by Roz Southey
I was speechless.
“I trust I make myself clear,” she said, and walked out.
Just before dinner, while I was still fuming over Mrs Alyson’s rudeness (and her curt dismissal of my friends), I received another letter from Hugh.
Things go from bad to worse, he had written. Bedwalters still refuses to budge and is now saying he intends to live there permanently. He’s offered Mrs McDonald twice the rent she asked, so she merely shrugs her shoulders and says: Why not? She says it will be useful to her to have a man living on the premises – he can deal with any customers who make trouble. But Mrs Bedwalters has gone to the parish officers to demand they dismiss her husband from his post as constable. The chaplain went down to talk to him and is now saying he’s mad. They’ve done nothing yet, but I fear he’ll be dismissed the moment they can have a meeting. For God’s sake, Charles why have you not replied to my first letter? Come back and talk some sense into everyone!
I stared at this missive in bewilderment. Why did he say I’d not replied? He should have got my letter hours ago – late last night.
I went in search of the servant to whom I’d entrusted my letter to Hugh. He was nowhere to be seen. The footman on duty in the hall was six and a half feet tall, as handsome as any girl could wish, and remarkably simple. After explaining my problem to him three times, I began to suspect his simplicity might be deliberate.
Fortunately, just as I was having difficulty containing my annoyance, the butler arrived. He dismissed the footman with a nod and enquired with extreme politeness how he might help me. I would have been more mollified if I hadn’t seen the footman go off with a huge grin.
I gritted my teeth in an effort to be civil. “Crompton, is it not?”
He was a few inches taller than myself, a man in his late forties, with a well-muscled body under the fine cloth of his livery. His wig was neat and well-kept. “Indeed, sir.”
“I gave a servant a note to send off for me yesterday and it doesn’t appear to have arrived.”
I expected him to give me some emollient platitudes but I saw something unexpected in his eyes – a sudden stillness. “To whom did you entrust the note, sir?”
I described the footman. I saw his jaw set hard. “I will – ” the slightest of hesitations – “deal with the matter, sir. I suggest that if you wish to send another letter you give it directly to myself.”
The footman, I thought, would regret his decision to pocket my money and ignore my orders.
“Thank you.”
“And – ”
I was turning away but hesitated. “Yes?”
“I apologise, sir,” he said, “for the misunderstanding when you arrived.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. The butler went silently out of the hall and I was left wondering why on earth he should voluntarily have raised a matter so embarrassing to himself.
Before dinner, in the drawing room, Alyson was in high good spirits, extolling the virtues of horse-riding in fine country. William Ridley was telling everyone who’d listen to him, and everyone who didn’t want to, about the iniquities of a neighbouring landowner who insisted on claiming woodland that belonged to other people. Heron came in as quietly as usual; Esther, I noted, seemed tired and worn. I accidentally caught her eye; she looked away.
I didn’t meet the Ords until we sat round the dinner table, and then I was shocked at the change I saw in Lizzie. I’d not seen her since the day before her marriage, when she’d prettily thanked me for all my teaching and presented me with a hand-made pair of slippers. She’d been a girl then, sixteen years old, with artfully naïve dark ringlets and a fresh open look about her.
The woman who sat opposite me seemed ten years older. Her hair was dressed too elaborately for one so young; her cheeks were rouged too heavily. Her dress aged her too; it was very fine and expensive no doubt, but the low neckline showed off her immature breasts too cruelly, and the heavy fall of material at the back seemed to drag her down.
She looked dully at me, as if she hardly recognised me.
Her husband did not look at me at all.
Casper Fischer, beside me, was as full of his family history as ever and glad of a new audience. Lizzie Saint, now Lizzie Ord, picked at her food listlessly without comment but Philip Ord was bored by the talk of sword makers and tanneries and not afraid to show it – he was barely polite. A man of thirty-three or so, he plainly wanted to be talking politics with a gentleman across the table; Fischer, catching on quickly, was happy to join in but his Colonial view of the matter was not welcome, and he wanted a deeper discussion than the languid complaints about government and trade that the other two gentleman favoured.
“My view, sir,” he said, with incautious directness, “is that Mr Walpole is going about the matter in an entirely incorrect fashion – ”
“What the devil do you mean by that!” Ord demanded, red with anger.
One of the singing ladies said loudly, “Mr Patterson, I hear Mr Handel has a new opera. Have you heard it?”
“Handel always has a new opera,” Heron said dryly, “and all the plots are equally nonsensical.”
“But some of the music is extremely beautiful,” the lady protested.
I launched into an explanation of the first opera that came to mind and the singing ladies laughed and joked over the antics of Handel’s leading actresses, and retailed the latest scandals. A few sly remarks were made about castrati singers, and their attributes, or lack of them. Under cover of the merrymaking, I leant towards Fischer. “I’m afraid you hit on a sore topic.”
He regarded me wryly. “Is that a tactful way of suggesting I should not talk politics, Mr Patterson? Shall I talk about my book after all?”
“A book?” said the musical lady. “I like a good book.”
Fischer, casting me a humorous look as if to say he was doing his best to be unexceptional, obliged with a description of his inheritance, explaining about the psalm tunes his grandfather had collected. This led to much condemnation of the tunes currently in use – too slow, too old-fashioned. “Why should church music be so dull?” one of the ladies asked.
“I think I’ve seen the book,” Lizzie Ord said.
9
I have to say there are some pleasant buildings. The bridges are particularly fine – there is one over the Tyne which pleases me greatly, with houses and shops on it.
[Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his wife, Régine, 16 June 1736]
All eyes turned to Lizzie. She flushed. It was the first time she’d spoken and I fancied I saw a mixture of fear and determination in her eyes. She was the youngest here by far and must feel very out of place, particularly as she’d not been brought up in this world. Lizzie Ord was the daughter of a printer, and her father’s money was even now sustaining the finances of her gentlemanly, but cash-strapped, husband.
“It had a black cloth cover,” Lizzie said. “Very dilapidated and worn – the spine had almost come away and was hanging by a thread. The sewing of the folios was giving way too.”
I tried to catch her eye. Lizzie, if she was not careful, was about to show she knew more than a lady should about trade.
“There was an inscription in German on the flypaper,” she said. “At least, Papa said it was in German. He read it out to me though I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it. But I do remember it mentioned Shotley Bridge because I at once thought of the German swordmakers there.”
“And when was this?” Fischer asked.
Lizzie was sounding more confident now; she even managed a little smile. “About two years ago. Someone brought it in to show Papa. He said he wanted it rebound and he even asked if Papa would print it. But when Papa told him how much it would cost, he said it was much too expensive. Music printing is, you know – it’s all the copper and the engraving –”
I broke in quickly to avoid unladylike talk of money. “Did you recognise any of the tunes? Were they all English or had some been brought over from Germany?”
“I ha
rdly think anyone is interested in such matters,” Philip Ord said in a bored voice.
A silence. Ord’s reaction was hardly grateful, considering I’d been intent on rescuing his wife from a social error. At the other end of the table, Esther said, “I have long thought that more attention should be paid to the history of music. After all, we embrace the lessons of ancient Rome and Greece when it comes to architecture and art – why should we so neglect the history of music?”
“Indeed,” Heron agreed urbanely. “I am told there was much excellent church music composed even as long as two centuries ago.”
“But it must sound so old-fashioned!” declared one of the musical ladies. And so the awkward moment was smoothed over; conversation picked up again in a lively manner, with William Ridley grumbling that he’d no taste for Romish music, and Alyson musing on the likelihood that it had been sung in foreign languages.
I retreated to the drawing room almost as soon as dinner was finished. Fischer had been ready for a cosy chat but I could not endure Ord’s cold stare any longer. Besides, I hoped for a conversation with Lizzie, partly to wish her well, partly to ask for more details about the book.
The ladies were apathetic when I arrived in the drawing room. Lizzie Ord was sitting dully beside her silent hostess and a sleepy elderly matron; there was plainly no prospect of talking to her at present. I retreated to the harpsichord. My mind reverted inevitably to Nell and Bedwalters who would have been so out of place in this company. Why should Philip Ord’s own loveless marriage be considered acceptable, and Nell and Bedwalters’s relationship contemptible?
Someone moved close to me. I knew at once who it was by the faint scent of roses. Esther. She held two dishes of tea, put one directly into my hands, and shook her head as I attempted to rise politely. My heart was beating ridiculously quickly. She said loudly, “Do you have any Scarlatti, Mr Patterson?”
I have endless Scarlatti sonatas off by heart but I pretended to look among the music piled on the top of the harpsichord. Esther idled around the instrument until she stood with her back to the rest of the company. “Ord has not forgiven you yet, I see,” she said.
I met her cool gaze. She knows all about my previous encounter with Ord; I told her about it when we were in good charity with each other. The best of charity. When I was still entertaining foolish romantic notions.
I nodded. “He’s not a man who likes being obliged to others.”
“He was not here last night, however,” she mused. “I cannot conceive he would carry enmity so far as to attack you.”
“You heard – ” I stopped, remembering her brief visit to the drawing room that morning. Had that been to make sure I was unharmed? No, I must not let my imagination stray too far...
“Of course I heard,” she said acerbically. “The entire servants’ hall knew within minutes. My maid Catherine told me about it when I woke.”
“The general opinion is that it was poachers,” I murmured.
“Nonsense!”
I sipped tea. Esther pretended to leaf through the music on top of the harpsichord. We both tried not to look at each other.
“You were not badly injured?” she said after a moment.
“It was little more than a scratch.”
“Do you think he meant to kill you?” Her tone was carefully casual.
I shook my head. “He could have put a knife in my back and I’d never have had a chance.”
She seemed to grip the tea dish more tightly. “Then he wanted to frighten you.”
“Apparently.”
“He believes you endanger him.” She cast a glance at the other ladies, picked up a piece of music at random and handed it to me. It was a Corelli violin sonata. “Are you investigating anything other than this matter of the constable’s girl?”
“No. And I know nothing much of that!”
I covertly studied Esther as I pretended to look at the music. I could hardly believe that, given the acrimony of our last meeting, she had again voluntarily approached me, that we were talking in so civilised a manner. Could it mean that she’d at last given up hopes of persuading me to marry her and accepted the inevitable? Or perhaps it was the opposite; she still hoped to convert me to her way of thinking...
Absurd how happy I felt at the thought that I’d not alienated her irrevocably. Any alliance between us was unthinkable. I had to make that clear.
My voice stuck in my throat. Our gazes met...
The drawing room door opened and Edward Alyson sauntered in with the other gentlemen, full of drink and good humour. I saw his gaze go straight to his wife, sitting by the unlit fire. A smile curved his lips, she sat up, eyes shining...
“She is a clergyman’s daughter,” Esther said dryly. “An unequal marriage. Like the Ords.” She didn’t trouble to lower her voice; I glanced round uneasily to see if anyone was listening. “But apparently it is acceptable when it is the lady who is elevated by the alliance.”
One of the gentlemen started telling a long and involved story about a carriage accident, which had the entire room in gusts of laughter, engrossed in the tale. Esther leant forward.
“Take care, Charles,” she said urgently. “The man was thwarted in his last attack – he may decide to try again. And I could not bear it if anything happened to you.”
Before I could gather my wits to reply, she walked away.
Alyson was all excitement when I asked him if I could return to town the following day.
“To see the girl’s spirit? To ask who killed her?” His eyes lit up with pleasure. “You might catch the fellow. Catch a murderer! How exciting!”
“He’s probably left town already,” I said. We were standing in the hall, out of the way of the noisy party who had taken to trying to better each other with accounts of perils suffered; there were tales of shipwreck, highwaymen and pirates. Most of the tales were fuelled by drink and Alyson had been encouraging the worst excesses of exaggeration. But now he’d been captured by something more exciting. His enthusiasm made him seem like a boy – I felt abruptly a decade older than him, rather than a mere three years.
“A man with that kind of audacity will never run!” Alyson said. “He’ll brazen it out. He’s probably going about his everyday business with no one the wiser. And the spirit will give you his name!”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Or at least tell you what he looks like!”
“I really don’t think – ”
“I’ve half a mind to come with you!” he said. His face lit up. “Damn it, I will.”
I was desperately searching for a way to dissuade him when Ridley came out of the drawing room. “Go, Alyson? Go where?”
“To Newcastle.” Alyson grinned. “Hunting for a murderer.”
“Tomorrow? You can’t.”
Alyson’s face darkened. He was plainly not accustomed to being told what he could or could not do.
Ridley didn’t seem to notice. “Lawyer’s coming back, remember? So we can sort out the details of the court case.”
Alyson grimaced. “We’ll put him off a day or two.”
“Can’t,” Ridley said. “He goes back to London on Saturday.”
He went off in the best of good humour, leaving Alyson mouthing silent oaths. I hovered awkwardly; I didn’t yet have Alyson’s explicit permission to be absent the next day. He gave me a sour look.
“You’re not put off by last night’s attack?”
“No,” I said. “And I owe my friends my attendance at this sad time.”
“Of course, of course.” He sighed. “If you must.”
I hesitated. “I may be back rather late. Nell’s spirit will probably not disembody until the evening.”
“As long as you’re here the following morning. He gave a faint smile. “And I shall look forward to hearing all about your trip. Damn it, I wish I could come!”
I rode into Newcastle on an overcast day seeping a warm drizzle, astride a borrowed horse that Edward Alyson’s grooms had assured me
was well-trained and placid. I gathered Alyson had told them my riding ability was limited; it was not, and the gelding, thank goodness, had more energy than the grooms had suggested.
I’d set off before any of the other guests were up, so I could spend as much of the day as possible in town – there were several things I wanted to do in addition to talking to Bedwalters, and to Nell’s spirit. It was an unexpectedly pleasant trip: a well-bred expensive horse under me, a greatcoat protecting me against the worst of the drizzle and no need to go anything beyond a steady canter. The farming people were all up, and looked as if they’d been working for hours.
I came to Barras Bridge at last and turned down Northumberland Street, past the stylish houses and gardens of the wealthy. Past Heron’s house, one of the oldest on the street. Cutting across town, I reached the stables on Westgate, paid the men there to look after the horse for a day and walked down to Hugh’s dancing school.
We met on the stairs to his attic room as I went up and he came down; he stared at me then came clattering down in a rush.
“Where the devil have you been? Why didn’t you reply to me?”
“I did,” I said wearily.
“The devil you did!”
“One of the servants pocketed my money and didn’t bother to send the letter.”
Hugh glared. “The fellow ought to be turned off!”
“I fancy that’s the fate the butler has in store for him.”
Hugh squinted at me. He grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the street door where the light was better.
“I thought so,” he said. “You’ve been getting yourself in trouble again. What’s happened?”