Traitor

by David Hingley

  ‘You do not offend. But you do entice. If you have the time, I should like to hear of your journeys. I grew up across the ocean myself.’

  ‘Indeed?’ For an instant, Mercia forgot why she had come. ‘Where so?’

  ‘In the Barbados, until I was sent to London to learn the art of being a lady. Now I have the joy of serving in the Duke of Cambridge’s nursery.’

  ‘The Duke of York’s son. How old is he now?’

  ‘Not far off his second birthday. Would you care to join me in my chambers?’

  Pleased at the ease with which she had ingratiated herself, Mercia accompanied the young woman into her apartment. She was of an age with Lady Castlemaine, perhaps younger, and looking at her beauty, Mercia suddenly felt quite old. But then she reminded herself she was only thirty-three. Still life in me yet, she thought.

  ‘Would you sit down?’ said Lavinia. ‘The armchair is quite comfortable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mercia, glad to accept. ‘Your chambers are most appealing.’

  ‘They are, are they not? And not a single black boy to adorn them.’ She winked. ‘You acted boldly, speaking up for Tacitus. Although I am sure his mistress will not be best pleased with it.’

  ‘She will not hit him, will she?’

  ‘Hit him?’ Lavinia furrowed her brow. ‘That would affect the prettiness of his looks. And that, in turn, would affect Lady Cartwright’s.’ She removed the pointed top of a shining decanter. ‘Some wine? ’Tis French, the best.’

  You are supposed to be questioning this woman, thought Mercia. But she had endured a hard morning, and so—

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Excellent.’ Lavinia poured out two glasses of a grassy-coloured wine; the smell of hay filled the room, of gooseberries. ‘I wager you did not drink much of this in America. It is simply superb.’

  ‘Over there it was mostly ale, or water if we had to. Some rum from time to time. At least, that is what Nicholas liked to drink.’

  ‘Nicholas?’

  ‘My manservant.’

  ‘You have a maid also, I hope?’

  ‘Phibae is her name, although I doubt you know her.’

  ‘But I do. Lady Castlemaine’s jest, I take it?’

  She frowned as she accepted a glass. ‘I am not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Oh come, Mercia. You are the woman who has consorted with Indians. Do you not see how she mocks you?’ She took a seat beside her. ‘These women little understand the difference between anyone who does not share the pallor of their skin. But it scarcely matters, for you have done well of it. Phibae is a fine maid, from what I have gathered.’

  Mercia took a sip: the wine was as good as her hostess claimed. ‘Do you know all the servants, Lavinia?’ she asked casually.

  Lavinia’s jaw seemed to twitch. ‘One or two. I would talk with the … servants, at home. I was interested in their ways.’

  She nodded. ‘Phibae has served well so far. Intelligent, it seems.’

  ‘But no black boy to go with her?’

  ‘Why, no.’

  Lavinia tutted. ‘All the best women at Court have them now. They compete for the most beautiful, the most charming. They want the boy who most enhances their looks.’

  ‘But not yourself?’

  ‘No. There was enough of that in the Barbados.’ Her smile faded. ‘If much worse.’

  She examined her glass, turning it around in her many-ringed fingers. Her nails were flawless, and a diamond bracelet jangled against the base. But her eyes were motionless, staring at the wine as she swirled it.

  ‘Why is he called Tacitus?’ asked Mercia. ‘That cannot be his true name.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Lavinia blinked. ‘Heaven knows what his real name is. The fashion is for mistresses to give their blacks a classical name. Livy, Pliny. Virgil. Tacitus. The Lord alone knows why.’

  ‘In America, the settlers often give the Indians a Christian name.’ She took another sip. ‘But they are like us, Lavinia: clever and proud. That boy, too. Tacitus. Treat him as Lady Cartwright does, and he will spend his life resenting the English, just as the Indians begin to do in America. War threatens there as surely as here.’

  ‘They treat all of them like that. ’Tis an accessory to their costume, no more. They acquire the boys, lead them like hounds, and when they are grown too old, sixteen, perhaps seventeen if they still look young, they discard them.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘What do you think? If they are lucky, they find service in London. If they are not, they are shipped to the Indies to join the rest of their sorry race and forced to work. You should see it there.’ She turned away her face. ‘I have stood at the docks of Bridgetown, watching hundreds tumble from the ships, withered and afraid. And then bought like cattle by men of vast wealth, who seek merely to be wealthier still. Put to work in the heat of the sun, given little nourishment, flogged at any transgression.’ Her rings chinked loudly on her glass. ‘Killed when their masters think they have gone too far in their requests to be treated like men. That is the fate that may await Tacitus and his like. That he serves in the palace is a temporary blessing, and a humiliation nonetheless.’

  ‘In New England,’ ventured Mercia, ‘there were those who wanted to live in harmony with the Indians. Perhaps the same can happen in the Barbados, in time.’

  ‘And what of those who would sooner wipe them all out? Did you not meet any of them?’ She took a long breath. ‘Forgive me. You did not come to talk of this.’ She looked back and smiled. ‘Tell me about Sir William Calde. He is an attractive man, for his age.’

  Mercia studied the younger woman’s face, but despite her impassioned speech she seemed perfectly tranquil. ‘He is the same age as Sir Peter. I came to know him well on the ship back home.’

  ‘A powerful man, too. I hear he has been reappointed to the war council?’

  ‘I … believe so.’ She held herself still. ‘Sir William talks little of such matters with me.’

  ‘Sir William?’ Lavinia laughed. ‘Does he make you call him that? With Peter, it is simply Peter, pompous though he may be.’

  ‘Another man on the war council,’ tried Mercia.

  ‘Indeed.’ Now it was Lavinia’s turn to stare. ‘He may be a fool at times, but he is a rich one. A widower, with the ear of the King. I am well rewarded for my … patience.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You know.’ She held up her dress. ‘But there are many incentives to being at Court, besides Peter. As long as the master does not know, eh?’

  The wine was making Lavinia candid. ‘Are you, then … with someone else too?’

  She leant back in her seat. ‘I will admit, I have a weakness for a tight doublet and breeches. But I would not worry. It will not take long for the men to sniff you out. You are quite the beauty.’

  Mercia reddened. ‘You make me sound like a dog.’

  ‘Some of them would treat you like one, if you wished it. Even if you did not.’

  ‘No doubt.’ She realised she had half drained her glass. ‘But no, I have no lover. Just Sir William.’ She put a hand to her chin. ‘What is it? I have not spilt …?’

  ‘No. ’Tis just that you suddenly seemed rather distant. When you said that, about not having a lover.’ Lavinia pulled her knees towards her chin, as much as she could in her splendid dress. ‘What then of your adventures? I long to hear of them, and I think this might play a part.’

  Mercia looked across, unaware she had drifted into thought. But she would not miss this chance to prolong their conversation.

  ‘’Tis a long story, Lavinia.’ She held out her glass. ‘I suggest you replenish the wine.’

  Chapter Six

  Despite her request, Mercia took care not to drink too much more – it was still morning, after all – and although Lavinia clearly liked to help herself, nothing incriminating passed from the young woman’s lips. Mildly disappointed, but determined to pursue her investigation, Mercia left an hour later to choose a second target, thi
s time Lady Allcot, the woman whose husband was embroiled in the human trade of which Lavinia had so passionately spoken. But her luck had little changed, for Lady Allcot’s chambers were empty of all but a maid.

  ‘She was distressed at the attack on Lady Simmonds,’ the girl explained. ‘She left for Hampton Court this morning. She wants some country air.’

  ‘With her husband?’ asked Mercia.

  ‘No. He’s still here.’

  ‘I do not suppose …’ She leant against the wall, affecting her best smile. ‘That is a pretty trinket you are wearing.’

  The servant broke into a broad beam. ‘This bracelet? Thank you, my lady.’ She looked around. ‘I shouldn’t really be wearing it, but ’tis from my betrothed.’

  ‘How lovely. Does he work in Whitehall?’

  ‘No, my lady, he sweeps chimneys in town … oh. But you aren’t wanting to know about that.’

  ‘Still, ’tis a beautiful band.’ She pretended to admire its weak lustre. ‘Lady Simmonds, as you mention her, is my aunt.’

  ‘Oh, my lady. I am sorry.’

  ‘I wanted to speak with my uncle about what happened, but … well, he is distressed, as you can imagine. If there is anything you may happen to have heard, from any of the servants …’

  The maid pursed her lips. ‘Well, my lady, I’m sure I don’t know the truth and all, but I heard some rumours from Faith this morning, Lady Simmonds’ own maid.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘They say’ – her eyes roved left and right – ‘they say she was struck with the hilt of a dagger, one of them ceremonious ones. Good thing it weren’t the tip, is what I say. Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘Who is “they”?’

  ‘Well.’ She folded her arms. ‘Just people. Maids.’

  ‘And how do they know about the dagger? It seems a strange weapon to use to land a blow.’

  ‘’Tis just what I heard, my lady, as you asked. But Lady Simmonds … she’s been wandering the palace of late, and that ain’t like her. She keeps herself to her rooms, most like. Especially while her husband’s been overseas, the poor man.’ Her eyes flicked away. ‘I’m sorry for that too, my lady.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For your uncle. For him coming back with a cane and all.’

  ‘I see. And is that all you know about my aunt?’

  ‘All as I know, my lady.’

  ‘Then thank you.’ She made to move off. ‘Do you know when Lady Allcot will be returned from Hampton Court?’

  ‘She’ll only be gone two days, my lady, perhaps three. She’s away there often, but never for long.’

  She nodded in thought. ‘Is Lady Herrick’s apartment near?’

  ‘Very near.’ The maid pointed along the corridor. ‘Turn right at the end, then halfway down. Neighbours with my mistress, almost.’

  Unwilling to pry more lest the maid grow suspicious, Mercia smiled and strolled away. She turned right at a collection of paintings, pausing to admire a portrait of a young boy and his dog: Lavinia Whent’s charge, the Duke of Cambridge, dressed in his baby’s swaddling, his pudgy face reminiscent of all infants of such tender years. The adjacent images of his mother and father were less appealing, but leaving the young family behind, she soon came upon the closed door to Lady Herrick’s apartments, painted a distinct bright white.

  She knocked and waited, but there was no response. Consulting a clock set into the side of a miniature ship – eleven o’clock – she reasoned Lady Herrick should no longer be abed and so she knocked again, somewhat louder. This time the door swung open, a savagely young maid’s face peering out.

  She put a finger to her lips. ‘Sorry, but the mistress is not to be disturbed.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Mercia, turning to leave. ‘I will return later.’

  ‘Stay!’ bawled a husky voice from within, causing the maid to jump. ‘You may as well enter now you are here.’

  The maid stepped back, holding open the door. Mercia passed through to the bedroom where Lady Herrick was sitting in a blue silken robe on the edge of her grand four-poster. Her long grey hair was as unmade as the bed, a stark contrast to its perfection of last night. A red Bible sat on a side table, but the leather spine was not much creased.

  ‘Oh.’ Lady Herrick yawned. ‘I thought you would be Helen. Lady Cartwright.’

  ‘You seem tired,’ said Mercia. ‘I can come back.’

  ‘I cannot imagine you will be here long.’ She picked up a mirror and examined her aged face. ‘Not too ghastly, do you think? Considering I did not retire until three.’

  ‘The festivities continued long?’

  ‘Did you not hear them? After that … interruption, we were able to get on.’

  ‘I am afraid I did not stay. You were not concerned at what happened?’

  ‘Why should I be? If some madman were roving the Court intent on attacking its ladies, I should think he would have chosen a more illustrious target.’ She sighed and set down her mirror. ‘The problem with your aunt is she can say the wrong thing to the wrong person. You clearly know this.’ She took a brush to her fingernails. ‘She is still with us, I take it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mercia studied her seeming indifference as she continued to work her brush. ‘Then who could have struck her, do you think?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Lady Herrick paused in her administrations. ‘This does in the end grow tiresome. Tell me why you have come and then leave me to my rest. There is another gathering tonight I shall be forced to attend.’

  ‘I merely came to introduce myself more fully, Lady Herrick. We did not much have chance to converse last night.’

  The brush resumed its steady work. ‘This is scarcely a convenient time, Mrs Blakewood.’

  ‘I offered to come back.’

  ‘Yes. You did. Perhaps I should speak plainer.’ She looked up, the dark bags under her eyes almost flaring. ‘Lady Calde was my close companion. Well before she married Sir William, we were almost like sisters.’

  ‘I do not intend to replace her, Lady Herrick.’

  She flung the brush carelessly on the table. ‘Then what do you intend? Why come to Court as Sir William’s mistress, if you do not seek to make him your husband and take the money that used to be his wife’s?’ She jiggled her bare foot. ‘Is it not true what is said about you? I pay such rumours little heed, but sometimes they turn out correct.’

  ‘Rumours?’ frowned Mercia.

  ‘She died, did she not, when you were with her? Lady Calde?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  Lady Herrick gave her a searching look.

  She gasped. ‘People cannot think that I …?’

  ‘Your father was executed, you lost your inheritance, but still Sir William had an interest. Such good fortune considering your family’s disgrace. But Lady Calde yet lived, and so you swooped and cleared your way. And when you return to Court, Lady Simmonds is attacked, the wife of the man who took away your house.’ She ran her tongue around her lips. ‘Such beautiful vengeance, Mrs Blakewood. I shall have to be certain not to cross you myself.’

  ‘But none of that is true!’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Lady Herrick sat back, rubbing her temples in deliberate circles. ‘Perhaps not. But I really must insist you take your leave now. It takes so long to prepare oneself for Court, as well you must know.’

  Undone by Lady Herrick’s mischief, Mercia remained rooted to the spot, thoughts of her mission vanquished. Did the women of the Court really believe those falsehoods of her? That she was a … a harlot? A heartless pursuer of men?

  ‘Mrs Blakewood.’ Lady Herrick cleared her throat. ‘Send in my maid on your way out.’

  The encounter had left her needing air. Leaving the palace, she meandered through the Privy Garden, mingling with the other courtiers who, like her, were in want of the freshness of the outdoors. But the garden soon grew too small, and so she crossed the street, aiming for St James’s Park, the same route she had taken every noontime since she had arrived. Stuck in
the enclosed palace after weeks on the open ocean, both her body and her mind craved the cheer of daylight. Today the sky was blue, the barest wisp of white drawn across the vista, and Mercia found her mood immediately lifting as the warmth of the sun bathed her face.

  Strolling amongst the aviary on the southern side of the park, she forced her thoughts from the intrigue of the palace. Daniel at least seemed to have settled in well, but she never worried on that account, for he swiftly made friends in any group. And it was good for him, she thought, for his prospects, to get to know the boys of the Court. It would almost be a shame to take him away, but if all went as well as she hoped, there would be more such opportunities in his future.

  Nicholas came next to mind, the loyal manservant who had proved his valour in America, even if their relationship had not enjoyed the strongest start. But she trusted him now, implicitly, and she knew she would miss him when he finally escaped to his old life, for despite who he was, the strangeness of their journeys had made him her friend, and the norms of society had crumbled.

  She continued through the Physic Garden, stopping to admire the small orange and lemon trees, tracing her finger along their rubbery fruit to release their tangy citrus scent. The surrounding herbs were an intoxicating combination, and now she found herself thinking of Nathan, the friend who had remained over the ocean, the friend who could have been more. And she realised, so thinking, how she missed that wilderness, the pine-infused breeze, the vastness of the sky. But it was Nathan she missed most, and as she walked towards the canal that split the park in two, she promised herself she would reply to his letter tonight.

  Further along the canal, she paused to admire four huge birds that had appeared since the year before: four white birds with enormous, distended beaks, lolloping their saggy bulk across the grass as they emitted the occasional caw. She had seen strange fowl abroad, strange beasts, but never a bird as odd as this. As every morning that week they had gathered quite a crowd, a host of children pointing in delight, the adults beside them no less entranced.