Beatrice found this all deeply depressing, rather than inspirational. It had been desperately difficult to survive in New Hampshire, especially in the early days. The winters had been stunningly cold, and the Indians had raided them again and again, and the crops had repeatedly failed until they had discovered what grew best. But she had always felt optimistic that, year by year, their life would improve; and that God would reward their devotion and their hard work with plentiful food and good health and a simple kind of joy that she had never experienced in England.
Of course London boasted every conceivable amusement, from dancing to street theatre to masquerades to whores, as well as every variety of food and drink that could be thought of, from oysters to wild duck to larks, from gin to rum fustian to flip. But she couldn’t help feeling that this self-indulgence was all being enjoyed in a state of panic, as if everybody was frantic to cram in as much pleasure as they could because they were always acutely aware that Death already had his bony fingers curled around their door handle, prepared to step in at any moment.
Death could always be smelled around London’s streets, mingling with the smell of hot pies and horse manure.
‘Now let us pray,’ said the Scots preacher, after talking with unremitting bleakness for over an hour. ‘O, heavenly Father, look down upon us sinners in our abject misery, and find it in thy heart to relieve us of our suffering, even if we have brought it upon ourselves. But do not offer us redemption unless we are truly sorry for our misdeeds, and if our belief in thee has wavered. Amen.’
So it was that Beatrice was both pleased and relieved when she heard a knock at the front door and James’s voice asking if she were at home. By now the Scots preacher was taking tea in the drawing room with Ida, and talking of his plans to recruit the girls from St Mary Magdalene’s to visit the destitute families of Houndsditch and Cheapside and the alleys east of Tower Hill – ‘to bring them blankets, and food, and an offer of a place in the workhouse’.
Beatrice could see the sense of that. Most of the girls at St Mary Magdalene’s had been born into families like that, and had only gone ‘on the town’ because they had little or no money. They would treat the poor with understanding, even the thieves and the hopelessly drunk.
‘James Treadgold has called for me,’ she told Ida. ‘Are you still agreeable for me to spend the afternoon with him?’
‘Of course,’ smiled Ida. ‘After all your hard work you deserve a few hours of leisure. But please be back by six o’clock for evening prayers.’
James was smartly dressed in a dark-brown coat, with a long beige waistcoat underneath, and beige breeches, and he was wearing a sword. He bowed as Beatrice came out to greet him, and said, ‘Beatrice, are you able to come out with me?’
‘I’m looking forward to it, James. I’ll just go and find Florence.’
‘There’s very little sunshine outside, I’m afraid. But who needs sunshine when they have you?’
‘James, behave yourself!’
‘I promise to try. But if that means I can’t pay you any compliments, then I shan’t find it easy.’
Beatrice found Florence in the kitchen, cutting out biscuits with Grace. Once she had dressed her, and tied on her own bonnet and fastened her long red cloak, James led them out to a navy-blue one-horse chaise. A barefooted boy with a runny nose was holding the bridle of the chestnut horse for him, and James flicked him a penny.
‘Is this gig yours?’ asked Beatrice, after they had climbed up into their seats. There was room only for two sitting side by side, and no fold-down seat at the front, so Florence had to sit on her lap.
‘Mine? I wish it were,’ said James. ‘I borrowed it from my cousin Joseph. He runs a very prosperous print shop in Pall Mall. I’ll take you to see it one day, if you’d care to. He has some marvellously funny caricatures by Hogarth and other artists like him. Sometimes you can hardly get near to the shop for the crowds outside, laughing at the pictures that he’s put on display.’
They rattled out of Maidenhead Court and down towards Newgate Street and St Paul’s Cathedral. The paving stones were broken and uneven, but the chaise had cee-springs and leather-strap suspension, and even though they swayed in their seats, they weren’t jolted as violently as they sometimes were in hackney coaches.
‘Florrie! Keep still!’ Beatrice admonished her, because Florence kept leaning from side to side to see the street vendors selling fish and carrots and fruit, and the jugglers and dancers and violinists and the men with puppet theatres on their backs.
The streets that took them out of the City and all through Westminster were jam-packed with stagecoaches and phaetons and brewers’ drays and slow-moving longwagons, and at times they were barely moving at all.
Beatrice couldn’t help noticing that James kept turning his head around to look behind them, and after he had turned around for the third time, she said, ‘What’s the matter? Is there somebody following us?’
‘No, no,’ said James. ‘I’m just trying to see if I can pull out and overhaul these wagons, so that we can go a little faster, but there isn’t the space.’
‘We’re not in a rush to get there, are we?’
‘No, of course not. I don’t mind where we are, as long as we’re together.’
‘I’m in a rush,’ said Florence. ‘I need a wee-wee.’
After less than forty minutes, though, they were trotting alongside the Thames towards Chelsea. The sky was pearl-grey and the river was grey, too, but a south-west breeze was blowing and it was warm for the time of year. The river was crowded with pleasure boats and wherries.
At last they saw the Royal Hospital, with its tall white-pillared portico; and beside the Royal Hospital the trees of Ranelagh Gardens. Behind the trees stood the huge rococo Rotunda, which had been built for concerts and masquerades and dining and simply for promenading around, so that fashionable visitors could display themselves while not-so-fashionable visitors could sit high up in viewing boxes and watch them.
‘It’s a fairy castle!’ said Florence, as they turned into the garden entrance.
‘Well, perhaps it is,’ said James. ‘They say that it casts a spell on everybody who visits it. Apparently more couples have become betrothed here than anywhere else in London.’
An ostler took their horse’s reins, and then James helped Florence and Beatrice to climb down. James raised one eyebrow, as if he expected her to reply to what he had just said. She smiled but said nothing. Taking Florence out like this had given her a sudden pang of loss for Noah and she had to swallow hard to suppress the pain.
*
They strolled around the gardens with Florence running ahead of them. The pathways that led to the Rotunda were crowded with men in finely tailored coats and women in their best dresses and bonnets. Although Ranelagh Gardens was considered to be socially superior to Vauxhall Gardens or Bermondsey Spa or Cuper’s Gardens, everybody was so well-dressed that it was difficult to tell the aristocracy from the lower orders, except when they opened their mouths, or started complaining loudly about the 2s 6d entrance fee.
‘I used to bring my Sophie here,’ said James. ‘So you can imagine that this day is somewhat dream-like.’
‘James, I told you before, I may resemble your Sophie, but I cannot replace her. I like you, but for the time being I have too many preoccupations of my own.’
They were walking beside a long reflecting pool, over which a Chinese pavilion had been built. A woman in a plumed bonnet was throwing cherries to the orange carp swimming below her.
After a while, James said, ‘The Reverend Parsons told me about those seven girls from St Mary Magdalene’s... the ones who’ve disappeared.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Beatrice. She didn’t really want to talk about it.
‘Yes – the ones who formed themselves into a coven, and summoned up the Devil, and flew away. He said that you’d seen for yourself the magical symbols that they’d painted on the wall, and the sacrificed goat. You must have found that truly horrifying.�
�
‘Yes, I did. But mostly because I didn’t believe it.’
‘The Reverend Parsons told me that you were sceptical about it. But he was hopeful that he had managed to convince you that it really was Satan at work.’
Beatrice stopped and looked up at him, frowning. The pale blue ribbons of her bonnet fluttered in the breeze. ‘Do you believe it?’
‘Beatrice, if we don’t believe in the Devil, how can we truly say that we believe in God? Goodness and honesty only have any value if they are won against evil and deceit.’
‘So you do believe it?’
‘The Reverend Parsons certainly does. He thinks it’s a tragedy, but he doesn’t want the Devil duping us into thinking that he doesn’t exist. If we let down our guard against him, he will devour our souls like some ravening beast, before any of us have the chance to get to heaven.’
‘You sound like some kind of evangelist.’
James laughed, and they continued walking. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so serious, and I didn’t want to distress you. Let’s talk about something else. Why don’t we go into the Rotunda and have some cinnamon cake and coffee? Florence! Would you like some cake?’
Inside the Rotunda, a violin quartet was scraping out music by Giardini and couples were parading around arm in arm. There was a huge fireplace in the centre, with an elaborate pillared chimney that reached up three stories to the ceiling. A fire was lit here in the winter months, so that visitors could sit around it and keep warm while they took refreshment.
James found them a dining-box on the ground floor, and ordered cake and coffee and apple-juice from the waitress, and cider for himself. Florence stood on her chair to watch all the people promenading around. She waved to them and some of the women smiled and waved back.
‘Florrie’s having a marvellous time,’ said Beatrice.
‘But are you?’
‘Yes, James, I am. I feel much calmer now. I think I have a tendency to worry too much about everything and everybody, except myself. It’s probably what comes of being a parson’s wife.’
‘Which, sadly, you are no longer,’ said James, reaching across the table and laying his hand on top of hers. ‘But yesterday is gone, and there’s nothing we can do to bring it back. We can think only of what we’re going to do tomorrow.’
‘I’m afraid that doesn’t help me grieving for what might have been.’
‘Let’s have one more stroll around the gardens, and then we should think about getting you back to Maidenhead Court. If you can wait here for a moment, I’ll find our waitress and pay.’
‘Are you sure I can’t contribute?’ asked Beatrice.
James shook his head. ‘A teacher’s pay is hardly a king’s ransom, but today is my treat.’
He went off in search of the waitress, while Beatrice sat with Florence and watched the circling crowds of people.
‘Look at that lady with the funny grey hat!’ said Florence. ‘It looks – it looks like a turkey!’
‘Where, Florrie?’ Beatrice laughed. But even as she was trying to spot the turkey-hat for herself, she became aware of a darkly dressed figure swiftly crossing the Rotunda towards their dining-box. The figure came up to the pillar on Beatrice’s left, less than three feet away from her, and then stopped. After a few seconds, when she realised that it was still standing there, motionless, she turned to see who it was.
He was so tall that he must have been a man, but he was wearing a long black cape with a drooping hood which almost completely covered his face. He looked as if he had dressed up to attend a masquerade as the Grim Reaper, except that he wasn’t carrying a scythe.
What Beatrice found unnerving was that he stood there, unmoving, and didn’t say a word.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, what do you want?’ she demanded. ‘Can you go away, please?’
The hooded figure remained where he was, still silent.
‘I said, “Can you go away, please?” You’ll frighten my little girl.’
For almost ten seconds the figure said nothing, but then he reached up with one black-gloved hand and lifted his hood so that Beatrice could see his face. When she saw it, she felt a cold prickling sensation all the way down her back.
It wasn’t a face at all, or even a mask. It was a curved oval mirror, so that all Beatrice could see was a distorted reflection of herself, her eyes wide with alarm.
‘Go away!’ she repeated. ‘My friend will be back here in an instant, and he’ll soon send you packing!’
The figure leaned towards her, so that the image of her own face almost completely filled his hood. She found it deeply eerie, like having a nightmare of being haunted by herself, and then waking up to discover that it was true.
‘Beatrice,’ he whispered, in a low, croaky voice. ‘Do you know what happens to those who don’t believe in me?’
Beatrice pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Who are you?’ she challenged him, although her voice was much shriller than she had intended. Florence had now turned around and was staring up at the figure in bewilderment.
‘You know full well who I am, Beatrice,’ the figure croaked. ‘I am He Who Waits at the Wicket Gate, to prevent sinners like you from passing through, and you know better than to question my existence.’
‘Be off with you at once, or I’ll call for a constable!’ Beatrice told him.
Again, the figure leaned close, and said, ‘Do you know what my advice to you is, Beatrice? Leave well enough alone. She who questions the existence of evil is always the first to be given proof of its reality.’
With that, the figure dropped his hood down over the mirror, swirled around, and strode away. In a few seconds, he had been swallowed up by the crowds. Few people took much notice of him, because masquerades were often held here, with partygoers dressed as chimney sweeps or ghosts or kings or even old Adam, with a pink skintight suit and a green silk fig leaf.
Beatrice turned to Florence. She wasn’t crying, but her lower lip was sticking out in distress and her eyes were sparkling with tears.
‘Who was that horrible man, Mama?’
‘There’s nothing for you to worry about, my darling. He was only a silly fellow trying to be funny.’
‘He wasn’t funny. I didn’t like him.’
‘Well, I agree with you, Florrie. He wasn’t funny at all. That was why I told him to go away.’
James came back. As he stepped up into the dining-box, he saw at once that both Beatrice and Florence were upset. The violin music was scraping ever more discordantly.
‘What’s wrong, Beatrice? What’s happened?’
‘Please, James, just take us out of here, and I’ll tell you.’
‘Beatrice—’
‘Please, James. Let’s take that stroll. I really need some fresh air, and a little silence.’
*
Outside, the clouds had cleared and a hazy sun was shining. They walked along the path beside a long line of tall trees, but the trees whispered in the breeze in almost the same threatening whisper as the mirror-faced man.
‘He knew my name,’ said Beatrice. ‘How did he know my name? And from what he said to me, he seemed to know how suspicious I feel about those seven girls.’
‘I don’t know what I can do to reassure you,’ said James. ‘There are several private madhouses around here, so he was probably no more than a lunatic. Either that, or some spoony drunkard. I expect he was close behind us when we were walking towards the Rotunda, and he overheard me saying your name. I don’t think that you should feel threatened.’
‘How can I not feel threatened? He said that he was “He Who Waits at the Wicket Gate”, to stop sinners from passing through.’
‘The Wicket Gate... that’s from The Pilgrim’s Progress. It represents Jesus. When you pass through the Wicket Gate, you accept faith in Christ.’
‘Yes, but who tries to stop sinners from passing through the Wicket Gate? Beelzebub. So this man must have been more than just a drunk or a lunatic. He’s the Devil, or a
t least he thinks he is.’
‘Beatrice, please don’t be upset. I don’t want this to spoil our day out. But – I don’t know. Perhaps when you said that you didn’t believe that those girls had really succeeded in summoning Satan – perhaps you poked a hornet’s nest, spiritually speaking.’
‘What do you mean?’
James stopped, and held both of her hands. ‘I can understand perfectly well that you don’t have the same affection for me that I do for you. I have a hope in my heart that one day, given time, that might change. In the meantime, though, I still want to protect you.’
‘From what, James?’
‘That man may not have been the Devil in person, but he could well have been an emissary sent by the Devil, even if he was a lunatic, or a spoon. You asked me earlier if I believed in Satan, and now I’m asking you the same question.’
‘My answer is yes, James. I do believe in Satan. But in my experience he is often used as an excuse by men who want to perform evil deeds unpunished. “The Devil made me do it.”’
‘But you still believe in him, don’t you?’ James asked her. ‘And I’m afraid I have to agree with the Reverend Parsons. You tried to prove that it wasn’t Satan who gave those girls their magical powers, and because of that the Reverend Parsons thinks that Satan might well feel stung, and wants to show you in no uncertain terms that it was him.’
‘Why would Satan take such trouble? I’m just one woman, a widow. What influence do I have, either with the law or with the church?’
‘You underestimate yourself, Beatrice. You are now a mentor for so many young girls, and whatever you teach them, they will believe, and if you teach them that Satan doesn’t exist, his influence will be weakened – just as God’s influence is weakened if we turn our backs on him.’
He hesitated, and then he said, ‘I’m only saying this, Beatrice, because I want to keep you out of any danger, and so that you’re never threatened like this again.’
‘But if the pentagram on the wall had been drawn in blood, why would Satan change my sample into paint? That was the mainstay of my proof that the whole witchcraft story was a fraud.’
The Coven Page 14
