‘Good day to ’ee, sir,’ the man said. ‘’Tis mortal bad weather.’
‘’Tis, sir,’ Calverley said affably noticing his companion’s shabby coat and subservient stoop and assessing him as a servant of some kind to be greeted and ignored. He was very surprised by the man’s next words.
‘You are a friend to Mrs Easter, I believe.’
‘Indeed,’ he said smoothly despite his surprise.
‘I am one of her minions,’ the man said. ‘One of her humble minions. ’Tis a great pity about her losses, sir. Oh, a very great pity.’
‘Losses?,’ Calverley asked, instantly alerted. ‘What losses are these, sir?’
‘Do you not know sir?’ the man said, and his surprise was so marked it seemed feigned. ‘She has taken a very great loss on the commodity market.’ And he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘’Tis said she could not afford to pay her taxes and was forced to sell six shops in consequence.’
‘Tush, man!’ Calverley said, deciding to make light of it. ‘’Tis a bagatelle. Business is all a matter of profit and loss. Do you fear for your job, sir?’
‘When the great stumble, the lesser fall,’ the man said, nodding and assuming a wise expression. ‘Howsomever, it may be as you say.’ He drank from his pewter mug for a while and then looked up at Calverley again. His old face was malevolent. ‘Ah well, sir,’ he said. ‘I mustn’t keep ’ee. I just thought you should know of it sir, being you’re a friend of hers.’
‘Obliged to ’ee,’ Calverley said automatically. His mind was still digesting the news. If his Nan really had grown poor, he would have to find another lover to give him bed and lodging. What a cursed nuisance! I will find me another after my very first trip, he decided.
The old man had eased himself back onto his feet and was preparing to leave. ‘My respects to Mrs Easter, sir,’ he said. ‘Tell her you spoke to me. She’ll be glad on it, I’m certain sure.’
‘What name?’ Calverley asked.
‘Mr Peabody,’ the old man said, and now his malevolence was unmistakable. ‘Mr Peabody of the Westminster Walk. She will remember.’
Back in Chichester the second day of the trial of Mr William Blake began late. Mr Rose looked more ill than ever and had arrived in the Guildhall nearly an hour later than the given time. But he seemed to be recovering as Mr Bowden made his final speech, reminding the jury that ‘the nation is indebted to the military at this hour of national peril when invasion is expected hourly’ and stressing that it ‘would ill behove men of conscience and patriotism to allow a known trouble-maker to go free, if they knew him to be guilty of uttering the seditious words as charged.’
It was a persuasive speech and delivered straight at the jury, who quailed before it. Listening quite closely this morning, Nan wondered how Mr Rose could possibly counter it. But she need not have worried, for his final speech was masterly too, in its own quiet way.
‘Here then gentlemen,’ he began, ‘is a charge attended with circumstances of the most extraordinary nature. A man comes out of his house for the purpose of addressing a malignant and unintelligible discourse to those who are most likely to injure him for it.’ He smiled at the jury, knowingly, and some of them smiled back, as if to show that they could see how ridiculous it was. Then he simply went through the evidence, quietly and between bouts of coughing, reminding them of what had been said, and pointing up its significance. ‘If,’ he said, ‘the words were spoken in the garden, the ostler must have heard them. If they were uttered before the public house Mrs Grinder must have heard them too. Yet you have heard them declare that neither of them heard any such words. In fact they totally overthrow the testimony of these soldiers …’ There were two bright-red fever spots burning in his cheeks and he was unsteady on his feet, staggering back a pace or two and holding onto the table for support.
‘A chair for Mr Rose,’ the Duke ordered. And a chair was brought forward.
‘I shall recover by and by,’ Mr Rose said. Then he dropped his head onto the table in a faint.
There was a buzz of concern. Was the poor man too ill to continue? Nan wondered. What would happen now? Had he said enough to convince the jury? And they waited while Mr Blake stood beside his prostrate defender and the Duke consulted with his magistrates.
‘It is the opinion of this court,’ he announced, ‘that it will be beneficial to all concerned if I proceed to the summing up. We see nothing to be gained by a further postponement.’
It was a rapid summary and while it was being given Mr Rose lifted his head and smiled weakly at Mr Blake and took a sip of brandy from somebody’s hip flask. And at last, at last, the jurymen were being asked to give their verdict.
It was so quiet in the court as they waited for the foremen to announce their decision that the crackle of the logs on the fire was as loud as the breaking of glass. But it was a perfect decision and given clearly. ‘We find the defendant not guilty, your Grace.’
The entire room erupted into cheers and applause and shrill whistles, and caps were tossed into the air, and Nan and Sophie hugged one another with excitement and Mr Hayley strode across the court, hand outstretched so that the Duke had no option but to take it and shake it, ‘I congratulate your Grace!’ he said with heavy, happy sarcasm, ‘that you have at last had the gratification of seeing an honest man honourably delivered from an infamous prosecution.’
‘Obliged to ’ee,’ the Duke said sourly. And was roundly applauded for his sentiments. ‘Clear the court!’
Nan and Sophie were still quite light-headed when they finally left the Guildhall. Relief had come so quickly after the interminable length of the trial, they’d hardly had time to adjust to it. They’d congratulated Mr Blake, of course, before he and Mr Rose went off with Mr Hayley, and they’d told one another how splendid it all was. And still laughing and talking, they’d walked down North Street towards the market cross, warm with excitement even in the cold air. And as they turned into East Street Nan couldn’t help noticing what a cheerful, friendly town Chichester was, as people nodded and smiled in their direction. Why, even the mud had dried. And when they got to the Dolphin, there was Mr Fuseli in a chaise, ready and waiting before the door.
‘I came to hear the verdict,’ he said, ‘A good verdict? Ja. Now ve travel homvards.’
But Nan had no desire to share a long journey with Mr Fuseli. ‘Thank ’ee, no,’ she said. ‘I need a good night’s rest before I journey.’
So they set off without her, waving quite gaily from both windows. And she walked back into the hotel, glad to be alone.
And there was Calverley Leigh sitting in an armchair beside the fire with his long legs at full stretch and using up a deal of space.
‘Nan, my charmer,’ he said, standing up to greet her. ‘Were you in at the kill?’
Her pleasure at the sight of him was chilled by the mockery in his tone. ‘What kill, pray?’ she said.
‘Why, the mad poet’s,’ he said. ‘’Twas his trial you attended, was it not? When does he hang?’
His ignorance annoyed her, especially after the cruelty of Mr Honeybun and the tension of that trial. ‘Fie on you, Calverley,’ she growled at him. ‘How could you say such a thing? He’s a good man, so he is, who never did any harm to any living creature.’
‘He was a spy, was he not?’ Calverley said, but he didn’t sound quite so sure of himself.
‘That,’ Nan said fixing him with a glare like a cat’s sharp claws, ‘is a load a’ squit, which you know right well, and if you don’t, the more shame to ’ee.’
‘I only repeat what I’ve heard,’ he said, even more crestfallen.
‘A fool’s trick!’ she said. ‘I wonder at you.’ And she swept upstairs to change for dinner.
‘Nan, my dear!’ he said, following her, and taking the stairs two at a time. ‘I take it all back. Every word.’
‘Don’t speak to me!’ she shouted back at him, ‘for I can’t abide it! You should ha’ stayed in London!’
‘D
on’t ’ee dare to tell me what to do.’
‘I shall do as I please!’
She had reached the door of her room, but he was too quick for her, and had interposed his long, handsome body between her and the door knob before her hand could touch it. ‘No,’ he said, bristling with anger and desire, ‘you won’t!’
‘I will!’ she shouted, bristling back, brown eyes glistening, dark hair bushing from under her green bonnet, wide mouth red with rage.
The sight of her, so wild and fierce, attracted him beyond anger. ‘Nan,’ he said, and the name was spoken so tenderly it was a love-call, an entreaty, almost an embrace. And desire rose in her too, suddenly and despite her anger and her fatigue, and she put out her hand, but whether to try to open the door or to plead with him or just because she wanted to touch him, she was too confused to know.
And he caught the hand and held it and drew her body towards his, bending his head to kiss her as they moved together. And the kiss was like a homecoming. ‘My lovely Nan,’ he said, between kisses. ‘Oh, how I love you.’
After the third kiss she realized that he had opened the door and walked backwards into her room while they were kissing, and annoyance flickered in her again because he had enough self-control to play such tricks even when emotion was running so strongly in him. But then he was unbuttoning her gloves to kiss her wrists, and removing her coat to kiss her throat, and it was so delicious that now she couldn’t remember what they’d been quarrelling about. ‘We’ve both got too many clothes on,’ she said.
‘’Tis a matter may soon be amended,’ he told her amending it.
It was the most rewarding love-making and all the better for being unexpected.
Afterwards they lay among the blankets in a bed made warm by love and slept with contentment. The chambermaid arrived to ask if they required warm water to wash for dinner. She made up the fire, seeing how low it was, but they didn’t stir. It wasn’t until the afternoon had faded into darkness and she returned to light the candles and draw the curtains, that Nan opened her eyes and found enough energy to thank her.
‘Shall I bring warm water for ’ee, ma’am?’
Calverley was still fast asleep. ‘In half an hour,’ Nan said.
But when the girl was gone she made no effort to get up. How ridiculous lovers’ quarrels are, she thought, so quick and furious, and so easily made up. Oh, the world was a good place after all. Mr Blake had been acquitted, and her dear Calverley had not only come to London to live with her, but had followed her all the way down to this place too. There was no doubt how dearly he loved her.
‘Um,’ he said, stirring as he began to wake. And as he turned he pulled the blanket to one side, revealing the full length of one side of his body, his chest tawny in the candlelight and muscular even in sleep, one golden-brown arm, one long white leg. Why, she thought, admiring him, he is only a leopard to the waist, below he is just a pale white man, the same as everybody else. And the thought was touching as well as surprising.
‘You have white legs,’ she said, stroking the one she could see.
‘Um’, he agreed, ‘else I should not be able to stand.’
‘But white.’
‘Don’t see the sun,’ he explained. ‘Trousers being required by army regulations.’
The mention of army regulations reminded her. ‘Did Mr Chaplin give you a job?’
‘He did. Start in a week.’
‘I am glad on it.’
‘Um.’
‘I almost forget to tell ’ee,’ she said. ‘I have bought a horse.’
He was interested at once. ‘Could you afford it?’
She was angered by the question. ‘Why should I not, pray?’
Her anger revealed more than she knew. Perhaps Mr Peabody had been right. But this was not the time to press her about it, this was the time for charm and interest. ‘What sort of horse?’ he asked.
She told him all about it.
‘If that’s the case,’ he said, touched by her concern for the animal, ‘I daresay we had best return by way of the stables and see it.’
Chapter Thirty
Nan’s gelding was still on his feet. His wounds were angry and he put no weight on his injured leg, but he was still standing.
‘If he stands,’ Calverley said, ‘he’ll do.’ Privately he thought the poor beast should have been put out of its misery, but as Nan would certainly not agree with that, he kept his opinion to himself. However, he thought he ought to warn her that the animal’s prospects were poor. ‘He’ll never walk more than a few paces,’ he said, ‘and then ’twill be a struggle. You will need to stable him here for the rest of his days, I fear.’
‘Indeed you won’t, sir,’ the ostler said, aggrieved at the suggestion. ‘This here stable’s a-crowded out fit ter bust, sir. There hain’t room fer the haminal perpetual, not if it was ever so, and there’s a hend on it.’
Nan looked at him shrewdly, estimating whether she could bully him, and decided against it.
‘If that’s the size of it,’ she said, ‘we’ll have a cart made for him, a good stout cart with padded sides to protect him on the road, and he can be drawn to London, so he can, poor crittur, just so soon as ever he’s fit enough, and stay in my stables.’
There’s no gainsaying this woman, Calverley thought, admiring her. And as she’s prepared to spend money like this on an injured animal she can hardly have sustained any very great loss. Perhaps that wretched man was simply making mischief.
The ostler was so taken aback he could find no other objection. So it was agreed.
They returned to London in high spirits. And were met at the door by an anxious housemaid stammering the news of ‘Mrs Thistlethwaite’s poor baby, God rest his soul.’ Nan went straight upstairs to commiserate, and Calverley straight to Covent Garden to buy a bunch of snowdrops.
Bessie was touched by his attention. ‘’Tis a good man, mum,’ she said to Nan, as Annie arranged the little flowers in one of her mother’s blue vases.
‘He goes to Brighton tomorrow to fetch his horse, for he works in London now, with Mr Chaplin,’ Nan told her. ‘We shall see a deal more of him, I daresay.’
‘And very welcome I’m sure mum,’ Bessie said. But then she looked at the cradle which was still standing empty beside her bed and the tears welled into her eyes again. ‘I’m so sorry mum. ’Tis jest I’m so low, that’s all ’tis.’
‘You shall have good nourishing food to build up your strength,’ Nan told her, ‘I shall see to it. Now rest, Bessie, my dear. Rest all you can.’ And as soon as you’re asleep, she thought, Thiss shall remove that cradle to the attic where it can’t be a plague to ’ee.
‘I shall be better when I’m up and about,’ poor Bessie said, wiping her eyes. ‘Work takes yer mind off, don’t it mum.’
But although she agreed, Nan had other matters on her mind besides work. As soon as she was sure that Bessie had everything she could possibly need, she took the pony-cart and drove it to see Mr Teshmaker.
‘Now,’ she said when they were seated beside the fire in his little office. ‘What is it you have to say?’
He was very uncomfortable and looked it. ‘It is grave news, I fear, Mrs Easter.’
‘Then out with it quick. Grave news grows worse with waiting.’
‘Not to put too fine a point upon it,’ he said. ‘I fear you have been cheated. I went to the shipping office just before you left to enquire about the Esmeralda, which I have done daily, as you know, for some considerable time.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Impatiently.
He gathered breath and courage. ‘There are no monies coming to you from that direction, I fear. None at all. The ship was lost on her second voyage and all trace of any transaction with you or anybody else went with her.’
A total loss! It was staggering news. ‘Was she not underwritten?’
‘No, madam. Slave ships rarely are.’
‘I did not know of her cargo when I entered upon this business,’ Nan felt she should explai
n. ‘I learnt of it but a few days since. Was she carrying slaves when she sank?’
‘No one could tell me,’ Cosmo said. ‘For all I know she could be still afloat and trading. There are prodigious rogues in the business.’
‘’Tis a great loss,’ Nan said, ‘but I tell ’ee, Mr Teshmaker, I feel well rid of such trade.’ But she was casting about in her mind to see how on earth she was going to sustain the loss.
‘Shall you sell more properties?’ Cosmo asked.
She considered it quietly. ‘We run at a loss, I daresay.’
‘In some weeks we earn a little.’
‘But in most we lose, is’t not so?’
He agreed that it was.
‘We will not sell,’ she decided. ‘Sales cause gossip and gossip has an adverse effect on trade, and besides I have my shopkeepers to consider. When I started this business ’twas simply to earn enough money to feed my children and pay the rent, and in those days Mr Teshmaker, I thought no further. Now ’tis another matter altogether. Now I employ other people, more than a hundred other people, as you’ll allow. ‘Ten’t a matter to be taken lightly, nor sold to pay taxes, nor allowed to fail. When great ones falter lesser ones fall. I will give my mind to it. There will be some other way, I’m sure on it.’
Mr Teshmaker said he agreed but he looked extremely dubious. ‘We have four more months before we have to pay tax again,’ he said.
Her energy was returning to her. Mr Blake had been acquitted, the gelding lived, there was always hope. ‘There are still papers to sell,’ she said, ‘and news a-plenty. Someway or other we shall survive, you have my word on it.’ But it was horribly difficult, for it was winter and sales were always lower in bad weather. She cut back her expenditure in every way she could. Shops and reading-rooms stayed unpainted, gutters unrepaired, bills unpaid for as long as her creditors would allow. From time to time she borrowed what money she could from such bankers as she could persuade.
And Calverley watched and calculated and renewed his search for that long-dreamed-of heiress.
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