Page 10

Chapter Ten

Kelso, Roxburghshire February 1724

W e arrived at the River Inn, Kelso after two gruelling days on the road. I was freezing cold and bumped and bruised and bashed to bits, I cannot lie. I had managed not to be travel-sick, but only just. Mibbie if I had been out on boats more, like the fisherboys, I might’ve had a better stomach for travelling.

The first night we had stopped a few hours in the tiny village of Lauder, but that had been brief, and now we rode towards Kelso, slow and quiet as the sun rose. The sky was the colour of violets. Ice glowed over the countryside. Our breath hung in clouds. Oh, I was traversing the roads on my very own map. I was making my way down the route I had dreamed of. I could scarcely believe it was happening. I wished now that I had crept in and unpinned the map from the parlour wall and brought it with me, but that would have woken Joan. Instead I took it all in, all of the scenery and scents, until we arrived some hours later at the River Inn, a handsome hostelry on a neat street a little way down from Kelso’s market square and near the banks of the Tweed.

It was late afternoon by the time we got there and the world had warmed up a bit. As the driver handed the horses over to the ostler, and the gents got out and sorted their boxes, I stretched my legs to get the blood back into them. I had caught glimpses of the market town on our way in and I wanted to see it now. It reminded me of Musselburgh, with its riverbanks and white cottages, but was more dignified, without the screech of gulls overhead. The innkeeper’s wife assigned me to the attic where the ladies were put, and gave me the key to a small room with two beds.

I made my way up three flights of rickety stairs, past paintings of swans and ducks and men catching trout. When I got to the top I was puffed out. The other bed was occupied, but whoever my room-companion was, she was out when I arrived. This lady had left a gold-coloured cloak on the stand, which I thought an extremely bold bit of colour, and a collection of pots on the table filled with face-paints. At this gaudiness and finery I panicked again at whether I had everything I needed for London. After inspecting myself in the dusty looking glass above the washstand I concluded that I could not arrive in London in such a dull bonnet as this, and I decided to see if there was a milliner selling decently priced hats. Oh, and this lady’s marvellous pots! I examined them. One contained rouge and another was half full of a heavy-looking white paste, and there were two wool pads sitting beside them. Beside all of that was a small brown bottle with a cork stopper and a handwritten label on the side. The ink was faded and thumbed, so even if I could have read, I would not have known what liquid it contained or what to do with it. I did not much like the look of the bottle. It looked powerfully medicinal.

The pots intrigued me, though. I had never worn rouge or face-paint of any kind, merely imagined myself with a spot of it on my cheeks as a London girl. Joan had secretly mixed her own rouge once, in an oyster shell, from some ingredients she had bought from the apothecary in Musselburgh. When she waltzed into the parlour with two bright-pink cheeks, Da had been onto her straight away and taken it out to the midden and said that only whores wear paint. But there I was, in a new town, newly heartbroken, and I supposed I might dab some on to brighten me up, so to speak, and I was sure the lady who owned the rouge would be none the wiser.

The looking glass was of poor quality and had not been dusted for some time, so I had to peer closely, but I brushed the pink wool pad across my cheek. There was not much of a difference on the first dab, but I got the gist of it soon enough and was quickly admiring myself. What a difference a spot of colour made! Spencer would fancy me like this, I thought, and then my heart sank with the fresh dismay of all that had happened, and what a shame it was that he would never see me looking pretty like this. For of course in my dreams of London, with Spencer, I was gaudy and glitzy and he quite the dapper gent, but it was all a sham now. Don’t think of it, I urged myself and put a bit of rouge to my lips this time. But just as I was smacking and pursing my lips and fluttering my eyelashes at myself, the chamber door clattered open and in marched a haughty-looking well-dressed lady. I dropped the rouge pad but, alas, a moment too late. I was caught in the act of stealing her face-paint.

‘You little thief,’ the lady cried, tossing her hat on her bed and pulling off her gloves. ‘Those are my bits and bobs, and I should never have left them out. Mr Baxter said there was a new girl lodging here tonight, but he never said she was a light-fingered little wench.’ She stood and glowered at me. She was tall and spectacularly pretty, with white-blonde hair in ringlet curls and eyes like fine blue china saucers.

‘I am hardly a thief, miss,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a tiring journey and I was only trying it on to perk up my face.’ I’ve had years of silly bickers with Joan and, in my experience, they flare up fast, but then dampen down as quick. But this lady was not having any of it and was clearly in the temper for a hot fight. She threw herself on her bed, almost squashing her hat, and folded her slim little arms crossly.

‘What’s your name and what’s your business in Kelso?’ she demanded.

‘I’m Maggie Dickson and I’m only here one night,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I’ve come from up north, by the coast, and I’ll be off in the morning. I am bound for London,’ I added, with an air of what I hoped was haughtiness to match her own.

‘And what is your business in London?’ she asked, and I thought her a nosy cow, but I answered anyway, for I did not want her turning on her sharp little heels and telling this Mr Baxter I was bad news.

‘I am setting up a trade in London, as I have an interest in perfumes,’ I told her. Now this was a lie, for I had no knowledge of Spencer’s trade or contacts. But I had remembered what he’d also said, about apprenticing myself as a seamstress or milliner, with my knowledge of lines and knots and fast working hands, and that is what I planned to do. That plan felt a little too loose, however, to be sharing with strangers and I wanted this lady to think highly of me.

‘Perfumes, you say?’ She sounded intrigued, but asked no more. ‘Well, Mistress Dickson, you shall keep your hands off my belongings and I don’t want to be woken before nine,’ she continued. ‘I keep late hours and I need my beauty sleep. So if you’re on a morning coach, ready yourself quietly.’

I nodded and she thawed a little and started unlacing her boots.

‘Oh, it’s been a long day,’ she said. ‘And I am peckish already and it’s not yet supper time.’ She peered towards my creel. ‘Goodness that’s an unwieldy-looking basket. Is that the fashion by the coast? Do they carry them on their backs? Are the girls there all broad-shouldered like you?’

I nodded, feeling like a hulk.

‘Do you have anything decent to eat in it?’ she went on. ‘I can’t bear to go downstairs yet and sit there, with all those men gawping at me and trying to buy me cheap ale.’

I did, as it happened. I had the bottle of whisky, which I brought out and her eyes lit up at, and I had a big piece of gingerbread, which I had bought in Lauder and not finished, so I let her have the rest of that and a tot of whisky and that appeased her greatly. She sat and nibbled away at it all, quite delicately, and I hovered around, not knowing whether to go and get that new bonnet or stay and become acquainted, for I was not well versed in the ways of travelling women.

After a few moments I asked her what her name was and what her business was and why she was in Kelso. I asked in a friendly way, but she did not like the questions much.

‘I am Mrs Rose, a widow,’ she said. ‘I have an uncle who lives here in Kelso – a physician as it happens, a widower himself – and I am visiting him.’ She frowned. ‘And he likes me to visit him at his cottage, but not stay the night, for he does not have the space for a guest. He is a kindly man, my uncle, and I am his favourite niece.’

Well, that was an odd story, but I let her carry on with it.

‘My uncle is a doctor, Dr McTavish. He is often up north, in Edinburgh, as he has a medical practice there, but he lives the rest of the time in his little cottage further up this road,’ she went on. ‘I join him for lunch, and I usually stay a while. We play dominoes actually, and then I am back here for supper.’

The tale sounded tall, and a cover story for something far saucier going on between the two of them, especially given her rouge collection. She had the decency to blush as she told it, but I took in her beautifully tailored gown, the moody blue of a stormy sea, and her fine boots, polished to a squeak, and I thought there was clearly money to be made playing dominoes in Kelso.

‘I love dominoes,’ I declared. ‘Do you have a set here?’

She looked a little horrified at that.

‘Sadly and, unfortunately, no. Dr McTavish keeps his dominoes in a brass tin at his home,’ she declared.

Of course there were whores at the Mussel Inn, but I never really saw them and, from what anyone said, they hung around the bar and would do anything for a penny or two. This whore had the air of a real lady, aged around five-and-twenty, I would guess, so a little older and a great deal edgier than me. I wondered how many customers she had, or if she was solely mistress to this Dr McTavish.

‘Are you in Kelso long?’ I enquired.

‘I’m here for the foreseeable,’ she said. ‘Dr McTavish visits Edinburgh every six weeks or so, to see his patients, and he is only just back.’

He must be keeping her well, but I am sure she would prefer to be in her own rooms, which was mibbie why she was so put out at my arrival. Well, that was hardly my fault, was it? So I told her I was heading out on an errand and I would leave her to rest and she seemed appeased at that, settling herself down on her bed and seizing upon her little brown bottle with a sniff of anticipation, which I was now sure contained something potent, given to her by her doctor friend.

I took the tapestry purse from where it was tucked in the bottom of my creel and off I went to Kelso square. The shops and the market were almost closing for the day, but I managed to find a small hat shop that sold very fine bonnets and, after much deliberation, I settled on a navy one with a delicately frilled edge. I’m sure it’s something I could have sewn myself, but I did not have the time nor the inclination. I spent a while browsing the baskets in the market to see if there was something less like a fishwife’s creel, but although there were plenty, none were as sturdy, and I needed mine for the journey. When I got to London I might find something and, at this thought, my heart fluttered a bit with nerves. I was almost out of Scotland now. I was about to cross the great divide.

I knew absolutely no one in London. I knew nothing about it except what I’d heard from Spencer and the tea men. I knew it was a place where you could make your fortune, but I also feared it could be a place of grave danger. Of rogues and thieves, and worse. Mibbie it was full of Spencers. I shuddered at that. I now felt guilty at the fact that I’d just bought the bonnet and nearly took it back there and then. Spencer had left a fair bit of money, but what if I couldn’t get an apprenticeship? I fancied learning something frivolous, like how to add feathers to caps or how to sew frills on bodices, but what if these seamstresses looked at me the same way Mrs Rose did and declared me too broad-shouldered to sit in their elegant workshops? I vowed there and then not to spend another penny, except on food and ale, until I was safely in lodgings and had employment, even if I had to start off my London life as a Thames fishergirl.

I returned to the River Inn in time for supper and, after I had freshened up and put my bonnet in my creel, I sat at a dining table opposite Mrs Rose, who was eyed heartily by the two gents I was travelling with. But she paid no heed to them and must have been well used to men measuring her up all the time, for she tucked into her fried trout quite hungrily.

How did she manage it? To eat calmly whilst all were agog; and to sell herself for fine gowns. When I had lain with Spencer I had loved him with my body and soul. Mibbie Joan had too. Had Mrs Rose decided to become a whore for fur cloaks and the best leather boots? Or had she no choice?

I did not dare ask her. She sipped a straw-coloured liquor from a thin glass and regarded me.

‘It’s French wine. Mr Baxter keeps a bottle behind the counter for me. You can go and fetch yourself a glass if you like,’ she offered. ‘In fact fetch the bottle.’

I did, not quite sure whether I felt like a sophisticate or a courtesan asking Mr Baxter for the French wine. He gave nothing of his thoughts away and I sat with my glass, the bottle between Mrs Rose and I, listening to the chatter and song. For the first time in a while I felt merry. Mrs Rose relaxed too, cradling her glass in her hand. She wore pretty rings, nicer than my glass one, and I thought mibbie there is something to be said for women having enough of their own cash to buy rings and French wine and not giving their love away to men, like I had.

‘Sip it slowly, for wine is halfway between ale and rum in strength and far nicer in flavour, but it goes to your head quick enough,’ Mrs Rose urged me. She did the same, taking dainty sips and dabbing her lips with a red lace kerchief each time. Red to match her rouge. I warmed up.

‘Tell me more about this perfume trade,’ she said.

My heart sank. But I did not want to be caught out in a web of lies, for I was enjoying the evening. ‘Perfume is a marvellous thing,’ I said, repeating the kind of things Spencer had said. ‘It can make an ordinary gent smell most alluring, and it can make ladies lose their minds and spend a fortune on something in a tiny bottle.’

She sniffed the air. ‘I adore fine scents. Adore them. But I do not detect any fine scent on you, Mistress Dickson. In fact I detect the smell of horses and carts and armpits.’

I shot her an awful glare at that, the kind of look that Joan would have got for saying something rude. ‘I am surprised you can smell anything,’ I said. ‘With your nose jammed in that brown bottle so often.’

Mrs Rose blinked. I dare say she was not used to talk like that. For a split second I regretted my outburst. But then she laughed.

‘Oh, you are a funny little thing, my dear,’ she said. ‘Here, have a little top-up of my wine. Just a tot. Oh, I dare say you might be right. But if you have not had the pleasure of laudanum, then you have not had pleasure at all.’

‘I should not like to try laudanum,’ I replied. That was a word I had heard before, from the tea men. It was a word uttered in whispers and shudders and with shakings of heads. You could grow to depend on it. ‘I do not like the idea of relying on bottles and potions to get through the day.’

Mrs Rose grew solemn at that. ‘You are wise,’ she said. ‘But that’s my weakness.’

By and by, some of the more refined folk retired to their rooms, including my fellow coach gents, and the songs got a little more raucous. One man stood up and tapped Mrs Rose on the shoulder and whispered something into her ear. She listened most intently, at first shaking her head, then after more whispering she nodded.

The man disappeared upstairs and Mrs Rose turned to me again, her voice thick and sweet with wine.

‘I shall retire now, but do not come to the room for another hour, if you don’t mind, and in return for keeping yourself out of my way, you may have another glass of my nice French wine,’ she told me. ‘In fact you might as well finish the bottle.’

I knew exactly what all this was about. She meant to entertain the man in our room. She had likely had a decent offer for an hour of her time. I did not like to be any party to this kind of caper. But what could I do? I was persuaded by the promise of the wine, and poured myself the rest and watched the clock. It was a fine evening all right, with singing filled with diddle-diddles and fair maids and petticoats , and bellowed guffaws erupting around the room. But when Mrs Rose’s man returned after almost an hour, I decided I’d had enough wine and wanted nothing more than to lie down and get a decent night’s sleep. I set down my glass and thanked the innkeeper’s wife, who was bustling around the place looking exhausted, and I made my way up the rickety stairs and past all the paintings of the fish and fowl.

Mrs Rose was wiping off her face-paint and seemed pleased enough with herself, humming a ditty as she went about her ablutions. Is it really that easy? Is this what becomes of women who travel alone? I stripped to my nightgown, feeling plain in her company, and got under the covers, brushing my hair and watching her as I let the blankets warm me up. She was pretty enough not to need any cosmetics, I thought, and she didn’t half admire herself, prancing around the room in her creamy corset and silky drawers. Her skin was the colour of sunshine and her shoulders were freckled. I felt frowzy, lying there in my musty nightie, for what was I but a wide-shouldered, stout thing good for hoicking creels and not much else besides.

‘How long have you been widowed?’ I asked her, wondering if this part of her story was even true.

‘Two years,’ she replied. ‘My husband was a sailor and he died in a sea storm.’

Well, that smarted, and my face fell and she noticed, pausing to see what I would say. Mibbie Mrs Rose would understand something of affairs of the heart.

‘I lost my husband to the sea too. I was married, quite recently, but my husband was taken by a press gang,’ I told her.

Her eyes widened. ‘You poor soul,’ she said. ‘And him too, abducted like that. How cruel. Did you love him dearly?’

‘I did,’ I replied. ‘With all of my heart, but the worst of it was that I then found out that he’d betrayed me with my own sister.’

‘Oh!’ she cried, aghast. ‘What a calamity.’ She perched on the edge of my bed and took my hand. Her hand was cool; mine warm. Her blue eyes searched mine. Her lashes were thick and long, her brows two perfect arches. I was reminded of a doll we used to play with, Joan and I, with a drawn-on face.

‘When I discovered their affair, I got on the first coach out of town,’ I admitted. ‘I took all his savings and I’m going to make a success of my life, I swear it.’

‘Oh, you shall,’ she said. ‘Men are beasts. Beasts . They only want one thing. My Dr McTavish...’ Here she paused, thinking of how to phrase it. ‘My Dr McTavish, he’s a dreadful man. Old and nasty and he thinks he can rule me just because he pays me an allowance and gives me laudanum. But I’m the same as you, Mistress Dickson, I want to make my own mark in the world. I can’t wait to get out of this horrible little inn and have my own place – imagine that! – and not have to answer to anyone.’

I nodded, knowing how she felt.

She squeezed my hand.

‘And it gets worse, she went on. The last of the fire sizzled in the grate and the candles flickered. I knew she was about to disclose some great horror. ‘Dr McTavish has me at his mercy,’ she whispered. ‘For what you said before is right: I am heavily reliant on the laudanum. It keeps my nerves in balance. It’s the only thing that’ll do it. Dr McTavish gives me a bottle a week. On top of the allowance. But I do not trust the man. Not as far as I could throw him. Do you remember I told you he was widowed? Well, I suspect he got rid of his wife.’ She paused and stared at me, most theatrically.

‘Got rid of her how?’ I asked.

‘Well, he is a doctor, so it could have been any potion or poison. But Mrs McTavish was alive and well until twelve months or so ago, about the time I met him. I met him here, in this very inn, one night when I was passing through; and I was on my uppers because my husband had left me barely anything and I’d been evicted from our lodgings. I was travelling, looking for work. Anyway he complained about Mrs McTavish constantly. Kitty, that was her name, the poor dear. After a day or so of taking me for lunches and walks and so on, he declared himself most in love with me.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at this. ‘Most devastatingly in love with me. And how different I was from Kitty, who was a monstrous nag. And his marriage was chaste and miserable. He begged me to stay awhile here, in Kelso, and not venture any further in search of work. He gave me my first dose of laudanum, which he said would help my nerves; said he would reward me for my company, from time to time. Any price. Well, a few weeks later Kitty died.’

‘Oh, goodness,’ I breathed.

‘She had dropped dead, just like that. It was the talk of the inn for a while. Poor Kitty. One morning she was fossicking through her orchards for cherries and apples, and by lunch she was clean dead. They said it was her heart. Well, Dr McTavish said it was her heart. But I do not think there was anything wrong with her heart, for she was only a woman of thirty-five.’ Mrs Rose drew a deep breath, and I could see her pulse quivering at her throat. Her skin was goosepimpled. ‘He poisoned her. I am sure of it. To get her out of the way.’

‘If you suspect him of such wickedness, why do you associate with him?’ But I could barely believe this tale. Mrs Rose was the most melodramatic person I had ever met.

‘You are right,’ she replied. ‘I should not associate with him at all. But he is my best source of income for now, and I will move on when I have saved up enough to live on.’

It sounded awful. I was relieved I was not this pretty little thing, terrified of the man she relied upon. She reminded me, suddenly, of my own ma. And although you could not find any two women who were less alike, they both had the fear of a man about them. It shrinks a woman, that fear. Diminishes her to a shell.

‘But never mind me,’ Mrs Rose continued, suddenly remembering my tale of woe. ‘Never mind my silly stories, and my suspicions. You have been through the wars, Mistress Dickson. And a young thing like you.’ I nodded again, feeling sorrier for myself by the minute. ‘You deserve good fortune and I know you’ll get it in London, with your perfume business.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, although I did not admit that I actually had no connections in the perfume trade in London and had rather exaggerated my situation to impress her. ‘And I am sorry for trying on your face-paint earlier, only I had never worn it before and I was trying to make myself feel a bit better.’

‘Well, as we are being honest, Mistress Dickson, I will admit that I think you suited that rouge. It made you look pretty as a berry.’

Goodness, I blushed at that. For I did not see myself as pretty at all, but I did decide to buy a pot of rouge for myself, once I got to London.

Mrs Rose made soothing sounds then, and rose off the bed and carried on her ablutions, but this time she flashed me occasional glances, making sure I was all right.

She blew out most of the candles, leaving one on the side-table, and we snuggled down under our bedspreads in unison. I felt my eyes grow heavy and I knew I would fall fast asleep soon.

‘Goodnight, Mrs Rose,’ I whispered. ‘I shall be quiet as a mouse in the morning, but it was good to make your acquaintance.’

‘Goodnight, Mistress Dickson,’ she said. ‘And good luck on your adventures.’

And with that, I fell into a dreamless sleep, for which I was very grateful.

I woke abruptly the next morning to the clatter of the horses being tied to their carts in the courtyard. The sun was shining crisp and bright through the small attic window, warming up my bed, and I swung myself up and out, braced for the next stage in my journey. Tiptoeing at first, so as not to wake Mrs Rose, I was astonished to see that she was already up and gone. Her bed lay empty, the bedspread tossed to one side. I turned back to my own bed and pulled out my creel, ready to dress for the day, but it was in a terrible mess – all my bits and pieces dishevelled.

I realized at once, of course, what had happened, but I still tore through my belongings looking for the tapestry purse. It was not there. The new bonnet gone too. Mrs Rose had upped and taken them, and her cloak and her own fine dress and all of my money, save for a few pennies that were lying at the bottom of the creel.

But she had not taken everything. She had left my clothes and the rest of my things, and two items on the washstand: her rouge and face-paint pots. Mibbie it was an oversight. Mibbie it was her horrible way of trying to make up for what she had done.