“Can I be of service, Daughter?”
“No, sir. I came only to enjoy the peace of your lovely garden for a little while.”
“A worthy aim. I myself have been known to slip away for a few moments of quiet contemplation, when the burdens of the almshouse weigh too heavily.” He sighed. “There are so many who need us. The old and the sick, the poor, the needy. Ah, well. We do what we can. And if we bring them closer to God, we are doubly blessed.”
Allegra scanned the long, low stucco building with its black timbering stark against the whitewash. The walls were bowed with age. “’Tis very old, your almshouse.”
“Hosier’s Almshouse, they call it. Some three hundred years ago, there was a good man of that name, a rich cloth merchant who wished to pave his path to heaven. We bless him every day.”
She laughed gently, noting the timeworn state of the old building. “And pray for a new angel of mercy as well?”
“Angels come in many guises, Daughter,” he said softly. “Lest you doubt, we have one among us today. In the trappings of a mere mortal. He comes when he can, and does the work of ten. There is no task too menial or lowly for him. No work too difficult. He offers to do it all, with a generosity that inspires the rest of us to toil the harder. He nurses the sick. He cheers them when they feel pain and cleans them when they foul themselves.” The rector spread his arms and indicated the flower beds before them. “This garden is his. When he first came to us, it had almost gone to seed. And now, you see what he has wrought.”
“But who is he?”
The rector shrugged. “A man of no importance, I should guess. Merely a man. But God makes no distinctions. A learned man, to be sure. Sometimes, late at night, before he leaves, I will find him beside the bed of a dying creature, reading the Scripture aloud for comfort.”
Allegra shook her head. It still surprised her, that there could be goodness in the world. “I should like to see this saint.”
The rector led her to a side door that opened onto a large dormitory room. It stretched the length of the building beneath ancient roof beams; a door at the far end led to a small chapel. The room was crowded with cots on which lay the poor unfortunates who had found refuge within these walls. There were some who slept, and some who babbled aimlessly, and some who wept or cried aloud. The blended sounds made a low hum in the room—a soft, collective moan of pain.
Near the door to the chapel, a man was kneeling on the floor, a bucket of water at his elbow. He was dressed in old, tattered clothes, and his hair hung loose and unbound, in the manner of a country plowman. He scrubbed the old planks vigorously with a stiff brush, his head bent in concentration, his dark hair obscuring his face.
Just then, an old woman in the bed near him cried out and tried to sit up. Immediately, he rose to his feet and hurried to her side, soothing her and gently stroking her white hair until she calmed and lay back again on her pillow.
Allegra gasped and shrank into the shadow of the doorway. She shook her head in disbelief. It couldn’t be! She must be losing her reason. “He shows such mercy and serves without complaint?” she whispered to the rector.
The clergyman smiled. “I told you he was our angel. There is no shame or pride in our Mr. Morgan. God has blessed us by sending him.”
Mr. Morgan, the reverend had called him. Her eyes had not deceived her. It was he.
Sir Greyston Morgan, Viscount Ridley. Monster of Baniard Hall.
Chapter Eight
“I wish I could persuade you to come to Ludlow today, Mr. Briggs.” Allegra clambered into the small cart, sat down and smiled at Jonathan Briggs beside her.
He sighed and clicked his tongue at the horse. It tossed its mane in impatience, then started down the long drive of Baniard Hall at a lively pace. Briggs sighed again. “’Tis merely market day.”
“Merely market day? ’Tis Bartholomew-tide! And every soul who hasn’t gone to London for the great fair will be in Ludlow!” Allegra grinned, surprised at her own rising excitement. She hadn’t thought she could feel such joy. Not ever again. Surely it must be the relative ease of her days at the Hall—after the misery of the Carolinas—that had so heartened her, helped her to look for the sweetness in life again.
Or perhaps it was the memory of Grey Ridley, bent with concern over an old, sick woman. It had been nearly a fortnight since that afternoon at Hosier’s Almshouse, and still the scene warmed her thoughts. She smiled to herself. What a soft fool she was becoming! He had scarcely ceased to be the monster of Baniard Hall. The man who seemed to enjoy tormenting everyone. Why should one chance glimpse change her opinion of him?
Still…to know that he had a spark of goodness within him, a secret life of charity, had pleased her beyond measure. Beyond all reason. She had slipped out of the almshouse without his seeing her that afternoon, then had taken a rose from “Mr. Morgan’s” garden. A fragile blossom gently nurtured by his own hands. She had kept it in her room, marveling at its fragrance, until it faded.
Its presence had made it easier for her to endure Ridley’s sullen silences and sharp words, the memory of her humiliation before Lord Halford. She found herself remembering, with a thrill, the searing fire of Grey Ridley’s kisses, and forgetting that he had used her to drive away his friends. Stroking the velvety rose across her lips, she had half persuaded herself that Ridley’s passion and his burning, needful kisses had been genuine, at least.
And then…did she only imagine it? Had he become kinder, these past few days? Less disposed to scold and criticize? He had been quiet and withdrawn since his friends had gone. Scarcely a serenity, but at least there was peace in the Hall. Moreover, he seemed more temperate lately in his need for intoxicating spirits. She could never forgive him for using her as a dupe, she told herself. But perhaps the knowledge of his secret goodness would help her to view him with more tolerance.
The cart passed through the iron gates of the Hall and made its way along the narrow road that followed the crest of Wenlock Edge. Allegra adjusted the ribbon of her wide straw hat and took in her surroundings with satisfaction. It would be hot later, but now the sweet morning spread its glories before her.
Scented fruit was ripe on trees and bushes; apples and plums and blackberries blended their aromas with the gentle breeze. The rich hues of purple thistle and red, ripe sumac twinkled like jewels amid the dark-green foliage of late summer, joined by the second bloom of spring blossoms—bright yellow dandelions, poppies, and fragrant honeysuckle. The hay had already been harvested, and the empty fields that dotted the hillsides were a pale, shimmering gold, like a child’s freshly washed hair spread out in the sun. With a trilling, whirring sound, startled flocks of hedge-sparrows fluttered up to the tops of the bushes as they passed. Allegra smiled at a farmer leading his milk cows to an emerald patch of grass.
“Such a lovely morning. Why won’t you change your mind, Mr. Briggs? Come to Ludlow Market after you’ve seen to His Lordship’s business. It will be as jolly as any fair ever was.”
Briggs snorted. “Pickpockets. Thieves. Wild seekers after pleasure. And highwaymen waiting on the London road to waylay the revelers as they leave town. That’s your jolly fair.”
Allegra laughed gently. “Are you Job’s comforter, that you can see naught but gloom and misfortune in a fair?” She looked sideways at his sweet young face, twisted in misery. She felt helpless before his distress—distress that had deepened at an alarming rate since Lady Dorothy’s departure. “In the name of mercy,” she said at last, “write to her. Or else forget her.”
He turned and stared at her with pain-filled eyes. “Forget her? Have you lost your wits?”
“But if you refuse to speak openly to her, what choice have you? Better to forget her. Find the daughter of a prosperous squire, with a good marriage portion.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He cleared his throat and stared up at the limpid blue sky. His soft gray eyes were unnaturally bright.
Allegra sighed. It was useless to urge him to swallow his pri
de and pay court to Lady Dorothy. His sense of honor was as great as his prospects of fortune were small. “Why did you choose to work for His Lordship?” she said. “If I may be so bold as to ask.”
He gave her a fleeting smile. “You have never quite known your place, girl. But, as to His Lordship…he pays me handsomely.”
“Have you no ambition in this life beyond that of steward?”
“I had hoped once to study for the law. But my father gambled away my inheritance—such as it was—long before he died.”
“And your brother, the knight? Can’t he help you?”
Briggs shrugged. “He himself struggles along as best he may. Our father was very democratic in his profligacy. He managed to impoverish both our legacies.”
“And so you stay with Lord Ridley.”
“He’s quite generous. Lavish, even, with his gold. Perhaps if I save enough, I might yet take up the law someday.”
That seemed so mercenary, coming from a man like Briggs. “And so you endure his insults and stay at the Hall for money alone?” she said sharply.
He drew himself up, clearly offended by her question. “I told you long ago, I think, that His Lordship has many fine qualities. I should not serve him else!”
Perhaps it was the look in his eyes that put the thought into her brain. “By all the saints,” she said, shaking her head in sudden comprehension. “You know where he goes in Ludlow. Don’t you?”
His face turned red. “’Tis not for me to say,” he muttered.
She smiled at his loyalty. “Of course. But I, too, think there is much to admire in His Lordship. Not that I would venture to guess where he goes. ’Twould be presumptuous of me.” It seemed prudent to say no more.
“Indeed?” He searched her face, clearly trying to guess how much she knew. They stared at each other in silence for a long time, as the cart rocked gently down the hill under the morning sun. At last Briggs nodded, as though he had decided something in his mind. “We will speak no more of it. ’Tis His Lordship’s secret. But—under the circumstances—it might please you to know that Lord Ridley gives vast amounts of money to the churches and hospitals and workhouses in the county. All anonymous, you understand. I must carry out his wishes with discretion. But I thought you might like to know.”
“I’ll honor your confidence with my silence,” she said. She found herself suddenly grinning. What nonsense! As though Ridley’s generosity should matter a tinker’s curse to her! But the grin held all the way down the hillside and up to the town wall of Ludlow. It seemed that nothing could spoil her well-being on such a fine day, or cast a shadow on the foolish joy that crowded into every corner of her heart.
Except, perhaps, the memory of a grief-filled cry.
“Mr. Briggs,” she said, as she climbed down from the cart, “do you know aught of the Lady of the Sorrows?”
He frowned in thought. “Not a whisper. Who is she?”
Allegra sighed and turned toward the Corve Gate. “Another of His Lordship’s secrets, I suppose.” She waved a farewell to Briggs and passed through the gate, making her way down Corve Street and turning west at the Beastmarket onto the High Street. The decaying towers of Ludlow Castle rose in the distance, dominating the town and countryside as they had since the time of the Norman conquest. The Council of the Marches had ruled all of Wales from those towers. But with the centralizing of the government in London under William and Mary, the castle—though still the property of the Prince of Wales—had fallen into disuse and ruin, plundered by looters for decades.
Allegra had been awed by it as a child, but now its crumbling stones and roofless battlements saddened her. Had not the Baniards once stood as tall and as proud as those soaring walls? And now were as dead and lost to time as the glories of that castle?
She sighed again and shook off her dark thoughts. She wouldn’t let her rage toward the Wickhams spoil her lovely day. Mrs. Rutledge didn’t expect her back until suppertime, and Lord Ridley had gone out riding early and would scarcely need his stillroom maid until his evening’s cordial. Allegra had only to make her few purchases at the apothecary, and then she’d be free for the rest of the day.
She stopped at the Beastmarket for a few minutes to admire the livestock: squawking ducks and turkeys, milk cows and oxen, a pair of tired-looking draft horses. A pig woman with a dirty face, her animals tethered to the ground beside her, clutched at every well-dressed person who passed and begged their worships only to imagine a fine roasted pig at Christmastide.
Within a small, fenced-in ring, a magnificent bull paced back and forth, angrily snorting and pawing the ground. Just outside the fencing stood a man with a stout staff in his hand; the staff was attached to a short length of chain that ended in an iron ring looped through the snout of a large, brown bear. Each time the maddened bull lunged toward the bear, only to be stopped by the palings, the man tugged on the chain.
In obedient response, the bear rose to its hind legs and roared ferociously, scratching at the fence with its sharp-clawed paws, which only enraged the bull further. Spectators crowded around, enjoying the torment of both bull and bear; they applauded and occasionally tossed a coin to the man. Allegra turned away. This cruel sport was not to her liking.
Near the edge of the Beastmarket, two bewigged and powdered jack-a-dandies—swords protruding from their velvet coats to show their aristocratic standing—were haggling over the price of a chestnut mare. One of them turned and gave Allegra a salacious smile as she passed. “Ecod!” he exclaimed. “But here’s a fine wench!” He reached out to slip his arm around her waist, but she ducked away.
“Not for you, sir,” she said, giving him an insolent curtsy. “I can do better.”
He muttered an oath and advanced toward her. Before she could evade him again, he had clamped his hand around her wrist. “By my faith, here’s a doxy who deserves a lesson in civility.”
Allegra struggled to release his savage grip. The High Street was bustling enough for her to lose herself in the crowd. But not if she couldn’t break away from this perfumed lecher. She was considering taking a bite out of his hand when his companion clapped him on the shoulder.
“Let the wench go, Billy boy. There will be petticoats aplenty as the day wears on. And more agreeable ones than this. But if your cousin Crompton sees this most excellent mare before you can buy it, you’ll regret it for the next six months.”
The first man grumbled and glared at Allegra, then reluctantly let her go. “Now, wench,” he said, “you may tell your fellow whores that Sir William Batterbee of London was merciful to you.”
“Oh, Sir William, you have my undying gratitude,” she said with a smirk. She gave him another mocking curtsy and skipped away into the throng. She wasn’t about to wait around to meet Sir Henry Crompton again. Certainly not after insulting his cousin!
Farther along the street, near the old High Cross, amusements of all descriptions were in progress, and the air rang with music and laughter and the shouts of the crowd. Men bedecked in ribbon streamers and bells were doing a lively morris dance to the tunes of a piper, while children gathered around a puppet show and squealed at the antics of the little figures. Before a closed stall advertising a waxworks, a thin and ragged little boy beat a drum and pointed to a wax model of a buxom woman beside him. Showcloths, hung above a hastily erected platform, announced the offerings for the day’s theatrical performances.
Near the town fountain, a bagpiper played a skirling tune for his dancing monkey. The tiny creature, clad in a red cape and a miniature sword, pranced about on his hind paws, doffing his feather-trimmed hat to every passerby. Allegra laughed in delight at his antics. In the shadow of the High Cross, an angry farmer was quarreling with a mountebank who had cheated him in a game of dice, and the bailiffs were dragging off a costumed actor for an unpaid bill.
Allegra lingered for a few minutes, scanning the showcloths and wondering if she should spend a few pence on a theatrical performance later in the day. It would be crude, no do
ubt. And a waste of money. But she was feeling so strangely contented that she was tempted to indulge herself. Then she shook her head. It was too frivolous. She’d be better off spending her coins on useful goods, or even something special to eat.
She moved toward the covered stalls that lined this part of the High Street on either side and extended as far as the entrance gate to Ludlow Castle. She wandered up and down the long rows of shops and stalls, admiring gloves and mirrors and trinkets laid out for sale, stopping to sniff a basket of ripe pears and to chat with a seller of curds and whey. When she grew thirsty, she avoided the ale stalls, whose tented interiors were already beginning to fill with boisterous patrons; she chose instead a mug of good local cider, sold by an old man with a wooden cask on his back.
That whetted her appetite for more indulgence. She was about to purchase a crisp and sweet Shropshire cake, pricked and marked off in its familiar diamond pattern, when two gawky farmboys caught her eye.
Giggling like schoolgirls, they knelt before a mangy dog. A stray, from the look of it. While it whimpered and squirmed, one of the boys pressed it to the ground and held it fast; at once, the other boy produced a string of fireworks. Before Allegra realized what they were doing, they had broken off a few crackers from the string, tied them to the tail of the unfortunate dog, and lit them with a piece of smoldering hemp.
“You rascals!” Allegra cried. She lunged for the dog as the boys raced off down the High Street. She managed to pull the burning squibs from the animal’s tail and stamp on them, but not before the first cracker had gone off with a loud pop and a bright flash of flame. The dog gave a yelp of terror.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Allegra scooped the animal into her arms and held it close, feeling the trembling of its thin body. She glared in the direction in which the boys had vanished. She could hear the intermittent snap of fireworks all the way to the end of the High Street. She hoped that someone would stop the little monsters and give them a good rap on the ear!
Summer Darkness, Winter Light Page 13