The Lady's Slipper (22 page)

Richard was silent but shook his head in sympathy. Stephen did not dare to speak. He had lost track of his invention, Sam Fielding, and had constructed no imaginary life for a parliamentarian son of a dead nobleman.

With a flash of inspiration he said, ‘Tell me about these people that are in gaol, Hannah and Jack Fleetwood.’ If he was crafty, he might be able to steer the conversation and get some information out of Richard about the plot against the king.

Richard outlined some events surrounding the Fleetwoods’ arrest, after which he said, ‘I still feel badly, Sam. I should have done something to stop it getting that far. Turn the crowd somehow.’

‘But what couldst thou have done? Thou hast vowed not to take up arms.’

Stephen was fascinated by this idea of a pledge of peace. He could not imagine making such a vow. What if they were to be set upon by highway robbers on the return journey? He would certainly lift his fists then. He had thought it extraordinary that the Quakers carried neither sword nor musket. Why, even ladies held a little dagger concealed about their person when they were abroad. In London, Stephen had worn his fine sword with a swagger; it had been lovingly crafted and he was itching for a chance to use it against some scoundrel, to show off his thrust and parry. He had a fine pair of muskets too, but somehow a gun seemed less manly than a sword, and there had been many a frightening accident with the powder.

A pair of crows flapped by, making their raucous call. They watched them fly by and out towards the estuary.

‘Dorothy has not spoken with me properly since the day Jack and Hannah were arrested.’ Richard was rueful. ‘I think she blames me for it, because I stood by and let it happen, and am not imprisoned for my faith along with them.’

‘Surely she cannot be that uncharitable?’

‘She tolerates me, yes. She is never ill-mannered, just distant.’

Stephen made a sympathetic grunt. ‘Hast thou tried to speak plain with her on this matter?’

‘Well, no. I see what thou art saying, Sam. It does no good to let wounds fester.’

They rode on. Stephen’s shoulders relaxed; he had not been discovered. The horses clopped down the wet track, both men sunk in their own thoughts. Stephen knew that Sam’s history had become more convoluted and that he must master its intricacies if he were to carry on going to meetings at the Hall.

Richard seemed to be mulling over their conversation silently, until at length he said, ‘I will speak with her the morrow. Thanks to thee, friend–thou hast seen clearly what I could not.’ Richard gave him a smile of such openness and warmth that Stephen immediately felt ill at ease. He had to remind himself that this man was planning to withhold from the church its rightful levies, that Richard was in dispute with his father and was a traitor to the king, and worse, that he had murdered Stephen’s kin in cold blood.

Stephen nodded stiffly in return. He was resolved to tell his father what he had heard. He would do his duty by the committee; he could not afford to be swayed by this semblance of friendship. Richard was his enemy, and he must be on his mettle, remember his responsibilities. The safety of the whole country could depend on it.

After they parted, Stephen kicked his lumbering horse into a gallop, doubling back from the Burton road to the track to Fisk Manor. It was best to keep out of the village in case people began to talk and he was recognized. He enjoyed the sensation of the wind racing past his ears. Even after only a few hours he was glad to lose the constraints of being Sam Fielding.

When he arrived home there was a carriage waiting outside the door, full of portmanteaux and travelling baskets.

Lizzie Pickering was standing blubbing at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes red-rimmed and her scrawny fingers chewing over a sodden napkin. When she saw him go by to the stables she looked up at him with an imploring expression. He put the nag in the stall then hurried in through the back door where there seemed to be more confusion, with furniture out of place and the noise of feet coming and going in the corridor above.

A writing desk was half blocking the doorway to the dining room and there was a big bundle of something cluttering up the passageway to the study. It looked like the drapes from his mother’s bed. He wound his way round these obstacles until he could get to the stairs, and mounted them two at a time. On the upstairs corridor he managed to catch hold of Patterson as he pushed a wheeled bassinet full of lace petticoats past.

‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s not for me to say, sir.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Tell me unless you want to join Lizzie on the front step.’

Patterson looked shiftily from side to side.

‘Lady Emilia, sir. She’s…’

‘Stop mumbling. What about my mother? Is she ill?’

‘She’s been given an hour, sir. To get out and never come back.’

Stephen could not take in the words.

‘Who says this? Is this a joke?’ Although he knew whatever was happening was no laughing matter, he wanted it to be. The house had a different air already; it looked uncared for, a random collection of meaningless possessions.

‘Where is my father?’

Patterson shook his head. ‘Out, sir.’ Then, seeing more information was required: ‘He went out at ten of the clock, and will be back at eleven. Mistress has one hour to gather what she can of her personal possessions. What will go in the carriage and the handcart. If she’s still here when he returns he’ll have her clapped in gaol.’

‘Is she still here?’

‘In there, sir.’ Stephen was already squeezing past towards his mother’s chamber. When he flung open the door he could see Patterson had been right. The drapes had been stripped from the bed; the overmantel tapestry of the wild hart had gone, leaving a sooty stain around a light mark. The looking glass and delicate scent bottles, boxes of jewels and silver candlesticks were gone from her dresser. His mother was under the window, bent over an open trunk, already overfull, trying to stuff in more combs and lace caps and gloves. Her face was white, and she was still in her nightgown.

She looked up when she heard him enter. He approached her with his arms outstretched as if to embrace her, but she stayed him with her eyes. ‘Do not say anything,’ she said, stony-faced. ‘There is no time. Help me.’

Stephen looked on helplessly. ‘How?’ There was no answer. ‘What am I to do?’

His mother did not even turn, but carried on pressing the lid on the trunk. He could see the small muscles working in her neck. ‘Look for some plate–gold or silver, anything to hand. The servants have been told not to let me near it, but they’ll obey you.’

‘But…’

‘Quickly, now, there is little time.’ As she said it, as though to punctuate it, all the clocks began to chime the quarter. He had not realized they owned so many clocks, nor that all their chimes were so different.

Seeing his hesitation, she entreated him. ‘Go! Please, Stephen, it may be all I have to stay me for the years ahead.’

He stumbled out of the room and down the corridor, passing the servants scurrying with their heads down, carrying armfuls of vermilion silk, a washstand with several basins balanced one on the other, a tray full of glasses and jugs. Stephen ignored them and headed for the dining room. Patterson was at the door as if guarding it. He seemed to know what Stephen had come for.

‘She’s not to have the plate. Master was quite adamant on that, sir.’ ‘Get out of my way, Patterson. Master is not here. You will take my orders. Open that cupboard.’

‘No, sir. Master said not to.’

‘Give me the key.’

Patterson remained stolidly where he was, unmoving.

‘If you do not immediately give me the key, I will knock you flat, do you hear?’

‘You are not to have the key.’ Patterson looked Stephen brazenly in the eye, before Stephen’s fist came out and he reeled backwards into the room. Stephen pressed his advantage and wrestled him to the floor.

‘You bastard,’ Patterson said thickly, the words out before he could stem them. He tried to stand but Stephen had him in a head-lock. Stephen dragged the metal key-ring from Patterson’s pocket with his free hand. He thrust Patterson’s head to the floor and it made contact with a thud. Stephen struggled towards the cupboard, but Patterson punched him from the floor, landing a blow to his ribs that made him bite his lip.

He crawled away and stood up, frantically groping to fit the key to the lock. He tried one key but it did not turn, and had another almost in the lock when he felt hands pulling at his knees, trying to unbalance him. He kicked out backwards, intent on the lock, felt his boot make contact with something soft, and heard a groan. The key turned sweetly and the polished oak doors swung open.

Stephen hauled goblets and platters off the shelves, stacking them in his arms, going for the thickest gold ones first. When his arms were almost full he dragged the silver-chased punchbowl off the shelf, the ladle banging and scraping round the inside.

As he made for the door, Patterson was staggering upright, barring his way, one eye nearly shut and bleeding. Stephen could feel the rage emanating from him like steam from a bull. He had no choice but to bludgeon his way past. He clasped tight to his booty and cannoned forward. Sheer momentum knocked Patterson sideways and Stephen was out, straight down to the waiting carriage.

As he did so, he turned to see his mother hurtling pell-mell down the steps, her bare ankles shockingly pale in the daylight, her arms full of table linen. The thought crossed his mind that table linen was useless with no table to set it on, and surely there must be other more useful goods in the house. For the first time he had some insight into his mother’s mind. To her, table linen must be very important. Her servants were already manhandling the trunks onto the handcart and tying it by its shafts to the back of the carriage. His mother grasped him by the shoulders and looked up at him.

‘God bless you. I will find a way to get word to you.’ She pushed her wispy hair out of her eyes. ‘Where I am, I mean.’ And she climbed into the carriage, which was already beginning to move off. ‘And get out of those ridiculous clothes,’ she called.

‘Wait, I’ll come with you,’ he shouted, but the stablehand cracked the whip and the horses swept into motion, the carriage dragging after it the handcart, which jerked over the ruts in the drive so that one of the trunks, the one his mother had been at such pains to close, flew off and landed on the drive with a thud, scattering combs, reticules, lace gloves and frilled caps in its wake.

Stephen rushed forward to pick them up, and as he did so he was surprised how light all these items were. Is this all a woman’s life is, he thought, these little pieces of lace? He stooped to bring a goosedown powder-puff to his nose and inhaled the familiar dry odour of his mother’s cheek, a smell that seemed to take him back in time, back to learning his first letters, back to his first grazed knee. He breathed deeper, and a pang of nostalgia that was both a sweetness and a pain gnawed in his chest, a loss that was for something he had perhaps never had, but was now gone forever. A faint dust was settling on the dirt carriageway. Stephen watched it drop from the air, the odour of powder strong in his nostrils. He was standing thus when he heard the clocks chime the hour, and the sound of his father’s horse on the drive.

Alice was one of the last to hear of Margaret’s death. She had hidden herself away in the summerhouse, for she and Thomas were more at odds than ever, like mismatched horses in double harness. She busied herself with her nature study pursuits and her paints, and hoped this particular bout of bad weather would pass.

The lady’s slipper flower had bloomed and faded, the petals had dropped away to reveal a green swelling. She had been observing the plant closely for any further signs of distress, and to watch with fascination the seed pod come, now that the flower had gone. She was anxious to collect the minuscule dots of new life from the precious plant and to treat and sow them. In her mind she saw a field full of nodding orchids, their delicate buttercream bowls lit up by the morning sun. She hummed a little tune as she got out the blotting paper and tweezers.

Once divested of flower and seed, the orchid would be hardly noticed amongst her other specimens, she thought. The leaves looked like wild garlic, and unless you knew the plant intimately, it would be hard to distinguish one from the other. Richard Wheeler had called at the house, bold as brass, still asking about it, and the visit had been very disconcerting. She had been unwittingly rude to him in her fervour to keep him from the lady’s slipper. It had left her feeling unsettled, as if someone had stirred up the bottom of a clear pond and the silt and scum were rising to the surface. His dogged persistence in the matter had surprised her.

He wanted her to return it to him because of a covenant with God; that was what he had said. What did he mean? She did not quite know what to make of it. His eyes had an intense quality about them that had not been there before, and it was unnerving. She squirmed inside. He was not going to leave her in peace until the plant was restored to its original position. He had asked her to examine her conscience, and fearful at the pricking of it she had prayed last night extra long, asking for forgiveness for this deception and for the lies she had told him.

She understood herself enough to know that she had been moved by the flower’s beauty, and a certain covetousness lay at the heart of her decision to take it, as well as her more noble ideals of preserving it for future generations. She had so much wanted to save something, to take control somehow. God probably saw that too. Despite the prayers she had the sense she was becoming a stranger to herself.

After Thomas’s harsh words, she had abandoned the mourning clothes for colours, yet still hues with a degree of restraint. Perhaps this might help her feel more herself, help her regain the old lost Alice. As she first put on the soft green dress instead of the sober black she had to bite back tears, for the black had been a daily concrete reminder of Flora, a homage each day as she dressed, and she feared forgetting her, becoming rootless, unfaithful to her family’s memory.

She was fully aware that her new mode of dress had made people notice her and treat her differently. Richard Wheeler had looked at her almost with admiration–he had removed his hat, something she had never seen him do before in her presence. When he did so, she saw with surprise that his hair was thick and wavy, the colour of polished oak. She had wanted to touch it, feel its texture, and for the first time she realized he was an attractive man. She wondered why he had not married, but surmised that his peculiar faith must consume all his time.

When he had approached her in the hallway, almost as if he would force her to do his bidding, she felt the nearness of him, and her body had trembled not only with fear but with some other more strange feeling. She sensed he was doing what he thought proper; she knew him to be righteous, and it was she who was the deceiver. He had been terribly earnest, and overcome by an emotion she could not fathom. She felt unclean next to him, as if her faults were on display–it was as if his mere presence was like a lantern, showing up the dirt under the furniture.

She was musing on this when April, the scullery maid, rapped timidly on the door.

Alice put the orchid out of sight.

‘Excuse, mistress, but Cook said to come tell you that Ella’s upped and left.’

‘What? Given notice?’

‘No, mistress. She just walked out. Said she weren’t coming back.’

Alice put down her gardening mittens and took off her apron. ‘Tell Cook I will come.’ She sighed, irritated that her sowing of the delicate seeds was interrupted by a domestic crisis. She locked up the summerhouse and hurried over to the house, where further questioning revealed that Ella had indeed gone, and that Lottie Jennings had temporarily taken her place.

This was a nuisance. Good maidservants were hard to find. Ella had never been ideal, she was inclined to be lippy, her appearance slovenly, but Alice felt herself to be tolerant and she had ignored Ella’s shortcomings as long as she was left undisturbed in her painting. No real reason had been given for Ella’s sudden departure. Both Cook and April seemed baffled by the whole business.

Certainly Ella would be given no reference, and Cook had made insinuations that there had been some pilfering in the kitchen behind her back. Alice’s thoughts turned to her missing shoes. It was probably Ella who was responsible. But why would she want a pair of shoes that were far too small?

She dreaded telling Thomas they were short-staffed again. He had been curt with her that morning when she had told him the commission money from Earl Shipley’s paintings was subject to a little delay. She had made an excuse about Earl Shipley being suddenly called to go to France, but Thomas had reprimanded her that she had not secured payment from him earlier. Apparently the Grand Dinner at the Fisks’ had not yielded him the lucrative business contacts he had hoped to make, and worse, he had been forced to sit through a play that was interminably dull. Geoffrey Fisk had been drunk and had not introduced him to anyone, and he had lost a quantity of cash to a man called Fairfax at cards. None of this had improved his temper.

Alice was anxious to return to her gardening so she cut short Cook’s obvious intention to give her all the details of Ella’s departure and simply reassured her that a new maid would be sought with as much expedition as possible. She arranged to see her after dinner to discuss it. She must persuade Thomas to offer higher wages if they did not want such unreliable staff.

She managed to sow the seeds of the lady’s slipper in the afternoon, following Margaret’s advice to sow them early, but also making sure they were returned to the same soil, within which lay the invisible black fungus. This was the hidden food without which the new seedlings would fail to thrive.

The process was delicate and all-consuming. She hardly dared breathe, and darkness snaked into the summerhouse when she was still transferring the seed. Although the room was furnished with wall sconces and a good few candelabra so she could work at night, such tiny specks of seed were difficult to see in the wavering light. According to her father, the small seeds would be very slow to germinate, and it would be a while before she would be able to gauge her success.

The little pots looked just like pots of bare earth, the seeds all but invisible. They were quite unremarkable, so she left them on an open shelf where she could watch their progress. She wondered whether Margaret was right and they should be put out into the frost, but she was too frightened to do this, they looked so fragile. Her thoughts often turned to Margaret. She had not returned yet to visit her, and Alice was a little sad, for she had liked Margaret, and wanted someone else to share in the excitement of the process.

Afterwards she planted three larger pots of foxglove seeds. These would show much earlier, brought on by the warmth of the summerhouse, and would make a splendid early display by the front gate in years to come. She stood these on the top shelf, alongside the original lady’s slipper plant, unremarkable now without its flower head.

When this was done, she went to the house and, heeding the difficult conversation to come, made a special effort with her dress, a dark blue fine wool, with velvet trim and small rosettes of dark blue satin ribbon on the bodice. Her bare shoulders she half concealed with a fine muslin kerchief, and she teased her hair into loose tendrils either side of her ears.

She hoped the attention to her dress and a suitably demure manner might smooth the way whilst she discussed domestic affairs, never a popular topic with Thomas, over dinner. When she heard his horse on the road outside, she called April to bring warmed wine to the dining room. The weather had been windy and the tide had come up through the estuary; Thomas had had to make a lengthy detour through ill-kept tracks, and from his demeanour she saw with a sinking heart that he was already not in the best of spirits.

Once he was settled in his favourite chair at the head of the table, with a drink in front of him, she led him gently into conversation, asking him about his day and listening to him talk of the price of Lindsey wool and the coiners’ guild and so forth, until the meal was served. Obviously Cook had been unable to find much help in the kitchen, for here was yesterday’s fowl pie, a little burnt around the edges, with no gravy and only a few parsnips at the side.

Thomas looked at his plate and wrinkled his nose. Alice was about to tell him about Ella, when he put down his knife and said, ‘There’s been a murder in the village, over near Fisk’s place. The milk lad found the body in a ditch. I thought we were done with killings now. It seems we still cannot go safely abroad. She was stabbed to death, poor old soul.’

‘How terrible,’ said Alice. ‘Who is it? Is it someone we know?’

‘No. Some old woman from Preston way. She had lodgings above the Anchor Inn.’

The colour drained from Alice’s face.

‘Did they tell you her name? What did she look like?’

‘Widow Proctor? Poultice? Something or other. No, I can’t remember. Why?’

Alice swallowed. ‘No reason. I just thought I might recognize the name. What’s happened to her?’

‘I’ve already said.’ Thomas picked up his knife again and stuck it into the rock-like pastry. ‘She was stabbed to death and left lying in a ditch, wrapped up in her own cloak, and before you enquire, nobody knows who is responsible.’

The saliva dried in Alice’s mouth; she held tightly onto her napkin. It had to be her. Margaret was staying at the Anchor. There was no one else it could be. Alice continued to chew but she found she could not swallow. Her stomach was sinking into a gaping hole and she felt she would gag.

‘It’s not acceptable, is it,’ said Thomas, shoving away his plate and knocking his goblet of wine so that it slopped onto the table. He mopped at it ineffectually with his napkin. ‘I can’t eat it either. I will tell Cook she must do better or look for another position.’

‘Do not be angry with Cook. It is not her fault.’ Alice’s voice sounded small and far away; she tried to carry on as if she was unconcerned about Thomas’s news, but her mind was racing through questions and answers. She continued to speak. ‘It is because Ella has left us.’

‘Left us? What do you mean, left us?’

‘She just walked out, told Cook she was never coming back.’

‘And you did not try to stop her or find out why?’

‘Well, no, I…’ She tailed off, astonished by a sudden commotion as Thomas pushed his chair back and leapt to his feet.

‘You stupid hare-brained woman! You just let her go, as if it’s of no consequence?’ Alice had never seen Thomas move so fast. She was taken aback by his overreaction. He was still shouting, his mouth was crooked with anger. She did not understand why he was in such a temper. Alice stood too, tears were coming and she needed to get away from his angry face.

He threw his wet napkin down on the table. ‘Just because she’s a maid you think she can be dispensed with, like an old coat, thrown off whenever you fancy, do you?’ The spittle flew out from his mouth.

‘But it had nothing to do with me. The first I heard of it—’ She could not reason what had upset him so, but he cut her off sharp.

‘You make me sick, do you hear? You’ve never given me a thought since Flora died. I might as well have not have existed. You are not a wife in any common sense of the word. You just fill the house with your gloom; you stink of it, and it makes everyone else miserable. Ella was warm-hearted and kind, and you always treated her like a piece of dirt under your feet.’

Alice was too stunned to speak. Tears coursed down her cheeks but she could not have told anyone what she was crying for. Like a ship battered by a storm and thrown off course, she had no idea what wind had hit her, nor any idea where it would lead.

Had she treated Ella like that? She did not think so. Surely her husband could not be talking about the Ella she knew. She began to speak.

‘Cook says she stole things from the kitchen—’

Thomas did not let her finish. His pudgy face had broken out in beads of sweat, red veins stood out in his forehead. ‘So that was your excuse to get rid of her, was it? And how is her family going to manage without her money coming in? You are a selfish, thought less woman, and…’

It dawned on Alice in one hot rush of shame that her husband was talking as if Ella were the wife, and Alice the servant. The truth of the situation between her husband and her maidservant hung there between them in the room. Her eyes widened as she realized what had been going on underneath her nose, for–well, for how long? In the same instant, Thomas saw the look dawn upon her face and cast his eyes down to the floor.

‘You put us to shame, Thomas.’ Her voice almost choked on the words.

A loud knocking at the door. They both turned towards it but keeping their eyes locked, as fighting foxes circle one another. Of course with Ella gone there was no one to answer the door, so after the second bout of knocking Thomas opened it himself. The constable was on the doorstep, standing in the rain, with some of the king’s garrison behind him.

Thomas looked at him impatiently. ‘Yes, Woolley, what is it?’

‘Is your wife at home?’

‘She is. What is the matter? Is it my aunt? Has somebody died?’

‘In a manner of speaking. It’s your wife. We have come to take her in.’