The Devil's Breath (6 page)

“Y
es?” greeted the woman warily, a rosy-cheeked child whimpering on her hip. Her full breasts jumped from the top of her bodice as she bounced it up and down to quiet it.

“Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas, removing his hat and bowing politely.

“Yes,” she repeated. Only this time more confidently.

“Good day to you. I am Dr. Silkstone and this is Lady Lydia Farrell,” he said, gesturing to Lydia, who stood apprehensively at his side.

At the name Farrell, the woman’s piggy eyes widened and her snout twitched.

“Farrell, you say?”

Lydia stepped forward anxiously. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mistress Pargiter?”

The dame looked uneasy. Her small eyes darted to the floor and back and she jounced the baby on her hip, even though the child was no longer fretting.

“Mistress Pargiter?” pressed Thomas.

“Yes. Yes, that name does mean something,” she replied.

Lydia saw the look of embarrassment on her face and decided to compound it. “Captain Michael Farrell was my husband.” Her voice was reedy with emotion. “And that was my son you consigned to the workhouse.”

The woman pursed her lips, as if biting her tongue. Then, looking up and down the street, to see if anyone was watching, she said, “You’d best come in.”

She showed Lydia and Thomas into a small, shabbily furnished parlor. A young girl was polishing a card table. Down the hallway another baby cried.

“Take him,” the widow instructed, handing over the child on her hip. “And see to Samuel.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and left with the young boy in her arms, closing the door behind her.

“How many children do you care for, Mistress Pargiter?” asked Thomas.

“I am wet nursing two at the moment and dry nursing one, sir,” she replied, tossing her head indignantly.

“As long as their parents keep paying,” hissed Lydia.

The woman’s small eyes narrowed. “I am not a charity, Lady Lydia. I’ve managed since my husband passed, but only just.”

Thomas could see that Lydia’s well-aimed anger was self-defeating. “I am sure you do an excellent job, Mistress Pargiter,” he told her.

She paused and straightened her back, as if digesting the compliment. “I like to think so, sir,” she replied, patting the back of her lace cap.

“And you do remember the child, Master Richard?”

The widow looked directly at Lydia, studying her face for a moment. “Yes,” she replied. “The image of you, he was.”

Lydia’s lips trembled and Thomas put his hand on hers to comfort her.

“Her ladyship has not seen her son since he was but a few days old,” he explained.

The widow nodded. “He was my nurse-child for more than a year, and then I dry nursed him after that.” She gazed into the distance, as if picturing the boy in her mind’s eye. “A sickly child, mind. And his arm . . .”

“Withered?” interrupted Thomas.

“Yes,” she replied, tetchily. “But it were nothing to do with me. That’s how he came.”

Thomas was familiar with the reputation of wet nurses. Babes that died in their care were more often than not buried without any questions being asked. He realized he would have to tread carefully in his inquiries. “How long was he with you, Mistress Pargiter?”

The woman raised a stubby finger to her cheek in thought. “I’d say three years, all told.”

Lydia put her hand up to her mouth to stifle a groan. For all that time her son was living only a day’s journey away and the thought of it cut her to the quick.

“And you received regular payments from Captain Farrell?” quizzed Thomas.

“First day of the month, regular as clockwork, a messenger would come with the money. Then on the first day in April that year, no one came. So I waited till the first day of May and when still no payment appeared, I . . .” She glanced at Lydia, who was looking at her reproachfully. The widow took a deep breath. “I wrote to the captain, telling him I had received no money and that if I had not been paid by the end of the month, the child would be sent to the workhouse.”

At these last words, Lydia sprang up, her fists clenched in anger.

“How could you?” she cried, her face crumpled in disbelief.

Thomas tried to calm her. “Please, let Widow Pargiter speak,” he entreated her. She sat down again.

“Pray continue,” he urged the woman, her back now stiffened in indignation.

“When no word came in the next two weeks, I assumed that no one would be paying for the child. I could not afford to keep him anymore, and so . . .” She broke off, eyeing Lydia, knowing that no more needed to be said.

“And it did not occur to you that the captain might have been ill or indisposed?” scowled Lydia.

A strange smirk suddenly settled on the widow’s face. “Indisposed?” she repeated. “Is that a fancy word for being charged with your brother-in-law’s murder and thrown in jail?”

Lydia’s eyes widened in horror and, without warning, she leapt from her chair. Thomas held her gently by the shoulders. “Please, calm yourself,” he soothed, as he guided her back to her seat once more.

“Bad news travels, you see,” goaded the widow, her piggy eyes fixed upon Lydia. “That’s how I knew I’d not be paid what I was due.”

“So you sent the child to the workhouse?” Thomas’s tone remained even, despite the fact that his voice dripped with contempt. He had come across many such nurses during his years of medical practice and he knew most of them to be honest and trustworthy, but they rarely allowed themselves the luxury of forming a bond with their young charges.

“Yes, I did send him to the workhouse,” nodded the woman. There was a certain smugness in her tone.

“In Hungerford?” asked the young doctor.

The widow nodded. “In Charnham Street.”

Thomas smiled at Lydia. “That is just around the corner, is it not?”

“It is,” confirmed the widow. “But I’m not sure he’ll be there now.”

Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”

Widow Pargiter’s nose twitched again. “You ain’t the only ones who’ve been asking after the boy.”

Thomas darted a glance at Lydia. “How so?”

The widow let out a strangled laugh. “A gentleman was here last week. Asking me the same questions, he was. Wanted to know where the Farrell boy was.”

The color suddenly drained from Lydia’s cheeks.

“And you told him?” asked Thomas.

“ ’Course I did,” she smirked. “He gave me a crown for my pains.”

Lydia rose quickly to her feet. “Well, you’ll get nothing from us,” she cried angrily. “We will show ourselves out.” And with that, she stormed toward the door.

“Thank you for your help, Mistress Pargiter,” said Thomas, also rising. Lydia was already in the hallway when he turned to the widow and said: “This gentleman, did he give his name?”

The dame shook her head. “No name,” she said, then reflecting again she added: “but he looked like a clerk or a man of law.”

Thomas digested the information. “Thank you, Mistress Pargiter. You have been most helpful.” He slipped another crown into her palm.

Halfway down the street he caught up with Lydia. He had never seen her so enraged. She was still seething when he took her by the arm and turned her to face him. Her cheeks were wet with angry tears.

“How could that woman treat my son as if he were just a trinket, a thing to be disposed of when he became an inconvenience?” she cried, before burying her face in Thomas’s shoulder.

A passerby turned his head and raised an eyebrow at the scene.

“Let us return to the inn,” suggested Thomas. But Lydia balked at the idea.

“The only place I am going is to the workhouse. My son could be only a few yards from here, Thomas. How could you make me wait a moment longer?” The wrath of a scorned mother had returned to her voice once more.

“But you must be prepared for disappointment, my love,” Thomas reminded her. “This man, this stranger . . .”

Lydia broke in. “There is only one way to find out,” she said and, freeing herself from his arms, she began marching in the direction of the workhouse.

Five minutes later they both found themselves outside the tall, faceless building in Charnham Street. Thomas looked at Lydia as if asking her permission to proceed before grasping the heavy knocker. She nodded her assent and the die was cast. A few seconds elapsed before the door finally creaked open and the same nervous woman who had answered to the notary a few days before scurried into view.

“Good day, ma’am,” greeted Thomas. “My name is Dr. Thomas Silkstone and this is Lady Lydia Farrell. We are . . .”

At the mention of Lydia’s name, the woman suddenly gasped. “Oh my word,” she squeaked. She clamped her sinewy hand over her mouth, then released it again. “Farrell, you say!”

“Yes, ma’am. Is something wrong?” entreated Thomas.

“You’d best come in,” she said, her high voice lowering conspiratorially. “Come in, please.”

The woman, her gray hair framing her face like coils of wire, hurried into the hallway, beckoning Thomas and Lydia to follow. She stopped outside a door halfway along the dark corridor and knocked. From inside a voice boomed. She entered and shut the door behind her.

“What can this mean?” Lydia frowned, nervously fingering her fan.

Thomas did not reply, but he knew full well that either Master Richard was indeed at the workhouse or that the mysterious man had reached him before they had. He could hear shouted commands in the distance and a child calling out. There was the clanking of metal on metal and the scraping of chairs being dragged along stone flags.

From behind the closed door, they could hear a man’s voice. It was raised in frustration or annoyance rather than anger. A few seconds later the door was flung open by the man Thomas assumed was the workhouse master.

“Lady Lydia Farrell, I believe?” He addressed her with a curious regard in his eye, as if he recognized her from somewhere.

“Yes,” she replied. Any previous strength in her voice seemed to have deserted her at the sight of the thickset man with his wide neck and large head.

“Come in, pray,” he beckoned.

Thomas and Lydia followed him into the room that, with only one small window, was dingy yet pleasingly cool. The flighty woman remained outside.

Lydia sat on a chair in front of a large desk. Thomas sat behind her. Both of them regarded the master like children about to be chastised. A great book lay open on the desk, its leaves edged in red.

“So, Lady Lydia,” began the master brusquely, his wig perched precariously on top of his head. “You are looking for your son.”

“Yes, sir, I am,” replied Lydia breathlessly. “Mistress Pargiter, the nurse, said that she sent him here.” Her hands were shaking with anticipation. “Just over three years ago,” she added.

The master nodded and hooked his spectacles over his ears. Consulting the great book, he pointed to an entry. “Yes, on June 10, 1781,” he replied.

Lydia leant forward. “Then he is here!” she exclaimed. In her excitement she reached for Thomas’s hand, but the master looked grave and shook his head.

“I am afraid not, your ladyship,” he said, removing his spectacles.

Lydia’s mouth trembled. “What? Then where is he? Please . . .”

The master lifted his great shovel of a hand up in the air and Lydia bit her lip.

“He was here, your ladyship, but he left almost two years ago.”

“Then where did he go?” A note of panic entered her voice and Thomas squeezed her hand.

Again the master consulted the ledger. “A gentleman by the name of Mr. Francis Crick took him.”

Lydia looked askance. “Francis,” she repeated incredulously. It was a few weeks short of two years ago that her cousin had been hanged.

“He said he was his uncle.” The master peered at Lydia over his spectacles. “He bore a remarkable resemblance to you, your ladyship,” he observed.

“Indeed,” snapped Thomas, annoyed by the master’s tone of familiarity. “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

The master peered at the ledger. “Boughton Hall.”

Lydia’s slight shoulders slumped in disbelief.

“But he is not at Boughton. So where is he?” she wailed. “Where is my son?” The revelation was too much for her and she began to sob, reaching for her handkerchief from her bag. Thomas put a comforting arm around her.

“Thank you for your time, sir. But, as you can see, her ladyship is deeply upset. We must go.”

The young doctor felt nausea rising in his own gullet. This was a terrible outcome to their visit. It rendered their whole journey futile and, worse still, it meant they would have to begin all over again in their search for Lydia’s lost son. For the time being, however, the most urgent need was to return to the Black Bear as soon as possible. Helping Lydia up, he guided her to the door, but just before the master showed him out, he recalled the stranger who, according to Mistress Pargiter, was on a similar mission.

“Sir, one more thing,” said Thomas, pausing at the door. “Has someone else, a clerk perhaps, made inquiries regarding her ladyship’s son, too?”

The master raised an eyebrow. For a moment he was caught off guard, but then he let out a hollow laugh.

“Why no, sir. Whatever gave you that notion?”

Thomas flashed a look at Lydia. He hoped she would not protest. Thankfully she did not. The young doctor shrugged: “Oh, ’tis of no consequence,” he said, and he ushered Lydia into the corridor, where the nervous old woman was waiting.

“Show this lady and gentleman out, will you?” the master instructed her. Nodding her gray head she gestured to the door, but as soon as she was sure no one else was watching, she beckoned to them both and moved closer.

The woman’s breath smelled of bile and her hands were shaking, but there was a curious smile on her lips.