Weed: The Poison Diaries

by Jane Northumberland

  ‘And you say I shall be the only child there, Weed?’ Ruth is shouting from behind a folding screen. It is decorated in the Oriental style, depicting two black herons perched on a blooming cherry tree beside a winding blue stream. In every corner of my chamber there are boxes piled high with the latest fashions from nearby Jermyn St and Saville Row. Ruth has her own rooms here in the apartment but she prefers to dress in my chamber so that she can model her newest gowns and bonnets.

  ‘I should expect you will be.’ It pleases me to see the child enjoying herself in such a normal way. However the purchases which most delight her stand in the large living room where our work table is strewn with vials, flasks, condensers and other equipment. Together we have industrialised the production of herbal cosmetics with which we make our considerable funds. Unused to riches, we delight in the ability to buy what we please whenever we wish it.

  ‘Good. I have nothing to say to children of my own age. It’s embarrassing.’ She steps out from behind the screen in a white high-waisted Egyptian cotton gown with a floral motif at the train. She places a bonnet on her head. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘You look divine, little one.’ I am sitting on my unmade four-poster bed. I have dressed already in a new shirt with a white waistcoat and an open black long-tailed topcoat. My tailor has also sent me a new set of breeches that fit snugly above cream tights and pointed leather shoes. The clothes of the city struck me as outright comical at first, but if we are to mix in the circles that supply our living then we must look the part. ‘Now come on. We are already late for the party.’

  I take Ruth by the hand and lead her though the messy profusion of our living quarters. Not for the first time I consider that we ought to get a housekeeper. However, whenever I mention it to Ruth she simply laughs, pointing to our makeshift laboratory endlessly distilling and concentrating essences into powders and perfumes. Perhaps she is right and it would draw strange notice. ‘You must have some make-up Ruth. You are my principal model for the hungry eyes of those to whom we sell beauty.’

  She takes an unguent form of Purple Loosestrife and applies the white preparation lightly to her face. This product has been of utmost popularity among rich folk who fear the colour of the sun-browned commoner. Then some powdered rouge extracted from Safflower for her cheeks and a sticky paste of the same for her lips. Finally she takes a new concoction, freshly brewed from Konini, for a deep blue eyeshadow, before applying Chinese Hibiscus to her lashes for mascara. Although I am not the first cosmetician to grace London, my blends are made from good herbs and growing things. So many of my competitors resort to caustic metal preparations which destroy the skin they are meant to adorn. Most of my customers beg for skin balms and healers to undo the many years of damage caused by harsher products they were wont to use. Although I am the renowned maker of the cosmetics, it is Ruth’s skills in their application, using a subtle touch, that makes women envious and eager to buy.

  We descend the stairs together and step into the lane. The distance from our lodging to Manchester House is barely a mile but it won’t do to walk the streets. We are dressed in fine cloth gathered from expensive workshops across Europe and the laneways of London are dressed in filth. Our clothes would not survive the short journey afoot. Besides, to arrive without the fanfare of carriage or cart would upset the formalities of footmen and proper introduction. We hail a Hackney carriage and take our seats. As always Ruth sits fascinated, gazing at the London streets as they fly by us.

  I laugh at her. ‘Ruth, don’t you mind the stink? The horse and human foulness?’

  ‘No. I’ve never minded bad smells.’ There’s something in her quiet, firm tone that breaks the surface tension of her apparent youth. It reminds me all at once of the blood and entrails that she has known.

  It is already past ten when we arrive in the driveway of the newly constructed grandness of Manchester House. It is built in the modern style. A many storied flat frontage with large windows and a columned portico. Our lateness means that few others crowd the entranceway and we are led at speed up the imposing staircase by the footman. ‘You are expected.’ He throws open the doors of the ballroom and, over the sound of the orchestra, he announces loudly to the room: ‘Sir Weed and Miss Ruth.’

  The ballroom is high ceilinged and the walls are dressed in expensive paper of scarlet inlaid with gold filigree. Men and women gather in groups comparing expensive outfits and gossiping about the banalities of their pampered lives. In this company people take second place to style and exuberance and we fit the scene perfectly. In a practised gesture Ruth lays out her hand to me and I take it. Lady Seymour-Conway is known to be among the more risqué of London’s Beau Monde and she encourages the sinfully intimate dance of the Waltz.

  Ruth and I cut a charming figure as we twirl around the room and almost immediately our hostess approaches us. ‘Darling Weed and sweetest Ruth, how good of you to join my little party.’ She effuses gentility but there is a glint in her eye that tells me that she would rather talk of scandal than serenity. ‘Ruth.’ She takes the girl’s hand and motions to a bespeckled lady sitting at the centre of a group of men women. ‘What do you think of Lady Castlereagh’s aspect tonight?’

  Ruth is savvy enough to understand that Lady Castlereagh is more a rival than a friend to our host and so she replies. ‘The lady is clearly learned, although I would advise her to cease reading of a night before slamming the book shut.’

  ‘Your wit belies your age, young one,’ she cries, blushing with pleasure. ‘And, Weed, your poultices and herbal remedies have half-saved my face.’ The poor lady suffered like so many others from smallpox in her youth and as such is pockmarked. A facemask made from Hazel Parsimmon, Birch and Solomon’s Seal has gone some way towards reducing the blight produced by that disease.

  ‘My lady, your look is as Venus born fresh from the waves at Paphos. Though your dress is a deal more comely.’

  ‘Dear Weed. And I see your Ruth is sporting a new look. With that heavenly blue shadow she looks positively Egyptian. You must send me some at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘I am yours to command.’

  A servant approaches with a server of wines. ‘Have a glass, Weed. The wines are good and brought from Spain. In spite of Europe’s wars we have good trade with the continent.’

  I take a glass and sip it slowly, allowing the familiar warmth of the liquor to suffuse my senses. In the weeks of my residence in this city I have grown fond of the drink. ‘Excuse me, gentles, but I must mix in the room. Do please do the same.’ Lady Seymour-Conway smiles and glides away from Ruth and me. It is not long until several other ladies are at my side and questioning me about salves and poultices, perfumes and cosmetics. Ruth is as well-known as myself in this circle and as I sit, drink wine and talk business with the women she is drawn into the conversation of the husbands and men.

  ‘I never travel East of The Temple. I cannot abide the poverty of the masses. The poor must not be allowed to rise.’ Announces a bilious whiskered man to the assembly as his wife bargains with me over ointments and pastes.

  ‘And yet they are kept so low that to rise is their only point of direction.’ Ruth speaks and I listen with half an ear.

  ‘Perhaps you would see the women of the East end overrun your nice abode in South Molton Street?’ He looks down at the seeming child, drains a glass of red wine and belches loudly.

  Ruth’s nose wrinkles in distaste. ‘Give me a poor lady over a rich one; at least they have the sense to leave their pigs outside.’ Her razor swiftness raises a laugh among the assemblage.

  ‘How charming you are, child.’ A skinny gentleman preposterously dressed in brightly coloured silk ruffles poses amid the group. I know him well; he buys and wears more make-up than most of the ladies and claims to be an actor. ‘A revolutionary from the continent we have here, perhaps.’

  ‘The only revolution I require is a revolution in taste. They haven’t worn ruffles in London for three seasons.’ Guffaws ring out.


  ‘Master Weed, is this rapscallion yours?’ He takes a glass of wine from a passing tray and gestures flamboyantly to Ruth.

  ‘She belongs only to herself.’

  ‘All women belong to a man. That is the way of things.’ He smirks at the other husbands in the group.

  ‘Then which man do you belong to, for you are painted fairer than I?’

  He appears amusingly flustered at the barb and holds his hands out to Ruth. ‘I am an artist! I must wear colour, for my life is a performance.’

  ‘The fact that no one understands you doesn’t mean that you’re an artist.’ Ruth is gleefully trying to provoke him from his affectation. I expect that she will succeed.

  ‘You are painted like a Jade!’ He snaps and Ruth is triumphant.

  ‘And you fart like a gypsy!’ She is giggling now and the painted man blushes through his white foundation.

  I see out of the corner of my eye the arrival of Sir George Villiers, the Earl of Jersey. ‘Aha, Ruth! You are a rogue wit in a room full of dullness.’ He is one of the sharpest and richest men among these others. I take a third glass of wine as his wife approaches me bearing a coin purse.

  ‘Ah, Sir Villiers. Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘While my wife spends a fortune with Master Weed I am merely killing time.’

  ‘You don’t need to kill time, Sir. Time dies around you.’

  He is not above laughing at himself. ‘I am a slave to your sharp observances, good lady Ruth. Will you dance with me? I pray to make my wife jealous so that she may divest herself and my purse from your guardian Weed.’

  ‘I will dance with you, sir.’ Ruth takes his hand and they waltz off into the crowd together.

  Many more ladies and gentlemen come to me in the night and I carefully note down orders and agreed prices. By the time I am left alone it is after midnight and the party has taken on a louche air. I note that Ruth is amusing herself with some crude joke among the footmen by the orchestra and happily at peace, I take a moment to sit at a table set back from the others.

  My solitude is broken by a young lady wearing an expensive green gown cinched at the waist by a golden seam. A blue feathered headdress is woven into her hair and she carries two glasses of crimson wine. Offering one to me, she asks if she may sit and I gladly oblige. ‘You are Weed. Purveyor of make-up to this cluck of peacocked dams.’

  ‘That I am, Lady. Are you enjoying the ball?’

  ‘Yes. Although I have barely danced. I prefer to watch the stage. The wives hope a painted face will halt their husbands’ roving eyes. But it never works.’

  ‘As long as they keep on trying, then I shall stay in business.’ I lay my hands on the table.

  ‘They will. In this city, in this time, a woman without a husband is a slave. If they are rich, to their fathers; if they are poor, to the workhouse.’

  ‘So you are married I take it?’

  ‘Oh no. I have a dozen bothersome problems but the affection of a husband does not count among them.’ She places her hand over mine and leaves it there for a moment. Then smiles. ‘Who would want one? They reach a certain age and grow restless. They head to Europe for the French wars or the French whores.’

  I turn my hand in hers and ask. ‘Must one travel to France?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ She glances away from me as if observing the last drunken dancers on the ballroom floor. ‘I have a place.’

  ‘As do I. And do you have a name?’

  ‘Mme. Otarie.’ She purrs her name like a cat.

  ‘Would you like to leave the ball a trifle early tonight, Mme. Otarie?’

  ‘Yes, Weed, I would. But what of your young charge?’

  I look over at Ruth; she is engaged in a serious discussion with Lady Seymour-Conway. ‘She is not beholden to me. The footmen hereabouts know her well. They will see her home in an honest cab.’

  I rise from the table and help Mme. Otarie to her feet. She stares across the room at Ruth and I see a strange sadness deepen in her eyes. ‘How curious she looks. That girl is blessed by assurance. Slave to none and at such an age. Young as morning and fresh as dew. Everybody loves her.’ She turns back to me. ‘And so do you.’

  Chapter 28

  I awaken alone later than usual and peer out of the chamber window; the sky is grey and the endless grey rain comes. My breeches and tailcoat lie discarded on the wooden floor and dressed in only my linen undergarments I wander into the living room. A newly delivered package has arrived from Saville Row and from it I retrieve a fresh shirt and a pair of tailored trousers: breeches it seems are falling out of fashion. Dressing in the living room I remember the party of yesternight and call out:

  ‘Ruth! It is late. Where are you?’ But I get no reply.

  I find a note hastily scribbled on the table. It reads: Dearest Weed. Such fun we had at the ball last night that you have failed to rise with the sun. How unlike you! I have gone wandering to the Markets of the East but will return by nightfall. PS. Your friend Mme. Otarie drank coffee this morning and then went home.

  When we first arrived in the city, Ruth made it clear that she had come of her own volition and that although we must play the Master and child in company she was capable of taking care of herself. I remember the scene in the woods with Malina so long ago and recognise that indeed she is able to guard her own back. Nevertheless, there are folks in the East who would do harm to a child. I pull fresh boots on noting that it is not merely protective obligation that compels me to go to Ruth. I also enjoy her company very much. She is by far the wittiest creature in the city. She proved so much once more last night.

  She has most likely gone to see Vanessa and so there I will follow. Once more I step into the lane and as I walk to Bond Street I watch the mass of servants. They rush back and forth carrying everything for their masters, from clothes, to food, to waste. In spite of Cao’s remonstrations to be humbled by the cities of the Orient, surely such a capital of industry as London has never before seen the light of day. I hail a Hackney Carriage and issue my destination as the Bow Road market. He looks crestfallen until a silver coin brightens his demeanour and he wields the whip. There are very few good roads in the city and our way is marked by the Strand, Fleet Street and then up White Chapel to The Goose Green Fair. As we head further east the paving gives way to broken stones and finally mud track. There is a marked difference in the people we pass as well. They grow noticeably shorter and more sickly, and yet the crowd does not thin.

  Stepping from the carriage, I bid the driver good day and enter the bustling market. There are few options for women who wish to make honest money in London. Some come here to the bazaars, though they must be thick skinned to find success. And there is no skin thicker than that of Vanessa Bell. When I find her she is standing at her bales, carving an apple with a sharp knife and handing slices to the street children. When she sees me she calls out ‘Good Sir Weed. And how are you found on this grey and grizzly day?’

  ‘Oh, very well. Is business good?’

  ‘Good enough to earn a crust of bread.’

  ‘You seem to be feeding the sprouts.’

  ‘Well I’ve had enough,’ and she does a twirl to show her ample size. ‘Ruth said that you had quite the evening last night.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Where is she? She said that she had come to the markets.’

  Nessa looks at me from under her dull canopy for a moment and then calls out. ‘Jim! Jim! Get out here!’ A rat-like man emerges from the spice stall’s awning and smiles a toothless smile. ‘Have you met my lavender man, Weed? Weed, Jim. Jim, Weed.’

  ‘Lavender is a delight when in season.’ I take his proffered hand and shake it.

  ‘Ha. I should bloody say so, Weed. He’s a shit carrier.’ I remove my hand rather quickly and Nessa laughs so hard that her heaving belly knocks a bale of Tea over. Then she giggles some more.

  ‘Oh yes! Got me own horse and trap! Work down Westminster way. Carried man
y a noble turd I have.’

  Nessa leans into Jim and gives him a sloppy kiss on his grubby cheeks. ‘Weed has been attending balls and parties with the gentlefolk out west.’

  ‘I am on rather intimate terms with many of them myself.’ And Jim bursts into the laughter of a practised joke. The couple collapse into one another cackling; Jim’s skinny frame almost lost in Nessa’s.

  ‘Nessa, please. I’m looking for Ruth.’

  The odd couple exchanges glances. ‘Weed, my dear. She has gone to where she is oft wont to repair these days. But I am sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘I beg you. Tell me.’

  She gives Jim a straight look and the Lavender man speaks. ‘Well, I’ve not been sworn to anything so I’ll spill. She’s gone to the Bleak market, Weed. South and further east of here.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of such a place.’

  Freed from the burden of holding Ruth’s secret, Nessa speaks quickly. ‘It only meets once a week. Oh, Weed. I often tell her that it’s best not to go there. Especially not alone. There are bad faces at the Bleak.’

  ‘Where is it Nessa?’ I take her hand. ‘Tell me.’

  She looks away from me. ‘Across the river in Rotherhithe.’

  ‘But I have just let my carriage go. Jim, please, take me there now.’

  ‘You’ll not find a carriage to take you there. Not for love nor money. The Bleak is cut off from the road and squats on the mudflats. But from Limehouse, you could cross on the barges and you’d find your way. Just follow the stink.’

  The back of my throat tightens in sinking dread. I do not wish for Ruth to keep secrets from me and I certainly don’t want her to go to the worst parts of the city, able fighter or not. The concern on Nessa and Jim’s faces speaks volumes and, wasting no time, I run from Bow Street through Pennyfields to Limehouse. I reach the Quayside in less than ten minutes and am very thankful when I see Issa standing idly by the Docks, smoking tobacco and talking to his mates.