‘What do you want?’ Her eyes were wary.
‘Perhaps it would be more comfortable if we were to sit,’ he said.
‘I would prefer to remain standing. Whatever you wish to say, I can hear it perfectly well here in the hall.’
Nonplussed, he realized his attempts to make some sort of peace were already failing. His eyes took in the fact that she was no longer in mourning, that her hair was a deep russet, like beech leaves on the turn. She saw his stare and prompted him.
‘Well?’
He found himself taking off his hat, for his old notions of gentlemanly conduct were ingrained despite his new Quaker lifestyle.
‘I wanted to apologize about the incident with the gun.’
She was waving away his apology. ‘There is no need—’
‘And to talk with thee about the lady’s slipper.’
There was a silence.
‘To be blunt, I think thou hast taken it. Since it has been lost to me, I have been…’ He struggled to find the right words. ‘I mean, I have made a covenant with God, and I think…that is, I have had a sign, God wills its safe return.’ This was damnably difficult to explain; she would think he had lost his senses. He started again with something simpler.
‘I have prayed, and I believe…’ Again he petered out, unable to find words she might be able to understand. ‘Thou must return the orchid to me,’ he blurted.
Alice looked at him strangely, and started to shake her head. He blundered on.
‘Thou canst not, in all conscience, pretend to me thou hast no knowledge of it.’ He felt too large, standing in the hallway, towering over Alice in his workaday boots and scratchy tweeds. Alice backed away from him towards the dining room.
‘I have told you already, Mr Wheeler,’ she said unflinching, though her cheeks were red, ‘I know nothing of it, now please leave.’
He advanced towards her, staying her retreat with his hand on her shoulder. She winced. He looked down into her grey shifting eyes.
‘Tell me the truth,’ he said. ‘For I would not have thee fall from the grace of God.’
She squirmed away and her hands came up to her chest as if to protect herself, and at that moment Richard saw himself as she must see him, as overbearing and threatening.
‘Ella,’ she called loudly for the maid.
‘The truth, Mistress Ibbetson,’ he insisted. He was powerless to stop himself. Her back was against a door, presumably to the dining room; her eyes would not meet his.
Ella appeared from the shadowy back stairs.
‘Show Mr Wheeler out.’ Her voice wavered a little.
Ella held open the door and a draught of cold air buffeted in. Richard jammed his hat back on his head, holding it with one hand against the wind. He heard himself say, ‘Thou must make thy peace with God then, as best thou can, Mistress Ibbetson, for I shall give thee none till the truth is out. And as God is just, thy reward will surely come.’
He turned to go, but her brittle voice carried after him.
‘How dare you. How dare you come here and accuse me, and preach at me in this way. You are not a priest, Mr Wheeler, just a farmer.’ She looked scathingly at his boots, her eyes blazing. ‘And I don’t need a farmer to plead my case with God.’
He turned on his heel and strode out, in a silence as thick as soup. Ella watched him go with a slight smile, before closing the door very gently so the latch was barely audible over the tick of the clock. Alice stood stock still in the hallway, the colour flaring in her face, her chest rising and falling with her breath.
Chapter 17
‘Come quick,’ Ella called out to Cook as the noise of the drum cut through the night air. Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. Brrrrm, rat-a-tat-tat. They rushed out into the lane, hatless, to get the first glimpse of the cavalcade as it wended its way to the alehouse.
Behind them Master Thomas, already dressed for the dinner at the manor in his best silk breeches and wig, stood at the half-open front door, trying to see what all the commotion was about. When he saw the noisy rabble coming down the lane, preceded by a group of giggling girls carrying jack-o-lanterns, he hurried in doors. But Ella saw his shadow at the window, all the same, watching her.
She smiled to herself, remembering his breath on her throat and breasts. He did not want to get involved with their fun, he thought it beneath him, to associate publicly with the likes of her; like them all, he was two-faced as a coin–but he was that much in thrall to her she might yet persuade him to set her up somewhere in her own place. Of course he was as nosy as the next person to find out what all the hubbub was, and well he might be, as he was up to the self-same cuckolding game. He followed her like a dog after a bitch on heat, the minute Mistress’s back was turned. And she had been out somewhere this afternoon, sketching or gathering flowers–and still not back, even though it was getting dark.
Ella had been hard pressed to keep Thomas at arm’s length today. She’d dodged and ducked, and nipped out the back door out of his way when she heard him coming. Without the presence of his wife nearby, Thomas’s passion was wont to get the better of him. Ella wanted to keep him dangling until he’d agreed to purchase her a new gown, at least. And keep him away she must, for she was not going to miss the cuckolding for anything. He’d wait. The heat was on him like a fire.
The procession drew up alongside, where they could see the ram’s horns strapped to the front roll-bar of the cart, and the fake Sir Geoffrey in his flax wig, with a withered carrot tied on as a codpiece, sitting on an upturned barrel. And there was the parody of Lady Emilia, with a pair of painted bolsters for breasts, the nipples round and red like two strawberries. Behind her two young men, the miller’s boys, strapped with tumescent straw codpieces, feigned lewd gestures as they attempted to mount her from behind.
‘Look at her hair.’ Ella pointed at the Lady Emilia, who was wearing a white cap with sawdust shavings ringlets, and a straggle of blonde horsehair. Beneath it, the face of the blacksmith leered lasciviously through rouged lips, his cheeks scarlet over white leading.
‘Go on, boys,’ yelled Cook, ‘give her what she deserves!’
The boys waved their codpieces in the air, and the crimson-lipped Lady Emilia bent over, plumping up her bolster breasts with spade-like hands. The false Sir Geoffrey stood up staggering, miming drunkenness with a flagon in each hand, winking at Ella and signalling and beckoning with his arms.
Ella and Betty the Cook fell in behind the procession, Betty picking up her skirts and doing an ungainly polka. Betty walked with a limp–her legs were uneven from a childhood ailment. Ella dawdled along behind, waving to people who came to their doors.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s a cuckolding,’ shouted Ella.
‘Who?’
‘We’re off to Fisk Manor. Old Scratcher. The horns are for his door.’
The answer proved popular and more people joined the throng–people who had given more than their due in tithe, others who were being forced to move because of the new boundaries. A good number were there to spite Sir Geoffrey, but many more followed along just for the fun of the spectacle. Nights were drawing in and it was dull in their poky parlours, they were ready for some free entertainment–particularly at someone else’s expense.
When the procession reached the tavern, they stopped for an hour or more, filling themselves with ale-soaked bravado and picking up a large contingent, virtually emptying the place. Ella hoped some of those carousing at the back would have the sense to shut their mouths when they got to the driveway of Fisk Manor or their plot would be foiled. They rattled through the village singing the foulest folk song they knew that featured a wife and her lover being discovered by an angry husband.
In his cottage Richard Wheeler heard the noise but did not go out to look. To him, the voices sounded the worse for ale, and he was determined to concentrate, reading a printing of the work of Jacob Boehme lent to him some months ago by Dorothy, before Jack and Hannah were arrested. He was curious, thoug
h, at the sound of the drum and the strident voices, and stood up, looking out of the window into the dark, glad to have an excuse to leave the impenetrable tract. But then he remonstrated with himself, telling himself the noise outside was a disturbance he could do without.
He wondered if Alice Ibbetson had been disturbed by the noise. He sat down again, sighed and turned the page, leaning on the table with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, puffing on his forbidden pipe. The fire in the grate streaked the walls with a rosy warmth, the candles burnt bright. Richard returned to devouring each page, looking for something–searching for his own experience, for a description of what went on in him at the meeting with George Fox–weighing each word, cutting out the noise of the revelry outside.
But it was no use. The sound of the drum made him restless. He picked up his Sunday boots and began to polish them, rubbing vigorously until they gleamed.
Amongst the servants, the tale of the events at Fisk Manor that night were retold for years afterwards, the dinner growing more mouth-watering with every telling. There were of course the roast meats–the crispy beef, succulent venison, and the famous whole suckling pig, decorated with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, its mouth skewered open with a row of sugared plums on a stick. The telling always included the peacock, carried in on a silver salver, its tail displaying exotic iridescent green eyes, and it never failed to include the almond paste flower garden with lifelike roses and leaves from green eglantine.
Emilia’s maidservant Lizzie enjoyed all the bustle and excitement of the preparations, and in her chambers Lady Emilia was at her most vivacious, in a crimson gown that gave a glow to her face. She looked more alive than Lizzie had ever seen her. As she fastened her into armfuls of slippery silk, Lizzie saw that Lady Emilia was trembling.
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ she said, ‘I have missed the gaiety of entertaining these past few years.’
Lizzie nodded her head, her mouth full of hairpins.
‘Do I look beautiful?’ Lady Emilia asked.
‘You look as fine as I have ever seen you,’ Lizzie said, pressing Emilia’s curls into submission. ‘That colour suits you well.’
Lady Emilia clasped Lizzie by the hand. ‘It is important that I look at my very best tonight,’ she said with an urgent look in her eyes.
Lizzie knew full well what that meant–he would be here, amongst the guests, Ralph Hetherington, Lady Emilia’s paramour. Lizzie felt uncomfortable.
‘I am sure Sir Geoffrey will think you a credit to him.’ Lizzie staunchly disregarded Lady Emilia’s puppy-dog eyes and turned away to reach for a hairbrush from the table behind.
Over dinner Lady Emilia sat next to Justice Rawlinson, who seemed unaware of the fact that she drank several glasses of wine far too quickly and was in a state of palpable excitement. He showed far more interest in the food than in Lady Emilia anyway. Sir Geoffrey was seated to her other side, but he ignored her and sat glowering over his meal, rubbing his forehead and wiping his neck with a napkin.
When dinner was over, the dancing began. Virginals, lute, tambour, horns–the music was full and rich, a fluid river of sound, swirling round the stone walls and out through the open windows into the gardens. The dancers tapped their red heels and the sound rang out on the stone flags. Lizzie could not remember ever having seen such finery. In the light from the sconces, the women glowed like jewels in their beautiful silk and taffeta gowns, their necks twinkling with gold and diamonds, feathers and ribbons in their topknots.
Lizzie wore her best navy outfit with clean starched apron and stiff white cap, holding a tray of little savoury parcels filled with duck and peas. But she felt like a sparrow amongst golden pheasants. She stood next to the big stone fireplace and watched as the dancers whirled past, their rustling gowns setting the candles in the chandelier a-flicker, feeling the draught as they swooped curtseys to the men dressed up in their periwigs and fine silver-buckled shoes.
She saw Sir Geoffrey sitting off to one side, ramrod-stiff as usual, away from the fire on an upright chair, with a large glass of Madeira on the side table at his elbow. Next to Sir Geoffrey on the other side of the table sat Lady Jane Rawlinson, dressed in a very unbecoming mauve silk, which was almost the same colour as her face and looked so heavy it would probably stand up without her. She was trying to engage Sir Geoffrey in conversation but he was watching the dancers, keeping his eye on young Stephen, who was dancing wildly and recklessly and already looked quite the worse for ale.
Lizzie fervently hoped Sir Geoffrey would retire to his chambers before the villagers arrived with the cuckold’s horns. She was getting more and more nervous as the evening drew on and there had still been no sign of them.
Sir Ralph Hetherington approached Lizzie and took a couple of the savoury morsels from her tray. Lizzie bobbed a curtsey. Over his shoulder she could see Lady Emilia glance at his back before turning back to her dancing partner, the bent old Sir Kendall, who was out of step with everyone else. She saw Emilia throw Sir Ralph a look under her arched eyebrows as she dipped and swayed by, and saw his answering smile.
Lady Emilia looked vibrant, almost girlish. Her husband, on the contrary, seemed to be growing more morose by the minute; he had given up all pretence of listening to Lady Jane Rawlinson and stared resolutely at his feet. So he didn’t notice that Sir Ralph and Lady Emilia had become dancing partners. Nor did he notice when they slipped away through the doors into the darkness of the garden.
Lizzie saw them go with foreboding. The game would soon be up. There was trouble brewing and no mistake. If her lady was discovered, then what would become of her, her maid? Lizzie chewed her lip, her stomach rolled over like sour milk in a butter-churn.
Unable to bear the suspense much longer, she took the platter down the back stairs to the kitchen, where there was much hustle and bustle as the dishes of sweetmeats were being served up and glasses were being washed and dried. Lizzie watched Cook pull out some dainty jambals from the oven, but their sweet buttery smell made her belly heave. She could not stay there either, so restless had she become, so she loaded a jug of sack-posset and some more drinking cups on a tray and went back up the stairs. As she emerged into the hall, she saw the party already assembled and seated for the play that Lady Emilia had been at such pains to organize.
To Lizzie’s vast relief, both Lady Emilia and Sir Ralph Hetherington were back in the room, although Lady Emilia’s cheeks were red as apples and her eyes glittered with an unusual wildness. Lizzie noticed that the back of Sir Ralph’s breeches were damp with dew and pursed her lips in disapproval. Though she was apt to disapprove of anything Sir Ralph did, simply because he was rich, and careless, and because, like Sir Geoffrey, he treated servants with a detachment that told her they were chattels and not people.
The play began with a fox-like man pretending to be dying and worshipping his stock of gold. Lady Emilia glanced towards Sir Geoffrey. As the play progressed Sir Ralph smiled over to Lady Emilia as if with some amusement. It became clear to the watching Lizzie that they were sharing some kind of private joke at her master’s expense.
For the first time Lizzie wondered what it might be like to be Sir Geoffrey. A strange, unlikeable man, he often spent days alone in his study. The servants were not allowed to touch the bottles and leather pipes and bladders full of odd liquids, so the study was covered in a thick layer of dust. When he was at home, it never seemed as if he was really present. But every now and then he would stalk the house, fly into a rage and lash out. On those days, staff knew to stay below stairs if they did not want a flogging, or to be dismissed with no papers. And there were the disturbing rumours that he was deformed or disfigured in some way; Lizzie shuddered–he was ugly enough without that. She supposed he could have been handsome once, but his complexion was pitted and scarred, and his face was all furrows from frowning.
He looked to be sweating now, his cheeks glistened and he rubbed at his temples and the nape of his neck as if trying to erase invisible smears of dirt. He did not se
em to be taking in the play at all. He was in his own world, a world that seemed to be somewhere near his feet, one he viewed through bleary bloodshot eyes. Lizzie saw him scratch at the back of his knees, then take a small bottle from his breeches and upend it, trickling the contents into his mouth.
In a seat by the window, Emilia’s pointed profile turned once more to look across the room to where Sir Ralph lounged on a wool-work cushioned chair, leaning back with one leg crossed over the other, engrossed in the players’ loud foppish voices. Lizzie’s stomach gave another lurch as she caught sight of Stephen, the young master, staring at his mother with a look of worried attention.
Whilst the revellers at the manor were dining on suckling pig, and clapping at the extraordinary feats of housewifery that had produced a marchpane garden, Margaret walked briskly through the leafy lanes, her wooden clogs making a tap-tapping noise on the cold-hardened ground. She leaned forward as she walked as if following her nose, her movements purposeful and direct, her brown worsted cloak flapping. Her eyes were used to darkness–she was often out and about at night gathering herbs that were best plucked by moonlight, and oft-times she was called out for a birthing in the dim hours between dusk and dawn. Tonight she was on an errand for herself. The harvests were plentiful and the people healthy, so her purse was growing thin, like a dog with worms. She remembered the salve she had sent to Sir Geoffrey Fisk, and today she would collect payment. For she had waited and waited and no errand boy had come.
The cream was efficacious, she knew it. So Margaret reckoned a personal call would bring her a more speedy payment. No gentleman wanted an old crone settling on his doorstep, particularly if he happened to have guests, so he would pay up if only to be rid of her. Margaret was a little tired, for she was not as young as she once was; her bones were starting to creak a little and her fingers were becoming twisted like hawthorn branches. But to give in to infirmity was not Margaret’s way–she had a will of stone and ignored her body’s weak protests, hurrying on, her hood shadowing her face, bony fingers hooked around her travelling bag.
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