Gideon the Cutpurse

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  As they all clambered down from the carriage a small, blond-haired boy in a velvet suit came careering around the corner of the house and skidded to a halt on the gravel on the drive. His mouth opened into a small ‘o’ shape of surprise and he let the misshapen leather ball he had been chasing roll towards Peter and Kate.

  ‘We have visitors, Master Jack,’ called out Hannah. ‘Will you come and bid them welcome?’

  The little fellow stood and stared at the strangers and began to walk backwards, retracing his steps behind the corner.

  ‘Hello,’ said Kate, kneeling down so that she was at the same height. ‘My name’s Kate and this is Peter.’

  Peter walked towards the child’s ball.

  ‘Can I borrow your ball for a moment?’

  He threw off his cloak, picked up the ball and carefully placed it on the top of his right foot. Holding out his arms for balance, Peter kicked the ball to eye level then kept it in the air for a couple of minutes or more, first with his foot, then with his knee, and finally flicked the ball behind him, bent forwards with his arms outstretched and caught it deftly on the back of his neck. Master Jack was rooted to the spot, entranced; he had never seen such skill with a ball before. Kate was impressed, too, although couldn’t quite bring herself to say so.

  Jack ran forward and snatched the ball from Peter’s neck.

  ‘I like your game,’ he said. ‘I want to play it now.’ He smiled up at Peter and dimples appeared in his chubby cheeks. Then his attention was drawn to Peter’s anorak and he reached out to touch it.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked in wonderment, stroking the orange nylon and running his thumbnail up and down the fascinating metal zip.

  ‘Where are your manners, Jack?’ a refined woman’s voice enquired. ‘Our guests have been attacked by a highwayman who has stolen all their good clothes.’

  ‘You poor souls,’ said Jack earnestly and then added, breaking into a grin, ‘I should like to meet a highwayman.’

  ‘Hush, Jack,’ the woman’s voice replied. ‘Do not wish for such a thing!’

  Peter stood up to see who was speaking. He saw two women walking towards them: a handsome, dignified woman in a magnificent blue silk dress and, following her, a nurse carrying a baby swaddled in a lace shawl. The width of the lady’s dress was nothing less than startling. It must weigh a ton, thought Peter. If she was standing on a pavement there wouldn’t be room for anyone else. Peter started to get nervous. This must be Gideon’s employer, the Honourable Mrs Byng. What was he going to say to this grand lady? How was he supposed to behave? Thankfully Gideon and Kate joined him and all three of them stood to attention in a little row.

  ‘Bow!’ hissed Gideon. Peter did a bow of sorts though he did not know what to do with his arms and legs. If she noticed, Mrs Byng had enough tact not to show that she had. Kate fared better with a curtsy as her legs were hidden under her long cloak and she merely bent both knees before bobbing up again.

  ‘Welcome to Baslow Hall,’ said the Honourable Mrs Byng. ‘I am sorry that the master of the house, Colonel Byng, is unable to greet you. He is recently left for America, where he is to join his regiment. An uncivilised land, but he must needs do his duty for England and King George and we must do without him as best we can. Come, Mr Seymour, introduce me to our guests.’

  ‘May I present Mistress Kate and Master Peter Schock,’ said Gideon. ‘Alas the highwayman took everything and they now find themselves entirely without resources. He stole something of great worth which they must recover. They have been separated from their uncle whom they believe has travelled on to London where he has urgent business.’

  ‘A sorry tale indeed. My cousin, Parson Ledbury, dines with me this evening. You must give him a description of the foul fellow who committed this crime. Alas, Derbyshire is teeming nowadays with highwaymen and footpads and villains of all kinds. And yet, as Parson Ledbury says, we shall not be cowed into staying at home because the country is rife with wickedness. Are you brother and sister, may I ask?’

  ‘No!’ Kate and Peter almost shouted.

  ‘Mistress Kate and Master Peter are cousins,’ said Gideon hurriedly.

  ‘I see. And where do your families live?’

  Gideon and the children looked at each other. Each was waiting for the other to make the first move.

  ‘We, er, have estates in Germany, near Frankfurt, and also in the north of Scotland,’ blurted out Peter, reasoning that the richer they sounded the better they were likely to be treated.

  ‘I have family in Scotland,’ said Mrs Byng. ‘Perhaps I am familiar with your estate. What is the name of the nearest town?’

  ‘Um,’ replied Peter, panicking quietly. ‘Glanadarry.’

  He hoped fervently there wasn’t really such a place.

  ‘No, I do not know it. Such a pity that Colonel Byng is not here – he would have enjoyed conversing with you in German. He has a good ear for languages.’

  ‘Yes, that is a pity,’ lied Peter who did not.

  They were saved from further enquiries by young Jack Byng who, bored with all the talking, was trying to imitate Peter’s skill with his ball. He kicked it high in the air, too high in fact, for it ricocheted off a windowpane. The glass did not shatter and the ball was caught on the rebound by a tall, black-haired boy who had just appeared from the side of the house.

  ‘Jack Ketch, the hangman, will come and get you if you break a window,’ the tall boy drawled to young Jack. He then proceeded to mime putting a noose around his neck. Clutching at his throat with both hands, he made as if the breath was being squeezed out of him. He pretended to choke and let his tongue loll out and rolled back his eyes until only the whites showed. When Jack ran towards his mother and buried his head in her long, swishing skirts, the black-haired boy laughed. Peter took an instant dislike to him but had to admit it was a pretty good mime.

  ‘I wish you would not take such a delight in frightening your brothers and sisters, Sidney. Breaking a window is hardly a hanging offence and I’ll thank you not to teach young Jack that it is.’ She turned to Gideon. ‘Such a punishment would be excessively harsh, would you not agree, Mr Seymour?’

  ‘Yes, madam, although I have seen many a poor wretch strung up at Tyburn for scarcely more serious a crime.’

  ‘I see that you are plain-speaking, Mr Seymour. It is a quality I shall value highly if you are to help me run the estate in the absence of the Colonel. My brother Richard writes to me that you are reliable and resourceful and that you inspire men’s trust. I am happy to take his advice and offer you a position here. You may settle the question of your salary with Parson Ledbury. I take it you are able to start your duties straight away?’

  ‘I am, madam. I am very grateful to you.’ A broad grin appeared on Gideon’s face and he gripped Peter’s arm behind his back and squeezed it in happiness. He must have really wanted this job, Peter thought to himself.

  Mrs Byng paused to reach into a drawstring purse made of the same blue silk as her dress. She took out a note sealed with wax from her purse and handed it to Gideon.

  ‘Here is the letter that I mentioned earlier. It arrived but yesterday.’

  Gideon accepted it with a slight bow and tucked it into his pocket to read later.

  ‘So you are often at Tyburn, Mr Seymour?’

  ‘Lord Luxon, my former employer, never misses a hanging day. He says that to see a man die makes him feel more keenly what it is to be alive. He hires seats in the covered stands – it was my task to see to the needs of his many distinguished guests. Lord Chesterfield’s French chef would prepare sweetmeats and the finest wines would be offered to the company.’

  ‘How fascinating! You will see little excitement of that type in Bakewell, I fear. Here, we live very peacefully – too peacefully for some.’ Here she caught Sidney’s eye.

  ‘I should be content, madam, if I never saw Tyburn again in my entire life,’ Gideon replied.

  ‘Then, I hope for your sake that you do not,’ said the Honour
able Mrs Byng.

  Addressing herself once more to Peter and Kate, she said: ‘You are most welcome to stay at Baslow Hall and send word to your uncle in London that you are here. However, the day after tomorrow, Parson Ledbury takes Sidney and young Jack to visit my brother Richard who lives in Lincoln’s Inn Fields – a most convenient location. You might prefer to travel down to London with them. There is room enough in the carriage and four.’

  ‘Oh thanks!’ Kate exclaimed. ‘That’d be so cool! Yes, please!’

  ‘Yes, that’d be brilliant!’ said Peter and, seeing the expression on Mrs Byng’s face, added: ‘I mean, one would be most grateful to accept your gracious offer of a … er … lift.’

  Mrs Byng looked as if she was wondering exactly which part of Scotland these children sprang from.

  ‘Well, it is settled,’ she said. ‘I will tell Parson Ledbury to expect two extra passengers.’

  ‘Mama,’ interrupted Sidney. ‘If there is a hanging day while we are staying with Uncle Richard, perhaps I could ask Parson Ledbury to take me to Tyburn?’

  ‘No, Sidney,’ replied his mother. ‘I forbid you to do any such thing.’

  Mrs Byng ordered Hannah to arrange for rooms to be prepared for the guests and for Cook to prepare them a light supper. A footman wearing a tightly curled white wig guided Peter and Kate through the airy entrance hall to a dining room lined with oak panelling. The footman stood to attention at one side of the room. Neither Peter nor Kate could guess whether they were supposed to make conversation with him. Kate tried to catch his eye and smile but he stared right ahead so they sat in silence. Soon a kitchen maid appeared wearing a starched white apron over a worn grey dress. She carried a silver tray crammed with dishes. While the silver was gleaming, Kate could not help noticing that the servant girl could definitely have done with a wash. As she bent to arrange their supper in front of them Kate saw a black rim of dirt above her collar. The kitchen maid curtsied and left the room, closing the door behind her. Peter and Kate sat in silence, feeling awkward, unsure whether they should help themselves to supper or wait to be asked. There was a bowl of steaming cabbage, a golden-crusted pie and a pretty china dish containing a kind of stew or casserole: some pale grey lumps were swimming around in some greyish broth. When Peter noticed the islands of congealed fat floating on the top of it, he thought he would plump for a slice of the pie. The footman came forward and picked up a heavy serving spoon. He turned to Kate.

  ‘The stewed carp or the pie, ma’am?’ he enquired with a bow of his head.

  Kate looked doubtful.

  ‘Hmmm … what are you having, Peter?’ she asked.

  ‘I know what carp is, because I’ve caught plenty, but I’ve never eaten one. They’re supposed to taste a bit muddy …’ he whispered.

  ‘The pie looks nice,’ said Kate brightly to the footman. ‘What sort of pie is it?’

  ‘Calf’s head pie, ma’am. It is a favourite of the Byng family.’

  Kate gulped and exchanged a desperate look with Peter. ‘May I have some cabbage and fish, please?’

  ‘And the same for me, please,’ said Peter.

  They ate without speaking, partly because the presence of the footman unnerved them, but mainly because the excitement of the day had utterly exhausted them. The carp was edible but was not nice – Kate managed to swallow it but Peter pushed it around his plate with his fork until finally he gave up any pretence that he was going to eat it and pushed it away. Pudding was better. The kitchen maid arrived with a dome-shaped mound of yellow custard stuck with so many almonds it looked like a hedgehog. As she carried it in, the pudding quivered so much it made Kate laugh.

  ‘It’s alive!’ she said and then added suspiciously: ‘What is it made of?’

  When supper was over it was with relief that they followed Hannah to their bedrooms. Members of the Byng family gazed down at them from gilded frames as they climbed up the sweeping staircase that overlooked the hall with its black and white marble floor. What a shame, thought Kate, that in two hundred and fifty years, all this will be replaced by a grey lino floor, row after row of lockers and a pile of unclaimed trainers.

  Alone in his attic room, and with a full stomach for the first time in a week, Gideon pulled off his boots and flung himself on the bed. He stretched out luxuriously and then remembered the letter which Mrs Byng had given him. He sat on the edge of the bed and read it by candlelight. As his eyes moved down the page the look of tired contentment drained from face and was replaced by distress which soon turned into anger. He crumpled up the letter and flung it against the wall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Tar Man’s Tale

  In which Peter and Kate plant a Cedar of Lebanon

  and Gideon tells the story of the Tar Man

  At breakfast, melted butter dropped off Peter’s hot muffin onto the old red hunting jacket which had been found for him to wear. He tried to wipe it off surreptitiously with his napkin but only succeeded in smearing the greasy stain over the ruffled cuff of his shirt, too. He tugged repeatedly at the collar which Hannah had fastened with an ornate bow. Through the tall windows he could see the sun beating down onto broad lawns, already scorched by the summer’s heat. Surely they didn’t really expect him to wear this get-up on such a day? He was already boiling hot and his breeches were cutting into the back of his knees. What was so barbaric about a T-shirt anyway? Neither Sidney nor Jack looked uncomfortable but he supposed they must be used to it.

  No grown-ups were in evidence around the breakfast table but Peter counted eight Byng children, not including the infant Byng whom he had seen the previous evening. He was introduced to all of them but quickly forgot who was who. All these talkative Emmas, Sophies, Elizabeths and Rachels were a little overwhelming. A small army of maids must have been responsible for all the ringlets and ribbons and cascades of lace. Despite the lavish use of lavender water, an underlying odour of unwashed bodies pervaded the crowded dining room. Peter was beginning to realise that in an age before deodorants and power showers, it was only natural that everyone was going to have their own, individual smell . . .

  The six Byng sisters greeted Peter kindly enough, asking how he had slept and enquiring whether he had grown up abroad on account of his strange way of speaking, but they ignored him after a while, preferring to talk about the handsome Mr Seymour who was to help Mama run the estate while Papa was in America.

  The eldest of the Byng children, Sidney, sat at the head of the table gazing out of the window through half-closed eyes with an expression on his face which said that all this tittle-tattle was of absolutely no interest to him. Young Jack Byng sat opposite Peter but was absorbed in watching motes of dust dance above him in a narrow sunbeam that passed over his head. Every so often he would poke a plump finger into the ray of sunshine and would watch how it affected the movement of the dust particles. It put Peter in mind of Dr Dyer talking to him about dark matter.

  When Hannah and a kitchen maid, no older than twelve or thirteen, came in bearing fresh muffins, the girls demanded to know where Gideon was going to stay. Hannah told them that he would probably stay here at Baslow Hall until Hawthorn Cottage was ready.

  Sidney roused himself to speak for the first time: ‘I don’t know why you girls’ – which he pronounced gels – ‘are making such a todo about Mr Seymour,’ he said. ‘He’s not a gentleman. Indeed, he’s scarcely more than a servant. Papa says that people in our position should take care to avoid an excess of contact with our … social inferiors.’

  If one of the elder girls had not blushed with embarrassment and exclaimed ‘Sidney!’ Peter would not have realised that Sidney was staring directly at him. Was Sidney saying that neither he nor Gideon were worthy to mix with the Honourable Byng family?

  Before Peter could work out how to react, Sidney had thrown down his napkin and had excused himself from the table.

  ‘I’ll leave you to the ladies, sir,’ he said with a curt nod to Peter.

  Who does he think he is
? thought Peter. And why does he speak as if he’s got a ping-pong ball in his mouth? I’m not sitting next to him on the way down to London.

  ‘Please don’t pay too much attention to our brother,’ said one of the gels to Peter. ‘When Papa is away, Sidney feels the responsibility of being the man of the house very keenly.’

  ‘Sidney is always a terrible prig,’ said another. ‘Whether Papa is here or not.’ She was shushed by her sisters.

  ‘I’m sure Sidney did not mean to be unkind,’ Peter lied.

  He was beginning to feel unpleasantly outnumbered by this eighteenth-century crowd and wondered where Kate had got to. The door opened and Hannah bustled in, saying that the girls’ governess was ready to begin lessons, and herded them out of the room.

  ‘You can finish your breakfast in peace, Master Peter,’ she said. ‘Young Jack can keep you company until Mistress Kate arrives. We’ve been searching the whole house for stays that will fit her.’

  ‘What are stays?’ Peter asked Jack when Hannah had gone.

  Jack sniggered and hid his face in his napkin.

  When Kate arrived Peter and Jack were sitting at opposite ends of the long table throwing pellets of bread into an empty milk jug. When the twenty-first century children each saw how the other was dressed, they fell about laughing.

  ‘Look,’ said Peter, ‘they couldn’t find any shoes big enough to fit me so I’m having to wear trainers with white stockings and breeches. Have you ever seen anything so stupid?’

  Kate lifted up her long skirts to reveal that she, too, was wearing trainers. Peter snorted with laughter.

  ‘The footman wanted to know why they were called training shoes. He asked if it was some kind of punishment,’ he said.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told him he was right – that naughty children in our family had to wear them to train them to be good!’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, I can’t breathe as it is!’ Kate gasped. ‘They’ve put this leather thing round me and laced me up at the back. I think my ribs are going to break.’