The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  Lydia remained subdued and Thomas felt it his duty to try and distract her from her anxiety over what the morrow might hold. He spoke of Amos Kidd’s beautiful roses and of yesterday’s garden party at West Wycombe. Soon she was smiling again, so that by the time their food arrived, her appetite was whetted.

  “I am so grateful to you for being here,” she told him as they ate.

  “And I am grateful you chose me to accompany you,” he replied. He grasped his goblet, half full of wine. “Let us drink to our quest.”

  Lydia nodded and lifted her glass, clinking it against Thomas’s. “To Richard,” she said. “God grant we find him soon.”

  An hour or so later, when they had finished their meal, Lydia told Thomas she wished to retire to her room. He settled her down in the small but pleasantly furnished chamber and decided to return to the bar for a nightcap. As he was coming down the stairs, he noticed two men bluster in from the street. One was tall and well-dressed, a merchant perhaps. He was talking animatedly with the other.

  “I tell you, after what I’ve been through, this place is most welcome,” the young doctor heard him say as he headed for the bar.

  Thomas approached, intrigued. He sat down at a nearby table so that he could eavesdrop, cradling his brandy and feigning to read a discarded newssheet.

  “It was like the deepest, darkest winter, my friend,” continued the merchant. “The snow was gray as ash, and there was a fog that blackened the leaves and poisoned the water.”

  The other man called out to the serving girl, snapping his fingers.

  “Two brandies and make it quick. My friend here has endured a journey from hell,” he cried.

  Thomas needed to know more. He rose and walked casually over to the bar. “So, sir,” he said. “You have had a bad journey?”

  The merchant eyed him. “Aye, sir. I’ve ridden through a sudden choking fog that blocked out the sun and made it hard for a man to breathe.”

  Thomas looked grave. “A disturbing experience, I’ll wager. And do you have any notion as to what might have caused this fog?” he inquired.

  The merchant shrugged. “I did not stop to think, sir. I rode on for my life!”

  The young doctor was sympathetic. “It must have been terrifying.”

  “By heaven, man, it was! I saw laborers in the fields fall, choking.” He lifted the brandy to his lips.

  “And where was this, sir?” Thomas pressed.

  “Just outside Bedford,” replied the merchant, before gulping down his liquor in one go.

  “And that is north of here?”

  “Yes, sir. About eighty miles northeast. I took the road south and I’m pleased to say I was clear of it by Buckingham.” He turned to his companion. “I hope I never encounter such a fog again!”

  “I hope you never do, either,” nodded Thomas. But he had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that this deadly haze, this mephitic gas, or whatever it was, was moving inexorably closer. Suddenly all the strange phenomena he had encountered over the past three or four days began to make sense. The rise in barometric pressure could explain the arrival of this noxious cloud, the unseasonal flight of the geese, the swarming of rats, the absence of bees, and the low-flying birds. Nature knew instinctively that something extraordinary and potentially deadly was in her midst—and it was heading south. If that was the case, then in the next few days it would threaten the city of Oxford and, of course, the Boughton estate.

  From the small viewing room inside the golden orb on top of West Wycombe church, three noblemen were enjoying each other’s company over cards.

  “Sweet Jesu, this has to be one of the best views in Christendom,” cried Sir Montagu Malthus. He was peering out from one of the small windows that offered unparalleled views of the countryside as it flattened out toward the Thames. “Windsor Castle is looking splendid this evening.”

  “We are indeed high up here,” replied Sir John Dashwood-King. “Franklin wanted to affix one of his new-fangled lightning conductors to the roof,” he said, pointing upward and giggling at what he clearly considered a fanciful notion.

  “Full of ridiculous ideas, these Americans,” agreed Sir Montagu.

  The lawyer, who had been the late Lord Crick’s guardian, was a great raven of a man. His tall stature and brooding presence added to his formidable reputation as a ruthless advocate. He had broken his journey between the Inns of Court in London and his country seat near Banbury at West Wycombe Park. The fact that he could play a winning hand and eulogize about the view at the same time spoke volumes to his friends. Not much escaped his prying eyes.

  “Yes, this brings back memories of dear Francis,” he told the jocular baronet, who was seated opposite him. “Oh, the times we had in the caves!”

  Sir John’s broad face beamed. “I can believe that. What was the motto? Do as you please?”

  Sir Montagu’s great shoulders jumped at the thought. “And we did, by Jove! Ay, Henry?”

  Sir Henry Thorndike was also at the card table, although he seemed less engaged in the game. He had still not fully recovered from the exertion of climbing the dozens of steps leading from the church tower into the globe. He took out his kerchief and dabbed his forehead.

  “Oh, yes. The times we had,” he replied weakly, still struggling for breath.

  Sir Montagu turned to Sir John. “Wouldn’t think so to look at him now,” he said under his breath.

  “So how does he manage that young wife of his?”

  Sir Montagu winked. “He lets others do that for him. I’ll wager any money you like that the next heir to Fetcham Manor won’t be his,” came the whispered reply.

  Both men turned to see the old man wiping the sweat from his top lip.

  Sir John called for more wine and they drank heartily. The talk turned to women and the price of grain, the health of His Majesty King George and the Whigs at Westminster.

  “So you have come straight from London?” queried Sir John of Sir Montagu.

  “Indeed. I had business with my associates in the judiciary.”

  “You hatching some plan?” croaked Sir Henry, his breathing still labored.

  A smirk settled on Sir Montagu’s lips. “You know me too well, Henry,” he replied. “I needed to sound out the legality of a certain proposal I wish to set in motion.”

  “And from the look on your face, your mission was a success?” ventured Sir John.

  “Have you ever known me to fail?” An air of self-satisfaction enveloped the lawyer, just as surely as if he had been wearing a cloak.

  “So you will make us privy to your plans?” asked Sir John.

  “They involve my charge.”

  “The lovely Lady Lydia?” asked Sir Henry.

  Sir Montagu nodded. “The very same. As you know her father, God rest his soul, wanted me to look after her in the event of his death and I have not discharged my duties lightly.”

  “So you are still on the hunt for a suitable husband for her?”

  Malthus nodded. “Indeed, John. Like Fetcham, Boughton was in need of an heir.”

  “Was?” reiterated Sir Henry.

  Sir Montagu sipped his claret. “Yes, events have taken a most interesting turn, gentlemen.”

  Sir John arched a brow. “And what might that be?”

  The lawyer paused for effect as if he were in a courtroom. “I believe Lydia gave birth to a son and that he may well be alive.”

  The two other men let out a collective gasp.

  Sir John jumped in first. “Born on the right side of the sheets?”

  Sir Montagu waved his hand dismissively. “That rake Farrell was the father, of that I am sure, so the boy’s legitimacy is a mere technicality.”

  “And how did you come by this information?” pressed Sir Henry.

  “I was an executor of Farrell’s will. There were bills, letters. I traced them.”

  “So you have found the boy?” asked Sir John.

  “My man is on the trail as we speak.”

  Sir H
enry breathed deeply and took a gulp of claret. “Well, there’s a turn up for the books.”

  “Indeed.” Sir Montagu nodded. “And who could resist a noblewoman with a ready-made son?”

  Sir John was not so sure. “And what about that surgeon chap from the Colonies. There’s talk, Montagu. You should see the way they look at each other.”

  “A good point,” he replied. “And this is where I need your help.”

  Both men looked at Sir Montagu, then eyed each other quizzically before leaning forward in unison. “We’re all ears, dear fellow,” said Sir John.

  Chapter 9

  “Yes?” greeted the woman warily, a rosy-cheeked child whimpering on her hip. Her full breasts jumped from the top of her bodice as she bounced it up and down to quiet it.

  “Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas, removing his hat and bowing politely.

  “Yes,” she repeated. Only this time more confidently.

  “Good day to you. I am Dr. Silkstone and this is Lady Lydia Farrell,” he said, gesturing to Lydia, who stood apprehensively at his side.

  At the name Farrell, the woman’s piggy eyes widened and her snout twitched.

  “Farrell, you say?”

  Lydia stepped forward anxiously. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mistress Pargiter?”

  The dame looked uneasy. Her small eyes darted to the floor and back and she jounced the baby on her hip, even though the child was no longer fretting.

  “Mistress Pargiter?” pressed Thomas.

  “Yes. Yes, that name does mean something,” she replied.

  Lydia saw the look of embarrassment on her face and decided to compound it. “Captain Michael Farrell was my husband.” Her voice was reedy with emotion. “And that was my son you consigned to the workhouse.”

  The woman pursed her lips, as if biting her tongue. Then, looking up and down the street, to see if anyone was watching, she said, “You’d best come in.”

  She showed Lydia and Thomas into a small, shabbily furnished parlor. A young girl was polishing a card table. Down the hallway another baby cried.

  “Take him,” the widow instructed, handing over the child on her hip. “And see to Samuel.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and left with the young boy in her arms, closing the door behind her.

  “How many children do you care for, Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas.

  “I am wet nursing two at the moment and dry nursing one, sir,” she replied, tossing her head indignantly.

  “As long as their parents keep paying,” hissed Lydia.

  The woman’s small eyes narrowed. “I am not a charity, Lady Lydia. I’ve managed since my husband passed, but only just.”

  Thomas could see that Lydia’s well-aimed anger was self-defeating. “I am sure you do an excellent job, Mistress Pargiter,” he told her.

  She paused and straightened her back, as if digesting the compliment. “I like to think so, sir,” she replied, patting the back of her lace cap.

  “And you do remember the child, Master Richard?”

  The widow looked directly at Lydia, studying her face for a moment. “Yes,” she replied. “The image of you, he was.”

  Lydia’s lips trembled and Thomas put his hand on hers to comfort her.

  “Her ladyship has not seen her son since he was but a few days old,” he explained.

  The widow nodded. “He was my nurse-child for more than a year, and then I dry nursed him after that.” She gazed into the distance, as if picturing the boy in her mind’s eye. “A sickly child, mind. And his arm . . .”

  “Withered?” interrupted Thomas.

  “Yes,” she replied, tetchily. “But it were nothing to do with me. That’s how he came.”

  Thomas was familiar with the reputation of wet nurses. Babes that died in their care were more often than not buried without any questions being asked. He realized he would have to tread carefully in his inquiries. “How long was he with you, Mistress Pargiter?”

  The woman raised a stubby finger to her cheek in thought. “I’d say three years, all told.”

  Lydia put her hand up to her mouth to stifle a groan. For all that time her son was living only a day’s journey away and the thought of it cut her to the quick.

  “And you received regular payments from Captain Farrell?” quizzed Thomas.

  “First day of the month, regular as clockwork, a messenger would come with the money. Then on the first day in April that year, no one came. So I waited till the first day of May and when still no payment appeared, I . . .” She glanced at Lydia, who was looking at her reproachfully. The widow took a deep breath. “I wrote to the captain, telling him I had received no money and that if I had not been paid by the end of the month, the child would be sent to the workhouse.”

  At these last words, Lydia sprang up, her fists clenched in anger.

  “How could you?” she cried, her face crumpled in disbelief.

  Thomas tried to calm her. “Please, let Widow Pargiter speak,” he entreated her. She sat down again.

  “Pray continue,” he urged the woman, her back now stiffened in indignation.

  “When no word came in the next two weeks, I assumed that no one would be paying for the child. I could not afford to keep him anymore, and so . . .” She broke off, eyeing Lydia, knowing that no more needed to be said.

  “And it did not occur to you that the captain might have been ill or indisposed?” scowled Lydia.

  A strange smirk suddenly settled on the widow’s face. “Indisposed?” she repeated. “Is that a fancy word for being charged with your brother-in-law’s murder and thrown in jail?”

  Lydia’s eyes widened in horror and, without warning, she leapt from her chair. Thomas held her gently by the shoulders. “Please, calm yourself,” he soothed, as he guided her back to her seat once more.

  “Bad news travels, you see,” goaded the widow, her piggy eyes fixed upon Lydia. “That’s how I knew I’d not be paid what I was due.”

  “So you sent the child to the workhouse?” Thomas’s tone remained even, despite the fact that his voice dripped with contempt. He had come across many such nurses during his years of medical practice and he knew most of them to be honest and trustworthy, but they rarely allowed themselves the luxury of forming a bond with their young charges.

  “Yes, I did send him to the workhouse,” nodded the woman. There was a certain smugness in her tone.

  “In Hungerford?” asked the young doctor.

  The widow nodded. “In Charnham Street.”

  Thomas smiled at Lydia. “That is just around the corner, is it not?”

  “It is,” confirmed the widow. “But I’m not sure he’ll be there now.”

  Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Widow Pargiter’s nose twitched again. “You ain’t the only ones who’ve been asking after the boy.”

  Thomas darted a glance at Lydia. “How so?”

  The widow let out a strangled laugh. “A gentleman was here last week. Asking me the same questions, he was. Wanted to know where the Farrell boy was.”

  The color suddenly drained from Lydia’s cheeks.

  “And you told him?” asked Thomas.

  “ ’Course I did,” she smirked. “He gave me a crown for my pains.”

  Lydia rose quickly to her feet. “Well, you’ll get nothing from us,” she cried angrily. “We will show ourselves out.” And with that, she stormed toward the door.

  “Thank you for your help, Mistress Pargiter,” said Thomas, also rising. Lydia was already in the hallway when he turned to the widow and said: “This gentleman, did he give his name?”

  The dame shook her head. “No name,” she said, then reflecting again she added: “but he looked like a clerk or a man of law.”

  Thomas digested the information. “Thank you, Mistress Pargiter. You have been most helpful.” He slipped another crown into her palm.

  Halfway down the street he caught up with Lydia. He had never seen her so enraged. She was still seething when he took her b
y the arm and turned her to face him. Her cheeks were wet with angry tears.

  “How could that woman treat my son as if he were just a trinket, a thing to be disposed of when he became an inconvenience?” she cried, before burying her face in Thomas’s shoulder.

  A passerby turned his head and raised an eyebrow at the scene.

  “Let us return to the inn,” suggested Thomas. But Lydia balked at the idea.

  “The only place I am going is to the workhouse. My son could be only a few yards from here, Thomas. How could you make me wait a moment longer?” The wrath of a scorned mother had returned to her voice once more.

  “But you must be prepared for disappointment, my love,” Thomas reminded her. “This man, this stranger . . .”

  Lydia broke in. “There is only one way to find out,” she said and, freeing herself from his arms, she began marching in the direction of the workhouse.

  Five minutes later they both found themselves outside the tall, faceless building in Charnham Street. Thomas looked at Lydia as if asking her permission to proceed before grasping the heavy knocker. She nodded her assent and the die was cast. A few seconds elapsed before the door finally creaked open and the same nervous woman who had answered to the notary a few days before scurried into view.

  “Good day, ma’am,” greeted Thomas. “My name is Dr. Thomas Silkstone and this is Lady Lydia Farrell. We are . . .”

  At the mention of Lydia’s name, the woman suddenly gasped. “Oh my word,” she squeaked. She clamped her sinewy hand over her mouth, then released it again. “Farrell, you say!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is something wrong?” entreated Thomas.

  “You’d best come in,” she said, her high voice lowering conspiratorially. “Come in, please.”

  The woman, her gray hair framing her face like coils of wire, hurried into the hallway, beckoning Thomas and Lydia to follow. She stopped outside a door halfway along the dark corridor and knocked. From inside a voice boomed. She entered and shut the door behind her.

  “What can this mean?” Lydia frowned, nervously fingering her fan.