‘It is bleak, your philosophy,’ says Wilkins. ‘It gives self-interest a primacy.’
‘Men give self-interest a primacy, Mr Wilkins. I simply question whether that is a destructive force or a constructive one. I exempt you men of natural philosophy,’ he says with a courtly bow, ‘from all accusations of self-interest. I knew a man at Gray’s Inn who devoted all his spare time, when we students were after pleasures of the flesh or the bottle, in studying the habits of beetles. He cannot have enjoyed such a pastime, so I defer to his noble pursuit of human knowledge at the expense of his very human pleasures.’
‘No, Nedham,’ says Will. ‘You are wrong. If a man spends his time studying beetles, it is because he loves the beetles. You may not understand it, but he is entirely self-interested in his pursuit and therefore reinforces your argument. His self-interest is necessary to the expansion of human knowledge.’
‘Is human knowledge enriched by understanding the mating cycle of beetles? No, Johnson, I will not quibble. For the central tenet of your argument is that I am in the right, and that is an argument to which I will always subscribe.’
Wilkins is smiling at them both like a benevolent uncle. ‘All additions to human knowledge are an enrichment, Mr Nedham,’ he says. ‘Be it the mating of beetles or the oscillations of planets. Gentlemen, let me buy you another pot of this excellent coffee, and we will wrangle some more.’
In the darkness, Patience thinks of the distance between her and Sam, and the slow turn of the moon. She thinks of the dark Pool of London, where the ships of the world jostle for moorings. The soft slurping of the Thames as it hits the wood and the stones of the foreshore. The babble of sailors in one hundred tongues, and unintelligible in all of them.
She thinks of the river as it leaves London behind. The hulk of the Tower growing fainter, and the smell lessening with the noise. The flattening out of the land and the astonishing quickness with which London fades away. The strangeness of the estuary; its flat greyness, and the wild cries of the birds that live there. And there, the sea that separates them. A dark and inky blue, with a moon path shining silver. Beckoning her away from England. Towards him. Retreating each time she gets closer.
Is Sam thinking of her? Or is he with a woman?
She thinks of him with someone else. His languorous smile hanging over another woman’s skin as she – the harlot – lies back and closes her eyes.
There is a kind of exquisite pain in thinking of it.
The empty bed is wide and cool.
Today, Sidrach is coming home.
Eventually she gives up all pretence of sleep. There is sufficient glimmering light to allow her to rise. She walks down to the kitchen. Tom is kneeling by the fire, coaxing last night’s embers into a new flame. She watches him, while he is unaware of her presence. He has been happy in the two months they have been here alone. Sarah, that malevolent eye, has not been here. Her sister died while her employers were on the Continent, leaving a husband and five small children. Much to Patience’s relief, Sarah has been absent, playing mother. Patience hopes she is keeping her brother-in-law’s bed warm, too. It will lessen the chance of her returning, with her sour sabotage of a face.
Tom has been known to sing while he polishes the silver. He has smiled at small things – a kitten he found in the alley behind the house, a compliment from Patience, the bright spring sun on his face.
But now, with Sidrach’s return imminent, he is quiet and somehow smaller. Well done, Sidrach, she thinks. This is the mark of a true tyrant – your shadow is as deadening as your presence.
The fire is built now, and the boy slings the pot in place above the flames to boil.
‘Tom,’ she says softly.
He turns quickly and tries to smile.
‘Come sit with me a while,’ she says.
‘But . . . but . . .’ He waves helplessly at the kitchen. There is much to be done before the master arrives, looking to find fault.
‘He will not be here until this afternoon. We have time. I will help you.’
He nods solemnly and walks to the table, sliding on to the bench.
‘We have been happy, Tom, have we not?’
‘Yes, missus.’
‘And now . . . now . . .’ She falters. ‘Tom, I am looking for a new place for you. My brother—’
‘No, missus.’ He raises his voice. ‘You do not want me?’
‘I do. I do, Tom. But you are not safe here.’
‘You neither, missus,’ he says. He sticks his chin up defiantly. Looks her in the eye.
‘My place is here, Tom. But you are not so bound.’
‘I am bound to you, missus.’
‘Tom,’ she says. ‘You will still see me. I must insist on this. I will manage it with Sidrach. You will go to my brother’s house today.’
He looks wild, frightened. She had not expected this reaction. She thought he would be relieved to escape this house. The Lord knows she would be. How she hates it. The heavy dark furniture. The shrouded curtains. The imprint of misery in every stitch of fabric, every rush, every shadow.
‘Can I stay for a small while, missus? I will leave next week, if I must. I would not leave you on the first day.’
She nods, knowing herself too easily persuaded. Is it so weak to want to have her ally close for a little while longer?
He smiles, clearly relieved.
‘How do you bear it, missus?’ he asks, in such a rush that the words blend together. ‘The master, I mean.’
She pauses. ‘I do not know. Perhaps I bear it because I must. But . . .’ She does not know how to word her reply. She does not like to speak of Sidrach, of the tactics she uses to keep her soul unspliced by him. But she loves little Tom – that love born from a desire to protect, to nourish. And love makes its own demands.
So she says: ‘There are those I love, Tom. My brother. My sisters. My parents. You.’ Sam! Oh my beloved. ‘To them, I willingly, gladly offer a piece of my soul.’
‘Me, missus?’ He looks at her, wide-eyed. She reaches a hand across the table and takes his. The simple gesture seems to push him over the edge. Tears brim and begin to fall down his coal- tracked cheek.
‘You. So, Tom. The tyrant. He can mark me. He can torment me. He can make me miserable. But he cannot take a single bite, a single chunk from my soul. Because souls belong to Jesus, the light of love. And souls can only be offered in love; not taken in spite.’
He smiles at her. She feels courageous, taller. The words are making her brave. And it is just possible that they may even be true.
The morning after his meeting with Wilkins, which stretched late into the night, Will wanders London in a demi-haze. He finds his heart is beating faster. Perhaps it is the coffee. Or perhaps it is the awakening of his soul, he thinks, before laughing at his own pomposity.
Wilkins told them of a club he has founded in Oxford, for the examination of natural philosophy. It is an experimental club that seeks to use method and reason together to deepen understanding of natural phenomena. It has London members too, who cluster around the Royalist doctor Charles Scarborough. A fine mathematician, according to Mr Wilkins.
Could he join? Is he good enough? Clever enough?
He must try to catch up with where he left off. How many more books have there been since Henrietta died? How many discoveries? He has been standing weeping on the bank while the river rushes past unheeding.
He finds himself, unthinking, in St Paul’s churchyard. The book-sellers’ quarter. It is where he used to meet Henrietta before they were married. For a long time he has tried to avoid it, finding the memories too grating.
There is the wall on which they would sit and talk. He can almost picture her there, enthusiastic about something she has read, her hands waving in emphasis. It is, he finds, a comforting image. There is not the violent lurch of pain he expected.
As if to test his new resilience – like probing a splinter with a needle – he walks to their favourite book-seller. They came here bef
ore they were married and after. She even worked here, for a while, when she was alone in London after her father’s death. Hidden in the back stacks where she would not frighten the customers.
Later she would bring Blackberry here, and whisper to him of the treasures he would know when he was older. Tales of deserts and seas. Poems of love and loss.
Stars, Will would say. Blackberry will read books about the stars.
He will read what he will read, she would say.
She would squeeze his arm quickly, in case he was wounded. Bury her nose in Blackberry’s neck. Squeal, suddenly, at a new title, sitting uncut and pristine, and waiting for her to pounce on it.
Lord, it smells the same. Of ink and paper. Of the dust that settles on the leaves. He feels a familiar flicker of pleasure – and this is not a memory, but a real sensation. A present and future pleasure.
Mr Rowan, the book-seller, rushes forward.
‘Mr Johnson. Mr Johnson. Such an age since we saw you last. What a pleasure this is. And how is your boy? Young Richard?’
‘He is well, I thank you, Mr Rowan. It is good to be here.’
‘And it is good to see you here again, Mr Johnson. I have some wonderful works in. One in particular that made me think of . . .’ He trails off.
‘Henrietta?’ says Will, and the man’s face looks relieved that her name could so easily trip from Will’s tongue. He nods.
‘Thank you. I will look at them. There is a particular book I would like, however. John Wilkins. Mathematical Magick?’
‘Yes, yes! It is in the back. I will just fetch it,’ says Mr Rowan, and bumbles off into the stacks.
Will stands and breathes. He lets the memories swirl like dust, and when they settle, he is smiling.
LONDON
July 1655
SIDRACH SITS WITH A PROPRIETORIAL AIR. HIS LEGS ARE spread, his feet planted wide. He drums his fingers on the armrest, and lifts his chin as he surveys his domain. The kitchen should be hers, her refuge. But here he is, for no reason she can think of, except his desire to irritate. To spray himself across her tiny fragment of space, like a vicious tomcat.
‘Well now,’ he says. ‘Well.’
A space in his words: it makes her feel as if she is falling forwards with her hands tied behind her back.
‘You have not hired a maid to replace Sarah.’
‘I did not see the need, husband. Not with Sarah only gone temporarily. Tom and I shifted for ourselves.’
‘Tom and I? Tom and I, is it?’
‘I meant only—’
‘I do not need your instruction in what you meant, Patience. I know very well what you meant.’
‘I beg pardon, husband.’
‘Write to Sarah. Ascertain her intentions. I will hire a new maid if necessary.’
She nods.
‘It took you some time to secure my passport,’ he says.
‘I . . . I applied directly. These things. I did what I . . .’ She mumbles on.
‘Well, I am here now. What news is there? What of the villain?’
The villain? It takes her fear-spliced mind a pace to catch up.
‘Cromwell?’
‘Of course Cromwell. You are foolish, Patience. I had forgotten. Well? What news? Will must keep you supplied with information.’
‘You heard of Penruddock’s rising? The Royalists did not get very far. He has arrested some merchants for importing arms. He has legislated against Quakers and Ranters – those who contest his notion of free worship.’
She had thought the news would rile him. Instead he smiles, and rubs his hands with exaggerated smugness.
‘He digs his own grave, does Cromwell. Dig, dig, sir!’
‘I do not understand you, husband.’
‘No, of course you do not. Perhaps you think I came back for your company, Patience. The joy of our connubial bliss. Perhaps you think that your empty, pointless womb was enough to tear me away from those people of quality I found on the Continent.’
He seems to find this notion deeply amusing. She can feel a prickle of sadness welling behind her eyes. She turns on herself. Do not cry. Do not let him make you cry.
She will not ask him why he has come. She will not fill his expectant pause.
‘Are you hungry, Sidrach?’
He nods assent, and she bustles to find the cheese and the new soft bread. She reaches for the jug of small beer. It is empty.
‘Shall I get some more from the back, missus?’ Tom is at her elbow, suddenly, like a solemn sprite.
She nods, and hands him the jug. ‘Quickly,’ she whispers. He understands, the Lord bless him. The trick is to give Sidrach nothing to seize upon. The trick is to be muffled in word and deed. A shadow.
She covers the absence of the small beer with a pantomime search for pickles. She breaks her own rules – she is loud and clumsy in her movements to cover Tom scuttling away with a jug that should be kept full. Sidrach is too absorbed in his myth-making to notice their pathetic mumming.
‘The Lady Norton was most gracious to me as I left, Patience. Said that I would be heartily missed. Promised to read the tracts I gave her.’
She glances at his handsome, smug face as she sets down the jar. Imagines him smirking at some bored aristocrat. Imagines the soft temper of his voice as he promises brimstone but implies oh-so-lightly that he alone can deflect the wrath of the Lord. The spirit working through him. The sucking, seductive pull of his dark eyes.
She sits down next to him, hoping he will not notice the empty glass.
‘Oh yes, Patience. I found some spirits to match mine, even among those who gather about the false king. Spirits sickened by the man who calls himself our protector. Protector! He should look to himself, Patience. Protect himself!’
He leans back into the chair, delighted with himself. She smiles – it seems called for.
Tom comes back, carrying the heavy jug. She silently pleads with him not to spill a drop; not to merit Sidrach’s eye upon him. Smoothly he comes over and pours out a measure. There is something awry about Tom, but she cannot pin it down. A sort of pugnaciousness, as if he has moved beyond fear and into some state beyond. She hopes that her husband will not notice and test this new Tom. Goad him to breaking point.
Sidrach continues to talk. She catches phrases, listening only for the gaps where she must nod, or hmm, or agree with vigour. Tom comes to her setting and pours a small measure for her. She glances a silent question at him. He is not looking at her. His gaze seems fixed away from her, into the middle distance.
She drinks the thimbleful, and holds up her cup for more. But Tom’s back is turned, and he does not see her. She puts her cup down quickly, before Sidrach notices and turns the gesture against the boy. Before he can curse the boy for incompetence and stupidity, and perhaps, if he is feeling particularly venomous, force a small, grubby hand into the burning coals of the fire.
Lord, the white fog of fear and pain that rolled from the boy that day, she thinks. She remembers the blisters that rose and popped on his skin. The scream. Sidrach’s impatience later on when the wounds left the boy clumsy.
She is tired. It is the waiting, she thinks. The toll of anticipating the master’s arrival, and all the dissembling misery in these short hours since he has been here.
The wet pucker of his lips as he kissed her cheek, the pinch of his fingers on her upper arm.
She must stay awake. She must not sleep until he sleeps. Yet there he is, yawning too. She watches him dizzily. He seems to sway and droop. Or is it her swaying and drooping? Her head is heavy. A great lolling, heavy thing. She remembers the fever. Is this another such? Is she falling again?
Sidrach has put his head on his arms on the table. If she is falling, then so is he. Where is Tom? Where is he?
Here. A small arm around her shoulder.
‘To bed, missus. You are sleepy. I will look after the master.’
‘I cannot. I . . . I . . .’
‘Shh. I can look after the master.’
<
br /> She allows herself to be led away. Up the stairs, one trembling foot at a time. She sinks into the bed. Tom leaves her. His absence makes her frightened. She wants to call out, but her throat is dry and she can’t. She can’t.
Easier to sleep. She lets go, slip-sliding into a mash of images. Sidrach shouting; Sam smiling. Blackberry running forward. Falling. She can’t catch him. Her hands are coated in tallow. Sidrach is laughing. She runs at him, striking and spitting and kicking.
She wakes.
It is dark outside, and dark in here. The fire is ember red, but its light does not travel far. The house is starkly silent.
Where is Sidrach? His side of the bed is made and empty. She crawls from under the cover, into the sharpness of the night air. Sitting upright, her head fills with blood. Stand. Walk in a slow shuffle to the door.
There is light at the bottom of the stairs, coming from the kitchen. She grips the banister, easing herself down one step at a time. She feels as if any sudden movement will send sparks flying in her head. The red and white lightning hovers behind her eyes, waiting for a false move to send her reeling.
Slow, quiet.
Down, down, until at the bottom she can pause. She can wait for the sparks to subside, just a little.
There is silence in the kitchen. No chatter, no clatter. No spit and hiss of food cooking. There is the flickering light of candles, and the fire, and she edges towards it. The only possible way to go is forward and on into that silent and strange space.
She reaches the door. Her brain cannot process what she sees. Sidrach is sitting upright in the chair – his chair – but his head is lolling forward. Tom is sitting across the table from him, an open bottle of Sidrach’s best wine in front of him. There is a telltale crust of red wine about the boy’s lips, and the eyes that rise to meet hers are bloodshot and wild.
‘Tom?’ she says. A tentative question.
He jumps to his feet and rushes around to stand behind Sidrach. She sees then that her husband is tied into the chair, a criss-cross of ropes keeping him upright. His sleeping head falls forward.
The Tyrant’s Shadow Page 21
