5 JANUARY 1780
THE FOUR-HORSE CARRIAGE DREW UP OUTSIDE the terraced house at 7 Assembly Row, Mile End, London. The sole male occupant stepped out, paid the coachman and walked up to the front door. It was bitterly cold, and snow drifts were piled up against the base of the house and its front steps. The man whom the coach had brought wore a tricorn, and a heavy black cape covered his Royal Navy dress uniform.
After a moment’s hesitation he raised the knocker and rapped three times on the door. Moments later it was opened by a sturdy, freckle-cheeked young woman. She was bonneted, with a checked apron over her grey gown. The apron and her hands were dusted with flour.
The man removed his tricorn and said, ‘Good morning. I’m here to speak with Mistress Cook. Is she at home?
‘She is, sir. Who shall I say wants to see her?’
‘Stephens, Philip Stephens. Secretary to the Admiralty.’
Colouring slightly, the young woman turned away, leaving the man on the step, hat in his hands. A minute later the mistress of the house appeared. She wore a grey woollen gown and a russet crocheted shawl, fastened at her neck with a brooch of turtle shell. Her greying hair was drawn back in a bun, her face was seamed, her eyes blue and direct.
‘Mr Stephens.’ She stepped back. ‘Please, come in.’ She had heard her husband speak of Philip Stephens on many occasions, but had never before met him.
The Admiralty man tugged off his boots, removed his cape and hat and followed her into the parlour, adjusting his wig as he went. There was a coal fire burning in the grate and the room was cosy. Stephens quickly noted the room and its contents. A fair-haired boy of about four was playing with wooden blocks in one corner. He looked up and stared curiously at the visitor. Framed drawings and sketches of coastlines hung from the walls of the room. There was a carved wooden club on the mantelpiece, along with other artefacts: jade pendants, pearl shells, a conch. A piece of unfinished embroidery—a gentleman’s waistcoat, Stephens guessed—lay on a small table near the fireplace, along with several skeins of coloured cotton and a pin cushion.
‘Do sit down,’ Elizabeth said, indicating one of the two wingback chairs in front of the fire. He took one, she the other. She was calm but remained unsmiling.
Stephens felt his hands begin to tremble, slightly but uncontrollably. His insides were tightly knotted. Conscious of Elizabeth Cook’s intent gaze, he clasped his hands.
She leaned towards him. ‘You have news of my husband?’ she asked, frowning and half-closing her eyes, to focus on the visitor more sharply.
Stephens kept his hands clasped to control the shaking. Looking directly into the face of the woman opposite, he said carefully, ‘Yes. I have news of your husband. It came to the Admiralty yesterday in a letter from Captain Clerke, of His Majesty’s sloop Resolution. It was sent from Russia, in June last year.’ The secretary hesitated, feeling an upwelling of emotion that threatened to paralyse his speech. Elizabeth raised her chin a little, as if to halt whatever it was she was about to hear.
Finding his voice again, Stephens pressed on. ‘The letter stated …’