Chapter 6
O
xford lay beneath them like a gleaming necklace of cream-colored knuckle bones threaded on a tendon of river that ran through a narrow valley below. The coach was now descending a steep, tree-lined hill and the young doctor peered out of the window like an eager child who had been promised a treat. He had heard so much about the university, even when he was a sophomore in Philadelphia, the so-called Athens of America. It was, according to his medical students, a hotbed of rebellion, of debauchery, of fine minds and loose morals. Instead of Plato and Aristotle, college talk was of port and allowances. The professors of the university rarely gave lectures and, as for examinations, most undergraduates had never even entered a library, let alone opened a book.
Thomas suspected a little bitterness and rivalry on their part, however, and he could not wait to find out if there was any foundation to these scurrilous accusations. When he had asked Dr. Carruthers about his students’ harsh opinion of the place, the old gentleman had tried to dampen his interest. “Full of markets and cutpurses and muckworms who try to pass for scholars,” he had chuntered over a glass of brandy. He had paused for a moment, then chuckled. “But if they’re agin’ the Hanoverians, they can’t be all bad,” he mused. This enigmatic dismissal had left Thomas even more determined to one day visit the fabled city of academia, of John Milton and Jonathan Swift, and that day had now come about in a rather unexpected way.
As the coach bounced and lurched its way down the hill, Thomas turned toward the young woman who sat opposite him; the young woman who had come to him at his rooms in London in such desperation, pleading for his help, only the night before. He would never forget her large, doelike eyes as she begged him to help her solve the mystery of her brother’s death. Yet now, there she sat, not deigning to look at him for fear that one of the other passengers might suspect they were traveling together.
Joining Lady Lydia was her maid, Eliza, a full-bosomed wench, whose eyes strayed coquettishly now and again toward him. The doctor’s gaze, however, was firmly fixed on her ladyship and he watched her as she stared vacantly out of the window. In the cold light of day, those eyes looked smaller than the night before. It was Cicero who had called the eye the interpreter of the mind, mused Thomas. They may be silent today, he told himself, but her beauty was in no way diminished. He studied the carved helix of her ear and the delicate ovals of her nostrils. Her china white skin was completely flawless, except for a tiny exquisite mole to the left of her lips and yet he still found himself wondering what lay beneath this superficial epidermis. She must have been aware that he was looking at her, yet she deliberately ignored him.
“We must remain strangers on the coach,” she told him after he had agreed to travel to Oxfordshire with her. “It is imperative that people do not realize we are together.” There was an urgency in her voice that made him accept her instruction unquestioningly.
Now and again when she had lifted her gaze during the arduous journey from London, it had been to acknowledge some ribald comment made by the fat cleric who sat to her right. Thomas had made the mistake of revealing his profession before they were clear of Holborn and the well-built clergyman had insisted on divulging the grisly details of the lithotomy he had undergone, which had produced a stone as big as a plover’s egg. He enthused at great length about how the sizable stone had been excised by the surgeon in less than two minutes flat. Indeed, the description had been so graphic that the elderly woman who was on her way to visit her undergraduate son had almost passed out, and probably would have done so had Thomas not wafted some smelling salts under her nose.
The one saving grace of the journey had been the fact that the woman had been so grateful to Thomas for his care that she had shared the entire contents of a hamper originally destined for her son with her fellow passengers. Thomas had tucked into a pheasant leg, three oatcakes, and a flagon of cider on her insistence. It had helped pass the time and taken his mind off the unenviable task he might be asked to perform. He did not relish a postmortem on a corpse already in the advanced stages of decomposition. His desire for dissection was not as rapacious as some of his fellow anatomists. He did not seek out corpses with the appetite of a gourmet, keen to sample corporal delicacies. The examination of a cadaver in this advanced stage of decay would be an unpleasant means to a sought-after end, not an anatomical celebration.
The coach turned into Broad Street and came to a halt outside the White Horse. Lady Lydia had already gathered her belongings together. She had been reading what appeared to be letters for part of the journey and had folded them neatly, returning them to a small wallet she carried. As she rose from her seat, smoothing her skirts, Thomas looked at her deliberately, wondering if she might dart him a surreptitious glance. She did not and he watched, irritated, as the coachman helped her alight first.
“You are to wait at the White Horse. I will send a messenger presently,” she had instructed him the night before. He did not take kindly to being treated like a servant, but he told himself that Lady Lydia was in mourning and could therefore be excused.
On the newly laid pavement by the side of the road stood a liveried servant, and behind him a man with a pockmarked face. The servant bowed and took Lady Lydia’s gloved hand, escorting her to a waiting carriage. It stood a few yards away outside the Sheldonian Theatre, whose walls were adorned with the busts of famous philosophers. Socrates and Aristotle looked down upon the bustling street below, like Greek gods watching over mere mortals. A carrot-haired boy of no more than ten years of age followed behind, struggling with his mistress’s luggage.
Thomas had kept his precious instrument bag with him at his feet throughout the journey. The driver handed him the only other bag he possessed, containing an apron and a change of clothes, and he began to make his way toward the White Horse, just as Lady Lydia’s carriage moved off. He could see the brim of her hat and the curve of her nose through the window and, just as he had given up all hope, she turned, as if she knew he had been watching her, and fixed him in her eye. There was no smile, no nod, no gesture of recognition; just a silent, motionless look. It was enough and Thomas was made to feel he was the most important man in the whole of Oxford.
He did not know how long he would have to wait at the inn. Lady Lydia had been very vague about her intentions. It may, she said, be only two or three hours. On the other hand he might have to wait overnight before he was sent word of her plans. She had gone on ahead to Boughton Hall, about six miles north of the city, and would consult with her husband before deciding whether or not she required Thomas’s services.
The young doctor made his way inside the inn, carefully ducking under the low lintel at the entrance. After such a tedious journey, Thomas thought himself entitled to a little relaxation. The inn was cramped, with several small rooms leading off each other, like a rabbit warren. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the sickly sour smell of beer.
“A tankard of your best ale,” Thomas asked the ruddy-faced landlord. There was a moment’s pause as the man processed Thomas’s demeanor and his accent in particular. Detecting this new patron was from the Colonies, the innkeeper raised a disapproving eyebrow and the frothing tankard was duly dispatched, without any pleasantries, on the bar together with a few farthings in change.
Three other men who sat at a nearby table also turned to look at this traitor in their midst. Thomas was aware of an undercurrent of hostility, as their eyes bored into him with a steady pressure, but he had become used to it, as if such regular contempt had anesthetized his senses. It no longer bothered him and he simply took his ale and sat down at a small table by the window.
A sickly fire flickered in the inglenook and despite the fact that the inn was by no means empty, Thomas felt oddly alone. He took out his purse and was about to drop in his change when he saw a scrap of paper. He suddenly remembered Dr. Carruthers had slipped it in there the night before when he had told him he would be visiting Oxford for a day or two. “Might be worth your while looking this chap up,” the old gentleman said. Despite not being able to see, he had scrawled a name on the paper in a spidery hand and pressed it into Thomas’s pocket. “ ’Course he could be dead by now. Always ill, but he was a good anatomist in his day,” the old doctor had chuckled.
Thomas squinted as he tried to read the almost illegible hand. After a few moments of holding the parchment up to the light from the window he was able to decipher it: “Professor Hans Hascher, Christ Church Anatomy School.” He took a large gulp of his ale. It was weak and tasted of watered-down vinegar. He did not like this place and he had no reason to stay here, at least not for the next few hours anyway, he told himself. He memorized the name and address, pushed the half-empty tankard to one side, and stood up. The three heads turned once more and watched him walk toward the door. As Thomas reached the threshold he heard someone utter, “Bloody New Worlder.” He paused to register the insult, but chose to ignore it, then walked out into the watery light of an October day.
Chapter 7
J
acob Lovelock carried the coal scuttle across to the kitchen fire as his wife, Hannah, struggled with sticks and tapers at the grate. Wiping his forehead with a sooty hand, he left coal dust in the pockmarks that pitted his face, turning some of them into small black volcanic craters.
“I don’t know as how you could,” scolded Mistress Claddingbowl, the cook. Hannah had allowed the fire to go out and now there was no hot water for Captain Farrell’s morning tea, let alone his toilet. The flustered maid was trying desperately to rekindle the flames, blowing frantically when a spark caught hold of a stick, but her task was made all the more difficult because the wood had been allowed to get damp.
“So, you’ve let the fire go out.” The voice of Rafferty, the captain’s manservant, sent a shudder down Hannah’s spine. Mr. Rafferty—no one knew his first name—had served with Captain Farrell in India for ten years. When a back injury forced him to leave the army, the captain eagerly employed him as his valet. He had an air of quiet authority about him. He never raised his voice to the other servants, although his sharp tongue could sting as much as any birch. Hannah stared at the floor as Rafferty approached. “ ’Tis a good job the master does not have need of it yet,” he told her, softening his tone a little. “He still sleeps.”
Jacob shrugged his broad shoulders. “ ’Tis a wonder he can sleep at all,” he muttered, shoveling coals onto the fire.
Rafferty’s back suddenly stiffened. “What was that?” The smirk suddenly disappeared from Jacob’s face and he stood upright.
“I said the master needs his sleep and all, Mr. Rafferty, sir.”
The valet narrowed his eyes. “The master’s going through a bad time. We should all support him,” he growled in his low Irish brogue. Tugging indignantly at his waistcoat, he turned and walked toward the pantry.
Jacob waited until the manservant was out of earshot. “Bad time? He seemed right enough to me yesterday,” he said as he poked the coals fiercely.
Hannah laid more kindling. “What do you mean?” she asked in a half whisper. Jacob smiled smugly, cocking his head to one side. He did not bother to lower his voice.
“He told me now that his lordship was out of the way, that my life would be easier.” He paused for effect. “That all our lives would be easier.”
Mistress Claddingbowl, who had gone back to mixing batter, stopped stirring. “I’m sure he meant nothing by it,” she huffed, returning to her pancakes.
It gave Jacob great pleasure to see the cook writhe. “But ’tis not the half of it, Mistress Claddingbowl,” he told her. Hannah frowned at him, silently reprimanding him, but he took no notice. “He says to me: ‘Now that I’m master, there’ll be some changes ’round here.’ ”
“There’ve been changes enough already,” snapped Hannah, suddenly bursting into tears once more.
Jacob put his grimy arm around her. “There, dearest. I know ’tis hard,” he comforted. Everyone understood, but his words did not soothe his wife.
“She’s gone, Jacob. Rebecca’s gone,” she sobbed.
Twelve-year-old Rebecca Lovelock, the eldest daughter of Hannah and Jacob, had fallen in the lake on the estate earlier in the year and drowned. Since then a malaise hung in the air, sucking out any lightheartedness there may have been at the hall. In fact the only person who appeared to have taken these calamitous events in his stride was Captain Farrell, who still slept upstairs.
Yet his sleep was not a righteous one, but fitful and broken. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and his hair was matted. He tossed and turned and mumbled and now and again the name “Edward” was discernable among his rantings. His sleep, it appeared, brought with it nightmares.
Suddenly he sat bolt upright, jolting himself out of his slumber to find his bed empty. Lydia was absent. It was then he remembered she had gone to London to see her cousin. He slumped down again.
The first blackbirds were already chirping out their throaty chorus before sleep finally got the better of him once more and it was shortly after midday before Rafferty entered the chamber to check on his master. His footsteps on the polished oak floor woke the captain and he turned over, opening a cautious eye. A shaft of light beamed down through a chink in the heavy velvet drapes.
“What time is it?”
“Past noon, sir,” Rafferty replied. “Shall I draw the curtains ?”
Farrell sat up quickly. His loose nightshirt was open at the neck, revealing a large expanse of his chest. He ran his fingers through his dark, shoulder-length hair and tossed his head as if he were trying to shake off the uneasy sleep that had enveloped him so entirely for the last three hours.
His thoughts turned to Lydia once more. “I must dress. Her ladyship will be back soon.” He flung back the covers and leapt up out of bed. Walking over to the washstand in the corner of his room by the casement, he splashed his face with the water that Rafferty had just poured.
“ ’Tis cold,” he remarked.
Rafferty shifted awkwardly. “I’m afraid the fire went out earlier this morning, sir,” he replied apologetically.
Farrell took the towel his manservant handed him and, patting his face dry, walked over to the window and looked out over the tree-lined drive. It was a beautiful autumn day, with clear blue skies. The avenue of horse chestnuts was turning orange and gold, their large green leaves edged in rust-colored lace. The lawns, too, had lost their summer verdure. Nevertheless Michael Farrell felt a sense of pride as he surveyed the scene.
He had loved the estate before when it had belonged to Edward, but now that it was his, for all intents and purposes, he loved it even more. As far as the eye could see—beyond the thick copse, across the river, and over toward the rolling hills beyond—was now in his possession. Even the bridge in the distance, over which a lone horseman now rode, was his.
“This is a fine place, Rafferty,” he said, easing his arms into the waistcoat his manservant held for him.
“Indeed it is, sir,” came the sought-after reply. As Rafferty helped his master dress, Farrell continued to gaze out at the vista, drinking it in like a good glass of claret. He saw the cattle grazing in the water meadow and he saw the buzzards circling on the noonday thermals above the Chiltern Hills. He saw, too, that the horseman, who had appeared as an insignificant dot on the horizon only a few moments ago, was drawing near at speed and was now approaching the drive that led directly to the front of Boughton Hall.