The Almanack

by Martine Bailey

  Upriver, by a quirk of chance, he saw the three triangular stars of the Phoenix constellation low against the trees. Could it portend a chance to rise anew?

  Ha, he was as gullible as those fools he scribbled for, those swallowers of penny oracles, horoscopes and dream lore. It was an old and human frailty to seek assurance of the future. If I only knew my fate – was that not mankind’s greatest wish?

  But what of the now, Aristotle’s nun – the snatched moment of the present in which we are alive? This now was unstoppably transforming his future into his past. If he jumped into the river now, his life would be over. His past would be fixed forever, the tale of a strange melancholic youth who committed self-murder. There would be no more history of Nat Starling to write.

  Widow Hart must have stood not far from this very spot, he realized; here her life had ended, her spirit been snuffed out. He was suddenly convinced that some mischief had befallen her. His bright-eyed neighbour had not been the sort to be transfixed, as he was, by the black water. The realization woke him from his dangerous mood. Who in this cursed village could have harmed her?

  And so he faced a second, eternal question. If he must endure this troublesome life, what the devil must he do next?

  ‘Who’s there?’

  A man’s voice rang out from the trees behind him. Looking over his shoulder, Nat saw the glow of a lantern behind the black branches’ silhouettes. He turned Jupiter and approached his interlocutor. Damnation, death and fire, it was that poxy constable and, even worse, the glorious Tabitha – holding hands with him. Not slowing Jupiter’s steady walk, he rode directly up to where they stood. Towering above them, he looked down imperiously.

  ‘Constable,’ he said flatly, without the slightest nod. Then he turned to his companion, making her a low bow. ‘Miss Hart.’ What he could see of her face in the lamplight was lovely; her lips parted, all cast in amber. Jupiter snorted and tossed his head. He wanted to empty his soul to her of so many matters: of her mother, his hopes, her danger.

  Tabitha dropped the constable’s hand like a hot coal. Stepping up to Jupiter she stroked his nose and the great horse grew calm. She laughed as he snuffled at her open palm. Then she looked up at Nat with eyes filled with liquid inquiry. There were a dozen poetical similes for the sensation her gaze caused him – darts, piercings, wounds and arrows – but all sounded ridiculous. Nevertheless, he was convinced that a mute communication had passed between them.

  The constable called her name and, without another word, Nat rode away.

  It was almost noon the next day when he woke from a shameful, feverish slumber. All the hours of the night he had felt like the mainspring of a watch, winding ever tighter with mounting energy. And he had longed for Tabitha so violently, had in his fancy possessed her again and again, exploring the wetness of her mouth, the intriguing dark mole on the convexity of her breast, had drowned in the oceans of her eyes. He remembered that he had written something, after draining the ale jug, though what it was he could not at first recall. He found it crumpled in his soiled bedclothes, an ink-spattered mass of crossings and hatchings through which he could just make out a verse. He laughed sourly as he read it. Adolescent balderdash, playing upon the eternal struggle between sensual eros and wholesome philia:

  A vessel has she,

  As round as a pear,

  And sweet and moist in the middle;

  ’Tis bordered by hair,

  And love does flow there

  In my dreams – pray you solve me this riddle.

  After that he had worked all night with new zeal, until another exquisite dawn rose, as pink as the secret chambers of a shell. He had remembered and rewritten every word that the Saxton imbecile had stolen from him; he would catch the postboy with this second parcel. He would send this paltry riddle too – though it confirmed what he already knew, that his muse had utterly abandoned him. Still, a lewd enigma on one’s beloved’s eye might, he supposed, be worth another shilling.

  ELEVEN

  A Riddle

  You will find me in madness, disease and despair,

  But not in the lovely, the fine or the fair,

  From innocent joy I’m eternally banished,

  And from pleasure and love my dull presence has vanished.

  I am not ever numbered at routs or a revel –

  But eternally doomed to wait on the Devil.

  The 4th day of August 1752

  Lammastide

  Luminary: Day 14 hours and 20 minutes long.

  Observation: Quadrature of Saturn and Mars, Jupiter and Mercury.

  Prognostication: A siege of other battle in which the way is blocked.

  Following Joshua into the airless heat of Parson Dilks’ study, Tabitha recognized illustrations from Fox’s Book of Martyrs, pasted on almost every inch of the walls. She tried not to stare at the pitiful bodies racked upon machines, screaming in flames, stretched between trees or devoured by beasts. Even the crucifix in pride of place on the mantelpiece was a grotesque, the Christ figure showing His muscles twisted in agony.

  ‘Constable. Miss Hart. You may sit. How may I oblige you?’ Dilks sat behind his desk, a lumbering toad, tapping his fingers together over piles of paper. Joshua turned to Tabitha, in a mute plea for assistance.

  ‘Pray forgive me, sir,’ Tabitha said, mustering all her sweetness, ‘but I worry so about my mother’s soul. Were you in the neighbourhood the night she died, Parson? Did you have any opportunity to bless her poor remains?’

  As if she were not even present, Dilks turned to Joshua.

  ‘A minister cannot chase around the parish every time a cottager expires. As it happens, I was in Chester that same night, at the invitation of the bishop. I dined at the Bishop’s Palace and returned directly to Netherlea the next morning.’ Now he faced Tabitha.

  ‘Your mother was decently buried, with all the necessary rites. What more do you expect?’

  ‘I am grateful to you, sir.’ As before, she found him as resistant to her charms as if he were made of ancient, shrivelled leather. ‘Yet I should so like Mother to be buried beside my father. When I have the means to buy a headstone, might you grant such a memorial to be raised?’

  The parson seemed to take pleasure in shaking his head. ‘Memorials are not for the likes of common old women. They are for freemen and gentry alone.’

  He turned abruptly back to Joshua. ‘I had hoped you had called about a more godly matter. A widower with a young daughter, and a woman with an unlawful child; you would do the parish good service if you married.’

  Joshua had at least the grace to appear astonished at this, though he spoiled the effect by casting a sheepish glance in Tabitha’s direction. She attempted a bright little laugh.

  ‘I have been home for only four days, Parson, and I am still in mourning.’

  ‘God created matrimony as a remedy against sin. To avoid fornication,’ rasped the clergyman, making poor Joshua shift uncomfortably. What was it Poll had used to say? A cross on the chest, a devil in the breast – the clergymen that Tabitha had encountered in the private rooms of the capital had left her wary of this hypocritical breed.

  The silence that followed stretched awkwardly until Dilks broke in, with impatience.

  ‘Well, if you want to make yourself useful, Saxton, you might keep a watch on our vestry. Someone has been tampering with our parish books.’

  Tabitha’s heart thumped at the memory of her small deception over her mother’s entry in the book.

  ‘The sexton has seen a stranger meddling where he should not; by the time I arrived, he had vanished. I intend to keep the records locked away from now onwards – therefore, should you need to perform parish business, young woman, you must apply directly to me for the key. And I expect to see you attend my church henceforth. Your absence has been recorded.’

  She nodded meekly, her cheeks fiery with relief. The parson stood, and bid them good day, moving around his desk. Sensing her chance slipping away, Tabitha loitered before a hunti
ng print of a fox caught in the jaws of two fighting hounds, only a little less cruel than the tortured martyrs.

  ‘The hunting season soon returns?’ she said.

  For the first time, the parson’s jaundiced features brightened. ‘Yes. Come the autumn, it is a joy to ride with the hounds.’

  ‘It is a pity old Towler passed away.’

  Dilks grew still more animated – more so than she had ever seen him. ‘The finest pack leader his Lordship ever bred. That kennel master should be flogged for not taking better care of him.’

  There was no doubt the parson spoke with sincerity. Unless he was a finer actor than Mr Garrick himself, Dilks was an unlikely dog-killer.

  Tabitha strode irritably back to the cottage in Joshua’s wake. She was wretchedly tired; her sleep the previous night had been as fragmented as a broken mirror. A dozen times, in half-dreams, she had heard the rattle of harness, the gate’s rasp, and steps upon the garden path – but when she finally woke in the darkness, all was silent. Then the strange matter of the latch had surfaced in her mind. How had it been broken, that wooden rod that had held the door safely locked for decades? Had it been violently forced open as her mother cowered in the same bed Tabitha lay in now? The horror of it had led her to picture a hammer blow, falling on a skull as delicate as a hollow shell. She had lain very still, her skin prickling hot. There was no doubt she might be in danger, too. Parson Dilks must have been in Chester the night of her mother’s death, said the cold voice of reason. Surely, then, suspicion weighed all the heavier upon this Darius fellow – and also on Nat Starling? At once, the magnetic pull of her attraction to him was commingled with deep and no doubt sensible fear.

  She remembered what Poll had called her ‘dark transactions’; the contrary desire of a good woman for a bad man. She had known plenty of town girls who surrendered themselves to ‘guardians’ who later destroyed them. Had not Poll, a lovely, well-schooled, though reckless girl, fugitive from fond parents, surrendered to such a devil? They had always puzzled her, those women who pursued men who rewarded them with pain. What the devil was this dangerous perversity that possessed her, this yearning for Starling to enter and lay claim to her?

  In the darkest part of the night she had woken again to a tap at the door – this time a real, resounding rap. Tabitha had got up and moved quietly through the cottage. In the parlour, she picked up the poker and listened hard from behind the front door. She thought she heard a whisper, distinctly young and male.

  She suddenly whipped the door wide to find three boys, no more than twelve years old, laughing and showing their heels as they pelted off down the path. One of them turned to taunt her: ‘D’ye take a penny for a grope?’ With whoops and jeers they disappeared.

  She had returned to bed entirely wide awake and miserable. So her old reputation did live on, and would probably follow her to her dying day.

  ‘Are you satisfied now?’ Joshua burst out, dragging Tabitha from her reverie as they arrived at the cottage. No doubt his pride was hurt by her renewed refusal of his hand. ‘What did you expect – that the parson held some ridiculous grudge against your mother?’

  Why was he so agitated? Jennet waited at the door; he was upsetting his daughter too. The girl was eager to leave, fumbling with her bonnet.

  ‘Will you question Darius next?’ Tabitha asked, hoping to distract him.

  ‘I sent men down to Tinkers Wood this morning, but damn him, I was too late. He ran off like a hare while I wasted time with the parson. But I have a warrant for his arrest. He’ll not get far. As for Starling, I’m hopeful of a warrant to pull him in too.’

  As he took his leave, a further reason for Joshua’s ill-temper presented itself. Pulling a letter out of his coat, he thrust it at her. To her delight, it bore her own name in Robert’s beautiful hand. Only when Joshua and his daughter were far out of sight did she break the red seal.

  My dearest girl,

  I am heartily sorry we parted so miserably, my chicken. I write with good news, as business takes me to Chester on the 21st of this month and I shall hold you in my arms again at last. How can I mollify my sulky darling? You must hire for me the finest chamber in the town for that same night, and, once my day’s business is done, I shall give you such proofs of my ardour that I swear you shall not sit easy for a week. I write in haste, but much troubled by the wanting of you,

  Your most ardent servant,

  Robert

  At a stroke, all was as clear as crystal. She would persuade Robert to take her with him back to London and leave this misery over her mother, this hopeless inquiry, behind her. Only seventeen days remained. True, she still needed to find a place to lodge the troublesome infant, but Robert could pay for that, too. Joshua, Dilks – even Nat Starling – all must go hang. She kissed Robert’s letter, catching a faint scent of his citrus-sharp cologne. Robert, bless his restless loins, had cast her a line of hope to haul her back to the civilized world.

  TWELVE

  A Riddle

  Almond cakes well iced and fruited,

  Sugarplums to children suited,

  Toffee pulled with expertise;

  Truly are my first all these.

  Swiftly o’er my second stealing,

  Comes a startled, happy feeling,

  Beating like a cage-bound dove –

  When I spy my whole, my love!

  The 5th to the 13th day of August 1752

  Harvest

  Luminary: The First Quarter waxing to the Full Moon.

  Observation: The Moon will eclipse Saturn on the 7th day.

  Prognostication: There shall be blood on the harvest corn.

  The harvest gathered speed like a great Wheel of Fortune, its spokes spinning giddily before it came to rest, delivering its judgement on the year. The villagers rose earlier, scythed faster, worked later. The corn had grown to its utmost height, filling the eye in every direction with feathery pinkish-gold; pale motes rained down like hail as weary horses pulled laden carts between field and barn. The labourers’ skins turned nut-brown, men stripped to their breeches, shining with pride and sweat. Playing in the corn, children balanced white corn-lilies on their noses, making them stick like beaks until laughter tumbled them away.

  Inside Bold Hall, the pace quickened too. A spectacular cake was planned for the noble guests at the harvest feast, and it was a stillroom task to make the tiny shapes of wheat-filled cornucopias that would circle its rim. Tabitha was surprised at how hard she found the diminutive arts of confectionery. Like exquisite white cameos, the decorations had to be teased out of wooden moulds, but her clumsiness continually spoiled them – and Jane and Nell’s annoyance at having to remake the decorations only made her more clumsy still.

  Vexed that she might lose her comfortable position, Tabitha found excuses to go on errands. One afternoon, malingering outside, she came across Nanny Seagoes again, limping across the yard. Tabitha followed her into the cool shadow of the barn and found her seated on a low wall, breathing hard.

  ‘It is I, Tabitha, Widow Hart’s daughter. Do you want a hand with the eggs?’ At Nanny’s nod, she began searching the straw while affronted hens squawked and flapped around her ankles.

  ‘You were a good friend to my mother,’ she said, piling still-warm, bluish eggs into the basket. Nanny looked up. Though she was frail-boned and shrunken, her voice was strong and sharp.

  ‘She needed a friend, left on her own with a needy infant. No one should end their days as Elizabeth did.’

  A tightness afflicted Tabitha’s throat; she swallowed hard.

  ‘I know that now, Nanny. Mother wrote in her almanack that she was glad to stay with you some nights. Was she fretting over something?’

  ‘It’s a bit late now to dredge that up.’

  Tabitha pulled a final egg from the straw and joined Nanny to sit on the wall.

  ‘I don’t believe so. She wrote some odd things down. Accusations. I don’t want this repeating, Nanny, but it’s got me believing her death might not
have been pure accident.’

  Nanny peered up at her through rheumy eyes. ‘Odd nonsense about a dog, is it?’

  ‘So you believe, too, that Mother’s brain had turned soft?’ said Tabitha, with some disappointment.

  ‘Your mother? Your mother was as sharp as a pin.’

  ‘But I heard she went wandering in the night. And that she mixed up her days.’

  Nanny’s drooping lips pursed in contempt. ‘Disgusting, what some folk will say. When you come to know old age, you’ll find you still know what’s what.’

  ‘Nanny, did she ever tell you she didn’t want to be alone at the cottage some nights?’

  The old dame screwed up her face. ‘I don’t know about that. But she did stop by and tell me she knew who killed Sir John’s hound.’

  ‘That’s it. Who was it?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say. Said it was dangerous knowledge; that the person she suspected was a person of standing. Then she asked me a peculiar question. How would I make a complaint if I didn’t want to go to the Justice of the Peace? Who was above him? I didn’t know the answer.’

  ‘The Justice of the Peace – is that Sir John?’

  This time, when Nanny lifted her red-rimmed eyes, Tabitha wondered why she had ever thought her slow-witted.

  ‘Justice of the Peace, Squire, Colonel-in-Chief, landlord. And reckoning soon to be Member of Parliament. I told her, only a numkin would want to get on the wrong side of Sir John De Vallory.’

  Back in the stillroom, Tabitha pondered her mother’s worries, then retreated into daydreams. She pictured Robert’s delight at their reunion and began calculating the generosity with which he would prove it. A new gown would be the least of it: one of those sprigged silks with a raised hem to show her ankles and petticoat. For the journey to London, she must also have a flower-trimmed hat to wear at a coquettish tilt, and a fan to flutter. She pilfered a clean sheet of paper from the stillroom cabinet. Then back at the cottage, she wrote a letter to the landlord of the Talbot Inn, engaging their largest chamber and private parlour for the night of the twenty-first in the name of Robert Tate, Esquire.