Instruments of Darkness

by Imogen Robertson

  Captain Devaille heard his voice and without turning round called out: “Hawkshaw! You’re thick with Thornleigh, aren’t you? How does he take the news that the earl of Sussex has married his whore? What a mother to come home to!”

  There was a horrible silence, and Devaille turned suddenly in his chair and cursed as he saw Hugh’s broad shoulders form a shadow in the doorway. He stood, stock still and white. His hands clenched.

  “Thornleigh. M-my apologies,” Devaille spluttered. “I ... My father wrote me, just came in an hour ago.”

  Hugh took a step forward, his face and manner murderous. Hawkshaw moved in front of him, facing Devaille.

  “We’ve been riding out. Not checked for letters yet. No doubt there is some mistake.”

  Devaille looked in danger of being sick; he could not meet Hugh’s black eyes, still fixed on him over Hawkshaw’s shoulder.

  “No doubt, Hawkshaw. Of course.”

  “Some other earl of Sussex, presumably,” drawled another voice.

  Hawkshaw glanced angrily in the direction it came from. An older Lieutenant, Gregson, who looked in his well-cut coat as if he had mistook the mess for a duchess’s drawing room, smiled sweetly at him. Hawkshaw turned to Hugh.

  “Come on, Thornleigh. Leave with me now. Let us see what news from England we have.”

  But Hugh took another half-step forward, apparently unhearing. Devaille’s chair scraped on the stone floor as he retreated in front of him.

  “Damn it, Hugh,” Hawkshaw sighed. “Time enough to kill and be killed tomorrow.”

  “Oh, tomorrow will be like stealing butter from the nursery table,” sang the voice of Gregson again. “We are to have a brisk walk through the countryside, blow up some powder the rebels have scraped together and then trot home again.”

  Hawkshaw turned on him. “You are mighty open about our army’s plans, sir.”

  Gregson held up his hand, as if gently fending off Hawkshaw’s annoyance. “We are among friends, are we not?”

  Before Hawkshaw could reply, Hugh turned and walked out of the door, leaving it to clatter to behind him. Hawkshaw rubbed his face and collapsed into a chair. Food and wine were put in front of him.

  “Thanks, Hawkshaw,” Devaille said under his breath.

  “You’re a fucking idiot, Devaille,” he replied without much heat. “And if you fight as carelessly as you talk, you won’t bother me much longer.”

  He began to eat.

  As the afternoon slipped toward evening, the atmosphere in the camp became more charged with the promise of action.

  Devaille’s comments were confirmed, first by another officer whose letters from home contained the same gossip, and then in a paragraph in a month-old copy of the Gentleman’s Magazine which was being handed around the mess. It was passed to Hawkshaw open at the significant page, and with a tap of a thumb on the middle paragraph.

  It seems that no one, not even one of the highest personages in our land, is immune from the terrible passions and persuasions of great beauty. The holder of one of England’s oldest and most stainless Earldoms, Lord T—————of T————— Hall in Sussex, has gone against the wishes of all his friends and lately married Miss Jemima B-, also known under her professional name of “The Glorious Jemima,” when she graces the public in Covent Garden with her performances of dances from around the world. The lady in question is known to be the friend of several other members of the aristocracy, if not of their wives. Much as it pains us, we cannot forbear but to point out that Viscount H—, son and heir of Lord T—, was cast out of his family for honorably loving and desiring to marry a humble but beautiful young lady of spotless character some ten years ago, and has made his way in obscurity ever since.

  Hawkshaw threw down the paper and went outside, walking without great purpose till he found himself at the edge of the camp. The light began to leach out of the sky in front of him. He thought about the action of the coming day. He could feel the unnatural calm he always experienced before and during action begin to circulate in his veins. He smiled at it, as if greeting an old friend. He heard a footstep beside him; it was Gregson, probably seeking some peace himself. He approached with a nod and offered Hawkshaw a cigar from a leather case he carried in his breast pocket. Hawkshaw hesitated a second, and then took it, thanking him stiffly before lighting it and drawing in the thick gray smoke to roll around his mouth.

  “Have you seen Thornleigh since he heard?” The man asked.

  Hawkshaw shook his head.

  “I decided I’d leave him to his own thoughts. He did get letters from home. Presumably there is something from the earl. But you know Thornleigh. He won’t want to discuss his family with any of us.”

  They heard a branch crack behind them.

  “Who goes there?” Gregson demanded of the shadows of a small clump of low bushy trees a couple of yards away. “Come out, and let us see you!”

  A thin, middle-aged man stepped into the light. He was carrying firewood under his arm.

  “Sorry, sir. I’m Shapin, I help out in the kitchens.”

  The man held out his wood in front of him as if he were offering his papers for inspection. He was dressed in the homespun of the country farmers and laborers. His back was a little bent, and a long scar across his neck glittered palely under his otherwise heavy tan. His accent had an American drawl, but you could still hear the old country under it, like a woman’s scent clinging to her handkerchief, though the girl herself is long gone.

  “What are you doing, skulking about in the shadows, Shapin?”

  Shapin looked like he thought this was a rather simpleminded question in the circumstances, and rattled his sticks together.

  “Collecting kindling, sir. Then I heard the name Thornleigh, and it brought me up sharp. Is one of the earl of Sussex’s sons serving here? Is it Mr. Alexander, or Mr. Hugh?” He looked up at them expectantly. The two captains exchanged glances, and Hawkshaw shrugged.

  “The Honorable Hugh Thornleigh is a captain of the Grenadiers in my regiment.”

  Shapin looked pleased. “That’s good to know! I served the family back in England, you see. I knew Mr. Hugh when he was just a little boy, before his mother died.” A sudden thought seemed to cross Shapin’s mind. He blushed, and gathered his sticks to his breast. “I must get back. The kitchens will be wanting me.”

  He was off again toward camp before the officers could speak to him again. They watched him trot away.

  “Do you think he might be a spy, Hawkshaw?”

  “Well, if he is, he is a very bad one.”

  The gentlemen returned their attention to their cigars, and to discussion of the coming action.

  His duties done, Hawkshaw still could not settle, and though he knew he should be resting in preparation of the night march ahead of him, before the hour was out he decided to pay Shapin a visit in the kitchen. He had some vague plan of introducing him to Hugh in an attempt to bring him out of whatever black mood the news of his father’s marriage had dropped him into. His visit was not welcome. When he asked after the man, the Quartermaster cursed him.

  “So it was you scared Shapin away, was it, Captain?”

  “I can’t see how I would have made him nervous.”

  “Well, someone did.” The man spat onto the soil floor. “He came in here looking all white and stared about him like his wits were gone, then next thing we know he dropped his kindling and lit out like the devil himself were after him.”

  “He claimed some acquaintance with Captain Thornleigh’s family in Sussex.”

  One of the passing royalists caught this and laughed.

  “That’ll be what did it. He was transported for stealing from them, came here as an indentured servant a good twenty years ago. Always wondered why he was spending time round our camp anyway. God knows, he’s got no reason to love England. Probably thought Captain Thornleigh had come over special to hang him.”

  Hawkshaw turned to the man. “For theft, you say?”

 
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard. And I wish you would stop sending your felons over here, too. We already have plenty of people that need hanging, thank you very much.” The man paused and rubbed his chin. “Mind you, he tried once soon after he arrived to save us the burden of looking after him.” He drew a finger across his throat, and Hawkshaw remembered the scar. “He proved no better at that than at his thievery. He was patched up and put to work again.”

  “He didn’t try to get home when the term of his transportation was up?”

  “Doubt he had much to go back to. Many of them lose heart, or any idea of going back after ten years.”

  Hawkshaw frowned. “Where do you think he’s gone?”

  “Probably had a think about his allegiances and has moved over to the rebels. Next time you see him, he’ll be waving some grandmother’s flintlock at you.”

  Hawkshaw nodded, and wandered out of the building.

  PART III

  1

  SUNDAY, 4 JUNE 1780

  Crowther was surprised how quickly he warmed to the life and atmosphere of Caveley Park. Today, the housekeeper smiled at him when she opened the door, and he was ushered into the salon to wait for the ladies’ return from church. He watched out of the window as the little boy swooped around the lawns mimicking the flight of the crows under the eye of his nursemaid, who cradled the baby of the family in her arms. When Crowther was a boy, church service every Sunday had been an inescapable duty, until he learned exactly when to disappear into hiding. It had to be near enough to the time when the family had to leave to make a thorough search for him impossible. And this young boy was handed all this freedom and air as his natural right. He wondered if Stephen would follow his father to sea. Another few years of play, then a life of salt and bells.

  Crowther continued to watch until the boy looked up and, seeing him, waved. The maid too, her attention caught by Stephen, turned and raised her hand with a smile. Crowther smiled back, let his hand flutter up and fall again as the boy flew on. Some unusual emotion pressed on his chest. He cleared his throat, and turned back into the room. He had not been waiting long before a flurry at the door and the shouts of greeting from Stephen announced that Harriet and Rachel had returned.

  Mrs. Westerman swept into the room, her eyes bright with amusement and her son dancing at her heels. Rachel came in a little more sedately behind her. Crowther stood but was waved back into his chair as Mrs. Westerman removed her hat and dropped it on the table, then collapsed onto one of the settees. Rachel picked up the hat, shaking its ribbons straight, before carefully removing her own.

  “Crowther! I am glad you are here. We feared for our reputation, but we have become shining moral beacons. Mrs. Heathcote!”

  That lady put her head into the room. She was smiling broadly.

  “You’ll be wanting coffee, ma’am?”

  “I will. What has made you laugh, madam? Has David been telling you about our leading role in today’s sermon? Are you not honored to be working for such a paragon?”

  Mrs. Heathcote grinned. “It is indeed an honor, ma’am.” She turned to Rachel. “Shall I take those, miss?” and carried away the ladies’ bonnets.

  Crowther waited and when Harriet looked at him, raised an eyebrow. She burst into laughter and arranged the skirts of her dress, then settled Stephen on her knee and ruffled his hair.

  “Oh, it’s all too silly. The vicar decided on the Good Samaritan as a text today, and held me, Rachel and yourself as examples for attending—oh, what was the phrase?—‘the last lonely rituals in a lost life.’ I have noted he relies a little too heavily on alliteration for his effects. He should be spoken to.”

  Harriet started to pull off her gloves as she spoke. Stephen was allowed to help, and seemed in constant danger of falling off his perch, so vigorous were his efforts tugging on his mother’s fingers. Crowther thought briefly of Nurse Bray’s blood on her palm.

  “Of all the nonsense. He would not have been there himself if we had not arrived, and my sister had to bully us like a she-devil. Rachel is the only one who can think of it and not blush.”

  Rachel had tried to look severe during this speech and failed, but at those last words she became a little serious.

  “And Mr. Thornleigh. He meant to come.”

  Crowther glanced at Harriet. She wrinkled her nose at him. He was not sure of the implication. Harriet gave her son a fierce hug, set him down on his feet, then held him at arm’s length and cupped one of her hands around his smooth face.

  “Your hair is a mess, young man. Very well—you have seen enough of us for now. Go and get properly dirty until you are called in for your dinner.”

  He grinned at her and set off for the lawn again. Rachel turned to Crowther.

  “I know about the knife, Mr. Crowther. In what way it was stained, I mean. I made Harriet tell me before I would go to bed last night.”

  Harriet leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and put her chin in her hand.

  “She was most insistent, I’m afraid, and asked if she could hear us discuss how things stand this morning. I agreed, if you are willing.”

  Crowther felt the women’s eyes on him, and shifted awkwardly in his chair.

  “With the greatest of respect, Miss Trench, Mrs. Westerman is a married woman, and of wide experience. Whereas, yourself, there are elements, conjectures we might make that will not be suitable for ...”

  “I am not a child, Mr. Crowther!” Rachel said.

  The door opened as she spoke and Mrs. Heathcote came smoothly in with the coffee.

  “And miss, you’ll sound less like one if you learn to keep your temper, if you don’t mind me saying so.” She placed the tray at Harriet’s elbow, and turned to Crowther. “Good girls, the Trench sisters, Mr. Crowther. But to hear their tempers fly sometimes, you’d think they had no notion of how to behave in a respectable household. Still, they may mature with age.”

  She turned without waiting for a response and sailed out of the room with her head held high. Crowther gazed after her in frank astonishment. The two women looked a little crestfallen for a moment, then seeing Crowther’s expression, both laughed. Harriet began to pour the coffee.

  “I am mistress of this house only by Mrs. Heathcote’s leave, I’m afraid, Crowther. And I fear she may take it all away from me if she thinks I am behaving badly. She believes we need a mother, as we lost our own when Rachel was just a child, and now she supplies the role.”

  Rachel took the full coffee cup from her sister and handed it to Crowther.

  “Her husband is just the same. James says he is captain only as long as Mrs. Heathcote thinks he is doing a proper job of it. When they are both in the house, we live in terror.”

  Crowther smiled and drank some of his coffee, then becoming aware that Rachel was still looking at him with steady attention, he sighed.

  “I wish you would not listen to us talk, Miss Trench, because we may, as I’ve said, have unpleasant things to say, and I do not wish to upset you in any way.” Rachel flushed a little and bit her lip as he went on, “However, what we imagine is being said is normally worse than what is actually being spoken, so if you have won your sister over, I can have no objections to make.”

  Rachel took her own coffee cup and settled herself with evident satisfaction.

  “Thank you. Now,” she looked from one to the other, “explain everything from the beginning.”

  The box was laid out in the middle of the table. Susan, Graves and Miss Chase sat round it, regarding its smooth black sides with suspicion. Jonathan and Mrs. Chase, her arms crossed comfortably across her broad stomach, stood to one side. The family had just returned from church and the time they had decided among themselves to examine its secrets had come upon them. Mrs. Chase looked at them all, then addressed herself to the little boy at her side.

  “Shall we go and help Cook, Jonathan? And then I have a whole box of ribbons that need to be sorted. Shall we leave these folk to their papers?”

  The smal
l boy thought seriously for a moment, then nodded and allowed himself to be led from the room. The door closed behind them.

  “Well, Susan?”

  Graves tried to smile at her. She looked up at him.

  “Who is that man outside, Mr. Graves? You did not seem very pleased to see him.”

  “His name is Molloy. I have some business with him, but it is nothing to do with Alexander, Susan, I promise you.”

  She nodded and drew the box over to her with an effort, then lifted the lid.

  It was mostly papers, but on top of them lay two small packages wrapped in soft leather scraps. Susan lifted the first of them out, and handed it without speaking to Graves. He took it from her and she watched him attentively as he unwrapped it. It was the miniature of Susan’s mother that he remembered Alexander showing him once. There was a larger version of the same portrait hanging in the parlor of Alexander’s house, there to watch over them, but there was a delicacy in this little portrait missing in the larger version. He handed it back to Susan, and she held it in her palm.

  “I think Jonathan and I are rather alone in the world now, are we not?”

  Graves felt his throat burn, but nodded slowly.

  “You and Miss Chase will help us though, won’t you, Mr. Graves?”

  “Always.”

  She wiped her eyes with her fingertips and removed the other little bag, again handing it to Graves. He shook it gently and an elegant gold wedding band fell into his hand. It glittered with a tiny nest of sapphires. He could fancy it felt warm on his hand.

  “Your mother’s, I think, Susan.”

  She took it from him, touching the brilliants with her fingertips, then her shoulders began to shake, and Miss Chase put her hand on the child’s arm.