Chapter 30
It was the middle of the day, but the flaming torches cast eerie shadows on the walls. Lydia shivered and pulled her shawl around her; Thomas shot her a reassuring smile. They were standing just inside the magnificent Gothic entrance to West Wycombe Caves. Ahead of them lay a brick-lined tunnel leading to the caverns themselves, but all they could see was total darkness. Water dripped from the ceiling and lay in puddles every few feet. A drop landed on Thomas’s face and he wiped it away.
Sir John Dashwood-King chuckled. “Sadly we can’t simply replace any slates when this roof leaks,” he joked. Taking a torch down from the wall sconce he turned to both Thomas and Lydia. “Are we ready for a tour?” His deep voice bounced off the rock.
Both of them nodded, although it was clear to Thomas that Lydia was a little nervous. No doubt her opinion was swayed by the tall tales of debauched masques and devil worship in Sir Francis Dashwood’s day. There were even stories of a ghost. Thomas had long been familiar with the caves’ reputation. Mr. Franklin had loved the whimsical nature of the subterranean labyrinth. His compatriot had still not replied to his letter. Nevertheless he was sure he would approve of the proposals to turn the caves into a refuge for the sick.
“We are indeed ready, sir,” said Thomas. The three of them, accompanied by two servants who also carried flaming torches, began to walk slowly along the passageway.
The temperature was a little cooler than outside, but not uncomfortably so, and the air was undoubtedly fresher. For the first time in days Thomas found himself breathing deeply. The smell of damp suddenly became as sweet as new-mown hay. Lydia, too, inhaled deeply and with each breath her steps became less hesitant.
Within a few seconds they passed a small cave stacked with picks and hammers and crowbars and found themselves at the entrance to the first chamber. Oil lamps hung from hooks drilled into the rock and wax candles were stuck into some of the recesses on the walls. It was a small space, but Lydia saw its potential.
“We could store water and supplies here,” she said to Thomas.
They carried on for a few yards down a straight passageway until the path forked. “This is the maze,” said Sir John, leading the way. “Woe betide anyone who finds themselves in here without a light! Stay close now.”
They all ducked down below a jagged outcrop and then straightened themselves on the other side. The passageway was much narrower here, and Lydia’s skirts brushed against the rock, but it was nonetheless passable. There were fewer puddles, too. The corridor soon opened out into a huge chamber. As wide as a good-sized ballroom and higher than three men, its floor was level and smooth. A large hook hung from the ceiling from which a lamp could be suspended.
“This was called the Banqueting Hall,” said Sir John, making a grand gesture with his arm. “I am assuming this is where you could put a good many patients.”
Lydia turned full circle, looking at the cave from every angle. It was more or less circular in shape, about forty feet in diameter she guessed, and there were four niches in the rock where items could be stored or small cubicles created for privacy.
“This is very serviceable, Sir John,” she declared. She proceeded to bring a tape measure and a notebook and pencil from out of a small bag she was carrying.
“Could you hold the other end please, Dr. Silkstone?” she asked in a businesslike manner.
Thomas obliged and was soon calling out to Lydia various measurements, so that after a few minutes she pronounced her conveyance done. “If we allow each mattress five feet of space across, we will be able to accommodate at least ten people in here, five on either side,” she told Sir John.
“You are most efficient, Lady Lydia,” he replied. “Let me show you what else there is to offer.”
He led the way through an arch of rock and into another narrow corridor which broadened out after a few yards into a curious recess. A few feet farther on they came to what was known as the miner’s cave, where more tools and wooden scaffolding poles were stored. After another minute or so of picking their way over a bed of fine scree, they could hear the sound of running water and turned to find their path intersected by a large pool, fed by a stream.
“The River Styx,” announced Sir John proudly.
Thomas’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “The divide between this world and the underworld according to Greek mythology,” he said, surveying the water.
“Where the souls of the dead are ferried across the river by the boatman, Charon,” continued Lydia, pointing to the ornate rowing boat that was moored at the side of the shallow bank.
“Indeed,” nodded Sir John. “But I am sure you will not be ferrying any dead patients across it, your ladyship!” He tried to make light of the analogy, but the thought made Lydia uneasy nonetheless.
They stepped onto a small jetty and the servants assisted them as they lowered themselves into the boat and began the short crossing to the other side. Lydia trailed her hand in the clear water. She could see the bottom and estimated it was only knee deep. Nevertheless, it was icy cold.
“Where does the source rise?” asked Thomas as the boatman progressed into the center of the river.
“About a mile away. Underground,” replied Sir John.
“So it is fit to drink?” asked Lydia.
The baronet beamed. “Yes, you have a plentiful supply of fresh water.”
They were now three hundred feet beneath the church with its golden orb on top of the hill. Above them were thousands of tons of chalk. The boatmen moored up and they alighted on the other side. The deeper they went, the lower the temperature fell. Lydia tucked her hands into her shawl and stepped out onto terra firma once more. They had crossed the River Styx.
Moving ever deeper into the caves, they skirted a large boulder that lay on the path. “Never fear,” said Sir John lightheartedly, “that fell more than a year ago.” Lydia shot Thomas a glance. Rock falls were not something with which she wanted to contend.
“Are there any other ways out of the caves, Sir John? In case of an emergency?” she asked.
The baronet nodded. “Yes, the miners hacked some crude steps over there,” he said, pointing his torch to a small recess to their right. “It’s a steep climb, but it brings one out near the church.” Lydia made a mental note of the place, but prayed she would never have to use it.
Walking on a little farther they finally reached the Inner Temple, a large round chamber that marked the end of the cave system. Lydia looked about her.
“This is where the notorious Hellfire Club held some of its meetings,” declared Sir John.
Thomas’s father had heard firsthand of the club’s antics from Mr. Franklin himself; how the ladies wore masks so as to remain anonymous and were required to have “a lively disposition.”
“I believe it will serve our purpose well,” he replied, looking at Lydia. She had already brought out her tape measure and notebook again. While this chamber was not as big as the other, its shape meant that better use could be made of its space.
“I think a further eight patients might be accommodated here,” she announced a few moments later after taking more measurements.
“I am only sorry it cannot be more,” lamented Sir John.
Thomas thought of the dozens of sick both he and Dr. Fairweather had seen over the course of the last month. The labyrinth of tunnels and chambers offered the only hope of helping the most vulnerable. At least now he hoped a few more lives could be saved.
Thomas had never seen Lydia so animated. On the return journey she talked of organizing wagons to carry mattresses and bedding. The source of clean water was a real blessing, she said, but food would present a problem. She was throwing all her efforts into the project as if she were trying to block out all else. She had not mentioned the search for her son since she had put forward the idea of evacuating the sick and vulnerable. He knew the plan was helping her put her worries aside until she had heard back from Dr. Carruthers about his continued efforts in London.
She did not have to wait much longer. When they arrived back at Boughton in the early evening, Howard handed her a letter on a tray. She stared at it, then seized it with trembling hands.
“Will you read it for me?” she asked Thomas, offering him the piece of paper.
He took it from her and broke the seal. Opening it he recognized the writing of a secretary Dr. Carruthers often engaged for the dictation of his letters and papers. He took a deep breath and read aloud:
Dear Lady Lydia
I write to inform you of my inquiries regarding your son. Sir Richard was, indeed, working for Mr. Faulks at Bermondsey, but only two weeks ago a gentleman “purchased” him, freeing him from his apprenticeship for a large fee. This gentleman left no forwarding address. I regret that I can tell you no more.
Your obedient servant
Sarah Forbes (Mistress}
Per pro Dr. William Carruthers.
Even before he had finished reading, Lydia had dissolved into tears. Thomas put his arms around her, but she jerked away angrily. “Who is this man who would deprive me of my son?” she cried.
Thomas followed her as she stormed across the room toward the window. “He is alive, my love. Surely that is cause to rejoice?”
She turned and scowled at him. “I will only rejoice when I can hold Richard in my arms, Thomas.”
Realizing he had sounded glib, the young anatomist moved toward her and this time she did not push him away. “As soon as we are able, we shall return to London and track this man down. He must have left some clue as to his identity,” he told her, holding her tightly.
She gazed up at him. “I will not give up, Thomas,” she said. “I will never give up until my son is here, with me, where he belongs.”