Remember Me - Lesley Pearse [172]
‘I will leave you to settle in now under Mrs Wilkes’s tender care,’ Boswell said, and took hold of Mary’s hand to pat it. ‘You need another woman now, and some rest and quiet. I shall return at six-thirty to take you out to supper.’
A couple of hours later Mary lay on her bed, too thrilled to sleep even though she was tired.
She had two rooms at the top of the house. The one overlooking the street was a living room, with a table and chairs and two wooden armchairs, one of which rocked.
Her bedroom at the back contained an iron bed, a closet for clothes and a washstand. Compared with what she’d seen downstairs, the rooms were simply furnished, with similar items to those she remembered from home in Fowey. But after so many years of hardship and terrible discomfort it was like a palace, and almost everything she looked at made her want to cry.
She had gladly lugged up the pails of hot water, laughed aloud as she stripped off her clothes and climbed into the tin bath. She couldn’t remember when she last had hot water to wash with, let alone submerge herself in. Nor could she remember when she last had a door she could shut others out with. As she scrubbed off the prison smell from her skin and hair, she felt reborn.
Mrs Wilkes was comfortingly blunt, once they were alone.
‘I think it’s best I burn all your clothes,’ she said. ‘Mr Boswell brought some things round for you last night, his daughter’s I think. And in a day or two we’ll go out and buy others. You’ll find everything you need in the closet. But you make sure you wash that hair properly.’
Afternoon sunshine streamed in through the bedroom window, and as Mary sat up on the bed to look at her reflection in the looking-glass above the washstand, she was astounded to see that her hair shone the way it had when she was a girl. Mrs Wilkes had brought her up some fresh water with a little vinegar in it, as a rinse. She claimed it would make her hair shine, though Mary suspected it was really to kill off any remaining lice. But whatever the reason, it had performed a miracle, and her hair had never felt so soft or looked so pretty.
It would have been good to have found her face prettier than she imagined, but sadly that wasn’t so. Her complexion was grey and coarse, there were lines around her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow. But Mrs Wilkes had made her swallow a huge spoonful of malt, and she insisted that with fresh air, good food and plenty of sleep, in a week or two Mary wouldn’t know herself.
Yet happiness was already bringing a little colour to her cheeks, she thought. She’d had to enlist Mrs Wilkes’s help not only to lace up the stays, but to take her advice in which order she had to put on all the undergarments. The dainty soft chemise which smelled of lavender and reached to her knees went on first, the low neckline drawn up over her breasts with a ribbon. Then came the petticoat trimmed with lace, and a skirt of blue cotton before the stays. Mrs Wilkes had to show her how the front pointed part of the stays went over the skirt, with small tabs fixed inside the waist. Finally the blue and white dress which had panniers over her hips went on almost like a coat, leaving the stays, chemise and much of her small breasts on view.
‘That’s the fashion in London, my dear,’ Mrs Wilkes assured her when she saw Mary’s bewildered and anxious expression. ‘At least they’ve done away with those ridiculous hooped skirts I had to wear when I was your age. Now, let me help you with your hair, you can’t wear it all wild like a gypsy.’
Mary put her hand on the bedcover and smiled with delight. It was a simple woven material the colour of oatmeal, but to her it could have been silk. Would