Zachary put his misgivings aside. The odds were on his side, with ships lost so recently. And today he was off to France, where the weather would surely be better. And, what was more, he had heard that there was a craze for duelling over there, and he could not wait to try his hand.
Naturally, he hadn’t told his uncle this. Best if he knew as little as possible about his real intentions – no sane man could follow the exhaustive itinerary Leviston had planned. His uncle was to join him next spring in Rome. The daft old fool, he could not resist it – the chance to preach and lecture him in the joys of Latin and the Holy Roman Empire. But Uncle said he did not want to travel home again in the winter months. And who could blame him?
Zachary slammed down the leather blind as a squall of rain hit him in the face. Elspet brushed the wet from her skirt as if he was personally responsible for the weather.
Actually, he rubbed along with Leviston quite well. He’d got used to him. Leviston did not try to father him too much; he did not seem to know how. His idea of affection was to give him the benefit of his learning, and that was quite stimulating. He’d found out things from Leviston he knew little of before – philosophy, rhetoric, history. He looked at Leviston and smiled. The old man patted him on the knee in return. No, Leviston liked an audience, and Zachary had been more than happy to supply one in return for a soft life.
When they reached the docks, an army of men were there to greet them and soon made short work of the luggage.
Leviston filled his ears with last-minute advice. ‘Don’t forget to call on M’sieur Corneille, and give him that sample I showed you.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And you have the second map, the one that shows the—’
‘Yes, yes. It’s all here.’ He patted his satchel.
Leviston clapped him on the shoulder, and then in an awkward lunge reached out to clasp him to his chest. ‘Go safe, my son,’ he whispered.
‘Goodbye, Uncle,’ he said. ‘See you next spring.’
Over his shoulder he saw Elspet looking on with distaste, as if she had swallowed something bitter, before she turned away to feign interest in the stevedores hauling bales of wool on to the pulleys.
‘Say goodbye to your cousin,’ Leviston said to her. He had still not brought himself to tell her that he was his father, much to Zachary’s relief. To be cousin to Elspet Leviston was hard enough, let alone her brother. Especially when the whole damn thing sat on a lie.
‘Goodbye, Cousin Zachary,’ she said stiffly. ‘I hope you will have a safe and speedy crossing.’
Yes, he thought. You cannot wait to have me gone. But he nodded and said, ‘Give my regards to Mr Bradstone.’ It was hard to keep the sting of mockery from his voice.
‘Write,’ said Uncle Leviston. ‘Tell me everything.’ His voice was almost a croak.
‘I will,’ Zachary called as he walked to the stairs. Once aboard he stood on the deck to watch the men loading up the boat with crates of English pottery, cloth and ale. How much lighter the ship would be on its return, loaded only with lace and lavender from Brittany.
Leviston’s cloak flapped in the wind, his white knuckles gripped his hat. His upturned face searched for Zachary in the crowd of those at the rails. Zachary dutifully brought out a kerchief to wave. There were many others on the quayside too, the wives of the officers and crew, all flapping their kerchiefs. Only Elspet was looking down, holding tight to her lace cap with one hand, keeping her hood up over her hair with the other. She stood stoically on the quay like an island. At last they departed. Elspet did not even look up, but turned sharply and headed towards the row of carriages.
For some reason Zachary felt insulted by this, until he caught sight of Leviston. Dear old Uncle. A wave of unexpected emotion caught at his throat. There he was, jogging alongside on the quay, waving his pathetic little rag until he could go no further.
Zachary regained control of himself and breathed a sigh of relief. Freedom! The servant boy came to tell him his cabin was ready, and the ship heeled against the waves. He staggered down to the cabin and peered through the wind-lashed port hole. Nothing but sea. He dismissed the servant and looked around the poky cabin at his fine new luggage, his polished leather arms case. Then he counted his purse, laying out the coinage in neat rows, amazed at his luck. Old Leviston was a good man, right enough. A good man but a fool. With a purse like this in his hand and a trunk of coin, not to mention all of the world at his feet, Uncle Leviston would be lucky if he ever saw him again.
Chapter 11
Elspet waited in the yard. With Zachary gone, the world suddenly seemed a more spacious place. Even the sun peeped out occasionally from behind the chasing clouds.
When the carriage drew up, with its pair of matching bays, she smiled, enjoying the reactions of the servants to this new marvel. For Hugh’s new carriage was indeed a beauty, built from ebonized wood on a red steel frame, and gilded with scrolls and fleurs-de-lis. The metalwork gleamed in the sun. Inside, it was furnished in luxury with comfortable goosefeather cushions. She congratulated herself; Hugh Bradstone was a man who, unlike Father, would not stint.
Even better, he had supplied a luxurious quantity of furs. Martha’s eyes almost popped. There were sheepskins for under their feet and felt-cloth wraps lined in soft patched rabbitskin. Such ostentation would never have been contemplated by Father, unless it was for Cousin Zachary, of course. She quashed a stab of envy at Zachary’s good fortune and his uncanny ability to persuade Father to open his coffers.
Once in the carriage she chided herself for her uncharitable feelings, and counted her blessings – Zachary was on his way to France, and though she would never admit it to Father, she was heartily glad he was gone. Poor Father, she had left him grey-faced, roaming the house, picking things up and putting them down again as though unsure how he would occupy his time. She hoped Zachary would write as he had promised.
Hugh climbed in after checking that all was well with the horses. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Quite,’ she said, as though she had been used to it all her life. She made up her mind to enjoy it all. It still held a slight unreality for her that she was to be married to this stranger, Hugh, who was even now smiling fondly at her from the opposite seat. His admiration for her was puzzling. He could have chosen someone dainty and pretty, the sort of girl who knew nothing of ledgers and never asked where the lace that trimmed her bonnet came from. Yet, instead, he had chosen her.
She glanced at him as the carriage moved off, at his even, sharply chiselled features and his well-cut breeches and doublet. She was curious as to what he was thinking. She wondered idly if he liked to read, or to play cards. Behind the façade of his good looks and his obvious good-standing in business, she knew little about him. But then she had noticed the same of all men, even Father. No matter how hard she tried, it seemed as though she fell into a void when she asked Father anything personal, as if she were asking him a conundrum he could not solve. Was it the same with all men? She was pondering this when Hugh smiled at her and pointed through the window.
‘Look. They are ploughing manure into those sets already.’
She looked out. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, craning her neck as the ploughman receded from view. Though the wind was brisk, the sun gave a little tingling warmth to the side of her face. The journey took them into the countryside and it was delightful to see the little dabs of purple vetch in the verges, the tangle of dog-roses in the hedgerows. It was only then that she realized how free she felt without Father’s criticizing presence. She stretched her lungs in a long, deep breath. Perhaps, after all, she would enjoy her new life in Yorkshire.
The Jameses had a house by the river in Putney, close by the city, where after dinner the party could watch the craft go by on the Thames. Elspet had the disconcerting impression that Mr and Mrs James were weighing her up with every move she made, and it turned her awkward and somewhat ill-at-ease, though she was sure they meant to be kind. Their house was highly polished.
Everything was mint-new, with the plasterwork barely dry and not a speck of dust daring to make an appearance.
After dinner she and the mistress of the house, Amelia, retired to the marquetry-panelled parlour. Elspet examined with interest some flys Amelia was tying for Mr James’s sport-fishing. She had a batch of tiny pigeon and woodpecker feathers in a hand-sized basket and showed her how she used small, bent wire hooks to fix them together in layers of grey and spotted.
‘They are so pretty,’ Elspet said. ‘It seems such a pity to waste them on a fish.’
‘True. I have a friend who has a sweet little bag covered in white swan-feathers, overlapped so –’ and Amelia spaced a few out in a spiral shape. ‘See. Though persuading them to lie flat is a lot of work, mind.’
‘But worth the effort perhaps.’
They sipped at the warmed malmsey wine. Elspet tried to think of a suitable topic of conversation.
‘Are you—?’ They both spoke together.
‘When are you two to be married?’ asked Amelia.
‘Oh, later in the summer, I think. The date has not yet been fixed.’
‘Hugh is a sweet man,’ Amelia said. Elspet picked up a slight sneer in her tone, as if she did not really think so at all. ‘And he clearly dotes on you.’ Elspet found herself blushing. ‘But I feel I should tell you. You are not the first.’
‘I did not expect I was. I know he’s been married before.’
‘No, you silly. I mean he has been engaged twice since. Both times his father put his foot down. Said the girl was not good enough for his son.’
‘But—’
And now Amelia leaned in, her eyes greedy, determined to tell her every last detail.
‘Did you not wonder why he has not married again? Why, he is over thirty! His mother tried her best, poor soul, but what can she do? She despairs of ever having a grandchild. Such a sad thing.’
‘I haven’t met his parents yet. We are to go –’ She paused and looked over her shoulder. There was a disturbance in the hall. Amelia rose and put down the feather fly she was holding.
But before she reached the door, it burst open and Hugh hurried in. He grabbed hold of Elspet’s hands. ‘Elspet, your father . . . I think it might be best if I take you home.’
‘What?’ She peered out of the door, not understanding, half expecting to see Father there, but she saw only Broadbank, the groom; he was panting, with gobs of mud on his face and boots. ‘Come in, Broadbank,’ she called. ‘What’s the matter? Is he all right?’
‘No, mistress. I mean, I rode as fast as I could, and the physician’s with him, but—’
‘Tell me what happened.’ She said this whilst Martha was already taking her by the arm into the hall and hustling her back into her cloak.
Broadbank followed after her. ‘He went to see Goodwife Bainbridge and fell down all of a sudden; she had to send for the physician and they’re bringing him home. The boy says –’ Here he swallowed, and his lips worked but no sound came. She waited for the words to come. ‘Sorry, mistress.’
She had no time to take this in. She let herself be moved like a puppet. Martha bustled her into the coach. Amelia James thrust her gloves through the window after her, where they landed on the floor. Hugh instructed the driver to push the horses and they lurched away through the darkening lanes back towards the Convent Garden. Nobody spoke. Hugh stared morosely out of the window as if uncertain what to say.
The black shadows of trees flashed past; the carriage jolted over the rutted track until she winced. One deep hole jounced her up so that she landed heavily and bit her tongue. She tasted blood as it flowed into her mouth but staunched it on her knuckles. Martha found her other hand and took hold of it, squeezing it tight as if to wring the pain away.
It was as if she was somehow suspended in a purgatory where the journey would never end, with the clatter of the wheels turning and the cracking of the coachman’s whip in the looming dusk.
Amelia’s words ran in her head too, like scattering mice at harvest when the scythe’s coming. The idea of Hugh and other women had never crossed her mind. How ridiculous to be thinking of this at this time, when her father needed her. When finally she spied the lights of West View House, she almost wept with relief.
The carriage pulled up outside the house but the door was already standing open. She hardly waited for the wheels to stop before she was leaning out of the window trying to open the door. Broadbank, who had been galloping alongside all the way, wrenched it open and she half tumbled out and hurried within.
Before she had even crossed the threshold, she knew that Father was dead.
The servants were lined up in the hall, their faces grave. She had never seen them like this, and the passage was full of people. They bowed or curtseyed as she went past, and gestured silently upstairs. She ascended the stairs slowly now, quelling the desire to rush lest it seem disrespectful. She heard Martha sniffing behind her, but did not turn.
Father was laid out in his chamber still fully dressed. It was odd to see him lying on the bed with his best shoes still on, his good robe folded to cover his knees, his hands crossed over his chest. His white ruff pushed his beard up in a way she knew he would not like.
Hugh’s head appeared around the door. ‘Would you like—’
‘Go away.’ Her voice sounded angry. She entreated him, ‘Please, leave us alone.’ Mercifully he went.
Goodwife Tyrwhitt from down the street got up from the dark recess in the corner and bowed her head.
‘Was he shriven before . . .?’ Elspet could not yet say the word.
‘No, mistress. He was not.’
‘Where is the physician?’
‘We let him go, mistress. We had to, seeing as there was nothing more he could do, and someone came galloping for a woman in childbed. He didn’t suffer, mistress. By all accounts he fell clutching his heart and it was mercifully quick. Won’t you sit, mistress? We can pray together. We didn’t know whether to fetch the parson, but we ordered the sexton to toll the bell.’
‘No,’ she said, rallying herself to give orders. ‘No parson. I will arrange for prayers with one of Father’s friends.’
She nodded, as though expecting it. ‘But for now, will you pray with me?’
Elspet moved away and knelt, and Goodwife Tyrwhitt got to her knees beside her.
She could not say the words. She heard them in her head, what she should say. ‘Credo in Spiritum Sanctum, sanctam Ecclesiam Catholicam, sanctorum communionem, remissionem peccatorum; carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam . . .’
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, life eternal. She heard the sound of a dog whining downstairs.
St Joseph’s bells began to toll to sanctify him, to ward off the spirits that might delay his flying soul. The sound of the passing bell was loud and terrible. She clapped her hands over her ears but it kept on tolling, as if to drum his passing into her head. His face was still and white and unmoving, despite the terrible din. It was then she knew he was gone, and she bent her head and wept.
Chapter 12
Father’s funeral two days later was overshadowed by the memorial for Bainbridge’s masters and ships’ crews, held on exactly the same day. Most of Father’s friends, anxious to watch the ghoulish entertainment of the sensation of the week, had decided to forgo his funeral and to go to the memorial service instead. So it was a depleted and sorry company that gathered to say their farewells and witness her father’s final interment in the family vault.
Elspet had written to Joan that morning. She imagined her sister’s sad face when she received the news. And she knew she must write to Zachary, Father would wish it, but at that time she felt she could not bear it. Besides, there was no urgency. Zachary was surely in France by now and could not have been reached in time to see Father laid to rest.
It was slow progress to the church with their sprigs of laurel and ivy. Of course the su
n shone mercilessly that day. There were not enough men turned out to carry the bier, Father’s coffin being made of walnut and heavy. Wilmot, the overseer from the warehouse, stepped forth, as did Greeting, Father’s lawyer friend. Embarrassed, she went to ask Broadbank the groom and Greeting’s manservant to act as the other pallbearers, unsuitably apparelled though they were.
Martha hurried to give them black gloves. They struggled to carry him forth, as Greeting had some infirmity and kept saying it really needed six, and they had to rest awhile every hundred yards. She thought they would never get there.
At the church, Hugh was waiting in coal-black velvet with ribbons and a ruff starched to a knife-edge. He looked askance at the hastily assembled bier and the struggling pallbearers, and steered her down the aisle into the cold damp belly of the church. He opened the wooden gate and they slid into their family box pew, the pew they were obliged to keep by law.
He whispered to her, ‘So few?’
She whispered back, ‘The memorial service for Bainbridge’s crews.’
‘Oh. I see.’
The service was mercifully brief. She suspected it would have been longer had there been more in the pews. The sermon passed in a daze. She felt exposed in her front box with Hugh and she could almost feel the whispers on the back of her neck. She was under no illusions – the colleagues and servants who had pulled out their black wool and weepers to see Father buried were really there to get a glimpse of her future husband who would soon be in control of his estate.
When they arrived home, Martha had arranged full mourning duty so there were black gloves for all, which lay unused in a large heap on the hall table. Cakes and ale filled the board in the dining hall, yet even fewer came back to West View House for the repast. Mr Tenter, the mercer, had gone, and of Greeting there was no sign. The handful of mourners hovered around the laden tables picking at the food. No other relations were present, and few neighbours. Father would have been distressed to see it.
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