The Gilded Lily (27 page)

‘Oh,’ said Sadie, caught up in the tale. Dennis smiled before resuming.

‘“Very well,” said the other, “but we have been fighting all day. Let us sleep first and fight at dawn when we are fresh.”

‘“I agree,” said his enemy.

‘So they lit a camp fire and sat one on either side. As the night wore on, and it became dull just to sit in silence, one of the men began to talk. He told of his wife and child, and life
in their village. About how the last year’s harvest had been bad.

‘“Ours too,” said the other man, and began to tell of life in his own village, of his parents, and his son’s difficulty in learning to ride a horse. So they shared the
little details of their lives with each other, the things that were the same, the things that were different.

‘When the sun peeped over the horizon both men were ready. The standards were shoved into the ground behind them, the flags flapped in the wind. Their comrades were dead, they stood alone
on the plain facing each other. Before the first man could even touch his hilt, the second drew his blade, but then slowly, he sheathed it again. Seeing his enemy unarmed, the other knew he could
finish him and whipped out his sword, but he too could not strike the blow, but returned it unused to its scabbard.

‘Ever since then,’ Dennis went on, ‘the villages have met once a year on the anniversary of the battle to celebrate their kinship one with another and to light a beacon
together, and both villages lived in harmony and happily ever after from that day forth.’

Sadie clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, that’s lovely. I haven’t heard that one before.’

Dennis grinned. ‘It’s one of my favourites. I used to ask for it again and again when I was a boy. I used to want to be a standard-bearer. It sounded grand. What’s your
favourite story?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I’ll have to think.’ Though immediately the tale of Snow White and Rose Red had come into her mind. It was the only one she could
remember her mother telling, such a vague memory really, just the names, and her mother’s hopeful expression. But somehow she didn’t want to tell Dennis, it gave too much away.

‘You know,’ Dennis said, ‘when my father told me that tale he used to say, “Always remember, you can’t hate someone if you know their story.” People sometimes
used to call my father a coward when he wouldn’t fight for king or parliament, thought he was running away. It hurt him that, and it hurt me to think they didn’t think well of him. But
I knew him, and the story, and knew the thought behind it.’

Sadie could feel the emotion in his voice. ‘He sounds like a good man,’ she said quietly. She placed her hand on Dennis’s arm where it lay on the table.

‘The best. One day, you must tell me about your family,’ Dennis said, looking into her eyes. He did not move his arm, but left it where it was.

A vision of her da, his face twisted with anger, came into her mind. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, glancing away, knowing she probably would not. It made her ashamed to think she was related
to such a person.

‘Look, I brought you something,’ he said, withdrawing his arm gently as the clocks chimed.

‘Another chapbook?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, looking embarrassed. He brought out a piece of lavender ribbon and held it between finger and thumb. ‘I thought ’twould suit you, the colour. And you could
use it to tie up your hair.’

‘Oh you shouldn’t have. It’s not my birthday now.’

‘Take it, won’t you?’ He dangled it out towards her.

‘All right,’ she said, and she reached out to take it. ‘I look forward to your visits,’ she said shyly.

‘Me too,’ he said.

And she had tied the piece of ribbon into the neck of her shift, next to her skin, for she did not want Ella to see it. She might laugh, and Sadie knew she could not bear that. And as she did
her chores, she treasured his words over and over, reliving the story.

The next day, the snow came. They woke to a tangible hush as the clattering hooves and cartwheels outside were muffled by a thick wad of white. Sadie pulled open the curtain
and saw the swirling flakes falling down onto the drift below. The river was a streak, like a black scar, through it.

‘Snow,’ said Sadie, with great excitement.

‘Oh bother,’ Ella said. ‘What a nuisance. I’ll have to wear my clogs. It’ll be slippery walking in those. Wish I could take a carriage.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Sadie. ‘Bet even the gigs can’t go far in this. It’s thick as thatch.’

For the last week Ella’s feet had been shod in dainty leather bootees. Sadie had not asked where they had come from, but the thought pained her that they must have been dearer than the
cost of a new gown. Ella was late, and flustered enough already. Ella put on her clogs and began to wrap her bootees in Sadie’s shawl to carry to work.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ll need to carry my boots.’

‘Not in my shawl, you won’t.’ She took hold of it to take it back, but Ella dug in her nails and clung on.

‘It’s not fit to be worn, that. Leave go.’

‘No. It’s mine and you’re not having it.’ She wrestled it free and Ella’s bootees spilled onto the floor. ‘Carry them in your own.’ Her eyes were hot
with tears.

When she had gone, Sadie hugged the shawl to her chest, rocking it back and forth for comfort. Later, she scoured the corner of the room for any remaining sticks. She scraped them together into
a bundle – not enough to have a proper fire. Somehow she could not see Ella scavenging for wood. Not now she was so finely dressed.

Sadie went to her usual vantage point at the window and pushed her head out to inhale the snow in the air and to catch a few stray flakes on her fingers, where they melted into glistening drops.
The river was unusually quiet, only a few row boats, and the snow had almost stopped falling. She longed to touch the soft white crust below so much that she ached with it. Why had Ella grumbled
about the snow? Even London looked beautiful, veiled like a bride.

She heard shrieks of glee from below. Two lads were throwing snowballs at each other. One of them she recognized straight away as the little lad who had helped her lug the coal up the bank, the
other was obviously his big brother, for they had the same curly hair and flattened features. She watched with interest as the younger boy squashed a pie of snow in his hand and hurled it
inexpertly at his brother.

The brother ducked and yelled, ‘Nah! Missed!’

He was ready with his own snowball prepared, and lobbed it hard at Sadie’s friend, who caught it full on the chin.

‘Ow. That hurt.’

Wiping the snow clumsily from his face he blindly gathered more snow for a second shot and threw it haphazardly back. By some miracle, it hit his brother square in the face and he staggered
backwards and tripped over an upturned skiff, landing on his behind in the snow. Before she could stop herself Sadie let out a whoop, and the boy shot a curious glance at her window.

Sadie pulled instantly inside, her heart thudding.

She must be careful – no one must know she was here. If she had to go on the run again, perhaps they would not find it so easy to hide next time. Everyone would be looking out for them,
all the booty hunters. Nobody would care that they were innocent, just so long as they could claim the reward. They would be fodder for the scaffold and someone would line their pocket at their
expense.

She shivered and tied her shawl in a tight knot in front of her chest. It would do no good to dwell on it. Happen, good things might be round the corner. She could go out at night, like she had
last night, to stretch her legs and breathe in the fresh air. And feel the snow crunch under her feet, and maybe suck on an icicle from the eaves.

She had got used to walking at night now, her hood over her face, creeping in the shadows of the alleys lest anyone should see her. It was risky, and it made her chest pound and her palms sweat,
but it was worth the fear, just to get out from the four walls. She never talked to anyone. It was this that was the hardest, the lack of company.

She missed her work. She was unused to having idle hands, and had asked over and over for Ella to bring her something to do. Maybe labelling up bottles, or mending – anything to while away
the time. But Ella brought nothing home, and it was plain she’d never leave Whitgift’s – her heart was set on sweetening Jay, and she was that stubborn. Except once, the button
had come loose on Ella’s boot, and Ella had arrived with needle and thread to mend it. Sadie had it finished in no time, and used the thread to repair all the clothes she owned, until all her
clothes were stitched with brown thread, even her chemise. She had even begun a small sampler on a scrap cut from a petticoat.

She had painstakingly embroidered
Sadie Apleby. Borne 164
— but the thread finally ran out, and her hands lay still again in her lap.

She imagined all the girls bent over their wig stands at Madame Lefevre’s. Little Betsy, Alyson, Pegeen, plain-faced Corey. Even Madame Lefevre did not seem so harsh. She thought almost
fondly of her black crow-like presence now. She remembered when Ella and she had walked to the wig shop together, and they had all sat whispering at break suppressing giggles over one of
Ella’s outrageous anecdotes.

Sadie sighed and sat down at the table, and ran the scrap of beeswax and the polishing cloth over it for the hundredth time, her thoughts still with the girls at Madame Lefevre’s. When her
thoughts were not with the girls, she stared at the cover of Barbary Bess, with her tumbling curls, imagining a life for her full of swash and daring.

Madame Lefevre banged two wig blocks together to get the girls’ attention.

Corey jumped and sat up obediently like the rest of the girls, curious about the visitor who had just come in. He was a stout hunch-shouldered man, with a large pale forehead, jutting eyebrows
and a mouth that appeared too small for his face. She noticed dried spittle at the corners of his lips.

Madame Lefevre introduced him as Mr Ibbetson, but before she had finished telling them why he had come, he interrupted her and pushed his way to the centre of the room. He must have ridden
there, despite the snow, for he was still in his heavy wool mantle and riding boots.

‘The good lady here tells me there were two sisters that worked in this establishment up until a few weeks ago. Country girls from Westmorland. Ella and Sadie Appleby. You remember
them?’

The girls nodded mutely. They had smelt his authority as soon as he opened his mouth.

‘Have you seen them recently?’ he said.

Silence.

‘Do any of you know where they live?’

The girls shook their heads. His manner was one of a chastising schoolteacher. It made Corey reluctant to speak, even if she knew the answer.

‘Not one of you? No?’

He marched round the bench looking into their faces as if he wanted to read the contents of their minds.

‘There is a reward,’ he said, ‘for information that will lead me to them.’ He peered at Alyson, who, embarrassed, dropped her chin to her chest. ‘A substantial
reward.’ He drew the words out as if to emphasize them.

Mercy smiled politely at him. Madame Lefevre frowned.

‘Do you know where they live?’ Sensing Mercy’s interest he addressed her directly.

‘Oh no,’ Mercy said, tossing her blonde curls, ‘I’m afraid not. My brother and I caught sight of Sadie Appleby just up the street. We tried to catch her, but she ran like
her heels were on fire and we couldn’t catch up with her. We’d heard about the notices at church, someone told us they were looking for a girl like her.’

Corey glared at her.

‘When?’ Madame Lefevre asked.

‘More than a week ago. But she’s never been near us since, has she?’

Mr Ibbetson narrowed his eyes and closed his mouth until it was a tiny hole, sucking in his breath. ‘If I find out that any one of you is concealing information as to their whereabouts,
then I will have you clapped in irons for assisting a known felon.’

Mercy turned and whispered, in a voice clearly intended to be heard, ‘Told you so. Told you there was a notice out for that Sadie and her sister, but you’d none of it. Marked by the
Devil, she is, didn’t I say so?’

Corey was impatient with Mercy, but she bit her lip.

‘Yes, Mercy said Sadie put a hex on us,’ said Betsy.

Mercy scowled at her, and Betsy blushed and closed her mouth.

‘What have they done, sir?’ asked Alyson.

‘Don’t be impertinent,’ Madame Lefevre said.

Mr Ibbetson answered. ‘Suffocated a man to death.’ Although nobody spoke or moved, the words hung in the air. ‘Then they took every last penny from the house. Can you imagine?
Even his watch out of his pocket. What sort of a person would do that?’

Mercy nodded her head up and down. Corey took in the words, but somehow could not make them sit sensibly with the girls she had known. She stared at Mr Ibbetson trying to weigh him up.

‘What about the reward?’ Mercy interrupted. ‘How much is it?’

‘Fletcher!’ Madame Lefevre said.

Mr Ibbetson turned to Madame Lefevre and almost put his hand on her arm before withdrawing it. ‘He was my brother. My twin brother.’ His mouth twitched with emotion. ‘Have any
of you got brothers at home?’ But then he clenched his fist, sweat had broken out on his forehead. ‘Nobody seems to be doing anything. The Netherbarrow constable sent me an urgent
message last week to say he had some news of them, so off I went, haring up there. What a waste of time. He was only telling me what I already knew, that they had been sighted at a tavern here in
London somewhere. Bloody useless. And now, all this snow . . .’