Angel of Ruin (8 page)

“Please, please, don’t argue here on the street. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing Father?”

Betty huffed and marched inside. “That dog is going,” she said over her shoulder. “Your father will make you give him up.”

“Indeed he will not!” Mary cried, racing after her.

“Don’t upset Father any further,” Deborah said. Anne limped in, offered a crooked smile. Already Betty
and Mary were in with Father, demanding he hear their cases. “Welcome home, sister,” Deborah said to Anne.

“This will end b-badly.”

“I fear the same.”

They joined the others in Father’s study.

“John, the dog bit me. He’s ugly and he smells, and I don’t want him in this house any longer.”

“She’s lying. He nipped her gently, that’s all. Why, there is not a drop of blood spilled.”

“A dog’s bite is a bad omen no matter how hard or soft. And who’s to say he won’t bite harder next time?”

“He’s a good, gentle boy.”

“He’s a dirty wretch.”

“Stop it!” This was Father, and his eyelids were raised as though he were staring them down. “I have had enough. How dare you both bother me with such rubbish?”

Betty was contrite, Mary clutched Max desperately.

“John, the dog must go.”

“Father, please, let him stay. I love him so much.”

“And so I am to decide? Will all fighting stop once I have decided?”

“Yes,” Betty said confidently.

“Father, he’s just a —”

“Will all fighting stop?”

“Yes, Father,” Mary said, tears streaming from her eyes as she pressed Max into her chest. She obviously expected the worst.

“I wish to ask good counsel,” Father said. “Ere I make my decision, that is.”

“Counsel of whom, John?” Betty asked.

“Of the only other person in this household who has any sense. Deborah? Step forward.”

Deborah drew a quick breath. “Me, Father?”

“Yes, yes. Tell me, what do you think I ought to do
about this dog? Is he a biter? Should we send him out on the street?” At this Mary flinched.

“I …” Deborah began. Was this some trick? Was he testing her loyalties?

“Deborah? Child? Speak. What shall I do?”

She went with her conscience. Father would expect that of her. “Max does sometimes nip, Father, but only gently. Usually as a sign of affection. He’s never hurt anyone.”

“He hurt me!” Betty exclaimed.

“Wounded pride doesn’t count,” Mary said.

“I think,” Deborah said more confidently, “that if Mary promises to keep him away from Betty, she should be allowed to keep him. He’s her dearest friend.”

“Hm,” Father said. “Is this right, Mary?”

“Yes, Father, he’s the dearest, sweetest —”

“While I believe you should be more discriminating about your friends, I cannot see why I should put the dog on the street if you promise to keep him away from your stepmother.”

“Oh, I promise, I promise,” Mary said.

“But John —”

“Be reasonable, Betty,” Father said. “Did you never love anything so much as Mary loves the dog? Mary, Max can stay.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Mary was nearly laughing with relief.

“Liza will have supper soon,” he said gruffly. “You had best change into your house clothes.”

Mary practically danced out of the room, Max under one arm, her travelling case under the other. Deborah and Anne followed in procession up the stairs. As soon as they were in their room, the door closed behind them, Mary enclosed Deborah in a rapturous hug.

“Oh, thank you, sister. Thank you for making him take my side.”

“I merely offered him rational advice,” Deborah said, extricating herself from Mary’s affection. “And you
will
be careful to keep Max away from Betty?”

“Yes, of course. For his own safety, the dear little thing. You should have seen how hard she strook him. Oh, I can’t bear to hear him yelp like that.”

With a bang, the door burst open and Betty stood there, her face flushed with anger. Max ran to hide under the bed.

“It were meet for you to knock,” Mary said, barely concealing her smirk. “We may have been dressing.”

“Don’t you …” Betty fought with her anger.

“Mother? What have you come to tell us?” Mary said. Deborah kicked her heel lightly, tried to will her not to be so bold.

“You needn’t be so smug, Mary Milton,” Betty said. “He is fonder of me than of any of you. I shall be rid of that dog, even if it means I have to be rid of the three of you.” She turned and slammed the door behind her.

A few heartbeats passed in silence, then Mary whispered darkly: “If she hurts Max, I shall kill her.”

“S-sister —” Anne started, a pale hand reaching out.

“Oh, shut up, Anne,” Mary said. “You’re becoming tiresome.”

I
t was October before Betty tried for revenge. Throughout the noisy London summer she waited and watched, observing her stepdaughters carefully. Deborah, she would have to suffer to stay. John was fond of her, and she was a good scribe. Betty had poor spelling and no languages. No matter how often she offered to help, John always turned her down. But the dullard, Anne, she knew he would lose easily, and he seemed to have no attachment to Mary either. She felt confident that she could persuade John to send them away, provided she made it easy for him. So, as the leaves began to fall from the trees and the mornings grew colder, she wrote to the lacemaker in Surrey again, and weaved her gentle lie. Within a week, she had a reply. She took it to John, kneeled beside him and pressed his hand in her own.

“John? I have news.”

“Yes, Betty?”

“My friend the lacemaker in Surrey has written. He still has need for two apprentices. I thought Mary and Anne could —”

“We discussed this earlier in the year,” he said dismissively.

“Please, John, allow me to read what he has said.”

“Go on, then.”

She unfolded the letter and read. “‘Dear Betty, We should be very pleased to take to apprentice Mr Milton’s daughter and her simple friend’.”

“What? What did he say?”

“He thinks Anne is merely Mary’s
friend,
” Betty said. “He goes on to commend Mary’s kindness in taking responsibility for a cripple and says it reflects well on her father. He doesn’t know that Anne is your daughter.”

“But they are sisters, and they look like sisters.”

“No, they do not. Mary is much rounder, Anne’s face is more angular. John, you haven’t seen them since they were children. I assure you they are quite different.”

“Hm.”

“Well?”

“Betty, they’ve settled in now. They are my children,” he said, then added in an embarrassed mumble, “As much as they bother me sometimes.”

Betty felt as though her stomach had filled with air. “But, John, you wanted them to be sent away as much as I did.”

“That was six months ago, Betty. They’re part of the household now. It wouldn’t be fair on them.”

Fair on them?
Betty wanted to shout,
What about me?
Then the seed of an idea came to her. “John, I wonder that they don’t take you for a fool.”

He bristled. “What do you mean?”

“John, they have sold some of your books.” In fact, Betty had sold a half dozen of his books, old ones from the bottom of the pile, to pay the pie man.

“What? Are you certain?”

“Not certain, but there are several missing.” She leaned in close to deliver the final blow. “They have taken advantage of your blindness.”

He fell silent with a thoughtful twist to his lips. Betty held her breath, afraid he might see through her ploy.

“John?”

He sighed. “I cannot decide, Betty. If the lacemaker still wants them, and if I need not be bothered any longer with it, then perhaps they should go. A trade will ensure their security in the future. But Deborah will stay.”

“Yes, John, of course.”

“For while I’m unsure whether the eldest two have the cunning to sell my books — and I’d just as quickly blame Liza and give her nought more than a beating — I know for a certainty that Deborah would stand by me.”

“I share your certainty,” Betty said, though she suspected her envy may have tainted her voice.

“Write to him, then,” John said. “They shall make good apprentices.”

Anne stood on the threshold of the Church of St Giles at Cripplegate, reluctant to move out into the cold autumn morning. It was the first Lord’s Day of November, and a light haze of mist clung to the rooftops. She shivered and wished she had brought her muff. Her hands grew cold so easily. She glanced behind her. It wasn’t just the cold which made her reluctant to leave the church. In there, she was one of God’s perfect children, not despised for her faults: Jesus smiled at her and her heart was at ease. Out here she was a cripple and a simple. A fat woman bumped her from behind, so she limped out of the way and joined her sisters on the street.

“Oh, your poor hands,” Deborah said, taking Anne’s hands in her own and rubbing them. “Look you, they’re quite red and blotched.”

“Put them in your placket, Anne,” Mary said. “Nobody will mind.”

Anne inched her fingers into the pocket at the top of her skirt.

“Where are Father and Betty?” Deborah asked.

“They were speaking to Master Allard when I left,” Anne said.

“Well, I wish they would hurry, for I should like to be inside by the fire with Max in my lap,” Mary said.

An elderly man in rich clothes walked past, and Mary smiled at him sweetly, eyelids fluttering.

“Morning, Miss Milton,” he said.

“Morning, Sir Wallace.”

When he was out of earshot, Deborah asked, “A new conquest, Mary?”

“Not yet. Maybe.”

“He must be ninety.”

“He’s less than fifty.”

“Here c-comes Betty,” Anne said, as their stepmother walked from the church, spotted them, and strode over confidently.

“Where’s Father?” Mary asked.

“He’ll be along shortly,” she said smiling. “He’s discussing theology with Master Allard. I wanted to speak to you girls.”

“What about?” Anne asked, suspicious.

“Your father and I have changed our plans. Anne and Mary, you will be going to Surrey after all.”

“Surrey? What’s in Surrey?” Mary asked, but then realisation dawned. “What? The lacemaker?”

“And you needn’t think to manipulate your father with all that nonsense you tried last time. I have put paid to those concerns. He has left it solely up to me, and it has all been arranged. You are to join the lacemaker directly after Twelfth Night.”

Anne tried to speak but couldn’t. Even Mary was too shocked to find words for arguing.

“I’m going inside to fetch your father,” Betty said, turning to leave.

Deborah watched her go, then turned to her sisters with an anxious expression. “This is awful.”

“What do you care, lickspittle? You get to stay here,” Mary said.

Anne couldn’t bear to see them fight. “Please —”

“But we’ll be split up. I’ll be lonely.”

“I’ll be a lacemaker! ’Tis far worse. Apprenticed out like some pauper.”

“How far away is T-twelfth Night? Two months?”

“Yes,” Mary said. “Do you think it is enough time to reverse this business? To convince Father he’s making a mistake?”

“P-perhaps.”

Mary rounded on Anne. “You have let me down. You have let us all down. I have kept quiet about this for months now, in consideration of your feelings, but now you must consider mine. Mother gave you the responsibility of our guardian angel, who was charged to protect us if adversity such as this arose, and you have made a decision on behalf of all to keep him from us.”

Anne was startled, made so guilty she almost blurted out the summoning. But then, in her imagination, she could suddenly see Betty pallid and unmoving, just as Johnny had appeared that awful morning. And she knew she could not be a party to it. “I c-can’t r-r-r —”

“Oh, don’t stutter like an idiot!” Mary roared, and stormed off.

Anne dropped her head. Her hands were quite frozen by now, and she inched them further under her skirt, pressed them against her warm shift.

“I wish it were true,” Deborah was saying. “I wish there were a guardian angel to protect us and keep us together.”

“Th-th—”

Deborah smiled down on her sister. “Anne, leave it be. I am not so gullible as Mary. We are nearly grown, and we cannot expect to stay together much longer.”

An enormous surge of feelings was caught in Anne’s throat: guilt, love, desperation. All of it remained trapped behind her tongue. It was her curse to have so much to say, to explain, to
express;
but to be doomed to silence.

As the afternoon drizzle turned to rain, Mary walked under the jetties on Leadenhall Street. She went slowly, looking for any evidence that a wise woman might live nearby. She considered knocking on every door, but the street was long and narrow and dark, and she was aware that night was descending. A man burst out of one of the houses and walked briskly past her.

“Excuse me,” she said, “do you know of a wise woman living in this street?”

“Women can’t be wise,” he muttered, not breaking his stride.

“I mean …” She watched him walk away. Hopeless. Why couldn’t Anne co-operate? Didn’t she realise how important this was? Mary didn’t want to be a lacemaker in Surrey; she could imagine nothing worse. If she bided her time, laid the right bait, she could marry a rich widower and live a life of extravagance. Sir Adworth’s wife could die soon, for instance, and he could send for her. Men didn’t like to stay unmarried, she knew, and Adworth adored her immoderately.

Darkness was closing in so she turned for home. Anne may have been quick to accept they would be split up, apprenticed out like ragged boys, but Mary wouldn’t accept it. She was determined to thwart such a destiny.

“Don’t worry, Max, Mary will be home soon.” Deborah lit the candles in the iron holder on the dresser and gave the little dog a pat on the head. He had been fretting for an hour, trotting from the bedroom door to the window and back. She turned to Anne, who sat despondent on the bed.

“Anne, don’t look so distressed.” She settled next to her sister.

“I’m n-n—”

“You will enjoy lacemaking, I’m certain. And you will be good at it. You have always been clever with your hands.”

“M-Mary is very angry with me.”

“Mary is too bossy for her own good.”

Anne gave her a shy glance. “And I shall miss you, Deborah.”

“I shall miss you, too. You aren’t to worry, Anne,” Deborah said, smoothing her hair. “It will all work out. Would you like me to comb your hair for you?”

Anne nodded. Deborah went to her drawer and pulled out her boxwood comb, and returned to sit by Anne. She carefully unwound the tight bun and eased Anne’s hair down around her shoulders. Anne never fussed with her hair as Mary did, and Deborah thought the tight style far too severe for her.

“You should wear your hair loose,” she said, pulling the comb through the dark strands. “It looks pretty.”

“’Tis too straight,” Anne replied. “You’re so gentle, Deborah. Mary always tugs.”

“Mary hasn’t the patience for anyone but her dog.” Deborah ran the comb in careful strokes. She could feel Anne begin to relax, her shoulders easing forward, her hands becoming still in her lap. When just the two of them were together, Anne’s stammer nearly vanished.

Liza brought their supper and left, and still Anne sat motionless in the firelight while Deborah tended to her hair. Deborah wondered if a physician would feel such a sense of gratification, easing people’s sorrows, aiding in their comfort.

Suddenly the door flew open and Mary was there.

“Did you enjoy your solitary walk, sister?” Deborah asked, dropping the comb and advancing towards the supper tray.

Mary walked quickly towards the window. “Girls, I discovered something while in the street downstairs.”

“What is it?” Deborah asked, picking out some cheese.

“Never mind about supper,” Mary said, “this is much more exciting.” She lifted the sash and pushed the window open, beckoning to them. They crowded about the window with her. Deborah could feel a cool autumn breeze on her cheeks as they looked down into the street. Max whimpered for attention near their ankles.

“The shop next door is boarded over. It has closed down. I checked from the garden and the street, and I can see no lights in any of the windows. I believe ’Tis empty.”

“And?”

“There is a ledge, between this window and the empty house.”

“And?”

Mary turned crossly on Deborah. “Death! Don’t be a stupid baby. It means that I can have my own room after all.”

“M-Mary, you’re not thinking of —”

“Keep an eye on Max.” She hoisted her dress up around her thighs.

“Be careful, Mary,” Deborah said. “Are you sure the ledge is stable?”

“It d-doesn’t look very w-wide.”

“Oh, stop fussing.” She sat on the windowsill and swung her legs around. “Hold my hand, Anne, while I test the ledge.”

Anne grabbed her around the wrists, and she carefully found her footing on the ledge below.

“You can let go now,” Mary said. “It is stable.” She
began to inch her way along the ledge. Deborah leaned out the window to check her progress.

“Don’t fall, Mary, for I know not how I would explain that to Father.”

“We can’t have you being out of favour with Father,” Mary replied caustically, her voice nearly carried away on a passing breeze. Deborah saw her stop and fiddle with the neighbouring window.

“Aha!” she called. “’Tis unlocked. I’m going in.”

“Don’t be long.”

Mary disappeared into the window, then leaned out again and waved. “It is enormous! And all mine.”

“Is it not cold?”

“Yes, but there’s a fireplace, and somebody has left some old mats in here. Come and see.”

Anne and Deborah exchanged glances.

“I doubt that I’ll manage,” Anne admitted. “You go.”

Deborah nodded. “I shall look and return directly.” She picked her skirts up and slid out the window and onto the tiny ledge. From up here, she could see all the way to the bottom of the street and the trees waving along the edge of the Artillery grounds. She took a huge gulp of the fresh autumn wind, relished it on her bare legs, almost laughed at herself for being so uncharacteristically liberated.

“Come, Deborah, the ledge is perfect secure.” Mary leaned out her window and beckoned, an enormous grin on her face.

“’Tis cold out here.” Deborah inched along the ledge towards Mary, who caught her hand and helped her inside.

“Look at you, Deborah, your eyes are shining. Enjoying the mischief?”

Deborah glanced around. The big dark room was empty and cold, the wooden boards bare but for three sad, thin mats. “’Tis large.”

Mary indicated the door opposite the window. “I’ve tried the door. It must be boarded on the other side.”

“We’ll have to come here by daylight to see it properly.”