The Ladder Dancer (7 page)

‘That is not the point, Charles!’

‘You mean you’re going to insist on me dealing with them even if it means we go bankrupt within a year?’

‘Now you are exaggerating,’ she said impatiently. ‘You can learn—’

‘I do not want to learn!’ I exploded. ‘I am a musician, not a land agent!’

She visibly took a deep breath to steel herself before replying, which annoyed me even more. Was I so irritating to deal with? ‘This is a matter of legalities, Charles. These estates do not belong to me any longer. They are yours.’

‘Then I appoint you my steward,’ I said. ‘He would deal with all the routine matters, would he not, and merely ask for my signature? Very well, you are now my steward!’

‘Oh,
really
, Charles!’ she said, exasperated.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I prowled across the room, stared out of the window, gulped down my brandy. Esther said nothing, but sat at the desk with her hands clasped on its paper-cluttered surface. The reddening sunlight gleamed on her cheeks, her golden hair . . .

I could not bear it. To be at odds with her was unendurable.

‘I ordered
two
coats,’ I said. ‘And a waistcoat. But without embroidery. Even though I was assured the latest thing in decoration is bumble bees, I couldn’t do it. I’ve always hated honey.’

She burst out laughing. I watched the way her whole face lit up, the delicious crinkles at the side of her eyes, the elegant line of throat as her head tipped back. ‘But you did not order new breeches?’ she said in mock reproach.

‘You’re never satisfied.’

She held my gaze, smiled, said consideringly, ‘We have just argued, Charles. For the first time.’

‘Alas—’ I caught her meaning, added more enthusiastically, ‘Definitely, we have argued.’

‘I do believe there is a popular saying—’

‘About making up—’

‘– being the best part of any argument.’ She gave me a look as coy as any of Mrs Annabella’s.

I gestured at the papers. ‘Do you not need to finish your work?’

‘Work!’ she said, horrified. ‘A lady never
works
, Charles!’

She stood and came across to me, took the brandy glass from my fingers. I didn’t resist.

‘Cook will have the beef already cooking,’ I pointed out, teasingly. ‘What will she say if we’re late and it burns?’

She took my hand. ‘Charles,’ she said, ‘I am not married to the cook! Now come on.’

Fortunately, we didn’t see any of the servants on our way upstairs.

Ten

Outward appearance is always a true sign of inward nature.

[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, September 1734]

A thin cold drizzle dampened the cobbles as I walked under the arch into the yard of the Golden Fleece. It was early, much too early for a newly married man; I began to wonder how fond Jenison was of his wife if he regarded getting up for the morning coach as a matter of indifference. One thing newly married couples are never warned about is the difficulty finding time to sleep.

A friendly spirit slid round the walls to keep me company. ‘Off on your travels again, Mr Patterson?’ The spirit had been an ostler in life, trampled to death by a frightened horse, an event he delights in narrating in unnerving detail.

‘Meeting someone off the coach.’

The spirit sighed wistfully. ‘I always wanted to travel but the furthest I ever got was Sunderland.’

‘My condolences,’ I murmured.

‘Is he coming far, sir?’

‘From London.’

‘Now there’s a man of good sense,’ the spirit said. ‘Why should anyone want to stay in that pit of iniquity?’

I shivered in the drizzle and contemplated a horse that was being led into the yard. It was a dark grey, and my mind slipped back to that other grey, that had ridden down the woman and child. If that was Ridley’s horse, it would be stabled at his mother’s house by now, a mile out of town on the Carlisle road. There was no possibility of getting a look at it; I’d no excuse to go there – Mrs Ridley is not musical.

There was a rattle of wheels. ‘Here it is now, sir,’ said the spirit. The coach appeared, slowing to take the arch into the inn, the coachman ducking low to avoid the roof. The horses blew gusts of rank breath into the cold air.

The Fleece’s servants rushed forward; doors were pulled open, steps let down. Someone thrust a tankard of ale into the coachman’s hands as he clambered to the ground; men began to untie parcels from the roof of the coach. I was relieved to see there was no ladder amongst them. Was that a good sign, or would Nightingale expect me to find a ladder for him? Jenison didn’t want dancing in the concerts but Nightingale might have different ideas.

The first passenger down was a burly middle-aged man, tall and richly dressed in an astonishingly bright green, and an elaborate wig that made his head seem three times as big as normal. Imperiously, he brushed the servants out of the way, then turned to extend a hand to another passenger unseen.

Out tottered an immensely elderly lady, very tiny, muffled up in a hundred cloaks and shawls. Her gratified simper was not hidden, however, as she allowed the gentleman to help her down. He bowed extravagantly, kissed the back of her gloved hand, murmured a compliment. She blushed.

There were five women in the coach, all well beyond their first youth and all immensely grateful to the gentleman for his assistance. They clustered round him, pressing thanks on him, showering him with appreciative gifts: an apple, a wrapped-up pie (
best London lamb
, the giver murmured seductively), a newspaper, a twist of tobacco. The gentleman kissed the hands of his adoring court. Behind the ladies, a young lad stood on the coach steps, ignored and sullen.

The lad seemed to be the only other male on the coach
so this extravagantly dressed gentleman must be Richard Nightingale. I studied him as he paid out compliments by the score, told one elderly lady she must have a dozen beaux, told another he’d never seen such an elegant shawl on a ‘young lady’. One thanked him for
such a wonderfully entertaining end to a long tedious journey
, another insisted he must visit her if he was ever in her part of the country.

The servants at last managed to usher the ladies away out of the drizzle to the warmth of a fire, a dish of tea and a comfortable bed. The lad went off with a foul glance at Nightingale, suggesting he felt utterly eclipsed. Nightingale, deprived of an audience, yawned hugely and stretched.

I bowed. ‘Mr Nightingale? I’m Charles Patterson, Mr Jenison’s . . .
envoy
. Was the journey comfortable?’

He squinted as if not sure what to make of me. Then his gaze settled on my shabby coat and frayed cuffs, and he plainly decided he didn’t have to honour me with any particular politeness. ‘Damnable,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m long past the days I could bear travelling day and night. Where the devil’s the food? And the girls.’

Perhaps Esther was right about the coat giving the wrong impression. ‘Mr Jenison’s booked a room for you at the George Inn,’ I said mildly. ‘It has an excellent reputation. If you’d allow me to escort you there?’

He eyed me for a moment, then raised his head and looked round at the hustle and bustle of the Golden Fleece. ‘Devil a bit of it. I’ll stay here.’

‘I believe—’

‘Ostler!’ he roared. ‘Send my luggage in. Fast as you can.’ And he strode off into the inn.

I sighed, hurried to catch up with him. Jenison was not going to be pleased at the oversettings of his plans; he was a man accustomed to be obeyed. And the George was undoubtedly of better quality than the Fleece, quieter, more comfortable. But it looked as if
quieter
at least was not to Nightingale’s taste. He ducked under a low lintel into a private parlour, issuing orders to half a dozen servants. Bed, beef, beer: he wanted everything instantly.

He dropped into a comfortable chair and swung his legs up on to a scarred table that stood in the middle of the room. ‘Is there any decent entertainment this far north?’

‘We’re not in Scotland,’ I said, needled by his tone. He looked blank, and I realized he didn’t recognize irony. ‘What kind of entertainment are you looking for?’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘You’re an odd fellow, Patterson! Do you never enjoy yourself? Women, I mean women!’

‘I was married three weeks ago.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘On your best behaviour for a while, eh? Pity. Never mind, point me in the right direction and I’ll be happy.’

The servants came back in, loaded with meat and bread and a huge uncut cheese. Nightingale eased his feet off the table to allow them to lay it.

‘Mr Jenison’s booked rooms for you at the George,’ I began again, but he waved a hand dismissively.

‘I’ll lay odds it’s a stuffy place with no life in it! Just the sort of place that fellow would like.’

‘Mr Jenison is paying you,’ I said, ‘including all your expenses.’

He grinned. ‘Think I should show a bit of respect, eh? I always respect money. I’ll make sure he gets plenty of expenses to pay.’ He pinched a serving girl on the bottom; she jumped, scowled at him. He winked. ‘First things first,’ he said and tore off a wedge of bread. ‘Wants to see me, does he?’

‘Today, at noon.’

‘At his own home, his elegant mansion?’ He waved a hand in the air.

‘At his agent’s office on the Key.’

He was annoyed at this, clearly seeing it as an insult. I added, ‘He didn’t want to inconvenience you after such a long journey. The agent’s office is next door to this inn.’

‘Devil a bit of it,’ he said, through a mouthful of bread. ‘I could travel day and night for weeks without it bothering me!’ It was plain he was mollified, however. I found myself oddly torn between annoyance at his manner and a reluctant liking for him. He behaved like a grossly overgrown boy out on a spree, and his very enthusiasm for the simple things of life was engaging. Even if his eating manners were appalling.

‘I’m getting thirty guineas for the half-season,’ he said, as the girl came in with a large jug of ale, giving him a wide berth.

I was tolerably sure Jenison had offered him thirty guineas for the
whole
season. ‘You can of course discuss that with him this afternoon,’ I said.

‘True, true.’ He cut himself a wedge of cheese, wrapped a slice of beef around it. ‘Fine. You can go now.’

I hesitated, annoyed, then thought better of complaining. He didn’t seem to me like a man who’d care what others felt. I nodded, said, ‘Till this afternoon then,’ and walked out.

In the damp yard, the spirit’s gleam shot down to my eye level. ‘A fine gentleman that.’ Unlike Nightingale, I recognize irony when I hear it. ‘The table inside the door,’ the spirit said. ‘Look at the table.’

I glanced round. And there, abandoned on the floor beneath the table, were the gifts bestowed by the ladies in the coach. Except for the meat pie, which was even now in the jaws of a terrier making off for a secret corner to enjoy its unexpectedly good fortune. No, Nightingale clearly didn’t worry about other people’s feelings.

I circumnavigated the hubbub in the yard. The tired horses had been unhitched and led off. Almost all the luggage was down and the coachman was sitting on a step in the thin drizzle, working his way through yet another tankard of ale.

There was a noise, a sudden flood of cold that made me shiver. In the gloom of the inn’s arch, a figure came into existence. One moment she was not there, the next she was. She looked dazed, confused. The ragged girl. Her gaze settled on me, and she brightened, as if I was exactly the person she’d been looking for. But she couldn’t have known I’d be there; it’s not possible to choose exactly where and when you will arrive after
stepping through
.

She straightened, sauntered across to me in that insolent way she had, a way far too adult for her years.

‘You ought to be less obvious about what you’re doing,’ I said.

‘Told you,’ she said. ‘No one ever notices.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘All you can truthfully say is that no one has noticed
so far
.’

She scowled. ‘I could mention it to them. Tell them what I’ve seen.’

‘That would be blackmail,’ I pointed out.

She grinned.

‘But of course if you were to tell people, you’d lose the only weapon you have against me.’

I let the idea hang in the air. She bit her lip in annoyance. I smiled sweetly, made to walk past.

‘I can help you find out who killed the baby,’ she said quickly. ‘I know someone as saw it all.’

I contemplated her for a moment. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘You think that if you help me to find out who killed the baby, I’ll help you by taking you on as apprentice.’

‘You must,’ she said, with sudden fierceness. ‘I swear you must!’

I hesitated. To allow her to think I might change my mind was unfair, but at the same time I did indeed want to speak to anyone who’d seen the events on the Key. She waited, still chewing her lip, fists clenched at her side. I wondered if I could do her a better favour than she asked for herself, and find her a job as a servant in a good house.

I nodded.

Eleven

Charity should be dispensed judiciously; never give the poor money that will make them discontented with their lot— it is not kind.

[
A Gentleman’s Companion
, August 1732]

We didn’t go far. Walking out under the arch of the Fleece we came on to the Sandhill. Despite the similarity in names, the Sand
hill
and the Sand
gate
could not be more different. The Sandhill is the wide open expanse at the centre of the town; there are no slums here. The buildings are old and solid, and redolent of prosperity built on trade and commerce. The Fleece stands on one side of the Sandhill, amongst various shops and offices; across the other side is the tall Guildhall with its wide flights of steps. Some say the Guildhall is stylish and elegant; I think it’s ugly.