The Crimson Ribbon (5 page)

Part Two

London

May 1646

Chapter 7

I wait a long time for an answer.

‘He is a tailor, a Guild man,’ Old Bess had told me, as I mounted the horse behind Christopher. ‘I knew him once, long ago. He is a good man and respectable. He will keep you safe, if you give this to him.’ She pressed the letter into my hand. ‘But remember, no one must know of this. Your safety depends upon your silence.’

I knock again and begin to think I will spend a night under the smoke-clouded sky when, from behind the door, I hear a coarse female voice.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Please, is the master of the house at home?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’ve come very far to see him. Please, I have a letter . . .’

Iron scrapes against iron as the bolts are drawn back. Then I hear the turn of a key in the lock and the creak of ungreased hinges. A sliver of candlelight casts shadows.

‘And what time is this to be calling? It’s past ten and the master is abed.’

‘I’m sorry, but I must see him. I have nowhere else to go . . .’ Suddenly I am overwhelmed with tiredness, and at the thought of a bed among the beggar children of St Paul’s tears well.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ruth Flowers. I have a letter from Bess Cromwell.’

I don’t know if it is the quaver in my voice or the mention of Old Bess that does the trick, but the door opens and I am facing a woman dressed in nightclothes, with arms as thick as hams. Her hair falls in dusty brown tendrils from under her cap, as though she has thrown the thing on in an attempt to be decent. She has a round, ruddy face and squinting sow-like eyes.

‘You’d better come in. The mistress is still up.’ She ushers me inside. ‘Give me this letter.’

I hand it to her.

‘Wait here. And do not touch a thing.’ She waddles into the darkness, taking the candle with her.

Now I’m inside I will do anything to stay. I will sleep on the flagstones beneath my feet, I will curl up before the hearth like a kitchen-boy, I will eat nothing but scraps meant for the slops. I will beg if I must.

The woman soon returns, muttering to herself. She comes towards me and lifts the candle to my face. ‘Let me look at you. Hold out your hands.’

I do as I’m told and she inspects them, nails, knuckles and wrists.

‘Well, you look healthy enough. This way . . .’

I follow her down a narrow passageway that leads to the back of the house. We pass more chambers to each side and a staircase that marks the way to upper storeys. The house is bigger than I had first thought. It smells of mouldering laundry and vegetable broth. At the end of the passageway, we come to a large room, lit by a good fire and candles on the mantel. I recognise the glint of copper skillets and the sheen of well-fired pottery: familiar signs of a well-appointed kitchen.

But all this is nothing compared to the woman who sits by the fire. She has the loveliest face I have ever seen. She has wide, clear eyes, a high forehead and pale skin, sprinkled with freckles across the nose. She has a small pink mouth. Her hair, red as the blush of an autumn russet, is shot through with gold. The light of the fire seems to glow around her. I’m instantly reminded of the statues in the cathedral at Ely: false gods with shining ivory faces, ageless in their perfection.

I know right away that she is a precious thing. I know she is different from other women, and I have never met anyone like her before.

When she speaks, her voice is soft and prettily clear. ‘Margaret tells me you are come here with this letter for my father.’

‘Yes, madam.’ I curtsy to her, and she beckons me forward with a small amused upturn of her lips.

She breaks the seal and tilts the page towards the flames to read. In the light I can see that she is some years my senior, but her brow is unlined, either by age or by worry. Her figure is slender. She wears a dress of deep red serge, darned carefully in patches with a paler yarn. She has fine thin hands with long fingers and clean nails. I feel small and dirty beside her. I hide my own calloused palms behind my back.

As she reads, she bites her lower lip and a tiny crease appears at her brow. When she has finished, she holds the letter in her lap. ‘Well, Ruth, it seems you need a place to stay,’ she says.

‘Yes, madam.’

‘This lady, Mistress Cromwell, claims you are an orphan.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘I do not know this lady myself.’

‘The letter is for Master Robert Poole. This is his house, is it not?’

‘Yes. He is my father.’

‘Please, madam, if I could speak with him . . .’

‘You are quite alone in London?’

‘Yes.’

She refers to the letter. ‘And you are come from . . . Ely?’

I nod.

‘Come closer. Let me see you.’

I step into the light of the flames and stare at the floor.

‘Let me look at your face.’

I tilt my chin, burning with shame at my unwashed clothes and filthy skin. I cannot bring my eyes to meet hers, but I can feel her gaze on me. It makes such fierce fire in me that I can hardly breathe.

‘Well, Margaret, it seems we have a visitor.’

The red-faced woman named Margaret snorts. ‘Are you sure? We know nothing about her. Should we not wake the master?’

‘The Good Lord has sent us a soul in need and we cannot fail him. Set a bed in one of the upper rooms, the one next to Charlotte’s. And see to it that there is water to wash. I shall speak to my father in the morning. There is no sense in disturbing him now.’

Margaret shuffles from the room, tutting under her breath.

The woman stands, comes to me and takes my hands in hers. ‘You will stay here tonight. I shall speak to my father tomorrow and we will see what can be done. Oh, you are trembling. Please, sit . . .’

‘Thank you . . . thank you.’ I take a seat on the bench and feel the welcome heat of the hearth.

‘My name is Elizabeth. Those who know me call me Lizzie.’

I look up and meet her eyes. They are full of life, the kind of eyes that can see deep inside a person. They shine a pale, gold-flecked green, like Fen water sparkling in the sunshine. My heart quickens. Elizabeth. Lizzie. My saving grace.

It is gone midnight by the time I’m left alone. Margaret shows me to a tiny room under the eaves where there is no window and no fire. There is barely room for the truckle bed and the small cabinet where a basin sits, filled with cold water. But I do not care. I lie on the bed fully dressed, listening to the rustles and creaks of a strange household settling for the night, glad for every moment I am safe. Eventually, when all is silent, I rummage in my satchel and bring out my mother’s book. I hold it to my chest as though it is my own babe in my arms, and I sob myself to sleep.

Chapter 8

I wake to find Margaret, basin of water in hand, grunting at me, as though she knew she would find me still fully clothed in the grime of the road.

‘Mistress says you’re to come down to the parlour. I’ve brought you some clean things.’

She puts down the steaming basin and picks up the cold one from the night before, her meaty body consuming what is left of the space in the room. Then she produces clean clothes. I stand to let her lay them on the bed.

‘Bring your old ’uns down and Charlotte will see to ’em.’

She is gone before I have the wit to thank her.

I strip and wash as best I can. The hot water feels like a blessing. I dress quickly: a loose white shift, a brown dress of thick worsted and old worn stays, threadbare in places, darned and mended, but clean and smelling sweetly of lavender soap. I wonder if they belong to Lizzie.

Margaret has brought a cap and boots too, and I do my best to untangle my hair, plait it and tuck it under the cap. The boots are ill-fitting, but they are clean and dry.

I say a prayer and let my fingers wander over the mottled leather of my mother’s book before stowing it safe beneath the bed, out of sight. Its gifts must be used sparingly and I must wait for the right time.

I find Lizzie in a room at the front of the house that looks onto the street. She is sitting by the fire, deep in conversation with a man I take to be her father, although you would not know it by the look of him. He is frail and grey for a man in his middle years, with none of the presence or beauty of his child. That must come from her mother, I think, as I hover by the door, afraid to disturb them.

‘It is not only the money we must think of,’ Master Poole is saying. ‘We do not want the old rumours to surface again. We must be wary. We cannot trust outsiders . . .’

‘Oh, Father . . .’ Lizzie talks to him as if he is the child and she the parent. ‘Must we always return to that? She is gone, long gone, and forgotten by all but those who loved her. We must think of the future. Think what a connection to the Cromwells might do for business.’

‘Mistress Bess is clear. She asks particularly that no one else in the household must know the girl’s origins. If you had not opened this private letter, Lizzie, you would not know either.’

Lizzie rolls her eyes.

‘I suppose, out of respect for past ties, I must do it,’ he goes on, ‘but she will stay in the kitchens. And you will tell her nothing of what has gone before.’

The remains of a good breakfast sit on a table next to him and he reaches for his mug.

Fearing that they will notice me standing mute on the threshold and think me a sneak, I reach out and rap upon the door.

‘Oh, Ruth! There you are.’ Lizzie smiles. ‘Come in, come in.’

I go into the room, keeping my eyes to the flagstones.

‘Ruth, this is my father.’

Master Poole nods at me and wipes his whiskers with a linen kerchief.

‘Did you sleep?’ Lizzie is up and at my side, guiding me to her chair by the fire.

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘And will you eat? I had Margaret prepare plenty. There is bread and meat and cheese.’ She goes to the table and carves a great hunk of crust before I can answer. I watch her pale hands wielding the knife. She is soberly dressed this morning in dark skirts, her lovely hair tucked away beneath her cap like my own, tiny copper strands escaping at the nape of her neck. Next to her, the table is strewn with swatches of fabric, so many hues of wool, silk and velvet, as if a rainbow has fallen from the skies and landed there.

‘Well, child,’ Master Poole says gravely. ‘I have read the letter you brought with you and I believe it to be genuine.’ He pauses and looks me over. ‘Bess Cromwell was a friend to me once, many years ago, when I found myself in need. She tells me you are orphaned and need a home. Well, I find myself able to return her favour. We are not a wealthy household, but if you are willing to earn your keep, we can manage one more. What kind of girl are you?’

‘A good girl, sir,’ I say.

He suppresses a smile. ‘Kitchen? Laundry? Can you sew?’

‘A little. I was kitchen maid for Mistress Cromwell.’

‘Then you will help Margaret.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And, Ruth, there must be no mention of Mistress Cromwell, or your previous place, to anyone. No mention at all. Her letter is quite clear on that. It must be a secret between the three of us.’ He tucks his napkin into his jacket pocket. ‘Are you a gossip?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I cannot abide a gossip. If I hear of any idle talk, you will be out on the street. Do you understand?’

‘Father!’ Lizzie exclaims, bringing me a plate of food. ‘Do not be so harsh. Ruth deserves our pity.’ She flutters around me like a butterfly, setting down a mug of small beer and fetching a stool for herself. I am hungry, I realise, and unable to stop myself falling on the meal as if I am starved. Between mouthfuls I thank them both.

‘There is no need for that.’ Master Poole flaps his hands at me and stands, dusting crumbs from his coat. ‘I understand you have nothing of your own. Clothes and the like.’

‘Very little, sir.’

‘Lizzie will give you what you need. We keep an orderly house, which is good for business. Mind you keep out of the customers’ way.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He nods at me and leaves us, crossing into a room beyond the passageway and closing the door behind him.

As soon as he is gone, Lizzie jumps up from her stool. She comes to me and places her hand on my head for a moment, as though giving benediction. ‘Do not worry about my father,’ she says. ‘All will be well. You’ll see.’

I am placed in Margaret’s care and spend the rest of that day in the kitchen, learning the tasks and rhythms of the house. At first she is churlish with me, but when she sees that I’m good for the work, she softens. Her distrust gives way to grudging acceptance as I prove to be useful and free from plague, against which, she says, we must be on constant guard.

I have taken Master Poole’s warning to heart and when Charlotte, the maidservant, asks me questions, I fumble my way through an invented history while she and Margaret exchange doubting looks.

Margaret is easy to make out. I know that if I work hard and keep my own counsel, I will win her over in the end. She is mistress of the kitchen, and set in her ways, but sentimental loyalty spills from her eyes whenever she speaks of our mistress.

Charlotte must be only a few years my elder and I hope at first that she might be an ally, but she treats me with suspicion. She is stout and rounded, with fair natural curls, and must have been pretty once, before the pox scarred her.

The three of us servants are in the kitchen, Charlotte and I taking the first rest of the day, while Margaret kneads the dough for tomorrow’s bread.

‘Will we see the mistress tonight?’ I ask, thinking of Lizzie settled before the hearth, as I had first seen her.

‘I don’t know,’ Margaret says. ‘Oftentimes she spends her evenings here, but sometimes her father wants her with him.’

‘Have you known her long?’ I ask.

‘Her whole life, since she was a babe.’

‘You like it here?’

‘Aye, ’tis a good enough place. The master don’t interfere and Mistress Lizzie, well, I could not leave her now even if I had some other place to go.’ She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a dusting of flour.

‘She seems kind,’ I say.

‘Oh, yes, she was the kindest, sweetest child, and she has grown into a fair mistress.’

Charlotte snorts.

‘There’ll be no cheek from you,’ Margaret says.

There is one question that I must ask, for I have been wondering about it all day.

‘Where is her mother? Where is Mistress Poole?’

Margaret does not answer but pummels the dough. I look to Charlotte, who chews her lip. ‘Shall I tell her?’ she says.

Margaret sighs. ‘I don’t doubt she’ll hear the story soon enough. It may as well be from you.’

‘Your answer is, nobody knows,’ Charlotte says, eyes glittering. ‘It is a famous mystery hereabouts. Mistress Poole was a great beauty and came from a rich family, so they say, but she ran away to marry the master and was cast off without a penny. They say she could only manage the one child – Mistress Lizzie ruined her for good – and after that she became sickly and unstable in her mind.’ Charlotte taps a finger to her skull. ‘Then, one night, she disappeared. She was ill and took to her bed, and the next morning she was nowhere to be found. No one knows what happened. No one heard a sound, all her things were here, just as she left them, and all the doors were bolted on the inside. It was like she was spirited clean away. Some people blamed Mistress Lizzie, said she was peculiar, that she had strange powers. There was talk of witchcraft—’

‘That’s enough,’ Margaret snaps. ‘You can gossip all you like outside this house, but I’ll not have you speak ill of the mistress in my kitchen.’ She has coloured, a ruddy flush mottling her throat.

‘When did it happen?’ I ask.

‘A long time ago, when the mistress was young,’ Margaret says. ‘We do not speak of it before her, do you hear?’

‘Of course,’ I say. This must be the secret that Master Poole was so keen to hide from me, the old rumour he is so determined to quash.

Margaret shakes her head. ‘A thing like that is hard to forget. It has left my girl delicate, poor child. She is not always . . . clear-headed.’

‘Is that why she has never married?’ I ask.

‘Oh, there have been suitors . . . but none could tempt her away from us.’

Charlotte is looking at me sideways, with a smirk.

Before I go to bed that night, I step outside into the yard. There are no stars and no moon by which I can right myself, but I scratch a circle in the dirt with my foot and step inside it. I whisper a prayer to the Fen spirits, and to the four corners of the wind, hoping that my words will be carried to waiting ears.

Now I know that Lizzie has felt the same pain that gnaws inside me. Her loss mirrors my own. My mother can never be replaced, but I long so much for a kind word, a gentle touch, the sort of comfort that only another person can give. The fading memory of Joseph’s hand in mine feels a poor substitute for what I need now. I whisper my wish that Lizzie will be the one to comfort me.

But I do not know if the Fen spirits will hear me, muffled by coal smoke, so far from home.