Burnt Norton (22 page)

‘I’ve brought provisions,’ the parson’s wife offered kindly. ‘Let me know if you’re hungry.’ Molly smiled and thanked them, but the governess avoided her eyes, staring resolutely out of the window.

After a few miles the clerk tried to engage her in conversation. ‘Are you on a long journey?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’m to London to meet my husband.’ She had no patience for young men and their flattery.

The horses were changed at Chipping Norton, and at just before midnight they arrived at the Angel on the High Street in Oxford. She retired immediately to bed. When she stepped outside the following morning, she was shocked by the traffic. Carriages, stagecoaches, men on horseback and pedestrians filled the streets. There were shops and street markets, stables and coaching inns, and not least the colleges.

Of course her thoughts were of Thomas. She remembered him leaning over her in the library, the engravings open on the table in front of him.

At nine o’clock she climbed into the coach once more. They were crossing Magdalen Bridge when the sky opened into a violent summer storm. With thunder and lightning crashing around them, the startled horses refused to move.

‘It’s no use,’ the coachman said, climbing down. ‘If you’re in a hurry, try the Mitre or the Greyhound in Longwall Street. The Flying Coach might leave, but my horses aren’t going anywhere. You can walk back to the Angel or wait till it’s done.’ Climbing back onto the box he erected an oilcloth and huddled inside, leaving his passengers to decide for themselves.

Molly listened to the deluge subside, then tied on her bonnet and ventured out. She found University College easily. From the entrance lodge she could see into the quadrangle beyond. Now she could truly imagine Thomas going about his day.

On her return to the coach, the journey resumed immediately. She had just settled into the motion of the carriage when she saw Thomas from the window. In his beauty and casual elegance he stood out amongst his peers. He walked with a new confidence, and though her heart leapt, she felt the depth of the gulf between them. Still she put up her hand to wave.

He didn’t see her at first, but when the coach passed him he stopped. For a second there was confusion in his eyes. Then he laughed in disbelief and jogged to catch up with his friends.

After what seemed an endless journey through unfamiliar countryside and impossible roads, the coach finally reached London. It was early afternoon on the fourth day, and Molly had her first glimpse of the city. Oxford was a village by comparison.

A young attorney, Robin Hart, had joined the coach at its previous stop and proved a useful guide. He pulled down the window as they neared the city’s centre and pointed to Tyburn, the infamous Triple Tree, where public hangings were held. ‘The children are the biggest draw,’ he said. ‘And on those days the crowds are enormous. The rich book their seats in advance.’

‘That’s quite enough,’ Molly said.

‘Have mercy on their souls,’ the vicar’s wife whispered, clutching her husband’s arm. Leaving Tyburn they saw the new tree-lined avenues, squares and gardens that were replacing the buildings destroyed in the Great Fire. He showed them Grosvenor Square, where most of the nobility of London owned houses. As Molly leant from the window, she felt the energy of the city. Builders and stonemasons swarmed over half-built houses, and gardens were laid out where once there had been fields. Flower girls, boot-black boys and milk girls all traded in the crowded streets.

‘Watch the milk girls; they skim the milk, adding chalk and dirty water,’ he told Molly.

‘Thank you. I’ll remember that,’ she replied, concerned for the baby growing inside her.

Highly decorated sedan chairs wove through the traffic, and grand carriages bowled along the streets impervious to pedestrians. At Tottenham Court Road, they stopped. Molly had reached her destination.

It was easy to get lost in a city where the houses converged on the first floor and sewage swamped the gutters. It was easy to pity the children who ran through the waste in tattered rags. But Molly could not afford distraction. According to her instructions she headed east, and when she came to the bottom of Chancery Lane, she crossed Temple Bar to her final destination.

‘Please, can you direct me to number nine Pump Court?’ she asked the porter.

‘Yes, miss. Follow me.’

In a matter of minutes, she was standing inside the private rooms of the solicitor engaged by Dorothy. Mr Skarm confirmed the details of the arrangements. She would receive money every month for the next three months. Once the baby had arrived and was safely installed in the Foundling Hospital, she would receive the final settlement.

‘The living expenses provided are not large, Miss Johnson; I suggest you find a temporary position to supplement your income. For your confinement, a midwife will be arranged.’

As she listened to Mr Skarm, Molly reflected that this new life had been determined for her by Dorothy Keyt. Once again she was bought and sold.

Mr Skarm stood, signalling the meeting’s end. ‘Oh, one more thing, Miss Johnson. The temporary hospital has opened in Hatton Garden. You may consider it beneficial to present yourself to Captain Coram before the birth. My clerk will show you out.’

She took a room in the Old Cock Tavern on Fleet Street, a narrow, half-timbered Tudor building with leaded windows and crooked walls. She ate in the public rooms and listened to the conversations around her. Regional dialects mingled with strange accents, coming from seamen and tailors, silk weavers and patten makers, all with tales of hardship and fortitude. When she had finished her meal, she climbed the twisting stairs to her room. Standing at the window, she saw London spread out before her. The city enhanced her isolation; she had never felt so alone.

At that moment, even the thought of the child growing inside her could not sustain her. Taking her cloak she went back down the stairs and into the streets. The open air was a relief; even the vile-smelling streets were better than being cooped up inside. She was aware of the risk, but she no longer cared. Within minutes she was lost in a maze of alleys, surrounded by filth and degradation. Beggars accosted her, children followed her. She tried to turn back, but exhaustion blinded her, and one foul gutter ran into the next.

‘Miss, spare a penny for a blind child?’ She turned to find a small boy tugging at her sleeve. His tattered clothes hung from his body, and his face was covered with sores. Looking in her pocket, she took out her purse. ‘Buy yourself some food,’ she said, pressing a coin into his hand. Before she’d put the purse away she was surrounded. Boys of all ages charged towards her. Pushing her to the ground they grabbed her purse and ran off. Molly remained on her knees in the gutter. She could hear their laughter as they disappeared into the dark, polluted alleys. When she struggled to her feet, she smelt urine on her dress.

Molly ran, but she had nowhere to go; she had no money, she had nothing. Sinking down in a doorway she covered her head with her hands and wept. She slept there, and as dawn broke, with her filthy dress and dishevelled hair, she looked no different from any pauper begging on the streets. When a man tossed her a penny, she looked up dully. Then she thanked him and tucked it in her pocket.

She drank water from the spout, and when the hunger gnawed her belly, she used her penny to buy some bread. Her child turned inside her; she worried, would it be enough?

I must get back, she thought, heading down an alley that led into another that looked just the same. Ten minutes later she was back where she started. Crying with frustration, she asked a passer-by how she could get to the Old Cock. He looked her up and down and offered her a shilling for her services. Mortified, she hurried on.

She noticed three balls hanging above a doorway. She entered the pawn shop and waited while an old man came to the counter. ‘Selling or buying?’ he asked, his wrinkled face smiling.

‘I’ve nothing to sell, sir,’ she replied. ‘I’ve lost my way, and I need to find the Strand.’

‘You’ve ended up in the wrong place, but everyone gets lost here.’

Following his directions carefully, she left the last alley behind her. As she broke out of the darkness, she found herself in a wide street with shops and coffee houses. When she arrived at the Old Cock Tavern, her bag was in the store.

‘So you’re back,’ the landlord said, eyeing her suspiciously. ‘There’s a pump outside. You can change in the privy, but you won’t get the bag back until the bill is paid.’

Molly waited in the hall of the solicitor’s offices. When Mr Skarm called her in, she explained her predicament and asked for his assistance. He listened with patience. ‘I will give you an advance, but you will have to earn it. My wife mentioned her seamstress had lost an assistant. Can you sew?’

‘I can, sir.’

‘Well then, you may collect the money from my assistant, and come to my chambers later this morning, wearing, I suggest, a wedding ring. I’ll have an address for you.’ Over the next two hours, Molly went to a coffee house and ate hungrily. Revived and in clean clothes, she felt hopeful. She purchased a ring from a pawn shop in Hatton Garden, the cheapest she could find, and as she slipped it on her finger, for the briefest moment she thought of Thomas.

After collecting the address of the Misses Hogarth, two sisters living in Covent Garden, Molly resolved to find them. Avoiding the back streets, she took the long way around and found the house easily. Crossing Covent Garden, she reached James Street. Number five was a gracious house of good size. White stucco pillars adorned the front, and a neat iron staircase led to the basement. She walked down the steps, straightened her dress, and knocked on the door.

‘Can I help you?’ A young maid opened the door.

‘Thank you, I have an appointment.’ Molly waited in the small hallway amongst the silks, the muslins and the dressmaker’s dummies, and the prospect of a future here excited her. She would make dresses for the wealthy, and she determined that in the years to come, she would save enough to reclaim her child.

The interview lasted an hour, but it passed with the natural ease of a social occasion in the company of good friends. In a surge of delightful chatter, the Misses Hogarth told her about their lives; instead of questioning her, they chose to reassure her. ‘Well, dear, I am Miss Mary, and my sister here is Miss Anne. As you can see, we remain unmarried, much to the dismay of our brother.’ The sisters laughed, the most infectious, kind laugh, and Molly almost wept with relief.

‘Poor dear, such a long journey you’ve had!’ Miss Mary said. ‘You must be exhausted. My sister will make you some tea.’

‘Of course, how rude of me. Your husband would think my manners atrocious.’

Whether they believed her or not, they chose to acknowledge her status as a married woman. It was not mentioned again.

When they told her their brother was William Hogarth, a distinguished artist and one of the founding governors of the Foundling Hospital, Molly’s composure was shaken, but as they went on, unaware of her future connections with the Foundling Hospital, she regained her self-control.

‘He lives by his conscience, and much of his work depicts the vice and cruelty within our very streets. He wishes to expose the darker side of humanity; I believe he would change the world if he could. Oh, would you like a muffin, dear? And one of my sister’s special tarts? Am I boring you, Mrs Johnson?’

‘Of course not,’ she replied, honestly, for Miss Mary and Miss Anne Hogarth were willing to give her a chance. ‘And I would love a tart, please.’

Gradually, as her confidence grew, she asked them questions, and with great enthusiasm they told her about the position available in their small but reputable business. They explained about London, the pitfalls and the benefits, and when with considerable tact she led them on to the Foundling Hospital, they were able to enlighten her. She learnt about the uniforms designed by their brother: dresses with stiffened bodices for the girls, and jackets and breeches for boys. She tried to imagine what her own child might look like, wearing them.

When she left the Hogarths, she had a job and a future.

The summer of 1741 was one of the hottest on record. London sweltered in the fetid heat, ravaged by sickness and disease. Molly struggled to work each morning.

When she arrived at James Street, she entered an oasis of tranquillity. She worked hard, and her employers rewarded her accordingly. They taught her with generosity, imparting their knowledge and their secrets until she became accomplished in the dressmaker’s art.

‘Such beautiful stitching,’ Miss Anne admired. ‘I can no longer sew those tiny pearls; it’s my eyes, I’m afraid.’

That week Molly was assigned her first appointment.

Mrs Carmichael was pregnant like herself, and as Molly pinned her loose-fitting gown, she forgot her own circumstances while she gossiped and laughed with a woman of a similar age. Only later, as she stitched the silk of the peacock-blue mantua, would she reflect on the differences between them.

With the gown successfully completed, and a satisfied customer singing her praises, Molly was offered an important commission. It was a wedding gown for a valued and long-standing client.

‘My sister and I feel that you are quite capable of making the dress,’ Miss Anne Hogarth said, taking her hand, and smiling happily. ‘We have watched you carefully, and the standard of your work is exceptional.’

‘Thank you, miss. I will not let you down,’ she said.

When they told her the name of the client, Molly felt the force of the past catching up with her.

‘The Keyts are marked with tragedy. They had been on the way to London when the accident happened. We had a fitting booked for Miss Elizabeth’s presentation dress. To this day it hurts my heart to think of it, and now poor Miss Elizabeth is dead, God rest her soul.’ She paused, unaware of Molly’s distress. ‘I used to make dresses that showed her figure. Mary, do you remember the blue dress with the gold thread? There was another for Lady Keyt, so pretty, mint green with Brussels lace.’