The Disgrace of Kitty Grey

by Mary Hooper

  The coach set off and Betsy screamed and so did I, for with the first jolt it seemed that we would be dashed to the floor of the coach or, worse, thrown out into the road. I held on to the nearest thing, which happened to be the stout man, and he acted like some sort of ballast and did not seem to mind my clutching him. Betsy and I soon realised, however, that passengers must move in rhythm with the galloping of the horses and the swaying of the coach, and once we had this under control I apologised to the man and moved a little distance away – for I had discerned by then that, far from being offended that I was holding him, he was only too eager to put a steadying arm around my waist.

  At first it was a novelty to ride atop a carriage, to see over fences and splash in and out of puddles, to sway around corners and have people stare and wave as we thundered through villages, but about half an hour after we set off, the novelty had quite palled as we were jolted, windswept and terrified by turns. Betsy was saved quite a bit of the bumping as she was sitting on my lap, but even though I pulled a fold of the fur rug underneath me, my rear ached dreadfully and I would have sold one of my own cows for a cushion. I even thought it would be a welcome relief to be stopped by a highwayman, for at least that would mean a little rest from the incessant jolting.

  Some many miles later, our faces frozen, we stopped at a coaching inn to change the horses, and the landlord came out to urge us to come inside, saying there was a side of beef roasting on the spit. I was very tempted by this but, though I had plenty of money safely stowed in the portmanteau, had been warned several times that London was a most expensive city, and so declined. Betsy and I made sure to use the inn’s privy, however, then sat on a settle in a passageway and, while sniffing at the roasting meat, ate the bread and cheese which Mrs Bonny had provided. All too soon the ostler rang a handbell to round everyone up and we were ushered aboard the stagecoach and off it went again.

  And so proceeded the day, pausing at various coaching inns to change the steaming, panting horses, until at nine o’clock we stopped for the night and I felt I could have cried with thankfulness. I didn’t think it had been too bad a journey for Betsy, for my body had cushioned her and the galloping of the horses acted like a rocking cradle to send her off to sleep, but I had felt every jolt, every bump, every pothole in the road, and had a constant fear that I would be thrown off and end up dead in a ditch. The only thing which redeemed this sad prospect was imagining Will finding out, realising that I had died in the act of looking for him and feeling guilty about it for the rest of his life.

  As I climbed down with shaking legs, all too enthusiastically assisted by the stout man, I thanked God that Miss Alice had opted for us to stay in an inn overnight, for some of the fastest stagecoaches travelled right through the day and night and I could not have borne this. Though our room in the Dove and Partridge was shabby, the mattress was soft and I fell asleep straight away, not stirring until a maid knocked on the door at six o’clock the next morning with a jug of washing water.

  The only section of the journey I could have said I almost enjoyed was the last, when we entered London and I began seeing lovely buildings, churches, lavish gardens, green spaces and beautiful houses. I’d been told that London was a dark and treacherous place, but I saw that in some parts it was not; that in some parts there were gardens and fine dwellings enough to make a person gasp.

  ‘Have you and your little daughter got a place to stay?’ the stout man asked me as the river came into view.

  ‘My daughter!’ I exclaimed. ‘She is my sw–’ But no, I was not about to tell him my life story. ‘She is my sister,’ I amended.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he said. Then he bent over and said in my ear, ‘Your secret is safe with me, my dear.’

  My cheeks flamed. What did he take me for?

  ‘Got lodgings, have you?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yes, we have somewhere to stay, I thank you,’ I said in a very clipped manner. And I couldn’t resist adding, ‘And besides, I am only in London to visit a publisher for my mistress.’ With luck, he would think me a lady’s maid and too high for his advances.

  His reply, if there had been one, was drowned out by us suddenly wheeling around the corner, coming upon Charing Cross and being startled by a cacophony of sounds: shouts, bells, iron wheels turning on stone, whips cracking and peddlers calling their wares. Staring around us in astonishment, Betsy and I saw stagecoaches, carriages, hackney cabs, sedan chairs and people on horseback, all crowded higgledy-piggledy on the cobbles. Surely, I thought, all the population of the city was gathered here together, for I had never seen so many people before in all my life.

  How small I felt then, and nervous, and wished so much that Will was there to meet us and claim us. I reminded myself, however, that I was a resourceful girl – that’s what Miss Alice had called me, anyway – and that we’d reached London safely and not lost anything.

  ‘In what direction is St Paul’s?’ I asked the stout man while the driver was negotiating our coach into position.

  ‘Why, it’s straight across there!’ he said, pointing down a busy street I later found out was the Strand. ‘You can just see the dome.’

  I looked where he was pointing and, from our vantage point on top of the coach, saw it rising above every other building, something gold sparkling on its pinnacle. So close! Oh, I was surely very near to finding Will!

  I looked around me, marvelling. ‘Such a lot of people!’ I blurted out.

  ‘Doctor Johnson said that one finds the full tide of human existence at Charing Cross,’ my stout travelling companion pronounced, and I nodded politely, although I did not know who Dr Johnson was.

  There were dandies, too, whom I had only heard about before: one man, immaculate in purple velvet, white shirt and starched cravat, was sniffing delicately at the bunch of herbs he carried, while another man was talking to him, hand on hip, in an affected pose. Betsy especially stared at him, for he was wearing a gold lace suit with a purple tricorne hat trimmed with feathers.

  ‘Allow me to lift you down,’ said the stout man when the carriage had stopped fully.

  ‘No, that is quite –’ I began, but it was too late; he had seized me around the waist and lifted me over the guard rail and out on to the cobbles. Betsy followed likewise and the fur rug fell to the ground around us.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind reaching for my portmanteau,’ I said, and he did so, placing it at my feet, where I covered it with the fur rug. He gave me a funny little bow, bending only as far as a very stout man can, but did not move on.

  ‘Do you wish me to call you a hackney cab?’ he asked, but a smartly dressed woman tapped him on the shoulder with her fan and, with a movement of her head, indicated that he should be off.

  ‘My dear!’ The woman elbowed him out of the way and smiled at me with blackened teeth. ‘Are you new to London?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am,’ I said, ‘but I am quite able to look after myself, thank you very much.’ I took Betsy’s hand firmly in my own, for I had heard of these women who preyed upon unsuspecting newcomers to London, offering them a place to stay while procuring them for immoral purposes, and I did not intend to be a victim.

  ‘Such pretty country looks!’ she said, pinching my cheek. ‘Such lovely waves in your hair! Have you somewhere to stay, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, I –’ I started, but Betsy had let go of my hand and was reaching to pat the two small dogs of a woman who had just stepped from a sedan. ‘Betsy!’ I called, and grabbed her hand again.

  Two peddlers approached, one holding a tray of sweetmeats, one a tray of dolls. An old woman came up close and waved a set of playing cards under my nose, offering to tell my fortune, and a man in rags came a-begging, tapping along with a white stick and bumping into me.

  ‘You must take care,’ said the stout man, seemingly reluctant to leave us.

  ‘Really, I am perfectly all right,’ I said to him, turning from the woman and waving away the peddlers. ‘I have the address of my lodgings and shall go t
here forthwith. I thank you for your concern.’ Still holding on tightly to Betsy, I bent down to pick up the leather bag.

  But when I lifted the fur rug, it had gone.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘My travelling bag!’

  I felt ill, cold and shocked. I hadn’t fallen prey to highwaymen and I’d survived the long journey without mishap, but after two minutes in London had been robbed of everything.

  I turned, looking frantically behind me. The two peddlers were going in one direction, the blind man shuffling off in another. The old woman was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘My dear, have you lost something?’ asked the woman with a fan. ‘Do allow me to help you search.’

  I stared at her. Had she picked up my bag and passed it to someone else? Had the stout man taken it? Or one of the peddlers? Oh, I’d been told often enough that London was a wicked place, full of thieves, beggars and vagabonds, and it certainly was.

  I stood still, feeling ghastly sick, not knowing what to do for the best. I wanted to keep standing there until it all came right again. If I wanted it enough, then surely it would be there. The bag couldn’t be gone – it couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  Betsy tugged at my hand, oblivious to what had happened. ‘Can we go and find Will now?’

  I swallowed. ‘In a moment.’

  ‘My dear?’ enquired the woman. ‘Do you want me to inform a Bow Street Runner?’

  ‘Fat chance of finding one of those when you want one,’ the stout man remarked. ‘Besides, who is it he’s supposed to be looking for?’

  ‘Go away!’ I suddenly shouted – no, screamed – at her, the stout man and anyone else nearby. ‘Just please go away and leave us alone!’

  Those close by melted away and Betsy, looking at me in horror, burst into tears of fright. I took a deep breath to try and gather myself, then picked up the rug in one arm, took Betsy in the other and began to make my way to the Golden Cross Inn at the back of the vast square where we were standing. On the way, weaving in and out of carriages, people and horses, we passed three men locked into a pillory, which fascinated Betsy so much that she stopped crying.

  We reached the wooden boardwalk outside the tavern and I put Betsy down and tried to catch my breath. Together we looked out upon all the hectic misery that was London.

  ‘Why are those men locked in that wooden thing?’ Betsy asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, too distracted to formulate a proper reply.

  ‘Why have they got their heads and arms through a hole?’

  What was I going to do?

  ‘Why is one of them crying?’

  ‘Because they’ve been very naughty,’ I said at last.

  ‘Why are people shouting at them and throwing stuff – oh, someone’s thrown a cat at them! That’s not very nice, is it? Why have they done that?’

  ‘Because . . . because . . .’ But I started weeping then, and could not answer.

  I had no handkerchief, for such things had been in the bag, so had to dab at my eyes with the edge of my sleeve. What to do? What to do?

  Darkness was falling, I had no money and thus could not pay for us to stay anywhere. I had a five-year-old child who was dependent upon me, I had lost my mistress’s bag, her money and the addresses and could not fulfil the mission for which I’d been sent to London. Oh, I was surely ruined!

  At length, while Betsy still gazed, fascinated, at the poor souls in the pillory, I stopped weeping and began to think of possible remedies to my problems. Would I, perhaps, be able to persuade a hackney-cab driver to take us straight back home and rely on the kindness of Miss Alice to pay my fare when I got there? I shook my head at this: I was not brave enough to ask one of those stern, uniformed men for such a favour, for what might I have to do in return? And supposing Miss Alice would not pay when we got there? Perhaps, then, I could find Will as I’d planned, hand over Betsy and ask him or a member of his family to loan me the fare home. Either way, of course, I would be going back without Miss Alice’s precious volumes – and she would be sure to think that I’d stolen the money she’d entrusted to me. Besides, although I could hunt for Will, how long would searching for him take – and what would we do for lodgings and food until we found him?

  I heaved an enormous sigh and tried to organise my thoughts. Betsy and I were both very tired, but if we walked towards St Paul’s Cathedral then perhaps – if we were very lucky – we might actually find Will, or someone who knew him. If we did not, then . . . then I would pawn the travelling rug to raise enough money to rent a room, and carry on our search for Will the next day. My thoughts ran on: once I’d handed Betsy over to him, I might be able to obtain a live-in job in a dairy for two or three weeks. London wages were the best in the country, everyone knew that, so maybe I could even earn enough not only to pay for my journey back home but to buy Miss Alice’s book. Yes, this was definitely the best thing, I thought, and I straightened up, brushed myself down and tidied Betsy. I told her, my voice wobbling only slightly, that I had lost our big bag but we were still going to find Will. That it was going to be all right.

  I lifted her up so that she could see over the tops of the carriages. ‘Look. Do you see that big lead dome?’ I said. ‘That’s the top of this very special church called St Paul’s Cathedral. Will lives near there, and that’s where we’re going.’

  Betsy nodded solemnly. ‘And will I have cousins to play with?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘lots of cousins. And they are town children so you’ll be able to teach them all how to make corn dollies.’

  I shook out the rug, folded it and put it over my shoulder. It should, I thought, be worth at least three shillings at a pawnshop. I stopped what I was doing for a moment and hesitated: there was something at the back of my mind which was niggling me, but I couldn’t quite think what it might be.

  All along the Strand it niggled, while we walked on, staring, amazed, at the vast houses and beautiful gardens, at the fashionably dressed ladies going hither and thither in their sedan chairs and carriages, at the men bowing and preening. We went down Fleet Street towards Ludgate Circus and then up the slope to Ludgate Hill, from where we could see the vast, two-tiered, pillared front of St Paul’s. We entered an enormous square thronged with peddlers and sightseers and suddenly the whole of the cathedral was visible to us.

  Oh, such a place! We just stood and stared and stared at it in awe, and it seemed to me like four churches, built two by two, with, right at the very top, a fifth church, miraculously round, high up in the sky. Upon the leaded dome of this highest church was a golden orb bearing a gold cross.

  ‘Is that all St Paul’s Cathedral?’ Betsy asked after a long moment.

  I nodded. ‘It is.’

  ‘What is a cathedral?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a church. A very special big church.’

  ‘And do people go there on Sundays?’

  ‘If they want to say their prayers, they can go in whenever they like. There are lovely big coloured windows in there, and treasures and wonderful statues.’

  ‘And does Will go? And can we go in, too?’

  I hesitated, looking at the crowds thronging the marble steps and at the people going in and out of the huge carved doors for evensong. I shook my head, for I wouldn’t have been brave enough to go through those vast doors into the glittering interior I could glimpse within. ‘I don’t think it’s for the likes of us,’ I said.

  ‘Why not? Does the King go there?’

  ‘I believe so. When he is well enough.’

  ‘I should like to see the King.’

  ‘He is mad at the moment,’ I said – indeed, I couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been mad. ‘But at least you can say you have seen his church.’

  And it was then that I realised what had been troubling me since I’d arrived: Will had told me that his family lived in view of the cathedral, but I knew now that that great and magnificent dome, so gigantic, so imposing, c
ould be seen for miles around, both on this side of the river and the other. It had been in view, in fact, ever since we’d entered London. And about how many people might live in this huge area and be able to see at least a part of it? A thousand? Two thousand? No, it must be many, many more. Thousands upon thousands. Maybe that impossible number: a million. For St Paul’s, built on a hill, loomed above everything and rose high into the sky to touch heaven. So amidst the teeming hundreds and thousands of people how was I ever going to find Will?

  Suddenly, I became perfectly certain that I never would. I was on a wild goose chase and I had brought poor little Betsy along with me.

  Shocked, I stopped walking, but Betsy let go of my hand and darted off, running up the sweep of stone steps leading to the doors, so that I had to put thoughts of Will to one side, hitch up my skirts and run after her. The crowds of people were so great, and she so tiny, that I knew she could disappear in an instant.

  I caught her just before she went through the doors and insisted that she held my hand. We walked all the way round the outside of the vast structure, but now, cast down, I was not just viewing the wonderful statues and the coloured glass windows telling stories from the Bible, but also seeing the pigeon mess, the dead dog lying on a pile of rubbish and the assorted beggars – lacking a leg, an arm, or with sightless eyes or gruesome sores – sitting on the steps and pleading for alms. Betsy surveyed these beggars with interest and occasionally stopped to stare and ask questions: How does the one with no legs walk? Does the blind one fall over? How can the one with no arms eat? It was getting dark now, though, so after a few moments I hurried her on. Where I was actually going, I didn’t know, except that I hoped that somehow I might come across Will or see a mention of his family name. Up and down lanes and alleyways we went, through courts, markets, past taverns, gin shops, rickety lodging houses and churches, with me looking into each person’s face and not finding Will’s likeness in any of them. As every new passageway came into sight Betsy would set up a plaintive cry of ‘Is it here that Will lives? Is this his house?’, until I became too miserable to respond.