The Penny Heart (45 page)

‘No,’ I whispered, almost falling insensibly, my limbs weak.

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘The London mail goes in half an hour. You could be on it.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ My voice rose in panic.

‘Go somewhere no one will find you. Change your name. Make a new life. Don’t for God’s sake let yourself be taken by the Justices. I will take care of everything.’

In such a state I could not resist her. While I was near to collapse she was clear-headed, firm and commanding – so I did as I was told. I rushed upstairs at once. I cast off my bloodstained dress and pulled on the first other gown I found. Though I tried to rinse my trembling hands, I could not rid myself of the tacky rustiness of Michael’s blood. I threw a few items into my smallest trunk: my writing box, my paints and sketchbook and my heavy purse. Then I fled back downstairs in a frantic flurry. Peg was waiting in the hall. I made to return to the dining room, but she held me back. ‘He’s looking very bad. Go, so I can send for the doctor. Just to be sure.’

I scarcely knew which direction I faced, but she hustled me outside. The pony and trap were standing at the door, waiting. I had only those few possessions and the clothes on my body.

‘Hurry, mistress.’

‘Yes, yes, listen. I will write to you, Peg. You must tell me how – if, he recovers.’

‘I will, dear mistress. Now get away safe. You have been such a friend to me.’ We squeezed hands without restraint and I pulled her to my breast and embraced her like a sister. Then I picked up the reins and, scarcely knowing where I was going, I headed away down the drive.

26

Golden Square, London

Spring 1793

~ To Make Milk Curds ~

Take a gallon of skim-milk and scald in a pan, taking care not to boil it; then cool to the lukewarmness of new milk. Add a half-pound of sugar and teaspoonful of rennet to turn it; in one or two hours the milk will be curdled and ready.

As sold by street-women at a penny a glass in the London parks

My memories of that journey are jumbled shards: the hurtling progress southwards, my fretful dog-naps in the rocking coach; my horror at waking again and again to find my nightmare true. Michael, I told myself in disbelief, was dead. Panic seized me, as if all the ordered parts of my life had been torn up and cast to the four winds. The journey seemed infinitely long, and yet all too rapidly it ended. Looking out of the carriage glass I found myself amidst a great passage of people and carts and horses, communicating a queasy mix of unease and excitement, as if some general calamity had erupted. We had entered the great highway into London. I roused myself inside that sour-smelling coach, at a loss as to what to do next.

We halted on a hillside to change the horses, and I dismounted reluctantly, standing apart, eavesdropping on my fellow passengers’ discussion of the view. In the distance stood the River Thames like a ribbon cast down in a curl, passing the towered hulk of Westminster Abbey before running beneath Westminster Bridge. Above the maze of buildings, hundreds of church spires spiked the sky, piercing the sooty smoke that rose from a thousand chimneys. I had never before been to London. What did I know of the city, save that it was a monstrous home of lords and rogues? I had Peter’s address, of course, and my invitation to join him on New Year’s Eve. Yet now my every instinct rebelled against seeking out the Croxons. There would be questions, inquiries, recriminations. What I longed for was what Peg had advised – a spell of peace – to lose myself, if I could, in the anonymous metropolis.

At last I had a notion. There was a woman, a Miss Le Toye, from whom I had for many years ordered art stuffs. I did not even need her trade card to remember her address. Once the coach finally set me down, in the hubbub of an inn’s yard, I gave her address to a hackney driver. ‘The Golden Ball, Windmill Street, Golden Square,’ I said firmly, and to my relief the driver grunted and took up the reins.

The hackney crawled forward, weaving around barrows, before slamming to a halt before a herd of horned beasts being smacked on their wobbling haunches by smocked countrymen. I stared at the battery of signs hung upon buildings:
Laceman and Draper
,
Tea Dealer & Grocer
,
Goldsmith
,
Jeweller and Toymaker
. Coffeehouses, tavern signs, shop signs – there was no end to the celebration of commerce. My eye lit upon a shop titled, ‘Elvira Frankland & Sister, Milliners’, and in that moment I followed Peg’s advice and chose my new identity.

Set down outside Miss Le Toye’s glass-fronted colour shop, even the smell of London streets was unfamiliar: a throat-catching mingling of bitter smoke and foul gutters, enriched with the stink of horses. Gathering my courage, I entered and found a long room painted very pale and pretty, set about with gilded candles and brimming shelves of paint stuffs, colours, and delightful prints. I introduced myself as Mrs Frankland, a widow of Lancaster. Then I opened my paint box and requested replacements for various paints that bore the label of her shop. Only when that business was over did I ask for a recommendation for genteel lodgings thereabouts. Miss Le Toye’s shrewd painter’s eyes assessed my fine but travel-worn clothes, and my exhausted face; she wrote an address on a paper and offered me a maid to show the way. That was how I found Mrs Huckle’s lodging house, at the better end of Glasshouse Street. It was an austere stone house, with double doors of heavy oak; softened by no garden, no trees, not even a window box of herbs.

Mrs Huckle was a coal merchant’s widow, who warily appraised me when I appeared on her doorstep. She enquired about my circumstances, and, weary as I was, I convinced her I was a widow visiting London to make certain arrangements following the death of my husband in a riding accident. She had one small room available that would cost five shillings a week, and I took it, for my purse, well-guarded beneath my petticoat, was thankfully heavy. We struck an agreement for breakfast to be served by her maid Sal, all coal and candles, and dinner downstairs with the other lodgers if I cared for it, at an addition of five pence per day.

My room had a good bright window overlooking Glasshouse Street, a table and chair by the fire, and a nun-like bed. Yet this meagre space was a sanctum I would not have swapped for a palace. It was never silent there, like the dust-drowned rooms at Delafosse. The creaks and bangings and coughs of my neighbours were an ever-present comfort.

For days I stayed in my room, see-sawing between mourning Michael’s death and a heady deliverance at my escape. A conversation overheard in the passage roused me; the mention that New Year’s Eve was to fall that evening, the holiday when the Croxons would be celebrating with John Francis. Pulling out my unposted letter, I re-read the self-assured lines I had written, scarcely able to credit that such high spirits had originated in my own mind.

To stop the ceaseless revolving of what might have been spinning around my head, I tidied myself up, pulling on my one creased and mud-spattered gown. For a long time I scrubbed my hands, but could not rid them of a scarlet tint and a disgusting tackiness. With much anxiety I went downstairs to meet Mrs Huckle’s other lodgers. Captain Macdonald was an upright, chivalrous old soldier with ruddy wrinkles and bushy white hair, who rose and kissed my hand. ‘Delighted, dear lady,’ he said, in a mild Scottish burr, making a deep bow. Sprightly and lean, I reckoned him to be fifty-five years at the least. Miss Cato, a twittery spinster of even greater years, nodded and simpered. The remaining lodgers did not dine, reduced by poverty to heating a few scraps at their own grates. Dinner was a thin indeterminate soup, bread and butter, fried fish, and gristly chops – which proved to be the full measure of Mrs Huckle’s generosity. This was served with a shrewish remark that she had expected to see me changed into mourning now I was unpacked. The captain winked at me from behind the landlady’s broad back, and we were only once again at ease once she had departed. Miss Cato and I sipped tea, while the captain produced his own flask of spirits.

‘Would you care for a game of cards to while away the hours until midnight?’ he asked. I did, for the flower-papered parlour was convivial, and I was heartily starved of good honest company. ‘The chops tonight might more profitably have been used to re-sole leather boots, wouldn’t you say, Mrs Frankland?’ the old man remarked drily, as he dealt me a hand. Miss Cato tittered, her head bent over a vast piece of knotting. The captain winked at me again, and politely allowed me to win. Two hours later, Miss Cato retired with a quaint little curtsey, and I sat on by the fireside, not disliking the gallant old gentleman’s company at all. He chatted about his time in Bengal, of his army days and the campaigns he had seen. He was blessed, he said, with a grant of half-pay that kept him in brandy and tobacco, so he took employment only as it interested him. The captain was also one of those rare fellows who attend intently to whatever is said to him. Thus I found myself running on at length of my home in Greaves, my parents’ deaths, and my marriage to Michael. Then, of course, I had to recount my husband’s ‘riding accident’; at which my new friend tilted his head rather quizzically. The midnight bells rang in the New Year of 1793, and the captain rose and made a sort of pantomime of opening the door and seeing the old year off and ushering the new one in. Raising a toast to good fortune, I had little notion of what tumultuous changes that New Year would bring.

‘And how do you intend to spend your time here in the capital?’ the captain asked with great courtesy. ‘While you make your family arrangements, that is.’

‘I love to paint,’ I told him. He assured me I was in the best of neighbourhoods for that. ‘The great Swiss paintress, Miss Kauffman, lived at number sixteen Golden Square for many years. Might you allow me to show you her former home in the morning?’

I had seen that lady’s work in prints and thought her the pride of her sex, being a Royal Academician, though a woman. Thus our friendship was sealed, and my next morning’s walk on the captain’s arm set a precedent for many days to come. The frayed gentility of Golden Square suited me well. I inspected my purse and found that, thanks to my filling it in readiness for Christmas boxes for the tradesmen and servants, it contained just less than fifty pounds. It was enough to pay for a good few months of this gentle existence. So it was that I began slowly to mend myself.

I could not, of course, escape my guilt about Michael. In dreams he rose before me, chalk-faced and bloody, accusing me of taking his life. Sometimes I hid from him, crouching in terror. In other nightmares he chased me through filthy alleys. Always, he found me; the final barrier would be broken, and he would scream at me draped in blood besmirched linen, his beautiful face turned monstrous with spite.

From such dreams it was a vast relief to wake and find all of London about me, the road outside rattling with wagons and coaches, the servants’ cheery cries, or a tradesman whistling a tune as he unloaded a cart. The longer I thought of it, the more I regretted running away. Peg’s advice had been well-intentioned, but I had been wrong to let her put me to flight. It had been cowardly to leave my husband; in fact, with hindsight, I found my actions inconceivable. I began to fret to know what had happened at Delafosse, until the craving burned like a fever. Finally, at the end of January, I gathered my courage and wrote to Peg.

Fearing that she might be forced to betray my location, I sent my letter from the postmaster’s house in Golden Square, and advised her to reply to the same. What, I enquired urgently, had happened since I left? Was Michael’s death generally known? Should I return and oversee the estate? Each day I had studied the notices in the newspaper and seen no mention of his death. Neither, I was relieved to see, had there been any Hue and Cry against me, nor indeed any word of events in Earlby. I posted the letter, and for two days trailed back and forth to the postmaster’s window, to enquire of a reply.

Then, at last, it was there, addressed as instructed to ‘Mrs G Frankland’.

My very dear mistress,

I think you will not believe what a joy it is for me to have news of you. Thank God you followed my advice and have taken up residence in London, for it is a great swarming place, well suited to a disappearance.

Your husband, you will marvel to hear, is still alive but fearfully ill. He for a long time was close to death from a loss of blood, but he has a strong constitution and now lingers in a sorry state; such that some might say it is a curse that he still lives. Dr Sampson says he will forever be an invalid, and I am afraid not a happy one. When I am alone with him, for I must nurse him now, he rants that he will have you seized and put in irons, mistress. I am afraid he is quite clear-headed in understanding the events of that dreadful Christmas Eve, and is fixed on the notion that you planned to be rid of him. He has told me plain that if he ever has sight or sound of you again he will have you flung into Newgate jail and strung up by the neck. He is even worse-tempered, mistress, after that Claybourn woman visits him, and I must tell you that they do conspire in whispers when alone. Turning matters over as I do, I should if I were you, be mighty careful of your very existence. You see I reckon the master’s having a living wife does put a great obstacle between the two of them living as they wish to.