When I glimpse his bloated face and recognise Mr Osmund I shrink back.
‘Don’t struggle,’ one of the bucks commands, ‘take your punishment like a gentleman.’
‘Put me down, damn you,’ Mr Osmund cries. He must be twice the weight of any of them, and jerks so violently they have a job to hold him. Yet they are determined, and as we watch his breeches are seized and they strip him to the ankles.
‘Bastards! Let me go! Give me my clothes.’
‘Not likely. Ladies, give this scoundrel a kicking. He’s acquired a taste for black flesh out in Spanish Town, for he is on the eve of his wedding and yet he passed over the charms of one of his own countrywomen for a negro girl. Didn’t you, Mr Planter? Let these native beauties show their displeasure. Come now, don’t be shy, Sir.’ They thrust his naked haunches at us; Miss Bridget makes a show of kicking him, though she only grazes his flabby hide, but Miss Jane titters and scuttles behind her sister, while I cannot resist landing a blow that causes the gentleman to bellow and squirm to the great amusement of the rest.
‘Well done, Mistress. You felt that, didn’t you?’
I hold my tongue, lest Mr Osmund know me by my voice. The river is close by, and the gentlemen drag him, roaring and writhing, to the banks. Cheering, they swing him aloft and, on the count of three, heave him in.
He shrieks, staggers to his feet, falls, thrashes helplessly and begins to blubber. The bloods watch with glee; they clap and jeer and send up a chorus of ‘huzzahs’ as Mr Osmund slips again and emerges with weed dripping down his face. One tormentor orders the others to be quiet, and steps forward. ‘I hope you shall remember this, Sir, next time you resolve to bed a whore. It will be the town sewer for you and no mistake.’
The spectacle of Mr Osmund soaked and hollering distracts us from Mrs Buckley, who calls in vain for us to go inside. Suddenly a slight young woman hurtles from the house, clutching a lace shawl to her bosom and scrambling to put on her shoes. I catch a good view of her face for a moment, and it is dark as polished wood, and very pretty, her features finely sculptured and her eyes pretty too if she were not so frightened.
If this lady has been forced to endure Mr Osmund’s attentions and the brutish behaviour of his companions, I am sorry for her.
‘Come back here, you whore,’ Mrs Buckley screeches. But the girl is at the far end of the street and has more sense than to stop. ‘I’ll fetch you back if it kills me,’ Mrs Buckley adds. ‘Get inside,’ she says furiously, turning to the three of us.
The sisters goggle, too scared to move, but I see my chance. ‘Farewell, Madam,’ I blurt out, then I take my petticoat in my hands and pelt towards the abbey, across the empty square and past the bath-house. The hubbub continues within, but the streets are dark and deserted, and the wind is rising. I hurry quick as I can until I reach the turning onto West-gate and halt for a moment to catch my breath.
Am I pursued? Bath is small but I strain my ears and hear nothing but the swaying trees and a faint sound of quarrelling from a nearby tavern. The street is empty. Mrs Buckley has given up hope of snaring me.
Then an owl alights with an outraged shriek in a nearby tree and my heart jolts so hard I nearly faint. I am alone, in a strange, cold city where no one cares what may become of me.
A footstep rings out; I spin round and a black-clad figure almost sends me flying. I have never screamed so loud. ‘Mr Espinosa!’
‘Miss Amesbury! Forgive me, you moved so fast. Something alarmed you. I mean before this.’
We are caught between terror and laughter. Recovering a little, I am eager to explain myself, in case he thinks I was wandering the town of my own free will.
‘The woman who sat next to me at dinner, Sir—she coaxed me and the others to go with her.’ I point, hoping he guesses my meaning. ‘To—to a house we ought not to have entered.’
‘Out after curfew? Did you carry lanterns? You’re lucky the constables didn’t take you up. Where are the others?’
I am mortified to admit the truth. ‘I left them, Sir. If I hadn’t Mrs Buckley would have dragged me in. They wouldn’t listen, at least the eldest wouldn’t. They are silly girls—ignorant. Though the younger has no malice in her.’ Shame floods me. ‘Poor Miss Jane, I should have made her come away with me.’
‘At least you are safe.’ From his tone I wonder if Mr Espinosa was defying the curfew himself to search for me.
‘Will you go back with me, Sir? Mrs Buckley cannot entrap me with you as witness. We may be in time to bring the sisters away unharmed.’
He is so kind and good; his response is instant. ‘Of course. Here, hold hands.’ His fingers again, thin, warm; his grip surprisingly firm. ‘Show me the way.’
Together we hurry back past the baths and the abbey, the moon, as it was, masked partly by clouds. At the end of Abbey-street I stop to take my bearings.
‘This way, I think. Past that broken shop-sign. It’s not a respectable street—I knew it wasn’t. There’s the house, do you hear?’
Raised voices carry through the sour, damp air: raucous laughter, someone’s protest, then, unless I imagine it, a woman crying out in fear.
‘Mrs Buckley won’t let them go, I know she won’t.’ I wring my hands. ‘She was purveying us like stolen rabbits round the bath-house. I should have left her then.’
Mr Espinosa eyes the house, lips pursed. ‘Such women are practised tricksters, Miss Amesbury. Be thankful she didn’t have you carried off by bullies.’
Something in his voice makes me wonder if he has had dealings with Mrs Buckley in the past, but before I can ask another high-pitched sound comes from the house and Mr Espinosa clenches his fists.
‘Stay here.’ He strides across and hammers on the door-panel. The house seems to hold its breath, then footsteps thunder down the stairs and the door flies open. A man glares out, hair tousled, shirt open to the waist, yet his stockings are white and his shirt is laced and ruffled. I am sure he is the hard-faced gentleman who wanted to take my arm.
‘What is this?’ He leans forward, squinting through the shadows. ‘Damn you, a Jew! How dare you disturb the house of honest Christians? Mrs Charlton is abed.’
Was I wrong to distrust Mrs Buckley’s story of her invalid friend? But a moment later my former hostess appears behind him and nudges his shoulder. ‘Sir Roger. Pay no heed.’
He shakes her off, none too gently. ‘Call the others, Madam. We’ll deal with this hook-nosed fellow. Fetch George and Thompson. Between us we’ll kick him from here to Israel.’
‘A moment, Sir.’ Mr Espinosa’s tone is steady. ‘Two young ladies visited this house tonight, and I am come to see them to their lodgings.’
‘God damn you, they are none of your business.’ Sir Roger strikes Mr Espinosa in his chest, attempting to dislodge him from the threshold. Mrs Buckley makes another attempt to intervene, but when Mr Espinosa stands his ground Sir Roger plants a blow on his jaw and two more gentlemen pound downstairs.
‘Ha! He’s all yours George,’ Sir Roger steps aside to let the tallest past. George is twice the size of Mr Espinosa, and when I see his sword gleaming my blood curdles.
‘Murder! Help!’ I leap from the shadows. The men had not seen me and they cry out in alarm, but before I have time to shield Mr Espinosa, Sir Roger jerks me out of the way.
‘Who are you?’ he bellows. ‘His whore?’
‘I am no whore. I met this gentleman today, and if you injure him I will report you to the justices, so help me God.’
‘Impudent little bitch.’
He holds me so tight my wrist is burning, but I remember a wrestling trick my father taught me, and twisting my hand suddenly down and outwards, force him to release his grip. He shrieks.
‘Christ, my thumb, she’s broken it.’
A heap of hats and boots and walking-canes lies behind the door, and I lunge for the nearest article, a metal-topped cane the width of a hazel-pole. Before Sir Roger can stop me, I bring it down on George’s back. He yelps and tries to
kick out, but he is clumsy and I dodge him.
‘Bold slut. Keep hold of her, Thompson, a whipping will teach her manners.’
Thompson makes a feint for me, but I still have the cane and he cannot reach past it.
‘God’s blood, are we to be bested by a girl and a Jew?’ His intoxication is George’s undoing. He trips on the doorstep and lands heavily on his backside, dropping his sword which Mr Espinosa kicks into the gutter.
‘Damn me, I can’t move. Help me up, for pity’s sake.’
Sir Roger and Thompson do their best, but George is heavier—and drunker—than either, and slumps back with a thud.
Sir Roger follows my example and looks down for a weapon. Nearest to him is a riding-boot with a high heel, and he hurls it at Mr Espinosa, evidently forgetting that a boot is neither rigid nor intended as a missile. It travels just far enough to strike George’s head, causing that gentleman to set up a roaring which carries halfway to the river, judging by the windows that burst open and the cries of ‘Peace, for God’s sake’ that echo down the street.
Between that and George’s protests the commotion is akin to a pitched battle. A night-watchman looms out of the darkness.
‘Peace! Quiet, or I’ll have the lot of you in the roundhouse.’ To underscore the point he smites the ground with his cudgel, and though he is whiskery his threat is enough to frighten the gentlemen into submission. Wincing, George hauls himself to his feet and joins the others in scrabbling to find his boots.
‘We’ll be on our way, man, give us a moment.’ Sir Roger pulls a coin from his pocket and stuffs it in the watchman’s hand. ‘Here’s for your discretion. I give you goodnight, Sirrah.’ Having donned their boots all three seize their belongings, and flee before the watchman stops them.
‘Sir Roger, George, Mr Thompson, wait,’ cries Mrs Buckley. She stamps her foot. ‘Come back, you rogues. None of you’ve paid me a penny yet.’ But the night has swallowed them up, and there is no reply.
The watchman shakes his cudgel in her face. ‘That’s the least of your worries, you old bawd. I’m reporting you for keeping a disorderly house.’ His face speaks his disgust. ‘It’s not six months since you were last before the bench. As for you two, come with me.’
‘A moment, Sir,’ says Mr Espinosa. He holds a handkerchief to his face and his voice is muffled. ‘We were staying in Bath overnight, and left our lodgings to find two young gentlewomen brought to this house under false pretences. We have still to find them.’
‘Then I shall search the house on your behalf and take all four of you to meet the constable.’
Mrs Buckley gives a coarse laugh. ‘Gentlewomen? That’s not what I’d call them. You’ll find no gentlewomen in my house, I assure you.’
I still have my cane; I brandish it at her. ‘What have you done with Miss Bridget and Miss Jane?’
She faces up to me for a moment, then bethinks herself and calls upstairs, her voice as rough as it was formerly sweet. ‘Come down, you two, your friends are ‘ere.’
Timid sounds of a chair being scraped back, and then a door is opened and two cautious sets of feet cross the landing. The sisters appear at the head of the stairs, the elder defiant, the younger on the brink of tears.
‘Get out,’ Mrs Buckley says. ‘I want you gone. Quick, and don’t darken my door again, you jades. Helping yourself to my wine and dainties, teasing my gentlemen then calling for your mother. Good riddance.’ She rattles the door until the maids scuttle past, Miss Jane still trying to fasten her cloak as the old vixen yells, ‘Off with you!’ and bangs the door in their faces.
‘You see how it is,’ Mr Espinosa says to the watchman. ‘Am I at liberty to see them to their lodgings?’ The watchman searches his face as if for clues, then gives a brisk nod.
‘Count yourselves lucky I don’t charge you. Show’s over,’ he says contemptuously, his attention turning to the faces in the windows opposite. ‘Back to your beds. Go on.’ There are a couple of groans of disappointment which the watchman answers with a glare before the shutters close one by one.
‘I’ll bid you good night and allow you ten minutes to be off the streets.’ To underline his authority the watchman holds up his lantern to watch us pick our way back towards the abbey.
Just as well I never expected thanks from Miss Bridget, for she gives none. Silent, she stalks ahead, chin lifted high. Miss Jane, however, collapses in my arms as we turn the corner, stumbling and clutching her belly while Mr Espinosa keeps at a polite, short distance behind us.
‘You’re safe now, Miss,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll soon be at the inn. I’ll wash your face and help you to bed; before you know it, you’ll be sound asleep.’
She gives a sob. ‘I been such a fool, Miss Amesbury. I let one of them talk me into going with him to another room. It was small and dark and smelled of something awful. He—hurt me very much.’ She cries as if her heart will break. ‘Father will kill me if he ever knows what I done. He sold our mother’s silver teapot that we might travel respectable to Bristol. We was never meant to leave the Westgate Inn, and I don’t know why we did.’
I look her over. As far as I can tell in the moon’s weak light her dress is undamaged and her person bears no marks of ill-usage. I suppose the brute fondled her roughly and made her kiss him, but I think she is still a maid, at least I pray she is.
‘It’s over now, Miss Jane. None will ever know of it. Mr Espinosa won’t gossip, will you, Sir?’ I look back at the gentleman. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Sir? You’ll not tell anyone what you’ve seen?’
His face is grave. ‘You have my word. Wait a moment.’ He takes off his jacket and stepping forward, drapes it over the shivering girl. As soon as we begin to walk again Miss Jane whispers.
‘He’s a Jew, ain’t he? His word means nothing.’
My face and neck flush hot with indignation. ‘Miss Jane, if you say such things, I won’t be your friend. He is a good man, his actions show it. Those gentlemen back there would claim they were Christians. I never remember Christ saying it was right to hurt innocent girls, do you?’
She hangs her head, mumbling. ‘My father used to say a Jew would fleece you soon as look at you.’
‘Mr Espinosa risked himself for us, Miss Jane. What would have happened if he had not?’
A fresh sob is her answer.
We reach the inn to find it closed for the night, the front in darkness save for a small, dim lamp above the door.
‘Now what do we do?’ Miss Jane quavers.
‘Go through the back,’ Mr Espinosa advises. ‘Someone in the kitchen will let you in. Go on.’ The sisters obey and scuttle through the coach-arch; but I stay where I am, determined to give thanks.
‘If it wasn’t for you, Sir,’ I begin. A pale light falls on Mr Espinosa’s face and I see that what I took for a shadow is a wound below his cheek. ‘Oh, but you’re hurt.’ Blood has soaked his neckerchief; his fingers are wet with it.
‘It’s nothing,’ he says, though he presses the cloth to the cut again. ‘Sir Roger caught me with his signet ring, that’s all.’
I try to examine the injury but he shies away. ‘It looks worse than it is. Better see to your little friend. Good night to you, Miss Amesbury.’ He bows, and before I can ask if he has a room at the Westgate too, he walks away into the dark.
Chapter Five
Bath
Wednesday, 24th October, 1703
‘Poor Miss Amesbury,’ says a familiar voice. ‘Sighing for your uncommon-looking gentleman-friend, are you?’
Miss Bridget and her sister join me outside the inn, where the morning coach to Bristol is due to leave at any moment. The rain has cleared and the sky is bright above the shining rooftops. The morning would be pleasant except I hoped to share my journey with Mr Espinosa and confess I thought to find him here. However, I suppose he has travelled with the post in order to arrive early at his master’s, and I resent Miss Bridget’s hint my heart is taken. I shan’t be cowed this morning by her snubs and eternal refer
ences to Queen-square.
‘What a relief to see you here, Miss Bridget,’ I reply. ‘How piteous you were first thing today, groaning and hugging your pillow. I thought you might faint over your breakfast porridge.’ I give a droll laugh.
‘We’re both well, thank you very much,’ she retorts. ‘We’ve decided to ride outside today, in case you wondered.’
Miss Jane looks fearfully at the coach’s sloping roof. ‘Have we, Sister?’
‘Yes, Jane. The weather’s fine and we save ourselves four shilling.’
Mr Cheatley and Mr Osborne emerge from the inn and the latter rakes me over with his eyes.
‘I believe I will ride outside too,’ I say. ‘Come on, Miss Jane.’ I make an effort at gallantry. ‘The fresh air will blow away your headache.’
‘How bold and cheerful you are, Miss Amesbury,’ puts in the elder sister, ‘considering you have no idea what will become of you today.’
‘Oh, I shall strive and thrive in Bristol, make no mistake,’ I say, though my heart flutters at the thought of searching for my sister’s house all by myself.
‘Let’s hope you’re right, for Bristol is a by-word for cut-and-thrust in every walk of life, our aunt said so in her letter, and we are very glad we have good places arranged.’ Miss Bridget sighs with satisfaction, not knowing how tempted I am to ‘accidentally’ tread on her toe, though her feet being so big and clumsy in her wooden pattens she would fail to notice, having all the feeling of the great lumbering carthorse that brought her into Chippenham.
‘What if the coach overturns, Sister?’ Miss Jane asks, as the ostler checks the traces. ‘Three folk were killed on the turnpike near Chippenham a few weeks back.’ She flinches on the boy’s behalf as a horse whinnies and nips his hand.
‘It won’t overturn, hen-brain,’ says Miss Bridget, thrusting her box at the postillion busy loading at the back of the conveyance. The younger girl’s eyes are moist, and I take pity on her.
‘Come on, Miss Jane, you go first. Hold tight.’ I clamber up to join her. The top is more awkward than I thought, there being no seats nor any rails to keep a hold of. ‘Sit between us, and if anything should happen, which it won’t, you’ll be safe. I like to ride up high, I can see further.’ To annoy Miss Bridget I hum and tap my fingers while the last passengers settle in their places. Then the coachman flicks his whip, Miss Jane grabs my arm, and off we go.
A Pair of Sharp Eyes Page 4