∗ ∗ ∗
In the tea room, the Master of Ceremonies bowed to us, and surprised me by uttering my name. A few moments later he returned with a solid-looking fair-haired stranger who addressed me with an open, but anxious expression.
‘Grace,’ the man said to me, with some hesitation. ‘How are you?’
I had not a notion who he was – nor how he might know me. I could only imagine he was the artist from whom I had sought lessons, and at once resolved I should have nothing to do with such a familiar fellow. Agitated by my silence, he bowed again and said, ‘My apologies for approaching you thus, with no introduction. But I would be obliged if you would tell me. Are you Grace Moore of Greaves?’
I told him that was the name I had been born to, but at once regretted it, fearing he might be a creditor of my father’s. I looked for assistance from Peter and Anne, but they had tactfully withdrawn at some distance.
‘You do not remember me, do you? I am John Francis Rawdon.’
‘John?’ In my surprise I reached out to grasp his arm. ‘How is it possible?’
‘Chance, I believe.’ We both smiled and laughed at once. I studied his features. Yes – now I saw the same eyes, only a little less bright, and a face grown older, but also stronger, in some masculine way. Yes, he was John Francis grown into a broad imposing man.
‘I recognised Anne at once, for she has not changed a whit. Then, as you were ever her companion, I studied you in the concert hall; I could not at first believe my eyes. Grace Moore.’ He glanced suddenly over to Peter. ‘So who is that gentleman?’
‘He is Peter Croxon. My – brother-in-law.’
I do not believe I imagined his disappointment. ‘Good God, so it is, Peter Croxon. Still the dandy. I should have thought he’d be chasing ladies of fortune, not Anne Dobson. And you are married – to a Croxon? To the older one – Michael was it? How unexpected.’
‘And you? When did you come home?’ I said this with some gentleness, for I understood at once that fate had not been kind to us. It is my fixed belief that if only we had met before I married, we would certainly have revived our connection. I knew it as surely as I had glimpsed the hope that lit up his whole being when he spoke my name.
He told me very frankly of his unhappiness when first he left Greaves, swiftly followed by an account of his good fortune in working with his uncle, a fine man who taught him his trade. John Francis was now a partner in the cotton business, and also, he hinted, the possessor of considerable wealth. He talked much as he always had; in a kindly, self-mocking manner, but now overlaid with an attractive civility.
‘May I enquire after your parents’ health?’
I touched the crucifix at my neck, where my mother’s hair had just been re-set in jet and rubies. John Francis’s hair was darker now than the youthful blond of the lock I’d treasured for so long. I told him briefly of my parents’ passing.
‘Michael Croxon – and you? I could never have predicted that.’ He shook his head in bemusement.
‘Why is that?’ I asked, expecting to hear my usual fears rehearsed: that Michael was of a superior rank, a man of fashion, a man of extraordinary good looks.
‘Oh, he was such a – well, a strange boy. Not that I knew him well, of course, he was sent to some faraway school. To think, their father was once the village carpenter. And you Grace, you were such a kind and sensible person. To be blunt, he was neither. And what talents you had. Do you still paint?’
‘I do.’ I began to tell him of my earlier misapprehension that he was in fact a painting master. We both laughed easily at my mistake.
Just then, as we talked in complete sympathy, two women set themselves between us, and the elder tapped John’s arm with her fan, speaking in a deep, commanding tone. ‘John, I should not wish to interrupt such an engaging conversation, but you forget that you promised Alice the quadrille.’ He glanced at the younger woman, a slight and childlike creature whose lip trembled visibly. ‘Please, Mama,’ she coaxed, doing her best to pull her mother away again.
‘Oh, yes – Alice.’ John rubbed his neck, and made awkward introductions. ‘Mrs Fotherly. Miss Alice Fotherly. May I introduce Mrs Croxon, a close acquaintance of mine from Greaves.’ We all nodded rather limply at each other.
‘I wonder, Mrs Croxon, did you see the announcement in the York Courant?’ boomed Mrs Fotherly, as if I might be deaf. ‘Mr Rawdon and Miss Alice were this week betrothed. You must be delighted to see your bachelor acquaintance at last approaching the altar.’
I did not risk a glance at John, but congratulated Alice heartily, though my face grew rigid from its artificial smile.
‘And where is your own husband?’ the mother asked, looking airily about. ‘You must collect him. The dances are being called.’
‘I am attended by my brother-in-law.’ I nodded in Peter’s direction, and Mrs Fotherly followed my gaze in a most scrutinising manner. ‘My husband is attending to his business.’
‘Dear me,’ she said. ‘I should never allow such negligence from a husband – and certainly not for mere business.’
I would not exchange another word with such an insufferable person. I curtseyed and they returned the same, in frigid silence. Poor John Francis looked stricken as I walked steadily back to where Anne and Peter awaited me.
Only later, alone in my room, did I allow myself to reflect upon my sorrow. For a few extraordinary moments, I had felt such joy at meeting John again, that all the intervening years had vanished. I had even had the ridiculous notion he might have waited all these years to find me. But no, we had both been frail. I had bound myself to Michael, the ‘strange boy’ who had grown into the man he so aptly judged as lacking both sense and kindness. And poor John Francis had somehow got himself entangled with that carping mother and her offspring. Grace, I rebuked myself, the strong drink has unsettled you. You are married now; it is time to leave these childish notions behind you.
19
York
November 1792
∼ Yorkshire Fat Rascals ∼
Take one pound of flour and rub into a half pound of butter; mix in one ounce of moist sugar, a quarter pound cleaned and dried currants, a little citron peel and a good pinch of salt. Mix well together with as much milk as will make a firm dough. Roll it out pretty thick and cut rounds with the rim of a glass. Just before you send to the oven put currants and almonds and cherries upon them and sift with fine sugar.
As made by Mrs Palmer at her Coney Street Lodgings
A note did arrive next day from the art master, and so I began my daily lessons at his studio. I was at first unwilling to show my teacher my own work, but after I summoned the courage he was generous in his praise and astute in his criticism. Thus I learned a number of the professional artist’s tricks: clever matters of line and shadow. He also spoke freely of the new styles of painting, the abandonment of high wigs and whalebone for flowing costumes, and that most excellent word, Truth. ‘Portraiture should not be confused with flattery,’ he said. ‘What is more ridiculous than a stout duchess tricked out in hoops, masquerading as a goddess? Use your excellent eye to record what you see, Mrs Croxon. Painting is eighty parts looking to twenty parts moving one’s brush.’ It was then, as he taught me how to add brightness to the depiction of the human eye, that I resolved to paint Peg when I returned home.
On Sunday, rather than find a chapel, I attended the service at the Minster with Anne and Peter. From the cobbled Close, we all admired the Minster’s great towers of fretted stone soaring to the clouds, every inch carved as fine as lacework. Once we had passed into the nave, I surrendered my scruples to that glorious hush that tells of a higher presence than ourselves. It was a bright winter’s day, and the vaulted windows tinted the air with dappled rainbows. Sitting quietly in my pew, I recognised a change in myself; that every morning I woke quite glad to be alive. Instead of fitful notions of footsteps at midnight, each new day was heralded by cheery sounds outside my window: the post-horn’s trumpeting and the crie
s and songs of busy, prosperous people. I was still young and vital, with no need for bed rest or sleeping draughts. I was ready to face whatever the future held. However troubled my marriage was, it was better by far than my former life with my father. Dropping my face into my clasped hands, I glimpsed in reverie a sort of labyrinth, a mysterious path I must traverse in the months to come. I could not say what trials lay ahead of me – but I knew that I must be strong, and win whatever happiness I might glean on this earth.
It was easy to make such a resolution when, as yet, I faced no actual difficulties. Each morning, Anne and I returned from our various errands to take breakfast at our lodgings. Awaiting us stood a steaming pot of chocolate and a plate of Mrs Palmer’s toast and excellent buns. Anne and I both heartily agreed that if time might halt we should have liked every day to be that same day, the gilt clock chiming ten o’clock, warming our stockinged feet on the fire fender, splitting a plate of Fat Rascals with butter and preserves, with all the delightful day stretching before us.
The days flew by, with walks by the river, a turn around the castle, much shopping, a play, and a dozen more delights. When we were almost due to part, I gave Anne a ring I had commissioned, containing a braided strand of my own brown hair, and showed her its twin that I wore, containing hers. She admired them as if they were priceless gems, then took both my hands and clasped them warmly.
‘A token of our meeting again, soon,’ I said. ‘You, me, and your baby.’
Her face shone with hope. ‘I will send you a lock of the baby’s hair as soon as I can. And I will treasure this ring for ever.’ She pulled it off and inspected the letters of my name on the inside. It was at that moment, as she praised the engraver’s art, that a sudden opportunity struck me. I instantly searched out my sketchbook, and finding the page, asked Anne to join me at the table.
‘Did you ever see such an object?’ I asked. ‘It looks like an old penny, defaced with crude engraving. Is it not a crime to deface the king’s image?’ Drawn in heavy black pencil, was the exact replica of the coin I had found in Michael’s box; the product of a dreary afternoon’s sketching at the Hall.
‘Transported,’ Anne read gravely, putting on her spectacles, ‘to the ends of the earth.’
‘Do you think that means New South Wales?’
‘Yes, I do. But wherever did you find such a curiosity?’
Having ventured so far I decided to be frank. ‘It is Michael’s. He keeps it in his writing box.’
‘Michael’s?’ She pulled an astonished face. ‘What on earth would he want with such a base object? What does he say of it?’
‘Nothing. I haven’t asked him. But I did wonder if you might find out what you can about it. And who this Mary Jebb is, too.’
She looked at me sternly. ‘Is it wise, Grace, to make enquiries behind Michael’s back? I am sure there is an innocent reason. Ask him. Perhaps she was a former tenant who got into trouble?’
‘Perhaps. Only, will you make enquiries, Anne? For my sake. Take this drawing with you – and find out who she is?’
She folded up the paper and put it in her sewing bag. ‘I can try. If only to put your mind at ease, Grace.’ And so we left the matter.
On the day of Anne’s departure she was in excellent spirits, telling me that our visit had in every way exceeded her notion of happy living. I was busily parcelling up a few of her effects when the maid announced that a gentleman waited downstairs to be shown up. I knew it could not be Peter, for he was chattering with Anne in her chamber, teasing her about the correct way to address her trunk. Glad to be alone in the parlour, I straightened my gown and glanced in the mirror. All week I had not seen or heard of John Francis. To Anne I had made light of the whole affair. ‘He only wished to acquaint me with his progress in life,’ I told her. ‘And I am glad he has prospered, and glad too, that he will marry.’ She studied my face, but said nothing, which pleased me, for my eyes had pricked at the mention of his name. But now, at last, he had called on me. I sat very stiffly on the chair by the window.
‘Goodness, it is you, Mr Greenbeck.’ I must have looked peeved, as Anne’s husband filled the doorframe.
Jacob Greenbeck returned my greeting with even greater coldness. Since I had last seen him he had grown a great bushy beard, and now had all the appearance of an Old Testament Prophet of the fiercest order. I called at once to Anne, but as ill luck would have it, she did not hear me; the sound of Peter’s amiable murmurings and her light-hearted laughter continued from behind the door. As Jacob and I exchanged pleasantries, he glowered uncomfortably, until I was forced to fetch Anne myself.
‘Come along, Anne,’ he said with irritation. ‘You have imposed on these people long enough. The ship will wait for no one, and there is God’s work to be done.’
Just then, Peter emerged from the chamber, wearing his usual mischievous expression. Though I glared at him in warning, he could not resist a jibe. ‘I am sure God will forgive one extra minute, to ensure your wife’s box is not sent to Old South Wales – she truly remains confused about her destination.’
A heavy silence stretched, and then snapped, as Jacob thundered, ‘I do not know you, sir, but I must tell you I do not permit levity concerning our Lord in my presence. Come along, Anne.’
Seeing Anne’s distress, I tried to placate him. ‘Jacob, Mr Croxon is only securing Anne’s box. Will you not take a cup of tea?’ He did not echo my smile; only scowled at my new gilded porcelain, and the bandboxes and parcels scattered all about the room. His eye fell on my newly purchased books: The Romance of the Forest, and An Oriental Tale were well enough, but I did not know which was the worst between Mr Beckford’s infamous Vathek or Mrs Wollstonecraft’s Rights of Women. I guessed that, to Jacob, my parlour must seem a tableau utterly depraved. Ignoring my repeated offer of tea, Jacob strode off to retrieve the box, and, awkwardly lifting it himself, quickly departed, followed by a mournful-looking Anne.
Once they had gone, Peter said, ‘Damn it, Grace; if he cannot tolerate us, how will he deal with the felons?’
I sighed and filled his teacup. ‘We must hope the experience will be the making of him.’
‘Anne is such a pleasant woman. To think of her having to trail after that zealot to the ends of the earth – it is too bad.’
It must have been that term Peter used – ‘the ends of the earth’ – that prompted my attempt at guile. ‘You know a good deal of Botany Bay. Did you ever hear of anyone from Earlby or Greaves being transported there?’
‘Good God, no. It is merely from my friend in the marine regiment that I glean my intelligence.’
‘So you have never heard of a female felon – Mary Jebb?’
‘No. Never.’ I was watching him carefully, but as I spoke the woman’s name Peter rapidly rose and peered out of the window. ‘Look at that for an ominous sky.’ Had I seen a start of dismay cross his face? When he turned to me again, his usual joviality had disappeared.
‘Grace, may I speak my mind?’
‘Very well.’
‘I understand you don’t like me to speak of it – but do you truly want to struggle on in that mouldering house? I have seen this fortnight how you like company and entertainments. Let Michael stay on there, while you return to civilisation.’
‘It’s not so easy as that. I know Michael is not the perfect husband—’
He gave a bitter bark of laughter.
‘But do you not understand?’ I insisted. ‘I must make the best of it. I must support his plans. Be a good wife.’ As I spoke it occurred to me that I was echoing Peg Blissett’s words.
‘I know Michael better than you do. He doesn’t deserve you.’
‘I cannot disagree with that, Peter,’ I said drily.
He sighed, resigned. ‘I wrote to you when you were ill and was made very anxious when I had no reply.’
‘Michael dealt with all such matters for me – but it was remiss of him not to reply to you.’
‘Michael,’ he scoffed, ‘thinks only of hi
mself.’
‘I believe he is starting to trust me. And as for the Hall, he wants to move, too. He hates it there.’
Peter leaned forward. ‘Then why not move to town? This is your chance. Seize it.’
I looked away. ‘I’ll talk to him.’ With nothing else to say, he turned back to the window. ‘Well, I must make haste to Scarborough, before the storm breaks. I intend to call on Miss Brighouse there.’
‘Miss Brighouse? I’ve heard your parents speak of her with warmth.’
He grinned. ‘Well, she’s not a bad prospect. It is only that, to be married – it would be rather tying.’
I couldn’t help but laugh at the face he pulled at the prospect. ‘So why are you leading the poor Miss Brighouse on?’
‘Oh, I shall come to my senses. I just need to apply myself, if I’m honest. She is rather fond of me, and not lacking a fortune or a pretty seat at Bleasedale. And you must know by now, I’m not especially eager to get my hands black with oil or whatever the latest vogue for making money is.’
He held out his exquisitely spotless hand, and I shook it heartily.
‘Grace, I hope when I next call, you will not turn me away.’
‘I would never do so.’
‘Ah, so it was at Michael’s instruction. Since our quarrel, he will not speak to me.’
I was not wholly surprised, for Michael often complained of his brother: mostly that his parents’ favoured Peter in spite of his being a pleasure-seeking gadabout.
‘Remember, write only a line and I am entirely at your service.’
‘I will never forget your kindness to Anne and to me. Thank you.’
And so we parted, Peter to venture out under the louring skies, and myself to order an early supper in readiness for my next day’s journey home.
∗ ∗ ∗
I woke to a city blanketed in white. All along Coney Street the steep roofs were bonneted in snow, their chimneys smoking above golden-squared windows. Yet as a traveller, however pretty the scene, the sight exasperated me. My coachman, Tom, called with mixed news: that the road to Tadcaster was passable, but that the London mail had not yet arrived, despite its generally being so timely that the locals set their clocks by it. ‘We might get as far as the inn at Tadcaster,’ Tom advised, for he was eager to be home. ‘At least we shall be moving, Mrs Croxon.’
A Taste for Nightshade Page 21
