The Penny Heart (28 page)

Anne sat down but did not let go of my hand as she asked in a hushed tone, ‘I wondered if . . . your illness heralds happy news?’

‘No. Not at all.’ She looked sorry at that, and squeezed my hand.

‘You will not wait long, I am sure of it.’

To change the conversation’s direction I asked with some trepidation, ‘So what is this bad news you wrote of, Anne, which may affect our friendship?’

She gathered herself with some effort. ‘First we must talk of your father. Has Michael told you yet?’

I shook my head, at a loss.

‘He must want me to tell you. Grace, prepare yourself to be strong. Your father passed to God two weeks ago. I am afraid he died after an altercation in the street. For some time he, well – you know how he became excited, at times, about his beliefs?’

I nodded, suddenly drained and horribly surprised. Anne handed me her handkerchief and I wept in silence. My poor father, an old warrior in a world of imaginary foes, had truly been his own worst enemy. ‘He had been drinking?’ I asked weakly. ‘Don’t say he was ranting about politics?’

‘I am afraid so. A group of foolish youths baited him – since the King of France was overthrown, feelings run high in Greaves against the radical cause. Even the Brabantist Meeting Hall has been attacked. In your father’s case, the coroner said there was no actual wound, but we all believe his heart was strained. He collapsed in Palatine House. Shortly afterwards he died in the small hours, with Mrs Cooper, the nurse, tending to him. Of course I wrote to you at once, but Michael advised you were not to be told just yet, being laid up by an accident yourself. I am very sorry, Grace, but he was buried at St Stephen’s a week ago.’

I bowed my head, lamenting all the good things about my father: his talent, his raw faith, his hopes for the rights of the common people. ‘I am glad he felt no pain,’ I said.

Anne and Jacob had arranged his few affairs under Michael’s direction. Palatine House was now the property of my father-in-law and there was little else to do. She had packed up all his prints for me, for which I was most grateful. Then she tactfully left me, and I mourned my father alone, in my own way; resurrecting happier days when I had visited his print shop as a child, and the high days and holidays we had shared with my mother.

That evening I could not face dinner with Michael and Anne. Michael came up to see me, but our conversation was not friendly. I was aggrieved at his not telling me about my father and told him so. As for the ransacking of the lieutenant’s room, he was irritatingly stoical. ‘All I can do is see that the place is padlocked up for good. That way, if anyone did climb in from the outside, they cannot gain access to the house. As for Moncrieff’s belongings, I truly don’t give a damn.’

After he had left, I continued to torment myself about whether to tell Anne the true reason why I could not be with child, the dalliance I had witnessed, and Michael’s brazen requests for money. I heard Michael’s voice from below, and cringed to think of him conversing with Anne. He had never been respectful towards her, for he held all religion entirely in contempt, and such a modest woman as Anne had no place in his world. When Peg brought me some plain soup for supper, she also insisted I took another dose of Dr Sampson’s draught, so I might at least face the next day with more fortitude. Of the rest of that night I had only a foggy memory; of Anne wishing me goodnight, stroking my hair and saying a few prayerful words over me. After that my sleep was blessed and calm.

Michael again left the house early, so it was with welcome ease that Anne and I retreated to the drawing room after breakfast. There was a good fire, and I huddled close to it, my new cashmere shawl draped around my chemisette, my sketchbook on my knee. It was then I learned Anne’s other news. Jacob had been appointed to a position as assistant chaplain. ‘It is a good position,’ she said. ‘But I am sorry to say we are going overseas. To New South Wales.’

‘Not to the convict colony at Botany Bay?’ It was beyond my imagining. All I knew of the place was the bold experiment to set up a colony for criminals, transporting them as great a distance as possible from the civilised world.

‘I am afraid so. We leave in one month, for that very place. I have so little time to prepare for the voyage. Grace, I wonder if I’m fit for such a great trial.’

She uttered this with such an attempt at courage that my heart flew out to her.

‘You are, I know it.’

She laid her hand gently on her stomach. ‘And I do have happier news. I have the good fortune to be blessed with a child, though God forgive me, the timing is not so good. And I have missed my dear friend and our confidences.’

‘Oh, Anne.’

‘I would have wished you might be godmother to my child. But now I face the prospect of being delivered somewhere far out on the wild ocean.’

I was appalled. ‘Can you not change Jacob’s mind?’

‘He is quite ferocious in his zeal. You know how he speaks, secretly, in our own parlour? He believes Europe is doomed. He finds these modern times disappointing: the evil news from France; the unleashing of such wickedness, these accounts of people being butchered in the streets. It should not matter if they are lords or beggars – they are men and women, Grace. And all hopes for reform are now set back here in Britain, for the government will not hear of progress. Jacob has always prayed for a better life for the poor and wretched. He speaks of the colony as a new Eden, a chance to establish God’s kingdom on untainted soil.’

‘But are these not the most dangerous of criminals? Jacob is condemning you and your child to live amongst them.’

‘Jacob says it is a new land, free of class and distinction. It will serve them well.’

Jacob be hanged, I thought. ‘Yes – but what is your opinion?’

‘I willingly made my vows to obey him,’ she said, with a tight little shake of her head. ‘I am learning the price of that now.’

We talked on a little, of Greaves, of my plans for the Hall, of my father and his glory days. Soon, though, Anne returned to her departure from England. I understood she was frightened, and felt herself entirely ill-prepared for such a tumultuous change.

As we talked, I made a portrait of her in pencil, as she sat very upright by the fireside in a drab wolsey gown, stitching an infant’s robe with an ever-dipping needle. I surmised that her pride in her needle no doubt hid the sorrier truth that a seamstress’s services were beyond her means. A new furrow of worry had formed between her eyes; and at intervals she adjusted a pair of ugly metal-rimmed spectacles to check the progress of her stitches.

She looked up and smiled. ‘It would please me greatly if you could make a copy of your picture of me. A memento of my last days in England.’

‘You should see it first,’ I said, with a smile. ‘I am not convinced I have caught your expression.’

‘You mean I do not look so well, I suppose. That must be true, Grace, for I am under a dreadful strain. As for you, I should say illness suits you, if that does not sound perverse. You are paler, more delicate in some way.’ She studied me for a moment with her steady bright eyes. ‘In fact, I should say you look beautiful.’

I laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Peg has taught me to curl my hair, that is all. And I am pale from being in bed too long.’

‘Peg? Is she that rather uppish servant of yours?’

‘Yes, Peg is my housekeeper.’

Anne worked on for a few minutes, then said, ‘Michael is a very agreeable man.’

I put down my pencil. ‘You think so? You do not know him.’

‘I believe he is.’ Her needle halted. ‘If there have been misunderstandings between you it scarcely surprises me, considering how little you were acquainted when you married. I will not say I told you so – but I have just done so, haven’t I?’

I could not meet her eye, and stared into my lap, at the half-finished sketch.

‘Maybe he has created such an impression to fool you.’

‘You are low from your illness. At such times everything can seem darker than its true colour. I suppose you seek proof of his regard?’

‘That would be welcome.’

‘I have more news,’ Anne went on. ‘This next fortnight Jacob will be engaged with the clerical society at Bradford. There is so much for him to learn: medicine, mathematics, surveying and suchlike. So he has agreed I might go to York tomorrow, to equip myself for the voyage. Now dear, before you look so cast down, I have a notion.’ Her face lit bright with anticipation. ‘Come with me, Grace. I have spoken to Michael and he agrees it will revive your spirits to be amongst crowds and life and bustle. What do you say?’

‘Michael has agreed?’ I was astonished.

‘Yes, naturally he has. I understand you are still weak, but listen – it is all arranged. We will take your carriage and lodge in comfortable rooms. You can rest as often as you need to. I know you have always wanted to see the great Minster and the ancient city. What do you say? Please, Grace. It will make our parting so much easier if we share my last precious weeks.’

I frowned, trying to comprehend my husband’s mazy thinking. A faint echo started up in my mind: that he wanted me out of his way.

‘What do you say? You cannot imagine how much I need you beside me.’

I could not refuse. Indeed, a journey to York sounded better suited to restore me than a hundred doctors’ potions.

That evening, as I supervised the packing of my trunk, I at once detected Peg’s opposition to my leaving. From the first, Anne’s arrival had disrupted her, but now her departure with me disgruntled her even more. I found it rather comical, that Peg should be jealous of my friend – for that was how I interpreted her mood.

‘How long will you be away, mistress?’ she asked in a near wail of anguish, as I watched her pack my new costumes in silk bags.

‘Not so very long. Mrs Greenbeck is leaving the country, so it would be churlish to deny her my company. Yes, the purple silk too. I may even get the chance to wear it in York.’

‘Where is it she’s travelling off to?’ Peg stroked my new gown as if she might never see it again.

‘Don’t forget the jet beads with that.’ I hesitated, wondering why I should give an account of Anne’s troubles to a servant. That word Anne had used to describe Peg – ‘uppish’ – had worked its way into my mind like an irritating splinter. ‘She is not yet sure where her husband will be posted,’ I yawned. ‘Come up here and finish packing after dinner. Leave me now.’

We had a last, grand dinner with Anne, at which I watched with astonishment as my husband behaved tolerably well. Peg’s dishes were remarkably good: an old-fashioned pulpatoon of pigeon, roast pork in breadcrumbs, and duck with peas. Anne had never before tasted such a genteel dish as Peg’s dessert in the shape of a hedgehog, with slivers of almonds bristling over it like spines. Michael watched us devour it in its pool of custard, and announced that just twenty-four hours in Anne’s company was certainly restoring me. When Anne and I rose for the drawing room he also stood, approached me, and chastely kissed my lips. I could see Anne smiling benignly behind his shoulder. What a charlatan he was. Nonetheless, to my alarm, another unwanted jolt ran through my body as his lips brushed mine. Remembering his mouth murmuring against my throat, unwelcome warmth spread over my face. Michael, it seemed, always possessed the power to agitate me. I said my goodnights and followed Anne upstairs, but after checking from the landing that Peg was busy in my chamber, I crept quietly back down to the kitchen.

What did he hope to do while I was so conveniently absent? The answer, that haunted me, was that he would be free to meet his lover. Peg had assured me she knew nothing of her predecessor, but Nan, on the other hand, had met the woman – and might know if she still tarried in Earlby.

I found the poor creature asleep, curled up and shrunken in a corner of the scullery. I was dismayed to find a change in her since our arrival; her arms were twig-thin and scored with marks on the papery skin. I touched her shoulder and she started up, wild-eyed. ‘I were only resting me legs,’ she whimpered. ‘While I kept an eye on’t beef.’ She pointed at a great pot of savoury meat.

‘Sit down again, Nan. At your age it is natural to be weary.’ She sat, with a touching wince as her old bones pained her. I joined her, noticing how chilly it was in her underground quarters.

‘I wonder, Nan, have you any news of Mrs Harper, the former housekeeper? I have heard she may be about the town?’

‘Mrs Harper? Never heard nowt since she scarpered, mistress. Gone away she ’as, like I told you and the master.’