Frost Fair

by Edith Layton

  Her head went up. “And you’re after more?”

  “At least, I’m not slumming. I’m after you, and always have been, and well you know it. Not a thrill I can forget an hour after.”

  “He’s not after me,” Maggie said through gritted teeth, “and I am not after him.”

  “Ah, so he takes a pounding and comes right back for more—and for no more than a taste of your flounders? Don’t try to gammon me, I cut my eyeteeth years ago. That’s why I’m surprised at you.”

  “You think he was attacked because of me?” Maggie squeaked.

  “Aye, and he’ll get more if he interferes with you. Open your eyes, girl! There’s only one man who’s ready and willing to look after you.”

  “Did you do anything to him, Tom?” Maggie asked, appalled.

  “No. But I would if he plagued you, depend on it. Just say the word.”

  “Well, I say you’re mad, is what I say. He’s never plaguing me.”

  “He’s not up to any good neither, Lass.”

  “And you are?” Maggie demanded.

  Lucian saw Maggie’s face grow red and heard her raise her voice as she confronted the handsome man who had greeted her. He’d thought they were friends. Now, he wondered. He went to her and offered her his arm. “Are you coming, Mrs. Pushkin?” he asked, as she put her shaking hand on it..

  “Indeed I am!” she said, glaring at Tom.

  “Be warned, Maggie,” Tom muttered, standing hands on hips as she walked off with Lucian.

  “Be warned about what?” Lucian asked her.

  Before she could frame an answer Spanish Will’s long stride brought him up beside them. “He’s an old friend of Mrs. P.’s,” Will said, “and I believe he’s jealous of you, my lord.”

  Maggie wished the ice would open up and swallow her. She saw the viscount’s eyebrow go up and looked away from him, wondering what to say. She’d been so comfortable with him today. When he’d arrived this morning he’d immediately complimented her on her tea and her medications, saying he’d slept long and well, and healed amazingly quick. The bandaging was off his cheek. There was still purple bruising there, and the last traces of a scrape. But he was clean shaven and looked almost himself. He moved with only a hint of stiffness, whatever he felt. She’d been proud of her handiwork. Now she averted her face, waiting to hear scorn or mockery in his voice.

  But there was none. “Jealous, is he? Well, who wouldn’t be jealous of Mrs. Pushkin?” Lucian said smoothly, “it’s only reasonable.”

  “But I neither want nor encourage him, my lord,” she said quickly.

  “You need not, he can’t help it. It is simply that you are yourself,” he said calmly, without a trace of a leer or a smirk. He said it as though it were fact and not flirtation.

  Maggie beamed. He was a gentleman, top to toes. Now she could enjoy the Fair. But there was so much to enjoy she didn’t know where to begin. First, she had to martial her forces. She stopped and doled out coins to Alice, Annie and little Davie. Then she gave some to Jack too.

  “Spoiling that villain rotten,” Will growled, but grew silent when he saw how the boy’s thin face lit up.

  “Now when it’s tea time, be back at this gate, and all together, mind,” she told them. She turned to Flea. He’d been there at first light when they opened the back door to let out the puppy. It was no surprise. He’d been there every morning since he’d brought the dog to them. It seemed Flea was theirs as much as the puppy now, at least for most of the day. It was painful to see how eager he was to see the pup every morning, and how reluctant to leave her each evening. Today, after he’d tenderly put her back in her basket in the kitchen, he’d followed them obediently. Because Maggie asked him to.

  “Flea,” she said, “you’re to go with the girls and little Davie and see no harm comes to them. Here’s money to buy something for yourself. Unless, of course,” she said, looking up at Spanish Will, “you think he ought to stay with the viscount all day?”

  “Of course not,” Lucian said, appalled.

  Will grinned. “I think I can watch him well enough myself.”

  “The viscount can watch over himself, thank you,” Lucian said stiffly.

  “Then, it’s Mrs. P. I’ll oversee,” Will said agreeably enough. “If you take off on your own we’ll just follow along. Seeing as how you’re known for your taste, we’d be sure to want to see the same things, eh, Mrs. P.?”

  “Exactly,” she said. She took Lucian’s proffered arm again. Although she was honored by his courtly gesture to a mere fishwife, she was grateful for purely practical reasons. She was dressed for a holiday. She wore her caped shouldered blue pelisse over her best walking dress, the rose one with a ruffle at the neck. Her best bonnet, trimmed with artificial blue roses, fit snugly on her head. It subdued her shocking curls, showing them only at her ears and in wisps at her forehead.

  To complete her finery she carried the silk parasol she usually kept carefully wrapped in cloth on the highest shelf of her wardrobe. She’d have to use it as a walking stick if not for the viscount’s arm to lean on, because she wore high wooden patens to save her silk shoes from the snow and ice, and they made walking difficult at the best of times. Even the men had to place their boots carefully. The ice was rough and full of unexpected pitfalls. And everywhere the tread of many feet had made uneven furrows and ruts in it.

  They walked down the main avenue, the newly made and named “Freezeland Street,” looking at the attractions. Nobleman, runner and fishwife were soon reduced to children by the marvels of the Fair. Still, Lucian watched over Maggie as they wandered. And Will kept watch to see who was looking at the viscount when he wasn’t looking. The ice they walked on was rough. But the crowd was even more so, as gentry and commoner combined, milling through the impromptu streets, taking in the wonder of it all.

  The merchants and vendors of London had thought of every conceivable way to make money from the spectacle. There were toys and trinkets, baked goods and broadsheets, butcher’s shops and book stalls with articles for sale, all blazoned somewhere with the words “Frost Fair.” If a man grew tired of buying, and few Londoners did, there were amusements everywhere. Skittle alleys, with hundreds of fairgoers playing at them. Swings and slides, and wheels of fortune, and everywhere, games of chance. Trained bears, dogs and monkeys danced through the aisles of ice as pipers, fiddlers, buglers and drummers accompanied them.

  The taverns in tents sold spirits and touted “Frost Ales.” Foodstuffs were everywhere, and everywhere too expensive and yet selling twice as fast as they ever did in the normal streets of London. Vendors prowled, crying hot oysters and meat pies and gingerbread, all sold with fantastical ice-related names. They even called plain mutton “Lapland Mutton” and charged more because of it, adding a sixpence fee for anyone wanting to watch the whole sheep being cooked over a charcoal fire. It was burnt rather than cooked, and all anyone got was one charred or raw slice, but no one complained. It was cooked on the ice that covered the Thames, after all.

  Lucian bought Maggie a copy of the Northland Times as a souvenir. The papers were going fast as they were printed, and they were being printed right there on presses set up on the ice. They printed and sold ballads and poems too, all dedicated to the Fair.

  “If they could label fleas with ‘Frost Fair’ on their arses, someone would buy them,” Will scoffed. And yet all three agreed “Frost Fair Gingerbread” tasted better than the usual sort. “Frost Ale” was crisper, and even the piping hot “Frosty” meat pasties they stopped to sample tasted richer there on the Thames.

  Not the least of the fun and thrill was that no one forgot what they were walking over. It was like dancing on the chest of a sleeping giant, wondering what would happen if he woke. It was audacious and daring but everyone was doing it so it couldn’t be as dangerous as it seemed to flaunt the wrath of the imprisoned river.

  It seemed almost sacrilege to some, superstitiously foolhardy to others. Men had sacrificed to this river in ancient da
ys. It was still the main avenue and lifeline of London. Now, half London seemed to be standing on water, like prophets of old, just as one of the ballads said. It was something to tell their grandchildren about, some day. For now, Maggie, Will and Lucian walked a lot and spoke little. There was too much to see to discuss it just yet.

  They didn’t speak to other people either. If Mrs. Gow and Mrs. Gudge were there, they hadn’t come near the unlikely trio. But there were over fifty tents and thousands of people, and so the chances of accidentally meeting with someone was small.

  But the gentry, because of their fine clothing, stood out from the masses, as ever. From time to time Lucian saw people he knew. He nodded as they passed. Most gentlemen were clever enough to leave a fellow alone if he was seen in the company of persons he might not wish to acknowledge or introduce. All the ladies were with gentlemen. None were mad enough to go to such a romp as a Fair unescorted. Maggie and Spanish Will were well dressed today. But they were not mistaken for gentlepersons. Especially since they were not introduced as such. No one minded. Such fairs brought the population together, but only in one physical place.

  Spanish Will saw many people he knew too. But for the most part, they tried to pretend he did not.

  Maggie was too rapt to look at other fairgoers. She didn’t know how much time had passed until she felt a chill. The sun was westering, the temperature dropping. She’d had the best time she could remember in a long time, but her day was ending.

  “Do you know?” she told her two escorts, “I confess I’d like to buy some of my herbs in a Frost Fair packet after all. I thought maybe some lavender, so I can keep my closet fresh smelling and still have the package as a keepsake. Do you think we could look for Mr. Abernathy? He said he’d be here.”

  “I see no reason why not,” Lucian said.

  Will nodded his agreement. He’d only seen shadows pursuing the viscount today. It was true he wondered if some of those shadows were more persistent than they ought to be. But then, he told himself, he couldn’t catch a rogue unless that rogue could come close enough to catch, could he? No reason not to let the man wander some more. And the fishwife hadn’t brought anything for herself to mark the day, and females were peculiar about such.

  The apothecary’s tent was the last in its row, the last row at the outer edge of the Fair. He was furious about it, of course.

  “Paid good money to be here, and what do I get?” Mr. Abernathy complained after Maggie entered his big brown tent. “Exiled. I should have had ‘Siberian Wasteland’ printed up on my papers instead of ‘London’s Great Frost Fair.’”

  “Have you had no customers, then?” Maggie asked, looking around the dim recesses of the tent. She wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t. Other vendors attracted customers with fires or gay pennants, or threw bright rugs on the ice in front of their tents. The outside of his tent had only a small sign, the interior was gloomy, chilly and damp. There were boxes of herbs and bottles, and he’d brought himself a chair to sit at and a table to mix his potions. But even the bare ice on the floor seemed colder than outside.

  “Well, I’ve had some,” he conceded, “but most I knew, and they were looking for me, like you. Should have saved myself the time and money,” he grumbled. “Well, but what can I do for you, Mrs. Pushkin? Got enough belladonna now? I went to the trouble of getting more for the Fair, and at an unfair price at that, since I was in such a hurry. Much good it does me.”

  “Well, no,” she said, “I’ve enough, thank you. But some lavender? Three packets—no four—if you please, and all with your new labels, please. I think I’ll give the girls some for their clothes too. And for me—perhaps a bottle of your excellent decoction of betony. It hasn’t rid me of my freckles, but it gives me hope,” she added with a grin.

  He didn’t smile back at her. He seldom did. He was a dour man, tall, loose limbed, with sallow skin and receding hair, although the amount of hair in his nose and ears seemed to be trying to make up for it.

  “And a packet of cudweed,” Maggie said, thinking hard, because she was suddenly afire to get as many labeled packets, bottles and vials as she could. The viscount had brought her food and the souvenir paper, Spanish Will had surprised her by buying her ale. But she hadn’t bought herself anything. She found she desperately wanted to take away a bit of this day with her, to keep and remember. Having the excuse of needing something made it less frivolous. She always needed herbs for her stores.

  “Some Good King Henry too…” she said, thinking hard. “I could use more wild clary, some syrup of hart’s tongue—all with labels, if you please. And some elderflowers. Oh yes! A bottle of elderflowers with a label on it would be charming. I’ll display it on a shelf. Why, you ought to try that, Mr. Abernathy. It might lure customers, you know, if you presented your wares already packaged.”

  “And if they didn’t sell? Huh. Job of work soaking the labels off, for who’d want to buy something from a Frost Fair in May or June, I ask you? It would look stale. Not that it matters with most herbs, mind, but folks like fresh in everything.”

  “What would you recommend for a puppy?” Maggie asked quickly, to forestall more grumbling. “Because we have one now. Maybe some arssmart to strew in her basket to keep off fleas?”

  He packed her bottles and did up her papers, and sold her three other herbs and a bottle of dried bilberries besides. Maggie was glowing as he walked her to the entrance of his tent. She couldn’t wait to take her bounty back to her companions outside.

  “Ah, good,” Lucian said, smiling when he saw how big a parcel the apothecary handed her, “now I can throw myself in front of carriages all winter.”

  Spanish Will took the package from her without a word, and Lucian offered his arm again. The light was going, now torches began to flare on every ice street. The tide of people was changing too. Both the gentry and the lowest classes were arriving in greater numbers. Servants, clerks, merchants and common men and women of all types were hurrying home to eat dinner and go to bed so they could be at work the next day. Ladies, gentlemen and criminals didn’t worry about such things as late nights or early mornings.

  The trio began to stroll toward the heart of the Fair, Maggie on the viscount’s arm, the runner walking slightly apart, his eyes watching everywhere. Then Maggie gasped. One moment the runner was there, in the next he’d whirled around and gone sprinting back down an aisle toward the end of the Fair again. Lucian grabbed her hand, stopping her as she tried to follow.

  “You can only make him more work by following,” he said sternly. “Because then he’ll have you to look after too. Wait here.”

  “So you can go? I think not!”

  He paused. “I’d forgot who I was dealing with. Come along then, but stand behind me.”

  “You can’t take on a fight now,” she said indignantly. “Not after how you’ve been hurt.”

  “My pistol was not,” he said, gesturing with the weapon he’d taken from inside his coat.

  But he didn’t need any weapon. They turned down the aisle to see Will standing in front of the apothecary’s tent again, talking closely with a pale, willowy gentleman. At first, they thought the pair were only chatting—until they saw the runner had the gentleman’s arm locked tight behind his back.

  “God!” the gentleman said as he saw them drawing close, closing his eyes, his pale face growing whiter until his scant mustache provided the only color in it. “It needed only this! I tell you I was only watching to see what you were doing.”

  “Then why did you run?” Will asked harshly.

  “Because I was embarrassed. Good God man, I am not the sort to skulk. It’s only that I know you suspect me of God knows what, and when I saw you here, behind me, I thought you were following me, and doubled back to see. Why did you chase me?”

  “I chase whatever runs, like any good hunting dog,” Will said grimly. “If you were only visiting the Fair, why are you out of uniform, then, eh?”

  Maggie’s hand flew to her lips. Lady Lousia
’s Lieutenant Pascal! She’d never have known him—his uniform more than made him, it defined him.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m not. I’ve just put on this coat. I borrowed it from a friend. I could hardly follow you in a scarlet coat, against all this snow. You’ve as much as accused me of murder!” he said a little wildly. “I had to do something!”

  “How long have you been following me?” Will asked, releasing the man’s arm. “I mean, apart from the past hour? I’ve been watching you from the corner of my eye since then. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, at first. But you kept up the game too long.”

  The lieutenant rubbed his arm, and looked down at his boots. “It’s as I said. I thought you were following me.” He looked up at Maggie and Lucian. “Mrs. Preston. My lord Maldon… I don’t know what you’re doing here, nor am I spying on you, I promise. But please… Pray do not tell Louisa… Damme! But there has to be an end to this,” he muttered. “Nevermind,” he said, holding his head high. “I shall tell her myself. Unless, of course, Mr. Corby has decided to detain me.”

  “No,” Will said, “but follow me again, and you’ll follow me to Bow Street, Sir. That, I can promise you.”

  They watched the shaken lieutenant bow, and then walk off into the crowd.

  “Do you believe him?” Lucian asked.

  “It don’t matter,” Will said. “Now I’ve bubbled him, he’ll be in sight, for a while, at least. It gives me time to discover more about him. Come along, we’ve got to get Mrs. P. back to her chicks, or they’ll freeze solid in place waiting for her.”

  But they were stopped before they went three more steps. “Maldon!” a voice called.

  Lucian turned. His brother was trotting up to him as fast as he could on the uneven ice. “You never said you were going to the Fair,” he panted as he came close. “Surely it’s too soon for you to be out?” But though he spoke to his brother, his eyes were on Maggie. Then he saw Spanish Will. “Mr. Corby,” Arthur said excitedly. “Are you looking for anyone here? Never say!” He looked around. “At an apothecary’s tent? But I don’t understand. Maldon told me about your new theory. I thought you were looking for a—ahm…” he hesitated, glancing at Maggie, “woman of ill repute?”