by Tessa Harris
Many years ago, when he had spent time with the Delaware people near his Pennsylvania home, he had seen how they built sweathouses to purify themselves of their ills; steaming their bodies before cooling down in the creek or rolling in the winter snow. They made infusions of skunk cabbage root to treat whooping cough, or a tea of arnica for back pain. He respected their ways, how they tapped into nature’s healing powers without harming their surroundings. Each rustle of a tree or call of a bird was regarded as a voice that imparted a wisdom or a truth. Yes, there was much that science could learn from these native Americans, he told himself, and he wondered what they would make of the murmurings that he could now hear in this small but beautiful corner of the English countryside.
Even though the air seemed a little cooler as the coach made good progress along the dust-dry roads, it was still inordinately warm. Despite this Thomas shivered. The sense of foreboding he felt reminded him of when, as a boy, he had stayed with relatives in Williamsburg. Then the heat had been oppressive, too, and he had known from the great pillars of slate-gray cloud they were in for a storm. But during the night, they had been woken by a sound so terrifying that the women of the house screamed with fright. A great banshee wind from the ocean made landfall to the south and roared up Chesapeake Bay, destroying everything in its path. They spent two days cowering in a cellar until the roaring ceased and the great rains stopped, but many had lost their lives during that time and it was a memory that would never leave him.
As soon as he saw the spires of Oxford, however, he forced himself to banish such maudlin thoughts. Thankfully, Lovelock was waiting for him with the carriage and a flask of lemonade thoughtfully supplied by Mistress Claddingbowl, the cook. He began the last leg of his onward journey in relative comfort, although his aching body still complained with each pothole. Yet the pleasure of breathing in fresh, country air outweighed any physical distress, he told himself. The stench and chaos of London was a world away and he and Lydia would be able to put the past behind them and look to a brighter future together.
The coach journeyed on through a narrow valley, bordered by woodland. About ten miles from Boughton, Thomas spotted a small crowd of men and women in a meadow next to the roadside. They were sprawled out in a long line and seemed to be peering at something on the ground. Some of the women seemed distressed, shaking their heads or turning to their menfolk for comfort.
Thomas put his head out of the carriage window.
“What goes on?” he shouted up to the driver. He wondered if someone might need a physician’s services.
The coachman, from his vantage point, shook his head.
“Looks like a woe water’s sprung up,” he replied, craning his neck to see a ribbon of water spilling out into the grassy hollow of a dry river bed.
“A woe water?” repeated Thomas. It was a term that was unfamiliar to him.
The driver nodded. “A stream that springs up as a warning; an omen, like.” He puckered his lips thoughtfully, then added, “Last time it happened in these parts the plague came.”
The sense of unease that Thomas felt in London suddenly returned as surely as the water that gurgled out of the ground below. He ordered the driver to move off.
The light was almost gone by the time they turned through the gates of the great house. The dust clouds thrown up by the carriage when it was a good mile away had warned the household of his arrival. Lady Lydia Farrell waited on the steps to greet her visitor. A diminutive woman, she had luxuriant brown hair piled on top of her small head and she wore a gown of azure blue. Thomas remembered he had once told her it was his favorite color. He knew she was wearing it for him.
Howard the butler, Mistress Firebrace the housekeeper, together with several housemaids and Will, the stable boy, made up the welcoming party.
“Your ladyship,” Thomas greeted her formally.
Lydia smiled and held out her hand. Thomas kissed it, lingering slightly longer than was perhaps considered good manners.
“You are most welcome as always,” she greeted him.
Looking into her eyes, Thomas saw an animation that was unfamiliar to him. The melancholy seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a renewed optimism and even joy. This would be their own precious time together, he told himself. This would be their new beginning. He offered Lydia his arm and together they walked through the great double doors of Boughton Hall.
After washing and settling himself into his room, Thomas joined Lydia on the terrace, where dinner was served. Seated side by side, they watched the full moon rise over the lawns. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and a nightingale serenaded them somewhere in the distance.
Lydia had long dismissed the servants and Thomas poured them each another glass of claret.
“I want to propose a toast,” he said. “To us. May our future together be as perfect as this evening.”
Lydia smiled and clinked her glass against his.
“I cannot wait to have you all to myself for a whole month,” he told her.
She nodded, but he noticed her gaze suddenly drop, as if she had remembered something she would rather forget.
“What is it, Lydia?”
She sighed heavily. “I am afraid we have an engagement tomorrow.”
“An engagement?”
Lydia nodded and took his other hand. “It is the Dashwoods’ annual garden party at West Wycombe Park.” She framed her words carefully. “Circumstances have prevented me from attending for the last two years and I promised faithfully that I would be there.”
Thomas nodded. Her circumstances had, indeed, been difficult to say the least. “And I am invited?”
“Indeed, yes. Sir John is very anxious to meet you. He has heard so much about you.” She laid a hand on his.
The young anatomist rolled his eyes. He knew that he was so often the subject of gossip, particularly among the English aristocracy, much of it unfavorable. They regarded him, for the most part, as a colonial upstart, intent on stirring up trouble within the established way of doing things.
“I am sure he has heard of me and I’ll wager none of the hearsay will be flattering,” said Thomas, wearily. “You know I am an outcast to these people.”
Lydia looked hurt. “But if you are to be the future lord of Boughton, then they will have to welcome you, my love,” she pointed out.
Thomas regarded her with a bemused look. In all the months that he had loved Lydia and dreamed of making her his wife, he had never really given any thought to the mantle of responsibility he would be expected to wear. He would become the legal owner of Boughton Hall and the entire estate, with its thousands of acres of farmland, its livestock and its workers’ cottages. Dozens of men, women, and children would rely on him for their livelihoods. The prospect did not sit easily with him.
“I am a surgeon, Lydia. The blood in my veins runs red, not blue like your English aristocracy,” he blurted.
As soon as he said these words, however, he regretted them. She withdrew her grasp and he could tell he had wounded her.
“Forgive me.” He caught her eye. “I should not be so insensitive. Please.” He gestured for her hand once more. After a moment she did as he asked.
When she spoke again, after a short pause, her voice was measured. “I know how much you have suffered from English prejudice since you came here, Thomas, but you can only show those pompous prigs that you are better than they are through example.”
The young anatomist thought for a moment. Her words reminded him of something his father’s friend Benjamin Franklin had said to him during one of their meetings at his home. He had raised a plump finger and declared: “A good example is the best sermon.”
“Example, yes.” He nodded. “You are so wise, my love,” he said, then moving closer he whispered, “And so very beautiful.”
She turned to face him, but despite her smile, he could see, for the first time that day, a sadness in her eyes. It was that same deep melancholy that he had noticed when she first told hi
m about her lost son. Thomas was reminded of her pain. Any talk of their future always seemed to be bound to the past and the possibility, however remote, that the child she once bore might still be alive.
“I understand about Richard,” he said gently, putting his arm around her shoulder.
“While there is hope I cannot give up, Thomas.” Her voice broke as she spoke.
“While there is hope we will not give up, my love,” he echoed. “I promised you that and I will remain true to my word.”
She took a deep breath. “Then we shall search for him together?”
“Of course we shall. Where was the last address you found for him?”
“The house was in Hungerford, about a day’s journey from here, but he was sent to the local”—she broke off to compose herself before delivering the rest of the sentence—“to the workhouse when Michael stopped paying for his upkeep.”
Thomas nodded. “So Hungerford is where we will begin our search,” he told her.
Lydia’s eyes lit up at the prospect and her face broke into a smile. “Thank you,” she said.
Long before the house dogs had stirred and the scullery maid had risen to light the kitchen fire, Thomas was back in his own bedchamber. His first night with Lydia since she had broken off their betrothal so suddenly and without explanation in London the month before had been a blissful one. Her motives—her shame and guilt at the loss of her child—had all become clear now and their love was even stronger as a result, of that he was sure. Now he longed to close his eyes for a few hours’ repose before breakfast. He was just about to slip off his breeches and lie beneath the cool, crisp sheets when he glanced out of the window. His view was of the rose garden. The scent of the blooms had drifted upward through his open window overnight and filled his room with their perfume. He was gazing at the myriad of colors, the waxy creams and deep pinks, when in among them he spotted Amos Kidd. He watched as the gardener, his face shaded under his large-brimmed hat, lovingly watered each plant and inspected leaves for signs of aphids or black rot. There was a care in his manner that denoted a man at ease with his garden, as if it gave him the inner calm that some people find in church.
It was then that it occurred to him. Perhaps he should talk to Kidd and see if he had noticed anything strange in the natural order of things lately. If anyone could tell him if the bees were swarming or the seagulls were flying inland, Thomas guessed it would be Kidd. He slipped on his waistcoat and topcoat and crept downstairs, so as not to waken the rest of the household.
Although it was not yet six o’clock the air outside was already languid. The cloudless sky was as blue as the forget-me-nots that clustered in the neatly trimmed borders below. And yet there was something not quite right. He noticed that what few swallows he could see were flying low. Instead of whooping and diving for insects, they were keeping closer to the ground.
“Good morning, Kidd,” he greeted.
The gardener jumped in surprise.
“Good morning, Dr. Silkstone, sir,” he returned, raising his hat to his unexpected visitor.
“Another hot day,” remarked Thomas.
Kidd nodded, resting both hands on his upright spade. “The roses don’t care for it, sir.”
Thomas let out a laugh. “Not many of us do,” he replied. There was a slightly awkward pause as he looked about him; up at the sky, then back down to the roses, as if something was bothering him. “Can I speak plainly with you, Mr. Kidd, as a man of the country?” he asked earnestly.
Kidd pushed his hat to the back of his head with his thumb, so that Thomas could see his entire face. It was weathered as a slab of sandstone but kindly nonetheless. “I would be glad to oblige you, sir.”
“Then tell me this,” Thomas began. “Have you noticed anything strange in the nature of things these past two or three days?”
“Strange?” Kidd frowned.
“Any signs or portents among the plants or animals that seem unusual for the season?”
The gardener scratched his graying temple, then began to nod slowly. “Now that you mention it, the butterflies have left the buddleia.” He pointed to the purple cones on a bush on the other side of the clipped yew hedge that were usually covered in red admirals and swallowtails.
“Really?” Thomas looked intently at him.
“And the honey bees—” the gardener broke off.
“What of them?”
Kidd gestured around him. “Listen, sir.” He paused. Thomas heard the faint cooing of doves and the song of a blackbird in the nearby bushes, but no low hum of bees. “There ain’t none,” he murmured. “The garden be alive with them, normal like, but, come to think of it, I’ve seen none since yesterday morning.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “Very odd. Well, if you see or hear anything else you think out of the ordinary, please tell me, Mr. Kidd.”
The gardener doffed his hat. “That I will, sir.”
Thomas turned to walk back to the house, but had taken no more than a few steps when Kidd called him back.
“Dr. Silkstone!”
He wheeled ’round.
“There was something else, come to think of it.”
Thomas walked closer. “Yes.”
“My wife said she were talking to a tinker or some such yesterday who’d come from up north. Lincoln way, I think she said.”
“What of it?”
“He said he’d see’d this great gray cloud roll over the fields from the sea and women and men was running from it, but some of them fell, coughing and choking.”
This information seemed to have a profound effect on Thomas. “Good God,” he muttered. “And this was north of here, you say?”
“Yes.” Spurred on by the doctor’s reaction, Kidd added: “Those that could ran into a barn and bolted the doors, but it still covered ’em. The devil’s breath he called it.”
“The devil’s breath,” repeated Thomas. Then, shaking his head, he said to the gardener, “Let us hope it is not heading this way.”
Chapter 6
Thomas Silkstone and Amos Kidd were not the only early risers on that hot June morning. Gabriel Lawson had been up since dawn, too. It was market day in Brandwick and there were some late lambs to take to the slaughter. Two shepherds, father and son, Seth and Noah Kipps, drove the flock, about fifty of them in all, along the narrow lanes. Lawson followed behind in the wagon, narrowing his eyes against the dust that rose from the track as hundreds of hooves loosened it.
Without their mothers the lambs were disoriented, slipping down the dry gullies and ditches, or straying through broken gateways and gaps in hedgerows. While the dogs did a good job rounding up their stupid charges, progress was slow, compounded by the heat and the flies. Nevertheless, they arrived at the market in Sheep Street before nine o’clock and the livestock were all penned in hurdles within minutes.
As the sun climbed, the air was filled with the bleats of thousands of lambs and the shouts of men. Dogs barked incessantly and flies buzzed drunkenly hither and thither, high on dung. The cobbles were wet with sheep’s piss and the reek of it stung men’s eyes.
Lawson wiped his brow with his kerchief after the last hurdle had been closed and leant against a nearby wall, licking his parched lips.
“Goodly looking lambs you got there, Mr. Lawson,” said one farmer, sidling up to him as he watched the proceedings.
The steward gave a self-satisfied grin. “ ’Tis why I get a good price for them,” he replied.
Within the next hour all of his lambs had been sold and many of them slaughtered on the spot in the nearby shambles. The stench from the spilled blood and entrails in the heat caught the back of men’s throats and made them gag. The porters sluiced down the flagstones and cobbles with buckets of water from the town brook, but the stones were so hot that it quickly rose as steam into the air. Lawson was having none of it. He had settled up as quickly as he could. Each lamb had fetched twenty-five shillings and he was pleased with the takings. He put the bank notes in his leather w
allet and the shilling coins into his purse.
“A good morning, men,” he said to Seth and Noah as they rested against a nearby wall. “Here’s a shilling for some ale.”
They both smiled broadly. “Thank you, sir,” they said.
Lawson, too, decided he deserved a drink. The Three Tuns lay across the street and was doing a roaring trade. As usual, the Reverend Lightfoot and his wife were standing outside trying to persuade imbibers that St. Swithin’s offered more fulfilling succor, but to no avail. Mistress Lightfoot eyed Gabriel Lawson reprovingly as he ducked low through the door of the inn. She had the measure of his sort.
The inn was packed full of farmers and shepherds come to town from the surrounding countryside. Pipe smoke curled in the breathless air, helping to mask the smell of sweat and spilled ale. In the corner a fiddler played. The town women, their faces slashed with scarlet and their breasts straining out of their bodices, were out in force, too, eager to help the shepherds and farmers spend their hard-earned cash. Two of them sallied up to Lawson.
“Well, well, Mr. Lawson! How’s our favorite customer?” one said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
The steward smirked and lifted her wandering arm off his torso with disdain. Instead he made straight for the bar.
“A tankard of your finest, landlord,” he ordered.
“So you’ve had a good morning?” persisted one of the painted women.
He downed his beer in large gulps and banged his pot on the counter. “You could say that,” he replied, then taking his notebook from his pocket, together with a pencil, he licked the lead and wrote down carefully: 30 lambs . . . 20 shillings each. Total: £30.
Smirking, Lawson looked up to find that he still had an audience.
“I’m anxious to get at the table, ladies,” he told them.
They looked at each other and giggled before following him as he made for the back of the pump room, heading toward thick, floor-length curtains. Finding the edge of one of them he drew it back slightly. Half a dozen men, watched by as many women, were seated around a large wooden table, playing pharo.
