Chapter 30
Thomas knew there was no time to lose. Experience told him that Jacob Lovelock was not a man prone to exaggeration, and his concern for his mistress was very acute. Despite protestations from Dr. Carruthers and, surprisingly, from Mistress Finesilver, the young doctor slowly and painfully managed to mount a horse and, together with the head groom, he set off from London at around four o’clock that afternoon.
“We still have five hours of daylight,” he said. “We can make it up to Beaconsfield before dark and stay the night at an inn.”
Thomas’s injuries still caused him great discomfort. His horse’s every stride sent a jab of pain searing through his ribs. He was thankful that he had brought a phial of laudanum with him. After a couple of swigs of the bitter liquid had taken hold, his agony subsided and he was even able to urge his mount to gallop for some of the way. When the pain returned, even more violently than before, he would remind himself of his purpose. Lydia needed him, and for her he would endure his very own Calvary if it meant her own happiness and well-being could be restored.
That night, as he lay in his bed at the Saracens Head at Beaconsfield, a thousand red-hot pokers thrusting into his rib cage and back, he imagined that this was what was hell must be like. He closed his eyes and saw a raging pit of fire, and in the center, where the flames burned white, he saw Lydia’s anguished face calling to him. It reminded him of that same look when he had broken it to her that her husband was dead. He recalled the day in Oxford when he had seen Captain Farrell hanging from the ceiling in the stinking jail. His expression had been calm, his eyes and lips closed as if asleep, and yet the crooked angle of his head as it swung from the silken curtain cord would remain with him forever. He was only glad she was spared the sight, but he knew the memory of that day still haunted her. That day. That date. It was April 30. Exactly a year tomorrow. It would be the first anniversary of Lydia’s husband’s death. The sudden realization of it made him shudder. Was this the reason for her obvious distress? Was this why she had shut herself away in belated mourning? Had some delayed reaction seized her mental faculties in a cruel vise? He could not arrive at Boughton too soon.
Safely returned to his lodgings in Cockspur Street, Charles Byrne’s spirits were much restored. Knowing that Emily had been reemployed made him feel more confident. She was his rock, while all around lay a sea of torment and turmoil, and yet the Scotsman’s words still haunted him.
“We were worried about you,” said the count, handing his friend a glass of gin.
The giant took it, swigged it back, then held out the glass for more. Boruwlaski obliged. “I saw Dr. Hunter,” Charles said, gazing into the fire.
The little man nodded. “Ah, really? And why was that?”
“He asked to see me.” Charles took another gulp of gin. “I thought he wanted to help me, to cure my ills.”
“And . . . ,” urged the count, filling the glass once more.
The giant’s eyes moistened and his jaw was set tight to stop his lips from trembling. When he finally spoke his voice was taut with emotion. “He told me that I will die soon and that when I am g-gone”—he broke off suddenly to take a deep breath—“when I am gone he wants to cut me up and put me in his museum of death.” He drained another glass.
The dwarf paused for a moment, as if in shock, then put a hand on the giant’s arm and filled his glass once more. “But, dear friend, you are not dying.”
Charles looked down at him. “I am. I know I am,” he said, nodding. “This cough. The tiredness. I have the white death and I know my days are numbered.” The count knew it to be true, too, but he had always tried to ignore his friend’s obvious symptoms. After a few moments, Charles continued: “ ’Tis not the dying that worries me.” His features were set hard in a scowl. “ ’Tis being butchered afterward, like meat on a slab, like they did to my da.”
Boruwlaski let out a sigh and tilted his tiny head. “That is Dr. Hunter for you. He collects things. You do not have to consent to this. It is your body. Do not concern yourself about it,” he said, trying to make light of the giant’s fears, but his seeming indifference only agitated Charles.
“That man would deny me my place in heaven, sir,” he cried, suddenly trying to stand up. He failed, and slumped down again into his chair. The count could see he had touched a raw nerve.
“Even if you do die soon, my friend, which you will not, I can assure you that your body will remain in safe hands,” soothed the count. “I will see to it personally.”
His assurances seemed to calm Charles, and a smile flickered across his flaccid lips. “Thank you, Count,” he said. “You are a true friend.”
The little man returned his smile. “So, you are the talk of the newssheets,” he said, lightening the mood of conversation. “This is what you are about when I am not at your side.” He waved a copy of a newssheet before smoothing it to read an excerpt from an article. “A parson has expressed concern that a number of his parishioners claim they have been cured of various ills by Mr. Charles Byrne, the amazing Irish Giant, currently resident in London. You have wrought miracles!”
“I am no miracle worker. ’Tis a load of shite.” Charles spat out his words contemptuously.
“But do you not see?” Boruwlaski could hardly contain himself with excitement. “We could charge even more, and still people will flock to see you.”
“ ’Tis true I need the money,” conceded Charles.
“Indeed you do, my friend,” replied the count, his expression suddenly altering to one of concern.
“You have heard more from the lawyer?” asked the giant warily.
The count nodded. “He says he is progressing, but that he needs more time to get the papers in order. And,” he opened his hands in a gesture of resignation, “more time means more money to lawyers.”
“Very well. I will return to the cane shop, but as soon as I make enough money to pay this lawyer for a pardon, I go back home,” he said, adding ruefully, “afore ’tis too late.”