The Crimson Ribbon (8 page)

Chapter 13

It is three nights before Christmas and I am alone in the kitchen, using the light from the fire to hem lengths of fabric, when Charlotte bursts in through the back door, wrapped up and red-nosed from the cold.

‘I’ve bad news,’ she says, unravelling her shawl. ‘Mistress Cutler is fallen ill. I found out from their kitchen lad. He says she’s abed.’

Just a few days before, I had taken a package to the Cutler house. Mistress Cutler, one of Master Poole’s regular and most affable customers, had ordered a bolt of cloth for new servants’ clothes and she’d slipped me an extra penny, winking and wishing me ‘the spirit of the season’. Her husband is one of the few men doing well for themselves out of the war, a gunpowder merchant with orders from the army.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I ask.

Charlotte pants, getting her breath back. ‘Fever, I think. The quack has been there all afternoon, bleeding her.’

‘It’s not the plague?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Has she been here lately?’

I nod, and Charlotte claps her hand to her mouth. ‘Lord, don’t tell Margaret or she’ll have us stinking the house out with sage again.’

I sit awhile listening to Charlotte prattle, but I cannot focus on the simple stitching before me. I keep thinking of the sick woman, of the three little girls who cling to her skirts and gaze at the rainbow of ribbons in Master Poole’s front parlour with eyes like jewelled buttons. I run a list of ailments in my head, coupled with a corresponding list of remedies. I mentally measure the herbal stocks in the Poole kitchen, hellebore, hyssop and pennyroyal, and conjure up dosages in my head until I can no more concentrate on the work before me than on Charlotte’s gossiping.

Eventually I rise, wrap my shawl around me and slip out into the street, with Charlotte in tow.

I find Mistress Cutler in bed. Just a few days before, she had colour in her cheeks and fat, laughing lips. Now she looks like one of the wooden mannequins that her daughters drag about, shrunken and desiccated. Her skin is grey and sheened with sweat. Her lips are pale, beginning to crack and seem to shrink back against her teeth. She lies without a cap, her hair matted and spilling across the bolster in tangled ropes. Her nightdress is stained with her own blood where the doctor has been at his work, and the air is acrid. I recognise the sickroom stench of decay.

Her husband stands at the door to the room, a cloth pressed over his nose and mouth. ‘The physician said that the best thing is to stay away, in case it develops.’ He speaks as if his wife can’t see or hear. ‘And pray. He said we must pray.’

I go to her. ‘Mistress Cutler?’ I reach out and touch her forehead. It is flame hot. ‘Mistress Cutler, can you hear me?’

She stirs, her eyes unfocused. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s Ruth, from Master Poole’s house.’

She groans. ‘Stay away . . . Keep them away . . .’

‘She means the children,’ her husband says.

I fold the coverlet back and check her skin for marks. There are none. This is not the plague. ‘Master Cutler.’ I turn to him. ‘Is there hot water in the house? And wine?’

‘I’m not sure. I’ll call the maid.’ He leaves, shouting for assistance.

Charlotte peers around the doorframe, her face twisted in disgust. ‘Ruth . . . what are you doing?’ she hisses.

‘Will you do something for me?’ I ask. ‘Go home and fetch pennyroyal and nightshade. Margaret will help you. And tell the maid to bring clean linen.’

‘It’s not your place to be here.’

‘Please, Charlotte. Do as I say.’

Soon after, Mistress Cutler’s maid comes in, carrying a jug of hot water and clean strips of linen. I send her to empty the stinking chamber pot, then set about bathing the sweat from Mistress Cutler’s face and arms. The rest of her will have to wait until after the purgative.

It does not take long for the foulness to come out of her and I’m ready with bowls and pots when it does. I banish the pacing husband, and Charlotte, with her incessant questions.

The poor woman bucks and kicks as the herbs do their work. She vomits and writhes in the brown stickiness of her own mess. Master Cutler is beside himself, hearing the wails of his wife behind the closed door. He strides up and down outside the room, cursing me and ordering me out, threatening to call the Watch, but I will not go until my work is done. I have seen this before. I am good at it. I was birthed to it.

In the throes of her agony the poor woman is crazed. She clutches at my arms and digs in her fingernails, her eyes rolling back in her head. She pulls me close and whispers, ‘I know who you are. I know why you have come . . .’

I try to soothe her by cooling her forehead with strips of soaked linen but she looks at me with eyes half full of wonder and half full of fear. I have seen cases of delirium before and have often been mistaken for another while attending a sick bed – an ancient crone’s long-dead daughter, perhaps, or a farmhand’s first sweetheart. Even, once, a visiting angel. So I think nothing of her ranting. But she is persistent, and surprisingly strong, wrapping her fingers around my wrist with an iron grip and pulling herself up until her face is level with mine.

‘I know you are hiding,’ she hisses, her voice parched. ‘I see it in you. But he will find you. You belong to him.’ She fixes me with a stare as deep and powerful as a preacher’s. ‘You belong to him and you don’t even know it. But I know it. Oh, yes . . . I know it . . .’

She must be talking about Our Lord.

‘We all belong to Him, Mistress Cutler,’ I say. ‘And He is with you now.’

‘He is with us now?’ Suddenly she seems confused, as innocent as a child.

‘Of course. He is always with us.’

For the briefest moment, a look of horror passes across her face and then she shudders and relaxes. She sinks back to the bolster, her grip sliding away from my arm, closing her eyes.

It takes all the darkest hours of the night, but at last it is over and her body stilled, the cramps lessened. Slowly, I wipe away the mess from my arms and face. With the help of her maid, I change Mistress Cutler’s nightdress and we clean her up as best we can. The poor woman is exhausted, moaning and looking at me with hollow, desperate eyes. She lies back and I stroke her head and make soothing noises until she sleeps. Her breathing is shallow and stilted but it is not the rattle of those near their time. I call for her husband.

‘She must sleep now,’ I tell him. ‘When she wakes, give her hot water and a little warmed wine. Then, if she is stronger after a day, broth or caudle. And, please, no more bleeding.’

Master Cutler looks at the grey-faced woman in the bed and at my dress, spattered and crusted. ‘Will she live?’

‘I don’t know, but I think she is past the crisis. I have seen worse cases than this come through.’

He is puzzled. ‘Where? How?’

I look down at the floor. ‘My mother was a healer.’

‘It is not the plague?’

‘No. You can go to her without fear.’

He slips past me and falls to his knees by her bedside. I leave him there and walk home in silence. Charlotte is quiet, a small crease between her brows as if she is trying to make sense of what she has seen. As we turn in to snatch a few hours of sleep before dawn, she stands at the door to my room, watching me peel the soiled clothing from my body.

‘I’ll see to those in the morning,’ she says.

‘Thank you.’

‘Ruth, how did you know what to do?’

‘It was something I’ve seen done before.’

‘By your mother?’

‘Yes.’

Charlotte bites her lip. ‘Where is your mother now? Why are you not with her?’

‘She is dead.’ I feel the usual cold blade slide into my chest.

‘Oh. How did she die?’

I move to the door. ‘Now is not the time. Good night.’

I close the door and climb into my bed, the stench of the sick room still filling my nostrils.

The next afternoon, Mistress Cutler sits up in bed and demands small beer. Her husband praises God for her swift recovery and the servants gossip about how I have saved her from a certain death.

It is both the end and the beginning of something for me. It is the end of my anonymity. People in the marketplace begin to address me by name and point me out to their friends. The Cutler girls peep at me from behind their mother’s skirts, more fascinated by me than by the ribbons. When Lizzie hears of it, she hugs me and praises me to her father, saying that I am the saviour of the business and that she cannot do without me.

I am finally finding my place in the vast city. It is next to Lizzie. I think she knows it too.

Chapter 14

Pastor Kiffin makes it clear that those in his congregation do not celebrate Christmas. During our Sunday sermons we learn that the old festivities are but leftovers of superstition and idolatry. Christmas does not fall on the Lord’s Day so it holds no sway with us, God’s chosen ones.

Master Poole does not have the stomach to argue with Kiffin, no matter how much he misses his plum pottage and honey cakes. It is Lizzie who rules the house now and we are all subject to her whims. But I don’t mind. This year, the first without my mother, I would rather forget.

When Twelfth Night comes, it is just another day in the Poole household. We sup with no ceremony and the family retire early as usual. I am finishing in the kitchen, elbow deep in oily water, when there is a tentative tapping at the back door. Margaret and I frown at one another. It is too late for visitors and the household is not expecting company, especially the kind to arrive after dark.

Margaret makes her voice gruff. ‘Who’s there?’

A male voice returns, muffled through the wood. ‘I’m here to see Ruth Flowers.’

Margaret darts a glance at me. I shrug.

‘Who calls at this time of night?’

‘My name is Joseph Oakes. Please, madam, is Ruth there?’

I have seen Joseph only once since our argument in St Paul’s and I made sure that he did not see me. When I had spied his dark head bent over a bookseller’s stall in the churchyard, my heart had pounded and tightness had crawled up my spine to squeeze the breath out of my lungs. I had turned away and put the encounter out of my mind as quickly as I could.

‘Shall I let him in?’ Margaret asks.

‘Ask him what he wants.’

She unbolts the door and opens it a crack. ‘What do you want with Ruth?’

‘Forgive the late hour, but I wish to speak with her. There is a gathering, held in honour of the season. I would like her to join me.’

‘We don’t observe the festivities in this house,’ Margaret says, but she looks over her shoulder at me. I shake my head.

Joseph notes the exchange. ‘If I could just speak with Ruth, it would save us both time, madam.’

Ever one to be charmed by young men, Margaret gives in. ‘You may as well come in,’ she says. ‘There’s caudle in the pot that’ll spoil if I don’t attend to it.’

She opens the door and arches an eyebrow at me.

Not long after, I am strolling through St Paul’s Churchyard, Joseph at my side. Before I could argue, Margaret had bundled me into her warmest cloak and pushed me out of the door with a knowing glint in her eye. Still, it’s good to be outside and although it’s cold, the sky is, for once, clear enough to see stars blinking in the blackness.

Joseph takes me east along Cheapside before plunging into the warren of alleyways that lead towards the river. The city teems with people, all ignoring the curfew and celebrating the last night of the season. Along the way Joseph tells me rumours that Parliament are planning a Bill that will make Christmas unlawful, but you would never imagine it by the gangs of revellers in the streets around Cornhill. Part of me thrills to see people out on the streets. To be part of it, on this night of all nights, when the veil between the worlds is thin, makes me feel something between regret and excitement. It is a part of me that I thought long dead. I miss the celebrations of my youth.

When I was very young, Master Oliver would bring all the servants and farmhands inside the house on Twelfth Night for a good meal and merriment. The parlour would glow with the fire stoked high. The smell of sweet pastries mingled with rosemary, bay and the meat roasting on the spit. My mother would work at preparing the feast for a week, then dust off the flour and dress her hair ready for the dancing.

I remember one year most of all. I have a clear memory of my mother, radiant, hair tied with her favoured red ribbons. She danced all night long and even stood up with the master himself. He danced rarely and it was quite a thing to see them both, he, red-cheeked and roaring with laughter, and she, dark hair streaming as she spun. That was the first time I noticed the special power my mother had to catch a man’s eye and to hold it. They were all pleased with her – except the mistress, who stalked from the room with a sour look upon her face.

But that was a long time ago and over the years, as the master was away more often, and he grew older and more serious, Christmas faded from the house. The farmhands still found time to get drunk and rowdy, but that year was the last that we were invited into the parlour to sup with the family, and the last that I saw Master Oliver so carefree.

Before long we reach a tavern, lit up like a lantern, smoke and soot billowing from the door. I hear pipes, a fiddle and voices raised in song.

‘This is what I wanted to show you,’ Joseph says, taking my hand and leading me inside.

The taproom throbs with people. Wealthy merchants from Cheapside sit side by side with market boys from Smithfield. Children weave between legs. Milkmaids and servant girls giggle and preen, darting evil looks at the painted bawds working the room. I recognise several faces from the bookstalls at St Paul’s. Pipe smoke catches in my throat and makes my eyes smart.

Joseph pushes through the crowd towards the sound of the music. In the back room we find dancing – couples squashed up against each other in the throng. A gang of apprentices link arms and spin each other about, trying not to spill the contents of their mugs.

A couple of men call to Joseph and we make our way towards them.

‘These are the twins, Benjamin and Charlie,’ Joseph shouts. ‘No one knows which is which.’

I take in their matching friendly faces as one jabs Joseph in the ribs and laughs. It’s true that they are the mirror of one another, with mouse-brown hair, snub noses and mischievous smiles. I notice how Joseph’s hand leaves mine to rub at his side, though his face betrays nothing. Is it habit, or is his old battle wound still unhealed?

He cups his hand to my ear. ‘They have a new press, just off Lombard Street. Good men – more worldly than they look.’

I nod to them and they take turns to shake my hand. It is some time since I have found strangers so unguarded.

A girl moves through the crowd, carrying a jug of ale. ‘Lord, what a rabble!’ She nods towards the apprentices. Two have climbed onto a table and are encouraging the crowd to join them in song. ‘Here we are, gentlemen.’ She has the clipped accent of a local woman, smiling eyes and a gap-toothed grin. I like her immediately. ‘I’m Sal.’ She pumps my hand up and down, as if she is drawing water from the conduit.

‘I’m Ruth.’

‘Oh, I know who you are. We’ve heard all about you.’ She winks and nudges me with her elbow, making me blush.

We drink the ale and watch the dancers. Joseph and the twins are soon deep in discussion about a new pamphlet, something to do with wealth and property, and I am happy when Sal rolls her eyes and turns to me. ‘They might as well be talking in Latin,’ she says. ‘Joseph tells me you’re a maid in a house near St Paul’s.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it a good place?’

‘Oh, yes. The mistress is very kind.’

‘Good. Take care to keep it, then. Don’t go making mistakes.’ She flicks her eyes towards the three men, now in earnest debate. I’m puzzled and Sal sees it. ‘Joseph is a good lad, but once they’ve got a few drinks inside them, they’re all the same.’ She pauses and swigs her beer. ‘We both know that girls like us can’t afford mishaps.’

I colour deeply. ‘Joseph and I are not . . . I mean, we’re not . . .’

‘Of course, my lovely, of course. I’m sure you can look after yourself.’ She grins at me, then tugs at Charlie’s sleeve. ‘Enough of that. This is supposed to be a holiday.’ She drags him into the centre of the room and they join the dancing.

The ale is stronger than I’m used to; it makes me a little lightheaded. The music is fast and loud. I feel the rhythms inside my chest, making my feet move in time.

‘I see you’ve made friends with Sal,’ Joseph says, in my ear.

‘She is . . . very lively.’

He laughs. ‘Aye, she has a good heart. She’s Charlie’s girl. They’re hoping to marry if he and Benjamin can make a go of the press. She likes you, I can tell.’

Some of the apprentices have joined their fellows in song and voices pick up around the room.

‘Dance?’ Joseph sweeps a low bow in front of me and I cannot help but smile. It is such a long time since I have felt myself moved by music, and after the drink I am bold.

He takes my hand and we leave Benjamin with his pot and step into the crush.

I don’t know if it is the press of people, or the ale, or the dizzying flash of candlelight but I feel a kind of release. With Joseph’s hand in mine, and his arm circling my waist, I feel both safe and free, free from the demons that have followed me these last months, free from duty and obligation, and free from fear. Perhaps it is the easy anonymity among strangers or just the infectious joy of so many, but as I dance, I feel a little of what they feel, swept up in the moment. Even if it is only brief, I think I understand why we are all here, and why Joseph brought me.

Later, after we have said our goodbyes, Joseph walks me back to West St Paul’s. It is past midnight and the streets are quieter now. The frosted ground glitters as if sprinkled with gems.

‘Do you forgive me?’ he asks.

‘For what?’

‘The last time we met, in St Paul’s, you were upset.’

The argument seems a long time ago. ‘Oh . . . yes. You are forgiven.’

We walk on in silence, my mind running ahead, thoughts tumbling over one another so that I can barely hold on to them. Fixing on a question that has plagued me all evening, I ask, ‘Why did you come for me tonight?’

His eyes search mine. ‘I thought . . . I should make amends. You have not come to the shop since we quarrelled, so . . .’

‘My mistress likes me close at hand.’

‘I’m sure she does,’ he says, a note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘But there is more to life than duty and work. I hope tonight showed you that at least.’

I smile. ‘It did.’

‘How did you like Sal, and the twins?’ he says.

‘Very much.’

‘They have such grand plans. And they would like me to join them, when I can, with the new press. They have so many new ideas.’

‘What kind of ideas?’

‘Well . . . they believe, as do I, in the power of words. The time for the battlefield is over. People are weary of bloodshed, so they turn to the newsbooks for their politics. There is such influence to be had. People’s minds to be won.’

‘But who would you win them for? Yourself?’

He laughs. ‘You think me as unworthy as that? My God, do I have any hope of winning you over?’

I say nothing.

‘We would fight the cause of the Army Agitators,’ he says. ‘Those good, true men who want nothing more than we were all promised. Pay, voting rights, equality. They are the true crusaders in this fight now.’

The passion in his voice spills into his eyes and makes them shine. Despite my own good fortune, I feel the cold slide of envy. He has kindled a new life for himself here. He has a future that burns bright with the promise of better things. ‘And do you think you can win this war of words?’ I ask.

‘It’s worth fighting for. There is always something worth fighting for. There is always something that can be changed for the better.’

‘Perhaps that is the difference between a man and a woman,’ I say. ‘You have more freedom than I. You are free to achieve such things.’

‘You think you are not?’

‘I know I am not.’

‘You have more freedom than you imagine, Ruth Flowers. Look at Sal. Do you think she is powerless?’

I remember Sal’s clever eyes and wicked grin. ‘No. But she is . . . she is different.’

‘Why?’

‘She does not have my past . . .’

Joseph stops suddenly and pulls me around to face him. His fingers dig into my flesh. ‘Will you tell me what you are running from? Whatever it is, I don’t care.’

Damn the drink. My mouth is running away with me. I tug away from him and start to walk. The magic of the evening is broken now. He keeps pace by my side.

‘You can trust me,’ he says. ‘I’ve trusted you. Can you not do the same for me?’

‘Please, let’s talk of something else.’

‘It may help you to unburden yourself of your troubles.’

‘Please . . .’ I beg. ‘I was glad to be with you this evening. Please don’t spoil it.’

He sighs and shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I always push too hard. It is a fault in me, I know. Sal is always telling me so. She says I’m like a dog with a bone.’

That makes me smile, despite myself, and I soften. As we reach the churchyard he takes my arm and tucks it into the crook of his elbow. After the dancing it feels natural to be close to him and we walk the rest of the way in companionable silence.

There is something different in the souls of these people, something pure and honest. The twins have it, Sal has it, and now Joseph is transformed with it. It does not matter that they dance and drink and blaspheme. Underneath their ragged clothes and coarse manners, they have something precious. I recognise it, and covet it, even though I cannot put a name to it.

I remember what Joseph told me that night of the storm in Puckeridge, of the things he had seen and suffered. I marvel that a man can recover so swiftly and find a new reason to live. I would do well to learn from him, I think.

When we reach West St Paul’s, we stand wordless for a few moments, cloaked by the night. Then he takes up my hand and brings it to his lips. Such a gesture should be awkward on him, but it suits well, in place of the goodbye I find I don’t want to hear. He turns and walks away. I watch him go, the darkness taking him like winter fog. It may just be the effects of the ale, but I swear I feel my heart pull towards his, just a little.