The Prophet, page 7
‘I have news of the dead girl. Her name was Maria.’
To hear Maria’s name uttered out loud pained him. And now he had to listen grave-faced to an account of Tabitha’s visit to the Blue Coat Hospital and the information she had gathered. Ah, so that was it – the half-ring had been a portion of a foundling token and not the lover’s keepsake he had imagined. His wife truly was as sharp as a nail. According to her calculations, if Maria had been born in 1735 she was no more than seventeen when she died.
‘Is it not pitiful?’ Tabitha said. ‘And of all frustrations, when she left the charity school she tore out the page from the admissions book. I still don’t know who deposited her there. She was provided with a hundred pounds, a good sum. Who might have left her there?’
She reached for his hand, but he felt suddenly clammy and drew back. No, he had not realized Maria was so young.
‘And I have remembered where I once saw her,’ she rattled on. ‘Down by the Kaleyard Gate where the street girls ply their trade.’
He nodded mutely, remembering the place all too well; the high Roman wall behind the cathedral that sheltered women who waited like moths in its shadow. Here was his chance. If he opened his mouth and said, ‘Ah yes, why of course you remind me. That was the girl, I knew her too.’ But he was in no wise steady enough for the inquisition that would follow. Tabitha was still talking serenely.
‘I know the hospital does good,’ she was saying, ‘but by Christ, I too would have run away. Those children are bred on guilt and shame. It left me sad. I was glad to have Sukey with me.’
‘Good, good,’ he muttered.
‘So what ails you, Nat?’ She suddenly returned to her quizzical self, her eyes as bright as her jewels.
‘Sometimes I am wearied by estate business.’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘You drew away from me just now.’
He stood up smartly and paced to the wall, his hand settling on the orrery his uncle had installed. It was a model of the sun and planets fashioned from brass and precious stones that moved by means of cogs and wheels. God-like, he pushed the blue earth so it rotated on its daily orbit around the brass globe of the sun. If only it were that easy to turn back time and alter the events of last year.
He tried, clumsily, to distract her. ‘The inquest date is still not set. When it is, I won’t have you attending such a rowdy gathering. I forbid your attendance, absolutely.’
‘That is a rough speech in return for my gift. I am not your slave to be ordered here and there.’ She spoke coldly and started to gather up the cloths to leave him.
No, this was not how they should part. Suddenly he reached for her and pulled her into his arms and kissed her, caressing her neck, her shoulder and throat.
‘Forgive me. I am out of sorts,’ he mumbled into her neck.
She pulled back and studied his face. ‘Why, what has happened?’
He longed to confide in her. But then a strange memory presented itself. It was an odd sensation that Gunn’s sermon had spoken directly to himself and accused him of being a whoremonger. The preacher had described his own callous sins as if he knew exactly what Nat had done.
He looked up and found Tabitha regarding him with worried sympathy. Now was not the time to make a confession; he needed to prepare himself before he told her about Maria.
He began haltingly. ‘My new position here at Bold Hall is sometimes a heavy one. With my father sick and all this dreary correspondence, I swear, sometimes, I had rather be a nobody again, with responsibility to no one. When we first met, I wrote my poetry and lived freely as a pen-to-hire. True, I’ve been the luckiest devil in the world, but it doesn’t always feel that way.’
Tabitha was watching him narrowly. ‘Yes, it is hard. It does not help that we still have no visiting cards from our neighbours. Our only new friends are those faith-mongers in the woods.’
‘Yes, well. They will be gone a few days after the solstice.’ He glanced down at the orrery, picturing that moment when the daylight hours would be at their longest and Midsummer celebrated.
‘Do you honestly believe Gunn did not know Maria?’ she asked. ‘According to the matron at the Blue Coat Hospital Maria was a harlot from when she was little more than a child. Gunn spoke so very warmly of sin, Nat. You cannot deny he is as much a libertine as any Covent Garden rake. Can you not order him off your land?’
Nat considered for a moment. Tabitha was right, of course, but now he had a plan bubbling in his mind, to scientifically test this sleeping prophet. He was reluctant to give up the notion. He kissed her brow and spoke softly. ‘All those women and young children. I should let them sleep in safety a while longer. I don’t want to be callous like the great lords hereabouts. But if he’s not gone by Midsummer I will send them packing.’
She was watching him closely and he suspected her bright eyes had detected his evasion. Then he felt her hot fingers squeezing his.
‘What is it, my love?’ he murmured.
‘Maria was so like to me. Young, alone, and now cruelly slaughtered. There must be gentlemen aplenty who will not risk their reputations to speak up for her. Men who left their wives untouched to entertain a pretty harlot.’
Nat’s heart punched his ribs. He swallowed and clumsily changed the subject. ‘The baby is well? There was no contagion at the hospital?’
It was her turn to mumble. ‘There was a sick child at the hospital. But all is well.’
‘I beg you, take care. Rest, make ready for the birth. Your safety is all to me.’
Tabitha looked more softly upon him. ‘I miss you by my side at night,’ she murmured. ‘I detest Doctor Caldwell and his rules.’
Nat cursed himself. In his first swell of fatherly pride it was he who had asked the doctor to forbid Tabitha any activities that might put the child at risk. It was his fault that they had lost their best solace, forgetting how any disagreement melted away when they were entwined in the act of love. It was not even the sating of lust that he needed most; he longed only for them both to be restored to their former selves. Now, Nat felt their separation as a punishment; one that – in some dreadful way – he deserved.
FOURTEEN
27 May 1753
Rogation Sunday
Tabitha had always had a fancy to attend Netherlea church dressed in the highest fashion. That Sunday morning her costume was indeed glorious, stitched of pale yellow silk, much flounced and embroidered with a pattern of flowers and scrolled leaves. She had needed to let out her bodice laces to accommodate her condition but, nonetheless, in a smart capuchin cloak and an elegant feathered hat, she enjoyed the curious stares of the villagers as Nat led her up the aisle.
Seated inside the De Vallory pew she took out her new fan – a pretty article decorated with classical dancers – and cooled her face. Behind her back the villagers chattered in loud voices. From above the hubbub a snippet concerning herself reached her ears: ‘… marrying her, an’ her so big with a child of Beelzebub’s bower …’
She fluttered her fan even faster. Thank the Lord that Nat had not heard the insult, for the new minister, Parson Hope, was leaning over the pew-end declaiming in a loud monotone. And Bess was muttering in a soft sing-song voice to a wooden dolly carved for her by Joshua. Beelzebub’s bower, indeed. She would gladly swear on the great church Bible that she had known no other man than Nat since returning to Netherlea. What vipers those women were. Turning her head, she fixed a black look upon Mistress Dainty and her two crone-like companions, their jaws clacking away.
Parson Hope at last stepped up to the pulpit. In keeping with the feast of Rogation Sunday, his theme was the land and its division. She listened with renewed interest, for the notion of land had meant nothing to her before she married Nat.
‘It is the Lord that maketh the poor, and He maketh the rich; He that can lift up the poor personage, to sit with princes and have the seat of glory.’
Truly the Lord had raised Nat and herself, not quite to the seat of glory but certainly in that direction. Their child would by rights own much of the green land hereabouts. Well, if he were male, that was. And now, thanks to Sukey, she had news on that subject, if a sign from the otherworld could be trusted. The previous afternoon the nursemaid had enquired if she would like to know if she carried a boy or a girl. Tabitha, who had exchanged her own stitching for a closer study of the London pages of The Gentleman’s Magazine, said that she would, being long familiar with the harmless ritual. ‘The pendulum test is infallible,’ said the nurse, and agreed to perform it at once.
A few minutes later Tabitha lay very still on her bed. The air was muggy; looking up at the ceiling a swarm of tiny gnats circled, unaware of the spiders’ webs that laced the high wooden beams.
For herself she scarcely minded either way, for a little girl would be a delightful companion for Bess. Yet Tabitha knew a boy would please Sir John, to continue his family line.
Though Sukey’s girth was largely hidden by her voluminous apron, Tabitha ventured an opinion. ‘Your baby is carried very high, Sukey. And not at all around your rear. She is a girl, I should say.’
The nurse’s expression darkened. ‘No, I am sure I carry a boy like you.’ Then changing her mind, she added, ‘What do I care so long as I have my baby safe in my arms? Now, I need your wedding ring.’
Tabitha felt a moment’s reluctance at removing the blue-white diamond ring. Nat had slipped it on her finger one glorious starry night when he had requested her hand in marriage and sworn that he would love her till the stars fell. It was her talisman; both a sign of Nat’s love and his enduring protection. ‘Be careful now. It’s worth the world to me.’
Sukey was watching her with a distant expression. ‘He thinks mighty highly of you, my lady.’
Tabitha laughed. ‘So do I of him. Between you and me, I can scarcely wait till the baby is here and my sweet Nat is back where he belongs in my bed. It truly was a blessing that Doctor Caldwell sent you here, so I will have a little freedom while you care for my infant.’
‘It is indeed God’s bounty,’ the nurse murmured, as she strung the ring on to a long golden chain. ‘Lie still, now. And be silent.’ Tabitha’s eyelids were growing very heavy as she lay motionless, enjoying the slight breeze blowing in through the casement.
‘If it swings around in a circle it’s a girl. If it swings back and forth, then a boy,’ Sukey reminded her. As if she didn’t know that herself. The nurse let the ring hang high above the apex of Tabitha’s stomach. It rocked gently, the chain hanging from the tip of Sukey’s forefinger. Nothing happened; the ring rocked, neither circling nor swinging. Tabitha wondered which direction the nurse would send it.
Then, as if collecting momentum, the ring began to move. Tabitha glanced up at Sukey’s intense face and then down to the ring as it swung back and forth from the direction of her feet towards her head and then back again. The gem in the ring cast rainbow reflections across the whitewashed walls. The nurse was smiling warmly down upon her mistress. ‘It will be a boy.’
Naturally you would say that, she thought. ‘Thank you, Sukey. And shall I test you, now?’
‘No.’ Sukey unthreaded the ring. ‘I’ll wait and see. I have Davey so this one will be a surprise.’
Tabitha’s thoughts returned to the present as Parson Hope announced the next hymn: ‘The Lord my pasture shall prepare …’ She smiled to hear Nat’s tuneless voice. Singing was not one of Nat’s many talents. She was surrounded by her little family, her darling Nat and sister Bess. Perhaps, she told herself, there was nothing to fret over. Yet she had not felt easy since the day in the forest. Baptist Gunn takes an interest in you, she warned herself. As a girl she had learned that the Eye of God was forever fixed upon the sinner below; and even now she felt a telltale trace of Gunn’s invisible eye watching over her.
FIFTEEN
A procession of Netherlea folk formed in a ragged mass and began their annual Rogation walk around the parish’s boundaries. Nat felt the novelty of the occasion as he reined in Jupiter to a slow walk just behind the parson and churchwardens. For the first time he had a part to play in what had always seemed a quaint ritual, for this time the ritual traced the path of his own future inheritance. At each ancient stone, broken cross or prominent tree, the parson enquired of the parish’s elder members whether this was a true marker of Netherlea land. Only when the parish clerk had made a mark on his paper, and any restoration made by carving a symbolic cross, or whitewashing the stones ever brighter, did the procession move on.
By afternoon the score or so persons had entered the forest. Behind them Joshua drove the gig at a walking pace, bearing Tabitha, Bess, Jennet and Grisell. Here at the long avenue of birch trees known as the Twelve Apostles was the final boundary of the parish of Netherlea, lying coterminous with the De Vallory estate. Perspiring and weary, the parson led the prayer for the last time: ‘Bless this good earth, and make it fruitful, consider the old ancient bounds and limits …’
Finally, a young lad was called forward, to be lifted up and bumped upside down to a chorus of shrieks and laughter. Thus the parish duty was almost done; to stake out a map using the brains of the most ancient villagers and impress it into the pliable minds of the lads and lasses who would one day take their places.
It must have been the loud racket that brought two mounted men bearing down upon them. Nat walked Jupiter a few steps towards them, as if guarding his flock. He spotted pistols at the men’s belts. ‘Who are you? What is your business here?’
The stouter of the two men, a slab-faced brute, reined back his horse. ‘My name is Mullock. I am Lord Langley’s head keeper and this good man assists me. I am here to tell you all to shift yourselves off Lord Langley’s estate.’
Nat leaned forward in the saddle. ‘As you can see, we are beating the bounds this very day and I assure you this is Netherlea land.’
Mullock shook his head in slow denial. ‘You got that all wrong, young fellow.’
‘It is Mister De Vallory of Bold Hall, to you. This row of birches – known as the Twelve Apostles – forms the boundary between our land and His Lordship’s estate. I swear it was so in Gaffer Furlow’s memory ever since he was a lad. And so it is today.’
The old greybeard tottered forward. ‘Aye, I beat the bounds since the Great Frost of 1684, when the trees exploded like cannon fire and birds dropped down dead from the skies. Since then I watched these trees a-growing an’ they was allus’ Netherlea trees.’ He feebly waved at the men with his twiggy arms.
Mullock snorted. ‘What does Lord Langley care for the ramblings of such noddle-heads? His Lordship has had the whole forest surveyed for improvements to his park. This avenue will make a fine approach to Langley Hall.’
Nat bristled. ‘No. This is Sir John De Vallory’s land.’
Mullock’s companion, a handsome, black-browed fellow, smirked and whispered that his father was ‘cracked in the head’.
Nat had to restrain himself from striking the man. The need to keep a hold of this tract of forest suddenly overwhelmed him. It was his father’s earth and he carried his father’s blood in his veins. He dismounted and spread his map across a tree stump. The two keepers swaggered across to inspect it. ‘That’s a mighty old map, sir. You will find His Lordship has taken the measure of this whole forest. He is extending his park—’
‘You will find he is not,’ Nat interrupted. ‘The Twelve Apostles are the boundary to our estate.’
‘No use looking backward, young fellow. His Lordship and his gentlemen friends are enclosing all this common land that currently falls into waste.’
Nat was aware of shifting and muttering among the men and boys behind him. ‘I shall call in our lawyers tomorrow.’
Then to everyone’s surprise, Tabitha’s voice broke in. She stepped down from the gig and began to speak in a ringing voice. ‘You are wrong, sirs. This is no waste. Our villagers have rights upon this common land, to glean and to gather. Their pigs have rights of pannage, their cattle have rights of pasture. And come winter, our people are free to hunt small game, gather fruits and winter fuel. Your master cannot take that from them.’
Mullock tipped his hat at Tabitha but his lips curled. ‘I wouldn’t wager on that continuing much longer. T’int worth bothering your pretty head with, I should say.’
It was Tom who sprang forward first, swinging his fists. ‘How dare you speak to Her Ladyship so brazenly. You always was grasping, you Langley folk. You must fight us here and now if you want it!’
The keeper laughed but did take a step backwards. ‘I wouldn’t say no to a few rounds with a bunch of striplings and dodderers. But we’ll let the masters meet at law first. Talking of which, we have orders to send those ranting squatters on their way.’
Nat swung around, contemptuous. ‘You mean Baptist Gunn’s camp?’
‘We don’t bother with no names. But His Lordship won’t tolerate squatting hereabouts.’
Nat’s endurance snapped. Taking his own pistol out of his belt, he strode to within two paces of Mullock, and though he did not point it at the man, he set his finger at the trigger. ‘Go speak to your master. This is De Vallory land and will stay that way to my dying breath. Do you hear me?’ Footfalls moved behind him as a ring of Netherlea men gathered at his shoulders. He was glad of it. ‘And if I see you, or any other of Lord Langley’s men on this side of the Apostles, I will not be responsible for the consequences.’
Again, the scoundrel tipped his hat. Then without a word the pair of keepers disappeared into the trees.
‘Come now. Get along,’ Nat called to the crowd. ‘We’ll not be cowed by bullyboys.’
The procession continued behind the parson, though now Nat found his gaze drifting into the forest as if it were enemy territory. As soon as the final marker, a towering yew, had been celebrated with a feast of oranges, the villagers made off for home. Nat halted his horse by Tabitha where she sat in the gig. ‘We must go ahead and warn Gunn. The way is too narrow for the gig but if you take my arm we can walk.’
