The Lost Garden (The Purchas Family Series Book 5)

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘I thought we would go and see what progress they are making with the Royal Military Canal,’ she said as they drove out through the Water Gate on to the marsh. ‘The air will do you good, child. I shall tell Bowles to speak to that husband of yours when he gets back, about the way he keeps you chained to your desk, copying that poem they make such a to-do about. You look properly peaked, and no two ways about it. Or — could it be that you are in an interesting condition?’

  ‘No.’ Caroline wondered if perhaps the question had been the true purpose of the trip, but once again she had had to send Mrs Tremadoc news that would disappoint her. ‘I am afraid I am a sad disappointment to my mother-in-law.’

  ‘But not, I think, to your husband,’ said Mrs Bowles acutely. ‘Don’t you go fretting, my dear. Time enough to be thinking of setting up your nursery when Mr Tremadoc has settled down a little. Are you not anxious about letting him go off to town on his own?’

  ‘There is nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘Of course not. We must obey our lords and masters, but mine seemed a trifle doubtful about the wisdom of Mr Tremadoc’s trip. He asked me to drop a word in your ear, suggesting you urge your good man to be careful how he talks at that London club of his. Something came back here to Oldchurch after his last visit that made Bowles quite angry. Oh, gossip and nonsense, I expect. A young man on the loose in town and finding us country bumpkins good for a jest. Perhaps when you write to Mr Tremadoc you could drop him a hint?’

  ‘I will certainly try.’ Caroline remembered a moment of anxiety after her husband’s previous trip. ‘But I am afraid he is not likely to listen to me.’

  ‘They don’t, do they?’ Mrs Bowles was philosophical about it. ‘Shall we have the landaulet open, my dear, and blow the cobwebs away? Such a fine day; it’s hard to believe that Boney’s across there, drilling his troops to invade us.’ She pointed at a little church, crouched low on the marsh. ‘Or that that church is full of pikes — and muskets, I hope — for the militia in case of a landing. Do you know why Bowles really bought me this little carriage? It is to get me safe inland when the beacons are lighted. And I mean you to come with me, and no two ways about it.’

  ‘You are more than kind,’ said Caroline. ‘But in fact, Mr Tremadoc spoke of buying a curricle while he is in town. I suppose he may have had very much the same idea…’ It had not, in fact, occurred to her before, and did not seem entirely in character now.

  ‘A curricle? You’d have to leave that housekeeper of yours behind, which would go against the grain with you, I know. Bowles thinks there will be no place for women and children in the town when once the French have landed. Now the walls are repaired at last, the militia mean to make a stand to the death in the hope of delaying the enemy’s march on London. They will not want to be cumbered with us women. If I were you, my dear, I would write to Mr Tremadoc and urge the virtues of a carriage like this one, that will take four people, maybe even more in a crisis.’

  ‘My husband may plan to stay behind,’ suggested Caroline. ‘After all, as vicar of the parish it would surely be his duty.’

  ‘It’s his duty to visit the sick,’ said Mrs Bowles, unusually tart. ‘But it seems to be you who do it. Anyway, Bowles and his aldermen have made a list of those they wish to stay. No extra mouths, you understand, in case of a siege.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe.’ Caroline looked at white, newly sheared sheep, peacefully grazing the sunlit marsh. ‘You don’t think that that victory of Admiral Calder’s may have altered the balance of things in the Channel?’

  ‘Victory?’ snorted Mrs Bowles. ‘Bowles says it sounds more like a defeat to him. What use is a scrambling kind of victory like that if you don’t follow it up? Bowles says it is bound to have damaged the spirit of the men. If Nelson makes one more of those Mediterranean trips of his to visit his good friend the Queen of Naples, Bowles thinks we might even have another naval mutiny here, as in ’97, and then what is to stop those flat-boats of Boney’s from bringing over his army?’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Caroline roundly. ‘And even if I did,’ she went on, ‘dear Mrs Bowles, forgive me, but I would not say so.’ A quick look indicated the coachman, all ears on his box.

  Mrs Bowles patted her hand patronisingly. ‘All in the family, my love, all in the family. I look on you quite as one of my own.’

  Caroline returned from that trip tired and a little frightened. If Mr Bowles intended a gallant defence of Oldchurch, he was going a strange way about raising the spirits of the garrison. But Mrs Bowles’ remarks about Nelson had given her an idea. John Gerard still built his hopes on Nelson’s genius for pulling victory out of defeat. If he should do so, she would need to write a eulogy of him by the Spirit of Good similar to the one about Lord St Vincent in the second canto. She would spend her next visit to Gerard’s library in finding out what she could about the fiery little admiral with the dubious reputation.

  A few days later came the news that Nelson had landed at Spithead and been given a hero’s welcome. ‘I don’t understand it,’ said Mrs Bowles, as always her husband’s echo. ‘Anyone would think he had scored a great victory instead of scurrying about the Atlantic achieving nothing.’

  ‘I suppose we need a hero,’ said Caroline thoughtfully.

  Gerard agreed with her. ‘Heaven help him if he fails us now. The mob will soon turn against him unless he produces the miracle the country longs for. Mob hysteria is a frightening thing, Mrs Tremadoc, even when it is enthusiastic, as now. It’s a bad indication of the spirit of the country. Dr Martin would call it a malignant symptom, I think.’

  ‘Well,’ said Caroline. ‘At least we don’t seem to be suffering from it here in Oldchurch.’

  ‘You’ve noticed that too? What does your friend Mrs Bowles say?’

  ‘Just what you did. That the mob will soon turn against Nelson unless he gives them the victory they long for.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘I think it is just as well that my husband is in town and not at present working on his poem. One would need to be a sorcerer to know what to say. He must be very grateful to you, Mr Gerard, for your advice about Nelson. Whatever happens, the Admiral most certainly cannot be dismissed as negligible. He will go down in history either as a hero or a figure of tragedy.’

  As she had hoped, Tremadoc prolonged his stay until early in September and surprised her by driving up to the house one windy morning in his spanking new curricle, with Jenkins up behind.

  ‘Well,’ he greeted her with a casual kiss and she thought he looked even more haggard than on his previous return. ‘What’s the news here in Oldchurch? London’s humming with it,’ he went on without giving her a chance to answer, ‘Nelson’s back on the Victory. Now we shall see some action. There’s a hero for you. I met him, I’ll have you know. An inconspicuous little figure of a man until you see the eyes…eye, I should say, but what a glance! An eagle, I thought I’d call him. England’s eagle.’

  Now England’s eagle stooping to his prey

  Puts end to fear and chases clouds away.

  ‘I hope you are ready to go to work, Caroline, after your long holiday. Young Comfrey plans to publish my second and third cantos together before Christmas and wants the fourth for the spring. He promises better terms for it, too. Not a bad young man, that. Seems to have a head on his shoulders. Knows all about puffing — advertising, I mean. You wouldn’t understand, but he knows his business, I am beginning to think. Sharp, though; clutch-fisted. Do not be expecting a cloud of gold from London. The cost of living there is enough to frighten a man! And my mother not well and insisting she must see Sir Walter Farquahar. And I must pay, of course! Nothing the matter with her but old age and self-indulgence, if you ask me, but Sir Walter had to pull a long face to earn his fee. Well, what of my dinner and the Oldchurch news?’

  ‘I am sure Japrisot will send up just as soon as he can produce something worthy of your return.’ Useless to point out that he had failed to warn them of his coming. ‘As to the news here in town
, there’s not much. There was an accident to the Martello Tower the other day, the scaffolding gave way and a man was killed, I am sorry to say. Mrs Bowles tells me her husband has been enquiring when I expected you.’

  ‘Naturally I would be missed,’ he said. ‘A public figure such as I am now. Oh,’ — carelessly — ‘I called at Chevenham House and was pressed to stay to dinner. That is where I met Lord Nelson, as a matter of fact. The Duchess looks worse than ever but Mrs Winterton is in fine fig. Seems she and that brass-faced Lady Hamilton are bosom friends; she was there too — Lady Hamilton — stout as the Duchess and loud-voiced as Mrs Bowles. She treated us to her “attitudes” — I never saw such a take in. A fat woman in a shawl playing Venus! Young Blakeney looked sick as a horse and I could not blame him. And his sister Amelia — Lady Ffether, I should say — all airs and graces and going into dinner ahead of Charlotte. Not a happy family, that, if you ask me.’

  She longed to ask him about Blakeney, but thought it better to turn the conversation. ‘Did Mr Comfrey introduce you into the literary world?’ she asked. ‘Coleridge and Wordsworth and the men who write for the Reviews?’

  ‘No.’ He looked momentarily taken aback. ‘Odd thing; Comfrey didn’t seem to wish it. Thought I ought to keep my novelty value, something like that. Let the critics judge me by my work only. Said I’d find the poet set a dead bore. Very likely he was right and to tell truth I was so occupied with my mother’s illness and my old friends at the club, I’d hardly have had the time. Probably all for the best. Mrs Winterton said I’d find them a pack of nobodies. Asked to be remembered to you, by the way; wanted to know if you were breeding; I said thank God no. And, thank God, there’s dinner!’

  He drank a great deal of his cordial both during and after their late dinner and fell into an exhausted sleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Looking at him for a moment before she blew out the candle, she thought he looked more than just exhausted, and she had noticed when he kissed her on his arrival that he now had the same sweet, slightly corrupt smell as his mother. His speech was different, too, hurried, sometimes almost confused. She found herself wondering if Mr Comfrey had not perhaps avoided introducing him into the literary world for fear of the impression he might make there. The publisher must be a sensible man. She must get Dr Martin to see Tremadoc, but racked her brains in vain as to how to do it.

  She lay awake for a long time thinking it all over. Extraordinary to have her own mother ask to be remembered to her. But why should it surprise her? It had been the Duchess, not her mother, who wrote to her after her disastrous elopement, and sent her the invaluable allowance. It had always been the Duchess who thought, who cared, about her. The poor Duchess…She looked worse than ever, Tremadoc said. And no wonder. With Charles Mattingley still abroad, she must lead a sad life of it at Chevenham House. As always, Caroline came back to the amazing fact of the continued friendship between the Duchess and her mother. But then, she remembered, sighing, Frances Winterton could be a great charmer when she wanted to. It was just that with her daughter, she never bothered. If the Duke had only liked me, Caroline thought, everything would have been different. And then, with her usual realism, but I don’t like the Duke. Why should he me?

  This time, Tremadoc stayed in bed for two days to recuperate from the fatigues of town, but arose on the third looking very much better and announcing his intention of going to the Oldchurch Club dinner that night. ‘They will be all agog to hear the news from town. I shall have so much to tell them. To have actually met Lord Nelson! I expect to be quite late. No doubt there will be a million questions to be answered.’

  He did indeed return late, but she was still awake when he returned, and lay, feigning sleep, as he made his befuddled preparations for bed. Climbing in beside her at last, he was muttering to himself. ‘Not a hero,’ he said. ‘Flash in the pan…flash in the pan…flash in the…’ He was asleep, but she lay awake for a long time, wondering what it meant.

  She found out when they began work next day. ‘I have been thinking a great deal,’ he announced. ‘I could not sleep for it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. About my poem. Very important to get it right. Have to remember, cup and lip, all that. However hard I work, can’t be published before spring. Well, Nelson’s the rocket now, but may be an ignus fatuus by spring. Yes, ignus fatuus,’ he repeated the words, which she had never heard him use before. ‘I am going to have to be very careful indeed what I say,’ he told her portentously. ‘Crowd hysteria is one thing, but what of the voice of posterity? What of the future? That is what I ask you.’

  ‘It’s a good question.’ She wondered who had put it into his head.

  Chapter Sixteen

  All that September and into early October, as Nelson searched for the enemy fleet, and rumour and counter-rumour flew around England, Caroline and Tremadoc argued about the fourth canto of The Downfall of Bonaparte. It was the first time she had felt the need to oppose him openly on a point of this importance, and the results were unpleasant. His temper, never good, was now on a hair trigger. When she suggested at last that they simply abandon work until after the expected naval battle, it exploded.

  ‘Idiot!’ He was white and sweating, and a nerve twitched under his left eye. ‘Comfrey must have the canto by the end of the month if it’s to be out when he intends. What use will it be months after the event! I tell you, Nelson’s fleet’s rotten with mutiny; the men know him for the petty little womaniser he is. Let him just meet Villeneuve, and he’s pricked, like a fool’s bladder.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ She fell back as he struck her on the side of the face, hard. ‘If you do that again,’ she faced him steadily. ‘I will leave you, Mr Tremadoc. And tell the whole world why.’

  ‘You’d never dare!’

  ‘I would, you know. What have I to lose? You hit me once before. I have thought about it since. You were ill then; I let it pass. I shall not do so again, and you had better remember. I married you for better or worse, and I mean to make the best of it, but there are limits.’

  He was very near to hitting her again. Their eyes met and held. Where would she go if he did? To John Gerard?

  ‘Mrs Bowles to see you, ma’am.’ If Barrett saw anything odd about the tableau they presented, he did not show it. ‘I’ve told her you were working, but she asks most particularly to speak to you.’

  ‘Tell her I will be with her directly.’ She moved past Tremadoc to the door, glad to have the moment of confrontation safely resolved.

  In the hall, she paused for a moment, her face throbbing. It had been a savage blow. The temptation to take flight to her room, Tench, and comfort, was strong, but she resisted it. If her husband was really going out of his mind, as she horribly feared, she must have help. Confide in Mrs Bowles? The thought was abhorrent, but who else was there? John Gerard was a last resource, for the moment she needed the help of Tremadoc’s friends, of the members of the Oldchurch Club, much though she disliked the idea. She looked at her reflection in the big gold-framed glass and saw that her right cheek was slightly reddened, but not, she thought, noticeably so. She opened the drawing room door and found Mrs Bowles standing by the window.

  ‘Thank you for seeing me, my dear. I trust your good man will forgive the interruption, but Mr Bowles most particularly told me to visit you this morning. He was…he and the others were a little anxious about Mr Tremadoc last night. Has he been working a trifle too hard, my dear, on that poem of his?’

  ‘I am afraid he has.’ Caroline snatched at the suggestion. ‘I’m worried about him too, Mrs Bowles, but what can I do?’ She flushed, aware of sharp eyes studying her face.

  ‘Bowles said he talked quite wild last night. About…I’m sorry to tell you, but about despair, and death and even about putting a period to his existence. Bowles thought it his duty as your husband’s friend and yours to have me give you the warning. And to tell you that he has sent to ask Dr Peabody to pay you a friendly call today. Just in passing as it were, to
congratulate Mr Tremadoc on his poem and take a quick look at him at the same time.’

  ‘It’s very good of Mr Bowles to take so much trouble.’ She could not help wishing he had sent for Dr Martin, but even garrulous old Dr Peabody was better than nothing.

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Mrs Bowles. ‘We value our famous vicar and we love you, my dear.’ She surged towards the door. ‘And if you’ll take my advice, you’ll have a bit of steak to that face of yours without more delay, and a dusting of powder after, or Dr Peabody may be drawing more conclusions than you may quite like. I’m sorry,’ she concluded awkwardly. ‘Send for me, my dear, if you need me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was very near to tears. ‘It was my fault,’ she managed. ‘I ventured to make a suggestion about his poem.’

  ‘They don’t like to be crossed.’ Mrs Bowles summed it up and took her leave.

  In the kitchen, M. Japrisot accepted Caroline’s story of a collision with a door without comment and produced an admirably bloody bit of steak. Retreating with it to her room, Caroline was joined there by Tench, in tears.

  ‘Oh my lamb,’ she said. ‘My poor precious lamb! And don’t you be troubling yourself to lie to me, because there’s no need. But how I can break my bad news to you is more than I can think.’

  ‘Your bad news?’

  ‘Some gossiping fool here in town has leaked to the master about me and Jenkins being married. Had Jenkins in this morning, the master did, made him a fine scene and gave us our notice. Ma’am, my dear, what are you going to do without us?’

  ‘Oh, Tench!’

  ‘I’d stay by myself, ma’am, honest to God I would, if the master would let me, but he won’t and that’s all there is to it. Told Jenkins he wanted the both of us out of the house tomorrow morning. A month’s money and our fares paid back to London, to give the devil his due. And devil’s the word, ma’am, so don’t you go making faces at me. For two pins I’d go to Chevenham House and tell how you’re being used down here.’