Chapter 6
T
homas Silkstone and Amos Kidd were not the only early risers on that hot June morning. Gabriel Lawson had been up since dawn, too. It was market day in Brandwick and there were some late lambs to take to the slaughter. Two shepherds, father and son, Seth and Noah Kipps, drove the flock, about fifty of them in all, along the narrow lanes. Lawson followed behind in the wagon, narrowing his eyes against the dust that rose from the track as hundreds of hooves loosened it.
Without their mothers the lambs were disoriented, slipping down the dry gullies and ditches, or straying through broken gateways and gaps in hedgerows. While the dogs did a good job rounding up their stupid charges, progress was slow, compounded by the heat and the flies. Nevertheless, they arrived at the market in Sheep Street before nine o’clock and the livestock were all penned in hurdles within minutes.
As the sun climbed, the air was filled with the bleats of thousands of lambs and the shouts of men. Dogs barked incessantly and flies buzzed drunkenly hither and thither, high on dung. The cobbles were wet with sheep’s piss and the reek of it stung men’s eyes.
Lawson wiped his brow with his kerchief after the last hurdle had been closed and leant against a nearby wall, licking his parched lips.
“Goodly looking lambs you got there, Mr. Lawson,” said one farmer, sidling up to him as he watched the proceedings.
The steward gave a self-satisfied grin. “ ’Tis why I get a good price for them,” he replied.
Within the next hour all of his lambs had been sold and many of them slaughtered on the spot in the nearby shambles. The stench from the spilled blood and entrails in the heat caught the back of men’s throats and made them gag. The porters sluiced down the flagstones and cobbles with buckets of water from the town brook, but the stones were so hot that it quickly rose as steam into the air. Lawson was having none of it. He had settled up as quickly as he could. Each lamb had fetched twenty-five shillings and he was pleased with the takings. He put the bank notes in his leather wallet and the shilling coins into his purse.
“A good morning, men,” he said to Seth and Noah as they rested against a nearby wall. “Here’s a shilling for some ale.”
They both smiled broadly. “Thank you, sir,” they said.
Lawson, too, decided he deserved a drink. The Three Tuns lay across the street and was doing a roaring trade. As usual, the Reverend Lightfoot and his wife were standing outside trying to persuade imbibers that St. Swithin’s offered more fulfilling succor, but to no avail. Mistress Lightfoot eyed Gabriel Lawson reprovingly as he ducked low through the door of the inn. She had the measure of his sort.
The inn was packed full of farmers and shepherds come to town from the surrounding countryside. Pipe smoke curled in the breathless air, helping to mask the smell of sweat and spilled ale. In the corner a fiddler played. The town women, their faces slashed with scarlet and their breasts straining out of their bodices, were out in force, too, eager to help the shepherds and farmers spend their hard-earned cash. Two of them sallied up to Lawson.
“Well, well, Mr. Lawson! How’s our favorite customer?” one said, wrapping her arms around his neck.
The steward smirked and lifted her wandering arm off his torso with disdain. Instead he made straight for the bar.
“A tankard of your finest, landlord,” he ordered.
“So you’ve had a good morning?” persisted one of the painted women.
He downed his beer in large gulps and banged his pot on the counter. “You could say that,” he replied, then taking his notebook from his pocket, together with a pencil, he licked the lead and wrote down carefully:
30 lambs . . . 20 shillings each. Total: £30.
Smirking, Lawson looked up to find that he still had an audience.
“I’m anxious to get at the table, ladies,” he told them.
They looked at each other and giggled before following him as he made for the back of the pump room, heading toward thick, floor-length curtains. Finding the edge of one of them he drew it back slightly. Half a dozen men, watched by as many women, were seated around a large wooden table, playing pharo.
There was an empty chair and the punters looked up as if they were expecting him.
“Good day, gentlemen,” said Lawson. The self-satisfied grin had not left his face. “Luck is with me today, of that I am certain.” And he took his seat at the table with a pocketful of cash.
As their carriage turned east, the great golden ball came into view. It sat atop the church of St. Lawrence on a hill that dominated the countryside for miles around. Thomas put his head out of the window and stared open-mouthed. It was every bit as impressive as he had heard, like the dome of a great mosque in a painting from old Araby. Anchored by three heavy chains that were not visible from afar, it seemed that it was merely floating on top of the tower, hundreds of feet up.
“But it is magnificent!” he exclaimed with childlike wonderment.
Lydia smiled at his reaction. “A copy of the Customs House in Venice, I believe,” she informed him, adding: “Wait until you see the house.”
The carriage rumbled on through enormous gates and there before them, like some great Roman temple, lay West Wycombe Park. Although he had become quite used to the grandiose buildings of London, Thomas was struck by the theatricality of its columned and pedimented facades set against a backdrop of rolling parkland. He had heard much about the estate from Mr. Franklin, who had spent several sojourns there as the guest of the late Sir Francis Dashwood. Once, as they sat drinking coffee in the Bedford Coffee House, his fellow countryman’s eyes had twinkled when he recalled the general mayhem at wild parties held in the nearby Hellfire Caves. Thomas had not pressed him further, but from the high color in the great man’s cheeks, he could tell it was an unforgettable experience.
Around a dozen guests were already being directed by liveried footmen to a garden at the rear. Thomas and Lydia duly alighted from their carriage and were ushered through. Their host, the third baronet, Sir John Dashwood-King, was there to greet them.
“My dear Lady Lydia, how wonderful to see you again, and how radiant you look,” he exclaimed, taking Lydia’s hand in a flamboyant gesture, as if she were a long-lost daughter. He seemed a jocular man, with a round face and an even rounder belly.
“Sir John, thank you so much for your kind invitation,” replied Lydia, not at all put off by the exuberant reception. She smiled at Thomas. “May I introduce you to Dr. Thomas Silkstone, who is staying at Boughton for a few days?”
The young doctor stepped forward and gave a shallow bow.
“Ah, Silkstone, eh?” barked the nobleman. “A man of medicine from the Colonies, I believe.”
Thomas checked his annoyance, but corrected his host nonetheless. “A
former
colony, I think would be fairer to say, sir.” He held the baronet’s gaze for a moment, and Lydia held her breath, but then he smiled broadly and Sir John followed suit.
“I’ll grant you that, Silkstone, but just remember this tea party is at West Wycombe, not Boston!” he joked, and with that he let out such a loud guffaw that his round face turned bright red. “I’ve had the pleasure of dining with Mr. Franklin here, when Sir Francis was alive, and I have to say, you chaps can give us a run for our money!” His shoulders heaved with laughter.
Thomas, too, began to laugh. He rather liked this jolly-looking nobleman who obviously did not take himself too seriously. “I promise I shall behave myself this afternoon, your lordship,” he replied.
“Oh how very disappointing!” replied Sir John, still chuckling.
At that moment, from out of the corner of his eye, Thomas spied the familiar and unmistakable figure of Sir Theodisius Pettigrew, the Oxfordshire coroner. He was standing at the buffet table, chicken leg in hand, with his wife, Lady Harriet. The young anatomist felt it was time to allow Sir John to compose himself once more and he excused himself and Lydia before moving on.
“Well, well, Silkstone!” greeted Sir Theodisius, his fat face splitting in two. “Her ladyship said you would be honoring us with your presence again soon. How it gladdens my heart to see you.”
Thomas wanted to tell his old friend that the feeling was mutual, but he simply shook the coroner’s hand warmly. “Her ladyship kindly invited me to stay at Boughton for a few days to escape London,” he told him.
“Quite right,” replied Sir Theodisius, his chin glistening with a mixture of chicken fat and sweat. “So she is introducing you to the rest of polite society in the vicinity!”
Lydia fluttered her fan awkwardly, knowing such words would irritate Thomas. She flashed a smile. “Indeed, Sir Theodisius.”
“Then we shall not hold you up,” he said graciously, waving the chicken leg in the air.
Just as she turned, however, Lydia saw another familiar face. “Sir Henry,” she greeted, holding out her hand. An elderly gentleman with a kindly face came shuffling up to her, took her hand and kissed it.
“My dear Lady Lydia. But you are looking as delightful as ever. By Jove, yes!” he told her.
Thomas saw great affection in Lydia’s eyes. “And you are well?” she inquired.
He made a fist with his hand and thumped his chest lightly. “Bit short of breath now and again, but I can’t complain,” he replied.
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Lydia.
Sir Henry Thorndike studied Thomas with rheumy eyes. “And you are the physician from the Colonies, I believe, sir.” This time the faux pas was allowed to pass unremarked.
“Forgive me, yes. This is Dr. Thomas Silkstone from Philadelphia,” said Lydia.
Thomas bowed. In the few seconds he had been given to study the elderly man he had made a preliminary diagnosis. His body had been buffeted and bowed by advancing years and his gait was slightly stooped, but it was his lips that gave away his condition. They were a strange bluish purple, a classic sign of poor circulation, or even possibly heart disease, he thought to himself.
“And you are staying at Boughton for a few days?” Sir Henry inquired.
“I have that pleasure,” replied Thomas.
Their pleasantries were beginning to wear a little thin when they were joined by a most striking woman. Thomas noticed a distinct change in Lydia’s expression. “Lady Thorndike,” she greeted her as all eyes turned to the flame-haired beauty who drew beside them. Dressed à la mode in a robe of yellow silk, she was tall and elegant. Yet she fluttered her fan in agitation as much as to cool herself, while on her face she wore a look of disdain as plain as any beauty patch.
“Ah, Julia dear, here you are,” said Sir Henry congenially, but his wife shot him a poisonous look before she noticed the handsome young doctor. Then, just as surely, she rearranged her features into a smile and let out a girlish laugh.
“My husband’s great age is no excuse for his absence of manners,” she remarked, clapping her eyes on Thomas. Without moving her gaze she told Lydia: “Well, well, my dear, I await a formal introduction.” Acting as if she had just spied a dish of sweetmeats, she held out a gloved hand to the doctor.
Thomas introduced himself. “Silkstone. Dr. Thomas Silkstone, your ladyship.” She was strikingly handsome, probably around the same age as Lydia, with a flawless complexion, high cheekbones, and a dimple at the center of her chin. From her forceful manner, however, he also sensed she was trouble. Lydia’s look of pure loathing reinforced this notion.
“I am sure Lady Lydia has told you that she and I are neighbors. Our estate borders Boughton,” Lady Thorndike told Thomas, fixing him with a playful smile. “You really must dine with us,” she said, waving her fan coquettishly in front of her face.
Lydia was quick to butt in with a firmness that surprised Thomas. “You are most kind,” she replied, forcing a smile, “but I am afraid Dr. Silkstone is only here for a few days and we already have several engagements.”
Lady Thorndike’s expression was quick to sour, but her words to Thomas remained sweet. “A great pity, but I am sure we will meet again, Dr. Silkstone.”
Thomas bowed and Lydia tugged surreptitiously at his sleeve, guiding him away.
“Did I detect a certain friction between you two ladies?” teased Thomas when they were out of earshot.
“That woman is as venomous a creature as one could ever meet,” hissed Lydia through clenched teeth. “She is nothing but a harlot,” she muttered. He had seldom heard her speak with such approbation.
“Her treatment of her husband was rather embarrassing,” agreed Thomas, as they strolled across the lawns.
Lydia stopped in her tracks and looked at Thomas squarely. “Lady Thorndike has a reputation that I do not envy,” she told him brusquely. “You saw the way she spoke to poor Sir Henry. His first wife died five years ago and his only son, the year after. He married that woman to produce an heir for him. There is no love lost between them.”
Sensing he had touched a raw nerve, he backed off. “I shall bow to your judgment, my love,” he replied diplomatically.
They walked on, skirting the large muddy bowl of the lake. Deprived of adequate rainfall, its banks were cracked and dry and it contained no more than a very large puddle. It was so hot that they were glad to see a folly up ahead and made straight for it.
Nestled among tall pines at the top of a gentle slope, the Temple of Daphne, with its classical colonnades, looked cool and inviting. Lydia hurried into its shade, but remained agitated. She threw back her head, sighing. “I am sorry, Thomas. I should never have brought you here,” she began.
He looked at the careworn expression that was all too familiar to him. He must bring back a smile to her lips, he told himself.
“I’ll not hear of it,” he mocked her. “Oh, how charming! Do dine with us,” he mimicked. “Do not let them trouble you,” he told her, smiling wryly. “You managed well enough without them when you were married to the captain. I suspect he did not ingratiate himself with most of your polite society around here, either.”