The 2nd to the 13th day of September 1752

Annihilated from the Calendar

According to the Act of Parliament the Old Style of Calendar ceases here, and the New Style takes place; and consequently the next Day, which in the Old Account would have been the 3rd, is now to be called the 14th so that all the intermediate nominal Days from the 2nd to the 14th are omitted, or rather annihilated from this Year and this Month contains no more than 19 Days.

 

Nat is careering along a highway in a carriage of the most modern style, with well-sprung wheels and a lining of nail-punched leather. At last he has a great prize at his fingers’ ends. Awaiting him in London is the printing press in which his scribbled words are at this very moment being transformed; inked, printed, folded, bundled, cried up by hawkers, and sold for cash. His story, complete with shocking illustrations, will soon pierce the minds of thousands of citizens, like a hail of inebriating darts.

As the left-hand wheels of the carriage jerk violently upwards, he fumbles for the strap; but the vehicle rights itself without slowing its momentum one whit. In his mind, scenes of absurd satisfaction unfold. He walks among a fashionable crowd at the Playhouse, and overhears, ‘There – that is him. The man of the day.’ He is invited to private clubs, admitted to esoteric societies; there are countless toasts raised to his name. And best of all, there is the marvel of the fresh-inked paper itself – in coffee houses, on breakfast tables and in servants’ halls and low taverns – upon which his own name is writ in black on white. He knows that he stands on the cusp, and the intoxication of it is more dizzying than any liquor.

Another great crack sounds from the axle below him, and the carriage tilts giddily before it rights itself once more. Who the devil is driving the horses so hard? Raising the window blind, he finds a grey confusion; fog, or perhaps smoke, covers an arid land. The road, as far as he can descry it, is rocky, lonely, deserted. He cannot recall ever seeing this highway before. Impatient, and not a little anxious, he bangs his cane on the ceiling. There is no alteration in the speed of the vehicle. He thumps harder; then he pulls down the window glass and thrusts his head outside into the smoky air.

‘Driver!’ he shouts, eyeing the team of plunging ebony horses. He can just see the fellow’s flank and back, muffled in a tattered costume. He is a bulky and peculiarly forbidding figure. ‘Driver, stop!’

Is the fellow deaf? Without slacking pace, the carriage crests the hill, and he sees with a throat-clutch of horror that the road plunges steeply at a near vertical drop, down and down. They will all certainly plummet – the carriage, horses, himself and his precious, febrile hopes – to their deaths.

‘Stop!’

At the same instant, he knows, in the portentous manner of nightmares, that this is his own entire mistake; that the driver he trusted to steer his way has tricked him. For now he knows that he is at the reins; his invisible enemy, the secret prognosticator, his own lurking shadow: De Angelo himself.

The agony of the knowledge forces him awake, choking for air, his heart thumping like the echo of hooves. Alone at Eglantine Hall, he remembers that he has signed the agreement to send Quare the story of the Netherlea Murders. And now, having taken the leap of eleven days in one harrowing night, he has the first inkling that this might have been remarkably unwise.

Meanwhile, Tabitha goes to bed, her mind revolving around Nat’s notion of eleven days’ addition to her life. She flits rapidly through insubstantial scenes in which she is admired: in a large box at the theatre, taking the floor at a glittering ball, ending the night at a coffee house as dawn pinks across the piazza. Enough of that. She surrenders to the power of those tortoiseshell eyes, Nat’s mouth; his strong fingers rake the hair at the nape of her neck. Lips parted, she sinks into sleep.

The bedroom is very still and quiet, the dawn weak and grey. On the wooden chair in the corner sits a woman dressed in faded blue. Tabitha fights off the entanglements of sleep, sits upright and peers at the woman.

‘Mother.’ She cannot believe her eyes.

It is her mother, rising now to sit on the edge of the bed. Tabitha’s surprise is a lump in her breast, a blazing heartache, wonder and pain. True, her mother has changed – she is bone-thin, and frail as a feather. Yet her spirit quivers with life, like the light of a candle flaring behind a muslin drape.

‘I am so happy you are home,’ her mother says.

The pain in Tabitha’s breast overflows and blooms into happiness, as if these were the words she has waited all her life to hear. Her mother’s eyes are familiar shining blue. Her expression bestows on her child such sweet concern that Tabitha’s spirit repeats, ‘I am home. All will be well.’ Silently, her mother raises a mottled finger to her lips, and Tabitha watches as those lips pucker and age, growing toothless and ruined. There is not much time. Her mother is leaving.

There is no need to ask why she has returned. It is to remind her that she made a promise, here, in this same room, on a night of fury and tears. A blood oath of silence that must never be broken.