the evenings or too exhausted after hectic days at work. I realise this woman knows about Arthur’s circumstances. No doubt she wonders why I’m in the company of another gentleman.
‘Forgive my rudeness. This is John Wilkinson. My brother.’
William stands and bows to the woman whose name I cannot recall. ‘Always a pleasure to meet any friend of my sister’s,’ he says, casting a mocking glance as he returns to his seat.
‘I was showing him the bluebell wood,’ I say, feeling obliged to make conversation.
The woman claps her hands. ‘We were there too. Delightful, isn’t it? Ah, your food has arrived. I’ll leave you in peace to savour it. Enjoy London, Mr Wilkinson.’
As her large frame recedes, William leans across the table. ‘Your brother?’ he teases.
I giggle. ‘It was all I could think of.’
William’s face drops. ‘We must be more careful. I predict challenging times ahead, and you’ll need an upstanding reputation to get through them. It might be prudent to forego time together until things settle.’
‘No! It’s knowing I’ll spend time with you that gets me through each day. There must be a way.’
He reaches beneath the table and grasps my fingers. ‘Be patient,’ he says. ‘I’ve no desire to put you in harm’s way.’
Chapter 32
I wrinkle my nose at the bitter taste of coffee. The aroma’s pleasant, and the sweetness of the sugar suits my palate, but the flavour is something I’ve never enjoyed. Beckey’s kitchen maid returns to the parlour with a fresh pot. I place a hand over my cup. I’ve already swallowed as much as I can bear.
‘What will persuade you to join us next Saturday, Susan?’
‘I’m sorry, Beckey, but I have a prior engagement.’
Beckey appears crestfallen. ‘But you haven’t heard Anna sing. She has the voice of a nightingale.’
Anna smiles, her complexion turning pink.
‘I’ve heard Anna sing many a time,’ I reply.
‘When?’ asks Anna.
‘You often sing at work.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. Beautiful songs that help us concentrate on our stitches. The words sound French and the tunes unfamiliar. Songs learned during childhood, perhaps?’
Anna shrugs. ‘Maybe.’
Beckey dips a biscuit in her coffee. ‘How are you enjoying the work, Susan?’
‘Very much. Mrs Hooper’s a joy to work for.’
Last month, I received a slight increase in wage. Mrs Hooper praised my skill for mending rips and leaving minimal traces of repair. She said the customers ask for me by name when their finest dresses need repairing. Recently, my services have been in high demand. As living costs rise, the women of London curb their spending, and alteration or remodelling of existing dresses is therefore in vogue. This economy drive will keep Mrs Hooper’s business ticking over until the tide turns again and new dresses are back in demand.
The clock strikes the hour. George looks to Anna, expecting the instruction to put on his shoes, for he has learned that it’s time to leave when the clock announces the fourth hour after midday.
‘Stay longer,’ pleads Beckey. ‘The house is too quiet after guests have gone. Another half hour?’
I sense that Anna is about to agree, so answer on behalf of us both. ‘Excuse us, Beckey, but we must go home. There’s housework to finish before returning to work tomorrow.’
‘Take me with you. And Margaret. She’ll do anything you ask.’
Margaret is Beckey’s newest housemaid, a skinny girl with a sallow complexion and quiet temperament who tends to Beckey as a personal maid and general house servant.
‘Margaret deserves her Sunday afternoon of rest. It’s best if I attend to my chores alone. They include nothing more exciting than a quick dust, sweeping floors and writing a letter or two.’ The lies come easily and I’m making such a habit of this that I no longer blush at my subterfuge.
Beckey’s no fool and has spotted Anna’s frown. Anna knows I attended to those chores yesterday.
‘Susan? What secrets are you keeping?’
I giggle. ‘Secrets? Why would I keep secrets from my dearest friends?’
I know Beckey and Anna are trustworthy, but should I tell them? I chew on the inside of my cheek, wrestling with my dilemma.
‘I wager it’s a man,’ whispers Anna.
Beckey’s fingertips fly to her lips. ‘Susan? Is
it true?’
Anna grins. ‘It eez, non?’ Her French accent resurfaces with her excitement. ‘Bien sûr! Only the love of a gentleman can ’ave that effect.’
‘Dearest Susan, who is the lucky man?’
My palms are clammy, and I feel trapped into a confession. ‘It would be inappropriate to become involved with another man while I’m married to Arthur.’
‘Pah!’ Beckey flicks her hand and grimaces. ‘Arthur’s dangerous. Samuel said he’d come to a sticky end. Pity Arthur can’t rot in gaol until his dying day. Samuel always worried about you, Susan, and said if Arthur didn’t get his own way for something, he’d take it out on you. Does he?’
I should contradict the accusation, but instead I nod in confirmation. My body has been free of bruises and grazes for twelve months now. I wonder how long Arthur will be home before fresh marks appear.
Beckey shakes her head. ‘Get out of that marriage, Susan, before he goes too far.’
‘How can I? He’ll never consent to a divorce. I’m his until I die.’
‘Or he does,’ murmurs Anna.
My eyes widen. ‘Are you suggesting—?’
‘No she’s not,’ says Beckey. ‘But his dream of revolution won’t have died at Horsham. There’s little else to do other than plan his next move. He’ll soon be back in prison, mark my words.’
We fall silent for what feels like several minutes.
Beckey strokes my arm. ‘If the Lord sees fit to offer you a second chance, Susan, Heaven knows you should take it.’
I wring my hands. ‘But if Arthur found out, he’d kill me.’
‘Then promise to take care. You deserve a gentleman who respects and cherishes you. Don’t pass on an opportunity for true love. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. If He offers you happiness, don’t question Him. Accept that this gentleman is in your life for a reason… and for pity’s sake, tell us who he is!’
The Second Mrs Thistlewood Page 14
