Fourpenny Flyer (61 page)

‘That lodger of Cousin Thomasina – you remember the one – is a government spy!' Matilda said triumphantly. ‘What do 'ee think of that?'

Annie was interested at once. ‘Mr Richards, do you mean?'

‘The same.'

‘You don't surprise me,' Annie said. ‘How did you find out?'

Harriet was so shattered by the news, she couldn't say anything. While Matilda told the tale, with happy embellishments, she sat perfectly still as though she were listening, her face controlled and her emotions in turmoil. A government spy, she thought, shivering. How dreadful. But of course. I should have known it. He knew so much about so many people and he turned up wherever there was trouble, wherever there was a political meeting, at the field of Peterloo, here at the Hampden Club that night, sending Caleb to Norwich and the Abbotts to Cato Street. A
government spy! I ought to have realized.

‘I always knew he was a wrong 'un,' Matilda was saying with great satisfaction. ‘He had a deal too much side, addressing people of quality as though he were their equal. Well now we know all about
him.
Ain't it a caution?'

Caution, Harriet thought, catching the word in its other meaning. Oh yes, we shall all have to proceed with caution now. If Mr Richards is a government spy he mustn't be told anything more about any of us. How wise John was not to trust him. I must warn Caleb. I will write to him tonight, and tomorrow morning I will take the pony-cart into Bury and pay my duty visit to Mama and post my letter and see if he has written to me. The sun was casting dappled patterns through the branches of the oak tree onto the soft flowered cotton of her skirt and she could hear the voices of the children lilting and piping as bright as birds somewhere behind the house. Such a beautiful day, she thought, and yet there is danger all around us. First the smallpox and now this.

The next day was easy with sunshine too. Will said he didn't mind being left with Rosie at all. She and Aunt Annie and Pollyanna and Peg Mullins had a picnic planned and he would rather go on a picnic than visit grandmother Sowerby, if Mama said he could. So Harriet set off on her errands alone, with Tom to drive the pony-cart.

Her mother treated her to her usual mixture of gossip and complaint, which she endured for the statutary hour as patiently as she could. Then she walked briskly back to the Post Office and the waiting pony-cart. There
was
a letter for her, just as she'd hoped. She stood in the Post Office, to one side of the counter, and opened it and read it.

‘My dear Harriet,

‘There's been a deal happened since I wrote thee last. News came on Thursday that Parliament means for to foist another Combination Act upon us after all our good work to the contrary. Meetings are to be rendered illegal again and on t' quiet-like so we must watch out.
'Tis a scandal and not to be endured. We began to put our minds to it straight away to find means to oppose it.

‘By great good fortune we heard last night that we've a first rate opportunity served up to us in this very town. Tha friend Mr Richards were here in Norwich yesternight to tell us that Lord Harrowby comes here 26th August to visit his friend, Lord Suffield, a man much respected hereabouts on account of his views concerning land reform. If'twere up to him t' land would be restored to those who labour on it. A fine man, I can tell thee, and one who works for reform.

‘With Mr Richards's help we have devised us a plan. We are to gather before the Guildhall (where the two lords will be dining according to Mr Richards) with banners on t' Tuesday evening, there to petition him for his help in t' matter and t' help of his friend Lord Harrowby.

‘I will write again when more is known or to tell thee of our success.

‘Thy loving friend in every endeavour,

‘Caleb Rawson.'

He mustn't do it, she thought. 'Twill be another trap as sure as fate. And she looked around her for pen and ink so that she could add a warning postscript to her letter before she sealed it. And her eye noticed the date in its oak case beneath the clock: ‘Tuesday 26th August 1825.' But it's today, she thought. Today. There was no time to send a letter. If Caleb and his friends were to be warned in time she would have to go to Norwich and tell them herself.

She put both letters into her reticule and ran out to the pony-cart.

‘I have to go to Norwich,' she said to an astonished Tom. ‘Take the cart home, if you please. I will catch the night coach back home. Peg is not to sit up. 'Twill suffice if she leaves the door upon the latch for me.'

And she was gone, tripping off downhill towards Angel Square and the early afternoon coach to Scole and Norwich.

It was well past six o'clock when she arrived in Castle Meadow. There wasn't a minute to lose.

Preparations for that evening's march to the Guildhall were well under way. The banners were stitched and the petition forms ruled and as soon as work was over for the day and the weavers had snatched a bite to eat, they would begin to gather in the Market Square. Caleb had worked all day with his head full of plans and counter-plans, so he was very surprised when left his loom and came down the stairs from the attic to find Harriet waiting for him on the landing. She was the last person he expected to see in Norwich that day.

But surprise immediately gave way to pleasure. ‘Harriet!' he said, beaming at her. ‘My dear Harriet, what brings thee up to Norwich? Hast tha come for t' meeting?'

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose I have,' she said, and then he noticed that she was looking anxious and biting her bottom lip.

‘Come in, come in,' he said, opening the door to his room and standing aside to let her enter first. ‘I'm about to send out for a bit o' supper. Happen tha'll join me?'

She stood hesitantly just outside the door, looking round at the whitewashed walls covered with prints and posters, and the fire red in a polished grate, and the bright curtains, and the heavy woven bedspread on his single bed, noticing how houseproud he was and how well he kept the room. I am alone in a gentleman's bedroom, she thought, alone and unchaperoned, and she knew it wasn't at all proper, and that she really shouldn't be there, and she couldn't think what to say.

But Caleb was perfectly at ease. ‘Come now,' he said, ‘I'll mek thee a dish of tea, and tha shall tell me why tha's come
to see me. Sit down, sit down.' Normally he would have supped ale with his chop but in her honour it should be tea. And he pulled his two cane chairs closer to the table by the window and held one out for her.

She hung her bonnet and shawl on the hook behind the door, put her reticule on the table and sat down nervously, watching while he filled an old black kettle from the covered jug on the dresser, and set it to boil on the hob. It was very warm in the room, for the fire had been burning since five o'clock, ready for cooking. ‘You mustn't go to the meeting tonight,' she said abruptly.

‘Must I not?' he said, putting two cups on the table.

‘No indeed,' she said earnestly. ‘You are betrayed, Caleb. Mr Richards is a spy.'

He understood everything so quickly, standing beside her chair, so close to her and so powerful, those blunt hands inches away from her eyes, the dark hairs on his fingers bristling. ‘Who told thee?'

‘Nan Easter told Matilda and Matilda told me. There's no doubt of it, Caleb. Nan had it from Mr Brougham. Matilda said it was no secret. The government would like a riot to prove the need for another Combination Act.'

He considered what she was saying, looking down at her, but far too calmly, and smiling at her as though the matter were amusing. ‘Aye, 'tis likely. That's the way they work. Allus have done.'

His calm agitated her. ‘Oh you mustn't go to the meeting,' she cried. ‘You would be walking into a trap, don't you see?'

He had his arms about her and was lifting her from the chair before she realized what was happening. ‘Caleb!' she said, but he was kissing her, smothering the word back into her throat. And kissing with such passion, so hard and strong and demanding, his eyes blazing and his hands holding her waist and shoulders so that she was locked against him.

‘We mustn't,' she said breathlessly when the kiss stopped at last. ‘Caleb, it's not right.'

‘Tha loves me,' he said. ‘Why else wouldst tha've come all this way with tha warning? Tha loves me, as I love thee.'
And before she could answer, or even think of an answer, he kissed her again so pleasurably that despite herself she began to kiss him back.

This can't be happening, she thought, as the kiss went on, and she could feel his member huge and hard against her belly even through the cloth of their clothes. We must stop. I must make him stop. It's not right. I must … But sensation was making thought difficult, fractured, impossible, non existent. Oh, to be kissed again, after all this time!

‘I've loved thee for years an' years,' he said, stroking her back. ‘Years an' years an' years.' How red his mouth was and how oddly he smelt. Like a glue-pot. ‘I allus knew 'twould be so.' Kissing her so long and so hard. ‘Harriet, my own dear love.'

He was making her feel dizzy. ‘We mustn't …' she cried, struggling to put her hands against his chest to push him away. But he was so strong and so urgent, lifting her off her feet, kissing her as he carried her backwards towards the bed. It is wrong, she thought. I must stop him. But how could she? What words would she use? There were no words left in her head. Only sensation and confusion and everything happening too quickly for her to cope with it. She knew in a vague way that it would humiliate him to be denied, and that she admired him too much to want to humiliate him, a
good
man, enduring prison, working so hard for the cause, so brave and dependable. And yet. And yet. Should such a man be acting as he was? No, surely not. It is wrong. I must stop him, she thought again, as she landed on the rough weave of the coverlet. But part of her didn't want to stop him and she knew that too, although she was too confused to feel ashamed, and aroused too little to feel justified. Oh what did she want? She didn't even know that. If only he would stop and give her the chance to think. But they had already gone too far, too quickly. He was pushing up her gown, bunching it about her waist, he was on top of her, so hard and close she could barely breathe, the cloth of his waistcoat scratching her cheek, he was inside her, thrusting hard. It was too late to stop him. Too late to say anything. Too late.

It was all over so quickly. Even in her present state of confusion she was amazed at how quick he was and how easily he recovered, sitting up almost at once, straightening her skirt, adjusting his trousers, ambling off across the room to attend to the kettle. He made her feel more guilty than ever. She couldn't look at him, she simply couldn't. She turned her burning face to the wall and covered her eyes with her hands.

He was busying himself at the fire, riddling ash and splitting a coal with the poker, crick-crack, clacking the lid of the kettle, whistling to himself. Then his boots clomped cross the floor and she heard the door open and close. Then silence. He hasn't left me, surely, she thought. But the silence went on, except for the crackle of the fire, and presently she turned her head cautiously to see where he was. The room was empty.

She was almost as surprised by his abrupt departure as she'd been by his precipitate lovemaking. But at least it gave her the chance to recover herself. She got up and straightened her gown and found her cap which had fallen off her head onto the floor. Then she smoothed the creases out of the coverlet and tiptoed across the room to the little looking glass hanging from its nail beside the dresser and did her best to tidy her hair. I must make myself look respectable, she thought. But the thought was ridiculous. I am not respectable, she told herself. Not any longer. I am the most grievous sinner. I have committed adultery. But none of these things had any meaning. It was as if she'd moved beyond meaning, beyond sensation, beyond thought, into the most extraordinary calm, so that ‘I am the most grievous sinner' and ‘now I will make the tea' had exactly the same validity.

And while she was standing before the mirror wondering at her lack of emotion, he came back into the room. ‘I've bought us a fine pair of chump chops,' he told her, ‘and for thee, lass …' He pulled a peach from the pocket of his jacket and laid it tenderly before her.

She was touched, despite her guilt and her confusion and that odd overriding calm, for he certainly couldn't afford such an extravagant fruit, and the affection on his
face was unmistakable. ‘Thank 'ee,' she said. ‘You are very kind. Shall I make the tea?'

So she made the tea while he cooked the chops in a battered frying pan set on top of the coals, and they sat down to their rough meal together at the table beside the window. And Harriet discovered that she was hungry and was glad of the food he'd provided and enjoyed every mouthful, but distantly, as though it were being eaten by somebody else. And they talked of the price of cloth and the children's health and the progress of her little school. It was all a little unreal.

‘Now,' he said, when the meal was done, ‘we must make haste. 'Tis nobbut twenty minutes till t' start of t' meeting.'

‘The meeting?' she said, bemused. ‘Surely you don't intend to go to the meeting now. Not after – all this.' And she looked at the bed and then blushed at her indelicacy, for she hadn't meant to imply that she'd allowed him to make love to her simply to stop him from going to the meeting. Had she?

‘My word's been given,' he said. ‘There's nought for it. I must go.'

‘But you will be arrested again.'

‘I think not,' he said easily. ‘And if I am, what o' that? 'Tis all within t' law.'

‘Please,' she said, feeling that she must make an effort to stop him. ‘I came all this way to stop you. You mustn't go. Mr Richards has laid a trap for you.'