3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  They arrived at the north ward, a structure with steel stairs and a grid of railings connecting all of its three floors. Each floor was visible from every part of the long, narrow corridor of the building and lined with row upon row of identical grey doors. The overall effect was of an enormous aviary whose captive birds were kept in tiny boxes.

  They ascended to the second level from the ground, each step they took ringing out on the metal rungs of the stair. At the sound, several wooden rods appeared through the slots in cell doors, the only means by which the women were allowed to catch the attention of the wardress. She appeared not to notice. Antonia could not help but think of Millbank as a fortified limbo. Its one thousand inmates had been transferred here from all over the country as well as from other London prisons.

  Margaret Dickson, whose cell was the first they called at, was from Manchester and had been sentenced to seven years for the theft of a trunk of tea from the back of a coach. It was a more impressive crime than much of the petty thieving that resulted in transportation. The warden unclipped a hefty bracelet of keys from her apron and, with a resounding click, the door to Margaret’s cell creaked open.

  ‘Look sharp, Dickson, you’ve a lady visitor.’ Juliette’s air of servitude was such that she was clearly a subordinate, even though the two women were as plainly clothed as each other. The cell was sparsely furnished. A porcelain tub for washing was fitted with a wooden cover so that it could also be used as a seat; a large earthenware pan sat in one corner, and folded neatly in another was a brown hammock and bedding. A table flap, hinged to the wall, was laid with a tin mug and plate, a wooden spoon and a slate and pencil. Margaret sat on a low stool beneath a small high window, sewing a linsey petticoat which, along with a brown serge pinafore, was the uniform worn by all of the female inmates. Linsey, a blend of linen and wool, was so coarse that even a Quaker would not consider wearing it as an undergarment.

  When Margaret saw her visitors, her face lit up . She stood to allow Mrs Blake to sit on her stool and Antonia didn’t refuse. There was little else a prisoner could do to be welcoming than offer the only stool in her cell. Juliette perched on the wooden board over the wash basin. The door clanged shut behind them.

  ‘Are you well, Margaret?’ It was always the first thing Antonia asked, though the irony of the question was not lost on her. How could anyone be well in such a place?

  ‘As well as I can be on cocoa and gruel, Mrs Blake.’ Margaret looked less stout, but was otherwise in good spirits. A rapport had developed between the three women the last time Juliette had visited Millbank, since they had all come to London from the north, though all under rather different circumstances.

  Margaret chatted away as though she were going to the continent on holiday. She had not yet been told exactly where her transport would sail, and she would prefer to be sent to the colonies of Bermuda or Gibraltar, since Sydney was an awful long way, three months at sea at least.

  Antonia listened and glanced quickly at Juliette when Margaret said that she had little hope of ever returning to her family in Manchester once she’d gone. Juliette didn’t appear to be listening, though, she was fidgeting with a strand of her shawl and her eyes were darting about the room as though there was something to look at. She seemed on edge, though this was nothing new.

  After a time, Antonia rummaged in her bag for the hair pins Margaret had requested and then stood to leave. She expected Juliette to follow, but the maid stayed seated, looking nervous.

  ‘I’d like to stop with Margaret, if you don’t mind, Mrs Blake. I’m not sure that we’ll see each other again and I’d like to tell her about my ma, in case she gets sent to Sydney town.’

  ‘Of course, Juliette! What a good idea. I’ll come and fetch you after I’ve been to see Nelly, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please, I hope that’s no bother.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Antonia left, wondering what on earth Juliette could be up to with Margaret. She should not be so suspicious, she should be hopeful. Perhaps the girl was finally reaching out; becoming confident, and that could surely only be a good thing.

  Nelly Williams was sweet-faced and flaxen-haired, which was not advantageous in a women’s prison. She might as well be deliberately trying to make the others feel ugly. Even here, appearances mattered. Nelly was as excited as a child to receive her catalogue, and Antonia stayed with her, looking at fur mantles and satin slippers. She tried to remember the shades that were being worn on Oxford and Regent Streets because Nelly seemed anxious to know. She felt compelled to point out that the corseted and cosseted were generally unhappy, and that one pretty desire was quickly replaced with another. Nelly said she wouldn’t mind being that kind of unhappy.

  She left Nelly with her catalogue of fancies, reminded of the scented invitation that had recently arrived from Isabella Montgomery. Isabella’s cage was gilded and luxurious, but she was imprisoned nonetheless. For all of his charm and benevolence, her father was typical of his class. Isabella was not allowed an inch of freedom, although she was gasping for it. The invitation, addressed to both Antonia and Rhia, was to Isabella’s forthcoming birthday tea, but Antonia didn’t think she could bring herself to attend. She would just feel like an old pigeon in an aviary full of coloured birds, all preening and pecking.

  Juliette’s mood seemed to improve as soon as they left Millbank, and Antonia wondered if she saw the twitch of a secretive smile before they were both forced to cover their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs. The stench was truly awful. ‘Perhaps if the night-soil men didn’t command a shilling a cesspit, the sewers wouldn’t spill over so often,’ she observed drily. Sewage was like emotion; it could only be contained to a point before it just burst through its restraints.

  Greystones,

  County Wicklow

  16 February 1841

  My dear Rhia,

  You must by now have taken up the position at the Montgomery Emporium. I imagine you surrounded by a palette of silk.

  My late reply is not for want of will, as you will know, but of time. Annie Kelly and I are spinning all the daylight hours, and at night your father is in need of my company. He is much the same. The physician says that the bones have mended and he can find no reason why he should not walk with a stick. His ailment is, as we know, of the spirit. He won’t forgive himself for allowing the ruin of the business, or for letting you leave. He even seems to think that he might have done something to prevent Ryan’s death. When he is finally sleeping, I am too weary to write and always, now, consider the cost when the gas lanterns are lit. I may write by tallow, but it is not so true a light. Do not misunderstand me, I don’t consider this a hardship, it reminds me to value everything for its worth, as Mamo always said I should. Sometimes I imagine I can hear her voice, reminding me that I was lucky to marry a wealthy man, and of course she is still right.

  As to Thomas Kelly, yes he is well and is weaving as deftly as ever. He can produce four yards a day if he works from sunrise to sunset. Thomas and I have been experimenting with worsted. I have been given a sample of merino by an Italian peddler. It is a fine yarn and almost as soft as the wool from the Tibet goat. I have already sold several yards to a Dublin clothier, so we are meeting our needs.

  We are all excited that Michael Kelly’s sentence will be served by the summer, and that he has somehow managed to raise the money for his passage to Dublin. It will be wonderful to have him home and, of course, the Kellys will be much better off with both looms in use.

  I will not hear of you sending banknotes by post, Rhia, you will need your wage in London and you will find plenty to spend it on. We are quite comfortable. Since I know how stubborn you are, let me suggest this. If you have silver to spare then put it in a safe place – not in a bank – and before you spend it, think about how you might wisely invest it in something useful.

  From the window I can see the edge of the shale where you used to ride without boots or bonnet, with your hair getting in such a tangle from the salt and the win
d. Epona misses you, but I try to take her out every once in a while. Take good care of yourself and do remember to eat sensibly and keep warm.

  Your loving mother,

  Brigit Mahoney

  Taffeta

  Rhia slipped the letter back into her apron pocket. It was always exciting to have word from home and she had put off reading her mother’s letter until she could sit with her afternoon tea. She looked around the storeroom with satisfaction. It housed an entire wall of box shelving, piled to the ceiling with rolls and folded bolts of cloth. Rearranging it into some kind of logical order had taken the better part of a month and she was still not finished. This was partly because of the sheer volume of cloth, and partly because of regular interruptions from Grace, who was clearly enjoying being mistress of the shop floor. She found no end of menial tasks for Rhia to do, fetching this or that, or minding the floor while she took her elevenses or ran an errand. It was irritating enough being a minion without Grace enjoying her seniority as much as she did.

  Rhia liked the storeroom, though. She never tired of the sight of glossy black satin beside gold devoré or plum brocade against beetle green taffeta. It reminded her a little of the front room at St Stephen’s Green. On a bright day like today, the light from the window behind struck the shelving and made the silk velvets shine like jewels.

  The back window overlooked a small overgrown courtyard, and against the far wall was a dresser with a mottled mirror and several drawers. In these, Rhia had started to store pots and jars of coloured powders and sable brushes of every thickness. In the centre of the floor was a long trestle table covered partly with bolts of cloth. But in one corner was her red book, and a few squares of card dabbed with the velvety pinks and rich, ruby reds of the damask rose. The designs were firmly a secondary occupation during opening hours at the emporium, but she was determined that she would soon have a collection to present Mr Montgomery with, something to rival anything from Paris. She usually came in early or stayed late so that she had uninterrupted time to work. Today, though, she would be leaving early for Isabella Montgomery’s birthday tea. Rhia wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, and Grace hadn’t been invited. Isabella’s tea party seemed just another reason for Grace to feel resentful. Rhia looked at the old ship’s clock above the dresser. It was almost time to leave.

  She untied her apron and tidied her hair in the mirror, thinking about her mother’s cautionary words. She had already taken to stowing guineas in a purse in the bottom of her portmanteau. She was not about to entrust anyone with her precious silver, not after the conversation with Dillon in the Red Lion. Having an income gave her unexpected pleasure. Suddenly, anything was possible.

  She was becoming more and more convinced that money was somehow at the root of Ryan’s death, whether he had been unprincipled or not. But how could he have lost money if he was trading in opium? Ryan had been a risk-taker, certainly, but would never be described as rash. No doubt he had overextended himself by investing in the joint venture. Mr Dillon presumably knew something about it, since he appeared to know something about most things. Rhia had neither seen nor heard from him since Christmas. He had no reason to call, other than to see Laurence, and Laurence had sailed to New York more than two weeks ago. The house was quiet without him and Antonia was busier than ever with her forthcoming shipment to India.

  Grace was buffing her nails and reading Sylvia’s Home Journal when Rhia walked through the shop floor, the only way to leave the emporium. They exchanged polite farewells. The end of the month was less than a week away, and then Rhia would be on her own. She already had her own key.

  The Montgomery barouche, unexpectedly containing Isabella, pulled up just as Rhia stepped onto the footpath. Isabella looked the parody of a snow queen in her Moscow hat and sable pelisse, with a fur rug across her knees. She was almost breathless with excitement when Rhia stepped up beside her. ‘Hello, Miss Mahoney, it seems an absolute age since we’ve seen each other, and I’ve come secretly! Father was called to the mercer’s hall and Mama said that I might come if I was swift, and that she will receive our guests. But you must not tell. He would be extremely cross if he discovered I was out unchaperoned. But it is my birthday and I’ll soon be a wife, so I must be free today at least!’

  As they passed through Hyde Park, Rhia felt the prickly gaze of side-saddle riders and promenaders carrying lace parasols. Since it was a grey February afternoon, she presumed the parasols were for surveillance. Being inspected for flaws was inevitable. It made Rhia feel like she might have forgotten something essential, and that she had no way of knowing what it was. Isabella on the other hand was perfect for Hyde Park. Everything about her was expensive and modern and she could, and did, hold her head high.

  Rhia didn’t have a chance to enquire about Isabella’s husband-to-be, because her companion hardly drew breath. She was intent on taking an inventory of the guest list. This included the daughters of directors of the Bank of England, a Prussian baroness, an Italian viscount, and sundry earls, lords and dukes. And of course her future husband would be there, though he would be in the parlour with her father and some other gentlemen talking ‘business’. He was, she said, ‘a shipping magnet’.

  ‘Perhaps he is a magnate?’ Rhia suggested, and Isabella agreed that he might be.

  As they turned into Belgrave Square, Isabella clutched Rhia’s hand, taking her by surprise. ‘Oh Miss Mahoney, I wish I were as daring as you! I am so bored, especially in the evenings. Papa is always at his club and Mama practically lives in her boudoir. Mama says the servants watch me and report to Papa, but she gets rather muddled so I don’t know if it’s true. If I had my way I should go out every night to Drury Lane! I know it’s risqué, but I have always wanted to have lessons in ballet. Papa should never allow it, he says ballet is vulgar and not at all refined.’

  Rhia extracted her hand as gently as she could. She couldn’t help liking Isabella, in spite of her chocolate-box existence. ‘But you’ll soon be married, and you’ll probably have children. From what I know of children, you’ll never be bored again!’

  Isabella sighed. ‘Yes, of course. I hope my husband is a kind man.’

  ‘Do you think he is?’

  Isabella shrugged ‘I don’t know. I’ve only met him once.’

  Rhia tried not to show how much this surprised her. It shouldn’t. Arranged marriages were common amongst the gentry, and Mr Montgomery would only have his daughter’s interest at heart.

  ‘Oh drat!’ said Isabella. ‘Papa’s carriage is here. I’ll have to go in the servant’s entrance and pretend I’ve been upstairs.’ She jumped to the ground before Rhia could protest and was gone.

  The long, circular drive of the Montgomery residence was lined with liveried carriages, sleek landaus, chariots and attendant footmen. Rhia felt her stomach somersault. She had imagined an intimate tea party, not this. Everywhere she looked were domes of pale lemon chiffon and spray embroidery on white organdie and strawberry tulle. A confectionary of fashion. She felt like a plum duff in her purple taffeta coutil. The blend of silk and cotton was her only purchase since starting at the emporium. She had chosen purple to feel brave. The goddess Rhiannon wore a purple cloak.

  She stayed in the barouche for a moment to survey the scene and prepare herself. It was just like a page from Sylvia’s Home Journal. Grace would have loved it. Waists and slippers were pointed, bodices were boned and corsages en coeur, crinolines were enormous and flounced, sleeves, if present, were short and tight with a manchette of lace at the elbow.

  Rhia stepped to the ground and ascended the imposing stairs as nonchalantly as she could. She felt the eyes of the powdered and thin on her, and saw herself through their eyes: the complexion of a farm worker, Irish cloak (no fur trim), no ringlets. She would have a sip of tea and a bite of cake and then she would develop a headache and leave.

  The drawing room was a clutter of crinolines, and there was no sign of Isabella. Prunella Montgomery smiled vaguely at her then patted the di
van she was perched on. Rhia sat beside her and Prunella offered a glass of sherry from the decanter at her elbow, presumably her own personal supply. Rhia accepted. Sherry seemed a much better idea than tea.

  ‘Are you enjoying the party, dear?’ Prunella asked, hesitating before she said ‘dear’ as though she’d forgotten Rhia’s name. Rhia answered politely that she was, and added that she was also enjoying the emporium. Mrs Montgomery looked confused for a moment and then nodded absently. Rhia could see that she would have to uphold the conversation, so she prattled on about how much she loved being in the storeroom, and how it was like a treasure trove.

  Mrs Montgomery raised her eyebrows. Her pale blue eyes had a milky ring around the pupil and there were hollow, bluish shadows beneath them, which no amount of powder could hide. The remnants of beauty were there, but Prunella Montgomery had clearly ceased to care. ‘You must get Isabella to show you my collection upstairs, dear,’ she said, ‘if you think the silks in the emporium are treasures.’

  The sherry went down easily under the circumstances, and Mrs Montgomery was soon refilling Rhia’s glass along with her own. Her hand was unsteady and the tawny liquid dripped down the outer edge of the glass as she poured.

  By the time Rhia had drained her third glass of sherry, she was openly discussing the fate of Mahoney Linen, certain that she was being unsophisticated because her hostess’s eyebrows seemed permanently raised. Eventually she realised that they were pencilled on.