The Second Mrs Thistlewood

by Dionne Haynes

  ‘Forgive me,’ I say to no one in particular. ‘I didn’t mean to distract from your news.’

  A few minutes pass while the maid squeezes dry cloths against my dress to absorb the dampness. Then she brings another tray with a fresh brew and a clean cup and saucer for me. Serenity returns to Mrs Westcott’s parlour, and we all concentrate on sipping our tea.

  I force myself to take an interest in the forthcoming wedding. ‘Have you fixed a date?’

  Miss Hurst and her mother exchange satisfied smiles.

  ‘Next spring,’ replies Miss Hurst, fixing her friendly gaze on me. ‘Mrs Thistlewood, you must embroider my gown! With your reputation for your needlework skills, it will be the envy of my friends, and others will want your expertise when it’s their turn to wed.’ Her face drops. ‘Forgive me. That was inappropriate. Here you are, a friend of the family, and I’m treating you as a maid. Thoughtless of me.’

  I can’t help but warm to Miss Hurst. She has dashed my hopes for a future coloured with happiness, but she is friendly and sensitive. She will make a more delightful daughter-in-law for Mrs Westcott than I ever could. The rest of my visit passes in a blur, my thoughts too distracted to follow conversations. At last, a suitable moment arrives to take my leave.

  Mrs Westcott bustles into the hallway, her stick tapping on the cream painted floorboards. ‘Susan, I didn’t ask why you wanted to see William. Is there a message for him?’

  ‘It can wait,’ I reply, forcing cheer into my voice. ‘Congratulations on the thrilling news. Miss Hurst is a delight.’

  ‘She is, isn’t she? It’s always a concern who one’s heir will choose for his wife. I confess, it’s a relief that my wayward son is settling at all, and has chosen a charming young lady.’

  I wouldn’t describe William as wayward, but it seems I don’t know him as well as I thought. The front door stands open, inviting a draught into the hallway. I secure my bonnet with a new pin, then step outside into a world filled with pain and uncertainty.

  The Thames gushes and swirls beneath London Bridge, gathering flotsam and churning it with mud before rushing towards the sea. The river is busy today, congested with boats of various shapes and sizes. Some carry freight while others ferry passengers from one riverbank to the other. I’m fascinated by one craft in particular. An oarsman pulls against the tide, trying to hold position, while two other men struggle to haul a large object from the water. A body, perhaps. A lost soul, much like myself, whose last chance of happiness vanished like a snuffed candle flame.

  The current moves faster where the bridge piles reach through the surface – a trick of science beyond my comprehension. A seagull makes a precarious landing on the water, jabs its beak into the murk and pulls out a chunk of discarded meat. The current sweeps the distracted bird through a rapid arc and spits it into a fast-moving stream of water. When the seagull recovers its senses, it chooses not to continue towards the sea but beats its wings, struggling to escape the river’s grasp. The victorious creature circles above me, riding the breeze, screeching a warning to other gulls.

  I wonder, if I jumped into the river, would I be dashed against the solid supports, my head split open and ruined like a dropped ripe apricot? Or would the current spit me into a slower stream, only for three well-meaning men to drag me into a small wooden rescue boat?

  I perch on the balustrade and swing my legs over. My feet dangle high above the water. The river is calling to me, beckoning me to succumb to its embrace. The ripples are mesmerising, and I study patterns created by waves rushing out from the pilings, separating into ever-increasing concentric circles. Rebellious undercurrents lap at the bridge supports, as if licking an ice cream, eroding it away.

  The carcass of an animal swirls beneath me. I lean forward to see what it is. A dog? Too small. A fox? Maybe. It doesn’t matter because it’s dead. I wonder if anyone will grieve for me? Not Arthur. He wasted no time recovering from the loss of his first wife and soon turned his attention towards me. William? He has Miss Hurst now. Julian would pity me for having to choose between Arthur and the river. And my demise would sadden my parents, but they’d recover soon enough.

  I cannot think what purpose I have served in this life. Whatever it was, it’s over. The grey-brown water looks cold but will burn my lungs when it fills them with water. Dear God, have mercy. Let my drowning be quick.

  ‘Susan?’

  I’m ready. I edge a little further forward, wincing when the balustrade presses on a bruise. A warm trickle of blood escapes from the gash on my thigh. How did that break open? Something else that no longer matters.

  ‘Susan!’

  I’ve made my decision. My right shoe slides from my foot and plummets to the murky river. ‘One… two… three…’ More seconds pass. There’s no sign of the shoe. Good. If I’m held beneath the surface of the river, my ending will be quick. ‘Eleven… twelve…’ I squint at the water downstream, in case the shoe resurfaces there. No trace. I slip off the other shoe to be certain. Again, the river swallows it, refusing to spit it out anywhere within my line of view.

  I rest my stockinged heels on the edge of the bridge, toes protruding into empty air. A pale sun creeps out from behind a black cloud and warms my cheeks. It’s God, preparing to welcome me to the afterlife, whatever that may be. I tilt my face towards Him and tell Him I’m on my way.

  My eyelids close and my hands separate from the balustrade. I tilt forward. I’m at peace and ready to fly.

  Something wraps around my midriff, squeezing me tight. My eyelids snap open.

  ‘Susan!’ A sob this time. ‘Whatever saddens you, don’t do this. You have friends who love you.’

  My heart lurches. It’s Anna. She must have followed me.

  My hands grapple for the balustrade and my feet seek firm ground. Hot tears drip from my cheeks into the river, lost in a pool of cold hostility. Anna whispers in my ear, her words loving and kind as only a true friend’s can be.

  I’m on the safe side of the balustrade now. Strangers withdraw to the bridge alcoves, sheltering from drops of summer rain. A blurred image of Beckey hurtles towards me. Soon I’m enveloped by my two dearest friends.

  ‘Thank the Lord you’re still with us. As soon as I received word from Anna, I had to come and fetch you. Dear Susan, what were you thinking?’

  Beckey helps me into a hansom cab and Anna sits next to me, her arms wrapped around my trembling body.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  Anna presses her cheek to mine. ‘You weren’t yourself at work today and when you left early, I knew something was wrong. I called at your house on my way home, but there was no answer. Then I saw you hesitate at the end of your street. You looked sad, Susan. Distracted. I was concerned and called out, but you turned and hurried away. Something compelled me to follow you. I kept my distance so as not to intrude, but when I realised you were heading for the bridge, I panicked and paid a coachman to fetch Beckey.’

  ‘It’s as well you were in no hurry to jump,’ says Beckey.

  ‘Please, don’t tell Arthur.’

  Beckey snorts. ‘He’s the last person we’d tell. You’ll stay with me tonight, and we’ll talk about whatever has saddened you so.’

  ‘Arthur will insist I go home.’

  ‘He’ll have no choice. Anna will tell him you were with me when you succumbed to a sudden bout of vomiting. She’ll say you’re not well enough to travel. You may return tomorrow, provided you’re up to it.’

  Anna kisses my cheek. ‘Don’t let a foolish husband drive you to despair, Susan. No man is worth that. The pain you feel, whatever the cause, will ease in time.’

  Despite being widows, Beckey and Anna live fulfilling lives, and Anna has worked her way out of poverty while raising a child. My friends are intelligent, courageous women. Fate has given me an opportunity to reinvent myself. I will follow their example.

  Beckey opens a twist of paper and offers it to me. I take a barley sugar and post it between my lips. The sweetness i
s a balm to my damaged soul. I suck on the boiled sweet and force a smile for my friends. I haven’t lost my feeling of despair, but with Beckey and Anna by my side, I can survive anything.

  There’s a pricking in my left foot and I bend forward to determine the cause. A sharp stone has ripped through my stocking and sits embedded in the thickened skin of my heel. I dig it out with my fingernail, surprised I felt nothing while walking across the cobbles to the cab.

  ‘My shoes!’ I picture them tossed to the riverbank by the ungrateful Thames, waiting for a scavenger to free them from the mud.

  ‘Our feet are similar in size,’ says Beckey. ‘I have grey jacquard boots I’ve worn only twice. You’re welcome to them.’

  I smile my gratitude, too exhausted to protest. And anyway, I have no spares of my own. The thought of seeing Arthur again fills me with foreboding and I worry about how I will explain the change of footwear.

  I must not allow my fear of Arthur to taint my optimism for the future. His punches and kicks will not continue forever, and one day the scars will disappear. I misplaced my faith in William, but I’ll not let an error of judgement ruin my dream of a happy future.

  From this day forward, I will strive for happiness. It may take a while to find the future I deserve, but while I work towards it, I will be courageous.

  Chapter 36

  A fat black housefly perches on the edge of my plate and drinks from a puddle of strawberry jam. Any other time I’d swat it away. Today I don’t care. There are worse problems in the world than a fly sharing my food. And anyway, I’ve eaten enough jam for now. My teeth feel furry against my tongue, and a tooth is twingeing.

  Arthur went out early this morning. Mrs Hooper’s shop is closed for three days, undergoing a radical refit thanks to her rising fame in the dressmaking and repair business. I used most of the first day of my unexpected holiday to scrub our modest home from top to bottom. The kitchen table is glowing from a generous application of beeswax, and the parlour is bright and welcoming now that grime no longer obstructs the passage of sunlight through the windows. It’s time to let out my dresses, for they have grown tight of late.

  I push my armchair across the bare floorboards and wince at the loud scraping sounds. Positioning it next to the window, I sit and watch the street below. An amorous young man escorts his blushing companion towards the nearby park, both of them glowing in the evening’s warmth. Despite two years at this address, I don’t recognise them. Our neighbours from either side greet us well enough, but we never step across one another’s thresholds. Nor do I wish that situation to change. They throw me pitying glances the morning after a violent night with Arthur, and I could not bear deeper scrutiny.

  I pull a dress from the top of my mending basket and unpick the stitches at the seams. Why am I becoming so bulky? I’m not with child, and I’m gaining weight all over. My thighs are large, my ankles thick and my face rounded. I know I’m not sickening for something. In fact, I enjoy the best of health considering the life I endure. A sudden craving drives me to the kitchen. My appetite for jam has returned and I devour two heaped spoonfuls before returning to my seat to continue contemplation.

  ‘Susan?’ Arthur bursts into the parlour, flushed with excitement. ‘Susan? Did the news reach you?’

  I replace my work on top of the basket and rise from my chair. ‘No, Arthur. I haven’t left the house today.’

  Arthur rushes across the room and grasps my hands. A broad smile illuminates his face and I see traces of the charm that once attracted me.

  ‘England is turning.’ His eyes are wide. He presses my fingers to his lips. ‘The government will listen now.’

  ‘What’s happened? Was there a protest?’

  ‘There was. Henry Hunt drew fifty thousand men and women to St Peter’s Field.’

  ‘Fifty thousand?’ I can’t imagine a crowd of that size gathered in one place. My surprise fuels Arthur’s enthusiasm.

  ‘What did you expect? Deprive workers of a decent standard of living and they will revolt. Ruled by a corrupt parliament, unable to vote and cast aside like rubbish by those who were elected, it’s not surprising the workers take to the streets and support those who make their interests a priority. This is a momentous day, Susan. The people have had enough. Now they’re interested in what we say and will do what we ask. I knew this day was coming. I will have my revolution.’

  Arthur pulls me to him and kisses me hard on the mouth. His lips move to my neck and his hands reach for my skirts, screwing them up in his fists, raising them to my thighs. My body goes rigid.

  ‘Arthur, stop.’ I push him away, scratching around in my mind for justification for my reaction. ‘I can’t. Not today.’

  ‘Why not?’ There’s an edge to his voice.

  I can’t think of an excuse. My pulse is loud in my ears. If I don’t think of something soon, I will pay for my reluctance. Sweat coats my palms, and my legs tremble. Arthur glares, daring me to uphold my refusal. I look towards the window, hoping for inspiration, and see my sewing basket.

  Arthur follows my gaze.

  ‘I’ve been altering my dresses,’ I say, tiptoeing towards a dangerous lie.

  His expression softens. ‘How far along?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ I bite the inside of my cheek.

  ‘Dearest Susan.’ Arthur strokes my face with unfamiliar tenderness. ‘Perhaps this time…’

  The unfinished sentence hangs between us like a dare, neither one of us wishing to complete it. May God forgive my lie, but I need a break from Arthur, and this is the only way I can be certain he’ll leave me alone.

  ‘Take things easy for a while. A maid’s out of the question, but attend to only the essential chores.’ His brow furrows. ‘Can you work a few more months?’

  It’s no surprise to hear that question because I’m the only reliable source of income. I nod. The lines on his forehead fade.

  ‘Sit by the window,’ he says. ‘Enjoy the last hour of daylight. Shall I fetch a book?’

  I shake my head. It’s been a while since I visited Paternoster Row, so I have nothing new to enjoy. ‘No. There’s plenty of needlework to keep me busy.’

  He rests a palm on my belly and smiles. ‘May God protect this child of ours. I’m going out. I’m meeting a fellow by the name of George Edwards. Don’t wait up.’

  A few days have passed since the meeting at St Peter’s Field. The newspapers are fat with details and describe the event as a massacre. I stare at the pages through misted eyes. So absorbed am I in making sense of the atrocity, I don’t hear Arthur enter the kitchen.

  He places a proprietorial hand on my shoulder, sending an icy chill through my spine.

  Arthur scoops up the papers and places them to one side. ‘Imagine the scene,’ he says. ‘Bands playing, banners flying, Hunt standing on the hustings, and loud cheers echoing for miles. They knew he intended to put their suffering into words and make their feelings known. The cheering lasted so long, he couldn’t begin his speech before the cavalry charged. Hunt was a hero, and the people applauded him for it.’

  ‘Many died.’

  Arthur grunts. ‘Casualties of war.’

  ‘Children, Arthur!’ I dig my fingernails into my palms. I must not make him angry. ‘And hundreds of adults injured.’

  He shrugs. ‘The magistrates made an error sending in the yeomanry. Would have passed off peacefully enough if army officers and their middle-class buffoons hadn’t sabotaged the meeting.’

  ‘But Arthur, women and children?’

  ‘Sacrifices for the cause. The government backed that slaughter but refuses to take responsibility for the deaths. More people could die before the wheels of change turn. I intend to seek support for more such meetings.’

  ‘More slaughter including innocent children who know nothing of politics?’

  His lips slide into a mean, calculating smile. ‘We’ll do whatever it takes. Our streets may have to turn red several times over before we get the result we want. I will raise an
army unafraid to spill blood. We will force change on the government of England.’

  He speaks of human sacrifice as if it’s as simple as butchering an animal. God willing, it will get him into the trouble I dream of. But at what price?

  May something good come out of this. Something of benefit to the masses. Don’t let those lives be sacrificed in vain!

  My tooth is throbbing, the pain intense, like something gnawing through the bone of my jaw. It will have to be pulled.

  Chapter 37

  With trembling hands, I slice into a pineapple. A frivolous expense, but it’s Arthur’s favourite fruit. God knows he will need sweetening when I break the news. I pray the rally went well today and Arthur returns home in high spirits. The better his mood, the less likely he is to punish me for the crushing blow I must deliver.

  The front door creaks as Arthur forces it open. A prolonged bout of damp weather caused the wood to swell and we have to shove it away from the jamb. Another favour to ask of charming William Davidson.

  Arthur looks tired.

  ‘Did the rally go well?’

  Arthur sits at the kitchen table and lets out a sigh. ‘Well enough. The yeomanry attended, but it was peaceful. The speakers weren’t interrupted, and members of the crowd expressed opinions without the fear of sword tips being pressed against their necks.’

  ‘Were your words well received?’ A few days ago, and much to my surprise, I learned that Arthur has been a principal speaker at many meetings.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then why do you appear unhappy?’

  ‘There are signs the economy’s improving. As a result, the workers are less inclined to revolt.’

  ‘A better economy is what England needs, is it not?’

  Unwelcome news for me if it quells Arthur’s lust for a revolution.

  Arthur glares. ‘An improvement in the economy is preferable but doesn’t change the fact that the selfish fools who govern won’t flinch when it declines again – and believe me, it will. The battle will happen, but not yet because my soldiers are deserting, Susan. The weavers have withdrawn support and other trades will follow. I cannot fight without troops.’