by Deryn Lake
“Is that how I appear? A gypsy woman?”
“You could be.”
“I’d better whiten my skin, else I’ll never get employment.”
“You can wash it in a pond somewhere. There are plenty of springs on the way.”
They were approaching The Butts, a shady square of red-brick houses, in the centre of which was a market. Booths had been erected selling goods as varied as gloves and firkins of wine, with every conceivable kind of item — wool, cradles, clothes — in between. Added to this, the local farmers had brought produce — hens, ducks, even sheep — together with winter vegetables and eggs for sale.
John could not help but notice, with a certain wry amusement, that Elizabeth had adopted the gait of the woman she was supposed to be and was walking with a definite swing to her hips.
They passed by stalls and trestles on which were laid country clothes, woven by the women while their men worked the fields. Elizabeth paused, picking up a sheepskin and leather jerkin.
“I think you should have this …” she started to say, then stopped as a beefy young man, also thumbing his way through the goods, was suddenly seized from behind and lifted bodily into the air.
“ ‘ere,” he remonstrated.
“I know you,” came the reply. “You’re Tom Thatcher — and you’re a thief.”
“I ain’t,” the other answered, but got no further as a fist flew through the air and landed on his lip, dislodging a rotting tooth which he spat onto the ground.
Almost instantly there was a ruckus as people took sides, some quite violently. Pushing Elizabeth behind him, John attempted to move away but without a chance. On every hand men were fighting and he saw that he was going to have to defend himself, like it or not. As a young giant with a mop of blond hair took a swing at him, the Apothecary ducked and landed his aggressor a blow in the guts which doubled him over. Hastily chopping him on the back of the neck, John Rawlings turned to see who he should fight next.
A man of about fifty, weatherbeaten as a birdscarer and somewhat resembling a haystack, caught his eye. But before either could exchange blows the newcomer was beaten over the head with a mallet and fell, twisting his leg agonisingly beneath him. Lying right in the path of the melee as he was, John grabbed him under the arms and succeeded in lugging the man between two stalls, out of harm’s way.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, had climbed onto a vacant stool and was watching the fracas with an interested eye.
“There’s a gang at work,” she called to John. “See them stealing from the stalls.”
And sure enough men and women were shifting goods into their pockets at the speed of lightning. Thinking that the entire fight had been deliberately started with theft as its main objective, the Apothecary bent over his patient who had recovered consciousness and was starting to sweat with pain.
“My leg,” he groaned. “I think it’s broken. Get me to a physician.”
John almost said “I’m an apothecary” but thought better of it. “I know a little,” he ventured, and amidst the man’s screams of agony, straightened the leg. It was fractured in two places, below the hip and above the ankle, that much was obvious. He looked up at Elizabeth.
“Fetch me a long stick, as quickly as you can.”
She got down from the stool and disappeared amongst the stalls, returning eventually with a shepherd’s crook which she had obtained by some means or other.
“Will this do?”
“Fine. We can cut the crook off later. Now, my dear, can you sacrifice a petticoat?”
But he had no need to ask. Elizabeth had already stripped one off and was busy tearing it into strips. Working as best he could in the cramped conditions, John bound the fractured leg to the crook.
The fight, meanwhile, was petering out, the gang of thieves presumably having filched as much as they could manage to carry. Further, someone had had the good sense to blow a whistle, the noise of which had people coming from their houses. Order was being restored and the hurling of punches was practically at an end. Cautiously, John put his head out to survey a scene of superficial damage. Several human casualties were sitting down, however, nursing their heads. He turned to the man he had rescued.
“I’ve done my best for you, Sir. Now how to get you home? That’s the question.”
The man, whose lids had been firmly closed, opened them. Eyes, bright as sunbeams, blue as forget-me-nots, gazed into John’s.
“Thank you, my friend,” he gasped painfully. “I came here by cart. It’s the brown one over there with the dappled horse. Tethered to the trees.”
“I’ll fetch it,” said John, but Elizabeth was already on her way, untying the animal and leading it over to where the man lay.
“I’d better drive you,” said John. “Which direction are you going in?”
“I’m Hugh Bellow from Bellow’s Farm. It lies the far side of Gunnersbury House, the nearest dwelling. Do you know it?”
“No, but I’ll find it. Now, let’s heave you up.”
With the help of the glover, whose stall had seen the start of the fracas, they managed to get Hugh, giving the occasional shout of agony but for the most part biting his lip, into the cart where he sat, his bad leg sticking out in front of him.
“Just a minute, I’ll get the luggage,” said John.
He jumped down and picked up two bags, both small. Yet in his he had placed his medicines, finding it completely impossible to travel without the most basic things to hand. Now he opened it and produced a bottle of white physic, the juice of the opium poppy already prepared. Carefully he measured out a dose.
“Here, drink this.”
Hugh eyed it suspiciously. “What be it?”
“It will relieve your pain, Sir. Trust me.”
The farmer downed the dose. “You’re a funny sort of labourer,” he said.
Elizabeth came in. “He studied with an apothecary for a time, Sir. He knows the basic things to do in situations.”
Hugh eyed her. “Are you his wife, young lady?”
Her gorgeous smile lit her eyes. “Thank you for that.”
“For what?” asked Hugh, puzzled.
“For calling me young lady,” she answered, and suddenly burst into laughter, which turned into a song. It was a deep, clear voice that stayed in tune. The Apothecary thought of Emilia’s singing; so sweet and gentle, totally at odds with Elizabeth’s. His wife’s clarity, quite high and juvenile, had always tugged at his heartstrings. But this was the sensual sound of a siren.
It felt good to be leaving the village of Brentford and heading into the open countryside. John, the reins held loosely in his hands, felt himself relax and wished that he could capture the moment; Elizabeth’s unashamed singing and Hugh Bellow nodding off as the opium wore on.
Making his way up Brentford Road, the horse plodding peacefully at its own pace, John turned left up Gunnersbury Lane. To his left lay Gunnersbury House, the dark woods where tragedy had changed his life forever, clearly visible. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Hugh had gone to sleep, while Elizabeth, realising that they were close, had abruptly ceased to sing.
“There,” he whispered, “amongst those trees. That’s where I found her dying.”
His voice sounded harsh, even to his own ears. Elizabeth followed the line of his pointing finger.
“It would be possible for any assassin to hide himself in that dense foliage.”
“Yes.” There was a catch in his breath but he conquered it. “If you stand up you’ll just be able to see the outline of the house.”
“Urn. So that is where I’ll be working.”
“Elizabeth, how do you know? The court has probably gone back to London and the place closed down. How can you be so certain?”
“Because I am determined,” she answered. “They always want people to do the dirty work. And what about you?”
“I shall ask Hugh Bellow to refer me somewhere. That is, when he wakes up.”
“I wonder where his farm is?�
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“If I’m not mistaken it’s there on the left.”
And John gazed over the fields to where, beside a fast-flowing brook, a farm with sheep and cows grazing could be seen.
“I think you’re right. Drop me at the top of the road and I’ll go to the house directly. I’ll meet you at this spot at seven o’clock tonight. No arguments now.”
Much as John hated to leave her he had little choice. He stopped the cart and watched her swing down, lithe and graceful.
“Don’t forget to wash your face,” he called.
“I won’t, don’t worry.”
She was gone, hurrying off in the direction of the mansion, waving until she disappeared from view.
John turned right, away from Gunnersbury House, and proceeded down Brentford Lane. A rough bridge crossed the river beneath, over which he passed, then he turned right once more down to the track leading to the farm. A woman appeared in the doorway, staring fiercely at the stranger driving the cart. Then she saw Hugh Bellow lying in the back and started to run towards them.
“Hugh,” she called frantically. “Are you all right, my love?”
“Mr. Bellow has broken his leg, Ma’am,” said John politely. “I’m bringing him back from the market.”
But she had already turned away and was shouting, “Jake, come here and help your father.”
Slowly, John got down from the cart and, turning back, looked through the trees. The rooftop of Gunnersbury House was distantly visible. This place, he thought, would be ideally situated for observation.
He turned back to the little woman who was bustling about giving orders rather ineffectually.
“Madam,” said John, giving his best bow, “allow me to introduce myself. I am John Rawlings.”
Chapter Twelve
It was evening, the quiet time of day. Jacob Bellow, who seemed to be the general factotum round the farm, had finished for the night and now sat before the inglenook, feet outstretched, taking down a goodly measure of ale. So far he had addressed John hardly at all and the Apothecary had come to the conclusion that he must feel threatened by his presence. Not that John had had a great deal of time to worry on that account, his entire afternoon being taken up with attending to Hugh Bellow.
He had restrapped the leg to a plank, once one of suitable length and width had been found. He had also used proper bandages to bind the damaged limb securely, though not so tightly that it would prevent the blood flowing. Meanwhile Hester Bellow had watched wide-eyed, eventually saying, “Sir, are you a doctor fellow?”
Realising that he must tread carefully, John had sighed and said, “No, Ma’am, I spent a year assisting an apothecary, that’s all.”
“Well, you should have taken it up is all I can say. You’ve such a way with you. So gentle and yet so firm.”
John had stood up. “Thank you, Ma’am. I do my best.”
“No physician could have done more. Now then, Mr. Rawlings, where are you staying? In Brentford?”
“No, truth to tell I’m looking for somewhere — and also for employment. I’ve recently been in Devon but came south in order to be closer to my father.”
“And where does he live?”
“In Kensington, Ma’am.”
Mrs. Bellow looked thoughtful. “Well, we could do with an extra pair of hands round this place while Hugh is laid up.”
The Apothecary’s heart rose though he kept his features casual. “I’d appreciate that, Ma’am. Give me time to find my feet while I look round for something more permanent.”
“Well, that’s agreed then. Provided Hugh doesn’t object. But there’s little chance of that I feel.”
“I’ll await confirmation till tomorrow then.”
For while restrapping the leg the Apothecary had given Hugh another mild dose of opium for the relief of his pain.
Now, though, he had been invited to stay the night and sat before the fire, on the opposite side from Jacob Bellow, drinking a deep tot of home-made elderberry wine and contemplating the man who, unlike his parents, clearly resented the Apothecary being in his home.
“Been a fine day,” John ventured.
“Ah,” said Jake.
“Thank goodness the snow has gone.”
“Yes.”
“I was over this way last Christmas. The weather was particularly bad.”
“Oh ah.”
John decided to take a risk. “Mr. Bellow, would you rather I remained silent because I can easily do so. It’s just that I thought we ought to become more friendly.”
Jake regarded him for the first time. “Why?”
“Because we might be working together — temporarily.”
“Oh might we.”
There was a silence during which John, who had returned his gaze to the fire, felt himself being thoroughly examined. He cast a fleeting glance in Jacob’s direction.
He was a short, squat young man with fair hair like his father and mean grey eyes. Just for a second John was reminded of Priscilla Fleming, though there was no actual resemblance other than that both possessed a way of staring at one. But where she was pale, Jacob’s skin was highly coloured, with two bright spots of red on either cheek, brought about no doubt from always working outdoors. In short he was fairly unattractive and had a nature to match.
Catching his eye, John smiled sweetly, a gesture that was not returned. Thinking that the best way of getting on with such a taciturn individual would probably be by ignoring him, the Apothecary finished his glass and stood up.
“I think I’ll go for a little air. Time I gave my lungs a shock.”
“Please yourself,” said Jacob, and lit a long-stemmed pipe which he proceeded to puff ferociously.
Aware that he had been dismissed John hurried outside and consulted his watch. It was pitch dark but the light from the door showed him that it was half past six. He should easily be in time for his meeting with Elizabeth if he set off now. Waiting for a few moments until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, the Apothecary pulled on an old coat that he found hanging on a nail, and set off.
It took him ten minutes to get to the top of the drive but he was guided all the way by the lap and ripple of the energetic brook, which seemed to be racing to keep him company. He turned left and crossed the rough little bridge, making his way down Brentford Lane to the big house. Then he flattened himself into the hedge for he could distinctly hear the sound of hooves and wheels approaching.
A carriage, going slowly over the rutted way, passed him and John peered within to be rewarded with a glimpse of three women, Lady Kemp and Lady Featherstonehaugh — still looking unbelievably alike — together with the egregious Lady Theydon. So the court had not removed to London but was still assembled at Gunnersbury. Praying that Elizabeth had achieved her objective and was now employed at the mansion, John proceeded on cautiously.
She came out of the darkness like a shadow, whispering his name.
“John?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
She went directly to the point, one of the characteristics he so admired about her.
“Did you get a job at Bellow’s?”
“Yes. I thought I might be offered something in view of his injury. There’s a surly son who resents me, though.”
She smiled in the dimness. “There’s always somebody.”
“But what about you? How did you fare?”
“I told you I would be alright. I am to clean out the grates and empty the chamber pots. But at least I am to live in.”
He squeezed her arm. “Are you sure you can cope with that?” She nodded and he changed the subject. “I take it the court is still there?”
“Yes. Apparently the Princess was far too shocked by the murder to face the upheaval of moving. Then the poor creature went down with influenza and is now slowly recovering. Naturally everyone is hanging on for her to get better before the whole place packs up and goes back to London.”
“I see, yet …”
But John did not complete the
sentence. The sound of another carriage approaching was audible. Without a word he dived into the hedge, pulling Elizabeth after him.
It was another member of the company of players, though one who had been relegated to a smaller part. Exquisite as a spring cloud, yet a cloud that was about to play a capricious trick on the world, for Lady Georgiana was frowning deeply, turning her head to look out, avoiding the gaze of the other occupant. Even without seeing him properly, John knew who it was. The tall, thin, somewhat elderly man who had kissed her hand.
He squeezed back into the hedge as Lady Georgiana’s gaze met his, lit by a sudden shaft of moonshine as he was. She stared but a second later the coach had passed on its way, leaving him with the impression that he had been seen.
“She saw us,” confirmed Elizabeth, emerging. “Who is she, do you know?”
“Lady Georgiana Hope. She had a minor role in the masque in which Emilia appeared.”
“And the man with her?”
“I don’t know. But judging by the look of him he is someone who lusts after her.”
“Is he attached to the court?”
John shook his head. “Again, I can’t answer.”
“I’ll find out,” Elizabeth answered in that determined way which once, in another life, had so appealed to John.
He turned to look at her, studying her intently in the moonlight. She had washed her face and was now devoid of any kind of paint. She was ugly, with her great scar being caught by the lunar beams, and yet in another way she was totally beautiful. In any other circumstances John’s heart would have quickened, yet now he was drained of any feeling, lacking all emotion. And Elizabeth, regarding him with a half-smile, seemed somehow to understand this and turned to leave.
“You’re going,” said John, and it was a statement not a question.
“Yes, there’s nothing further to report. I shall meet you tomorrow evening at the same time.”
“But not in the same place. Let’s meet just below the bridge. It might be more private there.”