The Devil's Breath

by Tessa Harris

  Sir Montagu threw back his head and let out a muted laugh. “It means, my dear, that your long-lost son, the son you thought was your secret, has been found safe and well and is in my custody.”

  Thomas lurched forward. “It was you. I thought as much!” He jabbed an accusing finger at Fothergill, who took a step back.

  “Yes.” Sir Montagu nodded. “Fothergill, here, tracked down the boy and brought him safely to me.”

  Lydia looked at the lawyer in disbelief, not sure whether she should laugh or cry. “You have Richard?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Then where is he? I must see him.” She rushed forward and grabbed Malthus’s frock coat, begging for an answer. “Where is he?” she cried.

  Sir Montagu prized her fingers from his garment. “Calm yourself, my dear,” he urged her, straightening his coat.

  Thomas put his arm ’round her and pulled her away. “Let us talk about this rationally,” he said, glaring at Sir Montagu. Unlike Lydia, he had been able to read snatches of the Latin text. He knew what the lawyer had done.

  “Ah, the voice of reason,” boomed Sir Montagu, flapping his hands in an exaggerated gesture as he pointed at Thomas.

  “I believe, sir, you have made her ladyship’s son a ward of court.”

  Sir Montagu gave a shallow bow and skewed his head. “How right you are, Dr. Silkstone.”

  “A ward of court,” echoed Lydia. “What does that mean?”

  “It means, my dear, that Richard remains under the legal protection of the court until certain conditions are met.” Sir Montagu’s face split into a broad grin.

  “I want him here, now!” She struggled to free herself from Thomas’s hold. “I want to see my son!” Her voice was quivering with emotion, yet still the lawyer wore a self-satisfied, pious look that infuriated her.

  “As I said, he is quite safe, but there are certain”—he paused for effect—“certain conditions that must legally be met before I can allow you to see him.”

  “What conditions?” barked Thomas.

  Sir Montagu deliberately turned his shoulder to Thomas and focused on Lydia. Bending low he told her: “The Court of Chancery has ruled that you may have custody of your son on condition that you do not marry a foreigner.”

  Lydia dropped like a stone onto the settee behind her. Thomas joined her and took her hand in his. She clasped it tightly. Staring ahead blankly she muttered: “How can that be?”

  Sir Montagu shook his head. “The court was of the view that an estate such as Boughton must not be allowed to fall into the hands of a citizen of an enemy territory.”

  Thomas shot up and fixed Sir Montagu with an accusing look. “But the war is over,” he protested.

  Again the lawyer shook his large head. “No treaty has yet been signed, Dr. Silkstone, so technically hostilities have not yet ceased between Great Britain and America.”

  Thomas felt his blood boil. Bile flooded his throat. He balled his fists but told himself he needed to remain calm. “This is all your doing, Malthus,” he said bitterly.

  The lawyer laid his palm on his chest. “Me, Dr. Silkstone? I am merely an instrument of the court,” he replied.

  Thomas wanted to wipe the smirk off the lawyer’s face with his fist, but he contained himself. He knew he was beaten, for the moment at least. He could not allow Lydia to be so tortured. Her features could not have been more pained had she been on the rack with Sir Montagu turning the wheel. Watching her suffer was torture for him, too. Leaping up, he brought his face close to the lawyer’s and looked him straight in the eye. “Her ladyship accepts the terms,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Lydia looked up, but remained silent. There were no words of protest or pleas for justice; just an acceptance of the cruel inevitability that she now faced.

  Fothergill delved into his satchel and produced another, smaller sheet of paper which he laid on top of the scroll. He dipped his quill into the inkpot and offered it to Lydia.

  “If you please,” said Sir Montagu, gesturing to the document.

  Slowly Lydia rose and Thomas escorted her over to the table. She looked at him with eyes watery with tears. “I am sorry,” she whispered, before she signed her name.

  As Fothergill blotted the ink, Sir Montagu gloated. “You give up too easily, Silkstone,” he sneered when the deed was done. Lydia was walking back to the settee, out of earshot.

  “Believe me I have not given up, but I cannot see the woman I love forced to make such a brutal choice.”

  The lawyer sniggered. “How very noble of you. And they said chivalry was dead in the Colonies.”

  Halfway across the room, Lydia turned abruptly. “I have done what you asked, now where is my son?” There was a renewed strength in her voice that had been barely audible a few moments ago. Her uncharacteristic forcefulness momentarily disarmed the lawyer.

  “We can take you to him this instant, my dear,” he replied, his head bobbing in a bow.

  Lydia crossed the room and Thomas followed. The notary held the door open for them, as Sir Montagu watched, but as soon as the young doctor was about to pass, he lifted his great arm and barred his way. Lydia turned sharply and looked at Malthus.

  “May I remind you, sir, that Dr. Silkstone is a physician? I wish him to examine my son to see that no harm has come to him.” Her words were delivered with such conviction that any objection the lawyer could have raised dissipated.

  Thus disarmed, he simply replied: “But of course,” and the party walked down the steps to the waiting carriage that would take them to Brandwick and to Richard Farrell, heir apparent to the Boughton estate.

  Chapter 37

  Lydia’s heart was pounding as she climbed the rickety stairs at the Three Tuns. Fothergill led the way and opened a low door that led off the first-floor landing. The moment she had dreamed of for so many years was almost upon her. Feeling she would almost burst with emotion, she took a deep breath and walked into the room. Standing by the window, next to his nursemaid, was a small boy with brown curly hair and large eyes. His head was swathed in a halo of light from the glowing candles and he was dressed in silk breeches and a smart coat. He was unmistakably hers. Arms outstretched, she rushed forward and tried to enfold the child, but he balked at her embrace and pulled away. Nestling his face in his nursemaid’s skirts, he turned his back on Lydia. Stunned, she straightened herself and backed off a little distance.

  “Do not be frightened. I . . . I will not hurt you,” she told the boy falteringly, then turning to Sir Montagu she asked, “You have told him?”

  The lawyer smirked. “Richard, you must greet your mamma,” he instructed the child, as if he were a schoolmaster telling a pupil to open a book. He turned to Lydia. “I took the liberty of asking the court to change his name. From henceforth he shall be known as Richard Crick, not Farrell. Much better that way. I’m sure you’ll agree, my dear,” he said.

  Lydia did not respond, but merely stood looking at the child as he clung to the nursemaid. Smiling gently, she bent low once more and offered her hand.

  Sir Montagu looked down his hooked nose. “The boy has certain feral tendencies,” he said disdainfully. “They need to be stamped out.”

  Thoughts of what her son must have suffered scudded through Lydia’s mind: the harshness of the workhouse and the inevitable beatings by the chimney sweep as he forced him to shin up flues. He must have endured so much in his six short years. There would be brutal memories that would be hard to erase.

  Suddenly she remembered the earring that the woman at the workhouse had given her. Delving into her bag, she brought it out. “Do you recognize this, Richard?” she asked, holding it up to the light so that the precious stones twinkled.

  The child turned his head and wheeled ’round at the sight of the jewel. His eyes lit up and he charged over to Lydia, snatching the earring from her hand.

  “Richard, no!” boomed Sir Montagu, stepping forward. But Lydia blocked his progress. “Wait!” she cried, as the child cra
dled the earring in his hand and his face broke into a smile. “You remember, don’t you, Richard?” she said, her voice trembling. “It was your token.”

  The child looked up at her with his large eyes, which were suddenly sparkling. He ran toward her and she gathered him up in her arms. This time he did not balk, but hooked his arm around her waist. It was then that she noticed the other arm hanging limply by his side. Guilt and sorrow and joy melded into one and she could stifle her tears no more. She kissed her son and held him tight.

  Thomas remained watching the reunion in silence. He, too, felt choked with the emotion of the occasion. There was a tenderness so pure between Lydia and her son and a bond so natural, that he knew no earthly thing could come between them.

  “You are safe now, my darling,” she cried. “I will never let you go,” she muttered, holding back the tears.

  Thomas knew what she said was true. She would never again allow herself to be parted from her son, even if that meant they could never be man and wife. He looked at Sir Montagu hovering nearby, relishing the touching scene that he had so cleverly engineered. It was very clear that the forging of the bond between mother and son meant that he, Thomas, may never be able to marry the woman he loved.

  Lydia was still holding Richard when he began to cough. She loosened her hold and frowned. “How long has he had this?” she asked the nursemaid.

  “He has been ill with the fog sickness, your ladyship,” she volunteered.

  Lydia shot a glance at Thomas. “How long has he had this cough?” she repeated.

  Sir Montagu spoke up. “The child is sickly. He has been ill for the past few days.”

  It was true, noted Thomas, that Richard was painfully thin and his skin was as white as chalk dust. That cough was certainly a cause for concern.

  “I will need to examine his lordship,” said the doctor.

  The lawyer looked at him contemptuously. “Very well, but be quick about it.”

  Thomas walked over to the child, who remained holding Lydia’s hand. “Sir,” he said softly with a smile. “I am a friend of your mamma’s and I want to help you. Will you let me do that?” His tone was gentle and the boy did not shift his gaze from him. “Perhaps you could lie down,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

  Richard eyed his mother, as if seeking permission. “Dr. Silkstone will make you feel better, my darling,” she assured the boy.

  Taking his hand, Thomas guided the child over to the bed and took off his topcoat. He then bade the boy lie down and from out of his bag he produced his listening tube. Laying it flat against the child’s chest, he listened to the rhythm of the lungs as they bellowed in and out. They were struggling, he could tell, as they wheezed and blustered within the tiny cavity. Resting the palm of his hand flat on the child’s forehead, he detected a fever. His skin was as hot as burning coals and his eyes were red-rimmed and sore.

  “Does your head ache?” he asked. The child nodded. “And do you feel nausea?” The boy looked at him blankly. “A sickness just here?” Thomas pointed to his stomach. Again he nodded. “Thank you.” Thomas smiled. He did not wish to make his young patient feel any more anxious than he already was. “You may rejoin your mamma.”

  He watched the child lift himself from the mattress and walk toward Lydia once more, only this time, there was a slowness in his step, as if his previous exertions had tired him out. He started to zigzag across the room, before dropping to the floor.

  Lydia rushed forward. Thomas, too, hurried over to where the child lay. Supporting his head in his hands, he looked at his face. His eyes were still open, but it was clear he had difficulty focusing.

  “I am afraid he has the classic symptoms of the fog sickness,” said Thomas. “We need to get him to bed straightaway.”

  Sir Montagu loomed over them. “Very well. You may take him back to Boughton,” he conceded. “I shall give him into your custody,” he told Lydia. “But remember your pledge.”

  Lydia looked up at him as he glowered at her, cradling her son in her arms. “You can be sure that I would do nothing to risk losing Richard again,” she told him. Thomas knew her words to be true.

  Chapter 38

  Back at Boughton, they settled the boy into bed. The room had not been occupied for some months and the air was hot and stuffy. Since the windows could not be opened because of the fog, the room smelled fusty and damp. The exertion and excitement seemed to have triggered the child’s cough once more. His breath came in short wheezes. Thomas had given his small patient a more thorough examination. He suspected his time as a chimney sweep, shinning up soot-filled flues, albeit for a short period, had also taken its toll on his respiratory system. Tiny particles of carbon would be embedded in his lung tissue, causing constant irritation.

  Lydia sat at her son’s bedside, concern etched on her face.

  “Tell me he will be well soon, Thomas,” she said, dabbing Richard’s forehead with a vinegar-soaked pad.

  The young doctor watched her slow gestures of maternal love that came so naturally to her. He tried to reassure her. “Now that he is here with you, I am certain he will be fully restored. Rest and good food will give him strength,” he told her, adding: “But most of all he needs his mother’s love.”

  “I have longed for this day for so many years,” she said, stroking her son’s curls. “But I did not picture it would be like this.”

  Thomas shook his head. “But he is here and he will be well. That is all that matters now.” He stroked her arm. “And once he is a little stronger, perhaps he could go with you to the caves for a few days.”

  Lydia thought for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes. Yes, we will do that.”

  Thomas returned his listening tube and a phial of physick to his case. “I shall be on my way now,” he told her. There were many more new patients to see. She acknowledged his need to leave with a wistful nod of her head, then lifted her hand just as Thomas was about to turn toward the door.

  “There is one more thing I would like you to do.” She broke off to frame her words carefully. “Just in case . . . he does not . . .”

  Thomas put his finger over her lips to still them and spare her the agony of saying what they both feared most. “And what might that be?” he asked.

  “I would like him baptized,” she said. “I do not believe he has been and it would please me very much.” She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

  “Of course,” he replied. “I shall ask the Reverend Lightfoot this afternoon.”

  Stepping out into the fog once more, Thomas saw Will Lovelock approach from the stables with his horse. “Ah, Will. ’Tis good to see you back,” he greeted him. The boy looked pale, but seemed much stronger. His spell at West Wycombe had obviously had the desired effect. He returned the doctor’s smile.

  “Thank you, sir. I feel much better,” he replied with a nod.

  Thomas hoped a stay in the cool caves with their plentiful supply of fresh air and untainted drinking water would have the same effect on young Richard. He had just ridden down the drive at Boughton and had turned his horse toward Brandwick, where he planned to meet with Mr. Peabody, when he saw Reverend Lightfoot. His dogcart was jouncing along the lane, headed in the same direction. Thomas spurred his horse to a trot and soon caught up with the vicar.

  “Good morning, sir,” he greeted him, doffing his tricorn. “The fog seems to have lifted slightly today.”

  The clergyman did not return his smile. “Good morning, Dr. Silkstone,” he said, his lips remaining tight and flat.

  The air was thick with small flies and Thomas’s horse was slightly skittish, its head flicking erratically, trying to fend them off. “How goes it today, sir?” he inquired.

  The vicar waved the flies away from his face. “The Lord calls someone each day,” he said gravely.

  Thomas had hoped for a better report. The fog was certainly dispersing, albeit gradually. Yet still its legacy lingered. “Then I must delay you no further,” he told him.

  “Very
well, Dr. Silkstone,” said the vicar. He was obviously in no mood for pleasantries. Thomas was just about to bid him a good day when he remembered he had been tasked with organizing the young nobleman’s baptism. “Lady Lydia would appreciate a call from you, sir,” he said, “when you have a moment in the next day or so.”

  The vicar managed a faint smile. “Very well. I shall go to the hall tomorrow. I am occupied this afternoon.”

  Seeing the reverend had no wish to engage in further conversation, Thomas tugged gently at his horse’s rein and moved off at a steady trot toward the village. Lightfoot followed at a more sedate pace several yards behind him. The doctor needed to see Mr. Peabody about concocting some more linctus and to find out from him the latest additions to the list of patients struck down and needing care.

  He arrived at the apothecary’s shop to find several people milling around outside. In their midst was Mr. Peabody in a state of high anxiety. He had dispensed with his wig and was sweating profusely.

  “Please be calm,” he called out, but his voice was drowned by the cries of seemingly angry customers.

  “My children are sick!” cried one woman. “We need physick now!” exclaimed another.

  As soon as they saw Thomas arrive on his horse, the crowd calmed themselves. “Good people,” he addressed them from the saddle. “There will be plenty of physick to go ’round and there will be no charge for it.” Lydia and Sir Henry had agreed on that.

  At his words, a loud cheer volleyed into the hot air. “But Mr. Peabody and I need to be allowed to work undisturbed so that we can make up more linctus. Return when the church bell tolls seven and a new batch will be ready.”

  Some of the villagers nodded. It was only fair that this physician should be allowed to make the very medicine that could save their families. And to offer it for free, without money changing hands, was indeed a rare gesture. So the crowd dispersed, leaving Thomas to shepherd a shaken Mr. Peabody into his dispensary at the back of the shop.