by Sarah Burton
The plague seemed to encompass the city like a flood, impossible to stem. Unable to escape the rising tide, people’s thoughts turned to how it had come about, what it signified, and who was to blame. Little Sal parroted what she had heard our visitors of quality say, that the poor, by self-neglect, had hastened their own destruction and now we all suffered. Cook at first averred it was a judgement from God to punish profanity, vanity and the sins of the dissolute court, though later decided it was a punishment for the Great Rebellion and the execution of Charles I (although, in truth, she had no personal sympathy for his case) and finally settled for it being a sign of God’s wrath against a variety of religious enemies. Ted adhered to the prevailing medical authority, that miasma carried it, that it floated around, infecting those who inhaled it, while Reg was convinced it was much simpler, and that livestock, pigeons, cats and dogs, rats and mice, who had the freedom of the city, carried it everywhere they went.
And this last theorem brought a new fear, when we heard the crier declare that all cats and dogs found wandering in the city were to be killed, and offering a price per tail. This new source of income gave employment to any poor soul who had no skill, for anyone could kill a cat, and they prosecuted their cause with great vigour. This new battalion could be seen roaming the streets, easily finding hapless animals used to wandering around outside their homes, as well as those who never had homes, and bludgeoning them to death with hammers, axes, or any implement to hand, for there was no niceness anymore in such dealings. Everyone in our house had strict injunctions not to let Puss out beyond our private yard, and then only when one of us was present, but Sylvia and Roger often left doors open in their stupor, as they left many other things undone, and in the end I secured him in the old henhouse in the yard, and later bound his jaws so he did not betray his presence, for the dog-killers were paid by the animal, and were not above finding innocent secured dogs to make up their tally.
This was most cruel, as Puss could not understand why he was banished from the house and forbidden speech, of which he was most fond. He was unhappy and through whining, which I could not stop, threatened to betray himself, so in the end I carried him up to our room, which being at the top of the house, was private and safe, and there he remained except for the necessary times when I took him out. Sometimes I wondered if he might become the last dog in London, and if so might become famous one day, and then how we would regret his fanciful name. I entertained such wild fancies in this time that on occasion I would check myself and wonder if I had already contracted the plague, as in such strange countries my thoughts rambled. But then I decided it was merely the times that made us strange, and we must cling to our sanity, and accept there were fewer and fewer touchstones against which to check or measure it. It often felt as though it was a daily battle merely to stop ourselves running mad.
It was about this time, I think, for it all later became a jumble, that Evelyn suddenly said one day, “Are you quite well, H?”
Now it is to be understood that this was not a question which bore its everyday weight of kindly enquiry at this time. I suddenly felt that I was really quite ill, but said that no, I thought I was quite well and did she notice anything the matter?
“It is merely that I did not observe you to have had your flowers for some time,” she said, evenly, as she occupied herself folding something, for Evelyn never liked to discuss matters below the waist.
I had not thought of it, being so occupied with present anxieties, but when I sat down and made my calculations, realised that I did not recall having my monthlies since before... since before – I suddenly realised in a rush of fear – the event I had chosen to forget. Indeed, I had so successfully alienated the memory of Roger’s diabolical act upon my person from my daily thinking, once I had satisfied myself I had not caught the feared disease from him, that this was the one outcome I had not considered.
Such is the fate of women. I felt, in the first place, and Roger’s words rang in my head again, a little idiot. When a man and a woman lie together, what may be the consequence? A child. How had I not thought of it? And what could I now do about it? I could not do the one thing, again, I wished for most, which was to tell all to Evelyn, for I still believed she could have killed Roger without a scruple. And then for a most wicked moment I entertained the possibility of allowing her to kill him, and tried to guess at the outcome, and even flirted with the notion of making it look as though Sylvia had done it, or even of killing Sylvia too, which demonstrates just how unbalanced my mind was in those days.
Then I pulled myself back from that madness and set my mind on a more practical course. I had so far only three examples in real life on which to base my idea of the choices I faced. For my sister Grace, pregnancy as an unmarried woman had led to exile and disgrace, and who knew what else – we did not. For Sylvia, it had led to a bad marriage, and again I had no high hopes for a happy ending. Lastly, and my most recent example, Aunt Madge’s husband’s kind of other wife had had her children and their father had taken care of them. I knew enough (from allusions Sylvia had made, and from reading the chapbooks in the library) that unborn children could be done away with before they were born, but also that this was a wicked thing. I also had no idea, had I harboured no objection to it, how this outcome was to be achieved. Much as I puzzled my small and confusing stock of knowledge on the subject, I could not see any of it helping me. So I decided to do as I had done before, concerning the event which had let to this disconcerting circumstance: to ignore it. Though in my heart I knew that this could not go on indefinitely, there seemed more pressing concerns.
17
By the first week of August it still continued very hot weather and we learnt from the Bills of Mortality that over 13,000 Londoners had died the month before. It was a measure of how removed Sylvia and Roger were from the true state of things that they decided they would revive the monthly dinner. Evelyn frankly begged them not to proceed with this plan, saying that they would expose the whole household to infection, but they were immoveable.
“This is precisely the time when we should have a party,” said Sylvia, “when everything is so dismal. In any case, we have already told everyone.” The guests were to be Roger’s usual crowd, and Sylvia’s friend Melissa was also to be present. Cook was mightily displeased about it, saying we should be being frugal with our reserves, not throwing it away on Master Roger’s rabble, but we knew she would make a respectable show. Evelyn and I considered whether we could absent ourselves from the dinner, which we earnestly wished to, and sounded Sylvia about it – she was only too happy not to have us.
Sylvia came down at the appointed hour looking very fine, though it had taken her hours to dress herself and her hair, as she cursed the maids being gone and would not suffer either me or my sister to help her. Even Roger had put in some effort, though I observed he was now getting a little fat for his velvet coat, and his once-handsome features had a bloated character, and the unnatural glassiness of his eyes gave them the appearance of two black currants in an undercooked bun for a face. I realised he had now sunk so beneath my esteem I was incapable even of taking pleasure in this alteration.
We had already all eaten, so Cook could have the kitchen clear for the dinner preparations. Evelyn helped her while I took Sal and Joe up to the library for some reading practice. Sal and Joe were strange little creatures, who reserved all their affection for each other, but they were obedient and almost unnaturally quiet. Though younger, Sal seemed to have a natural appetite for books, but Joe had been more difficult to interest and whenever he was set to work, though quiet enough, we would usually find the fruit of his labours amounted to nothing more than a drawing of Puss on his slate. That was, until we discovered the poem ‘Agincourt’ which he loved us to read to him, as it was so stirring. He indeed began to know his letters by looking at the words that rhymed. He now began half-reading and half-reciting (for he had great parts of it by heart, being a forward child):
“Fair stood the
wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance,
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.”
As I listened, I observed Sal looking down into the street, and followed her gaze to see a dead dog lying in the gutter, over which rats were already swarming. Now that cats and dogs had all but been erased from the city, the rats had no enemies and were having a field day; one saw them everywhere, and so numerous that they had no fear of humans and did not even scurry away when people came near to them. I was about to draw Sal into the room when I heard Sylvia calling up the stairs.
I ran down to her as she seemed in a great passion.
“Have there been any messages?” she asked.
“Not that I know,” I said. “Have you asked the footmen?”
“Of course I’ve asked them, and now I’m asking you. Everyone’s very late.”
I looked at the clock in the hall and it was indeed a good hour past the appointed time of dinner.
“It’s really most vexing,” she cried, “when I have gone to so much trouble.”
“Stop making such a damned row Sylvia!” Roger shouted from the dining room, where I could see he had been making a fair start on the wine. “People of fashion are always late.”
Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Ted and Reg appeared, as they always did, as if by magic. Sylvia ran to the glass in the dining room, and after a short conference at the door, Ted and Reg returned, Ted carrying a letter on a tray. He headed for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” asked Sylvia.
“I’ll smoke the letter over the fire, madam,” said Ted. “Miss Evelyn’s orders.” Seeing she looked blank, he added, “For safety, madam.”
“Damn Miss Evelyn,” said Sylvia, snatching the letter up and waving him away. It turned out not to be a note from a dinner guest, but a letter from her friend, Lady Enfield, at court. “Oh, it is long and wordy. Read it to me H.” She held the letter out to me and while I debated taking it, Ted held out the tray again and she sighed and let it fall onto it. He went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with the letter, a little sooty, in his hand, and gave it to me.
“You are all such sneaking timid things,” Sylvia said scornfully. “You will die of fright long before the plague catches you.”
I followed her into the dining room where Roger was reclining on a couch. She smacked his legs until he made space, then sat beside him and gestured to me to read.
“‘My dear Sylvia,’” I began. “‘You will see from the address that the court has removed again. It seems the plague in its impudence followed us to Hampton Court, and then to Salisbury, but nevertheless we are now settled fairly at Oxford, but might as well be on the Moon. There is no plague here but the infection of love, no anxiety but what to wear and with whom to dance, and no difficulty but deciding who is handsomest.’” This was wonderful news as it meant that Frederick was safe as long as he remained in Oxford. I was about to say as much, but Sylvia gestured her impatience for me to continue reading. “‘In a word, there is nothing here but mirth, and there is talk that the King shall issue a proclamation that any melancholy man or woman coming into this town shall be taken up and put in the pillory, and there be whipped until he or she has learned the way to be merry à la mode…’”
“That’s enough!” shrieked Sylvia. She snatched the letter from me and threw it into the fire. “Why has no one come? Or sent word?” she cried petulantly.
I saw fit to mention that hardly anyone sent messages now, and then only essential ones, and then but by word of mouth, so fearful were people of touching things of unknown provenance.
“Ridiculous!” said Sylvia. “How is life to go on if one can’t send messages? How is one to arrange anything? Things have come to a pretty pass when a body cannot have friends to dinner!” She checked her rising hysteria and instead turned to whining, “There is no society anymore. No plays, no markets… ”
“No taverns, no coffee-houses… ” added Roger ruefully.
“Shall I have your dinner sent up?” I asked.
“I should have thought your mother’s decrepit admirers would have come at least!” said Sylvia. “Rookham and The Spook are usually glad of a good dinner.”
“Things have gone down a bit when you’d miss those old relics,” observed Roger.
“Dr Rookham left town some days ago,” I said.
“Really?” said Sylvia. “Why?”
I looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Sylvia,” I said gently, as I could feel anger and frustration rising within me, “we have tried time and time again to make you see that it is extremely dangerous to remain here. Thousands – not hundreds, not tens – thousands of people are dying every week. There are bodies carried through the streets all through the night. Do you not even hear the plague carts? The church bells for burials?”
Sylvia had, as usual, no answer, and turned her attention to berating her husband.
Evelyn and I had agreed that if we had not heard from Mr Fluke by the next morning I would go to him, which I did. I was surprised at the number of people that were about, yet nobody spoke to anyone else and even the rougher sort who would often jostle past you in a narrow alley would now stand aside until you passed, so that you did not touch them. And then I was waiting to cross a road, and a number of other people joined me, also waiting, but we all kept a safe distance apart, in an unspoken pact, and when there was a break in the traffic, we crossed and a person in front of me dropped like a stone to the ground in the middle of the road. It was as though a pebble had been dropped into a pond, as in a ripple everyone drew back, creating a circle around the body, but the strange thing was that everyone kept moving, and the circle around him remained, as everyone crossing the road in both directions gave the body a wide berth and not one person stopped to help him.
As I approached Mr Fluke’s house my heart sank. No smoke issued from any of the chimneys. As I drew closer my worst fears were confirmed. A red cross and the fatal words had been painted on the door. Still I did not lose all hope. There was no watchman there. I looked up and down the street. The only watchman I could see was standing over the road, in front of another marked house. I knocked on the door. No one answered. I peered through the window, but it was too dark to see anything.
“What d’you lack, Miss?” a voice behind me made me nearly jump out of my skin. It was the watchman from across the road.
“Are they… are there people in there?” I asked.
“All dead and buried, Miss. Last one taken away last night.” Seeing me sway under the shock, he moved to steady me, then remembered himself and drew back.
“When did Mr Fluke die?” I asked, not really knowing why, or what difference it made, now.
“The old gentleman? Oh, he left about a week since – just before the servants fell ill.”
This was a stab to the heart. I could not help that my relief at his having escaped death was tempered by my chagrin at him having left without a thought to our plight. I thanked the watchman and began to walk blindly away, knowing we had now been utterly abandoned.
“Wait a minute, Miss!” called the watchman. He beckoned me back. “You wouldn’t be Miss Haitch Evelyn by any chance?”
“Evelyn’s my sister. I’m H,” I said, still in a daze.
“Gentleman said to give her this, if she come.” He withdrew a fold of papers in a wrapper from his pocket. “As I say, he left in a hurry, otherwise he’d have brung it himself.”
“God bless him!” I cried, taking the papers, “And God bless you!” and though I would have flung my arms round him, I blew him a bouquet of kisses instead.
18
I ran to the nearest brazier and held the packet over the smoke for as long as I could stand the heat before tearing the cover from the papers. A note had be
en hastily scribbled on the inside of the wrapper. It read:
Gold dust. Only four. God bless you. E.F.
The certificates were open, that is to say, the name of the person they certified was free from disease had been left blank, but they were numbered and had been signed by a doctor. Assuming Mr Fluke knew about our sort of cousins – he was Aunt Madge’s lawyer, after all – he had got the certificates for Sal, Joe, Evelyn and myself. But what would we do with Cook? And would Ned the coachman need a certificate? Of course he would. I considered whether we could hide the children, in a trunk perhaps, and take Cook with us. Cook, Ned, Evelyn and myself was four. But what about the Potters, who had been so faithful? Should we forget the coach and the coachman, and send the Potters in the cart, which they could drive themselves, with the children? Or should we walk, in which case we were back to our original four? Or… And all these calculations were assuming Mr Fluke knew about our sort of cousins, and Aunt Madge had told us only Cook knew. In which case he may have meant the certificates for ourselves, Roger and Sylvia. I walked and walked and thought and thought, turning the different combinations and possibilities over in my mind. Did it matter for whom Mr Fluke had intended the certificates? The children must be saved, but how did we choose who else should go, perhaps choosing who should live and who should die? Wasn’t it a heinous selfishness to presume to number ourselves amongst the saved? But hadn’t Roger and Sylvia refused to think of leaving, and didn’t they therefore forfeit their chance of going? Yet Roger was our aunt’s son, so perhaps we should, for her sake, save him, and her unborn grandchild, before ourselves?
