The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan

by Cynthia Jefferies

  ‘We will all do our best for you, sir.’ She looked troubled and hesitant, as if speaking was painful. ‘Do you not wish to know about your son?’

  He did not. And he did not want it called his son, as if it were a real dead person instead of an unbaptised corpse. Thinking of it brought his wife to his mind, and grief and guilt and horror. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe and his heart felt squeezed as if by an iron fist.

  He got up abruptly. ‘I will inspect the brewhouse.’

  He abandoned his beer and made his way to the kitchen door. Once outside, instead of crossing to the outbuilding, he made his way to an overgrown orchard at the back of the inn and took a deep breath of cold air. The memories came, unbidden.

  She had been alone when he arrived back at the rented house. She was lying in their bed, quite dead, with the infant in her arms. He had thought it dead too. They both looked so peaceful there, her face white like ivory above his tiny features, but there was a smell of blood and death, pain and horror. He had paced about, upstairs and down, distraught, not knowing what to do, or, if knowing, not able. He remembered writing a note to the owner of the house, asking for his wife to be laid to rest and leaving money for it. He couldn’t remember how long he had spent there. He must have lingered overnight, but had he slept at all? He did remember going once more to the bed in the morning light. He had tried to pray for their souls as he looked again on those dead faces. And it had been then that the infant had moved.

  He did not want it to live. It had killed his wife. More, he did not want to leave it there, to disturb her sleep. And perhaps, too, there had been jealousy. Why did it lie next to her heart, enfolded by her love, when he was now and for ever denied it? So, he took it from her cold arms, hardly knowing what he did.

  What was she now other than flesh rotting? He could no longer believe in the mercy of God, or that they would meet again in paradise. And where did her body lie? He had paid for a coffin and prayers, but would the money have been used for that? He had abandoned her in life and he had abandoned her in death. He would never know where she lay. The babe should be with her, baptised and buried with its mother, not abandoned in some unhallowed, unmarked hole. He had done everything wrong and so now did not spare himself. His was all the blame. No. He did not want to hear of his son.

  A thrush sang out of sight and a blackbird rummaged for the few remaining morsels of last year’s rotting fruit. A tiny blackened apple still hung upon the tree and, suddenly, the smell of earth and decay was too much to bear. Christopher abandoned the orchard and made his way past the side of the inn and onto the road, with no plan other than to escape his thoughts. To his left, the village ended. The road wound up a slight incline until it disappeared around a rocky outcrop in the distance, heading, he thought, for the coast. Golden gorse flowers lit up the verges. To his right, houses lined both sides of the road. It was fitting, surely, he thought, to discover a little about the village.

  There were few people about. Most, he supposed, must be at work, either in the fields or at their various trades. A heap of withies lay ready for stripping. Chickens scratched and pigs grunted in the cottage gardens. In the middle distance he could see a mill on the river and beyond it some meadows. Nearby he could hear a smith ringing his efforts on the anvil. The church was small but with a fine tower. He hesitated there, wondering if he could bring himself to go in and pray for the souls of his wife and son, when a cart drawn by a sorrel mare came out of a side alley in front of him. He recognised the driver almost as soon as the driver recognised him.

  ‘Mr Morgan!’ The man halted the cart and looked down at Christopher. ‘Daniel Johnson. We met in your inn last night.’

  He had the same easy smile he had worn in the inn, when advising Christopher about Mr Gazely’s departure.

  ‘You’re looking lost,’ he said. ‘Is our new captain adrift?’

  ‘No, I would not say that. I decided to walk out to see a little more of Dario.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘It will not take you long, but why not climb up and let me show you what there is?’ He reached down his hand and Christopher took it. In a moment, he was sitting beside the man with the gold hoop in his ear, a person who was quite obviously not a gentleman but seemed a helpful sort. Christopher found himself engaged in much useful conversation as Daniel drove him briefly around the village and through the water meadow before depositing him back at the inn. He showed him the farm, which gave employment to most of the village, and the other inn, which he said was a poor apology for an ale house, and nothing compared to the Rumfustian.

  ‘You will have a good living here,’ he said, before Christopher got down. ‘I know because I supply your inn with good French brandy and wines, and many other things unobtainable in the village. I am just sorry that Mr Gazely saw fit to fleece you on his exit from the inn.’

  Christopher looked at him in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  Daniel smiled like a cat and the gold hoop in his ear flashed in the thin sunlight.

  ‘Only that having sold you the inn along with all its contents he proceeded to instruct William to give away all the drink after he had gone.’ He looked at Christopher as if to challenge him. ‘It is just as well that you arrived when you did, or all the alcohol you had paid for would have gone.’

  Christopher frowned. ‘I suppose Jane brews regularly, but I will check with William to discover what else we need. Thank you for telling me. I … know I have a lot to learn.’

  ‘Rest easy, sir. Your servants are mostly honest sorts, and I will make sure you lack nothing for your business. There is a useful passage directly into your cellar, so you need not concern yourself with any inconvenience. What you need will be delivered there, I guarantee it. My family have been friends of the Rumfustian Inn for many years and I will make sure you have all the advice you might need.’

  ‘I am grateful,’ said Christopher, ‘to have you to advise me.’ The man was too forward and perhaps not altogether trustworthy, but Christopher knew he would need advice and he could not expect to get all he needed from servants. Daniel was certainly friendly, and Christopher was in need of friends. What was more, this Daniel Johnson was a distraction from the horrible drama that still played in his head.

  His father would be appalled at how low his son had fallen, but the times were different. Christopher did not wish to be a courtier, even if he had felt that he would have been welcome at court. Nor did he want these people to call him ‘Sir Christopher’. It would be better to have friends than to insist on his correct title. His circumstances did not warrant it. This was where he had landed, and here is where he would stay. He would learn. And he would start now, with Daniel Johnson’s help.

  He entered the inn with new-found energy, calling for William as if a storm was about to remove the thatch. William came running, his expression even more anxious than usual.

  ‘I mean to learn everything about this inn, William, and I mean you to tell me all I need to know. Where are the spirits kept? Is our supply depleted? What day does Jane brew? And I wish to see the account books.’

  From despairing inertia to frantic action, Christopher filled the long day exploring his assets, demanding explanations from his servants and haranguing William for carrying out absent Mr Gazely’s last order, for all to drink freely without charge.

  ‘Mr Gazely was absent, sir, but Daniel Johnson was not!’

  Christopher stared at his servant. William’s attempt to excuse himself angered him. ‘Mr Johnson was not your master, William. Once Mr Gazely had gone, I was, though absent. Any other man’s instructions meant nothing.’ Seeing William’s wretched expression, Christopher felt even more annoyed. Either the man was stupid or deliberately trying to appear so. ‘Daniel Johnson was pleased to tell me what good servants you and Jane are. Don’t repay his kindness by trying to make him responsible.’

  Christopher saw various emotions pass like shadows over William’s face. Anger and injustice, swiftly followed by hopelessness as he
subsided, as a servant must. Christopher was not much interested in what had passed before he had arrived. He was, in any case, unlikely to get to the truth. William didn’t seem the sort to volunteer information. He seemed, more than anything, cowed, but Christopher was fairly certain that he had not given the man a reason to fear him. Had Daniel? Well, if he had, it was in the past, now William’s new master had arrived.

  There were more important things to consider. Christopher had lost the list of the inn’s possessions given to him by Gazely, so he created another. Turning his journal over, he dated the top of the last page and began. From room to room, he scribbled what it held, from feather pillows to leather chairs, gridirons to pewter ware. Firkins, bottles, hops, barley, cheese, flour – right down to the last broken stool in the cellar and the last egg in the kitchen.

  In the evening, well pleased with his labours, he felt ready to meet his customers. Few men were drinking. Most of the tables were empty, but he was happy to see Daniel Johnson at the table by the fire, eating the food Jane apparently prepared for him every day. Christopher poured a little brandy into two of the English glasses the inn possessed and took them over. A day ago, he would have shrunk from conversation. Now, he was alight with the achievements of his day.

  ‘You were right about the lack of spirits and wines,’ he told Daniel. ‘I have been about my business all the day and am beginning to know it.’

  Daniel paused in his chewing, smiled slightly and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘If you are still interested in supplying what I need I would be grateful for what is on this list.’ Christopher laid a piece of paper, torn from an account book, on the table and Daniel glanced at it.

  ‘I daresay you would be grateful to have these things sooner rather than later.’

  Christopher nodded enthusiastically. ‘Indeed, I would!’

  ‘It will add a little to the cost for me to make a special trip to Chineborough, but I would be happy to oblige you. I can have most of what you want by tomorrow and will stow all in the cellar as I always do … if that would suit?’

  ‘I am most obliged, and much heartened by your kindness to me.’

  Daniel pushed his empty platter away from him and picked up his glass. ‘I am always ready to help a friend.’ He raised his glass and Christopher did the same, surprised at feeling so cheerful. All that had gone before was dust and he would mourn the loss for ever, but he had a new home, new servants and now a new friend. Suddenly, life felt a little less empty.

  4

  The accounts, such as they were, itemised payments for the usual necessities but were less informative as to how the inn derived its income. Occasional lump sums did nothing to explain to Christopher if beer made more profit than food and if spirits indeed paid for themselves. Very infrequently, travellers had stayed overnight, and these events did appear in the accounts. Everything else was a mystery.

  He could tell that both William and Jane viewed keeping records with dismay. William treated writing with great suspicion, or perhaps he was embarrassed at his lack of skill. Jane told her master that she was used to spending less than the kitchen and brewhouse earned, but Christopher was not to be deflected.

  ‘It is my will that you do this,’ he said to them both. ‘How can I balance my income and expenditure if I don’t know the facts of my situation?’

  ‘It is not just the inn that needs an accounting,’ said Jane.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She looked at him with the greatest amount of frustration that a servant might allow herself to show. ‘Why, there’s Mistress Smith given suck to your son and no hint of coin to recompense her.’

  Christopher felt himself rightly rebuked. ‘I have been trying to keep the tragedy from my mind. She must of course be paid what is due to her. Perhaps you could ask her and settle up with her on my behalf.’

  Jane was not satisfied. ‘But you must decide what is to be done, sir. Margaret was happy to help as a good Christian soul, but she wishes to know if you want her to keep the infant until he is weaned, or if you will engage a wet nurse for him from elsewhere.’

  Christopher stared at her. A roaring filled his ears.

  ‘He lives, sir.’

  It was like the roaring of a chimney fire, ready to burn down a house.

  ‘Sir? He lives, sir.’

  It was a raging summer storm, lashing a full leafed wood.

  ‘I tried to tell you several times how he did, but you didn’t wish to hear it. He almost died that first night, but she says he is feeding well now, and gains strength every day.’

  ‘He lives?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Christopher stared blankly at her for a moment longer and then abruptly left the room. He felt nothing as he went upstairs and wrote two words in his journal. He lives. He looked at the words and, as their meaning rose from the page and up into his mind, he began to tremble. For a few moments longer he sat with his hand poised over the page, but he could think of no more words to write and, besides, his hand was shaking too much. Unable to sit still, he hurried back downstairs and out into the orchard. If he had a horse, he would ride until he was spent. He had to do something physical to quieten the churning in his stomach. He couldn’t think clearly. He couldn’t decide what he wanted to do or what he should do, so he took a billhook and began slashing at some of the brambles and nettles. When he eventually had to stop to catch his breath he had cut a swathe through the most tangled area. A bramble thorn had raked his cheek and he wiped at the trickle of blood with the back of his hand, smearing it down one side of his face.

  He felt no better; in fact, he was even more agitated. He hated to know that the infant lived while his young wife had died. And yet he had pulled it from her dead arms. To save it? New doubts assailed him along with the old. Had she even been dead? Had he been too hasty in abandoning her? Where before he had known certainty, suddenly there were doubts. He was certain of nothing any more, except that he was losing his mind.

  Christopher flung the billhook into the mess of tangled brambles. He tried to calm himself. His wife was dead. Her lack of breath, stiff limbs and cold skin had proved it. It was the living he must consider. Her infant lived, for the moment at least, and that changed everything. Why had he tried to save it if he had not wanted it? It was not the infant’s fault that his mother had died. Christopher remembered how his father had tried to comfort him when his mother had died of a fever, with him no more than a child. He had felt then that somehow he must be to blame. He had never spoken of it to anyone, but even now, at his most vulnerable, the childish thought was still there. Surely, he wouldn’t want the babe to suffer such useless guilt? His role now must be to put aside his own grief and be a comfort to his son. His son.

  He called for Jane as he hurried back into the inn. ‘I will see my son now,’ he told her as they met in the kitchen. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the smithy, sir, where Margaret cares for him along with her own baby.’

  ‘Then send for her. No. I cannot wait. I know where the smithy is. And … I will take coin for her. You see, Jane. I do not forget my obligations.’

  Every yard was too long and at the same time too short. His head was in turmoil. He should write to the infant’s grandparents in Holland. He had not yet written to tell them of their daughter’s death. Perhaps he should send the babe to them? But then he would not be a father to his son. He would engage a wet nurse and have her and the child at the inn. He would teach him to read and write, and would send him to Oxford to study, as he had done.

  By the time he arrived at the smithy, his son was grown and betrothed, a dutiful son to his father and a comfort to his old age.

  Christopher arrived breathlessly, with blood on his face and twigs in his hair, to find that his son had shrunk back to a helpless infant, lying in a box. As he bent over his son, a yellow blackthorn leaf dropped from his hair and landed on the covering. Christopher reached down to pick it up and the infant opened his bright black
eyes. He had held this infant for many hours on the journey to the inn, but somehow it felt as if he was seeing him now for the first time. He had not thought it before, but the babe was so like his dead wife it made Christopher wince. It was too much to bear. He couldn’t do it. He would send him to his grandparents across the sea. But he could no more do that than strap feathers to his arms and fly. He was imprisoned by love, love of his wife that wouldn’t let him lose the only part of her that remained. There was his living son: a tiny Lazarus, a second chance.

  He walked back to the inn. For the first time since he’d discovered his wife dead, a different scene played on his stage. His life would not be the babe’s. The infant would, if it continued to live, build its own version of a life, and he must see to it that it had everything it needed to thrive. Seeing his infant son had opened some kind of understanding in his own head. For the first time, he identified what he was: a man alone and lonely. Perhaps loneliness was his natural state. Perhaps he was always destined to lose those he loved and see them only in his dreams. At that thought, a kind of desperate panic took hold of him and he almost turned back to the smithy, to take the babe, in spite of its need for milk. He stood in the road, forcing himself to be calm. He was not going to make another mistake. He was going to care for his son as a son had never been cared for. He would watch over him from the moment the sun arose until it set at night. Jane would help and William would run the inn, and he would ask that helpful man, Daniel Johnson, to keep it supplied and tell him if William needed guidance. His son was all. Nothing else mattered. His first and only duty was to his son. Then a pitiful thought struck him. His son must be even more lonely than him, too young as he was for friends and with no mother to comfort him. What frightening pictures of abandonment and isolation were playing in his infant mind? It was not to be borne. However difficult, he would learn to love his son. This would be his purpose and his reason to live. His son was a gift from the God he had almost ceased to know. In gratitude he would call him Abel. God’s breath.