“I don’t want to go home just yet,” Nat says. “To be honest, Henry will be there, visiting Anne, and I have no desire to hear another homily on the perils of attacking Titus Oates. I might just call at the apothecary and then at Sam’s to see if Kineally has left any messages for me. But you go on. She’s expecting you.”
Relief floods my veins. “She won’t be too tired? Wasn’t she out with her sister all morning?”
“She told me to insist on your attending her. Besides, she is stronger of late.”
“About Matthew,” I begin.
“I like him,” Nat says quickly. He holds my gaze. “Neither you nor he have any need to explain yourselves to me.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He smiles. “So, I’ll see you at home?”
“Yes.” There is still more I need to say. “I am worried about Matthew. He is not discreet. He is what he is.”
Nat grins, but his expression is quickly sombre again. “And?”
“He’s changing. He’s different.”
“He has been alone too much, I expect,” Nat says. “That’s probably all. When he is released, you will see him back to his old self. I am sure of it. Now, go on. Tell Anne I will not be long. And try and tell Henry to spare her his worries about my new reputation as the thorn in the side of Titus Oates. At this point, it’s not as if I have a choice.”
Chapter Thirteen
Anne
The Royal Exchange at Cornhill is only a step away from Sam’s Coffee House. Nat is in my thoughts as I pass the coffee house on my way to meet Sarah, even though he won’t be there. He and William are visiting William’s friend, Matthew, in Newgate. Nat does not often tell me how he spends his days, so when he does, I cherish it. As my belly has swelled over the last few months, I have settled for simply being glad that he is at home as much as he is, and not asking difficult questions. That he is working hard cannot be doubted. Whether it will end well is another matter altogether. Henry and I prepare Nat’s pamphlets in the print shop. Nat is almost as famous as Titus Oates these days. Henry shakes his head but says nothing. William is still very quiet and I’m not sure how to help him.
Today Sarah and I are going shopping for fans. It’s a frippery, a luxury item, exactly the kind of thing I turned my back on when I married Nat. But the child will not come until the summer, and Sarah insists that a fan will be useful as well as pretty. When she offered to buy me one as a gift, I weakened and said yes. If Nat even notices it, he will never have an idea of how much it cost. He would choke on it, probably, if he knew. In a few short months we will have a child. And if everything is not exactly as I would wish between Nat and myself, at least affection is not lacking. He may not share his worries with me, but at least he loves me. There are many women settling for a great deal less.
By the time I reach the Exchange, I’ve decided to enjoy myself. Downstairs, sombrely-dressed men meet to conduct their business. Tall Dutch merchants put their heads together and a crowd of Jews wave their arms. Voices are kept low, but there is such a busyness of buying and selling going on that the sound bubbles up to the floor above. Here, upwards of a hundred shops sell every manner of colourful gewgaw a girl with a longing for finery could desire. Not so very long ago, I couldn’t walk here alone. I came with my mother and was bustled along, or had to put up with being trailed by a truculent maidservant, whose face tripped her at the sight of all the trinkets she might never afford. Now, as a married lady, I take all the time I want. I’m almost disappointed to see Sarah is there already, waiting for me by the statue of the King in the centre of the Exchange. But then the list of questions I have for her about childbirth and midwives come bubbling up, and I walk toward her as quickly as my changed body allows.
All goes well until we select the fan. Sarah is excited, and she is keen to buy me a slim tortoiseshell one, cool and smooth against my fingers, which opens to show a French pastoral scene. But a folding fan made with ivory struts is expensive; one made of tortoiseshell even more so, especially if the folds are hand-painted with any skill.
“No, no, Sarah,” I say. “It is too much.”
“Not at all. You deserve it. I want you to have it.”
“Does James know?” It is difficult to imagine any husband agreeing to such wanton generosity, particularly not one as cautious as James.
Sarah’s face turns pink and she says nothing.
“What is it?” I say. I take a long look at the fan and then hand it back to the shopkeeper. “Sarah?” I take her by the elbow and steer her along to a quiet corner. “What is going on?”
“It is a gift from Mother.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Truly? I am surprised.”
“She wants you to have nice things. She is concerned that you and the child will be ill-supplied.”
“Ill-supplied?”
Sarah throws me an anxious glance. Quite rightly, she does not like my tone. “Mother is afraid that Nathaniel will not be able to afford all that you will need for the baby, Anne. She is your mother. She loves you.”
“She loves me enough to buy me a ridiculous fan but not to accept the man I have chosen to marry.”
Sarah lays her arm on mine. “She just wants you to know that your family cares for you.”
“Cares for me?” I throw off Sarah’s arm and start walking toward the stairs. She rushes behind me, still trying to talk.
“She cannot approve of Nat, Anne. I thought you understood that? And especially now…” Her voice trails away and she follows me down the stairs in silence.
“Especially now?” I ask when we reach the bottom.
She does look uncomfortable. I love my sister. It pains me that she lets our mother do this to her. I have many things I could say to her about not doing our mother’s bidding, but my argument is not with Sarah, so I bite my tongue and wait.
“Mother and Father are worried about your future,” she says. “Since Nat lost his position as the Licenser, he has done nothing but cause trouble, writing pamphlets and stirring up distrust in the Government.”
“In Titus Oates, I think you mean.”
“And thereby the Government, Anne. Oates has many supporters. Good men that our father knows personally. Until Nat changes course, our parents will never visit you or receive you and Nat together. But Mother does hope you will visit her. With the child.”
My hand goes to my belly. It will not be long now and if I could only forget or put aside certain matters, I would love to take my child to meet my parents. But when the certain matter is my husband? It is a visit I will never make.
“That will not happen, Sarah, and you may tell her so. You mean well, dearest, but a bribe from Mother? You should refuse to be party to such a thing.”
She chews on her lip and looks at me sadly. “I miss our family,” she says.
***
In the evening, Henry and William discuss The Weekly Pacquet while we wait for Nat to arrive. It’s a pamphlet by Harry Care, a man who despises Nat for questioning the veracity of Oates’s Popish Plot. Care has commissioned a drawing of Nat’s face on the body of a small terrier dog dancing at the ankles of a sombre and sensible-looking Titus Oates.
“All Nat does is gain notoriety,” mutters Henry.
“But his cause is just.”
“A just cause will not pay his bills.”
William, since the loss of his teaching post, has been relying on working at the print shop to pay his own bills. He has the sense to be quiet.
“It may cost him more than any of us have imagined,” says Henry.
There is no answer to that, and I’m immensely glad when Nat comes in a moment later. Without him, my fears and doubts are undeniable. When he is here, that all fades away.
Tonight, he is lively. He kisses me on both cheeks and pats Henry and William across the back. We eat quickly because, Nat says, his man Kineally left a message that he would call here this evening with news of his investigation into Oates’s past.
“I want to hear
what he has to say,” I whisper to Nat as we leave the room briefly – Nat to change his coat, and me to remove the plates. He frowns but does not demur.
When Kineally knocks on the door, Nat, William, and I all jump to answer it. Only Henry remains still, brooding by the fire.
“Well?” Nat barely lets the man take off his hat and sit down. He’s a short, thick-set fellow, and plainly dressed. To me, he looks like a tradesman or someone’s grandfather, not a person of intrigue in any way. We all wait while he puts on a pair of spectacles and organises his papers on the table.
“Five years ago,” he begins, “Titus Oates was living in Hastings. It’s a fishing community on the south coast. He worked there at All Saints’ Church, as curate to his father, Samuel Oates.”
“And?” Nat’s impatience doesn’t ruffle Kineally, but his eyes slide in my direction once or twice.
“My representative reports that Oates’s father was far from popular with his congregation but was tolerated. His son was a different matter. They still talk of him in the Sun Tavern. He was known as a drunk and as a liar. It was said that he set neighbours quarrelling and spoke in a way wholly inappropriate to his position in the Church.”
“There!” Nat slaps his hand on the table. He glances over at Henry, but Henry’s eyes are closed and his chin is down on his chest, although I don’t believe for a moment that he’s asleep.
“I like it, Kineally,” says Nat. “But you have more, I am sure. Come on, man. Spit it out.”
Kineally looks directly at me now. “I am not sure,” he says. “I am not sure that the information I have is entirely suitable for the company.”
I turn to Nat. I have absolutely no intention of leaving the room and am glad to see he reads my determination. His lips twitch, and he leans back and folds his arms across his chest.
“My wife is made of strong stuff, Kineally. Go ahead.”
Kineally still looks uneasy. “If you are sure,” he mutters. Then he clears his throat. “Captain John Parker was the first to complain formally about Oates’s conduct. He wrote a letter to the Parish Council outlining his objections to Oates continuing there as a curate.”
“And?” It is William’s turn to lean forward and prompt Kineally.
“Two weeks later, Oates went to visit the town’s Mayor. He gave a sworn deposition that on a certain day, at a certain hour, he had entered the south porch of All Saints’ Church and witnessed William Parker, the local schoolmaster and Captain Parker’s son, committing an act of sodomy with a young boy.”
I feel my face flush with shock. William’s face is red, too. Nat’s mouth is slack with surprise and Henry’s eyes are wide open now. My hand goes to my mouth. Kineally turns his neck a little and raises his eyebrows at Nat, as if to say he had warned us. When none of us speak, he tells us the rest.
“My informant tells me that the Mayor was incredulous, but that Oates was convincing and his information compellingly detailed.”
“The schoolmaster Parker was arrested,” Kineally says. “Shortly afterwards, Oates went to the Mayor again. This time he charged the father, Captain Parker, with having made treasonable speeches against the King. The Mayor had no choice but to arrest the Captain and send him to London.”
“So, on the word of Titus Oates, father and son were both charged with offences punishable by death?” says Nat.
“Yes. William Parker faced a public trial. Oates was sworn in and made his damning testimony. But Parker defended himself. He was able to prove that on the night in question he had been dining with the parents of some of his pupils. Further, a group of masons had been working on the church that evening and also swore that they had seen no-one there: not Parker, no nameless boy, and no Titus Oates. Parker was freed and immediately began an action against Oates for damages. The Privy Council also released the father, Captain Parker, due to lack of evidence.”
“My God!”
“Indeed. Titus Oates was charged with perjury.”
“And?”
“He disappeared.”
We are quiet no longer. Nat is outraged, but also delighted.
“It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. My instincts about Oates and his story are justified.” He speaks directly to Henry. “There now. Come, Henry. You’ll admit I’ve been right since the very start?”
But he does not. “No. It still won’t do.”
“Why not? It’s a pattern of behaviour. He’s done exactly the same here in London, but let his lies encompass a whole religion instead of just one family. Anyone could see that.”
“Yes, but they don’t want to!” Henry quivers from his shoulders down. “What you don’t have, Nat, is any sense of the season, of public opinion, and the politics of the moment! This is not about the truth. God, it is so little about truth I am surprised we still have the word in the language. This is a momentous time. This is about kings and parliaments, about the Tories, about the group calling themselves the Whigs. This is about England: about how it will be in ten years’ time and in the century to come. It’s about power. Men cannot say what they think without reprisal in times like these. You can’t go after the most fêted man in Whitehall without facing consequences.”
He slaps his hand to his forehead in despair. “And you were the Licenser, of all things. The man whose job it was to control the extremists, the stirrers up of discontent and sedition. Look at you now. Southwell has tempted you with his offers of money and the good opinion of the King. I should never have let him speak to you.”
Henry is full red in the face and on his feet. Nat stands, too. It’s awful to watch them, face to face across the table, lost in their disappointment and rage at each other.
“Get out, Henry.”
We are all shocked, including Nat, at his harshness. But he does not step back.
“You are wrong,” he says, “and I will prove it. Oates should not, must not, be allowed to continue. You did not go to the trial of Godfrey’s murderers. I did. There is more than money and my livelihood at stake here, whatever you may choose to think. A man’s friends – damn it, a man’s family – should know him better. I will put a stop to Oates. You will see.”
Henry’s chest heaves with a ragged breath and I fear for his health for a moment. Then he simply goes and gathers up his coat and hat. The colour has left his cheeks, but he’s not finished yet. He comes to me and takes my hands and kisses them. At the door, he pauses.
“I hope you are right, Nathaniel,” he says. “I hope we live to see it happen. Yet I am very much afraid that you are creating an enemy who will not hesitate to strike at you in any way he sees fit. Watch your back.”
***
Kineally must have slipped away even before Nat threw Henry out. I didn’t see him go, but he’s no longer in the house. William leaves soon after, and I clear the plates while Nat stares at the fire. I go and sit with him. I don’t hide my tears, but he won’t talk.
Only later, warmed by more wine, sealed up in the dark, velvet cocoon of our bed, I run my fingers down the valley of his back and whisper, “Henry worries about you. He should not have said what he said, but it was said in anxiety, not reason.”
“You heard what he said about the Licensing Act.”
“I already knew about it. From Sarah. You could have told me.”
“I should have. I wish I had.”
“It doesn’t matter. You are doing everything you can.”
“I am not just pursuing Oates for financial gain.”
“I know that. And so does Henry, really. He is afraid, though. As am I.”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“It is hard not to. Look at how Titus Oates treated William’s friend. And now about the poor man in Hastings.”
“I won’t step back from it.”
I can’t repress a sigh. “But if you go after him, he will act against you. He’ll do something, conjure some lie, buy some witness. You know he will.”
“Maybe.”
“And then what will happen
to me? To us?” I lift his hand and touch his fingers to my lips. “To our family?”
Nat lays a hand on my ripening stomach. “Well, I will have to bring him down first then, won’t I? At least I have evidence to use against him now. Kineally is obtaining the court records from Hastings. We will see how long a known perjurer can last as a witness in a court of law. Even in times like these.”
Chapter Fourteen
Nat
In the weeks that follow, with Henry and I at odds, I do more and more work in the hot-house that is Sam’s Coffee House. The benches are long and I’m able to spread out my papers, useful at moments like this one, when I’m looking over a final drawing I’ve commissioned called The Committee. It is a strikingly vulgar illustration of all the waif and stray religions that abound in London, forming one group under the leadership of the Presbyterians. There are too many pictures of carnal popes and murderous priests flapping on the news-stalls these days. I have heard that they intend to try the head of the Jesuits in London for treason. They say he and his fellow priests conspired to kill the King. All the evidence comes solely from Oates. I hope to do some damage to him before their trial.
In my lighter moments, I like to think I am providing balance. In truth, the pursuit of Oates drives me like nothing in my life has ever before. So many of my thoughts are muddled – hopes and fears for the coming child; guilt over not telling Anne directly about the loss of my post; and frustration that Henry will not come around to my point of view. But in the pursuit of Titus Oates my mind is clear, my purpose sure.
The coffee boy taps me on the shoulder. There is a man here, he says, a Dr. Choquette, who wishes to speak to me about the King’s cousin, Prince Rupert. I’m researching him for some small piece of paid work. The bills must be paid, after all. I tell the boy to lead the fellow over.
I quickly find that Choquette is typically French: over-familiar and charmless. He’s tall, thin, and sallow. His coat is muddied and worn. I don’t like the way he gulps at the wine I offer, too much like a fish sucking in air. Resigned to a wasted hour, I sit back and invite him to give me what information he can.
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