Delighted by her surprised reaction, Henry drove home the point. ‘Did he not tell you he’d met with the fiend, who must be the greatest enemy this coast has ever had, and I do not only mean to me? He even visited him at Walmer Castle.’

‘Innocently, I’m sure.’

‘Brazier dined with him more than once at the Three Kings. I earlier used the word “infatuation”, Elisabeth. What if he’s not the man you believe him to be, but is instead a danger to us both, as well as everything our father created? What if his promise was false? We’re not talking about social disgrace here, but a rope round my neck in front of a baying crowd at Newgate Prison.’

Henry paused to let that hit home, his voice taking on a more urgent tone when he continued. ‘Do you really think you’d escape the same fate? Would anyone believe you had no idea what was happening in the house in which you were raised? They would believe you were − even if not a party to it − complicit. Does it not occur to you now, you might have been planning to run away with an agent acting on behalf of the government?’

Combined with the astonishment of what had only been outlined by Edward Brazier came the shock as Henry’s words hit home. It was too much to absorb and above everything she wanted to get off the subject, which meant changing it.

‘So this was enough to drug me and marry me to a pig.’

‘Whose attentions you may never have to suffer.’

‘I recall you said on certain conditions.’

Henry declined to go there, going back to his main worries. ‘I admit to taking a dislike to Brazier on first acquaintance, but my motive was to protect you from yourself and perhaps both of us from the fate just described. I hoped with sufficient pressure, he might be persuaded to go away.’

‘To the point of employing violence.’

His hands went up as if in frustration, the lie following smoothly.

‘An error. What I’d intended as a verbal warning got out of hand, though I am, of course, at fault for my instructions being a touch imprecise. Subsequent to that, he taunted me and set up a plan to snatch you away, so any guilt I feel has been moderated.’

‘Snatched away, Henry? I was a willing party.’

The voice changed to one which was wheedling, a much more common tone for a brother who’d ever seen himself as put upon and misunderstood.

‘What was I to think, especially when I heard a troubling tale, one of which I sought to tell you: the notion, and it is a strong one, he was party to the killing of his superior officer in Jamaica?’

‘You seem to forget I was there. If Edward had been under suspicion, or anyone for that matter, it would have been the talk of the island. His name would have been on everyone’s lips. I heard it only when we first met.’

‘And those who say otherwise?’

‘Are deluded. Admiral Hassall died from the venomous bite of a snake.’

‘There is talk going the rounds of human agency.’

‘Which I choose not to believe.’

‘I fear it may turn out to be otherwise. If it does and it’s him swinging not me, then I will know I saved you from the grave error of attaching yourself to a murderer.’

‘How can you talk of criminality, when you live your life by it?’

‘You hint at hypocrisy?’

This was delivered as if in response to a jest, an attitude not maintained. Henry was suddenly very serious in both manner and expression.

‘I stand by my actions and we are where we are. You’re now wedded to Harry Spafford, which precludes whatever was intended by Brazier. And, I have to tell you, Harry has signed over control of the Langridge plantations to me. So not only do you lack the independence you enjoyed as a widow, you are without any means of support, as is Spafford himself, lest I provide it.’

‘He is so much your creature. And you wonder why I despise him.’

‘Feel free to do so, but know this. He will do as I say and will not trouble you, as long as you agree to accept your situation.’

‘It seems to be the same as our Aunt Sarah, who too has become your creature. When will I be required to polish the silver?’

‘You are my sister and may call upon me for anything you require.’

‘Except the freedom to choose my own course.’

‘It is my hope, in time, you’ll see it for the best. Then any restrictions can be removed.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I cannot see such a possibility requires an answer.’

The increasing feeling of despair Elisabeth harboured, which had swept over her as Henry outlined her situation, had to be hidden. Nothing had changed: she was trapped, and the failures of the night before last underlined it. If she’d had to accept as true what she had been told about her family running contraband on an industrial scale, there was no requirement to take as read Henry’s opinion, or scabrous tales about Edward Brazier being a spy or a murderer.

The man she had come to know was not devious in any way, nor, as already proven, was he the kind to give up. She’d been so drugged the night of her forced marriage, Elisabeth had only found out later he’d come to take her away, arriving too late, a fact gloatingly imparted by Henry. Surely he would make another attempt, but how would he contrive to rescue her? All she could do was hold her nerve and hope, but there was one concession she could extract and it was a vital one.

‘I want the promise you’ll keep Spafford away from the house and me. If not …’

The slightly enigmatic smile hardly registered, yet it did seem inappropriate to what was being asked. It didn’t last: Henry’s countenance set itself once more in the sententious, self-regarding cast, which was a reflection of his character.

‘As long as you accede to my wishes, it will be so. Please do not, I beg you, give me cause to think otherwise. I will not have you challenge me and do nothing.’

‘Given what you did to poor Upton, I believe you.’

The reply was abrupt. ‘You would let a servant defy you?’

‘You seem to forget he was seeking to help me.’

‘To be what? I would point out, should you run from here, you will do so without a penny piece. And, before you tell me Brazier will support you, I ask you to imagine how it will be perceived, a married woman and a widow, running away with a lover. I shall have little choice but to spread the truth of your situation, so you will be ruined and so will Brazier. With such a reputation, as a debaucher, I doubt anyone with the power to do so will be inclined to advance his career. Socially you will both be as good as dead.’

Elisabeth rose to leave, knowing she had a great deal on which to think. Such sangfroid as she’d sought to project having been a performance, inwardly she was in turmoil.

 

Henry sat for some time contemplating the conversation. Had his ploy succeeded? Had he ensnared Elisabeth to the point where to act against his wishes would be seen as unwise? He had to doubt it, he knew her too well, something she might have scoffed at if said to her. Whatever, no harm had been done to a situation which had not truly altered. Spafford dead was as much a potent threat as he’d been alive and, at all costs, the manner of his passing must never come out.

The dining-room door opened and Grady’s head came round, to mouth a quick apology before beginning to withdraw, which had Henry call for him to proceed, an order which saw a couple of the maids rush in to clear away the breakfast dishes. There was a great deal of food unconsumed; would they eat it even if it was now cold? He suspected it likely even if they were well looked after. The lower orders were like dogs, who would eat until they burst.

Exiting the room, Grady informed Henry he had been in receipt of post, adding the box of coin kept to pay for delivery required to be replenished, which engendered mild annoyance, it being the kind of domestic chore overseen by his aunt. It was important she kept abreast of her duties, which he would remind her of when they had tea. A small pile of letters, plus a copy of the Daily Universal Register, lay on a silver salver, scooped up to be taken to his study.

One letter dropped to the floor and, bending to pick it up, Henry saw it was addressed to Elisabeth. That in itself was not what led to a rush of angry blood. The handwriting he knew only too well, making it unnecessary to look at the return address: it was from his Uncle Dirley.

 

On re-entering her bedroom, with the door locked and the key left in, which assured no one could enter without permission, Elisabeth noticed right away the lack of quills in the leather vessel on her desk, normally prominent. Within a second it was obvious what else had been taken away: the box of writing paper, the well and the sand required to dry the ink. Gone too was her seal along with the tin of wax; not even the knife required to keep the quill sharp had survived.

Many times she’d sat down to write letters, obviously to Edward Brazier, others to Annabel Colpoys, even one to Stephen’s mother, the Widow Langridge, with whom she had what could best be described as a strained relationship, so much so they were the only missives which contained nothing about her present travails and so could be safely left lying about. The others, as much to get the thoughts that troubled her, not out of her mind, but in a sense shared, were composed in the certain knowledge they could not be sent. These went out with her on her walks to be disposed of in the lake, wrapped round a stone to ensure they sank to the bottom, it not being safe to leave them hidden in a room the servants would be sent in to clean in her absence.

She could easily envisage her Aunt Sarah alone in here once they’d finished, searching for any sign her niece was seeking to communicate with anyone outside the grounds, the only question being, was she driven by her own desire to discover or acting on the instructions of Henry − not that it made any difference. This must have been a deliberate instruction and to her mind it was crass, petty and stupid, just another indication of how much he controlled everything. If he had, for a very brief moment, dented her resolve in the dining room, such an act completely demolished any notion she would comply with his wishes. Why was it he thought himself clever, when so often he acted like a spoilt child?

Anger at such a move sustained her for a while, but it wasn’t long before a wave of despair began to take over. Writing plans and concocting stratagems, even knowing it was pointless, had helped sustain her and now such release was gone. Her determination not to succumb to tears held for a while, but broke eventually and left her sobbing, while wondering how her life could have, in so short a time, come to this.

 

The Reverend Joshua Moyle was in the process of actually trying to write a letter, a reply to the bishop in Canterbury, in truth the incumbent in Dover, who undertook the pastoral duties of the premier diocese to cover for the archbishop. He, besides a few major religious festivals, which obliged him to take services in his seat, stayed in London for the very simple reason it was where the things which mattered took place.

The quill was not moving with anything approaching fluency, for the way his confidence had been boosted by Henry Tulkington the night before had not survived his slumbers. He’d woken long before his normal hour – a lack of drink contributing – to face the possibility of further investigation into his activities. How had something which should have stayed within the confines of the Cottington Estate come to the attention of his ecclesiastical superiors?

The bishop’s secretary had already paid a visit to examine the parish register, making no comment on the entry relating to the marriage of Spafford and Elisabeth, yet leaving Moyle with a feeling he was suspicious. The communication which had so alarmed him underlined the supposition had been correct. It was not a night or a situation he recalled with much pleasure. Why had he not had the courage to point out what was suggested was sinful, in reality a forced marriage of the kind Acts of Parliament had been promulgated to stop?

He could recall working himself up to do so more than once, but the courage to speak never surfaced. Even fortified by too much brandy, it was obvious Elisabeth had been given some kind of drug. Her intended had put away more brandy than he, while Henry, sober, had masterminded the whole affair, even to the point of forcing his tearful aunt to act as witness. How many times in private had he resolved to tell Henry his duties to his ministry took precedence over his responsibilities to the man who controlled his appointment?

Such determination never survived being in his presence and it had been the same with Acton Tulkington, the person who’d chosen him to fill the vacancy, which had come as a godsend to a cleric with a wife to support and in desperate pursuit of a place. Moyle knew he was unfitted to his office. If he’d been the priest he set out to be, the man Mrs Moyle had been happy to wed, this is not where he would have ended up. Somewhere along the way he had lost his faith, something he supposed was kept private but was in fact no mystery among those to whom he ministered. Often he was the worse for wear due to drink taken, which, he convinced himself, was to bolster his confidence.

This in itself said much of the level to which he’d sunk. His congregation consisted almost exclusively of the workers on the estate, added to labouring folk, servants, farm workers, woodcutters and charcoal makers disinclined to crowd outside the much busier church of St Leonard’s, often in the rain or buffeted by the wind. There was no room inside for the commonality: pews were reserved for people of quality, who could be relied upon not to let the collection plate pass without donating silver, the kind of folk he’d dreamt himself administering to as a young man.

A glance at the open parish register demonstrated the difference: not there the long list of births, weddings and funerals, which would have been inscribed in any normal parish; his was singular in the paucity of entries. However he calculated a reply, Moyle knew to say anything which could rebound on Henry was impossible, for the very simple reason he would suffer equally, if not more.

The prospect of being moved was terrifying, for there would be no likelihood of another living. This meant no home, no stipend to pay for food to eat, which would oblige him to seek charity from one or more of his fellow clerics. The notion of such an impoverished existence was not to be borne, so the quill, which had stayed poised too long, began to scratch across the paper.

Of the dangers Moyle faced, Henry Tulkington was by far the greatest. Lying to a bishop was a risk but, in comparison, one much less threatening.

 

Henry was not writing, but mentally composing a reply to what had not been addressed to him. Dirley’s previous communication had been irritating enough, added to which it had been opened to be first read by his Aunt Sarah, something which still rankled. At least she’d passed it to him, not Elisabeth, so his sister knew nothing of its existence, or the invitation issued for her and Spafford to visit him in London so he could both cosset and congratulate them.

This follow-up was even more disingenuous; it assured her he, Henry, would be a sound custodian of the affairs of the new couple, which was seen as questionable for, if it was not, why mention it? Dirley took leave to assume they’d put aside any notion of returning to Jamaica to oversee the management of the plantations themselves, a possibly wise choice given the fate which had befallen poor Stephen. But it was the last paragraph that really raised his hackles.

It was signed off with the kind of flowery tributes, mixed with self-effacement, which had never been present in any letter Dirley had addressed to Henry. This caused him to swear out loud on first reading, with a statement as accurate as it was heartfelt.

‘You devious old bastard!’