by Tessa Harris
The old anatomist sniffed at the dusty air.
“So you have been clearing the shelves?”
Thomas smiled. Nothing managed to get past his mentor, whose other senses seemed to have sharpened since he had been deprived of his sight.
“Indeed, sir,” he replied, clamping the lid on yet another crate. “Most of the specimens are to be stored at the Royal Society, but Sir Joseph says that I may work on the ones of particular interest to me here, so I have made room for them.”
Carruthers nodded his head. “Oh, that I could see them,” he murmured forlornly.
Thomas sensed his sadness and frustration. “But we shall work on them together, sir.” There had been several occasions when his mentor’s sense of smell had proved vital in solving scientific quandaries and his eagerness to engage him in the important work was genuine.
“I would like that very much,” he replied, smiling and easing himself onto a high stool at the workbench.
Lifting a jar full of a dark-colored bark, Thomas nodded. “Your knowledge of Jamaica will be invaluable,” he said.
The old anatomist looked thoughtful; his filmy eyes were fixed into the distance. “ ’Tis many years ago, now, and ’twas a time I would rather forget.”
Thomas knew that his mentor’s experience of the island had been a harrowing one. He had assisted a physician who advised on the purchase of slaves at the dockside. It was clear from his manner that he cared not to talk of it and Thomas knew he still bore the mental scars of it. He had seen men separated from their women, mothers from their children, floggings and unspeakable tortures. Even so, he anticipated Dr. Carruthers’s understanding of the climate, culture, and diseases of the godless colony would be indispensable during his work.
No sooner had the old anatomist settled himself down, however, than more footsteps could be heard on the flagstones. Mistress Finesilver, the pinched-faced housekeeper, appeared at the open door. It usually took a dose of laudanum to solicit a smile from her and this morning was no exception. She handed Thomas a message as if it were a soiled bandage.
“This just came for you, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas thanked her and read the letter. He glanced up. “The Elizabeth has been sighted in the Thames and will dock on the morrow. I am to meet her,” he said, his voice rising in his excitement.
Dr. Carruthers tapped the floor with his stick and nodded. “This is, indeed, the start of a great adventure, young fellow,” he declared.
Chapiter 8
Lydia found dinner agreeable enough. Nicholas Lupton’s trunk had been fetched from the Three Tuns in the village and he had quickly settled into his room at Boughton. He had presented himself sporting a gray wig and wearing a green frockcoat. A faint whiff of sandalwood swathed him. Seated at the opposite end of the long table he and Lydia had dined on pork from the estate’s finest Gloucester Old Spots and a good blackberry tart.
Conversation had centred on Boughton and the problems that it faced. It emerged that Mr. Lupton had been in Yorkshire during the time of the Great Fogg, and had not been badly affected, so Lydia had informed him of the havoc it had wrought to man, beast and vegetation. She told him how there was much work to do to remedy the devastation it had left in its wake.
Lupton had listened attentively, asking pertinent questions when deemed necessary. He seemed sensitive to the welfare of tenants, asking about their conditions and terms of tenure.
“I hope you won’t think me impolite if I say it was clear from the way they regarded you this afternoon that your workers have much affection for you, your ladyship,” he said, pushing his empty dessert plate away from him.
Lydia hoped that in the candle glow her guest could not see her blush. She glanced at Howard, who was hovering attentively by the sideboard.
“My father instilled in me the fact that we are mere custodians of this land. We are looking after it for future generations and must treat those who assist in that task with due respect,” she replied.
Lupton nodded his approval of the sentiment.
“So will you be joined by Mistress Lupton in the cottage?” she asked as Howard and another manservant cleared their plates.
At this question, however, the new steward looked grave. “I am afraid my wife is deceased,” he replied.
Lydia felt awkward. “I am sorry. I did not mean . . .” The color rose in her cheeks once more.
Lupton shook his head. “ ’Tis my fault, your ladyship. I should have made my state plain. My wife died in childbirth less than a year ago.”
“My condolences,” said Lydia solemnly.
Lupton gave a tight smile, as if remembering his late wife. “She was giving birth to our first child, a boy.” He paused, then added: “I lost them both.”
In the candlelight, Lydia thought she saw Mr. Lupton’s eyes moisten. She averted her gaze for a moment to allow him to compose himself.
“It is hard, being on one’s own,” she said gently. Her tone sounded knowledgeable, and he recognized she spoke from experience.
Lupton took a deep, juddering breath. “That it is, your ladyship.” His large shoulders heaved, as if he was trying to shrug off a great sadness. “But you have your son, I believe.” His mood lightened.
Lydia nodded and played with the stem of her wineglass. Howard filled it without being asked. “Indeed, I do, and a great comfort he is to me.”
Lupton smiled as Howard filled his glass. “I am looking forward to meeting him. Perhaps he would come for a ride, with your permission, your ladyship.” His bewigged head gave a slight reverential bow.
“I am sure Richard would like that very much,” she replied, smiling.
An hour later they had both retired to their separate chambers. Lydia lingered a little longer than normal and did not call for Eliza, her maid, until after eleven o’clock. The girl unlaced Lydia’s stays, helped her off with her gown, then brushed her long chestnut hair. She noted her mistress was smiling at her reflection in the mirror.
“ ’Tis good to see you looking cheery, your ladyship,” she said, speaking out of turn, then realizing her mistake to her own embarrassment.
Lydia nodded. “I spent a pleasant evening,” she replied, adding: “I have engaged Mr. Lupton as the new steward.”
Eliza continued brushing her mistress’s hair unthinkingly. “ ’Twill be good to have a man around again.”
Lydia arched a brow and shot back at her maid, “Mr. Lupton is a steward, not a suitor, Eliza.”
The girl curtsied awkwardly. “Begging your pardon, my lady. I did not mean . . .” The hairbrush flapped in her hand.
A smile crossed Lydia’s lips. “You are right, Eliza. It will be good to have the support of a man who knows what he is about and understands business.”
There was an awkward silence as both women’s thoughts turned to the man who they knew should be rightfully heading the household by now. It was Lydia who spoke her mind.
“I am sure Dr. Silkstone will agree with my choice,” she said, as if seeking approval for making the engagement.
Eliza looked slightly taken aback, as if her mistress deemed it necessary to emphasize her unwritten commitment to Thomas. Nevertheless she nodded. “I am sure, your ladyship,” she replied.
Chapiter 9
Phibbah slipped out of the house as night fell, her heart pounding in her chest. The cook, Mistress Bradshaw, was more kindly than the usual English woman. She had heard her talk with some of the other white servants in the household, saying it was not right for the blacks to be enslaved and that every man and woman in England should be free to come and go as they pleased. But the others had laughed at her and told her it was none of her business and that as long as the Negroes were around they wouldn’t have to do as many dirty jobs like take out the slops, so they would not complain. She had shrugged her shoulders and tutted, but she had still shown a little kindness, although if she guessed the reason for her excursion, Phibbah knew Mistress Bradshaw would not be so forgiving.
Th
e slave girl had still not fully recovered from yesterday’s punishment. Twenty lashes, the mistress had ordered, and Mr. Roberts, the footman, had relished delivering every stroke. Each crack of the whip was music to his ears. Each yelp, each sob, each cry of pain was a symphony to him. Patience had rubbed ointment on the wounds last night, but the cuts still wept and her back would remain raw as butcher’s meat for the next few days. In Jamaica, in the sun, the welts attracted the flies. Here, in London, she was forced to cover them with coarse clothes that chafed at her skin just like the manacles ’round her ankles on board the ship all those years ago.
She steadied herself by the back gate. Her head was light and sometimes her sight blurred. Ghosts would appear from nowhere, swimming across her vision, shrieking in her ears. They were the spirits of her ancestors, the ones who had not been buried according to tradition, the ones who had lived and died under the white man’s rules and not been accorded the right and proper ritual. They would roam this earth forever.
She unlatched the gate and slid through it, then slipped down the lane. High brick walls rose on either side, overhung by leafless trees. She did not like English trees in winter. Their black branches were arms, their spindly twigs fingers. A carriage passed. She kept her head down and quickened her pace. Not far now.
At the end of the lane she turned left. A church bell tolled nearby. Almost there. She rounded the corner and came to the lych-gate. Passing through it she found herself in the graveyard, an Englishman’s churchyard, with its cold mossy stones and its fine statues of women with wings. How strange, she thought, to honor the dead in this way. She had heard they were buried without their cooking pots and their jewelry. How would they eat? Did they not want to look their best when they rejoined their ancestors? Worse still, their graves were often sealed, so that robbers could not take their corpses. She had heard that the churchmen might sometimes set spring guns to ward off the sack-’em-up men. Sometimes they put cages over the graves and locked them with padlocks as big as coconuts. So how would the dead eat? How would they find their way home? It was all a puzzle to her. These places were strange and baffling and frightening. She would not loiter.
A lone woman stood praying by a new grave. She wore a black veil that covered her face. Hurrying over to the wall of the churchyard, where thick thorn bushes grew, their berries red as blood, Phibbah crouched low to watch her. The shadows were melding into the blackness as the first stars appeared in the sky. The widow would be gone soon. Only the evil ones would stay in a place like this after dark, she told herself.
Sure enough, after one or two minutes Phibbah saw the woman’s head bow reverentially and she retreated through the lych-gate and into the encroaching darkness. Now she was alone, apart from the hundreds of spirits that surrounded her. Scurrying forward, she reached the grave where the earth had been newly smoothed and saw worms writhing blindly in the soil. A garland of holly and ivy had been placed on the mound.
Quickly she took out her bag, knelt down, and began to scoop up handfuls of the damp dirt. It came up easily, in sticky clumps, clawing ’round her fingernails. She was doing well; a few more handfuls and she would have enough. Just then a bird swooped overhead. It was huge and called to her with a voice that was shrill and trembling. She looked up. An ancestor, she thought, but then something caught her eye in the far corner of the churchyard. A man in a long black robe was approaching her. He was waving a stick. Now he was shouting. She must go. What was it the obeah-man said? Enough to fill a goat’s horn. She looked at her bag, whose sides now bulged. What she had was sufficient. Scrambling to her feet, she headed for the lych-gate. The man was coming closer. She broke into a run. She winced with pain as the cuts on her back reopened.
“You! Stop!” cried the man. But from his gait she could tell he was old and from his robes a priest, perhaps. He thought she was disturbing the dead. He did not understand that they were all around; that they never stayed in the ground, unless their burial chambers were locked or sealed.
She ran on until she joined the path leading to the lych-gate, but just as she slowed down at the entrance, her foot caught a jagged stone and she tripped, dropping her bag and spilling some soil. A gasp escaped her lips as the man approached. She turned her back to him. He must not see the color of her skin. Grabbing at the bag, she made off once more, down the path, through the gate and out onto the lane.
Running as fast as if Mr. Roberts himself were in pursuit with his whip, she soon reached the end of the lane and turned left to the road that would take her back to the big house. It was only then that she stopped momentarily to look inside her bag. Almost half its contents had spilled out when she fell, but there should still be enough for her obeah-bag—still enough grave dirt for the curse to work.
Chapter 10
Sir Theodisius Pettigrew had embraced the game of golf with great enthusiasm if not skill. The Oxfordshire coroner had found that since taking to the sport only a few months ago, he might even have shed a few pounds from his not inconsiderable midriff. Of course he could not play a whole round without recourse to his hamper, carried alongside his clubs by his caddy. But suitably sustained by the frequent consumption of chicken legs, sausage rolls, and the occasional plover’s egg, he found the new pastime an excellent way to spend his leisure hours.
After the frightful weeks spent in the grip of the Great Fogg, he had promised his dear wife, Harriet, that he would take her to London so that she could shop in Oxford Street. While there he could combine her pleasure with his own business. He had a few small interests that required his attention and had been delighted when an invitation had come from Hubert Izzard, an acquaintance of many years’ standing, to join a party to play golf at Blackheath Club.
It was a crisp, clear morning when the four gentlemen set off for the first hole on the heath course. The purple heather carpeted the rough and the views of the Thames below were quite breathtaking. Hundreds of ships, large and small, could be seen plying up and down the river, or stationary in dock, forming a forest of masts in the water.
“A sight for sore eyes, eh, Sir Theodisius?” declared the ruddy-faced gentleman who strode out toward the first tee, taking in the view. The coroner and Mr. Izzard had been joined by Mr. Samuel Carfax and his associate Mr. Josiah Dalrymple, accompanied by his Negro slave Jeremiah Taylor. Both merchants were vaguely known to Sir Theodisius as being involved in shipping and, more particularly, slaving and the sugar trade, although how Izzard knew them was beyond his ken.
Dalrymple was handsome enough, but clearly not a real gentleman. There was something slightly studied in his mannerisms, thought Sir Theodisius. Each one of his gestures appeared to be a flourish rather than a mere practicality. The way he brandished his club, or waved his kerchief, rankled, as if he had learned the affectations rather than been born to them. His manner with his slave was also overbearing and harsh. The Oxfordshire coroner took an instant dislike to him.
“London’s great wealth is built on those ships,” butted in Dalrymple.
“Or more particularly on their cargo!” corrected Mr. Carfax, raising a stubby finger in the air. He was squat and pigeon-chested and his short neck caused his large head to disappear between the humps of his broad shoulders. Word had it that he had his eye on a rotten borough in next year’s elections and was in town to garner support. His manner was bluff, but jolly, no doubt helped by the regular swigs of rum he took from a hip flask.
“Yes, those slaves are black gold to London,” he said, letting out a hearty laugh.
Dalrymple shot a sideways glance to Izzard. “How true,” he agreed.
Izzard snorted. “Be careful, sir. Your slave has a club in his hand.” He nodded at Jeremiah, who was supplying his master with the appropriate irons for the shot. “I certainly would not trust one. Bludgeon you to death as soon as look at you!” he quipped.
The round was enjoyable enough. None of the players produced great shots and Sir Theodisius, coming the latest to the game, was not made to feel woefu
lly inept. His willingness to share his sausage rolls seemed to more than compensate for his awkward swing and slow gait in his companions’ eyes.
The casual talk centred on the price of sugar and tobacco and the recent slave revolts in Jamaica, where the men owned plantations.
“Dreadful business over at Melrose’s estate,” commented Carfax, shaking his head. He paused thoughtfully before adding: “What those savages did to the overseer!”
Sir Theodisius was aware of the incident, one of a growing number, where slaves were rising up against their masters on the island.
Dalrymple smirked. “Trouble is Melrose was too soft. He started treating them too well. Regular floggings, that’s what they understand. What, Jeremiah?!” He let out a contemptuous laugh as the slave remained impassive at his master’s side, then swung at the ball and hit it hard into the distance. “No mercy!” he said, smiling, as he watched the ball drop just a few feet away from the intended hole.
Sir Theodisius raised a brow and Carfax caught his look of approbation.
“We must not bore our guests with merchants’ small talk,” he upbraided his friend. He took another swig of rum from his hip flask, but Dalrymple would not be put off.
“The next thing you know, the do-gooders will be calling for abolition and then where would we be, gentlemen?” he asked, shaking his head. His conjecture was met with laughter from both Carfax and Izzard.