by Sara Fraser
ELEVEN
Thursday, 17th January
Morning
In the darkness before dawn Amy Potts awoke in the bed beside her slumbering husband and explored her emotions.
‘Well that’s it! That’s my cherry gone! I liked it well enough at the start when we were kissing and feeling each other, but when he pushed into me, it bloody well hurt! Good job that part of it was over quick!
‘I know Maisie says that after I’ve done it a few times it won’t hurt any more, and that it’ll feel so good that I’ll be shouting for him not to stop. Well it don’t feel like that to me at this minute! But I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear it, won’t I! That’s what a wife has to do.’
She tentatively felt between her legs and her fingers encountered the stickiness there and on the sheet beneath.
‘Bugger it! I’ve bled! I’ll need to get the bedding washed straight away.’
She threw back the coverlets, slipped from the bed and fumbled on the floor for her clothes, muttering irritably as the cold air goose-pimpled her soft skin.
Her movements had roused Tom to drowsy wakefulness and he turned over, reaching for her. The empty space beside shocked him fully awake and he sat up, calling, ‘Amy? What are you doing? Amy?’
‘I’m trying to find my clothes,’ she snapped curtly.
‘But it’s still only dead of night. Why are you rising at this hour? Come back to bed.’
‘Just light the candle, will you?’ she demanded impatiently.
‘Are you unwell, my love?’ he questioned anxiously.
‘Will you stop asking me stupid questions, and just light the bloody candle!’ Her temper flared.
It was his turn to throw aside the coverlets and with goose-pimpled skin to fumble upon the small bedside bench for the tinder box, flint and steel.
In short moments the candle flame cast its glow enabling Amy to sort out her clothes and get dressed.
Guilt struck through her as she saw Tom’s anxious stare.
‘Oh, don’t pay me any mind, Tom. I’m always a snappy bitch when I first wake up.’
She knelt on the bed and kissed him, then ordered, ‘But you must get up as well, because I need to wash the bedding. There’s blood on it from last night. Go down to the wash-house and fire up the copper.’
He moved to take her in his arms, but she pushed him away. ‘I’m in no mood for that now. You must wait until tonight.’
He accepted this rebuttal without protest, but couldn’t help asking anxiously, ‘Are you happy, Amy? Are you content that I’m your husband?’
‘Of course I am, you great lummox. But if you don’t get up this instant and see to that copper I’ll not be!’
When dawn came the soiled bedding was in the bubbling water of the wash-house copper, and the couple were eating their breakfast of salted oat porridge and fried onions in the lamplit warmth of the ground-floor cooking range alcove.
‘There’s been no sounds from your Mam. She must be still asleep,’ Amy said, then giggled. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me because the noises I was making when you were breaking me in would have woken the dead! I’ll bet the old cow will be moaning and blarting about it when she does wake up.’
‘Amy! You shouldn’t say such things.’ Tom was shocked at her earthiness.
‘Why not?’ she challenged.
‘Well . . . Well it’s . . . it’s not . . . it’s not . . .’ Tom desperately sought for words. ‘Well, what happens between man and wife in their bed, shouldn’t be made a joke of. It’s a very private and sacred thing between themselves.’
‘Phooo!’ She blew a dismissive raspberry. ‘There’s naught sacred about what a man and wife get up to in their bed! It’s what God put us on this earth to do! To make babbies! Are you trying to tell me that when you were a kid you didn’t never hear nor see what your mam and dad were doing in their bed?’
‘No, I didn’t ever see or hear them doing such things!’ Tom stated firmly. ‘How could I? I was in my bedroom and they were in their bedroom, and I was never allowed to go into their bedroom unless they specifically told me that I could.’
Amy’s mood abruptly changed, and all trace of levity disappeared from her manner.
‘That’s the big difference between you and me, isn’t it, Tom?’ she stated very quietly. ‘You were brought up as a gentleman, by parents with money and nice houses with rooms to spare. And you had years of schooling, and being taught your fine way of speaking and your gentlemanly manners.
‘But people like me have to work from the day we have strength to do anything at all to earn a wage. My mam and dad have always had to struggle to survive. They’ve never had any money to spare for their kids’ schooling. They’ve never owned nice houses with lots of rooms. Until my dad got the job as Head Gamekeeper we always lived in hovels. So us kids always had to share beds with each other, and with our mam and dad as well when we were tiny. So of course there were times when they thought we were all sound asleep that we heard and saw what men and women do with each other in their beds.’
She paused, head bent as if searching for words, and then with a catch in her voice told him, ‘If me talking about it as I do upsets you, then I’m sorry for being so rude-spoken, and I’ll guard my tongue in the future.’
While she had been speaking Tom’s feelings of guilt and shame had burgeoned unbearably, and now he shook his head and blurted vehemently, ‘No, Amy! No! It’s me who needs to guard my tongue, not you! I’m truly sorry for what I said, and for behaving like a pompous, arrogant moron! And if I should ever again take you to task for your manner of speech, then kick me as hard as you can. All I can beg for now is your forgiveness!’
The loud clanging of the bells intervened, and Tom instinctively reacted to their summons, turning his face to the sound and starting to rise from his chair. Then he stiffened in an awkward half-risen posture, and flustered.
‘I’m so sorry, Amy, the bells took me by surprise!’
Magnanimous in victory, Amy smiled. ‘Go and answer them before they deafen me. And yes, I do forgive you.’
Tom grinned with heartfelt relief, stretched across the small table-top and kissed her, then hurried to the front door.
‘Good morning, am I addressing the Constable?’ The caller was a short, stocky man dressed in military-style riding clothes, with a peaked cap on his head.
‘Yes, I’m Constable Thomas Potts.’
‘Honoured to meet you, Constable Potts.’ The caller snapped off a smart salute. ‘My name is Elias Bradshaw, late Troop Sergeant in His Majesty’s Sixteenth Light Dragoons; but now the Captain of Bradshaw’s Mountebanks.’ He indicated the group of mounted men and women and the trio of long-based covered wagons on the Green behind him. ‘They’re the finest trick-riders in the Kingdom, Constable. Every man and woman of them trained in the equestrian arts, by me personally.’
‘Are you intending to give displays around the Needle District, Master Bradshaw?’ Tom asked.
‘That’s my intention, Constable, should weather permit, but for now I need to water and rest my horses; and I was wondering if you could direct me to a suitable camping ground. It needs to be flattish, with access to fresh water, and I’m ready to pay a fair rent for the use of it.’
Tom thought briefly, then stepped out of the lock-up and beckoned for the other man to come with him around the corner of the building.
‘Follow this road eastwards, Master Bradshaw. But take care not to let your horses drink from the Big Pool a hundred yards down there where the road bends north-east, because it’s a foul cesspit.
‘Continue on until you reach an inn called the King’s Arms where the road forks and runs downhill. Take the right-hand fork, which is called the Hollow Way, and continue to the bottom of the hill. At the bottom you’ll see on your right some wide flat meadow land stretching up to a farm called the Millsboro Lodge Farm. James Houghton is the farmer and there’s plenty of good clean water on his land. Tell Master Houghton that I’ve sent you, and
I’m confident he’ll be prepared to accommodate you.’
‘Many thanks, Constable Potts.’ Bradshaw pointed down the road and shouted, ‘There’s our route, Corporal Taylor. Lead on.’
Led by the mounted party the wagons lurched into a line of march, and as they did so there sounded a loud deep-baying chorus.
‘What’s that noise?’ Tom queried curiously.
Bradshaw grinned. ‘You’ll see what’s making it if you look there behind the rear wagon.’
As the last wagon neared him Tom saw a pack of both large and small dogs secured by long leashes to its tailboard, and was stuck by the unusual and varied colours of the large dogs’ coats.
‘Those are my Otterhounds belling out. Those big buggers.’ Bradshaw announced proudly. ‘The finest scent-hounds for water in this world. They can smell and track an otter in water it’s passed through hours before, and they swim like bloody fishes, so they do. My hounds track the otters and keep them bottled up, and then my little terriers go down into the holts and kill the buggers off.’
Bradshaw mounted his horse. ‘Many thanks again for your help, Constable Potts. I hope you’ll come and see my Mountebanks perform some day, and have a drink with us as our guest.’
He saluted and rode away. Tom sighed wistfully. ‘I wish I could sit on a horse like that man does; he could pass for a centaur.’
The deep baying of the hounds grew fainter and Tom shrugged ruefully. ‘Now I’ve got another day on horseback to look forward to, which most probably will only gain me a red-raw backside and no trace of any stolen dogs again.’
In the rear yard of the King’s Arms, Ezekiel Rimmer and his helpers were shoveling the contents of the privy into their casks when the breeze-carried sound of baying hounds reached them.
‘Is that a fuckin’ fox hunt?’ Porky Hicks straightened from his odorous labour to listen hard.
‘Could be, but it don’t exactly sound like foxhounds.’ Ezekiel Rimmer also stopped work to listen.
The noise ceased, and the two resumed work, only to stop and straighten up again when the baying resumed some seconds later.
‘They’m coming this way by the sound of it.’ Rimmer left the privy and went out of the yard gate, followed immediately by Porky Hicks and Dummy.
The trio stared up the road at the approaching convoy of horses and wagons.
‘What’s this lot then?’ Porky Hicks asked. ‘Is it a circus, d’you reckon?’
‘Could be,’ Rimmer grunted.
Elias Bradshaw was riding several yards in advance of the troupe and when he came abreast of these spectators he reined in and sought confirmation.
‘Is this the road called the Hollow Way?’
‘That’s its name, Master.’ Rimmer nodded.
‘And Millsboro Lodge Farm, where’s that exactly?’
‘When you gets on to the flat at the bottom of the hill, Master, you’ll see it way off to your right where the land rises again.’
‘Thanks.’ Bradshaw dropped a few pence at Rimmer’s feet. ‘Have a drink on me, and spread the word that Captain Bradshaw’s Mountebanks, who’ve performed their displays of dare-devil horsemanship before all the Crowned Heads and Aristocracy of Europe, are come to Redditch, and will be performing all over the Needle District during the next few weeks, should weather permit.’
Rimmer snatched up the coins and doffed his hat. ‘I’ll do that, Master. I’ll spread the word all across the town, so I will.’
The trio stood and watched the convoy pass, and Rimmer drew a sharp hiss of excitement when he saw the dogs following behind the rearmost wagon.
‘Take a close gander at that lot. Them big ’uns am Otterhounds. See their colours. I’ll guarantee all the flash lads ’ull go fuckin’ mad for them colours and we’ll get top prices.’
He took his friends and pulled them with him back into the yard. Then he told Dummy, ‘Cut through Millsboro Wood, Dummy, and watch where they makes camp, and take close heed o’ where them dogs are stowed. Don’t let any fucker get a sight of you, or I’ll cut your fuckin’ bollocks off!’
TWELVE
Warwick City
Saturday, 19th January
Afternoon
Ella Peelson, still wearing her nightdress and bed cap, was sat at the dressing table sipping a glass of gin and water when the knock sounded on the bedroom door. She frowned irritably.
‘What is it?’
‘If you please, Ma’m, there’s a man at the door who’s wanting to see you.’ Milly Styke’s voice was muffled by the baize-covered door panels. ‘He asked me if Mrs Adelaide Farson was at home, and when I told him yes, he give me this card to bring to you. He says it’s very important and private business he’s come on.’
‘What does he look like? How’s he dressed? Is he rough spoken?’ Ella Peelson hurled questions.
The girl answered excitedly. ‘He’s big and fat, wi’ a big fat red face; and he’s a parson wi’ a tie-wig on his head, and a black coat and black breeches, Ma’am! And he speaks like the gentry!’
Ella Peelson frowned thoughtfully. ‘Bring me the card.’
The child hastened to obey.
The calling card bore only one line of print: The Reverend Geraint Winward DD.
But beneath this written in ink was the brief statement: I am here on behalf of XYZ.
Ella Peelson fingered the card, noting that it was made of the finest vellum, and expensively embossed with intricate gold filigree.
‘There could be rhino here. I might have struck lucky.’ She smiled with satisfaction.
‘Show the gentleman into the drawing room, my dear, and tell him that I’ll join him shortly.’
As Walter Courtney followed the diminutive, neatly clad maidservant through the entrance hall and into the drawing room, his shrewd gaze evaluated the expensive furniture, draperies, wall-hung paintings and numerous and varied ornaments.
The maidservant bobbed a curtsey. ‘Me mistress said to tell you that she ’ull join you shortly, Sir.’
‘Hold there a moment. What’s your name, child?’ Courtney’s manner was avuncular.
‘Styke, Sir. Milly Styke.’
He produced a silver sixpence which he held out towards her. ‘Well this is your reward, Milly, for receiving me so graciously.’
‘What does that mean, Sir?’ The girl’s features showed interest. ‘That last big word you said?’
Courtney chuckled. ‘It means that your mistress is very lucky to have such a good and clever girl serving her. How long have you been with her?’
‘Nigh on two years, Sir. She took me out from the Feckenham Parish Poorhouse in Worcestershire, Sir. She chose me because I’ve had some schooling, and me Mam and Dad brought me up proper afore they died.’
‘And a very good choice she made, my dear, because I can see that you’re a very well-brought-up girl,’ Courtney congratulated, and quickly asked more questions until, satisfied that he would learn nothing more, gave her the sixpence, and whispered with a broad wink, ‘This must be our little secret, Milly, or your mistress will surely take this sixpence from you. So we won’t tell her that we talked together, will we, my dear? It shall be our own little secret.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ The girl bobbed a curtsey and left him alone.
He sat down on an elaborately brocaded, tall-backed chair, placed his top hat on the floor beside him, and listened hard. The instant his sharp ears heard the rustle of movement outside the closed door he bowed his head, closed his eyes, clasped his hands before his face in an attitude of prayer and began murmuring the words of a psalm.
He sensed the almost noiseless opening of the door, but remained motionless until he heard a soft warning cough.
He opened his eyes, lifted his head and, gasping in feigned dismay, jumped to his feet and bowed low.
‘I beg you to accept my humblest apologies, Ma’am. I was seeking the guidance of our Lord, and as always at such times I fear that I lost all awareness of this material world about me. I beseech you to forgive
my ill manners!’
‘There is nothing to forgive, Reverend Winward; I beg you not to distress yourself. I also lose all awareness of this world when I am communing with our Lord. Please, resume your seat.’
The woman’s voice was husky and low pitched, and Courtney could detect an underlying Irish accent. He took this first close-up opportunity to make a rapid inventory of her appearance. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, with dark eyes and hair, and a handsome, fresh-complexioned face. She was of medium height, wearing a fashionably styled, black silk mourning gown which accentuated her full breasts.
She seated herself opposite to him on a similar type of chair and stared expectantly at him.
‘I trust, Ma’am, that I am addressing the same Mrs Adelaide Farson who has recently replied to an advertisement placed by XYZ in the Birmingham Aris Gazette?’ Courtney smilingly sought confirmation.
‘Indeed you are, Sir.’ She smiled back, and he noted that she had good teeth.
‘Then let me begin, Ma’am. I am come here on behalf of my friend, Major Christophe de Langlois, of the Madras Native Infantry, Honourable East India Company Army.’
From an inner pocket he produced the finely executed miniature portrait of Sylvan Kent and handed it to her.
‘This was painted recently, Ma’am, and I can verify that it is a true likeness. He stands near two yards in height, and has the physique of a warrior . . .’
He continued at length, verbally creating an image of a gallant soldier of Huguenot descent, who had amassed wealth and property in India. Who was a bachelor, but now desired above all else to find a suitable wife to share his life in India and enjoy the benefits of his good fortune.
Ella Peelson, wife of the convicted ‘coiner’ Terence Peelson, sat silently gazing at the miniature, while committing her guest’s words to memory. A product of the rancid slums of Dublin, she had survived the sexual abuse and maltreatment of her childhood by utilizing her sharp wits and acute intelligence to escape from there. These same attributes had served her well throughout her life in the underworld of criminality, enabling her to enjoy the considerable profits of crime and evade the gallows which had claimed the lives of so many of her varied confederates.