Cheating the Hangman

by Judith Cutler

  ‘The one who insisted I train my puppy properly? Jem by name and gem by nature, my old nurse used to say.’

  ‘The very one. He moved with me to Moreton St Jude’s.’

  ‘I would have expected nothing less – although I collect yours is a very small establishment and he might reasonably have expected a better post on a great estate … I’m sorry. You and your father—’

  I declared swiftly, ‘A better post Jem has. He is no longer a man subject to the whims of a selfish employer. He has quit caring for horses and puppies. He has become our village schoolmaster, with his own cottage. My dear Julia, I wish you could see how he is transforming the young and ignorant minds of his charges.’

  Her bright dimpled smile rewarded me – but her face clouded. ‘But Tobias, it must be a very lonely existence for him. Consider, before he always had his fellow servants for company, even if his prime duty was to you. How does he pass his leisure time?’

  ‘He has the best-kept cottage garden in the village,’ I said. This was true, but not the whole truth. Was Lady Julia ready to hear that whenever I dined with Dr and Mrs Hansard, Jem would be there too, as an honoured guest and our social and intellectual equal? On the whole, I thought not. In any case I had to relinquish her to the hands of another dancer.

  ‘I hope to hear more of Jem tomorrow,’ she declared over her shoulder as the pimply youth made his bow and took her hand. ‘Like Scheherazade in reverse.’

  ‘Alas, Julia, I shall have quit Radway Park before your maid even pulls back your curtains. My mother is an early riser, and expects others to follow her lead.’ Perhaps I nursed a fledging hope that she rose early too. But she said nothing, and I smiled her on her way.

  My next three partners were enough to drive anyone into the dismals.

  My mother shook her head as I lit her candle at the foot of the stairs. ‘You do not look around hopefully at any of these young ladies, Tobias: you do not need to tell me that your heart is still whole. But one day,’ she added, with the roguish dimple that must have bewitched my father in his youth, ‘I wager you my winnings tonight –’ she shook her reticule – ‘that ere the year is out, I will have made a match for you.’

  ‘With your talent for gambling, Mama, I would not dare bet against you.’ I might not have made the wager, but I suspected that after all I should have won it, until, that is, the following morning as I handed Mama into her carriage I chanced to look back at the house and saw an open window and Julia Pendragon waving from it.

  Since Passion Week, the most solemn period of the Christian calendar, was now almost upon us, I could do little more than consign my mother to my cousin’s care and return to my parish. To please Mama I stayed one night. Cousin Bromwich was a harmless enough man, so long as a good dinner burdened his table. His wife indulged him in this – overindulged, one might say – and he suffered terribly from gout. No matter where he had taken the waters, there was no sign of a cure. As I set out the following morning, Mama, holding Titus’s bridle herself, hissed that she was sure that a regime like mine would be perfectly efficacious.

  ‘I must remember to invite him to stay with me,’ I said, my eyes gleaming, ‘next Lent.’

  ‘And would you invite me and your Papa? Tobias, your face looks like thunder at the very mention of him. This is no way to behave – and you a man of the cloth, charged with reminding people to forgive fellow sinners that they might be forgiven!’

  ‘My dearest Mama, I remember him every time I kneel in prayer. God knows that I forgive him. But he has not forgiven me, as you are all too well aware.’

  She dropped her eyes: she found it hard to lie.

  I laughed gently. ‘Never once, when you have signed your letters to me, have you written that Papa joined you in your good wishes. My dearest Mama, it was he who broke his foot as he tried to kick me down the stairs.’

  ‘Only because you had broken his heart, going against his express desire that you took a commission, and insisting on being ordained.’

  Titus, aware of conflicting pressures, from the one at his head and the other on his back, shuffled uneasily.

  ‘When my earthly father desires one thing and my heavenly Father another, whom should I obey?’

  Her hand flew in an impatient gesture. ‘I fear you are not aware how priggish you can sound.’

  I tried not to flinch, but now to my ears my voice sounded greasy with self-justification. ‘Mama, you know full well that I could never, ever have fulfilled my Lord Hartland’s ambitions for me—’

  ‘Lord Hartland?’ she repeated sharply, unsettling Titus still further. ‘Indeed, Tobias—’

  ‘He disowned me – said I was no longer his son. How else should I refer to him? He dismissed me from his sight forever, and indeed, Mama, much as I would like to return to the fold, I fear another attack of the fury with which he despatched me from his presence would bring about another seizure. His heart—’

  ‘Is already in pieces. Well, Tobias, I can see that in common parlance I should save my breath to cool my porridge.’ Her voice cracked.

  ‘I promise you, Mama, that the moment my father is ready to treat me as his son, I will be before him on my knees entreating his blessing.’

  She nodded, as if but partially satisfied. She added pettishly, as Titus made it clear he wanted to be on his way, ‘I do not like you to jaunter around the country on your own like—’

  ‘Like the country parson I am,’ I finished for her, to her obvious chagrin, but also dry amusement.

  ‘At least you do not look like one today. In those buckskins and boots you look quite the gentleman again. And such a smart hat!’

  By now, feeling a traitor to my calling, I was as anxious as Titus to depart.

  ‘Find me a wife, Mama. The paragon you spoke of the other evening. She does not even need to be an heiress.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  As if even at that distance he knew which route would take him most quickly to his stable, Titus set off at a brisk but sustainable pace, with the minimum of guidance from me. He had always been in the care of Jem, of whom I had spoken to Lady Julia. Even now my heart glowed at the delights of our conversation and our time dancing together. Could she possibly even consider … But the last time I had allowed myself a reverie, I had been accosted. I had been lucky the other day but might not be again. So I dragged my thoughts from her, and tried to be alert to any possible dangers.

  Had he been a human friend, Titus would have given a knowing laugh. As it was, he made it subtly clear that he was glad I was in control again, and I found myself talking to him as if he could reply.

  We agreed that he might have missed the attentions of Jem, of whom I had spoken to Julia, when Jem took his new position. Now he was technically in the hands of Robert, a silent mouse of a workhouse orphan, though Jem, as much out of affection for Titus as any sense of duty, paid almost daily visits to ensure his standards were being maintained.

  Had they not been, I’m sure Titus would have made his feelings clear. However, Jem declared that until he had taught Robert to speak, something he steadfastly refused to do in my presence, there was little point in even attempting to teach him his letters. Accordingly, though he should have been well above mucking out a stable, Jem talked as he shovelled and helped the lad brush Titus till he was glossier than ever. Their labour done, Robert was submitted to a cleansing under the pump, which Mrs Trent thought entirely appropriate in one so young. At this point Jem would often but not always join me in my parlour for a glass of Mrs Trent’s home-brewed ale. He insisted that he did not wish to be seen in the village as in some way presuming, a term which denoted complete disapproval of any notion of social equality.

  Titus pricked his ears. What had he heard or seen? But it was only the familiar profile of the church in which I was privileged to lead the worship. Had I not been very much aware of my old friend’s desire to reach his stable, I would have stopped there for a few minutes, even in my travel-stained state, to thank God for the delig
hts of my daily life. However, I could do that as well in the privacy of my own chamber, which called me as loudly as the loose box called Titus.

  Between them, Mrs Trent and Susan, the maid of all work, had spring-cleaned the rectory yet again; they rarely confined their activities to the spring, although I had to admit that this time their choice of season was apposite. At least they had remembered to replace each item in my study in its rightful place, rather than tidying it away out of sight, so I could find the drafts of the sermons I was to deliver on Palm Sunday and on Good Friday and Easter Day. However, I would postpone revising them until I had shed my fine travelling attire and donned something more appropriate to my calling. As usual, with no more qualms than if I had been Robert, I sluiced myself down under the pump in the yard, inevitably shocking poor Mrs Trent. I could hear Robert talking to Titus as he rubbed him down. Perhaps one day, when Mrs Trent’s very homely cooking had done its work and he was filling out the clothes she had so kindly made him, he might talk to me. As yet, however, he confined himself to tugging his forelock, his eyes firmly locked on the ground, though his smile whenever Titus appeared was a pleasure to see.

  My skin a-quiver with gooseflesh, I considered I had mortified it enough, and was grateful that Mrs Trent had serenely disregarded my taste and lit a bright fire in my bedchamber, and one in every other room I might use. At least she had my direct order that if my quarters were warm, hers and Susan’s must be too. As for Robert, for some reason he eschewed the bedchamber we had allocated him over the kitchen, a room small but always snug. Instead he silently insisted in sleeping either on a heap of straw in the loose box next to Titus’s, a practice I discouraged, though I could understand how reassuring he must find the smell and sound of what he clearly considered his best friend, or curled up on the rag rug in front of the new kitchen range.

  I had installed this on Maria Hansard’s advice. It might be – was! – an extravagance for someone in my position and had at first challenged Mrs Trent to the point of her despair – and mine. But dear Mrs Hansard had feigned equal ignorance and the two had learnt how to use it together. Dr Hansard was outraged, hating his wife to do anything that reminded him, and no doubt others, that once she had been no more than a housekeeper.

  She, however, had insisted, pointing out that mastering such a contraption, a smaller version of one she demanded for Langley Park’s kitchen, meant that she would brook no excuses from any new cook who came their way in the future.

  I was still before the bedroom fire securing my bands when the sound of horses drew me to the window. A very fine curricle and pair, the horses beautifully matched: who could be driving such a natty equipage? Could it be – could it truly be – that my father had against all the odds decided to visit me? But he would have stood on greater ceremony, dumbfounding my poor neighbours with all his formal and lordly splendour in his favourite coach, attended by outriders and liveried footmen.

  Deducing that it must be one of my old school or university friends who had strayed so far from the main road to come to see me, I finished my toilette hastily, still watching with eagerness, though endeavouring not to be seen. The tiger jumped down to take the leader’s head. His coat was sufficiently well cut to suggest that his master must have money to burn. Was it Edmund Walton, always a bit of a dandy? Or Tom Alleyne?

  Thanking goodness for Mrs Trent’s cleaning frenzy, I ran downstairs to my study, anxious in a childish way to demonstrate a serious endeavour suitable to my calling. I quickly laid on my beautifully polished desk my pile of draft sermons; a couple of volumes suitable for such a spiritual endeavour; my Bible; clean paper; and a trimmed pen.

  In the event, I was relieved that I had thus prepared. The visitor whom Mrs Trent ushered punctiliously into my presence was no college friend but a man ten or fifteen years my senior, Archdeacon Giles Cornforth. He too had eschewed clerical garb for travelling. My clothes had been ideal for riding; his were far smarter. In his exquisitely tailored coat he could have been on his way to some select London club.

  My face must have shown considerable surprise, which, since I had taken care that no one could see my spying, he interpreted as an appropriate confusion from one so lowly in the ecclesiastical hierarchy in the presence of a veritable prince of the Church. He looked for some few moments at the ink on my fingers. Nonetheless he deigned to shake my hand, for all he thought it the paw of some grubby schoolboy.

  Over a glass of Madeira, and some of Mrs Trent’s biscuits, baked to surprising perfection, thanks, perhaps, to that new stove, we exchanged suitably meaningless pleasantries. At last, however, Archdeacon Cornforth withdrew his pocket watch, as if not trusting the handsome timepiece on the mantelpiece, and declared that he really ought to be on his way to Lichfield. He was to dine with the bishop.

  ‘Now, Tobias, my dear fellow, I have a request to make. You will be conducting all the appropriate services this Eastertide, I make no doubt? And I perceive that you are already preparing your sermons.’ He raised a fashionable quizzing glass and peered at what now seemed all too rough and ready a pile of paper. He picked up one of the volumes of others’ sermons: it was a collection by a cousin of Lady Julia’s, as it happened, Lucius Allardyce, chaplain at an Oxford college.

  I tried not to sound defensive, and may have overreacted. ‘Indeed, Archdeacon, and with the greatest of joy.’

  He nodded as if I was some puppy whose overeager prancing both amused and irritated him. ‘In that case, I feel it not inappropriate to ask you to take extra services. Not here, man, but over in Clavercote. In – what’s the name of the church?’

  ‘All Souls’. The rector is the Reverend Adolphus Coates, as I recall.’ Clavercote was about ten miles distant, and to my chagrin I found I did not feel the enthusiasm I ought for journeying back and forth to a distant parish with which I had no connection.

  ‘The very man. To cut to the chase, Tobias, he has written to the bishop: briefly and at the shortest of notice he informed him that he was about to travel on the Continent for the sake of his health.’

  ‘The Continent?’ I echoed in disbelief.

  ‘Quite,’ the Archdeacon said with asperity. ‘Why, with Europe in its present chaotic state, Mr Coates does not choose to repair to Bath or to Cheltenham, I for one do not know. Nor do I know how long he proposes to recover from whatever ailment he fancies afflicts him. Apparently the rectory is locked up and the servants dispersed. Now, you have a reputation, Tobias, for – shall we say – going the extra mile? So it is to you that the bishop has turned. Palm Sunday; Good Friday; Easter Day. We will endeavour to prise a curate or two away from other parishes after that.’ He shot a surprisingly shrewd look under his well-shaped eyebrows. ‘I did not think, Tobias, that you would want our Easter celebrations to be conducted by anyone second-rate.’

  ‘It is not for me to judge—’ I protested.

  ‘No. But it is for the bishop and my humble self to do so. I will tell him that you have agreed, then.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘If you will forgive the observation, my young friend, there are times when your righteousness teeters towards self-righteousness. Just a friendly word of warning, nothing more.’ He nodded home the point with as much authority as if he was wearing alb and cassock. ‘And here is a note for the Clavercote churchwardens,’ he added with a slightly curious inflection, ‘to say that everything is in hand.’

  Taking this as an exit line, I rang for Mrs Trent to request my visitor’s hat and gloves. Then I escorted him myself to his equipage, which had gathered a small crowd of scrawny village lads, alternately jeering at the young tiger, who was far too high in the instep even to acknowledge their presence, and offering knowledgeable appraisals of the horseflesh.

  For a moment, the archdeacon’s face clouded. ‘Pray God this year will see better crops,’ he said. ‘And lower corn prices, of course.’ Reaching into the leather squabs of the curricle, he pulled forth an almost feminine knitted purse. From it he drew a fistful of coins, which he threw towards the lads. T
o my shame, Robert was amongst the first to dive for them. He, who at least had a roof over his head, and three good meals a day, in addition to all the apples and cakes Mrs Trent thrust into his grubby hands! To do this while some of the other lads were from some of the poorest homes in the village. I must rebuke him.

  Then I perceived that other equally fortunate boys were also scrabbling in the dirt: two of the churchwardens’ sons were there, elbowing others in the ribs with a will.

  I hung my head. I had forgotten any boy’s absolute need to compete for anything, especially if it involved falling over and writhing in mud to obtain it. My mother’s word rang in my ears: what a prig I was becoming indeed.

  Waving the archdeacon on his regal way I reflected that if nothing else I had a theme for a forthcoming sermon. Judge not that ye be not judged.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Despite the bitter cold, the next day was so fine I decided to make the journey myself. Successive landlords in my parish had invested enough in their land to ensure it was well drained and in good heart. Soon, however, I rode through lanes in such a state of disrepair I was worried that even the sure-footed Titus might miss his step, and was far more alert in the saddle than yesterday.

  The outskirts of Clavercote were deserted, with no sign of anyone within the sad, mean dwellings or working outside. And yet I had the curious sensation of being watched, which continued the deeper into the village I penetrated. There was not so much as the shout of a child or the bark of a dog.