Mr Dilks sprang to his defence. ‘Your mother falsely represented that child as being yours, her errant daughter’s!’
‘Yes. And when my mother could not tell you a name, you threatened her with a whipping. You told me I deserved a spell in the house of correction.’
It was some gratification to see Sir John shake his head dolefully.
‘Your mother lied in the parish books. And you,’ Dilks said spitefully, ‘summoned my curate to perform a baptism that was entirely deceitful.’
‘Yes. And you continued to harry us for the shilling to pay for it. You may recall what a biting January it was that year. At the end of my wits, I set off one day to beg for food. And yes, I got your precious shilling by another method, but at least my mother and half-sister survived to see the spring.’
‘You mean that you took up as a common prostitute?’ said Mr Dilks, shining with triumph.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Those rumours are true. I had to sell my body, so that we could live.’ Her face grew hot, remembering that Nat was listening. God forgive her, he had admired her as an elegant lady of the town, passing almost as genteel beneath the tolerant gaze of the beau monde. The pitiful truth was that a gentleman had halted his carriage where she stood with an outstretched hand at the roadside. Her fingers were swollen with chilblains and she had been grateful to shelter from the sleet in his warm carriage. He had offered her a drink of spirits, and with uneasy apprehension, she had understood that he would pay her if he could make free with her body.
As a girl of nineteen, she had sold her maidenhead for ten shillings, and an uncomfortable quarter-hour later, she had trudged down the lane to buy food. It was not a decision she had struggled with. To escape, she needed not only to pay her fare, but also to leave her mother a good sum to tide her over. And so she had begun the flesh-trade, and steeled herself to visit the tavern and linger, shivering, in the cobbled yard that stank of ale lees and worse.
Money had been her only passion; if a man offered her a glass of ale she refused it and twisted the penny from his fingers instead. Greasy and warm, those coins jangled in her pockets like the golden keys to the gates of London. Then at last, one day in springtime, she handed her mother five whole pounds and told her she would leave the next day and send more money by the summer’s end. Since then Tabitha had dutifully carried out every term of their agreement.
‘It is a scandal that we harbour such a harlot,’ the parson complained. ‘I want the cottage back at once, and this filthy baggage set on her way.’
‘Enough!’ Sir John struck the table with his fist. ‘I will not have Tabitha and the child ousted like that. Do you hear me? The terms of the tenancy must at least be honoured – to New Year’s Eve, I believe.’ He turned back to Tabitha, eyeing her sternly under his bushy brows. ‘And you still have no idea of the child’s father?’
She shook her head. ‘No. But I am certain my mother would never have risked scandal.’
Turning to face the parson, she said, loudly and steadily, ‘If I was forced to sell myself, it was only because no one here – not one of you – would help us. It was the same when my mother was attacked and drowned. Not one of you believed me. Only by facing death at Darius’s hand did I find proof that you were all wrong; that he was an accomplice to a man hereabouts, hiding the terrible sin of her murder.’
She looked at everyone in the room, as steadily as her ragged breathing would allow; and no one answered, save for Sir John.
‘That is not a matter for this court, Tabitha. But your accusation is noted.’
It was a hushed gathering that finally broke up that afternoon. Afterwards, Sir John came to her, his shoulders bowed and weary, as if the court had been as much of an ordeal for him as for her. In front of all the company, he called her a dutiful daughter who put many another to shame. But she excused herself and set off in search of solitude. The men sitting in that court had hounded her mother. And now she had been forced to murder her mother’s reputation, too.
She halted, alone, in an empty corridor, and banged her bunched fists against the wall, grazing her knuckles so that Nat’s ring dug painfully into her fingers. For the past month she had been slumbering, drunk on the draught of love, but she was wide awake now. Her mother’s tragic history must have been resurrected for a greater purpose. For almost two years Tabitha had sheltered her mother from the cutting tongues of Netherlea; now she had only two months left before she herself would be turned out of the cottage. And in those final dark months of the year, she was damned if she wasn’t going to restore her mother’s name and unmask De Angelo. She would make him suffer for his crimes.
She rode back to Eglantine Hall on Jupiter, behind an attentive, gentle Nat. How did he feel towards her now? As they passed the darkening fields, a procession of men and boys marked the ancient boundaries of common land, gouging marks into the trunks of trees. As they caught up with them she did not at once recognize them; they were guisers, with blackened faces and ribbon-strewn garb.
She threw them a few coppers. She had forgot it was All Hallows’ Eve, a night to perform old customs and appease the spirits. Well, tonight her mother’s spirit felt palpably real, summoned like a chilly wraith from her grave. She could feel it alive in the bitterness of woodsmoke drifting on the wind, in the nip of cold on her nose and fingers, and the sun’s descent into the winter darkness that soon would face them all.
When they returned to the apartment, she felt unnerved, as if the earth had jolted on its axis and was forever out of kilter. She watched Nat build up the fire.
‘Well, Nat, now you know why I left Netherlea. And still you haven’t said a word to me.’
At once he stood and pulled her into his arms, and the entire world righted again.
When he spoke, his voice was warm and gentle. ‘You told the harsh truth and they deserved it. Sweetheart, do you want to go to London? We can leave tomorrow. I will go wherever you go.’
She shook her head. ‘They have given us two months longer. I shall brave it out.’
He brought her a glass of heated brandy, and she made a toast to the empty air. ‘To you, Mother. Forgive my oath-breaking.’
She took a long draught and then sat, bewitched by the lively flames. Very quietly, she said, ‘We must keep the fire burning all the night of Hallows’ Eve, so no evil may enter this house.’
THIRTY-THREE
A Riddle
Why is ink like a scandal?
The 1st day of November 1752
All Hallows’ Day
Luminary: Sunrise 15 minutes after 7.
Observation: Venus sets 18 minutes after 5 in the afternoon.
Prognostication: Those who boast of high degree will likewise die in effigy.
Like a good omen for the future, the fire in the great carved inglenook of Eglantine Hall still glowed in its embers the next morning. Gazing at the wall that displayed their speculations, Tabitha announced they must begin at once to tax their wits – for no time could be lost.
‘It is a shame that Darius, the surest witness, died before he could be properly questioned,’ Nat remarked, chewing on bread and cold bacon.
At the mention of Darius, Tabitha picked up a pen and wrote in a child-like, round hand: You still have my master to reckon with. I’ve seen you swallowing his crafty words. You reckon him such a great good fellow while all the time he plays you for fools.
‘That is what he said to me – his very words.’
‘There is an ambiguity about the word “great”,’ Nat said, musing. ‘It could mean extremely good, as in virtuous; or that the man himself is considered great – that is, of high rank. The reference to craft certainly confirms the hypocrisy we have both detected in the parson’s character.’
Tabitha agreed and went on, slowly. ‘I’ve been thinking, Nat, about Joshua … He discovered my mother’s body and was also close by when Francis was discovered. And this escape Darius made from the bridge – he certainly had a confederate among our party; someone who had a
ccess to the prisoner’s carriage.’ Taking a slow breath, she confided further. ‘At Michaelmas, Bess opened Joshua’s document bag. He has been observing all your movements, over many weeks. Don’t look like that.’
He had sprung up from his chair, but slowly sat back down, saying caustically, ‘That two-faced … Well, he is your fond friend. You know him best.’
She ignored the childishness of his tone. ‘Be sensible. It is more likely that someone has asked him to watch over you than that he does so on his own account. He is not a likely creator of the almanack, even if he is not quite the dotard you imagine. More likely, he is under the influence of this unknown man. For Joshua does venerate power and rank.’
Nat strode over to the wall and inspected his own handiwork.
‘Have you looked at all of the almanack’s predictions?’ she asked him.
‘Blood, burning, and bones this month, if I recollect. Very cheering.’
‘“Those who boast of high degree will likewise die in effigy.”’ Who do you suppose that is? We have underestimated these prognostications before.’
Nat found it hard not to show his contempt.
‘It is styled exactly in the manner of most false predictions, from Nostradamus to Mother Shipton – vague, general, applicable to many cases.’
Tabitha frowned at the crude verse.
‘Remember the “mighty confusion” he caused by giving out the wrong assizes date in September?’
‘And so?’
‘It could be that Sir John, or the doctor, or some other high-born person will die. Though why in effigy, I cannot say.’
‘I pray it won’t be so.’
‘False or not, De Angelo, or someone styling himself as such, sent my mother and Francis those threatening verses. If there is a message it is the fall of a great family: the De Vallorys.’
‘Well, what of your virtuous doctor?’ he asked. ‘You say he dislikes his brother.’
‘They have always been at odds. It is common knowledge the doctor would have made a better overseer of the estate. But remember, if De Angelo was present at Francis’s murder, it cannot be the doctor; a dozen people saw him at breakfast that morning.’
‘Nevertheless, he is bookish, a classicist, of high rank and has a profession both great and good. You have been closest to him. Does he have any strange notions, any cruelty in his nature?’
‘None at all. He is an unusually kind man. Don’t pull that face; I am an excellent judge of men.’ Seeing him unconvinced, she stepped over and sat on his knee, saying, ‘Or else why would I be here with you?’
They kissed but she pulled back before they could sink into languorous lovemaking.
‘Though, of course, there is still you to consider, Nat.’
She spoke sweetly, observing his face, glorying in the curves of his mouth and his fine-boned features. ‘For all I know, every word of accusation you have made against others could be balderdash.’
He laughed, his shrewd eyes watching her under half-closed lids.
Leaving Nat to study the almanack further, Tabitha at length set off for Netherlea. Stepping outside, no sun shone from the blankness of the sky, while from above came only the sound of crows, fretfully cawing. The dark season in the countryside meant icy iron-hard earth, and the labour of constantly collecting firewood. But by January, London would welcome both her and Nat with gaiety and the familiar luxuries of the playhouse, warm taverns and brightly lit shops. As for Bess, she had formed a notion of where she might foster her; she would return for her soon, when she and Nat were settled in some decent lodging place.
Seeing a huddle of women near the church door selling leftover Soul Cakes, she hailed them to buy a cake for Nanny. As she waited for her farthing change, her eye was caught by the bonfire rising on the Church Green. Piles of faggots and tree branches were being heaped in preparation for the commemoration of Parliament’s delivery from the Gunpowder Plot. A group of youngsters had made a remarkably ugly effigy from cast-off habiliments stuffed with straw. Now they dragged it feet-first along the ground, like a corpse across a battlefield. Turning back to the village women, she caught them all staring intently at her. So, she thought grimly, news of her appearance at the Manor Court the day before had spread fast.
Going into the church she found the All Hallows’ service had just ended, leaving a welcome warmth from the newly departed congregation. The De Vallory monument now dominated the nave; the relief image of the standing figure had been sealed upright into the wall. She could see now that it was a figure of a man, with a remarkably well-carved cloth veiling his features. She approached it and studied the Latin inscription, for only the oval lozenge bore words in English, stating Francis’s name and rank.
Tabitha sat in an empty pew and pulled a piece of blank paper out of her pocket. It took a long, painstaking while to write down the words, letter by letter.
‘You were my son’s coming-of-age gift,’ sneered a voice from a nearby pew. ‘I am surprised such vermin is allowed on sacred ground.’ She had been waylaid again by Lady Daphne, only this time the mistress of Bold Hall was alone. There was no polite answer Tabitha could make. She attempted a curtsy and began to back away.
‘But we are all dust now,’ said the haughty voice, behind the heavy mourning veil. Tabitha nodded, but just as she reached the church’s aisle the woman lamented, ‘He gives life and he takes it away.’
Tabitha stopped stock-still, looking back at the woman, a bowed figure shrunken within yards of black satin, frilled over outmoded wide skirts. Finally, when the silence grew too long, Tabitha quietly asked, ‘Who takes life away, your ladyship?’
With great ill-timing, a ratcheting click from the clockwork above their heads started up, and the brass bell in the tower rang out nine ear-deafening times. Hastily, her ladyship rose with a sway of ancient hoops. Without another word, she dragged herself slowly up the aisle and out of the church.
It had been a laborious task to transcribe the inscription; but it was the work of moments to unpick the vestry door once more. She was pleased that Parson Dilks was not to be seen; though she figured that Sir John would defend her action to Hell and back. Opening up the Book of Mortalities she carefully removed the false page attached by dabs of wax. Beside her mother’s original entry, she wrote clear across the margin: Murdered by the hand of Darius Goff, who escaped trial by drowning on the 7th day of October 1752.
Satisfied, she placed it back on its shelf and picked up the parish accounts that listed all the pennies and halfpennies handed out to itinerant beggars as an incentive to leave Netherlea. She leafed through the pages for all of spring 1750 but found no likely candidate who might have discovered her mother alone; only old folk, a nursing mother and wandering children, all of them harried back on to the highway. Impatiently, she drummed her fingers against the wooden table. Damn his blood, her mother’s violator must be a Netherlea man, but he had left no trace of himself, save for the conception of little Bess.
The fog still hung in wispy skeins as she arrived on the High Street and let herself into Nanny’s child-sized almshouse. The old lady lay motionless in a curtained box bed in the back room. The vitality she had possessed when Tabitha had last talked with her had vanished. Mottled skin hung now about her beaky nose and hollowed eyes. Tabitha pulled up a stool and took her claw-like hand into her own. Here was a foretaste of all of their fates, she mused. How heartily she wished she had been able to comfort her own mother at her end. Instead, she said a simple prayer, chastened to reflect on mankind’s being forever close to death.
Tabitha was too late to learn any more from Nanny. She set the Soul Cake out on a communion tray, alongside untouched wine and wafers. She poured a measure of wine into the glass, and the scent of it rose, more palatable than any that she could recall sipping from the church goblet. With great gentleness she cradled Nanny’s shoulders, and attempted to help her take a sip, but it was no use; the old lady’s drooping lips remained shut tight. After straightening her bed linen a
nd combing her hair, Tabitha could think of no other way to help her. Quietly, she let herself out, and began to retrace her steps down the High Street.
‘Good day, Tabitha.’ At the side of the highway the doctor was slowly dismounting from his carriage, leaning crookedly on his cane. Truly, she thought, Netherlea was peopled by a great many ailing folk.
‘Are you back home at your cottage yet?’ They fell into step together, though Tabitha had to slow to match his palsied gait.
‘No. Though I am feeling stronger, now, with many thanks to you.’ She told him she had just come from Nanny Seagoes: ‘I am afraid her end is very close.’
‘Indeed. It is a blessing that her neighbours care for her. I call as often as my other duties allow. But, Tabitha, we are well met.’ He halted, leaning on his stick, panting with exertion. ‘I need to sit.’ He gasped and pointed to the tavern. ‘Would you oblige me by sharing some refreshment?’
Even at ten of the morning, a group of village ne’er-do-wells hung about the inn. The sight of the door assailed her with a memory of standing in the reeking inn yard, as goosebumps of cold and distress rose beneath a too-thin gown. No, she would not torment herself by returning there.
‘I’ll not go inside, Doctor.’
Yet who could reprove her for resting outside a moment? Together they sat on a bench, where Tabitha accepted only small beer from the barmaid. The drinkers had hushed at their approach, and she was struck with the troubling notion that the whole village watched the pair of them in fascination. Was it her imagination, or did one of the local topers jeer under his breath, ‘She don’t look much like her picture, does she, then?’ At the eruption of scornful laughter, she looked quickly in their direction, but they had turned aside.
The Almanack Page 22