A Death Along the River Fleet (10 page)

“Yeah? How much?” Will asked, interested in spite of himself.

“She is said to be
worth £1,000 per annum and with vast expectations.”

“Hmpph,” Will grumbled, beginning to sharpen his knives.

Lucy read the final part to herself.
“Though of a very small proportion of beauty, she is said to have much life and vivacity and will soon do her duty by producing an heir.”

“Poor lass,” Lucy said out loud. Thirteen was quite young to be married, but not for the nobles and gentry. That was one small blessing to being a servant and apprentice—no one expected a woman to marry until she had a dowry in hand. Few people of her social standing got married before they were twenty-five; there was not much use to thinking about marrying when there was no income or a place to live together. As for herself, she was quite content to live with her brother above Master Aubrey's shop, creating pieces both practical and strange. Or at least she thought she was.

Hearing the church bells toll ten times outside, Lucy grabbed all the tracts and stuffed them in her sack. “I must get back,” she called to her brother, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek.

She raced down the steps and through the printer's shop. She was almost to the door when she collided with Master Aubrey as he walked in from Fleet Street.

“Oof,” he grunted. “Lucy! What are you doing, running through my shop like this!”

“Good morning, sir. I was just here to see my brother,” she said, giving a little teasing curtsy. “A pleasant Maundy Thursday to you.”

He grunted. “It would be more pleasant if all my hard-worked wares were not in danger of flying away, due to the giddiness of my sometimes apprentice.”

Behind her, she heard Lach snicker.

Seeing Master Aubrey's pack, she asked sweetly, “Out selling tracts, sir?”

“Smart, isn't she?” Lach asked.

Master Aubrey laid his pack down. “I sold a few. I went to Whitehall to see King Charles wash the feet of the poor people, but the Bishop of London did it on his behalf.” The printer seemed a bit disgruntled. It had long been the custom for the monarchs of England to wash the feet of twelve men and women, as Jesus had washed the feet of the Apostles before the Last Supper. Having the Bishop of London take on the task instead of the king clearly irked him. Sometimes she suspected the printer had Leveller sensibilities and liked it when the royals took on more mundane responsibilities.

“Which pieces did you bring?” Lucy asked, changing the subject. In truth, she was always intrigued to know how the packs got decided. Master Aubrey had a knack for knowing what to sell, and to what crowd, that she desperately hoped to learn for herself one day.

“Could not very well sell murder ballads and monstrous births on Maundy Thursday, hey? Brought along John Booker's
Tractatus paschalis
and John Pell's
Easter Not Mis-Timed.
Too many of them, it seems. Only the sinners' journeys, like the one you wrote about that Quaker, sold today.”

He kicked the still-full bag, looking in that moment a bit like Lach, causing Lucy to hide a smile. A rare miss for Master Aubrey. Most people did not care how the date of the movable holy day was affixed in the almanacs each year, or why Catholic nations celebrated Easter and Christmas on different days than they did in England.

He looked back at Lucy. “That reminds me—”

“I will have a great piece for you soon, sir! Just wait!” she said, darting past him, hoping he would not ask her any more questions.

“That had better be true,” she heard Master Aubrey grumble as she scrambled out the door, anxious to find a besom-seller before it grew too late in the morning.

 

8

After triumphantly handing Mrs. Hotchkiss the new besom a short while later, Lucy headed upstairs to the woman's bedchamber, whistling a little tune.

When she opened the door, however, the woman turned on her with furious eyes.

“Miss, is something wrong?” Lucy asked, wary.

“Where have you been?” the woman demanded. “I thought you were engaged as my nurse, to attend to my needs.” Despite the haughty quality of her voice, Lucy caught an underlying note of distress in the woman's tone.

Trying to soothe the woman, Lucy said, “I am sorry that I was not here when you awoke.” She pointed to the bell on the table. “You might have rung for Molly. Though a maidservant, I am sure she could have rendered a tidy enough attempt to service you.”

Unexpectedly, the woman's lips puckered and tears shone in her eyes. Like mercury, her mood had changed from that of an arrogant noble to a frightened child. “I was afraid to ring for her,” the woman whispered, her shoulders slumping. “Afraid of who might come.”

A chill went up Lucy's spine at the woman's strange comment. “Whatever do you mean? Molly would never hurt you.”

The woman sat still. “I do not know. I can remember a bell and something else—” She shook her head. “I do not know. I do not know.” Tears began to slip down her cheeks.

Remembering what Dr. Larimer had told her, Lucy began to speak in a more soothing manner. “I was a lady's maid for a short spell,” Lucy said, picking up the comb, seeing that the woman had been attempting to put up her own hair. “If you will allow me, I can fix your hair in a manner that is more pleasing to you.”

The task would surely be easier if the woman would just take advantage of the looking-glass, but it had been inexplicably covered with a cloth. Taking the brush from the woman's hand, Lucy swiftly undid the messy styling, letting the woman's dark tresses fall freely to her hips. Ever so gently, she began to brush the woman's hair, starting from the ends to remove the tangles.

The woman closed her eyes. “You said you were a lady's maid?” she murmured. Her earlier terror seemed to be dissipating. “For whom?”

“I worked for Master Hargrave, a magistrate,” Lucy said. “I tended to his wife and his daughter, Sarah.”

As she combed and pinned the woman's locks, Lucy told her a little about her life with the Hargraves. “That was all before the Great Fire,” she said, remembering with a shiver the night that the inferno had begun. Things had happened that September night that still haunted her dreams. “I only lived with them a few more weeks after that. It was then that I took up rooms with my brother, Will, above Master Aubrey's shop, and became a printer's apprentice.”

“A printer's apprentice?” the woman asked, her eyes flying open. “That is a rather unseemly occupation, is it not?”

Lucy pulled the comb through the woman's hair a little harder than she intended. “I suppose some would say so,” she said, striving to keep her tone even. “Master Hargrave did not consider the occupation to be unseemly when I left his employ. Indeed, he equipped me with funds to keep myself on at the printer's, since I am not a true apprentice, licensed by the guild.”

“Why ever did you leave the Hargraves, Lucy?” the woman asked, suddenly taking on a familiar demeanor, much the way a kindly mistress might inquire after the doings of a servant. “It sounds like they treated you well?”

Lucy's fingers, which had been flying through the woman's hair, slowed. Why had she left the Hargrave household? The question was simple, but the answer was far less so. The complication of living so close to Adam. The draw of the printer's world. What to say? Instead, she gave the simplest, most direct answer. “My mistress had passed away, and the master's daughter became a Quaker and left his home. There was no lady left to tend.”

“And you have not married? Have you no suitor, then? You are comely enough.”

Lucy shifted uncomfortably. The conversation was getting far too personal, and since she was employed by Dr. Larimer, and not by this woman, she decided she did not need to answer beyond what she had already revealed. “Miss,” she said instead, “what do you think? Does this suit you more?” She reached to remove the cloth that was draped over the mirror.

“No!” the woman exclaimed, stopping Lucy's hand before she could remove the cloth from the glass. “I do not need to see for myself.”

“Why ever not?” Lucy asked in surprise. Mistress Hargrave, though a good and kind woman, had spent many hours at the mirror, as had her daughter, Sarah, at least before she ran off with the Quakers. Lucy assumed that was what noblewomen did. “You look lovely,” she said.

“Thank you, Lucy,” the woman said, blinking back a sudden tear. “I do not know what has come over me.” She slumped back in her chair, stroking the red lines that encircled her delicate wrists. Lucy recalled what Mr. Sheridan had said about the marks the day before.

“Miss,” Lucy said softly, mindful of setting the woman off into another fit, or even of prompting her to return to her more haughty and imperious self. “Those wounds on your wrists, they look as if your hands were bound together by something…?”

The woman looked down at her wrists then, her brow puckering. “I can scarcely remember anything.”

“But you do remember something?” Lucy pressed. “What do you remember?”

“I do not remember being bound. But I remember someone untying me. Someone who put salve on my wrists.” She touched her wrists again. “Someone kind and gentle.”

“Was it Mr. Sheridan?” Lucy asked. “James Sheridan? Is that who you are remembering?”

The woman looked confused. “N-no. I do not think so. It was someone else.”

“But do you remember Mr. Sheridan? From before, I mean.”

The woman clutched her head. “I am telling you, I cannot remember anything. Fleeting things—like smells on the air. Nothing I can grasp! Nothing that can tell me anything for certain! Please!” She banged her fists against her head. “I need to remember!”

“Please, miss! Do not strike yourself!” Lucy said, trying to restrain the woman's hands.

Instead the woman broke away and began to pace about. She reminded Lucy of a cornered dog she had once seen, as it tried to find its way out of a penned-in yard. “I cannot breathe in here! I need air!”

There was a mad anxiety rising in her voice that Lucy sought to contain. “Miss, let us go outside, then. Let us breathe in some fresh air.”

“Outside? Yes, I should like that.”

Relieved, Lucy started to help her out, but at that moment the woman reached for her amulet, scratching at her throat. “Where is my amulet?” she said, growing agitated again. “Did I lose it? Where is it?”

“I have it here.” Quickly, Lucy sought to produce the amulet from her pocket.

“Why did you take it?” the woman demanded, watching her remove it from her skirts.

She could read the suspicion in the woman's eyes. It hurt, truth be told. “I am no thief,” Lucy said, and then hesitated. She did not want to say why she had gone to the jewelry-maker. The woman might not appreciate her trying to discover her identity. “I thought the cord was dirty,” she said instead, dangling the amulet by its gleaming new silver chain.

Seeing the chain, the woman's eyes welled up with tears. “How lovely, Lucy. Thank you for this. That was very kind.” She paused. “I have no money to pay you. And that seems quite strange. Do I usually have coins?”

“I would imagine so,” Lucy said, trying to smile. Uncomfortable with passing the jeweler's gift off as her own, she opened the door.

“We shall just take a short stroll,” she announced to Mrs. Hotchkiss, who was looking at them both with a concerned expression. “We shall be quite all right,” she said.

When they stepped outside, the woman just stood on the street outside Dr. Larimer's house, taking great breaths. Only when they started to walk did she begin to relax and move more easily.

They strolled slowly. The gentle breeze and unexpected warmth from the sun seemed to have a restorative effect on the woman. Indeed, after a little while, she even began humming in a happy, tuneless way.

“I am ever so glad to see spring return,” she said, a wistful tone to her voice. “The buds on the trees. The life around us.” She looked up at the sky. “I should very much like to be as a bird, flying from tree to tree. I would collect twigs for my nest, and hide from the world. Let me fly!”

To Lucy's surprise, then, the woman took off and ran across the small meadow that lay between them and the next road. Lucy stopped and watched her for a while. There was something both childlike and feral in the woman's movements, and Lucy did not know what to make of it.

Then, as she watched the woman, a hundred or so yards away, a man stepped out from behind a tree and began to speak to her.

Nervous, Lucy ran forward and stood close beside the woman. When she approached, the man held up his hands to show he had nothing in them. He wore the nondescript gray woolens of a tradesman, and he was mostly clean-shaven. He looked to be in his thirties. He was no one Lucy knew.

“Good morrow, sir,” she said, pleasant but wary. “We hope we are not barring your path. Pray continue on your way, as we shall continue on ours.”

The man smiled. “Ah, no. I have been looking for you. Or rather, her.” He nodded to the woman, who shrank against Lucy.

“Miss, do you know this man?” Lucy asked, cupping her hands to whisper in the woman's ear.

“I do not know him!” the woman replied loudly.

The man cocked his head. For a moment he seemed to be studying them both. Then he smiled. “She is my wife. I heard tell that she was under the physician's care, and I have come to collect her.”

“Your wife?” Lucy asked, glancing at the woman, who looked very alarmed indeed. She whispered again. “Is he your husband?”

Before the woman could reply, the man stepped forward, extending his hands. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I have been so very worried. I have been looking for you, and only just heard tell of your whereabouts.”

The woman looked stricken. “I do not know him!” she said, backing away. “Please, Lucy! I do not know him. Please do not let me go with him.”