The Silk Thief (17 page)

When Friday knocked on the door, it opened so quickly Harrie suspected the woman must have been watching through the window.

‘Harriet Clarke?’ she said to Friday.

‘Not me, her,’ Friday said. ‘Are you Mrs Turner?’

The woman nodded. She was in her thirties perhaps, pleasant-faced and neatly dressed.

‘Not all of you, just Harriet.’

‘I can’t do it without my friends,’ Harrie said.

‘Then I can’t help you, dear.’ Mrs Turner closed the door.

Friday knocked again, and kept on knocking until it opened a second time.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Turner said. ‘Was I not clear?’

Digging in her reticule, Friday produced a five-pound note and flapped it. ‘On top of your fee. Am
I
being clear enough?’

Mrs Turner looked at the money, made a hesitant face, then took it. ‘You can come in, all of you, and you two,’ she said, nodding at Friday and Sarah, ‘can attend her, but please keep out of the way and let me get on with my work. I can’t afford to be distracted.’

Sarah and Friday crowded in before she could change her mind.

Inside, the house echoed its tidy outside appearance. A kettle hissed over a fire — probably not the cooking hearth, it was too small — and a rug-covered sofa, an armchair, a dining table and a small writing desk filled the space. In one corner stood a walking spinning wheel, the kind you stood up to use. Harrie hadn’t seen one of those since she’d left England.

‘Now, Harriet, are you absolutely sure this is what you want?’ Mrs Turner asked. ‘Once I start there’ll be no turning back.’

‘Yes, I am. I’m sure,’ Harrie said, though it sounded to her ears as though someone else were saying the words. There was a ringing noise filling her entire head, and she was dizzy and felt sick and needed to lie down.

‘Mrs Hislop said you’ve already tried feverfew tea?’

Harrie nodded. ‘All it did was make me vomit.’

Several doors led off the main room, and it was towards one of these that Mrs Turner pointed. ‘Go through, dear, take off your boots and stockings, and lie on the bed. If you’re feeling unsettled, help yourself to the laudanum. It’s included in the fee. I’ll just wait for the water to boil.’

Harrie
was
feeling unsettled. She was terrified, and now she couldn’t make her legs move.

‘Come on,’ Sarah said gently, and took her hand.

The room was small, and furnished with a single cast-iron bed minus its footboard, a chest of drawers topped with a lace runner and a pungent-smelling pot pourri, and several wooden chairs arranged against the wall. Above one chair hung a sampler on which was embroidered;
For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only son/that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16.
A large oilcloth had been spread across the bottom half of the bed, over the end and onto the wooden floor. A sheer gauze curtain covered the window and a lamp burnt brightly on a small table, which also held a pair of folded towels and a tray covered with a linen cloth. Beside it stood a small brown bottle.

Harrie took a long sip from it, grimacing as the bittersweet laudanum slid down her throat. How many other girls and women had been in this room? It must’ve been hundreds, because she could hear the lonely, unformed voices of their unwanted and discarded babies, whispering to her like the rustle of the branches of an ancient tree in a restless wind.

‘Go easy, love,’ Friday said. ‘You’ll knock yourself out.’

Good, Harrie thought. She sat on the bed and untied the laces on her right boot with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. She just wanted this to be over so she could go home and pretend none of it had ever happened.

‘Here,’ Sarah said. She crouched and eased off Harrie’s other boot, then helped her to lie down. The oilcloth on the mattress made an unpleasant rasping noise. She rolled Harrie’s stockings down and off, then smoothed her skirts over her legs again. ‘All right?’

Harrie nodded, though she wasn’t.

‘Where the hell’s that woman?’ Friday grumbled.

‘Right behind you,’ Mrs Turner said as she carried in a bowl of hot water, an apron draped over her arm. She set the bowl on the table, tied the apron around her neck and waist, and rolled up the sleeves of her dress. While she dipped her hands into the hot water, she said, ‘Girls, you do understand, don’t you, that what I do here is against the law?’

‘Well, yes,’ Friday said.

‘I wasn’t happy about all of you being here, but you are, so the less said about it the better. If I go to gaol, or worse, God help me, there’ll be even fewer clean and competent hands available to do this. And then what will happen to girls like Harriet? Now, dear, did you have a tot of the laudanum?’

Harrie nodded.

‘And how far along do you think you are? Mrs Hislop did mention it, but, well, you’re the one who knows exactly, aren’t you?’

‘Eight weeks,’ Harrie said.

‘Good. Nice and early. I’ll just have a feel, to make sure.’ Harrie grimaced with embarrassment as Mrs Turner pulled up her skirt and pressed at her lower belly with stiff fingers, poking quite hard just above her pubic hair. ‘Yes, that feels about right. Shall we start, then?’

‘Will it hurt?’ Harrie asked. She couldn’t see how it wouldn’t.

‘I won’t lie, dear. Yes, it will, but it won’t take long. I’ve done this many dozens of times.’

‘Successfully?’ Sarah asked, rather sharply.

Mrs Turner hesitated for the briefest of seconds. ‘Usually.’ She dried her hands on a towel and picked up another. ‘Now, I need you to move down so your bottom’s right at the end of the bed. And I want this towel underneath you. That’s right, tuck your skirts well out of the way.’

Harrie wriggled down as requested.

‘Raise your knees, please, and set your feet on the oilcloth.’ Mrs Turner selected a long sewing stiletto of bone from the tray and knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed. ‘My goodness, that’s a nasty-looking boil on your backside. How long have you had that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Harrie mumbled. ‘A week?’ A boil on her arse was the least of her worries. She stared up at the ceiling; there was a crack in the rough plaster and she was sure something with nasty, glinting eyes was peering though it at her.

‘I can give you a receipt for a good plaster to put on that. Should help to clear it up. You’ll have to lance it first, though. Remind me before you go. Right, I’m starting now.’

Harrie jerked and cried out sharply.

Mrs Turner sat back on her heels. ‘Hmm. There doesn’t seem to be much room in there. I barely even got my fingers in. Harriet, dear, how many, er —’

‘One,’ Friday said. ‘She did it once, and she caught.’

‘Oh dear, you poor thing. Let’s see.’ Mrs Turner pushed herself to her feet, her knees cracking like snapping twigs, took a slim glass tube from the tray and smeared a balm over the end of it.

Sarah looked at Friday, appalled. Friday gave a tiny shake of her head, warning her to keep quiet and not to frighten Harrie.

Harrie turned her head towards the chairs against the wall. Rachel was there, her hands folded in her lap, sitting quietly.

‘Help me,’ Harrie pleaded.

‘It’s all right,’ Rachel said. ‘I’m here.’

Mrs Turner knelt again. She inserted the tube, peered into it, said, ‘That’s better,’ then carefully introduced the stiletto.

A knife drove up into Harrie’s belly and a shriek burst out of her. She slapped her hands over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, but the noise kept coming out in a long moan, like a cow in mortal terror. Then someone’s hands were on her head, soothing and cool, but the pain got worse and worse, searing deeply into her innards until she knew she couldn’t bear it. She heard Rachel telling her to hold on, and then Sarah’s voice, then came a small release of pressure in her abdomen, and at last the pain began to ease.

‘That should do it,’ Mrs Turner said as she got to her feet, the stiletto in her hand slick with blood.

Harrie opened her eyes. Rachel had gone.

‘How are you feeling, dear?’ Mrs Turner asked. ‘A bit uncomfortable? That’s to be expected. Did you bring anything with you for the blood?’

Friday and Sarah helped Harrie to sit up. She glanced down between her legs and saw that the towel beneath her backside was stained an alarmingly dark red.

‘I think … in my reticule.’ She could barely gather her wits, she was that shocked.

Friday dug around and found a cloth, and a cord to go around the waist to hold it up. ‘One isn’t going to last long, is it? We’d better get you home.’

Mrs Turner dipped a washcloth into the bowl of warm water and passed it to Harrie. ‘Here, dear, clean yourself up.’

‘What happens now?’ Sarah asked as she gathered up Harrie’s boots and stockings. ‘Is that it? Is it done?’

‘Yes, it’s done, but the foetus won’t be expelled straight away. That could take up to a day or more.’

Sarah eased the bloody towel from under Harrie, dropped it on the floor and crouched to help her put on her stockings and boots. ‘What if it doesn’t come out? Will that mean it’s still alive?’

Harrie felt her gorge rise and she retched, making a noise like Angus when he had a fur ball. Her eyes watered viciously, and she started to cry properly.

Mrs Turner turned her back and busied herself rinsing her instruments in the water bowl. ‘No, it won’t be alive. I do know what I’m doing, you know. It’s more likely to mean an obstruction of some sort, preventing the foetus from coming away. But if that does occur, you can’t come back here. There’ll be nothing more I can do.’

Again Friday and Sarah looked at each other.

If that did happen, Harrie would most certainly die.

Part Two

Let Her Rave

Chapter Seven

As arranged, Jack took Harrie home in Elizabeth Hislop’s carriage. Nora put her straight to bed, telling George when he appeared for his dinner she’d been taken ill.

And she was ill, bleeding heavily and suffering severe cramps. By late afternoon she worsened and, convinced she was dying, wanted Friday and Sarah, but Friday was on duty at the brothel until ten that evening and Sarah was also busy at work. At six o’clock Nora sent Abigail to fetch her: she arrived as soon as the shop closed, leaving Adam to organise his own supper.

She flinched as she entered Harrie’s little attic room — Nora was changing the bed linen and the chamber smelt faintly like an abattoir. The sheets dumped on the floor were stained with a shocking amount of blood, and Harrie’s face and lips were absolutely white. She was wearing a shift pulled up around her waist, and a wad of cloths was folded between her legs.

‘My God, Mrs Barrett, how long has she been like this?’

‘A couple of hours.’ Nora pushed her fair hair off her face with the back of her wrist. ‘The flow was steady earlier, but I think the baby’s coming away. I’ll never get the stains out of this linen.’

Sarah took Harrie’s hand. It was cold and limp, like a dead fish. ‘How are you feeling, love?’

‘Rachel? Is that you?’ Harrie’s eyes were glazed and a sheen of sweat gleamed on her brow.

‘It’s Sarah, sweetie. Are you in pain?’

Harrie groaned.

‘Do we need a doctor?’ Sarah asked Nora.

‘What for? What’s a doctor going to do?’ Gazing down at Harrie, she bit her lip. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘I was thinking of James Downey,’ Sarah said.

‘James Downey? Her suitor? Don’t be stupid, girl. Do you think he’ll still want her after treating her for a botched abortion?’

Sarah’s heart lurched. ‘
Is
it botched?’

‘God. I just don’t know. Shall we wait another hour? I’ve given her plenty of laudanum. She’s full of it.’

Harrie let out another low moan and rolled onto her side. Sarah wondered if she
had
another hour.

‘Help me get another sheet under her, will you?’ Nora asked. ‘I’ve just put a couple of clean cloths on her.’

The door opened and Hannah stuck her head around it.

‘Hannah, get out!’ Nora snapped.

Catching sight of the bloody sheets on the floor, Hannah’s eyes were huge. ‘Da says he’s hungry and where’s his bloody supper.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Nora straightened, her hand pressed into the middle of her back. ‘Tell him to get it himself. I’m busy.’

‘Is Harrie dying?’ Hannah asked, and burst into tears.

Nora hurried over and gave her a quick cuddle. ‘Of course she isn’t.’

‘But she’s got a really bad bleeding!’ Hannah wailed.

‘Yes, I know, but she’ll be all right, don’t worry. I know, why don’t you and Abigail get your father his supper? You’re such big girls now. There’s cold roast beef in the safe, and cheese and piccalilli and some of that loaf left from this morning. Is that a good idea?’

Hannah sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and nodded. Abigail would have to slice the meat because she wasn’t allowed to play with sharp knives after what had happened with Sam, but she could put everything on a plate. She went out, yelling for her sister.

Nora flapped out a fresh sheet, rolled it longways, and laid it on the mattress parallel to Harrie’s back.

‘This is my last set,’ she said. ‘The rest are dirty. Normally I’d go next door to borrow some, but, well, I don’t really like to for this.’

‘I’ve got plenty,’ Sarah said. Adam’s previous wife, Esther, had left a stock of them in the linen cupboard. She knew how arduous washing all the soiled sheets in the copper was going to be — a chore Harrie normally did. And if it rained, they would take days to dry. ‘I’ll go home later and get them. And Friday might be able to borrow some old ones from Mrs Hislop.’

Grim-faced, Nora nodded her thanks. ‘I just hope to God it doesn’t go on that long.’

So did Sarah.

Together she and Nora eased Harrie onto her other side, so she was on the fresh sheet, then smoothed out the rolled-up section. But as they did, more blood oozed through and around the cloths between Harrie’s legs and soaked into the sheets. Nora swore quite spectacularly, then folded back the cloths and inspected the contents.

‘I think it’s come out,’ she said after a moment.