Free The Crimson Ribbon by Katherine Clements

eye.
    I make as if to sweep the flags around the skirt.
    ‘A word of advice,’ Charlotte says. ‘Never let the master catch you in here, not with your hands all over the goods. Anyway, let it alone now. You’re to come to chapel.’
    I expect a visit to one of the local churches but instead Lizzie leads Margaret, Charlotte and me to a house in Devonshire Square, near Bishopsgate. Master Poole stays at home. Lizzie explains, as we pick our way through the quiet early-morning streets, that the distance is too great for him. She chooses to travel for she has found a special place among God’s chosen people. Her eyes shine as she speaks and her hands hover in the air like turtledoves.
    Our place of worship is a simple room. The parlour of a London leather merchant, fashioned as a chapel, it is large enough to hold two score bodies. Wooden benches are lined up like pews and a table at one end of the room serves as a makeshift lectern. There is no altar, no candle, no cross. The walls are whitewashed and unadorned. Two small windows let in a shifting, gloomy light. There is no fire in the grate and the room smells damp. For people who choose not to worship in church, they have created a fine impression of one.
    Twenty or so souls are already gathered and each one seems to take note of our entrance. Men doff their hats. Women fall silent and stare. Lizzie glides through them all as though she is a duchess, and we her ladies-in-waiting.
    Until now I thought that only I recognised Lizzie’s special goodness. But I see I am not alone. The men look upon her with admiration. In the eyes of the women, I see something deeper and more complicated. They are reverent but uneasy. I wonder how many of them feel as I do and am surprised by a stab of jealousy at the thought.
    There are eyes on me too. Eyes full of questions. A small boy tugs at his mother’s skirts, pointing and asking, ‘Who is she?’
    Reaching the front of the room, Lizzie greets a tall man with soulful brown eyes and soft chestnut curls falling to his collar. He enfolds her hands in his own and inclines his head.
    ‘Mistress Poole. We are glad to have you with us, as always.’ His voice is deep and full-toned. He pronounces each word with precision, as though he is an actor upon the stage, and wants all his audience to hear.
    ‘Pastor Kiffin.’ Lizzie glows in his presence. ‘You are well, I hope?’
    ‘Well enough.’
    ‘And Hanna? Is she not with us this morning?’
    ‘Unfortunately my wife has taken to her bed.’
    ‘Oh. I hope it is nothing serious.’
    ‘Serious enough to keep her from worship.’
    ‘Is anything to be done?’
    ‘The physician says she must rest. That is all. She will be well again soon.’
    ‘And the child?’
    Kiffin cast his eyes down. ‘Gone.’
    ‘I am sorry to hear it.’
    They stand, wordless, for a few moments, hands clasped together, heads bowed, as if in silent, private prayer.
    ‘But here is some good news to cheer you,’ Lizzie says, breaking the spell. ‘We have an addition to our group this morning. Ruth, come forward.’ She slips her hands away from his and unfurls a palm towards me. ‘This is Ruth Flowers, my new maid. Ruth, Master Kiffin is our pastor here. You will not find a finer preacher in all of London.’
    Kiffin waves away her praise as though he is batting at a fly. He moves a few steps towards me and takes my hands in his, just as he had Lizzie’s moments earlier. ‘Welcome, Ruth.’ His eyes search mine until I have to look away for fear of what he might find.
    ‘Mistress Poole has a habit of bringing lost souls to me. I think perhaps you are another.’
    I long to pull my hands away but his grasp is insistent. His palms are warm and slightly sticky, despite the chill of the place.
    ‘Where did you worship before?’ he asks. ‘Which church?’
    ‘I’m not from London,’ I say.
    ‘Ah! A stranger. I thought so. You have done well to find a place with Mistress Poole.’
    ‘Yes, sir. I am