Would it be enough? Elisabeth was a determined creature, which she had proved on the matter of marrying Brazier against his wishes. Indeed, she had been like that since childhood. As he approached the house he was recalling, and not fondly, the way she had manipulated their father. First it had been with childish pleas, then later with feminine wiles, twisting him round her finger, this at the same time as he was in receipt of harsh parental discipline and rigid control.
Time was an ally. Matters would ease once Brazier was gone, either willingly or by force. Until then, the gardeners would be required to lock away the ladders needed for their tasks, for if the estate was walled, they were not insurmountable. The head groom must ensure no horse was made available without his permission, which would allow him to assign an escort. Elisabeth could go where she wished as long as it had his approval, and for a time yet to be determined, that did not apply to Lower Deal.
Close now, he took in, as he often did, the pleasing features of his house. Its warm red brick took the sun well and the features, which dated from the time of the Merry Monarch, in some way seemed to reflect the gaiety of his reign, especially when set against the more recent squared-off piety of the Hanoverian Georges.
Cottington boasted several examples of elaborate, cross-angled brickwork, which showed the skill in design of those overseeing the laying. To break up its frontage, twin bays boasted mullioned windows, though topped with expressions of the stonemason’s art, and the main door, wide and solid, gleamed with the gloss of thick layers of paint.
The ornamental gates swung open to admit him to the parterre, the head gardener stopping his weeding to doff a hat at his arrival. Likewise, a lad rushed out from the stables to take his reins and hold them, leading the animal to the mounting block, where he alighted with ease. Like his sister had speculated earlier, he wondered at the level of gossip that must have greeted what had occurred, as well as how those who served him would see it.
Not that it worried him unduly. Every one of them depended on him for their bed and board. They would do his bidding, without comment, or face his wrath, which did not only extend to dismissal. Henry Tulkington knew himself as a man to be cautious of, if not downright respected. Any servitor sent away from Cottington Court would, once he had made plain and spread his displeasure, want for employment in the locality.
‘Grady, ask Mrs Lovell to attend upon me.’
Divested of his outer garments, Henry made his way to his study where there was a good fire in the grate, making the room as warm as he liked it to be. When his aunt arrived, he noted her reaction to the heat: the pulling of a face before shutting the door, which he found annoying. Why was it that people could not comprehend how careful he had to be of his health?
‘Elisabeth?’
‘Is distraught, Nephew.’
‘She must learn to live with the consequences of her actions, not something to which she has ever been accustomed. I look to you to help persuade her that, having brought this on herself, it would be best to accept the way she has carried herself up ’til now will no longer serve.’
‘I am obliged to ask what will.’
The tenor of her response did not please him and he frowned to show it was so. But, for once, Sarah Lovell felt on safe ground. Henry required an interlocutor with Elisabeth and she was the only one who could fulfil the role. His sister would never be reconciled with what he had done and she needed to know what plans he had, if any. As usual, Henry took defence in his sense of persecution.
‘I was master in my own house before you brought her back from Jamaica, but how long did it take until I was left to feel as if it was no longer so, filling the place with all and sundry, and dragging me round like a prize exhibit in a marriage auction?’
That had happened at the fete Elisabeth had arranged, inviting everyone she knew to a day of outdoor games, archery, bowls and the like, followed by a sumptuous evening meal in a special marquee.
‘She was seeking to give the estate a more cheering aspect.’
It would not have been politic to add that she also believed he required a wife and, if he never entertained and rarely went to those thrown by his neighbours, such a thing was unlikely to come about.
‘Do I detect, in the way you say that, an agreement that such an aspect is required?’
‘I do not see it as my place to do so.’
‘Quite right. You may tell Elisabeth that she need have no fear of being troubled by Harry Spafford, but there are bound to be restrictions on her movements. Also, I will be overseeing the management of her Caribbean estates and its revenues.’
‘So they will not be sold, as she intended?’
‘No, and given their profitability, and I told her so, it would have been madness to do so.’
‘Even if I could not see myself agreeing with her, she had her reasons, Nephew.’
‘I dislike the tone of that remark,’ he snapped.
She knew she had overplayed her hand, so it was not a good idea to elaborate on those reasons, which, as Sarah Lovell had said and truthfully, she was unsure she concurred with. Elisabeth had, many times, both in Jamaica and on the voyage back to England, expressed her distaste for the institution of slavery, having witnessed it on her late husband’s estates. This had led her to contemplate their disposal, so as to be no longer personally involved.
‘The Good Lord,’ Henry responded, in a very sententious way, ‘has seen fit to order that some should rule and some should labour. It is not for us mere humans to gainsay a divine dispensation.’
Sarah sought to regain lost ground, speaking meekly in order to do so, ‘I merely pointed out, Nephew, that such news will not be welcome. I wonder if, given where we are—’
‘I must act,’ he interrupted, ‘I have no time to consider Elisabeth’s feelings on the matter. Where is Spafford?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Get him found.’
‘Do you have anything you wish me to say to Elisabeth?’
‘I leave it to you to tell her what you will.’
The direct look was a dismissal, quickly taken as such. Instructions given to the servants, Sarah Lovell ascended the stairs, to stand outside Elisabeth’s bedroom. This she had retired to as soon as she was sure it was safe to do so, with Harry Spafford nowhere to be seen. A slow turn of the handle and a push established it was locked, which came as no surprise, unlike the soft knock, which was ignored.
Inside, Betsey heard the sound and saw the handle move, so assumed it was her aunt. She had no desire to see her, especially now, while she was composing a letter to be sent to the canonical authorities in Canterbury, detailing her reasons for seeking an annulment. Well aware of the rarity of such things, she was under no illusions as to the difficulties. Whereas Henry had seen no one prepared to witness for her – which she would have acknowledged had she known – she was relying on discomfort, which would come from any committed Christian swearing and perjuring themselves on a Bible. The problem was to get to that point.
The blocked-off postern and the look she’d got from Tanner established she was virtually a prisoner, and one at risk of being ravaged. This could occur if she ever allowed herself to be alone with the spouse who had been forced upon her, with no route to either objection or appeal: a husband had rights in law, which he was at liberty to exercise at will.
At all costs she must avoid consummation, which would add another reason to her case, though she had a vague feeling it was a papist issue and might not be one acknowledged in the Anglican faith. That had her scratching the quill once more, on many bits of paper, scarred by deletions, until she had a full statement with which she was satisfied.
Already written in tiny writing, folded into as small a size as possible, as well as hidden away, was a letter to Edward Brazier, explaining what Betsey was sure had occurred. She also begged he forgive her for being so naive, in not originally believing him when he told her the truth about her brother. Everything that had happened stemmed from that lack
of faith.
Harry Spafford was ushered into Tulkington’s study, it immediately registering that he had been at the bottle. Not drunk exactly, but with that swaggering air of alcohol-induced confidence. The grin was too fulsome, the eyes displaying a bent towards masculine humour, which was singularly inappropriate. This left his newly minted brother-in-law off balance, given, to him, the fellow should be cringing.
‘You and I need to talk and establish certain facts for which the events of last night did not allow time.’
‘I’m yours to command, Henry.’ This came with lifted arms and exposed palms, like Christ addressing his flock.
The rejoinder was bitingly sharp. ‘I do not think that we have yet progressed to such familiarity.’
The speed with which the air of easy assurance evaporated was palpable and immediate, driving home a reminder, as if any were needed, just what a supine creature Harry Spafford was. This pleased Henry, who had required and now had a malleable creature to play upon.
‘Sit,’ was an abrupt command, obeyed in the manner of a schoolboy anticipating a roasting. ‘I wish you to know that the ceremony, last night, allows you no liberties with my sister.’
‘She threatened to crown me with a poker.’
‘Be assured, Spafford, displease me and you will wish for such light retribution. And I do not think I have to elaborate.’
The face lost all blood as the young man’s imagination took over. Tulkington guessed he was harking back to the threats, relayed to him by John Hawker, when he had held young Spafford in the slaughterhouse. That had included the pork barrel, which he had taken as so believable he’d betrayed his father and revealed the truth of the theft and his future plans. This was to the good: Tulkington required the weakling to be in a state of terror.
‘Provision will be made for you, so you may take your pleasures, but not in Deal, where you are too well known.’ There followed a pause to allow that unwelcome news to sink in. ‘Given your appetites, I suggest any of the Medway naval towns will serve you well.’
‘I ain’t to live here?’ was plaintive and ignored.
‘The other matter will have to be settled as soon as I can have the paperwork drawn up.’ A hint of curiosity arose, quickly supressed in the face of a glare. ‘You are, by law, now in control of my sister’s property, which is substantial.’
As Henry described the plantations, their extent and income, he could see an intimation of obstinacy, as if Spafford was calculating that he might have the power to bargain. Legally he had that right, but morally, in any sense of the word, including fibre, he had none.
‘The stipend you will be allowed takes cognisance of the income from those estates. The actual running of the plantations, as well as their management, you will sign over to me.’
Emboldened by a possibility of a negotiation, he asked. ‘And if what you offer ain’t enough, Mr Tulkington?’
‘You will take what you’re given and be thankful. If it is not enough, you can spend your time thinking on it in the Marshalsea with all the others who have found poverty. I’m not your father and I will not settle your debts.’
‘Where is my pa?’
Henry sneered. ‘If I did not know you better, I would wonder if that was concern. As of now he is safe and, perhaps, his continued good health will be contingent on how you behave.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘What purpose would that serve? Until matters are resolved, I insist you stay in the room with which you have been provided. Sleep there, take your meals there and, for all I care, get stupidly drunk there.’
‘Sounds like prison,’ he protested, as ever with no real resolve to back up the complaint.
‘More comfort than you deserve, Spafford. Take from this arrangement what you are gifted. Ask for more and I might hand you back to Hawker. I think I have nothing more to say, do you?’
Spafford came out of the chair slowly and, if he stood, it was not to his full height. He was like a just-whipped hound and Henry felt a surge of pleasure course through him. He had been subjected to domination earlier and enjoyed both it and the subsequent, short coupling, excellent value for his guinea. To be handing out something very similar was equally gratifying.
Having eaten a solitary dinner, his aunt having declined to join him, he was back in his study, in the process of writing to his Uncle Dirley in London to say he was intending to visit. Grady knocked and entered to inform him of the arrival of a covered wagon at the gate to the house, and two fellows with it.
‘Let them in, Grady, and ask that they wait for me before alighting. That done, send the servants to bed, including yourself.’ Faced with a look of poorly disguised curiosity, he added, ‘I am seen to for the night, as will be everything else.’
He waited some twenty minutes before making his way out through the front door, where he called upon Hawker’s men to follow him to the cellar. Dan Spafford was asleep, but the sound of movement brought him round just before a sack was placed over his head. It was a muffled voice that protested as the padlock holding his chains was undone.
‘You will find out where you are going when you get there, Spafford.’ Henry could not resist the barb and with it the implication. ‘Of one thing you can be sure, it will not have pearly gates.’
A nod and he was dragged away. Once he had been loaded, which came with several blows to subdue him, and the cart was back through the gates and crunching its way down the drive, Tulkington went back to his letter, which concluded with the statement that he would be visiting London shortly, to finalise certain matters.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The early morning knocking took Joe Lascelles away from his daily chores to the door of Quebec House to be asked to take delivery of a letter in an unmarked cover. It was sealed with plain and unadorned red wax and to be given into the hand of Captain Edward Brazier. This was espoused by a grubby urchin, who was determined not to hand it over unpaid and, when challenged, not prepared to say from where it had come. That, he hinted, with a sly look, could be the subject of an extra coin.
Lacking a written address, Joe could not be sure it was genuine. Brazier was absent with the others, so it was for him to decide and he refused, not least for the quality of the hand doing the delivering.
‘Capt’n ain’t here and I ain’t shelling out for what might be just a bit of paper, so you might as well sling your hook.’
Expecting protest, he was surprised when the ragamuffin just shrugged, smirked, then gave him a ‘Suit yourself’ look, before wandering off. Rounding the corner by the Navy Yard, the lad met John Hawker and a questioning look, quickly responded to with a nod and a smile.
‘Blackamoor servant wouldn’t take it, Mr Hawker. Said your captain was away and refused to pay.’
Hawker fetched out a small silver coin and handed it over. ‘Here. Sixpence for your trouble. You know what to say if anyone asks. Good for a few flasks of gin and enough there to treat your mates.’
The urchin still had teeth with which to bite the coin, which made Hawker pull something close to a smile, to think the lad would suspect it forged. ‘Share it? No fear, Mr Hawker, it’ll be kept for me.’
‘Keep your head clear, I might need you again this day.’
As he ran off, the plain seal was broken, so the unmarked paper could be removed to show Henry Tulkington’s original superscription, which went into Hawker’s pocket. As he strode back down towards the Lower Valley Road, he was unaware that what had just happened, including the exchange, had been spotted by Jaleel Trotter, obliged to slip into the recess of a doorway to avoid being seen.
It was natural to wonder at what he had just witnessed and just as natural for Daisy to conclude he would never know. Besides, his mind was set on finding a way to make contact with this Brazier fellow. He had been told by a crossing sweeper, always a mine of local knowledge, where his man could be found.
Right now, all he could do, once Hawker was out of sight, was saunter past the dark-blue door he had been told t
o look out for. This gave him no indication of how to proceed, for Daisy had a notion that just making himself known would not serve. He was not of the standing to just go calling on a naval captain, even more so with a broken nose and two black eyes.
The recollection of Hawker taking the letter from the urchin hinted at a way, so, not being lettered himself, he set out for Basil the Bulgar’s Molly-house along Middle Street where he was sure he would find someone who was, it being a calling place for all sorts: sailors, rough diamonds, as well as the educated.
Brazier had set out for Canterbury just after dawn with Dutchy Holland, Cocky and Peddler in attendance. The last of that trio of lifelong sailors was deeply unhappy to be astride a horse, even one as tame as the plodding and elderly mare provided by Vincent Flaherty. He was not a joyful man when mounted, made worse by a buffeting and gusting north-east wind, which, he complained, was enough on its own to unseat him.
‘Sure, she’s short enough,’ Flaherty had insisted when getting him seated. ‘Not more’n sixteen hands, so if you come off, you won’t break anything bar your pride.’
The Irishman had said that to reassure him; the man paying for the hire was less charitable. Brazier had sworn as they left the paddocks at barely a trot, the use of his one-time crewman’s last name an indication of his exasperation.
‘Damn me, Palmer, having you along is like escorting a merchant convoy.’
‘Speed ’o the most lubberly,’ added Cocky. ‘I can recall you were minded to give them a gun, Capt’n, tae hurry them up.’
‘Good idea, Cocky,’ was Brazier’s response. ‘Is your pistol primed?’
‘Happy to go home, Capt’n,’ was Peddler’s opinion, delivered with a wince, to indicate his pained haunches. ‘Joe might need lookin’ after as much as you.’
The proposal was ignored and, having passed through Upper Deal, their route brought them within sight of the gates of Cottington Court. Brazier set his mare to a canter and closed the distance, reining in his mare, Bonnie, to sit staring at the elaborate ironwork of the gate. Behind lay the long, straight, gravel drive which led to the house, hidden behind trees but for its chimneys and far enough off to be invisible. He did not need to see it: his thoughts, anxieties and uncontrollable imaginings were more on what might be happening within the walls.
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