I swapped a look with Mim. It was an odd request, but I didn’t dare disobey. Reluctantly, I let the needle go.
‘Come on.’
I rested my elbow on the swathes of tartan in front of me and put my arm down flat.
Kate bustled over and seized me by the biceps. She held my limb out at my side. ‘He’s right.’ Her thin fingers began to squeeze my muscles. Shaping, plumping. I might have been a beef steak. ‘You are strong.’
Strength had crept up on me unawares. That must be the corset’s doing. Kate’s arm, gripping mine, looked puny by comparison. It made me feel monstrous.
‘I . . . suppose I am.’
‘Then it must be you. Don’t botch it.’
I blinked at her. ‘I don’t . . .’
‘Kate, what do you find? Is it suitable, will it serve us a turn?’ Even Kate jumped at the sound of Mrs Metyard’s voice. The old woman had stolen in like a cat and stood at the door, watching us with her gimlet eyes.
‘Yes, Mother. It’s just as Billy said. Ruth’s arms are burly.’
Burly. Did he use that word? I didn’t look at Ivy, but that was no comfort. I could feel the glee in her face.
‘Stronger than Miriam?’
‘I should say so.’
‘Right. You’ll do it then, Butterham, and you’ll make a good job. Your mother will soon know if you don’t.’
Her mention of Ma electrified me. Suppose I should blunder in this task – what wrath would I call down upon my mother? ‘Please, Mrs Metyard . . .’ I began.
‘What?’
‘Can you tell me what it is I’m to do?’
Kate sniffed. ‘We used to make baleen stays for our customers. We’ve had several ladies asking for them again today.’
‘But I’ve never worked with whalebone,’ I protested.
‘Billy has. I asked him to teach someone how to whittle them, but the worker has to be strong. He said you were strong.’
Not burly, then. ‘Just me? Making them on my own?’
‘No. With Billy.’
Making stays with Billy Rooker: a prospect both wonderful and horrifying. How would I bear standing next to him for all that time? My heart would beat so fast it would be like running up and down the stairs all day.
‘But take care you learn,’ Mrs Metyard warned. ‘His father can only spare him for a short time. After he shows you how to make a few pairs, you’ll be doing it on your own.’
Learn? Good God, it was all I could do to hold a bolt of cloth in his presence. If I had to do something delicate I’d be all fingers and thumbs. And Ma would reap the punishment for every skewed stitch . . .
‘There’s a little area just off the showroom,’ said Kate. ‘Customers go in there if they want to try on the ready-made goods. I’ll set it up for you.’
Behind a curtain. Sitting next to Billy Rooker. His smiles, his laughter, his hand guiding mine.
Ivy wasn’t grinning now. Her face was cold enough to give you frostbite.
* * *
Did you ever see a lace-making lamp? It’s like a three-legged stool with five poles on the top: the one in the centre holds the candle. The others are shaped round it in a square, and they have glass bowls full of water on them. That’s what we used to embroider by night. The water was meant to amplify the flame. Maybe it did, but it seemed very dark to me, working through the long night hours at Metyard’s.
We looked like a coven, the five of us gathered around the lamp. A yellow glow fell over Ivy’s face, and I could have sworn she had a halo of fire.
She began it, that particular night. I was minding my own business, deep in concentration on a rose motif. Golden thread against black silk, no clear line where the gown ended and the darkness began. I was sewing the night, sewing shadows with stardust.
But then the light wobbled.
I blinked, feeling giddy. Waves of gilt washed across my lap. When I looked up the sensation was intensified, like drowning in a golden pool.
‘What are you doing?’
Ivy held Mim’s work in her hands: a powder-pink jacket bodice. Mim tugged on the trailing sleeve, her eyes wide as inkwells. The legs of the lamp rocked against the floor.
‘Stop it,’ Mim cried. ‘Let go!’
‘What are you quarrelling about?’
Ivy didn’t answer my question. But her eyes slid in my direction and her cheeks lifted with a slow, treacherous smile.
I should have been expecting this: my punishment for being chosen to work with Billy Rooker. Oh, Ivy wasn’t stupid. She knew the best way to hurt me was through Mim.
‘Give it back!’
‘Careful!’ sang Ivy, kicking the lamp stool. ‘You wouldn’t want to break something.’
Beside me, Nell caught her breath. She clutched her work to her chest. ‘Stop, Ivy. I mean it. You’ll set the place on fire.’
‘Will I? And what will you say, Nelly; will you tell Mrs Metyard it was that nasty Ivy who did it? You know how she loves a tattletale.’
Nell’s jaw set rigid. ‘I’ll tell her nothing. But I’d rather not be burnt alive, thank you very much.’
Ivy laughed. Hysterical: that’s how it sounded. Maybe she was. Maybe she’d been in that place for so long it didn’t matter to her if she went up in flames.
‘Give the work back to Mim, Ivy,’ I demanded. ‘She’s done nothing wrong.’
‘It’s not your concern. You work with Mr Rooker now, not us.’ Ivy tugged the bodice, pulling it dangerously close to the candlelight. ‘Such fine work. Would be a shame if something happened to it.’
‘No!’ Mim’s hands were frantic, gathering up the material with all her strength. A stitch popped. ‘She’d kill me, Ivy, she’d actually kill me.’
‘No, not she. She’ll thrash you until you wish you were dead, but she won’t go through with it.’ The candle danced beneath her breath. Warm satin scented the air. ‘She isn’t that kindly disposed.’
Both Nell and I were on our feet, begging her to stop. Even Daisy looked afraid. But Ivy paid no heed; she just kept staring, staring into the flame.
Another tiny pop. One more stitch gone.
‘Give . . . it . . . back!’
All at once, she did.
Mim crashed against her stool, sending it skidding across the floor into the cupboards.
Daisy squealed.
‘Mim!’ I ran over to where she lay, stunned. Her face was clenched with pain, but the bodice was safe, clutched to her so tightly that her knuckles were turning white. ‘Mim, are you hurt?’
I don’t think even Ivy knew what was going to happen next. I don’t think she planned to do it. Her hand just reached out in a kind of diabolical reflex, seized the candle – and flung it.
Someone screamed. I don’t know who. My eyes were focused on the candle as it flew, impossibly slow, arcing light through the room. The flame fell with a hiss on Mim’s pink satin.
My hand moved so fast that I didn’t feel pain. There was a spark, a putrid stench and then I was slapping, hitting the material harder than I’d ever hit anything before.
A blotch: that was all that remained; dark pink at the edges and brown towards the centre. It hadn’t burnt through. Yet the bodice was still ruined.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Mrs Metyard’s shout echoed around the attic. Our ruckus must have woken her. ‘Ruth! Miriam!’
Both of us were on the floor, holding the satin. Mim lay beneath it, me to the side. It looked bad. Very bad.
‘Explain yourselves!’
I didn’t dare raise my eyes to Mrs Metyard. If I had, it might have stopped my mouth. But I was looking at Mim, at her trembling nostrils, and the words came out before I realised they were there.
‘It was my fault, Mrs Metyard. I dropped a candle. Mim had nothing to do with it.’
The coal ho
le, I thought. It wasn’t so terrible. I could face the coal hole, for Mim, and maybe Billy would come to let me out again.
Mrs Metyard pounded across the floor and seized me by the hair. Pain screamed through my scalp as she dragged me past the table, out of the room and down the stairs.
Bump. Bump. I bit my lip, tasted blood.
Darkness span around me. I only saw one flash of her face, upside down. It was cadaverous, the eyes unnaturally bright.
I knew then that we weren’t going to the coal hole, not this time.
* * *
After all those days longing to ascend the carpeted staircase, I ended up in the living quarters by a different route. Down, down, she dragged me and the only thing I knew about the carpet was that it burnt my cheek.
My nose stung. All the same it picked up a scent: lily of the valley. Notes of firewood and violets. This was where the Metyards lived and moved, where the good things were kept.
Cracking open an eye, I saw a skirting board, gleaming white. It came closer and closer until Mrs Metyard rounded a corner and I smacked my head against it. Pain flared bright in the centre of my brow. I didn’t see for a while, after that.
Of course she waited. She bided her time until I stuttered into consciousness, unable to move. I was on my feet, my back hard against a wall, my hands bound together above my head. I couldn’t pull them down. Something held them aloft, perhaps a hook in the ceiling.
Around me was a room I’d never seen before. The wallpaper had a muddy background, with a pattern like autumn leaves. Beneath my feet lay a brown carpet. There was a fire to my left, its flames winking off the fan-shaped screen spread before the grate.
On my right was a window, but the curtains were drawn. All the light came from the fire and a single floor lamp with a fringe around the shade. The furniture was made of dark, heavy wood: a wardrobe and a standing mirror.
And there . . . a dressmaker’s model, like we used in the window display. Only instead of a gown it wore a scarlet coat, ribbed with white, and pale trousers. Golden epaulettes adorned the shoulders, but it wasn’t the glimmer of them that caught my eye: it was the scabbard, slung around the waist, showing the hilt of a sword.
Crowning the whole was a black, plumed shako, where the head should be.
It must be Captain Metyard’s uniform, set up as a kind of shrine to him. The sight of it was melancholy, and a touch sinister. As if the captain had stood there in the corner and simply dissolved: his flesh had withered away.
I moved my feet. With my hands bound so high, I had to stand on tiptoe. It was uncomfortable, but at least it was warm in this room. I couldn’t decide whether it was better or worse than the coal hole.
And then I knew.
The door opened slowly, creaking its way across the carpet. A hessian boot appeared on the threshold, followed by a cloud of tobacco.
‘Attention!’ Gruff. A man’s voice.
He entered casually, smoking his cigar. He didn’t wear an army uniform now but a country gentleman’s suit, the kind of thing a rich man might put on to go shooting. Greying hair, oiled back from his forehead. Strange, misshapen facial hair. Jamming the cigar between his lips, he shut the door behind him. I saw then what he held in his other hand: a thin, leather whip.
I moaned: my mind going nineteen to the dozen. The captain, still alive? Did they keep him locked up here the entire time? I couldn’t think; I couldn’t see why they’d do such a thing. Unless he’d come back from the wars changed. Unhinged. Dangerous.
Uselessly, I tugged at my bonds.
‘Insubordination,’ he drawled. Smoke flowed with his words, choking me. ‘It’s a damned thing, soldier. I won’t have it. I tell you, I won’t.’
I couldn’t speak. I could barely even see; I was so afraid that the walls seemed to soften and run like wax around me.
‘You put the whole company in danger. The whole bloody company.’
He sucked on his cigar as he looked me up and down. The tip glowed. He was short, for a man, but that didn’t give me hope. Ma said short men had the most to prove.
‘I’ve known them to hang a fellow,’ he told me. ‘String him up for failing to obey orders. But I’m going to give you a chance, soldier. A chance to redeem yourself.’
‘Please, sir . . .’ I croaked. My arms were aching. I thought my shoulders would rip from their sockets.
‘First, I’m going to take off your clothes. Then I’m going to flog you. And after . . . we shall see. We’ll see if you’ve learnt your lesson.’
‘No!’ My feet kicked out. Useless. Every movement spun me round, sending agony burning through my neck. ‘No!’
The smoke wound closer. A throaty chuckle. ‘Oh, I like it when they have some spirit.’
He caught me round the waist. With the cigar still between his teeth, his face came near. Too near. I screamed as he stubbed the smoking tip out on my neck.
It was then, in all that pain and fear, that I caught a snatch of it: something else, beneath the smoke. Powdery. Feminine.
I opened my eyes.
It wasn’t Captain Metyard, back from the dead. It wasn’t a man at all.
Mrs Metyard held me in her grasp, her eyes glassy with madness.
‘Let’s see if you scream as loud as my wife.’
I never took the blame for Mim again.
24
Dorothea
I could not enjoy this morning’s perambulation as I usually do. There was no fault in the botanical gardens. I fear the sense of dissatisfaction had its origin inside of me.
Gardeners were turning the beds, releasing the fresh breath of soil. Here and there, a pink worm. The birds waited. They had their sights set on a feast.
I do not wish to believe my fellow creatures are all akin to these scavengers: ravenous, skulking in the shadows, awaiting their opportunity to strike. But after what has happened, I begin to doubt. Do we not treat inmates in New Oakgate Prison with the highest level of compassion? Do we not give them all we can to make sure they are comfortable and well occupied? Yet still they betray us with their behaviour.
So deep was my melancholy that I took Tilda’s arm to feel the warmth of another soul next to me. She does not walk fast. Strolling at her slower pace, I was aware of the clouds moving in the wind, and the dampness in the air. It would have been better to stay indoors.
But no. That would mean forgoing my glimpse of David, however brief. Today he was on patrol, as I knew he should be, crossing the gardens at the regular time like a well-wound watch.
Dear David. He shall not disappoint me. Let other hearts be as black as night, I know his will never change. When he stopped and tipped his hat to us, compassion was written across his beloved face.
‘Miss Truelove. Forgive me, but I heard what happened at the prison. I must ask if you are all right?’
I rallied myself to raise a smile. ‘Oh yes, I am quite well, thank you. I was not in the infirmary, you know, when the riot took place. But we have lost a window, and a quantity of bed linen in the fire. All of the committee are deeply distressed.’
‘That’s only natural. You’ve had a shock, and you must take care of yourself.’ Perhaps he heard the tenderness creeping into his voice, for he quickly turned the subject. ‘And what will be done, to punish those responsible?’
I wonder if I am not partially responsible myself. Had I continued to visit the sick in the infirmary, instead of neglecting my duty to converse with Ruth, I might have spotted signs of growing discontent.
‘The leaders are confined to the dark cells for a week. But I am afraid all of the prisoners must pay a price. The committee has decided that we were too lenient, feeding them meat. Eating flesh only inflames the criminal mind . . . The diet shall be much plainer from now on.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘I shouldn’t think they’ll like that. But I can’t say it doesn’t s
erve them right. Someone could have been seriously hurt.’
‘Thanks be to God, there are only cuts and bruises. Our staff are to be commended.’
‘Indeed they are. It makes you think, something like that. Makes you realise that life doesn’t go on forever.’ He fixed eyes of entreaty upon me. ‘And no one should delay an action they really mean to perform.’
Tilda cleared her throat. Odious to admit, but she was right. We had stopped quite long enough for a chance conversation.
David scratched his cheek. He looked boyish, abashed. ‘Well, I’d best be getting along. Good day, Miss Truelove. I’m glad to see you unharmed.’
‘Yes. Good day.’
I do not comprehend how my feet can ever bear to do it: how they turn and walk away from him without a stumble. And my eyes! What agonies it costs them to look upon something else, when they know that he is there.
David lacks my discipline, even with his police training. I always feel his gaze, warming the back of my shoulders as I stride from view. It is not cautious, it is not discreet. But I find that I love him better for it.
I wish I were the same: disingenuous and earnest with the Mental Vital, a head shape so rarely seen in a male subject. But alas, I am full of deceit. The first thing I said to Tilda when we were out of earshot was: ‘I do not mean to tell Constable Hodges about my invitation to Heatherfield Manor. Please take care not to mention it in his presence, it would only upset him.’
‘Me, miss? When do I even open my mouth?’
She has a point, I suppose. I find myself jittery, struggling to trust those around me. It is the riot, I expect, and the letter from Matron. Sometimes it is difficult to know what to do for the best.
The days are wearing on and Ruth’s trial grows nearer, and still I am no further along in my studies than I was at the genesis.
The horror of her recitation! Such unspeakable occurrences . . . from a girl of only sixteen. Once more, I am faced with the same question: is she telling the truth? For now I have read her skull, the waters become murky.
The Poison Thread Page 17
