The Gilded Lily (12 page)

‘He gave me an address, so he could offer you a position, but Madame Lefevre took it off me.’

Ella stared. ‘You’re jesting with me.’

‘No, true as true.’ Sadie told Ella the whole conversation.

‘You let her get her hands on it?’ Ella’s face was a mixture of incredulity and rage. ‘You fat-wit, why didn’t you put it in your stays straight away?’

‘I tried to, but Mercy Fletcher—’

‘So how am I to know where his blasted shop is? And even if I did, they won’t admit me without his letter.’

‘You couldn’t have read it anyway, you can’t scarcely read. But his shop’s on Friargate, he said so. So there. You can go there tomorrow. You’ll need to get a new
apron.’ She carried on talking to Ella’s back. ‘It scares me, you working in that firepowder factory. Don’t go back there, Ell.’

Ella turned round. ‘Did he say what sort of position?’

‘No. Serving maid in the pop shop or some such, I expect.’

Ella wrinkled her nose, then brightened. ‘Maybe it’ll be a housemaid’s post, or even the housekeeper, after all, he’s a single man on his own. Fancy that, me – a
housekeeper.’

Sadie did not think this was at all likely, but she knew well how to keep the peace.

‘Happen so,’ she said.

After several wrong turnings down dark ginnels, Ella eventually came to Broken Wharf and a sign showing a depressed-looking monk under a stone archway. This must be it –
Friargate. She paused a moment and took a deep breath before going any further. She was nervous. What if Sadie had got it wrong and there was no position for her? But no, Sadie had always been
sharp and good at remembering. She was like a little owl, always watching from a dark corner.

Ella had brazened it out, being laid off. Folk thought she was thick-skinned, but in truth she was not, just good at play-acting. It hurt her pride, made her feel good for nothing. But now
Josiah Whitgift had asked for her. Asked for her personally. She lifted her shoulders and stepped out with renewed vigour.

She hoisted up her skirts to avoid them dragging in the icy wet, and hurried down the broad thoroughfare. When she spied the sign, she knew this must be Whitgift’s, for the sign was an
elaborate chair indicating a purveyor of furniture and wooden goods, but above the gates was a weathercock with three gold coins, the cipher of the pawnbroker. Of course pawnbroking was meant to be
illegal unless you had a licence from the king, but nobody paid that much mind – London would grind to a halt completely if no loans were to be had.

The big iron gates stood open for the day’s trade. Ella had to sidestep as a carriage turned in through the stone gateposts. What a place! It was a sprawl of old and new buildings, huddled
together as if for warmth. The main part of it must have been a monastery once for it was built out of yellowish stone, now black with grime, inset with a series of arched windows with leaded
glass. And it must have been a wealthy order, for there was proper stabling and storehouses, and a mounting block and churn stand alongside the gates. But leaning up against the main building was a
jumble of sheds of wood and lath, like birds’ nests on a cliff, so it was hard to see the whole extent of the place.

It was already full of bustle and activity, though it was not yet seven. A long queue of down-at-heel women snaked out of the gates, shuffling their way through the puddles. Ella hesitated and
wondered whether to join the line, but decided instead that she had an invitation, so she had a right to be inside the yard. With a toss of her head she marched through the gates, the thrust of her
chin daring anybody to stop her. Nobody did, but once through she looked around for some clue as to where she might find Mr Whitgift.

At the other end of the yard, the carriage was disgorging its fashionable occupants. She set off towards them, intending to ask for Mr Whitgift, but the liveried servants eyed her with disdain.
Here, even the servants thought themselves above her. She baulked and turned back. Indecisive, she hovered in the middle of the yard.

‘Hey, you.’

Ella turned, and saw that the voice had come from the direction of a stable door where a tousle-haired lad was brandishing a pair of fire irons.

‘If you’ve anything to pawn you’ll have to wait at the back of the queue,’ he said, tying a ticket to the tongs.

‘I’ve come to see Mr Whitgift. He’s to offer me a position.’

A grunt indicated that he did not think it likely. ‘Which Mr Whitgift? Elder or younger?’

‘Don’t know. Younger, I should think. Tall, wears a hat with pheasant feathers, a nice white smile. That one.’

The women near the front of the queue became restless, shuffling from foot to foot, impatient for the lad to continue their transactions.

‘You got a letter?’ the lad asked.

‘No, he gave it my sister but she lost it. Look, if I could just see him, he’d know me—’

‘We ain’t got all day,’ said one of the women waiting. ‘You going to get the gaffer or not?’

The lad sighed, resigned. ‘In through that door, cross the warehouse and pull on the bell. But don’t dare say I sent you.’

Ella gave him a tiny nod, by way of thanks. She passed through the warehouse, wide-eyed, amazed at the sheer number of possessions displayed on the trestles. All of London must have their stuff
in hock here. Along one wall was a row of stalls, once used for horses, but now each was full of different things – musical instruments, ironmongery, even a sedan chair. There was enough
stuff in the warehouse to fill the houses of five Netherbarrows.

She rang the bell and the warehouse workers in their caps and brown fustian sleeves turned and stared. Pushing her shoulders back, she ignored them all. The door opened and there he was, taller
and more rakish than she remembered.

‘It’s me, sir. From the wigmaker’s.’

He moved away slightly, as if to get a better view of her. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, looking her slowly up and down, ‘the little perruquier. Come with me.’ He glanced behind
him, as if to check nobody was looking, before leading her across the yard and in through a peeling door, where he pulled up two battered-looking chairs close together. He brushed his seat down
with his fingertips before sitting. Ella took his signal and sat too, but she was disappointed. The room was like an old storehouse. It smelt of sour milk and there were cobwebs in the rafters.

‘These are the chambers I have in mind for my new venture. A little fancy I have.’

Ella sat upright and looked up at him through her eyelashes. A new venture. She nodded, trying not to show how desperate she was to know what position he might offer her.

He looked around the room as if seeing some vision of his own, before clasping his hands in front of his chin and leaning forward. ‘You are looking at the latest emporium for women to buy
their beauty washes, skin potions and so forth. I have in mind to furnish it with comfort, like a bedchamber, so that ladies might rest awhile here, try out the decoctions, you know, whilst the
gentlemen do their business with my father.’

Ella looked around the room. She did not understand. A bedchamber? She was wary. A large square box with a low-beamed ceiling with hooks for hanging meat, it had casement windows opening out
onto the yard. A door ajar to one wall showed a set of narrow wooden treads leading to some upper rooms. Next to it in the wall was another door and a foot-square trap window to hold the churn
scales when they were pushed through into the yard. She guessed it might have been the dairy once.

He continued. ‘It does not look much now. But I have that well in hand. It will be furnished in the latest oriental style. Rugs from Turkey. Vases from the Ottoman empire and the east.
Gilt chandeliers – forty candles on each, to give a radiant glow.’

Ella brightened and listened more intently. Turkey rugs, he had said. She had caught a whiff of his enthusiasm and began to take more of an interest in her surroundings. The bare lime-washed
walls stared back, but his words had begun to weave magic and in her mind the room had already begun a transformation. She did not know what the oriental style might be, but she could imagine
herself as an exotic flower against a background of gilded leaves.

He was still talking. ‘I need a girl with good skin. A pretty girl, one who will say to the ladies she uses only my salves and ointments.’ She looked down, suddenly hot, nonplussed
at this compliment. ‘Someone forward, who can make a sale,’ he continued.

Ella’s dream dissolved. He was looking for a salesgirl. She mustered another nod to show her understanding, but she could not help feeling a pang of disappointment.

‘The girl must look impeccable. Can you manage that, Miss . . . ?’

Ella thought quickly; she needed another name in case Titus Ibbetson was still looking for her. She said the first name that came into her head. ‘Corey Johnson. Yes, sir.’
Immediately she cursed herself. What a fool. She should have thought up a ladylike name, not the name of a common wig-knotter. She hoped Corey would never come here. Her face must have shown her
awkwardness, for Mr Whitgift’s eyes continued to range over her as if she were a horse being inspected.

‘But I’ve never heard of aught like that,’ she said, to hide her discomfort. ‘Usually we take our baskets to the apothecary’s to fetch the powders and then we mix
up our own salves and tinctures at home.’

‘Exactly. It’s never been done before now. It’s what you might call an experiment. But if it works, all the fine ladies of this city will flock to Whitgift’s. It will be
like a coffee shop but for ladies, so we must make sure the gentlemen will approve. You’ll have to keep the ladies talking, and be persuasive.’

‘I know I’m not used to London ways, society and that, and my manners might need a bit of minding, but I pick up quick.’

‘Well, you’ll need to grow a sweet tongue to tell the ladies how transformed they are and, above all, you must be discreet.’

Ella blushed. He was rubbing his hands together as if he was washing them. In one glance she took in his long pale fingers, the elegantly manicured hand, the lace cuffs, the gold signet ring.
The hand of a wealthy man. Ella watched his fingers moving over each other and felt a burning sensation spread to her neck and chest. Her heart was beating wildly. She looked him straight in the
eye.

He lowered his voice. ‘Not every lady will want her husband to know that she has been here, that her beauty is the result of artifice. Men want to think a woman’s charms are all
natural. There are some that think these devices women use are evil, the work of Satan. So some ladies will require you to hold your tongue. But then, something tells me you are good at keeping
secrets.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I am.’

A flutter ran through her as their eyes met.

Jay Whitgift frowned and moved back in his seat. He steepled his hands. ‘Then you can start the day after tomorrow. You will need something a little more suitable to wear, and your hair
– it needs dressing.’

Ella swallowed. It was true, but she was still affronted; she put her hands up to her hair and tried to smooth out the parts that had been caught by the wind.

‘I take it you know what is fashionable?’ Mr Whitgift tilted his nose up and down, surveying her blue woollen dress. ‘There are a number of good dresses in the clothing bay.
Choose a gown with a tight bodice, and not too fussy. A damson shade might look well on you. Yes, a warm colour but nothing too powerful.’ He stood up and led the way back to the door.
‘There is a closet there too where you can change every day when you arrive.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. And, sir, I’m right sorry about your peruke.’ She wasn’t, but it never did any harm to butter people. She lowered her eyelashes as if to
apologize, hoping the effect would be pretty and demure.

‘Never you mind, Miss Johnson,’ he said drily, ‘I am not looking for someone with manual ability. Just someone who can look winsome. This position will be more –’
he hesitated – ‘suited to your skills.’

He led her back out into what appeared to have once been the cloisters, but it was now divided into horses’ stalls with wooden partitions up to where the vaulted ceiling began. There were
no horses though, just rails hung with suits and hooks with lavender against the moths, and trestles piled high with every sort of garment.

‘When you have chosen something, take it to Dennis, and he will sign it out for you.’ He pointed to the stable door in the yard. ‘And I expect you to be punctual. There is much
to do. I have a whole army of people ready with the new wall-papering, and carpenters are already making up the cabinets. The rooms will be rendered tomorrow, and we will furnish them and put out
the bills of trade the day after.’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said vigorously, to show her enthusiasm.

‘Oh, and, Miss Johnson,’ he continued, brushing a speck of dirt from his cuff, ‘I expect you’ll come across my old man sooner or later. He’s a little behind the
times and he doesn’t approve. So if he’s sharp with you, just smile and tell him to come to me.’

‘That I will, sir. What a shame, that he don’t approve.’

‘He will though, soon enough, once he sees how it shapes up.’