by Deryn Lake
“I see sadness and I see joy. But first there is gladness. Gladness that your case is solved, happiness that nobody has to go to Tyburn. But then comes sadness. Sadness that you are again alone. Sadness for the young one. Sadness that she has no mother.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of this,” John whispered, furious with her for all that she was implying. Yet he knew, deep in his heart, that he wanted to know, wanted more than anything else in the world.
The old woman turned away from him and suddenly it was over. She had slumped to one side as if exhausted and was asking permission of Louis to withdraw. And he, completely unaware of the effect she had had on her audience, was giving it. John shot a quick look at Emilia and saw that she had either ignored the woman or else been unable to hear her properly, for she was as bright and happy as ever and giving everyone, and that included her husband, a radiant smile.
The woman limped out, a bent mysterious figure, and after a few moments Serafina came back in. Normally she would have chided her guests, asked them if they had missed her when she had been away so long, but on this occasion she seemed strangely quiet. However, she did turn on Emilia a deep and brilliant stare which could have meant anything.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked John’s wife, suddenly nervous.
“My dear,” said Serafina, “am I? Forgive me. It is just that I am concerned for you and am absolutely determined that nothing shall spoil your fun. If that silly old woman…”
But Emilia was already exploding with laughter. “My dearest, I could scarce hear a word the old besom muttered. Something about a woman with two faces and a setting sun. I mean, has one ever heard such nonsense.”
And she gave a highly pitched laugh that John recognised at once as being utterly false.
He turned to her. “She didn’t really frighten you, did she?”
“No, of course not. The silly old thing scarce knew what she was saying. I won’t hear her name mentioned again and there’s an end to it.”
But later on that night, when John crawled into bed beside his wife and luxuriated in feeling the warmth of her flesh and the sheer delight of knowing that she was next to him, he mentioned it again.
“Do you know. I’ve realised who that old woman was?”
“Um?” said Emilia, right on the verge of sleep.
“It was Serafina of course. Just for one moment, when she thought I wasn’t looking, I caught a glimpse of her face.”
There was silence from beside him.
“It was Serafina herself,” chuckled John, and wondered if his lie would ever be discovered and, if so, how.
The day after that was a day of complete relaxation, when the sun shone and it was wonderful to be young and alive. But the day after that was grim, as if they knew from the very beginning that it was going to be momentous and dark. Drawing back the curtains, up before the housemaid had come into the room, John felt a momentary thrall of gloom.
“’Zounds, but it is depressing out there.”
“Whatever’s the matter?” said Emilia, giving a great yawn.
“It’s a day that befits a funeral. Leaden skies, pouring rain. servants wrapped in oilskins. I’d much rather get back into bed and forget the whole thing.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Emilia, holding open the sheets invitingly.
“Very well, put like that I see that I would be accused of growing old if I refuse.”
And he hastened in, closed his eyes, and attempted to resist all her efforts at keeping him awake, until at last she proved too much and he woke up properly and gave her several enormous kisses. They were still enjoying this tremendously when there came a knock on the door which started to open. Drawing apart, the pair of them feigned sleep once more.
It was a little girl whose job it was to light the fire and draw the curtains. John and Emilia remained very still until she had gone, when they burst into laughter. But after that he rose and crossed to the window again.
“It’s a day to lay a great-aunt to rest,” he said, then thought about what he had said and pulled a melancholy face.
Shortly afterwards Dorcas brought in a red-faced and protesting Rose, obviously annoyed at not getting her feed when she had first asked for it, and after that everything became quiet and peaceful as the little thing snuggled to her mother. During this time John dressed in sombre black, the only white thing about him his shirt. And so it was that a very colourless young man, clad in dark hues, descended to breakfast and found himself alone.
Picking up a day old newspaper and starting to read, John took little notice when the front door bell pealed loudly and somebody was admitted. He continued to study but a raised voice in the hall caught his attention.
“…dashed nuisance. I’m aware of that. But I believe an old friend of mine is staying here.”
A murmured reply.
“Rawlings, actually. John Rawlings.”
John put the paper down and rose to his feet just as the door opened. He caught the eye of the servant hovering there and gave a broad grin. “Yes, it’s all right,” he said. “It has to be Samuel Swann.”
“Very good, Sir. Shall I…?”
But there was no time for an answer. Samuel had seen him and bounded up enthusiastically, holding out his hand to shake and bowing simultaneously, an odd sight.
“My dear old friend, how very jolly. I travelled up last night, don’t you know. Stayed at The Onslow Arms. Thought I’d get a man with a trap here first thing.” He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “I knew you’d be around. Nick Raven told me.”
Another of Sir John’s little wheezes, John thought. Aloud he said, “Delighted to see you, old chap. I’ve no idea where our host and hostess are but do please join me for breakfast.”
“Well,” Samuel’s honest countenance beamed, most unsuitable for a funeral John couldn’t help but think, “I’ll try.”
In the event, despite numerous protests made about already having eaten, Samuel had a positively huge breakfast, unlike John who ate little, always settling for the side of discretion when it came to funerals. This done, they talked a while before their hostess bustled in, already full of apologies for the lateness of her arrival. She stopped short on seeing Samuel, then hurried forward to kiss him on both cheeks.
“My dearest friend, how lovely to see you. But what has kept you away so long? We have so often invited you to dine. But you must be starving, come let me fill your plate.”
This time good sense did prevail as Samuel declared robustly that he had already eaten enough for two people and that he could not manage one item more. And he would not be shifted despite numerous protests, so that in the end the Comtesse was forced to eat alone. However, she had little and was just suggesting that they should leave the table when the door flung open and Emilia, radiant as ever and only just a little plumper, stood there, arrayed from head to foot in deepest black, pretty as a picture.
Immediately, John felt the lunge of his heartstrings, which he knew had been caused by his being cast out of Emilia’s bed. Roll on the time when I can have her back, he thought, and was just letting his mind run off down a naughty avenue, when Irish Tom came for instructions and he was drawn back.
“I think, Sir, that we ought to be setting off soon,” the coachman announced. “It took us a long time last time, if you understand what I am saying. And I presume that today will be even worse. So, how many is it to be?”
“Just the three?”
“Well, we’ll all lump in somehow,” responded the Irishman cheerfully, and left the room with a ten minutes warning.
“You’ll not come?” said John to Serafina.
“I think I’ll be in the way. Let me keep the house warm for you.”
Samuel touched the side of his nose as if he had very important information to impart but dared not say a word. “Best,” was all Serafina could get out of him.
“Where’s Louis?” asked the Apothecary.
“Out riding. He always goe
s off early, whatever the weather.” She lowered her voice. “And before you get excited and wonder if I suspect anything the answer is quite definitely, no. I neither worry what he does or where he goes or who he sees. And in this way he is entirely faithful to me.”
And she gave a light laugh before kissing all three of them on the cheek and waving them farewell as they set off in the direction of the village of Stoke d’Abemon.
As it transpired, Irish Tom had left so much time that they arrived an hour early and went immediately into the village hostelry. Even before they stepped inside, John knew that he must be careful, that there was someone within whom he must avoid. Plucking his hat down well over his eyes and sending Emilia and Sam ahead, he sidled in and heard their voices in another bar. The brothers Bussell were there ahead of him.
Samuel, a face they had not seen, went to the girl to place their order, while Irish Tom, much to his annoyance, came into the same room as his master and mistress and settled in a far comer. Sitting quietly, with his back to the door, John’s flesh positively crept when another voice, conversing softly enough in all truth but perfectly recognisable for all that, started to speak behind him. Instantly gesturing to Emilia and Samuel, who had started with a ‘”Zounds and ‘zoonters but the ale is damnably cheap…” then realised that something was up, John listened.
“…the whole thing is turning into a damnable bore.”
“But we’ve had this out so many times. What’s to be done?”
“I’ve no idea. Short of you dying then coming back as your own twin brother, I cannot think of a solitary thing.”
“But you know that isn’t possible.”
“I’m aware. I’m aware. But you must admit…”
“Seriously, Sperling, what am I to do? I never reckoned on falling for the girl.”
“Search me. I’ve no idea.”
The two men relapsed into a morose silence. Neither Samuel nor Emilia said a word. The Apothecary winked an eye at her and gestured for her to speak.
“It’s simply awful weather,” she began gamely.
“Terrible,” answered Samuel heartily. “I thought this morning when I woke up that I hadn’t seen such a dreadful day for ages.”
“And who knows when it will let up,” she continued.
“Who knows?” Samuel answered, and sighed heavily over his ale.
There was a total silence and then the sound of the pushing back of chairs.
“I think we’d better be on our way,” said Sperling.
“Yes, I reckon we had.”
“Where is Mother?”
“She’s in the coach with Louisa,” the other man replied, then added, “God love her, she knows nothing of this.”
“Well, she’ll have to know soon. There’s no way forward else.”
There was a huge sigh, nor far short of a sob. “I reckon she should be told today. I can’t face the future.”
“It’s not just you, my friend. It’s all of us, remember.”
“Yes, I know.”
They started to walk towards the door; John could tell by the sound of their footsteps. And then he heard another noise. Unaware that they were in there, somebody else had come into the bar.
“Well, well, well,” said a voice, not jolly but most certainly not aggressive, yet whose very ring sent a chill down John’s spine. “If it ain’t the military man and his little friend.”
“I’ll have you stand aside, Sir. We’re on our way to a funeral,” said Sperling.
“As are we, my friend.”
“Same one, no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
The four men stood silently for a moment and then there was a further shifting of feet and suddenly the main door opened and closed again.
And into that silence, presumably bored with his own company and of sitting by himself, Irish Tom called out, “Well, Mr. Rawlings, it’s time we were off” - and suddenly the bar was empty.
Chapter Sixteen
There was no one outside, no one at all. In the second since Tom had called out, the entire yard in which the hostelry stood had emptied, only an old pig and some disconsolate hens scratching for company.
“Well,” said John, “was that all a coincidence, or what?”
“I’m not so sure,” said Samuel, scratching his chin and looking portentous. “It seemed very odd to me.”
“But how could they have known,” put in Emilia. “Firstly, that it was John Rawlings - would the name mean anything to them? - and secondly, that you are under such strict instruction to watch for them.” She stuck her chin out, a gesture which John found strangely endearing.
“Well, I’m going to finish my drink,” he said. “There’s no point in standing out here and freezing to death.”
“Hear, hear,” replied Samuel. “Good plan.”
They all three turned and went back into The Onslow Arms, passing Tom, looking puzzled and not quite understanding, in the doorway.
Ten minutes later and they were on their way, the coach going at an excellent speed through the sprawl of houses but lowering its pace to a respectful crawl as soon as they came in sight of the church. John, as was his way, chose a place at the back but sent Emilia and Samuel further into the main body of the building. There were a few people there ahead of them but nobody that he recognised and he was just wondering when the main party would turn up when in walked the two Bussell boys. Seated as he was, the Apothecary found himself in an excellent position to observe them.
There was no doubt that Justin had been upset quite recently; telltale marks round his eyes and a slight pinkness of the nose said so clearly. His brother, a little shorter than he but a deal stockier, said nothing to him, but just stood looking around. He saw John, knew that he knew him from somewhere, but clearly failed to make the connection. Therefore he gave a terse bow of the head and left it at that. Meanwhile other members of the funeral party were arriving and taking their seats which, after a moment or two, Justin and Greville, clearly disappointed that nobody of any importance was there, did also.
Now John was left as he liked, quite alone to study everyone. But this state of affairs did not continue. With a suddenness that was almost crude, the coffin arrived, followed by a trail of people in various states of collapse. First to walk behind was Jocasta Rayner, thin to starvation point, but straight and tall for all that. Next came Millicent, in a flood of weeping, supported on either side by Lieutenant and Louisa Mendoza, who each had a hand beneath an elbow and literally guided her to her designated pew. Almost finally, looking somewhat flustered but nevertheless making as good a show as she could, came Mrs. Trewellan with Sperling. Last of all some rather dismal-looking cousins.
The parson, who was terribly old and looked fit to drop, started the service in a quavery voice which, untypically, he kept very quiet. John, for once wishing that he had decided to sit nearer to the front, very soon gave up trying to listen and instead concentrated on those who were present, wishing that something like an answer would come to him.
The most immediate problem was that of Lieutenant Mendoza, who was now sitting beside his wife and Mrs. Trewellan, a lady on either side. That young Sperling knew about the relationship was obvious, particularly after the overheard conversation. But where did it get any of them? And what did any of it mean? And what, if anything at all, did it have to do with the matter in hand? The Apothecary felt the whole thing was getting too much for him and without thinking where he was, plunged his head into his hands.
He was summoned back to reality by the sounds of somebody breaking down - and not far away at that! Horrible sobs were coming from somewhere close by and the Apothecary allowed himself the luxury of turning slightly so that he could get a better view. On his right, and not far away, Justin Bussell was slowly beginning to disintegrate, raked by heaving cries that, for the time being at least, were quiet but getting progressively louder. John caught brother Greville’s eye and recoiled from the black look he was given.
There were not
many sitting near the back but those that were were becoming more and more uneasy at the sound. In fact most of them had given up on the country parson and were staring quite openly at Justin, who was by now totally out of control. It was then that Greville acted, suddenly and without warning. Rising to his feet, he put one hand under Justin’s arm and escorted him towards the door, not hesitating for one second in his determined flight. Acting on an impulse and nothing further, John followed.
They had gone round the corner by the time he got outside, but the Apothecary could hear Greville quite distinctly.
“Listen, you fool, stop your damnable caterwauling or you’ll have half the church out here. Christ, but I’ve never heard such a wailing. Anybody would think to listen to you that you had some feeling for the old bitch.”
There was no reply, just a faint glugging sound as if the owner were trying desperately to settle his breath.
“I said shut up, just in case you didn’t hear me.”
Again there was no reply but the breathing was starting to sound more settled.
“For the last time, will you be silent.”
This time there was a response, and its very swiftness startled the Apothecary witless. Without hesitation there was the noise of a flying fist and John Rawlings heard, quite definitely, the crunch of skin upon skin and the exhalation of air as one of the brothers went flying and crunched upon his back. Then he heard the other one take off, at speed and with a quite definite purpose.
Slowly he peered round the graves and saw that Greville lay flat out beside a tombstone, his hat flown away and blood coming from his nose. Very swiftly John went to check that he was breathing, saw that he was, and with that crept back into the church, saying to himself that there were moments when even an apothecary’s vow could be forgiven him.
The wake, held at Foxfire Hall, was to John just like the one that had taken place a mere three weeks ago. Everybody who was anybody was there, even Justin Bussell. However, of Greville there was no sign, and somebody offered the idea that the poor chap had gone down with a frightening megrim which had come upon him in church. As nobody bothered to contradict this, this became the accepted version of why he was missing, and people were heard wishing him better via his brother, which rounded the whole thing off very neatly.