by Lynch, R J
How had that happened? In 1750, working men had worn wigs, just like their betters, and their hats had been the trusty tricorn, that left a man’s face clear to see and allowed you to know what was going on in his mind. That was less than twenty years ago. Now, you almost never saw the three-cornered hat. Hats today were round, with a brim that flopped down in front and covered the eyes. A secretive man’s hat. And the gentry were following suit! Would they follow the working man’s distaste for wigs, too, and go about in their natural hair?
Whatever might happen in the future, Higson’s wig had been gone before most people’s.
Claverley sat upright. Was it possible? Did he remember? Only sailors wore jackets and trousers. And yet. He had a clear recollection of smiling to himself as Higson left the church one Sunday in broad-legged trousers and a jacket nipped at the waist. He was sure—almost sure—that Dick Jackson had spoken to the man about his apparel. Perhaps he would ask him.
Was all that enough to tempt a rector’s wife? Blakiston—good, loyal friend Blakiston—would surely have said no. But Claverley had spent too much time with his parishioners’ cares, their temptations, their falls. Man’s life was not one long upward progress from darkness into light. The best of us sinned and erred every day, and a life was a slow accumulation of faults that dragged behind sinful man like chains, chains like those in the hands of the angel come down from heaven with the key to the bottomless pit. All we could do when the moment came was throw ourselves on the mercy of God and beg for pardon. In his blacker moments, Thomas believed that Heaven must be a very empty place indeed.
Had his wife fallen? He had no way of knowing. Could his wife have fallen? Thomas began to stuff tobacco into his clay pipe. Any one of us could fall. He had fallen himself, though he was a man and chastity therefore not expected of him. Just as he had a cook, and a manservant, and a scullery maid, so it was accepted—at least by other men—that a man of comfortable means would also have a mistress. Or, indeed, a whore.
When Isabella did return, the rector would feel he could have handled things better. In fact, he would wish he had never handled them at all.
His first error, he would think, was to have raised the matter too soon. His wife, wretched after watching her mother die, was both tired and unaccustomedly waspish. It took her only moments to see through the awkward questions and realise what it was her husband really wanted to know. She stared at him in enraged silence.
‘What is it, my dear?’ Claverley faltered.
‘You suspect me of impropriety with that poor man.’
‘No, Isabella!’
‘Yes! How dare you? When have I ever given you cause to doubt my chastity?’
‘My dear. Please keep your voice down. The servants...’
‘Perhaps they should know what sort of man their master is,’ she answered, even more loudly.
‘But my love...’
‘I am not a man, Thomas. When I married, when I promised to forsake all others, I meant what I said. I do not share in the rights you men give yourselves.’
‘But, my dear...’
‘Yes? What do you wish to say? That you have not broken your promise before God? That you have not been unfaithful to me?’
‘I...’
‘Oh, do not anger me even more by answering. I have made no fuss because the law is the law and I seek peace in the home. But you should know that I resent this different moral stance between men and women, Thomas, and I want it to stop. As for the crucifix...my crucifix, Thomas, and mine to do what I wished with...I gave it to Mary Stone.’
‘Mary Stone? But...why?’
Isabella’s glare grew even colder. ‘You have to ask that? You—a man of your vocation? What—who—do you think Mary is?’
‘She is a harlot.’
‘Oh! Do you then venerate her as the papists do Mary Magdalene, who many say was another?’
‘Isabella!’
‘Mary Stone is a child of God. Just as I am and you are, and no less worthy of respect.’
‘Isabella!’
‘How do you imagine Mary became what she is?’
‘This is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil.’
‘Oh, husband. Mary Stone does not prostitute herself because she loves darkness. Men, Thomas. That is who made Mary what she is. Not the devil and his works. Although the devil may be indistinguishable from the men who first got their hands on the innocent child she once was. When Mary Stone was fifteen she went to Matfen Hall as a chambermaid. Like so many before her. She was seduced by the Blackett men. Like so many before her. And when she fell for a baby, she was thrown out to fend for herself. Like so many before her. What means of support do you suppose were available to a girl like Mary?’
‘She should have turned to God. Because ye are sons, God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying, Abba, Father.’
Quietly, Isabella said, ‘She did turn to God, Thomas. In the shape of Martin Wale. And your curate rewarded her by fornicating with her. Thomas? Are you all right? Thomas?’
Blakiston heard rumours of a commotion at the Rectory and made his way there. Lady Isabella received him in the parlour. ‘We had to put him briefly to bed, James. He heard something he did not wish to hear and it disturbed his equilibrium. When he came round, he prescribed himself a liberal dosage of brandy and I believe he is recovered, physically at least. You will find him in the church, praying.’
‘If he is praying, Ma’am, I shall leave him. I wished only to know that he was well.’
‘Come to dinner this evening. My husband has sent for his curate and I believe that interview will put him even more out of countenance. I shall need all the help I can get to revive his spirits.’
Chapter 45
Martin Wale spent most of his time in Winlaton, as far from the rectory as he could be while still remaining within Ryton parish. If you had asked him why, he would have said that the Rector was older than he and had a family and so should be spared from visiting these outlying places. He would have said that his mission was to the poor, for He raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth the needy out of the dunghill, and there were more of the poor and fewer of the rich in Winlaton. To say nothing of the number of dunghills. He might also have said that the Rector had neglected Winlaton and that he felt the need to put that right.
All of this would have been self-serving equivocation. It was not the rectory Martin avoided but the Rector, a man who represented everything in God’s kingdom on earth that Martin detested. Usually, when summoned by his superior, he would demonstrate his revulsion by responding only after several hours. The curt note he had received today had made it clear that no delay would be tolerated and it was with foreboding, but unusual speed, that he mounted his spavined mare and kicked it into motion.
The meeting took place in the Rector’s study. The door was closed and no refreshment was offered. Martin found himself under attack immediately.
‘Martin,’ said the Rector. ‘I shall ask you a question and it will go ill with you if you lie. Have you lain with Mary Stone?’
Martin was rocked into white-faced stupefaction by the immediacy of the attack.
‘Your silence answers for you,’ Thomas went on after a few moments. ‘A curate in my parish. To all appearances, and certainly by his own puffed up understanding of himself, a man of God. Fornicating with the parish harlot. What explanation do you offer?’
‘Rector, I...’
‘Yes? You begin, but you do not continue. Have you nothing to say in your defence?’
‘And the city shall be accursed, even it, and all that are therein, to the Lord: only Rahab the harlot shall live, she and all that are with her in the house, because she hid the messengers that w
e sent.’
‘We are not speaking of the woman, Martin. It is your behaviour that is under examination.’
‘Jesus saith unto them, Verily I say unto you, That the publicans and the harlots go into the kingdom of God before you.’
‘I think you will find, Martin, that the publicans and harlots our Lord spoke of were those who had repented. If Mary Stone has changed her ways, I have not heard of it. Is that why you placed yourself between her thighs? To help her find her way to God?’
The curate sank to the floor. ‘Cursed are the unmerciful, fornicators, and adulterers, covetous persons, idolaters, slanderers, drunkards, and extortioners.’
‘Amen,’ said Thomas, unthinkingly giving the Book of Common Prayer response. He shook himself, but before he could resume the curate was off again.
‘For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil. But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.’
‘Get up off your knees, man. If you are to receive absolution, it will have to come from one higher than me. My wife had a crucifix marked in red. What do you know of it?’
‘Your...your wife? Oh, dear God.’
‘Why does that cause you such distress?’
‘I...I...’
And, try as he might, Thomas could get no clearer answer to his question. ‘Lord Ravenshead must needs hear of your fornication.’
Martin prostrated himself further. ‘Then I am utterly lost.’
‘Get up, in the name of God. I cannot bear to look at you. I advise you to go into the church and find what solace you can on your knees there. You are in mortal danger, Martin, and I do not know how to help you.
It was not, though, to the church that Martin went when he was released, but to Mary Stone.
Mary sighed when she saw him, for the curate was the only one of her customers who did not pay for what he took and, in truth, she had had enough of his selfish ways with a woman and his endless wailing afterwards that she would consign him to everlasting fire. When she left Ryton, as she intended to do very soon, the departure of Martin Wale from her life was something she looked forward to. It was not the most important reason for going, but it mattered. She would be shot of many things when she said goodbye to this place, and having to lie with the curate was one of them.
She ushered her two children into the hovel’s second room, safe as it had no window they could climb out of and no fire they could fall into. Then she hung on a nail outside the door the red cloth that warned other men to stay well away or risk losing the chance to enjoy her favours in future. That done, she turned towards the mattress stuffed with straw that lay against one wall and began to loosen her stays.
‘Remain on your feet,’ barked Martin. ‘And for the love of God, keep your clothes on.’
Mary raised her eyebrows. She was used to the curate speaking roughly to her, but usually when he intended to use her carnally and his words suggested that this was not such a time. ‘Do you wish to pray with me, Mister Wale?’
‘What I wish is for you to tell me who gave you that crucifix.’
‘Crucifix?’
‘The crucifix with the red paint.’
‘Oh, that one.’
‘How many crucifixes do you expect me to believe a strumpet like you possesses? I say again: Where did you get it?’
‘Lady Isabella gave it to me.’
‘Lady Isabella. Oh, dear God, help me. You stupid, stupid woman.’
‘Has something happened, Mister Wale?’
‘The whole world knows that crucifix was found with Matthew Higson’s bones. And now...now you tell me that you had it from the Rector’s wife. And now he knows. How long do you suppose it will be before that meddling Farm Agent hears the news and comes here demanding to know how it got from you to Higson’s grave?’
‘Oh, is that all that troubles you?’
‘All? All? We shall be uncovered, you wretched Jezebel.’
‘No, Mister Wale, we shall not. For if I am asked about the crucifix, I shall say that it was lost. In fact, I shall say that Matthew Higson came here when that tight-cunted bitch Catherine Robinson refused to let him have his way, and that it was soon after he left that I noticed the crucifix was gone. They will think he took it because he was overcome with remorse at lying with such a one as me.’
‘But ye are forgers of lies, ye are all physicians of no value.’
‘You wish me to tell the truth, then?’
‘If you do, we shall burn in hell.’
‘So that’s settled.’ She took hold of her petticoats and began slowly to pull them up, her eyes never leaving the curate’s. Inch by inch her legs were uncovered; first the strong calves, then the plump white thighs, until at last the tangled red thatch between came into view. She lay on the mattress. ‘Why don’t you take your pleasure with Mary, Mister Wale? You know you want to.’
Wale began to fumble with his breeches. ‘Why do you torment me so, you filthy harlot?’
‘But, please, Mister Wale. Let us have no sobbing afterwards. No wailing and gnashing of teeth about the wages of sin and the fires of eternal damnation. None of that.’
Martin, now naked from the waist down, knelt between her legs. Then he paused. ‘It was you! You told her!’
She reached out a lazy hand for his penis. ‘Told who what, Mister Wale?’
‘That damned Rector knew I had been with you. His wife must have told him. And you told her!’
‘I may have done. Are we going to do this, or are we not?’
‘But why did you tell her?’
‘Mister Wale. Lady Isabella comes here to redeem me for God. She prays with me. If I tell her things, it is to let her believe I am penitent. She could make things hot for me, else. That is why she gave me the crucifix. To show that I love God. And He loves me.’
‘He does love you. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’
‘There you are, then. Mister Wale, do you hear my children crying? I cannot leave them much longer. If you want me, take me. Or let me be.’
With a groan, the curate slid into her. She gazed at the ceiling and made little movements and appreciative noises to encourage him in his efforts. It was always over quickly with the curate, there was that to be said for it.
Chapter 46
The Rector’s manservant brought a note from Lady Isabella. Her husband was still indisposed, and unlikely to be good company, and she herself was more tired than she had known after her journey home. Would Mister Blakiston mind postponing their dinner engagement until the following evening?
Mister Blakiston would not. In fact, now that Higson was known to be a victim and not a murderer, Blakiston had been pulling in his mind at the loose threads in his stuttering investigation, and there was another matter he wished to look into. One that would involve a ride to Newcastle. It was too late for that today, but he could make the journey tomorrow and know the outcome before he saw Thomas again.
For now, he set off to visit Chopwell Garth. He had good reason to go there, and had he been asked why he went he would have given it, for he would have said that he needed to examine the figures Kate had collected since his last visit. This would have been only partially true. He most certainly did go in order to see Kate, breathe in her scent and know that feeling of peace he experienced only when in her company. About the figures, he gave not a hoot.
But Kate had news that was the last thing he wanted to hear.
‘I am to go to Hampshire, Mister Blakiston.’
‘What?’
‘Mistress Wortley has written to me. She said she would. She wants me to be her lady’s maid. I have tal
ked it over with Lizzie and my mother. There is nothing for me here. I have decided to go.’
‘Nothing for you here?’
‘Only suitors I do not want.’ She stared into his eyes, and paused. The opportunity opened. And Blakiston, in a moment that he would regret with all his heart, failed to take it. Instead of offering to be the suitor she did want, declaring his love openly, he remembered Jane and her protestations of love and how it had ended. He remembered the times he had promised himself that he would never allow himself to love again. His heart told him to commit himself and his head said he should not. It was stalemate. He decided it could not hurt to take a day to decide whether or not to allow himself to do what he really wanted to do.
‘When do you plan to leave?’
‘I am packing my bags now. I have not much to take.’
‘You will be here tomorrow?’
‘Tom has gone to Darlington to find out when there is room for me. Mistress Wortley has paid for me to travel inside the coach.’
That gave Blakiston the time he needed, for today was Tuesday and there would not be another London coach till Friday. His heart had two full days to overcome his head.
Next morning after breakfast, Blakiston set off for Newcastle. Before leaving, he loaded a pair of pistols with shot and hung a sword by his side, for there had been reports of footpads and highwaymen on the road. The pistols were Italian and Blakiston was very proud of them. He had, in his time, used them to shoot three men, all bent on robbing him.
