The 29th day of September 1752

Michaelmas (New Calendar)

Luminary: Sun sets at 6 apparently, allowing for refraction.

Observation: Saturn sets at 9 at night.

Prognostication: Men of viperous and sordid principles will be active.

 

Happy to be at liberty, Tabitha and the rejoicing Jennet set off up Bridge Street, picking their way through milling shoppers, wooden barrows and straw baskets strewn with every sort of commodity. The barking dogs and ceaseless din of hawkers crying their wares gave Tabitha a chance to collect her wits before she spoke to the girl.

Where had Darius run to? She found herself eyeing dark corners of the galleried rows that stretched above the shops and bundled shapes behind lines of laundry and heaps of goods. No, once Darius had reached the river’s shore, he must have struck out into the countryside. Or would he linger here, in the faceless crowds, where a stranger would not be remarked upon? Having witnessed his escape unnerved her; she recalled his vicious black eyes raking her countenance and was surprised to realize how much peace of mind the prospect of his imprisonment had brought her.

They halted at a linen stall but nothing pleased Tabitha in the prim array of shirt pieces and handkerchief squares.

‘I want a drink,’ she said, glancing down one of the town’s gloomy passageways. ‘The White Lion should be lively.’

She failed to mention that The White Lion was the inn where Nat would wait for the London coach. She could still feel a lingering but pleasing soreness upon her lips, and even more powerfully, a hastening within her body, like the release of a wheel that might spin away, who knew where.

The inn was as she remembered it: smoky, comfortable, and crowded with men. She looked about for Nat but saw no sign of him. It was difficult to believe that a mere six – or was it seven? – weeks had passed since she had walked through those doors in all her flash rig-out, straight off the London coach. Again, heads turned to inspect both her and Jennet: idle, lingering, drunken appraisals. It made Tabitha want to spit in those wretches’ eyes to see how they leered at the girl. Jennet was no more than a child; and as for herself, dressed in her mother’s homespun, she was scarcely looking for business.

Settling her charge down on a stool, she went to confirm that the London coach had left on time, and to order a brandy for herself and a barley water for Jennet. On her return, two ill-favoured carters were attempting to coax Jennet to drink from their ale jug. The younger one, a snub-nosed baboon, said, ‘You two turned plenty of heads when you come in here.’

‘Aye, and no doubt you two turned plenty of stomachs,’ Tabitha snapped back. ‘Be off with you.’ With surly expressions, they disappeared.

‘I didn’t fetch you any brandy,’ she said tartly, ‘for I can see you are tipsy enough with joy.’

Jennet nodded, beaming. ‘It’s like a miracle. Like Darius said, it was foretold in the stars that he would never go to trial.’

Tabitha rapidly downed the rough spirits, enjoying the pleasant burn in her gullet.

‘And what do you suppose he meant by that?’

‘That he is innocent, of course.’ She suddenly brimmed with laughter. ‘The way you spoke to those two men.’ She giggled.

‘That’s what most of them deserve. You need to know that before you throw yourself at a young devil like Darius.’

Jennet sipped her barley water, eyeing her friend. ‘You told me you were ill-treated in London. Is that why you don’t like men?’

Tabitha laid her head back against the panelled wall and closed her eyes. Why in Hell’s name had she told the girl that?

‘And how did you get away from that dreadful place?’ Jennet insisted.

Sighing, Tabitha explained. ‘There was a girl in the next chamber to me. Poll, she was called, as shining bright as a new penny. She cultivated one of her beaux – a grizzled soldier, ugly but tender-hearted, and begged him to help her get away, and made a thousand promises to keep him sweet. For months she hid away his money without the bawdy-house keeper’s knowledge. And she took me with her when she fled.’ She smiled into the distance, remembering. ‘“Toujours pret, Madame!” was Poll’s motto. “Always ready!” And so we were. Vauxhall Gardens had never seen the like of us.’

‘You still have a gentleman friend in London?’

‘Is that what my mother called him? I did have. Robert, yes.’

‘Do you love him?’

Tabitha stifled a yawn. Truly, the girl was obsessed with that emotion. ‘I should have met him here last week but I did not attend our rendezvous. So it would appear not.’

‘Have you always been so—’

She never did learn what Jennet was about to say. Hard-hearted? Callous? Or worse – bitter, a second-rate beauty, a bold-shammer? Before she could conclude, Tabitha pinched her leg privately beneath the table. ‘Do not look up,’ she whispered, looking hard into Jennet’s wide eyes. ‘There is a man by the bar in a green braided coat. I stole something of great value from him. He may have me arrested if he claps eyes on me again.’

Jennet gave a tiny nod of comprehension.

‘When I squeeze your hand, I want you to go to the door without looking backwards; I will follow behind.’

Jennet did as she was told. Then Tabitha followed, poker-stiff with fear. Skirting the Irishman’s table, she saw that a set of coaching timetables was laid out before him, and that he was tracing across a line of departure times with his fingertip.

At any moment, she expected that hairy-backed hand to grip her shoulder, that husky brogue to whisper, ‘Got you now, you prigging whore. So where’s my damned timepiece?’ But, unharmed, she reached the door, and breathed free air as she hustled Jennet out into the street.

‘It’s best we get back to the castle,’ she said, setting a swift pace. ‘Your father may have news.’

Joshua had no news; but before he sent them home to Netherlea, he pulled Tabitha aside. ‘Where has that fellow Starling gone?’

She told him what she knew: that he must by now be a good hour down the road to London. His expression reminded her of a bear she had once seen baited at the Market Cross; the poor, baffled creature, striking out at its tormentors too slowly and too late.

‘He has fled?’

‘Fled?’ she scoffed. ‘He has gone to London on business.’

‘He was directly next to that lead horse when it bolted. And now he has absconded.’

‘Joshua, that is not true. He’ll be back in a fortnight at the latest.’

‘And his address in London?’

She frowned, having no notion. ‘He said he would write to me.’

The worst of it was that, like that poor chained bear, Joshua’s anger and pain was clear behind his eyes. ‘I’ll keep a lookout for his letters. I’d lay odds they’ll make most interesting reading.’

When they got back to Netherlea, Nell Dainty and Bess were not at the cottage, nor were they at the doctor’s house. Cutting through the grounds of Bold Hall to enquire at the stillroom, Tabitha stopped dead to listen. Was that the little chit’s babbling voice, reaching her from the gloom of Lady Daphne’s dairy? Inside were tables of marble, Delft tiles and churns, all of the most modern style. And there she found Nell Dainty watching her daughter, Zusanna, feed Bess from a bowl of curds and sugar.

‘Here you are! I have looked everywhere,’ Tabitha reproached the child, wishing she was not quite so hot and flustered.

‘You said you was staying out for the night,’ Nell complained, scowling. ‘We was just talking about you. Where shall this little maid go when you traipse back to London, and start carrying on your old business?’

Zusanna chimed in. ‘We heard you was looking to leave her with anyone as would have her.’

‘I’ll take her now,’ Tabitha said, trying to hide the fury in her voice – but, as if deaf, Zusanna loaded another spoon, and nudged Bess’s rosebud mouth.

‘Me and my ma wouldn’t want to see her sent down to the poorhouse. Only that’s where most of the ill-gotten babes end up.’

Bess’s huge eyes blinked in innocent pleasure as she swallowed another mouthful.

‘No!’ Tabitha swept the spoon from Zusanna’s hand and pulled Bess into her arms. ‘I don’t care if you are as barren as the desert – you are not having her!’

All the way back to the cottage, Bess bawled so noisily that Tabitha wondered why in Hell’s name she had bothered. Let them have the tiresome child. Her true life was in London, and that was no life for a child – especially a cherubic girl child. It was true that, once back in London, she hoped to continue her friendship with Nat Starling; and, like her, he had no settled income or position to support a child, however charming. Charming? Bess cried on and on, at a tooth-wincingly high pitch.

‘Oh, shut up!’ She set Bess down on the ground. The child pulled herself upright, stamped her tiny feet and glared at her through teary eyes.

‘Oh, mademoiselle is annoyed, is she?’ Tabitha taunted. ‘I can also stamp my feet.’ She proceeded to do so, knowing herself to be quite ridiculous. Then she sank to her knees on the grass beside the little girl and placed a great smacking kiss on her mouth. ‘Help me, Bess. What am I to do with you?’

To her surprise, Bess pushed her little lips against her mouth and kissed her in return.