by Tessa Harris
“Of course she wishes to see me. I have come to release her from this . . . this prison.” Thomas lifted his arms in a wide sweep.
Now standing on the bottom step, so that he remained gazing down on Thomas, Sir Montagu shot him a disingenuous look. “A prison? Such harsh words, Silkstone. On the contrary, it is I who saved her ladyship from Bethlem and brought her here. You were happy to leave her there, were you not?”
Thomas scowled. “What do you mean? You were the one who committed her there in the first place.”
At his words, Sir Montagu suddenly snapped his fingers and Fothergill emerged from his shadow to give him a piece of parchment. He raised one of his thick brows. “I think you’ll find your signature is on the committal papers, Silkstone,” he said, flapping the document in front of Thomas’s face. “I have a copy here.”
Unable to contain himself any longer, the anatomist snatched at the paper and tore it first lengthways, then across, before flinging the pieces to the ground. Up until now he had nurtured a vague hope that Lydia had not been shown his signature; that she might still have harbored a doubt as to his complicity. Now he feared otherwise. “You know this is a lie!”
Sir Montagu merely smiled. “Her ladyship has seen it and knows it to be yours.”
“You planned this all along, didn’t you?” His voice trailed off wanly as he realized he had been well and truly entrapped.
Sir Montagu shook his head. “And all those letters she sent you, but they were returned unopened. How could you be so heartless?”
“She wrote to me?” Such a revelation was the final straw.
Enraged, Thomas flew at the lawyer, but his clerk stepped in the way, and the butler, sensing the possibility of trouble, had already called two lackeys.
“If I were you, I would return to London, Silkstone,” said Sir Montagu between clenched teeth. “Her ladyship has seen you for what you truly are. You were only ever interested in her fortune, and now that it is no longer within your reach, you can find yourself another rich heiress.”
Thomas balled his fists and felt his pulse race even faster. He was used to hearing slurs on his character from Malthus, but this latest barrage was beyond the pale. That the lawyer should have turned Lydia against him with his false accusations and elaborate hoaxes went further than he had ever envisaged. He wanted to barge past Malthus and search through the upstairs rooms, where he was convinced she was imprisoned.
“Lydia! Lydia!” he shouted, lunging forward.
It was no use. The two lackeys appeared from nowhere and hooked their arms under his, pulling him away. However, just as they released him from their grasp, the main door opened, and into the hallway ran the young earl, followed by an anxious Nurse Pring.
“No, Master!” she shouted after her charge, but it was too late.
“Richard!” cried Thomas, his voice a mix of surprise and exultation.
Seeing the anatomist, the child stopped in his tracks. His face was flushed pink and his curls were disheveled. The light blue satin of his breeches was caked in mud at the knees. The boy wiped his streaming nose with the back of his sleeve and looked at Thomas. There was a flicker of recognition.
The doctor, forced to compose himself, managed a gentle smile. “You remember me, do you not, sir? ’Tis Dr. Silkstone. I am a friend of your mamma’s.”
The boy frowned, then nodded thoughtfully. “You made my arm better,” he said.
Relieved, Thomas rushed forward. “Yes. You remember! I am here to see your mamma again.” Bending low, he held out his hand, but the child looked at it suspiciously and then at his nursemaid, before ignoring the gesture.
“You have made my mamma very sad, sir,” he said, fixing Thomas with an intense glare. “You must leave this house.”
Thomas felt the pain of the young earl’s wounding words tighten his chest. “What? No. I am your mamma’s friend!” He forced his features into a broad smile to appear less threatening. But the child turned and hid his face in his nursemaid’s skirts.
The boy’s performance delighted Sir Montagu. He had witnessed the scene from the study doorway and was smirking. “Out of the mouths of babes, Silkstone,” he said, unable to disguise the glee in his voice.
Thomas was silent for a moment as he felt the weight of humiliation and defeat press down on him. All he could hear was the blood pumping through his ears as his heart beat faster and faster.
Finally he said, “I will not give up, Malthus. ’Tis not in my nature.” He turned and headed for the door. The butler held it open for him, but before he crossed the threshold he rounded on his heel and shouted at the top of his voice: “Lydia, I will not give up!” He did not know if she heard him, but in light of his crushing defeat, it eased his burden a little to think that maybe, just maybe, she had heard his voice and knew that all was not lost.
As he left the hallway, however, he became aware of Sir Montagu’s voice behind him. “Save your breath and your strength for Brandwick, Silkstone,” he called. “The villagers will almost certainly have need of your services.”
Meanwhile, in her bedchamber upstairs, Lady Lydia Farrell had flown to her door and was pulling at the handle. It was locked. She banged on it, but no one came in answer to her calls. She had been seated looking out of her window onto the drive when, to her shock, she had seen a horse gallop up to the front entrance. It took only a second for her to realize the identity of the rider. Her heart had fluttered just as it always used to at the sight, when Thomas paid a visit to Boughton Hall. Now, however, everything had changed. The sight of him set her mind in a flurry. His betrayal had been total and utter. The one man whom she believed she could trust in the world had turned out to be a Judas. By his own hand he had committed her to Bedlam. Sir Montagu had only been following his advice, and when he had seen for himself the terrible conditions in which she had been held, he had ordered her immediate release.
Thomas, on the other hand, had allowed her to wallow in the depravity of the asylum. She saw to her astonishment how he conversed with Cameron, how he distanced himself as if she were a stranger. He had abandoned her to her terrible fate, and for that she could never forgive him. Although her head told her that it would be best to cut him out of her life and not to waste another tear on him, at the sight of him she suddenly felt compelled to confront him. She had wheeled ’round and made for the door. She wanted to tell him in person how he may as well have taken his scalpel to her chest and cut out her heart while it still beat. Had he ever truly loved her, or was his insinuation into her life and her affections simply his way of reaching her fortune? Now that Sir Montagu, or rather her father, had explained everything to her, it was as if the scales had been lifted from her eyes. It all made perfect sense. How could she have been so naïve and foolish as to think that a lowly anatomist, and a foreigner to wit, could have declared his undying love for her with his lips and not had his heart set on her fortune? Had she learned nothing from her experience? Captain Michael Farrell had been cut from the same cloth: sophisticated, debonair, and yet always with an eye to the main chance. How had she not seen past Thomas’s caring, gentlemanly façade? A wolf in sheep’s clothing—that was how her father had described him. How grateful she was that after all these years, Sir Montagu had finally revealed himself to her. He had, he told her, always had her best interests at heart. At last here was a man she could trust. A man whose word was his bond. Here was her own flesh and blood.
Now was her chance to confront her tormentor. Now was the chance to hear the truth from his own lips. She could ask him, in person, why he had betrayed her.
“Let me out,” she called. Again, only louder: “Let me out.” She twisted the handle once more. She pulled at it. She pushed it. No one came. She put her ear to the door. She could hear voices; then, suddenly, she heard Thomas call her name. She rattled the door handle again in vain.
Hurrying back to the window, she saw his horse tethered and a groom in attendance. Downstairs raised voices drifted upstairs, and a mome
nt later she saw Thomas remount his mare. Something compelled her to knock at her window to attract his attention. She rapped loudly on the pane.
“Thomas!” she called. But he did not look up. Instead, she watched him retrieve something from his pocket—she could not make out what—and cradle it in his palm. After a moment’s reflection, he returned the object and set off back down the drive once more at a gallop.
Chapter 44
Despite Sir Montagu’s order to ban the beating of the bounds, a small cohort of villagers had decided to defy him. Knowing they ran the risk of arrest, they had approached the Reverend Unsworth for his blessing. Traditionally it was the vicar who led the procession, guiding it to various landmarks or bounds on the edges of the parish and stopping by each one to say prayers or give a short sermon. The younger ones loved to beat the markers with sticks or cut crosses in nearby tree trunks. Some of the parents would even bump their youngsters’ heads against the boundary stones so they wouldn’t forget where they came from. Sometimes coins were flung into brooks or fords and there would be a scramble among the boys. Yet, fearing Sir Montagu’s wrath, the reverend had declined to lead the procession and advised the villagers to change their plans. A few had taken his advice. Several, however, had ignored it.
In Brandwick, housewives were sweeping their floors and several had even seen to it that their menfolk had given their houses a lick of whitewash. The baking ovens had been fired up nonstop for the past two days, producing bread and pies, and shopkeepers polished their windows to make sure their wares looked their best. But as for the ceremony itself, most would have none of it for fear of recriminations.
The Three Tuns was doing a brisk trade ahead of the curfew. In the saloon bar, men stood cheek by jowl, downing ale or gin and even cider. The floor was sticky and the air thick with smoke. But the fug did not stop the lively conversation, even though tongues were necessarily constrained.
Into this maelstrom slipped Adam Diggott, unseen by most, but recognized by those who mattered. The little cluster of militants sat themselves in a corner nursing their pints of ale and speaking in low voices. Will Ketch, the cowman, was there with his dog, together with Abel Smith. They sat alongside Black Zeb and Josh Thornley and his son, Hal. The coppicer, still wearing his hat pulled down below his brows, elbowed his way between them.
“ ’Tis set for tomorrow,” Zeb Godson told him. The charcoal burner had spent time in the spring, washing off the soot that clung to his skin, but the whites of his eyes still shone brighter than anyone else’s from out of his grimy face.
“Here’s the plan,” began Josh Thornley. “There’s fifteen of us, and maybe more, and we start at the edge of Raven’s Wood and work our way along the ditch till we reach the edge of Arthur’s Hollow.”
Adam Diggott put up his hand and shook his head. “Fifteen? There’s nigh on two mile of fencing. We’ll want at least fifty.” His face was pinched and anxious. “And we need to be more cunning.”
Suddenly a familiar voice sounded behind them.
“All well, gents?” Peter Geech appeared from nowhere, carrying a fistful of empty tankards.
Adam Diggott turned his head away and sank into the corner. The landlord nodded to his patrons, then looked about him before drawing closer.
“You best look out,” he warned them. “A military man came in late this afternoon. Ordered enough ale and bread for eighty men, ’e did, for the morrow.”
“How’s that, then?” queried Ketch.
Geech scooped up their empty tankards. “Malthus must’ve got wind. They say it were the vicar that told him. There’s a platoon on its way. Make sure you’re careful.”
It did not take long for word to spread among the parishioners that a company from the Fifty-second Regiment of Foot had been requested by the local magistrate, Sir Arthur Warbeck, and was to be stationed at Boughton Hall. They knew its men could be called upon if, as rumor had it, the beating ceremony went ahead. The raucous merriment in the Three Tuns was suddenly dulled as the news seeped out, and in its place, a feeling of distinct unease emerged. It was clear that Sir Montagu had anticipated that the villagers would seize their chance and defy his orders. It was the excuse he had sought, and now, as well as the law, he had the militia on his side.
Thomas wasted no time in returning to Brandwick from Draycott House. Fury still coursed through every fiber of his body. He urged his horse to gallop faster and faster, cutting across country, breasting hedges and ditches instead of following the roads. Taking the track up to the top of one of the hills, he surveyed the landscape. The vale lay stretched out before him; to the south, Milton Common, and farther beyond, London. To the west sat Oxford. The road was a winding ribbon that cut through a gently sloping valley. One side was heavily wooded, with the trees meeting the floor. He strained his eyes. There was movement. He looked away, blinked, and looked back. At first he had thought himself imagining it, but no. When he fixed his gaze on the road, he saw it color red. Urging his horse nearer for a better view, he squinted against the pale spring sunlight once more. His eyes were not deceiving him. The roadway had turned bright crimson, like a trickle of blood looping its way along the valley floor, and he suddenly realized why. Marching along, four abreast, on the road from Oxford to Brandwick was a platoon of foot soldiers. Sir Montagu’s enigmatic warning to Thomas that his services would be needed suddenly made perfect sense. Now he understood why. The redcoats were coming to the village. There would be trouble. There could be blood.
Galloping back to Brandwick, Thomas rode into the courtyard at the Three Tuns and let the new stable lad, Rogers, take his mount. He was about to go straight up to his room when the landlord called out to him.
“Dr. Silkstone!”
Thomas turned on his heel. Geech was the last man on earth he wanted to deal with. After yesterday’s revelations, he had even less respect for the rogue, but he seemed impatient to talk once more.
Leaning on the bar, he dipped his head and said, “Sir Montagu expects trouble at tomorrow’s ceremony, sir.”
Thomas suddenly remembered. “Of course, the beating of the bounds.” It would explain the advance of the troops.
Geech, busying himself with wiping a tankard, lowered his voice still further. “Under its cover Adam Diggott and his men plan to destroy the fencing ’round the common, but Sir Montagu got word and has called in the militia.”
Thomas eyed the landlord suspiciously. He knew the soldiers were on their way—he had seen them not five miles hence. A shiver suddenly ran down his spine. “Why are you telling me this, Geech?” he asked.
The landlord looked indignant. “I may be a smuggler, but I’m a Brandwick man, too,” he protested. “I can’t have the redcoats killing all my customers, now, can I, Doctor?” he said, setting down the tankard. He shook his head and dipped low to whisper into Thomas’s ear. “There’ll be trouble,” he said before he drew back, allowing the doctor to ponder the gravity of the situation. Molly, as timid as a mouse, but a good worker, happened to be passing at the same time. “A tankard of ale for the doctor, on the house,” Geech directed, as if nothing were amiss.
Thomas, meanwhile, decided to head upstairs to his room. Tired and anxious, he needed time to consider his next move. Standing by the window, he lifted his gaze over the High Street to the wooded ridge above. Through the opened casement he could hear noises coming from the common, of more fence posts being hammered in, more horses pulling carts, more Brandwick men shouting. He could hear, too, the dull thud of mallets as the wood stakes were driven into the damp ground, like so many nails into the villagers’ coffin.
So the soldiers had been summoned to cast their shadow over the illicit festivities. Dissent was rising, like a winter bourne that suddenly bubbles up from belowground and spills across the landscape, flooding fields as it goes. The redcoats were there to stem its flow. Thomas had no idea of their orders, but it was clear they had not been called in simply to keep the peace. Malthus had got wind of some planned disruption t
hat was afoot, some insurrection, whether large or small, that threatened his vision of an enclosed estate. Thomas feared what the morrow would bring for the people of Brandwick, just as he feared for Lydia.
Chapter 45
The day dawned calm enough. There was a nip in the air, customary for early May, but the clear sky told Thomas that the spring sun would soon warm the soil. As soon as he was able to rouse Rogers, he mounted his horse and rode out to Boughton Hall. He did not know whether Lupton would receive him, but he hoped the sway he now held over the steward with regards to his smuggling exploits might carry some weight. He was right. He was shown into the morning room.
Lupton was seated at the dining table, a plate of half-eaten eggs and ham in front of him. He did not rise when Thomas entered, but merely nodded in his direction while continuing to eat. The doctor, about to open his mouth to berate the steward, was pre-empted.
“I thought you might be paying me a visit this morning, Silkstone.” Lupton wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin. “Would you care to join me?” He gestured to a chair opposite.
Thomas fixed him squarely in the eye. “I find my appetite deserts me in the circumstances,” he replied.
Lupton gave a little shrug. “Ah, you have heard that the Oxfordshire Regiment is on its way. Sir Montagu had word that his ban may be flouted.” There was a flippancy in his tone that riled Thomas. The men in question, the doctor had learned, were drawn from the same regiment that had fought at Lexington and Bunker Hill. They were battle hardened and would as soon turn their muskets on their own kind as on a native Indian.
“Calling out the infantry to police a village custom? That is surely a most draconian measure?” asked Thomas. From the way Lupton’s gaze slid away, he could tell he had more intelligence than he was admitting to. “This is not simply about the defiance of the ban, is it?”
