by Roz Southey
‘She never went with no one respectable in her life. Anyhow, it was the baby what died.’
I nodded. ‘But that was purely chance. If the sailors hadn’t been so quick, your mother might have died as well.’
She considered this. ‘Nah. No one wants rid of her but me.’
Had it been a chance encounter, then? Had the woman simply been unlucky, in the wrong place as the horseman rode by? If that was the case, the child’s death was even more tragic.
‘You were there,’ I said. ‘I heard you singing. What did you see?’
‘Nowt,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t see my own hand.’
Thinking back to the fog, I believed her. But random chance – a death with neither rhyme nor reason behind it! How was I ever to prove anything?
‘Do you know a man called Cuthbert Ridley?’
She was beginning to get bored. ‘Nah. Don’t tell you their names.’ She smoothed down her petticoats as neatly as Mrs Annabella ever did. ‘You thought enough yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’
She grinned. ‘Don’t take too long. I’ll be back.’ And she danced off across the moonlit field.
Nine
A gentleman is always up to date in his accounts, and spends wisely.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, December 1733]
I turned round, took one step, and found myself back in the dead end alley in my own world. Shivering, I walked briskly out on to Westgate, worrying about how much time might have passed. Then I heard St Nicholas’s church clock strike and realized with relief I’d only lost half an hour or so.
What the devil was I to do about the girl? It was only a short walk, across Westgate and along a side street, to Caroline Square where Esther lives – where I live – but I managed to work myself into a fine frenzy of indecision. No one would actually believe the girl. Would they? Even the most ridiculous stories can gain credence, and I’d no wish to be thought a lunatic. But taking the girl on as an apprentice was out of the question. The assumptions that would be made! Besides, there’s no railing against facts, and the fact is that a violin is simply not a suitable instrument for a woman.
I’d hardly opened the front door of the house when Tom, the manservant, appeared in the hall. He’s barely twenty years old but proud of being the only male servant in the house, and assiduous in the performance of his duties. George was faster, however; Tom had hardly opened his mouth when the spirit slid down the banister, yelling. ‘Notes for you, master! Two notes! On the table!’
I glanced at Tom. He straightened, put on a bland face. I’d caught his first reaction, however; he was furious.
‘George,’ I said, ‘it’s Tom’s job to inform me of such things.’
‘Just trying to help, master!’
‘I can see that,’ I conceded.
‘You always used to tell me to keep busy!’
‘Yes, but—’
‘But, master?’
But you’re dead, George, and there’s nothing you can do except hang around for eighty years or so, getting in the way. ‘Tom must earn his keep,’ I pointed out, ‘and it’s not kind to trespass on his duties.’
‘But I can do things much faster than he can!’
‘It’s not your job, George.’
‘But master!’ He dropped into the wheedling tone all boys of a certain age have, that they’re fondly convinced will persuade you to do exactly what they want. If they use the tone long enough, they’re usually right. I let him talk. If he’d been alive, I’d simply have snapped at him to bring him into line; now he was dead, things were more complicated. An angry spirit can cause havoc; if he chose, George could make the house impossible to live in.
I sneaked another look at Tom. He was patently very anxious. I managed to interrupt George. ‘Is Mrs Patterson in, Tom?’ Mrs Patterson. My heart missed a beat. Ridiculous!
‘She’s in the estate room, sir,’ he murmured.
I dismissed them both; Tom went with dignified calm, George grumbled his way upstairs. I headed for the back of the house, glancing quickly at the notes as I went. One was from Hugh Demsey, detailing the fine time he was having in London and promising to be back in a week at most (which certainly meant four or five weeks at least). The other was from Robert Jenison.
Patterson [it said with imperious brevity], Mr Richard Nightingale will be arriving at seven tomorrow morning by the mail coach. Pray meet him at the Golden Fleece and convey him to the George where he is to lodge.
At the end of this peremptory missive, he had the audacity to describe himself as my ‘obedient servant’.
The estate room is small and crammed with shelves and boxes and letter books and all the other paraphernalia necessary to the administration of Esther’s estates in Northumberland and Norfolk. No doubt there are ten times as many documents sitting in various lawyers’ offices about the country. It’s the most daunting room I’ve ever been in. Esther – my wife – was sitting at the desk by the window, a bundle of correspondence in front of her. She was wearing a gown of pale green; the last of the sunlight glinted on the golden tendrils of hair curled against her gracefully bowed neck. I longed to run my fingers over that soft skin, that curve of neck, to take a strand of hair and—
No, this really would not do. Certainly not in the middle of the day. And at that moment, she looked up and I saw she was steeling herself for battle. But she merely smiled and said, ‘You look tired. Let me ring for some brandy.’
Tom came and went again. George presumably had taken himself off to some dark corner of the house, or was tormenting the cook. I enjoyed looking at Esther while she murmured platitudes about the weather. The gown showed off her neat figure wonderfully. I loved the way she moved – elegantly but businesslike – the way she cast a sideways glance at me. She had a smudge of ink on one cheek that I longed to rub away . . .
‘Have you solved the mystery?’ she asked.
I dragged my thoughts back. ‘I visited the mother.’ I told her about my trip to the hovel where the woman lived, and about my encounter with the girl (though without mentioning the other world) and her desire to become my apprentice. Tom brought the brandy and disappeared again. To my surprise, Esther gave the girl some serious consideration. ‘It is impossible, of course—’
‘Of course.’
‘But one has to admire the girl for her desire to better herself.’ She sipped her brandy. ‘Do you think Mr Orrick might be able to do something for her?’
I couldn’t imagine the curate being effective in dealing with young women. ‘I’ll ask,’ I said without conviction. The conversation had taken a serious turn so I regaled Esther with my adventures at the Jenisons. Esther shared my views of Mrs Jenison’s feather pictures, chuckled at Jenison’s raptures over the ladder dancer, and admitted, slightly ruefully, to pitying Mrs Annabella.
‘I don’t,’ I retorted. ‘She’s the worst kind of elderly spinster.’
‘I was a spinster too until three weeks ago,’ she pointed out.
‘Only in the sense of being unmarried,’ I said. ‘Nothing more. You could never be as coy and fawning as she.’
‘She has to placate the people on whom she is dependent. She cannot afford to do otherwise. There was a time, not so long ago, I was in a similar situation.’ She looked at me shrewdly. ‘What else are you not telling me?’
She knew me too well. Ruefully, I told her about Cuthbert Ridley. She listened with a frown growing between her eyes. The sort of frown I longed to kiss away.
‘You can’t suspect a man simply because of his initials, Charles!’
‘He’s not a nice man,’ I said, remembering that last look he’d cast me.
‘Neither is the fishmonger but he is a man of appalling rectitude.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘I am acquainted with the family, of course. Ridley’s, I mean, not the fishmonger’s. The mother is a very good woman. The elder son is not well, I think, and the other is perfectly ordinary and dull. The father is away somewhere.’
‘Narva, accordi
ng to Heron. Negotiating with timber merchants, apparently. Who else do you know with the initials CR?’
She shook her head. ‘No one. But that is nothing to the purpose. The horseman could have been a visitor to the town.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ I said. ‘In that case, he’ll be long gone and we’ll never catch him.’ I looked at her curiously. ‘You believe me, don’t you? About it being murder. What changed your mind? This morning you were accusing me of overreacting.’
She nodded. ‘I have had time to think about it. I trust your judgement, Charles.’
I could find nothing to say. I caught my breath, looked into my brandy. It was a greater compliment than I’d been prepared for.
Esther started to say something, stopped. I sipped my brandy, pretended I hadn’t heard. She said, with sudden vehemence, ‘Charles, we cannot go on ignoring this problem.’
I fell from joy straight into anger. ‘There’s no problem. Give me the relevant papers and I’ll sign them.’
‘I believe you would find it more satisfactory if you were to understand the workings of the estates.’
‘Alas,’ I said lightly. ‘I was never one for financial dealings.’
‘Nonsense,’ she retorted. ‘Any man who can survive on no more than sixty pounds a year without falling into debt understands financial matters very well.’
I felt cornered. ‘You’d hate to give up the management of your estates.’
‘Your estates.’
‘I’m quite happy to let you carry on dealing with them. You’re so good at it.’
‘That is not the point, Charles!’
‘You mean you’re going to insist on me dealing with them even if it means we go bankrupt within a year?’
‘Now you are exaggerating,’ she said impatiently. ‘You can learn—’
‘I do not want to learn!’ I exploded. ‘I am a musician, not a land agent!’
She visibly took a deep breath to steel herself before replying, which annoyed me even more. Was I so irritating to deal with? ‘This is a matter of legalities, Charles. These estates do not belong to me any longer. They are yours.’
‘Then I appoint you my steward,’ I said. ‘He would deal with all the routine matters, would he not, and merely ask for my signature? Very well, you are now my steward!’
‘Oh, really, Charles!’ she said, exasperated.
There was an uncomfortable silence. I prowled across the room, stared out of the window, gulped down my brandy. Esther said nothing, but sat at the desk with her hands clasped on its paper-cluttered surface. The reddening sunlight gleamed on her cheeks, her golden hair . . .
I could not bear it. To be at odds with her was unendurable.
‘I ordered two coats,’ I said. ‘And a waistcoat. But without embroidery. Even though I was assured the latest thing in decoration is bumble bees, I couldn’t do it. I’ve always hated honey.’
She burst out laughing. I watched the way her whole face lit up, the delicious crinkles at the side of her eyes, the elegant line of throat as her head tipped back. ‘But you did not order new breeches?’ she said in mock reproach.
‘You’re never satisfied.’
She held my gaze, smiled, said consideringly, ‘We have just argued, Charles. For the first time.’
‘Alas—’ I caught her meaning, added more enthusiastically, ‘Definitely, we have argued.’
‘I do believe there is a popular saying—’
‘About making up—’
‘– being the best part of any argument.’ She gave me a look as coy as any of Mrs Annabella’s.
I gestured at the papers. ‘Do you not need to finish your work?’
‘Work!’ she said, horrified. ‘A lady never works, Charles!’
She stood and came across to me, took the brandy glass from my fingers. I didn’t resist.
‘Cook will have the beef already cooking,’ I pointed out, teasingly. ‘What will she say if we’re late and it burns?’
She took my hand. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘I am not married to the cook! Now come on.’
Fortunately, we didn’t see any of the servants on our way upstairs.
Ten
Outward appearance is always a true sign of inward nature.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, September 1734]
A thin cold drizzle dampened the cobbles as I walked under the arch into the yard of the Golden Fleece. It was early, much too early for a newly married man; I began to wonder how fond Jenison was of his wife if he regarded getting up for the morning coach as a matter of indifference. One thing newly married couples are never warned about is the difficulty finding time to sleep.
A friendly spirit slid round the walls to keep me company. ‘Off on your travels again, Mr Patterson?’ The spirit had been an ostler in life, trampled to death by a frightened horse, an event he delights in narrating in unnerving detail.
‘Meeting someone off the coach.’
The spirit sighed wistfully. ‘I always wanted to travel but the furthest I ever got was Sunderland.’
‘My condolences,’ I murmured.
‘Is he coming far, sir?’
‘From London.’
‘Now there’s a man of good sense,’ the spirit said. ‘Why should anyone want to stay in that pit of iniquity?’
I shivered in the drizzle and contemplated a horse that was being led into the yard. It was a dark grey, and my mind slipped back to that other grey, that had ridden down the woman and child. If that was Ridley’s horse, it would be stabled at his mother’s house by now, a mile out of town on the Carlisle road. There was no possibility of getting a look at it; I’d no excuse to go there – Mrs Ridley is not musical.
There was a rattle of wheels. ‘Here it is now, sir,’ said the spirit. The coach appeared, slowing to take the arch into the inn, the coachman ducking low to avoid the roof. The horses blew gusts of rank breath into the cold air.
The Fleece’s servants rushed forward; doors were pulled open, steps let down. Someone thrust a tankard of ale into the coachman’s hands as he clambered to the ground; men began to untie parcels from the roof of the coach. I was relieved to see there was no ladder amongst them. Was that a good sign, or would Nightingale expect me to find a ladder for him? Jenison didn’t want dancing in the concerts but Nightingale might have different ideas.
The first passenger down was a burly middle-aged man, tall and richly dressed in an astonishingly bright green, and an elaborate wig that made his head seem three times as big as normal. Imperiously, he brushed the servants out of the way, then turned to extend a hand to another passenger unseen.
Out tottered an immensely elderly lady, very tiny, muffled up in a hundred cloaks and shawls. Her gratified simper was not hidden, however, as she allowed the gentleman to help her down. He bowed extravagantly, kissed the back of her gloved hand, murmured a compliment. She blushed.
There were five women in the coach, all well beyond their first youth and all immensely grateful to the gentleman for his assistance. They clustered round him, pressing thanks on him, showering him with appreciative gifts: an apple, a wrapped-up pie (best London lamb, the giver murmured seductively), a newspaper, a twist of tobacco. The gentleman kissed the hands of his adoring court. Behind the ladies, a young lad stood on the coach steps, ignored and sullen.
The lad seemed to be the only other male on the coach so this extravagantly dressed gentleman must be Richard Nightingale. I studied him as he paid out compliments by the score, told one elderly lady she must have a dozen beaux, told another he’d never seen such an elegant shawl on a ‘young lady’. One thanked him for such a wonderfully entertaining end to a long tedious journey, another insisted he must visit her if he was ever in her part of the country.
The servants at last managed to usher the ladies away out of the drizzle to the warmth of a fire, a dish of tea and a comfortable bed. The lad went off with a foul glance at Nightingale, suggesting he felt utterly eclipsed. Nightingale, deprived of an audience, yawned hugely and stret
ched.
I bowed. ‘Mr Nightingale? I’m Charles Patterson, Mr Jenison’s . . . envoy. Was the journey comfortable?’
He squinted as if not sure what to make of me. Then his gaze settled on my shabby coat and frayed cuffs, and he plainly decided he didn’t have to honour me with any particular politeness. ‘Damnable,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m long past the days I could bear travelling day and night. Where the devil’s the food? And the girls.’
Perhaps Esther was right about the coat giving the wrong impression. ‘Mr Jenison’s booked a room for you at the George Inn,’ I said mildly. ‘It has an excellent reputation. If you’d allow me to escort you there?’
He eyed me for a moment, then raised his head and looked round at the hustle and bustle of the Golden Fleece. ‘Devil a bit of it. I’ll stay here.’
‘I believe—’
‘Ostler!’ he roared. ‘Send my luggage in. Fast as you can.’ And he strode off into the inn.
I sighed, hurried to catch up with him. Jenison was not going to be pleased at the oversettings of his plans; he was a man accustomed to be obeyed. And the George was undoubtedly of better quality than the Fleece, quieter, more comfortable. But it looked as if quieter at least was not to Nightingale’s taste. He ducked under a low lintel into a private parlour, issuing orders to half a dozen servants. Bed, beef, beer: he wanted everything instantly.
He dropped into a comfortable chair and swung his legs up on to a scarred table that stood in the middle of the room. ‘Is there any decent entertainment this far north?’
‘We’re not in Scotland,’ I said, needled by his tone. He looked blank, and I realized he didn’t recognize irony. ‘What kind of entertainment are you looking for?’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘You’re an odd fellow, Patterson! Do you never enjoy yourself? Women, I mean women!’
‘I was married three weeks ago.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘On your best behaviour for a while, eh? Pity. Never mind, point me in the right direction and I’ll be happy.’
