Elyse Mady (7 page)

Chapter Six

Jeremy’s embarrassed exhalation woke her the next morning.

“Oh, Miss Hester. I mean, oh, Miss Aspinall. Oh, miss!”

For a moment, Hester could not recall why she was sleeping in the shop. She turned stiffly on the narrow cot and its ropes creaked in protest. The horrifying details of the previous day recalled themselves in a blinding rush. After her confrontation with the reverend, she had quickly penned a note to a local removers, asking them to send a young man to carry her furniture into Mrs. Hannaford’s attics. Then she’d begun the process of carrying away those small items that would fit in her basket and could be stored at the shop.

It had taken her until the early evening to get everything resolved and in some sort of order. The office had acquired something of the look of a junk shop, bric-a-brac piled helter-skelter, while the clothes she had carted from the clothes press were jumbled about.

It was all she could do not to give in to despair, sink back onto the cot and pull the rude linen blanket over her head.

A mortified squeak recalled the apprentice’s presence. The young man stood stiffly with his back to her, his wide ears flaming red with embarrassment. His arm was thrust backwards at an awkward angle and from it dangled her shawl. She’d forgotten she’d taken off her gown and her stockings the night before and laid them over a chair. Now she was wearing nothing but her shift.

Snatching at the shawl, she wrapped it hastily around her shoulders and sat up amongst the rumpled bedclothes. Her mouth was dry and she was in desperate need of a chamber pot, but she didn’t think poor Jeremy could withstand any further embarrassment without the risk of burning his skin to cinders.

“What time is it?”

“Past nine,” Jeremy finally said, peeping cautiously over his shoulder. He looked relieved to see Hester well wrapped, but she noted he kept his eyes away from her bare toes. “I have bad news, Miss Hester. About Samuel. It’s to do with the notes you sent us yesterday.”

More bad news? “He is not hurt, I hope.”

“No. But he says he’ll not come to work here no more. His mam says it’s not fitting, and he’s bound and determined to break his pledge to Mr. Aspinall. It’s a disgrace, is what it is. He wouldn’t even come and tell you in person. He’s an ungrateful wretch, for all he’s my best friend, and you can believe I told him so.”

Hester tried to summon a look of surprise but found that her face could not muster the expression. “I see.” And she did see. Mrs. Fletcher was a widow and her son her sole support. She could hardly countenance sending him to work for a master with such a dreadful cloud hanging over him.

Jeremy fidgeted, his coltish limbs moving awkwardly as he waited for her to say more.

“Are you not mad, then? About Samuel?” He peered at her, as if trying to decipher her mood.

“Disappointed, but understanding. Under the circumstances, I cannot admit to being surprised at Mrs. Fletcher’s choice. Have you come to tell me you have made a similar decision, Jeremy?”

“Oh, no, miss. I’d never do something as disgraceful as that. Not when I…that is…when you…” The young boy’s face, which had gradually recovered its natural colour, blazed again, sending a mottled flush across his throat and cheeks.

His adoring preference for Hester had been something of an amusement ever since the apprentice had been taken up at the shop two years prior. Whenever she came to the shopfront, Jeremy followed her about like a puppy, always eager to assist in any task she might be doing and engage her in shy small talk. She had given him some notice, for in truth, she liked him a great deal. He had a staunch, forthright manner that reminded her a little of Jamie, for all that he was gangly arms and legs and untamed red hair, and she had always made it a point to speak to him kindly, never forgetting the distance and age between them. Now, she found herself truly touched by his loyalty in the face of such a crisis.

“Thank you for that, Mr. Hutt,” Hester said formally. “I have always had the greatest faith in your steady character.”

A dazzled smile broke across his face but then a darker emotion chased it away. “Is it true? What they’re saying?”

“About Mr. Aspinall being locked in Newgate? Yes. I’m afraid it is. He will not be at liberty until I can find means to post his bail or he is found innocent at trial.”

Jeremy nodded then shook his head. His voice dropped to a stricken whisper. “I meant, is it true that Mr. Aspinall is a…a…molly? That he’s been taken up for…” He looked so ashamed at his question that he would not lift his eyes from the tips of his boots. His shoulders were hunched, and his attitude was in equal parts so uncertain and vulnerable, that Hester stood and placed an arm against his sleeve. She knew what he was asking but would not force him to say the words; it would be too unkind.

“It is true that he has been taken up as such. But I can assure you, it is equally true that he is not such a thing.”

“Samuel said such awful things about him, you know.”

“About Robert?”

“Aye. About what such types get up to. They’ve got signals, he said, to let others like them discover themselves. They call themselves ‘Miss Thing’ and give each other pet names. They dress up in women’s clothes and kiss and hug and…” It was clear that Jeremy’s imagination for such depravities extended no further and he hung his head in bewilderment.

For a moment, the beautiful if battered face of the young man she had spied in the press yard flashed before her once more. She did not know why the pitiful creature should prey so on her mind but she could not seem to banish him from her thoughts. It was all too easy to imagine one such as him dressed in a pretty gown, his long hair curled and his complexion heightened with artifice.

“You must not distress yourself.” Hester assumed what she hoped was a reassuring face, even though she was far from feeling it herself. “Samuel was very wrong to repeat such things, especially as concerns his former master.”

“Truly?”

“Truly,” she said, moving to the desk where Robert kept his ready coin. It was apparent, Jeremy’s devotion notwithstanding, that her plan to continue the shop was futile. The news of Robert’s disgrace had clearly spread amongst all their neighbours. None would favour them with their custom now, even if she had hands to sew it. She would pay out Jeremy and Samuel’s wages and write them letters of recommendation that would hopefully allow them to continue their apprenticeships elsewhere.

A heavy pounding at the front door prevented her from collecting the coins. Jeremy scrambled to dry his eyes and tried to look composed.

“Should I answer it?”

Hester shook her head. “I don’t know. The shop is closed. Perhaps they will come back later.” It would not do, she knew, to turn away custom, but she felt entirely unequal to the task today. The pounding resumed, even heavier than before, so hard that the panes of glass above the tailor’s bench rattled in their mullions and she felt her first sensation of fear.

“Break it down, if you must,” a loud voice ordered from the street. Hester gasped. She knew that voice—it was Charlotte’s father, George Stroud. Had he reconsidered his position? Was he now willing to come to the aid of her brother? But even as the vain hopes darted into her mind, she dismissed them. The ferocious rhythm against the stout shop door precluded a visit of reconciliation.

She looked down at her clothes, wrinkled and sour from her sleep. She could not face him in such a state of undress. She would be disgraced.

“Quickly, Jeremy,” she cried, pointing towards the calico gown, draped over the back of a nearby chair. She stepped into it, nerves causing her to fumble with the tie strings of the bib front. There was no time to lace her stays. She would have to do without, relying on the shawl to provide a modicum of coverage.

Jeremy had stepped through into the shop, both to give her privacy and to monitor the progress of the determined company in the street. Rolling her linen stockings up to her knees and tying the garters with hasty knots, she could only hope they would not slide down her ankles at the first step. Grabbing her shoes, she darted out of the office, to stand beside her last remaining employee.

On the opposite side of the street, a carter stood beside his animals, the wagon’s sides painted with the name of Stroud and Cie.

As she watched through the window, another man, wearing a thick carter’s smock, stooped to dislodge a cobblestone. He held it in his hand, weighing it, while he eyed the door. He drew back his arm.

“Hold,” she cried, scrabbling at the lock. Wrenching open the door, which bore the marks of its assault in the form of deep gouges and dents, she said, “What do you think you are doing?”

In the face of her vehemence, the man stepped back a pace but Hester didn’t let down her guard. “Who gave you leave to trespass in this fashion?”

George Stroud marched forward. He was neatly dressed in a summer suit that showcased the source of his prosperity. His greying hair was lightly powdered in the old-fashioned style and in his hand he carried his usual walking stick. Everything was as normal, except for the dark and unfriendly expression on his face.

“It isn’t trespassing. It’s collecting on unpaid accounts.” He took in Hester’s undress and sneered, shouldering her aside without consideration. The men followed him, jostling her as they passed. “Those and those and those,” he snapped, pointing out a dozen bolts of broadcloth stacked on the shop’s oak shelves.

“Stop what you’re doing this instant.” Hester tried to halt the men’s progress, but they moved aside easily, ripping down the muslin curtains that protected the valuable stock from fading and dirt. “The stock is ours. We paid for it. You yourself signed the receipts.”

“Your brother is a degenerate,” Stroud announced, looking past Hester to Jeremy, who was ineffectually trying to gainsay the theft of the fabric. “And you clearly are likewise, entertaining young men in all states of disarray. A she-whore who came into my family to corrupt my daughters as her brother wanted to corrupt them too. Did you entertain your men together, one man betwixt the both of you?”

A bellow of rage erupted from Jeremy. “Don’t you speak of Miss Aspinall in that fashion.”

“I’ll speak of her and her family as I please.” Stroud gestured to the men to continue. They collected a half-dozen bolts in their arms and pushed through the shop, into the street.

“Stop,” Hester cried again. With each bolt of fabric that was carried off, another source of revenues disappeared. She could not cut the fabric, that was true, but she could still sell it and raise capital that way. But only if she retained possession of the goods.

“We have paid for those.” She snatched up the neatly printed accounted book from its appointed spot and pointed to the pertinent entries. “Here and here. You can see we have paid for your woollens. I understand if you do not wish your daughter to ally herself with my brother but that does not give you the right to take what is not yours.”

“Ally herself?” Stroud hissed, his tone venomous. “It is bad enough that our family’s name is being bandied about in company with yours. But I will not allow you to profit and continue to claim a relationship with the firm of Stroud and Company, a business that has borne my family’s name for more than two hundred years.”

“They are not yours to take!”

The men were taking everything from the shelves: trim and buttons and sample books, heedless of its origins. They were obviously intent on removing from the premises everything that was not secured or affixed.

“I pay no mind to strumpet’s squawking,” he cried, snatching the book from her hand and hurling it against the wall. The book split, its leather binding tearing when it struck, sending pages scattering through the air. Stroud stalked from the shop, as his men collected the last of the shop’s goods and loaded them willy-nilly into the dray.

The dispute had attracted a crowd of onlookers. There were jeers and muttered deprecations when Hester followed Stroud into the street. In her anger, she’d forgotten the state of her clothes but now she was mortifyingly conscious of them. She darted to and fro, trying to recover her brother’s stock but was rebuffed again and again.

She tried one last time to persuade Stroud to reconsider. “Please, sir,” she begged, heedless of what it might cost her, thinking only of the need to preserve the means of her brother’s release. “You will condemn him to prison, with no means of support, if you take these things. You will condemn me to a life without a livelihood. Please, I am begging you, sir.”

Her pride decimated, she pleaded without shame. The catcalls escalated but she closed her ears to their insults. All of her energies were for the man before her, who held her small family’s future in his hands. “If you have any mercy in you, if you have the slightest spark of human goodness in you, please do not do this.”

Stroud shook off her hand with an irritated gesture. “We are done here,” he announced. “You and your brother deserve every punishment that will be meted out to you, in this world and the next. I take no leave of you. You do not deserve any such notice.” He stalked towards the heavy cart, giving curt directions to the driver. Around her, the crowd grew noisier and she heard their slurs.

Jezebel.

Whore.

Molly’s piece.

There were no friendly faces. She took a slow step back and then another, her arms wide in supplication. A clod of dried dung hit her shoulder, shattering on impact. Another missile—a turnip?—narrowly missed her head.

She reached behind her, groping for the comfort and reassurance of Jeremy’s arm, but she felt nothing. She turned in a panic and saw that the young apprentice had fled. Why had he left her now? She wanted to cry out. Fear, real and black, churned her gut. She was all alone. There was no one to help her.

Thomas’s face flashed before her eyes. If only she had not been so proud. If only she had not sent him away. He would not be afraid of people like this. In that moment, she would have given anything for the strong protection of his arms. But he had washed his hands of her.