Suppose she saw me? Wretched, as good as orphaned, working for my bread. She’d thought me contemptible three years ago but now . . . I would rather die than have her see me like this.
‘My daughter, also, is to be married,’ said Mrs Metyard. ‘She and her intended are choosing their date.’
It was like Mrs Metyard to press on a wound. Not that she realised she was doing it. Couldn’t I just picture them now: Rosalind and Kate, both brides, decked in white like the Queen with orange blossom in their hair? Laughing at me.
‘I expect it is rather different with your sort of people,’ drawled Mrs Oldacre. ‘Your daughter must take her bridal day at a time when ladies will not require her services. And then there is the misfortune of you losing a hand in your little shop! I expect you will miss her terribly.’
Mrs Metyard was achingly polite. ‘Oh, but there we are the same, madam. You will be equally bereft when Miss Rosalind leaves your home.’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t sound very sure.
‘Mama, come and look at this.’
What an affectation! Green, nothing but green. I sat on the chair, growing angrier and angrier as I heard Rosalind reel off the list: green gloves, green parasols. Emerald, hunter, white muslin piped with mint. I should like to show her green. I should like to drown her in it.
Creak. A noise inside of me, rather than without. My injured corset, the corset Rosalind had broken with her boots, cried out for revenge.
Green feathers, green ribbon.
‘It is to be a very large order, you understand. Your girls shall have to work around the clock.’
Slowly, a smile surfaced on my lips. My stitches would go into each dress. It would be my cotton, my web, holding it all together, with Rosalind Oldacre pinned at the centre.
Oh, I would work around the clock, all right. I would work until I dropped for just one clear shot at her.
‘They will remember you, Rosalind,’ I whispered. ‘I promise. They will all remember Mrs Green.’
* * *
I wasn’t the only one making plans.
That night Mim was restless, shifting constantly in our bed. Every toss and turn sent the straw jabbing into my skin.
‘Lie still, won’t you? I can’t sleep.’
‘It’s too cold to sleep.’
She was right. My limbs were frost-burnt and my toes itched with chilblains. Outside a foghorn sounded in the distance, somewhere on the dark river winding towards my old home.
We had fog of our own in the cellar: our breath steaming in the frigid air. When Daisy snored, wisps plumed up from her nose as if her soul was escaping.
‘Well, the twins have managed to drift off.’
‘They don’t feel the chill,’ Mim whispered bitterly. ‘On account of their cold hearts.’
I lay still on my back, listening to the wind. It blew fiercely tonight, strong enough to pare the skin off your face. How they must be suffering, in that boat upon the river!
Creak, creak. Lumpy, beneath my head, my corset sang a lullaby. It whispered of revenge and power, of taking back control. As I listened, my eyelids drooped, my head grew heavy.
‘I’m going. Soon.’
My eyes snapped open. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m going. I’m getting out. Everything’s planned, I’m just waiting for the right moment.’
She’d always told me that she meant to do it. I’d imagine her, sometimes, on a great silver vessel that cleaved the water as it sailed for Africa and the desert land. In my dreams, I felt a rush of triumph. But not now. Not in reality, with the corset’s whispers on the back of my neck.
‘Why?’
The whites of her eyes flashed in the dark. ‘Why? Can you really lie there and ask me why?’
‘No . . . I mean, why now? When it’s so bitter and wet outside? We’ll have snow before New Year. Better to wait for summer.’
‘No. The days are longer then and people stay abroad at night. No one looks at you in winter, they just pull their collar up and hurry past.’
‘But you don’t have a collar,’ I pointed out. ‘No kind of cape at all.’
‘Never mind. I can face a bit of cold, to find my ma.’
I shivered just thinking about it. There was a beggar once, on the street near our school, with stumps at the end of his legs. The girls said he’d lost his feet to the frost. The thought of it haunted me: a rapacious cold, with teeth that gnawed through flesh. Was that better or worse than the captain’s room?
‘Mim,’ I whispered. ‘I want you to think about this. I know it’s rough now, but in a few years you’ll be twenty-one. An adult, not an apprentice. You can leave here in broad daylight and no one will stop you.’
She laughed sourly. ‘Is that what you think? She’ll just let us go? Come on, Ruth, you don’t believe that. Has she let Kate go?’
‘That’s different, they’re family. But with you . . .’ I trailed off. What did I know, after all? I’d only been there a year and a half. And now I thought of it, it struck me that Nell must have turned twenty-one, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Come with me,’ said Mim.
Into the claws of that wind? Despite the howl it made as it battered the streets, I must admit I was tempted to brave it for Mim’s sake. Her courage was infectious. A fresh start with a true friend. Wasn’t that what I’d always wanted?
If I stayed here, life would only become more miserable. Admittedly, I’d still have Nell and Billy, but they weren’t like Mim. They saw no farther than the confines of this shop, this town. Mim was going to London. Maybe Africa.
Mim and I could build a life where we needed only each other.
But how could I go back on the document Ma had signed; abandon her while I sought a new life under a foreign sun? And there was the corset, creaking softly under my head, reminding me of pleasures yet to come. I couldn’t throw up this chance to hurt Rosalind. Not now.
‘You know I can’t go. The old hag will send Ma to debtors’ gaol if I run away.’
‘If she can find her! She still hasn’t written, has she?’
‘No,’ I admitted, begrudgingly.
‘Well, then.’
Common sense told me that my ma was probably dead, but everything inside me recoiled from the thought. To have Ma die would bring a new desolation, a new shrieking loneliness to my existence, beyond anything I’d endured so far. I had to hope she was still alive.
‘You believe so fiercely that your ma is out there, in London.’ My voice came a little shaky. ‘Why can’t you believe in mine?’
I heard her exhale. Her hand found my own. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I just . . . I’d rather go with you.’
‘I know. But look, if I’m here, I can help. Distract them. Today Mrs Metyard was talking about setting a date for Kate’s wedding. There’s got to be a chance then, hasn’t there? With the celebrations and all that?’
Mim squeezed my hand. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll do it then.’
We didn’t talk, after that. I lay open-eyed on the pallet, knowing sleep had gone to the devil for me. The day Kate married was to be the day I lost every faint ray of light in my life. What would Metyard’s be without Mim’s terrible tea, Billy’s whistle, Kate’s peacock-blue dress?
At the far end of the cellar, Nell cried out in her sleep. I pressed my left ear to the pillow, listening to the corset creaking, and under it the sound of the steady flick of Mim’s bone fish.
28
Dorothea
I have expended much thought upon Lady Morton. Courtesy dictates we return her invitation to dinner, although I scarcely expect her to come. Imagine that skull-face, crossing my threshold; shedding a cloud of powder and dead skin over my carpet! No, I do not want that woman in my house, any more than I want the inexorable Mrs Pearce.
Papa once told me that all good com
pany forsook him once my mother converted to Catholicism. This I have used to explain the absence of family friends, anxious for my upbringing, and the sad state of affairs that led my father to set his sights as low as Mrs Pearce. Yet now I wonder.
Lady Morton did not speak disrespectfully of Mama. Indeed, there are Catholic ties in the Morton family which would make it hypocritical of her to do so. The more I think upon that dinner at Heatherfield Manor, and the tea we shared after the meal, the more I believe Lady Morton’s distaste has sprung from another source. She no longer calls because she does not like Papa.
Mama and Lady Morton were friends. Searching through her remaining belongings – the silhouettes and the dried flowers, the little handkerchiefs half-embroidered – I have found several notes from one to the other, signed Your Affectionate G.M. I have memories of Lady Morton calling at the house, so she could not have deserted us, as Papa would have me believe. But she has not set foot here since Mama died.
Do you not consider it strange? Illness aside, I would expect a letter from time to time. Something. A woman – a childless woman – does not watch her dear friend die, leaving an only daughter, and take no interest in the girl’s welfare. Not unless a weighty consideration keeps her away. And Papa, I am increasingly convinced, must be that consideration.
Papa has been nothing if not civil to her, yet I recall the satirical look upon her face as she spoke of Mama’s ‘sad illness’. As if she blamed him for failing in her care.
Last night, as I was preparing for bed, I decided to quiz Tilda. I sat in my nightgown before the dressing table, where two candles burnt in their holders. My hair fell about my shoulders, loosened from its ties. Tilda worked it with the silver-backed brush, preparing to weave it into plaits.
‘Tilda,’ I said, watching her in the mirror, ‘you worked for us, did you not, at the time my mother passed away?’
The brush slowed in its path. ‘Yes, miss. I was in the kitchens, then.’
‘Indeed you were. I recall it now. Not a great deal older than I was.’
‘I was . . . fourteen, I believe, miss.’
Fourteen years to my seven. Much may escape the notice of a child, but at fourteen Tilda would have the ability to look about her.
‘Do you remember much, Tilda? About how my mother died?’
A tug on the end of a lock. My scalp prickled. ‘I can’t say I do. It was very sad, of course. But I was busy downstairs, in the scullery. I daresay you remember more than I do, miss.’
What do I recall? Vomiting. Terrible circulation. I used to hold Mama’s dear hand in mine and chafe it, breathing hard upon the skin, in an attempt to warm the icy fingers.
‘That is the difficulty. Certainly I nursed her, young as I was. Yet even now, I do not comprehend exactly what complaint she died from. What did they say in the kitchens?’
‘A . . . wasting disease, I think.’
Tilda threaded my hair between her fingers and began to plait. Her eyes were focused on her work; they did not meet mine in the mirror.
‘But the name of the disease? I do not suppose any of the servants saw what was written upon the death certificate?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know that.’
‘There was no inquest, no examination of the body?’
She pulled the plait, tight. ‘No. Dr Armstrong was in attendance, wasn’t he? He’s always been the master’s friend. He saw the poor thing all the way through her illness.’
I am not a devotee of Dr Armstrong. He appears slapdash, uninterested, as if medicine is a great inconvenience to him. Indeed, I believe it is, for he has told Papa on more than one occasion that he wished he had gone for a soldier instead.
Perhaps that forms the basis for Lady Morton’s dislike? She would have employed a better doctor, but Papa, of course, went straight to the friend he trusted.
Tilda must know more. Servants gossip; it is in their nature.
‘I worry, you see,’ I said, trying a different tactic. ‘I am approaching the same age. Suppose the condition should be hereditary? I must know what symptoms to watch for.’
By the candlelight, I saw her fumble. A lock of my hair sprang free. ‘Nonsense. You’re stout and hearty.’
‘I am sure that is meant to be a compliment.’
‘What I mean, miss, is . . . well, your mother. She had those big glittering eyes and roses in her cheeks. Ladies like that never last long.’
‘You think it was consumption, then?’
Tilda’s fingers regained their rhythm. ‘Maybe. I’m not a doctor, am I?’
‘There was no cough,’ I muttered, casting my mind back. ‘It was more like acute gastritis.’
‘If you say so, miss.’
We were silent for a moment. I watched my reflection, shimmering by the flames of the candles, and tried to trace Mama in my face. Very little of her remains, either there or in my skull. It is in temperament we are alike. Always busy. Always active. Until . . .
‘Perhaps I should ask my father to see the death certificate.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, miss,’ Tilda said quickly.
She is right. It will only upset him. Papa is not the bravest of men. He has a terrible aversion to talking of sickness and death. I slept in Mama’s chamber every day of her decline, yet he hovered on the threshold, peering through the doorway. Cautious.
That could be another reason for Lady Morton’s disdain. If you did not know Papa, as I do, you would think it cowardly, or even heartless behaviour.
By now, my temples were beginning to ache. ‘Enough, Tilda. You have pulled that exceedingly tight.’
‘Sorry, miss.’ She handed me my nightcap. ‘Will there be anything else?’
‘No. Goodnight.’
A hasty curtsey, then she was gone.
Without a doubt, Tilda knows more than she has told me. She has a well-developed organ for Secretiveness, which has not gone undetected by my watchful eyes. But I must not blame her. People do not always conceal facts through base motives; perhaps she fears distressing me with talk of my mother’s demise. And if Lady Morton and my father did quarrel, Tilda would hardly tell me.
All the same, I am uneasy in my spirit. I do not like to think, even in supposition, that Lady Morton blames Papa for Mama’s death.
But grief, as I have often observed, is a strange distorter. It makes one believe the most fantastical things.
Look at Ruth Butterham. Her tale spins ever more wildly, veering out of control. Her fantasies of punishing her childhood tormentor. It is bordering on puerile, even for a girl of sixteen.
Ruth may amuse herself in this manner as much as she pleases; it is nothing to me, so long as I can measure her head. She takes me for a credulous fool – I have forgiven her that. But at the end of the day, I am not the one who suffers.
It is she who needs to confess and repent.
With the trial approaching, this is no time to evade God’s mercy. The days are running short. Ruth must be purged with hyssop, daubed with sacrificial blood, before she takes the last drop.
How long, really, can a person continue lying to themselves?
29
Ruth
Kate took all the measurements for the Oldacre trousseau, wrote out the many orders for us to complete. It was the first commission that had ever given me true pleasure.
For her corset, Rosalind had chosen a shade that oozed, that made you feel ill. I couldn’t have picked it better myself.
My hands hovered over the panels I had made. They seemed to hum, slowly warming, as if I’d held them before the kitchen fire. I knew what I must do. I knew it before I’d sewn a single stitch.
On the table, to the right of the half-completed corset, lay my own dear creation: the garment Rosalind had ruined, so long ago. She’d called it a weak thing, but now it was strong, as strong as my hate for her.
Loving
ly, I spread it out. How small it looked. My body had grown considerably since the days the cords held me tight in their embrace. Now it was time for them to cling to another. Drag her down.
The square I cut was not large. A single patch of the brown jean material I’d hidden beneath the floorboard under my bed. I ran a finger around the edge of it, feeling the caress of the fibres. Raising it to my lips, I placed a kiss at the centre. Then I slipped it into Rosalind’s corset, between the green material and the lining. A rotten secret at the very heart.
The unfinished garment seemed to come alive with that addition. Perhaps it was their lurid colour, but the panels appeared to pulsate on the table. Breathe, in and out.
‘Where is she? Where’s that girl?’ I started as the aubergine curtain swished back, revealing Mrs Metyard’s solid form. ‘I am going to the privy, Butterham. Watch the showroom.’
‘But—’
‘No arguments,’ she barked.
Sighing, I folded my acid-green panels away. It would be just as well to spare my eyes for a while.
Mrs Metyard disappeared, leaving me to walk out, uncertainly, on to the cream carpet. Winter it might have been, but the showroom blazed. I stood behind the gleaming glass counters, beneath the chandeliers, mistress of it all. The feathers, the fans, the scent bottles, the rolls of silk on the wall: they were mine alone.
Or perhaps not.
Billy hovered by the window. He was jamming his cap back over his hair, which looked limper than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it many times. My heart jumped at the sight of him.
‘Good day, Ruth. You . . . heard all of that, I suppose?’
I reached beneath the counter and began straightening the display, trying to hide my surprise. ‘Heard what?’
‘Mrs Metyard and I were talking. About the wedding. It’s really happening, after all this time. The first banns will be read next Sunday.’
Thank God my hands were under the counter. He couldn’t see them tremble.
Billy had been outside the whole time, a whisper away from me, and I was so absorbed in my loathing for Rosalind Oldacre that I hadn’t even heard his voice. I might not hear it at all, in the future. As a married man he would be in the shop far less. At home with Kate and their blue-eyed children, rather than running around rescuing me and Nell from the coal hole. Another friend, lost to me.
The Poison Thread Page 20
