by S K Rizzolo
Short of engaging in a wrestling match, there was little Chase could do. Inwardly fuming, he watched the constable escort Gore from the room.
***
The news of Wellington’s victory at the Spanish fortress of Badojoz had arrived on the same day as the police raid on the Fleece. As Chase made his way back to Bow Street, voices called out jubilantly in the darkness, and shadowy forms gathered on street corners to discuss the great tidings.
“So you swept up some rubbish, eh?” said Graham when Chase presented himself in the small office that all the magistrates used.
“Not my doing, sir. I was just along for the ride you might say, though in truth, no one had mentioned the prospect of such a journey this night.”
The magistrate grunted. “We’ll end up freeing most of the Jacobins, of course, but I’m told some incriminating papers have surfaced in the possession of the ringleaders. It seems they’d concocted a plot against the Regent, though how much of it was just bluster is anyone’s guess. There is evidence, however: lists of servants and doorkeepers employed at Carlton House, household schedules, and notes on the Prince’s habits and movements.”
Shaking his head gloomily, the magistrate went on. “This at a time when the Luddite scoundrels grow ever bolder, more desperate in their villainy. Did you hear of the attack on that mill near Manchester? Several thousand men were there, and at least three in the crowd were killed by musket fire from the men protecting the place. A very bad business.”
“Yes, sir. Is the Regent thought to be in any danger now that the conspiracy has been foiled?”
Graham stroked his upper lip. “I should hope not. If we are lucky, we have apprehended enough traitors for the present. Still, Townsend has been instructed to be particularly on guard to ensure His Majesty’s safety.”
“What of the prophetess Barnwell, sir? Surely, her disappearance is cause for concern under the circumstances.”
“Indeed, especially as it seems she murdered the footman. A falling out among conspirators, it has been suggested. I had a man called Dobbin from the Home Office in here earlier to make arrangements to remove the Jacobins for questioning. A filthy little fellow, I must say, but he seems to know his business. He had nothing but good to report of your work in this matter, Chase.”
“That’s more than I can say in return,” he replied, thinking of the blow to his knee.
“There’s no question that this lunatic Barnwell must be found as soon as may be. It takes only one to pull a trigger. She is a dangerous woman, as is her handmaiden Janet Gore, who, by the way, has nothing to say for herself.”
“Mrs. Gore has admitted that the footman was her son, who went to St. James’s Square seeking the prophetess. But I still do not know why. Sir, I should like to speak to Mrs. Gore again. Also, there was a man called O’Callaghan apprehended tonight, a government informant.”
Graham avoided his eyes. “That won’t be possible, Chase. I believe the Home Office hopes Mrs. Gore will turn King’s evidence, and you would do well to put O’Callaghan out of your mind as well. He may be a thief and an extortionist, but he has proven his use. He will be quietly released, I’ve no doubt, free to resume his unsavory career.”
“Thief?” echoed Chase bitterly. “Yes, and double-dealing Jacobin to boot. A busy man, it seems, but his cohorts would tear him limb from limb if they knew the whole of it.”
“No loss if that were to happen. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must tackle this mound of papers before seeking my bed.”
At the door Chase halted, his hand falling from the knob. Slowly, he turned back to face Graham. “Have you any objection to my leaving town for a few days?”
Chapter XVIII
When the chaise had rumbled through the last of the gray streets, Penelope caught her first glimpse of green vistas and felt her spirit quicken with an unexpected gladness. Meadows flashed by, flaunting clumps of red and yellow primroses, and blooming hedgerows lined their passage. She gazed out the window, thinking of a print Jeremy had hung on the wall of their rooms in Palermo when they were first married.
In it a fiery-haired, naked youth, arms flung wide in joyous self-abandon, stood poised on high ground against a brilliant sunburst. Below him was blackness, left behind rather like, it seemed to Penelope, her own escape from the London soot that coated one’s skin and left its persistent ashy taste in the mouth.
Jeremy had looked up from his easel to point out that the print was probably inspired by the old Renaissance proportion diagrams demonstrating how the human form, with arms and legs extended, fit into perfect geometrical shapes like the square or the circle. But Penelope had said that she preferred not to confine that glorious youth to something so dull as geometry. Funny she should think of it now, even recalling Jeremy’s answering laugh and tender smile, while riding in a coach on the Salisbury road.
Mr. Finch, Maggie, Penelope, and the children rode in the traveling carriage as the baggage chariot, piled high with its load of antiquities, made its stately progress at the rear. In the family barouche, Lady Ashe and her father and husband had pulled well ahead, though Penelope’s party met up with them at the next change of horses, where they dined and slept at a coaching house.
The next morning they set off again, muscles sore from the constant jarring, eyes heavy after their night in the inn with ostlers shouting at all hours and the rattling of carriage wheels in the courtyard. But the children continued well behaved, thank God. Feeling only a trifle unwell with the motion of the coach, Sarah amused herself by playing games with her friend while the baby slept and woke and slept again. Mr. Finch commented on the passing scenery for Maggie and Penelope’s benefit and described Sir Roger’s home in north Dorset, which, of course, he knew well after so many years of service with the family.
“The original structure was Tudor with Jacobean additions.” Absently, he bent down to pick up one of Sarah’s marbles which had rolled under his shoe and restored it to the giggling children.
“Sir Roger had the house completely rebuilt?”
“Oh, yes. The results are rather…remarkable, as you will see for yourself, Mrs. Wolfe.”
When Maggie gave him a puzzled look, he added, “It must be acknowledged that Sir Roger has spared no effort or expense with Cayhill. While some may quarrel with his taste, he is not a man to leave a thing half done.”
“The house in St. James’s Square has always struck me as a veritable hodge-podge. One can but admire all of Sir Roger’s acquisitions, the crosses, daggers, stone tablets, and the rest. Still, there is no harmony or unity of design in the décor.” Pausing, Penelope looked into the secretary’s tired face and wondered if her remark might have offended his sense of loyalty to his master, though she’d really only meant to make conversation.
But after a moment he replied, his tone light. “I’ve often thought the same, Mrs. Wolfe. In matters of aesthetics, and possibly also philosophy and morals, it seems best to elect for the simple, even the austere. Otherwise, one is soon left in a sad jumble, I’m afraid. It should be most interesting to see what you make of the Abbey, ma’am.”
“No doubt you are pleased to return there, Mr. Finch? It must be in some sense your home as well.”
“My home? No, indeed,” he said curtly. “I have not felt it so for many years.”
There was a short, uncomfortable silence; then Finch, apparently fearing he had been discourteous, added, “There was a time when my late mistress Lady Wallace-Crag was alive when Cayhill did seem a place I could belong, but with her passing…” He shrugged.
At that point the children began to clamor for a snack, and Penelope had no further chance to continue the discussion. As the afternoon waned, conversation became ever more desultory, and at length they all lapsed into sleep.
Penelope did not awaken until the carriage entered a gateway under an entrance lodge and wound up a broad avenue lined by ancient oaks. When they emerged from the trees, she was given her first view of Cayhill Abbey.
Streaks
of red tarried in the western sky, a paler, residual light illuminating the vale below. Sir Roger Wallace-Crag’s country seat was built in the Gothick style in the shape of an irregular cross with minimal exterior ornamentation, carved pointed arch windows, and huge corner buttresses. Above a sea of chimney pots and fanciful turrets thrust a mammoth octagonal tower several hundred feet high. In actuality only a decade or two old, the structure was apparently meant to seem an ancient building that had been extensively altered over many centuries. Still, Penelope could not but admit that the atmosphere of brooding horror felt remarkably genuine, accentuated by the deep shadows across the enormous façade like slashes of black paint.
Before long they had rattled through an archway into a cobble-stoned courtyard to pull up abruptly at the entrance. After the coachman let down the steps, they disembarked, and the butler and the housekeeper came forward to greet them.
“Welcome to the Abbey, madam. Will you step in?” said the butler, who then turned to Finch with a polite greeting.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Dobson, was a heavyset, elderly woman with a richly tinted, porcelain-like complexion and exotic, slanted eyes that hinted of Spanish blood. Curtseying respectfully, she looked at Penelope. “Lord and Lady Ashe and Sir Roger arrived some time ago. They bade me welcome you, ma’am, and invite you to dine in one hour unless you be too fatigued.”
Penelope smiled and thanked her, understanding the woman’s not so subtle message. Her anomalous position in this household was not to be held against her; she was, in fact, to be treated as honored guest, rather than upper servant. It didn’t hurt that Maggie had accompanied her as maid.
The butler had moved away to instruct a manservant about the luggage, but the indefatigable Mrs. Dobson prattled on to Penelope in her soft country tones that were so at odds with her unusual face. Shivering in the cold, clear air, Penelope made the appropriate responses, but was more than ready when the woman offered to conduct her to her room.
When Maggie tried to take Sarah’s hand and follow a maidservant who had materialized to conduct her inside, the little girl clung to Penelope’s knees and buried her head.
“I’ll take her, Maggie,” said Penelope, thinking ruefully that the Abbey might very well give the children nightmares despite the fact that it was probably a splendid place for imaginary games. She smiled at her friend. “Do you go with the girl and get Frank and Baby settled. I’ll see you presently.”
As the maidservant led Maggie around the side to another entrance, Penelope and Sarah followed Mrs. Dobson up one side of a double flight of steps and through a set of doors that must have been thirty or forty feet tall. She found herself in the great hall. Large terracotta figures of saints and biblical heroes occupied high niches. The windows, including a high rose window, were paned with heraldic glass, and a massive fireplace dominated one wall. Carved tables of yew matching a set of crude side chairs did little to fill the enormous space. Looking up, Penelope saw that various arms were emblazoned on the ceiling; whose she could not tell since they could hardly all belong to the family.
After crossing the hall, they paused at an archway. Running north from where they stood for a distance of several hundred feet was a series of dimly lit galleries culminating in a burst of light that emanated from a rear chamber. The effect was disorienting, to say the least. Penelope had the irresistible impression that she stood in the transept of a medieval cathedral looking toward a candle-lit high altar.
The housekeeper cast a swift glance at Penelope as if to discern her reaction, then led her to a circular staircase rising from the bottom of a turret in one of middle galleries. They climbed several flights to the second floor.
“I’ve put you in the red room,” she said as they proceeded down a dim corridor. “There’s no nursery wing at Cayhill. But in any event Lady Ashe said you’d not like to be too far from your daughter. I thought mayhap your dressing room would do for the child. There’s a bed there. Or would you rather she be accommodated in the servant’s quarters with your woman?”
Feeling Sarah stiffen, Penelope said quickly, “The dressing room will do admirably. Thank you, Mrs. Dobson.”
Fortunately, the red room was large and comfortably appointed. A four-poster with canopy and crimson hangings had plenty of room for both her and Sarah, for Penelope knew her daughter would wheedle her way into the bed. The rest of the room held ebony furnishings, including a gargantuan wardrobe, incongruously set next to a delicate lady’s writing table. Most importantly at this moment, a cheerful fire burned in the grate, quite banishing the lingering gloom from downstairs. In short, they would find this room a much-needed haven.
She turned to Mrs. Dobson. “It’s lovely, ma’am. And the warmth is most welcome.”
Sarah wiggled away, and, running to the fire, pulled off her mittens and muffler. “You’re right, Mama. This is nice.”
The housekeeper’s face relaxed. “Surely you’ll like it here, miss. Plenty of nooks and crannies round about. Watch you don’t get lost playing hide and seek in the cloisters.” Her lace cap bobbed at Penelope. “The head groom’s young ’un was forever doing so when he was about your little girl’s age, ma’am.”
“Cloisters?” said Penelope in a faint voice.
“Yes, ma’am. Just east of the house. Sir Roger calls it his ‘atmospheric walk.’ One can promenade there in most any weather.”
Pulling off her gloves, Penelope followed Sarah to the hearth and began warming her hands. “Mr. Finch told me I should find Cayhill remarkable and indeed he was right. I presume there’s also a chapel, suitably medieval, of course?”
“Oh no, Mrs. Wolfe, no chapel, though there is an altar downstairs in the Sanctuary. If you be thinking of Sunday services, we go to the parish church in Buckland where the family has its pew and vault. That be where Lady Wallace-Crag is buried and the babes.”
“Babes, Mrs. Dobson?” asked Penelope. Sarah had gone still, her eyes flying up to fix on their faces.
“Yes, ma’am. All her pretty ones laid in a row so that when she come to join them, poor lady, there they’d be waiting.” Seeming to shake herself, the housekeeper gave a thin smile and reached out to ruffle Sarah’s dark hair. “She died a few years after birthing Miss Julia. I should think she was fair worn out.”
Penelope said casually, “What a tragedy for her and for Sir Roger. It must have been…difficult for him to have a wife in such delicate health and then to lose her thus. He was quite a young man at the time.” She had been thinking about Chase’s notion of an illegitimate birth in Rebecca Barnwell’s past and wondering how best to probe Sir Roger’s character without being too obvious. But the housekeeper appeared to misunderstand her innuendo.
“Indeed. My lady’s health and spirits were never robust, but at least she enjoyed the comfort of her religion. And toward the end, her friendship with that young person who was Miss Julia’s nurse brought her much solace…how curious, I’ve quite forgotten her name. That’s what happens when you get older, my dear.”
“Her nurse?” Dimly, Penelope recalled Julia saying that her nurse was the only one who had ever given her love.
Mrs. Dobson lowered her voice. “I’m afraid the girl got herself in trouble and took it in her head to tell tales to avoid the disgrace. If you can credit her brazenness, she claimed the good Lord had sent her a child as if she had nothing whatever to do with the matter. We never did discover who the father truly was, but Lady Wallace-Crag actually believed in her nonsense.”
“How fascinating…what happened to the girl and her child?” To Penelope’s ears, her voice sounded high-pitched and artificial, but she couldn’t help it.
Mrs. Dobson shook her head sadly. “She went away. We heard later that they had both died.”
***
“Don’t you fret, Mrs. Pen,” said Maggie. “We’ll have our supper and unpack, after which I expect the children will be ready for their beds. I’ll settle Baby and Frank here on the sofa until you return.”
Grimacing at
her own face in the looking-glass, Penelope straightened her collar and smoothed her hair, which showed a tendency to sag out of its pins. No question about it, she looked fagged to death with a dazed look about the eyes, a sallow cast to her cheeks. Moreover, her gown was sadly creased.
She bent down to kiss Sarah. “Be good, love. I shall be back shortly.”
Penelope stepped out into the corridor, hoping she’d be able to find her way to the dining parlor. After the brightness of her bedchamber, the corridor, lit only by sparsely placed candles in wall sockets, gave her the momentary illusion of being in some sort of underground tunnel. Instinctively, she reached out one hand to the wall as if seeking an anchor and walked on, trailing her hand against the faint roughness of walls painted to look like stone. Reaching the dark, circular stairway, she started down. Really, she thought crossly, atmosphere was all well and good, but it would be far too easy to break one’s neck in this house.
Perhaps it was, after all, hunger or fatigue, or perhaps merely the ambience of the house, but Penelope felt reality weakening its grip to slide into some corner of her consciousness. She knew she was descending a stairway in Sir Roger Wallace-Crag’s house and that her dinner and the company of other people awaited her below. But those were just facts, far less powerful than the almost vertigo-like sensation of her feet striking each step and her hand swimming along the smooth oak of the banister. It was as if, having once started a course, her body had been caught up in an eddy that moved it inexorably downward almost without her volition.
But as she attained the first floor landing, a figure loomed in her path. Feeling the sudden presence like a jarring blow, she halted.
“Good evening, Mrs. Wolfe,” said Ashe. “I shall do myself the honor of escorting you down to dinner.” He gave one of his glinting, empty smiles and bent closer, crowding her in the confined space.