The Gilded Lily (37 page)

‘Same price then, if you want them tidied up afterwards. And what are we bringing?’ asked the shorter man, setting off towards the gate.

‘Two pair of silver-mounted ladies’ pistols. Don’t leave Wolfenden’s without them.’ Jay’s voice was faint now as they traversed the yard.

The men walked to the gate, where he saw them have a few more words before the watchman locked up, and Jay walked back towards his chambers, glancing once more at the window where Tindall ducked
out of sight.

Tindall lay down in front of the greying embers, blew on them a little to bring back the glow. What sort of transaction was that, then? His instinct told him it was some scurvy business Jay did
not want his father to know about, so he was even more determined to get to the bottom of it. Jay Whitgift had always been a two-faced weasel, even when he was small. But poor Walt couldn’t
see it; Tindall was always astonished that his friend thought Apollo himself rose in his son’s eyes. Even now, despite Walt’s outward huffing and puffing about Jay and the blasted
Gilded Lily, Tindall could see the ridiculous light of pride in Walt’s expression whenever he talked of it.

But just last week, the perruquier from Friday Street had been over asking for Jay. She said she had reason to believe Jay had hired a young girl who had robbed and killed her employer. Well,
that would not surprise him one jot. She said Jay had sent her away, telling her the girl had been dismissed. But Tindall was not so sure; the woman in the Lily, Miss Johnson, she had that country
look, not grey like those raised in the smut of the city. He’d like to find out more about her background. He knew that, like everything about Jay Whitgift, the Gilded Lily would have two
sides to it – like Gemini, the sign Jay was born under. One side all sunshine and light, and the other – well, Tindall meant to find out all about the other. He owed it to Walt.

Titus Ibbetson did not approve of the rough banter in the bar of the Blue Ball, so now he and Isobel sat in their chilly upstairs chamber, forgoing the warmth of the fire,
whilst they planned what to do next. Willetts the maid sat in a corner, hemming one of Isobel’s black crepe shawls.

‘Can you believe it, the wigmaker was no help at all!’ Titus shook his head.

‘It beggars belief. After you told her what they’d done.’ Isobel leaned forward in her black wool mourning-gown. ‘And what about their father? He showed no interest at
all. You would think a father would have wanted to know what had befallen his daughters, wouldn’t you?’

‘That sort’ll do anything for money. He wouldn’t have told me a thing, had I not rattled my purse at him. It’s hard to fathom it – he said the elder one had been
living in with Thomas for a month or more. She brought a few coppers out of her wages home every week to make sure the sister was provided for. The sister must have been a bit simple. Didn’t
go out much. And no wonder, with that great red stain all over her face.’ He sighed. ‘But Appleby would say no more, even for another half-shilling, so I guess we will have to rely on
the wigmaker for help with our enquiries. Straight after, I sent the constable round to arrest the father anyway. He knows more than he’s telling, and maybe a spell without a drink will
loosen his tongue.’

‘What next?’

‘Constable tells me a few more girls have been brought in to Newgate Gaol. I expect I shall have to go and look them over.’ He sighed. ‘God above, the whole task is so
wearisome, what with the stench and the noise.’

‘Perhaps we should go back home. It’s been a bootless state of affairs, and you are wearing yourself thin with the worry of it.’

Titus flapped his hand at her, dismissing the idea. ‘Hogwash. I shall go over to the gaol in the morning.’

‘And what will I do?’

‘You may accompany me in the carriage. Do not fret, you need not come inside.’

‘But if you do not really need my assistance, surely it would be better if I went back to Shrewsbury and made sure our house is in order. We have been away too long, and the smoke in this
tavern is making me ill.’

Titus frowned. Isobel was always complaining about something. ‘It will not be for much longer. I need you here. A wife’s duty is to be with her husband. Have patience. The notices
will turn them up sooner or later, London is full of grasping beggars looking to get rich. They’d hand over their own mother for a groat, most of them.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t make me shout.’

Willetts looked up briefly, but Titus’s look made her bow her head, and prick her thumb with the needle.

Scratch, scratch.

There it was again. Sadie turned but couldn’t see anything. She carried on with what she was doing, rolling out the last of the oatmeal to make clapbread. A few moments later she saw it
– a little brown mouse. It pattered across the floor and rested under the inkblot shadow of a stool. She held herself very still. Perhaps if she was quiet enough she would be able to watch it
a while.

The mouse washed its whiskers unconcerned. Sadie hunkered down, lowering herself to the floor, and as she did so the mouse stopped what it was doing and fixed her with its shiny bead-like eyes.
Sadie returned the gaze. The mouse was beautiful. Its coat was a soft velvety brown like the inside of a mushroom, and its little sides vibrated under the fur. Such a fast-beating tiny heart, she
thought. After looking back at her for a while, it cocked its head then made a skittish dash for the stray oats under the table before returning to its place under the stool.

‘Hello, little fellow,’ whispered Sadie. ‘Are you hungry?’

The mouse watched her steadily as it nibbled at the oats, its tail sticking straight out behind, its half-moon ears quivering.

‘’Tis cold out. Bet that’s why you’ve come indoors, hey?’

She held out a bit of the oatmeal in her floury hand.

‘Come on now,’ she said, ‘don’t be scared.’ She reached a bit further, but her arm knocked the table and the rolling pin fell off and clattered to the ground. The
mouse zigzagged away in a flash and disappeared into a small knothole in the wooden floor.

Sadie tiptoed over, put her eye to the dark hole, but the mouse was gone. She had enjoyed their small moment together, fancied that in their wordless conversation the mouse had understood
something of what she was saying.

‘You daft beggar,’ she told herself. She knew well enough that mice were vermin. Back in Westmorland she’d have chased it out with a besom. But here she could not help
remembering the story of the Ash Maid, where the little mice became footmen and a fairy godmother came along to say, ‘You shall go to the ball.’

She pictured Ella in her green and gold, but she did not want to look like Ella. Ella used to be all soft curves, rosy-cheeked, her hair an unruly mass down her back. Now she was all hard edges
and frowns. She closed her eyes and imagined herself dancing in a beautiful flowing gown, and when she looked up it was Dennis’s face smiling down at her.

If only she could be transformed, like the Ash Maid. She went to the jug and looked in at the pot of whitening cream she had hidden there out of sight. She picked it out and held its weight in
her palm. Her hands were cold, so she blew on them a little before she untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. She fetched the mirror over and tentatively dipped a fingertip into the paste. Bringing
it to her nose, she inhaled, smelling the whiff of grease and tang of metal. After waiting a while and seeing that her finger did not itch or burn, she spread a little on the back of her hand.
Still nothing. Should she use it? What would Dennis think of her when her face was all white? She didn’t want him to think she was loose. But without it she would never be able to go out. Her
stomach fluttered with nerves. There had been no visit from Dennis, not since he had been up to tell her they must leave because of the noise. Trust Ella to forget to tell her he had gone away. And
she let her think he had fallen out of sorts with her. Curse Ella.

Her sister’s sharp words came back to her. Ella was right. She was afraid of not having the birthmark any more. She’d had it her whole life. The stain gave her a reason to hang back,
a reason to hide, to stay in the shadows whilst others stepped forward.

She stood up and went to the window, pondering. Hadn’t she always hated being singled out? But now she was unsure. It was complicated. On the one hand she loathed the stares and the
name-calling, but how would it feel if no one gave her a second glance? Who would she be without it? She had heard of players who, once they had the greasepaint on, were afraid to go on the stage.
Stage fright, they called it. Except for her the whole world felt like a stage. She sighed, went back and sat at the table, turned the mirror face down, pushed the pot away. Then she leaned forward
across the table and buried her head in the crook of her arms.

It had not taken long for Ella to feel settled living in at the Gilded Lily. She loved to draw the tapestry curtains when business was done and then to take the embers on a
shovel from the downstairs fire and put them into her own hearth. Any candles in the chandelier that were not burnt as low as the others, she took those upstairs too, and lined them up on the table
so she could see to wash and powder her face before sliding into bed. But then she left them burning all night, to cast away the shadows in the room.

Her reputation as a beauty soon spread, and she revelled in it. She could scarce believe it – fashionable ladies exchanged her secrets, her opinion on powder and paint was sought out and
whispered at elegant soirees. Sometimes, when they asked her advice, she told them nonsense just for the spite of it. Just last week she had told two ladies that they should wash in the urine of
puppies to improve their complexion. She watched their eyes widen and, nodding sagely all the time, she watched them whisper together as they left. Chuckling to herself, she knew they would be onto
their servants straight away to see if there were any nursing bitches to be found. Afterwards, the thought of it made her laugh until her ribs ached and she had to press her stays with her
hands.

She loved the new hours. She had always been a night creature, and she found working in the evenings exciting. The atmosphere was livelier – more young ladies in fashionable silks and
velvets with sparkling jewels, and not so many old dowds with moustaches.

The morning girl was a vivacious brunette called Polly, but she had a sharp face and eyes that seemed to be set a bit too close together. Ella had made a quick assessment and deemed her to be
less pretty than herself, and from then on had treated her the way she treated Meg.

Polly was younger than Ella, and a little in awe of her, which suited Ella well. The coachmen had begun to hang round the door of the Lily trying to catch a glimpse of them both, and she found
it flattering, but also, she thought, no more than she deserved. And besides, she had no interest in coachmen, she had bigger fish to fry.

Of course she had not sent for her things from the Gowpers’, because she knew it would only upset Sadie, and besides, their possessions were mean enough, and would be more so divided thus.
She bought what she required from Whitgift’s on sale day. But she had been back to Blackraven Alley several times, taking provisions, and to take out the slops. Sadie looked even more
down-at-heel now that Ella was not there and that daft Dennis was away. Stupid, stubborn girl. She still had not got used to the idea of the lock, could not see it was for her own good. Last time
Ella went, she refused to speak to her, so Ella had to satisfy herself by leaving the basket on the table.

One day Meg came to tell her Dennis was at the door of the Lily, asking for her. She panicked, thinking he must have been home and seen the lock, talked to Sadie. Reluctantly, she went to the
door, her open fan before her face like a fence between them, but she was surprised to hear him say, ‘You owe me. Tindall’s just told me you’re living in. You should’ve told
us.’

‘Yes, I’m working more hours now,’ she said guardedly, wagging the fan.

‘Why did you not tell me? You should’ve given Ma more notice,’ Dennis went on. ‘It’s not good to leave an empty house, and we’ll have trouble finding some
more tenants now. And Ma’s been taken right bad, taken a turn for the worse, that’s why I’ve not been over for the rent. The air in Epping’s better for her cough. I’ve
not had chance to get back home, only come back to sort things out with the gaffer.’ Ella exhaled with relief. So he had not been home.

‘Oh, we need the room yet,’ Ella said. ‘My sister’s still living there. She can’t go out you see – well, you know why not.’ Ella closed the fan, and
looked round behind her in case anyone should be within earshot.

‘Are you telling me Sadie’s still living upstairs all by herself?’

‘Yes. Well, not exactly. I go there every day, make sure she’s got everything she needs.’

‘She was there all last week? On her own?’

‘Well, I call every day.’

Dennis pursed his lips and frowned. ‘It must be mighty dull, cooped up there alone all day.’

Ella bristled. ‘Better than being swung on the end of a rope. Anyways, I go there every morning to keep her company, and I took her some knitting to do.’