The Lady's Slipper

by Deborah Swift

  ‘You will join us yourself?’

  Geoffrey nodded his assent.

  ‘Then we have Fairfax, Kendall and Hetherington. They are all staunch royalists and churchgoers and can be relied upon.’ Robert leaned back in his chair and stretched his stomach, clasping his fingers over his barrel-like paunch.

  ‘What about Lord Esham?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘I know he is a good day’s ride from here, but we need six.’

  ‘I am not sure he is trustworthy. I heard he had cast his lot in with the Puritans–that leather-seller Barebones and his bunch of uncouth ruffians. But if there is no one else then he will have to suffice. We can carry his vote if necessary.’

  ‘Well, times have changed. We must do what we can with who we have. With a properly formed committee we might be able to detain Wheeler’s rabble through the magistrate, and make sure the charges stick.’ An image of Richard Wheeler’s ridiculous brown hat came back to him. ‘But tell me this, have we the power to confiscate Wheeler’s land should we decide tithes are due?’

  Robert shook his head, pressing his lips together. ‘Not without good reason. I’m not sure we could prove without a doubt that he has withheld his dues. But the committee can be, how shall I put it, enthusiastic, about ensuring tithes are paid.’ He gave Geoffrey a smile. ‘But you say he is hand in glove with Lady Swainson?’ Robert rubbed his cheek, considering, before saying, ‘Dorothy Swainson is not without influence. She is from one of the oldest families in Westmorland, and has her staunch supporters. It is one thing to hold one of them a few days–it would be quite another to confiscate their land or charge them with treason.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Let us meet as soon as is convenient then. The sooner we quash this revolt and things return to the way they were, the better.’

  Geoffrey was glad when he could summon the Rawlinsons’ carriage and was free to retire to his chambers. The long-awaited bath was ready for him, and he was glad to peel off his uncomfortable stiff breeches and long shirt. Patterson had left two jugs of hot water on the tallboy and a brown parcel marked with a postal seal from Preston. He had also discreetly put out a decanter of port and a glass on a silver tray. Often Patterson seemed to know exactly what Geoffrey required even before he asked for it. Patterson’s family had served the Fisks for four generations, despite their changing fortunes. Geoffrey gratefully poured himself a large measure of port into the glass and drank. Then he turned to the parcel with curiosity.

  He untied the jute string and opened out the paper. It contained a deal-wood box, with a small flat porcelain jar packaged in straw, and a note accompanying it. This was written in an unsteady round hand and gave a barely intelligible list of ingredients, along with instructions to apply the tincture every day. He remembered that he had sent for this from a herbalist and so-called cunning woman he had heard of from the Master Mariner before leaving on his voyage, a Widow Poulter. A potion she provided had cured the Master’s gout, and immediately Geoffrey sent word to her from the dockside, explaining his skin condition and asking if she knew of anything that might ease it. She must have sent the salve by the king’s post for it to have arrived so quickly.

  He looked at the note again–he must look up the ingredients in Gargrave’s Herbal. She asked for a payment of a half-shilling, and that he should have one of his servants deliver the coinage by hand. Evidently she did not wish to chance the post with such a large sum.

  He glanced down at his body. It had been the same since childhood, red and itching, with inflamed patches of skin he always wanted to scratch. Fortunately his face and neck were usually clear, but the backs of his hands were often pocked with scabs the size of a penny. When these patches appeared he had become adept at hiding them under gloves. He never took off his shirt, for his chest was scarred and scaly like reptile skin, and he was fortunate in that the fashion was for high necks and lace cravats.

  He looked down at himself with loathing, and lowered his long limbs into the wooden hipbath. The water was silky against his skin. He exhaled audibly and sank into the warm water. He felt comfortable for the first time in two months.

  With care, he poured more hot water from the jug. The steam filled his nostrils and his limbs seemed to melt into the water. His mind drifted back to a time when he was about three years old. He was lying in a wooden cot, whimpering for his mother. He could see the turned wooden rails magnified on the walls into thick black hourglasses by the light from the window. His skin was red and sore but he couldn’t resist the urge to scratch. He scratched until his nails were thick with blood.

  His mother had wept at the sight and talked to him in her soothing voice. He heard again the noise of her wringing out a cloth. He saw in his mind’s eye her white hands on the muslin, cold as a fall of snow. Afterwards she had given him little cotton gloves to stop him from wounding himself, and when he was too fretful to sleep she had put Madeira in his milksops and stroked his burning forehead with her smooth fingers.

  Only his mother had understood exactly how much pain the condition gave him. When he was a child she had cared for his scaly body herself, despite his father’s insistence she hire a wet nurse, for his father had been wary of his sickly son. His mother knew all too well that Geoffrey would be taunted, that they would laugh at him. People didn’t understand, they would shun him and make his life wretched if they knew, and she was prepared to trust no one else with her only son. Over his childhood years she had impressed upon him the need to keep his skin hidden and protected, and she had tried many unguents, poultices and potions. All to no avail.

  It was this that had led to his interest in herbs and plants, and lately in science. He was half hoping that one day he would find a salve or a secret, a pill or a potion that would heal his condition. In the meantime, he busied himself with his trade and scientific interests, for the more occupied he was, the less the disease bothered him.

  He loved his study, the carved oak panelling, the paraphernalia of stone mortars, iron pestles, distilling glasses and crucibles. On his desk, he cared not that his confusion of papers was stained with powdered mineral matter, sediment from dripping sieves and numerous tell-tale wine-glass rings. Alcohol in large quantities had been the only thing so far to alleviate the torture of the continual itching. Over the years he thought he had resigned himself to the condition, but there were some days when he was driven mad on all sides.

  He poured more warm water from the jug and gently soaped himself all over. After his bath, he opened the little jar and applied some of the tincture. It was pale green and slimy, and smelt of seaweed. The balm did feel remarkably soothing. Perhaps this cunning woman really was as knowledgeable as the master said. A small hope budded, a momentary lightness of heart, before it withered under his scrutiny. He would wait until he saw an improvement before sending money. There were too many charlatans about, and he had supped his fill of quacks and their promises.

  As soon as he had sorted out the estate orders, he would call on Mistress Ibbetson. There had been a dispatch from her to say she had found a rare wild flower–an orchid. She would have the orchid waiting for him. It was rare but, he suspected, not very showy. He weighed up the potential profits in his mind. She had said it was possible to cross-breed orchids, the way farmers cross-bred cattle. In that case she would be able to cross it with the flame-red orchid he had bought from the Portuguese, and then he would have a unique and showy plant suitable for temperate conditions. The Portuguese orchid was magnificent; landowners would pay handsomely–it would be a sensation.

  He needed the botanical skills of Mistress Ibbetson. She was an excellent gardener, he knew, but it would be inconvenient dealing with a woman in business. And it would have to be soon; flowers don’t last forever. She must be persuaded somehow to show him the breeding technique, then he would have no need of her.

  Chapter 5

  Alice did not often get to Kendal town, to her regret. Hiring a hackney was expensive, and could only be done once in a while. But today s
he had a number of errands to run that could not be trusted to anyone else. She had Thomas’s letters to deliver to the post and was to collect some other documents from the notary. It was chilly, and she was wearing a closed bonnet and a black woollen cape, but she was anxious not to be away from her work or the lady’s slipper for too long, so she made haste down the narrow streets, clutching the bundle of letters in her cold hands.

  The town was thronging. Today was the meat market, and there were many horses and carriages from neighbouring villages, anxious to secure salt beef and bacon for the coming winter. She side-stepped a man carrying a shoulder of mutton, and headed down the cobbled hill towards the notary’s office.

  On the counter in front of the ironmonger’s board, a bright copper kettle caught her eye and she paused to look at it, idly contemplating the other items–flat irons, crimpers, goffers, and tongs, scoops and ladles. She picked up a pretty doorknocker embossed with a rose and held it up into the light to see the pattern. As she did so, she caught sight of a familiar figure in a brown felt hat, just rounding the corner. He was striding purposefully up the hill, his head bent down into the wind, a bulging canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

  She bolted inside the shop, the doorknocker still in her hand, and turned her back to the door, feigning interest in the hanging scuttles, brushes and pokers. The shopkeeper followed her inside.

  ‘Yes, mistress?’

  She kept one eye fixed on the road outside as she held out the doorknocker and asked, ‘Have you more of these?’

  ‘More?’ He looked at her as if he did not understand.

  Of course, people usually only needed one doorknocker. She saw Wheeler’s tall figure flash past the open awning.

  ‘Well, yes, I do have more, mistress. How many would you like?’

  Distracted, she said, ‘No thank you. Nothing at all. Good day.’ And she put the doorknocker down on the table, leaving the shopkeeper staring down at it, nonplussed.

  Scanning left and right as she came out of the dingy interior of the shop, she saw Wheeler’s broad back wending uphill between the other pedestrians. She crossed the road, for she did not want a battle of wits with him again if she could avoid it, and made her way quickly to where the overhanging buildings provided a shadow. She set off walking in the opposite direction.

  She stopped briefly at the hosier’s, where she had ordered some new stockings in knitted silk. The weave was very fine, practically transparent. She put her hand inside one of them and admired the white silk look of her skin through the fabric, and the almost invisible seam with its tiny fairy-like stitches. They were costly, but Thomas had never been close-fisted and she always had tokens in her purse, despite hints from acquaintances that his money-lending business was teetering.

  She had a few minutes’ very pleasant conversation with the hosier, who told her about Geoffrey’s wife, Emilia, and her latest order for long hose with tiny beads sewn up the back, and lace garters. Naturally these would be unsuitable for a woman in mourning, such as herself, but she enjoyed hearing about them before she swung out of the door, the thin wrapped parcel under her arm. She was still smiling as she launched herself up the street and straight into the solid chest of Richard Wheeler.

  Agitated, she stepped back.

  ‘Mistress Ibbetson, I beg pardon.’

  ‘Mr Wheeler.’ She assessed the width of the path to see if she could make her excuses and leave, but he was blocking her way. She was sure it was deliberate. Curse the man.

  ‘Thou art not at thy easel today, then?’

  ‘No. No, I had some business in town.’ She lifted the letters into his view.

  He looked casually away, tapping his boot on the ground. ‘The rare orchid that was taken from my wood. There has still been no word of it.’ He returned his gaze to her face, which by now had grown hot under her bonnet. ‘But if it were to be replaced, returned to its natural growing place, then I assure thee, that would be the end of the matter.’

  She steeled herself. ‘I have said before, I know nothing of it. Excuse me.’

  ‘Besides, it has a sentimental value to me. I desire its return most fervently.’

  ‘Then I sincerely hope you will find it, but I say again, it has nothing to do with me.’

  Again she made to pass him, but he would not let her by. His face was stormy now, his eyebrows lowered. His voice came out loud and harsh. One of his hands was balled into a fist. He looked as though he might grab hold of her. Astonished, she backed away.

  ‘Mistress Ibbetson. I do not like to be taken for a fool. I tell the truth and I would seek the same courtesy from thee. What wouldst thou have me do? Shake thee? Send for the constable?’

  ‘You must do as you think fit.’ She turned on her heel and left him standing in the street behind her. She did not look back, just hied away as fast as she could. When she had put a good distance between them, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the warm stone wall of the bakehouse.

  She was appalled at herself. She knew she had somehow crossed a line, that there would be no going back now. Her heart throbbed at her throat. Patently, there could be no more polite conversations with him. What had got into her? Partly she knew it was stubbornness. But he got under her skin somehow, with his refusal to see her point of view. And to think she had thought him pleasant, a man with a kind heart.

  A few months ago she had stood behind him in a queue at the miller’s when a lad had come in for a bushel of corn. The miller had upped the price by a third for the lad from the price it had been for Kendall’s steward, and Wheeler had stepped forward.

  ‘Everything has a fair price,’ she overheard him say. ‘And if it is a fair enough price for the steward, then it is a fair enough price for the lad.’

  It had made her smile, the lad’s face open-mouthed with glee at his ‘fair price’ bushel of corn as he ran out of the shop, and she had caught Wheeler’s eye. He had returned a broad grin. Although not acquainted, this shared incident had meant they used to nod to each other or exchange greetings if they crossed paths. But all that was finished now. She would have to be more vigilant in the future to keep out of his bounds–and she certainly had no intention of following his suggestion that she should covertly return the lady’s slipper. Her first loyalty must be to securing the future of the orchid.

  She rushed through her errands in a state of agitation, anxious to take her carriage home and stand guard over the lady’s slipper. He had said it had some sentimental value for him. She wondered what this could be–after all, a few weeks ago he did not even know of its existence. It was surely a ploy to persuade her to give it up, and that, she had sworn not to do. She worried he might ride home before her and find it hidden in the summerhouse. He would not know how to tend it, did not understand about its fragility, its rarity. But she had sent word to Geoffrey about it; he shared her love of plants and would understand the exciting nature of her discovery. Geoffrey was full of enthusiasm for collecting and for science, but not very well versed in plant lore. He had always deferred to her superior knowledge–he at least understood how much her father’s skill meant to her.

  Chapter 6

  The room was already full when Richard arrived. About twenty people, men and women, all dressed in muted colours, greys, browns, dull tweeds. They were sitting or standing in small groups in the panelled room that had once been a library but was now furnished simply with benches set in a circle. A chandelier was suspended over a central table, casting light onto a Bible, a rolled parchment and inkstand with quill. There was a faint smell of beeswax and lavender-oil polish. Richard breathed in the familiar aroma.

  ‘Ah, Richard!’ Dorothy Swainson approached him with a smile. ‘It’s good to see thee.’ She talked as she led him over to two other men, a farmer in rough tweed breeches and a leather waistcoat, and Isaac Fuller, the town clerk. ‘We were just talking about Felicia.’

  ‘Is she still being held?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Aye, she is,’ the farmer said. �
��We’ve tried to plead for them to let her go, but the magistrate is determined to hold her until the quarter session–and that’s another three weeks away.’

  ‘It does not bear thinking about,’ Dorothy said. ‘She’s to be charged with inciting a riot, and anyone less likely I cannot imagine.’ Isaac nodded in agreement.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was there, and it was not Felicia, but some of the congregation that got carried away.’ The clerk shook his head. ‘The curate was preaching that the Devil is amongst us. The same old sermon–you know the one–that the Devil comes in many guises and lurks inside the most innocent exterior. And that we should all look out for him.’ He raised his eyes to the invisible heavens. ‘He was stirring up the crowd–setting up the old atmosphere of fear and mistrust.’

  ‘Was that what made Felicia angry?’ Richard looked to Dorothy.

  ‘Not exactly. The shipping tax has already been levied this week, and the grain tax. The curate was after the salt tax,’ Dorothy said. ‘Felicia thinks these taxes on the working people are unjust. She stood up and calmly said that the only devil as far as she could see was in the hearts of those who would take money from people who could ill afford it.’

  Richard nodded his head vigorously, to show his allegiance with Felicia’s stand.

  ‘Anyway, once she had pleaded her case, other rowdier members of the congregation got up too and started shouting her down, and some more people got up to support Felicia, and then the youths started calling the curate names, and you know what happened next.’

  ‘Was no one else arrested?’ asked the farmer.

  ‘There was all sorts of confusion. Someone rode for Constable Woolley and his men, and they arrived in a great huff to arrest the troublemakers. When I spoke with her afterwards Felicia said that Lord Kendall, who was sitting in the reserved stalls at the front, apparently testified that it was all her doing. He has always been ready to condemn us–he thinks women have no place in religious ministry.’