by Tessa Harris
“She’s gone,” he said. It was as if Carfax was thinking aloud rather than addressing his visitor. “She has left me.”
Thomas thought of Cordelia Carfax’s corpse now lying in the mortuary, bloated and darkening, awaiting the grisly fate reserved for those who took their own lives. She would be accorded the same fate as all her slaves. There would be no headstone for her, either, no marks made in stone to testify to a life well lived, no carved prayers or kind words from a loving husband, no women with wings to watch over her.
“My condolences, sir,” said Thomas, his voice subdued. That was the reason for his visit. He had delivered his postmortem report to Sir Stephen’s office and knew it would not be easy for Samuel Carfax to face the truth. His wife had led a double life. Not only had she been conducting an affair with one of his acquaintances, she had secretly trafficked the corpses of at least half a dozen slaves, selling them for a tidy profit to her lover. Some of them had even been murdered to order, but her last crime, the vicious stabbing of Phibbah, was the most horrific of all. Nevertheless their marriage had been a long, if not a happy, one and his wife’s suicide would have compounded his intense distress. “You will miss Mistress Carfax greatly,” he added, immediately realizing he sounded glib.
Carfax’s reaction to his words came swiftly. He shrugged his great shoulders and shook his head, glowering at Thomas in disbelief. “I speak of Venus, Silkstone. Venus is gone.”
Thomas could not hide his shock. He was lost for words and when they did come into his mind, he thought it best to remain silent. He would only allow Samuel Carfax to explain himself if he so wished. In his hand Thomas noticed the estate owner was holding something like a small coin. He turned it ’round and ’round, flipping it between his fingers, studying it now and again.
“She said she wanted her freedom, you see, Silkstone,” he mumbled eventually, tossing the roundel disdainfully onto the desk. Thomas caught a glimpse of it as it scudded across the surface and landed nearer to him. It was a token against slavery, the sort that the Quakers distributed in the Crown Inn. He thought of Venus, tall and poised and proud, yet all the while hiding a hatred and contempt for both her master and mistress that had seared itself into her psyche as surely as the brand on Phibbah’s flesh. Her attitude had at first surprised him when he had spoken briefly to her about Cato’s disappearance. She seemed ambivalent to freedom; not content, yet not craving an escape.
“And you let her go?” asked Thomas gently.
Carfax snorted, as if he found Thomas’s question vaguely amusing.
“I have no longer the will to fight, Silkstone. I am a broken man. I have lost my wife, my reputation, and any ambitions I had for a career in politics.”
He picked up the roundel from the desk once more. Squinting at it, he read the inscription: “Am I not a woman and a sister?” and let out an odd laugh. “So she is now free and I have become a slave to my own folly. The irony of it, eh, Silkstone? The irony.”
Lydia took advantage of the spring thaw to drive the dogcart down to Plover’s Lake and to call in at Mr. Lupton’s residence. Most of the snow had melted, leaving green shoots in its wake. She had even seen some primroses in bloom in the hedgerows. Hearing the clatter of the cart, the housekeeper came out to greet her.
“Will you have Mr. Lupton come and see me today, Mistress Fox?” Lydia asked her, adding: “I am most anxious to speak with him.”
With the warmer weather, she wanted to revive the plans for draining the marsh land. The housekeeper, however, looked perplexed and began fidgeting, smoothing her apron with her plump fingers.
“What is it, Mistress Fox?” asked Lydia, seeing the woman’s disquiet.
She shook her head. “I am most anxious to see him too, m’lady,” she replied. “But he is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, m’lady. He took off early this morning, without so much as a by your leave. Didn’t touch his breakfast.” The woman twisted her apron.
“I am sure he will be back by nightfall,” Lydia said, smiling.
But her words did nothing to allay the housekeeper’s fears. “That’s the thing, you see, m’lady. It looks like he won’t be coming back.”
“What do you mean?” Lydia snapped.
“Taken all his things, he has. All his bags and his trunk have gone. A carrier called for them, m’lady.”
Lydia’s forehead was suddenly furrowed by a frown.
“I see,” she said slowly. “I am sure he will return presently,” she tried to reassure her. She gave the housekeeper a polite smile to disguise her own surprise, then with a flap of the reins she urged on her horse.
In Draycott House, Sir Montagu Malthus was also relishing the sunshine that had been so noticeable by its absence throughout the coldest winter he could remember. The warm rays streamed through his bedroom window and added to his already cheerful mood. Only four days had elapsed since the operation on his aneurysm, but his recovery was astounding his erstwhile surgeon.
“I have to confess I am most impressed by Dr. Silkstone’s ingenuity,” murmured Mr. Parker as he inspected the leg. The scar was approximately six inches long and from it protruded intermittent lengths of thread, yet already the flesh was knitting and there seemed no sign of infection.
“I fear it takes little to impress you, Parker,” sniffed Sir Montagu, easing himself up onto his elbows. “You’ll tell me next that Fairweather is a passable physician.”
The surgeon looked quite shocked. He was used to hearing physicians maligned by members of his own chirurgical profession, but not by patients and certainly not to his face. Personally he did not rate Fairweather, either. His knowledge was sketchy and his judgment was often, in his opinion, very poor. Nevertheless he felt compelled to spring to the defense of a fellow medical man. He cleared his throat.
“I believe he acted admirably during your surgery, sir,” he countered.
Sir Montagu let out a derisory laugh. “Admirably, you say?” he repeated. “I expect he told you that!”
Mr. Parker cocked his head to one side and was reluctantly forced to admit that, yes, he had heard the phrase from Fairweather’s own lips.
Sir Montagu, his hooded eyes returned to their piercing alertness, fixed the surgeon with an unnerving stare. “I may have been semiconscious when that American upstart, Silkstone, cut open my leg, but I was compos mentis enough to know that Fairweather went to pieces at the sight of this bloody limb.” He pointed to his leg as Parker bent low to re-cover the wound. “I fear that the country physician let himself down very badly during his foray into chirurgical practice,” he snarled, “and I do not intend to let him off lightly.”
Chapter 53
The preliminary hearing of Dalrymple versus Silkstone was scheduled to be heard before the local magistrate at nine o’clock in the morning. Thomas had been given little time to prepare for the case, but had put his trust in Granville Sharp, whom he knew to be as good an ally as any man could have. Traveling as Sir Theodisius’s manservant, Jeremiah Taylor had arrived back in London from Boughton Hall the previous day and had been offered accommodation at Sharp’s Fulham residence.
The hearing was held in a small, cramped room that afforded little space between the players of the drama and served only to intensify the enmity between the two sides in the case. Sir Theodisius found the conditions particularly constricting, his cumbersome frame having to support itself on two wooden chairs.
The magistrate, a Mr. Burrill, was curmudgeonly and suffered, Thomas suspected, from asthma. He wheezed between each sentence and the stuffiness of the room seemed to compound his breathing problems. He sat behind a desk at the top end of the room, flanked by tables at which the two opponents were seated. By them sat their own counsel.
A clerk read the charge. Thomas was accused of stealing Jeremiah Taylor, the property of Josiah Dalrymple, and forcibly imprisoning him. The judge was told that on the afternoon of December 22, Taylor had gone missing from the residence of Mr. Samuel Carfax,
where Dalrymple was visiting on business. Acting on information received, the slave was later found at 34 Hollen Street, the home of Dr. Thomas Silkstone, “a citizen of the United States of America,” the clerk helpfully pointed out. The Negro had been severely beaten. When asked to hand over Jeremiah, however, Dr. Silkstone had refused and challenged Mr. Dalrymple to fight him for the slave in court. Josiah Dalrymple’s lawyer was a dishevelled young man who went by the name of Fitzroy. His experience was obviously very limited, as he told the magistrate, with the misplaced smugness that came with the arrogance of his youth, that it was a straightforward case that could be dealt with swiftly.
“I would remind you, or perhaps in your situation tell you, for the first time, Mr. Fitzroy, that there is no such thing as a straightforward case,” wheezed Mr. Burrill.
Duly admonished, the young man sat down. Dalrymple glowered at him. He wore the angry expression of a man who realized, perhaps too late, that his barrister should not have persuaded him to accept this underling in order to save his services for the courtroom proper.
“So, Dr. Silkstone.” Mr. Burrill turned to Thomas, who now stood. “I see you have a most learned friend.” He nodded to Sharp, who returned the greeting. “What have you to say for yourself?”
The young doctor, although he could feel his guts churning inside, looked outwardly calm. Dressed in his smartest fustian coat and wearing, uncustomarily for him, a wig, he summoned all his composure, just as he would before performing surgery.
“Your honor, I am afraid the picture of events that has been painted is entirely spurious. The truth of the matter is I came across Jeremiah badly injured in the street. Had I left him there he would most surely have died in a few hours. As a doctor the Hippocratic oath binds me to care for the sick, so I did my duty and took him into my house. It soon emerged, however, that my patient was a slave from the branding on his chest and the collar around his neck.”
Thomas paused for effect, allowing his gaze to roam ’round the stuffy room, giving Mr. Burrill a moment to ponder his words. He resumed: “Once he was conscious, he expressed a desire to escape his slave bonds. As I understand the law in England, sir, slavery is not permitted, as established in the case of James Somersett.” He glanced to his right, deferring to Sharp, who sat listening intently. “I therefore believed myself acting in accordance with the laws of this fine land. I neither stole, nor kidnapped Jeremiah. He was free to leave my house at any time, but he chose not to return to captivity.”
Mr. Burrill raised both brows, so that his wig lifted, too. “You would make a good lawyer as well as an anatomist, Dr. Silkstone,” he complimented. He coughed into a kerchief, then proceeded. “So you would wish to call character witnesses, I believe ?”
Thomas nodded. “I wish that Jeremiah Taylor give you his version of events first, sir.”
“You may proceed,” nodded the magistrate.
Jeremiah Taylor, looking fine in a dark green coat loaned by Granville Sharp and a high stock, stood up to speak. His nerves were plain for all to see. His hands shook and his voice was faltering when he confirmed his name. In answer to the magistrate’s questions, he told him he had belonged to Mr. Dalrymple for ten years and lived on his sugar plantation near Kingston. Sometimes his master beat him, or withheld his meals.
“And that is why you ran away?” asked Mr. Burrill.
Jeremiah locked eyes with Thomas, then shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Then why, pray?”
The slave tensed. His forehead suddenly glistened. “Because I heard something I was not supposed to, sir,” came the reply.
The magistrate leaned forward. “And what might that have been?”
Jeremiah proceeded to tell Burrill how he had been locked in the boot room and how a man and woman had entered and spoken in low voices about dead Negroes, and that he hadn’t understood what they were talking about but was afraid.
“What happened next?” pressed the magistrate.
“A boot fell off a shelf and then they saw me, and the man, he beat me with a big stick, but I escaped, sir. I ran and I ran, even though my head hurt and there was a lot of blood.”
“And where did you run?”
Jeremiah turned and fixed his eye on Thomas. “I wanted to find Dr. Silkstone.”
The doctor was taken aback. This was the first time Jeremiah had mentioned that he knew of him prior to the attack and had been purposely seeking him out. Up until now Thomas had believed it was by sheer good fortune that he had found the injured slave.
“Why Dr. Silkstone, pray?”
“Because I heard he help sick slaves.”
The magistrate leaned back in his seat. “Is this true, Dr. Silkstone?”
Thomas stood. “I attended the sugar planter Mr. Samuel Carfax at his home and found that one of his slaves, a child, had died without receiving any medical attention. I therefore offered my services free of charge should any more slaves fall sick, sir.”
The magistrate arched a brow. “How very noble of you,” he wheezed. He turned back to Jeremiah Taylor. “And you were treated by Dr. Silkstone?”
The slave nodded. “He save my life, sir, but when my master came looking for me, I did not want to go back with him. I want to be free man, sir.”
“It is not your choice,” mumbled Dalrymple under his breath.
Mr. Burrill coughed once more. “That is all,” he told Jeremiah. “Do you have any other witnesses who can testify to your good character, Dr. Silkstone?”
Unsure of himself, Thomas looked questioningly at Granville Sharp, who nodded.
“I believe so, sir,” he replied.
“Well then, where are they?” asked the magistrate, his head swiveling around the small room. “I can see no one else.” Dalrymple snorted at the jibe, but as he did so, a second clerk appeared in the doorway. Standing behind him was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman. It was Sir Joseph Banks.
The great man held his audience under his spell. He spoke eloquently of Thomas’s many talents. He was, he said, a man of judgment and reason, who would never knowingly flout the laws of England, despite being an American citizen. He told Mr. Burrill how Thomas had been appointed to the prestigious position of keeper of the collections following the Jamaican expedition, and how his professionalism in all matters was unimpeachable.
Obviously honored that the president of the Royal Society should grace the hearing, Mr. Burrill had no choice but to dismiss the case against Thomas, even though he was already minded to do so before Sir Joseph’s appearance. Dalrymple’s charges, he opined, were ludicrous and would not stand up in a higher court. Somersett’s case set the precedent for any English court to abide by the wishes of a slave to remain a free man while he stayed in this country.
Addressing Dalrymple, who had sat with a face like thunder throughout, the magistrate directed: “I order, sir, that you manumit Jeremiah Taylor and make a deposition to that effect.”
Mr. Burrill then brought the proceedings to a close, walking out of the stuffy room, wheezing and puffing as he did so, desperate for a breath of fresh air.
The rest of the courtroom followed. Once outside, Thomas thanked Sir Joseph, Mr. Sharp, and Jeremiah most profusely.
“I am very much obliged to you all,” he said.
“Nonsense,” replied Sir Joseph. “The charges were a complete fabrication.”
“So both of you are free men,” remarked Sharp, lifting the corner of his mouth in a rare show of mirth. Turning to Jeremiah, he said, “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to draw up that deposition and give it to your former owner.”
The party broke up. Sharp took Jeremiah with him back to Fulham and Thomas was about to hail a carriage to Hollen Street, when Sir Joseph indicated he wanted a word. Thomas suspected the nature of the conversation and he braced himself for a chastisement.
“Matthew Bartlett,” said Sir Joseph, drawing up beside the doctor.
“Sir?” replied Thomas disingenuously.
“Come,
come, Silkstone,” he said, as they continued to walk down the lane toward the main thoroughfare. “My spies tell me you have been rooting, despite my strict instructions to leave the matter to me.”
Sir Joseph’s words made Thomas wonder just how much the great man knew of his activities regarding the artist’s murder. Nevertheless he did not anticipate what next came.
“All my inquiries have drawn a blank,” he told Thomas, pausing to study his reaction. His voice barely hid a plea. “Have you fared any better?”
Thomas suppressed a smile. “I will revisit my postmortem notes, sir, to see if there is anything I might have missed.”
Sir Joseph nodded. “You are a good man, Silkstone,” he said. “Let’s keep this between us, shall we?”
The young Earl Crick was decidedly bored. For the past two days Eliza had sought diversions for him, from playing with his tin soldiers to drawing. Lydia had even tried, unsuccessfully, to teach him to play draughts, but all he really wanted to do was frolic outside with Mr. Lupton.
“When will he be back, Mamma?” he would ask at every opportunity.
Lydia only wished she knew. All that she had been told by Mistress Fox, who was admittedly not the most reliable of sources, was that her master had taken off most suddenly. Standing by her study window, she looked out over the lawn. The snow was all but gone. The wind had changed direction and the mercury was rising. There were daffodil shoots in the shrubbery and the mere thought of spring brought a smile to her face.
What was more, she had heard word that the Treaty of Paris had been ratified by the Congress of the Confederation in Maryland. This meant that America and Britain were no longer at war. Thomas could no longer be termed an enemy of England. Another obstacle to their union had been lifted. She thought of him on his last visit. She had been deliberately distant with him, shielding herself from her inevitable despair at the prospect of the ban on their union never being lifted. He had not given up hope. She could tell that from his gestures, the way he had declared his love for her though she had pretended not to hear. She loathed herself for such seeming callousness, yet she felt she was acting in both their best interests.