Deceit (5 page)

“Opium. All the while you depend on this, Nicholas still binds you to him.”

I see that he is about to pour the laudanum out onto the ground and I cry out and snatch the bottle from him.

“No!” I shout, holding the bottle close to my chest. Fear of being without it makes my heart flutter and my body tremble, and with my eyes fixed on Christophe I raise the bottle to my lips and drink. All my fear and anxiety drifts away and I smile at him. “It does no harm to me,” I say, taking his hand and placing it on the slight swell of my belly, “or to the baby.”

If he is shocked that I am with child again he does not show it and he says nothing except that he thinks we should move on now, under cover of darkness. Skirt eastwards around the city wall and back down towards the river just east of the Tower, by the warehouses and wharves and where a great number of boats are moored. He hopes we may find someone willing to take us downstream and all the way to the coast. But I am afraid.

“Nicholas has his yard there at Swan Alley.
Just up from St Katherine’s stairs and its wharves. Suppose that he…”

“He was badly hurt. If he can move at all, he will go back to Darke House. I am sure of it. And it is still night… and we will be out on the river before too long. Trust me…
tu peut avoir confiance en moi
.”

So I trust him and Christophe slows his pace to match mine, for my feet are sore and my back and legs ache and we walk eastwards, skirting the city walls and the Tower… down to St Katherine’s stairs. Boats are tied up there, just as Christophe said they would be. Wherries loaded up with the goods and chattels of people who, just like us, are desperate to leave London.

“We will never find anyone to take us… for any money,” I say, for it is clear that these goods and chattels belong to rich people.

And Christophe looks worried. He is frowning and his eyes flit here and there impatiently. Then they fix on a boat that is trying to berth at the end of the wharf. A pierced iron lantern fixed to its prow glows like a little firefly. It is a small boat, easily rowed by just one person and empty as yet of goods. But there is very little space to moor and
the boat noses in, only to be pushed out again by the force of the bigger boats at either side.

Christophe runs forward and gestures to the man in the boat to throw the rope and he will pull him in. I watch as Christophe braces himself and hauls and hauls on the rope and the boat inches closer. Christophe calls for me… louder when I do not instantly respond.

I hurry across and when I am close enough, Christophe whispers, “The minute the boat is near, the man will jump ashore. Then you must be ready to jump onto the boat with me. We will have to be quick, for when I let go of the rope, the boat will shoot out from its berth like a pea from a shooter. And we must be on board it.”

“That is
stealing
!” I whisper sharply.

Christophe laughs, “Yes, and would you rather walk?” At the thought of walking further, my belly cramps and I bend over with the pain of it. “You will lose this baby too if we are not careful. Would you want that?”

For a fleeting moment I wonder if that is what I
do
want. For would it not be for the best? But when I spread my fingers wide over my belly, I feel the baby move inside me. A girl child this time,
I am sure of it, and strong and full of life. I am filled with joy at the thought I will soon have a daughter – and filled with terror that, if she is born with red hair, she will be the one Nicholas has prayed for.

And so we are here on the boat… and Christophe is rowing now with all his might and I am looking back to the wharf where the boatman is shouting and cursing. We are close enough still that I can hear his words clearly. He calls us ‘fly bitten, maggot-infested spawn of the Devil’. And he hopes we will drown. Shame and guilt makes me reach under my skirt and take out a sovereign from my purse.

I stand up and would throw it… my arm is raised. But Christophe shouts, “
Non!
” He says that we need every single penny we have and his voice sounds harsh and hard and I drop down into the stern of the boat, the sovereign still clutched tight in my hand and I start to cry. Despair and weariness roll over me and I sob and sob and sob until there are no tears left.

Christophe does not dare leave the boat to its own devices and move across to comfort me, for it
is the early hours of the night now and the tide is beginning to fall and we are being carried downstream quickly. But he whispers softly to me as he rows. He calls me his one true love. His little dove. His heart’s ease. He says I am not to worry… we will come ashore soon.

On he rows through the darkness and it folds around us like a black cloak, for the candle in the little pierced iron lantern has gone out and we have no way of relighting it. We must travel blind and pray we find somewhere to go ashore.

I fall asleep and when I wake it is to grey morning light and mist hanging low over the water. We are not alone out on the river. There are many boats, some are anchored in mid-stream. And we have left the city behind. A few trees hug the riverbank; a cow looms up out of the mist and watches us as we pass.

Christophe stops rowing and we drift along for a while on the tide. Through the mist I can see a huddle of houses on the riverbank and then buildings that look like warehouses. Naval vessels are moored up and I know now where we are.

I tell Christophe that we must have reached Woolwich and the King’s yard. I have been here
before with my father, when he had a fancy to see all the Navy’s great warships at anchor and the shipbuilding and rope-making yards. We had eaten an early supper at the Clerk of the Chequers Inn and then walked back home through fields skirting the river; my father reading aloud to me from the writing of Andrew Marvell, which he did with much passion and wit. I miss him. And my mother too.

Christophe, seeing my tears, ships the oars and I slip across and sit next to him. He kisses the top of my head and wraps his arms about me. Then once I am calm, he takes up the oars again and though it is clear he is in pain, we row towards Woolwich, mooring up a little way along from the Bell Water Gate.

Even at this early hour there are people up and about their business. The smell of hemp and tar is in the air. There is a continual noise of hammers beating against wood and iron. We are tired and hungry and thirsty and so I say we should go ashore and find the Chequers Inn and have breakfast.

Christophe is not happy at the thought of this. He is worried that we will be too visible…
he with his French accent and me with my red hair.

I suggest we eat the food we have brought with us. But when we unwrap it, the pie smells rank and besides we have nothing left to drink.

And so it is that Christophe and I are sitting in the darkest corner of the inn, saying nothing to each other, though I slip my hand into his and the warmth and strength of it calms me. Then a gaggle of workmen come laughing and talking into the inn, their hair and clothes covered in the fine grey dust that tells me they are stonemasons.

They sit a few tables away from us and at first I take no notice of them. But then one of them turns towards us and I swear that my heart stops beating, for I know who he is. Ralf… Martha’s betrothed. And now I remember that the very last time I saw Martha, she told me he was working on the repair of the clock house at Woolwich. But I had quite forgotten it.

We look at each other and he gives me the briefest of nods. Now my mind is a whir. I am desperate to send a message to Martha. But can I trust Ralf? Martha says he is a good man… his manners may be rough, but kind. And that he is
glad she no longer works at Darke House, for the Doctor, Nicholas, makes him fearful. I swither… what should I do?

When I see him get up to leave, I tell Christophe I am going to the privy and I follow Ralf to the door. As I push past him I whisper, “Tell Martha I am safe and with Christophe and we hope to reach France.”

He says nothing but when I look back at him he holds my gaze steadily and I want to believe that he is honest. I feel a little faint at what I have done. A foolish thing. I should have kept quiet and said nothing.

When I return to Christophe he is taken aback for I am suddenly anxious to be gone. “We must be back on the river as soon as we can…”

But Christophe seems worried, “The tide still runs with us, but for how long? I cannot row against the tide all the way to the sea, Margrat,
c’est impossible
. I am tired,
et mon cou
…” He rubs the back of his neck and winces with the pain. I look at his face… sunken and grey with fatigue. I take his hands, blistered now as mine are. I cannot help him row, at least not above a little way.

“Then we must see if there is a coach that
passes through here and down to the coast,” I say. “Or find a carter willing to take us. Stay here and I will see what I can find out.”

Christophe does not want to let me go alone, but I think it is safer now if I do. A foreigner always attracts attention.

So I approach the innkeeper and question him.

“Well,” he says, “there are boats going down to Gravesend… and carriages and carts too. If there is room they might take you, but you will have to pay for your passage. And you may have to wait a while for you are not alone in wanting to leave. Unless you have money enough to hire a carriage for yourself alone?” I see that, though I look filthy, he has taken note of my fancy dress and fine shoes.

“I would be happy and willing to take you…”

I turn to find a man close up behind me. Uncomfortably close. The smell of horse sweat hangs about him and his hat is stained with his own perspiration. He is poorly dressed; his doublet and hose and his boots spattered with mud. My ring burns hot and I have to stop myself from crying out. “At a price…” He smiles and what teeth he still has are rotting; his breath
smells of the charnel house. I shrink back. I want to run away, but I steel myself.

“And what would that price be?”

“As you are such a pretty young thing…” He looks down at my belly and smiles. “I will take you for a guinea.”

My flesh crawls, but I force a smile and thank him. I say that I will think on his offer, though I would prefer to travel by water, a smoother journey… less jolts and rattles, which in my condition might bring on an early labour. I see he winces at the thought of that, for it is true enough. The roads are so riddled with potholes that travelling on them is like being shaken inside a sack of pebbles.

I scurry away and as I leave the inn, I hear him call out to me that he, Silas Becke, would happily take me for his left-handed wife, his concubine, and we should have a fine house up the hill a way.

There is a great bark of laughter as I turn to glare at him, blushing with fury and shame, for I would die rather than travel with this man. I pray that I will never see him again.

However, it seems that God is not listening to me, for I walk the whole of the town asking if
there is anyone who might take us to Gravesend and, though it is not so far, no one seems willing or able. Because of the fire, there is no shortage of people travelling and willing to pay for the privilege of it.

When I return to the boat, I find Christophe asleep, stretched out along the stern seat, his head pillowed on his hands. So dog-tired that the hard wood must feel like the softest of feather beds, for he does not wake when I call out. I stand on the quay looking down at him.

If I tell him I have had no luck, I know what he will do. He will wait for the tide to turn and then he will try to row us downriver to Gravesend. And I do not believe he has the strength for it.

So my mind is made up and I walk back up into the town and find a chandler’s and I buy a good little knife… small enough to tuck inside my bodice. Sharp enough to act as some defence if I should need it. Then I go back to the inn and I ask after Silas Becke. The ring is hot as coals and tight on my finger, but foolishly I pay it no heed.

He is pleased to see me, turning to the innkeeper and saying, “There, did I not tell you she would return. Settle the bet and pay up! And soon
I will have much more money. I will be rich!” But his eyes are bloodshot and his speech is slurred and when he tries to stand, he staggers and falls over.

“Tomorrow,” I say calmly and with a firmness in the tone of my voice that I do not feel. “At first light. Be here outside the inn with your cart…”

Then I turn and walk away and my legs feel weak as water and my palms are damp with sweat.

When Silas Becke sees that I am not alone, I am sure his face will darken with anger to the colour of ripe plums. But it does not. In fact he smiles and says, “The guinea was for the carriage of
one
person only,” but his eyes are narrow as arrow slits. “Now there are
two
, so you must pay me
two
guineas and three extra crowns for having misled me so grievously.”

Christophe pulls at my arm… he would have us leave… but as I turn to go with him, I see his shoulders hunch and his face spasm with pain.

I turn back to Silas Becke and say, “I will pay you what you ask.”

I am sitting squeezed in between Silas and Christophe, who holds my hand and is soon asleep,
his head resting on my shoulder. I keep my eyes fixed on the track ahead and take as little notice as I can of Silas. But the smell of him is overpowering and he slyly presses close to me and I feel the heat of his thigh against mine.

I feel the bile rise up in my throat and I lean in towards Christophe. I want him to wake up, but his breathing is deep and slow and nothing – not any amount of jolting or secret pinching – will wake him. So I resign myself to it and content myself with saying nothing at all in response to Silas Becke’s questions.

Where am I from? Who is the Frenchman? How soon will the child be born?

Though when he asks my age, I do say sharply, “Old enough to be wary of men such as you.” I see that the muscles in his jaw tighten and he grinds his teeth in annoyance.

We are some miles out of Woolwich now and the road passes through a wood. Relief from the heat is welcome, but I do not like the feel of the trees pressing in close, the dark, dead smell of the earth here and the scorched dry rustling of the leaves.