Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Kelso March 1724

O ne evening when I had been in Kelso a month or so, a quietish evening when the inn was only half full, I noticed a gentleman sitting with a parchment and quill, which was a funny sight beside his game pie, so I stopped at his table and asked him if he needed a bigger table.

‘I am fine, lass,’ he said. ‘I am well used to juggling my work and my supper.’ It turned out he was a scribe who took payment for writing out folks’ messages and got them sent to wherever they needed to be sent, by way of one of the post boys who called at the inn.

‘And you can get them sent anywhere?’ I asked, curious.

‘Tuppence for Scotland, thruppence for England,’ he said. ‘And you’d need to dictate it to me tonight for I’m off first thing.

I knew it was the right thing to do, even if it cost me some of my hard-earned wages. And if Spencer came back, he’d know where I was. Ma and Da could take the letter to someone at the Mussel Inn and they could read it out to them.

‘I’ve never dictated a letter before,’ I said, wiping my hands on my apron and feeling nervous, for it all felt quite official.

‘Nothing to it,’ he replied reassuringly. ‘Just say it as you would if the person was in the room, and I will sort out the rough bits.’

I went to the kitchen and told Mrs Baxter I needed a break to do some business. Pouring myself a glass of French wine for a bit of courage, for I’d become accustomed to the taste, I sat back down opposite the scribe. He was a small man and clever-looking, with round spectacles and a neat grey beard. He nodded to me as I sat, and then took up his quill.

It was a strange thing to be doing, and I took a gulp of my wine and made sure my hair was tidy and my apron straight – not that it mattered, for my folks would not see me, only hear my words – and I focused on the congealing gravy on the scribe’s plate in order not to get upset.

Dear Ma and Da [I decided not to include Joan, as I was still furious with her] ,

I write this letter from the town of Kelso, which, if you happen to have seen my Map of the British Isles, is near the border with England.

I am sorry to have taken off in such haste, but [here I paused, as I was not sure how much to say] I needed to get away from everyone.

I did not get much of a start to married life, and I am young yet and feel that I have much to give to the world. Do not think of me in anger, but rather think kindly that I have set off on my own journey. It may not be the life that you imagined for me, and I know that your first thoughts will be angry ones and bad tempers, but this is my life to live. I am headed to London and I shall write from there, once I have got myself organized. Pray, do not shout at one another over this or blame each other, for surely we have all had enough of that.

Your daughter, Maggie

I left the letter at that and did not add more words, despite the fact that it would cost me tuppence regardless, for I really just wanted them to know I was safe. I was embarrassed to say these things out loud, but the scribe had clearly heard far worse and simply wrote it all down, then read it back to me as I had another drink of wine. Oh, the wine tasted suddenly sour. My mouth watered, the way it does when I might be sick. Mibbie it was all too much. I could not even look at the scribe’s leftover gravy now.

‘Are you all right, Mistress?’ he asked, noticing my pallor. I nodded. ‘Often the writing of a letter can be a difficult thing. Usually I guide a person and give them a bit of advice on their message,’ he went on, considering the parchment with a furrowed brow. ‘But I see there is more of a back-story here than I would care to ask about.’ He glanced at me again. ‘Do you want to write to anyone else? I see you talk of married life here. I could write two letters to the same town – won’t cost you extra.’

I thought hard for a moment or two, swallowing back the sicky feeling, then nodded. He took out another piece of parchment and dipped his quill in his ink.

Dear Joan,

You have always had the better of me and I hope you are happy with the way things turned out, even if it broke my heart. But I shall tell you something. I shall make a success of my life. I shall show you that you were wrong about me, that I am not an idiot, nor good for nothing much. You might have won everyone’s affections, but they don’t know you like I know you. You shall never leave Fisherrow, but I am making my way in the world.

Maggie

I knew it was childish, but I was so very furious with her, so I suppose that note was not only for her, but for Spencer too, explaining exactly why I had upped and left with his cash – not that he was ever likely to read it. I even wondered if Joan herself would know what was written in the letter, for if she wanted to find out she would have to take it to someone who could read it for her. I thought she probably would. Curiosity would get the better of her.

The scribe finished the letter off with a flourish, sat back in his chair and looked at me.

‘Is it too much?’ I asked, fearful it might be the wine talking now, and that he would think me a spiteful cow.

‘It’s not the worst message I’ve passed on,’ he replied. ‘Your husband ran off with this Joan, did he?’ I must have looked aghast, but he went on, with all the air of an expert in matters of the heart, ‘You are only a young thing, look at you. There’s always more fish in the sea, and p’raps you might be best learning a lesson from whatever’s happened to you. Now are you sure you want to write to this Joan, and not your own husband? For he will be worried about you.’

‘He’s at sea, and no one knows where,’ I replied, not wanting to go into the whole story.

The scribe shook his head and scratched his beard. ‘A sorry mess then,’ he said.

‘I shall never trust anyone again,’ I told him. I had drunk too much wine.

‘Oh, don’t be theatrical,’ he said gently. ‘You just have to learn who to trust. Folks have got to earn your trust. That’s something that only happens bit by bit.’

He was right. I had thrown myself at Spencer without really knowing him at all. I had never met his family, and Da had been wary, but I had ploughed on regardless. Then I had shared too much of my story with Mrs Rose. I had lain myself open to them.

‘How long will it take for the letters to arrive?’ I asked.

‘A week or two,’ he said. ‘The post boy will have a few deliveries, I expect.’

I went and got my tuppence from where I safely stored my earnings, a locked drawer in my room. I hadn’t even noticed the locked drawer that first day, so green was I. The key I kept about me all the time, on a string around my neck. When I had finished my business with the scribe I went back to my chores, scraping gristle from plates and trying not to feel sick again, closing my ears to the bawdy songs that the patrons sang when they had had a fill of ale.

Often I had to dodge a wandering hand or avert my eyes to a lewd wink, or ignore cries and catcalls that made vulgarities of my unfortunate name – Mistress Dickson, Mistress Dick, I have my own Dick right here. I knew I could have any of them too, just like Mrs Rose had. And I knew it happened and that no one batted much of an eye, except when the parish officers were around.

Mr Baxter kept a gentlemen’s store under the bar, which was a wooden box from which could be purchased things like Castile soap and tooth powder, and something the patrons referred to as ‘implements of safety’, which I never saw, but were apparently skins that a gentleman put on his nethers to stop the pox, should he be getting intimate with someone. Sometimes a local girl or a lady would happen into the River Inn and become friendly with a patron and accept a drink from him, and they would disappear off for a while. I knew exactly what they were up to.

When night falls in a market-town inn there is a sense that anything can happen, and it won’t matter in the morning when the carts pull away to other corners of the country. By the end of supper time the world outside has fallen to a dark standstill. But under its thatched roof and oak beams, the River Inn glowed – a lantern to all who roamed the roads of the countryside, who navigated its rutted and dangerous ways. Those who had arrived safely and had avoided the highwaymen and rain and wind were assured of a bed and a hot meal. Which gave way to a devil-may-care atmosphere.

I’d meant what I said in my letter to Joan: I would make something of myself. But when I counted my pennies, I could have wept at how few there were, compared to the coins I’d had stolen from me. It would take months to even get close to having a decent bit of money set aside, enough for lodgings and a bit to keep me going.

But I still hankered and hankered to go.

If I had heard tales of London from the tea men, they were nothing compared to the tales told in the parlour of the River Inn. London was on the up and up. Anyone could do anything there. Why, every patron seemed to know a man who had arrived there barefoot and within twelve months he had quite turned his fortunes around. Imagine it! Imagine coming back to Fisherrow in a few years wearing a fur cloak and a velvet hat. Only a brief visit, Ma, for I cannot leave the servants too long, they will get lazy. Oh, you must all come down and visit.

Every man who was headed south from the River Inn went off neatly groomed and cleanly shaved by Mr Jackson, the barber, who kept a chair in a room near the scullery. I would watch them go, passing them on my way back, and heading from the kitchen door to the grocery man’s cart, which was piled high with sacks of flour and carrots. The men all smelled high and bright, of Mr Jackson’s scent-bottle, a spiced concoction that sang of foreign shores. Of morning rainfall. Of open roads. Look how well you’ve done, Joan would say, when they came to visit me in London, in that dreamy future I’d concocted. Oh, Maggie. We had our differences, did we not? But you have turned your life around. And Ma would hug me and whisper, I am proud of you, hen.

A few days after the scribe departed, two well-heeled women arrived on their way back to Scotland from London. I trusted no one, of course, and they slept in the twin beds in the other attic room. But I lingered over them for a while after supper, as I liked the company of women as a change from the male patrons, and they were polite but distant. When I asked their whereabouts in London, they said they resided – resided! – in a magnificent street in Mayfair. I believed them too, for their coach had caused a stir when it arrived, with its velvet padded seats and matching curtains, and a man kept a watch on it overnight.

‘I should like to go to London myself one day,’ I told them, keeping it vague and giving no details about any savings, in case they should decide to rob me in the night. ‘Men come and go all the time, but I hear mixed opinions about whether it is a good place for a woman to seek her fortune.’

One of the women paused to consider the question most carefully. She wore no face-paint and her gown, though perfectly tailored, was a dowdy twill, so I presumed she was not a whore. She had the pinched Presbyterian look of a kirk minister’s wife. She glanced at her companion, who was younger but had a similar air.

‘A woman ought not to seek her fortune anywhere,’ she replied. ‘She should leave that to her husband. But there are certainly opportunities. And more so than here,’ she added. ‘So I suppose if you are minded to work all the hours God sends, then London is a better place than Scotland. There are certainly umpteen inns, aren’t there, Mistress Penman?

‘Dozens of inns,’ this Mistress Penman said. ‘You would not be short of inn work.’

‘And apprenticeships, do you suppose?’ I asked. ‘In the ladies’ clothing trade or somesuch?’

‘Oh, there are apprentices all over the place,’ said Mistress Penman. ‘London is full of them. Our milliner has three girls working for him. Don’t you remember, Mistress Marshall? One of them had spectacles that were smeared thick with her own fingerprints, and you wondered how she ever saw out of them, never mind how she ever sewed a straight line.’

‘Dreadful,’ said Mistress Marshall. ‘Oh, there are more apprentices than anyone knows what to do with. You can’t get the service in some places, for there are too many apprentices. Young men and women like yourself. All seeming to do very well for themselves, and spending their wages like there is no tomorrow, wouldn’t you agree, Mistress Penman? On entertainments and frivolities. I should say the theatres are not what they used to be at all. Full of working folk. Quite filling the stalls at the Theatre Royal. Cheap hats and paste jewels as far as the eye can see.’

I stroked the edge of my own glass ring. I was not put off by these two snobs, not at all. Their tales of the new London were music to my ears. Music fit to fill a hundred theatres.

But then there was a new problem to deal with. Worse than any I had dealt with before.