by Roz Southey
I was going downstairs to the breakfast room when George slid down the banister. I snatched my hand away as the cold spirit skimmed past.
‘She didn’t come in till dawn, master!’
I sighed. ‘George—’
‘She’s a nasty girl! She’s rude to me!’
I warmed to Kate. ‘Well, of course, she shouldn’t—’
‘Ask her what she was doing, master!’ George’s tone said he thought he knew exactly what Kate had been doing. ‘She came in even later than you did! And that was really late!’ he added snidely. ‘Were you having fun, master? I thought you weren’t supposed to do that after you were married.’
I was rigid with fury. Commenting on Kate’s movements was bad enough; criticizing mine was intolerable. ‘George—’
The spirit started to speak again but at that moment Tom appeared from the back of the house, looking determined. He interrupted the spirit ruthlessly, raising his voice to do so. ‘Will you be requiring breakfast, sir?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll eat out.’ And I walked out of the house, ignoring the calls of the spirit behind me.
Claudius Heron waved to me from the far side of the busy coffee house. He signalled for more wine as I dropped into the chair opposite him, feeling a little dishevelled from the brisk breeze that had sprung up. The bruise Ridley had inflicted was livid in black and yellow on Heron’s cheek; he looked piratical. ‘I hear there was a robbery at the Fleece last night,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Nightingale’s watch is missing.’
‘And Ridley was seen outside.’
How the devil did he know that? Charlotte brought the wine, winked at me and took herself off to deal with an elderly gentleman. ‘He made sure he was seen. He approached a group of sailors and drew himself to their attention. Is the tale the talk of the town?’
‘The spirits know it, certainly.’
I contemplated this; was that Ridley’s doing too?
Heron poured me wine. ‘He is a young man who likes to provoke others.’
‘He’s very talented at it.’
‘But why should he take Nightingale’s watch? Why not make another attempt on his life?’
‘Perhaps he merely wanted a souvenir,’ I said flippantly.
Heron acknowledged this pleasantry with the slightest of smiles, and nodded to a passing acquaintance. ‘I have just had a message from Jenison. I think he was hoping to see you.’
By which I suspected he meant Jenison had demanded my presence. I sighed. ‘I was hoping to visit a few more possible subscribers to the concerts.’
‘Naturally,’ Heron said lazily. ‘It is, after all, one of your favourite occupations.’
I made a face.
After I’d eaten, we walked up together to the Jenisons’ house on Northumberland Street. The breeze was hustling fleecy clouds across the blue sky. Heron was anxious that I start his son’s harpsichord lessons again after the summer break; I dutifully agreed, though the son is not as eager, or as musical, as the father. He’d also heard of a young female, as he put it, who sang tolerably well at Bath earlier in the year and passed her name on to me as a potential replacement for Nightingale. His quiet conversation soothed me, particularly in contrast to George; by the time we reached the Jenisons’ I was feeling reasonably human again. Until he asked if we – he used the plural, meaning both myself and Esther – had sorted out the estate business with Armstrong. I said, curbing my annoyance, that the matter was in progress.
The Jenisons were all in the drawing room. Jenison looked out of place in so feminine a room and was rustling a newspaper loudly to assert himself. Mrs Jenison, still looking tired, held a book of sermons, which is the usual resort of women when they want to indulge their own thoughts without interruption; Mrs Annabella, who was rather more lively, had a piece of embroidery spread across her lap and was trying to match silks. As we were announced, I heard her say, ‘. . . do you think this rose is too dark?’
They looked up, and Jenison pushed himself to his feet. Mrs Annabella said, ‘Oh!’ and put her hand to her breast, looking suddenly stricken. Esther was right – she did like an audience. Mrs Jenison turned a dulled weary look on us.
We sat down and I explained what had happened while Mrs Jenison asked the footman to bring refreshments.
‘His watch?’ Jenison echoed. ‘Then it was a common thief.’
‘Apparently,’ Heron said.
‘How dreadful,’ Mrs Jenison said automatically. She was holding the book tightly, as if the pain was welcome.
‘The curtains of the room were not drawn properly,’ I said. ‘He probably looked in from the alley and saw the watch on the table.’
‘But how did he know which room to go to?’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Mrs Annabella said, ‘the place is a warren. Do you remember last year, Robert, when we came back from London and we were going to breakfast there and took quite a wrong turn?’
She put her hand down again and hunted amongst the silks, pulling out a bright purple. A pair of small embroidery scissors clattered to the floor; she stooped to pick them up. ‘I really can’t find the right colour for your embroidery, my dear. Not if you wish to match the roses you did before.’ She glanced at Mrs Jenison, who was absorbed in her own thoughts again and didn’t appear to hear her. Mrs Annabella lifted the top of the workbox on the table between the two women and waved the scissors. ‘Where do these go? They’re rather dirty, you know.’
‘This is intolerable,’ Jenison said. ‘I cannot conceive what the world is coming to. That such a fine man should be attacked at all is astonishing enough, but to then rob him while he lies helpless . . .’
‘Shocking,’ Mrs Annabella said. She gave Heron a speaking look. I rather thought it wouldn’t be long before she exhausted her grief and turned her attentions to another target. ‘A wicked world,’ she said. Heron looked away from her but she didn’t seem abashed.
The door opened. A servant came in with a tray of that sweet wine women seem to like. Mrs Jenison came out of her daze and directed where she wanted the wine set down. A footman in the doorway announced sonorously, ‘Mr Cuthbert Ridley.’
We all jumped, except for Heron, who said dryly, ‘Talk of the devil.’ It was plain who he thought had attacked Nightingale. We all turned our heads to stare at Ridley who was hesitating in the doorway.
‘Oh— I rather— I would not—’
Jenison stood up convulsively, knocking over a footstool. ‘How dare you come here again, sir! Your behaviour last time was totally unacceptable!’
‘Oh— I— er— I really—’ Ridley’s gaze slid round the room until it lighted on me, then skittered away again. ‘—apologize—’
Jenison looked apoplectic but ground out, ‘Apologize?!’
‘I thought— I wanted to . . .’ He was twisting his hands together nervously, even blushing. ‘To appear before the ladies in such an inebriated state—’
‘Drunk,’ Heron said uncompromisingly.
‘. . . not the thing—’
‘Disgraceful,’ Heron said.
Ridley bobbed as if accepting the rebuke. He cast another glance at me from under his eyelashes, a challenging amused look. ‘The lady—’ Both ladies looked puzzled. ‘About Mr Nighting . . .’
Mrs Annabella shrieked. ‘He’s dead!’
‘Alas,’ he hesitated. ‘No. I haven’t— have you—?’ He turned to me.
Heron said, ‘Perhaps you would care to explain yourself more coherently.’
Ridley flashed him a venomous look. Jenison had subsided. After what had happened previously, no one would have argued if he’d thrown Ridley straight out into the gutter. But Ridley’s mumbling, helpless, peaceable demeanour had evidently reassured him that nothing dreadful would happen, at least not immediately.
‘I wanted,’ Ridley said, enunciating with painful carefulness, ‘to com-mis-er-ate with the lady.’ He bowed to Mrs Annabella. ‘I know she— her interest in the gentleman—’
Mrs Annabell
a flushed vividly, clutched at the embroidery on her lap.
‘His interest in her—’
Heron unfolded himself lazily and rose. ‘I think we will go, Ridley.’
‘If he had indeed survived . . .’
Mrs Annabella was going as white as she’d been red.
‘I’m sure we would have had an interesting announcement—’
He’d not come to apologize at all. He’d come to have some fun at Mrs Annabella’s expense. This was cruel. We all knew Nightingale’s interest in Mrs Annabella had been minimal; I had myself seen him abandon her at the concert in favour of younger prey. If she had indulged a few fantasies in that direction, it was hardly surprising; she was in an invidious position, dependent on her family financially, always having to please them with little favours, like sorting her sister-in-law’s embroidery. For Ridley to taunt her like this was unforgivable. She was a woman who had no hope of a change in her circumstances; to point it out so blatantly was adding insult to injury.
And I suddenly perceived what his motive for stealing the watch must have been. Adding insult to injury. He’d not intended to attack Nightingale again; he didn’t need to – the man was plainly dying. But to steal the watch; even though Nightingale himself would never know – that was the ultimate gesture of contempt.
Heron bowed to the ladies, took Ridley’s arm. ‘I regret we must leave.’
‘No, no,’ Ridley said. ‘Must speak to the ladies— cannot be silenced—’
‘You underestimate me,’ Heron murmured, and steered him towards the door.
We were left in an awkward silence. Mrs Annabella was fingering her sister-in-law’s embroidery silks. She hunted for her lace handkerchief. ‘Oh – it has brought it all back—’ She started to sob; Mrs Jenison looked at her with the stony gaze of a woman tried beyond endurance.
Jenison said, ‘You will of course let me know at once if Nightingale’s condition worsens?’
He was unmistakeably dismissing me. I got up, bowed to the ladies, and went out into the street. On the sunlit cobbles, Heron and Ridley were facing each other off and Heron’s hand was on his sword. I saw why. Ridley was smiling at every sharp word, making little moues of amusement, patently not in the least unnerved. I wouldn’t have been so sanguine; I’ve seen the consequences of Heron’s anger.
Heron stopped in the middle of a sentence, stared at Ridley’s unperturbed amusement. ‘You will not live a long life,’ he said.
Ridley grinned and threw Heron’s own words back at him. ‘You underestimate me.’
And he strolled off as if nothing had happened.
Thirty-Three
A gentleman should aim to marry a rational woman, whose chief concern will be his comfort.
[A Gentleman’s Companion, August 1736]
Kate and Esther were in the library when I got home. From the hall, I heard the ping of isolated notes on the harpsichord and a kind of ritual chanting: A, B, C. Pausing at the library door, I realized Esther was teaching Kate how to read music. Or trying to, at any rate.
They sat side by side on the harpsichord stool, Esther very fair, Kate’s dark curls a vivid contrast. Esther had bought Kate a simple white dress, very suitable for a young girl, and she looked demure. A pity it was only an illusion.
She prodded a note viciously and said, harping on an old theme, ‘Why is this one called B? If I wanted to call it something else, why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because you’d be wrong,’ Esther said. ‘Charles, you look tired. Let me ring for wine.’
I strolled across while she spoke to the servant; peered over Kate’s shoulder at one of Mr Handel’s easier pieces. Kate said, ‘Playing the harpsichord is boring. Why can’t I play the fiddle?’
‘I’ve told you, it’s not a suitable instrument for a lady.’
‘I don’t care,’ she said obstinately.
‘How is Mr Nightingale?’ Esther asked.
‘The same.’
I sat in the window embrasure and over my glass of wine explained the events of the day, ending with my visit to the Jenisons. Esther listened attentively, while Kate pinged indifferently away at the keyboard. I thought she was listening more than she cared to let on.
‘And to cap it all, Ridley turned up and set everyone in an uproar. I thought Mrs Annabella had reconciled herself to the state of affairs, but he set her off again. And deliberately too. The man is—’ I glanced at Kate and amended what I’d been going to say. ‘Vicious.’
‘I suppose I had better pay the Jenisons another visit,’ Esther said reluctantly.
‘Mrs Annabella should be left to her own devices. She’s playing to the audience.’
‘It’s not Mrs Annabella I worry over,’ Esther said. ‘Does Mrs Jenison look well to you? I think she finds her sister-in-law very trying. If I can take the burden from her for a few minutes now and again it may help.’
‘Who’s Mrs Annabella?’ Kate asked. ‘Is she the old witch who was all over Mr N at the concert? Dressed in lots of frills?’
‘She’s not a witch,’ I said curtly. ‘And you have something to explain. Where did you go after I left you at the door of this house last night?’
‘I came in,’ Kate said with an unconvincing air of innocence. ‘Went to bed.’
‘No, you did not. George says you came in after I did, which must have been an hour or more later.’
She flared up at once. ‘George, George, George! Hate him, hate him, hate him!’
‘Where did you go?’ I repeated.
‘None of your business!’
‘It is if you want to stay in this house.’
She leapt up, glared at me. ‘You ain’t going to let me anyway. You’re stupid, you. Know that?’
‘Kate,’ Esther said sharply.
‘You’re gonna get yourself killed.’ She was standing, fists clenched, face going red. ‘You dash off on your own, down to the Key—’
‘You followed me!’
‘Could have been anyone there – thieves’d strip those clothes off, soon as look at you.’
‘Kate, calm down—’
‘Well, get yourself killed then!’ she yelled. ‘I don’t care!’ And she stormed out of the room, slamming the door.
There was silence.
Esther sat down in the window next to me and put her hand on mine. She was warm; her scent – faint lavender – teased me. ‘She’s feeling very insecure, Charles. She thought her whole future depended on Nightingale and now he’s gone. Treat her gently.’
‘She knows something she’s not telling.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘All that nonsense about the town being dangerous at night. Certain areas of it, certainly, but plenty of honest folk walk out after dark!’
‘Be patient with her.’
‘She cannot play the violin,’ I said. ‘And she cannot be my apprentice.’
Esther hesitated, her gaze intent on me. ‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘You once said you could not marry me.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Really?’ she said, amused, and let me stew on that for a moment.
Tom had brought two glasses; Esther poured herself wine and refilled my glass. Outside in the garden, the breeze ruffled the bushes, bowled a dead leaf or two across the neatly scythed grass. ‘We’ll see,’ Esther said, after a moment. ‘I have talked to Kate about her ability to step through into the other world, by the way. She is rebellious, of course, but I believe she will come round to my way of thinking in the end.’
I believed she would too. People generally do. Including me. I sighed and took her hand again, rubbing my thumb across the smooth skin. ‘Which is?’
‘That it is an ability to be used sparingly and only in times of real need.’
I thought Esther didn’t quite appreciate how stepping through could take hold without warning. But I was enjoying the feeling of having her next to me, didn’t want to argue. I put my arm around her; she shifted closer.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘what proof do you have that Ridley first attacked Mr Nightingale and then later stole his watch?’
‘None whatsoever,’ I admitted. ‘Except we know he argued with Nightingale. Twice, once at the Jenisons’ and then at the Turk’s Head on the evening Nightingale was attacked.’
‘Half a dozen others may have argued with him too.’
‘He made sure the sailors saw him and could tell me about him.’
She frowned – I loved the way the skin around her eyes crinkled. ‘Why should he want you to know he was there? Surely if he had stolen the watch, the opposite would be true?’
‘He’s taunting me.’
‘I can see he would consider that entertaining.’ She sipped her wine. Her closeness was distracting me; I drew her closer. She smiled mischievously up at me but said, ‘Ridley’s presence outside the Fleece is no proof he stole the watch.’
‘He has the audacity to do something of the sort.’
‘Still no proof,’ she said. ‘Why do something clandestinely – to the extent of hitting a poor defenceless boy – presumably so he would not be caught, then deliberately make it clear to you he was the culprit?’
‘If he didn’t steal the watch, why was he there?’
She gave this serious thought, while I looked at her: her pale hair wispy against her neck, the graceful line of neck and shoulders, the bare smoothness of her forearm beneath the fall of lace. I knew that body now as well as I knew my own, and loved it a great deal better. ‘I’m sorry I left you wondering where I was last night,’ I said.
She smiled wryly. ‘You could hardly have sent me a note.’
‘Still—’
She shook her head. ‘I knew what I was getting myself into when I married you, Charles. I knew what kind of a man I was taking on.’
‘An irresponsible, inconsiderate tradesman with no manners.’
‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘Your manners are excellent.’
Reluctantly, I laughed.
‘Back to Ridley,’ she said sternly, not quite contriving to hide her satisfaction at this little triumph. ‘He might have seen the real culprit and decided to play with you, tempt you to think he did it. He wanted you to go awry.’