by Tessa Harris
Hannah laid more kindling. “What do you mean?” she asked in a half whisper. Jacob smiled smugly, cocking his head to one side. He did not bother to lower his voice.
“He told me now that his lordship was out of the way, that my life would be easier.” He paused for effect. “That all our lives would be easier.”
Mistress Claddingbowl, who had gone back to mixing batter, stopped stirring. “I’m sure he meant nothing by it,” she huffed, returning to her pancakes.
It gave Jacob great pleasure to see the cook writhe. “But ’tis not the half of it, Mistress Claddingbowl,” he told her. Hannah frowned at him, silently reprimanding him, but he took no notice. “He says to me: ‘Now that I’m master, there’ll be some changes ’round here.’ ”
“There’ve been changes enough already,” snapped Hannah, suddenly bursting into tears once more.
Jacob put his grimy arm around her. “There, dearest. I know ’tis hard,” he comforted. Everyone understood, but his words did not soothe his wife.
“She’s gone, Jacob. Rebecca’s gone,” she sobbed.
Twelve-year-old Rebecca Lovelock, the eldest daughter of Hannah and Jacob, had fallen in the lake on the estate earlier in the year and drowned. Since then a malaise hung in the air, sucking out any lightheartedness there may have been at the hall. In fact the only person who appeared to have taken these calamitous events in his stride was Captain Farrell, who still slept upstairs.
Yet his sleep was not a righteous one, but fitful and broken. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and his hair was matted. He tossed and turned and mumbled and now and again the name “Edward” was discernable among his rantings. His sleep, it appeared, brought with it nightmares.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright, jolting himself out of his slumber to find his bed empty. Lydia was absent. It was then he remembered she had gone to London to see her cousin. He slumped down again.
The first blackbirds were already chirping out their throaty chorus before sleep finally got the better of him once more and it was shortly after midday before Rafferty entered the chamber to check on his master. His footsteps on the polished oak floor woke the captain and he turned over, opening a cautious eye. A shaft of light beamed down through a chink in the heavy velvet drapes.
“What time is it?”
“Past noon, sir,” Rafferty replied. “Shall I draw the curtains ?”
Farrell sat up quickly. His loose nightshirt was open at the neck, revealing a large expanse of his chest. He ran his fingers through his dark, shoulder-length hair and tossed his head as if he were trying to shake off the uneasy sleep that had enveloped him so entirely for the last three hours.
His thoughts turned to Lydia once more. “I must dress. Her ladyship will be back soon.” He flung back the covers and leapt up out of bed. Walking over to the washstand in the corner of his room by the casement, he splashed his face with the water that Rafferty had just poured.
“ ’Tis cold,” he remarked.
Rafferty shifted awkwardly. “I’m afraid the fire went out earlier this morning, sir,” he replied apologetically.
Farrell took the towel his manservant handed him and, patting his face dry, walked over to the window and looked out over the tree-lined drive. It was a beautiful autumn day, with clear blue skies. The avenue of horse chestnuts was turning orange and gold, their large green leaves edged in rust-colored lace. The lawns, too, had lost their summer verdure. Nevertheless Michael Farrell felt a sense of pride as he surveyed the scene.
He had loved the estate before when it had belonged to Edward, but now that it was his, for all intents and purposes, he loved it even more. As far as the eye could see—beyond the thick copse, across the river, and over toward the rolling hills beyond—was now in his possession. Even the bridge in the distance, over which a lone horseman now rode, was his.
“This is a fine place, Rafferty,” he said, easing his arms into the waistcoat his manservant held for him.
“Indeed it is, sir,” came the sought-after reply. As Rafferty helped his master dress, Farrell continued to gaze out at the vista, drinking it in like a good glass of claret. He saw the cattle grazing in the water meadow and he saw the buzzards circling on the noonday thermals above the Chiltern Hills. He saw, too, that the horseman, who had appeared as an insignificant dot on the horizon only a few moments ago, was drawing near at speed and was now approaching the drive that led directly to the front of Boughton Hall.
Chapter 8
The ghastly moaning grew louder—an aria of pain that plucked at raw nerves and pressed on tissue. It was a sound so familiar to Thomas, yet as he stood at the top of the narrow stone stairway and listened to the excruciating cacophony with increasing concern, it occurred to him that, rather than enter the room, he should turn tail and flee. Staccato cries punctuated the low groaning now and again, but just when a musician might have expected a crescendo, the low droning resumed, offering no hope of any eventual relief.
Thomas had been standing outside the brass-studded door of Professor Hans Hascher at Christ Church College for what seemed like an age. In his imagination Thomas pictured a hapless patient having his leg sawn off without any form of anesthesia, or worse still, a criminal being dissected whilst he was still alive. This last vile scenario was too much for even Thomas to contemplate and he had just made up his mind to leave there and then when he caught a brass nameplate that was loosely fixed on the door and sent it crashing to the ground. The horrific moaning suddenly ceased and Thomas stopped dead in his tracks.
“Who’s ... who’s zhere?” asked a feeble voice.
Thomas hesitated. He cleared his throat. “I am looking for Professor Hascher,” he called through the door.
“Co ... in,” came the barely intelligible reply.
Thomas straightened his waistcoat and shuddered slightly as he obeyed the command. The door creaked open to reveal a large, book-lined study, with a long desk at the far end. In front of the desk was a winged chair and Thomas could just make out a stockinged leg slung over its side, with its foot braced against the desk. A quick survey of the room told him there was no one else in it, so he could only presume that the gentleman was gravely ill. He walked forward.
“Sir, can I help you?” he asked, striding toward the chair, uncertain as to what he might find.
The reply was difficult to make out. The words were so poorly formed, as if the speaker had a mouth full of nails. “Are ooo a su ... en ... ?”
Thomas drew nearer. “I am a surgeon, sir. May I help you?” As he approached the desk he could see an array of surgical instruments laid out on green cloth; forceps, sutures, scissors, and gauze. A nearby white napkin was drenched in blood. It appeared to Thomas that the man might be performing some sort of surgery on himself.
All the young doctor could see at first was a mop of wild gray hair that reminded him of the tumbleweed in his homeland, then the head turned to reveal a swollen, pain-racked face.
“Zank God,” said the man, holding up a large pair of pliers.
He handed the instrument to Thomas, who took it without question. In a way it was a relief to know that the object of such exquisite agony was merely a decayed molar and not a diseased limb or organ that required removal.
“I have just the thing,” he told the man, who he surmised to be in his seventies, but whose features were so obviously distorted by the swelling of his jawline.
Opening his instrument bag, Thomas took out a blue glass bottle and, taking a pad of gauze from the desk, he soaked it with purple liquid.
“Open wide,” he ordered his new patient, who had become totally compliant. Thomas was allowed to dab his throbbing jaw with tincture of iodine before taking up the pliers once more. “Brace yourself.”
The man’s gnarled knuckles took hold of the two chair arms as Thomas steadied himself, wedging his feet on either side of the legs. The patient let out a long, low cry as the young doctor wrestled for a few seconds with the offending tooth before it finally came free at its
roots with such a force that Thomas almost fell backward.
Holding up the pliers, with the blackened tooth still in the pincers, Thomas displayed it to its erstwhile owner as a hunter would a prize catch.
“A fine trophy, sir,” he smiled, inspecting the specimen that was as jagged as a granite outcrop. It took a moment for them both to regain their composure. Finally it was the old man who spoke first.
“After ze pox, caries is one of ze greatest scourges of humanity,” he mumbled, dabbing the blood from his mouth.
Thomas handed him a glass of water and smiled. “Is it Professor Hascher?” he asked as he watched his patient swilling the water around his gums and spitting the bloodied liquid out into a bowl on the desk beside him.
He looked up at Thomas. “You are ri ... , young man,” he replied, still unable to enunciate properly. “And you are?”
“Thomas Silkstone. I have taken over Dr. Carruthers’s practice in London.”
Professor Hascher smiled. “Zhat old devil. I zought ze pox would have killed him years ago!” His face suddenly split into a smile, which he instantly regretted, and his sinewy hand flew up to his swollen jaw once more. Still in pain, he pointed to a large glass bottle on a shelf behind Thomas’s head. The young doctor took it down and watched bemused as the professor uncorked it and began to gulp down the clear contents, which Thomas had assumed to be formaldehyde. After four or five mouthfuls, the professor stopped drinking and wiped his tender chin with the back of his hand. “Schnapps,” he explained. “From Prussia. If I’d known you vere coming, I’d have had some before I tried to take ze tooz out,” he quipped.
Thomas smiled. He could see how this Saxon professor and Dr. Carruthers had been such good friends. The old man motioned to a set of what appeared to be decorated glass stirrup cups on another shelf behind him and Thomas took two down and watched as the professor filled them both to the brim. “Prost,” he toasted, and Thomas watched a little shocked as he downed the liquid in one. Thomas followed, jerking his head back so he could swallow the alcohol in one gulp. He felt it burn the back of his throat immediately, as if he had poured flames down his gullet, then his neck began to stiffen.
The old man watched his stunned reaction. “ ’Tis an excellent anesthetic. Two glasses of zhat and one wouldn’t feel a zing,” he laughed. This time he did not wince in pain. The schnapps was obviously working its anesthetic magic on him, thought Thomas.
The professor motioned to him to pull up a chair from the other side of the room. “Tell me what brings you to this den of iniquity,” he said, settling back into his winged chair, relishing his newfound freedom from pain.
“When I was a young sophomore in Philadelphia”—Thomas broke off—“in America,” he said for the sake of clarification, “my father, who was a physician, introduced me to the work of Dr. Carruthers. I read all his seminal treatises and we began corresponding. Eventually I came to London and was fortunate enough to enjoy his tutelage.”
“But my old friend is blind now, is he not?” intervened the professor.
“Sadly yes,” replied Thomas. “But he has given me his mantle.”
“Zen you are both fortunate to have found each other,” nodded the Saxon, adding: “But you are a long way from your dissecting rooms here ...”
The young doctor shifted uneasily in his chair and reflected. “The other day,” he began, “a lady of some breeding came to my rooms. It was clear she was in a state of anxiety.”
The professor listened sagely, like a priest hearing a confession. Thomas went on: “She told me that her young brother had died in ... in, well, mysterious circumstances and asked me—no, implored me—to help her uncover the cause of his death.”
Professor Hascher, whose expression had been reasonably passive up until this point, now nodded knowingly.
“And zis lady,” he began, “might her name happen to be Lady Lydia Farrell?”
Thomas suddenly felt awkward. How could he have been so indiscreet? Professor Hascher saw his pained reaction and was quick to try and ease it. “It is ze talk of the county, my dear fellow,” he told him. “Zere are rumors and more rumors. Was he murdered? And if so, by whom? Zere are plenty who would gladly claim to have done it—behind ze judge’s back.”
The young doctor looked deep into his empty glass, as if regretting the fact that its contents had so loosened his tongue. “I must go,” he told the professor, setting it down on the desk and starting to pack his bag. But the old man reached out and stayed Thomas’s hand as he tried to fasten the clasp.
“If you are called upon, you will need instruments, preserving fluid, much more zan you have in zhat bag of yours.” His watery eyes were earnest. “I want you to know zat my laboratory is at your disposal.”
Chapter 9
Lydia knew something was wrong the instant her carriage turned into the drive of Boughton Hall. The dogs did not come bounding to greet her and, worse still, Michael was not standing there by the front doorway. Had he not received word of her arrival? Suddenly she saw Howard, the butler, and Rafferty emerge down the front steps. They both looked grave. Mistress Claddingbowl and Mistress Firebrace, the housekeeper, followed, both of them with downcast eyes, as if trying to avoid her questioning gaze. Hannah, Jacob, and Will, their son, completed the entourage.
As the footman helped her alight from the carriage, Lydia’s sense of unease deepened. “Where is your master?” she asked Howard. The butler threw a worried glance at Rafferty, as if not knowing how to reply.
“He is up at the pavilion, your ladyship,” said the manservant sheepishly.
The pavilion was a summerhouse, perched on a ridge overlooking a valley, about half a mile from the house, that had been built by Lydia’s father as a retreat from the troubles of daily estate life. Michael had also found solace there when her brother was being troublesome, failing to address pressing business, as he so often did, preferring instead to gamble or ride or lie with women.
“I shall go to him,” she said.
Rafferty frowned. “Please, my lady. You must be tired after your journey.”
“I shall go to him,” she repeated, doing little to hide her anger. “Jacob, harness the dogcart.”
The track that led up to the pavilion was rough and pitted and once or twice the pony lurched and stumbled. The spring rains carved deep gullies in the sandy soil, leaving the surface quite treacherous in places. The wooden wheels of the dogcart gouged into the waterlogged ruts and flung a muddy spray on either side. Lydia, however, was used to taking the reins. She often made the trip, especially in the summer when they were first wed. She would bring a flask of lemonade and drink it with the captain, watching the sun go down over the gentle valley.
As she urged the little bay on, up the track where it grew steep and even more difficult to negotiate, her sense of foreboding increased. Her husband would not have ignored her homecoming lightly. There must be something that was troubling him deeply and she was worried she knew what it might be. The whitewashed pavilion, with its ornate roof and narrow windows, looked so out of place set against the Oxfordshire landscape, she thought as she approached it. Her spouse was sitting on the steps, his head in his hands. He looked up when he heard the sound of the cart and struggled to his feet. Lydia tugged at the reins and the horse halted just a few feet away. He looked years older, as if the last forty-eight hours had aged him by a decade. His complexion was sallow and the skin beneath his eyes was puffy.
“What is it, Michael?” she asked. “What has happened?” Her husband held her gaze but did not speak. “Is it about Edward ?”
Her husband nodded. “The coroner’s man came this morning. There’s to be an inquest.”
This did not come as a surprise to Lydia. She had been anticipating it, ever since Sir Montagu’s letter. Now, however, she made little attempt to mask her relief.
“But this way, we can know for certain that Edward was not ...” She broke off, unable to bring herself to say the word.
Farrell da
rted her a fiery glance.
“Do you not see? This way we can put paid to all the rumors,” she continued.
Farrell shrugged. “How? His corpse has rotted so much he may as well have been burned at the stake.”
Although Lydia did not reply immediately, the captain could tell from her expression that she had something to say. She lifted her head. “I have a confession to make.” Farrell turned, frowning.
“I did not go to London to see cousin Francis.”
“No?” He seemed more curious than shocked.
“I went to see the surgeon who teaches him.”
Farrell rolled his eyes in frustration. “A surgeon? Not another accursed surgeon!” he groaned through clenched teeth, but Lydia pleaded.
“He is the only person who can help us, Michael, and he is waiting for you to give the word.”
The captain looked at her contemptuously, wishing that she would not meddle in affairs that he felt were beyond her grasp. “What can this surgeon do that others cannot? Raise the dead?” he sneered.
Lydia turned and walked a few feet away, putting a short distance between them. “This surgeon is different. He can tell things from a corpse that no others can. If we exhume Edward’s body, he will be able to silence the rumors once and for all.”
“Exhume Edward?” He looked at her incredulously.
“ ’Tis the only way,” she pleaded, walking toward him once more.
Farrell stared at her in disbelief and shook his head in a way that made her feel like a child. “And what if he finds Edward’s death was not an accident?” He glared at her with piercing green eyes. She turned away from him once more, feeling discomfort at his reproachful gaze.
For the first weeks of their marriage he had been attentive enough and his marital appetites were certainly voracious. She willingly consented at first, but as his physical demands on her grew and her energies and sensibilities did not always match his, she began to see flashes of temper. These would be compounded by his regular bouts of drinking and he increasingly forced himself on her in drunken frenzies. Beyond the confines of the bedchamber, his ill humor began to manifest itself regularly, too. He had never disguised his dislike of Edward to her, but now he allowed his sheer resentment and loathing to show itself quite openly in her presence. She had little doubt her husband could kill, as indeed he had in the army. But she was convinced it would be in hot Gallic passion, over a card game or a woman, not cold calculation.
