Feral Park (55 page)

Here was the quiet before the storm, and it was not
that
quiet:

Miss Eliza Henshawe remained lost.

After scouring great sections of Tatter Wood for two additional days and

finding no Miss Henshawe, the constable recalled his deputies to their other duties and told Mrs. Henshawe with a solemn prepared face that he believed her daughter had either fled from the parish altogether or had been dragged by a she-wolf into her den and fed to her cubs. Constable Whitaker did not add the true reason for terminating the search: he had much more important business in the parish to attend than seeking a lost girl; the new wainscot for the Three Whores Monkey Parlour was entirely the wrong colour, and his brother, the publican, was not at all pleased, and had gone into at least two different rants. The constable would have taken his lucky Westminster stone and cracked his petulant brother’s skull with it, but did not have to, for as luck delivered (for was the stone not lucky?), Mr. Quarrels’ factotum named Speed appeared at the very moment of Ross Whitaker’s second and more violent tirade—this one directed against the incompetence of tradesmen—with a pail of varnish in hand, the stain of which was amenable to each of the Whitaker brothers.

Though this issue was agreeably resolved, Constable Whitaker had another vexing matter to decide: whether or not to repeal his order that the prisoner, Mr. Trapp, be denied visitors for the duration of his incarceration in Payton Parish. For the past three days Miss Sophia Henshawe had come to the constable’s door for news about her missing sister. Each interview had concluded with an unrelated request to see the prisoner and perhaps give him half a berry pie (the other half to go to the constable because the pie was delicious and flaky and he would most certainly enjoy it). Constable Whitaker was worn down, and by the third visit relented and granted Miss Henshawe a brief meeting with the man who had come to her defence in London (and who had sought to improve her lot in Payton Parish by putting flame to the place where she was to be made to dance and chatter as would a furry primate).

Sophia Henshawe, who had been enjoying unencumbered travel about the parish in the absence of both her aunt and her cousin Charles Quarrels, the latter being in London to see how this and that was done in each of that city’s monkey parlours, made the most of her freedom by assisting Anna and Gemma in preparations for the ball—a ball which she would not be permitted to attend herself, for it was now indisputable fact that both she and Nancy (in her youngest sister’s stead) would be dancing monkey-wise on that very same night in their coerced roles as participants in the opening night revels of the parlour. Nancy learnt that “dancing” was indeed to be her new employment at the Three Whores and that she would wear the mask of a “pretty” ape girl so as not to offend the customers. It was only through circuitous means that she came to learn, as well, what
would
have been her occupation at the parlour had Sir Thomas not been outvoted in his special desire (Bella, having overheard a tête-à-tête between Quarrels and his mother upon the matter): engagement as “mistress of discipline” in “Miss Nancy’s Room of Stripe and Spank,” where she would punish the men in whatever way they wrote upon a paper, so long as it did not bring on apoplexy or an arrest of the heart.

In the Feral Park mansion-house’s drawing-room Sophia and Nancy and Anna sat drinking coffee and eating muffins, and Sophia shared every thing that was said in her interview with Trapp as he gobbled up his half of the berry pie, and the crust flakes caught on his stubble but did not mar his rugged good looks.

“But you
must
fancy him or you should not have endeavoured three times to see him!” said Nancy to her sister.

“I went to enquire after our poor lost Eliza. But whilst I was there I did not think it would be a wasted effort to ask after Mr. Trapp as well.”

“And what did you think when Constable Whitaker finally acceded to your request?”

“I was shocked but quite gladdened, for I had never the opportunity of thanking Mr. Trapp properly for his heroic attempt in town to rescue my honour. It was that very essay, as, no doubt, you know, which resulted in his being transported to Newgate Prison. Just as it was Lieutenant Alford’s attempt to protect Eliza and me which cost him his eye. I have never before seen such chivalry and bold sacrifice exercised, and to think that it was on my behalf and on behalf of my sister! Even though we will not attend the ball, I have met at least two men who have touched my heart through the loft of their character and their deep and gallant respect for womankind.”

“Yet Trapp has not only
touched
your heart, but has fully captured it, has he not?” Anna’s question went unanswered, for Sophia blushed and looked away and could not speak.

Anna, nonetheless pursued her point: “If such be the case, and I see that perhaps it is, I must ask, Sophia, if you are not just a little troubled by the fact that the object of your attachment is a criminal. That he sets fire to things.” Anna had been careful to put her point across gently and without even a hint of mischievous provocation. (Indeed, there should be
no
disparagement of Trapp’s choice of profession; Anna approved of it thoroughly and had even engaged him for her own incendiary purposes.)

Sophia Henshawe looked up.“I know well the deeds of the men of high rank who purport to good breeding—men who claim their right to the most odious privileges which come to those of elevated station. They are—the large lot of them—repulsive and self-indulgent. More often than not they are themselves criminal in their business practices, and their subjugation and exploitation of their tenants and employees, and their other private dealings. Did not you say, Anna, that Georgiana Younge was nearly ravished within a cabin by Sir Thomas because he believed himself to be immune to the consequences?”

Anna nodded. “Yet there are some gentlemen of the squirearchy who are
not
what you say—who are selfless and in other ways admirably disposed. My own father is such a man.”

“Granted. Now name me another.”

“John Dray for another,” said Anna disingenuously, for she knew that John Dray, though he possessed good breeding and strong character, did not have that even more important requirement for inclusion in the list of commendable gentlemen: a pego between the legs—and a pendant twiddle-diddle sack.

“Yes, yes, Mr. John Dray, who will come shortly to claim his bride!” said Nancy, thinking—Anna had no doubt—of her own devoted Lieutenant Alford, who would erelong be asking for
her
hand.

Sophia gave her sister a stern, reproving look. “You are smiling, Nancy, with those thin lips that sometimes give one the impression that you have no mouth at all—all the while our sister is three days missing and may be dead. How you can be happy at such a dismal time as this I cannot conceive.”

“And I take it that
you
did not smile to feed Mr. Trapp his pie, and did not Anna smile to see her Mr. Alford unlocked from his leg-chain this morning at the Pickler House and be allowed to go and read some Dryden to Miss Godby in the next room? We cannot, sister, think only the worst about that which we may not change. My theory, if you care to hear it, is that our sister Eliza has found her way to the gipsies and that they have taken her in and here she is perfectly safe for the time being and perhaps is even learning a hand-craft.”

“Do
you
agree with my sister’s hypothesis, Anna?” asked Sophia with a hopeful look.“I do not care much for gipsies, but it is better than the alternative.”

“I think, Sophia, that I will ask Mrs. Epping to do us all a favour. She has been observing the gipsies for some time. Perhaps she will agree to make an enquiry of them on our behalf.”

At Grantley Park Gemma and Anna and their mother found Mrs. Epping assisting the maids in the laundry room (for try as she may, Lucy Epping could not quit her former habitudes of household char even now that she was mistress of her own house, and whilst this put her in good with the servants, who appreciated her help and deemed her the best mistress in all the parish, they still would not wear the hats she made for them, but, of course, who but Anna could?).

“Will my daughter May not come down to see her own mother?” enquired a worried Mrs. Dray of her hostess. “Or does she chuse to remain in her room listening at the door for our departure and
then
descend and say, ‘Finally the witch is gone. Let us have some cake.’”

“She is not like that—not that way at all!” protested Mrs. Epping. “May loves her mother very much but simply does not wish another contretemps that would serve no purpose.”

“But it was never my intent to come hither and engage her in this way! I am come only to be civil and polite. Gemma, go up stairs and talk sense to your sister. I must see her and tell her to her face that I am sorry for the way I behaved, and if she wishes to go off and marry a Jew, it is her own business. Gemma, go and tell her that, and tell her how much I have missed her.”

Gemma went out. After a moment, Mrs. Dray looked at Mrs. Epping and said,“I am no longer cross with her. It is only my displeasure with
you
, my dear, for taking her in as you have, which has yet to recede.”

“But what should I have done?” asked Mrs. Epping as she unrolled a wet stocking. “The girl came to my door looking wretched and saying that she had been turned out and had nowhere else to go.”

“I do not believe it,” said Mrs. Dray.

“
I
do,” said Anna, in an attempt to end the discussion. “Mrs. Epping is incapable of mendacity, nor has she ever done a single thing for personal gain. She is helpful to a fault and kind. Moreover, she has led a difficult life, Mamma, and perhaps should be acquitted for whatever displeases you about her for this reason alone.”

Mrs. Epping coloured from the compliment and tucked her head and studied the floor.

“Mrs. Epping, may I bring a certain matter before you that has proved a great mystery to my mother and sister and me?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Peppercorn,” replied Lucy, looking up. “Is it about my hats—why I make them?”

“It is not. It is about something even more important.”

“I see. First, let us all have more tea. It is a root tea of my own receipt. But I have already told you that, have I not?”

“Thank you, but I am quite fixed with the cup I have now.”

“And
you
, Mrs. Dray—I see that you have done with yours. Another cup?”

Anna did not think her mother would answer yes. The contents of the first cup had gone into a convenient flower-stand when Mrs. Epping was looking away.

“I think not, thank you very much. My daughter Anna wishes to ask you about the boy whom her Aunt Quarrels abandoned to Stornaway when he was but a few days old. The intention was that he would stay in that infernal place until he be dead, either by the hand of those who ran it, or through his own debilitating defects. I know not what these are, for they were never revealed to me or to Anna’s father. What I
do
know is that the child was most assuredly taken there because Mr. Quarrels, the baby’s father and my own brother, confessed it all to Mr. Peppercorn prior to his untimely death aboard the ship that also took my own husband’s life. But we have no proof, you see, except for my brother’s word, second-hand. Without evidence Mrs. Quarrels will never be forced to pay the price that should be exacted for her part in the crime.”

“Perhaps there may be something of value in the box of papers I took from the asylum.” Mrs. Epping was nearly out of the room before Anna could ask what was meant by “box of papers,” and why ever she had taken them.

Lucy Epping stopt and coloured. “I gathered them from the rubbish heap—wads and crumples that had been thrown away. Some sheets were soft in their weave and I thought I could use them to clean my private areas after I had done my necessary business.”

“And you have
kept
them all this time?” Mrs. Dray was flabbergasted to hear it said.

“I did not keep the papers that were
used
! Mercy no! You see, I was leaving Stornaway and knew that I would have need of some wipes when I was living in the backways of Winchester. Do not judge me.”

“I am not judging you, dear—merely attempting to understand. When you were taken in by Mr. Epping as his ward, why did you not then throw the papers out?”

“I sought to keep them always as a reminder of that lowly state from whence I had come, and all that I had had to do to survive, to keep me humble, I suppose you could say. But there was another reason, too: I hoped that some day I could use what I found there to bring public shame upon the bloody place and see it shut down!”

Excusing herself, Mrs. Epping went off to another room and there was a light skip to her step in the going!

When she returned she had a rough pasteboard box in her hands. It was old and flimsy and had papers stacked inside. Each paper had the creases from where an iron had been applied to flatten them, but it was not difficult to imagine that they had been procured first from the rubbish in a wadded state. “Let us each take a portion of the stack and see what we may discover,” Mrs. Epping instructed, whilst distributing the contents of the box. Within a brief moment each of the three women had taken up the sheets and begun to read and peruse the writing thereupon.

“Oh, merciful Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Dray almost immediately. “This is a terribly sad business. How little they were fed—here is a page from the accounts. Even the ones who worked there ate poorly. But I have heard from Lady Jane that they eat better now. Sir Thomas serves on the board of governors and has told her so”