The Almanack

by Martine Bailey

  FORTY-ONE

  A Riddle

  From Heaven I fall, though from Earth I begin,

  No lady alive can show such a skin.

  I’m bright as an angel, and light as a feather,

  But heavy and hard, when you squeeze me together.

  Though pure and unsullied my aspect I bear,

  Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.

  The 21st to the 23rd day of December 1752

  Midwinter

  Luminary: Day decreases 7 hours 34 minutes long.

  Observation: Sun in Capricorn 56 minutes after 11.

  Prognostication: All public actions at a standstill.

  The oilskin in the cart beneath which Tabitha sheltered soon resembled a little tent of snow. By the time they reached Moss Hill, the cart horses whinnied in distress, slithering in the ruts. Tabitha clambered down and walked behind the cart, her boot soles sliding on treacherous ice-glazed mud. With grim resolve, the carter coaxed the horses to the crown of the hill, where they stood, steaming and snorting clouds of vapour from their nostrils.

  Tabitha looked back towards Chester, wiping away the flakes that stuck to her eyelashes. The distant curl of the river, the dozen church towers and wide roofs of the city were disappearing in a covering of muted grey and white. She wondered if Joshua and Jennet were also on the road, or more sensibly, had found lodgings that night. The carter motioned her to climb aboard again. Beneath her oilskin tent, she watched the snow tumble earthwards, smothering the familiar route like a shroud masking a well-loved face. Soon she and Nat would be fugitives, hiding from the world, scraping by in lodgings shared with those who also lived outside the law. And Nat was no longer the strong and vigorous man she had first met; more than six weeks in prison had left him thin and weakened, his ankle raw from the iron ring. She needed to nurse him, and to rebuild his strength. She felt unequal to such labours, for as well as anxious, she was vastly tired. Her eyes drooped as she watched the scene trundle past her: leafless trees laced with snow, the low sky turning bloodshot violet as the sun set.

  Saint Thomas Grey, Saint Thomas Grey,

  The longest night and the shortest day.

  It was impossible to believe that from tomorrow the world would gradually spin back towards the brighter days of springtime.

  She woke, rigid with cold, to find herself on the benighted high street of Netherlea. Hauling herself down from the cart, she was guided back to the cottage by the radiant silver disc of the Yuletide moon. The stepping stones glittered in the colourless light and felt treacherous as she teetered across them. Pale frills of ice were growing around each shimmering stone.

  It was six o’clock by the church bell when she gratefully opened the cottage door and Nell Dainty rose from her place at the fireside. Bess ran towards her with plump arms extended, squealing with pleasure.

  ‘I thought you was never coming back.’

  Tabitha eyed the steaming teapot sitting within easy reach of Nell and bit her tongue. ‘Have you any news of Joshua and Jennet?’ she asked, instead. ‘I’ve not seen them on the road – it seems they may have stayed in Chester.’

  ‘Not a word.’ Nell pulled on her cloak and black bonnet. ‘She has been very quiet, the little maid. There’s some milk in the pail for her in case the river ices up.’

  Tabitha was still pulling off a great deal of wet woollen clothing. ‘That’s very generous of you.’ In as friendly a fashion as she could muster, she asked, ‘So, are you all set to move in here on the first day of January?’

  ‘Aye. My old place is leaking like a rusty bucket. I reckon the constable kept this place in good order for your mother. It’s a bit lonely, mind you, with not a neighbour about to call upon. But I’ll send my goods over in a barrow then.’

  Holding Bess against her hip, Tabitha twirled the girl’s golden ringlets around her forefinger.

  ‘When I leave, Nell, would you take care of Bess until I can fetch her? She’s content here at the cottage, and now she knows you well enough. I’ll pay her keep, naturally.’

  Nell’s face lit up like a lamp.

  ‘I don’t see why I can’t take her off your hands, altogether.’

  ‘Oh, I shall want her back.’

  Nell’s eyes narrowed, and the familiar twist to her mouth reappeared.

  ‘So when will that be, then?’

  ‘I shall write,’ Tabitha said more airily than she had intended. ‘And tell you when I’m settled.’

  ‘You’ll not stay for the trial, then?’ She thought she glimpsed malice in Nell’s face.

  ‘No.’

  Oh God, all of this weighs upon my shoulders, she thought. She wondered again how all these complicated matters could be arranged when she felt more despondent and weary than she ever had done in her life.

  The next morning, she and Bess traipsed soggily into the village; Joshua and Jennet had still not returned. Though the baker had sold all his penny loaves, Tabitha bought a few stale rolls and a bag of flour.

  ‘No one came up that road since last night,’ the baker’s boy told her. ‘It were you and the carter last of all.’

  ‘So the road is blocked with snow?’

  ‘I reckon so. Some of the farmer’s lads are setting off to take a look.’

  By the time she and Bess turned for home, lamps were being lit in windows along the High Street and chimneys puffed woodsmoke into the air. She had firewood, plain food and drink. Trying to beat down her growing sense of alarm, she consoled herself that there was still time aplenty before Christmas Eve.

  On the twenty-third of December Tabitha carried Bess above knee-high snow drifts to Eglantine Hall. She lit a fire in Nat’s fireplace, for the apartment was damp and musty, and found a box of tea and some dry biscuits. While Bess scampered joyfully back and forth across the long chamber, Tabitha gathered up Nat’s belongings. First she packed his fine clothes in his portmanteau; all save for the fine woollen coat with gold braid and brass buttons, which he had loved to see her wear. She pulled it on and felt as warm as if his arms encircled her. Standing in front of the mirror she placed his second-best tricorne hat on her hair. It was almost like seeing Nat swaggering before her in his lordly London costume. Damn – the mirror showed she was as pale as snow herself, save for the shadows around her eyes.

  Next, she found his pocket watch draped over the headboard and tucked that into her pocket. There was a good engraved inkwell too, and some fine leather-bound books that she might sell. Yet, even as she calculated their value, her spirits sank. She had already decided it would be unforgiveable to sell Jupiter. She picked up Nat’s telescope, but felt, again, that she could never deny Nat his passion for gazing at the stars.

  While Bess played on the floor, Tabitha sank into a chair beneath the tall oriel windows. The early dusk revealed clear and glittering constellations, presaging another cold night. She raised the telescope to her eye and set the lens upon a few of those celestial bodies that Nat had taught her to locate: the blue diamond of Venus, yellow-ringed Saturn, the shining sword and girdle of Orion. The moon was still almost full tonight, as pock-marked as a sphere of shell.

  If only the answer were in the pattern of the stars. She picked up Nat’s copy of the almanack and noted with a heavy heart that after the morrow a mere fourteen days remained until his trial. Exiled from the sun’s warming rays, the earth now hung upon the cusp of time, and so did they. Nat’s box was packed and ready; her mind was set upon a new course of life, she was eager to forge ahead. Yet a disturbing premonition tainted her thoughts: that time had solidified. The future she desired was no longer certain: unseen and unstoppable forces were blocking her path.

  FORTY-TWO

  A Riddle

  More numerous subjects has my first,

  Than any mortal king can boast,

  And yet for more he’s still athirst

  Till all the world compose his host.

  My second, made with wondrous skill

  Measures every live long day,

>   He bears a face and two thin hands,

  That chase but never catch its prey.

  When fear with superstition’s joined

  My fancied whole my first foretells,

  And thus the enfeebled sick man’s mind

  To dread it constantly impels.

  The 24th day of December 1752

  Christmas Eve

  Luminary: Sun rises 13 minutes after 8.

  Observation: Conjunction of the Sun and Saturn.

  Prognostication: Sly intrigues at hand.

  On Christmas Eve, Tabitha awoke beside Bess, beneath a great weight of rugs and old clothes. The silence and unusual gloom filled her with alarm. She got up and rubbed her icy fingers, remembering with longing the London fashion for large swansdown muffs. Curse it, the casement window was half-blocked with snow, transforming her mother’s chamber into a cave-like burrow. She wound more clothes around herself – eventually, by dint of some mighty shoves, she succeeded in opening the front door.

  At least another foot of snow had fallen, lying in a spotless blanket over the garden and the brittle skeletons of trees. Rows of icicles hung in witchy fingers along the edges of the roof. Tabitha stamped her feet on the doorstep and cursed; she would never reach Chester that day. The realization left her feeling stupid and hopeless. Today was her last chance to sell the watch before all business ceased for Christmas, to meet Jansen and give him his ten pounds. All her hopeful plans – to be reunited with Nat and to board the coach to London – all of the intricate workings of transaction and timing were abruptly closed off to them.

  She had failed and, with no other scheme to free Nat, his trial must be faced. A deposition had been made, but all the evidence stood against him. Vindictive character statements spoke of his midnight studies, star-gazing and night-wanderings. The pamphlet proved he had the rare skills necessary to compile an almanack. And, worst of all, it was possible that De Angelo would spread the knowledge that Nat was the natural-born heir to the De Vallorys, standing to gain a great fortune from Francis’s death. The Devil roast him, she thought, De Angelo was an invisible, malevolent presence, working constantly to destroy them both.

  After breakfast a messenger boy called, his hat and livery white from the morning’s new fall of snow.

  ‘It is me, Tom Seagoes, Nanny’s nephew,’ he explained, and Tabitha recognized the clear-faced lad, both as Jennet’s friend and as the boy who had called with messages from Sir John.

  ‘Any news from Chester?’ She beckoned him inside.

  ‘I was hoping for news from you, Miss Hart. What of the constable – and Jennet? Some fellow told us the road is blocked by fallen trees, over at Moss Hill.’

  ‘So when will it be cleared?’ She heard the anxiety clear in her own voice.

  ‘No one knows. If the snow stops they might try to dig a bridle track through it. I cannot say, what with it being Christmas Eve.’

  Despondent, she gave Tom the only warm drink she had, some tansy tea, with an apology for her lack of stronger spirit.

  ‘I nearly forgot my proper business,’ he said, holding his chapped hands over the fire. ‘I’m to tell everyone that the doctor is making all the tenants welcome this Christmas Eve, for a wassail cup and some solid food. The Yule log is to be lit, so you can save your dry firewood.’

  Weary of carrying Bess, Tabitha pulled on Nat’s warm coat and braved the snow to see whether her mother had kept the sled she had used as a girl. She found it at the back of the woodshed, a crude wooden platform set upon two curved runners and pulled by a rope. Her father had made it during one of the Great Frosts, and now Bess shrieked with delight when Tabitha wrapped her in a rug and pulled her queen-like over undulating drifts. When they reached the river, they found it had frozen in waves and plaits of greenish ice. So they ignored the stepping stones, and the sled slithered straight across the ice to the far bank. It was a hard journey, and soon Tabitha’s arms ached and her skirt was drenched to the knees. Yet perhaps the celebration might afford her some news, some hope.

  On Church Green the oak tree stood laced with hoar-frost, like a duke in a coat made of diamonds. Nat had told her the sap of now was constantly rising up the trunk of time towards the many branches of their possible futures. Now she felt that their current troubles were a disease: De Angelo had lopped away her mother, Frances, and Nanny, and still he was creeping upwards, malevolent and invisible.

  At Bold Hall a few dozen tenants had gathered in the Great Hall, where the doctor and Parson Dilks joined them to raise a toast to the forthcoming holiday. Tabitha stood apart with the serving women and watched as the door was flung open and a team of men came inside, dragging a gigantic log across the flagstones in a whirlwind of red cheeks and oaths.

  ‘Must we suffer these heathen abominations every year, Doctor?’ demanded Parson Dilks.

  Tabitha looked to where the doctor was sitting. His face was flushed and cheerful, in spite of his sickness. ‘I have a fondness for the old ways, Parson. Christmas, after all, has many echoes of the Saturnalia – which you, as a classicist, will of course know well. Pray take note, sir, of the similarity of customs: the hanging of evergreens, the lighting of lamps, the feasting and the frolics.’

  Parson Dilks grimaced. ‘Balderdash, Doctor. True believers deplore these heathenish routs. The feast days of the Church owe nothing whatsoever to paganism.’

  Now the farmer appeared, with a flaming brand made from a little piece of last year’s log.

  ‘Stand well back; we must have no trouble with the lighting.’

  As soon as the flame touched the dry tangle of roots, the kindling flared and caught, encouraging a loud shout and a cheer.

  ‘’Tis a lucky one, master,’ said a greybeard. ‘It be sure to burn the full twelve hour, an’ give us a year’s good luck, an’ bring back the sun.’

  Soon the Yule log was crackling and sparking, throwing off bright heat and barely a wisp of smoke. On Tabitha’s knee, Bess clapped her hands and babbled happily in the delicious warmth.

  Tabitha joined in a great cheer as the wassail cup was produced, a deep silver-chased bowl that shone in the firelight like a Viking treasure.

  ‘A Merry Christmas to all,’ announced the doctor, clumsily lifting the bowl to his lips. There were some sad expressions and headshakes at the sight of the well-liked doctor, struggling to enjoy what would no doubt be his last Christmas. As he took a long draught, the gathering wished him the same, and the men doffed their caps. One by one, the brimming vessel was passed from mouth to mouth. At Tabitha’s turn she allowed herself a good long drink, for she was still damp, and her toes wretchedly numb from the snow. Parson Dilks, on the other hand, gave a little shake of refusal when the bowl was offered to him. Tabitha wondered if he noticed the disapproving glances among the company.

  When the supper was brought in, they fell on it like a flock of gannets; there was Yule cake, sliced and buttered, and minced pies, brawn and Zusanna’s best cheeses. As soon as the hungry stomachs were filled, the wassail cup was again passed from hand to hand, while choruses were raised from old country carols, and young and old clapped along to the tune. Even the frail doctor supped deeply in the midst of the red-faced revellers.

  But it was impossible for Tabitha to surrender to such pleasures while Nat was suffering such a desperate Christmas. She moved about the gathering, asking for news of any likely journeymen venturing to Chester in the next few days. All she got for her trouble were a few invitations to dance, and the same crude jests that labouring men unearthed, each and every Christmas.

  Leaving Bess with Nell, Tabitha eventually found her way to the stillroom, where the air was sweet with the sugary fragrance of Christmas baking. Jane was working pell-mell, preparing macaroon biscuits and decorated marzipans.

  Jane looked up. ‘Tabitha. Thank goodness. What news of Joshua?’

  ‘No news at all. And I’ve just learned there are other folk stranded. Judith, the doctor’s cook, and the farmer’s wife, who took her poultry to Ch
ester market.’

  ‘It’s a sorry Christmas when folk are scattered so far from kin. And not a happy thought to have no constable in the village.’

  Tabitha nodded, looking about herself for some distraction. ‘Can I help you, Jane? I cannot bear to sit and rejoice when I cannot bring even a crumb of Christmas cheer to Nat.’

  Jane’s freckled face looked over to the groaning table.

  ‘Well, I must take Sir John’s tray up to him. If you could press these almonds in the centre of these dainties …’

  ‘Please, Jane. Let me go up to Sir John. I would be forever beholden to you.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. I am leaving Netherlea as soon as this snow clears, and I should like to thank him for the kind words he spoke of me at the Manor Court. It is not likely I’ll ever see him again.’

  Jane gave her a long and doubtful look. Just then a footman burst through the door, demanding roasted apples for the cider.

  ‘Yes, when they are ready!’ she shouted back at him.

  Then, turning back to Tabitha, she capitulated. ‘Very well. His tray is over there. Only don’t, for heaven’s sake, upset him.’

  As soon as Jane had turned her back, Tabitha pulled down a lace cap and apron from the row of hooks and, looking passably like a servant, picked up the tray and ascended the narrow back stairs. She found her way by trial and error, discovering Sir John’s room at the end of the same passageway as his son’s.

  Tapping at the door and hearing no reply, she entered the grand apartment. Sir John made a slight figure in the centre of a vast tester bed, festooned with gilt and armorials and swathes of tasselled brocade. The chamber was in deep gloom; scarcely any light penetrated from the window, and only a few isolated candles burned in sconces. But Sir John was awake, propped up high on bolsters, and watched her approach through startled bloodshot eyes.