by Tessa Harris
She flushed. “Of course, sir.”
“Then should I not sanction the dismissal of staff?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Where has she gone?” asked Charles, his anger mounting.
“Back to her parents, I suspect, in St. Giles,” she replied, not daring to look up at the giant.
“Then you must send word that she is to return here,” the count instructed.
“But, sir . . .” Mistress Goodbody began, but Charles Byrne had heard enough and stormed out of the room, brushing past the housekeeper as he did so, causing her to step backward. She opened her mouth to protest, but the count gave her short shrift.
“Do you not realize that that girl was the only person who could make him smile?” The count rarely showed his anger, but on this occasion he was truly riled. “She gave him hope.”
“But I caught them . . .”
The count waved his small hand dismissively in the air. “Everyone is entitled to a little happiness in their lives. I want the girl found, and quickly.”
John Hunter sat surrounded by his creatures captured in their glass jars and floating in preserving fluid and mused on the nature of the human brain. His candle was burning low, but he was too occupied to think of lighting another one just yet. He was contemplating the spongy gray tissue that lay in the dish before him, like some coral found in warm seas. The brain in question had once been housed in the cranium of his friend, the botanist Daniel Solander. At the postmortem he had found two ounces of coagulated blood in the right ventricle. He had not asked Solander if he could keep his brain, but he was an enlightened young man and would probably have agreed. Either way, his untimely demise had reinforced his own theory about apoplexy, and that could only be for the common good, he told himself. A knock at his laboratory door interrupted his train of thought and he rose and looked through the grille. Howison usually vetted his visitors at this time of night, as they were more often than not of the unsavory variety.
Straining his eyes in the darkness, he could see the scarred and battered face that was so familiar to him.
“Och, Crouch,” he greeted, opening the door only slightly ajar and making sure their encounter was not witnessed. “Come in, man.”
The ruffian took off his hat and strode in carrying a small bundle.
“So, you have something for me?” Hunter went over to his workbench and Crouch followed, laying the stinking rags down. They were streaked with dried blood. Taking a scalpel, the anatomist cut the string that held the frayed kersey bands together.
“Stillborn?” he said, lifting the child out of its filthy cocoon.
“Aye.”
“A boy,” he said, lifting the tiny body up to inspect its genitals. “I’ll give you a shilling for it.”
The ruffian’s face dropped. “ ’Tis worth two,” he protested, but Hunter was not to be deterred.
“I heard you were detained at His Majesty’s pleasure overnight at Newgate Prison,” he said, his tongue as caustic as acid.
Crouch could not deny it. “Nicking from a stiff in the street.” He tried to laugh off his misdemeanor, but the anatomist was clearly not amused.
He shook his head. “You must not let your petty thievery jeopardize my work, Mr. Crouch,” he warned. “Nor your whoring.”
“Whoring?”
“I heard you’ve taken up with a French tart in Haymarket. Don’t lose your edge, Mr. Crouch.”
“It won’t happen again, Dr. Hunter, sir,” said the ruffian, suddenly changing his tune.
“Och!” The anatomist gathered an odd laugh. “You make sure it doesn’t.” There was a smile on his lips, but his scalpel was still clasped in his hand and he added: “Or there’ll be more than one scar on that ugly face of yours.”
The grave robber licked his dry lips. “I see your meaning, Dr. Hunter.”
The anatomist put down the scalpel. “Good. Now we understand each other, let’s talk about another wee job I’d like you to do for me, shall we? There’s a doctor from the Colonies who needs to be taught a lesson.”
Chapter 27
Francois Dubois studied the pitted face of his most famous client in the looking glass as he mixed his shaving paste. Joseph Haydn sat in the chair. It was evident to the barber’s trained eye that his right cheek was decidedly larger than his left and his nose was inflamed. The illustrious composer had already undergone surgery to remove the painful polyps, but they had reoccurred with a vengeance and on that particular morning were giving him much grief.
“You are ze only barber I trust wiz my poor, swollen visage,” he pronounced as the Frenchman draped a hot, moist towel over his jowls.
Dubois smiled graciously. “I am honored, sir,” he replied, but all the time he was thinking about how he would remove the troublesome growths. If he could only persuade Herr Haydn that he could tie a thread around the base of the growth and ligature it for several days until the offending polypus fell out of the nose. But he was a mere barber. Such chirurgical procedures were no longer allowed, not since the barbers and surgeons were forced to go their separate ways and barbers were relegated to mere mechanics, without art or intelligence. But soon, if all went to plan . . .
“Go steady. Go steady,” warned Haydn as Dubois began to lather, his brush nudging against the swollen areas. The barber nodded, but he did not smile. He was mourning his lost profession. What satisfaction he would gain to be able to rid Herr Haydn of those irksome nodules that so interfered with the compositions of his wonderful symphonies and librettos. Nowadays he was reduced to merely shaving those who could afford his services, but hopefully not for too much longer. He took his razor, and brandishing it like a conductor’s baton, he got to work on Herr Haydn’s face, sweeping and arcing and swishing with alacrity, until his cheeks and chin were as smooth as the buttocks of a babe.
“Excellent,” pronounced Haydn as he examined his clean-shaven face in the mirror.
Dubois studied his own craftsmanship and gave a self-satisfied nod. “I am glad to be of service, sir,” he said as his client handed over the appropriate monies.
Jean-Paul had just been called upon to fetch the customer’s frock coat when the bell over the door rang and in walked a familiar face.
The composer eyed Giles Carrington as he approached. The student also recognized him. “Herr Haydn, good day to you,” he greeted him, bowing low.
The Austrian looked at him slightly suspiciously, as if trying to place the young man.
“Giles Carrington, at your service, sir. I work for Dr. Hunter,” he said.
Haydn snapped his fingers. “Ah yes, I remember now,” he said, nodding. “You came to my aid ze ozer night.” The composer turned to Dubois. “Zere was a misunderstanding about my nose,” he told him. “Mr. Carrington here helped me escape Dr. Hunter’s scalpel!” He was smiling as he recounted the episode, even though at the time it was clear to the student he had found it far from amusing. “My thanks to you once more, sir,” he said as he was helped into his coat and left the shop.
Dubois smiled at Giles Carrington. “And how can I help you today, sir?” he asked as Jean-Paul looked on. The barber gestured to the boy to leave.
“I wish to buy one of your pomades,” Carrington told him, sidling up to the counter.
Dubois nodded. “I have just the thing for you, sir,” he said, bending low and emerging with a tall box. “I think sir will find this a most interesting scent.” He opened the lid and Carrington peered inside.
“Indeed. I will take it,” he instructed, and delving into his pocket, he brought out a fifty-pound bank note. “For your pains,” he said to Dubois. And the Frenchman grinned from ear to ear.
Charles’s day in the cane shop seemed to him even more arduous than usual. He was tired and in a poor humor, and even the smile that he had managed to cultivate over the past few days at the behest of the count seemed to have deserted him. “They will pay even more if you are congenial,” the little man had advised. Smiling had come more easily t
o him before. All he had to do was ignore the curious hordes that paid to stare at him and think of Emily, waiting back in Cockspur Street, waiting with his slippers and his gin and her sweet look. Now that she was gone, there was nothing for him to smile about.
He sat down, letting the chair take his weight, to the enormous disappointment of those further back in the queue. Pulling out his kerchief from his pocket, he wiped the spittle from his chin. The count had also advised him to close his mouth when he was on show, but the size of his tongue made it difficult for him and the saliva collected quickly.
Surveying the crowd from his raised dais, he managed to nod now and again by way of greeting. Few nodded in return, rarely meeting his gaze. They were more interested in his physique than in his persona, regarding him more like a circus creature than a human being. Yet there was one man he saw, toward the end of the afternoon’s queue, who seemed to engage with him more, to look him in the eye. No, stare, more than just look. But he did not fix upon his long legs, nor his massive shoulders, nor his mighty torso, but upon his eyes.
As he drew closer, Charles could see that he did not appear like the other spectators. He was not dressed finely. He did not even wear a wig. His complexion was swarthy and his dark hair was matted.
“I am come from Dr. Hunter,” mumbled the stranger in a coarse whisper when he finally came level with the giant. “My master would like to see you again this evening. There will be a carriage waiting for you outside. You are to come alone and tell no one.”
Charles was puzzled. “Why does he want to see me?”
The messenger looked warily around as the party behind him grew more agitated. “My master says he has a cure for your ills.”
Charles’s eyes opened wide in surprise. Dr. Hunter could cure him of his bloody cough, of his fever, of the surges of tiredness? “I will come,” he assured him, and the man disappeared from view, leaving the giant with a smile on his face for the first time that day.
Emily O’Shea did not receive a warm welcome when she arrived home. She had picked her way through the potholes and animal entrails that littered the streets to the dwelling in St. Giles-in-the-Fields back into the bosom of her family, only to be shunned by her own father, and for good reason.
“And how are we expected to feed another mouth?” he shouted above the din of her screaming baby brother.
“I will find another place,” she told him.
“Without good words from the housekeeper? That’s rich,” butted in her mother, who was trying to hush the child.
In a cot in the corner of the dingy room, Grandmother Tooley stirred.
“Emily. Emily, is that you?” she croaked.
The girl walked over to her. The old soothsayer seemed even more fragile than when she had last seen her. Her wiry gray hair had grown, making her face shrink into its silvery tangle, but she was now wide awake.
“Yes, ’tis me, Gran,” said Emily, taking her cold hand.
The old crone’s rheumy eyes were alert. “Did you see him?” she asked eagerly. “The tall man, did you see him?”
“Will ya shut up, you mad cow?” shouted O’Shea, taking off a boot and throwing it at her cot. It struck the corner, causing the old woman, and Emily, to flinch.
“Well?” said her mother, ignoring her husband and walking over to the old woman. “ ’Tis true there’s a giant in town, is it not?”
Emily nodded slowly. “Yes, ’tis so.”
“You see. I told you Ma was a prophet,” shouted her mother to O’Shea, a smug look settling on her thin face. He simply shook his head and swigged from his bottle.
“Bullshit,” he cursed.
“So have you seen him?” pressed her mother. “I’ve heard tell he lights his pipe from the street lamp.”
“Yes, I have seen him, Mother,” replied Emily coyly.
“So,” her mother sidled up to her and nudged her suggestively, “is he as big as they say?”
Emily nodded. “Yes, he is as tall as a haystack.”
“And handsome?”
Emily thought for a moment. “He has a good face.”
“I heard tell he scowls and spits and slobbers. Is that so?”
Before she could answer, O’Shea began to kick the bundle of belongings on the floor that she had brought with her from Cockspur Street. He was totally disinterested in the women’s talk, but eager to see what his daughter had managed to pilfer from her erstwhile employer.
“What did ya manage to get, then?”
“There’s only a change of clothes in there,” she told him as he tugged at the string around the packet. He pulled out a dress, a cap, and a hairbrush and flung them all down in disgust. Finally there came a woolen shawl and from out of its coarse fibers fell a small tobacco tin. O’Shea seized on it.
Holding it up to the single candle that burned in the room, he opened the lid. “I could do with a smoke,” he said. But instead of strands of aromatic tobacco, he found hair—thick locks of black hair held together with a thin blue ribbon.
“What be the meaning of this?” he cried indignantly, as if feeling cheated of a smoke.
Emily looked away, feeling the color rise in her usually pallid cheeks.
Her mother walked over to take a look. “ ’Tis not your hair, and that’s for sure.”
O’Shea eyed his daughter suspiciously. “You got a sweetheart, han’t ya?”
“No, sir,” she snapped. But her eager denial betrayed her, to her mother, at least, who raised a skeptical eyebrow.
O’Shea sneered and threw the tin across the room so that the hair flew out on the floor and landed near Grandmother Tooley’s cot. The old woman’s head turned when she heard the commotion. Emily rushed to retrieve the locks from among the dirty rushes, but as she did so, her grandmother stilled her hand and opened her fingers. Her watery gaze settled on the strands of thick black hair, and their eyes met. Emily knew her secret was out.
The staff at Boughton Hall were in a subdued mood that evening as they sat around the table belowstairs. Their mistress was causing them great anxiety. Shortly after Sir Montagu’s visit, Lady Lydia had retired to her bedchamber. Even Eliza, her own maid, was not allowed to attend to her.
The following morning a messenger came from London with a letter from Dr. Silkstone. It was delivered to her ladyship in her room, but she had not reappeared since. That was two days ago. Eliza had heard her mistress’s sobs, and trays of food had not been touched, but nothing could tempt her from her bed.
“I wonder what Sir Montagu said that so vexed her,” ventured Hannah Lovelock.
“That man’s enough to vex anyone,” jibed her husband Jacob. “He spreads trouble wherever he goes. ’E was the one who caused a lot of that business with the captain, remember? And now he’s got it in for her ladyship.” He ripped into a hunk of bread and began eating it.
“I reckon ’twas to do with her marrying again,” said Eliza knowledgeably.
Hannah and the other maids leaned forward on the table.
“ ’Tis almost a year,” mused Mistress Claddingbowl, setting down a large pot of stew.
“And that letter yesterday, from Dr. Silkstone,” said Hannah.
“Where is he? He should be here, looking after her,” said Eliza, almost indignantly.
“They make a fine couple,” said Mistress Claddingbowl.
“To you and me they do, but the doctor is not of the right rank,” said Eliza.
“And he’s a colonist,” said Hannah, adding: “Maybe they can elope, like she did before with the captain.”
“Sir Montagu has other plans,” countered Eliza, taking out a piece of paper from her apron pocket. Unfolding it underneath the kitchen table so that only Hannah could see, she revealed the list of suitors that Malthus deemed suitable.
“This is what he showed her,” she whispered. “ ’Tis a list of husbands for her.”
“Bless my soul,” gasped Mistress Claddingbowl, seeing the script. “But that is not for your eyes, my girl!”
Undeterred, Eliza read out some names: “Lord Wedmore, the Right Honorable Rupert Marchant. All gentlemen of noble rank,” she said, waving the piece of paper flirtatiously.
Jacob served himself with a large ladleful of stew. “Aye. Her ladyship needs help. ’Tis not a time for talk. We need action.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hannah, frowning.
“Jacob is right. Her ladyship is sick. Talk of wedding again is making her ill. ’Tis clear to me she needs to see Dr. Silkstone,” said Eliza.
The women nodded thoughtfully.
“But how to get word to him?” asked Hannah.
“What’s this?” Howard walked in and saw the huddle, detecting gossip. He would have none of it. He strode over to where the women and Lovelock were sitting at one end of the long table. “You know I do not allow tittle-tattle about her ladyship.”
Eliza, always bold, lifted her face to the butler, and stood up. “We are all concerned, sir, about her ladyship,” she told him. A chorus of accord rippled around the table. Such an outburst clearly shocked Howard. He had never, in all his forty years of service, come across such rank insubordination, and yet perhaps the staff were correct to express concern.
“We are afraid that her ladyship might . . . ,” began Hannah.
“Might be ill,” Eliza finished the sentence for her, even though it was not what Hannah nor any of the others were thinking. None of them dared say the fears that they harbored for their mistress.
“Her ladyship has not requested to see Dr. Fairweather,” he said, stiffening his back.
“ ’Tis not Dr. Fairweather she needs to see,” blurted Eliza. “ ’Tis Dr. Silkstone.”
“How dare you say such things, Eliza!” Howard was bristling with anger.
Mistress Firebrace had followed the butler and witnessed the gist of the conversation. “Really, Eliza. That is enough. It is not your place, nor anyone else’s here, to pry into the affairs of the mistress,” she scolded. But Eliza stood her ground.
“My mistress is not in her right mind at the moment. What if she does something to harm herself?”