At the Sign of the Sugared Plum by Mary Hooper Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Hooper
confirmation, for I was rooted to the spot and felt unable to leave until I knew the worst. He looked at me and shrugged. ‘’Tis another,’ was all he said.
A woman walking by us on the other side of the road crossed herself and hurried away. As several others gathered outside a shop and spoke together, looking with frightened eyes towards the house, I began to back away, going home the way I’d arrived, getting out of St Giles with all haste. Before I’d got very far, I heard the bells of the parish church, tolling mournfully to tell of that latest death.
Chapter Five
The first week of July
‘Asking how the Plague goes, the Parish Clerk tells me that it increases much, and much in our Parish . . .’
Sarah, being pleased with the way I was working, gave me permission to take an excursion with Abby, and the following day we met at midday as planned.
‘Well, the plague cannot be that far advanced,’ said Abby as we walked through the vast stone pillars into the Royal Exchange, ‘for the king and his courtiers are still in London. They would surely have left if there was any chance of the pestilence coming near to his royal person.’
I shrugged, not knowing the answer to this.
Abby lowered her voice. ‘Although I’ve heard that the royal person is not that fussy about who he does get near. The likes of actresses and whores . . .’ Here she paused and we looked at each other gleefully. ‘. . . have had bastard children by him.’
‘Have they really?’ I said, and I would have asked more except that I was entranced and amazed anddistracted on all sides by the scene before me.
The Royal Exchange was a great blackened stone building, open in the centre, with a gallery around each of its two floors. Small, alluring, candlelit shops lined these galleries, each with its own bright metal sign hanging over its doorway proclaiming its wares. Groups of young men gathered in the centre court, looking intently at the women who passed – who, in turn, affected not to see them at all. Occasionally, I heard a long low whistle or a comment of, ‘By gad!’ or ‘Look at that filly!’
I tried to memorise what people were wearing to tell Sarah later, for it seemed to me that each group was more dazzling and brilliantly dressed than the one before. The men were mostly in velvet breeches in rich colours, gartered in gold at the knee, with handsome thigh-length black coats which bore silver-and-gold embroidered cuffs. Some carried swords or three-cornered hats with vast plumes, and some had short periwigs. The very finest wore elaborate curling wigs and their faces were powdered and patched almost as carefully as those of the women.
The women themselves were like birds of paradise in summer gowns made of lace, spangled satin, muslin or watered moiré in all colours of the rainbow: jade green, palest ivory, rich plum, lavender and dusky pink. Most of them had tumbling blonde hair (all false, Abby said in a whisper) and their whitened skin contrasted greatly with their dark eyebrows and sweeping lashes. Their bodices were low – so low, in fact, that it was a wonder that their voluptuous bosoms did not spill out of their gowns – and most carried elaborate, feather-loaded fans. Those who didnot affect to hide behind their fans were wearing vizards or masks, held up to their faces on sticks.
It was difficult not to gawp, and in the end Abby had to tug my arm to make me move. ‘Do come on, Hannah,’ she hissed. ‘You’re staring about you like a country bridegroom at a whorehouse.’
‘Sorry,’ I murmured, for my sights had just been engaged by a woman wearing a striking bright fuschia-pink dress with pearl-grey under-skirt and the largest, most ludicrous headdress of flowers and dressed hair I had ever seen. She was an old woman, at least sixty, and her face and upper body were painted waxy-white and covered in black, spangled patches. Her lips were blood red and her eyebrows painted on in large semi-hoops,
A woman walking by us on the other side of the road crossed herself and hurried away. As several others gathered outside a shop and spoke together, looking with frightened eyes towards the house, I began to back away, going home the way I’d arrived, getting out of St Giles with all haste. Before I’d got very far, I heard the bells of the parish church, tolling mournfully to tell of that latest death.
Chapter Five
The first week of July
‘Asking how the Plague goes, the Parish Clerk tells me that it increases much, and much in our Parish . . .’
Sarah, being pleased with the way I was working, gave me permission to take an excursion with Abby, and the following day we met at midday as planned.
‘Well, the plague cannot be that far advanced,’ said Abby as we walked through the vast stone pillars into the Royal Exchange, ‘for the king and his courtiers are still in London. They would surely have left if there was any chance of the pestilence coming near to his royal person.’
I shrugged, not knowing the answer to this.
Abby lowered her voice. ‘Although I’ve heard that the royal person is not that fussy about who he does get near. The likes of actresses and whores . . .’ Here she paused and we looked at each other gleefully. ‘. . . have had bastard children by him.’
‘Have they really?’ I said, and I would have asked more except that I was entranced and amazed anddistracted on all sides by the scene before me.
The Royal Exchange was a great blackened stone building, open in the centre, with a gallery around each of its two floors. Small, alluring, candlelit shops lined these galleries, each with its own bright metal sign hanging over its doorway proclaiming its wares. Groups of young men gathered in the centre court, looking intently at the women who passed – who, in turn, affected not to see them at all. Occasionally, I heard a long low whistle or a comment of, ‘By gad!’ or ‘Look at that filly!’
I tried to memorise what people were wearing to tell Sarah later, for it seemed to me that each group was more dazzling and brilliantly dressed than the one before. The men were mostly in velvet breeches in rich colours, gartered in gold at the knee, with handsome thigh-length black coats which bore silver-and-gold embroidered cuffs. Some carried swords or three-cornered hats with vast plumes, and some had short periwigs. The very finest wore elaborate curling wigs and their faces were powdered and patched almost as carefully as those of the women.
The women themselves were like birds of paradise in summer gowns made of lace, spangled satin, muslin or watered moiré in all colours of the rainbow: jade green, palest ivory, rich plum, lavender and dusky pink. Most of them had tumbling blonde hair (all false, Abby said in a whisper) and their whitened skin contrasted greatly with their dark eyebrows and sweeping lashes. Their bodices were low – so low, in fact, that it was a wonder that their voluptuous bosoms did not spill out of their gowns – and most carried elaborate, feather-loaded fans. Those who didnot affect to hide behind their fans were wearing vizards or masks, held up to their faces on sticks.
It was difficult not to gawp, and in the end Abby had to tug my arm to make me move. ‘Do come on, Hannah,’ she hissed. ‘You’re staring about you like a country bridegroom at a whorehouse.’
‘Sorry,’ I murmured, for my sights had just been engaged by a woman wearing a striking bright fuschia-pink dress with pearl-grey under-skirt and the largest, most ludicrous headdress of flowers and dressed hair I had ever seen. She was an old woman, at least sixty, and her face and upper body were painted waxy-white and covered in black, spangled patches. Her lips were blood red and her eyebrows painted on in large semi-hoops,