by Deryn Lake
‘From whom?’
‘From a stranger. A man in Bristol – well, just outside actually, a village called Clifton.’
‘And?’
‘Apparently someone has turned up claiming to be his stepson, but he maintains he’s never seen the fellow in his life before.’
Serafina and Louis exchanged a glance.
‘How odd,’ Louis said.
‘And what does he want you to do about it?’ asked the Comtesse.
‘He has apparently heard that I have in the past worked with Sir John Fielding and he wants me to visit him. At least I think that is what he wants.’
‘You must write to him this very night, John. Tell him that you will be delighted to accept the commission.’
‘Where did you say he lived?’ asked Louis.
‘In Clifton. It’s a village outside Bristol. Up on the edge of the Avon Gorge.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Louis answered. ‘It’s quite small. I believe the rich of Bristol are building up there to get away from the stink of the town.’
‘You must go, John,’ said Serafina, her eyes suddenly glinting. ‘I have a feeling it might relieve your low spirits.’
‘Not exactly low, more unsettled.’
‘Whatever you say,’ she answered, ‘but promise me you will attend upon this mysterious gentleman.’
‘Yes,’ the Apothecary said, ‘I give you my promise.’
‘Then I’ll drink to that,’ replied Serafina, and with that she raised her glass.
Two
Much later that night, when the Apothecary had climbed into his bed and snuggled down beneath the blankets, he looked once again at the letter. With a stomach full of wine and good food, let alone his promise to Serafina, he made the decision to visit Bristol soon.
He had been there once before as a boy of fourteen, taken by Sir Gabriel, visiting an old friend who dwelled in Queens Square. He had stared overawed at the mighty Avon Gorge, at the ferry boat crossing it, back and forth, at the young boy rowing it, scarcely older than himself. But most of all his eye had been drawn to the mighty ships riding at anchor, rowed up the narrow waterway of the channel by barges, it being too narrow and the wind too flighty to allow them to sail. Then his eyes had widened in horror as he had watched one ship unload its cargo. A hatchway had opened in the hold and out had come a string of strange people with black skins, naked but for a few tattered rags which they clutched about them. There had been men, women and children of all ages, staggering out of the blackness below and almost blinded by the light of day. There had been infants, some no older than two years. One, a terrified little girl, lost control of her bladder and stood, helpless, while urine cascaded down her legs and tears down her tragic black face.
John had turned to Sir Gabriel. ‘What are they, Sir? Are they people?’
His father had made a strange sound, almost a hollow laugh. ‘They are called negroes, John. And yes, they are people like ourselves.’
‘But why have they been brought here?’
‘To act as slaves – unpaid servants – to those who will buy them off the slave trader.’
‘Even the children?’
‘Yes, even them. The boys will go to some rich woman to be her little black servant. The girls will train to become maids-of-all-work. Poor little piccaninnies.’
‘You don’t approve of slaving, Father?’
‘“If they prick us do we not bleed?”’ quoted Sir Gabriel, and John understood completely.
But the horror was not over. The sailors produced a chain and passed it through the neck collars that each man, woman and child wore. Then in a line that shouted of despair and misery and enormous suffering, they shuffled off the ship and away to some unknown destination.
John stared after them, his mouth agape. Sir Gabriel put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Do not upset yourself, my boy. I promise you that I shall never have a black slave running after me.’
‘But, Sir, that won’t stop the horrible trade.’
‘One day there will be a movement against it, mark my words. But meanwhile, let the ignorant and thoughtless people continue to buy them. But be very careful to whom you say these things. Such words could get you into trouble.’
And with that Sir Gabriel Kent had turned away from the port and had started to walk inland.
John put the letter down on the chest which stood beside the bed, containing behind its closed door the ever-useful chamber pot. A few minutes later he fell asleep, dreaming of his late wife Emilia and reaching out for her in the hours after midnight.
He woke early the next morning, and passing Mrs Fortune’s door on the way downstairs heard little gasps as she was laced into her corset by her maid. John smiled and continued downwards where he sat alone at the table, ate heartily and read the newspaper. He found himself peering at the small print, and the horrid thought shot through his mind that he might soon need spectacles. Indeed he was still looking intensely at the newsprint when Jacquetta rustled into the room. John rose from his chair, gave a small polite bow and waited till she was seated before sitting down again.
‘Good morning, Mr Rawlings. I trust the day finds you well?’
‘Yes thank you. And how are you, Madam?’
‘Wonderful,’ she answered, and she looked it.
Today she was attired in a somewhat old-fashioned sack back gown with a square neckline, made in a lilac shade that became her enormously. John found her very attractive and wondered why he had not proposed to her long ago. But in his heart he already knew the answer. Though Jacquetta Fortune had turned into a beautiful woman, from the skinny, half-starved creature she had been when he first met her, she did not possess that inner fire which he found irresistibly tempting.
Thoughts of Elizabeth came unbidden. She was the woman he had always wanted, full of fire and ice, dark as a gypsy and with the same wonderful impetuousness that could always delight whoever was in her company, yet with the capability to freeze a man into the Arctic wastes if she so chose. He had risked loving her, she had become the mother of his twin sons, yet despite all this he had had the temerity to walk out on her in a quite unjustified fit of pique.
‘Anything interesting in the paper?’ asked Jacquetta, cutting herself a slice of ham.
John looked up. ‘Sir John and Lady Fielding have gone to the country to stay with the Duke of Kingston at Thoresby Hall. Apparently they left by coach last evening.’
‘I take it that the Duke’s wife will also be present?’
John smiled. ‘You refer to the former Miss Chudleigh? You can count upon it that having achieved her objective the lady will be clinging like a veritable crab.’
Mrs Fortune pursed her lips. ‘One hears strange rumours about that woman.’
But the Apothecary was no longer listening to her, his attention riveted by another item in the paper. ‘Good God,’ he said, then before Jacquetta could answer went on, ‘Listen to this. “Finest Hotwell Water available at the cost of six shillings per dozen bottles which will be sold to the discerning customer. This fine medicinal water is perfectly without smell, pleasing and grateful to the stomach, cooling and quenches thirst. It is quite beyond parallel for disorders of the digestive and urinary tracts and has miraculously cured cases of those with a diarrhoea and gravelish complaints, particularly those who void great quantities of fabulous matter. For purchase apply to Mister Callow Hill at the Hotwell upon the Avon Gorge near Bristol.”’ He put the paper down and gave Jacquetta a crooked smile. ‘What do you make of that?’
She made a wry face. ‘Well, it is nothing new. I believe that the Hotwell Water is exported all over the world.’
‘Good gracious! Why was I not aware of it?’
‘Because you are an apothecary, Mr Rawlings, who just happens to have the ability to carbonate water. It is not your task to seek out would-be competitors.’
The words were sharp, but they were accompanied by such a sweet smile that John could only respond with a sheepish grin and a return to the pa
ges of the London Advertiser. For after all, every word Jacquetta had said was true. He had been vaguely aware of Hotwell Water but had never turned his mind on to what it actually was. But now his curiosity was piqued. The combination of the strange letter which had been delivered to the shop yesterday and this picturesquely worded advertisement had made up his mind for him. He would go to visit Bristol as soon as his other commitments permitted.
Three
The trouble about leaving London even for a few days was the rather worrying age of Sir Gabriel Kent, John’s dearly loved adopted father. The grand old man had now reached the enormous sum of eighty-eight years, a fact he put down to his daily stroll past the palace of Kensington and back. But the reality of his continuing good health could not outplay the tricks of time. Nowadays Sir Gabriel moved slowly and often sat down with obvious relief, while his hearing had grown very poor. He had a sliding silver ear trumpet which, when collapsed, fitted into the pocket of his coat. This he was somewhat shy of using in the presence of ladies, but now, with his own son standing before him, he produced the thing from his pocket, extended it to its full length, and plugged it into his right ear.
‘Father, dear soul,’ John said in a raised voice. ‘How are you?’
‘There’s no need to shout, my boy. I am utterly fine and this wretched trumpet is in perfect working order.’
‘Then why, if I may be so bold, don’t you use it all the time?’
‘Vanity, dear child. None of us likes to be reminded of the passing years, particularly in the presence of the fair sex.’
John grinned. ‘Yes, I had noticed.’
Sir Gabriel laughed and said, ‘I thought that my weakness of spirit would have passed unobserved.’
‘It usually does, but it was when you started talking about Roman remains when the lady had remarked on the aroma remaining that it became a little obvious.’
‘But only to you, I trust?’
‘Of course,’ John lied gallantly, ‘only to me.’
He bent over and kissed Sir Gabriel on his fine old cheek, then sat down in a chair opposite his.
‘A little sherry, my dear?’
‘Thank you, that would be very nice.’
Sir Gabriel took a delicate sip and smiled at John over the rim of the glass. ‘Well, what news?’
John sampled his sherry carefully, weighing up his promise to Seraphina, his overwhelming curiosity about Hotwell Water, and the strange letter he had received, against the thought of his father being taken ill on his own. Meanwhile Sir Gabriel regarded him, his topaz eyes twinkling away.
‘You seem lost in thought, dear child.’
‘Oh, sorry …’
‘I have some news for you,’ Sir Gabriel interrupted. ‘I am thinking of going away to benefit my health.’
‘Really, Sir? To Bath?’
‘I should say not. The season is quite closed. It would be highly unfashionable to visit at this time of year. No, I intend to go to the Hotwell, which is situated at the foot of the Avon Gorge in Bristol. I believe their season runs till the end of October and there is a great deal of amusement to be had even this late in the calendar. I wondered whether you would care to accompany me?’
John took such a violent sip of his sherry that it went up his nose and ran down inside his nostrils, burning as it flowed. He reached for his handkerchief and blew the offending item hard.
Sir Gabriel looked sympathetic. ‘You are surprised, my dear?’
John looked at him suspiciously. ‘May I ask, Sir, how you knew?’
Sir Gabriel played the innocent. ‘Knew what, my son?’
‘That I was thinking of going there myself?’
‘Good gracious! Were you indeed? Then I shall have a fine travelling companion.’
His father refused to reveal any further information, and John was torn between suspecting Mrs Fortune of writing and inviting Sir Gabriel to stay in Nassau Street while he was away, or believing that it was the most outrageous coincidence. So he merely looked at Sir Gabriel straight-faced and said, ‘So on what day shall we depart, Papa?’
‘Would three days’ time suit you?’
‘That will be ideal.’
The public stage had recently set a record by running a coach from Bristol via Bath to London in seventeen hours flat. In fact transport of every kind was speeding up. One could change horses at various conveniently placed inns along the six Great Roads, where one could find good stabling and smart horsekeepers to speed up the changes. The charge was moderate: 3d or 4d per mile.
Had John been travelling alone he would have asked his coachman, Irish Tom, to try to drive faster, but in view of Sir Gabriel’s great age he decided to stop for the night at the Old Chequers in Thatcham, near Newbury. There they slept well and departed at about eight in the morning, having eaten a breakfast of varying degrees of quantity, John’s being large, Sir Gabriel’s minimal. Thus they arrived in Bristol some eight hours later and drove through the town towards the splendour of the Avon Gorge.
It was only the Apothecary’s second visit to the town, but as they approached its outskirts he noticed Sir Gabriel’s fine nose wrinkle at the strange smell which pervaded the carriage.
‘The tide is out,’ his father said drily.
John sniffed. He could smell mud and garbage and something even worse.
‘I fear you’re right,’ he answered.
The River Avon was tidal and though the boats on which the town relied for its trade could be towed up and moored at the bustling quays, alongside which were crammed the many houses, when the tide went out the water level dropped by some thirty feet and left the ships stranded like netted fish on the mud banks below. So the packed and jostling town of Bristol was never without its own individual stink. A fact of which John was vividly reminded when Sir Gabriel produced a lace trimmed handkerchief and put it delicately to his nostrils.
The carriage jolted and shuddered as it crossed over a waterway and then, at last, came into Frog Lane and then Limekiln Lane, heading towards Hotwell. John drew breath as the majesty of the Avon Gorge reared above him. A great rock protruded almost to the brink of the river, and craning his neck he saw sheep grazing on the grassy slopes, hanging on by sheer tenacity to the steep drop. High overhead, on the tallest hill of all, stood a solitary mill, a lonely and somehow desolate building. On the bank opposite there were signs of commercial activity, but it was to the Hotwell buildings that the Apothecary felt his eyes drawn.
As the tide was low he could make out the place where the spring bubbled forth, only to be taken to the Pump Room above by a series of valves and pumps, which was as well, he thought, as at high tide the river would be flooded with every cat and dog in the neighbourhood, to say nothing of raw sewage.
Sir Gabriel spoke to Irish Tom.
‘We are staying at the Gloucester Hotel, my good fellow. I have written to them in advance. And I have booked a room for you at The Bear, which provides adequate stabling for the horses.’
‘Very good, Sir Gabriel.’
The coachman picked his way over the cobbled streets, while John looked about him, admiring the riverside walk of young trees, planted so that their overhead branches met and people could promenade quite happily even when it began to rain. An attractive colonnade of shops, curving in a half circle, lined with white pillars and covered with a roof, was on his right, while ahead of him lay the Hotwell Pump Room.
‘Just a little further on,’ Sir Gabriel called, and his son had a sudden thrill of excitement, which he always associated with danger. As usual he made no attempt to analyse this sensation, but merely accepted it as a forerunner to coming events – though he had to admit that the tale of the Bristol merchant’s unknown stepson both intrigued and puzzled him.
The next morning he and Sir Gabriel stepped forth with lively gait to the delights of the Hotwell spa, making immediately for the Pump Room, which buzzed with activity. A small orchestra was playing – à la Bath – over which the visitors shouted cheerfully at on
e another. There was the usual gathering of the chronically sick, some looking fit to die, mixed with the bright young set who had come to be seen in the right places. Besides these were the couples who walked stoically up and down the length of the room, looking coldly at the new arrivals and parading their finery for all the world to see. John smiled and thought that it could be a Pump Room situated in any spa in any part of the world. The characters were always the same.
As ever, despite his enormous age, the entrance of Sir Gabriel Kent caused quite a stir. Attired in his usual garments of black and white, his vast three-storey wig – hopelessly out of fashion but arresting for all that – together with his beribboned great stick, caught the eye of all present. There was a rustle amongst the people promenading and all eyes turned in his direction. Sir Gabriel swept his tricorne hat from his head and made a low bow.
‘Good morning,’ he pronounced in ringing tones, and made his way through the throng to the fountain at the end of the room. John followed behind as the waves of people parted like the Dead Sea to allow his father a thoroughfare.
The water bubbled up into a spout beside which stood a corpulent woman with somewhat flushed features doling out glasses to the passing parade. ‘How much do you charge, Madam?’ Sir Gabriel enquired.
‘Sixpence a glass, Sir. Very good for the diarrhoea, the stone, the gout, the spleen and disorders of the urine.’
‘My, my,’ murmured John’s father. ‘I’ll take two glasses if you please.’
John held his glass up to the light before drinking it. The water had a natural sparkle and was slightly cloudy. He swallowed it and thought to himself as he did so that it had rather a base, mineral-laden taste. But he supposed that was inevitable with a medicinal draught. It was also warm and in no way competed with his sparkling brew – not that they were in the same line of business.
At the end of the Pump Room, beyond the fountain, were windows which swept down to the river, giving a fine view of the Rownham Woods opposite. Looking to his left John could see a jolly ferryman, attired in vivid colours, taking passengers across the river. He decided then and there that he must explore the surrounding area, and that he also must call on the gentleman who had written him that extraordinary letter.
