The King's Chameleon (24 page)

After the wedding breakfast and the toasts, Faulkner introduced Edmund Drinkwater to the Duke and Duchess of Albemarle as ‘the newly appointed commander of the ship named in Your Grace's honour'. This further delighted the duchess who expressed herself as being ‘tickled'.

In the days that followed the departure of Hannah on a brief honeymoon, a sense of normality began to settle upon the house in Wapping. In Drinkwater's absence Faulkner took in hand the final stages of the preparation of the
Duchess of Albemarle
for her maiden voyage, acutely aware that Hannah's ecstasy would be short-lived when her husband assumed command and sailed once again for the Malabar coast, Bengal and China.

Of course, the past hung like a shadow over them all, for Judith remained in her room, attended by Molly, her maid, who took in her food, helped her wash and dress and saw to her daily needs. The only other member of the family she would countenance admitting was her brother Nathan. She reserved all intercourse for him. Gooding thus occupied the equivocal status of go-between. It was contrary to his honest nature and distracted him from what he did best – run the partners' business.

The morning after Faulkner had left his bed, he had called Gooding in to brief him on the current state of affairs. Having ascertained that no message had been received from Lord Clarendon, it was only then, his personal anxieties set aside for the time being, that Faulkner had looked properly at Gooding. In asking about their ships, and in particular the
Duchess of Albemarle
, he had noticed Gooding's changed appearance. For a moment, with his wits still dimmed by his fever, he could not identify the detail but then it had come to him. Nathan was less kempt and looked far older than his years. It seemed to Faulkner that he had been absent for many, many months, so intense had been the experience of his Dutch ‘adventure' and the mental wanderings of an over-heated brain, but when reality had dawned it had been clear that his brother-in-law was in some distress. As Gooding's voice had concluded his summary it seemed to fade, as though all the energy had been drained from him; he had stared through lacklustre eyes into the middle-distance.

‘What's amiss, Nathan? You look like death.'

Gooding had stirred, regarding Faulkner abstractedly; then he had gradually gathered himself, finally shaking his head. ‘Forgive me, Kit,' he had said, at last, ‘but I … I am …'

‘You are what?' Faulkner had prompted.

Gooding had shaken himself, like a dog emerging from water, before his pent-up feelings had burst from him in a torrent of words. ‘I am all out of sorts. Ever since that evil day when I fell in the beastliness of drink, the world had changed around me. Now Henry is dead by his own hand, Judith is mad, and you, you are changed and brought near death. Nothing, it seems, is the same, and that upon which I depended is shifted like the ground under-foot when the earth moves.' He had run his hand over his head, through his now unfashionably cropped hair, his expression a mixture of fear and desperation. ‘We have a woman who comes and goes, and has been like an angel to you and Hannah, who Hannah clearly worships yet bears with her the reputation of … of …' He had paused, glancing at Faulkner almost as though expecting a blow.

Faulkner had said quietly, ‘Of a whore, d'you mean?'

‘Of a scarlet woman …
your
scarlet woman,' Gooding went on. ‘And if such domestic troubles were not enough I have the business to run in your protracted absence, occupied in God alone knows what evil, evil in which my sister—' Here Gooding had choked back a sob, his affection for Judith clear and unambiguous, before repeating himself as he laboured on. ‘In which my sister has been caught up and her son, my nephew, has become a suicide!'

‘He was my son, too, Nathan,' Faulkner had said in a low voice.

‘I know. I know.' Gooding had shaken his head as tears flowed freely down his be-stubbled cheeks. ‘But what, Kit, what shall become of Judith? She is in no mind to come to her senses and berates me for continuing my association with you. But what am I to do? We must maintain our association if only for her sake, for she is past handling her own affairs, so envenomed is she with the world, the King, the Parliament – but mostly, it seems, with you.' He had leaned forward and put his head in his hands, giving way to great wracking sobs. Unnoticed by Gooding, the parlour door had opened, and Katherine appeared. Distracted by the movement and embarrassed at Gooding's breakdown, Faulkner had looked up. Placing his finger to his lips he had motioned for her to come into the room, which she had done, quietly closing the door behind her to lean against it. The impropriety of inviting her to witness his brother-in-law's humiliation had not immediately struck Faulkner. His action had been instinctive, as though Katherine was now so close a confidante that the intimacy with Gooding had been of no account.

After a few moments, and oblivious of Katherine's presence behind him, Gooding had drawn himself upright, dashing the tears from his eyes. He had cleared his throat before he could speak, but it had been clear that he had mastered himself. He was still oblivious to Katherine's presence, though Faulkner could smell the warmth of her body and her perfume. Gooding began to speak again. His voice had recovered its old timbre.

‘I cannot … cannot deny that my sister is not the women she once was. Much of what she has told me troubles me, but the matters of which she speaks cannot be laid upon my own soul …'

‘Except?' Faulkner had ventured.

Gooding had stared at him. ‘You know?'

‘I guessed. She has confessed something to you, something to bind you in and use to drive a wedge between us. She is clever, cunning and determined, Nathan.'

‘She is the woman … She is Eve … She is either Eve or a
witch
!'

Faulkner forbore looking at Katherine, fixing Gooding with his eyes. ‘What did she confess, Nathan?' he had asked quietly.

Gooding had hesitated before he had again lowered his voice so that it had been almost inaudible. ‘How she almost had you killed.'

‘
What?
'

‘How she passed to Henry the weapon with which he tried to kill you.'

Faulkner had hardly heard the end of the sentence. He had realized that Judith had stolen the wheel-lock from him aboard the
Blackamoor
while he had slept. Later, aboard the
Hawk
, she had somehow managed to slip it to Henry, mewed up amidships, that much was clear. Faulkner had frowned, his heart beating as it came to him: she could only have accomplished the transfer through the treachery of a third party.

‘Who was it who helped her, Nathan?' he asked quietly.

Gooding had shaken his head, burying it in his hands.

‘Who, Nathan?' Faulkner persisted.

‘I cannot tell you … You will exact a price, take revenge.'

‘Perhaps,' Faulkner had admitted, ‘but does the secret lie happily with you, or shall you feel the cold stirring of conscience every time this person, or persons, is near you … or near to me, for that matter?' Faulkner had paused, then prompted Gooding, ‘Was it Toshack? I can hardly believe it, but …' He had been about to say that Judith had charms and beauty, but forbore. Would she have attempted the seduction of Toshack? And how could she when surely he would have been aware the old seaman had entered the cabin? But someone had come in and taken the wheel-lock from her.

Gooding had shaken his head again. ‘No, not Toshack.'

‘One of his crew then?' Faulkner had stared at Gooding and had then realized who it had been. ‘It was the lad, wasn't it? It was Hargreaves.' Faulkner had risen, had felt his head spin and had sunk back into his chair. Katherine had rushed forward in a rustle of grey silk, to kneel at his feet and chafe his hands.

Gooding had looked up. ‘How long has she been in the room?' he had asked.

Katherine had turned to Gooding. ‘I am not a tell-tale, Mr Gooding,' she had said simply.

‘What are you then, Mistress?'

‘A whore, as you suppose, but also a woman who finds the world wearying at times, as I perceive you do. We have that in common, sir.'

‘Such treachery,' Faulkner had muttered, wrapped in his own thoughts. ‘How did she do it?' he had asked of Gooding.

‘Apparently, the boy had come below to see if either of you required anything. She must have been awake, and you, you were fast asleep again. She engaged him in conversation, discovered he had a widowed mother and told him that she would see that he had, I don't know, ten, twenty sovereigns if he would do something for her. She tricked him into agreement before revealing what his task was – she prides herself on that; out-Heroding Herod, she said, referring to you. No-one need ever know, she told him, and it was important that Master Henry had the means to defend himself. Master Henry had always been good to him, hadn't he? All that impressionable nonsense.' Gooding had shrugged. ‘The boy fell for it, and the deed was done in the darkness. I do not think Toshack understood the need to keep Henry confined or out of touch with anyone. You cannot have explained that properly. In truth I do not know the details but likely he was implicated through ignorance.'

‘And the boy still waits for his money,' Faulkner had observed drily.

‘Judith has asked me to pay him.'

‘Good Christ!' Gooding winced at Faulkner's blasphemy. ‘And what of Hargreaves? Has he shown himself at the counting-house?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘I paid him to stay silent.'

The last words ought to have shocked him, Faulkner had thought afterwards, but they did not. After a moment's consideration he had said, ‘Leave Hargreaves to me. Katherine, my dear, would you pass us that wine and join us in a glass. Now, Nathan, you and I are going to drink to the future, then you are going to shave, I am going to do likewise and we shall take a walk.' He had brushed aside Katherine's protestations that he was not yet well. ‘We have ships to attend, a wedding to arrange.'

Some sort of normality had then settled upon them, in the days leading up to the wedding, gradually embedding itself as day succeeded day and routine gathered its own momentum. There was no escaping the past, of course, for Judith's presence made its own demands upon the household and, in conformity with the law, the wheel-lock was surrendered as a deodand to the crown officers. In due course, Faulkner was obliged to buy it back again as an expiatory act to God for his son's suicide, the fee being directed to charity. He had walked down to the river at Wapping Stairs and tossed the thing into the grey Thames, watched by several incredulous watermen. He had no doubt that one or other of them had fished it out later, for the sunlight had caught it as it spun from his hand, revealing itself not merely as a hand-gun, but a weapon of great expense.

As Faulkner had watched the waters close over the pistol and the annular rings of disturbed water dissipate amongst the wavelets lapping the stairs, it struck him that the extraction of the fee by the coroner was a further irony associated with the events of the last weeks: he had been made to pay for everything that had occurred, even his son's death. Now, in a final act, he discarded the beautifully wrought wheel-lock.

Good-riddance, he had thought as he walked home.

As the day of the wedding approached Hannah's happiness seemed to purge the house of gloom. Judith's presence in her chamber became an inconvenience, not a reproach. Word circulated of its own volition that she was mad. The national mood played in their favour: Puritan solemnity and virtue were things of the past. Life was to be enjoyed as the Merry Monarch and his court so ably demonstrated. Faulkner was regarded as an unfortunate man whose admittance of a beautiful woman into his house was but a manifestation of his vigour. In a very short space of time, if not admired, he was absolved of moral turpitude.

Two days before the wedding both Faulkner and Gooding were in the counting-house inspecting their ledgers, their clerks about them, when, in accordance with an arrangement, Edmund Drinkwater waited upon them. He was tall and tanned, his features regular with a wide, engaging smile that made his grey eyes twinkle. Faulkner regarded him with approval; Hannah had chosen well, though he could less easily perceive what the young officer saw in her.

The interview went well, and further arrangements were made to have Drinkwater sworn-in as both a Younger Brother of the Trinity House and a sworn officer in the East India Company's service. These formalities having been attended to, Faulkner took the young man aboard the
Duchess of Albemarle
. The two men spent four hours touring the ship as she neared completion, agreeing on some late modifications that Drinkwater thought useful. As they regained the shore Drinkwater informed his future father-in-law that he had purchased a house in Stepney and, at the end of the day, they shook hands like old friends.

The day after the wedding Faulkner had walked to the counting-house alone and sought out Hargreaves. ‘I want you to attend me tomorrow morning,' he told the lad. ‘We shall be gone all day.' He did not bother to read the youth's face. It was possible that some apprehension filled his mind, but youth has a short memory and Mrs Hargreaves's delight at her son's cleverness in so pleasing Captain Sir Christopher Faulkner that he had been given seven sovereigns was sufficient to wipe from Charlie's mind any sense of wrong-doing.

Hargreaves was on the doorstep at daylight, eager to please. ‘Perhaps the Good Sir Christopher will be generous again,' his mother had said as he left her. ‘You keep working for him and be a good lad.'

‘Good morning, Sir Christopher,' Hargreaves had greeted his master. Faulkner responded civilly, encouraging Charlie to enquire, ‘Pray, where are we bound today, sir?'

Faulkner looked at the lad; his face was open, his use of the nautical term far from disingenuous as they began to walk westwards. ‘Do you know what happens when people incur the King's wrath, Master Hargreaves?' he asked conversationally.