by Tessa Harris
“So no end to this insufferable heat?” bemoaned the old doctor.
“It seems not,” replied Thomas. Such unusually high air pressure, coupled with the seemingly minor, yet unnatural happenings he had witnessed that morning, did not signify anything in themselves. And yet he felt a worm of anxiety burrowing into his subconscious. It was as if nature and science were colluding together to try to tell him something urgent and important. He only wished he knew what.
Chapter 4
Lady Lydia Farrell sat at her late husband’s desk in what used to be his study and sighed heavily. For the past two days she had been poring over the home-farm accounts and her head was swimming with columns of numbers relating to the yields and income of the last three years. Her eyes were sore and her back ached. What was more, she felt totally out of place surrounded by notebooks and ledgers and the paraphernalia of estate management. To make matters worse, it was unseasonably hot and even though the study was relatively cool, she was forced, now and again, to reach for her fan and flutter it vigorously in front of her face.
Slowly she rose and turned to look out of the window. The lawns of Boughton Hall, now slightly browned by the sun, stretched out before her, dipping down to the green woodland beyond. June had been her favorite month; the leaves on the trees were fully unfurled, yet still verdant, and the roses were beginning to bloom. There was an exuberance in nature that used to make her happy, but now she simply felt burdened by responsibility.
She recalled her late father, Lord Crick, who had died three years earlier, telling her that he and his heirs were only the stewards of Boughton. God alone could claim it as His. It was the family’s task to tend it as best they could, to keep it prosperous and fertile for future generations. Since her brother’s death and then her husband’s, that task had fallen solely upon her shoulders and she felt overwhelmed by it. That was why, on Thomas’s suggestion, she had engaged a steward to take charge of affairs. Gabriel Lawson had worked for two years at the Crick estate in Ireland, where he had performed his duties competently, but his few months at Boughton had not produced the sought-after improvements that Lydia had planned. Income was down and the estate seemed to be floundering.
A knock at the door made her turn away from the view. “Come in,” she called.
Gabriel Lawson stood on the threshold, straightening his topcoat. It was clear that he had been outside in the fields when he had received Lydia’s summons. His waistcoat buttons were unfastened and there were patches of corn dust on his sleeves. He had the air of a gentleman and yet there was something in his manner that put Lydia on edge.
“Mr. Lawson, please sit down,” she told him, gesturing to the chair on the other side of the desk. She studied him as he approached. He was tall and athletic and the sun had given his skin a healthy glow. She had heard from Eliza, her maid, that all the girls below stairs were in love with him and it was not hard to see why.
“How may I help you, your ladyship?” he asked.
She returned to her seat and looked him in the eye. “I have been going through these accounts that you left me,” she began. She did not mention the uneven rows or the blotches of ink she had encountered during her inspection of the ledgers. “It seems that we are not doing as well as we should be, Mr. Lawson.”
The steward seemed slightly taken aback by Lydia’s tone of authority. He had assumed that when she asked to see the accounts it would be for a perfunctory glance. What did women know of numbers and yields, after all? It was clear he had not anticipated that she would actually try to make sense of the figures before her. The look on his tanned face betrayed his surprise and riled Lydia, even though she had been expecting it.
“The market for both grain and livestock is not good. But if your ladyship has any suggestions . . .” he began, his face set in a beguiling smile.
Lydia broke him off. “Oh, I have plenty, Mr. Lawson,” she snapped. “My first is that we discover why the lambs are fetching such low prices at market.”
He paused for a second, then acknowledged her comment with a nod. “There is the question of breed, your ladyship. There’s not much meat . . .”
“Then change the breed, Mr. Lawson. Or improve it. Our income is falling and something must be done.”
Lawson dithered. He was not used to such castigation and feigned hurt. “I am at a loss, your ladyship,” came the weak reply.
Lydia sat back in her chair, knowing she had the upper hand. “We must find the reason, Mr. Lawson, and then we must find the answer.”
The steward accepted her small victory. “Yes, your ladyship.” He nodded his tousled head sympathetically.
“And I believe the answer could lie in science,” she said.
Lawson’s eyes widened. “Science?” he repeated.
“Yes. Dr. Thomas Silkstone, an eminent man of science, arrives from London later today. I am sure that he will find ways of improving the sheep breed and even our crop yields with his new methods.”
The steward, still unable to hide his surprise, simply nodded. “Then I look forward to meeting this Dr. Silkstone,” he said in a voice tinged with insolence.
Lydia picked up her fan and began to waft it in front of her. “That will be all, Mr. Lawson,” she said. The steward rose and Lydia noted his bow was just a little more exaggerated than good manners required. The estate manager, it seemed to her, needed a little astute management himself.
Amos Kidd’s cottage lay not half a mile away from Boughton Hall, on a side track that led from the main drive. It was small and squat and its thatched roof was green with moss, but it had served the head gardener and his wife well these past ten years.
Kidd, a brawny countryman with gray streaks in his hair, had been up at dawn, as usual, tending to the roses. He liked to water them early each morning when they were coming into bloom and was particularly anxious that they should not suffer in the great heat. The rose garden was his pride and joy. Lady Lydia’s father, the late Sir Richard, had designed it, but he had planted it, choosing the varieties with care to produce color, scent, and diversity. There were albas with their milk-white flowers and dusky pink French roses with a mild scent. There were Celsianas in a light pink that faded to blush, and sprays of York and Lancaster, flecked with white and pale cherry.
It was around noon when the gardener arrived home, carrying a fresh-cut bunch of blooms that he hid behind his back. It took a moment or two for his eyes to adjust from the glare of the sun to the cool shade of the cottage. In the half light he could make out his wife sitting in the bentwood chair by the empty hearth embroidering a petticoat. It was a scene that gladdened him. There was a quiet stillness in the room and she was at the heart of it. Her profile was silhouetted against the white wall; her long neck, her pert nose, and her hair swept back from her face, tumbling in curls to the top of her shoulders. She lifted her pretty young face and he approached her eagerly for a kiss. Obligingly she puckered her thick, soft lips and he bent down and felt the fullness of them with his mouth. But she pushed him away playfully, holding her nose.
“You stink, Amos Kidd,” she giggled.
He sniffed an armpit indignantly, then, remembering the roses, produced them from behind his back. “These’ll set things right,” he said, holding them in front of her. She closed her eyes to breathe in the scent.
“They are sweet.”
“Her ladyship said I could have them. I’ll fetch a jug.”
A moment later he returned with the roses in water. He set them in the center of the table and stood back to admire them.
“They don’t like this weather and that’s for sure,” he mused. “ ’Tis hot as hell out there.” He slipped off his leather jerkin, dropping it on a nearby chair.
“Then you’ll be wanting your ale,” she said cheerfully, still not bothering to rise. “There’s some over there.” She gestured to the table, which was laid with a plate, a tankard, and a pitcher. A loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese were on a trencher.
Kidd sat
down and poured himself some beer. His throat was dry and he gulped it back so quickly that the liquid spilled down the sides of his mouth. He wiped it away with his sleeve and belched softly. His eyes settled upon his wife once more. She was still sewing and he watched the curve of her breasts, ripe as apricots, as they rose and fell with each pull of the thread. In and out, up and down. A single bead of sweat suddenly appeared like a drop of morning dew on her neck and slipped its way slowly down toward her cleavage.
The gardener turned back to the table and picked up the knife. It sliced through the cheese as if it were new-churned butter. He squinted at the blade curiously, then ran his grimy thumb and forefinger down the shaft.
“You sharpened this today, Susannah?”
His wife suddenly shot him a nervous look and after a moment’s hesitation replied lightly: “Yes. A traveler called ’round. My scissors were blunt and I needs finish this for Lady Thorndike tomorrow, so he sharpened a few things while he were here.”
Kidd was measured. “But you know ’tis not a trouble for me, my love,” he said, thinking of the daily grinding of scythes and shears for the gardens. He tore off a hunk of bread, but before he could put it in his mouth, his elbow caught the handle of the knife, sending it clattering to the floor. The noise shattered the calm and his wife jumped a little in her chair. Kidd bent down to pick up the blade, but as he did so he noticed something strange on the flagstones. A gray powder, like coarsely-milled seeds, dusted the floor in among the rushes. He wiped a little up with his finger, the grains sticking to his sweat, and inspected it. Lifting the grit up to his nose, he sniffed and frowned.
“What you been using saltpeter for?” he asked, then added jokily: “ ’Tis too hot to kill the pig. ’Twill roast itself in this heat.”
“I ain’t used no saltpeter. The knife-grinder must have brought it in on his boots,” she replied, seemingly indifferent to her husband’s query. But Amos Kidd did not like to be treated so and his expression hardened at her words. His mouth set in a grimace and his brows knitted in a frown. She looked up and saw the all-too-familiar signs.
“I want no strange men in my house! You hear?” he thundered. He darted forward and stood over her, glowering, but she held his gaze. Then, putting down her sewing, she rose.
“Now, Amos,” she whispered, cupping his face in her palms. “No need to be so angry with me.”
Her husband cocked his head like a puzzled child. She traced a bead of sweat down his forehead with her finger and said softly, “After all, you always say ’tis only when the petals are fully open that a bee can collect the nectar.”
At this, his welling anger seemed to recede. A smile returned to his lips and he took her outstretched hand and followed her into the bedroom.
“Besides,” she began, as she started to undo the laces on her husband’s shirt, “the grinder had a story to tell.”
Kidd stilled her hand. “What kind of story?”
Her eyes opened wide with excitement. “One that you need to hear, my darling,” she cooed, licking his fingers seductively. “But not until the bee has visited his flower.” And with that she lowered her head and began kissing his naked chest.
The town of Hungerford was more than used to its fair share of strangers. Lying on the main road from Bath to London, it played host to peers and paupers alike. Good King William spent the night there in the Black Bear after he landed in Weymouth to take the English Crown in the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Cattle drovers would gather regularly on the common and the market attracted traders from miles around. On a clear day the gibbet at Combe could be seen atop the beacon to the south of the town. Crows circling around a swinging cage always served as a reminder to any who abused the town’s hospitality. Even so, the stranger who arrived in Charnham Street on that June afternoon was not the customary drover, trader, or fair pedlar.
Dressed in the dark garb of a cleric or a notary, and walking with the stoop of a man bent over a desk all day, this stranger did not mingle with the crowd of country folk. The cooper spotted him as he alighted from the coach and began to move up Charnham Street, and the milliner remarked on him as he passed by her shop. The baker pointed him out to a customer he was serving as being “not from around these parts,” and the haberdasher followed his progress as he went out of sight.
The man stopped outside a modest cottage that overlooked the river. A full-bosomed woman with porcine features and a baby on her hip answered the stranger’s knock and words were exchanged on the doorstep. To anyone watching the encounter, and there were one or two who did, it would seem that the man’s inquiries were given short shrift. Shaking her head, it was obvious to observers that the woman could not, or would not, help with his inquiry. Yet he, doffing his tricorn, would not be put off and appeared to take out his purse and press her palm with a coin. At this her demeanor was seen to alter and she became more civil. A smile, a nod and a flick of her chubby wrist told the stranger that he would best be taking his inquiry off in the direction of Charnham Street. With a cheery nod she bade her caller “good day” in a courteous manner and he headed off toward where she had pointed.
In less than five minutes he had reached his new destination: a tall, thin house that looked as though it could have been a hostelry. It was, in fact, the Hungerford Workhouse. Lifting the tarnished knocker, he struck three times. After a moment or two, the door creaked open and a nervous-looking woman in a cap and shawl about her slight shoulders stood at the threshold.
“May I help you?” she inquired in a voice so soft yet high in pitch that the stranger had to strain his ear to hear it. He doffed his tricorn once more.
“Good day to you, madam.” His tone was officious, but polite. “This is the workhouse, I believe.”
An anxious look scudded across the woman’s face. “That it is, sir,” she squeaked apologetically, as if feeling guilty for all the shameful inadequacies that occurred therein.
“Good.” The caller nodded. “Then I would speak with the master,” he told her firmly.
“You’d best come in, sir,” she said, opening the door fully, then, to the surprise of the caller, she threw back her head and shouted at the top of her voice: “Master! Master!” as if the most calamitous fate had befallen the house.
Taking off his hat to show his face properly for the first time, the stranger entered. His complexion was as gray as the hair in his wig, as if he had not seen the sun for many a long year, and he wore a dull expression to match his generally dull countenance.
The hallway smelled of vinegar and stale sweat, and the woman gestured him into a parlor. It was plainly furnished and cold, even though the temperature outside was uncomfortably hot. The rug was threadbare and on the wall hung an exhortation to all those who entered. Avoid idleness and intemperance, it read.
“Will you sit, sir?” the woman entreated him. “The master will be with you presently.” But before the stranger could oblige, the workhouse master appeared on the threshold. His wig appeared too small for his large head, as if he had borrowed it. And his head, in turn, was attached to his broad shoulders by a neck as wide as a man’s thigh. He eyed the caller suspiciously.
“You would speak with me, sir?” he boomed.
Undeterred, the stranger squared up to him. “Yes, sir. I am seeking one of your charges,” he told him.
The master narrowed his eyes. “Been in trouble, have they?”
The stranger shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. I would simply know if the person I seek is in your care.”
The master’s tone softened a little. “Will you sit then, sir?” he said, gesturing to a chair.
Parting the tails of his frock coat, the stranger seated himself, while the master sat opposite him. On the table between them was a large, leather-bound ledger. The master took out a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat and perched them on his large nose. “What name shall I look for, Mr. er . . . um,” he asked, peering over the rim of his glasses.
The stranger leaned forward intentl
y, so that he could look at the leaves of the ledger more closely. The book was as thick as a church Bible and in it, on yellowing pages, were row upon row of names, a litany of misery and woe for the poor and unfortunate. Thrown on the mercy of the parish, they were people without dignity and without hope.
“My name is of no import,” replied the stranger. He moistened his thin lips in anticipation. “But the individual I seek is a child. An orphan.”
The master’s shoulders shrugged, his wig slipping slightly to one side. “We’ve plenty of those here,” he snorted.
The stranger did not share the joke, but continued to peer, leaning even closer.
“And the name?” inquired the master, growing impatient.
“He goes by the name of Farrell,” he replied. “Richard Farrell.”
Chapter 5
Thomas spent much of the journey to Oxford staring out of the coach window, observing the countryside closely. It was a great relief to leave the steaming stew of London behind as it simmered in the almost intolerable heat, and yet his sense of unease did not leave him. He knew he should be feeling elated at the thought of seeing Lydia once more and spending a few days alone in her company, and yet there was a nagging fear at the back of his mind. The few unnatural incidents that he had experienced in London, coupled with the fact that the air pressure was set to rise even higher, had put him in an agitated humor.
As they left the capital for the cleaner air of the country, the natural surroundings became of even more interest to him than usual. He looked heavenward. The cloudless blue over London, smudged by the smoke of countless furnaces and kilns in so many areas, gave way to a sky dotted with wispy high clouds. They signified calm weather. He found that reassuring. As the road skirted the Thames he checked to see if the willows were whitening, heralding a forthcoming storm. They were not. Were the red kites flying lower than usual over the Chiltern hills? He did not think so. Nature was speaking in its own language. But he could not be sure what it was trying to say.
