The Crimson Ribbon (6 page)

Chapter 9

The Lord’s Day is a day of rest, but there is no such thing for a woman, especially one employed in a kitchen.

My first Sabbath at the Poole household, and I’m dressed and sweeping the front parlour before dawn. It is the first time since the night of my arrival that I have been left alone in this room. It is usually out of bounds to all but Lizzie and her father, and Charlotte, who answers the street door and keeps the place neat through the week. This is where Master Poole receives his customers, where he and Lizzie work during daylight hours and where he displays his finest wares.

As the sun comes up and pale dawn light filters through the casement, I marvel at the samples of fine cloth, the rolls of coloured ribbon and intricate bobbin lace, laid out on the table, like offerings upon a harvest altar. Dishes of buttons lie on the sideboard – perfect discs of pale wood and bone, like tiny moons, and shining silver and brass too, for the wealthier clients. There are little cushions pricked all over with silver needles, like a family of hedgehogs, and all manner of fine yarns, measuring sticks and thimbles. In one corner of the room an upright chair wears a dress of the palest blue satin.

I have glimpsed Lizzie at work upon this dress when passing the door, her fingers glittering with needle and thread as she applies fine lacework to the collar. It is a commission from a local merchant’s wife, a Mistress Cutler, who is a good customer. I know this from hearing father and daughter in discussion over breakfast. The workings must be perfect, the best quality, for the fee alone will keep us in eggs and butter all summer long.

Alone with the dress, I caress the fabric, my fingertips tracing the stitching that betrays the path of Lizzie’s hands before my own. I stroke the lace, so delicate, like dew-soaked spiders’ webs draped from a branch.

I kneel and lay my cheek upon the folds of cool satin. It is like gazing into a morning Fenland sky – the palest of blue, sheened with wisps of cloud. I think of Lizzie’s hands moving over the cloth, folding it, stitching it, and making it into something beautiful.

‘What are you doing?’

Charlotte stands at the door, hands on hips.

‘Oh . . . I – I’m sweeping.’ I struggle to my feet and brandish the broom.

‘Don’t much look like it to me.’ Her mouth twists into a sour half-smile. She nods at the dress. ‘Touch that again and there’ll be trouble.’ Her cap, always askew, tips down over her right eye.

I make as if to sweep the flags around the skirt.

‘A word of advice,’ Charlotte says. ‘Never let the master catch you in here, not with your hands all over the goods. Anyway, let it alone now. You’re to come to chapel.’

I expect a visit to one of the local churches but instead Lizzie leads Margaret, Charlotte and me to a house in Devonshire Square, near Bishopsgate. Master Poole stays at home. Lizzie explains, as we pick our way through the quiet early-morning streets, that the distance is too great for him. She chooses to travel for she has found a special place among God’s chosen people. Her eyes shine as she speaks and her hands hover in the air like turtledoves.

Our place of worship is a simple room. The parlour of a London leather merchant, fashioned as a chapel, it is large enough to hold two score bodies. Wooden benches are lined up like pews and a table at one end of the room serves as a makeshift lectern. There is no altar, no candle, no cross. The walls are whitewashed and unadorned. Two small windows let in a shifting, gloomy light. There is no fire in the grate and the room smells damp. For people who choose not to worship in church, they have created a fine impression of one.

Twenty or so souls are already gathered and each one seems to take note of our entrance. Men doff their hats. Women fall silent and stare. Lizzie glides through them all as though she is a duchess, and we her ladies-in-waiting.

Until now I thought that only I recognised Lizzie’s special goodness. But I see I am not alone. The men look upon her with admiration. In the eyes of the women, I see something deeper and more complicated. They are reverent but uneasy. I wonder how many of them feel as I do and am surprised by a stab of jealousy at the thought.

There are eyes on me too. Eyes full of questions. A small boy tugs at his mother’s skirts, pointing and asking, ‘Who is she?’

Reaching the front of the room, Lizzie greets a tall man with soulful brown eyes and soft chestnut curls falling to his collar. He enfolds her hands in his own and inclines his head.

‘Mistress Poole. We are glad to have you with us, as always.’ His voice is deep and full-toned. He pronounces each word with precision, as though he is an actor upon the stage, and wants all his audience to hear.

‘Pastor Kiffin.’ Lizzie glows in his presence. ‘You are well, I hope?’

‘Well enough.’

‘And Hanna? Is she not with us this morning?’

‘Unfortunately my wife has taken to her bed.’

‘Oh. I hope it is nothing serious.’

‘Serious enough to keep her from worship.’

‘Is anything to be done?’

‘The physician says she must rest. That is all. She will be well again soon.’

‘And the child?’

Kiffin cast his eyes down. ‘Gone.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’

They stand, wordless, for a few moments, hands clasped together, heads bowed, as if in silent, private prayer.

‘But here is some good news to cheer you,’ Lizzie says, breaking the spell. ‘We have an addition to our group this morning. Ruth, come forward.’ She slips her hands away from his and unfurls a palm towards me. ‘This is Ruth Flowers, my new maid. Ruth, Master Kiffin is our pastor here. You will not find a finer preacher in all of London.’

Kiffin waves away her praise as though he is batting at a fly. He moves a few steps towards me and takes my hands in his, just as he had Lizzie’s moments earlier. ‘Welcome, Ruth.’ His eyes search mine until I have to look away for fear of what he might find.

‘Mistress Poole has a habit of bringing lost souls to me. I think perhaps you are another.’

I long to pull my hands away but his grasp is insistent. His palms are warm and slightly sticky, despite the chill of the place.

‘Where did you worship before?’ he asks. ‘Which church?’

‘I’m not from London,’ I say.

‘Ah! A stranger. I thought so. You have done well to find a place with Mistress Poole.’

‘Yes, sir. I am blessed.’

‘And now you would take up a place within this congregation.’

I dart a look at Lizzie and she gives me an encouraging nod. ‘I think so, sir.’

‘Then you will need instruction. Do you know your scriptures? You would do well to learn from your mistress. You could not have a finer example . . .’

‘Be gentle, William,’ Lizzie whispers, lightly touching his sleeve. ‘Remember, it is only her first time with us.’

‘Do not fear,’ Kiffin says. ‘If you seek God and your heart is true, we will never turn you away. I welcome you wholeheartedly to our gathering. May you find spiritual sustenance here.’

Then he smiles at me. He is blessed with good teeth, like a row of tiny pearls. He is handsome when he smiles. I find myself inexplicably comforted.

At last he lets my hands drop and turns back to Lizzie. ‘And Charlotte is with you still.’ He nods to the girl, who curtsies and simpers. ‘Forgive me, but is not one maid enough for a woman of your standing? I fear for the well-being of any woman who needs two. We must protect ourselves against vanity and the trappings of indulgence.’

Lizzie laughs. ‘Do not fear for me, Pastor Kiffin. My taste for finery and fripperies has not run wild. Charlotte is my maid still and keeps a close watch on such things. Ruth is helping Margaret in the kitchen. And a fine cook she is. If you would care to visit my father this week, perhaps Ruth will prepare her oatcakes for you – they are particularly good.’

‘I would be honoured, if your father will receive me.’

‘He will.’ Lizzie’s lips part and she raises an eyebrow almost imperceptibly.

As we make our way back to West St Paul’s, thoughts of the beer and bread that await us running through my mind, Lizzie asks me to walk alongside her. ‘Tell me,’ she says, ‘what did you think of our little congregation?’

‘Wonderful,’ I say, sensing the answer she wants.

‘How does it compare to your worship in Ely?’

‘It was much longer.’

She laughs. ‘You will get used to that. Pastor Kiffin is a fine speaker, is he not?’

‘Very fine.’

‘And a good man.’

‘He seems so.’

She looks pleased. ‘What else did you like?’

I am aware of Charlotte, trailing just behind us, collecting every word, like dropped pennies.

‘I liked how the people were towards you.’

‘They are good people. God’s most devout.’

‘I mean, how they respect you. They see you for how you are.’

‘And how is that?’

I cannot put my thoughts into words. Then, ‘Good. You are a good person too.’

She laughs again, like a trill on a pipe.

We walk on and I notice how she holds herself, ready to meet the gaze of those in our path, proud, almost defiant.

‘You made a good impression, Ruth,’ she says. ‘New faces are rare and always remarked upon. You did well today.’

She reaches out her hand and touches my sleeve. ‘I’m weary. May I take your arm?’

Charlotte hurries to her side. ‘I’m here. Let me.’ She offers hers, but although it is perhaps sturdier than my own, Lizzie does not choose it.

‘I will do well enough with Ruth,’ she says, drawing me closer.

Glancing back at Charlotte, I see her give a sullen look in my direction. But I do not care. I feel my chest swell a little and flush with gladness, even though I know Lizzie’s actions have brewed trouble to come.

Chapter 10

Summer stays with us longer than usual. At home, I loved this time of year. The last dry days before the floods bring a flurry of activity – the sedge harvest, the salting of meat, early apples coming in from the orchards. Labourers round off their days singing the old songs outside the taverns. Servant girls laze on the green before the Cromwell house, taking off their slippers and wriggling their toes in the grass, snatching the last of the sun’s heat on their way home from market. Ely smells of baked earth. We wait for the scent of salt in the air and the cry of gulls.

London is different. There is no space. No air.

In September, Lizzie fades like a rose without rain. She takes to her bed on the first of the month, claiming a weakness in her limbs and an agitation in her heart. There is plague in the city and Margaret will not allow visitors, apart from Pastor Kiffin, who spends hours ministering to Lizzie at her bedside, but she entrusts Lizzie’s errands to me.

Negotiating the city’s warren of side-streets, and bartering with the cloth merchants may have frightened me at first, but as days turn into weeks, and it becomes clear that Lizzie will not soon leave her bed, I start to enjoy my new duties. It is the first taste of freedom I have had for months.

As I grow bolder, looking forward to my outings, my grief seems to lessen. The bad dreams that plagued me nightly during the summer fade to memory, memory that I quash with new dreams of Lizzie.

Cheapside is sticky in September swelter. Hawkers, dulled by the heat, wear kerchiefs around their faces, like bandits, protection against the pestilence. Fruit-sellers flick away flies with horsehair switches. I ignore the familiar flutter of fear as I do the ragged children clamouring for pennies.

I find my way to Cornhill and the Pope’s Head and pause there, pulled up short by a gathering of men in the street outside the tavern. They lounge, mugs in hand, pipes puffing lazy smoke into the thick air. A few look me over. I press on, head down, feeling their eyes follow me into Pope’s Head Alley.

The narrow passageway bustles with activity. People jostle for space outside the shops. Building work is going on overhead, houses stretching their eaves towards the thin streak of light, as if gasping for air. Moon-eyed children sit in a huddle on planking that has been laid down before a toymaker’s shop, waiting for the day’s puppet show. A rainbow of bottles, ointments and balms sparkle in an apothecary’s window.

The high walls of the tavern thwart the worst of the midday heat but the air is still stifling and smells of rot. I have heard from Charlotte that fear of plague causes the night-soil men to abandon their rounds and the evidence is here: a thick mulch of dirt festers in the drain along the centre of the alley. I balance on the planks that give safe passage and make my way to the print shop.

Master Stukeley, licensed printer and bookseller, sits at his desk, quill in hand, scratching away at his ledgers. As I enter he sizes me up, completes the line he is working on, places his quill in the pot on the table and blows on the paper to dry the ink. He smoothes back his hair with both hands and clears his throat, in no hurry to attend to me.

The place is sultry and full of dust, with the pungent stench of hot leather and the privy. One wall is covered with shelves of books, some with fine bindings. Beneath them are stacked wooden crates, a chaotic assortment of pamphlets, newsbooks and tracts. This is a man’s world of politics, sealing wax and strong, sweet sack.

Through a doorway towards the back of the room, I can see another man, dressed in a leather apron. I watch the back of his head as he moves in and out of sight, working at the printing press.

Stukeley stands up. ‘Good day to you,’ he says. His coat is patched and his stockings mismatched; his hair flies wild about his head.

I bob a curtsy. ‘Good day, sir. I am to fetch a packet for Mistress Poole, of West St Paul’s. She sent me in her stead.’

Lizzie’s message delivered, I find myself breathless.

Stukeley wrings his hands. ‘Ah, yes, Mistress Poole. She is well, I hope?’

‘She is not, sir, but it is not the plague.’

‘You look a little flushed,’ he says.

‘It’s hot.’ I fan my cheek to prove my point.

He indicates a chair opposite his worktable. ‘If you would . . .’

I sit down.

‘Boy!’

There is a clatter from the back room and the man comes to the doorway, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He has taken off the apron and his shirt hangs loose from his breeches. His dark hair has grown since the spring and stands out around his head like a dandelion clock, but I know him at once.

‘Ruth?’ He drops the rag he is holding and stands there slack-jawed, open-palmed. ‘By God, I thought I had seen the last of you . . .’

‘Attend yourself!’ Stukeley’s hands flap, as though he is trying to scare a goose. ‘Is this how you greet my customers?’

Joseph spits on his hands and dries them on his breeches. He holds out an ink-stained palm. I do not take it. ‘I searched for you,’ he says.

I cannot hold his gaze. The air is close and so full of motes I can hardly breathe.

‘Well, thank God you are safe,’ he adds.

‘The girl is here on business, not pleasure,’ Stukeley says. ‘The parcel for Mistress Poole. Is it prepared?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then fetch it.’ He shoos Joseph into the back room.

I gather myself, stand and pace, my skirts making a tiny dust storm on the floor, while Stukeley offers platitudes I cannot hear because my mind is whirling.

When Joseph reappears he carries a small, square bundle, wrapped and tied with thick string. He moves to the shop door and opens it.

I thank Stukeley and turn to leave. As I reach the threshold Joseph whispers, ‘I must speak with you.’ His eyes search mine earnestly. He hands me the package and taps his finger deliberately on the top before he lets go. He has tucked a note beneath the string.

With Lizzie’s parcel under my arm I make my way back towards the Pope’s Head, my breath catching in my throat. My heart is thumping. As soon as I reach Cheapside, where the wider street and the shadows cast by the sun afford me a little privacy, I slip into a doorway and take out the piece of paper. I unfold it and read the scribbled words:

Tomorrow after dark. St Paul’s.

I tear it into tiny shreds and leave it on the doorstep in the dust.