3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  When Isabella came into view, her mother called her over. ‘You must take your friend up to see the collection, Isabella.’

  ‘Oh yes! You simply must see it, Miss Mahoney.’

  Mrs Montgomery took Isabella by the wrist and pulled her close. ‘But make sure your father doesn’t see you – you know he doesn’t like you to neglect your guests.’ She took a key from her reticule and pressed it into Isabella’s hand.

  ‘We’ll take the servant’s stair,’ Isabella assured her mother, and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

  Isabella kept hold of Rhia’s hand and pulled her along a short corridor off the reception hall where more confections clustered together, their eyes darting to and fro behind watered silk fans.

  They hurried up a narrow darkened stair to the second floor landing and Isabella lifted a candelabra from a sideboard and put it down outside one of the doors off the landing so that she could unlock it.

  ‘This is where Mama’s cloth is stored,’ Isabella said in a whisper.

  ‘Why are you whispering? Are you forbidden here?’

  ‘Oh, no, but the servants are. Mama is very fond of her collection.’ Isabella giggled nervously.

  ‘Would your father really be angry if he discovered you had left your guests?’

  ‘Probably, though as I said Mama tends to exaggerate where he’s concerned. He means to announce my wedding today you see …’ Isabella trailed off and shrugged as carelessly as she could. ‘As you say, it will relieve my boredom. Besides, I shall run away and find employment if I don’t like my husband, just as you have!’

  Rhia couldn’t imagine Isabella surviving for a moment in a world that was not lined with fur and draped in tulle. Surely she must understand that it was her father’s money and influence that upholstered her comfortable journey through life.

  Isabella opened the door onto an anteroom that must once have been a dressing room. It was furnished only with carved cherry wood trunks. Isabella opened one, and then another, and the dark little room was suddenly transformed. Prunella Montgomery was right. These were treasures. Isabella pulled out length after length of embroidered and appliquéd silk covered in intricate needlework or sewn with tiny pearls. Some were literally weighed down with gemstones. In most, the weave of the fabric was entirely obscured by ornament. The cloth exhaled the scents of foreign lands, which Rhia found as sensuous as the textiles themselves. She exclaimed over each new piece until she felt light-headed. It was soon too much to take in. One of these textiles alone would have stunned her, but an entire room full was overpowering. She could not begin to imagine their value. Isabella had been enjoying her stupefaction, but was suddenly anxious to return before she was missed.

  Rhia took a last look around. She had not noticed the hanging on the wall that was twinkling like a galaxy in the candlelight. It was a patchwork of sea-coloured silks, sewn with sapphires and emeralds and peridot. It made Rhia strangely uneasy, giving her the same creeping sensation as the trees in the morning room at Cloak Lane. She was now as eager as Isabella to leave.

  On the landing a maid brushed past, and Isabella eyed her suspiciously. She whispered to Rhia. ‘That’s Hatty the Tattle. We’d better go down the main stair, since she’ll know I’m being disobedient if she sees us on the servant’s stair.’

  Rhia had never known a household so well staffed. There were maids everywhere, plus a butler, a steward and a valet, and who knew how many in the kitchen and stables. It awed her and inspiring awe was no doubt exactly what was intended.

  From halfway down the stair, they could see the reception hall below. Mr Montgomery stood right in the middle of the floor, a striking figure in hunting pink and riding boots. He was eyeing their approach whilst talking to Isaac Fisher and to a well-fed, greying gentleman. Isabella’s hand reached for Rhia’s. ‘Oh dear, they’ve finished earlier than I thought, we should have taken the servant’s stair after all.’ She sighed stoically. ‘Oh well.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper as they descended. ‘The gentleman with my father is my future husband, Miss Mahoney. Isn’t he old.’ The man wasn’t exactly old, but he was easily twice Isabella’s age.

  Mr Montgomery smiled when they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, but he was thin-lipped with displeasure and the annoyance beneath his words was barely contained.

  ‘I have been looking everywhere for you, Isabella.’

  ‘I was showing Miss Mahoney Mama’s collection.’

  The gentleman beside her father was beaming. He had a round, pleasant face but looked no more endearing at close quarters. Rhia felt a stab of pity as he offered Isabella his arm. They wandered away, he looking as though he couldn’t believe his good fortune in purchasing such a pretty accessory.

  Mr Montgomery smiled at Rhia, his ill humour quickly forgotten. Hatty the Tattle hovered with a tray of flutes filled with something pink and fizzing, and Mr Montgomery plucked a glass by the stem for Rhia.

  ‘Are you enjoying the party, Miss Mahoney?’

  ‘Oh, very much,’ she lied. She was unbelievably thirsty and emptied half the contents of the flute before she noticed that it was alcoholic. She could feel Isaac’s eyes on her, disapproving, she thought. He was standing back politely, within earshot but not noticeably so.

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Mr Montgomery. ‘I am pleased with your new designs – have I said so?’ Before she could answer that he hadn’t, he continued, ‘We must print one soon. You show great promise.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Rhia replied. ‘I had worried you might think me better suited to the shop floor.’ His eyebrows shot up and Rhia almost laughed. No wonder Mrs Montgomery was always sauced – drinking made life so much more enjoyable.

  Mr Montgomery smiled to hide his surprise. ‘I thought the shop might provide a diversion from the tragedy of your uncle’s death.’

  Had he only offered her the job as a charitable gesture, then? Did he genuinely think her designs had great promise, or was this just gentlemanly altruism? She felt emotional about unexpected kindnesses, though she couldn’t remember it being of issue a moment ago. She also felt an urgent need to offload her fears. After all, Mr Montgomery had been a colleague of her uncle. ‘I suppose you’ve heard the rumours?’ she ventured.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Rumours?’

  ‘That the death of Josiah Blake was not an accident. You don’t think … you don’t suppose my uncle and Mr Blake might have both been led to take their own lives by the same external force?’

  Mr Montgomery looked shocked. Then she caught Isaac’s eye – he was glowering. Rhia regretted her words immediately. She suddenly felt sober. ‘But I should not have mentioned it, without evidence.’

  Mr Montgomery recovered his smile. ‘You must voice your fears, of course,’ he said placatingly. ‘It is the nature of grief. It is perfectly natural to feel distrustful, though I pray your suspicions are ill founded.’ He didn’t look certain, she thought, and she wondered if everyone else knew more about her uncle’s affairs than she.

  Mr Montgomery excused himself and, since Isaac had suddenly disappeared, Rhia found her cloak and asked the footman to call a carriage to take her home. She couldn’t face saying formal goodbyes and was sure no one would miss her. She had never been very good at parties and was suddenly in urgent need of Beth’s ginger loaf cake.

  Embroidery

  Rhia lit the spirit lamp and shifted the sheets of cartridge paper scattered across the storeroom table. She had almost two hours before the emporium opened its doors, but the damask rose was going nowhere and she couldn’t decide what to do with the indigo either. Both were in need of green.

  She had almost covered the entire table in samples by the time she heard Grace arrive. It didn’t seem that any time at all had passed, yet it was ten o’clock. She had still not found the elusive shade of green that would not clash with rose or indigo, and she was wary of using too much of her precious powders – they cost a whole shilling for a small pot.

  Rhia was putting away her bru
shes when there was a knock at the half-open door and Isaac Fisher stepped into the store. She had completely forgotten he was coming to collect the remnants for the convict ship committee. Antonia was still busy supervising Mathilda’s voyage to Calcutta. Isaac carried a large carpet bag and looked a little strained as they exchanged greetings. Perhaps he, like Rhia, was feeling awkward about her indiscretion at Belgravia.

  ‘Miss Elliot says she would like a word with you on the shop floor,’ Isaac said as he put his bag on the trestle table. Rhia could not fathom why Grace could not come and tell her this in person.

  In the emporium, Grace was looking smug. ‘I’ve just remembered that Mr Montgomery said if it’s quiet we’re to dust the tops of the shelves and I can’t find the duster. Do you have it in the storeroom?’ Presumably she was hoping that Rhia would offer to dust the shelving.

  ‘I’m sorry, no, I haven’t seen it,’ Rhia said, all the more annoyed to be interrupted without good cause. Grace wasn’t supposed to leave the shop floor unattended, but if she called out Rhia could more or less hear her in the storeroom. Sometimes she thought Grace just liked to have company occasionally, and even Rhia’s was better than nothing. Regent Street, like St Stephen’s Green, was quiet in February.

  Rhia returned to the storeroom irritated, and found Isaac inspecting her work. ‘My late wife was a painter,’ he said. ‘She loved mixing tinctures. I distinctly remember her saying that green has inspired artists more than any other colour.’ Isaac looked wistful for a moment. ‘What a thing to remember.’ He may have been talking to himself.

  ‘It is in every aspect of nature,’ Rhia proffered, but Isaac seemed lost in thought and she wasn’t sure if he had heard her. She did not yet have the full measure of Isaac Fisher. He was likeable but guarded. Antonia had called him a liberal Quaker, though Rhia wasn’t sure exactly what this meant. Presumably he didn’t like rules.

  ‘It was apparently the most sought after of recipes,’ she added, remembering what the dyer had told her. ‘The green dye made from metals corroded parchment, and others disintegrated in the light. Dyers used to dip their cloth first in a vat of yellow tincture made from weld or buckthorn, and then in one of woad blue.’ Why did Isaac drop his eyes when she met his gaze? It made her distrust him for a moment.

  ‘Do you know where your green comes from now?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘It is from China,’ he said.

  ‘Is that why it is so expensive?’

  ‘It is expensive because it is extracted from the bark of an Oriental tree.’ He sighed heavily. ‘We are ruining the most inventive race on the earth.’ He shook his head as though he were personally responsible. ‘I am pleased to see that Jonathan Montgomery had good cause to employ you.’

  Rhia felt her colour rise. ‘Then you thought he engaged me as an act of charity?’

  The Quaker ignored this remark. He looked sombre. ‘Even if you have heard rumours about Josiah’s death, it would be foolish and dangerous to speak of them. Please do not.’

  He picked up the carpet bag, which was now full of remnants, and tipped his hat. ‘Good day, Miss Mahoney.’ He was gone before she had a chance to retort. What did he mean dangerous? Dangerous to her reputation? It was too late for that. And besides, Quakers were supposed to be defenders of free speech. Isaac must know something. He had been on board the Mathilda on the day that Josiah Blake died. The thought almost made her shudder. Maybe he knew something about Josiah’s death.

  The morning passed slowly. Rhia felt restless and troubled after Isaac’s visit. She found herself dusting the top of the shelves after all when Grace went to lunch. Then she stood behind the polished walnut counter watching for a certain lightness of step in the women who passed by, for a certain dedication, on a cold February morning, to spending the household allowance on something to ease loneliness or boredom. Two women entered, one dressed in plaid and the other in barber stripe. Their coats were trimmed with musk and their eyes darted around the room. They reeked of cologne as though they had just uncorked an entire perfumery.

  They bade Rhia to fetch down one roll after another of the new silk brocades, which were so sleek they slipped across the counter like water. Her shears flashed and clicked until almost a hundred yards had been ordered between them. It was enough to cover four crinolines at a cost that made neither of them flinch.

  While Rhia wrapped the cloth in brown paper and tied it up with ribbon, the women discussed an invitation to spend March in an Italian villa. When they eventually left, Rhia felt deflated. Envy? Did she want a husband with a balance at the bankers larger than her capacity to spend? She might once have thought this perfectly reasonable, but she had a taste, now, for being mistress of her own affairs, and she would not easily give it up.

  When Grace returned from lunch, Rhia bought a piece of pie from a barrow seller and sat in the storeroom with a cup of tea, looking at her swatches of green. None were right. She needed more moss, less olive. She put the samples away and assessed the tidiness of the shelves. She would have a busy afternoon if she was to finish sorting through all the velvets.

  As she stood up there was a sharp rap at her door. Before she could say a word, two gentlemen entered, dressed in the square black hats and dark serge uniforms of the Metropolitan Police. A moment later, Grace appeared behind them, looking as though she had eaten something that disagreed with her.

  ‘Good afternoon, miss,’ said the older of the two, though he was still not as old as Rhia was. ‘My colleague and I are investigating the theft of a quantity of …’ and here, he took a pad of brown paper from his inner pocket and referred to it, ‘a length of embroidered silk from the Montgomery residence of Belgrave Square. I have here a warrant to search these premises for said goods.’

  Rhia was shocked. It seemed somehow worse that there had been a theft at the Montgomerys’ when she had only just been there, but surely it was impossible that anything stolen from Belgrave Square would be found here, at the emporium. Were they implying that she might be harbouring stolen property?

  ‘By all means, search the room,’ she said briskly, ‘but please do so neatly and carefully. It has taken me weeks to put it in order.’ The senior policeman nodded, and then instructed

  Grace to begin looking. Grace was clearly in an agony of discomfort. She could not meet Rhia’s eye. Grace removed rolls and folded lengths of cloth from each cubicle. The ship’s clock seemed to tick twice as loud to make up for the silence in the room.

  It was on one of the higher shelves, which Grace reached only by standing on some low wooden steps, that the embroidery was discovered. Rhia recognised it immediately as the hanging that had disturbed her. Grace put it on the table where the lamp reflected its sea colours onto the walls, like sunlight on water.

  Rhia was astonished. She sat down heavily. She didn’t understand. In fact, until the two constables stepped forth and stood each at either side of her, she was not even aware that she was to be accused. It was unthinkable.

  ‘Rhia Mahoney, you are forthwith a prisoner of her Majesty Queen Victoria, and will be held in the custody of Her Majesty’s prison, Newgate, until such a time as your case may be heard.’

  Crinoline

  London disappeared. Perhaps it had only ever been a photogenic drawing, only the ghost of something real though sometimes Rhia heard it from her cell – all jovial and whistling and oblivious to the dark Otherworld that lay behind the walls of Newgate prison.

  She had counted five nights, but she would soon lose count if she didn’t get out of this place. They had not allowed her any visitors and she did not know any more than she had when she was first arrested. Nights were an eternity spent on a hard mat in an open cell, amongst women who bickered and snored and eyed her gown. They’d steal it from her back while she slept if they thought they’d get away with it. The pale sheen of her corinna made her stand out like a gold nugget in a pan full of earth.

  Someone told Rhia that she wouldn’t be issued with a p
rison uniform until she had been convicted. They didn’t realise that she was innocent and that there had been a miscarriage of justice. Antonia must know by now that she was in Newgate. She and Mr Montgomery must think her guilty, otherwise they would have had her released. Each time she had this thought Rhia felt a wave of sickness, and then all the unanswered questions returned. This was how people went mad. She could see it.

  There was ample loneliness and despair within the walls of Newgate Prison. At night, the living were silent but the dead were not. To fight it all, Rhia tried everything she could. She tried to feel fortunate (for she would soon be free). She tried, in the absence of paper and ink, writing to Mamo in her head. She even tried smiling, which earned her the threat of a thrashing. Nothing worked. She wasn’t safe. Other prisoners had earned their stay in Newgate through poverty or violence or cunning – she could not compete.

  Only a stone wall separated the condemned from the gallows of the Old Bailey. A stone wall, only, between life and death. The condemned huddled in a corner of the yard each morning as though they were already reducing the space they occupied on the earth. It terrified Rhia just to look at them. She kept her eyes on the sky in the yard. It was the only time all day that she would see it. She tried to name the blue of the sky but she had forgotten it.

  Saying she was innocent was laughable. It hadn’t taken long to realise this. If she were to believe what she’d heard in her ward, there were many innocents in here. There was always sewing to do during the day, and this was when the women shared their stories. There were no books in the ward, so telling your story was the next best thing. Above the fireplace, on a sheet of pasteboard, were pinned texts from the scriptures:

  A false witness shall not be unpunished.

  He that speaketh lies shall perish.