The 31st day of October 1752

All Hallows’ Eve

Luminary: Daybreak at 15 minutes after 5.

Observation: The square of Jupiter and Mars will initiate immoral actions.

Prognostication: A spirit of fanatic hypocrisy animates mankind.

 

‘Nat, get up!’ Tabitha stood at the oriel window, looking down the drive of Eglantine Hall in dismay. Joshua and a band of men were marching between the ruined gateposts; at their rear trundled the black prison coach. Ever since Joshua’s visit, she had wondered if he would be able to stop himself from persecuting Nat. True, it had saddened her to see her old friend suffer, but she thought it for the best if Joshua finally knew he could not have her. At last, he might find someone new.

And now Joshua was striding up the driveway, his constable’s staff like a cudgel in his hand. What a dunderhead she had been! He must have been plotting to ruin Nat during all these weeks she had been idling in bed. She ran to where Nat lay sleeping and pulled the tangle of bedsheets off him.

‘Nat! Joshua is here. Get dressed and prepare to face whatever accusations he has invented.’

Nat’s eyes opened in alarm.

‘Here. Put on your best coat.’ She handed him his articles, fussing over him like a fond mother. Too soon, loud knocking rang out from below. Tabitha pulled her mother’s blue linsey gown over her night-shift and tried to smooth her hair as she clattered downstairs. She cursed her trusting nature as she reached the door. She and Nat should have left for London weeks ago. What a stupid pair of lummocks they were, so drunk on passion they could no longer think rationally.

She opened the door with a volley of protests, but Joshua signalled coolly for her to return upstairs. There Nat awaited them in his gold-laced coat, hat in hand, casting a mildly amused expression upon the proceedings. He made a bow to Joshua and waited, entirely unflustered. In that moment she loved him with a painful rush of pride.

‘Mr Starling. Tabitha. I am commanded here by Sir John De Vallory …’ Joshua faltered in his speech.

‘Spit it out, Joshua,’ she goaded. ‘I see you cannot wait to arrest him.’

He shook his head, saying quietly, ‘Forgive me. I do this upon compulsion.’

Then, in his official voice, he cried, ‘Tabitha Hart. I command you to accompany me into the presence of Sir John De Vallory to a hearing of the Manor Court this day, All Hallows’ Eve, in the name of the King.’

She was carried in that same mournful carriage in which Darius had been transported to Chester Castle. The notion that even that scoundrel at least had the wits to plan his escape did nothing to cheer her. All the way to Bold Hall she racked her brain as to why, in the Devil’s name, she had been summoned; but even as the sour-smelling carriage rattled between the gates of Bold Hall, she could not revive her wits.

Dismounting, Joshua took her arm and led her down a labyrinth of passages until they reached the Great Hall where the Manor Court was in progress. A pair of magnificent double doors opened upon a row of men seated behind a long table. At their centre Sir John sat gowned in black, looking for all the world like a great shaggy lion at the head of his pride. She felt a small measure of relief to see the doctor sitting on his right-hand side, greeting her with a kindly nod. On the other side sat Mr Dilks, stone-faced in his parson’s white bands and wig. The rest of the court was made up of Bold Hall’s stewards, churchwardens and local dignitaries. She knew little of its process, save that as their baron, Sir John could order them to meet and deal with offences of back-rents, poaching and parish matters. Too late, she berated herself for dressing Nat in all his finery while she was thrust forward, sleepy-eyed and rumpled in her mother’s threadbare gown. After weeks spent in bed, she felt fusty, and her hastily pinned hair threatened to tumble past her shoulders. Joshua guided her to a central spot some few yards from where Sir John sat enthroned beneath the gilded De Vallory crest.

Tabitha took a shaky breath as she felt the eyes of the assembled men bear down upon her.

‘Tabitha,’ Sir John said in his rumbling bass. ‘It pains me to bring you here today, but you have avoided my messengers and ignored my own written summonses. You have forced my hand in calling you to this court.’

She felt her mouth fall open. If not for an assignation, for what reason had he wanted to meet her? Somehow, she had entirely misread his attentions. Then, remembering herself, she stood up straight and looked at each of the men before her in turn. Whatever the accusation, she must bear it with dignity.

‘Mr Dilks has come to me with an accusation that I would not ordinarily have considered. However, as it relates to some concerns of my own, I have agreed to question you here.’

At the sound of Mr Dilks’ name she looked over to the parson; the false benevolence upon his face made her want to spit.

‘The parson tells me that you have refused to name the father of your child, contrary to the strict rules of this parish. This is further aggravated by your being appointed a parish officer yourself, namely the searcher of this village. And secondly, Mr Dilks tells me that you intend at some near date to depart this place and return to London, thereby leaving your child as a burden upon the parish of Netherlea. You force me to strike at the heart of this matter. The parish register holds only a blank against the name of your child’s father, and that will not do. So I demand that you name that man.’

As she listened to Sir John’s speech Tabitha felt ugly panic quickening in her veins. A dozen pairs of eyes watched her struggle to find an answer.

‘I cannot say.’

Sir John grimaced as if in pain. ‘Fetch the Bible, Constable.’

The Bible was fetched, and it fell to Joshua to assist her in swearing the oath, before God, to tell the truth. To her distress, she found that the black book shook in her hand.

Sir John leaned forward intently, his arms folded upon the oak table; the shadows of his grief scored his face.

‘It is a simple question. Who is the father of that child?’ To Tabitha’s consternation, he pointed towards a wooden settle, where Bess slumbered on Jennet’s knee.

‘The truth is, Sir John. I do not know.’

‘Do not trifle with me, Tabitha. It pains me to speak of it, but did we not meet together some years past? And did I not give you a guinea for a certain service?’

At that, an indignant intake of breath rose from a number of the crowd. Sir John looked about himself and raised a grin, an old stag enjoying rattling his antlers.

‘Though I must add that this service was not, naturally, for my own satisfaction. I gave you a guinea, did I not, to lay out for a private room – to celebrate the coming of age of my late son, Francis.’

A creak from the minstrels’ gallery above warned Tabitha that someone else was listening. Glancing up, she could see as the court could not, that Lady Daphne stood at the rail, dressed in her habitual mourning.

‘You did, sir.’

‘And did you follow my instructions? Did you make a man of the boy?’ No sooner had he said it than his joviality leached away, remembering his only son’s tragic death. ‘Remember, you speak on oath.’

‘I did lay out the money for a room, sir. And Francis did come to me, and I did invite him as you asked.’

An indiscreet snigger rose from an unseen man behind her.

‘But … he was not willing.’

She remembered with great clarity how they had drunk a bottle together, while Francis courteously explained that though he liked her well enough, a woman’s flesh was not at all to his taste. She had liked the lad; he had grown up as a funny, waspish young fellow, who mimicked his father’s crude instructions with such pompous precision that she wept from laughing. After an hour or so of conversation they had ruffled up the bed, making saucy jokes together all the while. Then they left together, arm in arm, only separating once they were out of sight of onlookers. That was the last time she had ever spoken to Francis De Vallory, and she had wished him well, congratulating herself on earning a heavy gold guinea.

‘So you are saying,’ Sir John asked, his voice flat with disappointment, ‘that you did not have congress with my son?’

‘I am, sir. And I must add that the occasion of my meeting Mr Francis was upon his eighteenth birthday, and I believe that was in the autumn of 1750. Bess was born at Christmas of that year. If my calculations are correct, I should say she was conceived in March or thereabouts.’

Sir John collapsed back in his throne-like chair, and she understood with a pang that all this rigmarole was nothing but a sad attempt to find a remnant of his lost son, in whatever manner he could. He waved at Mr Dilks to continue the questioning, and Tabitha braced herself.

‘So, remembering you speak on oath – who is that child’s father?’ The parson’s interrogation was shrill with venom.

‘I do not know. It is a mystery to me.’

Scandalized glances passed between those assembled.

‘Do you mean to say that you were so free of your favours that it is impossible to know who your child’s father is? That, at that time, you were whoring yourself with any number of men at once?’

Tabitha narrowed her eyes in disgust. Well, as they had driven her to it, she must speak the truth. A flicker of movement attracted her attention; she caught the glint of gold braid in the shadows. Sweet Jesus, now even Nat had come to witness this mortification. Her fingertips traced the outline of the ring on her finger, and it gave her strength. A burst of perverse pleasure gripped her. Home truths were as uncomfortable as jagged barbs – and that was what this audience deserved.

‘No. I mean nothing of the sort; and you insult me gravely, Parson Dilks, in saying so. In March of that year, I was still a maid. I had never even known a man.’

A murmur rose from the court, but Mr Dilks pressed on.

‘Do not speak in riddles, girl. So how was this child of yours created?’

She gathered her courage. A Bible oath, she assured herself, must certainly trump a blood oath. So let them hear it.

‘I do not know who Bess’s father is – because I am not her mother.’