A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (29 page)

Yours in Christ,

Sarah

Lucy had seen the magistrate’s face when he first read this letter. Although he crumpled it in his hand, he had smiled wryly. “Well, that gypsy told Sarah she was going to travel, eh, Lucy? And that I wouldn’t like it? Maybe there’s something to all that chicanery after all.”

Beneath Sarah’s letter, Lucy had also hidden three letters from Adam. They were not addressed to her, of course, but rather to the whole family.

“Why would he write to me?” she softly berated herself. She stared down at the letters, trying to decide if she wanted to read them again. The papers were practically falling apart, she’d held them so often.

She sighed. Thinking about Adam felt disrespectful to the magistrate. He’d hardly appreciate his son cavorting with one of his servants, Lucy thought—although, over the last few months, Master Hargrave had seemed to welcome her as a daughter. When he had first thanked her for saving his life, in his grave and somber way, Lucy had felt embarrassed for them both, but a great tenderness had surfaced between them.

When the magistrate discovered her reading the same penny chapbooks they’d brought from London, he’d handed her a leather-bound copy of Shakespeare’s comedies.

“No more of that twaddle,” he had said, and after she was done, she found Jonson, Marlowe, and the like left for her.

The magistrate seemed to seek her out, too, asking her opinion on different matters and listening closely to her responses. Once he read her a passage from a bit of legislation that he was putting forth to Parliament, and she could only shake her head. “I don’t know those words, sir,” she had told him.

“What?” The magistrate had chuckled. “Oh, right, of course. I forget sometimes. Well, let’s rectify that.”

“Sir?”

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

Every evening, sometimes for an hour or more, the magistrate had taught her about the law. It began as a means for him to pass time, but Lucy sensed he really wanted to share his thoughts.

“It was after William’s trial, actually,” the magistrate explained, “that I apprehended how imperative it is that we have new standards of evidence. Your brother, I’m sure you realize, came very close to being judged guilty, and would have been, had that hearsay evidence held. While judges should be allowed a measure of latitude, it should not be a different standard of justice at every circuit court. The people must understand their rights.”

The magistrate tapped his pen against the sheepskin on his desk. “That is why I run these ideas by you, Lucy. They should be comprehensible even for a young girl, although I think few young girls would show the inclination you have demonstrated toward understanding the law.”

“I’m sure you will make that change,” she had replied, without thinking how forward it might sound.

Unexpectedly, the magistrate had taken her hand in his for an instant. “Thank you, my dear. I am a lucky man to have such a good and loyal companion beside me.”

For Lucy, the opportunity to learn had changed something in her. Her thoughts were bigger than they had ever been before. She was starting to make more sense of the magistrate’s ideas and words. Cook said she was starting to “talk like gentry.”

The biggest change came, though, when Lucy began to write. At night, with only a nub of candle, she had begun to write her own ideas. Sometimes she would kept the Bible open beside her, since it seemed that people liked to draw on scripture, but other times she just wrote from a place deep in her soul.

The first piece she wrote was about Lawrence. She called it “On a Young Boy Dying,” and it detailed her young friend’s short life. This she kept to herself, tucked in a little chest. She cherished her scraps of paper, imagining what her pieces would look like, all neatly printed out on one of Master Aubrey’s presses, but she knew she would not dare.
Master Aubrey!
she thought with a pang. She hoped he had survived the plague.

*   *   *

Fingering Adam’s letters now, Lucy wished they had been addressed to her. Unable to help herself, she opened the first one again. It had come within a few months of the family’s settling in Warwickshire, in August 1665.

Dear Father,

I am glad to hear that you are in better spirits since those terrible days when we lost my mother. My heart is with the family and household. I have found London to be very strange these last few weeks; as you know, the Mayor ordered all of the stray cats and dogs to be rounded up and executed, the fear being that they were the conveyers of the plague. On this point, I am not convinced, as the evidence of the sickness seems to travel among other vermin, like the ever increasing rats. One near bit me the other day, but I did beat it off with a staff. If you please, tell our Lucy that she need not worry; I have helped her dear friend Avery to find safety and shelter for himself and his cat. I did also meet with Will, who told me that both Lucy’s mother and sister are safe and out of danger’s way. Father, you did ask me in the last letter if I had seen Lord Embry yet, but I can only say that I heard that he and the family, including his daughter Judith, had safely escaped the sickness and have not yet returned. I have not had the pleasure of renewing our acquaintance or of discussing with her father the particulars of the shipping industry. My love to you and Sarah and the household.

With warmest regards,

Your son, Adam

The second one was from early January.

Dear Father,

Thank you for your letter. It is indeed good to know that all members of the household are in raised spirits. London seems to be ridding itself of the lunacy that beset it since last summer, and thanks be to God, the rats are lessening, perhaps being driven off by the cold. The tolling of the bells has mercifully stopped at last; one could surely be driven mad by their monotonous call. Shops are opening. Indeed, many MPs and JPs are starting to return; we’ve heard tell that the Inns of Court shall be reopened before long. It has been rumored that the king will be returning to London soon; we can but hope that he will see it fit to do so, as I think it would do the hearts of the people good to see their great sovereign among them.

I did see Lord Embry and his daughter Judith at a Twelfth Night gathering; since near everyone is in mourning it was quite a small affair. I recall with some regret and happiness Easter night past; this had not near the gaiety that comes when hearts and minds are joyfully engaged. I am glad to hear that our Lucy is reading so well; perhaps she can help Cook puzzle out some new recipes from this book I have enclosed. Please tell Lucy that I have seen her brother in London and he sends his best regards.

St. Peter’s has been cleared of all the sick and dying who had sought shelter there in the darkest days of the sickness. I assume Lucas will be returning from Oxford soon, to put his new learning to use in the pulpit.

Will you and the household be returning soon to London? There is an issue we must discuss, sir, post haste. My heart is with you and Sarah and the household.

Yours truly, Adam

His third letter had just come a few days days ago, on the twenty-fifth of March, and was terser than the other two.

Father,

When shall we expect your return? I fear that London very much needs you here. I have been bidden to tell you that with the great death toll that has been brought to Parliament and the courts, you must return to the bench post haste. I myself have sped through my exams at the Inns of Court and will be entering the circuit. I will be leaving at the end of the month to take up the county assizes in Kent. I hope to see you ere I go, as I would very much like to apprise you of an arrangement I am making with Lord Embry.

Yours, Adam

Lucy looked at the three letters again, admiring Adam’s small, neat script, reading her own name in his hand. Every time she was grateful to know that her family had survived the plague. It was hard to be so long away from Mother, Will, and little Dorrie, and she was grateful that Adam had thought to include the news in his letter.

She could not help but reread the passage that referred to Judith Embry.
I did see Lord Embry and his daughter Judith at a Twelfth Night gathering; since near everyone is in mourning it was quite a small affair. I recall with some regret and happiness Easter Night past; this had not near the gaiety that comes when hearts and minds are joyfully engaged.
He must have been remembering how he had kissed Judith that night, Lucy thought with an odd pang. She tried not to think of the last thing he wrote, but the words slunk into her mind anyway.
I hope to see you ere I go, as I would very much like to apprise you of an arrangement I am making with Lord Embry.

Lucy shook her skirts.
That’s how the gentry speak of marriage,
she supposed.

This last letter from Adam was what finally roused the magistrate to action. With great regret and even greater apprehension, the family began to pack their belongings to prepare for the weary journey back to London. The life they had forged for themselves, while not exactly happy, had created a bond built on a sense of shared grief and companionship—a bond that no one was sure would continue when they returned to the harsh reality that London was sure to be.

Only Lucy was glad of the tiresome preparations, working feverishly, trying to quiet her mind with busy hands. She was so tired each evening that she would just drop off to sleep, although her dreams were restless. What would they be coming back to?

*   *   *

On the first of April, the Hargraves’ carriages stopped before the Red Rooster Inn, five miles from London’s limits.

“All Fools’ Day,” the magistrate had commented as they jumped off the cart. “It may be fitting, although I suspect we will find little to laugh at when we get to the city. Let us stop here for a quick dinner and a bit of news.”

John stayed outside to look after the horses and carts while, with some trepidation, the others went inside the tavern. As they ate their leek and meat pies, people traveling from London warned in hushed tones of the grim landscape ahead.

“At least all the corpses are gone, carted off to Houndsditch, I hear,” one woman said.

“And the king’s men have stopped the looting,” added another.

“The plague was an omen,” a third woman said, noisily slurping her soup. “Sixteen sixty-six. The Year of our Lord. Bah!”

“The year of the devil, to be sure!” A man banged his fist on the table. “London is paying for her sins.”

Lucy and Cook looked at each other, and Annie snuggled closer.

“Stuff and nonsense,” Master Hargrave declared, chewing a bit of lamb.

The magistrate’s words steadied her when at last the spires of St. Paul’s and St. Giles came into view. Makeshift camps were everywhere, people in tattered rags cooking over open fires.

“Banned they were for suspicion of sickness,” John muttered, “and, poor souls, they have not found a place back inside the city.”

As their carts passed carefully through the bedraggled groups of huddled families, a familiar face caught her eye. “Maraid!” she whispered.

As if she had heard, the old gypsy looked straight at her. For a moment, they stared at each other, Maraid as proud and fearless as she’d ever been. Lucy smiled slightly and gave a little wave, glad she had survived the sickness. Unexpectedly, Maraid crooked her finger, invoking the age-old calling of the blessing. The cart jerked and moved on, and within moments, the gypsies were out of sight.

*   *   *

As their horses trotted closer to the city walls and they began to breathe in the familiar smoky haze that engulfed the city, Lucy tried to prepare herself for what they would find.

Right away, though, Lucy could see London little resembled the bustling, noisy town she remembered. The streets were thick with rushes, laid down in mourning, quieting the wheels of their carriage. As it was twilight, few people were in the streets. House after house was shuttered and closed from the street; black crepe draped from many windows. Most doors were marked with a great cross signifying the plague had come to the inhabitants inside, with a grim number below indicating how many in the house had been claimed by the reaper.

Annie gripped her hand tightly, and Lucy gave her an answering squeeze.

As they turned down their own street, Lucy could feel her companions grow tenser, expectant. Their own house was still mostly shuttered and dark, but the wood across the door had been pried off, great holes showing where the nails had been. Adam must have removed them, for the master had sent word that they would be arriving.

For a moment, they could only stare. The last days they had spent in the house, the sickness, the anguish, the death of the mistress and Lawrence, weighed heavily on her heart. Lucy longed to touch the master’s hand, wishing to soften his despair. Instead, she put her arm around little Annie and hugged her close.

Cook brushed a tear from her face. “Right, then,” she said, bustling past them. “We’d best get everything inside before dark. I’ll get a good fire going. Lucy, come help get supper on.”

Supper that night was a sad affair. The master sat alone at the table for a while, eating little. When Lucy came to bring him some ale, she found him in the drawing room gazing at the portrait of his wife. She coughed into her hand. “Here’s some ale to warm you, sir.”

“Ah yes. Lucy. Thank you, dear.” They heard a step in the hall and a muffled greeting. “Ah, here must be Adam.”

Adam swung open the door then and quickly embraced his father. He nodded stiffly at the others, immediately turning back to him. Lucy quietly poured out a second flagon of ale for Adam. When their fingers touched, he glanced away.

As she walked out of the room, she heard the magistrate say, “Now, Adam, tell me about this business with the Embrys.”

Lucy put her hand to her stomach, feeling queasy. Would banns announcing Adam and Judith’s betrothal be read, now that the family had returned? She stumbled up to her old small chamber, which stifled her with memories. Gratefully, she saw that someone had made her bed with fresh sheets, and there was even a flower by her old mirror. She held the flower to her nose and sniffed deeply.