by Dray Wray
There was a routine to our lives, which in itself marked the passing of time. After much cajoling on my part his lordship reluctantly agreed that we would rise early and he would set out in his sedan chair for the King’s Bath. An hour later, he would return home to dress before we both went to the Pump Room to meet with the sick and the sound, and drink three glasses of hot water that smelled of rotten eggs. Afterwards, the ladies went home for breakfast and the gentlemen to enjoy their newspapers at the coffee houses. Lord B had no mind to spend any time away from me so instead we would often have a private breakfast with his old friends and acquaintances.
It was the custom to then go to a service at the Abbey but, his lordship having radical views on religion, we went shopping instead. Lord B had decided to defy death with fashion, to blind the Grim Reaper with lace and bon ton and to that end we both dressed immensely elegantly and were much noticed as we took our afternoon promenade. I became bolder in my designs: if this was a matter of defeating death then surely we should be outrageous.
I must have been a success for, unlike Mr Ainsley, no one else bothered to enquire where my people were from. I developed a vagueness round the subject that proved to be worthwhile for, tennis for the tongue, the gossip went back and forth: I was a marquis’s daughter, I was an earl’s love child… and so on.
At that time there was an affectation in Bath for sprinkling French words into conversation, which led to the most marvellous misunderstandings. These were a constant source of mirth to his lordship who spoke French fluently and took much pleasure in teaching me the language. It became apparent to me that few people in society had any comprehension of what they were saying while we were able to converse without being understood by them.
His lordship’s favourite comment was, ‘Nous nageons dans un flot futile.’
It was the folly of fashion that took me out early one August morning. I had become addicted to the shops of Bath, fascinated by all that glittered and all that was sold. The windows were full of everything that wealth and luxury could desire, arranged so beautifully to seduce the purse.
I had learned that a silk I had seen in a Paris dressmaker’s book was now to be found in the fabric shop on Gravel Street. Usually when I went abroad, I was accompanied by Lord B, but that morning he seemed tired and I had insisted he stayed in bed to rest.
The weather being fine – or so I thought – I decided to forsake the sedan chair and walk, taking my maid with me. I was pleased to find that the mercer did indeed have the cloth I wanted. I had just made my purchase when my eye fell on some ribbons and I wondered if it would be too decadent to buy those as well. So consumed was I with the bibble-babble of my thoughts that I was at first unaware it had started to rain and that by degrees the shop had filled with people trying to avoid the downpour. Still contemplating the ribbons, I had sent my maid to find a sedan chair when someone whispered in my ear.
‘They would become you, madam.’
I turned and found myself face to face with my husband. He was more handsome than I remembered, his scar less prominent than when seen through Shadow’s eyes. Still, he had the same smug look on his face, certain that he had the advantage of me.
Before he could make his introduction, I said, ‘Why, it is Captain Spiggot.’
He seemed momentarily nonplussed at my greeting him by name but bowed and said, ‘Madam, it is a pleasure to see you. I was told you were in Bath.’
So this was my husband, the man my father had for some unfathomable reason seen fit for me to marry. A piece of pretty fluff with no more substance than a pasteboard actor on a cut-out pasteboard stage.
‘And what,’ I said, ‘brings you here, I wonder? The company, your health – or the gaming tables?’
A flash of anger reddened his scar and had the effect of forming his thin lips into a sneer.
Ignoring my question, he said, ‘I believe, madam, that we set off on the wrong footing and I would like to apologise for my previous behaviour.
‘There, sir, you have the better of me for I have no recall as to how you behaved.’ I curtsied and said. ‘It has been charming, but if you would excuse me…’
The other customers, having nothing more entertaining with which to occupy themselves, watched us, spooling in the threads of gossip to stitch into rumours.
I was amused to observe that I had rattled him for he quickly glanced behind him for reassurance. I followed his gaze. Outside the shop was Victor Wrattan, staring in through the bow window, the glass distorting his face so that he appeared to possess more noses and eyes than any one devil should.
I wanted no more to do with Captain Spiggot or our stilted conversation and was relieved when my maid called to me, saying that a chair was waiting. I moved to follow her but my husband barred my way. As surprise had failed to upset me, he tried to take the high ground, this time with flattery.
‘You are looking exceedingly beautiful,’ he said. Quickly, he leaned forward and took my arm, pinching it tightly, then just as quickly he let go.
A cruel smile creased his lips. ‘Good day. Until we meet again, Mrs Spiggot.’
Lord B was where I had left him, engrossed in the newspapers.
‘Did you find the fabric?’ he asked as I went to kiss him.
I could hardly remember the reason for my shopping excursion. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said and sat at the dressing table, trying to compose myself.
I had taken off my hat when my maid arrived with a new muslin gown that his lordship had ordered from Paris. The most delicate costume, beautifully embroidered, all it was lacking was Mr Crease’s fairy wings. For a moment the sight of it almost made me forget what had happened that morning.
‘Thank you, my lord. This is finer by far than anything I saw in the shops. Bath has nothing on Paris fashions.’
‘Put it on for me, my sprite,’ he said and kicked his left leg out from under the covers, letting it dangle there.
That was when I saw that death’s winding sheet had begun to wrap itself round his ankle.
‘My lord, we must find you a doctor,’ I said. ‘One that you trust.’
Ignoring my suggestion, he said, ‘Let me read you this, it is the perfect illustration of the folly of Bath. “There was a fracas last night at Wiltshire’s Assembly Rooms involving Lord Frederick Fitzjohn who accused one Captain Spiggot of insulting his waistcoat.”’ He looked at me over the top of the newspaper. ‘Very pretty, my sprite. Do a turn…perfect!’
I cared not a fig about Lord Fitzjohn or my wretched husband. Let them blast each other’s brains out. What mattered was my sweet Lord B. I felt that I was standing on the edge of a very high precipice and if he wasn’t there, nothing would stop me from falling into the abyss. I went to him.
‘A doctor – please, my lord…’
‘I’ve seen fifteen doctors,’ he said, ‘and none of them do I trust. Ironic, isn’t it, in a city full of apothecaries, nurses, physicians, surgeons and quacks?’
‘Will you not try again?’ He put his hand to my face and I kissed him. ‘It is pure selfishness, sir,’ I said, ‘for what would I do without you?’
‘Tully,’ he said, which made me sit upright as he never used my name. He sighed. ‘My beautiful sprite. Call me an old fool if you will. I want you to marry me.’
Tears welled in my eyes.
‘Is the idea so very unpleasant?’ he asked.
‘No sir, I would marry you…’
‘Enough,’ he said, ‘it is as good as done!’
‘…but I cannot.’
And I blurted out the unpalatable facts of my clandestine marriage.
‘Your father,’ said Lord B, ‘in his wisdom, gave you away when you were but twelve years – to this Captain Spiggot?’
‘So it seems. I only knew that I was married to a boy a few years older than me, and both sides gave their consent. My father was said to have the papers with him in the Fleet but when he was found murdered, there were none.’
‘What an utter fool your father was,�
�� said Lord B, and took me in his arms. ‘We’d better have you divorced and be quick about it, for I am determined that you shall be my wife before I die.’
I kissed him and kissed him again. ‘With any luck, Lord Fitzjohn will kill him.’
‘Let us hope so. What about your new dress, my sprite?’
‘Undo it, sir,’ I said, for I knew of only one way to make him well. But that morning I had become aware that it wasn’t enough.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The heart…is the beginning of life; the sun of the microcosm…for it is the heart by whose virtue and pulse the blood is moved, perfected, made apt to nourish, and is preserved from corruption and coagulation; it is the household divinity which, discharging its function, nourishes, cherishes, quickens the whole body, and is indeed the foundation of life, the source of all action.
WILLIAM HARVEY, 1628
I know of no recipe to heal the heart. Even love cannot persuade this most vital of organs to keep beating, no matter how much one wills it so. I was under no illusions. Every day the winding sheet crept up my lord’s body. And every day he refused to hear the word ‘doctor’ mentioned.
‘Sir,’ I said, desperate to know how I might change his mind, ‘I have not asked you one favour since I have been with you but now…’
‘Now you are going to tell me that you are bored with diamonds. I do agree that variation in all things is essential. Perhaps you would prefer rubies? Note duly taken.’
‘Your generosity is boundless, sir, but this has nothing to do with jewels and well you know it. I want you to see a doctor – do not, I beg you, dismiss all doctors out of hand.’
The next day he was too ill to leave his bed and the pain in his chest was worse.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘As long as I am not bled.’
It was Mr. Merritt who found Dr Robert Thornhill. He had heard that the gentleman was of good repute: that he was a plain-speaking man, highly educated and did not believe in the practice of bleeding. I asked Mr Merritt to arrange for Dr Thornhill to pay a visit as soon as possible. The following day, his lordship refused to stay in bed, being determined to meet with his solicitor who had travelled from London to see him. I was certain that my marriage was the cause of this visit and wished it wasn’t so.
The duel between Captain Spiggot and Lord Fitzjohn had resulted in both buffoons missing the other. Fate did not deal me a lucky card in that particular.
I took little notice of this solicitor and only saw him from behind as he went down the stairs, a thin man with a mincing step who wore a wig that age had turned yellow.
Mr Merritt said, ‘Good day, Mr Attaway,’ as he left.
The name I remembered, the man I forgot. I was relieved when Dr Thornhill arrived on time.
His lordship repeated to me that he would not see anyone who wished to bleed him. ‘Neither will I be prodded and poked.’
‘My lord, try not to be too cantankerous,’ I said.
Dr Robert Thornhill had no interest in heaping false praise upon his lordship and, with simple courtesy, set about his examination.
I left them and paced outside the chamber until Lord B called for me. I went in to find Dr Thornhill washing his hands in a bowl of water. He sat down opposite his lordship.
‘Are you going to tell me the truth?’ asked Lord B. ‘Or are you going to lie to me? I’m sure you charge the same for both and I would rather pay for the truth.’
‘So be it,’ said the physician. ‘Lord Barbeau, you have a disease of the heart, angina pectoris, and, unfortunately, the repeated bleeding has, without doubt, weakened you further. I will do my best but I can make no promises. You must help yourself and that means resting. I would suggest you return to your house in Chippenham and I will attend you there.’
‘I’m not staying in bed,’ said his lordship emphatically. ‘I would die of ennui.’
‘I’m sure, my lord,’ I said, ‘that we could find a way to keep you amused.’
‘No!’ said Dr Thornhill.
‘You mean I can’t even make love?’ said Lord B.
‘I recommend abstinence,’ said the physician. ‘And a plain diet and…’ A smile eased its way across his face. ‘And I can see, sir, that you have no intention of taking my advice.’
‘I’m very glad we understand each other,’ said his lordship. ‘I will obey one of your instructions: I will leave Bath. I have had enough of these shallow waters.’
We left the following day. The carriage went so slowly it might have been in a funeral cortège. His lordship was grey by the time he was carried to his bed. I slept little for he had such a restless night of it and, in truth, even when he slept, I couldn’t. The ghost of Lady Barbeau was ever present in the room, standing on his right side, her gaze never leaving him, waiting, waiting as she had for all those years.
When Doctor Thornhill arrived next morning, I walked in the grounds. There was a little pavilion I hadn’t noticed before, on the island in the centre of the lake. The sky was grey, heavy with thunder and the swans were alight with their whiteness.
‘Ah, my sprite, at last,’ said Lord B when I returned to his chamber.
I went to him and he took my hand.
‘You must be brave, my sprite – and you are brave, I know. I have come to a decision: I’m going to live for the moment. And when I die I will go out in a blaze of glory. I have no desire to spend the rest of my days in bed waiting for the Grim Reaper. Boredom will kill me long before he turns up with his scythe. No, not a word. Have you ever seen fireworks, my sprite? I want my death to be a glorious display of light, a flame thrown against the darkness.’
For all his railing, Lord B had to admit that he felt better when in his bed. For the next month, falling into that morbid September, a nurse was employed to look after him through the night and I stayed with him in the day, reading aloud all the gossip and follies in the newspapers. We played whist and chess though he began to be impatient with the games and, more often than not, slept.
One evening, he said, ‘She’s here, isn’t she? Grace is here.’
‘Lady Barbeau? Yes, my lord,’ I said.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘she is standing to the right of me – just there,’ and he pointed to exactly where she had been ever since we’d returned from Bath.
‘Will you show her to me?’
‘My lord, don’t ask me to do that, I beg of you.’
‘I know you can do it, my sprite. I have seen you often enough bring back your parrot. Let me see Grace – just once more.’
‘If I do, she will take you.’
He held my hand.
‘I had hoped to remain well long enough to marry you, but I don’t think it will be possible. I am too weary, too fallen. I have done what I can to make provision for you but you must divorce Captain Spiggot first. Do you understand?’ I nodded. ‘When I am gone, you are to take all the jewels with you. I have a friend, a banker, who will look after them, and there is some money – don’t go giving it to Queenie.’ I tried to speak but he wouldn’t let me. ‘If you are in any trouble you must contact Merritt.’
‘All of it means nothing without you,’ I said.
‘Come, come, my sprite, my sweetest one, let me go.’
I stood, and for the second time she looked at me, pleading. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. My eyes filled with tears.
‘Please, my sprite, I beg of you. Let me go to her.’
Shaking, I took a deep breath and willed her to become visible to him. He saw her, and reached out to her, and she lay down beside him, wrapped him in her arms and smothered him with death. I watched the years fall away from my lord until there on the bed was a handsome young man and the sight of him made me weep uncontrollably. Then all that was left was the shell of him, empty, soulless. I opened the windows in the chamber and called for Mr Merritt. Not one window in the house was left unopened for I wanted his lordship’s spirit to be free to walk with her for ever.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
&n
bsp; I remember looking at my shadow and wondering if it hadn’t taken my soul from me, for never had I been more absent from myself than I was in the days following Lord B’s death. The house that had vibrated with him felt abandoned, as if its very walls had no idea what to make of the silence. The wolfhounds dilly-dallied about and I could hardly think how to move one leg in front of the other. I wrote to Hope and then to Queenie to tell them what had happened. Their replies arrived on the same day as a letter from Mr Ainsley requesting that I leave his uncle’s house immediately. I had expected nothing different. Defeated by the letter, I wondered if I shouldn’t act on it straightaway.
Mr Merritt, steadfast as always, said that his lordship would have been most disappointed if I did not attend his funeral. We agreed that arrangements would be made for me to leave afterwards.
On the morning of the burial, my trunks were already packed when Mr Ainsley and his wife arrived unacceptably early, too early to be considered polite. They dismissed all the preparations that had been made by Mr Merritt and myself and complained that they had not been consulted. Despite the parson’s insufferable whining Mr Merritt showed not a flicker of annoyance.
The funeral took place in the afternoon. The wind blew and leaves fell, golden tears to rest upon his grave. Lord B was buried in the family vault alongside his lady. Many came to pay their respects and Mr and Mrs Ainsley did their best to receive as many courteous condolences as came their way. Mr Ainsley purposely ignored me, no doubt hoping others would be led by his good example. No one thought it an example worth following.
Afterwards, with the help of my maid, I changed into my travelling gown underneath which I hid about my person all the jewels and the money his lordship had given me. I took a last look round the chamber and went down to the hall, carrying Boozey in his cage. The chariot had pulled up on the gravel drive at the front of the house and my trunks were already strapped to the roof. I was about to say my farewells to Mr Merritt and the other staff when Mr Ainsley came into the hall.