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Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Chapter 15
T
he lords and ladies who spilled out of their carriages and up the steps of the Hanover Square Rooms that evening reminded Thomas of the exotic stuffed parakeets he had seen at the menagerie at the Tower of London. Bedecked in a dazzling array of colors—silks of crimson and blue, brocades in gold and green, and plumes of yellow and black—they squawked and preened themselves as they entered the lofty room where Carlo Cappelli was about to perform.
The count, himself looking resplendent in Polish military dress, complete with sword, waved Moreno’s card at a liveried attendant and was led immediately to the front row of seats, followed by Thomas and Lydia.
There were greetings from acquaintances and stares from onlookers as they made their way through the throng. Moreno himself stood near the fortepiano at the front and went to greet his guests as soon as he saw them.
“All of London society is here, my friend,” said the count, surveying the audience behind them.
The Tuscan smiled. “The whole world loves to hear the voice of an angel.”
Thomas took his seat next to Lydia.
“I must tell you how beautiful you look tonight,” he whispered. She turned to him and gave him a smile that told him all was well between them.
Thomas looked about him. The room was bathed in a magical glow from hundreds of candles. This was only the second concert he had ever attended. Or was it the third? He preferred the theater, the visual spectacle, but just watching these knots of colorful gowns and frock coats was a show in itself. At the other concerts, they had all milled about chatting, or eating chicken legs and swigging wine, only stopping their promenade when a particular oratorio or soloist took their fancy. This was altogether more civilized.
From the back of the auditorium he saw a couple walking toward the stage. As they drew nearer he recognized Joseph Haydn and, on his arm, a tall woman of obvious refinement. They both acknowledged the cheers that rose from the audience as they progressed down the aisle. This lady, this handsome, talented, bright-eyed woman, must be Anne Hunter. For a moment he watched her and he pitied her. Had she already been infected by her husband, he wondered.
From the stage before him, he could hear movement. He turned to see Leonardo Moreno striding into view. Now, as the Tuscan stood in front of the orchestra and choir to address the audience, a reverential hush descended, just as it did among Thomas’s own students at the anatomy school as soon as he took to the floor.
The handsome former soprano smiled broadly. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me sie greatest of pleasures to introduce a new work by si esteemed composer Herr Joseph Haydn.” There was a burst of applause. “The libretto for sis new piece was written by Mrs. John Hunter.” Another pause for applause. “And for the first time in sis great city of London, it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you a voice sat is so out of sis world that you will sink it is that of an angel. I give you Signor Carlo Cappelli.”
More enthusiastic clapping greeted the young singer as he appeared on the stage and bowed low. Thomas estimated he was no more than eighteen or nineteen years of age and was possessed of very fine features. His eyes were large and fringed by long, dark lashes and his nose was aquiline. He was also extremely tall, he noted, and his chest was very broad. He strode purposefully toward the fortepiano, confidently surveying his audience just before the orchestra struck up under the guidance of Haydn himself.
From the first note to the last chord, the music was, indeed, ethereal. Cappelli’s voice certainly surpassed anything that Thomas had heard before. Although he was no expert on the aria, it seemed to him that every trill, every roulade, and every cadenza was truly astonishing in its execution. The end of the first half of the concert was greeted with tumultuous applause.
“Is he not wonderful?” enthused Moreno, seeking out the count’s party immediately.
“Indeed so, sir,” agreed Lydia.
“Truly amazing,” said Thomas.
“Bravo. Bravo,” chimed in the count.
While the count and Moreno were engaged in singing Cappelli’s praises, Thomas caught Lydia’s gaze. He wished he could spend time with her alone, but their commitments in London had been so great that stolen moments were all they seemed to manage. He longed for the peace and quiet of Boughton Hall. But as he watched her, half-listening to the conversation of his male companions, he could see she found their talk tedious. She was scanning the room herself, looking for someone, anyone, she knew who might give her an excuse to break away. He would rescue her. He was about to suggest that they take a turn around the room together when something strange and inexplicable happened. He saw her expression change in an instant. Suddenly all the blood seemed to drain from her complexion and her eyes widened in terror. She turned hastily toward Thomas.
“What is it, Lydia?”
“I-I need some fresh air. It is a little stuffy in here.” Her words were quick and there was a note of panic in her voice.
“You are right. Let us go outside,” he replied.
She lifted her horrified gaze up at him. “No . . . no, please. I need to go alone.”
“But you can’t . . .”
“Yes. Yes. Leave me, please,” she said breathlessly, glancing back over her shoulder once more. “I need to get away.”
With these words, she brushed past Thomas, almost breaking out into a run as she headed toward the exit. The young doctor followed her as far as the door, but just as he was about to step outside, he heard someone call his name. He turned to see Lady Marchant, the old harridan he had met at the cane shop.
“Ah, Dr. Silkstone. How fortunate to see you here.”
Thomas managed a polite smile, but before he could make his excuses, the woman launched forth. “I mean to ask you about an ache I suffer in my left arm that is putting me in a very sour humor.”
“I am sorry to hear that, your ladyship, but perhaps we could discuss the matter in my surgery,” he replied, all the time glancing over her shoulder toward the door.
“I can see you are distracted,” said the dowager, somewhat annoyed by the doctor’s anxious manner. “I shall make an appointment.”
Thomas smiled, bowed politely, then started off again, stepping out into the night. Of Lydia there was no sign. All he could see under the glow of the street lamps was a carriage pulling away and heading back toward Cockspur Street with Lovelock at the reins.
When he rejoined the count inside he was short of breath and deeply distracted.
“Ah, Dr. Silkstone,” said the little man, standing beside two gentlemen who were familiar to him. “This is Dr. John Hunter and Mr. Giles Carrington.”
Thomas gave a cursory bow. “Indeed, we have met before. How do you do, Dr. Hunter, Mr. Carrington?”
The Scot was looking customarily disheveled. There was mildew on the back of his frock coat and he smelled of preserving fluid.
“Och, yes, we met at Charlesworth’s funeral. You’re the man from the Colonies, yes?” He was every bit as brusque in his manner as before.
“I do come from America, yes, sir,” replied Thomas wryly. He found himself in no mood for pleasantries.
The Scotsman raised a thick eyebrow and put a hand on his shoulder. Turning him away from the count, he confided: “I dunni care where ya come from, laddie, I’ll wager you’d love to get your knife into that young singer.” His hand fell hard on Thomas’s back in a playful slap.
Carrington witnessed the bizarre incident and held Thomas’s gaze knowingly. There was no suitable reply to such an inappropriate statement, Thomas told himself, so he let it pass.
“I am content to hear him sing, sir,” he replied.
It seemed Carrington might be right. The accursed disease could already be affecting the anatomist’s judgment, he thought. He turned back to face the others.
Sensing a natural enmity between the two men, Boruwlaski intervened, tugging at Thomas’s coattails. He endeavored to change the subject. “Dr. Hunter has heard of Mr. Byrne and would very much like a private audience.”
Once again Hunter’s hand found its way onto Thomas’s shoulder. “So what do you make of him, this Irish giant?” he asked, almost confidentially.
There was a derogatory tone in the question that irked the young doctor. “He is my patient, sir.”
Hunter nudged him. “Yes, but speaking as an anatomist . . . Come, you must have thoughts, man?”
Thomas smelled his stale breath and pulled away without wishing to seem discourteous. “I am only an anatomist when I am dealing with a corpse, Dr. Hunter. To the living I am a surgeon and a physician,” he replied, his eyebrow arched.
The Scot pulled away just as surely as if he had touched hot coals. “Then you are not the man I thought you were, Dr. Silkstone,” he said coldly.
At that moment the master of ceremonies took to the stage to announce the concert would resume in three minutes.
“But where is Lady Lydia?” asked the count, his little head spinning around.
Thomas frowned. “I am afraid she is unwell and has returned to your lodgings, sir.”
“Lady Lydia Farrell?” interjected Hunter. “The pretty young filly I saw you with earlier? Husband was a murderer, yes?”
Thomas stiffened, but he managed to keep his anger in check. “No murderer, sir, but
murdered,
” he replied.
“Och, yes, but he died in jail, awaiting trial, I think you’ll find,” sneered the Scot.
Thomas resented his tone. Ignoring his last remark, he turned to the count and said: “I must see that her ladyship is safe.”
“Of course,” said the little man, giving a bow.
“Dr. Hunter, Mr. Carrington.” Thomas nodded, taking his leave.
“No doubt our paths will cross again shortly,” replied the anatomist.
Thomas feared they would, but for now, his main priority was to see what, or who, had so disconcerted Lydia.
 
Arriving back at Cockspur Street shortly before nine o’clock, Thomas was greeted by an anxious Mistress Goodbody.
“Oh, Dr. Silkstone! Thank the Lord you are here,” she wailed. “Her ladyship is most agitated and will not let anyone into her room.”
“I will go and see her now,” he said, striding up the stairs. He knocked softly on Lydia’s door. Mistress Goodbody and Eliza, Lydia’s maid, followed.
“Your ladyship,” he called. “ ’Tis Dr. Silkstone.”
They waited in silence, with their ears pinned to the door, until a few seconds later, Lydia’s voice could be heard, soft and tremulous.
“Eliza may enter, but no one else. I do not wish to see anyone.”
The lady’s maid looked at Thomas. He nodded, sanctioning her entrance into the room, while he remained outside until Eliza reemerged a minute or so later.
Looking uneasy, she delivered Lydia’s message to Thomas. “Her ladyship says that she is sorry to cause you concern, Dr. Silkstone, but that the evening tired her so much that she feels she needs to rest.”
Thomas eyed the maid skeptically. “I see.” He nodded. “Please tell your mistress that if there is anything she needs, then she must not hesitate to call me.”
Eliza curtsied. “Very good, sir.”
Thomas hoped he would have more luck seeing his other patient. He found Charles Byrne sitting up in bed, with Emily fussing over his pillows.
“I see you are much restored.”
“Indeed so, thank you, sir,” replied the giant, his waxy complexion almost glowing.
“You have a good nurse,” remarked Thomas.
Emily blushed and curtsied. “Will that be all, Mr. Byrne, sir?” she asked, not daring to look at her charge.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied, and the young girl withdrew from the room.
“So you feel sufficiently restored to return to the cane shop tomorrow?” asked Thomas, sitting on the edge of the bed and feeling for the giant’s pulse.
“That I d-do, sir,” he replied.
Thomas put the heel of his hand to the giant’s forehead. The raging fever had subsided and his eyes were no longer bloodshot.
“You have made a remarkable recovery.” He suspected the efficacy of the tincture he had administered had little to do with it.
 
Knowing it would be at least another two hours before the count returned to his lodgings after the concert, Thomas decided to go home. He would be back early in the morning to check on both Lydia and the giant.
It was only a ten-minute walk to his rooms and the night was still quite young. He kept to the main thoroughfares where the lamps were lit and mercifully managed to avoid the attentions of the cutpurses.
Dr. Carruthers had already retired for the night and Thomas climbed the stairs wearily, but sleep did not come easily. His head was filled with thoughts of Lydia. Why had she acted so strangely? He replayed the evening over and over in his mind, retracing every word, every gesture, and every nuance that had passed between them. He remembered their conversation about the lawyer Marchant. Perhaps he was the cause of her distress? Yet she had seemed well enough at the beginning of the evening.

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