The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (29 page)

I held the letter in my hand. The frankness in her tone heartened me, but the mention of Molly made me tremble. So far Alice only suspected what had passed between us. She’d certainly view me less kindly if she knew the truth, and from Cambridge all I could do was pray she’d thought better of speaking to Molly on the subject of our friendship. There was little doubt in my mind that if she did, Molly would tell her every detail.

I considered her comments concerning the legend. I was still reluctant to admit defeat, but I’d quizzed almost everyone I’d encountered over Chippendale. All had given me the same response: he had come to Horseheath months ago and not been seen here since. I was forced to admit to myself that if he’d gone missing from London at the same time as Partridge, I would have remarked it. Thus it now appeared that my theory of Chippendale’s clandestine visit was impossibly insubstantial. I could twist it and turn it however I liked, but I couldn’t explain how he might have played a direct hand in Partridge’s death. Perhaps I’d given credence to the idea only because I’d felt so deceived by his treatment of Partridge.

Reluctantly I acknowledged that Alice was probably correct. The legend had distracted me. I would do better to confine my efforts to the here and now, not some story written centuries ago. If the legend served a purpose, it was simply to reveal that jealousy has ever existed between craftsmen. Chippendale had undoubtedly felt jealous of Partridge; his jealousy might indirectly have led to Partridge’s death, by forcing him to call on Montfort. But our master had not been at the scene, and therefore had no direct role in my friend’s tragic murder. Nevertheless, in my eyes both Chippendale and Madame Trenti were indirectly culpable. If Chippendale hadn’t banished Partridge, he might not have listened to Madame Trenti; he might never have felt compelled to approach Lord Montfort; he might not have died.

With this realization my thoughts swung pendulum-like back to Alice. Even now, after all that had passed, my sentiments for her were as confused as ever. How invaluable her assistance was proving. I held feelings for her I didn’t believe I’d ever experienced in connection with a female. I felt profound gratitude for her assistance, and what else besides? Warmth, affection—and, I confess it, other more substantial emotions that were as yet unnamed and unacknowledged, even in my heart.

The church clock was beginning to chime seven as a scullery maid poked her head round my door and told me my supper awaited me downstairs. It was as I descended the creaking oak steps that I recalled that I had an important matter to pursue in this village. Miss Alleyn had mentioned the name of Hindlesham. It was here that Montfort had sent payments to a nurse.

N
ext morning I sent word to Foley that I was now in Hindlesham and asked how he wished me to proceed. I waited in vain for a response, but just as my inertia became irksome, Connie appeared out of the blue to lift my spirits. It was her afternoon off, and she’d walked all the way from Horseheath. She had something she wished me to know, and since she couldn’t write well enough to send me a letter she’d had no option but to come herself.

From her pink cheeks and the raw tip of her nose I could see she was chilled to the bone. I brought her to a settle close by the fire and ordered a jug of hot wine to warm her, which she sipped a little mournfully, I fancied. I sat down beside her.

“So, sweet Connie, tell me, what news do you bring me from Horseheath?”

She sighed. “I’m glad enough to escape from that place for an hour or two.”

“Why’s that?”

“Some days there’s nothing you can do without stumbling into trouble. This morning I had Mrs. C. scolding me on account of Lady Bradfield finding a saltcellar behind a book in the library. Turns out it’s the one she accused me of breaking the night his lordship died. And I was to blame all over again for not finding it the other day when I made ready the room.”

I pondered this information for a moment. “That was indeed most provoking. But is it not puzzling how it got there?” I said. “Why would anyone leave a salt on a bookshelf? ’Tis not something a gentleman might happen to carry about with him and put down absentmindedly, is it?”

“I neither know nor care,” said Connie, sipping her wine. “All I desire is that the Bradfields leave Horseheath as speedily as possible. But there’s small chance of that happening with one mooning over the horses and the other mooning over other things.”

“Who are you speaking of? What other things?”

She tossed her head crossly. “George, you dolt. He’s starved of female company and, since Robert is busying himself with Elizabeth, he thinks he may do as he likes with anyone he pleases.”

“Anyone?”

“Me in particular, and without so much as a by-your-leave. This morning he approached me and…well I’d rather not say what he tried.”

She looked outraged by whatever it was, and I couldn’t help a chuckle escaping. “Ah, some forbidden intimacy, was it? Something you’ve never allowed me?” I looked sideways and winked as she drained her glass.

“There’s nothing entertaining about it, Nathaniel. I gave him short shrift and I’ll do it again. To you or him.”

I replenished her glass. “Little wonder you miss me,” I returned playfully. She smiled and gave my arm an affectionate push.

“And why should I miss
you,
Nathaniel Hopson?”

“Am I not your friend? Do I mean so little to you?”

“What do you think you
should
mean? John the footman is more attentive, and
he
lives close by.” She gazed at me over the rim of her glass, wide-eyed, innocent, earlier troubles apparently forgotten. I knew she was toying with me as much as I was with her. It was a harmless caper that delighted us both.

“Are you as fond of him as of me?” I queried in mock seriousness, taking her hand in mine.

“Perhaps I’m fonder.” The wine was now taking its effect. Her eyes shone crystal bright, and she was having to concentrate on every word she uttered. She withdrew her hand slowly and stroked my cheek. “Any rate I didn’t come here to speak of John, for that’s my business, not yours.”

I made myself appear as miserable as I could. “You’re all efficiency today. I fear I must have offended you.”

She laughed merrily. “I’ll prove I’m not.” Impudently taking my face in her two warm hands, she placed a clumsy but succulent kiss on my mouth, causing the wine in her glass to slop over her bodice. She began to giggle, whereupon I burst out laughing at her antics and dabbed at her wine-stained gown with my handkerchief. It was at that moment that I chanced to look round. Perhaps some small rustle distracted me in my mirth; perhaps some other presentiment troubled me. At any rate, I turned—and saw her watching me. By
her
I mean of course Alice Goodchild. She was dressed in her outdoor clothes: a blue cloak, hood, and muff. Her skin was pale as alabaster, her eyes stormy.

The minute she knew I’d seen her, she raised her chin in defiance. “Why, Mr. Hopson. It is you? I thought it must be but I wasn’t certain. It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose, to discover you thus entertained. How reassuring to find you are as well amused in the countryside as in town,” she said before turning on her heels.

For a moment I sat there transfixed. I felt my face blanch with humiliation, then burn, then blanch once more. I leaped to my feet. “Alice,” I burbled, pursuing her into the hallway. “Wait. What do you mean? This is not all it seems. Allow me to explain…”

Too late. I caught only a glimpse of her before she disappeared into a room upstairs.

I turned back to Connie, who was draining the final dregs from the claret jug. She waved her hand airily in the direction of the departed Alice, a somewhat glazed expression in her eye. “Don’t distress yourself, Nathaniel. She’ll come round, I’ll wager. She’s a good-looking woman.” She replaced her glass on the table. “Proud too, I’d guess. Why did you never tell me you were sweet on someone?”

I fairly shouted back at her. “Sweet? I’m not sweet on her. She’s a friend; an acquaintance; a wood merchant I happen to know. My only concern is that
she
seemed distraught.”

Connie, God bless her, didn’t take offense. She laughed at my rudeness and evident confusion and rose unsteadily to her feet. “You’re more distraught than she, I’d say. And my head’s spinning. I see I’ll have to come back and speak to you another time. No matter. No matter at all. It was probably fancy anyway, probably no more than fancy…”

I’m ashamed to say, in view of what happened later, that I scarcely registered her words. I never paused to question her meaning, or discover the subject that perturbed her. How could I listen when I was eager for her to be gone so I could repair the damage with Alice? Had I been less foolhardy, more perceptive, more prudent; had I stopped to ask her what she meant, then perhaps I might have come more quickly to my conclusion and thus prevented another tragedy.

But in my foolishness I did none of these things. I permitted Connie to walk back to Horseheath Hall without giving her a second thought. Then, like a scolded dog who yearns for pardon, I chased upstairs.

“Alice,” I shouted through her closed door, “you are misled in your construction. That was Connie, the maidservant from Horseheath. She had just arrived to give me some news.”

“News that required you to make adjustments to her corset? Then it was of a most curious, most intimate nature.”

I stood humming and hawing outside the door, infuriated by her unwillingness to believe me. I tried the door. It was bolted. “Alice, this unreasonableness is most unwarranted. What on earth has happened? Don’t lock the door against me. Are we not friends? Will you not hear me?”

“I believed you once before and much good has it done me. First there was Madame Trenti; then, I strongly suspect, Molly Bullock; now I arrive to find you fiddling with the bosom of yet another female. I must credit you in that, Nathaniel: you are constancy personified—in your inconstancy!”

“It is Madame Trenti and Molly Bullock that have misled you, not I. And as for Connie, she’s naught but an acquaintance. You chanced upon us at an unfortunate juncture. She spilled her wine; we were laughing at the unexpected mishap.”

“Then you may rest assured, Nathaniel, that unexpected occurrences will continue to befall you. I shall stay for the night, undertake what I’ve come to do, and depart directly afterwards…” Here her voice trailed off.

“Alice, tell me why you’ve come. I’ll accompany you tomorrow if you wish.”

“I do not,” she yelled, opening the door so unexpectedly that I fell through it straight into her arms. She pushed me off as if I was a cockroach. “I am angry enough, Nathaniel, without the further insult of your pressing yourself upon me.”

I blushed scarlet and stepped a circumspect distance from her, though it was not what I wanted to do. “I didn’t intend to press myself on you, Alice. I wish only to relieve your anger and contempt for me. Can’t we let the matter rest? I beg of you.”

In the end, after much to-ing and fro-ing of this kind, she reluctantly agreed to let me sit down with her in her room while she explained why she had come, although she would not allow me to utter another word on the subject of Connie or Molly.

The gist of it was that Alice’s letter to the priest of the Cambridge parish where James Barrow’s surviving daughter Martha was last heard of had elicited a speedy and encouraging response. Martha Bunton, as she was now called, still resided in the vicinity. The priest had ascertained that she would be happy to answer questions regarding her father and help us in whatever way she could. Alice had impetuously (and, she now felt, foolishly) resolved not to miss out on what promised to be a crucial advance. Therefore she had come herself to find me so that we might travel together to interview Martha. Having called at Horseheath Hall, she had been told I’d had to leave unexpectedly and was staying at this inn, hence she had followed me here.

All this information was relayed to me in a decidedly distant, not to say angry tone. Despite her agreement to allow me in her room and to explain the reason for her arrival, I was left under no illusion. Her fury remained unabated. Her distrust of me was unwavering. Yet I was disconcerted to note that even under these strained circumstances I found her no less alluring. Her skin was luminous, her hair was coiled on the crown of her head with a ringlet falling to one side that shone like burnished copper. I felt myself stir with desire. I was utterly in her thrall, but then, catching the wintry glare once more, I came abruptly to my senses and determined to behave with irreproachable circumspection.

In what I hoped she’d see as a conciliatory tone, I related to her all that had happened during the time I was at Horseheath Hall. I told her of my nocturnal adventure and how I’d been bundled so unceremoniously away. I was glad to have a chance to confide in her face-to-face without other distraction, for I knew talking to her would help me make sense of all that had happened, and hoped it might distract her into forgetting her anger. But I might as well have whistled to a statue; she held firm against all my japes and pleas and anecdotes of midnight promenades. Not a flicker of a smile appeared to soften her stoniness. Nothing indicated that she viewed me with anything but profound distaste. And when at length my conversation ran dry, Alice refused adamantly to dine with me. Instead she bade me send word to the kitchen: she would eat a light collation on a tray in her room and retire early to bed.

Next morning after breakfast she seemed subdued rather than cross. I wondered if this was a sign her mood had lifted; perhaps after all she did feel a flicker of remorse for the harsh way she’d treated me? It wasn’t long, however, before I realized the futility of this hope. When we went to mount the gig I’d ordered, she refused my suggestion that she should sit up beside me, climbing instead behind the driver’s seat. I was left to sit in front by myself like a common coachman.

So we traveled in uncomfortable silence until we reached a neat cottage on the outskirts of Cambridge. I uncoupled the horse and tethered it, wondering when her mood would lift, or if we were destined to be ever thus estranged. Alice meanwhile strode ahead and knocked on the heavy oak door.

A stout young woman with black hair and skin as dark as that of a gypsy appeared at the door. She held a round-faced baby in her arms, and another dark, curly-haired child peeped out from behind her skirts.

“Mrs. Bunton?” enquired Alice.

“Aye.”

“I’m Alice Goodchild. The lady from London who’s been making inquiries regarding your father, James Barrow, and the Foundling Hospital. This is a friend”—she termed me thus without a tinge of irony—“who is also involved in the research, Nathaniel Hopson.”

Mrs. Bunton’s face broke into a broad smile. “Of course. The reverend told me you might call. Come in to the fire and ask all you like.”

She led us into her kitchen, sat us on Windsor chairs, and deposited her baby in a crib, setting herself close enough to allow her to rock him to sleep. The older child kneeled at her feet and began rhythmically to run a wooden horse up and down across the flagstones.

“What was it you wished to know about my father?”

Alice glanced curtly in my direction, indicating she’d leave the questions to me.

“It concerns something that took place at the time the hospital opened. I believe a friend of mine, who may have some connection with Lord Montfort of Horseheath Hall, was deposited there on the night of the hospital’s opening…,” I began.

“He may well have been. I was only a young girl then, I have no recollection of all the unfortunate babies who were taken in.”

“Of course not, I would not expect it. But this particular child was somewhat unusual. First his age set him apart. He was about four, too old according to the regulations to be taken in by the hospital. Yet I believe that for some reason the institution did accept him. Perhaps he wasn’t left at the same time as the others? Perhaps your father simply found him? Do you have any recollection of such an event?”