‘’Tis only a liberty to be beheaded these days,’ she agreed. ‘Can’t see the sense in that. Never could.’ She’d conveniently forgotten how exciting the king’s execution had been and how much she’d enjoyed it, until she saw that dreadful head. Now it was enough that she could bear witness to the current horrors and increase her trade by her memories.
‘A fine woman, Mrs Easter,’ her regulars agreed whenever she was spoken of in the clubs and taverns where Times readers were beginning to gather. ‘In France, you know. Saw the terror at first hand, by George. Plucky little woman, damme!’
In July, when the weather was fine and the streets especially crowded, she decided that the time had come for her two eldest children to assist her in her work. On several occasions she’d seen streetsellers with small children in tow, and noticed what an attraction a child could be, lisping its wares and offering dainties made especially tempting by the size of the hand that held them. It was no use taking Johnnie who was still far too prone to howl and throw himself about when thwarted, but Annie, who was now five, and three-year-old Billy were another matter. They looked so pretty, with their fair hair fluffed about their faces and white collars attached to their dresses to set off the porcelain pink of their skin, and they did as they were told, holding up papers to tempt the passers-by, and calling in their piping voices. And besides, it gave her a chance to see a little more of them.
When their first walk was completed she took them off to a coffee house in nearby Oxford Street for a dish of tea and a fruit tart or two.
‘A treat for good children,’ she said, as the little cups were placed before them.
Billy’s eyes shone as the tarts were set in the middle of the table. ‘Is them a treat for trildren too, Mama?’ he asked, mouth watering.
‘And well deserved,’ his mother said. ‘Take your pick, my lovey. You too, Annie.’
Their mid-morning treat soon became an established part of their working day, a welcome chance to rest and feed and talk to one another. And it wasn’t long before their conversation had established a pattern too. For what the children wanted to talk about more than anything else was their father, who had died before either of them was old enough to remember and was therefore specially precious to them.
‘He was a good man, wasn’t he, Mama?’ Annie would say happily. ‘Bessie says.’
‘A very good man,’ Nan would reply. ‘Kind and gentle and courteous.’
And Billy would ask, ‘What’s kert-chus, Mama?’
‘He never said a bad thing to no one,’ Nan explained, ‘nor never did a bad thing neither. That’s what courteous is, young Billy. Don’t ’ee never forget it. A good man.’ And then she would tell them stories, the same stories over and over again, it didn’t seem to matter how many times, about how their father had bought clothes to please her when they were newly married, and how he’d taken Mr and Mrs Dibkins to his home in Chelsea when they’d been dismissed through no fault of their own, and how he’d hired Bessie to help when they were little, which they both considered immensely courteous, and finally and most frequently, how brave he’d been on the day he died.
The more often she spoke of him the easier and the more pleasurable it became, for although she still missed him, time and hard work were beginning to dull the sharp edges of her mourning into memory. And for the children the stories were unalloyed pleasure.
It was, she thought, watching them as they worked beside her in the sunshine, a sensible decision to bring them into the business.
Mrs Dibkins was of quite another opinion, which she expressed as loudly as she could whenever she knew Mrs Easter was in the dining-room overhead to hear her. She hadn’t been a servant at Ippark all those years for nothing.
‘Poor little mites,’ she shouted, ‘traipsing about the streets all hours, when they ought to be learnin’ their letters an’ such. ’Tis a cryin’ shame, so it is.’
‘Now then mother,’ Mr Dibkins whispered, giving the ceiling a meaningful glance. ‘They don’t come to no harm. ’Tis fine weather.’
‘All in the dust an’ dirt,’ his wife grumbled on as loudly as ever. ‘Ho, she don’t think. Poor little mites. All work an’ no play, you mark my words. ’Tain’t good for flesh nor fowl. ’Tain’t good for them an’ ’tain’t good for her.’
There was truth in that which he had to admit. ‘Ain’t for the likes of us to criticize, though, is it, mother?’ he whispered. ‘My leg’s been givin’ me some gyp, today.’
‘She don’t seem to see the need for play,’ Mrs Dibkins shouted. ‘You can’t expect little children to work the way she do. ’Tain’t nat’ral.’
But Nan took no notice of her criticism. She don’t know nothing, silly old thing, she thought with happy superiority. The children were perfectly happy out on the streets, the work wasn’t hard and the weather was fine. They could learn their letters later. While as to play, she really couldn’t see the need for it. As she told Sophie Fuseli every time that lady came to take tea with her and suggested that she should come to some function or other.
‘I’ve a deal too much to do, Sophie,’ she would say.
And Sophie would pout and declare, ‘You live like a hermit, my dear. A positive hermit. ’Tain’t natural.’
But Nan was rewarded by her work. It sustained her and encouraged her and gave a zest to her life. And she truly believed that that was all she wanted and needed. Until the afternoon when she suddenly met up with Sophie Fuseli in the middle of the crowded Strand.
She and Thiss were in the pony cart, inching their way through the close-packed muddle of the traffic, when a chaise pulled up alongside them and a very fashionable head smiled out upon them. It was Sophie Fuseli, glowing with excitement and dressed in the very latest style, in a high-waisted cotton gown, exquisitely printed with blue, green and yellow flowers and bound under her bosom with pale blue ribbons, and a blue over-robe with tiny short sleeves. Her dark hair had been cut short and dressed in cunning curls to frame her face and fall in a froth from the blue folds of her elaborate turban. She looked delectable. Admiring her, Nan suddenly felt unfashionable and dowdy.
‘Such good fortune,’ Sophie said. ‘I was on my way to Chelsea to see you, my dear. Pray do join me. Now we may travel together.’
So Thiss was sent ahead with the pony cart and Nan clambered aboard the chaise to join her friend.
‘What think you of my gown?’ Sophie asked when the vehicle was under way again. ‘’Tis the very latest style, my dear, and all in the new material.’
‘’Tis the prettiest I ever saw,’ Nan said.
‘Printed on a roller, my dear,’ Sophie explained. ‘Did you ever see anything so neat? And the shops fairly bursting with new designs and every one as fine. I had this made for me. What think ’ee?’
‘I should like to look one half as well,’ Nan said.
‘Then so you shall, my dear,’ Sophie said at once. ‘We are but a stone’s throw from Mr Roger’s Emporium. We shall stop there on our way, so we shall. No time like the present, eh?’
It was simply too tempting to be resisted. ‘You will lead me astray,’ Nan laughed, agreeing.
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Sophie said. ‘’Tis high time you had some fun in your life. There is to be a masque at Ranelagh a’ Saturday with dancing to follow. Heinrich has been in a foul mood these three days and says he will have none of it, but I see no reason why I should not attend. Say you will come with me, pray do. They say ’twill be a dazzling display.’
‘A masque!’ Nan said, catching her friend’s excitement. ‘I en’t been to a masque since Mr Easter died.’
‘All the more reason,’ Sophie said at once. ‘We will go together like two old widow women, and you shall wear your new gown. I won’t take no for an answer, so consider it settled. You have hidden yourself away for far too long, you wretched creature.’ And before Nan could put up any argument, she leant forward to tap her coachman on the shoulder. ‘We are at Mr Roger’s already. Stop here pray, John Jos
eph.’
As soon as she stepped inside the shop Nan could see that her old friend had not exaggerated. The shelves were stacked with the most beautifully printed fabrics she’d ever seen, the patterns clear-edged and repeated with quite miraculous precision, leaves and flowers in neat, straight, perfectly proportioned rows. They made the old handprinted cottons look amateurish and smudgy. She was charmed by them and chose a design of gold leaves and pink, white and blue rosebuds printed on a dark ground, which was expensive but well within her present means.
‘Now you shall come to my new dressmaker and choose your pattern and be measured,’ Sophie insisted. ‘If the gown is to be ready by Saturday, there ain’t a minute to lose. Come now, I’ll not have argument.’
‘I don’t intend none,’ Nan laughed. And it was true. The sight of all that delectable material and the thought of being dressed in such high style and appearing in society again almost as grand as one of the ton, had suddenly lifted her into a state of happy excitement such as she hadn’t experienced since Mr Easter’s death. It was as if she’d walked through a door into a different kind of world. ‘You are quite right, Sophie. I been a hermit too long. T’en’t natural.’ The masque would be fun.
Now that she’d decided to dress in style it seemed an age before Sophie’s obliging dress-maker could sew her new gown. But eventually it was finished, neatly lined, with its hem accurately turned, and its wrists buttoned, ready to be modelled. There was even enough material left over for a turban.
It occurred to Nan, on that Saturday evening, as she stood in her finery before the pier-glass in the upstairs drawing room, that she hadn’t looked at herself in a long mirror since the day she’d dressed to go to France with Mr Easter. I’ve changed, she thought, and it en’t just the new style. I en’t as pretty as I was, but I reckon I’m improved just the same. The long straight skirt of her new gown made her look taller, but she was slimmer too and a good deal harder, her shoulders set so straight, her mouth narrowed, her eyes guarded, even against herself. I was twenty-one then, she thought, and there weren’t nothing in my life ’cept babies. Now she was twenty-three and a business woman. And she was pleased to think that she looked it.
‘We live in an age of change right enough,’ she said to Bessie who was hovering beside her with the turban. ‘And not all of it bad.’
‘Don’tcher look a swell mum,’ Bessie said. ‘That ’at’ll set it off a treat.’
The masque was very enjoyable. She had forgotten how delightful the Ranelagh Gardens could look on a fine summer evening, with coloured lanterns swaying among the foliage, and the ton strolling so elegantly beneath them along the avenues. The succulent aroma of roast pork and crackling drifted out upon them from the Chinese pavilions as soon as they arrived. Sophie declared herself ‘wild with hunger’ so they set off to find their supper table immediately and were soon happily consuming vast quantities of roast meat and potatoes, washed down with a goodly claret chosen by Mr Johnson.
It was pleasant to see him again, Nan thought, although he seemed a little subdued. The Wotherspoons were exactly the same as ever, loquacious and dowdy and dressed entirely in the old style, which she found very gratifying for it set off her own finery so well. But for all the dazzle of the place and the wit of the conversation, there were times during supper when she found her mind wandering back to the business of the day. Once she had sat among this very company and listened to every word. Now they could no longer hold her interest.
But they were friendly and amiable and as the comfits were served at the end of the meal, they were pleased to hear her news, congratulating her warmly upon doing so well in her chosen trade.
‘Newspapers are all the ton, I hear,’ Mrs Wotherspoon approved.
‘You see them everywhere,’ her husband said. ‘I wonder they don’t open libraries for them. A warm place out of the wind where one may sit and read, don’t you know.’
‘Or sell ’em in shops like so much cloth. Oh, I will take a yard a’ The Times so I will!’ Sophie laughed.
‘They sell well,’ Mr Johnson said, wheezing a little as he always did when Sophie began to tease. ‘In our trade ’tis sales that are important, is it not, Mrs Easter?’
‘If we don’t finish soon you know,’ Mrs Wotherspoon warned, ‘we shall be late for the masque.’
So the conversation had to come to a halt, and just as it was getting interesting too. They drank down the last of the claret, scoffed the last of the comfits and set off for the Rotunda, which was already ablaze with candlelight and attracting crowds towards its three tall doors like dark bees to a hive.
The masque was topical and political and much enjoyed, for it depicted the death of Marat, who sat in a barrel in the middle of the Rotunda stage, rolling his eyes and marvellously white in the face, and was stabbed repeatedly and bloodlessly by a maniac Charlotte Corday. That lady was clothed in the latest style, turban, feathers and all, and the stabbing had a tendency to dislodge her head-dress, but she persevered, as befitted her heroic status, and when Marat had been spiked to her entire satisfaction she turned her attention to the audience, running amok amongst them declaring that her intention now was to catch ‘that villain Robespierre and Maratize him’. The applause was rapturous.
But she was followed by a boy soprano who sang several shrill songs very badly and burst two buttons from his breeches and was horribly boring. Even before the first song had screeched to a close, Nan’s mind was wandering again.
Newspapers sold in a shop, she thought. Sophie had meant it as a joke, but why not?
However, there was not time to think about it any further, for the boy soprano had finished and the bandstand had been rearranged behind him, and now the Master of Ceremonies had arrived and the hall was a-buzz with preparations for the opening minuet. In fact there was barely time for Nan to wonder whether there would be any old acquaintances in her party who would be prepared to partner her, when a group of excited young men bore down upon them, flashing their eyes at Sophie and begging to be introduced ‘to the ladies’. So she and Sophie danced every single dance until they were both quite pink with pleasure and exertion.
‘Did I not tell ’ee ’twould be a pleasant evening?’ Sophie asked as they were being escorted back to their table after the fourth country dance.
‘Where do they all come from?’ Nan asked, glancing at the young men.
‘Why, from the barracks, my dear. London fairly swarms with eligible bachelors.’
‘And one in a fine red waistcoat more eligible than most, I think,’ Nan teased, for she’d noticed how often that particular gentleman was on hand to dance with her friend.
‘Well, as to that,’ Sophie smiled, ‘I will tell all when we meet tomorrow.’
‘Should I visit you?’
‘No, no, my dear. I will come to Chelsea. Heinrich is like a bear with a sore head, and besides, I like the privacy of your pretty garden.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ Nan said teasing again. But then another handsome young man was bowing before her, ready for the minuet. Oh what fun to be dancing again!
Chapter Fifteen
‘You’ve took a lover,’ Nan said, when Sophie was settled in the wicker chair out in the garden at Cheyne Row the following afternoon. Tea had been poured, Bessie had served macaroons and tea-cakes on a little side-table, and now the two friends could talk in private.
‘Several,’ Sophie said easily, ‘and some uncommon handsome.’
‘Red waistcoat?’
‘Not of the best I’ll allow, but entertaining for a week or so.’
Nan was grinning with admiration at her friend’s aplomb. ‘You make no secret of it,’ she said. ‘Does Heinrich know?’
‘Well, as to that,’ Sophie said, picking up the last fragment of her macaroon, ‘Heinrich knows what he wants to know. He always has and he always will. Ah me! I thought him such a catch when we wed. Fuseli the artist. I know better now. He has a life of his own, my dear, and tastes I do not share.’
&nb
sp; ‘A mistress?’ Nan asked, fascinated. Who would fancy such an odd-looking man?
‘Several,’ Sophie said easily. ‘Girls and boys, my dear.’
That was shocking but not unexpected.
‘You do not suffer jealousy?’
‘No, indeed. Why should I?’
‘You will take another dish of tea?’ Nan said, seeing that both their cups were empty. ‘I do believe I should have been uncommon jealous if Mr Easter had been untrue.’
‘Mr Easter was a rarity, my dear,’ Sophie said. ‘Heinrich is like the common run of mankind, only more talented. He travels abroad without me nowadays and shows me scant concern, save when he needs a model. Believe me, my dear, they are all selfish, almost to a man.’
‘And yet you urge me to take a lover,’ Nan laughed. ‘There en’t a deal of logic in that, my dear.’
‘There’s a deal of sense,’ Sophie said, sipping her tea. ‘Lovers give pleasure, Nan Easter, if you’ve the wit to handle ’em aright.’
‘Selfish men?’ Nan teased.
‘Aye, selfish and fickle, and such as will use women ill if they ain’t got the sense to prevent it.’
This conversation intrigued Nan because it seemed so likely to be true. Her gallant dancing partners of the night before had been attentive enough, in all conscience, but none had shown any signs of caring for her beyond the next reel. ‘How is it done, pray? I would fain know the trick of it.’
‘The trick,’ Sophie said seriously, ‘and you would be well to mark it, Nan, is to love ’em less than ever they love you. I find my next lover when the present one is most ardent, and I make it a point of honour to discard ’em all long before they tire of me.’
There was something so heartless about this philosophy that Nan winced. ‘Can love be so controlled?’ she asked. And she suddenly remembered Mr Easter saying, ‘I shall love you till the day I die, forsaking all other.’ ‘No, Sophie,’ she said. ‘Surely not. If I were to love again, I couldn’t treat un so, indeed I could not.’
Tuppenny Times Page 21
