Zusanna giggled, and the sound stung Tabitha like broken glass thrown in her face. A burning sprang up in her eyes; she wished she could slink away like a rat into a hole. Still she could not move.
In a thunder of boots, Joshua emerged from the back door, striding business-like, holding his constable’s staff aloft. Behind him were a band of the village watch, carrying torches.
‘Well, Starling, how do you account for this?’ He held a copy of the pamphlet aloft.
Nat remained motionless, dead drunk.
Joshua jerked his head in disdain. ‘Nathaniel Starling, I arrest you in the name of the King for the wilful murder of Francis De Vallory.’
As if waking from a stupor, Tabitha ran from her place; she seized Joshua’s coat sleeves and shook him.
‘You cannot take him. Please, Joshua!’
Belligerent and unmoved, the constable gave an order, and strong hands hauled her backwards; she stumbled towards the icy wall and hit her shoulder hard.
‘Keep her back,’ Joshua commanded, and a thicket of men’s bodies formed around her.
Nat did not even have the wit to protest when the constable’s men dragged him upright and jostled him out towards the street. Zusanna shrieked incoherent curses, but no one paid her any mind.
In an instant, Tabitha was alone in the ice-bound yard. Alarm, confusion and a sickening sense of betrayal kept her hunched and still; she stayed in the shadows, listening, until all sounds of Joshua and his men had vanished into the night.
THIRTY-FIVE
A Riddle
My face resembles all mankind;
I’m ever blind when with the blind;
When I’m approached by ladies fair,
I’m just as handsome I declare;
And when an ugly cur I view;
By Jove, I’m just as ugly too:
If a beggar does draw near,
Then quick a beggar I appear;
And if a goddess I should see,
I’m raised as god-like just as she.
The 6th day of November 1752
Saint Leonard the Confessor
Luminary: New Moon at 2 in the morning.
Observation: Eclipse of the Sun at 1 in the morning.
Prognostication: Diverse and unexpected changes at hand.
Tabitha stewed miserably in her bed. So now she knew it: Nat was not only a deceiver, he was just as worthless as every other man she had ever known. When she had first arrived in London she had been hopeful of meeting a fine man to be hers alone. But soon each face grew mazy, merging one into the next. And every one of them abandoned her, or ran out of money, or used her ill. Damn it, how had she been duped by a handsome face again?
As it darkened to afternoon, Jennet brought a sweet posset to warm her.
‘I am sorry you did not reach the tavern in time.’
Tabitha gave a sad little shake of her head in reply.
Jennet watched her. ‘He is in Chester Castle now. No one has visited him.’
‘Do you think I care? It is what he deserves.’ Tabitha squirmed away towards the wall.
Jennet sat down on the bed beside her. ‘You loved him, Tabitha. I never saw a man and woman happier together. You can still go to him now.’
‘Stop it.’ She held the girl’s wrist, not wanting to hear any more. ‘Perhaps I loved him, Jennet, but I never even knew him.’
‘Oh.’ Jennet looked at her with her clear, guileless expression. ‘Can we never truly know a man, Tabitha?’
‘Only when it is too late. I could tell you some stories; my best friend, Poll Shepherd, for a start. She came home one day, bursting with news. A proposal of marriage. Mr Hartford Betts, the figure of a respectable bachelor, and well-connected, too. The wedding cost twenty pounds in gowns, white ribbons and bride cake. Then off she went to live in Mr Betts’ new villa across town.
‘It was all over in a twinkling. Hoping to improve his situation, that blockhead Betts lost his money on a speculation. His true character was then revealed: he was a despondent, miserable drunk. There was nothing for Poll to do but go back on the town. I did my best, I lent her five pounds – but Betts took it off her for drink. “Keep your pride and your purse to yourself,” Poll told me. “Marriage is a rattrap – poxed easy to enter, but impossible to escape.”
‘And what is she now? A year later, I was leaving the Playhouse when I heard my name whispered. There was my dear, sweet Poll clutching the wall, half-cut on gin, half her teeth broken and her lovely yellow hair turned to grey. That jewel of London had been ground underfoot by that lazy dog, her husband. These days, he is no more than her drunken pimp – and there is a child now, a thin ragged creature lucky to get a bowl of milk. So you see, Jennet, we can never know a man.’
‘But that is not always true. My mother was well content with Joshua as a husband. She, at least, died well loved. Poor man, I think he’ll never find again what they once had.’
Tabitha rolled over and watched her narrowly. ‘Truly?’
All these years, she had fancied it was herself whom Joshua wanted, and that he had merely married Mary as second-best. Now, she discovered, Mary had been his great love, and those long looks and kisses were nothing but a widower’s loneliness.
Once Jennet had left Tabitha turned matters over and over, churning like butter that wouldn’t come. For the first time in her life, she had let her bold husk be split, lain weak and exposed within cradling arms. She had believed she had found a true love; her own miraculous echoing heart, foretold in the stars to be hers alone.
The next day, while dressing, she paid attention to her costume and hair. At Eglantine Hall she found the door unlocked. She wandered the empty apartment, feeling the rawness of his absence, and picking up objects he had touched: a glass that bore the impress of his lips, a single chestnut hair, a linen stock. She buried her face in the linen’s rumpled softness and smelled the traces of his body. Just a week earlier she had untied it from his throat and discarded it on the floor; then he had lifted his shirt from his naked shoulders. Venus save her, the memory made her body ache.
Nat’s papers were cast over the desk, in heaps of ink-spattered scrawl. She picked up the pamphlet; the crude story that had so infuriated her and made sport of them all for any kitchen maid or street boy.
It was vulgar and crude – but now, viewing it from a little distance, she could comprehend its cleverness. If she did not know Netherlea, if she were reading about some other town – why, she would have sat down with a cup of sugared tea and devoured it with all the relish of a currant bun. And if the bag of guineas he had been paid was any guide, so would hundreds of other ordinary folk. In the city, no one cared now for the folktales of their grandsires; only for new legends of glamorous highwaymen, barbaric gangs and bloody outrages. They were tales of this new invention called a metropolis, where thousands of people lived crowded against their neighbours, all of them strangers, and many of them strange.
His bed was still unmade; he had left a paper under his pillow. She read it with slowly growing comprehension:
O future reader, in my glass I see,
Two shining eyes and eager beating heart;
And from an eerie distance back in Time,
Shoot you a message with this poet’s dart:
Within our reach lies great transforming power,
A partner soul to whom our soul is bound,
Pray don’t be cowardly, but grasp this hour –
And know the bliss that I with T have found.
Her heart thumped suddenly against her ribs. She forgave him all; his secret, the pamphlet, his drunkenness, and dallying with Zusanna. This verse was not written by a deceiver. No, here in his private moments was Nat’s true and lovable self. She missed him so much, the damned rogue. Swiftly, she raised the stone where she knew he hid his money, counting what remained. There were still two pounds and sixteen shillings left. Whatever comforts she could buy for him in Chester gaol, he should have.
THIRTY-SIX
&
nbsp; A Riddle
I’m all enigma, never was understood;
Some call me cruel, some the greatest good.
The world’s my playground, and mankind my toys:
Kings, queens, lords, ladies, men and boys.
The lovely bride, though rich in worldly store,
Bereft of me, for all her wealth is poor.
The 8th day of November 1752
Luminary: Day shortened to 7 hours and 10 minutes.
Observation: Head of Andromeda south at 9 at night.
Prognostication: The vulgar are malcontented and take great pains to excite discontent.
As she descended the dungeon stairs, Tabitha covered her nose with her apron. Felons were kept in the Lower Court of Chester Castle, a wretched vault reached by a set of slippery green steps. Here she found Nat alone, slumped on a stone bench in the gloom. She could at first see only a crumpled silhouette, for there was nothing but a grate to communicate with the daylight. When he tried to rise and greet her, he stumbled, and she saw that an iron chain fixed his leg to the floor.
She had tried to prepare herself for the ordeal, but still felt a series of alarming pangs as her eyes adjusted and she saw him more clearly. There was a new hollowness to his cheek, and his hair hung in rat-tails.
‘Nat. How is it here?’
‘Tolerable. They treat me well enough.’
She shook her head in mystification. ‘You speak as if you deserve this.’
He raised his face, where shadows like old bruises surrounded his eyes. ‘Perhaps I do.’
‘So – you are the murderer De Angelo, then?’
‘No. But I know when I am bested.’
He lifted his face and met her gaze with overlarge eyes.
‘Nat Starling, this is the first and last time I shall ask you. Did you play any part in my mother’s death, or in Francis’s?’
‘No. I did not. I swear it.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
She laid her hand upon his; it felt rough with grime. The atmosphere eased between them.
‘Tell me. Does Sir John acknowledge you?’ asked Tabitha gently.
Nat drew his long fingers over his brow. ‘In private, yes. He was about to draw up a new will and make me his heir. Then he discovered I wrote that damnable pamphlet. He called me unworthy, a disgrace, a leech. Tabitha, he fell forward on to the table, his eyes seeing all, yet his body was powerless to move. And now he may die. I bring ruin to everything I do.’
‘And so you deserve to hang in De Angelo’s place?’
He hesitated, shook his head. ‘If I hadn’t come here, or written that pamphlet, my father would still be in health.’
‘I don’t believe that. I think it more likely he’s being poisoned.’
Nat groaned. ‘How fares he now?’
‘No better, but no worse. The question is, how did De Angelo know you are Sir John’s son?’
He sighed. ‘I have no notion. Sir John and I swore an oath not to speak of it to anyone. At the time, there was Francis to consider, and his mother. But now he’s on my trail. I had a letter from Quare, the London printer. He told me a fellow named Angelo or some such name, had a fat commission for me. Unwittingly, Quare gave out my name and particulars here in Netherlea. And now all of Netherlea knows I wrote the piece.’
As he shifted his position the chain clanked against the wet flagstones. ‘I see now, he holds me like a fox at bay. He intends to finish me.’
‘That’s enough.’ Surprised by her sharpness, his head jerked up. ‘Do you not see that he works by fear? He enjoys his victim’s sufferings. Nat Starling, after all that has passed, I will not abandon you. But henceforth there must be naught but honest dealing between us. Will you promise me that?’
He leaned towards her, bright and feverish. ‘Yes. I swear it on you, our love, my life – on all that is good.’
‘Then we can still defeat him.’
Tabitha offered him a pie from her basket, and he devoured it as if he had not eaten for days. After a long draught of cider, he looked a little restored.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘both for your charity and for your faith in me. I couldn’t tell you about Sir John; I could not break my oath to the man I’d just found was my father. Forgive me. I was going to tell you as soon as he acknowledged me. And I’m so devilish happy you had no close attachment to him after all.’
‘Your father? Lord, I see your predicament now. No, none at all, thank heaven.’ She laughed to think of his unnecessary suspicions. ‘So what was your business with my mother?’
‘Merely information. I needed to glean what I could of my own mother’s circumstances before I confronted Sir John. God forgive me if I drew attention to your mother by searching the records.’
‘I think not. It looks as if she did that herself.’
She reached in her pocket. ‘Here is what is left of your money. I see from the notice it costs five shillings a week for a gentleman’s parlour on the Master’s side of the prison.’
‘No need for that. It is Jupiter I fear for. I’d be obliged if you would take back five shillings and pay the ostler’s boy to see him tended. As for me, not yet wanting to expire of gaol fever I will at least lay out some money to rent a private cell. As for food—’
‘I shall come when I can, Nat. Every Saturday I’ll bring food and whatever news I can.’
‘You are too good.’
The gaol bell began to ring, announcing that it was time for any visitors to leave.
‘You will see Jupiter is well cared for? And come again. Please.’
Tabitha got up. Suddenly, she could no more leave him than cut her own heart out. He had learned his lesson mighty hard. ‘Have you any new scribblings in your head?’
‘Too many to remember by heart,’ he said.
‘I shall fetch pen and paper, too.’
‘Oh, Tabitha. Only you truly know me.’
‘Next week, then.’ She reached to him and kissed him quickly on the mouth.
Climbing up the dank stairs towards the light she felt the pain of parting seize her. Now she had seen him, she wished she had spent more precious time deep in his arms. Passing through the tunnelled gateway of the castle she had no clear notion of where to go next, only that she longed for the rocking emptiness of the cart on which she had arranged to ride back to Netherlea. For dreamy hours she would be able to conjure Nat’s face – still dignified despite everything – and recollect the rough abrasion of his cheek as their lips briefly met. She had also to begin drawing up a scheme to set him free.
At the other side of the drawbridge, the Chester thoroughfare stood empty in the low afternoon light; a couple of prisoners, newly freed, shambled past her, led out by guards. Her eyes were searching for a clock to check the hour when the breath was suddenly knocked from her lungs. Before she could scream, a hand clapped over her mouth. Her attacker edged her backwards until, after a few painful steps, she was no longer in the public yard but pulled inside a murky sentry arch.
‘Well met, you thieving brimstone,’ a thick Irish brogue whispered in her ear. ‘Where’s my timepiece, you she-dog?’
His arm squeezed her throat. She shoved her elbow violently into his chest, so that his grip loosened sufficiently for her to suck in a breath.
‘And all my goods and rig-out, you damned thief?’ she gasped. A knee rammed into her back, and she groaned.
‘My timepiece,’ he hissed. ‘Where is it? I have a customer that wants it bad. A man of learning with a heavy purse.’
‘I sold it.’
The thick arm, wet with dungeon slime, pressed hard against her mouth.
‘Bitch! Do you know what it’s worth? It belonged to that cursed Scotch Queen who had her head sliced off. If you have sold it, you must get it back.’
He loosened his grip a half-inch, and she croaked, ‘I might – if it were worth my while.’
With a shove, he sent her flying against the wall. Despite the blow, she was grateful to be free of his
hold. Now he blocked her exit with his thick arms, braced against the narrow doorway. ‘You think I’d give a strumpet like you a share?’
She smoothed her dress and smiled, with what she hoped was an appealing simper. ‘Why ever not? I’ve been looking for a clever pal to work with. I could draw the cullies in while you strip their purses.’
He looked her over, from cap to buckles. In the November light his pewter-cold eyes made her want to shrink away and disappear.
‘I only tumbled you because I knew the price of your gown. Maybe other dupes might bed you willingly enough.’
‘So we renew our acquaintance?’ she said heartily, extending her hand. When he took her fingers her skin recoiled from his hairy-handed touch. How had she ever let this lizard possess her?
‘I’ll tell you how it will be. Fetch me my timepiece, and I’ll give you a try-out. You got any coin with you?’
‘No.’
He poked her roughly in the back. ‘You’d best get to work then. I have a fancy for a fine feather bed in Chester town tonight. You can go work the Back Lanes.’ Still wary of her, he led her by the arm out of the sentry box; she commanded herself to press close and friendly beside him and relax into his brutal grip. As they fell in step together, he held her a mite less tightly.
Passing down the drawbridge, they came upon a couple of soldiers wearing threadbare red coats. Tabitha began to chat to the Irishman of the city’s different inns and pointed up towards the Exchange; as he turned in the direction she indicated, she reached across him and snatched the closest soldier’s musket. Turning the muzzle towards her attacker, she announced, ‘Gentlemen, this scoundrel attacked me before he had even left the prison grounds.’
The soldiers turned hard-bitten faces towards the Irishman.
‘What a tale!’ he protested, appealing to his fellow men. ‘This whore tapped me for money and threatened to cry attack if I refused her.’
Keeping the musket trained on him, Tabitha spoke again: ‘Sirs, I am the village searcher from Netherlea. I came here with food from the parish to give to a gentleman prisoner, Nat Starling. Pray check the gaoler’s book. I was on my way out when this creature attacked me. Now ask him what his business is.’
The Almanack Page 24