The Second Mrs Thistlewood by Dionne Haynes

Author:Dionne Haynes [Haynes, Dionne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-916210-94-3
Publisher: Allium Books

A feeble fire burns in the grate, dwindling from lack of attention. Arthur’s in his armchair, fingertips pressed together, head lowered. He lifts his head and glowers at me when I enter the room.

‘You’re home early.’

A small flame rises among the coals. It flickers and fades.

‘Isn’t it the saddest news?’

‘What is?’

‘Princess Charlotte.’

‘What of her?’

‘You haven’t heard? Her son was stillborn last night and then…’ I take a moment to suppress my grief. ‘Arthur, she died.’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Is it not heartbreaking?’

He snorts. ‘Worse things have happened.’

‘Like what?’ I struggle to control my exasperation.

He leans forward with menace in his eyes. ‘Susan, have you forgotten already? The death of an overindulged privileged woman has taken attention away from the plight of our people! While the wealthy hurry to outdo one another with expensive black silks, the poor go without food and watch their children die of hunger.’

‘I feel as if I’ve lost a friend.’

Arthur roars with laughter. ‘No member of the royal family would ever be friends with you, a commoner with nothing to offer except home-made preserves and biscuits. You need money to mix in those circles, and plenty of it.’

I keep my voice calm. ‘I was at her wedding, Arthur.’

‘Did she speak to you? Did she say, “Good evening, dearest Susan. What a pleasure to see you”? I wager she didn’t even glance at you. Did you attend the ceremony, or were you lurking in a service corridor?’

I recall the shimmering apparition that passed by as we sang like a choir of angels. Her gaze did not flick towards me because her eyes sought her husband-to-be beyond the door to the room where the marriage service was about to take place. I shake my head.

‘You were a nobody to her, Susan, like every other commoner. Anyhow, it leaves one less member of the family to grieve for the regent when he dies.’

‘What do you mean?’ I have images of our bereaved Prince Regent so stricken by grief that he has taken to his bed.

‘Peaceful protest didn’t put our country right so now we need drastic action. Hunt and his reformers have achieved nothing; therefore, I will lead an army against the Establishment. And don’t underestimate me because I’m a soldier and I will spill blood.’

The danger lurking within Arthur’s voice chills me more than ever before. I cannot bear to look at him, so I stand and withdraw from the room.

Perched on the edge of the bed, I’m defeated. Sad. Lost. There is one thing I know will lift my spirits. The time has come. I reach into my reticule and ease out Mr Westcott’s gift.

The paper tears easily and slides away from the book. The leather cover feels warm and comforting in my hand. I run my fingers over the gold embossed lettering on the spine, then rest the book on my lap. As I open the front cover, my heart quickens. A folded piece of paper sits pressed against the flyleaf with my name written across it in flamboyant script.

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