The Rose in the Wheel: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries Book 1)

by S K Rizzolo

  “Is she ill?” asked Penelope with concern.

  Strap looked grave. “I must say I do feel some disquiet for Fiona. Nonetheless, a severe depression of spirits can only make matters worse. She must strive to get the better of it and so I shall tell her.”

  Having edged over to inspect the surgeon, Sarah was now tugging insistently at her mother’s dress, so Penelope lost the opportunity to probe further.

  “This is my daughter, Sarah,” she said. “Make your curtsy, love.” But Sarah retreated behind Penelope and stayed there, peeking out flirtatiously and withdrawing again the instant Mr. Strap glanced her way.

  “Why, she’s charming, ma’am,” he exclaimed, reaching down to pinch the little girl’s chin. “And probably keeps you most busy.”

  “She does indeed, sir.”

  “Well, I must be off if I’m to locate either of my quarries before luncheon.” With a courteous nod for Maggie and another bow for Penelope, the surgeon was gone.

  “Have to wonder,” Maggie mused when the door was shut, “why a pretty gentleman like that hasn’t been caught yet.” She shook her head in disgust. “All them fine ladies must be blind.”

  “Perhaps he hasn’t discovered the right lady.”

  “If he were to come round here on Monday, I couldn’t answer for his safety what with all the St. Catherine bonnets!” She giggled at Penelope’s confusion. “Don’t you know, mum? They say that spinsters put their first pin in the bonnet at five-and-twenty, the second at thirty, and the last at five-and-thirty when the bonnet is done. You’ll see the bonnets the women made in the procession, though some call it a Frenchified custom and won’t stand for it.”

  She sent Penelope a mischievous glance. “Shall I make you one, mum? If you wear it and fast and pray, perhaps a good husband will come your way.”

  “I’m afraid I already have a husband,” Penelope said, laughing.

  “What’s that to say to anything? I’ve one myself, lot of good it does me, but I’ll be marching just the same!”

  ***

  Later that afternoon when the pies were finished, Penelope joined the others in the sewing room. Leafing through the Bible to find an appropriate passage, she sensed the women’s barely repressed excitement, but they had promised Miss Minton that if permitted their festivities, they would work all the harder. Penelope found their obvious anticipation oddly endearing, for she knew well enough that their pleasures were few. Only Fiona did not seem to partake of the general good humor, for she sat a little apart, staring fixedly at the movements of her deft fingers.

  “Did Mr. Strap find you earlier?” Penelope asked, wondering what ailed the girl.

  “Yes, thank you, mum,” Fiona answered in a low voice.

  Nora’s sharp gaze swung toward the girl. “What did he want then, love?”

  “Nothing particular.”

  Penelope was sorry to have raised the matter when she saw how all eyes in the room had fastened on Fiona. The girl’s hands began to tremble, her throat working with unshed tears.

  Nora said, “You’re pale as milk.” When she reached over, Fiona flinched away and gave a little cry, unable to prevent the tears pouring down her cheeks.

  “Let us remove for a moment.” Penelope helped her to her feet, saying to the others, “Carry on, will you? We’ll soon return.”

  Ignoring the speculation that broke out, she guided the girl into the corridor. As Fiona’s sobs intensified, Penelope hugged her, aware of her narrow shoulders and fragile bones, and wondered with horror whether she was getting enough to eat.

  After a minute or two, she pressed a handkerchief into the girl’s hand. “When you are feeling better, I do hope you’ll tell me what’s amiss. I should like to help if I can, Fiona.”

  “What has occurred, Mrs. Wolfe?” It was Elizabeth Minton, who had returned from an errand.

  “I cannot tell, ma’am, but Fiona is most distressed. I think I should escort her home.”

  Coming forward, Miss Minton gripped the girl’s hand. “What has destroyed your peace, my dear? You must tell us.”

  “Please, mum,” Fiona stammered, “just let me go home. I promise to do better tomorrow.”

  When Miss Minton looked as if she would press further, Penelope said, “I do think it best, ma’am. She lives nearby, does she not? I shall accompany her.”

  A few minutes later, her arm around Fiona’s shoulders, Penelope was guiding her down the path toward the gate. The weather had turned chilly, yet it was a bright day, the smoke that usually covered London in a great black pall temporarily dispelled.

  Reaching the gate, they had to step aside for a heavyset cleric just entering. His eye falling upon Fiona, he immediately drew back. She had started forward, but after that first involuntary glance, he looked through her as if she weren’t there and made as if to walk on. Only then did he notice Penelope.

  “Pray pardon us, sir.” She tugged at the girl’s arm. Seeming to have shrunk even further into herself, Fiona allowed Penelope to lead her into the street.

  Curious, she asked, “What is wrong, Fiona?” The girl merely blinked back, a dazed expression in her eyes, and Penelope decided she’d better get her home at once.

  Fiona’s rooms were above a chandler’s shop which also offered “bits and pieces of old cloth, metals, and papers,” according to the sign in the window. They walked up three flights of stairs, finally reaching a low-roofed garret room.

  It was clean, bare, and bitingly cold, with only a rusted iron bedstead, a small table, a washstand, and one Windsor chair. A shelf on the wall held cutlery, tin cup and plate, and her few articles of clothing. Yet Fiona had obviously made an effort to render her room more pleasant. Several old prints from books were tacked to the wall, and a rather pretty green bowl, presumably for flowers, sat atop the table.

  “Step in, mum, and sit down.” She pulled the chair to the center of the room. “I beg your pardon. I have nothing to offer you.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” said Penelope gently. “Shall I go now, Fiona?”

  “No, no. Sit, oh please do.”

  Rather than disquiet her further, Penelope perched on the chair and waited. Fiona had withdrawn again, staring off into space as if she had forgotten Penelope’s presence. Then seeming to come to herself, she looked over and tried to smile.

  Penelope was utterly bewildered. “Who was that parson by the gate? I couldn’t help but notice how he upset you.”

  Fiona looked at her. “Mr. Stonegrate, the rector. He was good to me once, but no more.”

  “Good to you?” Penelope echoed, a terrible suspicion taking root.

  “Mr. Strap don’t believe me neither. He thinks I’m that wicked, and maybe I am if they say. It must be so.” She stared down at the floor.

  “What nonsense, Fiona, as if you could be.” She fumbled for words. “Are you saying that you and Mr. Stonegrate had some sort of…friendship?”

  “We did no harm, mum,” Fiona cried, shivering violently. “I was proud to be singled out by such a fine gentleman. He said I could be easy, nothing wrong in it if my heart was pure. But now he looks at me like I was poison.”

  Penelope rose and led her to the bed. Drawing Fiona down, she chafed her hands, trying to warm them, then removed her own gloves and slid them over the girl’s fingers.

  “No, mum, you’ll be chilled,” she protested.

  “Don’t argue. You shall wear them.” Next she unwound her scarf and wrapped it about Fiona’s shoulders.

  Fiona began crying softly. “You’re so kind, Mrs. Penelope, and I don’t deserve it. Miss Constance was kind too, though she said it was wrong. But he done worse, she said.”

  “Constance knew?”

  “Yes’m. She meant to speak to Mr. Stonegrate, though I begged her not to. Only she died before she could.”

  Penelope’s mind was racing. What if Constance had confronted Stonegrate, threatening to expose his misdeed? It was a terrible sin to take advantage of a girl like Fiona. And he a man of th
e cloth, a fact which sickened Penelope all the more. Fifty if he’s a day, she thought bitterly, and she less than twenty.

  She slid an arm around Fiona. “Miss Constance was right. You are not to blame, but he is. Very much so. But why is Mr. Stonegrate offended with you if she never found an opportunity to speak?”

  “It’s on account of the sickness what he says I got by spreading my favors around. I swear to you I never did. I’ve not lain with anyone else.” She pulled away. “Where I come from we used to celebrate St. Catherine’s Day too. All us workhouse girls would walk the streets, singing and chanting for a husband. In fun, you know. And one of us got to be the Queen and march at the head wearing a pretty white dress. It was me one year.”

  Penelope was bewildered. “Sickness, Fiona? I’m afraid I do not quite understand you.”

  Fiona raised eyes swimming in tears. “How should a lady like you understand?” she said simply. “It’s the French pox, mum, God’s punishment for the wicked. I got it, and Mr. Strap says perhaps the rector does, too. Perhaps I’ll die of it, though Mr. Strap says he will try to physic me.”

  “No, Fiona,” she whispered. But the girl spoke no more than the truth. Penelope’s father had taken the unusual step of warning her about the disease once it had become clear what sort of man she had married. So she knew that there was no cure for syphilis and that people sometimes did die after a long and terrible illness. “Oh, how could this happen?” she cried.

  Penelope meant that she didn’t understand how or why such tragedies occur, nor why an innocent like Fiona was invariably the victim. But the girl took her literally.

  “I just wanted a bit of fun, mum, and he were so different. It was like being in a story for a little while.” Fiona’s gaze held a desperate appeal.

  Surveying her gloved fingers, she added, “And he had such soft hands, Mrs. Penelope. I never before saw the like.”

  ***

  “Though God can do all things, He cannot raise a virgin after she has fallen,” said Thaddeus Wood, his voice ringing out. “This we learn from the story of St. Catherine. Lo, that a truly chaste woman need not fear even torture and death.”

  Above his head blazed an enormous Catherine wheel suspended over smaller, more subdued windows. It seemed to Penelope, sitting in the hard pew, that the vibrantly colored glass provided the only source of light in this gloom. She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position with Sarah sound asleep in her lap, and could not help but to throw surreptitious glances at the other women of the Society, all clustered together in the half-empty church.

  Elizabeth Minton was there, remote yet listening intently. Fidgeting and giggling, Dorrie and Nora looked as restless as Penelope felt, but Maggie displayed rapt attention, an uncharacteristically pious expression on her face. Though huddled and shivering, Winnie too kept her watery eyes fixed on the curate’s face, ignoring the assorted rustlings coming from the others. And at the rear of their little group sat Fiona, rigid and emotionless. Penelope had tried to catch her eye to give her an encouraging smile, but the girl was again locked within herself.

  Other young women dotted the pews, though not many, for the old ways had long fallen into disuse in staunchly Protestant England. Besides, workers were not permitted time off from their labors for celebrations that now seemed merely quaint. A shame, it seemed to Penelope. For centuries St. Catherine’s Day had been observed by girls hoping to wed. It was also believed that wives who marked the day with fast and prayer might thereby be happier through their husband’s reformation, desertion, or death—in which case the woman would be free to try her chances again. That is if one were so inclined, she thought wryly.

  She made an effort to return her attention to the sermon. It wasn’t that the curate was a poor speaker, quite the opposite. The change in him had astonished Penelope. Afire with evangelical zeal, he was no longer a halting, awkward young man. When he spoke of St. Catherine’s defense of her virginity and her faith, his voice vibrated with a passion that startled even a slumberous old man in a corner pew.

  Yet Penelope had noticed that some of the women in attendance seemed to be enacting some rite quite separate from what went on at the altar. Every few minutes a single girl or sometimes two together would leave their seats and make their way to an alcove at the rear of the church. Trying not to crane her neck too obviously, Penelope had seen them file up, stand for a moment facing the wall, and return to their places. Finally, she had to lean over to Maggie and whisper a question.

  “You see, mum, there’s a statue of St. Catherine back there next to a small niche. The girls, bless ’em, drop pins into the niche for the saint and say a prayer for a husband.”

  “Does Mr. Wood know?” asked Penelope from behind her gloved hand.

  “I dunno, mum. They try to keep it quiet.”

  “Do you know the prayer, Maggie?”

  A fleeting grin crossed her face. “I done it once or twice myself. It goes like this:

  St. Catherine, St. Catherine

  O lend me thine aid,

  And grant that I never may die an old maid.

  A husband, St. Catherine;

  A handsome one, St. Catherine;

  A rich one, St. Catherine;

  A nice one, St. Catherine;

  And soon, St. Catherine.”

  Penelope smiled, looking at the faces around her: serving maids, apprentices, and daughters of the French Huguenot silk weavers and silversmiths who peopled this district. All filled with hope at the thought of a fine husband and possibly an easing of their burdens. There was Elizabeth, alone in her spinsterhood; Maggie, whose roving husband had left her with two small children; Fiona, ill and abandoned; Winnie, old and careworn. And Penelope herself, perhaps at this moment no better off. With Jeremy gone for who knew how long, she must shift for herself. Still, she had Sarah, a blessing well worth the sacrifice of anyone’s precious virginity.

  “Our prospects may not be that bright just now, my darling,” she murmured, tightening her grip on the child. “But will one day be better, I vow.”

  Sarah stirred, nestling further into Penelope’s shoulder. In the pulpit Wood had reached the climax of his sermon.

  “Who can find a virtuous woman?” he thundered, “for her price is far above rubies.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Walking out into radiant day had done much to lighten Penelope’s spirits. Following the service, a group of women proceeded deep into the East End to participate in a traditional procession. They began at St. Katharine Cree in Leadenhall Street and traced their way south to Rosemary Lane or “Rag Fair,” a street in a predominantly Irish and Jewish district where they continued their march arm in arm.

  It was not an area Penelope would ordinarily have visited, as it bore a reputation for great poverty and crime. While the lane itself was reasonably wide and clean, street-sellers crowded the sides, and uncountable alleys and dark courts branched off between the high-storied shops and lodgings, disappearing into thick shadow beyond.

  As the ever-growing throng of merry makers swept down the street, Penelope slackened her pace, relishing the colorful scene. Old clothes and boots and brightly printed cheap muslins were heaped against the buildings. Coats, frocks, and pantaloons swayed gently in the breeze. Merchants joked and wrangled with their customers, who fingered the satin of a waistcoat or the velvet of a jacket wistfully. Women hawked warm elder wine, and boys hoisted heavy trays offering sponge cakes.

  They were close enough to the Thames that its cold wind chafed Penelope’s cheeks, but carried also the tantalizing aromas of spices and frying fish. The roisterous cries of children rose above the din as they went a-Catherning, begging for apples and beer with their bowls outstretched. Some of the women, dressed in white, had crafted fanciful hats of paper that towered above the crowd like ship’s masts.

  Penelope wandered dreamily, absorbed in her surroundings. She admired the way these people were able to abandon themselves to uninhibited pleasure, putting aside pressing anxietie
s. And for once she was able to do the same. But, looking around, she realized suddenly that in pausing to watch a small boy blissfully consume some oysters purchased from a stall, she had been separated from her companions and now found herself swept by the foot traffic to the mouth of an adjacent court. It was a mean, dirty place with rickety houses listing drunkenly. A tavern stood at the far end. From somewhere a dog was barking.

  She was about to start back when four men came noisily down the alley behind her. They came to a halt as she faced them, their conversation ceasing. One gave a tentative smile; the others wore shuttered expressions. All seemed unsure. Perhaps they just wanted to pass on their way to the tavern, she thought, and moved aside. But the men stood still, so Penelope backed up one step, then another. She fought the urge to run, keeping her gaze locked on their faces.

  One, a burly, red-bearded creature, took several hesitant paces forward, and the others emulated his lead, approaching in silence. Penelope’s mouth dried. She clutched at her reticule as if it were some sort of weapon. And just as she was about to attempt a scream she knew would emanate only as a croak, she heard, or imagined, a familiar voice behind her.

  Astonished, she spun round, and indeed there was John Chase emerging from the tavern. He was accompanied by a shabby man of diminutive build who wore a battered leather cap.

  Mr. Chase seemed equally if not more surprised to see her. Still, he took in the situation immediately and strode forward. His companion followed, hands buried in coat pockets. The four men had stopped their advance and stood sizing up the newcomers.

  “Mrs. Wolfe?” Chase said. “It is you. What brings you here? I trust you’ve no business with these boys?”

  “What if we got business with her?” grunted Red-beard. The others moved in behind their leader.

  “Then I would say you’ve led a long and happy life and should be well content to end it.”

  The men looked confused. Before they could reply, Chase’s companion spoke. “It’s a hint, boys, and I’d take it right quick, mind you.” He scuffed his toe in the mud with an absentminded air.