A Lawless Place

by David Donachie

  When Betsey called for outdoor clothing, suitable for walking, nothing was said. Yet Grady had about him an air that was beyond odd. It was common that a retainer would not directly catch the eye of the master of the house, for very sound reasons given his crabbed personality. But that had never applied to Betsey: she had grown from child to woman under this very roof and had been both as charming, entertaining and sulky as a girl going through adolescence could be.

  Being married, albeit only for a short time, had made no difference and neither had it been so when she came home from Jamaica as a widow. Her relations with the servants had always been good, utterly at odds with that of her sombre and humourless sibling. She longed to ask Grady for his thoughts, but that was, of course, debarred by their differing stations.

  The whole house must be abuzz with speculation on this sudden marriage: it would have been even more so on a subject she had managed to keep secret. They knew of Edward Brazier and his attentions, but not what had been planned for them both the previous night. What would they have said, if they had known of the plan to elope?

  The thought was interrupted by her aunt appearing on the stairway ‘Where are you going, Elisabeth?’

  ‘For a walk,’ was delivered in a biting riposte. ‘I assume I can still do that?’

  ‘If you wait, I will accompany you.’

  ‘No!’

  Betsey, by her acid tone added to the glare with which it was accompanied, might as well have said that was the last thing she desired. This had Sarah Lovell redden slightly, being in receipt of what sounded very much like a reproof, one delivered in front of a servant making it so much worse. Her niece did not wait to give her a chance to respond; pulling on her gloves, she rushed out of the front door before Grady could open it for her.

  ‘Does madam require anything?’ he then asked, looking up at the stony-faced older woman.

  ‘No, Grady, nothing. But the young man we had moved, what of him?’

  ‘He sent down for a tray of food and some wine, madam, and demanded a bath be fetched and filled. All have been attended to.’

  Grady was well practised in the art of disguising disapproval, yet the way he used the word ‘demanded’ spoke volumes. Harry Spafford had, by his peremptory call, wasted no time in making himself unpopular with those below stairs. Sarah Lovell, with an air of resignation, nodded and retreated back up towards the first-floor landing.

  The walk took Betsey on a familiar route, one she had traversed many times since childhood, with both friends, as well as her future husband, Stephen, who had been one of them. That was long before either even contemplated they might one day marry. But affection had grown between them to the point where nothing could have seemed more natural.

  It was a bitter reflection that Henry had objected to that too, seeking, with their father dead, to act as if he had the right to decide. The arguments that ensued did not entirely replicate those she’d had over Edward; it was more about their youth and the unsuitability of a young man with few prospects. That had abruptly changed when, following on from the death of an uncle, Stephen Langridge had inherited his plantations.

  The path led from the side gate of the formal garden, down a treelined track, to wind its way round the lake. Betsey decided, once she reached that, just in case she was being observed, to go round the left-hand side. It was a longer route which would, in time, bring her to the place she had so many times met Edward Brazier in secret. It was also the place where he had eventually become more than a mere suitor.

  This engendered another memory, for it was on this very ground they had quarrelled about Henry, as Edward had told her of his nefarious activities, accusations that she refused to countenance as true. It was also the spot, once the scales had fallen from her eyes, where they had decided on marriage and planned her escape.

  Before she approached the bushes, which hid from view the old postern door by which Edward had come and gone, she made great play of picking some wild daffodils, which allowed her to look about and make sure she was alone. Sure she was safe, Betsey pushed her way through the bushes, to haul on the dilapidated gate, seeking to get it open, her hopes fading very swiftly. It would not budge an inch, even with strenuous effort.

  She laid her head on the remains of what paint was yet to peel off, knowing her intention to escape was impossible to achieve. Henry had forestalled her by having the gate sealed, which told her he must have known the purpose to which it had been put before last night, maybe as far back as the first time it had been used for her ‘secret’ trysts.

  An image came to mind of him laughing, as usual, with little in the way of humour, sarcasm being his habit. He would be saying, ‘My dear Elisabeth, what an obvious creature you are.’

  It was a dispirited sister who made her way to the main carriage driveway, which ran up to the house from the road to Canterbury. She suspected Tanner, who manned the outer gate, would have been instructed to deny her exit and Betsey did not even have to pose the question: an exchanged look told her that was the case at several yards’ distance, so she wearily retraced her steps.

  Back at the house, and divested of her cloak and outdoor shoes, Betsey went in search of her aunt, finding her in the drawing room. She made no attempt to moderate her fury, or to keep it from other ears by shutting the door. Sarah Lovell tried to get past her, but Betsey physically blocked her path, spittle coming from her lips as she screamed at her.

  ‘How could you allow yourself to become complicit in this crime?’

  ‘I was not complicit.’

  ‘You witnessed the parish register.’

  If the older woman had set out to be defiant, it could not last in the face of her own self-censure. The expression crumpled and the voice turned to a plea. ‘What choice do I have, Elisabeth?’

  ‘So you will just obey Henry, regardless of the dishonesty of his actions. Do you know what that makes you?’

  Sarah Lovell’s chin was near to her chest and her voice was low, but there was a sting in her response. ‘It makes me what I have to be, for I have never been in receipt of the advantages you have enjoyed.’

  ‘Advantages?’

  It was an unwise response, which Betsey knew it to be as soon as the word was uttered. She was soon given a list of those, from a woman who clearly harboured and had kept hidden a whole raft of resentments. Betsey had been doted on by her father, even before the death of her mother, Sarah Lovell’s sister, but no one had ever bothered to enquire whether she, bereft of a husband who had gone out one day and never returned, was happy to step into those shoes.

  ‘How do you think everyone in this house sees me? As one of the family? No, and that extends and always has, even to the servants. They do my bidding for fear of my nephew, not out of respect for me. And Henry is content to have his home run for him by someone who is bound to Cottington Court, not by love or affection, but by the need to keep body and soul together.’

  ‘You have never intimated before that you were unhappy.’

  ‘What good would it have done if I had? What could I have said? Did it ever occur to you that I might petition to have my Samuel declared dead after all these years, for which, by the way, I would have had to plead for the funds to make the case? That I might want to seek happiness elsewhere, just like you?’

  Betsey’s anger had abated somewhat in the face of these revelations, emotions that labelled her as being as insensitive as Henry, which was an uncomfortable thought. But she was not prepared to back down completely.

  ‘I still cannot forgive that in which you were a participant.’

  ‘Would it surprise you to know that I, too, cannot forgive myself?’

  The glance over Betsey’s shoulder, added to the look that accompanied it, had her spin round, to find standing in the doorway the person she had last seen lying drunk by her bed, in his pool of vomit. In a flash she was past her Aunt Sarah and by the fire, where she grabbed and began to brandish a long brass poker, her face contorted with fury.

 
‘Don’t you dare come near me.’

  A sneer appeared on the slightly puffy face. ‘Is that the way a new bride addresses her husband?’

  ‘You are not my husband,’ came out with spit and several forward paces, the poker waving menacingly. ‘So you may disabuse yourself of the thought that you might enforce any rights you suppose you have. Come near me and I will brain you.’

  Harry Spafford had taken a couple of backward steps, his eye on the poker. Sure he was well out of the arc of possible harm, the sneer disappeared to be replaced by a snarl, which rendered ugly what could have been, without the excess puffy flesh, a quite becoming countenance.

  ‘I think you may rest in peace on that score. As meat you will be too refined for my tastes. Mind you, perhaps I should recount that in which I take pleasure. It may excite you and have you begging me to share your bed.’

  Betsey rushed at him, poker held high, but it was only to drive him backwards so she could slam the drawing room door and lock it. She leant a hand against the waxed pine and dropped her head, her words near a whisper, but enough to carry to Sarah Lovell.

  ‘You have to help me, Aunt Sarah – without you I have no one else.’

  With Vincent Flaherty gone, Brazier continued to brood through the remainder of the day, writing plans before discarding them into scrunched-up balls. Suddenly deciding he needed air, this took him, plus his escort, at a striding pace, south and over the open country towards and past Walmer Castle. It was on his way back he recalled something that required to be remedied, instructions issued as soon as he was through the door.

  ‘Joe, I need you to go to the Three Kings. Tell Mr Garlick I will no longer require the room I bespoke yesterday. Take enough money to settle for the lack of occupancy last night and for tonight, if he feels dunned.’

  It took stiff resolve to say this without showing his dejection. The room had been booked for Betsey, given – he suspected even if he had hoped otherwise – she would have baulked, for the sake of her reputation, at staying in Quebec House. That said, he had to have a care with the owner of the hotel, the place he had stayed on first arriving in Deal and the lasting impression thus gained.

  A picture of Garlick came to mind, that long face with its purple imbiber’s nose framed by those long side whiskers, running down from a bald dome. But it was not his appearance, unprepossessing as it was, that struck him so much as the man’s quite shameless inquisitiveness.

  ‘Garlick will seek a reason, Joe, for I’ve rarely met a man whose nose is so steeped in curiosity regarding the affairs of others. Ensure you give nothing away.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Henry Tulkington was not a fellow for a fiery mount, quite the reverse, so, in the late afternoon as he made his way back from his assignation with both pain and carnal pleasure, he could relax, stinging back aside. The sinking sun was shining and, with summer on the way, there was warmth to be had from its glow, though that was often cut off by the overhanging trees coming to full leaf to dapple the roadway before him.

  Nothing more was required of his steady mare than an occasional tug on the reins to alter her direction, which gave him ample time for contemplation. Having come to the point where he had sight of the gates to Cottington Court, he had mulled over possible ways to proceed on several fronts, not least on Hawker’s desire to take one of Spafford’s luggers out to sea and sink it with him and his men tied up in the hold.

  A man to whom haste was anathema, Henry Tulkington hated to be pushed into too rapid a conclusion, as he had been over Elisabeth’s inquisitiveness allied to her intentions regarding Brazier. Yet, even in a relaxed mood, he had to acknowledge time was not on his side; decisions required to be made on other matters in which he had been forced to act with unaccustomed rapidity.

  He was only too aware of the constraints on any arrangements mooted, for, if the few who knew anything of his affairs reckoned him omnipotent, he knew it to be far from the case. Having inherited the contraband trade from his father, he could all too easily recall the admonishments from his sire on how it should be overseen. Care was as necessary as activity and being too greedy, or too threatening to the body politic, could result in exposure and fatal retribution.

  A balance required to be struck between profit and the survival of the family enterprise, the latter taking primacy. Over three generations, the Tulkingtons had gone from being of no consequence to the eminence he now enjoyed, that achieved with a degree of circumspection. The ability to operate depended, first of all, on the endemic blind eye of the coastal community to the smuggling trade, which extended from the meanest beach hoveller to the very pillars of the community, all of whom were avid purchasers of run and untaxed goods.

  Ultimately, it rested on the fact that such an attitude was widespread throughout the land: everyone who could buy goods free of duty did so, which had provided the opportunity for those who had preceded him to prosper by consolidation, gathering into their hands smaller operations, to create a greater and more viable, steadily profitable whole.

  No longer was it necessary for a family member to put to sea, nor was he required to carry to the Continent gold to purchase supplies. Monies to pay for cargoes were now transferred from the City of London by Jewish bankers, the goods bought transported in hired and foreign-registered vessels, so ownership of hull or cargo could not be traced.

  The landings, now overseen by Hawker, who had also inherited the role, having proved himself reliable to Henry’s father, had no other connection to the son than his need to advise when and where to deploy his men. Then he did get involved, but only to ensure nothing imported was being purloined or missing, a necessary precaution. Those employed in movement were likely to be light-fingered, where no complaint regarding theft could be officially noted. Such a thing, if found, fell to John Hawker to deal with.

  Distribution was arranged by intermediaries – so high were the profits, it appeared as a minimal expense – and it was carried out by men unconnected to Hawker. Again he was free of involvement, if you left out the subtle manipulation of the local magistrates and the overworked and underpaid functionary who oversaw the Revenue Service. Bribery was too strong a word for how Henry treated with him. Best to say, gifts were welcome to a fellow who actually did not hold the office and was poorly rewarded by the man who did.

  So the concerns on which Henry Tulkington ruminated were much closer to the present, and number one was Dan Spafford. He would never fit in with John Hawker, too accustomed to being the man giving the orders to take them from another. Yet disposal was dangerous, given he was so well known. Wagging tongues were not to be encouraged.

  Deprived of his men, he would find it near impossible to operate as a smuggler. But, in order to ensure no resurgence, Henry Tulkington could demand he give up his two luggers, for a sum to be paid over time. This, dissipated by the expenditure needed to keep body and soul together, would deny him the chance to fund replacements. That he would agree was scarce in doubt, once he was told what the alternative could be.

  His wastrel son could not be allowed to take control of Elisabeth’s plantations, even at a distance. Sending him or both to the West Indies had been abandoned as too risky on several counts. But Spafford was the titular person in control of the income of Elisabeth’s estates on the conclusion of the marriage.

  Papers would have to be drawn up assigning such monies to Henry, which would at least see them properly run by a manager he would engage to take charge of the overseers already in place. Harry Spafford would be granted a stipend, which would allow him to pay for his pursuits, with added demand to stay away from his titular wife.

  Elisabeth presented the greatest problem, for her brother had no illusions regarding her now seeking to have the marriage annulled. It was not a subject on which he had expert knowledge, but he was as aware, as any educated person would be, of the grounds required to obtain such a decree. Consanguinity, lunacy or evidence of violent force.

  Spafford was not in any way related to the T
ulkington family, though given the extent and regularities of his debaucheries, a case could perhaps be made questioning his mental abilities. Force formed the grounds on which she would seek to apply and Elisabeth would have a case, barring one pertinent fact: to gain an annulment on such grounds, she required a witness or witnesses to swear, on her behalf, that the ceremony was not voluntary.

  Spafford would not so swear and neither would Joshua Moyle, for fear of being deprived of his living, which had been under Tulkington family control since Henry’s grandfather’s day. It belonged to Cottington Court and could be taken from him in the unlikely event he had an attack of conscience. Sarah Lovell was the only one who might so swear but Henry was sure she would not do so.

  She had, with great reluctance, tearfully signed the parish register, seeing her own needs as transcending those of her niece and nothing in her station had altered; she was still utterly dependent on him and as poor as a church mouse. It would also require money to bring such a case and Elisabeth now had none of her own. So it was a reasonably satisfied Henry Tulkington who made his front gate, to be greeted by the fellow who manned and lived in the gatehouse.

  ‘Tried, Mr Tulkington,’ Tanner said as he pulled the gate open, ‘as you said she would, but I reckon my look was enough to give pause.’

  ‘She will do so again, Tanner, so mark my instructions.’

  ‘Not allowed out, except on your command.’

  ‘And at all times escorted, Tanner, recall that too.’

  ‘It will be so, your honour, night and day.’

  A nod and a kick of the heels set his mare in motion, with Tulkington thinking that was not an entirely sustainable solution. Keeping his sister a prisoner would be problematic, giving rise to questions from neighbours and friends, people she had shown an inclination to call upon. There were occasional visits to St Leonard’s Church in Upper Deal, where local society gathered. Such excursions would have to be indulged, but would also have to be carefully managed.