The Gilded Lily (5 page)

‘Sow,’ Ella muttered under her breath.

Madame Lefevre disappeared into the upper room, where she received the gentlemen for their fittings, talking now in a singsong, in what Sadie had nicknamed her ‘parlour voice’. Sadie
heard a man’s voice greeting her with her proper name, Widow Lefevre, which he pronounced in the English way as ‘le fever’ and not in the French way. The girls themselves called
her Old Feverface when she was out of hearing. Widowed when her French wigmaker husband had been trampled by a horse, she had continued his business with the grim air of someone determined to prove
she could run the business better than he ever could. And now that the fashion was for ever more opulent wigs, she was making a good living. She never dressed in anything but black, her flapping
skirts and shoulder cape reminiscent of a nun, keeping order over about ten young girls, heads bowed over their wig blocks as if in prayer in the dingy back room of her workshop.

Whilst Madame Lefevre was occupied with the customer, the girls took their chance to chatter amongst themselves in low whispers. Corey Johnson was always the first to start a conversation. She
was a short fair girl, broad-boned with a pugnacious face and stubby capable fingers, and amongst the girls she was the one who had worked there the longest.

‘Buckingham’s up to his old tricks,’ Corey said, pushing her cap back behind her ears. ‘My mam heard it down the flea-market.’

‘What?’ Ella asked.

‘The Duke of Buckingham. His new club. It’s called the Wits – all the well-to-do gents are in it, but they’ve caused no end of a ruckus in the Pelican Coffee House. They
got well leathered and kidnapped one of the serving maids. One of the dandies stole her clothes and made her wear his. They found her later wandering the streets, wearing only a man’s
breeches. Raving, she was.’

Sadie shook her head, it sounded a far-fetched tale to her. ‘What will happen to them?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, won’t someone go after them, these Wits, or whatever they’re called?’

The other girls laughed. ‘Them? No, you goose. Nothing’ll happen to them.’ Betsy giggled. ‘They’re friends of the king. And a right merry king he’s turned out
to be. No, there’s different rules for them and us, same as always. We had one of them in here once, just afore Yuletide I think it was. He’s one of the Wits now, Lord Buckhurst. You
never saw such fancy clothes in all your life.’

‘What sort of fancy clothes?’ Ella asked.

‘Pale tabby satin suit with real gold embroidery. It even had little red poppies fashioned on the pockets, with scarlet buttons,’ Betsy said. ‘And his cuffs were made of acres
of Brussels lace, and shoes with diamond buckles. I’m not jesting, each of the diamonds must have been the size of a knuckle.’

‘And I was putting away the pattern book when he came in, and Old Feverface’s jaw nearly hit the ground when she saw him,’ Alyson said.

‘You’re making it up. Who’s up there with her now?’ Ella said.

‘Don’t know. Didn’t recognize his voice. Can you see?’ Corey leaned over her bench to look.

Sadie watched Ella peer up the stairs to where Madame Lefevre seated the gentlemen in a big chair. Usually the girls could not see anything, because there was always a heavy mustard-coloured
curtain dragged across the doorway – whether to shield the customers’ privacy, or just because the front room was Madame Lefevre’s exclusive territory, she did not know. Or
perhaps it was because of the steam and stink in the wig room below – the smell of unwashed horsehair, sheep’s wool and the greasy locks of the nuns. The best wigs were made of imported
hair shorn from the heads of Italian nuns. It made Sadie shiver to touch the hair shorn from those poor Italian girls.

But today the curtain was left open by mistake.

As a child Ella had always loved to peer through keyholes, over fences and in through back doors. She could never resist looking where she was not supposed to look. Unlike
Sadie, Ella had noticed the curtain straight away, and leaning backwards on her stool she had a clear view of a shaven-headed man sitting in the wing chair.

He had probably just come from the barber’s next door, Ella thought, for his head was smooth as an ivory ball, and his cheeks, pink and shining, showed not even a sign or shadow of a
beard. He had a long aquiline nose and expressive dark eyebrows. She looked him over, to see if he was dressed like the man Betsy had just been telling them about. It was an incongruous sight, a
young man in fine navy silk breeches and flowing shirt, all flounced lace and ribbons below, but topped by an impossibly small head. Ella could not resist a smile as she watched Madame Lefevre
stretch the measuring tape around his naked temples and chalk the numbers onto a slate. Madame Lefevre treated everything as if it was her personal enemy – her lips pursed in concentration,
she splintered the chalk as she stabbed down the figures.

Whilst she was writing, the man caught Ella staring at him, and without moving his head or changing his expression, he slowly raised his eyebrows. She fixed her eyes back on her wig stand,
annoyed to have been caught looking. She threaded a hair into the hook and dug it under the mesh again, pulling a few more strands of the dark hair through before she dared to look up again. He was
still staring at her, like a hawk fixes its prey. She felt herself blush as their eyes met. He kept glancing at her, keeping his head still as Madame Lefevre fussed around him, measuring across the
top of his head. She pretended to be working, all the time conscious of his eyes watching her. Eventually she dared a small smile. Madame Lefevre, sensing there was something going on she had not
sanctioned, glared at Ella, grabbed hold of the curtain and yanked it shut.

Now she was out of Madame Lefevre’s view, Ella stretched her back and circled her shoulders, which were stiff from hunching over the wig stand. She glanced at Sadie, who was still
industriously knotting. The room grew darker, the day’s sunlight had passed the two small windows and they were shadowed by the building opposite. None of the girls would have the welcome
squares of light from the windows over their workspace now. Madame Lefevre was stingy with the rushlights, waiting until nightfall before handing them out one at a time. Each day as evening came,
they had to bend closer to the work, straining to see the minute filaments of tulle and hair.

Ella saw Sadie gingerly feeling the back of her neck, and mouthed at her, ‘Does it hurt?’

Sadie shook her head.

‘Let’s look.’ She stood up and went over. Sadie’s brown hair hung over one side of her face as usual.

The other girls crept over too, full of ghoulish curiosity.

‘Move your hair, so’s we can see,’ Corey said.

‘No,’ Sadie said, but she tilted her head forward to expose her neck.

‘That looks nearly as sore as what she gave Kitty Hazlitt,’ Corey said, ‘but not as bad as the time she caught—’

Suddenly the mustard curtain was hauled aside again and the girls scurried back to their places and bent over their work. The man ducked under the lintel and came down the few steps into the
room, immediately followed by Madame Lefevre pecking at his heel. From a sidelong glance Ella saw that he was sporting a simple dark tied wig, and that his head now appeared to be of normal
proportions. He was fingering the brim of his hat and looking at her again.

Madame Lefevre was obviously uncomfortable with the visitor’s venture into the back room.

‘There’s not a deal to see, Mr Whitgift,’ she said, ‘the girls are only just beginning this week’s orders. If you would care to return to the parlour I will show
you some of the finished periwigs.’

He picked up a hook from the bench, juggling it in his fingers.

‘But I like to see how they are made. I enjoy good craftsmanship.’ He flashed Madame Lefevre a smile that showed surprisingly white teeth. ‘Does each girl take on the whole
article, from start to finish?’

‘Usually yes, though for ladies’ styles there are two Frenchmen who come in to curl the wigs on a Friday. Gentlemen’s styles are not so difficult and can be styled by my good
self. But the girls do all the knotting. Never fear though, sir, I have hand-picked them for their skill.’

‘Well, in that case, I would like this girl to make mine.’ He waved his hand at Ella. She was mortified and felt her face grow hot and red.

Madame Lefevre’s mouth fell open, before she clamped it shut again.

‘Sir, I am sure we are most flattered, but this girl is new, her training is not yet complete – O’Malley over there is a more experienced knotter, she does a very neat
job.’ Pegeen lowered her head as if she wanted to disappear into the pile of black horsehair on the bench.

‘No, I have made up my mind. I want this girl to make it.’ He gave Ella a dazzling smile. Ella saw Madame Lefevre’s eyes on her and kept her expression stony.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘she will weave it beautifully, I can see it.’

Ella bobbed deferentially. Mr Whitgift seemed amused by this coyness and tried to smother a smile.

Madame Lefevre pursed her lips. ‘Very well, sir. Her sister can help her. Are you listening?’ Sadie tilted her head from under her hair. ‘Now then, please follow me through to
the parlour and we will look at a few styles in the book. Buckingham sports side curls now and all the gentlemen want them.’ Madame Lefevre guided him back to the curtain like a bad-tempered
collie rounding up a stray sheep. She herded him back upstairs, threw Ella a malevolent glance over her shoulder and whipped the curtain shut.

‘Who is he?’ whispered Ella to Corey, who was known to be a storehouse of names and faces, having lived in London all her life. Most of the other girls were incomers – Irish or
Dutch.

‘Josiah Whitgift, son of Walt Whitgift, the pawnbroker down by Broken Wharf. People call him Jay, you know, like the bird.’

Ella strained her ears to hear what might be going on upstairs, but the voices were muffled and indistinct. She swallowed, unease settled on her shoulders like a cloak. Her knotting was clumsy
and she knew it. She caught Sadie’s eye and Sadie shook her head. And this Mr Whitgift – he was well-to-do. You only had to look at his clothes to see that. She had been too rash, she
should not have been so brazen as to exchange glances with him. Madame Lefevre would be on her back all the time now with her eagle eye. And clearly the gentleman would expect something in return.
She did not want to be beholden to anyone. She knew well enough men like that only single you out for one thing.

Ella turned back to Corey and hissed, ‘Are you sure he’s a pawnbroker’s son? He doesn’t look or sound like one. Too flash.’

‘His pa’s shop is the grandest in London. It’s nearly as wide as the Thames.’ Sadie and the rest of the girls leaned in to hear Corey’s conspiratorial whisper.
‘It’s not supposed to be a pop shop, just a second-hand shop, but we all know it as the pop shop. They say if a lord gets burgled or set upon by a highway thief, there’s only one
place he should look for his missing watch – Walt Whitgift’s.’

‘Is he a rogue then?’ Sadie said, with a worried frown.

‘I’m not saying that. Walt Whitgift’s got a reputation for being straight as an arrow, see. But there’s always rumours about
him
.’ She wagged her head in the
direction of the curtain.

Corey opened her mouth to continue, but buttoned up again as Madame Lefevre appeared like a bitter gust of wind through the curtain.

‘You.’ Madame Lefevre clawed Ella’s arm with her gloved fingers and hoisted her to a standing position. ‘What did you say to him?’

Ella remained silent, her face unmoving, eyes staring ahead like a wax doll. Madame Lefevre started to shake her.

‘She didn’t say a thing, Madame Lefevre,’ said Sadie. ‘Nobody did.’

Madame Lefevre pursed her lips into a round, hard hole and thrust Ella back down onto her stool.

‘Get those fat fingers moving. He wants the wig Wednesday week.’

She did not respond, and Madame Lefevre moved around to the front of the bench and brought her face up close. She addressed the top of her head as if she would spit on it.

‘Did you hear me?’

Ella closed her nose against the sickly sweet odour of Madame Lefevre’s breath and gave a barely perceptible nod. Her eyes stayed downcast, watching a flea appear and disappear between the
sprouting hairs on the work in front of her.

‘And you –’ Madame Lefevre’s eyes alighted on Sadie – ‘I can’t have dead wood cluttering my shop. I’ve got my reputation to think of.
There’s plenty more out of work and looking. It’s got to be right, or she’ll be out. Make sure she ties it neat and proper.’

‘Oh, she will, madame – it’ll be as fine as any wig in London, ain’t that right, Ella?’

Sadie looked to her in appeal. Ella lowered her eyes guiltily. Half of her wanted to placate Sadie and avoid trouble by becoming a model worker overnight, to surprise them all by making a
perfect wig, but the other half of her wanted to spite Madame Lefevre and the world in general by refusing to lift a single finger to the task. She heard Sadie give a small sigh, and knew that her
sister had understood all of this without a word being exchanged between them. Her guilty feeling increased all the more.

‘He’ll be back Friday for a fitting and he wants you there.’ Ella flinched as the words were accompanied by a sharp dig in the back. ‘Lord knows why. Or in your case
– the Devil knows why. This is your last chance.’

Ella slowly and deliberately picked up the hook and separated a hair very carefully from the foul-smelling heap by her elbow. She relished the slowness of her movements because she knew it was
guaranteed to goad Madame Lefevre all the more. She enjoyed the feeling of everyone’s eyes upon her, it gave her a sense of power to have all their attention. She drew the hair inchmeal
through the mesh. It was almost with satisfaction that she felt the thwack of the measuring tape sting the back of her neck. She did not falter but continued the slow pulling of the hair. Shortly
afterwards she heard the tap-tap of Madame Lefevre’s wooden heels as she swept away into her private quarters, followed by the slam and rattle of her door.