Mistress of Fortune

by Holly West

  I paused and listened. The house was quiet. I crossed the kitchen, passed through the hallway, and stepped into the now familiar drawing room. The door to Sir Edmund Godfrey’s office was shut, but with a quick twist of the knob it opened right up.

  I closed the door behind me, pausing to gather my wits. The office was elegantly appointed, with a solid-looking desk, a tall cabinet, and a comfortable chair for visitors. The bookcase was filled with ledgers and books related to Sir Edmund’s business. A quick perusal showed my diary wasn’t among them.

  I tried the desk drawers but each was locked. The cabinet doors opened to display shelves filled with paper, surplus bottles of ink, and empty ledger books. As I stood surveying its contents, I heard a sound behind me.

  “What are you doing?”

  My legs felt weak as I turned around to see Henry Moor, Sir Edmund’s clerk. He wore a striped red cap on his head and I could see his knobby knees poking out from beneath his night shirt. A most undignified look indeed.

  “Explain yourself now before I call the constable,” he said.

  There was, of course, no acceptable explanation for my presence in his house, but it seemed wiser to take my chances with him rather than to try my luck with the constable. I removed my hat and let him see my face. “It’s Lady Wilde, Mr. Moor. I’d like to speak with Michael Godfrey.”

  He squinted at me. “Are you mad, woman? What is the meaning of this?”

  I remained composed, ignoring the moisture in the pits of my arms and my shaking hands. “My brother Lucian was attacked last night and I want to know who did it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know you’re unhappy I’ve interfered in the investigation into Sir Edmund’s murder,” I said. “Perhaps angry enough to attack an innocent man to warn me off.”

  “But for his mediocre plays, I assure you I know nothing of your brother.”

  “Nevertheless, he was attacked and I want to know if you and Mr. Godfrey had a hand in it.”

  Mr. Moor’s face flushed red with anger. “The Duke of Buckingham warned us about you,” he said, pointing a long finger at me. “He said you were an incurable gossip and perhaps even a bit of a lunatic. But to break into this home and accuse us of such vile things? Must I remind you that Sir Edmund is recently dead? Have you no decency?”

  “I think you know more about Sir Edmund’s death than you’re telling, and I think you attacked Lucian in an attempt to silence me.”

  He stared at me, incredulous. “I don’t know the reason for your interest in Sir Edmund’s killing, but it’s clear the Duke of Buckingham was right.”

  “I know about Sir Edmund’s melancholia, Mr. Moor. Did he kill himself? Was it you who found the body?”

  Mr. Moor’s voice shook with anger. “Leave this house immediately or you’ll have the constable to deal with!”

  I looked him squarely in the eye for a long moment before picking up my hat and placing it back on my head. There was nothing more I could say or do here if I wanted to escape the constable. I exited the office with as much dignity as I could muster and he followed me to the servant’s door. Before I could leave, however, he grabbed my arm.

  “You’re right about one thing, Lady Wilde,” he said through clenched teeth. “Your interference in this matter is unwelcome. Trouble us no more about it or I’ll take this matter up with the authorities. I assure you His Grace will make life difficult for you.”

  Ha! I thought as I made my way home. As if he’d ever made my life anything but.

  * * *

  When I got home, Sam and Charlotte were quarrelling in the kitchen. Sam stopped mid-sentence when I entered the room.

  “Where’ve you been?” Sam said, eyeing my disguise. “I can only assume by your costume that you’ve been getting yourself into trouble.”

  I sat down at the table and yanked my wig off. “Then your assumption would be correct. How is Lucian?”

  “He’s better,” Charlotte said. “Asleep, the last time I checked.”

  “What’re you arguing about?” I asked.

  Sam motioned toward Charlotte. “Go ahead, tell her.”

  Charlotte took one of her hands from around her back and showed me a pistol.

  “Where did you get that, Charlotte?” I asked.

  “I got one for each of us,” she said.

  “You don’t know how to use one,” Sam said. “You’ll shoot your hand off.”

  “Charlotte, where did you get these guns?” I repeated.

  “I’m so afraid, Lady Wilde! After what happened to Mr. Barber and Sir Edmund, how could I not be? All the ladies are carrying pistols now—it’s the only way to protect oneself.”

  “Protect oneself from what?”

  “The papists! They’re going to hunt down the Protestants and kill us all.”

  “Charlotte, you know those are just stories,” I said.

  “That’s what I told her,” Sam interjected.

  “You’ll pardon me for saying so,” Charlotte said, “but Sir Edmund was murdered and Mr. Barber could have been as well. He’s lucky he escaped with his life!”

  Sam just shook his head.

  “Set the guns on the table and sit down, Charlotte,” I said.

  She did as I asked and the two of us sat down while Sam remained standing.

  “Where did you get the money to buy these?” I asked.

  She lowered her eyes. “I got them from a friend.”

  I didn’t know what that meant but I decided not to pursue the issue. “I appreciate your worrying for my safety, but Sam is here to protect us. We have no need for pistols.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Sam said again. He gave her a smug look and hooked his arms across his chest.

  “I’ve been given every assurance the king is safe, Charlotte,” I said.

  “Please ma’am, I want you to carry this with you at all times. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

  While I didn’t agree we were in any danger from the Catholics, she was right about one thing—someone wanted to silence me, and if necessary, through violence. Who was I to argue about needing protection?

  “Sam, do you know how to fire a pistol?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Good. You’ll instruct Charlotte and me how to do it this afternoon.”

  Alice fixed us a quick meal of leftover chicken and dandelion salad. During dinner, Sam pressed me about how I’d spent my morning, but I only gave him a pointed look to indicate I wouldn’t discuss the matter in front of Charlotte, and that quieted him.

  By one o’clock that afternoon we were riding out to Marylebone, where we’d be undisturbed shooting in the wide-open fields. I’d never seen Charlotte so excited, and by comparison, had never seen Sam so morose.

  “You do understand these weapons are dangerous,” he reminded us more than once.

  “Sam, it’s no comment on your ability to keep us safe, I assure you,” I said. “But I agree with Charlotte—there’s trouble afoot and I’d feel better knowing we have an extra measure of security.”

  He continued to sulk until we arrived at our destination.

  Sam called out for Elijah to stop and we all exited the carriage. He removed a small pouch from his pocket and opened it so that we could both peer inside. ”This is gunpowder. You put it in the barrel of the gun.”

  “What’s the barrel?” Charlotte asked.

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  “Well, how should I know what it is?”

  He pointed to the front of the gun. “This is the barrel.” He pulled the lever at the rear of the weapon back and poured the black granules into the hole. He put the gun under his arm and took a ball and small cloth out of his pocket. He wrapped the cloth around the ball.

  “This will help it fit down the barrel nice and snug.” He stuffed the ball down the barrel and pointed to the back of the gun.

  “This is the pan, and this is the frizzen. You put a little p
owder in the pan and snap the frizzen over it.” He did it slowly and we watched attentively.

  “Now all you have to do is cock the hammer and shoot.” He pulled the hammer all the way back, aimed the pistol, and shot into the distance. There was a flash of fire and a thunderous blast echoed off the hills. Charlotte screamed and we both raised our hands to our ears. The smell of smoke and powder surrounded us.

  “God’s blood!” Elijah exclaimed. “That nearly knocked me off of my feet.”

  “There,” Sam said, looking from me to Charlotte. “Think you can do that?”

  My ears were ringing but I held out my hand for the gun. “Seems easy enough to me,” I said. “Let me try it.”

  He handed it to me along with the pouch and a linen cloth. “Wipe out the pan so it doesn’t accidentally fire again while you’re loading it.”

  I did as he said and opened the gunpowder pouch. Creating a little spout with the edges, I poured some powder in the barrel.

  “A little more,” Sam said.

  I poured a little more but this time it came out faster and some of it spilled onto my hands.

  Sam sighed, but I could tell he was trying not to smile. “That’s enough,” he said.

  I finished loading the gun and pointed it in the same direction he had. I pressed the trigger back with my index finger, but nothing happened.

  “Harder!”

  “I’m pulling as hard as I can.”

  Sam came up behind me and put his own finger over mine and pressed it back. It hesitated a moment before releasing and the gun fired. The force of it was such that my arm flew back and hit him in the torso.

  “Ow!” he said, rubbing his chest.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yes. Now, do you want to try, Charlotte?”

  She was scared, but I held the gun out to her without giving her the choice. She took it and went through the steps, then held the gun up and pointed it.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  All three of us nodded. She fired the gun and amazingly, her arm stayed straight and steady.

  “Have you done this before?” Sam asked.

  “I never even held a gun before today,” she said.

  “Try it again,” he said.

  This time, her arm wavered a little, but other than that it was a straight shot.

  “Very good, Charlotte!” I said, clapping my hands.

  Sam begrudgingly agreed. The two of us tried it a few more times until our hands were sore with the effort. I never did get my aim steady but I had to admit the pistol felt good in my hands. As we traveled back to London, I felt safer than I had in a long while.

  * * *

  When Charles summoned me again that night, it was an order, not a request.

  “What were you thinking?” he said, looming over me and spitting with anger. I shrank away from him, hating myself for cowering. “Of course Michael Godfrey reported the incident!”

  There was no point in denying what I’d done. “Lucian was attacked. You know he’s the only family I have. If anything should happen to him—”

  “You’ve caused me a great deal of trouble, Isabel. Buckingham is calling for your immediate arrest.”

  Buckingham again—how tired I was of hearing his blasted name! It was entirely possible he was the one who’d had Lucian beaten, but I couldn’t bring that up with Charles now—I was terrified that he would again sacrifice me to his political rivals, and my sole aim was to avoid imprisonment. “What will you do?” I said in a tiny voice.

  “I have appeased him for now by assuring him nothing like this will happen again,” he said. “But you must promise me to stay out of this matter, Isabel. If you don’t I shall be forced to send you to the Tower.”

  Tears of relief, mingled with humiliation, filled my eyes and I blinked them away. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  He took my hand. “I know I sound harsh, my dear. But you simply cannot go around making accusations you cannot prove.”

  “I know,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

  But even as I said it, I knew it was only a matter of time before I’d have to break my word.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Friday, 25 October 1678

  Muted drum rolls announced that Sir Edmund Godfrey’s funeral procession had begun its journey up St. Martin’s Lane toward the church. Nearly two weeks had passed since he’d died, and the investigation into his death had not yielded even one suspect. Unless, of course, one counted the numerous Catholics throughout England who had been arrested for simply practicing their religion. And it was not just the papists at risk; anyone who questioned Titus Oates’s investigation or expressed sympathy for the plight of the Catholics put themselves in danger.

  Information about the funeral had been widely disseminated and we arrived early in anticipation of the crowd. Even so, mourners lined St. Martin’s Lane down to the Strand and beyond, making our progress agonizingly slow. By the time we reached the turnoff to St. Martin’s Lane, Elijah could take the carriage no further.

  Charlotte and I sat in the carriage waiting for the funeral procession to make its way up the street. The atmosphere was almost cheerful, like that of a parade or a fair. Then, as if to chastise the jovial crowd, two solemn drummers approached in a slow and deliberate cadence. They were followed by four horsemen bearing colorful flags displaying the Godfrey family crest. Behind them, a gilded carriage led by six magnificent black horses carried Sir Edmund’s coffin. I could see the polished mahogany casket visible through glass windows. I closed my eyes and pictured Sir Edmund lying inside it, finally, I hoped, at rest.

  Behind that, Michael Godfrey guided a tiny, hunched old woman by the elbow. She shuffled along, head down, showing no visible sign of emotion.

  “Sir Edmund’s mother,” Charlotte whispered. There was a catch in her voice and I glanced over at her. Tears streamed down her face. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help it. She’s such a kind old woman. I know how distraught she must be.” She sniffled and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.

  The Duke of Buckingham and several other prominent members of the House of Lords completed the official procession. Though he kept his head bent in reverence, his back was straight and tall and I imagined the expression in his eyes was one of victory.

  Beyond this, a great throng had amassed, their collective shouts drowning out the sound of the drums. A line of guards along each side of the street kept the people precariously at bay, but with every step they pushed at their boundaries. When at last the swell thinned, Elijah directed the horses forward and stopped it nearer to the church. Once inside, I held to the back, for I didn’t wish to create a spectacle by pushing my way through the crowd. The fewer people who noticed my presence, the better.

  Sir Edmund’s casket had been placed on an ornate catafalque in front of the altar. The rector stood in the pulpit to the right of the coffin and delivered his impassioned eulogy:

  “I knew Sir Edmund to be a just and charitable man, a devout, zealous and conscientious Christian. His religion was more for use than for show.

  “And though the compassion that he had for all men extended itself to all manner of dissenters—and among them a kindness for the persons of many Roman Catholics—yet he always declared a particular hatred and detestation of popery. I say this on the purpose to be remembered because some would have him a papist, or inclined that way.

  “He knew beforehand the price of doing his duty, how many ill men he must displease, what scoffs and censures he must endure, what hazards he must run, and this was all he expected for his labor. How much more good might he have done if he had lived? To be taken off at six and fifty, as he was, when he might have lived much longer, to go on doing good as he did?”

  The rector expertly incited the congregation to tears, then anger, then laughter, then back to tears again. Charlotte sat beside me, weeping, and more than once I swallowed back a sob. Before he finished, it was impossible to believe that Sir Ed
mund had been anything less than God’s messenger on earth, stolen from us all by the evil grasp of popery.

  By the end of the service, much of the crowd had dispersed, but a group convened in the churchyard to watch as the casket was lowered carefully into the ground. Michael Godfrey picked up a handful of dirt and threw it into the grave. One of the Godfrey sisters let out an anguished moan, setting off another round of sobs from many of the other females in the crowd, including Charlotte. Two scruffy gravediggers leaned against their shovels, bored, waiting off to the side until the mourners left so they could finish their work.

  Thomas Wynel stood at the edge of the congregation, somberly watching his friend’s burial. I made my way over to him.

  “Sir Edmund would’ve hated this,” he said to me by way of acknowledgment.

  “But to be so honored,” I said. “This is a funeral fit for royalty.”

  “Precisely. He would be horrified to know such an event had occurred in his name. When he put his affairs in order a year ago, he included a detailed description of his last wishes. He wanted as simple a burial as possible. After all, he was a businessman at heart—he wanted nothing that might bring the business day to a halt. This,” Wynel said, gesturing toward the grandiose display, “goes entirely against his character.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say to comfort Wynel so I remained silent.

  “At any rate,” Wynel continued, “perhaps we’ll soon know who’s responsible for Sir Edmund’s death. The Lords’ committee has offered a five hundred pound reward for information, and hopefully someone will come forward.”

  Five hundred pounds! Who would have put forth such a large amount? Certainly not the king. My gaze passed over to Buckingham, who stood proudly next to Michael Godfrey, and suddenly the answer was obvious. Well, perhaps I should thank Buckingham for this latest intervention—if five hundred pounds didn’t root out a culprit, nothing would.

  I said goodbye to Wynel and left him to continue his mourning without further intrusion. I gathered Charlotte and the two of us headed toward the front of the church to find Sam.