The Poison Thread

by Laura Purcell

  ‘Well? Aren’t you going to say something?’ The blue eyes bored into mine.

  ‘I . . .’ It was the wrong way to start the sentence. The last thing I should talk about was myself. I needed to turn this back to him. ‘I imagine that’s a great relief to you both. How do you feel?’

  He chuckled. ‘Ah, I won’t lie. I’m nervous, Ruth, of course I am. But very happy.’

  I didn’t want to hear any more.

  Perhaps he knew this, deep down. Perhaps my face revealed the truth. Either way, he changed the topic pretty swiftly.

  ‘You must have been working like a Trojan if you didn’t hear me come in. Another corset, is it? You’ve been doing a grand job, they all say so. Better than I ever did. Can I go behind the curtain and take a look?’

  I pinked, pleased in spite of myself. ‘No . . . it’s not ready yet.’

  ‘Well you can’t rush a masterpiece. Split busk, is it?’

  ‘Oh no, not this young lady. She doesn’t want to wear anything she can put on without a maid. I’ve got a solid wooden busk of twelve inches wrapped in wash leather, but it looks bulky to me. She’ll have a shock when her maid pulls the laces. It’ll squash her stomach flat enough to touch her spine.’

  What a wonderful image: Rosalind flattened, Rosalind pressed with a hot iron. But even that wasn’t as good as what I had planned for her.

  ‘These fashionable sorts.’ Billy winked. ‘I daresay she wants lots of boning put in it too?’

  ‘Her corset,’ I said honestly, ‘is like a graveyard.’

  He laughed. Maybe he wouldn’t, if he knew.

  I flicked my eyes to the speaking pipe. We were standing well away from it; they couldn’t hear us upstairs.

  ‘It will be strange,’ I said softly. ‘Come this time next month . . . I can’t imagine it.’

  ‘What, can’t imagine me married to Kate?’

  Oh, I could imagine that rather too well for my own peace of mind. But my brain only taunted me with pictures of embraces, not day-to-day life. I struggled to think how they’d rub along together.

  ‘You’re . . . rather different.’

  ‘We are,’ he agreed. ‘You need that in a marriage. You know, Ruth . . . Kate isn’t her mother. Sometimes I feel you think badly of her.’

  I paid very close attention to the ribbon cards. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the poker, but what good would it do? His honour was pledged.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll make her a corset,’ I muttered. ‘A little going-away present.’

  ‘Aye! She’d like that.’

  Lord bless him, he thought I was serious. I allowed myself a smile.

  No, Billy. She wouldn’t like one of my corsets. Not in the least.

  30

  Dorothea

  It has become my duty to relate a most alarming circumstance.

  When my carriage ground up to New Oakgate Prison this afternoon, there were no porters to open the gates. Graymarsh was forced to dismount the box and leave the horses while he went to locate assistance. Fortunately it was a dry day, warm when the sun peeked out between scudding clouds. Our two bay mares were content to lower their heads and swish their tails while they waited.

  At last a man returned with Graymarsh: a hook-nosed, flat-headed fellow. He opened the gates with much bluster, and seemed about to disappear again, until I pulled down the glass and accosted him.

  ‘The gates must be guarded at all times! What are you about, there?’

  ‘Sorry, madam,’ returned the insufferable man. He did not sound the least bit sorry, only harassed. His forehead was low, rendering him deficient both in reasoning capacity and moral power.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ I demanded, drawing myself up. ‘I sit on the prison board, you are accountable to me.’

  ‘Good. P’rhaps you can do something about all this, then.’

  It was not until I had gained the entrance that I could make sense of his cryptic words.

  The place was in disarray. No sand crunched underfoot, no prisoners exercised in the yard. Even the windowsills bore a rime of dust.

  Clogging the air was the reek of vinegar and something else, something burning; a cauterising smell. For an instant, I feared there had been another riot. But then a little seed nudged the soil of my memories, pushing up a shoot. Camphor oil. Yes, that was it: the very essence of Mama’s stuffy, airless sickroom.

  ‘Miss Truelove!’ The turnkey Mrs Jenkins bustled towards me, her face alight with excitement. ‘You will never guess what’s happened! We have a plague.’

  ‘A plague?’

  She nodded, eager. ‘Blotches on the skin, diarrhoea. The poor women are dropping like flies.’

  Dread wrapped its icy fingers around my shoulders. I hastily removed the bergamot-scented handkerchief from my reticule and covered my nose. ‘No one has died?’

  ‘No,’ she conceded, a touch disappointed. ‘Not all of them have it. Your Ruth Butterham is well enough.’

  Somehow, I knew that would be the case.

  ‘I can allow you to visit her, Miss Truelove, but I dare not let you at the rest. Can’t have a young lady like you taking the sickness.’

  My breath came short as we walked through the corridors; a nagging pain set up beneath my ribs. Fortunately, Mrs Jenkins did not require me to speak; she only wanted to be talking herself.

  Apparently it started in the laundry, when one of the women fainted in the course of her work. Not much attention was paid; the laundry is always sweltering, full of steam, and with warmer weather on its way we might expect a swoon or two. But the prisoner remained despondent, lethargic even, when she regained consciousness. Matron noticed an odd mottling to her skin. By then, three more women had fallen down.

  ‘It’s all hands on deck,’ Mrs Jenkins enthused. ‘We have twice the laundry and half the prisoners to wash it. Thank heaven none of the staff have been taken ill!’

  I caught her arm. ‘It only afflicts the prisoners? Are you sure? You suffer no ill effects from the miasma?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s the strangest thing.’

  We had reached Ruth’s cell. The enamel plaque swung gently, although there was no breeze.

  Shaking myself, I entered to find Ruth picking at more of that awful oakum. Its musty, fibrous fragrance only added to the general taint of the air. Even my bergamot-scented handkerchief was no defence.

  I coughed.

  Ruth gazed up at me. ‘Miss. I didn’t think you’d come, with the sickness about.’

  ‘I was not aware of it. Do put that rope down, Ruth, I hate the stuff. I thought Matron had moved you to the sewing room?’

  Shrugging, Ruth dropped the pile of oakum and dusted off her hands. Black motes rose around her like soot. ‘She did, until the bed linen was done. But we’re not to mix together in the workrooms now. Might get infected.’

  Was it my imagination, or did the corner of her mouth buck, ever so slightly? Did she not handle the word infected with a touch of scorn, as if she knew . . .

  But I am becoming nervous; I am supposing the most outrageous things!

  ‘And how did you find it?’ I asked, keeping out of her reach. ‘Sewing, once more? I understood you were no longer inclined to that employment.’

  ‘Well I’m used to having to sew, even when I don’t want to. It’s all the same to me, really.’

  She clasped her hands together. Dirty, black. Broken nails. The words of her story came flooding back; I recalled the venom with which she had spoken of Rosalind Oldacre. Could it be that she nurtured similar grudges against her fellow inmates? That she had tried . . .

  Foolish, trusting girl that I am, I found the words spilling from my lips. ‘And what did you dwell upon, while you sewed the bed linen? I hope they were edifying thoughts.’

  Her head tilted, spilling elflocks across her neck. ‘What
do you think?’

  Tingles, all down my spine. Silly Dotty, caught again! This was just what she intended, of course. She has been lying to me for the thrill of it, for the expression that crosses my face when I am simple enough to believe her. What use is all my learning, if I am to be fooled by her tales?

  ‘I have not the slightest idea. I only asked out of curiosity. Sit in the chair, would you, Ruth? I should like to take some more measurements.’

  Patiently, she submitted to my hands and the craniometer. Rope fibres tangled in her hair and had to be removed before I could commence.

  My eyes were a little cloudy, dazed by my concern for the ill prisoners, and the prickling dust, but they saw clearly enough: the readings had not altered. Not a fraction of an inch.

  Surely there should be a shift, however small? Even supposing Ruth’s visits with the chaplain to be a total sham, she has been lying to me, day after day. I would expect the baser organs to grow larger from overuse and the moral faculties to shrink.

  Unless my theories have been fallacious, all along . . .

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ she said. ‘Haven’t I got enough bumps today?’

  I clapped the craniometer shut. ‘No, no, everything is in order. Do you feel well, in yourself? I am most concerned about this sickness in the prison. I should hate for it to reach you.’

  ‘That’s kind, miss. But I shouldn’t worry. It might be better for me to be taken, suddenly, like that. Better than hanging.’

  ‘The illness is not fatal, Ruth. It has not killed any of our prisoners,’ I pointed out.

  She looked down at her stained hands. ‘No. Not yet.’

  31

  Ruth

  They were strange days in the attic room. We sewed in an atmosphere of smothered excitement, snatching at hints and portents of the new world to come. Often we would hear Mrs Metyard whisper about cold meats, or say to Kate that ‘the girls must do it, if we can make them presentable’. Under all her smiles lay a sting of hostility. She wasn’t really pleased about Kate’s forthcoming marriage. She resented it.

  Kate herself became jittery, her cutting faster, her orders more distracted. Yet it seemed to me there was another change to her. She was more beautiful, more human.

  I hated her.

  We got away with the odd whisper, in the week leading up to the first banns, so long as Mrs Metyard was down in the showroom. Mim and I would sit at the end of our table, apart from the other three, and put our heads together as we tackled scratchy, horsehair petticoats.

  ‘They’re having a supper party,’ I told her, my eyes upon Kate. ‘Next Sunday, after church.’

  ‘Mrs Metyard didn’t say anything.’

  ‘No, but she will. I’ve been listening. They mean to have all their friends over and make us wait upon them.’

  Mim’s sewing hand slowed to a stop. It was the right one, with the missing finger. ‘They’ll be . . . busy.’

  ‘Distracted,’ I agreed.

  ‘They won’t be able to keep an eye on us. Not all night.’

  ‘No.’

  A sore on my middle finger burst. I raised it to my lips, ready to suck out the pain, but the smell of it made me stop.

  Mim tossed me a scrap of linen and I wrapped the seeping wound up. I couldn’t wrap my uneasiness away with it. My hands were growing rougher than I’d ever known them, ulcerated around the nails. Often, I had a headache. I couldn’t remember when it started, exactly, but I thought it was about the time I began working on Rosalind’s trousseau.

  My loathing for her had swollen like a monstrous abscess that must be lanced. Could it be I was growing ill with the force of it?

  ‘I’m going.’ Mim smoothed out the horsehair petticoat. Her lips were set with determination. ‘I’ll do it on the night of the party.’

  Another sting, but this wasn’t in my hand. Mim was right – it was the best chance to get away. But without her I would be . . . I’d be like the threads left behind once a bead falls from a dress.

  I picked up my needle again. ‘Don’t count on the twins. If Ivy sees you running, she’ll tell.’

  ‘I’ll have to go in the small hours. Just as the guests are leaving.’

  ‘Maybe we should tell Mr Rooker.’ Doubt tinged my voice. He’d helped me escape the coal hole, but never the captain’s room. Could I really persuade him to hoodwink his fiancée at her own party? ‘Or Nell . . .’

  Mim shook her head vehemently. ‘No. Don’t breathe a word to anyone else. I only trust you.’

  ‘I promise.’

  She shot me a brief smile. I thought of that first day I’d seen her, so wary and unsure, pretending to fetch Mrs Metyard from the showroom. Whatever was left of my heart jerked behind my ribs.

  I wanted to say that I loved her, that she’d been the best friend I ever had. I wanted to say that I forgave her for witnessing the document that bound me to Mrs Metyard. But just then Kate looked up.

  ‘Miriam! Ruth! Stop dallying! Don’t make me fetch my mother.’

  And that was enough to seal our lips for the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Since coming to New Oakgate Prison, I’ve thought a lot about death. I mean the experience of it, not the afterlife. They’ll hang me, probably, for what I’ve done. Hanging’s not the worst death I’ve seen.

  Sometimes I wonder how I’ll feel, waking up that morning, knowing it’s the day I’ll die. Maybe I’ll weep. But the more I think of it, the more I believe I’ll feel just like I did that Sunday, the day of the banns and Mim’s escape.

  Dawn came bright and frosty. We washed to the persistent trill of a robin in the tree. New gowns to wear, for we’d be on display at church and in the evening, serving the visitors. They were nothing to be excited about: cheap things, the colour of mud. Still, it unsettled me to fasten an unfamiliar dress over my stays; as if it was a costume for a play.

  I had to use the privy three times before we left. Terror trod on my heels all through the house and out into the street.

  White crystals made a lace between the cobbles. Even the dead leaves and piles of manure were sugared with frost. To my eyes it was all too sharp, too vivid, the birdsong full of spite.

  I walked with Mim and Nell, unable to speak. The twins strode in front and Mrs Metyard and Kate sauntered at the back, arms linked, as they always did. They had to let us come to church on a Sunday – it would look odd if they didn’t – but they lent us to God once a week with ill grace. They were always hovering close by, watching us, making sure we didn’t bolt off.

  And that was just what Mim meant to do: bolt. Less than twenty-four hours would see her here, on these very cobbles, alone and running for her life.

  I wanted the privy again.

  Church was busy, stuffed with the odour of damp wool. We shuffled into a pew, crammed close together and, for once, glad of it. Little by little, we warmed up.

  The congregation chattered as they waited for the service to begin, but our party sat in strained silence. Kate perched on the end of the pew, her cheeks glowing from the walk. She looked radiant, like the stained-glass window of the Virgin. Only, I noticed, her lower lip trembled.

  I was trembling too. Mim pressed next to me but I couldn’t look at her for more than an instant. She’d kept the veil down over her bonnet. Every time I saw it, I thought of a shroud.

  At last the service began. The readings, the hymns and the slow, familiar chants coated my frayed nerves. My pulse slowed. I might have calmed down altogether, if the vicar hadn’t chosen that moment to say: ‘I publish the banns of marriage between Catherine Maria Metyard, spinster, of this parish and William Rooker, bachelor, of the parish of St Luke by the Water. This is for the first time of asking. If you know any reason in law why these two may not be married, you are to declare it now.’

  No one knew what I suffered in my heart as I sat there on that p
ew. Well, maybe God knew. But He didn’t do anything about it.

  Sunday was never a day of rest for us. As soon as we got back from church, we were expected to work. Today was only a little different. Instead of the cold climb to the attic, we bustled into the kitchen. Nell laid the fire, Mim began to sweep, and the rest of us beat out carpets.

  ‘Aprons,’ announced Mrs Metyard, marching into the kitchen with an armful of white cloth. ‘And these caps – after you have done the dirty work, Miriam! They must look clean for the guests.’

  She piled them upon the table with swift, decisive motions. Her square jaw clamped tight, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. Her eyes, usually beady and small, protruded. I’d seen the expression somewhere before. Yes, that was it: on the boy driving the hay cart, when his pony spooked. The look of someone hurtling down a road, too fast, the reins slipping from their hands.

  Kate was nowhere to be seen. I expect she was fastening herself into one of those dresses with the twenty-inch waists. We didn’t know what she was wearing; she’d ordered it from one of the other fashion houses in town, much to her mother’s displeasure.

  Soon the house warmed with the scent of cooking food. Not what we made do with: the guests had bacon, white bread, potatoes coated in breadcrumbs and parsley, game pie and seedcake.

  Daylight didn’t last for long. Before we knew what we were about, the sun began to set in a powdery cascade of blue and pink, streaked with mackerel clouds. Shadows stretched and lengthened. The carriage clock in the showroom pinged. It was time to put on our caps.

  How odd we looked, how insubstantial, with our hair covered and our necks bared to the firelight. A line of maidens, sentenced to the guillotine. Mim paused beside me as we collected our trays. Her hand reached out and tucked one of my unruly locks back behind my ear.