The Devil's Breath (5 page)

After a moment she returned his smile. “You are right, as usual,” she said. And at this, Thomas bent forward and playfully pecked her on the lips.

“Of course I am right. I am a doctor,” he teased her and she rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes as she did so.

It was only then that Thomas noticed something most peculiar. As he put his arm around Lydia, he gazed down and saw a large brown rat crouching in the corner of the folly. Instinctively he looked around. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the dense undergrowth nearby. He could not believe what he saw; not one or two, but at least a dozen rats were scuttling in the bracken. He could even hear them squeak.

“What’s that noise?” asked Lydia suddenly.

Thomas held his tongue, remembering her deep-rooted fear of rodents. He knew he must act quickly but calmly. Stroking her hair as her head rested on his shoulder, he turned around, taking her with him, and began walking out of the folly.

“Thomas, what are you doing?” she protested, as he led her down the slope onto the main lawn.

When they were safely away from the undergrowth he told her the truth.

“I spotted a rat in the folly,” he said.

She heaved a sigh of relief and gazed up at him. “Thank you,” she replied. “You know how I hate rats.”

He had no intention of telling her that there was an infestation of the creatures. For some reason—he wished he knew what—they had sought higher ground. Normally they would do that in the case of a flood, but water levels in streams, rivers, and lakes were exceptionally low. There had to be some explanation for such behavior. It was yet another piece in the puzzle that both baffled and worried him.

L
ydia was anxious to reach Hungerford by the late afternoon, so the following day Lovelock made the carriage ready before dawn. As they rumbled down the drive of Boughton Hall and out into the lane, Thomas could sense her nervousness. She said little at first, choosing to stare out of the window as the sun rose over the hills.

They skirted Oxford and in a village toward Abingdon stopped at the inn for refreshment and to water the horses. Choosing a seat in the corner, where prying eyes would find it harder to stare, Thomas reached for Lydia’s hand. He could only imagine the mixed emotions she was going through and he knew that the next few hours could bring joy and elation or disappointment and despair.

“May I see the letter again?” he asked.

She fumbled in her reticule and brought out the folded piece of paper with its broken seal. She pushed it along the table to Thomas, still folded, as if she herself could not bear to look at it for the umpteenth time.

The letter was written in uneven script, in a hand that was not well educated. The address at the top of the page was River Cottage, Bridge Street, Hungerford. It was dated June 2, 1781, less than three months after Michael Farrell’s death. It read:

The parish workhouse was no place for a grown man, let alone a small boy with perhaps a disability from where Hunter’s needle had stabbed him during the failed abortion, thought Thomas. He understood that the notion of her son in such a hellhole was a terrible burden for Lydia. She turned to him suddenly, her face gripped by a scowl.

“How could any woman do that, Thomas?” she blurted. “How could she turn out a little child whom she had nursed for the past three years?”

The young doctor shook his head. “Money makes people act in strange ways,” he replied. “But we do not know the full facts. Let us reserve judgment until we speak with this Widow Pargiter.”

Lydia knew his words were wise, and her features relaxed a little, as if she had been thrown a thread of hope.

“Perhaps she did not carry out her threat,” she muttered, then louder she added: “Perhaps she kept him after all!” Her eyes were suddenly bright with the thought that the widow might have relented and Thomas did not wish to dull them.

“Perhaps, my love,” he told her calmly. He brushed her flushed cheek with his finger. “But we will have to wait and see.”

 

The sun had not yet set, but already Amos Kidd had gone to bed. After downing a bowl of vegetable potage he had taken to his rest. He told his wife he would rise even earlier than usual to tend to his roses. It was something that the young doctor from the Colonies had said, something about nature giving warning signs. Nothing must happen to his beloved blooms. He must be there to protect them. He was their guardian—against wind, heat, frost, flood, greenfly—he would be there for them. So he would be up early, just to see that nothing could harm them.

The heat still draped itself languidly about every surface and although the cottage was cool, Susannah Kidd had unlaced her corset and taken off her skirt, so that she sat in her shift and petticoat. Easing herself into a chair, she stretched out her legs in front of her, planting her small, bare feet down on the flags. Pressed against the stones, she felt the thrill of the coolness dart up through her whole body. She shivered with delight.

The knife-grinder was standing at the window. He had been watching her sensuous dance through a heady haze of liquor for the past few minutes and hoped that he would not be turned away. After all, she had been so very welcoming at their first meeting. The pout of her lips and the look in her eye had told him he would be well received should he choose to call again.

He bent down, picked up a pebble, and tossed it in through the open casement. It bounced once and landed by Susannah’s feet. She let out a muted gasp and sat upright. Turning to the window, she saw a head swathed in a red scarf, teeth pearly white against tanned skin. Flying up from her chair, she hurried over to the man who had sharpened her scissors.

“Be gone with you!” she scolded him. “What do you think you are doing?” Her eyes shot to the bedroom door, but the intruder was pulling her close to him. He began kissing her neck, his beery breath filling her nostrils.

“You alone?” he panted.

“My husband is abed,” she whispered hoarsely and she pushed his chest hard. But he grabbed her hand and unfurling her fingers, he kissed her palm softly. The thrill of his lips on her wrist made her close her eyes for a second, but still she resisted.

“Be gone with you,” she told him, louder this time.

Sensing that perhaps she meant what she said, the knife-grinder backed off, feigning hurt. “Why so cruel?” he asked, his lips drooping.

“I mean it,” she growled.

So, pouting like a wounded child, he touched his red scarf with two of his fingers by way of a farewell, and took his leave. All the same, the look in her eye told him that he should return. And he wove his unsteady way back to his mule, mounted it, and silently stole away like the thief he surely was.

T
homas and Lydia arrived at the Black Bear tired and sore after a journey that had taken them more than seven hours. Chalk dust from the Downs had found its way into the carriage and now a thin film of it covered the seats and the passengers. Because of the heat, Lovelock had stopped more frequently for the horses to take water, so they had endured the lurching and jouncing of the carriage longer than expected. Their relief at their arrival and the thought of a wash and a good meal was, however, enough to put them in better spirits.

They had agreed to take separate rooms to avoid any possible scandal, and after a change of clothes they were shown into a low-beamed dining room. They sat at a quiet table and Thomas ordered a pitcher of wine and a dish of roast lamb and capers. Now and again they could hear raucous shouts from the bar as recently arrived carriers deposited more weary travelers for the night. There was the constant hubbub of toing and froing, of doors banging and orders being barked to the kitchen.

Lydia remained subdued and Thomas felt it his duty to try and distract her from her anxiety over what the morrow might hold. He spoke of Amos Kidd’s beautiful roses and of yesterday’s garden party at West Wycombe. Soon she was smiling again, so that by the time their food arrived, her appetite was whetted.

“I am so grateful to you for being here,” she told him as they ate.

“And I am grateful you chose me to accompany you,” he replied. He grasped his goblet, half full of wine. “Let us drink to our quest.”

Lydia nodded and lifted her glass, clinking it against Thomas’s. “To Richard,” she said. “God grant we find him soon.”

An hour or so later, when they had finished their meal, Lydia told Thomas she wished to retire to her room. He settled her down in the small but pleasantly furnished chamber and decided to return to the bar for a nightcap. As he was coming down the stairs, he noticed two men bluster in from the street. One was tall and well-dressed, a merchant perhaps. He was talking animatedly with the other.

“I tell you, after what I’ve been through, this place is most welcome,” the young doctor heard him say as he headed for the bar.

Thomas approached, intrigued. He sat down at a nearby table so that he could eavesdrop, cradling his brandy and feigning to read a discarded newssheet.

“It was like the deepest, darkest winter, my friend,” continued the merchant. “The snow was gray as ash, and there was a fog that blackened the leaves and poisoned the water.”

The other man called out to the serving girl, snapping his fingers.

“Two brandies and make it quick. My friend here has endured a journey from hell,” he cried.

Thomas needed to know more. He rose and walked casually over to the bar. “So, sir,” he said. “You have had a bad journey?”

The merchant eyed him. “Aye, sir. I’ve ridden through a sudden choking fog that blocked out the sun and made it hard for a man to breathe.”

Thomas looked grave. “A disturbing experience, I’ll wager. And do you have any notion as to what might have caused this fog?” he inquired.

The merchant shrugged. “I did not stop to think, sir. I rode on for my life!”

The young doctor was sympathetic. “It must have been terrifying.”

“By heaven, man, it was! I saw laborers in the fields fall, choking.” He lifted the brandy to his lips.

“And where was this, sir?” Thomas pressed.

“Just outside Bedford,” replied the merchant, before gulping down his liquor in one go.

“And that is north of here?”

“Yes, sir. About eighty miles northeast. I took the road south and I’m pleased to say I was clear of it by Buckingham.” He turned to his companion. “I hope I never encounter such a fog again!”

“I hope you never do, either,” nodded Thomas. But he had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that this deadly haze, this mephitic gas, or whatever it was, was moving inexorably closer. Suddenly all the strange phenomena he had encountered over the past three or four days began to make sense. The rise in barometric pressure could explain the arrival of this noxious cloud, the unseasonal flight of the geese, the swarming of rats, the absence of bees, and the low-flying birds. Nature knew instinctively that something extraordinary and potentially deadly was in her midst—and it was heading south. If that was the case, then in the next few days it would threaten the city of Oxford and, of course, the Boughton estate.

 

From the small viewing room inside the golden orb on top of West Wycombe church, three noblemen were enjoying each other’s company over cards.

“Sweet Jesu, this has to be one of the best views in Christendom,” cried Sir Montagu Malthus. He was peering out from one of the small windows that offered unparalleled views of the countryside as it flattened out toward the Thames. “Windsor Castle is looking splendid this evening.”

“We are indeed high up here,” replied Sir John Dashwood-King. “Franklin wanted to affix one of his new-fangled lightning conductors to the roof,” he said, pointing upward and giggling at what he clearly considered a fanciful notion.

“Full of ridiculous ideas, these Americans,” agreed Sir Montagu.

The lawyer, who had been the late Lord Crick’s guardian, was a great raven of a man. His tall stature and brooding presence added to his formidable reputation as a ruthless advocate. He had broken his journey between the Inns of Court in London and his country seat near Banbury at West Wycombe Park. The fact that he could play a winning hand and eulogize about the view at the same time spoke volumes to his friends. Not much escaped his prying eyes.

“Yes, this brings back memories of dear Francis,” he told the jocular baronet, who was seated opposite him. “Oh, the times we had in the caves!”

Sir John’s broad face beamed. “I can believe that. What was the motto?
Do as you please
?”

Sir Montagu’s great shoulders jumped at the thought. “And we did, by Jove! Ay, Henry?”

Sir Henry Thorndike was also at the card table, although he seemed less engaged in the game. He had still not fully recovered from the exertion of climbing the dozens of steps leading from the church tower into the globe. He took out his kerchief and dabbed his forehead.

“Oh, yes. The times we had,” he replied weakly, still struggling for breath.

Sir Montagu turned to Sir John. “Wouldn’t think so to look at him now,” he said under his breath.

“So how does he manage that young wife of his?”

Sir Montagu winked. “He lets others do that for him. I’ll wager any money you like that the next heir to Fetcham Manor won’t be his,” came the whispered reply.

Both men turned to see the old man wiping the sweat from his top lip.

Sir John called for more wine and they drank heartily. The talk turned to women and the price of grain, the health of His Majesty King George and the Whigs at Westminster.

“So you have come straight from London?” queried Sir John of Sir Montagu.

“Indeed. I had business with my associates in the judiciary.”

“You hatching some plan?” croaked Sir Henry, his breathing still labored.

A smirk settled on Sir Montagu’s lips. “You know me too well, Henry,” he replied. “I needed to sound out the legality of a certain proposal I wish to set in motion.”

“And from the look on your face, your mission was a success?” ventured Sir John.

“Have you ever known me to fail?” An air of self-satisfaction enveloped the lawyer, just as surely as if he had been wearing a cloak.

“So you will make us privy to your plans?” asked Sir John.

“They involve my charge.”

“The lovely Lady Lydia?” asked Sir Henry.

Sir Montagu nodded. “The very same. As you know her father, God rest his soul, wanted me to look after her in the event of his death and I have not discharged my duties lightly.”

“So you are still on the hunt for a suitable husband for her?”

Malthus nodded. “Indeed, John. Like Fetcham, Boughton was in need of an heir.”

“Was?” reiterated Sir Henry.

Sir Montagu sipped his claret. “Yes, events have taken a most interesting turn, gentlemen.”

Sir John arched a brow. “And what might that be?”

The lawyer paused for effect as if he were in a courtroom. “I believe Lydia gave birth to a son and that he may well be alive.”

The two other men let out a collective gasp.

Sir John jumped in first. “Born on the right side of the sheets?”

Sir Montagu waved his hand dismissively. “That rake Farrell was the father, of that I am sure, so the boy’s legitimacy is a mere technicality.”

“And how did you come by this information?” pressed Sir Henry.

“I was an executor of Farrell’s will. There were bills, letters. I traced them.”

“So you have found the boy?” asked Sir John.

“My man is on the trail as we speak.”

Sir Henry breathed deeply and took a gulp of claret. “Well, there’s a turn up for the books.”

“Indeed.” Sir Montagu nodded. “And who could resist a noblewoman with a ready-made son?”

Sir John was not so sure. “And what about that surgeon chap from the Colonies. There’s talk, Montagu. You should see the way they look at each other.”

“A good point,” he replied. “And this is where I need your help.”

Both men looked at Sir Montagu, then eyed each other quizzically before leaning forward in unison. “We’re all ears, dear fellow,” said Sir John.