The Devil's Breath (21 page)

A
rider brought word to Boughton first thing the following morning. Sir Montagu Malthus was coming that very day. He planned to arrive shortly after noon. Lydia and Thomas were already dressed and about to leave for the caves, so changed their plans accordingly. Lydia had to notify Mistress Firebrace, who notified Mistress Claddingbowl, and the whole household was sent into a frenzy of activity.

“What can he want?” asked Thomas when Lydia was satisfied that all had been made ready. They were waiting the arrival in the drawing room.

“You know very well,” replied Lydia abruptly, opening her fan. “He wants me to marry. He has probably found me a perfect suitor.”

Thomas knew what she said was true. He sat down opposite her. “And what will you say?”

She paused and looked up at him, resting her fan on her knee. Her shoulders heaved in a deep sigh. “I shall tell him that I shall marry when I am ready, to a man of my own choosing,” she said, before fanning herself once more.

It was as Thomas had feared. She did not have the courage to stand up to Sir Montagu. Her words cut him like a knife. “But you would not tell him that you have already made your choice?”

She closed her fan and glared at Thomas. “You do not know what he is like. He is cold and cruel and vindictive. He hated Michael and he hates you.” She stood up and walked ’round to Thomas’s side. Touching his shoulder she said, “I just need a little more time. Please.”

He took her hand in his and kissed it. “Of course. I am sorry. You English do not like to be rushed. I must remember that.” He regretted the sarcasm in his tone, but said no more. Patience was the virtue that Lydia required of him and he would display it, for the time being at least.

A few minutes later the carriage bearing Sir Montagu Malthus pulled up in front of Boughton Hall. Lydia stood on the steps to greet her guest. The fog still clung to the hills and treetops, but the sun was discernible as a fierce red globe behind it. The lawyer swooped down from the carriage and began to mount the steps. Fothergill followed closely behind, carrying a leather satchel and a large scroll under his arm.

“Sir, what an unexpected pleasure.” Lydia welcomed him as he came level with her.

Sir Montagu’s thick brows knitted as he took her hand and pecked it with his lips. “I am afraid you will not find what I have to say pleasant, my dear Lydia,” he warned ominously.

The smile that she had managed to gather to greet her brother’s guardian suddenly deserted her and she found herself momentarily lost for words.

“You must be tired after your journey. Please.” She gestured him into the hall. “We shall see to your luggage.”

The lawyer stopped in his tracks. “I have none, my dear. I do not intend to stay. We have taken rooms at the inn at Brandwick.”

Lydia looked puzzled. “So be it,” she replied. “But I am sure you would like some tea.”

She led the way to the drawing room and Sir Montagu and Fothergill followed. Thomas was already standing by the mantelpiece. He bowed stiffly when the men entered.

“You know Dr. Silkstone, Sir Montagu,” she said politely.

The lawyer eyed Thomas suspiciously and did not even feign a smile. “Indeed I do,” he sneered.

Lydia bade her guests sit in an atmosphere that was far from congenial. Fothergill perched himself on a stool behind his master, laying the large scroll down on the floor while she went to pull the rope to call for tea. Just as she did so, however, Sir Montagu lifted his large hand.

“I would prefer if we talked alone, my dear,” he announced. “What I have to say is of a very personal nature.”

Thomas shot a glance at Lydia. Would she really let this man dictate to her what she did in her own home? He willed her to be strong. She took her hand away from the bellpull.

“I count Dr. Silkstone not only as my physician, but as a confidant, Sir Montagu,” she began. “Whatever you say to me, you can say it freely in front of him.”

The lawyer’s lips curled in a smirk. “So you have some newfound courage?” he jibed. “ ’Twill be interesting to see how brave you feel when I put to you my proposition.”

Lydia took a deep breath. “And what might that be, sir?”

Sir Montagu snapped his fingers. Fothergill picked up the scroll from the floor and the two men moved over to the table near the window. “I suggest you come and see this, my dear.” He beckoned to her.

Lydia walked slowly, composing herself as she went. She had no intention of betraying the utter dread she felt. Thomas followed closely behind until they were both level with the table and could see the large scroll laid out before them. Fothergill, his pince-nez now hooked safely over his nose, had smoothed out the parchment and weighed it down at either end. At the bottom was a large, red wax seal. Thomas pored over it and recognized the insignia. It was something he had come across three or four months earlier when he was asked to testify in a case involving a young ward. It was the seal of the Court of Chancery. His forehead buckled into a frown.

Sir Montagu leered at Lydia. “I see Dr. Silkstone understands the gravity of this document, my dear, but do you?”

Lydia stared blankly at the parchment and the closely written script. There were so many letters, so many words, all written in Latin. They meant little to her and a rising sense of panic caught hold as she scanned the scroll for something familiar, something she could understand. That something came near the end of the document. She saw the name, written in this bold, confident hand, and she shuddered. “Richard Michael Farrell,” she mouthed. Her head shot up. “What does this mean?”

Sir Montagu threw back his head and let out a muted laugh. “It means, my dear, that your long-lost son, the son you thought was your secret, has been found safe and well and is in my custody.”

Thomas lurched forward. “It was you. I thought as much!” He jabbed an accusing finger at Fothergill, who took a step back.

“Yes.” Sir Montagu nodded. “Fothergill, here, tracked down the boy and brought him safely to me.”

Lydia looked at the lawyer in disbelief, not sure whether she should laugh or cry. “You have Richard?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Then where is he? I must see him.” She rushed forward and grabbed Malthus’s frock coat, begging for an answer. “Where is he?” she cried.

Sir Montagu prized her fingers from his garment. “Calm yourself, my dear,” he urged her, straightening his coat.

Thomas put his arm ’round her and pulled her away. “Let us talk about this rationally,” he said, glaring at Sir Montagu. Unlike Lydia, he had been able to read snatches of the Latin text. He knew what the lawyer had done.

“Ah, the voice of reason,” boomed Sir Montagu, flapping his hands in an exaggerated gesture as he pointed at Thomas.

“I believe, sir, you have made her ladyship’s son a ward of court.”

Sir Montagu gave a shallow bow and skewed his head. “How right you are, Dr. Silkstone.”

“A ward of court,” echoed Lydia. “What does that mean?”

“It means, my dear, that Richard remains under the legal protection of the court until certain conditions are met.” Sir Montagu’s face split into a broad grin.

“I want him here, now!” She struggled to free herself from Thomas’s hold. “I want to see my son!” Her voice was quivering with emotion, yet still the lawyer wore a self-satisfied, pious look that infuriated her.

“As I said, he is quite safe, but there are certain”—he paused for effect—“certain conditions that must legally be met before I can allow you to see him.”

“What conditions?” barked Thomas.

Sir Montagu deliberately turned his shoulder to Thomas and focused on Lydia. Bending low he told her: “The Court of Chancery has ruled that you may have custody of your son on condition that you do not marry a foreigner.”

Lydia dropped like a stone onto the settee behind her. Thomas joined her and took her hand in his. She clasped it tightly. Staring ahead blankly she muttered: “How can that be?”

Sir Montagu shook his head. “The court was of the view that an estate such as Boughton must not be allowed to fall into the hands of a citizen of an enemy territory.”

Thomas shot up and fixed Sir Montagu with an accusing look. “But the war is over,” he protested.

Again the lawyer shook his large head. “No treaty has yet been signed, Dr. Silkstone, so technically hostilities have not yet ceased between Great Britain and America.”

Thomas felt his blood boil. Bile flooded his throat. He balled his fists but told himself he needed to remain calm. “This is all your doing, Malthus,” he said bitterly.

The lawyer laid his palm on his chest. “Me, Dr. Silkstone? I am merely an instrument of the court,” he replied.

Thomas wanted to wipe the smirk off the lawyer’s face with his fist, but he contained himself. He knew he was beaten, for the moment at least. He could not allow Lydia to be so tortured. Her features could not have been more pained had she been on the rack with Sir Montagu turning the wheel. Watching her suffer was torture for him, too. Leaping up, he brought his face close to the lawyer’s and looked him straight in the eye. “Her ladyship accepts the terms,” he said through clenched teeth.

Lydia looked up, but remained silent. There were no words of protest or pleas for justice; just an acceptance of the cruel inevitability that she now faced.

Fothergill delved into his satchel and produced another, smaller sheet of paper which he laid on top of the scroll. He dipped his quill into the inkpot and offered it to Lydia.

“If you please,” said Sir Montagu, gesturing to the document.

Slowly Lydia rose and Thomas escorted her over to the table. She looked at him with eyes watery with tears. “I am sorry,” she whispered, before she signed her name.

As Fothergill blotted the ink, Sir Montagu gloated. “You give up too easily, Silkstone,” he sneered when the deed was done. Lydia was walking back to the settee, out of earshot.

“Believe me I have not given up, but I cannot see the woman I love forced to make such a brutal choice.”

The lawyer sniggered. “How very noble of you. And they said chivalry was dead in the Colonies.”

Halfway across the room, Lydia turned abruptly. “I have done what you asked, now where is my son?” There was a renewed strength in her voice that had been barely audible a few moments ago. Her uncharacteristic forcefulness momentarily disarmed the lawyer.

“We can take you to him this instant, my dear,” he replied, his head bobbing in a bow.

Lydia crossed the room and Thomas followed. The notary held the door open for them, as Sir Montagu watched, but as soon as the young doctor was about to pass, he lifted his great arm and barred his way. Lydia turned sharply and looked at Malthus.

“May I remind you, sir, that Dr. Silkstone is a physician? I wish him to examine my son to see that no harm has come to him.” Her words were delivered with such conviction that any objection the lawyer could have raised dissipated.

Thus disarmed, he simply replied: “But of course,” and the party walked down the steps to the waiting carriage that would take them to Brandwick and to Richard Farrell, heir apparent to the Boughton estate.

L
ydia’s heart was pounding as she climbed the rickety stairs at the Three Tuns. Fothergill led the way and opened a low door that led off the first-floor landing. The moment she had dreamed of for so many years was almost upon her. Feeling she would almost burst with emotion, she took a deep breath and walked into the room. Standing by the window, next to his nursemaid, was a small boy with brown curly hair and large eyes. His head was swathed in a halo of light from the glowing candles and he was dressed in silk breeches and a smart coat. He was unmistakably hers. Arms outstretched, she rushed forward and tried to enfold the child, but he balked at her embrace and pulled away. Nestling his face in his nursemaid’s skirts, he turned his back on Lydia. Stunned, she straightened herself and backed off a little distance.

“Do not be frightened. I . . . I will not hurt you,” she told the boy falteringly, then turning to Sir Montagu she asked, “You have told him?”

The lawyer smirked. “Richard, you must greet your mamma,” he instructed the child, as if he were a schoolmaster telling a pupil to open a book. He turned to Lydia. “I took the liberty of asking the court to change his name. From henceforth he shall be known as Richard Crick, not Farrell. Much better that way. I’m sure you’ll agree, my dear,” he said.

Lydia did not respond, but merely stood looking at the child as he clung to the nursemaid. Smiling gently, she bent low once more and offered her hand.

Sir Montagu looked down his hooked nose. “The boy has certain feral tendencies,” he said disdainfully. “They need to be stamped out.”

Thoughts of what her son must have suffered scudded through Lydia’s mind: the harshness of the workhouse and the inevitable beatings by the chimney sweep as he forced him to shin up flues. He must have endured so much in his six short years. There would be brutal memories that would be hard to erase.

Suddenly she remembered the earring that the woman at the workhouse had given her. Delving into her bag, she brought it out. “Do you recognize this, Richard?” she asked, holding it up to the light so that the precious stones twinkled.

The child turned his head and wheeled ’round at the sight of the jewel. His eyes lit up and he charged over to Lydia, snatching the earring from her hand.

“Richard, no!” boomed Sir Montagu, stepping forward. But Lydia blocked his progress. “Wait!” she cried, as the child cradled the earring in his hand and his face broke into a smile. “You remember, don’t you, Richard?” she said, her voice trembling. “It was your token.”

The child looked up at her with his large eyes, which were suddenly sparkling. He ran toward her and she gathered him up in her arms. This time he did not balk, but hooked his arm around her waist. It was then that she noticed the other arm hanging limply by his side. Guilt and sorrow and joy melded into one and she could stifle her tears no more. She kissed her son and held him tight.

Thomas remained watching the reunion in silence. He, too, felt choked with the emotion of the occasion. There was a tenderness so pure between Lydia and her son and a bond so natural, that he knew no earthly thing could come between them.

“You are safe now, my darling,” she cried. “I will never let you go,” she muttered, holding back the tears.

Thomas knew what she said was true. She would never again allow herself to be parted from her son, even if that meant they could never be man and wife. He looked at Sir Montagu hovering nearby, relishing the touching scene that he had so cleverly engineered. It was very clear that the forging of the bond between mother and son meant that he, Thomas, may never be able to marry the woman he loved.

Lydia was still holding Richard when he began to cough. She loosened her hold and frowned. “How long has he had this?” she asked the nursemaid.

“He has been ill with the fog sickness, your ladyship,” she volunteered.

Lydia shot a glance at Thomas. “How long has he had this cough?” she repeated.

Sir Montagu spoke up. “The child is sickly. He has been ill for the past few days.”

It was true, noted Thomas, that Richard was painfully thin and his skin was as white as chalk dust. That cough was certainly a cause for concern.

“I will need to examine his lordship,” said the doctor.

The lawyer looked at him contemptuously. “Very well, but be quick about it.”

Thomas walked over to the child, who remained holding Lydia’s hand. “Sir,” he said softly with a smile. “I am a friend of your mamma’s and I want to help you. Will you let me do that?” His tone was gentle and the boy did not shift his gaze from him. “Perhaps you could lie down,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Richard eyed his mother, as if seeking permission. “Dr. Silkstone will make you feel better, my darling,” she assured the boy.

Taking his hand, Thomas guided the child over to the bed and took off his topcoat. He then bade the boy lie down and from out of his bag he produced his listening tube. Laying it flat against the child’s chest, he listened to the rhythm of the lungs as they bellowed in and out. They were struggling, he could tell, as they wheezed and blustered within the tiny cavity. Resting the palm of his hand flat on the child’s forehead, he detected a fever. His skin was as hot as burning coals and his eyes were red-rimmed and sore.

“Does your head ache?” he asked. The child nodded. “And do you feel nausea?” The boy looked at him blankly. “A sickness just here?” Thomas pointed to his stomach. Again he nodded. “Thank you.” Thomas smiled. He did not wish to make his young patient feel any more anxious than he already was. “You may rejoin your mamma.”

He watched the child lift himself from the mattress and walk toward Lydia once more, only this time, there was a slowness in his step, as if his previous exertions had tired him out. He started to zigzag across the room, before dropping to the floor.

Lydia rushed forward. Thomas, too, hurried over to where the child lay. Supporting his head in his hands, he looked at his face. His eyes were still open, but it was clear he had difficulty focusing.

“I am afraid he has the classic symptoms of the fog sickness,” said Thomas. “We need to get him to bed straightaway.”

Sir Montagu loomed over them. “Very well. You may take him back to Boughton,” he conceded. “I shall give him into your custody,” he told Lydia. “But remember your pledge.”

Lydia looked up at him as he glowered at her, cradling her son in her arms. “You can be sure that I would do nothing to risk losing Richard again,” she told him. Thomas knew her words to be true.