by Deryn Lake
‘And you, Sir,’ she went on. ‘What are you doing in Clifton?’
‘I went to visit an old friend but unfortunately he was out, so I retreated to this excellent inn.’
She smiled naughtily, an impish look flitting across her features. ‘And how did you get here?’
‘Madam, I climbed the steps and have never been more frightened in my life.’
‘The steps?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ John answered, chuckling a little at the thought of the child who had literally shoved him to the top. ‘Two hundred of ’em. And each one steep and slippery, carved out of the rock face.’
She gave a little shudder but a minute later was smiling again. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Violetta Tyninghame. I was the Marchioness but my husband wanted rid of me and so now I am just known as Lady. His second wife became the Marchioness, you see.’
‘Vaguely, yes,’ John answered honestly.
‘Maybe I will tell you the story one day,’ she answered. ‘And then again, maybe I won’t. But now to more practical matters. Is it your intention to descend the steps once more? Or may I give you a lift to the Hotwell?’
John put his hand on his heart. ‘Madam, I swear that I would walk to Bristol and come back via Rope Walk – even if it took me six hours – than ever face those dreadful steps again.’
She stood up and transformed instantly from the vulnerable little creature prone to fainting, to a woman of stature and good breeding. Looking every inch a grande dame, she ordered her coachman to take them down the precipitous track known as Granby Hill. Once more John found himself subjected to that terrifying carriage ride carved out of the rock face, and was pushed flat on his back with both legs raised in the air as the coach hurtled perpendicular down the side of that vicious slope. But having arrived breathlessly at Hotwell, he helped Lady Tyninghame from her carriage and proceeded to a small ale house where he ordered a large brandy and fell in company with the deliciously dandified Samuel Foote, preparing himself for the performance that evening.
Sir Gabriel declared himself a little tired and preferred not to accompany John to the theatre, which was as well, his son considered. The play was The Lame Lover, in which Foote appeared as Sir Luke Limp, swathed in lace and speaking in pretentious Macaroni patois. This had the effect of reducing the audience to a roar of enjoyment. It would have been too much for Sir Gabriel, but John appreciated it thoroughly and screamed with laughter, behaving much as he did back in his apprentice days. After the show, Foote had invited him backstage to collect the costumes that he and Irish Tom were to wear on their excursions into Bristol.
As John stepped through the stage door he fell in love all over again with the theatre’s atmosphere, reminding him vividly as it did of his affair with the great Coralie Clive. The smell of make-up and snuffed candles, combined with sweat and unwashed costumes, brought vividly to his mind the times that he and Coralie had sworn never to part. And where had that vow ended? Coralie had married a title, had a dead husband and a troublesome daughter, while John had twin boys he never saw and a wild woman for a mistress. But for all that, the theatre and its wonders appealed to him enormously.
‘Hey, Rawlings, over here.’
He turned round and saw Samuel Foote emerging from his dressing room, still dressed as Sir Luke Limp and still in character.
‘Odds, my deah fellah,’ he lisped, ‘did you enjoy my poor offering or didst thou take strong liquor and sleep through the entire performance?’
‘Sir, I shouted loud as any man present.’
‘Oh good,’ said Foote, and kissed the Apothecary on the cheek and then, for good measure, on the other one.
‘Come with me to the wardrobe and we’ll fix you up as a big a villain as ever the streets of Bristol did see.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. Just a ruffian will do.’
The door to the costume department opened to reveal tight rows of garments thrust together as closely as a crowd at a race meeting. There seemed little semblance of order, but John guessed that the small size of the theatre had forced the owners to use every last inch of space. However some minimal efforts had been made to sort them and at least the female attire was separated from that of the male.
‘Why don’t you go dressed as a woman,’ trilled Samuel, peering through a gauzy sleeve at John, who was growing slightly uneasy. Much as he admired Foote and thought him one of the most amusing actors around, his feelings began and ended there.
However, John laughed and said, ‘I wouldn’t know how to behave and I don’t need any lessons from you, though I thank you all the same.’
‘Well, that’s me in my place,’ answered the actor, reverting to his normal character and leaving Sir Luke Limp behind.
John felt greatly relieved as he had a growing conviction that Foote had somewhat molly-mop leanings. Not that he really cared. The man was so clever, so charming, so amusing that he liked him whatever the circumstance.
‘Here, this will do for you,’ shouted the actor and pulled out a well-worn costume in a vivid shade of canary. ‘And this will do for your coachman.’ This time he produced an extraordinary garment that looked as if it had once been worn by a frog.
‘Do they have to be so bright?’ asked the Apothecary, drawing back a step.
‘Absolutely. Stand out in a crowd. No good slinking through life like a slug.’
‘But I thought we were meant to be in disguise?’
‘No better disguise than drawing attention to oneself. It’s the only way, believe me.’
‘Indeed I do,’ answered the Apothecary, a grin breaking out. But at that moment the door opened and Irish Tom appeared, filling the frame and looking very much like the Irish chieftan Brian Boramha.
‘The frog green outfit is for you,’ said John, and his grin widened at the expression of horror on the coachman’s face.
‘I thought green for an Irishman,’ giggled Mr Foote.
‘Do you mind my asking, Sir, but what is it meant to be?’
‘Oh, it’s something or other from the Harlequinade. It’s probably Pantaloon’s suit.’
‘And you expect me to walk round Bristol looking like some poor old wretch dragged out from the theatre?’
‘Precisely. It will give you an air of authority.’
Dumbfounded, the Irishman stared at the actor, tried to find words, but ended up saying nothing. John interjected.
‘He’s got a wonderful costume for me. I’ll resemble someone with a fatal attack of jaundice.’
‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, Sorrh,’ said Tom in his Irish accent.
‘Oh, laugh,’ said Mr Foote, reverting to Sir Luke Limp. ‘By gad, but you’re a handsome Irish fellow, so you are. Can I tickle you with a shamrock? And as for me, Sir, well I can hop with any man in town, so you’d better watch your step.’
And with that Samuel Foote fluttered his eyelashes and minced from the room, leaving John and the coachman staring dumbstruck after him.
They drove back through a silvered night; the tide was in and John could hear the water lapping at the river’s rocky banks as they finally made their way to Hotwell. Rather than go straight to his hotel he made his way to the Long Room to see what company might still be up and about, but the place was deserted and after a moment or two he started to walk up towards Cumberland Basin and the Gloucester Hotel. Then he heard it. A faint wheezing rasp as someone close to him drew in breath painfully.
‘Hello. Who’s there?’ he whispered.
There was no reply but the sound continued unabated. The moon had gone in but John peered through the gloom and gradually his eyes picked out a great lumpy figure sitting on a bench and gasping for air.
‘Mr Bagot?’ he said.
The sound continued but the figure turned its head. ‘Who is it?’
‘Rawlings. John Rawlings. We met briefly t’other day. Can I help you?’
‘No, no. I’m all right, man. I’m just a bit short on breath.’
‘Take a whiff
of this.’
And before the other could disagree, John had squeezed into a place on the bench beside him and produced his bottle of smelling salts. Augustus inhaled and then slightly swooned.
‘’Zounds, but I am fainting.’
‘No you’re not,’ John answered firmly. ‘Breathe in deeply. You’ll feel better in a moment.’
Augustus reluctantly obeyed, making great gasping sounds followed by a monumental fit of coughing. John patted him on the back, quite firmly, and in the general heaving that followed a piece of paper fell from the large tunic that Augustus wore over his breeches. It was a small torn square and on it was some writing. John could not help it. He bent closer to read it and at that moment the moon came out. On it were scrawled the words: WE HEAR THAT YOU ARE BACK. WE’LL BE COMING SOON.
Involuntarily, John gulped. It would seem that Augustus Bagot’s return had already been noted. And though not couched in threatening terms, the last four words sent a shiver through his entire body.
Nine
By the time the Apothecary fell into bed that night, the clock had struck midnight. He had helped the enormous hulk into his coach – or rather Mr Huxtable’s coach – and seen them set off on the long way round, over the toll road then up across the Downs. He thought rather grimly that if the coach had set off up the steep track of Granby Hill it would have fallen off and plunged into the Gorge below, tipped over by the huge weight of Augustus.
He had walked back through the sleeping spa and been let into the hotel by the night porter, who was slumbering in a small lodge near the front door. After that he had crept to his room but once there he could not sleep. That odd feeling was upon him, the feeling that all was not well with the world, that unseen forces were at work. Much as he did not like Augustus, much as he thought that he was an imposter trading off Mr Huxtable’s goodwill, for all that he wished the fellow no harm. John merely hoped that he could find sufficient evidence to face the fat man with the truth and see him on his way. He heard the great clock in the hall strike one before he fell into an uneasy sleep with strange distorted dreams of a coach hurtling backwards until it fell into the Avon Gorge and disappeared from sight.
Sir Gabriel seemed fresh as a daisy at breakfast the next morning, while John felt dreary and liverish. His father, however, appeared not to notice and burbled on.
‘My dear, I have made arrangements today to visit the New Vaux Hall Gardens.’
‘And what are they, pray?’
‘They are apparently the place to visit. They are situated at Goldney House, where the owner – after whom the place is named – has worked for years on his gardens and grotto. He has built scenery and so on and so forth and apparently the gardens rival those of Vaux Hall itself.’
‘Oh surely not.’
‘Oh surely yes. Anyway, you can come and see them for yourself. I have made an appointment to go with the Honourable Titania and her mother. Perhaps that might tempt you.’
‘It certainly does. At what time are you leaving?’
‘I have asked Irish Tom to bring the coach outside at eleven o’clock.’
‘I wonder – if it does not inconvenience you in any way – if I might after this borrow him for a day or so. I intend to plunge into Bristol’s murkier depths to try and find some people who knew Augustus Bagot and, quite honestly, I do not care to do such a thing on my own.’
‘No, no. You must not. Let Tom accompany you by all means.’
Sir Gabriel had lowered his newspaper and was looking at his son anxiously.
‘Don’t be so worried, Papa. I know how to take care of myself.’
‘If only that were true, my boy. You have been in more scrapes than I have years, I fear.’
John smiled wryly. It was true enough. And his latest predicament of not being able to see his twin sons was never far from his thoughts. He deliberately changed the subject.
‘Have you by any chance met Lady Tyninghame yet?’
‘No, who is she?’
‘I revived her from a fainting fit in The Ostrich Inn yesterday.’
‘Good heavens.’
‘She is stunningly beautiful, an elegant creature. Yet as fragile as glass.’
‘How intriguing.’
‘Apparently she was divorced by her husband, the Marquis of Tyninghame, who subsequently remarried so she is no longer the Marchioness …’
‘I’m not so certain of the legality of that,’ interrupted Sir Gabriel.
‘Be that as it may, she is now known as Lady Tyninghame. And I wondered if you had seen her?’
‘Not here, no. But I do remember the case you mentioned. It was well reported in the newspapers of the time. Did she not have some young lover – a deal younger than herself – that the Marquis found out about and consequently showed her the door?’
‘I have no idea, Father. But it sounds highly credible. She is a lovely woman and I can imagine anyone losing their head over her.’
‘I am bound to run into her. After all, this is such a small place.’
‘I would like to see her again too.’
Sir Gabriel looked askance. ‘Surely you have enough complications in your life, John. Don’t get into any more trouble, I beg you.’
John actually blushed, the first time in many a year. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that I found her rather … kind. That is all.’
His father raised his newspaper, but not before he had given his son a thoroughly reproving glance. Feeling duly chastened, John finished his breakfast in silence.
The season at Hotwell was drawing to a close, running from May to October. Bath followed it immediately and many visitors moved on, liking the town’s formality after the rustic beauty of Hotwell. But this late September day was fine and beautiful and John sat beside Sir Gabriel, who was once more restored to a good humour, following the hired post chaise of Lady Dartington and Titania. They were all proceeding to the New Vaux Hall Gardens, John rather apathetically, remembering vividly the real thing and how he had first met Sir John Fielding after the unfortunate incident in the Dark Walk. He little thought that there would be any such attraction at Goldney House.
Somewhat to the Apothecary’s amusement, the carriages pulled up before the house where an ancient man who announced himself as the gardener sold them a ticket at a shilling per head. He then proceeded to take the visitors round the gardens, complete with walks boasting painted scenery and ending with a visit to the grotto. John, who was standing with Titania slightly behind their respective parents, smiled with sophisticated amusement.
The grotto had been built below ground, reached by descending some steps, and consisted of three archways supported by four columns deeply encrusted with shells; in fact there were shells everywhere, hundreds – nay, thousands – of them. John, who had seen a good few grottoes in his time, thought it rather a sad place, but the ladies obviously enjoyed it and made little cooing sounds of delight.
In the midst of this crustacean fantasy there was a small statue perched in the middle of an archway made of even more shells. It appeared to be a seated Cupid with what looked like his bow across his knees, discreetly hiding anything that might offend the faint-hearted, one hand holding an urn out of which poured a pretty little waterfall, the tinkling of which filled the air.
‘What do you think?’ Titania asked in a whisper.
‘Well, I’ve seen better – and there again I’ve seen worse,’ John answered.
Titania giggled. ‘It’s not as good as the real Vaux Hall.’
‘Somewhat limited by space, I think.’
But there the conversation ceased because the gardener who had escorted them as far as the grotto could be heard speaking in the distance.
‘Why my Lady, how good it is to see you again. I thought you had left us for always. What happy chance brings you this way once more?’
The voice that answered him was soft and gentle, yet had an underlying firmness of tone. John recognised it immediately. It was Violetta Tyninghame who spoke
.
‘Ah, my dear old Sixsmith, how lovely to see you again. I wondered whether you would still be here. Now take me to Cupid’s grotto, if you please. I was very happy there once.’
‘That were a long time ago, my Lady.’
‘Indeed it was. But indulge my little fancy, dear Sixsmith.’
Before one of the quartet listening could say a word, there was the sound of footsteps coming down the small staircase and a moment later all four turned slightly to see a perfect vision coming towards them. She was dressed in lilac, a lovely rustling fabric, topped by a gracious hat with purple plumes. Unaware that there were people already in her chosen place, she paused at the bottom step and stood gazing before descending and sweeping one of the most elegant curtseys that John could remember seeing.
Lady Dartington raised her quizzer and stared through it. ‘I do not believe we are acquainted.’
The newcomer smiled. ‘Allow me to present myself, Ma’am. I am Violetta Tyninghame.’
‘Tyninghame? Tyninghame? Now where have I heard that name before?’
Titania interrupted. ‘Oh, don’t bother with that, Mama. How do you do, Mrs Tyninghame. I am Titania Groves.’
John stepped forward. ‘I hope I find you well, Lady Tyninghame.’
She looked at him closely and John realised that it took her a second or two to place him. Then she said, ‘Oh, Mr Rawlings, my saviour. I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’ Turning to the others she added, ‘I felt very faint the other day and it was Mr Rawlings who brought me back to my senses.’
John bowed. ‘May I present my father, Sir Gabriel Kent.’
‘How do you do, Sir?’
In answer, Sir Gabriel raised her hand to his lips and bowed deeply. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Lady Tyninghame.’
Lady Dartington decided to be munificent. ‘Are you staying at the Hotwell, my Lady?’
‘Yes, I have come to take the waters.’
‘In that case may I interest you in a game of whist one evening?’
‘That would be most delightful.’
‘Do you have friends hereabouts?’
‘No, I am quite alone,’ Violetta answered, and John thought he could detect a note in her voice that struck him to the heart.
