Thus night fell upon the unhappy house.
It was in the small hours that Faulkner, still in his chair, cold and cramped, woke to a full comprehension of the previous day’s events. He was furious with Judith for betraying him and placing in Henry’s hands the means to destroy her husband and, that having failed, kill himself. Despite his discomfort and pain, his mind seemed to see things with the utmost clarity. He did not recognize in this the onset of fever, the consequence of infection in his wound, but he said his farewells to Henry, regretting much – as fathers of wayward boys do – but consumed with a fiery hatred of his meddling wife. As his temperature rose, his fury kept pace, so that when an anxious Hannah came down at daylight, she found her father writhing in a delirium on the floor, mired in ash from the extinguished fire.
Henry was buried in unhallowed ground. Only Hannah and Gooding attended him as Faulkner still lay in bed, feverish and too weak to leave it. In an adjacent chamber the dead man’s mother lay prostrated in a world of her own fashioning.
Of Faulkner’s kin it was Hannah who came best out of the events of the month of March 1662, for she had risen to the challenge of the sudden burden of responsibility for the house. Hannah displayed that spirit of swift resolution that had made Faulkner’s inactivity in the house in Delft so irksome, and that Henry possessed in perverted form. Too like his mother in his inflexible acceptance of dogma, of his insistence upon ‘right’ and ‘justice’, among other philosophical forms, his version of Faulkner’s resolve had led him into a death-trap.
Hannah had too practical a turn of mind to be ensnared so easily. Besides, her father had not only left her the house to manage, but an uncle whose sense of moral self had received a body-blow, together with a curious mission to contact her own father’s lover. It was this last which had proved the true challenge. At first she had recoiled from the task, constantly postponing the decision until her sense of equivocation, and a horror of addressing a scarlet-woman, had been replaced by curiosity.
When at last she had walked to Leicester House and asked for a letter to be placed in the hands of Mistress Villiers, she had plucked up courage to inform the footman that she would await a reply. This bold initiative had aroused a reciprocal curiosity in Katherine, who had ushered Hannah into the same chamber into which she had shown her father. Alone, she had immediately seized Hannah’s hands and, drawing back and smiling, had looked her up and down.
‘I am charmed, Mistress, charmed,’ she had said regardless of Hannah’s blushes. ‘I can see why your father speaks so highly of you. Now, tell me what news you have of him.’
A beguiled and confused Hannah had left an hour later, the taste of sweetmeats still in her mouth, mixed with the tang of Bohea tea. Her ears had rung with the delightful invitation to come again and Katherine’s advice that, insofar as the future was concerned, ‘Matters may rest where they presently lie until your father is returned from foreign service.’
As Hannah had lain in bed that night, thinking over the day’s excitement, the words ‘foreign service’ had come back to her. They seemed extraordinarily powerful, a window on the world inhabited by such powerful figures as Katherine Villiers, whose very importance was confirmed by her position as confidential lady-in-waiting to the late Queen Elizabeth of Bohemia. That the legendary Prince Rupert of the Rhine also occupied Leicester House, along with its owner Lord Craven – neither of whom she had seen, but the presence of footmen clearly guaranteed – only added a frisson to the day.
Katherine had so completely won Hannah over that she saw beyond her father’s occupation with his ships and the Brethren of Trinity House – all things which, though acknowledged to be men’s affairs, had impinged upon Hannah’s life – another, grander world, associated in Hannah’s young mind with the stirring events of national upheaval to which she was heir, but in which her father had been, and still was, immersed. From her encounter with Katherine Villiers she caught again the tremendous excitement of life, an excitement that she had known when Edmund Drinkwater first declared his love for her but which, in the months since his departure, had withered and shrunk her soul.
During the absence of her father, Hannah had twice returned to Leicester House. On both occasions Katherine had received her warmly and they had retired to Katherine’s own modest chamber. The affairs of the late Queen were complicated and, while much of the work was in the hands of Lord Craven, Katherine found herself involved, not least with Elizabeth’s correspondence. All took time, so Hannah’s occasional visits, though they interrupted Katherine’s duties, proved welcome diversions for them both.
Katherine’s interest in Hannah was unfeigned and swiftly grew into affection so that when she saw off her visitor at the end of her second visit, Katherine was able to ask that Hannah let her know as soon as her father returned home. ‘I know there will be difficulties with your mother,’ she had said, ‘but I beg of you not to let that conceal his arrival, my dear.’
Hannah had acquiesced, though on her homeward journey she feared Katherine’s charm and apparent friendship might have seduced her from her duty to her mother. In the succeeding days this troubled her but, in regarding the state in which she found her father that morning and with her mother apparently gone mad, she had little hesitation in writing to Katherine, explaining the situation, once she found the leisure to do so.
Thus it was that after Faulkner’s fever had broken, he woke, weak and sweat-soaked, to find Katherine sitting beside his bed.
‘Where am I?’ he asked, confused.
‘At home, my love,’ she said gently, taking his hand.
‘At home..? But you … Judith … Oh, God, Henry …’ The events of the recent past flooded back to him in all their horror. He moved, the pain of his wound making him wince, then he realized fully who it was who held his hand.
‘How is that you are here?’ His voice was full of wonder; her face seemed to wash away something of his fears.
‘I am here at your daughter’s invitation. Hannah and I are friends, and your wife is in the next room. I fear she has lost her reason, or is in some form of deep catalepsy, though I have not seen her. You must rest and get better.’
‘And you?’
‘I am still resident at Lord Craven’s pleasure. The late Queen’s affairs are taking time to conclude and His Lordship has offered me accommodation; permanently, if I wish.’
‘Do you wish it?’
‘I must live somewhere.’
‘You must live here.’
‘We shall see.’
They remained gazing at each other in silence for some time, then Katherine laughed.
‘What amuses you?’
‘I was thinking that the last time you lay in bed in my company, it was to attend your arse!’
Faulkner chuckled. ‘To be shot in one’s posterior is an indignity not to be borne. I would it had not been my troubled boy, though.’ The humour had drained from him, though she said nothing, allowing him time to recover. ‘He was, alas, corrupted by his mother.’
Silence fell again between them, this time less comfortable, as though the presence in the adjacent room thrust its dire influence through the very wall. ‘She is a witch,’ Faulkner said, his voice low and accusatory.
Katherine leaned forward and placed a cool finger across his lips. ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘Who knows? Though I doubt it. What is more certain is that if your surgeon had been better acquainted with his business, he would have inserted a bristle into your wound and allowed the poison to escape. Your fever would have been less malevolent too. As it was we had to reopen the wound and drain it, after which you improved quickly.’
‘We?’
‘Hannah and I.’
‘And how do you know these things better than my surgeon?’
‘You forget, I followed the drum.’ Katherine cut short her explanation for at that moment they heard urgent footfalls upon the stair. A second later Hannah burst into the room. She was waving a letter, her face a picture of happiness
.
‘Father! Oh, Father … Katherine, news of Edmund!’
‘My, my; I have not seen you so light-hearted in an age, my dearest,’ Faulkner said, patting the bed beside him. As Hannah settled herself, Faulkner turned to Katherine. ‘Edmund Drinkwater is—’
‘I know, my dear. Hannah has told me all about him. Come, tell us, Hannah, what exactly is this news?’
‘This letter,’ she said, almost waving it with delight, ‘is from Portsmouth. The Eagle will be in the Thames within the week, and it has been a most successful voyage! He will be home soon!’ Her face glowed with delight as she smiled at them both.
Faulkner looked from his daughter to Katherine and said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for the three of them to discuss, ‘Then we have a wedding to arrange, banns to be called and you two had better discuss a suitable day.’
The Deodand
April 1662–September 1664
Hannah was married to Edmund Drinkwater at St Dunstan’s church, Stepney, in early April when a spring breeze lifted the heads of the last of the daffodils that grew among the headstones in the church-yard as the guests assembled.
The bride’s mother did not attend, a scandal augmented by the presence of the bride’s father’s mistress, neither of which circumstances prevented a goodly attendance of family friends, chiefly seafaring gentlemen with their wives. These were mostly Brethren of the Trinity House, but included the commander, mates, surgeon and purser of the Honourable East India Company’s ship Eagle, and some of their professional colleagues from others of the Company’s ships. Opinion was divided as to whether the condescension of His Highness Prince Rupert of the Rhine in attending as escort to Mistress Katherine Villiers excused the impropriety of her presence, or compounded it. More certainly popular among the gossips of east London was the sight of Honest George Monck and his homely duchess, whose obvious pleasure at being present made up in greater part – or so a portion of social opinion opined – for the awkwardness attaching to the bride’s father’s moral turpitude. Not that this troubled many, most enjoying a whiff of scandal, aware that a certain louche conduct was now licensed, particularly by the King and his Court if all that was rumoured was true. Nevertheless, it did not go unremarked that the Faulkner family had but recently buried a son – a suicide, nonetheless, and a man rumoured to have been plotting against the King – and had effectively buried the unwanted wife who was said to be chained to her bed. Such ill-informed rumours gained a certain currency, buttressed by Captain Faulkner’s unconventional conduct which, it was said, had never been properly explained to the wretched groom.
Happily oblivious to all this, Faulkner, splendid in dark blue silk and a new full-bottomed wig of chestnut, gave his daughter away. He deeply regretted that neither Judith nor Henry were present but, he told himself, Henry had taken his own life and Judith might have attended her own daughter’s wedding, had she not chosen otherwise. Thus his only real sorrow was the absence of Hannah’s surviving brother, Nathaniel, who was at sea.
After the wedding breakfast and the toasts, Faulkner introduced Edmund Drinkwater to the Duke and Duchess of Albemarle as ‘the newly appointed commander of the ship named in Your Grace’s honour’. This further delighted the duchess who expressed herself as being ‘tickled’.
In the days that followed the departure of Hannah on a brief honeymoon, a sense of normality began to settle upon the house in Wapping. In Drinkwater’s absence Faulkner took in hand the final stages of the preparation of the Duchess of Albemarle for her maiden voyage, acutely aware that Hannah’s ecstasy would be short-lived when her husband assumed command and sailed once again for the Malabar coast, Bengal and China.
Of course, the past hung like a shadow over them all, for Judith remained in her room, attended by Molly, her maid, who took in her food, helped her wash and dress and saw to her daily needs. The only other member of the family she would countenance admitting was her brother Nathan. She reserved all intercourse for him. Gooding thus occupied the equivocal status of go-between. It was contrary to his honest nature and distracted him from what he did best – run the partners’ business.
The morning after Faulkner had left his bed, he had called Gooding in to brief him on the current state of affairs. Having ascertained that no message had been received from Lord Clarendon, it was only then, his personal anxieties set aside for the time being, that Faulkner had looked properly at Gooding. In asking about their ships, and in particular the Duchess of Albemarle, he had noticed Gooding’s changed appearance. For a moment, with his wits still dimmed by his fever, he could not identify the detail but then it had come to him. Nathan was less kempt and looked far older than his years. It seemed to Faulkner that he had been absent for many, many months, so intense had been the experience of his Dutch ‘adventure’ and the mental wanderings of an over-heated brain, but when reality had dawned it had been clear that his brother-in-law was in some distress. As Gooding’s voice had concluded his summary it seemed to fade, as though all the energy had been drained from him; he had stared through lacklustre eyes into the middle-distance.
‘What’s amiss, Nathan? You look like death.’
Gooding had stirred, regarding Faulkner abstractedly; then he had gradually gathered himself, finally shaking his head. ‘Forgive me, Kit,’ he had said, at last, ‘but I … I am …’
‘You are what?’ Faulkner had prompted.
Gooding had shaken himself, like a dog emerging from water, before his pent-up feelings had burst from him in a torrent of words. ‘I am all out of sorts. Ever since that evil day when I fell in the beastliness of drink, the world had changed around me. Now Henry is dead by his own hand, Judith is mad, and you, you are changed and brought near death. Nothing, it seems, is the same, and that upon which I depended is shifted like the ground under-foot when the earth moves.’ He had run his hand over his head, through his now unfashionably cropped hair, his expression a mixture of fear and desperation. ‘We have a woman who comes and goes, and has been like an angel to you and Hannah, who Hannah clearly worships yet bears with her the reputation of … of …’ He had paused, glancing at Faulkner almost as though expecting a blow.
Faulkner had said quietly, ‘Of a whore, d’you mean?’
‘Of a scarlet woman … your scarlet woman,’ Gooding went on. ‘And if such domestic troubles were not enough I have the business to run in your protracted absence, occupied in God alone knows what evil, evil in which my sister—’ Here Gooding had choked back a sob, his affection for Judith clear and unambiguous, before repeating himself as he laboured on. ‘In which my sister has been caught up and her son, my nephew, has become a suicide!’
‘He was my son, too, Nathan,’ Faulkner had said in a low voice.
‘I know. I know.’ Gooding had shaken his head as tears flowed freely down his be-stubbled cheeks. ‘But what, Kit, what shall become of Judith? She is in no mind to come to her senses and berates me for continuing my association with you. But what am I to do? We must maintain our association if only for her sake, for she is past handling her own affairs, so envenomed is she with the world, the King, the Parliament – but mostly, it seems, with you.’ He had leaned forward and put his head in his hands, giving way to great wracking sobs. Unnoticed by Gooding, the parlour door had opened, and Katherine appeared. Distracted by the movement and embarrassed at Gooding’s breakdown, Faulkner had looked up. Placing his finger to his lips he had motioned for her to come into the room, which she had done, quietly closing the door behind her to lean against it. The impropriety of inviting her to witness his brother-in-law’s humiliation had not immediately struck Faulkner. His action had been instinctive, as though Katherine was now so close a confidante that the intimacy with Gooding had been of no account.
After a few moments, and oblivious of Katherine’s presence behind him, Gooding had drawn himself upright, dashing the tears from his eyes. He had cleared his throat before he could speak, but it had been clear that he had mastered himself. H
e was still oblivious to Katherine’s presence, though Faulkner could smell the warmth of her body and her perfume. Gooding began to speak again. His voice had recovered its old timbre.
‘I cannot … cannot deny that my sister is not the women she once was. Much of what she has told me troubles me, but the matters of which she speaks cannot be laid upon my own soul …’
‘Except?’ Faulkner had ventured.
Gooding had stared at him. ‘You know?’
‘I guessed. She has confessed something to you, something to bind you in and use to drive a wedge between us. She is clever, cunning and determined, Nathan.’
‘She is the woman … She is Eve … She is either Eve or a witch!’
Faulkner forbore looking at Katherine, fixing Gooding with his eyes. ‘What did she confess, Nathan?’ he had asked quietly.
Gooding had hesitated before he had again lowered his voice so that it had been almost inaudible. ‘How she almost had you killed.’
‘What?’
‘How she passed to Henry the weapon with which he tried to kill you.’
Faulkner had hardly heard the end of the sentence. He had realized that Judith had stolen the wheel-lock from him aboard the Blackamoor while he had slept. Later, aboard the Hawk, she had somehow managed to slip it to Henry, mewed up amidships, that much was clear. Faulkner had frowned, his heart beating as it came to him: she could only have accomplished the transfer through the treachery of a third party.
‘Who was it who helped her, Nathan?’ he asked quietly.
Gooding had shaken his head, burying it in his hands.
‘Who, Nathan?’ Faulkner persisted.
‘I cannot tell you … You will exact a price, take revenge.’
‘Perhaps,’ Faulkner had admitted, ‘but does the secret lie happily with you, or shall you feel the cold stirring of conscience every time this person, or persons, is near you … or near to me, for that matter?’ Faulkner had paused, then prompted Gooding, ‘Was it Toshack? I can hardly believe it, but …’ He had been about to say that Judith had charms and beauty, but forbore. Would she have attempted the seduction of Toshack? And how could she when surely he would have been aware the old seaman had entered the cabin? But someone had come in and taken the wheel-lock from her.
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