An Unlamented Death: A Mystery Set in Georgian England (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 1) (25 page)
Authors: William Savage
Norwich, 28 August, 1792
My Dear Son,
I should be gratified to find myself at present much in demand amongst the better society of this city. Alas, it is not my wit or conversation that causes so many invitations to be sent. Nor does the blizzard of calling cards in the hallway signify anything about me. It is not even curiosity to meet dear Sophia, richly though she deserves it.
No, what draws all attention is the simple fact that I have a son. Not any kind of son, you understand. This one is hailed as ‘a young man of infinite promise’, ‘the best ornament of the medical profession in these parts’ and ‘saintly in his care for his patients’. I am assured on all sides that he is ‘quite the thing’. People pester me with questions about him. Certain ladies amongst my acquaintance have derived much repute from having met this amazing young man ‘in the flesh’, in a manner of speaking – though I am certain more than one of them (and none more so than Miss Jane Labelior) would dearly like to turn that saying into reality.
Who can this man be? I have but two sons. One is a country squire, with no connection to medicine. The other is a physician it is true. But I know him only as a most retiring and scholarly person. Admittedly, he is sometimes drawn into all kinds of madcap actions through a most over-developed curiosity, but no more.
Yet, I am assured, this is the one. Mrs. Ross, the wife of the late archdeacon, sings your praises more sweetly than the choir in the cathedral sing their anthems. Amongst the Quakers of this place, of which there are many, your name is held out as a paragon of bravery and good sense. Even the bishop's chaplain, I hear, has been moved to refer to you as ‘an excellent person’. That is a great compliment indeed, coming from him. He is well-known to be critical of all who are not relatives of His Lordship, the Bishop, or members of the higher ranks of the peerage.
On the subject of Mrs. Ross, I imagine you know that she and her son are now reconciled. He is living in Birmingham at present, I understand, where he has found eminent men in commerce and banking closely interested in furthering his career. All thought Mrs. Ross would leave Norwich, but she assures us it is not so. She has left the Archdeacon's residence in the Close, of course. Yet her son intends to return to this city in due time. It seems that he has good hopes of entering into a partnership with one or more of his patrons from Birmingham and starting a business here of banking. In the meantime, he has rented a suitable property for his mother. Since, we are told, his father did not manage to cut off his inheritance in the legal sense – dying before that could be done – he has sufficient wealth to establish himself in business when he is ready.
I would ask you when you next intend to visit me, but you might do better to stay in Aylsham until the fuss has died down. Unless, of course, you relish the idea of being pestered by every eligible young woman (and a good many not so young) with long accounts of their ailments. I think Sophia and I will come again to visit you instead. Then we can go on to Trundon as we did on the last occasion.
Sophia and I get along wonderfully together. She is quite the most tactful and delightful of companions. When we wish, we attend the theatre and other sundry entertainments, where she seems always to draw a small crowd of attentive young men. Sad to say, they depart unsatisfied, for she is resolute that she will never marry. Instead, she spends her time with several close female friends of her own age. They are gaining the status of
bluestockings
, I fear, for they occupy themselves mostly in reading, study and scientific experiments most unsuitable for young ladies. I do not interfere. What is judged acceptable for the young of our sex has always seemed to me to be too dull to contemplate.What she thinks of you she will not tell me. Make of this what you will. I suspect she harbours a certain
tendresse
, but will not admit it. But then, I am a silly, sentimental old woman. It is just as likely that she rarely thinks of you at all.So, my dear boy, expect us to visit during the last two weeks of September, if that is convenient for you.
Until then, I remain your most loving and devoted mother,
Mrs. Eleanor Bascom.
W
illiam Savage was born
and spent his childhood in the historic city of Hereford, on the borders of Wales, before taking his degree at Peterhouse, Cambridge. Thereafter, his career included a variety of managerial and executive roles. Now retired, he lives in a small market town in Norfolk. Three years ago, he began volunteering at a National Trust property nearby, and this turned his lifelong interest in history towards researching and writing about the eighteenth century. This is his first work of fiction.
