“Thank you for coming to see me, my boy.”
Stephen forgot his fear enough to move away from Harriet entirely, and put his small hand on his father’s massive wrist.
“I brought the model for you, Papa.”
“Thank you.” James’s eyes traveled the young boy’s face with a sort of curious wonder. “Let it be put where I can see it.” Clode dragged one of the side tables to the opposite side of the bed and set the Splendor on it. If James noticed or recognized Clode himself, he gave no sign. Only, when the boat came close enough for him to see, he gave a great sigh. Stephen seemed to feel the lack of his attention.
“I found out the name of the song, Papa,” he said, and sang a line or two in a quavering falsetto. “It is called ‘Sia fatta la pace.’ Manzerotti sings it.”
James kept his eyes on the ship, but opened his fingers to take his son’s hand in his own. “Manzerotti. Yes, of course. Thank you, Stephen. It does not seem as important now.”
Jocasta was back on the sofa dealing the cards by the time the first of the King’s Messengers returned. “It seems you were right, sir,” he said, shifting his weight from one shoe to the other as he spoke to Crowther. “Fred Mitchell came out to take the air at lunch, and I saw him meet with Mr. Palmer’s secretary at Whitehall. Then he hightailed it back to his place in Salisbury Street. I’d swear his jacket pocket sat smoother when he came out again.”
“Very good,” Crowther replied, without looking up from his writing. “But your information came from that lady,” his quill pointed out to Jocasta, “not myself.” The messenger cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable.
“Yes, sir.”
“What further?”
“There was a boat taken from a pitch at the bottom of One Tun Alley on Thursday night. Or at least, something queer went on. Fella who owns it came to it in the morning and found the ropes done up wrong and a hearth rug shoved under the bench.”
Crowther lifted his eyes. “What became of the rug?”
“The man took it home to his woman, and she weren’t too pleased to let it go again.”
“And now?”
“The thin lady in the kitchen, Mrs. Service, took it from me, sir. Before she showed me up.”
“Excellent.” The man did not leave. Crowther waited.
“Thing is, sir, seems like there’s a funny mood abroad-down by the river and over the streets. Can’t put my finger on it, but people are on edge. As if they’re watching and waiting. There’s something going on. I haven’t seen so many people with that look on them. . I’ve never seen it, sir.”
Crowther looked at him impassively. “I understand you, sir. You have done very well. What are your further duties?”
“I am to wait near Lord Carmichael’s, sir. Discreet like, till I am called for.”
“Then do so.”
The man backed out of the room. As the door shut behind him, Jocasta stopped laying her cards and studied Crowther from under her brows. The ceasing of the regular beat of her cards disturbed him and he glanced toward her.
“Wasn’t sure of it last night, but now the daylight’s on you, I know you.”
“Do you, madam?”
“Ask me where I was born and when.”
Crowther laid down his pen and sat back in his chair. “Where were you born and when, Mrs. Bligh?”
“Keswick. Seventeen thirty-seven.”
“I see.”
“I don’t hold as a rule with waking up what’s been left resting a long while, my lord. But should you ever wonder about the days of my youth, and what I remember of it, you may find me and ask me.”
Crowther felt his throat tighten. “I would prefer you called me simply Mr. Crowther. Or as we are acquaintances from childhood, you may call me Crowther.”
Jocasta did not reply and the cards began to slap down again. Some moments passed before she said, “Sam has returned with the lad that saw my Kate done for.”
“Where are they now?”
Jocasta nodded upward. “Making friends with Lady Susan and her little uncle and that gray-eyed beauty, Miss Chase. That young girl’s a smart one. You could throw her on a dunghill or into a palace and she’d prosper. If they feed my boy macaroons he’ll be sick on their carpet. He’s not used to it.” Crowther was unsure if she meant the dog or Sam. “It’s a queer household this, Mr. Crowther. I turn my cards here, I see blood and harmony all woven together. Strange rope to swing from.”
Crowther’s pen made small scratching movements on the paper. “As good as any. Did you make your arrangements?”
“I did. And Molloy continues with his own.”
Crowther looked across at her. “I will be there?”
“Don’t fash yersel’. You’ll be there, and you’ll be fetched when needed. I wouldn’t walk the rookeries as a general habit, gentleman like you. But tonight you’ll pass in and out again.”
“Thank you.”
Jocasta said nothing but continued at the cards.
The world was becoming simpler again. The strange aching fog that had been battering at his mind, the whistling headaches. . his stumbling senses were beginning to clear. He opened his eyes a little. The ship, his other darling, was there waiting for him, trim and thirsting to be away. He saw old comrades on the deck; men he’d thought drowned or shattered were there whole and urging him toward them. And on the quarterdeck, with the baby in her arms and Stephen at her side, was Harriet. She was wearing the green riding habit she had been dressed in the first time they met. It matched her eyes. And she was laughing, trying to stop the wind driving her red curls across her face and waving to him, telling him to hurry because all was ready and the ship was straining for the off. The smell of the sea flooded his nostrils, the wind stung his cheeks and he began to run down the slope to the bay where the jolly boat was waiting to take him on board; he could already hear the bosun’s whistle, feel the shift of the timbers on the deck as the wind caught her sails, feel his wife’s hand cool and loving in his own as they made their way out into open water.
She held onto his hands as if she could pull him back from the flood, as if by fastening her fingers where his pulse now threaded away to nothingness, she could hold him back from the wastes beyond.
“James?” she said in a whisper, as his breath emptied from him. “James? No, please stay, James! Stay! Stay, my love!” He was gone. She fell forward over his body and promised any god who might listen her breath and bones, offered every sacrifice, every love, she tried to offer them her life, her children, and taking him by the shoulders, buried her mouth in his neck.
Her sister fell on her knees beside her and wrapped her arms around Harriet’s waist and called out to her through her own weeping. Harriet drew her husband’s lifeless arm across her shoulders and swore to die herself, go with him rather than carry on a moment alone.
Taking Stephen by the hand, Clode led him out of the door and called for Trevelyan in a breaking voice. The boy at his side began to cry and the man lifted him in his arms and held him so hard he feared the little bones might break under his hands.
Night began its slow belly slide up over the streets as if it were escaping the Thames. No man or woman with anything worth stealing on their person should be abroad at such a time, but tonight they might walk unharmed. The rookeries swung open and from the hovels of St. Giles, the doss-houses of Clerkenwell, the dens and pits of Southwark, the lost people of London began to move. Men and boys set down their drinks and shrugged into whatever clothing they had, the whores let down their skirts and walked with their eyes clear. So many people on the street, and so serious. They moved out like a fog across the city, nodding each to each, putting aside their other business for an evening. Death sat on their shoulder, pinching their cheeks and pulling their hair every day with his long greasy fingers, but some things should not be done, and some action could be taken.
At the opera house Mr. Harwood sat in his office, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him as he listened to Graves
speak. The noise of the arriving hordes danced in through the windows, fought at the padding of his office door, kicked up with the laugh of some diamond-studded female. Winter Harwood, however, heard nothing but Owen’s voice. After a few minutes he nodded, and Graves left the room. Harwood looked down at his hands and swallowed. He thought of the wreckage of his season and even while his mind was white with surprise, some part of him was already thinking of singers and composers who might be available, might be recalled to favor, might come scrabbling to him for another chance at glory in front of his silk-strangled crowd.
The carriage, overdecorated with footmen powdered and liveried, left from outside Carmichael’s porch. Mr. Palmer stepped out of the gardens of the Square and whistled. At once there were men at every entrance to the house. As Mr. Palmer crossed the road he continued to whistle, forming his lips around the aria of Manzerotti. When he reached the door it was opened and flung wide by his men. Others forced the servants to the walls and held them there to allow Mr. Palmer clear passage through; still with the song on his lips, he made his way to the study, the brilliants on his evening shoes dancing with Carmichael’s candlelight. Finding the door locked, he turned and beckoned to one of his men. The man adjusted his cape-he carried a hammer in his arms like a child.
Johannes had managed to bind the leg as he lay in the muck of an overgrown ditch not far from Highgate. He had then set out as soon as he dared, knowing that the way between his hiding place in the hedgerow and the security of his friends in Town was long. He leaned on a length of ash torn green from the tree and thought of his lost knife with a pang, as a man remembers the lover he has just deserted and wonders if the new fields are greener, after all. Then he shuffled forward again along the road.
Despite the fact that the benefit had been announced only the previous afternoon, and the tickets engraved and printed with a haste not compatible with fine workmanship, His Majesty’s was brim full. Most of the women wore or carried a yellow rose, or a paper one, some of these so lush and elaborate in design they shamed nature. Lady Sybil had done something cunning with the family citrines, arranging them in her hair into the shape of the same flower. Many of the men wore red ribbons on their wrists. The applause when Manzerotti appeared on stage was immense. He stepped forward into the footlights and lifted his arms.
“My friends,” he said in that light and delicate voice, letting his eyes travel over the rows and boxes so it seemed to each person present he had called them by name, “for whoever shares this night with me, is my friend.” He placed his hand over his breast, and the auditorium was filled with the breeze of a hundred feminine sighs. “We are brought here together by tragedy and love. This concert tonight is for the memory of my beautiful colleague, the singer who has thrilled kings, courts and emperors with her voice, her talent, her artistry. Miss Isabella Marin.”
The theater flooded with cheers. “Bravo, Marin! Brava, Isabella!” At the back of the gallery a little woman in black felt the noise break over her. It seemed she could gather it all in her aching heart like a cup, and it being filled, offer it up to Isabella.
Manzerotti waited, head bowed, till the waves of sound had ebbed a little way, then nodded to the florid-looking leader of the orchestra who began to play, and into the honey-colored air, he unleashed his voice and let it lift.
Outside the chophouse three men embraced and hit each other across their backs, drawing a belch from the fish-faced man and laughter from all. They turned to go their separate ways, but before any of them had lost sight of the others, three King’s Messengers, their shapes hidden by long dark capes and tricorn hats worn low over their eyes, had stepped free of the shadows. Each man felt a firm hand on his elbow, a murmur in his ear, a pressure pushing him toward the three separate carriages that were even now drawing out of the darkened side street. Two men turned to water and went like lambs. The third, a handsome blond man, began to wriggle and cry, protesting he knew not what through snot and misery. The man at his arm did not even trouble to pause. His grip was secure.
Johannes began to sense there was something wrong in the air as he hugged the shadows in Red Lyon Street. He stopped and lifted his chin. There was a sudden movement in the darkness behind him and a whistle. He heard it to his right, then its echo down the street in front of him. He stood still a moment and swung his gaze like a lighthouse beam around him. Nothing but dark windows. The streets were oddly quiet. A slight frown passed over his brow like the water stirred in a millpond. He hobbled forward, his leg pulsing and aching.
Johannes was sure the wound was beginning to open again. Something curled and uncurled below his ribs. Again that whistle. It seemed to haunt him, guide him-but no one approached. He sensed eyes in the darkness. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stung, and he realized with a detached surprise that he was afraid. He had seen fear on the faces of others, but had had no experience of it himself till now. He remembered seeing fear on Manzerotti’s face-but only once, when they were children and one of the young students in the musical academy who had not had the operation had struck Manzerotti down and called him a freak, an affront to God. Johannes had knocked the offender on his back and offered the little boy in front of him his hand. At that time Johannes had been the jewel in the school’s crown; his voice was of a clarity declared miraculous, his artistry exceptional. Since coming from Germany he had been treated like a little God. Now a boy brushed past him in the dark street, a fleeing shadow. He put his hand to his pocket and cursed. His money taken. He hissed into the thick gloom where the boy had disappeared. There was a laugh. A soft female voice called from some dark corner: “All fleeced, uncle?” He took a couple of painful steps toward it, but heard the light step of feet running from him. The laugh again. More distant. The whistle, closer and from the other side of the road.
Johannes had begged for the operation; gone down on his knees to his father, a wood turner in Leipzig, with the priest standing behind him. The priest had told them he was a gift from God, that his voice could serve the Church in all its beauty forever. The boy had begged to give himself to his Savior’s glory. Reluctantly his father had agreed, and Johannes had thanked the Lord, though through his ecstasy he could still hear the softened clink of money being placed in his father’s hand. He had left his home that day; traveled with the priest to the local court where a doctor from Italy happened to be staying and seeing to several boys. He heard the soft exchange of currency again and traveled to Bologna at the doctor’s side, overjoyed that God was bringing him to His bosom. Manzerotti, by contrast, had not wished it. Had tried to run. Had failed. Had arrived at the school for a life of daily vocal and musical practice as a possible, a potential-his voice still all thin and empty. Then Johannes had helped him to his feet and looked into those black eyes for the first time.
“You speak strangely,” Manzerotti had said as he stood upright again.
“I was born in Germany,” Johannes replied in his clear bell-like voice. “I have studied here two years. Every language I speak now, I speak with a foreigner’s tongue.”
Molloy twisted the top of the table and moved away. The King’s Messenger with him stepped forward and pulled out a neat roll of papers.
“There we have it then,” he said. Molloy nodded and began to feel about in the hidden drawers a little more, but the messenger put a hand to his sleeve. “Why don’t we have the witch woman with us, or that boy?”
Molloy pulled his hat down over his ears and wrapped his cloak around him.
“Mrs. Bligh has other business.” He found and picked up the brooch of flowers. The messenger watched him with narrowed eyes, but Molloy put the brooch in his pocket anyhow. The man would make nothing of it, and he had been asked to fetch it. He heard a whistle on the street outside and was satisfied.
Johannes thought of the river. If he could get to the far shore, then to the anonymity of Southwark, he could send to Manzerotti for help from there. He limped toward the crowd of men at the Black Lyon Stairs. The whistle
came from behind him. The watermen turned and looked at him a moment, then without speech to him or to one another, each retired to his boat and cast off. Johannes lifted his pocket watch so it caught the light of the oil lamp guttering greasily by the steps to show he had money, but the skiffs and wherries drew away. Johannes swallowed and put the watch back in his pocket. Fear flowered into a sweat on his brow. He turned up the hill again, making for the rookeries of Chandos Street, where he had tracked one of the witch’s spies. There a man could hide. The significance of the watermen pulling away from him so silent and of one mind, he would not think of.
Mr. Palmer stood in the center of Carmichael’s study, a still moment in the activity of the room, and looked through the papers that had been found behind the Latin texts and in the false front of the fireplace. There was a considerable amount of money in banknotes and gold, and a letter in French confirming “the recommendation of the man that carries it, who can be recognized in the usual way.” Fitzraven, Palmer supposed. There were four charts showing details of Portsmouth and Spithead and the arrangement of vessels within them, and a model of a gun he had himself given into the hands of his secretary to be placed in one of the vaults. There was also a dense page of notes full of fresh gossip from the Admiralty and the competing political factions within it. He paused in his reading to push the little model to and fro across Lord Carmichael’s desk.
“Field?” he said.
One of the men shaking out the neat volumes in the rear bookcase paused in his work and turned around.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go and tell Lord Sandwich we are ready for him.”
Johannes did not know at what moment he realized his voice was leaving him. During a practice, a strange hum had begun at the back of his throat. When he spoke, the edges of his words started sounding a little shrill. He thought he was merely tired, as he had sung for the school several times in the evenings, and still had to be awake at dawn for the morning service. It was about a week after he had helped Manzerotti to his feet. He saved the little Italian boy and suddenly the boy’s voice was beginning to flower and grow. A few days later, Johannes had opened his lips to sail across the surface of Scarlatti’s Stabat Mater like a swan on water, and as the first phrase lifted into the second, the ice of his voice had cracked and a strange yelping croak leaped from his mouth like a toad. He had stopped. Horrified. The boys next to him began to look afraid. He gazed across to the singers on the opposite side of the choir, terrified, and had met Manzerotti’s black eyes. They were calm, loving; he gave Johannes the faintest ghost of a smile, then turned his attention back toward the priest.
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