The Penny Heart (31 page)

It was easy to make such a resolution when, as yet, I faced no actual difficulties. Each morning, Anne and I returned from our various errands to take breakfast at our lodgings. Awaiting us stood a steaming pot of chocolate and a plate of Mrs Palmer’s toast and excellent buns. Anne and I both heartily agreed that if time might halt we should have liked every day to be that same day, the gilt clock chiming ten o’clock, warming our stockinged feet on the fire fender, splitting a plate of Fat Rascals with butter and preserves, with all the delightful day stretching before us.

The days flew by, with walks by the river, a turn around the castle, much shopping, a play, and a dozen more delights. When we were almost due to part, I gave Anne a ring I had commissioned, containing a braided strand of my own brown hair, and showed her its twin that I wore, containing hers. She admired them as if they were priceless gems, then took both my hands and clasped them warmly.

‘A token of our meeting again, soon,’ I said. ‘You, me, and your baby.’

Her face shone with hope. ‘I will send you a lock of the baby’s hair as soon as I can. And I will treasure this ring for ever.’ She pulled it off and inspected the letters of my name on the inside. It was at that moment, as she praised the engraver’s art, that a sudden opportunity struck me. I instantly searched out my sketchbook, and finding the page, asked Anne to join me at the table.

‘Did you ever see such an object?’ I asked. ‘It looks like an old penny, defaced with crude engraving. Is it not a crime to deface the king’s image?’ Drawn in heavy black pencil, was the exact replica of the coin I had found in Michael’s box; the product of a dreary afternoon’s sketching at the Hall.

‘Transported,’ Anne read gravely, putting on her spectacles, ‘to the ends of the earth.’

‘Do you think that means New South Wales?’

‘Yes, I do. But wherever did you find such a curiosity?’

Having ventured so far I decided to be frank. ‘It is Michael’s. He keeps it in his writing box.’

‘Michael’s?’ She pulled an astonished face. ‘What on earth would he want with such a base object? What does he say of it?’

‘Nothing. I haven’t asked him. But I did wonder if you might find out what you can about it. And who this Mary Jebb is, too.’

She looked at me sternly. ‘Is it wise, Grace, to make enquiries behind Michael’s back? I am sure there is an innocent reason. Ask him. Perhaps she was a former tenant who got into trouble?’

‘Perhaps. Only, will you make enquiries, Anne? For my sake. Take this drawing with you – and find out who she is?’

She folded up the paper and put it in her sewing bag. ‘I can try. If only to put your mind at ease, Grace.’ And so we left the matter.

On the day of Anne’s departure she was in excellent spirits, telling me that our visit had in every way exceeded her notion of happy living. I was busily parcelling up a few of her effects when the maid announced that a gentleman waited downstairs to be shown up. I knew it could not be Peter, for he was chattering with Anne in her chamber, teasing her about the correct way to address her trunk. Glad to be alone in the parlour, I straightened my gown and glanced in the mirror. All week I had not seen or heard of John Francis. To Anne I had made light of the whole affair. ‘He only wished to acquaint me with his progress in life,’ I told her. ‘And I am glad he has prospered, and glad too, that he will marry.’ She studied my face, but said nothing, which pleased me, for my eyes had pricked at the mention of his name. But now, at last, he had called on me. I sat very stiffly on the chair by the window.

‘Goodness, it is you, Mr Greenbeck.’ I must have looked peeved, as Anne’s husband filled the doorframe.

Jacob Greenbeck returned my greeting with even greater coldness. Since I had last seen him he had grown a great bushy beard, and now had all the appearance of an Old Testament Prophet of the fiercest order. I called at once to Anne, but as ill luck would have it, she did not hear me; the sound of Peter’s amiable murmurings and her light-hearted laughter continued from behind the door. As Jacob and I exchanged pleasantries, he glowered uncomfortably, until I was forced to fetch Anne myself.

‘Come along, Anne,’ he said with irritation. ‘You have imposed on these people long enough. The ship will wait for no one, and there is God’s work to be done.’

Just then, Peter emerged from the chamber, wearing his usual mischievous expression. Though I glared at him in warning, he could not resist a jibe. ‘I am sure God will forgive one extra minute, to ensure your wife’s box is not sent to Old South Wales – she truly remains confused about her destination.’

A heavy silence stretched, and then snapped, as Jacob thundered, ‘I do not know you, sir, but I must tell you I do not permit levity concerning our Lord in my presence. Come along, Anne.’

Seeing Anne’s distress, I tried to placate him. ‘Jacob, Mr Croxon is only securing Anne’s box. Will you not take a cup of tea?’ He did not echo my smile; only scowled at my new gilded porcelain, and the bandboxes and parcels scattered all about the room. His eye fell on my newly purchased books:
The Romance of the Forest
, and
An Oriental Tale
were well enough, but I did not know which was the worst between Mr Beckford’s infamous
Vathek
or Mrs Wollstonecraft’s
Rights of Women
. I guessed that, to Jacob, my parlour must seem a tableau utterly depraved. Ignoring my repeated offer of tea, Jacob strode off to retrieve the box, and, awkwardly lifting it himself, quickly departed, followed by a mournful-looking Anne.

Once they had gone, Peter said, ‘Damn it, Grace; if he cannot tolerate us, how will he deal with the felons?’

I sighed and filled his teacup. ‘We must hope the experience will be the making of him.’

‘Anne is such a pleasant woman. To think of her having to trail after that zealot to the ends of the earth – it is too bad.’

It must have been that term Peter used – ‘the ends of the earth’ – that prompted my attempt at guile. ‘You know a good deal of Botany Bay. Did you ever hear of anyone from Earlby or Greaves being transported there?’

‘Good God, no. It is merely from my friend in the marine regiment that I glean my intelligence.’

‘So you have never heard of a female felon – Mary Jebb?’

‘No. Never.’ I was watching him carefully, but as I spoke the woman’s name Peter rapidly rose and peered out of the window. ‘Look at that for an ominous sky.’ Had I seen a start of dismay cross his face? When he turned to me again, his usual joviality had disappeared.

‘Grace, may I speak my mind?’

‘Very well.’

‘I understand you don’t like me to speak of it – but do you truly want to struggle on in that mouldering house? I have seen this fortnight how you like company and entertainments. Let Michael stay on there, while you return to civilisation.’

‘It’s not so easy as that. I know Michael is not the perfect husband—’

He gave a bitter bark of laughter.

‘But do you not understand?’ I insisted. ‘I must make the best of it. I must support his plans. Be a good wife.’ As I spoke it occurred to me that I was echoing Peg Blissett’s words.

‘I know Michael better than you do. He doesn’t deserve you.’

‘I cannot disagree with that, Peter,’ I said drily.

He sighed, resigned. ‘I wrote to you when you were ill and was made very anxious when I had no reply.’

‘Michael dealt with all such matters for me – but it was remiss of him not to reply to you.’

‘Michael,’ he scoffed, ‘thinks only of himself.’

‘I believe he is starting to trust me. And as for the Hall, he wants to move, too. He hates it there.’

Peter leaned forward. ‘Then why not move to town? This is your chance. Seize it.’

I looked away. ‘I’ll talk to him.’ With nothing else to say, he turned back to the window. ‘Well, I must make haste to Scarborough, before the storm breaks. I intend to call on Miss Brighouse there.’

‘Miss Brighouse? I’ve heard your parents speak of her with warmth.’

He grinned. ‘Well, she’s not a bad prospect. It is only that, to be married – it would be rather tying.’

I couldn’t help but laugh at the face he pulled at the prospect. ‘So why are you leading the poor Miss Brighouse on?’

‘Oh, I shall come to my senses. I just need to apply myself, if I’m honest. She is rather fond of me, and not lacking a fortune or a pretty seat at Bleasedale. And you must know by now, I’m not especially eager to get my hands black with oil or whatever the latest vogue for making money is.’

He held out his exquisitely spotless hand, and I shook it heartily.

‘Grace, I hope when I next call, you will not turn me away.’

‘I would never do so.’

‘Ah, so it was at Michael’s instruction. Since our quarrel, he will not speak to me.’

I was not wholly surprised, for Michael often complained of his brother: mostly that his parents’ favoured Peter in spite of his being a pleasure-seeking gadabout.

‘Remember, write only a line and I am entirely at your service.’

‘I will never forget your kindness to Anne and to me. Thank you.’

And so we parted, Peter to venture out under the louring skies, and myself to order an early supper in readiness for my next day’s journey home.

I woke to a city blanketed in white. All along Coney Street the steep roofs were bonneted in snow, their chimneys smoking above golden-squared windows. Yet as a traveller, however pretty the scene, the sight exasperated me. My coachman, Tom, called with mixed news: that the road to Tadcaster was passable, but that the London mail had not yet arrived, despite its generally being so timely that the locals set their clocks by it. ‘We might get as far as the inn at Tadcaster,’ Tom advised, for he was eager to be home. ‘At least we shall be moving, Mrs Croxon.’

Mrs Palmer, however, was against my leaving; and for myself, I was in a quandary. Yet what was there to linger for? I had written only briefly to Michael: that I had enjoyed myself immensely and been to the Assembly and myriad sights, thanks in part to a chance encounter with Peter. The previous day I had received a short but surprisingly affectionate reply that concluded, ‘Do not stay away too long, dear Grace. Your affectionate husband, Michael.’

He had certainly not written like a husband lost in a lover’s arms. It was enough to goad me to action. Buttoning up my new damson wool redingote, I put on my other new purchases, a hat trimmed with sable and matching muff and tippet. I had at last found costumes that suited my character: gowns in rich sapphire blues, purples, and emeralds, tight-sleeved and high-waisted. Our neighbour the milliner had taught me a voguish way with broad-brimmed hats, worn at the tilt Van Dyke fashion, with feathers and rosettes. Alighting behind fresh horses and with skids for the wheels, we set off across the slippery cobbles and out through the city gates.

Through the carriage glass I looked out over fields of blinding white snow. At every bridge or hillock the carriage swerved and swung, but inside the coach, with my blankets and a basket of food packed by Mrs Palmer, I was well enough. I pitied Tom outside, growing as stiff as a statue in the bitter snow flurries flying in the wind. By eleven o’clock we reached Tadcaster, and took on food and liquor and advice. We agreed to head for Leeds and pass the night there, but by two o’clock I regretted setting forth. The sky was a sulphurous grey, and we faced the prospect of losing the road, for the hedges were fast disappearing beneath treacherous drifts. On we slithered for another hour, until at last the Half Moon Inn at Top Widdop appeared like a lighted beacon in the murk.

The landlady greeted us like heroes, and Tom had his health toasted liberally by the company. This humble inn was by sunset near to bursting with journeymen and market folk all stranded by the weather. I secured a tiny garret room, and was extremely glad of its privacy and stillness, for my head reeled from the journey.

Amongst the other persons holed up in the steaming parlour was the London mail driver so eagerly awaited at York; a crimson-faced barrel of a man, in a state of great agitation over the lateness of the mail. Fixing upon me as the latest arrival from York, he fretted over how he would be fined by the hour for failing in his duty. I reassured him as well as I could, and our conversation then turned to broader matters. On learning of my destination, he remarked, ‘Delafosse Hall? That large estate near Earlby? As chance would fall, I might deliver your mail direct, Mrs Croxon, and so save myself a rambling journey, if you are agreeable.’ He handed me a letter addressed to ‘Whosoever Be At Delafoss Hall, Earlby, Yorkshire’. Up in my garret I studied it by the light of a fern-frosted window.