Jane Bitomsky

Prologue

Tuesday, 22 April 1625

Newgate Prison, London

My dearest sisters,

I shall never again see your beloved faces. You have been my home, my family, my solace. My haven from all the cruelties this earthly world has seen fit to bestow.

I humbly beg you not to believe what you hear, and to know that these baseless accusations were born of a great and unjust misunderstanding. I am not sinless, but I am not what they think me either. I may be a weaker vessel, a foundling bastard and a common whore, but I am no murderer. I could never do harm to a child.

In my four and twenty years I have courted many things: shame, loneliness, regret. Perhaps it was inevitable that I would court death as well. He comes for me tomorrow, at nine o’clock precisely. And I am afraid. But not for me. Gladly would I burn in Satan’s hell if it meant my child might be spared the same fate.

What will they say, I wonder, when they cut me open and discover the babe inside? Will they repent my death as I have my life? Maybe in death I shall have my redemption.

Forgive me for burdening you with this terrible business, but it is to you that I am accustomed to confessing my woes. Know that when I stand beneath Tyburn Tree, my thoughts will be with you at Foxburrow Hall. I will close my eyes, imagining the smell of lavender, the taste of buttered manchet bread, the sound of merry laughter, and the warmth of your loving embrace.

May God grant you every happiness, good health and lives rich with love and joy.

Yours in life and death,

Repentance Alley

PS Avail yourselves of my possessions. They are yours now.

Chapter One: Instruction

April 1613

Barms Street, St Olave

At the southern end of Barms Street in the parish of St Olave is a row of five symmetrically designed houses. Painted signs nailed to the timber shopfront of each house advertise the wares within. The shop on the corner is owned by my master Daniel Braybrooke, a looking glass maker. On display inside are an assortment of handheld and pocket mirrors of varying size, shape, adornment and price. Sunlight filters through the glazed windows, reflecting off the mirrors, making the shop brightly lit in summer.

Some say the looking glass is the window to the soul. Mistress Braybrooke thinks that names are. My name, Repentance Alley, is a badge of sin. A warning to all who meet me of my tainted origins. My forename was chosen by the church, my surname taken from where I was found.

Father Haywood of St Olave’s church says that through good works and service I can redeem my soul. Mistress has spent twelve years plying me with the necessary tools for redemption. My presence in the Braybrooke household, like those before me, is transitory. I am their ward, not their daughter. I reside in their home as it is their godly duty. And because the churchwardens pay them for my care.

Wednesday, 24 April 1613

Barms Street, St Olave

3.30 am

I wake to darkness, not even moonlight shines through the attic’s small window. I lie unmoving, savouring the warmth, and the quiet before the day begins. Patience disturbs the peace with a grudging sigh. A gentle thwack to my face with a pillow follows.

‘Time to get up, loiter-sack.’ Echoing her sigh, I wriggle out from underneath the layers of woollen blankets.

I am a maid of all work while yet in training. And there is much to be done.

Nimble fingers set to lacing, tucking and buttoning the day’s attire. A linen smock, a rat’s colour bodice and petticoat, a kerchief, an apron, a cap, woollen stockings and brown buckled shoes. I envy Patience her Coventry blue bodice and matching ribbon, which contrast agreeably with her freckled complexion and dark hair.

The hearth fire died during the night. Patience rearranges the firewood while I open the tinderbox. Clink, clink, clink. Flint strikes metal. Sparks fly, flashes of light gone quickly by, and a tiny red ember appears in the dark. Ever so gently, gently I blow, growing the ember on the char-cloth threefold, then place it into a cosy nest of twine, resembling flaxen hair unbrushed. And with the white ghosts of my breath, a delicate flame springs to life.

Heat again radiating from the heart of the household, a taper carries the flame to the kitchen. As Patience sets about making the gruel, I take a candle and our largest bucket and go downstairs. Frost carpets the ground outside, crunching and crackling underfoot, the cold seeping through my shoes.

I tread carefully around Mistress’s meticulously maintained vegetable and herb plots. She calls them her spiritual garden. Each new shoot or leaf a sign of her soul’s ability to endure and thrive against the trials of nature. The weeds and slugs the vices she must stamp out. A rabbit trespassed in Mistress’s greenery yesterday and partook of some cabbage. It met the iron end of her shovel. The stew was tasty.

The metal handle of the well’s pump is almost painfully cold, raising the hairs on my neck and provoking a shiver. It gives a shrill screech when I pull it down, as if in protest of the early hour. Three and twenty pulls is it until icy water spills from the tap. In winter it is difficult to get water at all.

At five o’clock precisely, the Braybrookes are seated at the dining table. There is no conversation, just the scrape of spoons against bowls and clinking of cups. The squeak of a bench being pushed back signals Master Braybrooke’s departure. He customarily eats quickly, disappearing downstairs into his workshop as soon as his bowl is emptied.

Kill-sin is next to leave. He and the other parish boys have lessons at the grammar school. Mistress and Faith move to the living room shortly after, for the women’s version of schooling. Faith is learning how to manage her own household. An essential art if one is to be a good helpmate to her husband. Would that my own life were as simple as the looking glass maker’s daughter.

We maids eat the remaining scrapings straight from the pot. It is less civil, but quicker. The pit in my stomach is filled more by weak ale than gruel. Cook brewed the ale last week, infusing it with chicory root and currants, lending the brew a rich nutty flavour.

I trudge upstairs. The stale smell of sleep lingers in the children’s bedchamber. I pull back the curtains and open the window, admitting the crisp London air. Then make my way cautiously to the bed. One never knows what surprises await in the night-time chamber pots. Particularly when my mistress or her daughter are flowering. In typical fashion, Kill-sin’s piss is not confined to the pot. There is no one to hear me sigh. Perhaps it is more difficult for the male sex to aim in the dark.

A stocky-limbed man, with a head as smooth as a chicken’s egg and a three-foot-long brown beard, pushes through the kitchen door at eight o’clock, bearing a basket laden with provisions from the Borough market.

‘Good morrow,’ he greets cheerfully.

‘Good morrow, Cook,’ Patience and I say together.

We gather around the kitchen table, watching as large hands with neatly trimmed nails unpack eel, carp, cheese, butter, corn, rhubarb, onion and parsnips.

‘Now,’ Cook’s bushy eyebrows rise, ‘this morning we are making eel pie, carp pottage, bread and a rhubarb tart.’ A plump, sausage-like finger points at Patience. ‘Miss Patience, if you would be so kind as to gather the ingredients for the doughs.’ He points to me. ‘Miss Repentance, to the garden for cabbage, spinach and thyme.’

I hurry from the kitchen, passing Mistress and her daughter in the living room, their sharp eyes follow me to the stairwell. Master Braybrooke’s apprentice Philip turns on his stool at the shop’s counter when I come down the stairs, and we nod to each other in greeting. Opening the back door, I discover it is raining. Wonderful.

Cook sets the risen round loaf of bread on the table. The warm yeasty aroma teases my nostrils, making my stomach grumble. That same scent emanates from Mr Ridgeway’s bakery several doors down every morning. An indiscretion some years ago between the baker and a maid, his present wife, has not been forgotten by our mistress. Consequently, we bake and eat only our own bread. Patience clandestinely bought a currant bun from the baker once. We shared it in our chambers after supper. The rich dough tasted deliciously illicit. For many days I worried that Mistress would discover our great crime. But she never did.

The pie, tart and bread sitting warm on the table, and the pottage simmering, Cook leaves for work at the Tabard nearby. Mistress has forbidden Cook from telling stories about the Tabard, condemning it as a lewd establishment rife with tosspots and harlots. The sounds of singing and merriment carry from the inn to the house at night. For people my mistress says are destined for damnation, they surely sound happy about it. Happier than most in this household.

…

While Patience has overseen my training in a maid’s lot, Mistress considers it her duty to educate me in the Lord’s teachings. An hour is set aside each afternoon for lessons.

During the day, my bible is kept under the bed. At night, on my pillow. Mistress says that we are vulnerable to evil spirits when in slumber, and to keep God’s word close. I am grateful for the protection of His scripture. I do wish, though, that I did not knock my head against the book’s hard cover quite so often in sleep.

Each lesson I am to read aloud twelve verses from my bible. Today Mistress chooses chapter four of Proverbs, line one through to twelve. Her eyes are on me as I read, watchful for any mistake. This alone was enough to make me stammer when I was younger. My pulse is elevated, and scrupulous attention is paid to every word, but I no longer stammer.

When finished reading, I write my reflections. It took many canings of my knuckles until I learned that a feather-light press of the nib on the page both conserves the ink and reduces blots. I am proud of the neatness of my hand. It is a privilege for a lass of my worth to be so well educated.

Two months past Mistress informed me that I had attained sufficient maturity to be put to service. A maturity that coincided with the cessation of the allowance from the churchwardens for my care. She has found a position for me in the household of a clockmaker by the name of Harte. The clockmaker resides on the northern side of the Thames, in St Mary le Bow. About one mile from Barms Street. Come Friday, I shall be leaving the only home I have known. Such knowledge has kept me lying awake at night, heart fluttering in my chest. There will be no Patience in the Harte household.

‘What is the Lord’s lesson for today?’ Mistress holds her hand out for my work.

‘That we must remember and apply his teachings to our life.’ She purses her lips and raises the quill, drawing a black line on the page. ‘…And the teachings of our elders as well.’

The corrected page is slid across the table. I misspelled Proverbs. Foolish. I put my palms gingerly down on the table, wincing at the stinging swat to the backs of both hands.

At the close of our lesson, Mistress gifts me a bundle of paper, to be used to write her monthly on my improvement, and a purse containing twelve shillings, one coin for each year that I have lived in her home. It is what remains of the church’s provisions for my upkeep.

‘Twelve is a good number,’ she says. Staring wide-eyed at the half years’ worth of a maid’s wages, I hasten to thank her, unable to resist rubbing my finger over the silver imprint of our king, like a miser admiring his hoard.

Patience is cleaning her face at the basin when I stumble into our room carrying mint sprigs from the garden. I use the washing water after her. Hair is unpinned and brushed, easing the ache in my forehead, and loose linen nightdresses donned. Then we chew the mint leaves to clean our mouths. The market’s tooth-drawer is regarded with well-deserved awe. Scarcely do those who pay for his services leave with their mouths intact, and without screaming.

Ensconced under a pile of woollen blankets, we press our sides together for warmth. The smell of extinguished candles lingers in the air. Slowly, the tension in my body melts away with the knowledge that the day’s chores are done. The rest of the household has retired already, leaving the house almost unnaturally quiet, save for its creaking from phantom causes.

‘I don’t want to leave,’ I say softly. ‘What if the clockmaker hits harder than Mistress?’ An arm curls reassuringly around my middle.

‘I wish I had some words of comfort to offer.’ Patience sounds regretful. ‘But, it is our lot in life to serve.’

‘Would you tell me about your first year of service?’

‘Every maid’s experience is different.’

‘Please,’ I beseech her. ‘I only wish to know how I might better prepare myself.’

‘Very well,’ she sighs. ‘Perhaps my story may serve as a lesson.’

Patience’s first master was a graybeard of the middling sort. Formerly an apothecary. His house smelled of herbs. Rosemary, sage and rue. The man’s oldest son, Richard Skeeter, had assumed his father’s trade, and would call on him to discuss the shop. He complimented Patience during his visits. Made fair promises about courting her, even gifting her tokens of his affection. Besotted, Patience let him despoil her on the floor of his shop. A month later she discovered herself with child. When she confided such news, he forced her to drink a potion containing ratsbane, threatening her life and livelihood if she did not. The potion made Patience grievously ill, but destroyed the child within her womb. Master Skeeter put her forth out the door shortly after.

I grasp her arm, the threat of tears stinging my eyes and throat.

‘My tale is intended as a warning, not to provoke pity,’ Patience says sternly. ‘I have accepted what happened to me a long time ago.’ But wet eyes belie her words. ‘Ridgeway the baker is an exception to how these things usually end. And that man had his wife executed so he could marry their maid. Do not make my mistake, Pentance.’ The arm around me tightens. ‘You have a bonny face, my sweet, men will seek you out. They will make you pretty promises and give you pretty trinkets. Do not let them ruin you.’

Patience has me promise to tell Mistress Harte of my training in cookery. The kitchen could be your sanctuary, as it is mine, she confides. A place to hide when visitors come calling. She counsels me to keep my face cast to the floor and endeavour to embody the ideal maid. One who completes their work unseen.

‘How does one know if a man is sincere in his courting?’ I'm leery of making the same mistake as my sister. Patience is quiet for a time.

‘If a man truly cares for you,’ she says haltingly, ‘then he should expect nothing, until you are ready to give it.’

‘Do you think one day you might give your heart to a man’s mercy again?’

‘Only God knows,’ she whispers. The arm around my middle retracts and she turns her back to me, signalling an end to conversation.

Sleep is slow to come. The worn cover of God’s word brushes against my cheek, protecting us from evil.

Thursday, 25 April 1613

On my last day at Barms Street, I find myself paying close attention to my surroundings. Wondering which parts I will miss. The steamy fragrance of the kitchen? The looking glasses? Such devices are kept indoors, seldom are they for common view.

Most of all, I will miss Patience. I already long for her familiar expressions and gestures. Like the way her nose crinkles when she finds something amusing but is trying not to laugh.

Cook and Patience allow me to make the pastry for the custard tarts today. Under their careful supervision. Freckled cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove, Patience tests my knowledge of the ingredients: flour, egg, salt, butter, water. Then Cook’s large, warm hands guide mine through the proper kneading technique. The tarts emerge from the oven perfectly formed. May it be a good omen for my future endeavours in cookery.

There is no lesson this afternoon. Instead, I am dispatched on an errand. Mistress commissioned a brooch for her daughter several weeks ago. One designed to draw attention to Faith’s newly fledged bosom. Word came this morning from the goldsmith, Master Sweetapple, that the brooch is ready for collection.

It’s a blustery day on the street. Mercifully, my bonnet is affixed tightly enough that its attempts to escape are quite hindered. Alas, naught can be done to dissuade the wind from winding up my petticoat and penetrating my thin woollen cloak.

Nine heads on pikes welcome me onto the bridge at the Great Stone Gate. I do not stop to read the broadsides nailed to the wall beneath them, detailing their various treasons. Mistress has had me attend executions before. I derived no pleasure from watching them. Not the desperate pleas for mercy of those about to be hanged, nor their bulging eyes when they were.