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Authors: Tessa Harris

BOOK: The Dead Shall Not Rest
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Chapter 26
S
ir Montagu Malthus descended on Boughton Hall like a great black raven, sending the household into a flurry for the second time in a week. Now the remaining dust sheets were dispatched and shutters thrown wide open, restoring natural light to the house. Mistress Claddingbowl brought out a plum cake and baked a batch of biscuits, and fresh flowers from the gardens were arranged in the hallway.
Lydia had not been told the purpose of the visit by her late brother’s godfather. The widowed lawyer rarely made a purely social call from his home near Banbury. His brief letter warned of a “pressing matter” that needed her urgent attention. She had a terrible suspicion as to what that might be.
Nonetheless, the news of Sir Montagu’s imminent arrival had shaken Lydia from the torpor she had experienced since her return from London. She had simply drifted from room to room, running her fingers over mantelpieces and bookshelves, eating nothing and saying little.
“So, Lydia,” Sir Montagu began, settling himself down on the sofa opposite her. “It must be difficult for you here alone.” His hawkish eyes were glancing around the room, hovering over paintings and pieces of porcelain. He placed particular weight on the word “alone.”
She poured tea and handed him a cup. “I manage well enough, sir. I have engaged an estate manager to deal with affairs and I carry on tending to domestic duties as before.”
“How long is it now?” His head was tilting sensitively.
“Eleven months, three weeks, and four days.” She suspected the timing of his visit did not simply happen to almost coincide with the first anniversary of her husband’s murder.
“Yes. I thought so. Almost a year, my dear. And you have been so brave, what with Lavington and Crick and then your dear mama.” His hooded eyes fixed on her.
“It has not been easy,” she conceded, sipping her tea.
“Indeed, no, but I would put it to you that perhaps it is time to look to the future.”
Now he was cutting to the chase, thought Lydia. “Oh, but I do think of the future, sir. I have plans for the estate.”
He nodded his head and waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, my dear. I am sure you have, but I am talking about the distant future. You are, after all, the last of the Crick line.”
Of course Lydia was painfully aware of the fact. She folded her hands on her lap. In the awkward silence that ensued she could hear the mantel clock ticking away the seconds. “Yes, sir,” she said.
“Have you considered who will inherit the estate from you?”
She looked blankly at him as he reached inside his black satchel. He did not wait for a reply. “Can you imagine all this falling into decay, or worse still, being sold?” There was a note of terrible foreboding in his voice.
“Indeed not, sir.” Lydia shook her head obligingly.
“That is why I have taken the liberty of drawing up a list of suitable candidates for you,” he said in a matter-of-fact way.
“Candidates?” echoed Lydia.
“Suitable husbands, my dear.” His emphasis was on the word “suitable.”
Without saying a word she took the list that he passed over to her and scanned the names: the Earl of Wedmore, the Lord Belmont, Sir Humphrey Lupton—all eligible peers of the realm, all of the right lineage. One was widowed, the others were bachelors, but bachelors for good reason; either old, ugly or, in one case, insane. Most of them would do anything to lay their hands on Boughton Hall and its large estate, albeit they both were in need of some attention. She looked again. There was the Right Honorable Rupert Marchant, too. She thought of his smug lawyer’s face, sneering at her lecherously. She knew of all of these would-be suitors, but her thoughts were of Thomas. Sir Montagu would, of course, disapprove of her union with a colonist and a commoner to boot. The doctor was her inferior in every way, in his eyes, but she was not strong enough to start a fight.
“It is a kind thought and I will consider the gentlemen, sir,” she told him, smiling politely.
Sir Montagu’s brows, which had knitted themselves together as she studied the list, now parted.
“Excellent,” he said. “Perhaps you will permit me to arrange some introductions?”
He was being too hasty, thought Lydia. “In due course, sir,” she replied. “It is still a little too soon.”
Sir Montagu nodded and drained his teacup. “Just remember, dear Lydia, that an heir, preferably a male, of course, is essential to the future of Boughton, and it would be most desirable to have one sooner rather than later.”
Again she smiled politely at him. After Edward’s death he no longer had any official authority, but she knew that he was the man her late father had tasked with her well-being and he still held sway over her. She would play along with his conniving and interfering ways for as long as she needed to, and he would return to his country seat happy in the knowledge that his old friend’s daughter would comply with his requests and that the future of the beloved estate would be secure, as her father would have wished. The right blood would course through her progeny’s veins and Boughton would be saved for posterity. She was not prepared, however, for what came next.
“I do not detect any enthusiasm from you, my dear,” said Sir Montagu, placing his cup and saucer on a side table.
Lydia apologized. “I am a little tired, sir, that is all,” she replied meekly.
“Come, come. I can tell that none of these suitors appeal.” His candor surprised her.
“As I said, Sir Montagu, it is just a little too soon to consider marrying again.” She was polite but firm. Yet he persisted, fixing his gaze on her with a new determination.
“There is, of course, one name that is missing from that list, my dear.” His tone suddenly became more intimate.
Lydia frowned. Did he know about her affair with Thomas? She swallowed hard. “And who might that be?” she enquired nonchalantly, trying to hide her fear of detection.
“My own.” If Sir Montagu saw the momentary look of horror that darted across Lydia’s face, he chose not to show it. “We would make the perfect match,” he continued. “I am from an excellent line, as you know.”
A feeling of nausea rose in Lydia’s gullet. The very thought of this man, at least forty years her senior and a friend of her late father’s, begetting a child with her was repulsive. She looked at his clawlike hands and imagined his cold grasp on her skin and she shuddered.
“You are most thoughtful,” was all she could manage in reply.
He bent his head slightly to one side. The fleshy hoods of skin that hung from his brow seemed to retract slightly, showing more of his old man’s eyes than usual. “So you will consider my offer?”
Lydia nodded. “I will, sir,” she replied softly, all the while knowing that neither he nor anyone else had any idea that in all probability she had been rendered unable to bear children. In all likelihood there would be no heir. Ever.
 
Charles Byrne slumped into the chair and slipped off his shoes. His feet ached. It had been another hard afternoon in the cane shop. Every day more and more came to see him, each paying their half crown to gasp and gawp and point and stare. Touching was not permitted, although many tried.
The count poured him a large gin and handed it to him. “You are doing well, my friend. You have nearly fifty pounds.”
“Fifty?” he repeated with derision. “That lawyer wants two hundred from me.”
The count knew it to be true from the papers he had seen. This royal pardon would come neither cheaply nor quickly, but he remained ebullient. “But all of London adores you. Look what it says in the newssheet,” he cried excitedly, prodding the print with a podgy forefinger.
Charles’s weary look reminded his friend that he could not read. “Listen to this, then,” exclaimed Boruwlaski. “The
Morning Herald
says that you are ‘beyond what is set forth in ancient or modern history.’ ” The little man lifted his shoulders gleefully. “It goes on: ‘In short, the sight is more than the mind can conceive, the tongue express, or the pencil delineate, and stands without parallel in this or any other country.’ What say you to that, Charles?”
The giant actually said very little and appeared distinctly indifferent to such plaudits. He took a large gulp of gin.
“I say I could eat a horse,” came the dry reply.
Boruwlaski mused that such a feat was very probable, when a stony-faced Mistress Goodbody entered the room.
“Is there anything you require before dinner, gentlemen?” she asked, shooting a disdainful glance at the giant’s stockinged feet. “Slippers, perhaps, Mr. Byrne?”
The giant eyed her suspiciously. “Emily. Where is Emily?”
The housekeeper shifted uncomfortably. “Emily is not here.”
“Then where is she, pray?” intervened Boruwlaski.
“She has left the household.”
“Left?” repeated Charles Byrne, pulling himself forward in the chair.
“And can you tell us why?” asked the count.
Again the housekeeper looked uneasy. “I dismissed her, sir.”
Charles heaved himself up now, towering over the woman, scowling at her.
“On what grounds?” continued Boruwlaski.
Mistress Goodbody flashed a reproachful look at the giant. “She had ideas above her station.”
The count remained calm but asked coolly: “Am I not master in my own house, Mistress Goodbody?”
She flushed. “Of course, sir.”
“Then should I not sanction the dismissal of staff?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Where has she gone?” asked Charles, his anger mounting.
“Back to her parents, I suspect, in St. Giles,” she replied, not daring to look up at the giant.
“Then you must send word that she is to return here,” the count instructed.
“But, sir . . .” Mistress Goodbody began, but Charles Byrne had heard enough and stormed out of the room, brushing past the housekeeper as he did so, causing her to step backward. She opened her mouth to protest, but the count gave her short shrift.
“Do you not realize that that girl was the only person who could make him smile?” The count rarely showed his anger, but on this occasion he was truly riled. “She gave him hope.”
“But I caught them . . .”
The count waved his small hand dismissively in the air. “Everyone is entitled to a little happiness in their lives. I want the girl found, and quickly.”
 
John Hunter sat surrounded by his creatures captured in their glass jars and floating in preserving fluid and mused on the nature of the human brain. His candle was burning low, but he was too occupied to think of lighting another one just yet. He was contemplating the spongy gray tissue that lay in the dish before him, like some coral found in warm seas. The brain in question had once been housed in the cranium of his friend, the botanist Daniel Solander. At the postmortem he had found two ounces of coagulated blood in the right ventricle. He had not asked Solander if he could keep his brain, but he was an enlightened young man and would probably have agreed. Either way, his untimely demise had reinforced his own theory about apoplexy, and that could only be for the common good, he told himself. A knock at his laboratory door interrupted his train of thought and he rose and looked through the grille. Howison usually vetted his visitors at this time of night, as they were more often than not of the unsavory variety.
Straining his eyes in the darkness, he could see the scarred and battered face that was so familiar to him.
“Och, Crouch,” he greeted, opening the door only slightly ajar and making sure their encounter was not witnessed. “Come in, man.”
The ruffian took off his hat and strode in carrying a small bundle.
“So, you have something for me?” Hunter went over to his workbench and Crouch followed, laying the stinking rags down. They were streaked with dried blood. Taking a scalpel, the anatomist cut the string that held the frayed kersey bands together.
“Stillborn?” he said, lifting the child out of its filthy cocoon.
“Aye.”
“A boy,” he said, lifting the tiny body up to inspect its genitals. “I’ll give you a shilling for it.”
The ruffian’s face dropped. “ ’Tis worth two,” he protested, but Hunter was not to be deterred.
“I heard you were detained at His Majesty’s pleasure overnight at Newgate Prison,” he said, his tongue as caustic as acid.
Crouch could not deny it. “Nicking from a stiff in the street.” He tried to laugh off his misdemeanor, but the anatomist was clearly not amused.
He shook his head. “You must not let your petty thievery jeopardize my work, Mr. Crouch,” he warned. “Nor your whoring.”
“Whoring?”
“I heard you’ve taken up with a French tart in Haymarket. Don’t lose your edge, Mr. Crouch.”
“It won’t happen again, Dr. Hunter, sir,” said the ruffian, suddenly changing his tune.

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