by Tessa Harris
There was an empty chair and the punters looked up as if they were expecting him.
“Good day, gentlemen,” said Lawson. The self-satisfied grin had not left his face. “Luck is with me today, of that I am certain.” And he took his seat at the table with a pocketful of cash.
As their carriage turned east, the great golden ball came into view. It sat atop the church of St. Lawrence on a hill that dominated the countryside for miles around. Thomas put his head out of the window and stared open-mouthed. It was every bit as impressive as he had heard, like the dome of a great mosque in a painting from old Araby. Anchored by three heavy chains that were not visible from afar, it seemed that it was merely floating on top of the tower, hundreds of feet up.
“But it is magnificent!” he exclaimed with childlike wonderment.
Lydia smiled at his reaction. “A copy of the Customs House in Venice, I believe,” she informed him, adding: “Wait until you see the house.”
The carriage rumbled on through enormous gates and there before them, like some great Roman temple, lay West Wycombe Park. Although he had become quite used to the grandiose buildings of London, Thomas was struck by the theatricality of its columned and pedimented facades set against a backdrop of rolling parkland. He had heard much about the estate from Mr. Franklin, who had spent several sojourns there as the guest of the late Sir Francis Dashwood. Once, as they sat drinking coffee in the Bedford Coffee House, his fellow countryman’s eyes had twinkled when he recalled the general mayhem at wild parties held in the nearby Hellfire Caves. Thomas had not pressed him further, but from the high color in the great man’s cheeks, he could tell it was an unforgettable experience.
Around a dozen guests were already being directed by liveried footmen to a garden at the rear. Thomas and Lydia duly alighted from their carriage and were ushered through. Their host, the third baronet, Sir John Dashwood-King, was there to greet them.
“My dear Lady Lydia, how wonderful to see you again, and how radiant you look,” he exclaimed, taking Lydia’s hand in a flamboyant gesture, as if she were a long-lost daughter. He seemed a jocular man, with a round face and an even rounder belly.
“Sir John, thank you so much for your kind invitation,” replied Lydia, not at all put off by the exuberant reception. She smiled at Thomas. “May I introduce you to Dr. Thomas Silkstone, who is staying at Boughton for a few days?”
The young doctor stepped forward and gave a shallow bow.
“Ah, Silkstone, eh?” barked the nobleman. “A man of medicine from the Colonies, I believe.”
Thomas checked his annoyance, but corrected his host nonetheless. “A former colony, I think would be fairer to say, sir.” He held the baronet’s gaze for a moment, and Lydia held her breath, but then he smiled broadly and Sir John followed suit.
“I’ll grant you that, Silkstone, but just remember this tea party is at West Wycombe, not Boston!” he joked, and with that he let out such a loud guffaw that his round face turned bright red. “I’ve had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Franklin here, when Sir Francis was alive, and I have to say, you chaps can give us a run for our money!” His shoulders heaved with laughter.
Thomas, too, began to laugh. He rather liked this jolly-looking nobleman who obviously did not take himself too seriously. “I promise I shall behave myself this afternoon, your lordship,” he replied.
“Oh how very disappointing!” replied Sir John, still chuckling.
At that moment, from out of the corner of his eye, Thomas spied the familiar and unmistakable figure of Sir Theodisius Pettigrew, the Oxfordshire coroner. He was standing at the buffet table, chicken leg in hand, with his wife, Lady Harriet. The young anatomist felt it was time to allow Sir John to compose himself once more and he excused himself and Lydia before moving on.
“Well, well, Silkstone!” greeted Sir Theodisius, his fat face splitting in two. “Her ladyship said you would be honoring us with your presence again soon. How it gladdens my heart to see you.”
Thomas wanted to tell his old friend that the feeling was mutual, but he simply shook the coroner’s hand warmly. “Her ladyship kindly invited me to stay at Boughton for a few days to escape London,” he told him.
“Quite right,” replied Sir Theodisius, his chin glistening with a mixture of chicken fat and sweat. “So she is introducing you to the rest of polite society in the vicinity!”
Lydia fluttered her fan awkwardly, knowing such words would irritate Thomas. She flashed a smile. “Indeed, Sir Theodisius.”
“Then we shall not hold you up,” he said graciously, waving the chicken leg in the air.
Just as she turned, however, Lydia saw another familiar face. “Sir Henry,” she greeted, holding out her hand. An elderly gentleman with a kindly face came shuffling up to her, took her hand and kissed it.
“My dear Lady Lydia. But you are looking as delightful as ever. By Jove, yes!” he told her.
Thomas saw great affection in Lydia’s eyes. “And you are well?” she inquired.
He made a fist with his hand and thumped his chest lightly. “Bit short of breath now and again, but I can’t complain,” he replied.
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Lydia.
Sir Henry Thorndike studied Thomas with rheumy eyes. “And you are the physician from the Colonies, I believe, sir.” This time the faux pas was allowed to pass unremarked.
“Forgive me, yes. This is Dr. Thomas Silkstone from Philadelphia,” said Lydia.
Thomas bowed. In the few seconds he had been given to study the elderly man he had made a preliminary diagnosis. His body had been buffeted and bowed by advancing years and his gait was slightly stooped, but it was his lips that gave away his condition. They were a strange bluish purple, a classic sign of poor circulation, or even possibly heart disease, he thought to himself.
“And you are staying at Boughton for a few days?” Sir Henry inquired.
“I have that pleasure,” replied Thomas.
Their pleasantries were beginning to wear a little thin when they were joined by a most striking woman. Thomas noticed a distinct change in Lydia’s expression. “Lady Thorndike,” she greeted her as all eyes turned to the flame-haired beauty who drew beside them. Dressed à la mode in a robe of yellow silk, she was tall and elegant. Yet she fluttered her fan in agitation as much as to cool herself, while on her face she wore a look of disdain as plain as any beauty patch.
“Ah, Julia dear, here you are,” said Sir Henry congenially, but his wife shot him a poisonous look before she noticed the handsome young doctor. Then, just as surely, she rearranged her features into a smile and let out a girlish laugh.
“My husband’s great age is no excuse for his absence of manners,” she remarked, clapping her eyes on Thomas. Without moving her gaze she told Lydia: “Well, well, my dear, I await a formal introduction.” Acting as if she had just spied a dish of sweetmeats, she held out a gloved hand to the doctor.
Thomas introduced himself. “Silkstone. Dr. Thomas Silkstone, your ladyship.” She was strikingly handsome, probably around the same age as Lydia, with a flawless complexion, high cheekbones, and a dimple at the center of her chin. From her forceful manner, however, he also sensed she was trouble. Lydia’s look of pure loathing reinforced this notion.
“I am sure Lady Lydia has told you that she and I are neighbors. Our estate borders Boughton,” Lady Thorndike told Thomas, fixing him with a playful smile. “You really must dine with us,” she said, waving her fan coquettishly in front of her face.
Lydia was quick to butt in with a firmness that surprised Thomas. “You are most kind,” she replied, forcing a smile, “but I am afraid Dr. Silkstone is only here for a few days and we already have several engagements.”
Lady Thorndike’s expression was quick to sour, but her words to Thomas remained sweet. “A great pity, but I am sure we will meet again, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas bowed and Lydia tugged surreptitiously at his sleeve, guiding him away.
“Did I detect a certain fri
ction between you two ladies?” teased Thomas when they were out of earshot.
“That woman is as venomous a creature as one could ever meet,” hissed Lydia through clenched teeth. “She is nothing but a harlot,” she muttered. He had seldom heard her speak with such approbation.
“Her treatment of her husband was rather embarrassing,” agreed Thomas, as they strolled across the lawns.
Lydia stopped in her tracks and looked at Thomas squarely. “Lady Thorndike has a reputation that I do not envy,” she told him brusquely. “You saw the way she spoke to poor Sir Henry. His first wife died five years ago and his only son, the year after. He married that woman to produce an heir for him. There is no love lost between them.”
Sensing he had touched a raw nerve, he backed off. “I shall bow to your judgment, my love,” he replied diplomatically.
They walked on, skirting the large muddy bowl of the lake. Deprived of adequate rainfall, its banks were cracked and dry and it contained no more than a very large puddle. It was so hot that they were glad to see a folly up ahead and made straight for it.
Nestled among tall pines at the top of a gentle slope, the Temple of Daphne, with its classical colonnades, looked cool and inviting. Lydia hurried into its shade, but remained agitated. She threw back her head, sighing. “I am sorry, Thomas. I should never have brought you here,” she began.
He looked at the careworn expression that was all too familiar to him. He must bring back a smile to her lips, he told himself.
“I’ll not hear of it,” he mocked her. “Oh, how charming! Do dine with us,” he mimicked. “Do not let them trouble you,” he told her, smiling wryly. “You managed well enough without them when you were married to the captain. I suspect he did not ingratiate himself with most of your polite society around here, either.”
After a moment she returned his smile. “You are right, as usual,” she said. And at this, Thomas bent forward and playfully pecked her on the lips.
“Of course I am right. I am a doctor,” he teased her and she rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as she did so.
It was only then that Thomas noticed something most peculiar. As he put his arm around Lydia, he gazed down and saw a large brown rat crouching in the corner of the folly. Instinctively he looked around. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the dense undergrowth nearby. He could not believe what he saw; not one or two, but at least a dozen rats were scuttling in the bracken. He could even hear them squeak.
“What’s that noise?” asked Lydia suddenly.
Thomas held his tongue, remembering her deep-rooted fear of rodents. He knew he must act quickly but calmly. Stroking her hair as her head rested on his shoulder, he turned around, taking her with him, and began walking out of the folly.
“Thomas, what are you doing?” she protested, as he led her down the slope onto the main lawn.
When they were safely away from the undergrowth he told her the truth.
“I spotted a rat in the folly,” he said.
She heaved a sigh of relief and gazed up at him. “Thank you,” she replied. “You know how I hate rats.”
He had no intention of telling her that there was an infestation of the creatures. For some reason—he wished he knew what—they had sought higher ground. Normally they would do that in the case of a flood, but water levels in streams, rivers, and lakes were exceptionally low. There had to be some explanation for such behavior. It was yet another piece in the puzzle that both baffled and worried him.
Chapter 7
Lydia was anxious to reach Hungerford by the late afternoon, so the following day Lovelock made the carriage ready before dawn. As they rumbled down the drive of Boughton Hall and out into the lane, Thomas could sense her nervousness. She said little at first, choosing to stare out of the window as the sun rose over the hills.
They skirted Oxford and in a village toward Abingdon stopped at the inn for refreshment and to water the horses. Choosing a seat in the corner, where prying eyes would find it harder to stare, Thomas reached for Lydia’s hand. He could only imagine the mixed emotions she was going through and he knew that the next few hours could bring joy and elation or disappointment and despair.
“May I see the letter again?” he asked.
She fumbled in her reticule and brought out the folded piece of paper with its broken seal. She pushed it along the table to Thomas, still folded, as if she herself could not bear to look at it for the umpteenth time.
The letter was written in uneven script, in a hand that was not well educated. The address at the top of the page was River Cottage, Bridge Street, Hungerford. It was dated June 2, 1781, less than three months after Michael Farrell’s death. It read:
Dear Capt. Farrell,
Seeing how several weeks have passed since you last payed me in respect of your charge and since I have had no reply to my previous letters, I must assume that no more moneys will be forthcoming. I therefore regret to inform you that the child is now in the care of the parish workhouse and will remain there for as long as you choose him to be there.
I am, sir, your obedient servant,
Dora Pargiter (Widow)
The parish workhouse was no place for a grown man, let alone a small boy with perhaps a disability from where Hunter’s needle had stabbed him during the failed abortion, thought Thomas. He understood that the notion of her son in such a hellhole was a terrible burden for Lydia. She turned to him suddenly, her face gripped by a scowl.
“How could any woman do that, Thomas?” she blurted. “How could she turn out a little child whom she had nursed for the past three years?”
The young doctor shook his head. “Money makes people act in strange ways,” he replied. “But we do not know the full facts. Let us reserve judgment until we speak with this Widow Pargiter.”
Lydia knew his words were wise, and her features relaxed a little, as if she had been thrown a thread of hope.
“Perhaps she did not carry out her threat,” she muttered, then louder she added: “Perhaps she kept him after all!” Her eyes were suddenly bright with the thought that the widow might have relented and Thomas did not wish to dull them.
“Perhaps, my love,” he told her calmly. He brushed her flushed cheek with his finger. “But we will have to wait and see.”
The sun had not yet set, but already Amos Kidd had gone to bed. After downing a bowl of vegetable potage he had taken to his rest. He told his wife he would rise even earlier than usual to tend to his roses. It was something that the young doctor from the Colonies had said, something about nature giving warning signs. Nothing must happen to his beloved blooms. He must be there to protect them. He was their guardian—against wind, heat, frost, flood, greenfly—he would be there for them. So he would be up early, just to see that nothing could harm them.
The heat still draped itself languidly about every surface and although the cottage was cool, Susannah Kidd had unlaced her corset and taken off her skirt, so that she sat in her shift and petticoat. Easing herself into a chair, she stretched out her legs in front of her, planting her small, bare feet down on the flags. Pressed against the stones, she felt the thrill of the coolness dart up through her whole body. She shivered with delight.
The knife-grinder was standing at the window. He had been watching her sensuous dance through a heady haze of liquor for the past few minutes and hoped that he would not be turned away. After all, she had been so very welcoming at their first meeting. The pout of her lips and the look in her eye had told him he would be well received should he choose to call again.
He bent down, picked up a pebble, and tossed it in through the open casement. It bounced once and landed by Susannah’s feet. She let out a muted gasp and sat upright. Turning to the window, she saw a head swathed in a red scarf, teeth pearly white against tanned skin. Flying up from her chair, she hurried over to the man who had sharpened her scissors.
“Be gone with you!” she scolded him. “What do you think you are doing?” Her eyes shot to the bedroom door
, but the intruder was pulling her close to him. He began kissing her neck, his beery breath filling her nostrils.
“You alone?” he panted.
“My husband is abed,” she whispered hoarsely and she pushed his chest hard. But he grabbed her hand and unfurling her fingers, he kissed her palm softly. The thrill of his lips on her wrist made her close her eyes for a second, but still she resisted.
“Be gone with you,” she told him, louder this time.
Sensing that perhaps she meant what she said, the knife-grinder backed off, feigning hurt. “Why so cruel?” he asked, his lips drooping.
“I mean it,” she growled.
So, pouting like a wounded child, he touched his red scarf with two of his fingers by way of a farewell, and took his leave. All the same, the look in her eye told him that he should return. And he wove his unsteady way back to his mule, mounted it, and silently stole away like the thief he surely was.
Chapter 8
Thomas and Lydia arrived at the Black Bear tired and sore after a journey that had taken them more than seven hours. Chalk dust from the Downs had found its way into the carriage and now a thin film of it covered the seats and the passengers. Because of the heat, Lovelock had stopped more frequently for the horses to take water, so they had endured the lurching and jouncing of the carriage longer than expected. Their relief at their arrival and the thought of a wash and a good meal was, however, enough to put them in better spirits.
They had agreed to take separate rooms to avoid any possible scandal, and after a change of clothes they were shown into a low-beamed dining room. They sat at a quiet table and Thomas ordered a pitcher of wine and a dish of roast lamb and capers. Now and again they could hear raucous shouts from the bar as recently arrived carriers deposited more weary travelers for the night. There was the constant hubbub of toing and froing, of doors banging and orders being barked to the kitchen.
