by Death
Sallie barely had time to nod before Harry swept her away to a corner table.
‘I found her picking pockets in Oxford Street.’ I stood next to Anne as we watched her husband bring out two pies and a jug.
‘You’re soft-hearted,’ Anne folded her arms. The look on her face suggested that she had smelled something bad. ‘Whoring is one thing; thieving is quite another.’
You can’t argue with logic like Anne’s.
‘Thieves never stop, once they’ve got a taste for it,’ she said, not to be interrupted. ‘Take that John Swann, for instance. He started out as a diver, but he got too big for his boots, didn’t he? Wanted more money, more jewels, and soon enough he was robbing the coaches.’
Anne was not charmed by looks and reputation.
‘The only thing she’s got a taste for is food,’ I nodded over to Sallie, who was wolfing down the first pie. ‘She was picking pockets because her usual trade had dried up.’ I sighed. ‘She wasn’t much good at it, as far as I could see. If she’d done any more she would have been caught. I’ve told her that there’s more work around here every day.’
She didn’t look impressed.
‘I don’t want a thief in here. It’s enough that Swann’s men are roaming around, grabbing what they can.’
‘Really? John Swann’s men are here?’ I scanned the room, wondering who they were. Most were regulars. A couple of respectable types were having a quiet drink and there was a young woman I didn’t know cuddled up to an old gentleman in the far corner.
‘Not in here.’ She looked at me as though I were an idiot. ‘Out on the streets. House-breaking. Everyone knows he has associates. It’s only a matter of time before they kill again.’
His associates were cut-throats and hard-faced whores, most of whom operated in the dark, not in broad daylight. If they had, indeed, been drawn to Soho, they wouldn’t be wandering at this hour.
‘I don’t think Sallie is one of his associates, Anne.’
‘I’m just saying,’ she hissed. ‘We can’t afford a bad reputation. This is a smart part of town. People won’t come if it’s full of criminals – like Covent Garden.’
I thought it best to indulge her.
‘Don’t fret Anne,’ I put a hand on her meaty shoulder. ‘Even when it’s full of Ma’s girls, even when we’re dancing on the tables with barely a stitch on, even when everybody here is screaming drunk, this is still a respectable house.’
She looked at me sharply. ‘It’ll be quiet tonight, then. Aren’t you all supposed to be polishing yourselves up for a party?’
God’s teeth! I’d forgotten about it. Ma would be furious if I didn’t get home soon.
‘Thank you for reminding me,’ I said, rolling my eyes and pulling some coins from my pocket.
I went and sat next to Sallie, who was now finishing off the beer. She gave a large belch, giggled, and wiped the heel of her hand across her mouth. I laid the coins on the table by her pot.
‘This should cover whatever you eat and drink here, Sallie. You’ll do as I suggested, though? Put what you’ve taken to good use and have a bath?’
She looked at the coins and then up at me. Her face, I saw, was covered with a film of dust. She had been out on the streets for a long time.
‘I had a sister like you – always telling what to do and how to do it.’ She slid the coins off the table and into her lap. ‘Not as pretty as you, though. Nor as fancy.’
I had brothers once.
‘You can earn well if you look as fancy as I do.’ I shrugged, pointing to the purses on the seat next to her. ‘You can buy some clothes, or you can blow the money on gin and die in the gutter. It’s your choice, sister.’
There was nothing more I could do for her. She was on her own.
Mr Bardwell landed another pot of beer in front of Sallie.
‘How was your young man last night, then?’ He nudged my shoulder and laughed.
‘Old and incapable,’ I said, getting to my feet, rolling my eyes, but laughing with him. ‘I think I nearly killed him.’
‘Better luck at the party tonight, then.’ He chortled in his amiable way as he carried his tray to another table.
‘No luck for me,’ I called after him. ‘He’s coming back for more. The least I can do is finish him off and put him out of his misery.’ I was still laughing as I fell out of the door; one of very few occasions when I had left that tavern both sober and alone.
Chapter Four
Sydney opened the door with an air so unruffled that it gave me no clue as to the level of noise and chaos I was about to find. This was his job: to present a dignified welcome to our guests.
I winked at him.
‘How bad is it? I stayed away as long as I dared.’
His face remained impassive for a moment before he frowned, raised a long finger and wagged it at me.
‘Miss Lizzie, where ‘av you been? Mrs Farlee, she ‘as been looking for you, bad girl!’
That was not a good sign. Sydney’s accent becomes more French the more agitated he is.
‘I was caught up in something at the Bardwell’s.’
‘Vite,’ he said, flapping his hands at me. ‘Get upstairs now. Mrs Farlee is in the parlour giving the wishes to the maids.’ He looked at me with a disappointed expression. ‘She will not be pleased to see you dressed as this.’
Sydney wasn’t pleased either. He, always immaculate, preferred us to leave the house in our Sunday best. He would never have understood how hunger had outweighed my desire to be beautiful. Even now I was captivated by the delicious smells that were wafting from the kitchen.
I scurried up to my room and found a gown laid on the bed. The pale blue with silver thread embroidery would show my blue eyes to good advantage and there was a velvet mask in a similar shade. I would be elegant and mysterious; at least for a few minutes.
I heard the sound of feet shuffling heavily on the landing outside my door and smiled. There was a gentle tap and Meg, one of our servants, peeped in.
‘Would you like a hand with your dressing yet, miss?’
‘Thank you. I would.’ I am happy to dress myself, but Ma expected perfection – and I really cannot be trusted to manage that alone.
Meg was a slight creature, a cripple with deformed legs who hauled herself up and down our stairs and shared our lives, but not our trade. She was a hard-working girl, with a keen eye for fashion. Had it not been for her deformity she would have been an elegant lady of the town. Had it not been for Mrs Farley, she would be selling her twisted body for a shilling on the streets. At some point in her life, and with a wisdom beyond her years, she had decided that being a servant in a comfortable bawdy house was preferable to the alternative; at least here she was warm, fed, unbothered by men and surrounded by silks and lace – even if others wore the pretty clothes.
She was also a gossip, and a gossip with opinions. While she helped me into petticoats and gown and combed and fixed my curls into a high dome, she gave her own account of the afternoon’s events. Lucy had been sent the wrong hairdresser and taken an hour to calm down – which was hardly news. Of greater interest was the arrival of Amelia’s love, Tommy.
‘He turned up at the house and was banging on the door. Sydney wouldn’t let him in and he caused a real commotion.’
‘Her young man? He came here? Is he handsome?’
Meg, world-weary at fifteen, laughed.
‘You can judge for yourself. In the end, he was making such a nuisance in the street that Ma let him in. Sydney was furious.’ She gestured towards the attic. ‘He’s still here.’
‘What? On a party night?’ Ma really had gone soft in her old age.
She pressed a small beauty spot to my cheek.
‘Miss Blackwood’s been told to stay in the attic and keep out of the way. And the boy, Tommy Bridgewater, is to leave before the guests arrive.’ Naturally. Ma would be very keen to keep her little lamb as white as possible, even if she wasn’t entirely pure.
The fus
sing was near enough complete to Meg’s satisfaction, and I was ready to entertain our guests. It had taken a while, but eventually, Lizzie the eater of London’s pies and frequenter of its taverns became Miss Lizzie Hardwicke of Mrs Farley’s Berwick Street establishment, resplendent in her finery and ready for the evening’s sport. The thought of good food, plenty of wine and the delightful Charles Stanford was raising my enthusiasm for the evening ahead. This was my career now; and even if much of it was disagreeable, there were sometimes compensations.
Still, I wanted to catch a glimpse of Amelia’s Tommy.
‘I haven’t quite finished your hair! There’s no powder in it.’ Too late. I was out of my room and skipping down the stairs to our little parlour – peeping into the best salon to catch a glimpse of the glorious table beginning to be set with treats by servants hired especially for the evening. The room was full of candles. I could already see the dishes of biscuits and pickles and plates of oysters, and space for so much more.
I found Amelia sitting at the same place as yesterday with Polly and Lucy. She was still weeping, too, but her tears were fresh. Here was a new drama. Ma was nowhere to be seen: she would be directing the servants’ operations on the floor above with all the comprehensiveness of a general preparing for battle. Emily was standing, hand on hip, near to the fire. She watched with a look of disdain as Polly stroked Amelia’s hand.
I didn’t notice him immediately, but with his back to the company, gazing out of the window, was a brown-haired man whom I took to be Tommy.
‘Lizzie! Where have you been?’ Emily was always keen to know my whereabouts. I think she worried that I was stealing her custom.
‘What a lovely gown,’ said Polly.
‘Meg thinks it does wonders for my complexion,’ I ignored Emily. ‘I’m going to try and keep it on for the whole evening.’
‘Hush,’ said Polly, nodding her head towards Amelia.
I gestured towards the young man.
‘Will you introduce me? I assume he isn’t a guest for tonight?’
Lucy stood and led me to the man. He had the strong shoulders and arms of a blacksmith, but, barely more than a boy, his cheeks were still soft and he had eyes like a kindly-treated puppy. Another innocent in this den of corruption. I sank into a polite curtsey.
‘Mr Bridgewater, I am delighted to meet you in the flesh, having heard so much of your good character from our new friend Amelia.’
He blushed a little and bowed. The serious expression he wore didn’t suit him at all. This was a young man more used to smiling.
‘Miss Hardwicke, I am grateful to you and these other ladies for your hospitality, but I hope to take Amelia away from this house very soon. Very soon indeed.’
‘What a shame, when we were only just making her acquaintance. I take it that you have found employment?’
His lovely eyes betrayed the truth.
‘I am well on my way to securing a new post, Miss Hardwicke. A good farrier is always welcome where gentlemen keep horses. Horses always need shoeing.’
‘I am very pleased to hear that, Mr Bridgewater. And your lodgings? They are nearby?’
His was too easy a countenance to read.
‘I hope to come by something very soon, miss.’
I hoped so too. Amelia’s future would be only slightly better than Sallie’s otherwise. Indeed, it would look like mine – and I didn’t wish that on her.
The door opened, and Ma swept in. There are some who believe that Mrs Farley is still a handsome woman when she wears her finest clothes. Mrs Farley certainly believes it, and she had dressed accordingly. Her silk gown was blood red, her hair was powdered and immaculate, and around her neck and in her ears sumptuous jewels sparkled – gifts from the wealthy lovers of her golden years. The face, however, was that of a woman who had drunk sour milk.
‘Why are you still here?’ She was looking at Tommy. ‘I told you to get out of my house. Guests will be arriving at any moment and your presence is not required.’ She surveyed the rest of the room with displeasure.
‘All of you: upstairs at once. And Amelia, you are not to come down from your room until tomorrow morning. You must not be in the way.’
‘Unless she fancies joining in,’ Emily whispered to me with a wink.
I snatched up my mask and pushed Amelia out of the door towards the stairs.
Chapter Five
We sat in silence as we had been trained to do by Ma. We were elegant ladies, hands gently clasped in laps, backs straight, eyes demurely cast down until our friends from Mrs Hardy’s and our other evening guests arrived. Only the masks, the flimsy gowns cut so low that we spilled from them with very little exertion, and the thoughts racing around our heads would have betrayed us.
This was our best and largest room, filled with the sort of fashionable furniture that marked Mrs Farley as a woman of good taste. The fire blazed merrily and its golden flames, along with the smaller candle lights all about the room, made the place glow with warmth. The table was now piled with food: soups, jellies, a veal escalope girded with lemons, roast beef and stewed venison. The scent was delicious; making my stomach gurgle. Card tables waited for players. And here and there lay couches and comfortable chairs for reclining and conversation. It looked lovely; serene, even. I wondered how long it would take for the scene in front of my eyes to transform into the swaying, writhing mass of bodies that it inevitably would.
I heard Sydney answering the door and Ma taking entrance fees, and my heart began to knock inside my chest. The evening would bring her a substantial amount, but it would also confirm the reputation of our house as a place of delight for the more discerning. She had been planning for weeks and was anticipating that this party would be even livelier than the last one; it was little wonder that she had been so annoyed by Tommy Bridgewater’s presence earlier. Everything must be perfect for our guests. We must be perfect.
I was always anxious just before the gentlemen arrived. I knew what I would have to do tonight, and I had grown used to it, but that didn’t stop the tremor in my soul that preceded every encounter. We were the real delicacies of the evening, the meat, waiting to be selected and devoured. Lucy, Polly and Emily sat as still as I did. It was difficult to tell what they thought or felt at this moment.
We never spoke of the fear.
Our guests were, as they usually were, gentlemen of quality, ready for an evening of drinking, gambling and what they might politely describe as pretty company and entertainment. What they were really here to enjoy would not be spoken about in polite company, of course.
I was grateful to notice Charles Stanford as soon as he entered the room, distinguished by his vigorous manner as much as his looks – his face being partly obscured by a black mask. He had a fine figure, tall and neat with broad shoulders, encased in a coat of rich midnight blue embroidered with exquisite flowers. A freshly-powdered wig covered his light brown hair. He looked magnificent – and he undoubtedly knew it. It didn’t take him long to make his way over to me. He pulled me up from my seat and made a bow.
‘Miss Hardwicke, how lovely to see you.’
‘Mr Stanford.’
Brown eyes sparkled with mischief at the holes of his mask.
‘Well, I assume it’s you, Lizzie. It’s rather difficult to tell.’
‘It is certainly me, Mr Stanford. Rather diverting, though, don’t you think? Not being able to see people’s faces? And I do believe that the Hardy girls look prettier than usual.’
He tugged the ribbon at my cleavage to undo my gown, and his hand found a breast. He was quick this evening and, despite my veneer of reserve, I was excited by his directness.
‘I’m more interested in what’s under here,’ he said. ‘Damn it, Lizzie, I’m in great need of a fuck.’
He always was.
‘I think that Mrs Farley would like us to pretend restraint for a while longer.’ I giggled and removed his hand. ‘You’ve only just walked in and there’s so much food to eat.’
&nbs
p; ‘Don’t tease me, please. Oh, what I’m going to do to you tonight… shall I tell you?’
He didn’t have the opportunity. The all-seeing Mrs Farley moved across the room and bade him good evening, turning him away from me and steering him towards Lucy. That would cool him down for a while. I rearranged my dress a little and went to greet the other gentlemen.
Polly called me to meet Mr Herring and Mr Winchcombe, Charles’ friends. Both wore soft black masks, as all the gentlemen did this evening, making them seem like disorientated highwaymen who had found their way into Berwick Street by accident. John Herring was a little haughty for my taste, a man in his mid-twenties with pale skin, translucent eyelashes and a sharply-pointed nose. His plum-coloured coat was well-cut, and he wore an expensive scent. Joshua Winchcombe was more engaging; large-limbed, with dark eyes. A curl of black hair was trying to escape from under his wig. He was a similar age to Mr Herring, but he had none of the other man’s affected airs. I found his voice a little loud as he bellowed into my ear, but he had an energy about him that was attractive.
I heard the door open again downstairs. More guests were ushered in, men and women similarly masked and all in a jolly mood and I moved around to bid them welcome. Gradually, the room began to fill with people; flirtatious women wanting money, and wealthy men, happy to be flirted with. One man stood apart. Large and jowly – eyes flicking about under his mask in a mix of shock and wonder – it was George Reed. He moved towards Mr Herring and Mr Winchcombe, as if seeking out something, or someone, to ease his disorientation. The three men exchanged a few words before the younger two moved away towards Polly, leaving him quite alone.
I watched Emily swim across the room to greet him. She was always able to make a nervous gentleman feel welcome in our house: those who wore expensive clothing at least. She knew that I had relieved this one of several guineas. She could have him to herself, as far as I was concerned.
That was not Emily’s intention. Her aim became clear almost immediately. She ushered Mr Reed towards me and laid my hand on his arm. She wanted me to deal with him while she entertained the younger men. I knew that she didn’t much care for me, but this seemed like particular cruelty. Nevertheless, she pretended courtesy.
