by Paul Butler
***
Lucy’s lolling head was like an extra heartbeat between my shoulder blades as I trudged down the bank towards the Avon. I had strapped the still-sleeping child to my back for the journey and she had snorted awake only once and then nestled into me straight after. The light from Henry’s barge flickered through the twigs and branches, guiding my way; still I dug my shoes hard into the turf. The slippery dew was settling into frost.
Rosita, Henry’s horse, snorted and swished her tail not far below me. “Easy, girl, easy,” I whispered, descending the last few clumps, giving the beast a wide circle as I alighted on the bank. Crouching, I pried a handful of pebbles from the cold ground and threw them onto the deck. They made a dull rattle — enough, surely, to wake Henry. Unlike his horse, Henry did not like voices. A voice in the darkness meant capture was close. Lawbreakers and rogues communicated with rattles and thumps and other sounds of the night.
A stirring came from within and Henry emerged from the cabin and stepped onto the deck. The single-flame lamp in his hand illuminated the face that tilted from under his hood and scanned the bank.
“The black dandy himself!” he said. “What do you want?”
He’d seen me in livery only once, but never let me forget it. I moved towards the deck rail, close enough to make out the shadowy scowl under the hood. “It is pleasant to see you too, noble Moros.”
“Why do you call me that, damn you?”
A sharp tooth — the only one he had — showed like a broken tombstone in the wide oval of his mouth. It might have been a smile of sorts, but the arrangement of Henry’s features made almost any expression seem like a snarl. He had been beaten up many times, he had told me once, both inside prison and out. His face was a puzzle of irregularities and odd angles. Rumour had it he had been hanged once too but that the rope had snapped. Somehow he had managed to contrive a getaway. I didn’t know whether to believe this, but his lumbering, crooked walk as he shuffled sideways along the deck suggested some injury of the spine.
“It is from the Greek, my friend.” He never came right out and asked the meaning, which, of course, gave me license to keep on using it. It pleased me to refer to Henry as the deity of impending doom.
“You’re not Greek and you’re not my friend either. I thought you were another delivery. I have to set off soon.”
As though understanding its master’s words, the horse pounded her front hoof on the stony bank. Henry laid down his lantern, jumped from the deck with surprising alacrity, and loosened the tether. He murmured to Rosita, his voice tender and soothing and then, rope looped at his side, led the beast along the bankside until she was a yard or two ahead of the barge. As he retied the tether to the prow, Henry seemed to peer hopefully at the little bundle stirring now on my back.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Henry. It’s Lucy, my brother’s child. I couldn’t leave her.”
His hands followed the rope back to the horse’s muzzle. “So, what do you want?”
It was typical of Henry that he should be busy now that I wanted him. He would have snoozed happily dreaming of graveyards and overturned earth for an hour or more if I had not turned up.
“I need you to get a message to the Bristol docks.”
“A message?” He pulled a knot in the rope, whispered once more to Rosita while stroking the side of her head. “For whose ears?”
“The ears of anyone with knowledge to give.”
“Ha!” He moved from the beast and jumped over the deck rail again. “The widow’s work again!”
“You have it precisely, Henry. You provide goods for the teaching hospital. I provide information for Mrs. Smith.” I watched his face twitch into a vision of suspicion and mistrust — he was trying to work out whether or not this was an insult — but I gestured towards the cabin to distract him. “How many do you have back there?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Four, packed tight and bound. Ten sovereigns each if the chief thinks them fresh enough. We arrive this time tomorrow.” He picked up his lantern again looked at me again. “What do you need to know and how much is the pay?”
“See what the name Captain Frederick Wentworth conjures,” I said. “Bring me every slip and every weakness, Henry. Commonplace as an act might be below decks, if something of that nature attaches to Captain Wentworth, I want proof of it, the name of the person, the ship and the time. I want details that will strike fear into an officer’s heart.”
“The reward?”
“Half of my own.”
Something like a smile crumpled his face. He picked up his oar and gently nudged the barge from the riverbank as the horse shuffled nervously backwards.
“You are a filthy sewer rat, Plato.”
The lone jagged tooth remained hanging over his lower lip — a signpost of his disgust. He climbed back over the deck.
“A big black sewer rat in a gold buckles and white gloves. That’s what you are.”
Lantern in hand, he rejoined Rosita, stroking her neck and whispering to her as tenderly as a young lover might whisper to his mate.
“So, will you do it?”
He turned, hand upon his horse’s rope, lantern flame catching his eyes. “Half of nothing is nothing. How much will Mrs. Smith pay you?”
“To threaten ruination of a rich man she will ask dear, and she can easily pay those who aid her.” He watched me carefully, lamp wavering in his hand. “I will not settle for less than fifty.”
“You’d better not!” he said, pulling on the rope. The horse bobbed her head in protest and thrummed her lips.
“I can see, Henry, that the task deeply offends your sense of honour.”
Henry gave me a nod — half agreement, half dismissal. He raised the lantern and blew. Darkness came upon us and I knew we had a deal.
Lucy dug her forehead into my back and a small hand reached up towards my shoulder. I heard the slosh and bump of Henry’s barge pulling away down the river in its slow inexorable journey towards the Bristol Infirmary. There was no moonlight now and the darkest of shades undulated around us like currents in the bottom of the ocean. I caught a foretaste of dawn — crisp and frosty — on the tip of my tongue.
“Well, well,” I sighed to the slumbering child on my back. “Even a resurrectionist thinks he is above us, Lucy. What will your little life do about that? I wonder.” I pulled the strap tighter and made my way back up the slippery hill.
5. MRS. SMITH
I HAD NEVER SEEN MY DEAR ANNE look so happy. The moment she walked into my room I beheld the smooth, carefree movements of a young woman who could dance on the February wind feeling only the warmth of joy. There was a pink glow on her cheeks and an eagerness about her eyes.
“I know I need not tell you my news, dear Adeline,” she said, slipping off her bonnet and resting it upon her lap. “I feel certain you know of it already.”
Her eyes met mine with such shy affection, such desire to spread the great happiness she was feeling, that it pained me most sorely to think of the part I would inevitably play in curtailing such perfection of bliss.
I lay aside the cushion I had been embroidering. “Oh my dear Anne, I cannot tell you how much happiness your felicity brings to me.” Leaning forward, I reached out my hand, which she took and wrapped with her own. Despite the coldest of the day, her fingers were warm. “I can see plainly on your face how much your Captain Wentworth means to you.” I held her gaze for a moment, watched the happy tears form, then to save her blushes I gave her a mischievous smile as I squeezed her hand and let go. “I have indeed heard it all through Nurse Rooke and her many contacts!”
Anne laughed and wiped away a tear with her free hand.
“But I long so to hear it all directly from my old friend.”
Anne looked to the fire, smiling, and gave a gentle shake of the head. “It all happened the day after we last met.” Too modest, as
always, and, perhaps thoughtful of my own status as widow, her smile was tempered also with a touch of sadness.
“Two days ago, Anne! And everything entirely settled with your family, I believe?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Anne, “It is all quite agreed. And the wedding will be very soon. Father left for London this very morning to purchase a whole new wardrobe for the occasion.” A look, partly of amusement, partly of shame, passed between us. Despite her undoubted patience with Sir Walter and his vanity, the detail was a reminder of the lack of economy that had turned the Elliots from Kellynch. But Anne’s tale had been one of fortune tumbling unexpectedly from misfortune. Kellynch had, by necessity, been let to Admiral Croft and his wife. Mrs. Croft, by coincidence, was the sister of Captain Wentworth, and so the Crofts’ tenancy had renewed an acquaintanceship of profound significance for Anne. Though eight years ago Lady Russell had persuaded her to reject him, Captain Wentworth was Anne’s first and, as it turned out, only true love.
“And, my dear Anne,” I said, “do I understand you are to be married in your local church in Kellynch village?”
She gave the brightest of smiles at the mere mention of the name Kellynch.
“And do I also understand that there are plans afoot for the Elliots to be reinstated in the hall?”
Anne laughed. “Nurse Rooke has surpassed herself! It is true that Admiral and Mrs. Croft have very kindly offered to vacate their new home, but I am most eager not to cause them inconvenience and we have not as yet sorted out such details.”
“Well it is fitting, my dear Anne. Through enterprise and industry your Captain Wentworth has gained all that so many born into high station have squandered. Why should he not reclaim Kellynch Hall for you? But I will say no more as I can see you are blushing.”
And so she was, no doubt from the implied insult to her father, though she must have felt the same herself. The compassionate soul will forever place loyalty in the most unworthy of objects, and this was my Anne. But the discomfort was brief and her smiles returned soon enough. Could any set of circumstances, dear reader, be happier and more deserved than my Anne’s? Nothing exalts the triumph of joy more intensely than the heartbreak and despair that precedes it. Left to its own devices, such harmony and optimism would surely last though the many years to come. The troubles large and small that life inevitably throws up are coped with so much more easily when one is buoyed by the knowledge that one’s expectations have already been surpassed. Who but a devil would want to spoil such a situation willingly?
“So I am torn two ways, my dear Anne,” I said squeezing her hand again. “I so want you to return to your home as swiftly as possible, yet I will miss your visits here.”
“Indeed, I will miss you also Adeline,” she replied, her shy smile returning. “But I must ask one thing.”
I gazed at her intently. I knew already what she was struggling to put into words.
“Please let no circumstance prevent the whole truth from flowing between us, even if it is a matter of blood family or loyalty.” Her eyes held mine for a moment then slipped.
“My dear Anne,” I said softly. “I promise.”
She smiled once more and the fire crackled in the silence. The picture was perfect: two old friends, reunited happily for a brief spell, soon to be parted in the happiest of circumstances. What extraordinary poignancy! The muted daylight from the window, the gentle lap of the flames, the gusts from the chimney shaft, the sense of a harsher world outside for those who failed to find a home — all of these elements conspired to create a picture of the most touching sort. And I confess, dear reader, that in spite of all my secret plans, I felt the moisture coming to my eyes. I allowed myself a few moments of sentiment. I gave myself permission to be the honest, kind woman Anne Elliot believed me to be. And then I readied myself to achieve that one goal I had set myself for the meeting. I leaned forward and looked deep into her eyes.
“I would so love to meet the man who has had the most extraordinary luck to win the heart of my dear friend.”
A smile, quick and thrilled, came across her face. “You can be sure he has already heard the kindest of reports, so he would be honoured to meet you, Adeline, if you feel able to accept visitors.”
“Oh Anne,” I said, letting a laugh of joy escape me — again it was joy I genuinely felt, but I was pricked by the foreknowledge that I must soon inject poison into their lives, “it will be better medicine for me than any in Bath to meet with your fine Captain Wentworth!”
The fire continued to crackle happily and a gust blew against the windowpane.
***
Soon after Anne left me, a knock came upon the outer door below. Working unsatisfactorily at my cross-stitch, I had not noticed my window darken. Now I turned to see a crow hunched against the pane trying to settle upon the outer ledge. The sky showed grey-blue around the bird, that odd luminosity that comes with the oncoming dusk, a warning that night was about to swallow up the day. I wondered what it would be like to be hated by someone as sweet and trusting as Anne. The beauty of my business, as long as it worked without a hitch, was that no one but the intended target was ever aware of my actions. But it was often a fine balance and I hoped, for Anne’s sake as well as my own, that things would run smoothly. I had sent word through Nurse Rooke for Plato to come and see me, and I had already guessed that the knock below had been his. Two sets of footfalls, Nurse Rooke’s and another’s, climbing the final staircase confirmed this.
Nurse Rooke’s knock was quiet, like the scuffling of a thief in the dark. When she opened the door to my call, Plato entered like a painted phoenix in his blue and gold livery. My heart fluttered. This had to be a good sign. Rarely did the African come straight from the Assembly Rooms unless he had news of the most lurid and helpful kind.
I nodded and Nurse Rooke withdrew to the landing and closed the door on us. I laid aside my cross-stitch and held an empty hand palm-upward, an introduction for him to speak. “So, Plato. What do you have for me?”
At first, the opening of his report dampened my expectations. “Well, Mrs. Smith, Captain Wentworth, I find, is one of those rare men who commands ungrudging respect and admiration from his peers, as well as those under and over his command.” At first this seemed like a rehearsed address, a rebuttal, and I wondered that he should have rushed to give it. “It was difficult indeed,” he added, with less certainty now, “to find any word against him.”
“Difficult, Plato,” I prompted.
“Yes, Mrs. Smith, difficult.”
“But not impossible, perhaps?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Smith, the life of a captain in the Royal Navy is full of moral dangers. The Laconia, I discovered, was one of the ships guarding the opium trade from India to China in 1811. There was some talk of pipes in the captain’s cabin.”
“But he kept discipline among the crew?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then it doesn’t help us, Plato.” Suddenly I felt so frustrated I almost picked up my cross-stitch again. After Anne left me I had had been obliged to unpick those strands of white that were to make up goose feathers because they were clearly in the space reserved for the garden gate. It all seemed rather prescient now, things moving backwards when there should be progress. Could Captain Wentworth really be the only naval captain in England with nothing damning against his name?
“And there was a midshipman,” he added softly, “a young gentleman under Captain Wentworth’s command.”
The tassels down the front of Plato’s jacket caught the fire but the pale blue of the cloth seemed to fade like a ghost so that the spots of gold showed like stars in a falling dusk. Suddenly Plato was the night itself, full of promise and possibility. I waited for more.
“His name was … is Oliver Mason. He is the nephew of an earl, a poor relation but close enough for his advancement through the ranks to be encouraged. A piece of loose bark popped behind the
grate. “It is said that on board Wentworth’s ship, the Laconia, they became quite inseparable.”
“Inseparable, Plato?” The man had a delicacy that forced the most unseemly indelicacy from me. “How inseparable were they?”
“Inseparable by day, Mrs. Smith, and inseparable by night. A ship’s servant found them bunked together in the morning more than once. You see, while the opium may not have caused problems among the crew, it seems to have loosened standards for the Captain himself.”
I was almost breathless with excitement. I knew I must use skepticism to mask my emotion in front of Plato. “But is it true?” I said. “Can I be certain this will work against Captain Wentworth?”
“Yes, Mrs. Smith,” Plato said, “you can. The very reluctance of the communication is testimony to its truth. Liars are only too happy to pounce upon the opportunity to slander for gold. Grudge bearers need no persuading. In this case, regard for the Captain was so general and so genuine, no one wanted to speak.” I could hear Nurse Rooke bustling on the landing beyond the door, an unwelcome distraction, though I would need her soon. “Times being what they are, of course,” Plato continued, “inducements did the trick at last. But my contact had to shell out many coins.” He bowed his head. “And there is more. Mason, rising swiftly from lieutenant to captain through Captain Wentworth’s recommendations, hosted his old friend in London as recently as last summer. Though years had passed, the two fell into their familiar ways.”
A trader’s cart, louder than the rest, crunched over the cobbles far below. I felt a sweet movement in my chest, a sensation familiar to me now — another shining new venture had been pushed into motion, this one more magnificent than its companions. I hardly dared trust the feeling.
