by John Creasey
All these things became part of Ruth’s understanding and acceptance of life.
She was in one way grateful and in another troubled by one thing: James’s future. For soon after the cholera epidemic, when the pupils had been kept in long dormitories, the School for Young Men had decided that since there was so much dirt and squalor, foul air and filth, and that those living among these were most vulnerable to the worst diseases bred, it should become a school for boarders. When Furnival had asked if she would agree to this, she had been living in the shadow of Moffat’s death, and some cholera victims were still dying, while there had been two outbreaks of smallpox. Once smallpox really took a hold nothing could control it; only those who were naturally immune were safe. So she had said yes, eagerly, and in deep relief. But now she saw James so little, although he came to the cottage each Sunday - or on those Sundays when the risk of infection seemed at its lowest. He was growing fast and was more like Richard than she had realised; he was a little too formal with her and extremely formal with John on the few occasions when they met. But once launched on a recital of events he became his old self, and she could see the colour in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes, and understood that his lean figure was due to exercise, not to lack of food. Among those things he most liked were tours, under strict supervision so that little contact was made with passers-by, to such places as the Tower of London, the Mint, the great palaces, even to theatres where performances were given for pupils from a restricted group of schools.
She had no doubt at all that he was happy; little doubt, either, that he was growing away from her, although occasion ally when he romped in a wild rough-and-tumble with his sisters at the cottage, it was as if the distance between them did not exist.
It was in December of that year, on a brisk, bright day, that Ruth saw a carriage draw up at the back entrance to the house in Bell Lane and watched from the window of the cottage as a footman climbed down and, a moment later, opened the door to a lady of such elegance and so adorned with furs that at first she thought she must be one of John’s sisters. But if so, then why should she come so furtively? Ruth did not know whether John was in court, and she unfastened her apron and hurried across to find the young clerk in a state of obvious embarrassment staring up into Lisa Braidley’s face.
‘I - I dare not disturb him, ma’am, m’lady, he is in the middle of a c-case. If you w-will wait—’
‘Upstairs in Mr. Furnival’s study perhaps?’ Ruth stepped forward and smiled, but her heart was thumping. She did not want to take Lisa Braidley into ‘their’ room, although it was possibly the only room the other woman was familiar with.
Lisa Braidley said quite easily, ‘You must be Ruth Marshall.’
‘Yes, ma’am. That is my name.’
‘If you will take me to the study I shall be grateful,’ Mrs. Braidley said. If she had the faintest idea why Ruth had headed her off from the back room she did not show it. She followed Ruth upstairs, her clothes rustling, and stood for a moment in the doorway, the light from a huge fire flickering over her. ‘Such a beautiful room, I had almost forgotten,’ she said. ‘Have you time to bring some tea and drink it with me?’
‘I will gladly bring you tea, but—’
‘I simply must talk to someone,’ declared Lisa, and she had never looked more beautiful even though her age was showing clearly; Ruth had the impression that she had made no real effort to conceal it. ‘I have such exciting news, and I cannot wait for Mr. Furnival to know.’ She leaned forward and her eyes danced in such a way that Ruth believed she could really like the woman. ‘I am to marry the Duke of Gilhampton, my dear.’
John arrived half an hour later, and Ruth made fresh tea and brought a fresh supply of the lemon curd tarts, now part of the daily teatime meal. John looked tired but took Lisa’s hands and drew her close, gave her a hug and a kiss - and over her head gave Ruth a broad wink. Ruth went out, her heart as light as could be. She heard them laughing and talking, and deliberately went back to the cottage so that he should not think for one moment that she had been spying. Within half an hour the coach took Lisa off and for a moment John was outlined against the open door as he waved her goodbye. Then Ruth saw her name framed on his lips as he turned inside. He was in the back room when she returned, shutting the door against the cold.
She affected to be surprised when she saw him, but something in his expression touched her with shame, and she said laughingly, ‘I saw you in the doorway.’
‘So you saw the future Duchess of Gilhampton driven off,’ observed John, looking at her with his head on one side. ‘I expected she would marry an old man who would soon die, but Gilhampton’s healthy enough in body even if he isn’t the brightest intellectual star in the firmament. Ruth, my love, you are the most discreet person I know or have known. Who taught you the value of silence?’
‘My father,’ she replied simply.
‘That remarkable parson and craftsman in wood! Tell me, how much do you know about my past?’
Her eyes danced.
‘All I wish to know, sir!’
He laughed in turn, deep down inside him, and she had not heard him laughing since Silas Moffat’s death. His body was still quivering when he put an arm around her and kissed her cheek.
‘I’ll be bound you do! And I’d pay you for the rejoinder if there weren’t seventeen miscreants waiting to find out what bad news I have for them!’ He hugged her and then stalked off without a backward glance.
From that time on he began to mellow, was more often his old hearty self, laughter came more often and more freely. The periods of silence which had followed the gathering at Great Furnival Square and Silas Moffat’s death all but ceased, and never once did he voice any bitterness towards those of the family who were so determined not to help. For much of the winter Anne visited him regularly and then in early March of 1740 she came with a mingling of excitement and regret. Jason Gilroy had decided to stay in Calcutta and to maintain offices in conjunction with the East India Company there, and for the bad seasons of the year they would go to nearby hills, where it was much cooler, if Anne would bring the children there to join him.
‘Go?’ John roared. ‘Of course you must go; it’s past time you had some pleasure out of that man of yours!’
He took Ruth to the St. Catherine’s Docks, not far from the Tower, to see her off, but would not join the mass of the Furnival family crammed onto the terrace outside the director’s room at Furnival Tower House. She sailed with a dozen others going to help establish the new headquarters, on a day early in April 1740 when the sun struck hot enough for June, when the daffodils were out in the window boxes, one of those days when it was so easy to forget the ugly side of London. The ship, a four-masted bark of the Furnival Line, was taking supplies to Bombay and Karachi, and also enormous bales of cotton cloth from the north-country mills for the Indian natives. A band of the Royal Navy played on deck and every man on the quay and on other boats, great and small, roared his farewell.
‘It is surprisingly easy to be glad for someone else and sorry for oneself,’ John said when they were back at Bow Street. ‘Well, Ruth! Now you’ve seen Furnival Tower House from the grounds of the Tower of London. Did you wish you were on the terrace with the rest of the family?’
‘When I am with you it does not enter my mind to wish I were somewhere else,’ Ruth said, and was astounded when he responded with obvious delight.
The sadness of Anne’s going did not weigh upon him too heavily, and he now seemed fully recovered from the loss of Silas Moffat. With the men and the officials in court, Ruth was told, he was less brusque and gruff and would listen with more patience. His manner with his fellow magistrates, who visited occasionally for coffee or port, or even some of Ruth’s lemon curd tarts, which had become famous, was much easier. There was less noticeable change in his manner with her; he was affectionate all the time, very seldom abrupt or impatient, occasionally he would tumble her with the abandon of a youth, and always, afterward, he
was gentleness itself.
She did not know the actual occasion, although inevitably she could place it within a period of three weeks, when she conceived. It was six months after she went to live at Bell Lane and Bow Street. The possibility had been in her mind for a long time and had worried her, partly because she did not want to add to John’s problems and the decisions he had to make. She used a sponge whenever she felt sure they would make love but his desire would sometimes come at the most unexpected moment. She did not want to believe the truth at first, but when she was three weeks late with her flow, and each morning she felt nausea, not yet severe but quite unmistakable, she was certain. For the first time since she had recovered from Silas Moffat’s death, she longed for the old man: it would have been easier to break the news to John with him at hand. The only other person who might have helped was Anne.
On the day when she decided to tell John, there was a great stir in Bow Street, for a man who had become almost as notorious as Frederick Jackson had been caught by two Westminster constables and Tom Harris, working together. He was Peter Nicholson, who had waylaid a wealthy Member of Parliament with a friend just outside the City walls; the friend had tried to run and had been shot dead. On such days the tension spread to all parts of the court, the cells and offices as well as the private quarters. Ruth caught a glimpse of the manacled man who had helped to plot the case against her son; a tall, handsome, bearded creature. He wore a long peruke and the most fashionable of clothes, a red coat and bright-green breeches with red hose and green shoes. Although so helpless, there was courage in his mien and he tried to sweep her a bow as he was hustled into the courtroom.
Would this, after all, be the day to tell John Furnival?
She had found an excuse to put it off twice already, she reminded herself, and each passing day would make it more difficult. She wished only that she had some idea of how he would receive the tidings: whether he would want her to stay here.
12: JOHN FURNIVAL’S SON
Furnival came to the back room late in the afternoon, looking very tired. Word had come to Ruth through Tom, Sam Fairweather and Ebenezer Noble that a dozen witnesses had been brought into court to swear that Nicholson had been with them at a cockfight at the time of the holdup and the problem was how to cast doubt on these statements. The landlord of the inn, his wife and two taproom men had sworn in Nicholson’s favour; the Member of Parliament as well as one of the Westminster constables swore on oath he had been the highwayman. When Ruth had last heard, John had not made his decision; she wondered whether he was still undecided. At first she thought that the case had cast him back into a mood of silence and bitterness, but as she brought tea to the table and placed it by the side of a dish of muffins, he laid his hand gently on her shoulder.
‘I do not know what I would do without you, Ruth.’
‘I do not know why you should think you might have to,’ she countered. ‘I think it would be—’
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘What would it be?’
‘I do not think I should say what was in my mind,’ Ruth replied, and she went very pale. ‘It was not fair, Mr. Furnival.’ She handed him two muffins on a silver dish as he looked at her, half frowning.
Unexpectedly he asked, ‘Has the day made you reflect on the past, too?’
‘The past a little, the future much,’ she replied.
‘You know, except for my sister Anne, you are the only woman I have ever met who has a way of putting significance into every word she utters,’ remarked Furnival, and he ate a muffin and dabbed his chin before going on. ‘I have just sent Nicholson to Newgate to await trial at the next Sessions. At one time I thought he had corrupted too many witnesses to make that possible, but one of them had spent the night with a girl from a nearby farm, and once his testimony, was broken, that of the others collapsed. Can you imagine who was in court?’
‘No,’ she answered.
‘Eve Milharvey, Jackson’s onetime mistress,’ Furnival replied. ‘Now a Mrs. Nash.’
‘But I thought she had borne Jackson’s child and lived in the country, at Saint Albans!’
‘She was in London visiting friends,’ Furnival told her. ‘When she heard of this trouble she came to see Nicholson and offered him whatever money he needed to buy his creature comforts in Newgate. Had he not been manacled I declare he would have slapped her - across the face!’ Furnival spread butter on a muffin with almost sensual pleasure, and then held it out for her to take a bite. ‘I spoke with her after Nicholson had been taken away. Her child is growing fast, and she dotes on it.’
‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ asked Ruth.
‘A boy, Frederick by name - Frederick Jackson, to boot! More, she is married to an elderly farmer and is happy enough - and again with child,’ Furnival went on. ‘She is one of the few who have thanked me for intervening in their lives. Did you know that I suggested she should leave London?’
‘Yes,’ Ruth answered. ‘Silas told me.’
‘Ah,’ breathed Furnival. ‘There was a man of great faith and loyalty.’ He leaned back in the chair, resting his hands on the arms, stared into the fire for a while and then turned to smile at her. ‘Enough of my meandering, Ruth, what ails you?’
She caught her breath, but was quick to reply, ‘Fear of you, sir!’
She tried to make that sound lighthearted, tried to put laughter in her eyes, but her anxiety showed clearly; his expression convinced her of that. She was seated in a small chair opposite him and he held out both hands. Slowly she placed hers in them and he held her firmly.
‘Never be frightened of me, Ruth. Never be frightened of those who love you.’
Her heart, already beating fast, gave a wild leap at the word ‘love’, which he had never uttered to her before. Yet she was no more certain how he would receive her news than she had been, and the only word to describe her emotion was ‘fear’.
‘What is it?’ he asked patiently.
‘I am with child,’ she said in a voice pitched high above the thumping of her heart. ‘Your child, sir, lest you should think that I have known another man.’
He sat utterly still. His grip tightened until his fingers hurt hers, but she made no attempt to draw free. He scrutinised her face as if it were the face of a stranger. His breathing seemed to stop, and the period of silence seemed agelong. Footsteps sounded in the passage, hoofbeats and carriages outside, and still he did not speak. Now her heart was beating in long, slow, painful thumps, for she could see that this was a shock to him but could only guess what was passing through his mind.
Slowly his grip on her eased; slowly the muscles of his face relaxed and she became aware of the delicate shape of his lips.
‘Ruth,’ he said, ‘I would not like our child to be a bastard. You know me as well as any woman ever can. Do you think that you can do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
They were married at St. Hilary’s by the Reverend Sebastian Smith at the end of the month of May in 1740. William and Sarah, with Francis and Cleo, were present, as well as those at Bow Street who could be spared from their work. It was a quiet wedding, and immediately after the ceremony they set out by carriage and pair for the farm at St. Giles, which was some forty odd miles from the Hyde Park Turnpike. The turnpike road led northwest and had many turns, one to Oxford, another to Aylesbury, and theirs which would take them to Dunstable, thence several miles beyond to the village of St. Giles. St. Giles Farm lay only a few hundred yards east of the road. The spring day was damp and misty, the rutted road was slippery, and now and again they passed single horsemen and others riding in pairs, any of whom might be highwaymen, but not only did the daylight discourage an attack: two guards from Great Furnival Square armed with muskets rode just behind the carriage. Of them William had said jestingly, ‘Let them act as an escort for you. It would not do if John Furnival were held up on his honeymoon and his pretty bride carried off. Dick the Raper has been very busy in these parts.’
‘I’ll be glad of the guards as a privilege,�
�� John said, ‘and today I won’t even declare I want it most for the protection of every man’s birthright.’
‘You did not say that very effectively,’ Francis retorted. Now Ruth was reflecting that every Furnival she had met had been possessed of some quality which made them extremely likeable. Whatever the rights and wrongs of their attitudes, their policies and their actions, as human beings they were good. . .
What would John’s child be like?
And would she bear a boy or a girl?
Although he had not breathed a word she was sure that John wanted a son. She glanced at him as they went along at a steady pace, the carriage itself swaying. He was staring across newly ploughed fields and meadows where sheep and cattle grazed together, his profile clear-cut and handsome, his lips relaxed. When he turned in response to her appraisal, his mouth puckered in a smile and he slid an arm about her waist.
The sun had broken through and it was warm when they arrived at the farmhouse, of which Ruth had heard so much, but nothing to prepare her for its size or its distinctiveness. Built of rich red brick and with the tall chimneys of the Tudor period, it stood against a rising stretch of woodland, oak, beech and birch, thick and beautiful. A stream from the hillside ran past the house and meandered towards St. Giles village, which looked about a mile away to the north. Some cricketers were playing on a green between here and the village, a pleasant sight. Close to the house the stream had been dammed with a brick wall and a pond had been created, on which ducks and geese and three snow-white swans were swimming. The path from the pond to the wrought-iron gateway of the drive was paved in irregular fashion with broken paving stones, and the driveway was also paved to prevent ruts caused by cart and coach wheels. Two footmen, who, Ruth later learned, served also as groom and coachman, and three maids were at the front doorway to meet the newlyweds, and the huge oaken door with heavy iron studs stood ajar. It opened onto a red-tiled main hall from which led other rooms with narrow-strip oaken floors.
