by Deryn Lake
‘In Greek Street, Ma’am. At Madame Sophie’s. She is French and came over with the Huguenots. Or at least her family did.’
Elizabeth gave a deep sigh. ‘I obviously miss much by keeping myself away from the capital.’
‘I can lend her to you,’ said Lady Sidmouth, somewhat patronizingly.
‘I don’t think that will be possible, Lady Sidmouth,’ Jemima answered, sweet but firm. ‘Madame Sophie is expecting me back in two weeks and I have a great deal of work to do here.’ She turned to John. ‘It was nice to see you again, Mr Rawlings.’
‘And you, Miss Lovell.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘May I have a word with you in private?’
‘Yes, by all means. When and where?’
But he never got the chance to answer her. Elizabeth was at his side, dark hair gleaming and eyes lit from within.
‘Come along, my dear,’ she said. ‘We really must be getting back.’
‘I’ve a question to put to Miss Lovell first. I was going to ask her in private but as we are so short of time I will have to forgo that.’
Jemima stood her ground. ‘Ask me then, Sir.’
‘It’s this: Had you met anyone on the coach before you started your journey?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, somewhat surprisingly. ‘I knew the actress, Paulina Gower. She buys hats from Madame Sophie. We had met before.’
‘And that was all?’
Jemima lowered her eyes. ‘Yes, that was all. The rest were complete strangers to me.’
Why did John get the strong impression that the girl was lying?
Going back in the carriage John knew a moment of intense happiness as he thought that just for once he had the better of Elizabeth. This was followed by instant shame that he should be so childish. Yet nothing could take away his delight that she had actually appeared jealous of Jemima Lovell, who admittedly was an attractive young creature. He glanced across at the Marchesa and impulsively took her hand. She turned to him and smiled and in that instant he suddenly feared for her. She looked tired and it occurred to John that this pregnancy, coming so late in her life, was going to be a great ordeal, culminating in a labour that surely would not be easy for her.
‘My darling,’ he said, ‘you must retire to bed as soon as we get back.’
‘Nonsense,’ Elizabeth answered roundly. ‘It is the height of the day. I shall dine as usual. Indeed I am quite hungry.’
‘Promise me that you will retire early then.’
‘My God, John. You are not going to turn into a grandmother are you? I really could not abide being nursemaided. I warn you that I shall continue to live my life as usual until the last possible moment.’
The Apothecary gave a rueful smile. ‘And when will that be? When you go into travail I suppose.’
She smiled and squeezed his fingers. ‘Maybe a week before,’ she answered. And John knew that even if he remained with her for the rest of his life she would eventually be capable of winning every point.
Six
John woke early the next morning. Beside him Elizabeth slept quietly, her dark hair spread over the pillow, one hand curling up delicately, like a water lily. She was turned away from him and did not stir as he rose and crossed to the window, drawing the curtains back slightly to look out over the early daylight vista. Below him the river Exe wound its serpentine way through the valley and looking to his right he could see the city of Exeter dominated by its great cathedral. Standing there silently John knew that he must go there today and seek out the Constable, that he could not let the matter of the murder of William Gorringe drop as any other citizen would. That all his years of working with Sir John Fielding and Joe Jago had altered his thinking indelibly. With a sigh at his own folly, John went into the dressing room and put on his clothes.
Having breakfasted alone he went back to the bedroom to find the Marchesa awake but looking slightly pale.
‘How are you today, Madam?’ he asked, and kissed her hand.
‘To be perfectly honest I feel a little unwell. I think I shall stay here awhile.’
‘I told you yesterday you looked tired.’
‘And I told you that I will not be nursemaided.’
John looked at Elizabeth very seriously. ‘You do want to carry this baby to term, don’t you?’
She gave him a beautiful smile and instantly seemed young and fresh again. ‘Of course I do. I longed for another child when my son died and now to have one by an attractive and clever man is more than I could have hoped for.’
‘Then take the pregnancy with care, sweetheart. Allow me to go to an apothecary in Exeter and get you some physic.’
She took his hand. ‘I am sorry if I sounded ungracious just now — and yesterday as well. It is just that I cannot bear fuss. But you are right. I am old indeed to be having a child and I must take that into consideration. I will do as you say, Apothecary, and rest.’
John thought that he had never known her so compliant and decided to utilize his advantage. Leaning over, he kissed her.
‘I will order the servants to bring you your breakfast in bed. And I shall go into Exeter if I may borrow one of your horses.’
She burst out laughing. ‘I knew there was method in your madness. Choose any beast you like. By the way your hired mount has been returned by one of my grooms.’
‘Thank you for that. I won’t be long,’ he said, heading for the door.
‘And you ought to pay your respects to Sir Clovelly Lovell while you are in town.’
‘I shall make a point of it.’
‘And you are to give him my kindest regards.’
‘Of course.’
A quarter of an hour later and he was in the saddle and heading for Exeter at a brisk trot, wondering just how best to organize what seemed like a very busy time ahead. He decided to leave his visit to Sir Clovelly till last and to make his pursuit of the Constable his first priority. But as fate would have it his entire plan had to be shelved because on entering Exeter one of the first things John saw was a hand bill advertising a prizefight between Gentleman Jack McAra and the Black Pyramid. Fascinated, he drew nearer and saw that the bout was to take place that very afternoon. Knowing instantly who would love to accompany him, John turned his horse in the direction of The Close and the home of that dear little fat man of whom the Apothecary had grown extremely fond over the years.
He found Sir Clovelly at home, sitting in his garden in the September sunshine and partaking of a little cordial and some sweetmeats. He looked up as John was shown in by a servant, his face registering anger at being disturbed, followed by a quick rush of recognition and joy.
‘My dear boy,’ he said, attempting to struggle to his feet, an attempt that John quickly stopped. ‘I cannot believe my eyes. What are you doing here? What an incredibly pleasant surprise.’
John bowed with deference. ‘As it is for me, Sir. And to answer your question, I am here visting the Marchesa but made it one of my first priorities to call on you.’
‘And how delighted I am that you did so. Sit down, John, and have a sherry, do. I do not receive company as often as I once used.’
The apothecary’s heart bled for him as he saw a lonely old man peering out of his fat, jolly face.
‘I was wondering if you would accompany me to a prizefight this afternoon, Sir,’ he said, making his voice sound excessively cheerful. ‘Truth to tell I am on my own and would be honoured if you would consider accompanying me.’
Sir Clovelly visibly perked up. ‘A fight, eh? I love a good mill. When is it to take place?’
‘At two o’clock.’
‘Ah, just time for a little light luncheon beforehand.’
‘Then I take it you will come?’
‘I shall be glad of an outing, my dear John. And I thank you for inviting me.’
‘It is entirely my pleasure.’
Sir Clovelly’s idea of a light meal was what other people would regard as a small banquet. John, who had breakfasted well, found himself refusi
ng several courses leading to the inevitable questions as to why he was off his food.
‘I am not, Sir, I can assure you. It is just that I am not used to eating at this hour of the day. I prefer to dine at night.’
‘Oh, I do that as well, don’t you know. Of course the damn doctors tell me to cut down but I find food such a great consolation, eating such an enjoyable pastime.’
Once again the Apothecary was struck by the pathos of the man and he determined at that moment to ask Sir Clovelly if he would stand as godparent to the unborn child. But how to broach the subject? John cleared his throat.
‘Sir, I wonder if I might ask you a favour?’
Sir Clovelly paused, a wing of fowl halfway to his mouth.
‘Certainly, my boy. Ask away.’
John hedged. ‘Have you seen the Marchesa recently?’
‘No, can’t say that I have. I really must call. How is the dear girl?’
‘Actually that is what I want to talk to you about.’
‘Why? She ain’t ill, is she?’
John actually blushed, a deep uncomfortable red. ‘No, she’s perfectly alright. The fact of the matter is that she is with child.’
Sir Clovelly put down the piece of chicken and gazed at John with small twinkling eyes.
‘And I’ll wager she still won’t marry you.’
There was a momentary silence, during which the two men stared at one another, Sir Clovelly brimming with bonhomie. It was too much for the Apothecary who felt the start of a smile twitch at his lips. The next second he was grinning like a schoolboy caught committing a prank.
‘You’re quite correct,’ he said. ‘She won’t. Society will surely close its doors to her as a result.’
‘Now there you are wrong,’ Sir Clovelly answered, resuming his consumption of food. ‘Elizabeth is too powerful in her own right to merit such treatment. She is rich and she is charming. Maybe one or two of the more stuffy families will cut her but the rest of her friends will remain loyal, you mark my words.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘Of course I am right.’ Sir Clovelly finished his piece of chicken and wiped his hands. ‘And, my dear boy, can you imagine Elizabeth in London? Can you imagine her as the wife of — forgive me — an apothecary? She is too free a spirit, too wild a soul, to be so constrained. The best thing you can do is to accept the fact of your forthcoming fatherhood with joy and see your child as often as is possible.’
John nodded. ‘It’s a bitter pill to swallow but I agree with you. I know that she would never settle down in the capital. But yet I had a glimmer of hope…’
‘Best forgotten,’ interrupted Sir Clovelly. He looked at his watch, fishing for it in a lower pocket of his coat which strained at bursting point over his extremely ample stomach. ‘What time did you say this bout was?’
‘At two o’clock, Sir.’
‘Then we’d best depart.’ And with a great deal of effort Sir Clovelly struggled to his feet.
The fight was scheduled to take place in a field slightly west of the High Street. John, entering the arena, felt quite overcome with excitement for the place was alive with every kind of trader, every booth, every hawker, that it was possible to imagine.
It seemed that the whole of Exeter — or at least a goodly proportion of its citizens — had decided to make this event a holiday, for the field was packed with people. Tall men of Devon walked with their round, rosy wives while children, shouting excitedly, played games of catch and blindman’s-buff. There were stalls selling household goods, trinkets and sweetmeats, to say nothing of gloves, haberdashery, and one devoted entirely to ribbons and trimmings. There was delicious marchpane together with sugar cakes on sale, one of which Sir Clovelly bought, munching it with much relish and smacking of lips.
‘Is it good?’ asked John, smiling at him fondly.
‘It’s made of rose water and oranges. I think I’ll take some home. They are very light and enjoyable.’
In the middle of the field a piece had been cordoned off and it was here that the two men were going to fight. But there was another quarter of an hour before the bout was scheduled. The Apothecary, his spirits raised high by the general buzz and excitement, wandered to a booth in front of which children sat on the grass, watching marionettes acting out a story of knights and dragons. In his fond imaginings he could see Rose sitting with a little sister — or could it possibly be a brother? — beside her, watching with large eyes and a toss of flame-coloured hair as a very realistic dragon roared at a brave knight. Happily, he wandered on. And then he stopped dead in his tracks because coming towards him was that Exeter solicitor, Martin Meadows with, of all people, the sensible Lucinda Silverwood. Standing directly in their path, John gave a fulsome bow.
‘Good afternoon. What a surprise to see you both. Greetings, Madam, I trust your daughter is well?’
Looking slightly flustered, Lucinda curtseyed. ‘She has not yet had her child, thank you Mr Rawlings. I thought I would have some time to myself while I could.’
Meadows gave a laugh that to John’s ears sounded somewhat guilty. ‘We met here by chance and I asked Mrs Silverwood if she would accompany me.’
‘Quite so,’ the Apothecary replied smoothly. ‘I take it you have both heard the news of Gorringe’s murder?’
‘Indeed we have. The Constable called at my office this morning.’
‘And he tracked me down yesterday evening. My daughter was quite alarmed, I can tell you.’
‘I wonder if he has been so lucky finding the rest of the travellers.’
‘I wonder indeed,’ said Meadows, looking a little bleak.
There was a call from the area in the middle of the field. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, the fight will begin in three minutes.’
Excusing himself, John went to stand with Sir Clovelly amongst the crowd of onlookers. Glancing round, the Apothecary could not help but notice the young blades of Exeter packed in little groups on either side of the home-made ring. Dressed very finely, their breeches tight and their coats cut back, displaying excellent thighs and interesting bulges, they all had stylish tricornes on their heads and many sported diamond pins in the folds of their cravats. Thinking that he must pay some attention to his wardrobe when he returned to London, John saw that Mrs Silverwood stood several rows back beside the mild-mannered Martin Meadows.
Nathaniel Broome stepped into the ring and announced in a surprisingly loud voice, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the Black Pyramid.’
‘Indeed you may,’ shouted one young beau and during the ensuing rumble of laughter, the Negro climbed into the arena.
He was stripped to the waist and wearing only a pair of black tights, and John gazed in frank admiration at the beauty of the man’s body. He gleamed like polished oak, in fact he seemed almost incandescent as he flexed his muscles, his torso rippling like a waterfall. His shoulders were so broad and strong that he resembled a dark god that had come down from Mount Olympus to play amongst the mortals. John could not remember ever seeing such a healthy specimen. Yet the Black Pyramid was not young, probably about forty or maybe a year or two older.
A roar went up from the crowd as he walked round the ring with his arms raised aloft. Then another man, very bald and somewhat rat-faced, stepped up beside him.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray welcome Gentleman Jack McAra.’
There was an even louder cheer as Gentleman Jack leapt into the ring in a sprightly fashion and cavorted before the crowd. Looking at him through narrowed eyes John decided to place a bet on the Black Pyramid, for McAra was frankly running to fat and appeared generally out of condition. He turned to Sir Clovelly.
‘Do you fancy a wager, Sir?’
‘I do indeed. I’ll put a guinea on Gentleman Jack.’
‘And I’ll see you. I think the Black Pyramid is going to win. Will you take the bet?’
‘I most certainly will,’ answered Sir Clovelly, and rubbed his chubby hands together.
/> There were clearly a great many wagers changing hands for it seemed that McAra was known in the neighbourhood and had a particularly lethal punch. But John, surveying both candidates, felt certain that he had made the right choice and smiled to himself, ready to be entertained.
The fight opened with a flurry of blows to the black man’s head, all of which he seemed to shake off as if a fly was buzzing round him. He stretched out his magnificent long arms and landed several buffets to McAra’s body which, John imagined, must have hurt tremendously. And so it went on. The two men straining and crunching their naked, bony fists into the body of the other, protecting their heads but unable to avoid the hits that were coming towards them.
It seemed to the Apothecary that McAra was getting the worst of it, for though he admittedly had a cruel punch he was getting more and more out of breath and was sweating profusely.
The Black Pyramid glistened with perspiration which he wiped off during the interval between rounds. John, observing him closely, saw that he had a faraway look in his eyes and realized that the black man was in a world of his own, that nothing mattered to him except finishing off his opponent. That, in that sense, he was a born fighter.
The end came swiftly. Gentleman Jack threw a splintering punch, so loud that one could hear his fingers cracking on the Black Pyramid’s head. This clearly hurt the black man for with a roar he turned on his assailant and swung a blow to his jaw which made him drop in his tracks. The man in charge counted Jack out swiftly and raised a long black arm to the public. The Pyramid had won.
John turned to Sir Clovelly Lovell who was looking slightly downcast.
‘I think you owe me a guinea, Sir.’
‘Yes, my boy, I believe I do.’
‘Thank you. Now, would you mind excusing me for a moment? There are some people I must talk to.’
John hurried over to where Mrs Silverwood and Mr Martin were wandering away round the fair. He bowed.
‘An excellent fight, was it not?’
‘It was indeed.’
John addressed himself to the solicitor. ‘My dear sir, if you should recall anything further that the late Mr Gorringe said to you I wonder if you would be good enough to contact me. I am staying at present with Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi.’
