Great Historical Novels (23 page)

Your pen is my best companion, Mamo. Sometimes I even think that you are here. I thought I smelt you in Ryan’s rooms that day, or at least the lanolin that you used to put in your hair. Were you with us? You once said that you would sooner die than go to London, but since you are already dead perhaps you have reconsidered. I have put the calling card here in my red book, in case it is something important. Maybe one day I will know.

I am walking a tightrope between worlds and I have no idea what to do with myself. Everything seems so uncertain, and I sometimes feel cold to my bones, as if something else terrible were going to happen. It is probably only the aftermath of the year’s troubles. Or perhaps I will marry after all!

Linsey

Millbank prison was considered a great achievement by those not incarcerated there. Antonia thought the place unwholesome, being built on marshlands on the banks of the Thames, but she had to admit that it was of superior design to the dark blocks of Newgate.

The various wings of Millbank radiated out from a central watch like a great star, and each long, narrow arm had windows so that day could be distinguished from night. In many other of the prisons Antonia visited, the cells were so dim that it was difficult to tell the difference. Even now, in the middle of February, a little light must provide some relief to those who had been moved to Millbank to await transportation.

Each time she passed through the towering black gates, Antonia was reminded of the compassion and devotion of the indomitable Elizabeth Fry. She was still the shining light of the British Ladies’ Society, even though she was now an invalid and rarely in London. Because of Elizabeth, not only Newgate and Millbank, but also Bridewell, Whitecross Street and Coldbath Fields were in excellent order. She had sacrificed her health to ensure that female prisoners were no longer shackled like animals on the long voyages to the colonies. It was her Quaker charities which collected cloth so that the women could make quilts during their months at sea.

Antonia and Juliette were accompanied by a wardress with
muscular forearms along a chill brick corridor towards the north ward. Their footsteps echoed as though a crowd of ghosts walked with them. Antonia glanced at Juliette who wore an unusually stalwart expression. The fact that Juliette had agreed to come to Millbank at all was something of a breakthrough. She had only accompanied Antonia to this prison once before, and had then been gloomy and weepy for days after. She’d wanted to see the place where her mother spent the months before she had been transferred to a hulk. Hulk was an apt name for the great rusting man-o’-wars that sat in the Thames estuary. They were unfit for use by the navy, but apparently not unfit for the storage of excess criminals. Eliza Green was lucky to have escaped a hulk and to be transported instead.

Antonia and Juliette both carried carpet bags containing items prisoners had requested. Mary Gardner wanted fingerless gloves for her chilblained hands. She said the endless sewing made her fingers so numb that she’d all but lost feeling in them. In the daylight hours the Millbank women were employed in every industry from common needlework to making brooms, brushes, rugs and mats. Nelly Williams wanted a copy of the Moses and Son catalogue, though she couldn’t read. She said she liked the pictures of hats and gloves and fancy collars. Should the day never come when she could wear such showy things herself, then at least she would have had the pleasure of imagining them. Margaret Dickson had asked for hair pins, having assured Mrs Blake they were for fixing her hair, not tinkering a lock. Antonia refrained from asking why she would bother with such decorative grooming when she sat on her own all day in a cell.

There were other items in the carpet bags: a wooden comb, a skein of wool, a paper bag containing a variety of boot buttons,
wool shawls knitted by one of the Friends, some pretty writing paper for a love note and, of course, Bibles. Antonia was mindful to keep her back straight and her chin lifted as their boots echoed through the dark, winding passages and heavy slate-grey doors. She was here to provide comfort, not to feel intimidated. The doors clanged shut behind them, making Juliette start each time. The ground plan was deceptively simple. In fact, the geometry of the building was impenetrable, a maze even to one who had walked its halls before.

They arrived at the north ward, a structure with steel stairs and a grid of railings connecting all of its three floors. Each floor was visible from every part of the long, narrow corridor of the building and lined with row upon row of identical grey doors. The overall effect was of an enormous aviary whose captive birds were kept in tiny boxes.

They ascended to the second level from the ground, each step they took ringing out on the metal rungs of the stair. At the sound, several wooden rods appeared through the slots in cell doors, the only means by which the women were allowed to catch the attention of the wardress. She appeared not to notice. Antonia could not help but think of Millbank as a fortified limbo. Its one thousand inmates had been transferred here from all over the country as well as from other London prisons.

Margaret Dickson, whose cell was the first they called at, was from Manchester and had been sentenced to seven years for the theft of a trunk of tea from the back of a coach. It was a more impressive crime than much of the petty thieving that resulted in transportation. The warden unclipped a hefty bracelet of keys from her apron and, with a resounding click, the door to Margaret’s cell creaked open.

‘Look sharp, Dickson, you’ve a lady visitor.’ Juliette’s air of
servitude was such that she was clearly a subordinate, even though the two women were as plainly clothed as each other. The cell was sparsely furnished. A porcelain tub for washing was fitted with a wooden cover so that it could also be used as a seat; a large earthenware pan sat in one corner, and folded neatly in another was a brown hammock and bedding. A table flap, hinged to the wall, was laid with a tin mug and plate, a wooden spoon and a slate and pencil. Margaret sat on a low stool beneath a small high window, sewing a linsey petticoat which, along with a brown serge pinafore, was the uniform worn by all of the female inmates. Linsey, a blend of linen and wool, was so coarse that even a Quaker would not consider wearing it as an undergarment.

When Margaret saw her visitors, her face lit up . She stood to allow Mrs Blake to sit on her stool and Antonia didn’t refuse. There was little else a prisoner could do to be welcoming than offer the only stool in her cell. Juliette perched on the wooden board over the wash basin. The door clanged shut behind them.

‘Are you well, Margaret?’ It was always the first thing Antonia asked, though the irony of the question was not lost on her. How could anyone be
well
in such a place?

‘As well as I can be on cocoa and gruel, Mrs Blake.’ Margaret looked less stout, but was otherwise in good spirits. A rapport had developed between the three women the last time Juliette had visited Millbank, since they had all come to London from the north, though all under rather different circumstances.

Margaret chatted away as though she were going to the continent on holiday. She had not yet been told exactly
where
her transport would sail, and she
would
prefer to be sent to the colonies of Bermuda or Gibraltar, since Sydney was an
awful
long way, three months at sea at least.

Antonia listened and glanced quickly at Juliette when Margaret said that she had little hope of ever returning to her family in Manchester once she’d gone. Juliette didn’t appear to be listening, though, she was fidgeting with a strand of her shawl and her eyes were darting about the room as though there was something to look at. She seemed on edge, though this was nothing new.

After a time, Antonia rummaged in her bag for the hair pins Margaret had requested and then stood to leave. She expected Juliette to follow, but the maid stayed seated, looking nervous.

‘I’d like to stop with Margaret, if you don’t mind, Mrs Blake. I’m not sure that we’ll see each other again and I’d like to tell her about my ma, in case she gets sent to Sydney town.’

‘Of course, Juliette! What a good idea. I’ll come and fetch you after I’ve been to see Nelly, shall I?’

‘Yes, please, I hope that’s no bother.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Antonia left, wondering what on earth Juliette could be up to with Margaret. She should not be so suspicious, she should be hopeful. Perhaps the girl was finally reaching out; becoming confident, and that could surely only be a good thing.

Nelly Williams was sweet-faced and flaxen-haired, which was not advantageous in a women’s prison. She might as well be deliberately trying to make the others feel ugly. Even here, appearances mattered. Nelly was as excited as a child to receive her catalogue, and Antonia stayed with her, looking at fur mantles and satin slippers. She tried to remember the shades that were being worn on Oxford and Regent Streets because Nelly seemed anxious to know. She felt compelled to point out that the corseted and cosseted were generally unhappy, and that one pretty desire was quickly replaced with another. Nelly said she wouldn’t mind being that kind of unhappy.

She left Nelly with her catalogue of fancies, reminded of the scented invitation that had recently arrived from Isabella Montgomery. Isabella’s cage was gilded and luxurious, but she was imprisoned nonetheless. For all of his charm and benevolence, her father was typical of his class. Isabella was not allowed an inch of freedom, although she was gasping for it. The invitation, addressed to both Antonia and Rhia, was to Isabella’s forthcoming birthday tea, but Antonia didn’t think she could bring herself to attend. She would just feel like an old pigeon in an aviary full of coloured birds, all preening and pecking.

Juliette’s mood seemed to improve as soon as they left Millbank, and Antonia wondered if she saw the twitch of a secretive smile before they were both forced to cover their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs. The stench was truly awful. ‘Perhaps if the night-soil men didn’t command a shilling a cesspit, the sewers wouldn’t spill over so often,’ she observed drily. Sewage was like emotion; it could only be contained to a point before it just burst through its restraints.

Greystones,

County Wicklow

16 February 1841

My dear Rhia,

You must by now have taken up the position at the Montgomery Emporium. I imagine you surrounded by a palette of silk.

My late reply is not for want of will, as you will know, but of time. Annie Kelly and I are spinning all the daylight hours, and at night your father is in need of my company. He is much the same. The physician says that the bones have mended and he can find no reason why he should not walk with a stick. His ailment is, as we know, of the spirit. He won’t forgive himself for allowing the ruin of the business, or for letting you leave. He even seems to think that he might have done something to prevent Ryan’s death. When he is finally sleeping, I am too weary to write and always, now, consider the cost when the gas lanterns are lit. I may write by tallow, but it is not so true a light. Do not misunderstand me, I don’t consider this a hardship, it reminds me to value everything for its worth, as Mamo always said I should. Sometimes I imagine I can hear her voice, reminding me that I was lucky to marry a wealthy man, and of course she is still right.

As to Thomas Kelly, yes he is well and is weaving as deftly as ever. He can produce four yards a day if he works from sunrise to sunset. Thomas and I have been experimenting with worsted. I have been given a sample of merino by an Italian peddler. It is a fine yarn and almost as soft as
the wool from the Tibet goat. I have already sold several yards to a Dublin clothier, so we are meeting our needs.

We are all excited that Michael Kelly’s sentence will be served by the summer, and that he has somehow managed to raise the money for his passage to Dublin. It will be wonderful to have him home and, of course, the Kellys will be much better off with both looms in use.

I will not hear of you sending banknotes by post, Rhia, you will need your wage in London and you will find plenty to spend it on. We are quite comfortable. Since I know how stubborn you are, let me suggest this. If you have silver to spare then put it in a safe place – not in a bank – and before you spend it, think about how you might wisely invest it in something useful.

From the window I can see the edge of the shale where you used to ride without boots or bonnet, with your hair getting in such a tangle from the salt and the wind. Epona misses you, but I try to take her out every once in a while. Take good care of yourself and do remember to eat sensibly and keep warm.

Your loving mother,

Brigit Mahoney 

Taffeta

Rhia slipped the letter back into her apron pocket. It was always exciting to have word from home and she had put off reading her mother’s letter until she could sit with her afternoon tea. She looked around the storeroom with satisfaction. It housed an entire wall of box shelving, piled to the ceiling with rolls and folded bolts of cloth. Rearranging it into some kind of logical order had taken the better part of a month and she was still not finished. This was partly because of the sheer volume of cloth, and partly because of regular interruptions from Grace, who was clearly enjoying being mistress of the shop floor. She found no end of menial tasks for Rhia to do, fetching this or that, or minding the floor while she took her elevenses or ran an errand. It was irritating enough being a minion without Grace enjoying her seniority as much as she did.

Rhia liked the storeroom, though. She never tired of the sight of glossy black satin beside gold devoré or plum brocade against beetle green taffeta. It reminded her a little of the front room at St Stephen’s Green. On a bright day like today, the light from the window behind struck the shelving and made the silk velvets shine like jewels.