The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (3 page)

I responded more gently than before, in deference to what I honestly believed were his wounded spirits. “Forgive me, sir, I will do anything you ask of me. But I don’t comprehend your meaning.”

Chippendale was looking towards the window, staring morosely into the impenetrable dark, as if observing some demon only he could discern. He turned to face me, and I glimpsed a fleeting expression in his eyes that made me hastily reconsider my sympathy. I understood then it wasn’t solicitude I should be feeling but trepidation. For in that instant I believe I discerned something ugly—something cold and ruthless—an unbending will that would never be crossed. A second later and the expression had vanished, to be replaced with his habitual authoritative aloofness. Had I imagined it all?

“The reason I sent for you, Nathaniel—apart from discovering if you’d found me any wood—was to inform you that I have decided that it will be you who will supervise the installation of Lord Montfort’s library at Horseheath. It has been dispatched this week. You will follow it directly after Christmas.”

I’d played no part in the Montfort commission. All I knew of it was that some nine months earlier Lord Montfort, a wealthy baron with an estate in Cambridgeshire and a fortune made in sugar plantations, had decided upon a furnishing scheme of astonishing extravagance for the library of his country seat. A fellow journeyman, my dearest friend, John Partridge, had been tasked to create the commission—a bookcase of vast proportion, elaboration, and expense.

“Surely Partridge should go? He has worked on little else these past months. He should travel to Cambridge to put the finishing touches to what you must acknowledge to be his finest masterpiece,” I said fiercely.

“Partridge has been absent a week.”

“He will return.” I had been aware of my friend’s absence, and indeed I was concerned about it, for I had heard no explanation.

Chippendale glowered at me. “I have today received word he is stricken with a virulent distemper. Montfort is determined to have his library in time for the New Year festivities and cannot be offended.”

“If you explained the situation to him…”

“He is not a man to view such impediments with sympathy. You will leave on Boxing Day by the six-fifteen carriage from the Bell Savage Inn, Ludgate Hill. Your allowance while you are there will be the usual guinea a week, to be paid by Montfort. That is all, Hopson.”

His mouth was a ruled line that forbade further argument. There was nothing I could say to shift him. I might have spent seven years learning my craft, but I was his employee, and as such bound to subservience. If I chose to disobey him, there were scores of other journeymen cabinetmakers as able as I who would willingly take my place. Without waiting for my reply, he gave me a brusque nod of dismissal. Then he buttoned his black coat and went in search of his wife and his supper.

L
eft behind, I drummed my fingers on the candle box, struggling to contain my frustrations. How could he have failed to see that I was in a fever of excitement? The answer, of course, I realized well enough. Even if he had known, he wouldn’t have cared any more than if he’d trampled on a wood louse.

Let me make my agitation properly clear. It concerned the aforementioned Alice Goodchild, who’d taken charge of her father’s wood-merchant business a year ago. I’d often remarked her striking figure on the dockside when cargoes of wood were unloaded, yet until today I’d never had cause to address her, for Chippendale doubted her father’s honesty and refused to deal with him. I should say here that I’m not usually reticent in such matters, but Alice was unlike anyone who’d previously fanned my amorous flames (and I readily confess to generosity in several quarters). She was tall, almost to my shoulder, with bright auburn hair to match her fiery temper, and none of the curves that usually enchant me. Her chief drawback—or was it this that drew me?—was her reputation for awkwardness. I worried that if I declared my admiration she might scoff, as I’d seen her do on several occasions when offered an unwelcome compliment. She might then grow cold, avoiding my presence thereafter. I’m not timid when it comes to making advances, but neither am I so foolish as to go courting humiliation. And yet, with the swagger of one who’s enjoyed more successes than failures, I trusted she would succumb to my charm, provided I picked my moment carefully.

As I said, I knew that Chippendale avoided dealings with the Goodchild yard because he deemed them dishonest, and yet when he sent me in search of wood, I reasoned there was little purpose in trying the usual suppliers and decided to take myself there. In truth (though I barely acknowledged this to myself) it was Alice, not her wood, that drew me. But all the while I made my way to her premises my apprehensions mounted. By the time I tried the gates to the front of the building in the Strand and discovered them to be locked, my courage had begun to ebb. When I entered an alley leading to the yard behind, I had determined to concentrate first on the business in hand, and to assess my chances in the other direction as I went along.

Light spilled from a window of a modest Dutch-gabled cottage bordering the far limit of the yard. I knocked at the door and was instructed to enter. In a small, low-ceilinged, astonishingly disorderly front parlor, Alice Goodchild sat on one side of an oak gateleg table, with her account books open. Opposite, busily conjugating Latin verbs, was a young boy. A bright fire burned in the grate, and a smoky tallow candle bathed their faces in a halo of yellow, shrouding much of the chaotic room in sympathetic shade. Nonetheless I could vaguely discern that all about the walls were heaped up piles of ledgers and papers, jumbled together with a broken chair, a pewter kettle, assorted pieces of crockery, and a couple of unlit candlesticks. A pungent smell of burning seemed to emanate from the open door leading to the kitchen.

“Forgive me for calling here, Miss Goodchild,” I said, bowing to her. “I had thought to find you at the yard.”

She looked a little startled to see me in her private abode, yet she did not ask my business. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hopson. The yard is closed early since my foreman has journeyed home to his family for Christmas” was all she said.

“I should not have called…. I see you are engaged.” I gestured to the table piled high with papers.

“As you see, I have my books to occupy me.” She paused for a moment, glancing into the shadows to the muddle of papers, crockery, and books, before adding with a distracted smile, “My apologies for receiving you thus. My brother and I rarely keep company and, as to the smell, our supper has burned while I was about my figures.”

I could not but reflect that the acrid stench and the jumble of papers cascading over every surface could do nothing to detract from the delightful effect of that fleeting smile. Her brown eyes shone warmly, and a few mahogany curls had escaped the cap confining them and fell about her face in attractive disarray. If she had been any other woman I would have made clear my sentiments—complimented her, paid court to her—but her reputation for sharpness kept me wary.

“You have no need to apologize, Miss Goodchild, it is a perfectly charming parlor,” I responded courteously. “Perhaps I should return at some other more convenient time, for I come to discuss the possibility of supplies for Mr. Chippendale.”

She seemed delighted at the opportunity to do business with my master, and assured me that indeed she did have some stock of interest. A new consignment from the Indies had recently cleared customs and would be ready for delivery the next day. Should I return in three days’ time when the stores were reopened, she would gladly show them to me.

“I shall certainly return,” I declared, struggling to retain an air of detachment. Discovering her thus in domestic surroundings seemed to have given me an advantage. I detected an unusual mellowness to her manner. Perhaps, after all, her reputation was exaggerated. Perhaps I should seize the opportunity to declare my interest? Before my indecision made a coward of me, I resolved to take my chances.

“May I also make another request?”

“Unless you make it I will not know its nature, therefore I can hardly refuse. What is it, Mr. Hopson?” she replied.

I dithered, realizing even as I did so that this was no time for shillyshallying. “Why,” I replied, as coolly as I could manage, “you have spoiled your supper and I venture your brother is in need of nourishment. Allow me to invite you to the Fountain, where the cook is reputed to be exceedingly good.”

Immediately, and I fancied rather hungrily, her brother looked up from his exercises. Alice meanwhile took a step backwards and inspected me suspiciously. “You are most solicitous, Mr. Hopson. But my brother may rest assured there are provisions enough in the pantry to satisfy him and these books must be completed tonight.”

Her brother, now downcast, returned to his exercises, and my heart began to sink. Then somewhat to my surprise she continued, “I hope I do not seem ungracious in my refusal…. Perhaps you would care for a glass of wine?”

As an expert in feminine ways, I needed no further signal to pursue my cause. I waited as she searched in the shadows of the room for a glass and decanter, and cleared a space for me on the settle by the fire. “Have you visited the playhouse of late, Miss Goodchild?” I asked, as she deposited sheafs of papers in a pile on the floor.

“No, sir, I have much to keep me here as you see.”

“Then would you, and your brother, do me the pleasure of accompanying me there on New Year’s Day?”

Although her back was towards me, I could see her stiffen. She rose slowly and turned towards me with an expression of—what? Astonishment? Indifference? Indignation? Then, to my astonishment, for I had never seen her lose her composure, she reddened most becomingly.

“I scarcely know how to respond, Mr. Hopson. We have never spoken before today. The speed of your invitations is remarkable.”

“Forgive me,” I said, still unsure of her sentiment, “I did not mean to presume…”

“I believe you did not, Mr. Hopson.” Her voice was softer than usual, girlish almost. She paused and scrutinized me again before granting me another wisp of a smile. “I’m only teasing you. But if you are sincere in your offer, we accept with great pleasure.”

“Do not doubt the sincerity of the offer, I beg you. And as to the pleasure, madam, it is all mine, I assure you,” I replied, gallantly as any gentleman.

Thus had I sipped my wine as slowly as I could, enjoying her conversation for those fleeting moments before taking leave. Thus had I returned to my workplace, after my brief diversion with Molly. (I could think of no other way to alleviate the anticipation of passion sweeping through my veins.) And thus, when Chippendale commanded me to Cambridge, had my hopes been extinguished.

A
nd so I came to Cambridge, leaving Ludgate Hill on the six-fifteen coach, riding on top as I invariably choose to do whenever circumstances permit. That day I happened to share my precarious platform with two fellow travelers. The first was a lugubrious bonesetter, with a thriving business of mending broken limbs in Fetter Lane, who was journeying to Lincoln to visit a sister not seen in three years. The second was a young knife grinder’s apprentice, returning to his home village of Waterbeach for the funeral of his mother. Below, cocooned in the luxury of windows, side panels, and a roof, sat six further passengers, none of whom deigned to speak to the three seated, so to speak, on their heads.

My family lived some distance from London, in the village of Cottenham, some ten miles from Chelmsford in the county of Essex. Consequently since settling in London I had made coach journeys on numerous occasions, though never before had I ridden on top in the depths of winter. My dear mother had expressly forbidden me to travel thus between the months of November and March, and I, in my fondness for her, had always observed the prohibition. Nonetheless, for a man such as I, whose achievements were measured by the fineness of a dovetail or the delicacy of a crossbanding, the position held rare delights. Whenever I sat astride the coach, I become oblivious to mere discomfort. The racing clouds and changing landscape, the sensation of my teeth shaking in my skull as the vehicle lurched over hills and ditches and rumbled through ramshackle settlements, and the impression of prodigious speed far removed from the snail’s pace of my daily life never failed to revitalize me.

For my second fellow passenger, the young knife grinder, who had never adopted this mode of transport before, the journey proved a fearful ordeal. The carriage was still stationary, and he had scarcely clambered up to the platform when he developed vertigo and the unwavering conviction that to release his grip on the side rail would doom him to certain death. The vehicle pulled out of the coach yard and began to gather speed past the Shoreditch Turnpike, jolting over potholes, ruts, and boulders. With each toss and sway of the chassis, the boy’s face turned more alarmingly pale, and before long, to the chagrin of those below, he was retching profusely over the side. When at length we stopped in Bishop’s Stortford, I was struck by the indifference of our fellow passengers. At the first sign of the boy’s distress they drew the leather curtains of their compartment, and not one of them expressed any concern for him.

I suppose it was because I am an only child and often longed for the company of a younger brother that I did what I could to assist him. There was no room within the coach—by this stage his misery was such that I would happily have paid the extra shilling to ease it—but I suggested that he might feel more secure riding in the luggage basket. He gratefully agreed, although even there his terrors continued. I had not considered the movement of the poorly secured crates and boxes stowed there, and after half an hour he was half buffeted to death. Hearing his whimpers and mounting distress, I whistled to the driver and postilion to slow down, then lowered an arm to retrieve him from the basket and haul him back on top. For some time afterwards I continued to hold his arm, as much to calm him as to prevent him from falling. He now regarded me as his savior and settled himself close beside me, trembling violently from the dual terrors of death by squashing or falling from which he had so narrowly escaped.

It began to snow at three in the afternoon, around the same time we drew into the town of Royston to change the horses. There the knife grinder’s apprentice quit the coach, swearing as he did so that he would never forget my kindness. I ruffled his hair, told him it was nothing more than anyone should have done, and gave him a shilling from the traveling purse Mr. Chippendale had supplied. The snowfall was light, but the driver, anxious to reach Cambridge before the road became impassable, would allow us no more than ten minutes to drink a glass of sack in the warmth.

The bonesetter and I returned to our position while the remaining passengers settled themselves back inside the carriage, burying their feet in straw and covering their knees in blankets the driver provided. We had scarcely set off before the gentle flakes strengthened to a blizzard and my costume revealed its woeful inadequacy. My hat threatened to blow off, so I was forced to remove it. My surtout flapped, allowing the cold wind to pierce me, and my fingertips grew chill within the thin gloves that covered them. Soon I was shivering as violently as the petrified boy had done a few hours earlier, and ruefully recalling my mother’s warnings. The bonesetter, who throughout the sufferings of the boy had remained impervious, now loudly lamented his discomfort. His gnarled, gloveless hands had turned the color of damsons from holding the wooden handrail. “I would be happy to be greeted by a cutpurse or highwayman now,” he muttered, “for it would mean I could put my hands in my pockets.” I felt no inclination to offer him sympathy.

By the time we pulled into the Bell at Cambridge at half past five that evening, we were caked in ice and utterly numbed with chill and fatigue. Since there was no other accommodation in the immediate vicinity, I and all the other passengers were obliged to rest here for the night. I passed some hours with a comely barmaid, who warmed me a little, though she wouldn’t sample fully the amusements I offered since I was forced to share my room with the bonesetter. He, meanwhile, chose to obliterate the memory of the journey by consuming quantities of ale while explaining the mysteries of his trade to anyone who would listen. A far from congenial roommate, he fell into bed fully clothed, boots and all, and snored loudly all night, waking only to piss loud and lengthily into his chamber pot.

I rose the next morning to find Cambridge blanketed with snow, and the only means of completing my journey to Horseheath—some ten miles to the southeast of the city—was by the oxcart of a local grocer who, by good fortune, was delivering supplies that afternoon. The driver who transported me this last stretch was an ancient deaf-mute who sat hunched on his driver’s seat staring unblinkingly ahead, all the while muttering quietly and incomprehensibly to himself. Beneath a dolorous sky we traversed a landscape made featureless by the snowy blanket. At length, after three hours’ silent plodding, we arrived at the village of Horseheath. I say village, but in truth the settlement was no more than a steepled church, an inn, and a dozen or so ramshackle houses strung along the lane, with several dung heaps, sundry miserable-looking animals, and a duck pond.

The entrance to the hall was marked by lichen-covered gateposts garnished with a pair of stone dogs, their teeth bared in fearsome grimace at any visitor who dared to enter. At our approach iron gates creaked open, and an aged porter, leaning heavily on his walking stick, hobbled from his lodge to salute our rickety cart.

We lurched up a potholed drive that traversed a park in which clusters of artfully planted trees led the eye to a lake and a turreted folly on an island. A quarter of a mile or so further on we reached a sharp bend in the beech-lined avenue and Horseheath Hall came suddenly into view. The house was an austere Palladian mansion built of a bilious yellow stone, fronted with a forest of fluted Corinthian columns. My venerable driver skirted the main entrance and followed a path disguised by a tall yew hedge to the rear, where the domestic buildings were located. Outside the kitchen door he clambered to the ground, deposited his delivery—sacks of flour and barley, a side of bacon, a pound of white pepper, a firkin of soap, and two pounds of wax candles—snatched my fare of a shilling, and drove off without so much as a gesture.

I tapped on the door and waited. Some minutes passed. My knock produced no effect whatsoever. Frozen and fatigued as I was by my journey, my patience began to wear thin. I tried the handle: the door was unlocked and opened to a cavernous kitchen, where a dozen or more staff were presently occupied. I cleared my throat importantly.

“Nathaniel Hopson from London bids you a good afternoon. I believe a Mrs. Hester Cummings expects my arrival. Is that good lady here?” I bellowed as loudly as politeness and my frozen jaw permitted.

The cleaning of vegetables, grinding of loaf sugar, buffing of wineglasses, and counting of spoons and plates continued without interruption. Mrs. Cummings, the woman I was soon to discover to be the unquestionable ruler of this domain, was weighing currants on the brass scales, scolding the kitchenmaid for her galling inattention. The girl’s distraction was the only result of my speech. She now stood staring at me, eyes as round as shillings, pretty mouth gaping like an open flower.

Mrs. Cummings dusted her hands this way and that over a large pudding basin, clouding her torso with a mist of flour. “What’s with you today, Connie? How do you expect to learn if you stare like a half-wit everywhere but at what you’re doing? Stop fidgeting and weigh me a quarter peck of flour, put in half a pint of ale yeast, make it to a paste with warm milk, then set it to rise while you wash these raisins. When you’ve done, there’s butter and rose water to add, loaf sugar to sift, cinnamon, cloves, mace to grind—no pinching raisins, mind…”

As these complex instructions rolled off Mrs. Cummings’s tongue, the girl was gazing at the succulent fruit tumbling into the scales. She licked her lips hungrily but couldn’t help glancing back at the doorway where I stood. “It was him. I was looking at him, ma’am. I was asking myself what he was doing.”

“Him? What him?” Wrenching themselves away from the sugary mass, Mrs. Cummings’s currant eyes followed the maid’s gaze and at last registered my presence. She advanced towards me, black dress and starched apron pulled tight over a capacious bosom, skirts rustling, as majestic as a duchess.

I smiled and bowed respectfully. “Madam, I have been sent by Mr. Chippendale of London to install the new library for Lord Montfort. I was told to make myself known to Mrs. Hester Cummings, who would find a bed for me here.” I paused, watching as she took in every detail of my features and traveling garb. “I take it you are that lady.”

It seemed she was not entirely displeased with what she saw, for I was granted a brief nod and a floury handshake as welcome before she turned back to the kitchenmaid, whose eyes were still fixed on me. “Constance Lovatt, what are you gawping at? Haven’t you seen a Londoner before? They are no different from any other. Take him to the servants’ hall, hang up his coat, stir up the fire—no delaying, mind. Mr. Hopson does not want his head filled with your gossip, do you, sir? But I fancy he wouldn’t say no to a bit of something to eat.”

Constance was not at all put out by the severity of her tone. Indeed, I fancy she stifled a giggle as she said, “This way, sir,” and led me down a narrow servants’ corridor to the appointed room, allowing me ample opportunity to admire the neat waist around which her apron was secured by a plump bow.

I settled myself gratefully into a beech Windsor chair that reminded me of the one in which my father sat at home. Constance crouched to goad the embers to new life. “Will you be staying with us long, Mr. Hopson?” she said.

“I cannot be sure. A few days perhaps.”

“I fancy Lord Montfort will want the library finished in time for New Year?”

“I believe so.”

“He has guests invited for dinner and will take pride in displaying his newest improvements.”

“Hmm.”

“Mrs. Cummings is in a frenzy about the dinner ‘cos the French chef up and left saying he was going home for Christmas and hasn’t been seen since.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s the one who’s meant to do the pastries and such fancies as were ordered. Now it will all be left to her.”

“Is that so?” I replied without a trace of interest.

Perhaps fearing Mrs. Cummings’s wrath, or disappointed by my dullness, she made no further attempt to engage me in conversation. When her duties were done, she left with a bobbed curtsy and a promise to return with refreshments presently.

Had I been in my usual good humor I would not have responded to her overtures with such coolness. You will know by now I have a sociable nature and well realize that pretty girls with such merry eyes as Miss Constance offer all manner of enjoyable distraction. But this day I had no appetite for such flirtation as Constance promised.

It wasn’t just the rigors of my journey that made me melancholy. Even with the fire to warm me, my mood remained dark, and if anything I grew more restless. At the root of this agitation lay my reluctance to come here at all. The truth was that I still heartily wished myself back in London, not simply on account of Alice but because of a graver preoccupation. I felt I was here under a false pretext, a second-rate substitute for the ailing Partridge, my dearest friend, who had been responsible for creating the furnishings I was due to install.

As I’d frequently done over the past days, I cast my thoughts back to the last occasion I had seen him, trying to recall any sign of the illness that Chippendale said was now troubling him. My efforts were in vain; nothing came to mind. Of course, I told myself halfheartedly, this didn’t mean he might not have had some secret plan brewing. Was he really unwell? I cannot pretend my dear friend was without guile. Partridge was gifted in many respects, particularly in his capacity for conceiving pranks. Etched upon my memory is a skulling race on the river when he fixed my boat to sink in full view of the White Hart at Richmond. I well recall our competition for a place in the bed of the handsome widow at the Fox and Grapes, when he usurped my lead by pouring gin in my ale and leaving me on the floor in a drunken stupor. Nor will I forget the time he set fireworks alight in the courtyard, while I was engaged with Molly Bullock. He cried “Fire!” through the keyhole, and I tumbled out in an unseemly rush with my breeches about my ankles, to the merriment of the craftsmen he’d assembled outside.