A Riddle
My first, Adam’s bone, is e’er by your side;
My next signals ‘good’ from those of French pride;
My whole is an ornament you love to wear
Tied round your waist, your neck, or your hair.
The 1st to the 6th day of October 1752
Luminary: Last quarter of the Moon.
Observation: Mercury, the Starry Messenger, is with the Moon.
Prognostication: Beware mistaken zeal in giving counsel to others.
Time’s leap forward had left everyone in Netherlea off balance. The Feast of Saint Michael had always been the foremost day in the country calendar, when land rents were due and the fields were first ploughed for winter crops. Some villagers attempted to pull Michaelmas forward to the twenty-ninth of September, but most carried on as before, merely writing ‘Old Style’ beside the Michaelmas they had grown up with, on the tenth of October. It was easier to measure the seasons as they always had, by the new nip in the air, the whirling departure of the swallows, and the arrival of sloes and elderberries. Fruit and flesh were all ripening in their eternal manner, the drinkers at the tavern agreed, according to the steady pace of Old Mother Nature herself.
Each morning after Nat had left, Tabitha rose early, pulled on her mother’s red cloak and set off to gather wild stuffs at the edge of the highway. Two solitary daybreaks passed with no reward from the post boy – for she did not trust that Joshua would not open Nat’s letters. She reaped the magic of those pearly mornings; a world for her alone, where golden beams pierced the vapours until the sun burned through from a balmy blue sky. The summer was fading and, after more than a year of seeing the world mostly through panes of sooty London glass, the season filled her eyes with a melancholy radiance. If only Nat had been there, they could have walked arm-in-arm under leaves where cobwebs hung like lacework beaded with glass. As she filled her basket she imagined Nat’s lips pressing warm against hers. To think about him produced a pleasant, elevating pain.
On the third morning, the post boy finally handed her a letter from his sack. She tore it open at once, but after reading it, she felt like flinging it into the ditch. Instead of protesting how violently he missed her, or penning glorious descriptions of town and all the coffeehouse news, he had included only a few half-intelligible lines. Was Darius yet found, and if so how and where? And had she any further information to give him? That was the whole of it, save for a cursory enquiry as to her health. She inspected it, front and back, for any news of his return, but found none. Devil take the wretch, she would show him what she was worth; she would find De Angelo herself.
As the moon grew to its full extent, waking her at two or three of the morning with its eerie mimicry of daylight, Tabitha turned the events of the last weeks over in her mind. Could Nat be the culprit? He had a store of astronomical and literary knowledge, true. Why, by his own account, he even wrote cryptic riddles of his own. And there was something slippery about him – she had to admit that.
She recalled those overheard remarks he had made to Sir John at the kennels. There were many questions for him to answer; not least, why he had fled so hurriedly to London – there were other women involved, she was convinced of it. At the heart of it all, her vanity was hurt. The rogue had deserted her, just as she felt a genuine liking for him.
In this mood, she itched to be alone. So one day, when Jennet and Bess had disappeared into the woods, Tabitha set off for the church, taking care all the while to be sure she was not watched. The church’s back door led into a narrow passage, where she halted and listened to voices and the banging of tools that issued from the chancel. Damnation. The stonemason’s men were at work on the De Vallory memorial. Slipping unseen past the chancel entrance, she found the vestry door locked, just as Mr Dilks had threatened. Quiet as a mouse, she applied a bent skewer she had brought for that purpose, holding her breath as she turned it in the keyhole. Feeling the catch release, she pushed it more strongly until it gave a satisfying click; then, once inside, she pulled the door closed and got down to work. Nat had been searching for records about his mother – now, while he was so far away, she would find out what he had been looking for.
She reckoned his mother, Hannah Dove, to be of a similar age to her own mother, and quickly found a record of her birth. She had been christened in April 1710, born to the Doves of Red End, Netherlea. That address was surprising; a hamlet of parish tenements given to the needy, known to locals as ‘Dead End’. Not so proud a family then, she crowed inwardly. She searched next for records of an older Hannah – first in the Marriage Register, then, not finding an entry, for something less respectable in the list of Baptisms. She found nothing – only the death of Hannah’s father when she was no more than five years old, and ten years later the death of her mother, too. So many dead, she mused, glancing through mortalities from countless causes, from decline and mortification to fits and afflictions. But what had happened to Hannah?
A volley of echoing footsteps passed the vestry door, followed by a thud of dragged weights and tools. It would be circumspect to remain quiet while the stonemasons departed. At length she found a certificate in a wooden box set apart for Apprenticeship Indentures. On a parchment, beneath the crest of the De Vallorys, was written:
Parish Copy
These are to desire you, and every one of you, to permit and suffer the Bearer hereof:
Hannah Dove, Spinster aged fifteen years
Peaceably and quietly to pass from Netherlea, Cheshire into:
Whitewell, in the County of Cambridgeshire,
to be indentured to:
Sir James Robbins
As an Apprentice to the Art and Mystery of:
Housewifery
for a term of
Five years.
Tabitha looked at the list of signatures and seals. Sir John De Vallory was at its head, along with Mr Dilks, the doctor and other familiar names from the parish council. If this was what Nat had been searching for, it confirmed what he had told her on the way to Chester, that his mother had moved from Netherlea to work for Lord Robbins. She remembered Nat’s words, that Hannah had been made housekeeper and married the estate’s steward. For an orphan from Red End she had been fortunate.
Hearing the great front door of the church slam shut, she raised her head as the echoes died away. After neatly replacing all the documents, she had a fancy to inspect the new De Vallory memorial in private.
The vaulted chancel admitted only a trickle of light through its narrow windows, and Tabitha’s footsteps sounded hesitant on the stone flags. Only as she approached the church tower did the sound of the new clock’s mechanism reach her, a ceaseless thunk and tick. A new innovation, installed since her departure from Netherlea, the clock and bells were operated by gigantic chains and weights; and a copper pendulum the size of a frying pan swung back and forth along the whitewashed wall. She stood a while, watching it, with that peculiar sense of observing time. With each movement her life was passing and she was growing minutely older – further from birth and closer to death.
Unlike Nat, she thought of time as like a ribbon unspooling; the present moment was the only inch of the stuff you could grasp as it cascaded past you, framed by the diamond buckle of now. Life, in the moment of happening, was radiant with every colour at once, like a rainbow woven of thread, but once the moment had passed, it was nothing but grubby silk abandoned on the ground. All its freshness and lustre was spoiled and used up; her own folly, her poor choices, had ruined so many bright possibilities. And now her past lay in a sordid tangle at her feet.
As for the future, she had no ready picture of that at all. It was unknown, even frightening. That was why people sought out predictions of love, health, and good fortune; Nat thought there were choices to be made, but she was not so sure. She had once heard a sermon on the subject of God the Watchmaker, and how the world and its inhabitants were nothing but tiny cogs in a vast sphere of clockwork. Even as a child, that had sounded to
her like a cold metal trap. Or was it the stars, perhaps, that wrote her fate? Well, even Nat knew no more of their futures than her, for all his philosophizing. No, the future was a dark place and her ribbon a fragile thread in a labyrinth by which she groped forwards.
Lord, was it her mother’s dying that gave her such melancholy apprehensions? With a sigh of frustration, she turned from the pendulum. If only she could see the future; if only her shining ribbon could lead her to a better life than this.
The De Vallory memorial was being erected in the right-hand aisle, the most honoured of places, right up against the altar. At its foot gaped a deep and murky pit, some dozen feet across and as many deep. Lifting her apron to cover her nose, she silently reflected that even the great and noble rotted with the same stink as the poor. Peering down, she fancied she saw the gleam of ancient coffin boards and flecks of white bone. Next, her eye was caught by an array of sculptured stones propped against the chancel wall. She tried to read the inscription, but it was impossible; not only was the light failing, but the words were in a foreign tongue. The picture, however, she could make out, though barely. There was an air of deliberate mystery to it – a standing figure, seemingly without a face.
‘And what does our searcher make of that?’
The voice spoke so close to the back of her neck that her heart leapt hard against her stays. She spun around and found Mr Dilks had joined her, on the softest of footfalls. Tabitha curtsied, but refused to be intimidated.
‘Forgive me, sir. It is curious. What does it signify?’
‘I doubt you would understand.’
Damn his eyes, she had seen plenty of remarkable sculptures with Robert. She had natural good taste and an eye for beauty, he had told her, and lent her books and improved her manner of speech. She cocked her head to one side. The figure was holding something in its right hand. A … scythe, perhaps?
‘I should say it was Time.’
Mr Dilks nodded, reluctantly confirming that she was correct.
‘Sir, is that a Latin motto?’
Dilks ignored her question. ‘I should like to know your business here when no one else is about.’
‘I was drawn, Mr Dilks, to wait upon God alone. I take it you do not object.’
‘I do. The times of services are posted upon the door. That is when I expect to see you next, dressed modest and shamefaced, along with the rest of the congregation. Saxton may not charge you a fine for missing holy service, but I see all. Remember the pit awaits you, too. And it holds greater torment for those who are bloated with sin.’
As he spoke he took several small steps towards her. The parson needed only to push her hard in the chest and she would topple backwards into the cold earth. She moved from the edge towards him, meaning to pass him by. But he did not stand aside; his wide bulk stood as firm as a post to prevent her escape. Her eyes met his and he stood his ground like a pugilist; angry, assessing, belligerent.
‘Your pardon, sir. Constable Saxton awaits my return.’ She uttered the lie in a strong firm voice and he let her pass.
As she hurried outside she saw a veiled figure waiting by the churchyard wall beneath the shelter of the yew trees. Tabitha paused, though loath to draw attention to herself. It was Lady Daphne, standing motionless; waiting, perhaps, for the parson. She could not read the expression on her face behind the black lace.
By the time she reached home, she was sufficiently unsettled to write to Nat. She told him that Darius was still at large and believed to have fled by sea to Ireland or France. Also that Sir John was mortified at his son’s murderer going free. And she told him again of her conviction that Dilks and Lady Daphne might in some way be conspiring together. It made no sense, but then neither did any other possibilities. Dilks was a hypocrite, a whited sepulchre; there was undoubtedly a viciousness about the parson that made her sensitive street-walker’s hackles rise.
TWENTY-SIX
An Enigma
He who lacks it
Seeks it.
He who has it
Mistreats it.
The 4th to 6th day of October 1752
Luminary: Sun rises 18 minutes after 6.
Observation: Seven Stars rise 44 minutes after 6 at night.
Prognostication: Princes and grandees will be afflicted by disease and infirmities.
On the day she had agreed to begin work at the doctor’s house, Tabitha followed his manservant Florian to a chamber where wealthy patients occasionally attended; a high-ceilinged room with walls lined with tiny shelves and drawers of medicaments. There she found the doctor sorting through his papers, beside an open window through which the scents of the garden drifted. He greeted her kindly and showed her a store of dusty boxes in a small wooden closet off the consultation room. In there, she must unpack the contents, and sort the papers into separate heaps of inventories, receipts, herbals, bills of charge and so on. It was duller work than she expected, for she had to pay full attention to his instructions and learn to use a reckoner to translate Roman numerals into their Arabic equivalent.
It was indeed a relief to be at liberty when the doctor was called away mid-morning. She waited until she heard his carriage depart – then leafed through the many papers he had left lying about. The contents were disappointing: there were no descriptions of feuds against the De Vallorys, or of poisons or means to murder. Most were crabbed abbreviations, cryptic symbols and strings of numbers. Gradually she came to understand these were formulae for medicines, or occasionally patients’ case notes.
Her second day passed almost as dully. If she was to surprise Nat with a discovery, this was not moving her any further forward. Whenever she could, she observed the doctor as he worked; his tall figure had acquired a stoop, and the florid pink of his boyish face had a yellow cast. Then, when he was called to dinner, she saw him stumble against his desk and sit for a long while, noisily catching his breath. This, she reckoned, was a chance to draw him out.
‘Sir,’ she said, after fetching him some cordial from the cook. ‘Your illness has come on very fast. Forgive me, but do you think it a natural ailment?’
His eyes were sharp, though increasingly sunk in a web of lines. ‘Whatever do you mean, girl?’
‘Again, forgive me, but there are rumours of poison. A dog belonging to Sir John died some months ago. This may sound presumptuous, sir, but your family – could you all be subject to attack?’
The doctor leaned against the cushion at his back, his face drawn. ‘I did not know about this dog,’ he said faintly. ‘Tell me.’
Guiltily aware that she had distressed him, Tabitha told him of the dogman’s suspicions.
‘But why would anyone kill a dog?’ The doctor pressed his fingers to his brow.
Tabitha leaned forward eagerly. ‘Is it not the habit of anatomizers and other such butchers to test their poisons?’
He shook his head. ‘On a rat or cat, perhaps. Though I see your argument, that a dog is closer in volume of blood to a person. Yet why kill Towler, the prize of my brother’s pack?’
‘We have a notion that the poisoner hates your brother.’
The doctor gave one of his rare peals of laughter. ‘This is a lunatic story. And when you say “we” – do you mean you and that puddlehead Saxton?’
Tabitha nodded, not wanting to drag in Nat’s name.
‘So what have you discovered?’
She shrugged and laughed as prettily as she could. ‘No more than that.’
‘You must be very fond of my brother, to look out for him so assiduously.’
She hesitated a moment too long, aware of his pale eyes inspecting her closely.
‘Ah – not so fond, then. John tells me you won’t speak to him.’
‘Sir, I do not want to appear ungrateful, but …’ It was impossible to explain. She gave a little shake of her head.
‘You want the past to be forgotten.’
‘Yes.’ That was it, exactly.
‘I think my brother will not give up so easily. H
e may call here, you know.’
Tabitha could not stop herself. ‘Sir, I will not be … used by Sir John.’
The doctor looked up, intent and alert. ‘He is much in need of consolation.’
She stood and reached for her cloak. ‘Then let him find consolation in the stews of Chester,’ she said, her voice too loud, ‘but not about my person.’
‘Bravo,’ the doctor murmured, clapping his dry hands together. ‘Calm yourself. It will afford my brother a lesson, not to have all he desires.’
‘He will find me here, though, soon enough.’
‘Be easy. He has asked me your whereabouts; I will not let him find you.’
The doctor was true to his word, for when Florian announced Sir John the next day, he signalled that she might remain out of sight in the closeted room. She waited, standing by the wooden wainscoting and listening hard; she could just hear Sir John’s blustering voice.
‘Great God! She’s giving me the devil of a run-around.’
His younger brother replied, too softly for Tabitha to distinguish.
‘And I have such pains in my head!’ cried Sir John peevishly. ‘I never felt more fatigued in my life. How the devil did you gain a licence to practise as a physician?’
The doctor’s reply was a conciliatory murmur.
‘Are you deaf?’ Sir John bawled so violently that Tabitha started back from the wall. ‘No! Bleed me again. I need more vigour.’
Tabitha started when the doctor swung the door open, almost into her face; he passed serenely by, returning in a few moments with his box of cupping glasses and blades. She returned to the wainscot as the doctor prepared his patient.
‘Have you heard? The common people are saying this assassin will harm me next.’
‘They are only superstitious peasants.’
‘Get on with it, if you’re going to cut me.’ Next came a yelp. ‘Damn it, do you ever sharpen those blades? And have you seen this almanack? The manner in which it seems to predict events is extraordinary. It chills my bones.’
The Almanack Page 17