The Gilded Lily

by Deborah Swift

  ‘I haven’t any money,’ Sadie said. She tried to stand, but almost keeled over. Corey hauled her to upright.

  ‘Come on, I’ll loan you. Shouldn’t be much, just a few stitches. It’ll be done quick. You can pay me back later, when you’re sorted out.’ Both of them knew that was unlikely, but Corey wanted to be kind, and Sadie appreciated her tact.

  ‘If you find her, tell her I’m here, won’t you, and bring her home with you –’ She paused. ‘No, on second thoughts, what if the surgeon’s seen the notices, or heard about me? He might hand me in, then it wouldn’t be safe to bring her.’

  ‘Well, you’ll be dead soon enough anyways if you don’t get that stitched. It’s bad. We’ll have to hope he’s not heard. And it’s only round the corner, you’ll be back here in no time. They won’t know you’re here if you can get back upstairs before Ma wakes.’

  ‘Come straight away if you’ve any news, won’t you?’

  ‘Soon as I can, but it might have to be in my snap break.’

  Corey lent Sadie a clean bodice and skirt. They were a little roomy, and far too short, but it felt good to be clean. She put her own apron on over the skirt to keep it from getting messed up. Corey twisted her arm in Sadie’s to keep her steady as they set off.

  ‘I’ll leave you at the barber’s,’ Corey said, ‘then I’ll have to go back and feed the littlies.’

  ‘Won’t they ask me what I’m doing there?’

  ‘No, I’ll send them out – up to the bridge, to the Frost Fair. The river’s set like a road. Hurry up now. I’ll have to run like the clappers to Whitgift’s or I’ll be mortal late for work, and you know what old Feverface is like.’

  The house looked like every other house in the street – a two-roomed dwelling, half-timbered in the old-fashioned way, with an oak-panelled door sprayed with mud and gobbets of sleet from passing horses and carriages. When they knocked, he took his time opening up, and when he did they saw he was still eating, his mouth greasy with egg. He had a piece of bread in one hand. He looked at them morosely over his glasses, took in Sadie’s blood-soaked wrist with the wooden spoon protruding and beckoned them in, still chewing. Sadie shook her head so her hair fell over her face.

  The house was similar to Corey’s, but with the open fire burning and a table containing the remains of the breakfast. He sat down, ignoring them, and slurped at the remains of his pot of ale and wiped the bread round the earthenware plate with relish. Sadie could not help looking at the other things on the table, a collection of tools such as a carpenter might have – fearsomely sharp knives, a fretsaw, a handled drill. There were several razors glinting in the light from the fire, and some strops for sharpening them. The sight of them set up a buzzing sensation in her head; she heard her breath grow shallow and fast.

  She steadied herself and looked around like a nervous horse orientating itself in a new stable. A grinding whetstone operated by a treadle stood in the corner. Hanging by grubby strings on a row of pegs on the wall were a series of brushes – hogshair and black bristle – and long-handled combs. She saw a basket of blood-stained cloths in one corner, and a basket of clean ones in another. There was a strong smell of vinegar and something else, like urine.

  Corey pressed a coin into Sadie’s hand. ‘Go straight home after. Tiptoe up, though, when you go in. Ma’ll be sleeping, like as not, and snoring like a mule, but it would be better if I did the explaining.’

  The barber-surgeon looked from one to the other. ‘In trouble with your ma, are you? Been stopping out too late?’

  Corey laughed as if sharing the joke.

  Sadie pulled on Corey’s sleeve. ‘Come and tell me, remember, when you have news.’

  ‘Don’t fret.’ She squeezed her good hand and was gone.

  ‘Suppose you want it stitching. Open it up then.’

  Sadie fumbled to untie the bandage with her other hand, but Corey had tied it tight and it was too awkward. The barber-surgeon cleared his plate with a glum air, and wiped his hands on his behind.

  ‘Suppose I’ll have to do it then,’ he said. He indicated a chair behind the table with a swipe of his head, and she sat down, placing her arm in front of him. The chair had webbing straps nailed to it. Sadie had heard of people having to be tied down when they had their teeth pulled. Some of the webbing bore the dark stains of dried blood. The knives made her feel even more queasy now she saw them at close range.

  He unwrapped her wrist in a business-like way, paying no attention to her, his eyes focused on the wound and his work ahead. When the spoon came free and she saw her own blood dribble again from her wrist, it made her head swim.

  ‘Hmm. Hold it tight whilst I get my needle.’ He pressed her hand down hard on the wound, which smarted and throbbed.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ he said, handing her a wad of cotton.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To bite on. It’ll only need about five stitches. Dog, was it?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘Seen ’em before. Now hold still. Bite down.’

  She saw him thread a curved needle with what looked like button thread and tie a knot in it. His fingers moved surprisingly quickly. He measured a tot of a dark liquid into a metal tumbler and tipped a little into his mouth before dripping it over the wound. Sadie bit down on the pad as the liquid burnt and stung. The smell of alcohol hit the back of her nose. Suddenly she was back in Westmorland in their tiny cottage where the smell of liquor and pain had always gone together.

  ‘Now then, maid, get ready.’ She looked the other way.

  A searing so intense that Sadie shot up in her chair, her mouth open in an involuntary scream. She looked at her arm. It was smoking; the surgeon held what looked like a small poker in his hand. The smell of burning flesh was acrid in her nostrils.

  ‘’Tis done now. It had to be cauterized first, to seal it. Now the middle can be stitched. The worst is over. Try to hold still now and bite down.’

  She felt the stab and pull of the needle, but gritted her teeth. Her eyes watered freely, but it did not seem to be tears. Her arm throbbed and it jerked once or twice with the piercing of the needle. The surgeon held her arm tight as it twitched like a landed fish. She could not distinguish one pain from the other. When it was over, he patted the top of her head.

  ‘’Tis well done. There won’t be much of a scar.’

  Sadie looked. He wiped her wrist with a wet cloth dipped in urine. She winced, but when he had finished she turned her arm back and forth to test its movement. It moved fine, just a little stiff. She looked at the tidy row of stitches – brown thread, just like her sampler.

  ‘Have you a sharp knife at home, maid?’

  Sadie was unsure how to answer. She had no home now, no place to go, only Corey’s. She swallowed, and blinked back more water.

  He looked at her for the first time, as though she were a halfwit. ‘The stitches will need to be cut, in about three weeks, when the wound has knitted. You just snip here,’ he pointed, ‘and here, then pull the ends of the thread through. Can you manage that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, holding out the half-shilling, trying to act brave.

  ‘Wait on, while I get change.’ He opened a lidded jar and counted out some coins. He put them on the table in front of her.

  Sadie stood up shakily and scooped up the coins with her good hand, thrusting them into the pocket of her apron. She would have to pull out the threads. The thought of it made her feel strange. The room whirled around her. She clung to the back of the chair, willing it to stop.

  ‘Are you all right to walk home? You’ve gone white as whey.’ He was staring at her face. She wondered if he had heard about the notices and the reward. She tossed her hair forward, heat rushed to her cheeks.

  ‘Yes, thanking you,’ she stammered. ‘I’m much obliged to you for stitching it.’

  ‘’Tis good to help. It’s what makes it worthwhile, all this. Does it feel better?’

  His face was kindly, fatherly, concerned.
He did not know she was a thief on the run. She began to sob. It was like a big dam breaking. He put his hand out to comfort her but she stumbled to the door in a great hurry and rushed out. She couldn’t bear it, that a stranger should be so kind. She hared away. Eventually she stopped running. The cold air was bracing and she leaned against a wall gulping it in, until the stitch in her side had subsided.

  She looked down at her arm. It wouldn’t leave much of a scar, he had said. Another scar. Something else to mark her out. But she had survived it. The pain, the fear. It felt like an initiation. She was part of life again.

  Chapter 35

  ‘I cannot see their faces,’ Titus Ibbetson complained.

  ‘Line up,’ shouted the turnkey, ‘so the gent can get a look at you. Sooner he does, sooner it will be over.’

  The maids shuffled into a rough line, the chains grating on the ground. They were docile as cattle. Titus’s stomach turned at the sight of them, every one with some malformation or mark on their face. He cleared his throat, though he had no intention to speak, and cast his eyes down despite his desire to look them over. When he looked up again, his eye was caught by the smallest maid, who looked to be six or seven years old, with a livid red weal down the side of her face.

  Her terrified eyes stared at him through the gloom. He scanned the rest of the women, looking for the girl he had caught a glimpse of at Bread Street. The sight of all those disfigured faces lined up before him made him feel peculiar. It was icy down below in the vault and the warmth drained from his body. He began to shiver despite himself.

  ‘She’s not there.’

  ‘You sure?’ the turnkey said. ‘Have a closer look. Go on, you can go clean up to the bars. Best make sure.’

  Titus was reluctant but leaned a fraction closer. The smallest girl began to cry silently, the big tears chasing down her cheeks.

  He stepped away hurriedly. ‘It’s foolishness to keep that one here,’ he said. ‘Anyone can see it couldn’t be her.’

  ‘Them notices said maids with a red stain on their face, and she fits, right enough. You said to keep them as fits the description.’

  ‘But that’s a scorch mark, not a stain. I did not mean children like this.’

  ‘You should have been more particular with your bill, then, sir.’

  One of the women spoke up then. ‘Let her go, sir, in pity’s name, she’s but six year old. A hot kettle fell off the fire shelf and hit her, her ma’ll be frantic with worry. And Nan there’s lived on Honey Lane all her fifty years, don’t know nothing about the North Country. None of us do. We ain’t done nothing wrong.’

  There was a chorus then, all the women protesting their innocence, and as they moved the chains clanked and their eyes all burnt into him, accusing, as if he were the guilty party.

  Titus backed off and turned to snap at the turnkey. ‘I have already said, she’s not here.’

  ‘Sure and certain? It’s been a mighty trouble to keep them if we don’t get a hanging.’

  ‘Do you think I doubt my own eyes? Let them go.’

  At this the women set to wailing more and rattling to be set free, so that he could bear it no longer and covered his ears and turned and went up the way he came, leaving the turnkey to deal with the commotion.

  He pulled his muffler up close around his ears. He felt badly in need of some pure air after the foulness of the Whit, but London was freezing and he regretted that he had chosen to walk back from the gaol instead of hiring a sedan or a horse. The ground was hard as flint with compacted snow and his leather-soled boots skidded over the flags and cobbles as he made his way back to the Blue Ball. On the way he passed crowds of people, shapeless hulks bundled in cloaks with their heads down, shoulders hunched against the cold. He wondered idly how many in gaol would pass away in this weather.

  It was the third time he had been down to Newgate to identify the girl that had murdered Thomas. Each time he’d felt unprepared for the horror of conditions in that desperate place. Furthermore, when he got back home this day he was confronted by Isobel with her cloak and muffler on and her new jessimy gloves, and her trunk packed.

  ‘I will not stay a moment more. My chest is so tight with the smoke of London I can barely breathe. You know I have always had a weak chest. If I have to stay a moment longer you will be calling the physician to bleed me, sure as I speak.’

  Titus sat down heavily on the kist at the foot of the bed. ‘You will not be able to find a carriage at this hour, especially in this freeze.’

  ‘Not so. I have booked three places on the seven o’clock stage. Come, Titus, let us go home.’

  The thought of his comfortable home in Shrewsbury with its roomy fireplaces and well-upholstered bed was almost too much for him to bear. ‘No,’ he said stubbornly, ‘you know my mind. I will not give up, I owe it to Thomas. You presume too much, to book passages without my say-so.’

  Isobel opened her mouth to speak but he held up his hand for silence. He sighed, then said, ‘But I am tired of you griping about going home. It is wearing me thin, and your company befits me ill. You and Willetts may go if you wish, to keep my house in order.’

  She sank down onto the bed and dabbed her eyes with the corner of her muslin whisk. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  They sat in silence a while, until he said, ‘The whole business is taking longer than I thought.’

  ‘I know, dear,’ she said soothingly. ‘But if anyone can find them, you can.’

  So that evening he put Isobel and Willetts the maid on a carriage bound for Oxford and as he did so the snowflakes were swirling in the sky.

  ‘God speed.’ He said the customary words as he handed her in, but as the carriage rattled away he waved long after its lights had turned to a blur in the swirling snow. He hoped the weather did not worsen, happen she would find the way blocked if it did. He always carried a sword, and now he felt for it, feeling vulnerable. London was full of dark alleys and cramped courtyards where the unwary could be ambushed after dark. With no woman to protect, his own fear suddenly rose up.

  He had no one now, he realized. Thomas his twin was gone. His father was long since deceased and since a fall in the autumn, his mother had succumbed to such forgetfulness of mind that she barely recognized him. He had no children. Isobel was unable to produce offspring; he knew not why. It made him angry with her. He deserved a son. And now she had left him here alone, so when he brought those girls to justice she would not be there to see him do it. No one would be there to see him do it. And it would make no earthly difference to Thomas – he was cold in his grave.

  By the time he entered his chilly chamber at the Blue Ball he was in a mighty depression. He asked the landlord for a double measure of brandy and took it up to his room, telling himself it might stave off the cold. When he had downed it he crawled into bed still fully dressed and pulled the blankets up over his head. He was almost relieved to feel the room start to swim and soon he fell into a deep slumber.

  The next day he ignored the noises from the street outside and dozed in a stupor until he was roused from his bed by a sharp knock at the door. He tried to get up, but his legs were tangled in the sheets and he toppled out with a thud.

  ‘What is it?’ he bellowed, rubbing his knee.

  It was the landlord. ‘There’s a young man and his lady friend asking after you.’

  ‘What do they want?’ he shouted at the door.

  ‘They say it’s urgent and it won’t wait. The woman wanted to come straight up, but I said not,’ came the landlord’s voice.

  Titus recovered himself. ‘Quite right too. My wife could have been here alone. Just a moment. I’ll be there directly.’

  He splashed freezing water over his head and neck, brushed down his crumpled coat, and hurried downstairs. The landlord indicated a pleasant but agitated-looking young woman in a dark cloak and close navy blue bonnet, waiting at a table by the door. He recognized her straight away as one of the perruquier’s girls. Sitting beside her was a tall surly-looking
lad in a black hat and cloak, who stood up when he saw Titus coming.

  ‘Jacob Fletcher,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  Titus greeted them both and sat down opposite the woman.

  ‘Tell him, Mercy,’ said Jacob.

  Mercy smiled, showing a row of pearly teeth. She leaned in and began to whisper in an urgent undertone.

  Five minutes later he was back in his chamber putting on his outdoor apparel and whistling.

  After leaving the barber-surgeon’s Sadie crept back into Corey’s house, cradling her sore arm in a sling made from her shawl. With relief she heard the snores from Corey’s mother asleep in the back room. Sadie could not settle, but sat at the window waiting for Corey to come with news of Ella. Just after the noon bells Corey’s square bustling figure appeared in the alley and beckoned her outside. Sadie untied the shawl and wrapped it over her head and face to hurry to join her.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ asked Sadie as soon as they were out of earshot of the house.

  ‘How’s your arm?’

  ‘It’s all right. Stitched. Was she there?’

  ‘No. They wouldn’t let me in. Some great battleaxe of a woman in the office sneered at me – told me I needed an appointment. I tried but I didn’t get past the door. There’s a man sat outside, he’d break your jaw soon as look at you. It’s not for the likes of us, Sadie, they’ll only let quality in.’ Corey said ‘quality’ as if it was something that smelt bad.

  ‘But did you see her? Tell me.’

  ‘I’m coming to it. I looked through the window and I caught sight of a woman stood there, but she had yellow hair, and looked that thin—’

  Sadie laid her hand on Corey’s. ‘It was her, I know. She looks right different now.’

  ‘Anyways, I got shooed off, the man outside told me it were shut for the Frost Fair. But I hung round, asked a lad. He said it was Corey Johnson in there. So then I knew it was your Ella. Bloody cheek.’ Corey sniffed and grimaced. ‘But I couldn’t get near to speak to her. The lad told me a few things though – made me angry fit to burst, it did.’ Corey blew on her hands. ‘Come on, let’s walk a little. My blood’s freezing solid stood here. Pull your shawl over your face a bit more, we’ll only go to the end of the road.’