The Coven

by Graham Masterton

  ‘I will send word to you daily, I promise.’

  Beatrice hesitated, and then she said, ‘There was a favour I was going to ask you, although it seems petty now, compared with these poor girls being so ill.’

  ‘Anything at all, Beatrice.’

  ‘One of our girls is suffering badly from head lice, and I wondered if you could let me have a few tobacco leaves so that I can use them to treat her. Tobacco leaves soaked in vinegar are excellent for killing lice.’

  ‘My dearest Beatrice, you shall have a hundred tobacco leaves if that is what you need. Come with me.’

  George stood up, and Beatrice stood, too, and he laid his hand on her shoulder and guided her back onto the factory floor. She felt deeply anxious about Jane and the rest of the girls, but her common sense told her that he was right to be cautious. The City was teeming with fevers and agues and poxes, and who could guess what contagion a client might have passed on to one of the girls. The last thing she wanted was for Florence to be left an orphan.

  14

  On the following Tuesday morning, Grace came into the atelier, where Beatrice was showing a small circle of five girls how to sew a flat-felled seam.

  ‘There’s a gentleman called to see you, Widow Scarlet.’

  ‘A gentleman? I’m not expecting anyone. Did he give his name?’

  ‘Mr James Treadgold. He says that he’s brung you something you was asking for.’

  Beatrice turned to the girls and said, ‘I shan’t be long. Please carry on stitching and remember that these seams should be almost invisible from the outside.’

  She found James standing in the drawing room in front of the fireplace. Instead of his usual rusty-coloured frock coat, he was wearing a grey three-piece suit with waistcoat and knee-breeches to match, and his shirt had a ruffled collar. His wavy brown hair was drawn back and tied with a large black-velvet bow.

  ‘Beatrice,’ he said, and bowed, as he had before.

  ‘James. This is a surprise.’

  ‘I know, and I apologise for that, but I have the day free from teaching, and Godfrey told me that you had asked him for some prunella and nightshade water, so I have brought it for you.’

  He handed Beatrice a beige cotton bag fastened with a drawstring.

  ‘That’s kind of you, James. And you are dressed extremely smartly today, if I may say so. Do you have a rencounter?’

  ‘I was hoping so. Do you have an hour or so to spare?’

  ‘Me? I’m sorry, James. I’m the middle of a sewing class, and then I have to help with the luncheon, and after that I will be spending the afternoon treating whatever ailments our girls have been suffering from. I appreciate your bringing over this prunella and nightshade water. Several girls have blackworms in the face, and if you mix these two with red wine vinegar, you have the very best treatment there is.’

  ‘Oh,’ said James. ‘It’s such a fine day, and I thought that I might persuade you to come out for something to eat by the river, and perhaps a glass of wine.’

  Beatrice could see how disappointed he was, so she said, ‘I can give you a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down?’

  James sat on one of the sofas, and Beatrice sat next to him. The door to the hallway was open, and three or four of the girls went past on their way to the kitchen, looked in quickly, and then started tittering.

  ‘They’ll be gossiping now,’ said Beatrice.

  ‘Well, let them,’ said James. ‘Perhaps we should give them something to gossip about.’

  Beatrice frowned at him in mock-disapproval. ‘You’re very bold.’

  ‘So what would be the alternative? For me to pretend that I did not immediately find you to be one of the most striking women that I have ever met?’

  ‘James! You barely know me!’

  ‘That is why I came here today – to deepen our acquaintance. Surely you must have had similar experiences yourself, in the past.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you what you mean.’

  ‘I’m talking about those times when you’ve been introduced to some stranger, and you’ve known in the very first instant that you could be the closest of friends – if not more than friends.’

  ‘James—’

  ‘I can’t help myself, Beatrice. I would be deceiving you if I said otherwise, and worse than that, I would be deceiving myself. I invited you to come to the Three Cranes with me, and perhaps you might have accepted. Perhaps not. Whichever you eventually decided, I would have had to wait in a ferment while you made up your mind.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten your invitation, James,’ said Beatrice. ‘But I’ve been so busy getting to know the girls here I haven’t even had time to unpack my own belongings, let alone think about meeting you for supper.’

  ‘I understand, Beatrice. But I’ve thought of nothing else but you since I last saw you. I haven’t been able to sleep for thinking about you! So when Godfrey told me this morning that he needed to send over some medication for you, I decided that I would have to take the bull by the horns.’

  Beatrice looked at him for a long time without speaking. There was no question that he was attractive, and the expression in his amethyst-blue eyes was one of almost laughable sincerity. It was hard to tell how old he was, but she guessed that he must be two or three years younger than her. He was so youthful and good-looking that it was surprising that he wasn’t already married, or at least had an entourage of pretty young women. Perhaps he was, and he did.

  She was so used to caring for the needs of others that she hadn’t thought once that she might be in need of somebody herself – somebody to love her and comfort her and help her come to terms with her grief. But could it be James?

  ‘You must give me a little time, James,’ she told him, at last. ‘I lost my beloved husband only three years since, and my dearest young son not two months ago. Apart from that, I had to uproot myself at short notice from my home in New Hampshire, and it was a home that was filled with so many memories, both happy and sad. I am not spurning you, believe me. I am greatly flattered that you feel about me the way that you do. But I am in no condition yet to think about returning your affection. My heart is like a mirror that has been smashed into pieces, and at the moment it can reflect nothing but fragments.’

  James reached over and gently laid his hand on top of hers. ‘The Reverend Parsons told me that your son had been taken from you. I sympathise with your pain completely, for I lost the girl I was betrothed to marry.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Beatrice. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘A year ago this Michaelmas. Without any warning at all she became infected with dropsy in the brain. One evening we were out dancing and the next morning she was dead. Her name was Sophie and she was only nineteen.’

  ‘Dropsy can be very sudden,’ Beatrice told him. ‘What a tragedy.’

  James had tears in his eyes. ‘You must not take this amiss,’ he said, ‘but when the Reverend Parsons brought you into my classroom I thought for one thunderstruck moment that Sophie had come alive again and that he had brought her back to me. You are so much like her.’

  ‘James – I cannot take her place. I may resemble her, but I am not her.’

  ‘I understand that completely, Beatrice, and I would not think of insulting you or Sophie’s memory by treating you so. But you cannot blame me for finding you so spellbinding. All I ask is that you consider spending some time with me, to see if our attraction could be mutual. If you tire of me, then all you have to do is tell me, and I will leave you in peace.’

  Beatrice was about to answer when she heard screaming coming from the atelier. She stood up just as Ida came bustling into the drawing room.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Beatrice! Your sewing class are fighting like cats! And— Oh, James! To what do we owe this visit?’

  James stood up, too, and bowed. ‘I was making a delivery of physic from Godfrey Minchin, Mrs Smollett. Widow Scarlet and I were merely exchanging a few pleasantries.’

  ‘
Well, you had best curtail your pleasantries before your girls tear each other’s hair out! And the bear-garden language!’

  Beatrice said, ‘Please thank Godfrey for the physic, James. I will be coming over to the Foundery tomorrow or the day after, so I may see you again then.’

  Ida left the room and Beatrice followed her. Grace was waiting in the hall to see James to the front door. He stepped outside, but before he put on his black tricorn hat, he turned to Beatrice and blew her a kiss.

  15

  After her visit to his tobacco factory, George had kept his promise and sent Beatrice a letter every morning, keeping her informed about Jane and the other girls. From what he wrote, though, it seemed as if their fever was daily growing worse rather than better, in spite of the cold baths and clysters that the doctor in Hackney had recommended.

  On Wednesday morning, the postboy delivered a letter just before breakfast, which Grace gave to Beatrice while she was sitting in the atelier drinking tea. Some of the girls sitting around her were sewing, while others were copying out ‘The Agony’, a sacred poem about the crucifixion, to improve their handwriting.

  Wouldst thou know Love? Behold the GOD,

  The Man, who for thy Ransom dy’d;

  Go taste the sacred Fount that flow’d

  Fast-streaming from his wounded Side!

  Love, is that Liquor most divine,

  GOD feels as Blood, but I as Wine.

  Two of the girls who had quarrelled the previous day were still glaring at each other, and although Beatrice had admonished them for being so hostile, they kept hissing ‘buttock and file!’ and ‘drab!’ at each other. Before she broke the seal on her letter, she said, sharply, ‘That’s quite enough, you two! If this was a coffee house, the owner would demand that you pay twelve pence every time you uttered a word like that, by law, so be thankful that I don’t do the same.’

  George had written, ‘The girls’ fever shows no sign of abating at all, and they are much spotted and scarce able to take more than a few sips of fair water. I fear they may be very close to meeting their maker.’

  Beatrice warned the girls not to fight or swear while she was away, and then she went to talk to Ida. She found her in the large basement kitchen with Martha, their cook, teaching three of her girls how to bake a skirret pie. One of the girls was Katharine. The tobacco-leaf-and-vinegar treatment had worked on her hair within a day, and now she was free from lice and nits – at least until she caught them again.

  Ida was wearing no rouge today, so her face looked even chalkier and more mask-like than usual. After she had read the letter from George, Beatrice said, ‘I must go to Hackney and see what I can do to save them.’

  Ida handed the letter back. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’

  ‘Ida – I know that this fever must be highly contagious, but there has to be a more effective treatment than cold baths and enemas. We had a similar fever in our village in America, and I used Jesuit’s powder and antimony stirred with plenty of wine. I was able to cure all save one elderly woman and one sickly child.’

  ‘I admire your intentions, Beatrice, believe me. But what if you contract it, and die? How will I cope here without you to assist me, and what will become of your Florence? What if you bring the fever back here with you, and spread it among the girls here?’

  ‘I cannot remain here and do nothing while those poor girls are so close to death,’ said Beatrice. ‘I will observe the strictest precautions when I visit them, and cover my face so as not to breathe in any sputum or tainted air.’

  Ida shook her head. ‘I am still set against it, Beatrice. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are we not Christians, Ida? Were we not chosen by God to help others – you to rescue girls from prostitution and me to save lives with my knowledge of physic?’

  ‘Yes, but, Beatrice—’

  ‘My husband sacrificed his life in the cause of saving others, Ida, and if God wills that I should share the same fate, then so be it. Whatever you say, I’m determined to go.’

  Ida looked away for a moment, to the kitchen table. Katharine was forming a funnel called a haystack in the pastry lid of the skirret pie, so that once it was baked, she could pour in a warm caudle of white wine, sugar and egg yolks.

  At last Ida turned back and said, ‘I really cannot dissuade you?’

  ‘No,’ said Beatrice, quietly but very firmly.

  ‘When were you thinking of going? I’m intending to hold a celebratory hour of hymns this afternoon.’

  ‘Before I can do anything I’ll have to find some Jesuit’s powder. I believe Godfrey has some at the Foundery, although I don’t know that he has it in sufficient quantity. But so soon as I’ve gathered together all the ingredients, and mixed them, I’ll go to Hackney at once. The sooner the better, for the girls’ sake.’

  Ida raised her eyes towards the clock on the kitchen wall.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I cannot forbid you, especially if you believe that you are carrying out God’s will. But if any harm comes to you, I shall find it hard to forgive you.’

  *

  Beatrice put on her cape and her bonnet and walked over to the Foundery. Florence had started teething, and was asleep, so she left Grace to look after her. It was a grey, overcast day and the rattling of coach wheels and the cries of street sellers sounded muffled, as if the clouds were a thick, suffocating blanket.

  As it turned out, a merchant ship had docked from South America only three days ago, and Godfrey had taken delivery of a large box of Peruvian tree bark, which Beatrice could grind into Jesuit’s powder. Her father had taught her that it was easily the best remedy for malaria, and for other fevers, too.

  She ground up the bark in a bell-metal pestle and mortar, and then she stirred the powder into a large bowl of red wine. She added antimony to purge the girls’ stomachs and spoonfuls of honey for sweetness and nourishment. Once all the evil influences had been purged out of them, they would need every ounce of strength to recover.

  Godfrey helped her to pour the physic into four green-glass bottles. ‘I’ll be praying for the girls’ recovery,’ he said, as he pushed in the stoppers. ‘And I’ll be praying, too, that God will protect you, Beatrice, from whatever fever it is that ails them.’

  Beatrice walked back to Maidenhead Court, and the Foundery’s grey-haired factotum, Henry, came with her to carry the bottles. Once they had reached the front door of St Mary Magdalene’s, Beatrice gave Henry tuppence and thanked him for his help, and Henry mumbled something unintelligible in reply and waddled off.

  Ida was coming down the stairs as Beatrice stepped into the hallway, her wide panniers brushing against the banisters.

  ‘You have your mixture?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Ida. I’ll be leaving as soon as Grace can call me a hackney.’

  ‘We’re about to commence the hymn-singing. Can you not stay for just one? The Reverend Parsons sent us a newly written hymn last week, “Lord, Before Thy Throne We Bend.” You must hear it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Beatrice. She knew that Ida was upset about her going to the tobacco factory, and she didn’t want to appear ungrateful or defiant.

  All twenty-nine girls were already gathered into the atelier, tittering and shuffling and nudging each other. The singing was to be led by Hephzibah Carmen, a dour, wan, painfully thin young woman dressed in black, who visited St Mary Magdalene’s twice weekly to teach music. Although her demeanour was so miserable, her classes were always crowded. Many of the girls had ambitions to sing on the stage, which would greatly improve their chances of attracting a husband, or at least a well-off gentleman to keep them as a convenient.

  Hephzibah sang each line of the hymns solo, one line at a time, in a shrill, wavering voice. After each line, the girls repeated what she had sung – not only because they were unfamiliar with the tunes of the newer hymns, but because only five or six of them could read.

  Beatrice stayed to hear the new hymn, and then quietly excused herself to Ida and left. Ida nodd
ed to her and seemed less concerned now about her going. Grace had called for a hackney coach and it was waiting outside for her.

  ‘May the angels be taking good care of you, Widow Scarlet,’ said Grace.

  16

  It was starting to spit with rain when Beatrice arrived at the tobacco factory. The hackney coachman helped her to carry the basket containing the physic bottles into the courtyard, and for that she gave him an extra penny on top of his shilling-and-sixpenny fare.

  As she paid him he said, gloomily, ‘You won’t be thinking of buying yourself one of those Hanway things, will you?’

  ‘Oh, you mean an umbrella?’

  ‘Whatever you calls ’em, they’ll be the death of the jarvis trade, if you axes me.’

  ‘I doubt it. I wouldn’t have cared to walk all the way here, raining or not.’

  ‘There’s plenty who would, though, if they had a Hanway. They was invented by the Devil. Who do you think the Lord God created rain for? For the jarvis trade, that’s who.’

  Before she could knock, both factory doors swung open, and one of George’s carters came out, all but his legs and his hands hidden behind the stack of cigar boxes that he was carrying.

  ‘Is Mr Hazzard in?’ she asked him.

  ‘Just let me load these onto my wagon, ma’am, and I’ll take you to him directly.’

  The carter led her through the factory, carrying her basket for her. The factory was busy, but she noticed that neither Jane nor any of the other girls from St Mary Magdalene’s was stripping tobacco leaves or rolling cigars. She assumed that they must still be sick.

  George was sitting at his desk talking to a bald-headed man with bushy side-whiskers. He stood up at once when Beatrice came in, putting down his cigar and raising both hands in surprise. The bald-headed man popped up, too, like a jack-in-the-box. Although he had a paunch, he was thin and surprisingly tall.

  ‘My dear Beatrice!’ said George. ‘What a surprise!’

  ‘I’m sorry to call on you so unexpectedly, George,’ Beatrice told him. ‘I suppose I could have sent you a letter to warn you that I was coming, but I thought it better if I wasted no time. In these bottles I’ve brought a physic for the girls to reduce their fever, and with God’s grace to cure them completely.’