They were strange days in the attic room. We sewed in an atmosphere of smothered excitement, snatching at hints and portents of the new world to come. Often we would hear Mrs Metyard whisper about cold meats, or say to Kate that ‘the girls must do it, if we can make them presentable’. Under all her smiles lay a sting of hostility. She wasn’t really pleased about Kate’s forthcoming marriage. She resented it.
Kate herself became jittery, her cutting faster, her orders more distracted. Yet it seemed to me there was another change to her. She was more beautiful, more human.
I hated her.
We got away with the odd whisper, in the week leading up to the first banns, so long as Mrs Metyard was down in the showroom. Mim and I would sit at the end of our table, apart from the other three, and put our heads together as we tackled scratchy, horsehair petticoats.
‘They’re having a supper party,’ I told her, my eyes upon Kate. ‘Next Sunday, after church.’
‘Mrs Metyard didn’t say anything.’
‘No, but she will. I’ve been listening. They mean to have all their friends over and make us wait upon them.’
Mim’s sewing hand slowed to a stop. It was the right one, with the missing finger. ‘They’ll be … busy.’
‘Distracted,’ I agreed.
‘They won’t be able to keep an eye on us. Not all night.’
‘No.’
A sore on my middle finger burst. I raised it to my lips, ready to suck out the pain, but the smell of it made me stop.
Mim tossed me a scrap of linen and I wrapped the seeping wound up. I couldn’t wrap my uneasiness away with it. My hands were growing rougher than I’d ever known them, ulcerated around the nails. Often, I had a headache. I couldn’t remember when it started, exactly, but I thought it was about the time I began working on Rosalind’s trousseau.
My loathing for her had swollen like a monstrous abscess that must be lanced. Could it be I was growing ill with the force of it?
‘I’m going.’ Mim smoothed out the horsehair petticoat. Her lips were set with determination. ‘I’ll do it on the night of the party.’
Another sting, but this wasn’t in my hand. Mim was right – it was the best chance to get away. But without her I would be … I’d be like the threads left behind once a bead falls from a dress.
I picked up my needle again. ‘Don’t count on the twins. If Ivy sees you running, she’ll tell.’
‘I’ll have to go in the small hours. Just as the guests are leaving.’
‘Maybe we should tell Mr Rooker.’ Doubt tinged my voice. He’d helped me escape the coal hole, but never the captain’s room. Could I really persuade him to hoodwink his fiancée at her own party? ‘Or Nell …’
Mim shook her head vehemently. ‘No. Don’t breathe a word to anyone else. I only trust you.’
‘I promise.’
She shot me a brief smile. I thought of that first day I’d seen her, so wary and unsure, pretending to fetch Mrs Metyard from the showroom. Whatever was left of my heart jerked behind my ribs.
I wanted to say that I loved her, that she’d been the best friend I ever had. I wanted to say that I forgave her for witnessing the document that bound me to Mrs Metyard. But just then Kate looked up.
‘Miriam! Ruth! Stop dallying! Don’t make me fetch my mother.’
And that was enough to seal our lips for the rest of the day.
Since coming to New Oakgate Prison, I’ve thought a lot about death. I mean the experience of it, not the afterlife. They’ll hang me, probably, for what I’ve done. Hanging’s not the worst death I’ve seen.
Sometimes I wonder how I’ll feel, waking up that morning, knowing it’s the day I’ll die. Maybe I’ll weep. But the more I think of it, the more I believe I’ll feel just like I did that Sunday, the day of the banns and Mim’s escape.
Dawn came bright and frosty. We washed to the persistent trill of a robin in the tree. New gowns to wear, for we’d be on display at church and in the evening, serving the visitors. They were nothing to be excited about: cheap things, the colour of mud. Still, it unsettled me to fasten an unfamiliar dress over my stays; as if it was a costume for a play.
I had to use the privy three times before we left. Terror trod on my heels all through the house and out into the street.
White crystals made a lace between the cobbles. Even the dead leaves and piles of manure were sugared with frost. To my eyes it was all too sharp, too vivid, the birdsong full of spite.
I walked with Mim and Nell, unable to speak. The twins strode in front and Mrs Metyard and Kate sauntered at the back, arms linked, as they always did. They had to let us come to church on a Sunday – it would look odd if they didn’t – but they lent us to God once a week with ill grace. They were always hovering close by, watching us, making sure we didn’t bolt off.
And that was just what Mim meant to do: bolt. Less than twenty-four hours would see her here, on these very cobbles, alone and running for her life.
I wanted the privy again.
Church was busy, stuffed with the odour of damp wool. We shuffled into a pew, crammed close together and, for once, glad of it. Little by little, we warmed up.
The congregation chattered as they waited for the service to begin, but our party sat in strained silence. Kate perched on the end of the pew, her cheeks glowing from the walk. She looked radiant, like the stained-glass window of the Virgin. Only, I noticed, her lower lip trembled.
I was trembling too. Mim pressed next to me but I couldn’t look at her for more than an instant. She’d kept the veil down over her bonnet. Every time I saw it, I thought of a shroud.
At last the service began. The readings, the hymns and the slow, familiar chants coated my frayed nerves. My pulse slowed. I might have calmed down altogether, if the vicar hadn’t chosen that moment to say: ‘I publish the banns of marriage between Catherine Maria Metyard, spinster, of this parish and William Rooker, bachelor, of the parish of St Luke by the Water. This is for the first time of asking. If you know any reason in law why these two may not be married, you are to declare it now.’
No one knew what I suffered in my heart as I sat there on that pew. Well, maybe God knew. But He didn’t do anything about it.
Sunday was never a day of rest for us. As soon as we got back from church, we were expected to work. Today was only a little different. Instead of the cold climb to the attic, we bustled into the kitchen. Nell laid the fire, Mim began to sweep, and the rest of us beat out carpets.
‘Aprons,’ announced Mrs Metyard, marching into the kitchen with an armful of white cloth. ‘And these caps – after you have done the dirty work, Miriam! They must look clean for the guests.’
She piled them upon the table with swift, decisive motions. Her square jaw clamped tight, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. Her eyes, usually beady and small, protruded. I’d seen the expression somewhere before. Yes, that was it: on the boy driving the hay cart, when his pony spooked. The look of someone hurtling down a road, too fast, the reins slipping from their hands.
Kate was nowhere to be seen. I expect she was fastening herself into one of those dresses with the twenty-inch waists. We didn’t know what she was wearing; she’d ordered it from one of the other fashion houses in town, much to her mother’s displeasure.
Soon the house warmed with the scent of cooking food. Not what we made do with: the guests had bacon, white bread, potatoes coated in breadcrumbs and parsley, game pie and seedcake.
Daylight didn’t last for long. Before we knew what we were about, the sun began to set in a powdery cascade of blue and pink, streaked with mackerel clouds. Shadows stretched and lengthened. The carriage clock in the showroom pinged. It was time to put on our caps.
How odd we looked, how insubstantial, with our hair covered and our necks bared to the firelight. A line of maidens, sentenced to the guillotine. Mim paused beside me as we collected our trays. Her hand reached out and tucked one of my unruly locks back behind my ear.
I knew this was goodbye.
At last, I was permitted to climb the carpeted staircase up to the living quarters. The tray wobbled in my hands as the scents flooded back: lily of the valley, violets, wood and coal. No longer pleasant fragrances. They put me in shackles, in the captain’s room, even though that door was closed and locked.
Food and drinks were served in the drawing room. I’d never been in a space so fine. Beeswax candles blazed from sockets on the walls, the light gleaming on the mirror and the mahogany mantelpiece. Warm paper, patterned with poppies, covered the walls. Marble-topped tables stood waiting for the food, while here and there were sofas for the guests to sit. Kate had filled vases full of hothouse flowers. It was perfect: a stage, ready for the actors to arrive.
I stood by the wall, watching the wings, twitching the curtains.
Waiting for one player to depart.