Instead, after picking miserably at the dinner his cook, Mrs Whitbread, had prepared for him, Foxe spent the evening in the drawing room with a full decanter, steadily drinking the brandy it contained. Instead of making plans for finding the mayor, he thought only of Lucy Halloran, letting his thoughts spin around in an endless cycle between hope and despair.
Firstly, he went over Lucy’s behaviour in meticulous detail, thereby convincing himself once again that he had lost her forever. Then he would curse his thoughtless stupidity with every obscenity and expression of damnation he could call to mind. After that, he would move on to reflecting on the marvellous change that had come over her; her elegance, her self-confidence, her intelligence and her forcefulness. Taken together, he could not imagine any woman being more attractive to any red-blooded male with a modicum of sense—which probably meant rather few of them, thank God.
The next stage consisted of picking out anything she had said or done that might indicate she would eventually be willing to forgive him and return him to her esteem. He began with her unexpected attempts to help him when he was so lost and confused by what her uncle had told him. At this point, he would feel the first glimmering of hope, only to lose it again as he wondered how he might best approach her to offer his abject apologies and seek her mercy. The picture of a thirty-year old man—an unusually wealthy and successful one at that—kneeling at the feet of a seventeen-year-old woman and begging for her forgiveness would doubtless be as ridiculous and embarrassing to her as it felt to him. And so back again to the start of the cycle. Round and round, until his head felt as if it would split and the decanter was empty.
Only then did he retire to his bedroom to fall, face-down and fully clothed, onto the mattress and sob himself into an exhausted sleep.
Not surprisingly, his maid, Molly, left Foxe to waken by himself next morning, not daring to come into his room to open the curtains or bring him his first cup of coffee, as she normally did. None of the staff knew what ailed their master but all had noted his strange behaviour and most had heard his heart-rending sobs the night before. By general consensus, they had agreed to keep as far away from him as they could.
Foxe finally surfaced, extremely late, with a crushing headache and a taste in his mouth that reminded him of the floor of some ill-swept stables. Slowly, he levered himself upright and tottered out of his room, crying hoarsely for coffee. Molly, hastening to bring him what he asked for, encountered a shambolic figure, unshaven, clad in clothes that bore obvious witness to how he had been dressed overnight, and peering at her through bloodshot and bleary eyes. She put the coffee down on the table in the library and fled. That room was as far as her master had reached before doubling up with a violent fit of coughing and retching. Eventually, he managed to drink one cup from the coffee-pot finding, to his great relief, that it was not so hot as to burn his mouth. That done, he wandered into the hall, demanded his hat and coat and fled the house entirely.
SOME FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, what appeared at first sight to be a grubby vagrant burst unannounced into Mistress Tabby’s kitchen. As his father’s one-time mistress and his own source of comfort since his mother died, Mistress Tabitha Studwell, herbalist and reputed Wise Woman, was Foxe’s obvious destination at all times of misery.
He found her sitting at her kitchen table, cleaning some herbs with the assistance of her servant and companion, Bart; a large man of prodigious strength, yet as kind and gentle to those in need as any you could imagine. Bart served and also defended his mistress. No local thief or ruffian would ever dream of offering Miss Tabby any violence. One or two had tried it in the past, for she was still a handsome woman, but had soon regretted their actions, often for extremely lengthy periods afterwards. Of course, those who believed she really did have unseen powers would never make her angry just in case they ended up as toads or crippled by some disfiguring disease.
Mistress Tabby took one look at the ghastly apparition before her, long enough to recognise who it was, then told him firmly to sit down until she was ready for him. She set the herbs aside and told Bart was to keep an eye on Foxe until his mistress had completed making a suitable brew to deal with what now confronted her.
It took about ten minutes for Tabby to return to the table, bearing a steaming cup of something which smelled almost as revolting as Foxe did.
‘Drink that,’ she commanded. ‘All of it, mind. In a single draught if you can.’
‘My God, Tabby!’ Foxe exclaimed after he had forced it down. ‘What did you put in that witches’ brew? I have never tasted anything so foul.’
‘Never you mind,’ Tabby replied. ‘It will cure your hangover and make you look less like a vagrant who has slept in a hedge for the past three nights. Now, tell me what has caused you to drink yourself into such a disgusting state.’
Foxe needed no encouragement to pour out his tale of woe. Beginning with his first sight of Miss Lucy on her return from France, he listed a catalogue of her wonders—her beauty, poise, self-confidence, intelligence and all else that people might attribute to a goddess come down to earth—then related, sometimes almost word for word and with many exclamations of misery, the nature of their exchanges before her uncle had come home. At that point, Tabby stopped him.
‘By the heavens, Ash,’ she said, trying not to laugh, ‘you really are well and truly smitten, aren’t you? And by a young woman of barely eighteen, I believe. One whom you have known since she came to Norwich some six or more years ago. Most people wouldn’t credit it. Ashmole Foxe, the great lover and proud exponent of the wisdom of avoiding emotional commitments, brought to this. Love has come from nowhere and struck you with the force of Bart’s great fist with all his strength behind it. I imagine you have never been truly smitten by any woman before, let alone in this way. Now it has happened, my friend. Sadly, in almost the same moment you realised the depth of your feelings for her, you also found that, due to your usual self-centred selfish ways, you have alienated what may be the only person you have ever truly loved. I hope you haven’t come to me for comfort, Ashmole. You will find none. Help I will give you, if only for your father’s sake, but you have brought this disaster on yourself and only you can find a way out of it.’
‘But Tabby—’
‘Enough of your whining and self-justifications, Ashmole Foxe! Listen to me and listen well. There is only one way to recover the lady’s esteem and favour, and even that is uncertain. I am going to tell you some things I should have told you years ago. You won’t like them, but they are necessary, especially now. Listen and don’t interrupt. It’s taking me all my patience and self-restraint to hold myself back from giving your ears a sound boxing and telling Bart to throw you out of my house.’
Foxe sat and listened.
‘You have been spoilt since birth. Your dear father, whom I loved without reservation, left you a flourishing business and enough money to avoid having to exert yourself unduly to maintain it. I admit you have enlarged and extended what you received to a considerable degree. Since you were blessed with his business sense and more, what you have achieved in that way has also been attained without real effort.
‘As well as wealth, you were born with good looks and more charm than is good for you. Women fell into your arms. Young actresses were happy to share your bed for a night or so, in return for kind words, desirable presents and help in their future careers. A few more mature beauties, to whom you gave abundant night-time pleasure without commitment or cloying protestations of love, fawned over you. All of these you treated well, by your own standards, but made sure to relinquish before they might start to imagine anything longer-lasting. I’m sure it has been fun, but I doubt if it has proved sufficient for a contented life. Like a man passing from one rich meal to another, eventually the longing for plain, wholesome food is bound to catch up with you.
‘Let us consider the only two women you have ever claimed to hold in particular regard: Gracie Catt and Lady Cockerton. I don’t doubt the attraction either held
for you, but it was always on your own terms. Are you surprised that Gracie followed her sister to London and made a life there? You claimed she had abandoned you but you never provided her with any compelling reason to stay. I doubt you even considered what you could offer her, other than the most obvious things. Did you ask her to stay and plead your need for her? Did you tell her you loved her and could not bear to part with her? I don’t know, but I very much doubt it.’
Foxe hung his head in shame, for he had been so annoyed by Gracie’s statement that she was leaving, he had barely spoken to her afterwards. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
‘Now to Lady Cockerton. I will be the first to admit that she treated you in a most shabby way. She was never right for you. You were fascinated by her beauty and skills in the bedchamber while overlooking the clear signs that she only wanted you as a tame beau, ready to fulfil her every whim.’
‘She tried to treat me like her lap-dog and expected me to drop everything and come whenever and wherever she called,’ Foxe complained.
‘You thought so much about your own feelings and so little about hers that it took you a long time to realise that was how she saw you,’ Tabby replied. ‘To my mind, she only kept trying to call you to heel because she couldn’t credit how weak her hold over you proved to be. Once she had, she found herself another man to amuse her and promptly gave up on you.’
‘She hurt me badly,’ Foxe said, his voice full of resentment.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Tabby said, ‘but you mostly brought it on yourself. When she told you that she intended to travel to Bath and asked you to go with her, you declined even to reply. All she met was silence, at least until you trampled on her maid’s feelings—a young woman whom you had taken to your bed more than once and who doubtless believed you were fond of her. By the end of your affair with Lady Cockerton, both of you were solely engaged in trying to punish the other for insults received.’
‘I did ask her to marry me, Tabby. Remember that. She turned me down.’
‘Why? Because she was still married to an absent and uncaring husband. Naturally, her refusal, however inevitable, hurt your pride and led to a cooling of your behaviour towards her. Yet if you had only taken care to discover in advance whether such a proposal would be welcomed, you could have avoided any hurt. When you knew her true position all your concern should have been for her, not yourself. That is if you had truly loved her.
‘There’s your trouble, Foxe. When one of your conquests is not in your arms, you have fallen into the habit of giving them little thought or consideration. Selfish! Selfish! Selfish! Why is Lucy Halloran so angry with you? Because she thought you were genuinely fond of her, only to find that, once she was out of sight, you didn’t appear to think of her at all. I am deeply ashamed of you, Ashmole, and deeply ashamed of myself for not teaching you better ways.’
‘How can I win her back?’ Foxe asked humbly. ‘Tell me what to do and I’ll do it, whatever it takes.’
‘What it’s going to take is everything you can give, bound together with the golden thread of concern only for her and her needs. Revert for even a moment to your self-centred ways and all will be lost. I can’t tell you exactly what to do. Only you can discover that by applying your mind to considering how you can convince her you truly value her for who and what she is; not simply because you have unexpectedly discovered she is now a beautiful and desirable woman. Think of all those qualities you raved about a few minutes ago. I don’t doubt you appreciate her beauty—beauty in women has always affected you as a flame does a moth—but what about those other things; her intelligence, her confidence, her ability to see to the heart of things, her unconventional ways? Above all, her courage. It must have taken a great deal of courage or desperation for her to speak to you as she did—you, a long-term and valued friend of her uncle. A man much older and more experienced in the world than she is.
‘Now, are you feeling better? Have you eaten this morning?’
Foxe acknowledged that his headache had almost abated and that he had left his house without breakfast.
‘Bart will show you where you can wash your face and give you the means of shaving yourself. Those two things should restore you to looking something like a human being. I can do nothing about your clothes. When you have eaten, go home and start thinking as hard as you can about your future course of action. Not plans and stratagems. Those will be useless. Think about Miss Lucy and all you know of her. Think about how you can convince her you have changed and will, henceforth, consider her needs and wishes above your own. It is the only way, I assure you. Actions, not words or petty gifts, which she would probably throw back in your face. Demonstrate that she can trust you to be the man she thought you were before she went to France.
‘Now, go and make yourself presentable and I will get you some breakfast. Your dear father faced many setbacks and problems in his lifetime, not least the death of your mother. Did he wail and moan and come to me to make things better for him? He most certainly did not! He applied himself to working out how best to deal with each setback. Then he tackled them with total determination until they had either been conquered or he had to admit defeat. He would have been ashamed to see his son so wrapped up in self-pity.’
A little while later, Foxe headed homewards, much chastened but filled with a burning sense of purpose. He would restore his standing with Lucy Halloran or die in the attempt.
‘That I swear,’ he said loudly, to the astonishment of someone passing by, ‘and I will not be forsworn, whatever happens.’
WHEN HE RETURNED to his home, Foxe summoned his valet, Alfred, who helped him change out of his creased and soiled clothes into a clean banyan and covered his head with a turban. Thus attired, he went into his library, rang for Molly, apologised for his behaviour that morning—Foxe was always meticulous about remembering his servants were human beings with human feelings—and asked her to bring him a pot of coffee. He also sent a message via her to his cook, Mrs Whitbread, to say that he would be dining as usual that evening but would appreciate a plain meal, since his stomach was still quite unsettled.
That done, he sat in a chair by the hearth and applied his mind to the problem of how to win back Miss Lucy’s affection.
The evening came and Molly, coming in to light the candles, found her master in the same place, apparently deep in thought. Shortly afterwards, Foxe dined on two plain lamb chops with vegetables with nuts and cheese to follow. When Mrs Whitbread sent Florence, the kitchen maid, to enquire which wines the master would like, he was adamant that he wanted nothing more than a small pitcher of good ale. No wine and definitely no brandy!
The breakthrough in his thinking did not come until nearly eleven o’clock that night when he was seated in the drawing room and, at last, contemplating retiring for the night. Having totally ignored the task that Halloran had given him throughout that day and the one before, Foxe suddenly recalled that finding the mayor, Robert Belton, was supposed to be his sole priority.
With that thought came a vivid mental image of Lucy seated, partially out of sight, in Halloran’s library. He could see her staying still and silent yet obviously attending closely to everything her uncle told Foxe about the mayor’s disappearance. The proof of her interest in the mystery came when she had silently mouthed suggested questions in Foxe’s direction. Good suggestions they were too; far better than anything he could think of at the time. What if he could somehow prove his true character to her and solve the mystery at the same time? Halloran would be delighted and Lucy would see that Foxe could show determination, intelligence and tenacity in reaching the answer to a complex problem.
‘No! Rubbish!’ Foxe told himself. ‘That’s all about you again, not about her. It would also be showing off, which would hardly improve her opinion of you.’
In disgust he was about to leave the idea when another thought came into his mind. What if he could recognise her ability and worth by asking her to help find the solution to Belton’s disappearance? Would
that even be possible? He knew she was keenly interested having witnessed her determination to stay in her chair and hear all that she could, without her uncle noticing her and sending her away. Could he somehow make her his equal partner in the investigation? Surely that would prove that he was taking her seriously and openly acknowledging her qualities as a person?
So far so good, but how? It was the best idea he had produced in nearly a dozen hours of trying, but it was going to be extremely difficult to turn it into reality. Halloran was bound to discover what he was doing. Would he hurt Lucy’s feelings by laughing? Would he suspect Foxe of some stratagem to get close to his pretty young niece for all the wrong reasons? After all, Foxe could hardly deny that he had a reputation as something of a philanderer.
Maybe the answer was to approach the idea of involving Lucy in his investigation with complete openness and sincerity. It was probably better than trying to come up with a series of elaborate plans which might very well fail or make matters worse. Besides, it was quite likely that she would refuse anyway. All he could do was make an honest proposal as one adult to another and hope for the best.
Foxe determined that he would devote his whole attention next morning to choosing his approach, weighing every word to see that it conveyed his real meaning and would not be misinterpreted. Then, and only then, he would seek a meeting with Miss Lucy. But, as things turned out, it was to be nearly two days before he could turn his intention into action, by which time the matter of Robert Belton had begun to take on far greater complexity.
5
By the time Foxe finally turned his attention to the problem of the missing mayor, something he should have been devoting his time to for the last two days, everyone in Norwich knew that Robert Belton and his chief clerk had disappeared on the same day and had not been seen since.
Foxe and the Path into Darkness Page 4