Sir Robert Dysart, Bart.
‘When did this arrive?’ she asked sharply. Lydia was slow to answer, too busy hovering about, snatching looks at Gabriel from under her lashes, simpering nervously while inquiring about his health and welfare and generally behaving most uncharacteristically. That she had a yen for him, and was determined to set her cap at him, was no secret, and Sovay would normally have teased her about it, but at the moment, the girl’s behaviour merely irritated her.
‘I said, when did this arrive?’
‘Oh, not long since, neither of them. Just before you came in. Boy brought the note, t’other was delivered in person. ’Tis a wonder you didn’t see him. Tall, thin streak of misery, dressed all in black.’
‘That’s enough, Lydia,’ Mrs Crombie said sharply. She was annoyed with the girl for making eyes at Gabriel and it was not for the likes of her to comment on visitors. ‘If Miss Sovay doesn’t need your services, you can come and help me sort the laundry.’
Lydia’s appealing look fell on stony ground. She followed the housekeeper meekly enough, but it was one of the jobs she liked least in the house (the other one being laying the fires) and she was dying to know all about London, having hardly put her nose outside.
Gabriel left almost immediately, going to collect his things from Fitzwilliam’s house. Sovay went to the sitting room, brushing the card against her chin. She set it on the mantelpiece and stared at it. What could he want from her? Under the ripple of anticipation ran a thin current of fear. She turned away, dismissing it. He very likely knew nothing, and even if he did, what could he do?
Sovay suppressed any apprehension about a visit from Dysart, determined to put it out of her mind. Instead, she concentrated on household duties and getting rooms ready for Gabriel. Lydia immediately volunteered to take that responsibility on herself.
‘You do like him, then?’ Sovay asked, head on one side. ‘By the way you behaved when you saw him just now, I thought you might.’
‘It was just sport, Miss,’ Lydia said, as she collected sheets from the linen press. ‘I meant nothing by it.’
‘I know.’ Sovay put her hand on Lydia’s arm. ‘I didn’t mean to snap at you.’
Sovay smiled and Lydia grinned back, glad they were friends again.
‘I do,’ she said, blushing despite herself. ‘I can’t help it. He’s that handsome and well set up. I like a well-made man, but he’s different from the other boys back home.’
Sovay was curious. ‘How so?’
‘Well, he’s more refined, in his manners, and the way he speaks. Never swears in women’s hearing and he always has a book in his pocket. He don’t say so much, but he’s a deep thinker. I can’t abide a blatherer, or a bellwether. He don’t put on airs, but he behaves like a gentleman.’ Lydia laughed. ‘Far more of a gentleman than some I could mention, that’s for certain. I don’t have any chance with him.’ Her face fell into lines of resignation. ‘But,’ she set off up the stairs, ‘I can still have a go.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have a chance with him?’ Sovay asked as she brought flowers up for Gabriel’s room. ‘I’d say you stood every chance. You’re pretty and clever, warm-hearted and generous. You’d make an excellent wife and mother and companion, besides. He would be lucky to have you.’
‘No,’ Lydia shook her head. ‘He only has eyes for one person. Believe me, many have tried.’
‘Oh, and who might that be?’ Sovay asked, arranging the roses just so.
‘You, Miss,’ Lydia smiled, and their eyes met in the mirror. ‘Didn’t you know?’
CHAPTER 12
A note arrived from Sir Robert, saying that he would call at ten o’clock the following morning. Sovay intended to rise early, in order to give her time to prepare for their meeting.
She had Lydia dress her hair carefully, brushing it to bring up a fine, smooth, bird’s wing gloss, before turning the natural curl into ringlets. Sovay wanted her hair as natural as possible, caught up in a ribbon, and curling and falling down to her shoulders. She decided on a simple day dress of Indian cotton. Whatever Dysart knew, whatever he wanted, it would be wise to act the artless ingénue. Timidity was not in her nature, but she did not want any part of her manner or appearance to suggest the kind of boldness which might allow her to act the highwayman and go about the country holding up coaches and making off with other people’s property. To begin with, at least.
When Sir Robert Dysart was announced, prompt at ten, she was ready.
He was shown into the drawing room, where Sovay had arranged to have tea served.
‘Sir Robert,’ she rose to greet him. ‘I do not think we have met before.’
‘No,’ he bowed as he took her hand, ‘I believe not, Miss Middleton. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
Sovay remembered Lydia’s description. He was tall, and dressed all in black. It was difficult to tell his real age, the old-fashioned, white curled wig he wore made him look older than his years. He might once have been handsome, but his face had the greyish pallor of someone rarely out of doors. His cheeks were sunken, the skin stretched tight over his bony forehead, high cheek bones and prominent nose as though he was being consumed from within. He reminded her of someone, something. Then she had it. He looked like one of the puppets that she had seen yesterday in Covent Garden. Jack Ketch, the hangman, could have been modelled on him. His eyes were an odd colour, clouded and opaque, yellowish grey, like flint. His touch was cold, his long, thin fingers dry and hard. Coarse black hairs sprouted above his bony knuckles and carpeted the backs of his hands and his long nails were stained with ink at the cuticle. Sovay withdrew her hand from his as quickly as politeness would allow.
Dysart watched as she busied herself with kettle, caddy and teapot. She was artless in an artful way, striving to give an impression of prettiness that did not suit the strength of her features, or her dark colouring. He studied her profile as she turned to pour the tea. She was a fine-looking young woman, he would say that, with large eyes, strong curving brows and a straight, Grecian nose. Too handsome for prettiness, but only time would tell if she would grow to be a real beauty.
‘I was hoping to see your father.’ Sir Robert looked around as if surprised at not finding him here.
‘He is from home, at the moment. How do you take your tea, sir?’
‘Without milk and without sugar.’ He looked at the blue cup and saucer that she handed to him. ‘The work of Mr Wedgwood, if I’m not mistaken?’
‘Yes,’ Sovay smiled. A tea set of this pattern had been a present from Mr Wedgwood on his last visit to Compton. Her father had ordered another for the London house. ‘From his Etruria Works. My father is a great admirer of his.’
‘And a personal friend?’ Dysart sipped the hot liquid and raised a dark eyebrow. Josiah Wedgwood was known for his radical views.
‘I believe they are acquainted,’ Sovay replied.
More than acquainted, Dysart thought, although he said nothing. Thick as thieves more like, along with the traitorous Joseph Priestley and the other self-styled Lunar Men.
‘I’m sorry to miss your father. When is he expected to return?’
‘I really cannot say . . .’ Sovay let the sentence lapse into vagueness.
‘And yet, chance finds you here.’ Dysart put down his cup. ‘Why are you here, Miss Middleton?’
‘I came to meet my father. He means to introduce me into society. Papa has promised me a whole new wardrobe, but when I arrived, I found him away from home.’
She was acting the spoilt daughter of an indulgent father. Everyone knew that Middleton was besotted. Look at that ridiculous portrait he’d commissioned from that idiotic painter who had managed to uncover nothing of any interest. It was a plausible story, but it did not suit her to play empty-headed. Dysart turned his cold eyes on her. She did not flinch, but returned his stony gaze with one so void of expression that it mirrored his own.
She was good. He would concede that to her. Every inch the
clever young miss. Remarkable, given her youth, and in a woman? He had never seen it before. She had nerve. He would give that to her also, but surely she did not think that she could best him? She was just a girl. His hand shook very slightly as he replaced the cup on its saucer. He would uproot her. He would shake her to the very foundations of her being, then he would shake her some more.
‘And your brother?’ Dysart’s tone remained light, as if he were genuinely inquiring after family members. ‘How does he do at Oxford?’
‘Well, I think,’ Sovay answered. ‘He does not confide in me.’
‘Something of a poet, so I hear. He is gaining quite a reputation, even here in London.’
‘Is that so?’ Sovay shrugged. ‘Hugh is too modest to brag of his talent and we hear nothing of such things stuck away in the country.’
‘He has gone up for the Trinity term?’
Sovay paused before answering. His eyes gave nothing away, but Sovay remembered something Hugh had told her when they were children, do not lie unless absolutely necessary.
‘I believed he had done so, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘But his tutor, Mr Fitzwilliam, called on me just the other evening and said he hadn’t seen Hugh for some time.’
‘Really?’ Dysart nodded as though taking in the information. ‘I wonder where he can be?’
Sovay allowed concern to cloud her face for a moment, then smiled. ‘Perhaps Hugh is visiting. He has friends in many places.’
‘And you have heard nothing from him? I find that hard to believe.’
‘We’ve had letters, certainly. But not many of late.’
‘From Oxford?’
‘I did not study the post office marks, Sir Robert.’
‘From Paris?’
Sovay looked shocked. ‘Certainly not. I would have remembered that.’
Sir Robert’s features remained a mask. ‘Because Fitzwilliam tells me he could be there.’
‘Really!’ Sovay started forward, nearly spilling her cup and saucer. ‘He did not tell me that!’
‘Perhaps he wanted to save you the worry of knowing,’ Sir Robert answered smoothly. ‘Paris being so dangerous.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Sovay stood and began to pace the room. ‘That is most concerning, especially with Papa away from home.’
‘Ah, yes. Your father.’ Dysart shifted in his seat. ‘Perhaps he has followed him there?’
‘Oh, I hope not!’ Sovay bit her lip hard, bringing tears to her eyes. ‘I truly hope that is not so!’
‘So do I,’ Sir Robert agreed. ‘That would be a most unwelcome turn of affairs, especially as Sir John does not enjoy the best of health. Let us hope that he does not find himself somewhere that will affect his constitution.’
‘Indeed!’ Sovay swayed and gripped the back of the chair, hoping she was not laying this on too thickly. ‘Please, Sir Robert, do not alarm me further.’ She turned to him, eyes big with tears. ‘I hear you are a man of some power and influence. Please, please do all you can to find out where they might be!’
‘I will certainly do that, Miss Middleton,’ he smiled, an expression more like a grimace on his cadaverous face. ‘You may depend on me. You travelled up to town recently?’ he asked, tipping the conversation, setting it to run in another direction, observing her all the while.
‘Yes,’ Sovay answered. ‘The day before yesterday.’
She resumed her seat, watching him closely. He was as slippery as mercury on a board.
‘I was talking to a neighbour of yours, Sir Royston Gilmore. He must have travelled on the same day. You are affianced to his son, I believe.’
‘Not . . . not any more.’ Despite her intention to hide all real emotion from him, Sovay felt herself blush.
‘I’m sorry to hear that!’ Sir Robert looked up with an apparent show of sympathy. ‘But I’m sure you do not lack for suitors. Sir Royston told me that he was attacked by a highwayman. Only just escaped with his life. You encountered no trouble of that nature. A young woman, on her own. You were on your own . . .’ ‘I was with my maid, Lydia.’ She looked him in the eye, defying contradiction. ‘We encountered no trouble of that kind. Sir Royston has my sympathy. That is truly shocking.’
‘Shocking, indeed. I would see every last one of them brought to justice and hanged.’ He was watching her now as a huntsman might observe a hind. ‘There are a sight too many of them operating. The scoundrel who attacked Sir Royston is new to us but it seems he joined forces with one who calls himself Captain Greenwood. He is known to us and his days of freedom are numbered, you have my word on that! Now,’ he made to stand up, ‘I must go. My department is responsible for order and security, and we have agents both here and abroad, including Paris.’ He looked at her, his hooded eyes heavy with words unspoken. ‘Little escapes us. You can be sure that I will do my best to locate your father and brother. Paris is a dangerous place for any Englishman to be.’
He rose to leave. His warning delivered. He clearly knew exactly where they were and was informing her that they were in his power.
‘Thank you, Sir Robert.’ Sovay stood to accompany him to the door. ‘I am comforted to know that you will do everything you can. But surely, you do not have to go so soon?’
‘I’m afraid so. I fear I have taken up too much of your time already. In truth, I only came to deliver this.’ He handed her an invitation card. ‘I am hosting a small gathering, at my house, Thursley Abbey. I was hoping that your father might join me. I would be delighted if you would accompany him. If he has not yet returned, I would be honoured if you would come in his stead.’
‘That is very kind of you, Sir Robert. I thank you on our behalf. I have heard about Thursley, and would very much like to see it,’ she said, and then she frowned. ‘But I see that it is in but a few days. If my father has not returned, I fear I will not be able to take up your invitation. It would hardly be seemly for me to come alone.’
‘Do not worry, young lady,’ his mouth stretched in a smile, ‘Lady Bingham will also be my guest. I’m sure you know her. She is a confidante of your aunt and was a close companion of your dear mother, I believe. A family friend. Who could be more suitable? She will act as your chaperone. I will arrange for her to call on you.’
He had it all worked out. He would have her there willing or no.
‘In that case, I will be delighted to accept,’ Sovay replied with a smile as genuine as his own.
‘Until then.’ He bowed and kissed the hand she held out to him.
‘Indeed.’ She clenched her other hand to control her impulse to snatch her fingers from his grip. ‘Until then.’
She rubbed the back of her hand on her dress as she showed him to the door. It was like being caressed by a pair of those thin, grey slugs that infested the kitchen garden. She studied the embossed invitation card as she returned to the drawing room. Sir Robert clearly wanted her there. Why? He knew where her father was, Hugh, too. That much was clear from their duel of a conversation. If going there would take her nearer to finding them, then that is what she would do. She would deal with Lady Bingham when the occasion arose. Sovay had met her several times. She knew that her father thought her to be a poisonous troublemaker: a bad influence who was at least partially responsible for Aunt Harriet’s nervous condition. Sovay remembered her as sallow-faced, hiding her own thin, tow-coloured hair under elaborate wigs. She was always dressed in the height of fashion, although the clothes hung on her spare body like so much cloth on a tenting frame.
Lady Bingham was a tireless society hostess and partygoer. She invited confidences and accumulated gossip and snippets of information as a sharper collects gold. She used her store to good effect. What she knew made her welcome everywhere. No door was shut to her. No salon closed. Her unpleasant nature did not affect her social acceptability. Rather the contrary. It was the reason for it. Sovay was not surprised that she was a friend of Dysart. She wondered if the two were lovers. They would make a handsome pair. The very idea made h
er laugh out loud.
Sir Robert Dysart left a note for Lady Bingham at her town house in Cavendish Square and went back to his offices in Leggatt’s Court, a dark, sunless yard at the centre of a warren of streets that ran behind Fleet Street. He ran his office from there, at some distance from the imposing splendour of Whitehall, and used the rooms above as his private apartments when he was in town. His department reported directly to the newly formed Committee of Secrecy. The nature of the work carried on meant that its existence went unacknowledged and, although Sir Robert was one of the most powerful men in the country, he had no official position. This location suited the work. The kind of people who visited Dysart, or most often his clerk, Gribbon, would have felt out of place in the great Offices of State.
The building was old. He liked that about it. Part of a narrow crowded row that made up one side of the dank courtyard, the steeply pitched roofs showing against the sky like a row of uneven teeth. Cracked and crooked wooden beams showed between small bricks which were blackened by smoke and scorch marks. Somehow, these buildings had survived the Great Fire while all around others had been rendered to ashes.
Gribbon sat in the outer office, his tall, thin frame hunched over his desk. He wore black, like his master, but there was a rusted quality to his clothing and his head craned forward on his scrawny neck. He reminded Dysart of a heron, as though the words on the pages in front of him were fish that he was about to spear.
‘I trust your visit was satisfactory, sir.’
‘I believe so, Gribbon. I believe so.’
‘Is there anything you want doing, sir?’
‘I don’t think so. Not at the moment. Oh.’ Dysart stopped, recollecting something that he had thought of on his way back to his office. ‘Recall Digby Clayton. I may have need of his special talents.’
Gribbon nodded. Clayton was the best peepsman they had in their employ. He reached for a file that would inform him as to his whereabouts.
Dysart left the outer office and went into his room. The only natural light came in through a narrow window that gave onto a small yard which was surrounded on all sides by buildings, the dark paving clotted with moss and dusted with green mould. Dysart liked its air of desolate neglect: the way weeds and straggling trees grew up and died back again, struggling towards light that they could never attain.