Chapter Six

I stopped as I always did when I was cleaning the stairs, on a small landing where the treads turned back on themselves before the last six steps. The window there was deep, clear glass from ankle height to the top of my head. It looked down onto a garden that was no more than a yard with a bluestone brick path leading to a privy at the side and a washhouse against the back wall. There were no flowers, not even weeds, but in the shady places along the garden walls, moss thickened in winter, greening and smudging the cracked edges of the bricks into softer shapes. Sometimes I could only pause there for a few seconds but on other days, if I was sweeping or dusting, I lingered for as long as I dared, wiping the painted frame over and over with a cloth soaked in orange water and distilled vinegar while I looked out, or flicking a feather-brush across the panes as I wondered if my own life was still waiting for me somewhere on the other side of the garden wall. The life I had lost as I bent down to pick up fallen ribbons.

That day, I was surprised to see four men in the garden. The top window was already pulled down on its sashes to air the house and I could hear their conversation clearly. I had overheard many things, listening without being seen. Unable to write the words for safe keeping, I whispered them back to myself in the night, making them into a new chapter of a story I peopled with characters. I told the tale and retold it under my breath, so I would be ready when the time came.

I watched them from above. Justice Mainwaring was standing just below me with a pipe in his hand. Samuel Aris was there too, a square man with a face that matched his red breeches. I called him The Bookkeeper. He was the governor’s eldest son, married and living in St Pancras, but he was at the prison most days and took his greedy share of what they all called the ‘perquisites’. Not just money but goods too, things brought in by friends of the prisoners for their comfort. Baskets of meat pies, good linen, soft blankets, fine handkerchiefs. Samuel was talking to a man in a white wig perched so curly above a gin-pale face it gave him the look of a spring lamb. I did not know his name but I had seen him before, sitting on the magistrates’ bench in the Session House on the day I was tried. He was dressed entirely in black apart from a delicate, transparent white cravat tied at his throat. For my story, I named him The Clergyman.

Governor Aris laughed loudly, so suddenly that I jumped.

‘Joseph Burks will regret what he’s done, by my father’s bones!’

I knelt quickly and bent my head low, rubbing the polishing cloth along the skirting board beneath the window. If anyone came up the stairs from the hall, I would appear busy at my housework.

‘If we all tell the same tale, we’ll have him in the net and he’ll be called a liar. Burdett will have nothing on you. Nothing he can use.’

Burdett was the man I had seen with Catherine Despard outside the prison but this conversation was too much of a puzzle. What was his connection with these men, with Catherine, with Aris? I did not understand any of it but I was sure it was important. I leaned a little closer to the window. I could not see who had just spoken but it had to be The Clergyman, the only voice that was new to me. Such a thin and reedy piping from a chest the size of a hogshead barrel.

‘Agreed. So, this is what we’ll do.’ There was no mistaking the gravelly growl of Governor Aris. ‘When you question me in front of the committee, I’ll say Burks never complained to me about being beaten, never mentioned any flooding in his cell. I’ll swear he even thanked me for my kindness when he left.’

Samuel said something in response but he was laughing so much it was impossible to make out the words. His father turned to Mainwaring again.

‘I’ll make Burks look like the filthy republican bookseller he is. When does the Session meet?’

‘The twenty-first. Afterwards we can enjoy the hospitality of a lady I think you’ll find entertaining.’ Mainwaring’s voice slid through the air like a wire through curds.

‘I’ll look forward to that! Dr Glasse, walk with me to the prison?’

‘I can’t, His Majesty’s expecting me. But I’ll be there to enjoy your performance in front of the magistrates next week. Before I leave, may I suggest one more thing? What if a letter came into your hands … somehow? A letter written to you by this Burks about his complete satisfaction with the treatment he received while he was in Coldbath Fields?’

‘We could have Burks write of the goodness of your character!’

They were cackling like old hens as they moved towards the house. I heard the kitchen door open and the clatter of Samuel’s boots on the flagstone floor of the scullery. As I hurried up the last few steps, out of sight, I heard my name.

‘The girl. Evans. Sarah Evans, is it?’

It was William Mainwaring, but by the time I had crept back down to the landing, the hall was empty.

There was always a short time of rest between the dinner being served and the table being cleared. While the Aris family were greedily spooning whatever delicacy Mrs Whiskin had put in front of them, the two of us sat in silence at the rough pine table in the kitchen eating our own meal. It was only what was left after the dishes and platters had been filled for the dining room and it was usually more potato than lamb, more cabbage than beef, more parsnip than bacon, but it was as skilfully cooked and tastily flavoured as the food served up on a linen tablecloth in the next room. There was no saying of grace and no conversation exchanged between Mrs Whiskin and me. We had both known hunger and though we never spoke of it, both silently gave thanks as we ate, for the good fortune that filled our stomachs.

On an evening of quiet, pattering rain, we found ourselves with more time than usual to enjoy the flavours of a scrag of mutton in shallot sauce. Everyone was out or away on business except Daniel and his sisters, so dinner had been served quickly and was followed by a long, noisy game of cards that meant I could not clear the dining table until the family had gone up to bed. I pushed a chunk of bread around my plate to wipe up the last smears of salty sauce, glad to be still, sitting near a hot range that warmed my legs through the worn cotton of my dress. The good things that were easing the end of my day did not erase the low ache that still lingered within from the way my morning had begun: a visit from Aris just before dawn. I wondered if the baby that moved so vigorously inside me felt only what I did or if it had a life of its own, a separate thing from mine. Did it think? Did it hear my voice? It was the first time I had ever thought about the danger to my child in having Thomas Aris as a father. Whatever the risks, I had to find a way to leave.

‘What ails you, Miss Glum?’

The invitation to talk was such a surprise that I could not think of a reply. Mrs Whiskin lifted her plate to her chin, slurped the last few drops of gravy, then poured herself another tot of dark Jamaica rum. She kept a bottle on the pantry shelf to add to sweet puddings but it was always brought out around dinner time, just in case some additional flavouring might be needed. She emptied the glass in a single gulp and looked straight at me. She was warmed up and had no need of a partner in conversation.

‘You don’t need to tell me. I know all and if you think I don’t, you’re not the bright spark I take you for.’ She poured another drink. ‘You’re not the first he’s taken a fancy to and sure as Hell’s fires burn, you won’t be the last. You must make the best of it. Bad comes with good. It’s the way of the world for us women.’

‘My aunt told me the life of a convict is the worst that can happen to a woman but when I hear his footsteps on the stair, I ask God to send His angels to transport me to Sydney Cove, where I should be.’ As each word left my mouth, I wished it had not been spoken. I hid my face, buried it against folded arms on the table and counted the beats of my heart, hands against temples. Two. Three. Four.

‘You should be grateful for the good fortune what’s come your way. Look at you, warm and safe, my fine cookery in your belly and a roof above you this night and the next. I can tell you about the Colony and its evils and believe me, you wouldn’t wish for it if you knew …’

I heard the chink of glass against glass as the rum bottle was emptied. Each night it was the same. Whatever Mrs Whiskin said after the fourth glass was like a dream we shared but never spoke of, not remembered by one of us and not believed by the other.

‘My brother Walter, he was there. Taken from the Old Bailey straight to Newgate Prison then gone on a convict ship before we could say our goodbyes. Didn’t think I’d see him again, but two years later he climbed in through the scullery window while I was sat at supper. I thought he must’ve died in the Colony and it was his spirit come home but when he spoke, he told me he’d escaped at night in a small boat, him and another man. Rowed past the watch stationed on the frigate in the harbour and made his way to London working on an American vessel. He was like a wraith, dressed in rags and near starving but he said he was truly in Heaven again after living in Hell. He’d had a fever on the voyage to Sydney and got so thin all his clothes fell right off him. He was naked as a babe, saved only by the kindness of a convict from Dublin, a medical man who knew what to do. When he got there, they beat him and put him in chains, made him work in a government gang, pulling carts and moving barrels of water like a beast of burden every hour the sun was in the sky. His body was covered in sores that wept like repenting sinners so his shirt was never dry from morn till night. But he was strong, so they put him to quarrying stone and his hands scoured till they bled and his face was burnt like a roasted fowl.

‘He told me about the light in Australia, how it scalds your very eyes and dries you till your skin’s like a tanned hide. The convict women aren’t worth more than what they can carry or who they can please for a minute or two with what God gave them for a man’s amusement. The soldiers throw them into the water when they’re all used up and done with, that’s what Walter said. Even the young ones, the pretty ones like you, if they displease an officer. Don’t you ever think yourself unlucky to be here. This is the way it is, how our good Lord planned it for us, and if you wish for different … If you wish for more … You’ll tread a dangerous path. If you want to live a long life, you’d best keep your mouth shut and pretend your mind’s empty. That’s the way they like it.’

A sudden high-pitched trumpeting noise made me jump and I looked up as Mrs Whiskin blew her nose very loudly into the dirty cloth tied to her apron.

‘What happened to Walter? Is he here still, in Clerkenwell?’

‘Home for three days ’fore he was recognised by someone he’d once called a friend. Taken back to Newgate. They hanged him on his birthday. He was thirty-four.’

It was not the first time I had helped Mrs Whiskin up the steep treads of the servants’ stairs, pushing against her grey skirt from behind as the cook burbled the words of some old song, but it was the first time I had ever thought of her as once a girl, a young woman. Later, as I was setting the dining room table for breakfast, I asked God to forgive me for such ingratitude and vowed never again to wish myself transported to Sydney.

Mr Aris was back late that night. Mrs Whiskin’s snores were reverberating through the house and I had just gone upstairs. I heard him close the front door and shake the rain from his coat, the clink of metal as he dropped his keys into a glass dish on the hall stand. A dull thud, and then another, as he leaned against the newel post and pulled his boots off. I had learned the sounds of the house as an animal would come to know them, watching and listening for the smallest changes. A door opened – the dining room door. The rattle of a poker in the grate. He was trying to raise some flames from the embers.

‘Evans! Evans!’

I knocked quietly and walked into the room. ‘Shall I bring up some coal, sir?’

‘No. Sit.’ He pointed at the chair next to him. It was Daniel’s seat and I wondered if the boy would know somehow, at breakfast, that I had warmed it, close beside his father with our legs touching and his plump hand on my knee.

‘It’s a year this day since you came to us. Did you know? A twelvemonth since you were sentenced.’

I shook my head. A wordless lie.

‘My new house at the prison is nearly finished. I’ll be moving in a week and you can’t live there. You a prisoner – and the state you’re in. It’s too public.’

So, it was time. A trembling began somewhere beneath my feet and climbed and spread until I saw it on the tips of my fingers where they rested on the tablecloth.

‘My friends have influence that reaches high. I enjoy certain favours. I’ve spoken to Justice Mainwaring about your … situation. See what I have for you.’

He shoved a sheet of paper into my hands. I saw one large signature at the top and another at the bottom, black ink that danced in coils across the page. Between them, two blocks of neat writing and at the very bottom, in one corner, small words set apart from the others. The spaces between them marked out one, two, three words.

‘What does it say?’

‘Sarah Evans. Pardon.’ He grinned, leaned his face close to mine. Grey gristle filled the spaces between his front teeth, the remains of a mutton chop.

‘You mean, liberty?’

‘It’s a Royal pardon. Look here.’

A small square of parchment was attached to the paper, filled with a circular emblem embossed like bright red blood into its thickness.

‘Don’t you even know the Arms of King George?’

I moved a finger over the pattern and looked closely. A crown, lions in a row, a rampant beast with its tongue hanging, three lilies and a horse galloping free. I had seen its twin, many times, a picture in painted plaster, high on the wall above the pews in the church.

Mr Aris pushed his chair back and looked down at me. ‘I’ll find somewhere for you to go. You’ll leave within the week. Until then, if you go out, for God’s sake, keep yourself covered.’

The yard behind the tannery stank, but it was warm and dry in the stable, a place where no-one would come looking unless they had to. The two women were huddled in a gap between some straw bales, leaning close together while they talked. Martha Lightning pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked gently as rain dripped from the overhanging eaves in front of them like a curtain of glass beads.

‘I heard you were still in Clerkenwell, not transported. Sally told me you came to see her. I knew something was wrong. We’ve not been apart like this, not ever before.’

‘I can’t leave the house unless they send me on errands. I’m not in chains but I’m a prisoner there. And my punishments come daily.’ Sarah pulled up her sleeves and showed Martha the bruises on one forearm, the line of small, crusted burns along the other. ‘He says it’s my fault, each time. I’ve got to wondering if he chose me deliberately. Was there something about me in the Session House that day?’

Martha leaned in closer. ‘Anyone who looks at you sees only a strong person, stronger than I’d ever be, but perhaps it was your good fortune he picked you. It means you have a protector. I dream of that for myself but it’ll never happen.’ The tanner’s horse snorted suddenly, flicked its tail up and a volley of steaming manure hit the floor beside them. ‘I must make my own way.’

Sarah stared straight in front of her at the steady rain. ‘I’ll be free in a few days and my child will be safe but my life isn’t to be envied. Never wish it on yourself.’

‘Thank you for the bread. You took a risk. If they caught you stealing—’

‘Then it would be the cost of friendship.’ Sarah pressed herself more tightly against the straw at their backs. ‘It’ll be dark in an hour. I must go soon.’

‘How did you get away?’

‘I was sent for mustard seed. Miss Susan has a gnawing in the bowels. She worries it’s the result of too much night-time sport with Mr Amos so she dares not ask Mrs Whiskin for some herb or other from the pantry. It’s just the belly-ache but why should I tell her different?’

They laughed until they cried, hands across their mouths to stifle the noise.

‘I won’t be able to see you again, not for a while. The house he’s sending me to is in St Pancras.’

‘And I may be going to live in Seven Dials.’ Martha looked away and began picking at a frayed thread on her sleeve. ‘There’s a place there in need of girls. It’s a house of quality and the gentlemen they entertain are wealthy. I’d be given a bed of my own. New clothes. Taken to the theatre.’

‘No, not that! Once they have you, you’ll be tied to them – you’ll be worn to nothing until they’ve no more use for you.’

‘Have you forgotten hunger so soon? The way it grips?’

Sarah pulled herself awkwardly up onto her knees and took hold of Martha’s hands. ‘You must think of another way. Wait till I come back to Clerkenwell. We can find work. Share what we have and look after the baby together. Everything will be as it was before.’

Martha hugged her friend. ‘I do believe you but … I want to be safe. By the time you’re home again, I’ll have a gentleman officer calling on me. I’ll send for you to come and drink chocolate with me in my apartments.’ She pulled pale spikes of straw from her shawl as she stood. ‘We’ll always be friends, won’t we, rich or poor?’

Dipping under the eaves, Martha put the tips of her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss through the curtain of rain.

Jones sat quietly on a wall at the corner of Dorrington Street, pretending to read the broadsheet in front of him but watching the door of number eighty-four with sideways glances. He knew Thomas Aris was expected for his fortnightly meeting with the magistrates, so he would not have long to wait. The governor appeared at the door, called out to someone inside as he pulled on his coat, and swaggered off down the street. Jones waited a few minutes then walked straight up to the house and knocked loudly.

The elderly woman who answered the door was obviously a servant, her apron covered in flour, her sleeves rolled to the elbow.

‘Henry Jones, clerk at the Hatton Garden office, here to see Governor Aris.’

‘Not at home at present.’ Her answer was almost a growl. ‘I’ll tell him you called.’

Jones smiled as warmly as he could at such a frosty reception and removed his hat. ‘He is expecting me. I’m sure he’ll return soon. Might I wait indoors on such a cold day?’

A few minutes later he was seated in a wing chair by the fire, with a glass of milk and a small plate of Naples biscuits. ‘I’ve not tasted these since my own dear sister used to make them for me.’ He ate greedily and smiled again. ‘Delicious! You must be the cook of this household, to have such a skill?’

‘Indeed, and I must get back to my duties, if you’ll ’scuse me, sir.’

Jones was determined not to leave without the information he was after. ‘It seems much falls to you, looking after visitors and managing the kitchen too. Are there no other servants in the house?’

The cook scowled. He had clearly hit a raw nerve. ‘I do have some help but the girl’s still unschooled in domestic work, not well trained yet. Pretty but useless. She came from—’

Grace Aris burst into the room like a dark pink storm, her dress and her cheeks both the colour of damask rose petals. ‘You can go now, Whiskin,’ she blurted, breathless from running down two flights of stairs so quickly. ‘Mr Jones, I thought I heard your voice. My father isn’t here at the moment. I don’t expect him home for an hour or two. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey.’ Mrs Whiskin had just closed the parlour door behind her but Grace opened it again. ‘Perhaps you can call again tomorrow.’

The cook had been on the point of telling Jones what he wanted to know and he guessed it was probably the same thing Grace was trying to hide from him: Sarah Evans was living in that house, possibly against her will. He hoped he might catch a glimpse of her as he left, to confirm his suspicion that somehow Aris had made her a prisoner in his home before she could board the convict ship bound for New South Wales.

In the front hall, he put his coat back on as slowly as he could and listened, but there was no sign of Sarah and not a sound apart from the thump of dough being kneaded. Jones left with an abrupt nod to Grace Aris.

Coldbath Fields was all outward cleanliness and order, the smell of fresh lime wash overwhelming, the walls newly painted like a blanket of snowy virtue to fool anyone who came looking for scandal. Catherine Despard was led along a narrow passage to the row of cells the colonel had been moved to after Burdett’s complaints. The ways between each section of the prison were only a few inches wider than a man’s shoulders, a new design to prevent rioting by channelling escaped prisoners into confined spaces. It was the offspring of a government trying to reform its systems in line with the latest thinking. Even its name, the ‘House of Correction’, reflected the new aim: turn the mind to repentance through isolation and pious contemplation. For the first time, most prisoners lived in solitary cells to keep them away from the influence of others, and women were separated from men. The most dangerous of London’s lawbreakers were in a wing of their own. They were the forgers, gamblers and libellers, whom the government despised most of all because they showed disregard for rules. Anyone accused of treason was held with them, whether or not there had been a trial.

Charles Aris unlocked a heavy iron gate at the end of the corridor and locked it again behind them. ‘You have ten minutes,’ he said as he walked away.

The doors of the sleeping cells were open with their bolts drawn back, the crossbars slanting upwards. Above each door was a semicircular grating let into the stone wall to allow light in from the passageway. At the far end were six slate washing stands and a closed door. Anyone passing nearby could tell it led to the privy.

In each cell there was one man, all different but their pale, staring faces gave them the look of brothers. One wore the tattered remnants of a soldier’s uniform. Another had silver spectacles on his nose and a dusty but stylish coat: a gentleman. One was lame, standing with a crutch under his arm, and several wore brightly coloured handkerchiefs loosely tied around their necks.

Edward Despard was near the door of his cell, leaning like an old broom against a wall. His shirt hung away from his body. ‘Oh, my dear. Come inside. We have little time. They’ll be moving me soon, somewhere beyond your reach.’ Taking his wife by the shoulders, he moved her gently as far away from the door as possible.

‘You should have a fire. It was promised. And a chair. Did they give you the books I brought yesterday?’

‘We must talk about the important things. Tell me what you know, quickly.’

‘The Duke of Portland has banned Sir Francis Burdett from entering Coldbath Fields again and Aris has sent the Prime Minister an affidavit discrediting all Burdett’s charges against him. The magistrates have stirred the same pot, with a letter supporting Aris. But there’s hope – a select committee is being appointed to investigate. You won’t have to endure this Bastille for much longer, this disgrace to the country you’ve fought for. And Lord Nelson says he’ll speak for you, thank God, if it comes to a trial.’

Despard shook his head wearily. ‘An investigation will go nowhere. Nothing against Aris will end up in the report. Mainwaring will make sure of that. We have to find another way. We need real evidence against him or something on his sons, or Portland.’

‘Have you heard anything in here? Anything that might help us if I pass it on to Burdett?’

Despard sat on the bench and covered his face with his hands. ‘No. They’re too careful, never talk around me.’

‘Anything, Edward.’ She knelt in front of him and took his thin frame in her arms as Charles Aris barked out instructions from somewhere nearby. The colonel stood again and pulled his wife to her feet. He bent to whisper in her ear as an iron door in the corridor opened and closed.

‘Everyone here hates Charles as much as they hate his father. The sailors had a plan to kill him and the doctor. They were going to fake a suicide then do away with them both in the chaos but one man turned sides and told the governor. They’re being starved now, in the Black Hole. I don’t know how long they’ll last. John Bone is there. He and Joseph Burks published a pamphlet about citizenship. Tell Bone’s wife he’s alive. She mustn’t give up hope.’

‘Time’s up.’ Charles Aris was at the door.

Despard pressed his mouth against his wife’s cheek in the last seconds before they were pulled apart. ‘The turnkeys run a trade in food and drink. They demand payment for bread that should be given freely. Everything’s turned to profit, even the hospital. Those who can’t pay are left to rot.’

Catherine was marched back to the front lodge, Charles Aris’s hand firmly grasping her elbow to steer her. It was rude and ungentlemanly behaviour. She said nothing but as she hurried back to her coach, she was whispering to herself, repeating over and over the information the colonel had given her.