A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  ‘Why did you never tell me this before, Nell Grey?’

  ‘What does it signify? It is only another reason not to like Mr Roach. You never liked him anyway. Most servants steal their master’s rum now and then, especially men.’

  ‘Do they? Does Jonty?’

  ‘Keep your voice down! He’s borrowed the key once or twice, aye, and helped himself to a dram or two. I wouldn’t be so bold myself, but I don’t care for rum, and I’d be scared of being caught. I don’t judge Jonty for it.’

  I watch her as she saunters off. Nell Grey is as honest as the day is long, and yet her fondness for Jonty makes her forget right and wrong. I hope it does not lead her to risk her place one day—Jonty is handsome, but I doubt he is worth the loss.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Monday, 26th November, 1703

  A day or two later we are sitting round the fire complaining at the draughts and agreeing the wind has blown hard these fourteen days when Master strides in.

  ‘Pack up the house. At once—a storm is coming. I want the household on high ground safe from floods.’

  As we scurry to obey Nell Grey explains we are to go to Clifton, where Mr Tuffnell owns a country villa.

  Everything is upside-down. Mrs Hucker stands in the hall and shrieks orders while Nell Grey and I roll up the feather beds and Suke Cross packs iron pots in straw. Mrs Tuffnell has me lay her petticoats and mantuas in chests, then the chests are wrapped in tarpaulin and Jonty carries them to the carts.

  Nell Grey and I are allowed a moment to fetch our boxes before Nell Grey is ordered to climb into one cart along with Suke Cross, while Jonty and Mrs Hucker take the other. I am bid travel with Mrs Tuffnell in the coach; Mr Roach will drive us while Master follows on horseback when he has secured the house.

  The winds are rising, the rain is beating down, and the streets run with filthy water. Our horses slip and struggle, and the coach rocks alarmingly as we begin the ascent up Park-street. Mrs Tuffnell grips my hand with clammy fingers. ‘What if the horses lose their footing and we slide back down?’

  ‘Mr Roach won’t let that happen, Madam.’ He will whip the horses until their flanks are bloody, don’t doubt it. ‘The master is right to send us out of the city, Madam. The river has been high all week.’ As I finish this speech a jet of water lashes the side of the coach, and Mrs Tuffnell cries out. ‘The spray must be coming from the harbour. Oh God, Amesbury.’

  ‘The storm will pass through soon and we’ll go home,’ I say desperately. ‘Tell me about Mr Tuffnell’s villa, Madam. Are the gardens pretty?’

  ‘He sealed the cellars, did he? The water could not get through oak and pitch?’

  ‘Of course not, Madam.’

  ‘He pays to a company of underwriters, you know. He assured me it was prudent to pay the premium to insure the house and the stock we keep there, and now he is proved right. I was sorry to leave behind my still-room, but I have the comfort of knowing the contents are covered. And of course there is the Prudence—thank God it left before the storm arrived. We are guaranteed riches in twelve months’ time.’

  She has evidently forgotten the letter I brought from Captain Stiles, and the captain’s plan to under-man the Prudence and risk a slave rebellion, but in our present plight I am not very interested in the details of Mr Tuffnell’s business affairs, unless talking of them makes his lady easier to distract. ‘I’m sure whatever he does is for the best,’ I say, wincing as a wooden sign hurtles past, torn from a nearby chandler’s shop. Although we have travelled barely quarter of a mile, at that moment the coach door is snatched open and Mr Tuffnell thrusts in his head.

  ‘Get out. The horses cannot manage in this wind. Wait for the carts.’ The house on our left gives way to the storm and crashes to the ground. Mere weeks ago I sat to eat my bit of dinner and spoke to one of the bricklayers who built that house. Now it might as well be made of straw as bricks. And next the roof collapses at the house next door, to heart-wrenching cries from the people huddled inside, exposed to cold, rain and battering wind.

  Suddenly I think of Liz in her flimsy hovel. ‘I can’t leave my sister, Madam,’ I say. ‘Please let me out to look for her.’ In her terror Mrs Tuffnell pays no attention to me but scans the road behind for the carts.

  So many trees are falling that the carts may never reach us, and roof tiles fly through the air like sycamore keys. Somewhere close by a church spire gives way, and the ships’ masts on the river are torn to splinters. All the while the rain pelts down, as if an ocean voids itself on Bristol, intent on drowning every living thing.

  At last Nell Grey’s cart draws level.

  ‘Come, Mrs Tuffnell, get in with us,’ she cried. ‘Help her, Corrie.’

  Mrs Tuffnell is wild-eyed. ‘I want to wait for Jonty. He’s the better driver.’

  ‘Jonty’s cart is stuck, Ma’am. He’s lost a wheel. Come with us.’

  My mistress looks more distraught than ever, but at last Nell Grey coaxes her aboard, and as soon as I have helped the lady up, puts out a hand for me.

  ‘I must find my sister, Nell Grey, I will come to Clifton soon as I can,’ I call, and good Nell Grey makes no argument, but orders the carrier to move the horses on.

  In moments my clothes are soaked through. I can barely make out the way, and with every breath I seem to swallow water. Scenes of destruction lie on every side, more unfolding as I pass. A gilded weather-vane lies across a pile of fallen masonry; a piece of lead guttering comes close to knocking my head from my shoulders as it flies past. Yet I am determined to reach Liz, and with the tower of All-Saints’ church as my guide, at last I reach the entrance to the yard. Bill Eardley can’t begrudge me calling, I tell myself between weeping and laughing; he will let me creep under his roof until the Almighty reins in the horses of the apocalypse.

  Part of me knows Liz’s house cannot be standing when so many others have given way. When I reach it I find a heap of sodden cobs, spoiled thatch scattered in the middle, and broken timbers from the neighbouring house lying every which way. My only comfort is that there is no sign of Liz, but now, quite alone, I do not know where I should go. I cannot walk to Clifton now.

  Certain every step will be my last, I turn and retrace my route to Wine-street, hoping that a few walls may be standing at Barbuda House, and that I can open the cellar and find safety there.

  The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Barbuda, larger and better-built than its neighbours, remains much as we left it, though a portion of the roof is off, and many window-panes are shattered. Round at the back of the house the door hangs off its hinges, and thieves have broken the cellar padlocks, though they were surprised in the act for I see no sign of them when I peer in.

  A crash, and a chimney stack smashes through the roof above the garret. To creep down into the cellar in the pitch dark is a dreadful prospect, but to stay above ground worse. I arm myself with the yard broom, though it seems impossible anyone could think of assault when the streets are under water and every hay-rick in the neighbourhood is destroyed.

  The steps are wet, uneven; I see little and hear nothing save the churning water and the furious thrashing of the wind. There must be a chance that part of the cellar lies above flood level. I cling to the rough stone as I creep down, testing each step in case I reach the lapping water sooner than expected. My prayers are answered: halfway down I find a small chamber, higher than the main cellar, into which I grope my way, catching my foot painfully on the raised stone threshold, grateful beyond speech to reach safety.

  Best of all, barrels are stored here and I clamber onto them, since the wood, however damp, is warmer than the wet stone floor.

  And here I sit, imploring Him to spare me, terrified the water will rise and drive me out again.

  By good fortune this part of the cellar has been used for storing odds and ends, such as flasks, jars, empty sacks and disused baskets. I pull a meal sack round me, and little by little my shivering abates. The barrel has already become home, and I press my
fingers against the rough wood, thankful to find it real and solid, and that I have not died and woken in purgatory or a worse place. These cellars must have been made in ancient times, and I wonder who hacked at the rock to make this place, how long it took him, and whether his master paid him fair and square. There are grooves in the facings of the wall, and I picture the mason toiling with his chisel day upon day. Was he treated fairly by his master? I must be a little delirious, I think, for my mind wanders. Did the fellow go home to his wife and children and sit by the fire to sup on broth and barley bread? Or was he made to work for nothing like a slave, and found himself turned off when he grew old and frail?

  It strikes me the mason might have left his mark upon the stone. Shutting my ears to the tempest, I search the wall for a letter, or what the Romans used as numbers, M, D, C, and so on, in the system I was shown once, and have seen in the fronts of the novels Mrs Tuffnell leaves half-finished on her table.

  There is no carving, but I find something unexpected when I slide my hand behind the barrel to my right. A hollow in the rock, smaller than the several cubby-holes used for holding candles, and with something so tightly lodged within I cannot pull it out. I work away until at last I have it loose. Another moment and it is in my hand. A leather purse or money-bag, well-made and tightly tied with stout waxed cord. From its weight it holds a number of gold coins—fifteen or even twenty guineas.

  Can this be why Mr Tuffnell was so careful of his cellar? But why would he hide his gold instead of putting it with his banker?

  An idea flies into my mind before I can prevent it. With a handful of gold I could buy a cook-shop near the Corn-exchange. The city half-destroyed, Mr Tuffnell has more to worry him than the loss of a few coins. With this small sum I could set up in business and never fear hardship again.

  And yet the money is not mine. I am about to return the bag to its rightful place when the door at the top of the steps swings open, letting in the weakest shaft of light.

  I go towards the steps, ready to fight hand-to-hand with a common thief if I must. Then I cry out. It is Mrs Tuffnell, her clothes torn and sodden, her headdress ripped from her by the wind and her hair hanging over her face. The same moonlight reveals my face to her, and she lifts her fist.

  ‘So this is why you ran away!’ She scrambles down the rough steps. ‘“To help my poor sister”? To help yourself, you should have said.’ She strikes my head with such force I see stars. Then I regain my balance, and catch her hand before she lands another blow.

  ‘Madam, I found the money by chance. See, the bag is closed, I was about to put it back. I am honest, Madam, you know I am.’

  A roaring sound, as the stable behind the house wrenches from its stone foundations and bricks and timber fly across the yard. The house itself shakes at a stronger gust that strikes the roof and strips off a shower of tiles. Mrs Tuffnell screams. ‘The Day of Judgment is come. Lord have mercy on my soul.’ She breaks into sobs, her rage forgotten.

  ‘Here.’ I grasp her hand and drag her into the narrow space where I was sheltering, and where rock is behind and above us, so thorough were those ancient masons when they carved out this place. ‘Sit tight, put your arms around your knees, so. We are safe from the tempest if we keep still.’

  Another dreadful crash, and plaster dust fills the air. Mrs Tuffnell whimpers. ‘We shall surely die, Amesbury. They do say we are all equal in the eyes of God. St Peter may say you are better than I, because I have blood on my hands.’ She falls into a fit of weeping.

  ‘Madam, I hope we are not bound to die. Under here we shall not be crushed, I think. Please, Madam, if we should be spared, know I was not about to take my master’s money.’

  ‘I believe you. You would confess, would you not? Being in mortal danger? Oh God, let me confess to you, Amesbury. I must tell someone before I die.’

  She struggles past me and to my amazement, returns to the steps and stands there, mere feet from the treacherous floodwater.

  ‘Hear me, Lord. Have mercy on your poor sinner. I am to blame for the death of my black boy. Though I did not wield the knife I shall suffer for eternity.’

  ‘Madam, the storm frightens you from your wits. Come here before you’re injured.’

  ‘I am in my wits, Amesbury, don’t doubt it. The purse you found, it belonged to Mr Roach. One day Pug was mischievous, and Mr Roach locked him in here to teach him a lesson. Pug found the purse, and the innocent brought it to me, saying Mr Tuffnell should be told his gold was not so safe as he believed.’

  ‘But how could Mr Roach possibly own such a sum?’

  She weeps. ‘He extracted it from me. He threatened me.’

  I am bewildered. ‘Madam, how could he? A servant, and you a lady?’

  ‘He is more cunning than you could know, Amesbury. He has a cruel streak, a nature that will stop at nothing. I should know—I used it for my own ends.’

  My heart thumps. Mrs Tuffnell goes on, between sobs. ‘Roach, angry at Pug for causing trouble, whipped him, and Pug was so badly hurt he … died, Amesbury. He died. I shall be hanged for murder.’

  ‘You shan’t, Madam. Roach shall.’

  ‘The money was rightfully mine, extorted from me though it was, and so I will be blamed. Oh God, Amesbury, what shall I do? God will punish me, He sees everything.’ She puts her face into her hands and cries as if her heart will break.

  ‘Don’t despair, Mrs Tuffnell. You may repent your sins. We are not bound to die tonight, at least I hope not. The storm will pass, we’ll venture above ground. I shan’t tell on you, Madam, I promise.’

  She laughs, and her laughter turns my blood cold, for I see what I did not truly believe until this moment. She is not in her right mind.

  ‘I fooled my husband and the rest, but I cannot fool you, Amesbury. You’re a clever girl, but I must be cleverer after all. I won’t let you go, now you know my secret. If I should die, you would blacken my name, would you not?’ Something gleams in the near-darkness, and I scream. She holds a knife.

  ‘Don’t risk your soul a second time, Madam.’ I try to speak calmly but the sweat breaks out on my face. ‘God may forgive you for the boy’s death, it was not you injured him. But God will not forgive you killing me in cold blood.’

  ‘God cannot send me to hell twice over. I shan’t have you telling on me when I am dead, and in any case I may not die.’

  She raises the knife and I close my eyes and pray to my Maker. Then a roar comes as if the jaws of hell themselves have opened, and I look up to see the vaulted ceiling above Mrs Tuffnell collapse. The weight of the house bears her down into the water; there is no possibility she lives.

  Shielded in my alcove I am unscathed, and yet the dust and soot are enough to make me choke. I cough and spit and scrape the filth that clogs my eyes and clamber from the ruins as the rain hurls down and the air around me fills with straw, tiles and even pieces of iron and stone.

  ‘Mrs Tuffnell!’

  Where the yard-gate used to be stands Mr Roach in a tattered, soaking coachman’s cape. His face twists with contempt as he sees me. ‘Where is she? What have you done with her, you bitch? Where’s the money?’

  I gamble his fury will wane if he has it in his grasp. ‘You’re welcome to it. Mrs Tuffnell is dead, poor creature. Crushed beneath her own house.’ I take the bag of coins and hurl it at him.

  ‘Liar.’ But he snatches up the money, and in the rain and darkness he is out of sight in moments.

  Terror overtakes me and I fall to my knees, unable to support my weight until I have endured a fit of trembling which loses its hold when the wind drops suddenly, releasing a squall of rain that brings me to my senses. I begin to hear the cries from suffering souls in nearby houses, pleading for help and screaming with terror each time a dismal crash signals the destruction of another tree or steeple. Horses scream too, trapped beneath the ruins of their stables, maddened by the flashes of lightning and dreadful thunder claps that rend the air.

  If I stay I am in danger at every mom
ent from flying rubbish, tile-shards, bricks, and yet to reach Clifton is impossible when the roads are deep in water and every path blocked with fallen trees and rubble. All I can do is pray, and I kneel again and implore the Lord to have mercy on me.

  ‘Is that Miss Amesbury? Can you hear me, Mistress?’

  I raise my head, amazed. Since the tempest reached its height the streets have been deserted, yet coming towards me, climbing over the obstacles in his way, is Mr Espinosa.

  He is out of breath; I quail to recollect his recent injuries.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘I volunteered to take a message from Mr Wharton to Mr Tuffnell. The warehouse is under water. The servants told me you’d left the party. I thought I might find you if I came to Wine-street. God, this storm. We are lucky to be alive, are we not?’

  ‘God has sent you, Sir. I had a refuge, but Barbuda is destroyed. And worse, Mr Espinosa, my mistress with it.’ I point, but in the blackness there is little to see.

  ‘God help her husband.’

  ‘God help all Bristol. If such a house has fallen, what chance the rest?’

  ‘Mr Sampson’s house was sound when I left it. We should go there, Miss Amesbury.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. If you can bear with me, I can’t walk fast. I lost my shoes in the confusion.’

  ‘Your feet will be cut to pieces.’

  ‘I can manage.’ But it is just as well Jewry-lane is close to Wine-street. Were it not so dark he would see me limping. ‘And you, Sir. Still recovering. I am shocked to find you out.’

  ‘I hoped to find Mr Tuffnell, but in the event I gave up the search. The road to Clifton is impassable. Here, let me.’ I daresay Mr Espinosa would carry me the remaining yards to Mr Sampson’s were he not still weak from the assault. A shower of rain drives towards us, but we are on the threshold now, and as Mr Espinosa beats on his master’s door it opens and we fall into the arms of Mr Sampson.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Tuesday, 27th November, 1703