The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “But,” whispered Philippa very softly, her voice lost in the dance of the flames close beside her, “he left you too. Just like he left all of us.”

  “My hair is so long and black.” Elisabeth quickly interrupted, splitting the air of closing animosity. “So I was the raven.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jemima said, twisting around to face the others. “My father’s dead and thinking back, being sentimental and dreaming of the past, that’s not going to help us anymore. I’ve done my crying. Now I want to know who murdered those girls in my own home.”

  “Dead fledglings.”

  Jemima stared at Ruth. “You’re saying my father did it?”

  “Oh, silly girl.” Ruth glared, sitting straight. “I loved the man. He loved women. That’s clear enough.”

  Jemima slumped back against the foot of the bed. “It’s being here. Doing nothing. No clues, no progress. We don’t even go anywhere. And our host takes not a flicker of notice, not for us, not for the investigation he said he was so interested in two months ago.”

  “Is he so disinterested?” wondered Ysabel. “He remembered exactly who I was, even in the dark. “I think he knows a lot more than we realise. And I think he knows more about us too.”

  “Spies on us.”

  “The servants know everything we do. Perhaps he questions them.”

  “Perhaps he peers through windows.”

  ‘But we can go out if we wish,” Alba pointed out. “We have the use of the litters, and I imagine he has a good stable of horses, should we prefer that. So, my dears. Who dreams of a trip to market? To walk by the river? To visit the cathedral?”

  “In the rain and snow?” Ysabel shook her head. “It will be positively freezing by the river, wet and muddy in every market and the cathedral will be crowded with folk escaping the rain.”

  Alba regarded her with a sniff. “Do you ever want to leave this comfortable luxury, my dear? Or stay for ever more amongst your cushions?”

  “What’s wrong with cushions?”

  “Pride before comfort, my girl.” Alba turned away. “Will you sell your soul for pillows and a soft bed? For good food and fine wine? Is that all you think of?”

  Ysabel puffed out her cheeks, then giggled. “What is wrong with comfort? What is wrong with wealth? If there’s no man to embrace me, then a cushion will do. Must pride mean freezing in the gutters and whining for crusts?”

  “Wealth is all show. Goldsmith’s Row?” suggested Elisabeth. “It’s such a long time since I stood in wonder at that brilliance and beauty.”

  Ysabel shook her head. “The gold in those shops won’t keep us dry outside.”

  “And it would only remind me how poor I am,” Elisabeth sighed.

  Philippa stood and faced them all. “I have an idea. A rather different idea, I admit. Shocking, perhaps, even frightening. Now, who has the courage? Who is fearless and brave? Who wants an adventure?”

  Every woman stared back. Katherine blinked, looking away while Ruth pursed her lips, and stayed silent. Jemima smiled and nodded. “Anything to get out of here for a day and have an adventure.”

  The other women stared, waiting, and Philippa took a deep breath and spread out her arms, her tattered bedrobe falling open across her shoulders. “We shall visit someone I know and have known for many years,” she said, exaggerating the tone of secrecy and relish. “He is an old friend, but he’s far more than that. He is,” she paused and smiled, then finished in a rush, “ – an astrologer.”

  “The Lord have mercy,” Penelope whispered.

  Jemima jumped up, bright eyes. “Why not? I’ll come. We can ask him about so many things. I know my birthdate and because my mother died, Papa told me many stories about that day and what time it was. Who else will come?”

  Elisabeth scrambled up beside her. “Me. Me. Me. I shall hold your hand of course, my dear, and have no wish for my own fortunes to be told. And as long as we don’t have to pay.”

  “He’s a friend,” Philippa repeated. “He won’t charge me. Or at least – he’ll tell me that I owe him a favour, which I shall.”

  The other women shook their heads. “Astrology,” Alba said with a baleful dignity, “is a wicked practise.”

  Jemima was surprised. “I thought you’d be the first to want to come with me, Alba dear. You are always the first and always so brave.”

  “Courage, my dear,” Alba answered, “does not mean I should choose to put my soul in danger. Astrology, wizardry and witchcraft are not healthy interests.”

  “And dangerous.”

  “Women have been hanged.”

  “Only for foretelling the king’s death. And we haven’t the slightest interest in the king.” Philippa was impatient. “We might discover the identities of those poor little dead women. We might – we truly might – discover the murderer.”

  “I cannot see how that would be possible, unless it is one of you,” Alba sniffed, sitting deep back in her cushioned chair. “And I will never countenance indulging in such wicked and heathen behaviour.”

  Jemima muttered, “I never thought of you as being so religious, Alba dear. But I intend enjoying this, with or without anyone else.”

  “Enjoyment, ” Alba said, lifting her chin and glaring not at Jemima but at Philippa, “is not the aim of such practises.”

  “Don’t come then.” Elisabeth twirled, grinning. “But I think it sounds exciting. And I have to get out of this house before I scream.”

  “Just make sure you come back safely.”

  Jemima turned to Katherine, “Oh, you will come with us, won’t you, dearest?”

  “I will come to protect you,” said Katherine with a slow smile. “And I shall help you dress in something a little more grand. You must look respectable when engaged in any disrespectable activity.”

  Upstairs and back in the bedchamber, Katherine clicked her tongue, keeping Jemima standing quite still before her as she helped dress her, tying the cords tight at her back, arranging the heavy folds of her underskirt, and sewing on the long velvet outer sleeves. “Just a few quick stitches this day,” Katherine muttered, more to herself than to Jemima, two pins tight between her lips. “ No need to spend an hour on a hundred stitches, since you’ll be needing a cape and gloves and a hood too. The weather is shockingly cold and it may even rain.”

  “It may even snow.”

  “Don’t let us exaggerate, my dear,” Katherine said, taking both pins from her mouth and inserting them through the velvet sleeve.

  “Although,” Jemima said, almost a whisper, “what I’ll find when I arrive, I really don’t know. This is not a place I have ever been before – nor ever thought to go. I have so little knowledge of what it is all about and Alba was so against it. The brave and clever Alba – I was amazed.”

  “I shall be with you.” Katherine smiled staunchly, although she had even less knowledge of the place than Jemima.

  “And I’m sure it will rain. I wish I had boots, like the men do.”

  Katherine had bent at her feet as though in supplication, and was tying on her pattens. “These will do well enough to keep your poor little shoes from the mud. You may not even need them, my love, for first you’ll be safe and snug in the litter, and then in the chambers of Master Macron. Now, stand up straight, little dove, and let me see you.”

  “Will I be safe and snug with a real astrologer?”

  “Astrologers, to the best of my limited understanding,” Katherine told her, with a final pat to the long warm cloak around Jemima’s shoulders, “do not eat young women alive.” Jemima turned, smiling, but Katherine held her back one last moment, saying very softly, “Your Papa, my love, called your dear Maman his beloved peacock, and bought her glorious gowns in blue and green and violet. He gave her an emerald ring, saying she was more lovely than the peacock itself.” She quickly kissed Jemima’s cheek, adding, “Remember, little dove, the peacock is far more beautiful than the swan.”

  Jemima, Philippa, Elisabeth and Katherine left the
house in a swirl and flutter, grabbing each other’s hands and running out to the litter, standing ready outside the great open doors. At the doorway, Alba took Jemima’s hand, well gloved and fur trimmed, squeezing it gently. “You weren’t upset, my dearest,” Alba whispered, “when I claimed I had mothered you more than any other?”

  Jemima shook her head as she climbed carefully into the litter. “No. It’s true enough.”

  Her reply diminished into sudden confusion as the threatened storm bounced like fury from sky to road, and the horse flung up its head and neighed. The driver glowered and lowered his hood. The rain seemed as loud as the thunder.

  Elisabeth wriggled herself into a corner, screwed up her nose at the sudden rain, and mumbled, “Perhaps that’s a bad omen. Is it truly safe, Philippa dear?”

  “Pooh,” Philippa answered, shouting over the sound of the rain on the oiled awning over their heads. “It’s a rain storm and nothing else. Winter, my darlings, what else can we expect? It’s been a mild autumn and we should be glad of that. Now, let’s move on quickly before our strange host notices us from his window and comes down to ask us where we’re going.”

  “He never takes the slightest notice of us.”

  “He may,” Philippa said, “once we tell him whatever we learn today.” She curled snug in her shabby brown cloak, almost disappearing inside it. “Which is why, little dove,” and she curled up beside Jemima, “this will be a day of discovery and wonder.”

  Elisabeth, peeping from her shadows, whispered, “And why I am a little, just a very little frightened. Is this really wicked, do you think?”

  “I thought we both wanted an adventure?” demanded Jemima.

  Katherine crossed herself, remembered that she should not, blushed and smiled. “The world changes. I must attempt to change with it.”

  “I had no idea Alba was so religious,” Philippa interrupted. “No, it’s not wicked at all. Some people see astrologers all the time. It isn’t witchcraft and it isn’t naughty. Alba was being silly, which surprised me.” But the litter began to roll, splashing up waves of rainwater from the pathway like a ship’s bow-wave, and her words were lost.

  The litter trundled down Holborn Hill with the horse, head down, refusing speed and the wheels avoiding the gutters which overflowed in a smelly stream down the slope. The litter’s awning, luckily not yet leaking, swung beneath the torrent as the women lapsed into silence. The thrumming of water on the oiled canvas made speech pointless, but the four women clutched their capes, hoods and purses, and peeped outside as they creaked through the Newgate and entered London.

  The Newgate was open, the gatekeeper unseen as he sheltered, and the great stone gaol stood above them in towering black shadows of threatening gloom.

  Then with a splash of muddy puddles, they were through. Jemima said, “I hate having to use the Newgate. Living in the Strand, I always used the Ludgate when I went to market. Newgate is so smelly and sad.

  “Not unless you’re manacled inside it.” Katherine pursed her lips.

  “Hush,” Philippa raised one lavender gloved hand. “We are nearly there.”

  From Newgate Street the litter was turning north and rattled and squelched through Wood Street. Half way up, it turned abruptly right and stopped with a swing and lurch. The rain continued to pour. Katherine sat up. “This appears to be the place. It will be as dark as its reputation. But we must hurry or we’ll be soaked.”

  “I shall lead,” Philippa said, “since we are not expected. But he knows me and will not refuse us, I’m sure of it.”

  “Having come all this way – ”

  They scrambled from the cart and ran to the narrow doorway. “Wait here,” Jemima called, and the driver, dejected, bowed his head, sniffed inside his hood, and slumped on the bench. Philippa had knocked on the door and called loudly. It was opened almost at once but all they could see was a swirl of darkness and the echo behind them of the rain outside. “Oh, Pip,” Elisabeth whispered, “what if he’s out? What if he’s sick? What if he has another customer?”

  “What if,” Philippa suggested, “you stop being frightened, and trust me.”

  Master Macron was not as Jemima had expected. She was not a tall woman, but the man who smiled up at her was little taller than her shoulder. He stepped aside, inviting them into his home. His smile was wide, his arms outstretched to take Philippa’s hand in his as he pulled them into the warmth. It was not a grand house, indeed little more than a tenement, but the small man’s chambers were spread over the ground floor, single fronted, with a thick greenish window overlooking the alley outside.

  “Oh, my dear Mistress Pippa,” Master Macron’s voice was all bubbles like a child with a new toy. “How delightful – and after such a long time. And you have brought your friends. Let me guess. Mistress Jemima, perhaps?”

  “Gracious.” Jemima looked around. “Are you a wizard, sir?”

  “No, no.” He chortled, pulling them into the front solar where a fire blazed, the hearth nearly covering one wall. “But my dear friend Pippa often spoke of you, mistress, describing you and explaining how fond she was. I am honoured to meet you, and your other friends too.”

  He pointed to the chairs grouped beside the hearth. “It is not just a casual visit, Michael,” Philippa said in hushed murmurs. “Let me introduce you to everyone, and then I shall explain.”

  Nurse Katherine did not sit. “And I,” she said with her chin raised, “shall take my place outside, and wait in the corridor. I am no party to this gathering, and cannot feel entitled.”

  The others seated themselves, very gratefully, beside the fire. Sparks sprang, lit the eager faces like tiny candles, and then flickered out. But the flames from the fire illuminated the chamber in a dancing leap of shade and blaze swooping from ceiling to walls, and across each woman in turn.

  The small man stood in front of the hearth, rubbing his hands together and beaming as golden as the fire behind him. “You shall have a sitting, and I shall tell you everything,” said Michael Macron, and he fetched his quill and ink from the table, and spread out there a rolled parchment covered in tiny numbers. “Let us begin,” he said. “And we will start with the one of most consequence. Mistress Jemima, when exactly were you born into this wicked wide world?”

  A young page brought the wine jug and poured four cups. Then, against the faint crackle of the fire and the excited breathing of the three women, Jemima whispered the details as asked, clasping her cup so tightly in her lap as though it might break, and staring not at the man himself, but into the fire as if it was telling her all the answers.

  Master Macron bent over his paper and his scroll, muttering to himself as he scribbled. “A first house of predominance,” he told no one but his ink, which was dutifully scribing in clots and obscure twirls. “The fishes, and the sun, moon and Mercury clasped in the eternal embrace of the waves.”

  “Am I drowning?” asked Jemima, now hovering beside the table, her voice reverent and hushed.

  Master Macron looked up, suddenly startled. “Drowning? My dear lady, you are in a position of great delicacy, but also of great strength. Sit, please, and listen to me.” He laid down his quill, tented his fingers, gazed at her over the tips, and began to speak in more of a chant than an explanation. Jemima pulled up a chair and gazed back. Philippa dragged her chair to the side.

  “Is it dangerous?” quavered Elisabeth.

  Michael Macron ignored her with some distain and spoke at length to Jemima. “Your chart is one of great strength, madam,” he said. “”Your first house, which is your true force of character and the soul given by God, is one to admire. In the sign of the fishes, it swims deep and uncovers much lying there under the hidden cover of the ocean.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t entirely understand, Master Macron.”

  “That’s of no consequence, no consequence whatsoever,” he said. “What matters, is that your point of the pathway ahead, the arrow’s point, one might say, is in the sign of the centaur, and this wi
ll lead you into great adventures, risking defeat and tempting you to great tasks. But, with your strength in the first house, and the mighty Saturn in your tenth house, I know you will succeed, and rise way above your station.”

  She still didn’t understand. Philippa interjected. “But I explained why we’re here, Michael. Is there any sign? Any hint?”

  Master Macron shook his head. He wore no hat, and his hair was short cropped like a neat brown cap. Beneath it his forehead was unusually high. As he raised his brows, the expanse of pink skin appeared to furrow like the ground prepared for a spring crop.

  “Why, my dear Pip, this is what I’m explaining. But the days, you know, are not always exact. A little after the Christmas season has begun. The middle to late days of December, perhaps.”

  “That can’t be much more than two weeks away.” Jemima murmured. “Will the culprit return then? What will happen?”

  “Oh, a shock, a problem to be overcome,” Macron told her. “With the great Saturn in the tenth house of fate, and the wheel of that fate in ascendant now, it could happen sooner. First the lightning strikes to the midst of the crisis. Just two days later the thunder rolls. And finally, as your sun is squared to an exact degree, the bolt hurtles down.”

  “I’ll die too?” Jemima shrank back.

  “Oh, goodness me no,” smiled the astrologer. “It will be revelation and success, madam. Now. Listen to me and I will explain it all with the common words which may mean a little more to you. It will take an hour at least. But at the end, you will understand your destiny.”

  Jemima sat forwards again, the excitement slipping back into her voice. “Can you tell me anything about my mother? My father’s death? My horrible cousin? And even – perhaps, just a little bit about our host, Richard Wolfdon?” She paused, saw Philippa’s sly smile, and added hurriedly, “Although I have no idea of Master Wolfdon’s birthdate.”