‘I have to go somewhere urgently. I won’t be long, and we’ll both walk you home when I get back.’
Stella’s dark curls shivered beneath her bonnet as she looked down at the key between Merriment’s fingers. In the candlelight her nose looked larger and her pale face appeared more washed out.
‘I don’t think . . .’ she began.
‘I wouldn’t ask you,’ Merriment pleaded, ‘only I’m stuck. Please, Stella.’
‘But my father . . .’
Janey Mack emerged from the confessional box, her eyes lowered, her head bowed. She made her way to the altar rail and knelt piously before it, muttering her penance.
‘She’ll be no trouble.’ Merriment flung her book into her bag, snapped the catch shut and stood up.
‘I just can’t, Merriment,’ Stella whispered frantically.
Merriment checked the rose window: a purplish darkness pressed against the stained glass.
‘Please. I will be back shortly.’
And before Stella could protest further, Merriment slipped out a side door and into the cool, twilit evening. She passed knotty groups gathered by the fountain, all of them chatting quietly. Nobody wanted to linger long. There was a cold nip in the air. A robin chirruped in the gloom and three horses tethered to a post snorted and whickered, their shod feet clipping noisily on the slippery cobbles. Merriment brushed past them. Turning quickly off Saint John’s Lane she made her way towards the quays, taking large, brisk strides as she navigated through the network of narrow, deserted streets.
Town was emptying out early; the hawkers had packed up and shopkeepers had called it a day. Anyone she passed hurried by. Everyone was eager to get home before the light faded. Merriment ran a little, keen to get out of the dreary side streets and over to Sackville Mall. She emerged near Smock Alley. To her left, the river glowed darkly. The boats tethered to the bank bobbed softly on the rising tide. Behind her the red sun descended in a haze of dramatic clouds and seemed momentarily poised on top of a steeple. Merriment could feel her chest constricting, she wanted to stop, take a breath. She hadn’t time. Holding her bag tight, and skirting a pair of sedan chairs, she forced herself to keep striding, feeling the comforting bulge of Damascus steel fastened into the holster at her waist. To the east the sky was dark, in the west a streak of red-gold bled into the thickening clouds. The day had slipped hopelessly away from her. Now as the sun set and the last rays of daylight disappeared, she could feel her fear mounting. With the approaching darkness a fresh wave of uncertainty flooded through her. The images in the Malleus Maleficarium worked on her mind, pulling it towards a primal terror. The very air was somehow unfamiliar as it oscillated with the bristling possibility of ghosts and demons. What if the Dolocher had been looking for Solomon? For Janey? She stopped and clutched her side a moment, sorry now that she had left Janey and Stella alone. Desperate to quell her panic, she kept walking.
The theatre near the Lying-In Hospital was closed. A huge poster pasted over the door read, All Shows Cancelled Due to Olocher’s Demon. Management advised that all theatre-goers take strict precautions and remain indoors after dark until further notice.
Furious that she had so little time, Merriment paced by Yarn Hall, cursing Lord Rochford and his whoremongering son.
She rounded onto Henrietta Street, out of breath, faintly panicked and roasting hot, and came to a shuddering halt, faltering at the unexpected sight of rows of lantern-lit carriages disgorging noisy party-goers. The top end of the street was teeming with revellers all sumptuously dressed, most of them wearing pig masks and laughing raucously. Coachmen jockeyed for prime positions, angling their carriages as close as they could to the pavement. Pairs of horses, draped in silver-trimmed tackle, became skittish. People poured noisily into any clear space available, while the night watch grumbled past and a town crier reminded everyone that there was a curfew at seven. When he’d finished the crowd cheered loudly, applauding the announcement. Merriment stared at the giddy multitude, holding the stitch in her side, her breath rasping in her throat, and tried to decide what to do.
She heard one woman cry, ‘A jewelled snout. Isn’t that wonderful?’
A sea of ostrich feathers and silk gloves gleamed in the twilight. Men sporting brocaded jackets and carved tusks smeared with splashes of red paint jibed and poked at each other, the younger bucks shoving their friends into ladies as they passed. Merriment’s heart sank as she watched the crowds file into the brightly lit Number 17. Margaret Leeson was hosting a Dolocher party and it looked like half of Dublin society thought it was a splendid idea.
It can’t be more than half five, Merriment thought, confounded by the idea that the aristocracy would come out dressed to the nines long before ten in the evening. It’s the curfew. Peg’s convinced them to break it.
Furious with the obstacle in front of her, Merriment trailed the crowd moving indoors, squeezed into the tightly packed hall and pushed her way into the dining room. The house was uncomfortably crowded. People gathered in thick groups on the stairs, poured into every room; every door was open, the whole house bulged at the seams, the atmosphere was cloyingly hot, the air thick with perfume and cologne. Chandeliers and mirrored candles blazed, adding to the suffocating heat and conversations were so loud that it was impossible to be heard without shouting.
Merriment ploughed through the tight squeeze, past dressers and tables festooned with sugared sweets fashioned into the entrails of pig. There was sweet black pudding, cherry-glazed hooves, sugar-spun curly tails, cream snouts and piglets moulded in jelly. Sickened by the macabre festivity, and worried about what she had to do, Merriment searched the masked faces, hoping that she might see Beresford. She was keen to discuss the bizarre charges that Mister Shelbourne was levelling at her. Beresford carried weight, he could press countercharges of wrongful accusation, make the anachronistic allegation of witchcraft disappear. He had connections. He had power. She scanned the crowd desperate to find him, anxious to evade Lord Rochford; at the same time, she had to find Peg Leeson and warn her of what was happening. Had Beresford received her note and brushed it aside to come to this party? Frustrated at the thought, Merriment reasoned that half the attendees were politically connected: if he had chosen this event over her, it was a strategic move to advance his own career and inveigle his way into the inner circles of power. While she could logically understand why he would be here, the decision to dismiss her note needled her, to the point that she wondered if she did run into him would she be happy or disappointed? Forget it, she chided herself. She stood by the table in the main dining room, scrutinising the revellers, hardly noticing the full roast pig complete with a miniature Christ Church Cathedral clamped in its jaws, sprawled on a bed of decorative lettuces with a pair of satanic horns protruding from its skull. What if she ran into Rochford now? This moment? Would he stand over her, make sure she carried out the operation?
She had to hurry. Sliding past the group of musicians playing loudly in one corner she made for a door leading out onto the landing, not caring as she shoved into cavorting couples half dancing, half flinging themselves about, grabbing fresh drinks from the rows of waiters who carried trays of claret and Bordeaux around the room for the guests to enjoy. Furious at the delay and the wild frenzy, feeling time running out, Merriment grabbed a waiter and shouted, ‘Margaret Leeson? Where is she?’
The waiter shrugged and offered her a glass of wine.
Perched on a marble fireplace was a white-faced clock with a painted ceramic shepherdesses sitting above it. It was only a quarter to six, but already outside the windows an ominous darkness hung over the rooftops.
‘Exciting,’ she heard one woman gush. ‘Very exciting to break the law.’
Merriment pushed her way upstairs, threading through the crush of bodies. The whole crowd heaved, moving through doorways in a surge, giddy with the idea of being out during a curfew. A frisson of anarchic lawlessness coupled with the humour of turning the Dolocher into a fancy-dress spectacle
unleashed a high-spirited abandon through the crowd. The usual codes of behaviour disintegrated, drink flowed freely, and the plague toast of ‘Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die’ was raucously shouted by men and women alike. Older men started to bet younger men that they couldn’t pass down Sackville Street after seven o’clock without being arrested. Money began to fly as wagers were taken on. Upstairs was equally crowded. Beds had been disassembled, furniture pushed aside and card tables set up. A gypsy fortune teller was ensconced in a window seat, dispensing prognostications, and in another room a disgraced politician was holding court. The house was stifling hot and Merriment was thinking about removing her cloak when a man grabbed her and kissed her, his tongue darting quickly between her lips. She pushed him away roughly and forged on, gritting her teeth as she doggedly ploughed her way up another level. She stopped a young maid carrying a tray full of fine bone china and asked again where Peg was.
‘Upstairs,’ the girl said, passing out a row of teacups.
Merriment sighed, frustrated. The effort of finding Peg was weakening her determination.
Setting up shop was a mistake, she thought. Leaving the sea was a mistake.
Feeling diminished and uncertain, Merriment pushed past all the finer rooms and climbed up to the emptier servants’ passages. The steep, narrow staircase that cut up into the roof was lit by a single candle balanced on a tiny table sitting at the top of the stairs. Merriment gripped the slender banister and began to mount the bare steps, her cloak brushing against the creamy walls, her mind swirling with a list of remonstrations.
I shouldn’t have come. I had no choice. I should have told Solomon to stay. I had no choice. What if the Dolocher is after Janey Mack? She’s a little girl. I’m becoming hysterical. What if Rochford is already here? On and on the voice in her head provoked and rebuffed.
The noise of the party began to recede, muted by the empty upper passages.
‘Hello,’ Merriment called. Looking down a long corridor, her heart felt a sudden pang. Something about the leaning walls, the narrow space and the faint smell of teak oil reminded her of being onboard ship. At the far end a door was ajar; light poured from the slender opening and she could hear voices. Conscious of the time, Merriment strode down and rapped on the wooden door frame.
‘Hello.’
There was a quick scurry and a young girl with flushed cheeks and an enormous wig pulled the door back.
‘Yes?’ Her eyes glittered drunkenly.
‘I need to speak to Margaret Leeson,’ Merriment said firmly. ‘It’s urgent.’
Peg’s sublime face popped out from behind the door. She was dressed in silken undergarments and had no wig or make-up on. Still she looked beautiful, her eyes wide open with genuine surprise.
‘Merriment.’
‘There’s trouble,’ Merriment said quickly. ‘The girl, pregnant by Lord Rochford’s son, you have to send her away. He expects me to do a termination; the risks are too great. Get her out of your house. Rochford is coming over this evening.’
There was a gasping cry from behind the door and a flutter of ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’.
‘Wait.’ Peg pulled Merriment into the small, chokingly hot bedroom where a young girl sat weeping, surrounded by a host of pretty girls all fabulously dressed and squashed into the hot interior, fussing and whispering and wondering what to do.
‘Everyone out,’ Peg ordered. ‘Downstairs quickly. Sarah, I want you to fetch me the veneer ivory box from my room. Hurry.’
Peg flicked her small, slender fingers and the girls vanished. The weeping girl looked forlornly up at Merriment and her huge green eyes blinked helplessly as she clutched her stomach. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.
‘Ye’ll not do it, will ye, miss? Ye wouldn’t cut the child out of me.’
Merriment shook her head, feeling utterly exhausted, ready to bolt now she’d informed Peg. The tiny attic room contained a single cot bed and was flanked by two chairs. A bowl of marzipan strawberries was balanced on the mantelpiece, along with a decanter of wine and a row of empty glasses.
‘You’ll have to tell him she ran away,’ Merriment explained to Peg.
‘Yes,’ Peg simpered, standing by the tiny dormer window twiddling the pink ribbon that fastened the neck of her powder-blue dressing gown. ‘Yes, of course.’
Merriment looked from one to the other, agitated by the lack of movement.
‘What are you waiting for?’ she asked the young girl.
‘We love each other,’ the young girl began to protest. ‘Me and Desmond. We’re to elope, three days from now, get a boat to England.’
The girl didn’t know. Merriment had to tell her.
‘Rochford has already sent his son to the continent,’ she said softly. ‘Desmond is gone.’
For a moment, the young girl was overcome by a shaking fear and confusion. Her mouth began to form a question before she stopped and turned to Peg, frowning, her dark brows betraying an underlying insolence.
‘Someone told his father,’ she gasped. ‘How else would Lord Rochford get wind of our plans?’
‘Of course someone told him.’ Peg clacked her tongue and crossed her arms.
The young girl stared a moment, reading Peg’s silent glare.
‘Well, it weren’t me,’ the young girl exclaimed, jumping to her feet. ‘And it weren’t Desmond. And I only told the others this evening.’
The young girl froze, her bee-stung lips hanging open, mute with horror.
‘You,’ she bellowed, the two dark ringlets framing her face bouncing as her whole body juddered with rage. ‘You told him,’ she wailed. ‘You bitch.’
‘It was never going to happen, Rosie.’
Peg’s flushed face became hard and unpleasant as she squared her body, turning on the young girl, ready to fight. Merriment swept her hand through her hair.
‘Listen—’ she began, but Peg cut over her.
‘It was never going to happen.’
‘How could it happen with you blocking my every hope?’ Rosie shouted. ‘You told Lord Rochford, for what? For money? To have him owe you a favour? Of course you did,’ Rosie howled. ‘You wanted him in your back pocket.’
Suddenly Rosie dived on Peg, screaming madly. She clawed at Peg’s face and snatched a huge fistful of hair with vicious force, savagely dragging Peg to the ground. Quickly Merriment plunged between them.
‘Stop,’ she bellowed, prising their rigid arms apart. ‘Stop.’
The two women collapsed away from each other, whimpering.
‘You destroyed me,’ Rosie wailed. Looking frantically about her, her eyes feral with spite, she yelled, ‘I put a curse on you, you evil bitch. All this’ – she waved to the rafters, her plump lips glistening, her voice wracked and full of vitriol – ‘all of this will come tumbling down on your head, you pox-ridden whore. I hope the Dolocher finds you and rips your rotten heart from your miserable chest, you conniving, back-stabbing bitch.’
Peg sank onto a chair and smirked, her fingers spread across her heart, her breath coming in shallow, low gasps, her eyes sparkling with profound resilience.
‘Delightful,’ she grinned. ‘What would Desmond think of your tongue now?’
‘Fuck you.’ Rosie’s lower lip quivered.
Merriment swept her hand along her moist forehead. She was roasting and completely baffled by the turn her visit had taken. She dug her fingers into her thick hair and shook her head calmly.
‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘You tell Lord Rochford that Rosie ran away. Say I came to carry out his wishes.’
‘Why?’ Peg asked sharply, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rising quizzically. Merriment’s heart pattered. Was Peg really going to defy her?
‘What do you mean?’ Merriment snapped harshly, completely unsure of Peg’s mood.
‘Why should I do anything you say?’ Peg’s bright eyes blazed with defiance.
Merriment stared out at the black night, appalled by the twist the evening had taken.
She had completely wasted her time and now it was pitch black out. Not only would she have to walk home in the dark, but Rochford would pull her livelihood away from her. She had become entangled in nets of intrigue and deception and was submerged under a weight of cultural ritual she didn’t understand.
‘Look,’ Merriment responded, determined to conceal her anxiety. ‘I don’t care what kind of house you run, Peggy. I am merely trying to save a young girl’s life.’
‘Very noble.’ Peg was in a combustible humour.
‘Rochford said he’d shut me down,’ Merriment found herself pleading.
‘She doesn’t care,’ Rosie yelled. ‘All she cares about is what use someone is to her. You don’t matter. I don’t matter.’ Rosie poised herself on her toes and, leaning forward, she pointed. ‘She’ll use you and betray you. She’s a spiteful dog in heat, that one. A horrible, ugly woman with no friends and no one to love her.’ Rosie crumbled, collapsing onto the floor sobbing miserably. ‘I only wanted a little bit of what you have,’ she blubbered, looking up at Peg. ‘Just a little taste of the fine things, but you were too selfish and jealous to let me be.’
Peg sat upright, her face hard and implacable.
‘Rosie, you are gormless, you bought all that twaddle Desmond spouted. It never once landed in that thick noggin of yours that Lord Rochford would never stomach his youngest son marrying a prostitute.’
‘If the deed had been done, he’d have no choice in the matter. Three days, that’s all I was asking. In three days, we could have been married.’
‘I have to go.’ Merriment tried to leave. ‘I have a child waiting at home.’
Rosie scrambled to her feet and brushed the tears from her face. ‘I’m going with you.’
Merriment’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re not,’ she gasped, but Rosie didn’t listen. She ran to the door, opening it as Sarah barged in carrying a neatly carved veneer box.
‘I have only one wish for you.’ Rosie swung round and bitterly snarled, all the venom and disappointment in her heart exploding with one last shot. ‘I hope that you, Margaret Leeson, die a barren, poverty-stricken, sick old maid. That you are tortured by agonies of regret.’ And, faint with blinding temper and inconsolable loss, Rosie gripped the door frame and blubbered, ‘I hate you,’ before running to her room to pack her small chest and grab her paltry belongings.
The Dolocher Page 34