The Gilded Lily (15 page)

‘What about your things?’

‘We’ll fetch them over later,’ Ella said, picking up the bundle from where Sadie had put it down. Dennis narrowed his eyes and looked to Sadie. She just dropped her head.

‘I’ll not ask,’ he said.

‘We’ll take it tonight, if you don’t mind,’ Sadie said.

‘Fair enough. I’ll tell Ma and I’ll call back tomorrow for the rental,’ Dennis said. ‘Six shilling. Get yourselves a good lock.’

‘Ibbetson – he’s still after us then,’ said Sadie, when the door was shut.

Ella just nodded. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. She wandered round the room, fingering the old plank table and two odd-sized stools, and running her finger over the shelf
in the larder alcove. There was a washstand with the wood all stained and ringed with watermarks, and a chipped jug half floating in a pail of water.

Ella pulled out a stool. ‘Bring your bundle over, let’s see what we’ve got.’

They put down their diminished possessions on the table. It made a sad sight. In Sadie’s salvaged bundle of clothes and bedding, there was one cooking pot, a wooden platter, a silver punch
ladle, a hand glass and a ticking pillow. In the apron, the mother-of-pearl fan, some fine lawn and lace napkins that had fallen in the mud, three spoons and two odd candlesticks that did not
match.

‘Is that all?’ Ella asked.

Sadie nodded. ‘I dropped the card box and the jug. Sorry.’

‘You got anything else under your bodice?’

‘Course.’

‘Let’s see then.’

Sadie held up her purse and tipped out the contents. A few coins rolled onto the pitted wooden surface. From Ella’s, a broken pearl necklace and some lady’s rings fell out amongst
the coinage, followed by the seal on its slinking chain. Instantly, Sadie was back in that cold, dark house, looking into the unseeing eyes of the man on the bed.

‘Let’s get rid of that,’ she said, pointing.

‘It’s got his initials on it, look. I’ve a mind to keep it. It’s pretty.’

‘Can’t we get rid of it, Ell? I hate it.’

Ella picked up the rings. ‘We’ll sell these first. We’ll need bowls and a cookpot; we’ll have to get down the fleamarket. Ye gods, I don’t know how we’ll
manage till payday.’

‘Dennis seems friendly.’

‘Huh.’ Ella’s tone was scathing. ‘It’s a fleapit, just like I thought.’

‘It’s cheap though, we could do worse. And it’s near to Whitgift’s too.’

‘I suppose.’

The rest of the evening Ella hardly spoke, but spent the time rolling and unrolling her hair, pinning it into elaborate arrangements and holding the hand mirror out at
arm’s length. ‘I need some of them new bone curlers. Them ones you heat in the embers,’ she said.

Sadie made up the bed and put out their meagre possessions. She felt safer being upstairs with people beneath. When she had finished she realized she was dog-tired and climbed into bed before
Ella, leaving her still tying her hair in rags to coax it into side curls. She slept fitfully. Ella was late to bed and when she did come kept dragging the blanket her way. Besides, Sadie could
hear sounds of a woman coughing below.

To her surprise Ella was up early for once instead of dozing and having to be prodded out of bed. When she brought the jug for washing, Ella was struggling again with her hair to secure it in a
knot at the back, her mouth full of bone pins. Sadie scrubbed her face and rinsed her mouth. The water was that cold her teeth ached. She watched Ella from the corner of her eye, seeing the
frustration etched on her sister’s face as another loop of hair escaped from the heavy mass at the back.

Eventually Ella threw the comb down onto the bed. Sadie didn’t want to be late for work, so she ignored Ella’s huffing and puffing. But when she got home again that night she was
surprised to see Ella was still there where she had left her. As soon as she came in through the door Ella wailed, ‘It won’t go right. And he said I’d to have my hair dressed.
Properly. Not like our usual topknots and caps. I daren’t go with it all hanging out like this.’

‘Come here, let me see if I can fix it.’

Ella held out the pins on the flat of her hand. Sadie pulled her hair tight and twisted it, then pinned it hard to her scalp.

‘Ouch! You’re hurting.’

‘It’s your hair. It’s too thick. I have to pin it tight or it will be out again in two shakes.’

She skewered some more wisps into the arrangement, leaving a few coils hanging at the sides.

‘There. You’ll pass muster,’ Sadie said.

Ella picked up the glass and scrutinized her reflection. ‘It’s crooked.’

‘No it’s not, you can’t see it properly in that glass. Don’t worry, I’ll tidy it again tomorrow, give it a last lick and polish before you go.’

‘Wish I had a scrap of red riband to put in it.’

Sadie admired her handiwork from the back. It was fetching, even if she did say so herself.

The next morning when Ella was ready, Sadie stood with her by the door.

‘You look lovely, Ella. It suits you. You look important, like you really are someone, not just our Ella from Netherbarrow.’

Ella frowned and grasped hold of her wrist. ‘Look, I’ve never heard of Netherbarrow. No one must know where we’re from. We’re Londoners now, get it?’

Sadie nodded.

Ella released her arm. ‘And I’m already someone. I’m Miss Corey Johnson, and I’m to serve in Whitgift’s.’

‘What?’ Sadie stared, uncomprehending. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m calling myself Miss Johnson.’

‘You changed your name to Corey’s?’

‘It’s safer that way. They asked me at Whitgift’s and I had to say something.’

‘But that’s daft. To call yourself by someone else’s name. What if Corey finds out?’

‘How will she? Unless you tell her? I’m not going back to that poxy wig shop.’

‘It’s still stupid. I can’t call you that. Why did you call yourself that? Why not Peggy, or Susan or—’

‘It was all I could think of in a hurry. And ’tis done now, so I’m stuck with it.’ Ella pulled her cloak tight about her as if to shut Sadie out.

‘Well, I’m not calling you that,’ Sadie said.

‘You can call me anything you like in here, but to everyone else I’m Miss Johnson – see?’

Sadie fiddled with the few remaining pins in her fingers. It felt strange, her sister having a different name. It bothered her.

‘And I like it. It feels like a new beginning,’ Ella went on. ‘I’ll make a success of Whitgift’s, I just know it. We’ll dine off oysters and cream pie yet.
How will you like that, eh? I promised you silken sheets one day, and you’re going to get them. And you know I always keep my promises.’ She clattered downstairs.

Sadie was sceptical. But Ella had a way of convincing you, she thought. The stories she told you. From Ella’s descriptions the silken sheets were almost tangible, their softness and scent.
In some ways these imaginary sheets, steeped in lavender, light as clouds, seemed more real than the rough wool blankets they wound round themselves at night. For the sheets in their imaginations
never wore out, always billowed fresh and new.

In his room under the rafters, Jay went to his cabinet and unlocked the top drawer. Each drawer contained one of his collections. The bottom one housed a fine array of gold
pocket watches; another drawer held a row of necklaces set with drop-pearls and diamonds, the next lady’s daggers with ornamental handles. Others held bejewelled cloak pins, sets of gold
buttons, cameos. This evening he took out his collection of snuffboxes and started to polish them to a gleam with a lint cloth. He bent to the task, his shoulders hunched, an action he had done so
often it had left him with a slight stoop even when he stood up. This room held his baronetcy. These days a baronetcy could be bought – for a little over a thousand pounds. Every snuffbox was
a bootstrap nearer to a title. He knew every single one, how much it was worth down to the last token, and he loved to feel the solidity of it, his wealth growing plump under his fingers.

He held one of the snuffboxes up to the pale light of the window. The box was engraved with cherubs and garlands, the metal moulded to make them stand proud of the polished surface. An exquisite
piece of workmanship made by a craftsman long dead and buried, he had seen nothing so well wrought since. He brought it close to his face and smoothed his fingers over the surface. If only every
beauty could be tamed, fixed in place like this – so that he could keep it locked in his cabinet until he had need of it.

At the strike of his timepiece he stood and walked over to the window. It was just growing dark, but he did not light the candles. Instead, he took out his brass telescope, swung the window ajar
and pushed the instrument out. The familiar landmarks were brought close in mesmerizing detail. The spire of St Mary-by-the-Field, the barges on the bend of the Thames, the carriages of fashionable
merchants. Through his spyglass, all of London was brought into his domain. He scanned up and down, looking for something.

Just coming around the corner into Friargate, completely unaware that they could be seen, were two familiar figures – Stevyn Lutch and Foxy Foxall, pushing a trundle cart. Or rather Lutch
was pushing, and even from here Jay could see that Foxy was talking. He bent towards Lutch’s ear as he walked, and gesticulated, waving his wiry arms in front of Lutch’s face. Lutch
replied with an occasional nod, and kept pushing. The cart jolted on the cobbles and almost toppled its load. The load was dressed to look like a pile of old blankets, but Jay hoped that what lay
underneath might be a great deal prettier, given that he himself had given them precise instructions as to what to filch.

He closed the spyglass, folding it into itself and slipping it into its leather pouch. Now he lit the candles, preparing to let the men in. He hoped they had earned their wages this time.
Recently they had seemed surly and reluctant, and the pickings had been miserable. Jay suspected they might be in the pay of someone else as well as himself. Well, it was to be hoped whoever it was
knew what he was about. Lutch and Foxall were well-known hard cases. They only had to blow on a postern or a back door and it would open. They would crack your skull if you crossed them, and the
blow would be silent and come from nowhere with no time to scream. When men like Allsop could not repay their loans, then Jay sent Lutch. When a gentleman asked him to supply a whore, then Foxy
knew where to find one.

But Jay knew he needed to be on his mettle to deal with them, to be one step ahead. Foxy was a blabbermouth, and Jay was wary of Lutch, the dispatcher, whose face betrayed no emotion except
mildness, but whose hands were muscular and pitted with knife scars. And his pa was right – belt and braces, always have more than one iron in the fire. And whatever you might do, never turn
your back on them.

Outside, the dogs snarled and barked on the ends of their leashes and he heard the nightwatchman swear at them and open the gate. Jay went downstairs and swung the door open, just as Foxy had
lifted his fist to knock.

‘What did I say?’ Jay said. ‘No knocking. I don’t want Pa woken.’

‘Sorry. I think he’s awake, though, I saw—’

‘Never mind what you saw, just remember, that’s all. Lutch, fetch it up to my chambers.’

Lutch carried the bundle up the winding stairs.

‘Anything rare?’ Jay said, hovering at Lutch’s shoulder.

‘Bits and bobs,’ Foxy said. ‘That big house – the one on Whitehall – that one was a proper sugarplum. Like you said, there was not a soul home, not even a kitchen
wench. So we was straight in, easy,’ Foxy said, ‘and there was everything laid out for us. We only had to bag it and go.’

Lutch pushed the snuffboxes aside to make room and lifted the first bundle onto the table. He untied the flannel blanket and drew his blotched hands across the contents to spread them out, then
stood back so Jay could take a look.

It was the usual assortment of small wares: gold and silver cutlery, watches, candle snuffers, card cases, sugar sifters. Jay leaned forward and, with a practised eye, picked out a garnet and
diamond pendant winking from underneath a quill tray.

‘This is the one I was after. Any more like this?’

‘No. No more, the lady must have taken her twinkles with her to Richmond. Daft if you ask me, can’t see why she’d need them in the country . . . but the pendant was hid at the
back of a drawer, under these.’ Foxy drew out a string of silk stockings from his pockets.

Jay frowned. ‘I told you before not to take clothing. It’s hard to shift, especially undergarments. They’re no blinding use to me, they don’t fetch enough. Not worth
keeping, and my pa can’t sell those back to the lady’s husband, now can he? I’ve told you – don’t waste your time with rags and scratchings.’

‘They’re not for you. They’re mine. A little perk – my missus has always had a powerful craving for silk hose.’

Jay whipped the stockings out of Foxy’s hand and wound them into a ball.

‘No. What the deuce are you playing at? It is a dangerous enough game. I need to know exactly where the goods come from and go to.’ He stuffed the stockings into his pocket.
‘As long as everything comes here, and goes through me, I can keep my eye on it. There’s no profit in nonsense like hose or kerchiefs. You get a decent cut that way for your trouble. If
there starts to be a racket where every Tomfool and Harry are stealing for themselves, then I can’t promise I’ll be paying wages in the future. One mistake and it could be traced back
to me. Any scent of that and our business is done. We don’t want to end up in the Whit for the sake of a silk stocking now, do we?’