Part 5 (1/2)

The hardworking mother threw a shawl over her shoulders and ventured out into the December cold. With hair parted in the middle and pulled back in a severe bun, her high forehead and long face carried the imprint of family tragedy. Still, she looked much younger than her forty-five years. Her mahogany hair showed not a touch of grey, and her cheeks were covered with freckles. On this busy Sat.u.r.day, she planned to squeeze in an additional stop. Ludlow needed to finish the Skinners' shopping with all possible speed so that nothing would seem amiss.

The Bells of Chelmsford.

Ludlow's slim frame carefully maneuvered the mist as she made her way through London's yellowish haze. This infamous soup came from coal fires mixed with the stinging residue from paper mills, tanneries, and breweries. Everyone around her was coughing, and no matter how tightly she held her breath, she could not stop herself from hacking up the coal dust lodged in her throat. Water might have soothed her were it not for its brown tinge and rancid taste from overflowing privies and factory waste. Her mob cap, the small gathered muslin hat worn by servants, would not stay white for long. On the streets of London, anything light-colored turned shades of grey within minutes. At this time of year, the thick pollution caused such low visibility that lamps were lit inside homes during the day.

With barely an hour to complete her errands, Ludlow slipped through the fog. Visibility was often so poor that she could stretch her arms out and not see her fingertips.3 She kept close to the stone buildings and counted the gas lamps, making her way toward the butcher shop to purchase a mutton chop, sweetbreads, bacon, and beef. Despite an increased availability of fruits and vegetables, meat was the preferred food for most Victorians and filled several courses for the evening meal. She kept close to the stone buildings and counted the gas lamps, making her way toward the butcher shop to purchase a mutton chop, sweetbreads, bacon, and beef. Despite an increased availability of fruits and vegetables, meat was the preferred food for most Victorians and filled several courses for the evening meal.

Though she had no time off, save two or three hours on Sunday, errands allowed the dedicated mother to steal a few moments for herself. These past five years, she'd done little more than scrimp and save, trying to preserve a semblance of her former family life. After her husband, John, died, she'd worked in vain to hold on to their little cottage on Slades Lane in Chelmsford, just thirty-two miles northeast of London. Now it seemed a world away.

Ludlow and John had married twenty-five years before on May 14, 1813, at the All Saints Church in Maldon, a small town ten miles east of Chelmsford. Just twenty on her wedding day, the young bride walked through the church's arched stone entrance and stood beside her future husband. John's siblings had sprinkled the tiles with spring blossoms to ensure a happy union. Ribbons of gold, sapphire, purple, and deep green shone through the stained-gla.s.s window in the Friday morning light. As Ludlow and John joined hands under the ornately carved oak choir screen, five bells tolled from the church's seven-hundred-year-old unique triangular tower.

Rather than spending earnings on elaborate nuptials, the working cla.s.s put aside funds for proper funerals. A bride did not always wear white, choosing instead a Sunday frock in pastel pink or blue, crowned with a wreath of wildflowers. Grooms wore a frock coat of mulberry or claret, often borrowed, with a flower in the lapel. Following the ceremony, family members served the couple a breakfast of fruitcake covered in white frosting. After the celebratory repast, the groom usually went to work to avoid losing a day's pay.

There was a pressing reason the young couple had decided to marry. Four months later on September 22, John and Ludlow returned to the All Saints Church to baptize a son, John Bulley. Daughter Frances was born in 1816, followed by namesake baby Ludlow in 1818. The Tedders expanded their brood to four when they adopted their niece Eliza from John's sister, who had fallen on hard times. Life was about as stable as it could be for a working-cla.s.s family. They'd moved to Chelmsford, a prosperous market town, situated on two transport rivers, with well-stocked shops and busy taverns. Like Ludlow, John was literate and held a steady job as an ostler who groomed horses at an inn. His wife, born Ludlow Stammers on July 28, 1793, grew up in a working-cla.s.s family in Southminster, Ess.e.x. Her parents were ahead of their time and ensured that their daughter was literate. Ludlow, in turn, did her best to pa.s.s this skill on to each of her children.

After ten years of comfortable family life, tragedy struck the Tedder clan. At age seven, oldest daughter Frances fell ill. She likely suffered from measles or scarlet fever. The illness quickly overwhelmed the little girl, who pa.s.sed away on August 10, 1823. The grieving parents prepared to bury their daughter in the village plot. On a warm August Sunday, the bells in the All Saints Church tolled thirteen times for their beloved Frances. In rural communities, ”pa.s.sing bells” were rung for those close to death, six times for females and nine for men, with an additional peal for each year lived. The hollow sound of the death knell reverberated across the village green. As people started to count, the brevity of peals alerted the town that it had lost another child.4 During the first half of the nineteenth century, nearly half of Britain's children died before their tenth birthday. During the first half of the nineteenth century, nearly half of Britain's children died before their tenth birthday.

Nothing was more important than a proper church burial, even if it depleted a family's savings. As was tradition, their daughter's body was kept at home until it was time to bury her. The Tedders drew their curtains closed, and family members gathered around for an informal wake and prayer. A neighbor's wagon slowed to a stop by their front door, and the family tied white ”love ribbons” along its sides.5 John held Frances's coffin steady for the solemn ride to the cemetery. Frances would be laid to rest in an elm casket painted white. She wore a white dress and was covered in a white shroud. The family, too, dressed in white, including ten-year-old John Bulley, five-year-old Ludlow, and four-year-old Eliza. At the end of the service, the church bells tolled one last time for Frances, alerting the parish that she had been laid safely to rest. John held Frances's coffin steady for the solemn ride to the cemetery. Frances would be laid to rest in an elm casket painted white. She wore a white dress and was covered in a white shroud. The family, too, dressed in white, including ten-year-old John Bulley, five-year-old Ludlow, and four-year-old Eliza. At the end of the service, the church bells tolled one last time for Frances, alerting the parish that she had been laid safely to rest.

The day after the funeral, Ludlow, like so many grieving mothers, brought the tailor a light-colored dress to be dyed black. John wore a simple black armband. All but the dest.i.tute followed a prescribed period of mourning, one year for a child, two for a husband. Ludlow wore her black mourning dress every day well into 1824.

Six more years pa.s.sed as the Tedders raised eleven-year-old Eliza and their two biological children: John Bulley, now seventeen, and Ludlow, now twelve. In September 1830, they were all quite surprised when new life entered the cottage with the birth of Arabella. Sadly, the youngest Tedder barely had a chance to know her father. She had just turned three when John pa.s.sed away in November 1833. He was forty-two years old, about the average life expectancy for a man living in the country. Working-cla.s.s city dwellers generally died even younger, before turning forty, many felled by epidemics. John pa.s.sed away at a time when Chelmsford suffered a cholera outbreak, and that may well have killed him. Ludlow, a new widow and mother of four, buried her husband next to their departed daughter as the bells in the churchyard tolled a final farewell. They had been married for twenty years.

For the next two years, Arabella saw her mother dress only in black. Ludlow, like most widows, wore a bracelet she made from plaited strands of her husband's hair. Gradually the recovering widow began to don a light-colored bonnet or scarf until she felt comfortable enough to put on a dress of grey or purple. Living in the country, Ludlow was offered more support than those in the city, who had fallen upon hard times. Villagers often took up collections to help widows who needed time to find work and figure out how to survive on their own. The mother of four rejected the prospect of moving into a workhouse. There she would be separated from her children, and they, too, would be conscripted into hard labor. As for the future, widows rarely remarried because of a shortage of eligible men, most of whom died earlier than their female counterparts.

Widow Tedder continued to pay her rent with the help of her two oldest children. Later on, when John Bulley and daughter Ludlow approached their twenties and started their own families, the widow had no choice but to move. Like nearly half of Britain's population, she chose London, believing it offered the best prospects for steady work. Her ability to read job listings in a newspaper offered Ludlow a supreme advantage. Servants were hired by ads in the paper, through a servants' registry office, or by word of mouth.

Ludlow had worked as a cook before her marriage, and in March 1838 she arrived at 25 Keppel Street with references in hand. Although well beyond the average age for new staff, the widow was hired because she could write a grocery list and maintain household accounts. Barrister Skinner compensated her with room and board along with a small allowance, from which he deducted the cost of feeding Arabella. Ludlow might not be able to get ahead on her wages, but she could at least count on food and shelter for herself and her two youngest children.

Despite working seven days a week, Ludlow's pay was not enough to make ends meet. Even as an experienced cook, she earned only forty pence for every one hundred that a man took home, even though the work of female servants was often more physical. Like most cooks, Ludlow supplemented her earnings by selling leftover fat drippings. Tenement families spread it on bread or used it to flavor potatoes and provide extra calories for their children. Today she delivered a small tin to a stall vendor, who handed her a few pence in return. Still, Mrs. Tedder was caught short. Candles and soap, along with clothing and milk for Arabella, cost more than she earned.

Arabella needed leather shoes and a wool cap for the walk to school. She wore a pinafore to keep her one dress clean and a wool cloak that doubled as her blanket at night. Adherence to unwritten rules of modesty was expected from all cla.s.ses save the homeless. Young girls were required to cover their legs with pantalettes should a gust of wind lift the skirt that fell just below her knees. Arabella's were sewn from simple white linen, unlike the frilly silk versions worn by wealthy girls under dresses of velvet and lace.

Ludlow consistently practiced the eleventh commandment: Do whatever it takes to provide for your child. As her situation grew more desperate, she resorted to small dishonesties just to get by. Never had she expected to be a thief, and she convinced herself it was only temporary until she could get back on her feet. Like any mother, she had fears about her children's future, alongside dreams of advancing their station. For the present, such dreams were cast aside in favor of the barrister's needs.

Because there was no refrigeration in 1838, Mrs. Tedder shopped for fresh provisions every day of the week. Today was no different. The din of the marketplace rose ever louder as Ludlow distanced herself further from Keppel Street and entered the gritty world where most Londoners dwelled. She jostled her way through the hanging carca.s.ses of cattle, sheep, and pigs to make her purchases. Dogs barked and hawkers argued over the price of beef. Beggars pleaded for a copper halfpenny. Fishmonger carts rattled through the alley, clearing the path of pigeons, rats, and flies.

After selecting a mutton leg, beef filet, and larded sweetbreads for the Skinners, she purchased eggs, milk, and b.u.t.ter for the rice pudding she often served with dinner. In a few weeks, she'd be buying figs, almonds, and ribbon candy for the Skinners' holiday guests and preparing the goose and the brandy pudding. On this Sat.u.r.day, vendors hawked Christmas wares, especially the Advent candle wreaths families lit beginning the first Sunday in December. The wreaths were displayed on dining tables and illuminated with four candles, three purple and one pink, signifying the season's hope and glory.

For the thrifty Ludlow, a fresh tallow candle might do. Gifts were rarely exchanged among the poor unless handmade. Children like Arabella didn't expect a Christmas package and were delighted if they received a handknit scarf or a pair of gloves.

Even though it was only December 1, the p.a.w.nshops were already decorated with boughs of evergreen garland tied with red ribbon. Blurry images behind dingy gla.s.s displayed valuables from the rich, abandoned through bad luck or filched by the ragged. Silver boxes, gold watches, lace handkerchiefs, jeweled brooches, and silk scarves lay in loose disorder and out of place inside the musty storefront. Among the scattered finery lay treasures less grand, which had been given up by the laboring poor: a pair of children's boots, a plain wedding ring, a man's threadbare overcoat, a family Bible, and housewares of every sort. All matter of irretrievable ill fortune stocked the overfull shelves.

The economics of shop trade were painfully simple, as described in signs above the door: ”Money advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every description of property.”6 London's underground economy pulsed through the heavily trafficked p.a.w.nshops that marked the edge of a deep chasm between abundance and struggle. London's underground economy pulsed through the heavily trafficked p.a.w.nshops that marked the edge of a deep chasm between abundance and struggle.

Earlier that week, Ludlow had pocketed a few pence advanced for some spoons she'd left at John Wentworth's p.a.w.nshop. Over the past few months, she supplemented her income by occasionally slipping a piece of silverware into her dress pocket. The pet.i.te cook didn't expect to make much from the items she'd ”borrowed” from the house on this Sat.u.r.day morning. But it might be enough to cover family expenses, with perhaps a little left for a small bottle of gin for herself. Surely Barrister Skinner could do without a few spoons when there were so many he barely touched.

Mrs. Tedder was well familiar with the doorway marked by three hanging b.a.l.l.s. She popped in from the fog and headed straight to the counter. Mr. Wentworth barely looked up to see what misfortune had blown through his door. He'd seen it all and never asked questions. Stepping up to the dusty display case, the determined widow pulled a little bundle from under her cape and unwrapped two spoons and a bread basket. Mr. Wentworth leaned over the countertop and examined what was brought to him. After a bit of polite bargaining, in contrast to transactions typically more heated or pleading, they settled on payment of a few s.h.i.+llings. Mr. Wentworth made out numbered tickets and issued her ”duplicates,” as p.a.w.n slips were called. Lifting her chin in the air, Mrs. Tedder straightened her skirt, pivoted on her heels, and headed back toward Keppel Street.

Back in the smoky cellar kitchen, Ludlow set down her groceries and put the receipts in a gla.s.s storage jar, where they would stay dry for the weekly accounting. The position of cook offered tempting opportunities to skim a bit off household accounts. Tenuous loyalty offered ready justification for stealing from what was viewed as a master's cornucopia of riches. An article in Nineteenth Century Nineteenth Century described the perspective of those who lived below stairs: ”They are connected with the wealthier cla.s.ses princ.i.p.ally as ministering to their material well-being. . . . No people contemplate so frequently and so strikingly the unequal distribution of wealth: they fold up dresses whose price contains double the amount of their year's wages; they pour out at dinner wine whose cost would have kept a poor family for weeks.” described the perspective of those who lived below stairs: ”They are connected with the wealthier cla.s.ses princ.i.p.ally as ministering to their material well-being. . . . No people contemplate so frequently and so strikingly the unequal distribution of wealth: they fold up dresses whose price contains double the amount of their year's wages; they pour out at dinner wine whose cost would have kept a poor family for weeks.”7 For the present, Ludlow concentrated on carving gristle off the meats, peeling potatoes, and beating eggs for the boiled rice pudding. Pounding spices and stoning raisins were the next tasks awaiting her attention. Already eight hours on her feet, she was halfway through her s.h.i.+ft. Not a minute was left idle. She mended linens and scrubbed the sheets white while pots simmered on the coal-fired stove.

As the maid-of-all-work, daughter Eliza was charged with emptying Master Skinner's spittoon and polis.h.i.+ng his boots. Mixing turpentine and wax, she made her own polishes. After her mother served the meals, she plunged her arms into hot greasy water and scoured the pots and dishes piled high from lunch and dinner. Harsh was.h.i.+ng soda stung her hands and reddened them beyond their nineteen years. Arabella was tasked with wiping the dinnerware dry and stacking it neatly in the china closet.

In London, one-third of young women between fifteen and twenty worked in domestic service.8 Marriage offered the preferred route of escape from the bas.e.m.e.nt servant quarters. Officially excluded from social interaction, other than opening the door for the occasional delivery, Eliza faced scant opportunity to meet potential suitors. Servants were allowed no visitors and were rarely given a day off. If a young la.s.s somehow managed an admirer, she would have met him in secret, slipping out of the house as the others slept. Marriage offered the preferred route of escape from the bas.e.m.e.nt servant quarters. Officially excluded from social interaction, other than opening the door for the occasional delivery, Eliza faced scant opportunity to meet potential suitors. Servants were allowed no visitors and were rarely given a day off. If a young la.s.s somehow managed an admirer, she would have met him in secret, slipping out of the house as the others slept.

In her magazine article ”On the Side of the Maids,” Eliza Lynn Linton describes the lonely frustration girls like Eliza Tedder experienced: ”No friends in the kitchen, no laughing to be heard above stairs, no romping for young girls to whom romping is an instinct all the same as with lambs and kittens . . . moping in the dreary kitchen on the afternoon of her Sunday in. All grinding work claustral monotony, with the world seen only through the gratings of the area window as the holiday folks flock to and fro . . .”9 The end of the day was finally nearing for the downstairs staff. On her hands and knees, an exhausted Eliza scoured the sticky mix of grease and soot stuck to the kitchen floor. When the upstairs hall clock chimed eleven, mother and daughter bedded down next to the scullery sink, where Arabella lay fast asleep. Ludlow recounted the coins received from Mr. Wentworth and tucked them into a small pouch pinned to the inside of her bodice.

The Case of the Missing Plate.

After his three-course dinner Sat.u.r.day evening, Master Skinner walked to the sideboard and poured himself a gla.s.s of port. Perhaps he was suspicious of his staff, because it was not uncommon for servants to pilfer from their employers. For whatever reason, this was the night he noticed forks and spoons missing from his silver drawer. In the household hierarchy, the maid-of-all-work was responsible for care of utensils and plates. Early Sunday morning, the agitated Barrister rang for Eliza and asked the whereabouts of the missing silverware. At this time, the nineteen-year-old may not have known her mother was the culprit.

Eliza must have felt desperate. She knew that a conviction for theft meant gaol at best and more probably transport to the other side of the world. When pressed by the barrister, she didn't even try to cover for the mother who had adopted her and who had unintentionally put her in great peril. Perhaps she felt frustration over her lot in life and miserable job, or anger with her mother for drawing her into this entanglement. Given her daunting workload, she might have lost hold of reason and simply lashed out at a supervisor who was also her parent. Whatever Eliza's motivation for informing on her mother, a furious Fitzowen Skinner confronted his cook. Ludlow immediately confessed her transgression, handed him the duplicates, and offered to retrieve the p.a.w.ned cutlery from Mr. Wentworth first thing Monday morning. The barrister's response was clear as he uttered the words, ”Justice must take its course.”10 A sense of dread permeated the remainder of the Sabbath. A sense of dread permeated the remainder of the Sabbath.

When she found free moments, Ludlow had scanned the barrister's discarded newspapers that lay scattered across the upstairs parlor. The Times Times and the and the Morning Herald Morning Herald posted accounts about women convicted of stealing household items who were punished with transport to Van Diemen's Land. The worried mother knew it wasn't just her own future at stake. She shuddered at the thought of Arabella in a London orphanage. Who would care for her? But staying together meant gaol for her little girl, or possibly transport. Could they even survive the sea voyage? posted accounts about women convicted of stealing household items who were punished with transport to Van Diemen's Land. The worried mother knew it wasn't just her own future at stake. She shuddered at the thought of Arabella in a London orphanage. Who would care for her? But staying together meant gaol for her little girl, or possibly transport. Could they even survive the sea voyage?

Ludlow had lost her gamble, and she couldn't blame Eliza. At least the poor girl was old enough to be on her own. Sometime during the morning of Monday, December 3, 1838, a distraught Ludlow crept out of the maid's quarters at 25 Keppel Street, fearing an imminent arrest. With Arabella in tow, she hustled through the gardens in fas.h.i.+onable Russell Square. With Christmas barely three weeks away, Bloomsbury town houses were adorned with spruce boughs draped above the doorway and around the railings. Pine cone wreaths, decorated with scarlet holly berries and dried fruit, hung from ribbons on the front doors.

Holiday merriment was the last thing on Ludlow's mind. On the run with her eight-year-old, she lacked the street skills Agnes and Janet had relied on for food and shelter those many nights in Glasgow. With little money in her possession, choices were few. Perhaps they stayed with friends or relatives, moving from place to place every night or two so as not to get caught. Mother and daughter couldn't stay in one location very long because harboring a fugitive might endanger those who, out of kindness, had provided a temporary safe haven.

For nine days, the pair somehow managed to remain in hiding and elude arrest by London's bobbies. The widow from the country had lived in the city only nine months and rarely navigated London's seamy street circus. Options for a bed for the night quickly wore thin. As what little money she had started to run out, Ludlow pondered the prospect of begging on the street in the midst of one of the coldest winters on record.

She was probably searching for a boardinghouse when a bobby wearing an oilskin cape grabbed her by the arm. On Tuesday, December 11, 1838, he delivered the still neatly dressed servant for processing at the Bow Street station house. This was the first stop for prisoners who would be tried in London's Central Criminal Court, also known as the Old Bailey, for the street on which it is located. Mrs. Tedder was ordered to appear before Judge Baron Parke the week before Christmas. There would be no cooking of the holiday goose this year. For the next six days, she awaited trial in a Newgate holding cell with Arabella as well as dozens of women accused of various crimes.

The following Monday, the seventeenth of December, police officer Richard Lesley ushered mother and child into a packed Central Criminal Court. The wind whistled across the courtroom. Although it was the middle of winter, the windows were wide open because officials feared catching diseases from the prisoners. As the accused approached the bench, jurisprudence seldom smelled sweet. ”Juries, counsel and judges chewed on garlic, citrus peel, cardamom and caraway to prevent infection from the prisoners' breath.”11 Property owners, all men, formed the grand jury that would decide Ludlow's fate. After swearing them in, Judge Parke rambled on about the common law of England, liberty, and morality under the reign of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. It was the kind of public spectacle that appealed to sordid sensibilities. The court's galleries were filled with the curious, who paid a small fee to catch a view of the upper-crust jury, but ”what they were really waiting for was the thrill of seeing felons in irons stumble up from the gaol and tell their stories.”12 It was all a rather tedious affair until the accused entered the front of the courtroom to stand behind the bar of a raised platform known as ”the dock.” Once the court officer motioned the gallery into silence, the sound of light footsteps resonated through the drafty hall. Unless a female spectator attended the session, Ludlow would have been the only woman in the room. It was all a rather tedious affair until the accused entered the front of the courtroom to stand behind the bar of a raised platform known as ”the dock.” Once the court officer motioned the gallery into silence, the sound of light footsteps resonated through the drafty hall. Unless a female spectator attended the session, Ludlow would have been the only woman in the room.

The accused stood alone under a sounding board used to amplify her voice from the prisoner's dock.13 Herbs lay strewn across the ledge before her as a means of disinfecting whatever the prisoners touched. There were no public defenders, so only the affluent were guaranteed legal counsel. Herbs lay strewn across the ledge before her as a means of disinfecting whatever the prisoners touched. There were no public defenders, so only the affluent were guaranteed legal counsel.

Mrs. Tedder stepped forward to raise her manacled hand before the clerk, who asked: ”How will you be tried?” She replied as she'd been told at the police station: ”By G.o.d and by my country.”14 As was tradition, a visibly bored Judge Baron Parke inquired, ”Have you any witnesses that will speak to your character?” The only answer that might have conveyed a lighter sentence was: ”Yes, sir, I have a letter from my vicar speaking to my good character.” Without that, there was no hope for her acquittal. Ludlow was doomed. As was tradition, a visibly bored Judge Baron Parke inquired, ”Have you any witnesses that will speak to your character?” The only answer that might have conveyed a lighter sentence was: ”Yes, sir, I have a letter from my vicar speaking to my good character.” Without that, there was no hope for her acquittal. Ludlow was doomed.

The prisoner stood directly before her accuser. Barrister Skinner was the first to rise from the witness box. With well-practiced intonation and outrage, the professional member of the bar testified: ”The prisoner was in my service as cook since March last. I missed fourteen forks and eleven silver spoons, on Sat.u.r.day night, the 1st of December, after the prisoner and her daughter were gone to bed. Her daughter had the charge of the plate, but she had access to it. On the Sunday night her daughter came to me, and said her mother would drive her mad. I went down into the kitchen, and asked the prisoner what was the matter. She [Ludlow] said it was about the plate that was missing. I asked her where it was. She said she had p.a.w.ned it, but she would get it back on Monday morning. I had said nothing to induce her to confess.”15 When p.a.w.nbroker Wentworth took the stand, Ludlow knew she was done for. His testimony was short and d.a.m.ning: ”I have a bread basket, p.a.w.ned on the first of December by the prisoner. This is the duplicate I gave for it. I have also eleven spoons, p.a.w.ned by her at different times.”16 As Christmas approached, judges were sometimes inspired by the season of giving and imposed lighter sentences. The majority administered ”justice” with casual indifference and were not held to consistency in punishment guidelines. Ludlow's luck had run out. Judge Parke was not inclined to be merciful. Neither was the jury. The Crown demanded efficiency, so trials were conducted at lightning speed. Most sentences were preordained. On average, it took eight and a half minutes to go from accused to condemned.17 Once the evidence was presented, the all-male jury didn't even bother to leave the courtroom. They huddled together and went through the motions of conferring from their box. In truth, many jurors cared very little about the law and simply followed the foreman's judgment. Some read newspapers during the proceedings, while others dozed politely, with their chins resting on stiffened s.h.i.+rt collars. Once the evidence was presented, the all-male jury didn't even bother to leave the courtroom. They huddled together and went through the motions of conferring from their box. In truth, many jurors cared very little about the law and simply followed the foreman's judgment. Some read newspapers during the proceedings, while others dozed politely, with their chins resting on stiffened s.h.i.+rt collars.