‘Fanny, I—’
‘Tut! ’Tis all done, Jack. In the past. And yet,’ a little smile came, ‘perhaps you can look at this as my revenge upon you.’
‘How so?’ He paused, looked back, just as the orchestra struck up and the audience scrambled for their seats.
‘Remember what I told you of Bath. Of what lies beneath. For I have met the fair Lady of Clare. Only for a moment, but I could see that she too has her secret. And it is something dark.’
On that word she was gone. Jack forced his way onto the bench. He looked into the box. Her face was in profile, for she had turned to talk to the older woman – her aunt, no doubt – who had accompanied her progress through the theatre.
A dark secret, Jack thought as the actors returned to the stage. How much would I give to find it out?
– NINE –
Footpads
After the play had ended it was hard to note anyone in the frenzy of Orchard Street. The majority of the audience showed no desire to be swiftly away on this warm, still bright June evening. Indeed, Fanny’s words on the nature of Bath as its own theatre were proven as its occupants strutted and fretted before the playhouse doors. All conversations were carried on in tones designed to carry to the Upper Town, and all had to shout to be heard above the braying of French horns. Bath seemed full of them, both day or night, and they were usually sported by Negro musicians whose skills varied enormously. Chairs stood everywhere, their chairmen either in fine livery, awaiting their masters, or in drabber clothes, seeking fares. When one was filled, the men, clutching the poles, would bellow for their way to be cleared, words generally having slight effect unless accompanied by a pole end up the arse. Jack gained a slight elevation on a doorstep opposite the theatre entrance to wait for Red Hugh – and his cousin – to appear.
The door behind him creaked open. He was about to vacate his vantage point when there was a hiss. ‘Don’t move, Jack. And don’t turn around.’
He obeyed, froze. ‘Hugh?’ he whispered.
‘Aye.’
‘What do you—’
‘Shh!’ The caution was harsh and brought a pause. ‘Do you see two men? Large brutes, looking for something? Someone?’
Jack had again met the two he’d encountered on the stairs when he’d left the theatre, once more slowing progress with their bulk. ‘Yes, they’re inside. Who are they?’
A sigh came. ‘Creditors; or their lackeys anyway. That business deal I was telling you of in Bristol? To effect it I had to raise certain sums and gave a guarantor who was ficticious. I did not think they would find out but it appears to the contrary. These men have been sent to take back what I no longer possess.’
‘Oh, Hugh!’
‘Yes, lad, it is unfortunate; especially as it seems we will not be sharing that fine house after all. I’ll have to find meaner lodgings and lie low.’
Jack felt something prod him in the spine. He reached back and grasped a large key. ‘It’s number twenty-two, the Circus. A servant comes with the place. He’ll see to your needs. And I’ll be by, if my dealings allow.’
Jack’s attention was suddenly drawn by a bulge of men forcing their way out of the theatre’s main doors, revealing the sight he most wanted to see – Laetitia Fitzpatrick. She did not walk with eyes demurely downcast now but boldly and face up, with a smile to mock the compliments undoubtedly being poured upon her. As she had been a tide driving men into the playhouse, here she was pushing them out. She was aided by her guardian Mrs O’Farrell, a lady of some girth, who used that to keep the young men moving, flapping at them with her fan as if they were bothersome insects.
He had the advantage of sight over the man behind the door. Casually, he asked, ‘But what of your cousin, Hugh?’
The reply was cool. ‘What’s my cousin to you, may I ask?’
‘Weren’t you going to chaperone her about the town?’
‘I was.’
‘Well, given your present inconvenience, I thought that perhaps I could oblige tonight?’
A silence, followed by a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose I have little choice. But if you plan on wooing her, Absolute, I’ll remind you to consider this honour you were so lately dwelling upon.’
‘Of course.’
‘She’s not some tavern slattern or actress. And be advised—’
‘Shh! Those men are back.’
Indeed, the two brutes – obviously bailiffs now the Irishman had announced their role – had emerged from the theatre again, scanned the crowd then strode off up the street. They brushed past Laetitia and her guardian, who were just entering into a chair, unusual in that it was for two persons, and secured by one of her many hovering suitors.
‘They’ve gone.’
‘But I’ll remain here, just to be sure. You go.’
Still looking where his hidden friend could not – the hinged flap in the roof was being raised to accommodate the older woman’s enormously tall hair – Jack said, ‘I’ll await your relations and see them home. Good luck, Hugh.’
‘And you, lad. I’ll be about.’
The two chairmen, nearly as large as the bailiffs, bent to their poles, lifted and began to clear the way with curses and indelicate prods. Preceded by a link boy, whose torch was barely required – it was, Jack noted by a clock on the face of the building, past nine o’clock – and pursued by a pack of at least five admirers, the party finally gained the main thoroughfare, turning left before the West Parade.
He followed, his mind churning. The sudden departure forced on Red Hugh was disappointing; Jack had looked forward to a carouse about the town in his fine company. And yet the fellow had been reluctant even to introduce Jack to his divine cousin. All that talk of eligibility. Well, he may be a ‘mere baronet’s’ son, but fellows like himself made elevated marriages all the time. His own commander in the 16th, John Burgoyne, had eloped with the daughter of the Earl of Derby, and he’d eventually been forgiven and embraced, winning woman and fortune, too.
He smiled. He’d miss Red Hugh’s company, of course. But the sudden appearance of these creditors did give Jack a certain freedom now. He must make sure to take advantage of it.
To start with, the slow pace of the chair suited Jack and he only had to use his stick a few times to carve a way through loiterers. The chairmen threaded through the crowds emerging from Simpson’s Assembly Rooms and the Orange Grove before it took to the narrow lanes of the Abbey Churchyard. Beyond them, however, Cheap Street widened into Westgate Street, the crowds diminished and the chairmen eased into their natural gait, the same in Bath as in London – a trot. If this proved taxing for Jack, it quickly dissuaded the last two pursuing bucks. With a few final compliments, verses shouted, fingers kissed, they turned back to the town.
‘They say she could pay off half the National Debt,’ one said, as they passed Jack.
‘Hang the money. I’ll just take those devilish eyes,’ his companion replied.
‘Share her, then? Like we did that trollop in Gloucester?’
‘Why not?’
‘Agreed. But this time I have her first!’
With hooting laughs and fists raised to be pushed together, the two veered to the doors of a tavern. Jack swallowed down an instant anger, smiling as he realized – he hadn’t even met the girl and already he was jealous! – then turned back to the road. The chair was by now fifty paces ahead. He could not force himself into her company now, he decided, it would not be seemly. No, he would wait till the morrow, be up to watch her door and follow her to the Pump Rooms where she would undoubtedly take the waters. Then he would contrive a meeting.
Though he was following a little more slowly now, the link boy’s torch was still a beacon in the twilight. Thus he was a little surprised not to see it vanish round the corner into Union Street. Surely the most direct route to the Circus, he thought. Although he did not know Bath, he had spent most of the journey from Bristol – when the surface of the highway allowed it – studying a guidebook with map that Red Hugh had pro
vided. Ever since that winter spent hunting with Até in the wilderness of Quebec and the subsequent final campaign against the French, he had enjoyed calculating the most direct routes. Their lives had often depended on such knowledge.
He reached into his coat pocket for the guide. The map was small but the summer sun still gave just enough light and confirmed what he suspected: the women were being taken out of their way.
Perhaps this slight diversion was to avoid a blocked road or follow a better lit one, he reasoned. He was not too concerned, therefore, when thin Parsonage Lane was not taken, nor Bridewell Lane. Though when the torch failed to disappear round the Upper Westgate Buildings but proceeded instead through the West Gate itself and out beyond the ruined Roman walls of Old Bath, Jack dropped the book back into his pocket and increased his pace. This was more than a diversion, a longer route to demand more coin. Something was up.
As the larger townhouses gave way to impoverished cottages and patches of scrub land, Jack slipped into another way of being, that of the Mohawk warrior he’d become after the year spent with Até. Moving in shadows, nothing sounded beneath his feet.
The last of the shacks were passed and meadows began. Jack remembered from the map that this area was called Kingsmead. He could scent the Avon, while the air sounded with waterfowl. A duck plunged toward the distant river. Three geese rose from reeds, honking their way toward the sunset.
He wondered why these were the only sounds, save for the slap of the chairmen’s shoes upon the earth, their occasional grunt; why no cry or question had come from behind the leather blinds. Then one did, just as the chairmen stepped away from the last recognizable piece of roadway into the trees.
‘You there! Why have we not yet arrived?’
A blind rose. A gasp came. The same voice – the older woman’s – spoke again.
‘By heaven! Where are we? You! Stop this instant!’
The men did the reverse, breaking into a run that carried the chair deeper into the meadows. The path dropped into a dell that the last of the day’s sun had forsaken.
‘Set us down,’ came the cry, and this time the men obeyed. With a thump the chair was dropped; the leather straps slipped from their shoulders, the men stepped away. The link boy thrust the butt of the reed torch into the ground and it flared there, casting their malformed shadows into the canopy.
‘Get out,’ one man said. ‘Now!’
The reply was a high contrast, panicked. ‘We shan’t. What do you want? Oh, help!’
The cry is Mrs O’Farrell’s, Jack thought, as he slipped closer behind a tree. Laetitia is silent, held in terror, no doubt.
The door of the chair was wrenched open. ‘Out, you bitches. Out!’ said the second man. Irish beyond a doubt, but without the cultured tones of Red Hugh.
‘Shall I spark ’em out?’ The link boy was English and eager, reaching back to his torch.
‘No need.’ A purple-gloved hand emerged. It belonged to Laetitia Fitzpatrick. And it had a gun in it.
‘Shite!’ said the English footpad.
But the Irish one laughed, a nasty sound. ‘Sure and ’tis only a lady’s piece. Like their lapdogs and with as dangerous a bite.’
‘Possibly. Though even a lapdog’s teeth will hurt if they attach somewhere painful.’
No matter that Jack was fully engaged in getting quietly closer, the voice affected him, the soft Irish lilt containing steel in it, even within fear.
He was fifteen paces away now – still too far – and the footpads had moved, spread wide. The tiny barrel jerked between them, following now one, now the other.
‘D’ye think you can plug all three of us?’ the Englishman jeered as the muzzle wavered between them. Then he yelled, ‘Boo!’ The link boy darted forward and the Irishman stepped swiftly in, grabbing and twisting the wrist in one hand, dropping the pistol into his other hand, chucking it over his shoulder. Laetitia was wrenched out.
‘Leave her, you brute. Oh!’ The elder woman gave a wail, as the second footpad reached in and jerked her from the chair.
‘Rest easy, you old cow,’ he said. It was hard for her to do, with his hands roving over her. After a moment, he shook his head.
The Irish one nodded to the chair. ‘Must have it stashed. Search it,’ he ordered the boy, who dived in. The other two men leaned in to watch, the women before them, their arms pinned.
Now or never, thought Jack. He walked forward quickly. He’d sent his sword along with his other belongings, more was the pity; but swords, anyway, had long been banned in every part of genteel Bath. His stick, though, wasn’t one of the new fancy canes from India but was hewn from good English blackthorn, with a silver pommel and an iron ferrule at the tip.
Lifting it, he poked the English footpad lightly in the shoulder. ‘Good evening,’ he said, cheerily.
‘Shite,’ bellowed the man again, doing what Jack was hoping he would do, releasing the old lady’s arms, stepping to one side. Raising the stick swiftly, Jack lunged and struck down, using it like a cavalry sabre. It was almost as heavy, and the metal tip caught the man hard on the top of his head. He fell, blood cascading between his fingers on the instant.
Jack stepped away immediately, paralleling the Irishman who used Laetitia as a shield until he’d gained some distance. Then he threw her towards Jack. She fell on her knees with a cry. Hands now free, the man drew a huge cudgel from within his coat and ran forward with a shout. Jack moved sharply sideways, the wind of the heavy club passing uncomfortably close; fever-racked, he was not as agile as he’d been in Quebec or aboard the Sweet Eliza.
But I am still a soldier, he thought, and I’ve faced better men than you.
‘Have this!’ He lunged, using the stick like a small sword now, the tip aimed at the Irishman’s face. It forced the man to stagger back to save his eye, but even as Jack straightened up again, looked for another opening, he was aware of movement beside him.
The link boy was coming out of the chair. And he had a knife.
Shite, thought Jack, in an echo.
The blade flicked at him and he spun away from it, his left hand spread wide. When it wrapped around the stump of the torch, he jerked it from the ground and thrust forward, the flare halting the boy’s next lunge.
The older woman was making a terrible noise, incomprehensible words in a steady shriek. The younger, in Jack’s quick glance, was kneeling by her, staring up at him. The other man was still hors de combat, clutching his head and groaning. The three fighters breathed, weapons raised. ‘You’d best be off,’ Jack said, waving his stick towards the screaming woman, ‘we’re not that far out of Bath.’
Instead of retreating, the Irishman gave a bellow and ran at him. Jack couldn’t get his stick across in time. Even if he had, the cudgel would have smashed it. Instead, he jerked up the torch. It saved his head but it exploded, flaming reeds scattered everywhere.
Tossing the wreckage at the boy, who’d lunged at his exposed left side, Jack moved fast to the right, jabbing as he went. The Irishman came for him again, swung and missed, the cudgel thudding into the soft earth. Jack leapt again to strike, but his foot caught something. He fell.
With a shout, the footpad advanced, swinging. Down came the club and Jack rolled, rolled again, thrusting the stick to try to thwart each attack, aware that it was not a defence that could last long.
And then he rolled over something. As his body cleared it, even as he thrust up again, his trailing hand reached back, grabbed, lifted. And as the Irishman raised the cudgel for a finishing blow, Jack rolled to his knees and levelled Laetitia’s pistol at him.
‘Enough,’ he said, breathing heavily. Laetitia had somehow only pulled the trigger halfway back. But Jack wasn’t going to go off half-cock.
The Irishman flinched as the trigger clicked. The cudgel was still held high. The boy joined him, the dagger thrust out, his eyes twitching at the barrel. The old lady had stopped her screaming to stare, the second man had raised his bloody face. Strangely, and but for a moment,
Jack could only think of the extraordinary green of Laetitia’s eyes, now fixed firmly upon him.
‘Sure now,’ said the man at last, ‘the powder will all have been knocked from the pan.’
‘It’s quite possible,’ replied Jack from his crouch, the pistol still aimed straight into the man’s face.
‘And anyway, it’s a tiny ball.’
‘You are right. ’Twould hardly trouble a fly.’
‘And there’s still the two of us,’ bellowed the footpad, getting angrier. ‘You’ll not be getting us both.’
‘I don’t intend it,’ said Jack mockingly, adopting the accent as he rose slowly to his feet, ‘for isn’t it my plan to shoot only you?’
Silence, bar breathing and groans, held for just a moment. And then the Irishman, muttering curses, was moving toward his bleeding companion, who was already using the chair door to pull himself up, his other hand still clutched to his head. With a backward glance, a last curse, the three stumbled from the dell towards the river.
‘You forgot your chair,’ called Jack, then noticed that the pistol, hitherto quite steady, had begun to shake. Uncocking it, he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket, moved towards the women. The younger had helped the elder to rise only for her to sit again on the sill of the chair, her fan vibrating wildly before her.
‘Oh sir! Sir!’ she exclaimed as Jack approached. ‘Are they gone? Quite gone?’
‘Certain they are,’ replied Jack. ‘Your sister’s pistol has put them to flight.’
There was a pause in the fan’s vibration. ‘My … sister? Oh, do you mean Miss Fitzpatrick?’ A small smile came. ‘Indeed we have oft been mistaken for siblings.’ The fan started up again. ‘Though I am, in fact, her aunt. Mrs O’Farrell.’
‘The resemblance is startling.’ In fact, there was none at all. The word was entirely reserved for the eyes Jack had glanced into again.
‘Startling, ’tis certain.’
It was only the second time he had heard her speak; the first when she did not have a gun in her hand. And Jack was delighted to note that it was not merely the sight of the weapon that had so thrilled him. Red Hugh had said that his cousin was seventeen, but even those few words showed a voice with a maturity beyond her years. It also had a little catch, something lurking in the depths.