“Yes,” Jenny whispered.
“You lie,” Mrs Parson said, “and your lover admitted it all before he left.”
“What will happen to me?” Jenny asked Alex in a surprisingly level voice, staring at the door that was still reverberating after Mrs Parson had slammed it shut.
“I’m not sure. I suppose you must ask Ian that.”
Jenny held her little girl close, one finger tracing the small rosebud mouth, the finely formed eyebrows, the nose.
“I truly don’t know. I have no idea who fathered her.” She raised her face to look Alex straight in the eyes. “But at least I know she’s mine.”
“Not that it will help her much,” Alex sighed, sitting down to a late meal in the kitchen. Matthew set down a plate of fried eggs before her, got her some bread and a large slice of cheese.
“No,” he said. “What a terrible way to be welcomed into the world: no congratulations, no rejoicing, only this compact, heavy silence.”
Alex swallowed the last of her eggs and nodded. “Where’s Ian?”
“Out.” Matthew waved at the blue May night. “With a stone bottle of beer and my flask full of whisky.”
“Ah. Should we go after him?”
“Nay.” Matthew placed an arm around his wife and drew her close. “What a long day.”
Too right. Her head wheeled with Qaachow, Jenny, the new baby and Ian – her beloved son who was hurting so badly and whom she couldn’t help – not at all.
Chapter 24
Jacob was very pleased with himself. Helen had appreciated his little gift, and after a couple of agreeable hours spent in her company, he was hurrying in the direction of Whitehall, tugging at his coat as he went.
Since that first interview with his uncle, he’d been invited back a couple of times, and he was looking forward to an afternoon with a man he found as fascinating now as the first time he saw him. Everything about Uncle Luke breathed success: his clothes, his furnishings, the quality of his horses, his unobtrusive servants… Nothing about Uncle Luke breathed happiness, rather the reverse, and to Jacob this was something of a conundrum.
“He lacks a woman,” Helen told him when he tried to explain this to her. “I’d wager he still grieves for his wife, his one single love.” She sighed happily at the sheer romance of it all, making Jacob silently wonder if she was feeble in the head. There was no lack of women in his uncle’s life; that much Jacob had quickly understood from the odd comment made by Luke, mainly along the lines that, should Jacob feel the urge, it was best he came to his uncle, who would see him introduced to some of the more reputable establishments in London.
*
If Jacob was fascinated by Luke, that was nothing compared to how entranced Luke was by this nephew of his. Cheeky, bright and full of bubbling energy, Jacob reminded him very little of an older brother he snidely remembered as somewhat dull and dreary. He supposed the lad must take after his mother, except that, at times, Jacob tilted his head just like Matthew did, or pinched the bridge of his nose while frowning down at the chessboard in a way that made Luke experience a most unwelcome sensation of loss for a brother he’d expended so much energy in hating.
Sometimes he’d watch the two lads, his Charles and Jacob, and the similarities between them were such that they could have been brothers, so clearly stemming from the same root. Mostly though, it was Jacob’s sheer boldness that captivated him, from the fact that he had set off to see the world with nothing but a shilling or two in his pouch, to how he had managed to carve himself a place here in London, mainly due to his engaging manner and quick head.
Some discreet enquiries had brought back the information that Master Castain was much taken with the lad, lauding him for his tenacity and diligence. Strangely enough, that made Luke proud – odd seeing as Jacob wasn’t his. He did some further sleuthing, and discovered that the lad had found a welcoming bed as well, and Luke chuckled, quite convinced dear brother Matthew wouldn’t approve, in particular as the lad was married.
“It holds,” Jacob said, “marriage by consent, and it was consummated. She’s my wife.” They were strolling up Lombard Street, Luke having business to conduct at the Royal Exchange.
“You’re too young for that.” Luke laughed. “Far too young to tie yourself to someone for life.” He took a hasty step to the side to avoid being spattered by mud as a cart trundled by, having to grab Jacob by the arm to pull him out of the thoroughfare.
“Oh, aye? But you were even younger when you bedded Margaret that first time.”
“That was different. I had known her since we were bairns. And we didn’t wed at the time.”
“But you wanted to,” Jacob said. “Mama always says how much misery could have been avoided had old Malcolm made you wed her instead of throwing you out.”
Luke gave him a surprised look. That was mightily generous of Alex, all things considered.
“She wasn’t rich enough,” Luke said, feeling a wave of ancient, bile-green rage rise through him. But the old fool had paid. He smiled coldly: one well-placed push and Da had gone into the ice-cold water of the overflowing millpond, and Luke had watched as he drowned.
“So what does she look like, this Betty of yours?” he said to change the subject. He grimaced as he stepped around a stinking pile of ordure, nimbly leapt aside when a sedan chair came rushing by.
Jacob shrugged. “Brown eyes, brown hair, and freckled, all over like.” He smiled. “She doesn’t like her hair – I think it’s nice, soft and curly, all fuzzy.”
“Ah.” Luke nodded, thinking the lass sounded rather plain. “And if you come back and she’s wed elsewhere?”
Jacob came to an abrupt halt, causing a man to barge into him. There were several minutes of raised voices as Jacob went down on his knees to retrieve the man’s spilled wares.
“Wed elsewhere?” Jacob looked at his muddied breeches. “She can’t – she’s wed to me.”
“And her father can tear up the contracts as easily as that.” Luke snapped his fingers. “Would you mind?”
Jacob’s brow furrowed into a concentrated frown. “I would be devastated,” he said, making Luke laugh out loud.
“Nay, you wouldn’t, Jacob Graham, and you’re an awful liar, you are.” He clapped his nephew on the back. “If you truly loved her as much as you say, you wouldn’t be spending the odd night in Mistress Wythe’s bed, would you?” They had by now reached Cheapside, as always thronged with people, and he took hold of Jacob’s arm and guided him to the right, towards his destination.
“Oh, so you were celibate, were you? All those years when you were away from Margaret?” Jacob threw back.
“No, but mostly I paid for it, and rarely I cared. But you care for…Helen, is it not? You buy her trinkets, bring her the odd flower.” Luke smiled at the way Jacob’s face had turned a bright pink. “I’m not judging you. I am but pointing out that maybe it was all a bit too rash.”
“I‘ve given Betty my word,” Jacob said stonily.
“Aye, but what if she doesn’t want it?”
Jacob looked away. He seemed on the verge of replying, but whatever he’d intended to say was drowned in a shriek. Luke frowned when he saw the horse and the man it was dragging behind him. Cheapside was lined with spectators, loud, angry people screaming at the wretch that had no possibility of avoiding the rotting foodstuffs that were thrown at him, fastened as he was to a primitive wooden frame.
“Another one?” Jacob sounded dismayed and moved closer to Luke.
“It would seem so.” Yet another papist accused of one more grievous sin after the other, foremost amongst them a lurking intent to kill the king – or a magistrate, a reverend, a good honest Anglican merchant. Luke would wager a sizeable purse that the broken man presently being transported to his execution was as innocent as all the other papists that had been killed in recent years, but that mattered not one whit, not when the people were baying for blood.
“What kind of king condones such?” Jacob said. “Look at him, tortured and beaten until he admitted to whatever was said of him.”
“Hush, lad!” Luke threw a nervous look at the men closest to them. “And it’s not the king,” he added in a low voice. “His Majesty had yon troublemonger Oates jailed nigh on two years ago on account of his perjury.” Luke moved his nephew along by the simple expedient of placing his hand on Jacob’s back and pushing.
“The people wanted him freed,” Luke said, once they were out of the press of people. “It’s parliament, not the king, that condones what is being done to the papists.”
“So why doesn’t the king stop it?”
“He can’t,” Luke said shortly. From the way Jacob looked at him, Luke could see his nephew found this unbelievable. Luke gave him an irritated look, considering whether to launch himself in defence of his royal master. No use, he concluded: the finer aspects of politics would be lost on someone as young as Jacob.
*
Charles and Jacob quickly became close, and Jacob looked forward to Charlie’s frequent visits to his workplace, enjoying having someone to talk to while he created bed after bed of sweet-smelling herbs and plants. Mostly, Charlie would beg Jacob for details about his huge family, listening with particular interest when Jacob talked about Ian.
“I never knew him,” Charlie said, “and Father has never spoken much of him. But Mam did – until the day she died, she would talk about him, her Ian.”
“Do you miss her?” Jacob asked, throwing his cousin a look.
Charlie lobbed a clod of earth in the direction of the water gate. “I do, and so does Father. At times—” Charlie broke off.
“At times what?”
“At times I wake up at night, and I can hear him talking to her.”
“She’s a ghost?” Jacob asked, much impressed.
“Of course she isn’t! Father talks to the portrait he has of her.”
“Ah,” Jacob nodded, thinking this was rather strange behaviour. If someone was dead, they were dead. “Mayhap it’s time he finds a new wife.”
“A new wife means half-brothers and sisters, and I have no desire to see myself or my sisters displaced in Father’s affection.” Charlie threw yet another clod of earth, this time hitting the two-headed rhinoceros that decorated the water gate.
Jacob laughed. “Why would you be? I don’t think Mama loves me less because of my younger siblings.”
“But that’s what happened to Ian,” Charles blurted before going a bright red – rather unbecoming, given the colour of his hair.
“It did?” Jacob had never heard the full story.
Charles squirmed, admitting that he didn’t know; he’d pieced this together on his own, snatched comments from the servants, the very long ramblings of his mother the few times she had drunk excessively…
“I was born and Father no longer wanted him,” Charles summarised succinctly.
“Oh.” Jacob shook his head. “But he shouldn’t have been with your father to begin with. He’s Da’s son.” This was all very bewildering.
“Umm,” Charles replied.
“And you’re definitely Luke’s son,” Jacob went on with a grin. “But if you prefer, we can set him up with a widow instead. An old widow.”
“Set him up?” Charles squeaked. “With an old lady?”
Jacob hitched his shoulders. “He’s no spring chicken, is he?”
*
“We don’t serve working women,” Master Castain told Jacob one evening. “It will bring us into disrepute.”
“Working women?” Jacob pretended confusion. “So no seamstresses, no serving girls, no cooks, no—”
“You know what I mean,” Master Castain interrupted him.
“She was in search of something to help with her cough,” Jacob reprimanded. “Nothing else.”
“Her cough? Consumption, I’d warrant.”
“Aye.” The city was full of people who were constantly coughing, and the lass from earlier in the day had held her handkerchief to her mouth throughout their short conversation, the thin cloth stained with blood.
“So what did you give her?” Master Castain asked.
“Dried elderberries and raspberry leaves to be boiled slowly with linseed, sugar and lemons,” Jacob replied, without raising his head from the notes he was making.
“Linseed?” Master Castain thought about that for some time, nodding in approbation.
“It releases an oil – most soothing.”
“Another of your mother’s cures?” Master Castain smiled.
Jacob shrugged. “Aye.”
*
They had a major argument a week later, with Jacob glaring at his master across the workbench in the back area.
“She’s a bairn! Look at her! She’s too young to carry a child!” Jacob threw a glance out into the shop proper where a pale lass was gripping her older sister’s hand. “And with her stepfather, no less,” Jacob went on with disgust.
“That is what she says, but we don’t know the truth of it. And what is to say she hasn’t invited the man into her bed? Girl children can be full of wiles.” Master Castain studied the two young women, clearly not quite as taken in by the abject expression on the youngest girl’s face as Jacob was.
“Please, we have to help them. She’s desperate, and what help you don’t give them they’ll look for elsewhere. And we both know how often that goes wrong…”
Master Castain looked at his wife, who was sitting in the furthest corner of the room, her small desk piled high with ledgers. “What do you think, my dear?”
“It may be too late as it is,” she said, “and the girl may bleed to death if the dose isn’t accurate. Pennyroyal is a dangerous herb. Besides, if he’s bedding her, he’ll have her back in his bed shortly, and so what good will it do?”
“We must stop him!” Jacob exclaimed.
Mrs Castain laughed shortly. “Stop Richard Collin? That I think you’ll find beyond yourself, Jacob. No, husband, I suggest you tell them pennyroyal may help, but that unfortunately you have none to offer.”
*
When next he met Luke, Jacob was bubbling with indignation. A young comely lass in the hands of a ruthless stepfather – it was right terrible, wasn’t it?
“Richard Collin?” Luke twirled the cup round in his hands. “I’m prone to agree with Mrs Castain. He’s not a man you want to antagonise.”
“And so we sit and watch as he abuses a lass not yet fifteen,” Jacob spat.
Luke sighed. “She’s his ward, Jacob. And should she end up pregnant, he’ll wed her.”
“And how does that help? The poor lass hates him.”
“How do you know? How?” Luke repeated, when Jacob at first chose not to reply.
“How? She was weeping, begging me to help.”
“Ah. So what did you do?”
“I…” Jacob attempted to look away from the bright green eyes facing him. “I prepared something for her, and it was easy enough to find his house.” But not the lass. To his chagrin, he’d had to leave his package in the hands of a maid.
“Yes, it would be, I imagine.”
Jacob made a face. A goldsmith, Richard Collin was very successful, having made a series of marriages that had, one by one, brought him his former competitors’ businesses as well.
“Four widows,” Luke said with an element of admiration. “The last one brought him that new house just off Maiden’s Lane.” He eyed Jacob, shaking his head from side to side. “His stepdaughter comes well dowered, and Richard Collin isn’t about to let such a plump bird escape his hand.” He extended his legs in front of him and crossed them at the ankle, studying his pink silk stockings. “Stay away from young Mistress Collin.”
“Her name is Charlotte Foster,” Jacob said.
*
Luke’s warning didn’t help, nor did Master Castain’s. Jacob gravitated far too often in the direction of Maiden’s Lane, on the off chance of at least getting a glimpse of fair-haired Charlotte Foster. And he did, often enough, seeing her dart across the muddy road on her pattens with the grace of a deer in flight, her head sedately covered as she hurried down Gutter Lane on her way to the newly rebuilt St Mary-le-Bow.