“Mrs. Earle told me all this as we lay abed in our room. Her husband, she said, had been young and vigorous and then within a fortnight he was gone. It was hard to fathom. I felt sorry for her and so decided to tell her about Wilkes. I feltno great loss over him, and it had been a long time before, but I thought it would make this woman feel better to hear of another who had lost a husband. I told her Wilkes’s death had happened only last winter and I changed its causes; it was, I said, a sweating sickness that overtook him. But she wasn’t listening to a word, and soon interrupted to tell me that she was on her way to Uxbridge to visit her sister-inlaw. It had to do with money owed to her late husband and she foresaw a dispute. That woman kept me awake half the night with her story about the sister-in-law and the money owed. I was grateful when at last she fell asleep and I could lie there with my own thoughts, looking out the window at the stars, listening to the laughter and songs from the tavern hall below, wondering what might become of me in the years ahead. When the tavern closed, the silence of the night settled in, and before I fell asleep I heard the watchman on the street below calling out his round:
Give ear to the clock
Beware of your lock
Your fire and your light
God give you
Good night
One o’clock.
“I slept little, however, for I was fearful of not being ready and angering Jessup further, and so I was dressed by three o’clock, when the boy knocked at the door. I left the widow snoring. The morning was wet, and Jessup’s head, I gathered, heavy from the night’s drinking. I had a miserable time of it on that horse with only a shawl to keep the rain off my head. Wagons were stuck in ruts, as the road was muddy, and men were cursing. Terrible mouths on some of them. But as we approached the city the rain let up, stopping finally as we came along by Shepherd’s Bush, passing the gibbet at Tyburn. It was something to see the great houses farther on in Tyburn Road. We had to walk the horses up Snow Hill, and so through Newgate, where Jessup stopped at the market by Christ’s Hospital. This, he told me, was where I got off, for he was going elsewhere. He got a boy to take me to Threadneedle Street; it wasn’t far, he said, and the boy could be trusted because he’d used him with travellers before. The streets were filled with such urchins who loitered about the hitching posts of inns and taverns.
“The boy was small and ragged, but cheerful enough when he took my penny. He wanted to carry my bag, but I said I could manage; he didn’t seem to like that and turned away, beckoning me to follow. I remember how frightened I was once I left Jessup and the other carriers, because the streets were crowded and the noise was something I could never before have imagined: the church bells alone would deafen you, but there was the grinding of cartwheels on paving stones and the cries of hawkers with their wares and beggars plucking at you with pleas for money. ‘A groat, Miss, only a groat,’ they would yell with outstretched hands. And there I was, following this boy through the crowds at Newgate market, trying to keep pace with him. Why, I thought, he could lead me anywhere or nowhere, since all the streets and laneways looked the same to me. And the infernal racket of it all. I couldn’t think as I hurried after him, trying to avoid the beggars and barking dogs and stepping around the kites squabbling for scraps. I’ll never last a month in this place, I said to myself. Over the roofs of the shops and houses I could see a great building and imagined it was the cathedral Jack had told me about. But I feared I would lose sight of that boy, who was taking me through laneways and side streets where a rougher sort hung about. This was to be my first encounter with the sharp practice of Londoners, because the boy stopped and demanded another penny before he would take me a step farther.
“I told him I wouldn’t give it to him. We had agreed on a penny, I said, thankful that I’d had the good sense to hold on to my bag. The boy only laughed, while others, watching from the tavern doors, idlers and bawds from the look of them, laughed too because they could see a newcomer being worked over, and such people enjoy laughing at a stranger’s misfortune. So the two of us, the boy and I, were at odds and I wasn’t going to weep, though I felt like it. Then a happy surprise when two gentlemen happened by and took pity on me. They were both in good humour, a little affected by drink, I imagined, and one asked me what the matter was about, and I told him I was newly arrived in London and had paid the boy fairly for directions to Threadneedle Street. Now he was demanding another penny. The other gentleman then took hold of the boy and might have given him a thrashing then and there had the tavern idlers not begun to grumble. A crowd soon gathered and so there I was, in London not twenty minutes and already in the midst of a street broil. Then one of the gentlemen said, ‘Come along now, Miss, we’ll show you the way to Threadneedle Street. It’s not far. This young rogue is not for you.’
“The crowd, however, was with the boy, and some began to mutter about gentlemen minding their own affairs and leaving the common folk to their own. One of the gentlemen reached into his doublet and withdrew a
handful of coins, flinging them into the air. As they fell, the people were soon on hands and knees, quarrelling among themselves in search of the money, quite forgetting me and the boy, who freed himself from the gentleman’s grasp and ran off cursing us all. The gentlemen merely laughed and together walked along with me to a broad street with many fine shops. This was Cheapside, and as we walked, the gentlemen hardly took notice of me, engaged as they were in remembering bits from a comedy they had seen that afternoon at a playhouse. By the church, which I came later to recognize as St. Mary-le-Bow, they stopped and, pointing ahead, one said, ‘You go that way, Miss. You are walking eastward and soon this street will part into three, so keep to your left and that is Threadneedle Street.’
“I thanked them with all my heart, but they had already turned their backs on me and were still talking about the play. So I walked on as directed and no one took any notice of me, and I soon found the street and the shop with its sign of a yellow hat. The shutters were still open because the day’s business was not yet done and well-dressed people were going in and out. It was not rough and busy on Threadneedle Street, and I was glad, and felt more at ease. The shop itself looked prosperous and this was cheering too, and I prayed that Sarah’s sister would take kindly to me and give me a chance to show how I would amend my life and make them proud of me.
“When I stepped inside, I was overwhelmed by the bustle of it all; I was used to business in your uncle’s shop in Woodstock, but here were more gentry and they were buying finer goods, all manner of fancy apparel and wares, not only hats and bonnets, but ruffs and ribbons and gloves, fans and even cutlery—items of all sorts favoured by those with means. As I was to learn, Philip Boyer was not only an expert hatter, but a great importer of goods from Antwerp and Milan, where he had lived for several years learning his trade. I was to learn also that he had customers at court, both ladies and gentlemen, and a contract for boys’ caps at the Merchant Taylors’ School. In his warehouse at the back of the premises were two apprentices and two maids busy at lacework and hat making. But on that first afternoon, I stood alone just inside the entrance with my bag, watching the servers at the counter and the customers, who were fingering gloves and fans or trying on hats and laughing with their husbands or paramours. Such beautifully dressed women! And the men handsome too, unafraid to show their legs in hose of violet or crimson. I can only imagine what a penny I looked standing there in my plain country clothes with my hair not as it might have been because of the weather earlier that day.
“A woman behind the counter was frowning at me, and I knew at once that this was Sarah’s sister, Eliza, as she had similar features, though she was younger by several years; I
judged her not much older than myself. She had once been pretty and still was to a degree, but her beauty was marred somewhat by her scornful expression. So, I thought, another Sarah with a temperament soured by piety, for Jack had told me that the Boyers were devout in their own way. Eliza was serving a lady but looking over at me from time to time, her head, I imagined, filling quickly with judgments, and none of them in my favour. I am certain that with those unfriendly eyes she saw only a bedraggled creature with damp clothes and hair and a simple bag. But I vowed yet again that I would do whatever was asked of me, because this shop and this woman and her French husband were all that stood between me and the street beyond the unshuttered windows, where all who passed were strangers.
“When she had finished with the customer, Eliza came over and said, ‘You must be John Ward’s sister, the widow. Come along with me now—you look a proper sight, I have to say.’ And with that, she turned and I followed her through the shop to the back, where I could see the long room with the apprentices at work and the lace maids and beyond them piles of trade stuff. We went up the stairs to the third floor and a small room, where I was at once informed of my duties. I had assumed that with my years in Jack’s shop, I would be serving customers, but Eliza Boyer told me that I would be looking after her child, who was then nearly a year in age and only recently weaned. I
was replacing a girl who had got herself with child and was turned out, and in Eliza’s telling me this, I caught a hint of warning. So I was to be a nursemaid then, and I must have looked disappointed, for Eliza gave me her bitter smile. ‘Unhappy, are you? Thinking you are above such work?’
“I was quick to say that I thought no such thing, adding, ‘It was just that with all my years in Jack’s shop I thought perhaps—’
“But she interrupted me. ‘You are not in Woodstock now, girl. Your duties lie with our child. That and nothing more. And you will take your meals with the other servants.’ So that was that, and fairly put, I suppose. I had been told my place in the household and I need expect nothing more. Whatever Sarah had said in her letter, she had poisoned her sister’s opinion of me, and I had to live with that.
“As I would soon discover, the child, Marion, was a cranky, obstinate little creature who could not be pleased or made to smile by anyone but her father, to whom I was introduced later that day, since he had been occupied earlier with a visit to the wharfs, where he was expecting the arrival of goods from abroad. Philip Boyer was small in stature, but not unhandsome with his fine dark eyes, delicate features and a small beard. He was a precise man who I sensed immediately admired female beauty. I could see his appraising look of me in those eyes and I have to confess I felt a wavering pleasure in it, though I wondered if all this might
prove troublesome. Would I awaken one night to find him standing by my bed, and what then? But I soon learned that Boyer was not interested in amorous adventuring; the only female for him at that time was his infant daughter, upon whom he doted and who returned his intense affection with smiles. Not even her mother could contain the child’s rage when a distemper was upon her. Yet once in her father’s arms, she lay quiet and serene. The rest of Boyer’s time was spent in the warehouse instructing and admonishing his apprentices and overseeing the work of the lace maids. Now and again, he made an appearance in the shop to deal with an important customer, a servant from the court, perhaps, requesting samples for display to his lord or lady. Boyer would then arrange for a showing on a day assigned and take his satchel of bonnets to court or to one of the great houses along Holborn.
“As for his child, Marion, she liked me no better than she did anyone else except her father: most nights I walked with her in my arms to encourage sleep, taking the blows from those tiny fists as she struggled in my arms. Her wailing sometimes brought her mother to the doorway of my room in her nightdress, demanding to know what I was doing to her daughter. But no sweet or syrup could soothe the child and I was often beside myself with worry that the Boyers would discharge me for incompetence.”
Apart from looking after the child in those early
days, Mam’s only recreation was going with the Boyers to St. Anthony’s, the church most favoured by those of French descent. After a few weeks, Mam was allowed Sunday afternoons to herself and so began to explore her surroundings, venturing beyond Threadneedle Street, growing each time more accustomed to the muddle and scurry of life in London, just as I myself would some years later. As Mam talked about those early days, I imagined her walking in some bewilderment on Sunday afternoons among so many strangers, holding close within the fear of losing her way in the narrow streets and lanes, for even now, many years later, I can remember such apprehensions: recall how it felt to be among rough people, men and women alike who would cut a purse or pinch your backside, run a hand across your bubs or even grab your quim in a throng. You had to be watchful around the brawling apprentices and idlers who seemed ever bent on making trouble for honest folk. To Mam it must have appeared as it did to me fifteen years later—that the entire world was on sale in the streets of London, and that nobody cared for anything but taking advantage for profit. During my first weeks there I often wondered how my father ever wrote a line of poetry amid the city’s clamour. I could only imagine that he worked on his plays in the dead of night. Oddly enough, it was a question I forgot to ask him when we met.
Mam told me how in those first weeks she accustomed herself to the signs of taverns and shops, recognized the churches and conduits as signposts to familiar streets, sharpening her wits and elbows in the crowds, giving back as good as she got, growing bolder with custom and pushing aside those who got too familiar, for Mam then was still a strong young woman. Before long, as she told me, she came, if not to love, at least to wonder at and by times enjoy the variety of life in the crowded, dirty old city.