The Tiger Catcher

by Paullina Simons

  Next to nothing is what. “Clerk’s Well” used to be known for making watches. The best timekeepers came from Clerkenwell.

  Now that he knows he’s in Clerkenwell, Julian wonders if the River Fleet brought him here. Before the Fleet became a ditch and sewer, it was called the River of Wells, and the wells supposedly had healing properties. He’s read this on a plaque, so it must be true. Maybe that’s why his calf healed so fast, it wasn’t Styx, it was the River of Wells.

  Uncertainly Julian starts down the long lane lined with overhanging oaks. The countryside is barely populated, the weather lukewarm, the sun in a haze. At the end of the road, the graystone, two-storied gable-roofed manor stands amid sprawling but unkempt grounds. As he nears the house, Julian overhears two female voices arguing behind a row of hawthorn hedges and beech trees. He slows down to listen. One voice is breathy, angry, whiny, grating, unmodulated. The other is maternal and cajoling.

  “Now, pear . . .”

  “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!”

  “Now, darling, that is not a nice thing to shout. Where are your manners?”

  “I’ve been nice my whole life and where has it got me?”

  “Plummy, you’re jeopardizing everything we’ve worked for. After your fit of hysteria last week, Lady Falk has expressed grave doubts that you are a suitable match for her son.”

  “I am a terrible match for her son, Lady Mother! I can’t stand him!”

  “As always, you’re being overly dramatic. You’re not up on a stage. Stop acting. You and Lord Falk are old friends. You’ve known him since you were children.”

  “And have hated him since then. He is cruel and stupid. I do not desire to be anyone’s wife, especially Lord Falk’s. I’m going to join the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, and I don’t care what you have to say about it. I’m going to get another part in one of Will Shakespeare’s plays.”

  “Never, pear! Only beggars and thieves become actors.”

  “Mother, you’re hopelessly old-fashioned. This is not the fifteenth century anymore. And soon we shall have a new King! Who, I hear, loves the theatre. The Globe is having a renaissance.”

  “Oh yes,” the older woman dryly replies. “A renaissance right next to the bear pits and the brothels.”

  “There are brothels everywhere, Lady Mother,” the younger voice says. “Many are down the road from us on Turnbull Street. I pass them when I go for a stroll with Beatrice.”

  “You must never walk down there, blossom. That street is not for you. Neither is the theatre.”

  “To perform on the stage is the only desire of my life,” the younger voice cries.

  “Ladies don’t perform on stage—or have desires. Also, your Shakespeare is a hack.”

  “He wrote for the Queen! The Queen herself sat on his stage and watched Romeo and Juliet performed in front of her.”

  “Be that as it may, you cannot be on stage like a strumpet.”

  “Why ever not? The Queen was!”

  “Are you the Queen, my darling?”

  The girl emits a groan of outrage.

  “You can never be on that stage if you are to marry Lord Falk. He is a knight.”

  “Oh, bollocks to that, he most certainly is not a knight. A nightmare, maybe.”

  “What’s gotten into you? Don’t be salty. You know his father was a—”

  “Mother, Lord Falk has never in his life picked up a sword except to hand it to his lord father.”

  “Cornelius! I can’t bear this anymore, come here. Cornelius, can you hear me?”

  Julian hears shuffling across the grass and a reedy tired voice. “Of course I can hear you and Lady Mary, madam. The dead can hear you.”

  “Fetch me my fan and my salts, it’s too warm, and for some reason I’m starting to feel poorly.”

  “Very well, madam,” the man says. Julian crouches behind the hedge, trying to pry open the thick gnarly branches so he can peek at the women. The younger voice has a timbre to it that has weakened his legs. It must be his imagination.

  “Have you calmed down, pear?”

  “Yes, Mother. Very calmly, I will not marry Lord Falk. I will sell my body on Turnbull Street first.”

  The mother gasps.

  The girl’s strident voice forges on. “Forget selling. I will give my body away to all men, including Lord Falk’s swine herder, if it will stop that wretched man from marrying me. I will give it away to the first man who walks down our road. That is how serious I am. Oh, come now, Mother—don’t faint. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

  “Darling . . .” The mother’s voice trembles. “You must be married before we have a new King. You know about our dire financial situation. Otherwise, the coronation tithe will impoverish our family.”

  “There will be no wedding. There are methods to stop it, you know.”

  “O the Word of the Lord! What methods?”

  “There’s Falk’s death. And if that doesn’t work, there is always mine.”

  “Cornelius!” the mother cries. “Salts—please! Now, my precious darling, you listen to me. At eighteen, you are almost past marrying. I had three children by the time I was your age. And you see what happened to your friend Beatrice. She used to be such a catch. But now she is twenty, and no man wants her as his wife. You’re nearly past your prime child-bearing years yourself.” For some reason, there’s a dense silence between the two women before the mother hurriedly continues. How Julian wishes he could see. “Lord Falk demands and requires a male heir.” The mother lowers her voice to an anxious hiss. “You know very well what can—and does—happen to ladies of the court who can’t produce a male heir. What will you do if you’re now too old to bear him children? You’d best get started, my love. There is no time to waste—”

  Someone kicks Julian in the ribs. He loses his balance and falls over.

  A tall, thin, gray-haired man stands over him like Lurch from The Munsters. “Who are you, good sir? Announce yourself!” The man has a tough face, a strong frown.

  Scrambling to his feet, Julian stammers. He has not prepared an answer to that most simple of questions. Who is he, indeed?

  “Are you a vagrant?” The man looks over Julian’s black attire. “An alien? Are you from the Low Countries?”

  Julian shakes his head.

  “The government allows mad beggars to wander around,” the tall man says, “but not able-bodied men. Which are you?”

  The formulation stymies Julian. “With all respect,” he says, “I’m an able-bodied man, but I’m not wandering around. I heard you had a position . . .”

  “You’ve come for the gardener job? Why didn’t you say so?” Lurch motions Julian to follow him. “I saw you examining our hedges. Have the thrip mites destroyed them?”

  “Uh—spraying the bushes with water should knock off the mites,” Julian says, lagging behind the tall man, unprepared to face the women.

  The man leads him through an opening in the privet hedge. On a wood bench near an untrimmed and sickly looking yellow hazel two ladies sit, a mother and a daughter.

  The gray-haired mother, in mourning attire, looks like a once attractive woman grown old before her time. On her head is a black hat like an elaborate beekeeping hood. Under the sheer black veil of this contraption, her white-painted face staring at her child is both exasperated and adoring.

  The daughter is in mid-pause, peeved at her tantrum being cut short. She wears a long, embroidered silk gown with a white lace collar starchily fanned out like a plate at her chin. Her face is painted white. Her dark hair is curled, swept up and half-covered by three hats: a bonnet and over it another bonnet and over it a hood. Feathers, pearls, and colorful beaded stones adorn the hair and the hats. Her red lips quiver and her dark eyes—a moment ago trained on her mother and glistening as if she was about to cry from her frustration—now turn on Lurch and Julian.

  “Pardon me for interrupting, Lady Mary,” Lurch says sonorously. “But your lady mother must know: a man has come for th
e gardening position.”

  “A man, Lady Mother!” the girl exclaims. “A man has just walked up the road to our house!”

  “Shh, plummy!”

  Julian looks around for something to hold on to. He’s afraid he won’t be able to remain standing.

  It’s impossible.

  It can’t be.

  But it is.

  It’s her.

  Devi was right. Julian would recognize her anywhere. In disbelief, he stares into her face. Unconsciously, his hand stretches out to her. She is a mirage borne of grief. He has lived too long haunted by the ghost of her snuffed out life.

  “Good God, sir,” Lurch says, “are you . . . weeping?”

  Tears run down his face. Julian swipes at his cheek. “A speck in my eye, that’s all.” He looks away, stares at his feet, at the mother’s face, at Lurch’s suspicious glare, at anything but her. It can’t be true.

  Can it?

  “I didn’t catch your name, sire,” the older woman says, rising from the bench.

  “Julian Cruz, madam.” He must sound almost normal to them, for they do not react to his accent.

  “What an odd name,” the tall man says.

  “Don’t worry, Cornelius, he’s not an alien, he’s a foreigner!” The mother visibly relaxes. “Listen to his English. He must be from Wales. They speak most peculiar over there. I am Lady Aurora Collins, sire, and this is Master Cornelius Grysley, our steward. And here is my daughter, Lady Mary.”

  Did the mother say the steward’s name was Grizzly? That’s almost better than Lurch. Without lifting his head, Julian gives a sideways bow in the women’s general direction. He wishes he had a hat to take off or knew how to kiss a lady’s hand. They didn’t teach you that in Simi Valley. “I’m from the unknown forest,” he says, mentioning the only place in Wales he’s vaguely heard of. He can only imagine what his black Gortex jacket, cargo pants, and waterproof Uggs must look like. He doesn’t dare meet the girl’s eye.

  “Where’s your hat, sir?” the mother asks.

  Before Julian can answer, Grizzly cuts in. “I don’t know about Wales, but in London, it’s against the law for men over the age of six to be seen in public without a hat, even on Sundays, unless you’re a nobleman. Is today Sunday, sire, or are you under the age of six? You are most certainly not a nobleman.”

  Julian doesn’t know if today is a Sunday.

  “He’s a gardener, Cornelius,” says the mother, as if that explains anything. “But if you are a gardener, sire, where are your gardener’s clothes? They usually wear skirts, low shoes and trunkhose. And hats.”

  “I’m a man of many trades, madam, not just gardening,” Julian says, his voice unsteady. “I lost my hat over yonder.”

  Animated, the mother stands up. “A man of many trades? What luck, Cornelius! Just what we need. My daughter is getting married—”

  “No, she most certainly is not,” the daughter cuts in.

  “Pay no attention to Lady Mary, sire,” Aurora says. “She is getting married, and we’re in dire need of help with urgent household tasks in preparation for her wedding day.”

  “Let this poor man be on his way, Mother,” Lady Mary says. “You’re wasting his time. Unless you’d like to employ him for that other thing you and I were discussing—”

  “Mary! Excuse my daughter, please, Master Cruz.” Lady Collins smiles anxiously at him, as if afraid he is going to change his mind and leave. “I’ve heard that on the continent they grow flowers, especially for weddings. Do they do that in Wales? Some of the Dutch traders have been bringing their flowers to sell at our street markets. Daffodils. Orchids. What do you think?”

  “We can try, madam. When is the wedding?” Julian is hoping to hear an actual date.

  “Never,” Mary says.

  “The end of June,” Lady Collins says with a sideways glare. “What other services do you offer? Mary—quiet!” Aurora yells at her daughter before she can speak.

  With cruel mockery, Mary twirls her parasol.

  “Are you a ditcher, by chance?” the cranky Cornelius asks.

  Julian’s never held a shovel in his life. “What do you need dug?” Isn’t he ambitious.

  “A deeper moat around the house. Dunham can show you.”

  “Who is Dunham?”

  “The gong farmer.”

  Julian doesn’t dare ask what a gong farmer is.

  “It hasn’t rained in a month,” Cornelius adds, “and our moat has gone dry. None of your flowers will take. The soil is rock solid.”

  “This is still England, isn’t it?” Julian mutters, then, louder, “It won’t be a problem. I’ll divert the stream.”

  “Oh, he’ll divert the stream, how marvelous!” Aurora exclaims. “Do you hear that, Cornelius?”

  “Yes, madam, another one with promises he won’t keep.”

  “One way or another, the flowers will go into the ground, Lady Collins,” Julian says.

  Gratefully she steps closer to him. “Also, our chandler has run off.”

  Cornelius: “Water is more important, madam.”

  Aurora: “Hush, we cannot have a wedding without candles.”

  Cornelius: “Nor one without water, madam.”

  Aurora: “Master Cruz, we are woefully low on candles. Is that also something you can help us with?”

  “Of course.”

  Aurora beams. Lowering her voice, she says, “Cornelius was my husband’s butler for twenty years, but now that John’s dead, he refuses to do any actual work.”

  “I can hear you, madam,” says Cornelius.

  “I know. It was said for your sake, Cornelius.” Aurora smiles at Julian as if they’re old friends. “When can you begin, sire? Please say immediately.”

  “Sooner, madam.”

  Finally Julian allows himself an earnest gaze at the girl on the bench. Buxom she sits in layers of flowy and tight-fitting fabric, her hands clasped on her lap, sublimely irritated by the world. Her painted face is fuller than when he knew her and her form shorter and more rounded. Through the blazing brown eyes fixed on him with tempestuous whine, Julian sees as if through an opaque window the soul of the girl he had loved, pressed against the glass. Josephine, his mouth inaudibly forms the truth of her name even if the truth is a lie. Josephine, it’s you.

  “Do you know my daughter, Master Cruz?” a frowning Aurora asks.

  Get yourself together, Julian, or they’ll skin you.

  “I do apologize, madam,” he says. “Lady Mary looks very much like someone I once knew.”

  “I can attest, Mother,” says Mary, “that I have never seen this vagabond before in my life.”

  “Mary!” A tall, stalwart woman marches toward them from the house. “How many times have I told you not to speak to anyone in that tone, not to your lady mother and certainly not to our guests?”

  “Yes, Aunt Edna.”

  The no-nonsense woman comes to stand at attention in front of Julian. “I am Lady Edna Emmet, Lady Aurora’s sister,” she says. “I am also Mary’s governess.” She’s in all black, except for the white collar to match her white hair and face. Her eyebrows and eyes are as black as her skirt. She faces her charge. “Lady Mary, when you behave this poorly, it reflects on me for teaching you poorly, on your mother for raising you poorly, and on this great and noble house. Is this how you choose to act?”

  “No.” The girl rises to her feet, chastised but rebellious. Her white parasol falls to the ground. Instinctively Julian bends to pick it up. So does she. Their heads graze together. A material part of her, her bonneted skull, collides with a material part of him, his once-fractured skull. Rudely she snatches the parasol from his hands.

  “Lady Mary!” Edna booms.

  “Oh, fiddles—may I be excused, Lady Mother, Aunt Edna? Thank you ever so much.” Without waiting for permission, the young woman spins on her little heels and storms to the house, her skirts puffing around her.

  Wait! Julian wants to yell. Don’t go. He takes an instant loathing to
Edna for nagging Mary away.

  In an awkward silence, the grownups remain under the hazel. The shearling inside Julian’s Uggs is moist and itchy. The adrenaline drop after Mary’s departure is like a pin in a balloon. The air is sucked out of him. He wobbles.

  Edna studies his attire. “What is that metal zig zag line on both sides of your jacket, sire?” she asks.

  Damn it. Why did he unzip his jacket? He was warm. He’s still warm. When were zippers invented? “It’s something called a zipper,” he replies. “A trader from Italy brought several of these jackets from the Alpian goat herder region.” He stretches his mouth into an unctuous grimace.

  “What trader?” Edna says. “And brought to where, to Wales?”

  “Just a trader selling exotic cargo,” Julian replies. “Fine carpets, some pine wood, a camlet made from goat. I opted for the jacket, having no need of the other items. His name was Bernard Bondymer. He sails to Blackfriars twice a year with his wares. I can take you down to the docks for his next visit, if you wish, which I believe will be in August.” While waiting for Weaver in Peckham, Julian had leafed through a coffee table book on the history of merchant trade in medieval England. Incredible. Turns out the charlatan was good for something.

  Stupefied, his new compatriots stare at him. Edna is suspicious and unmollified. She whirls to her sister. “Why do you allow the girl to talk to you like that, Aurora?”

  “All right, Edna, let’s not . . . not in front of . . .”

  “Why won’t you listen to my advice? Ignore her. It will pass. Like all foolishness. Act. Women can’t act! The girl has gotten all the wrong ideas from what little education she’s had.”

  Neutrally Julian studies Edna’s imperious face.

  “I told you, Aurora,” Edna continues, “we should’ve never taken her to the Fortune, as you insisted.”

  “I didn’t see the harm,” Aurora says, leaning on Cornelius for support. “How was I to know she’d start entertaining these ludicrous notions? The play we saw was harmless fluff.” She addresses Julian. “It was called The Blind Beggar. Have you heard of it, Master Cruz?”

  “Yes, have you, Master Cruz?” says Edna. “It’s about a swindler and a fraud who pretends he is a duke to seduce an unwitting queen, and after he is banished to Alexandria, he deceives a passel of women there, too.” She glares at him.