The Lazarus Curse (4 page)

M
istress Cordelia Carfax shivered and gathered her silk shawl about her shoulders. The fire was lit but the heat that emanated did little to warm the air of her fashionable London drawing room. She could not decide which she loathed more: the languid Jamaican humidity or the insidious English cold. A small short-haired dog lay sprawled in front of the hearth, toasting its back. As soon as she reached for the bell, the animal sprang up and leapt onto her knee in a single bound, looking into her face with large brown eyes. She smiled. It was not something she did often. Whereas most women of her age bore the marks of expression at the corner of their lids, her temples were perfectly smooth. It was the space between her eyes that was furrowed with two parallel frown lines so deep that they were clearly planted by hatred and contempt. These lines creased a skin that was almost unnaturally pale. It was certainly very white for a woman who had spent the last thirty years of her life on a sugar plantation ten miles inland from Kingston. It was not that she painted her face with lead, as was the fashion, but that she steadfastly refused to allow the sun to touch her face, a slave shading her with a parasol every time she ventured outdoors.

Any shows of affection Mistress Carfax did display were usually reserved for her pedigree pug. In the absence of children, the dog was a substitute. She patted the creature’s head lovingly.

“Hello, Fino, my dear, sweet Fino.”

Phibbah, who came rushing to answer the bell, received no such welcome. Her sullen-faced mistress pointed to the fire as it blazed brightly.

“More coal. More logs. Anything!” she ordered. “I shall freeze to death before this winter’s out!”

Phibbah bobbed a curtsy and, looking slightly bemused, hurried over to the grate. Picking up the poker, she prodded the embers. They flared for a moment, then settled back into their steady blaze.

“More coal!” cried Mistress Carfax, only this time louder. The dog, sensing its mistress’s anger, jumped off her lap and sat at her feet.

The slave reached for the fire tongs and, opening them wide, grasped a large lump of coal from the scuttle. Quickly she dropped it onto the flames, followed by another black nugget and another. All the time she was being watched by her mistress, who was drumming her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair. The flames were now leaping higher and the room grew brighter with the intense white light, but still Mistress Carfax was not content.

“More!” This time she screamed and, in her frustration, she reached out and grabbed the poker, bringing it down with a crack on the slave’s back.

Taken by surprise the girl was knocked off balance. Stumbling, she let out a yelp. Mistress Carfax jumped up from her seat, still clutching the poker, and hurried over to where she lay, crumpled in a heap by the hearth. As she did so, there was a loud hiss from the grate and a starburst of sparks. A shard of coal whizzed through the air like a bullet and pierced her voluminous skirts. In an instant the smell of scorched silk filled the room and, looking down, Mistress Carfax saw that her hem was on fire. She screamed and flung the poker to the floor. The pug began to bark.

“Fire! Fire!” she cried, rushing away from the hearth, but the flames pursued her. She flapped her shawl in the air like a crazed bird and whirled ’round as if she was dancing, knocking a china vase to the ground as she did so.

Hearing the commotion, another slave arrived on the scene and, thinking hastily, decanted an arrangement of evergreens and threw the remaining water over her mistress’s skirt. The silk made a noise like retreating snakes and the flames disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke.

“You all right, missa?” inquired the slave who had put out the fire.

Mistress Carfax, leaning against a high-backed chair, composed herself. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Yes. Yes, Patience,” she replied breathlessly. Then, looking down to inspect her damaged skirts, she added: “Although I will need to change my gown.” She eyed the brown circle of scorched silk, then lifted her gaze across the room to where Phibbah remained crouching, terrified, by the hearth.

“This is your doing,” she snarled, spittle flecking her lips.

The girl shook her head, her eyes wide with fear.

“I could have been killed and ’tis your fault. I shall see to it that you are punished soundly. Now get up.” The girl began to whimper softly. “Get up, I say,” shouted Mistress Carfax.

This time the slave did as she was told. Her back still burned from the crack of the poker and she rose slowly, wiping the tears away from her cheeks. And as she did so, her own features loosened so that her pained expression disappeared. Her mistress must not see her anguish, nor delight in her humiliation. It was time for her obeah to give her a secret strength. As she drew herself to her full, yet still diminutive, height, the light from the fire that now burned more brightly than ever caught the scar on her right breast and flashed silver.

L
ady Lydia Farrell sat in her study at Boughton Hall, next to her son Richard, Lord Crick. His name had been changed from Farrell by order of the Court of Chancery. He was drawing two long lines and several short ones splaying from the top of the paper. His hand was shaky and awkward and his tongue protruded from his lips as he drew, concentrating wholeheartedly on his artistic efforts.

When he had finished what he proposed to do, he leaned back and looked up at his mother, awaiting her reaction. Lydia beamed with pride.

“A tree! Richard, you have drawn a tree,” she squealed excitedly, as if he were the first child in the world to do such a thing. “Look, Nurse Pring.” She seized the paper and held it up in front of the demure woman, of middling years, who sat opposite her, sewing.

“Yes, your ladyship,” she replied, laying down her needle. She leaned forward, smiling with a more measured enthusiasm.

Lydia drew the child close and kissed his forehead.

“My clever son,” she told him. She then reached out her hand and stroked his brown curls. “How did I live without you?” she murmured under her breath.

Six years of enforced separation, during most of which she thought him dead, had left her wanting to cherish every moment with him. Each minute was to be savored, lived to the full. But the child pulled away, objecting to her fussing fingers. He was more used to angry blows than loving caresses. Any physical contact he still regarded as a potential threat rather than a gesture of affection.

Lydia checked herself. She looked at Nurse Pring; wise, caring Nurse Pring, who had seen her through her darkest days when she lay in a coma after attempting to take her own life. Practical, sensible Nurse Pring, who had proved so invaluable at the caves in West Wycombe when so many were being struck down by the Great Fogg. A slight expression of reproof crossed the matron’s face and it was enough for Lydia to know that she must not rush to reestablish maternal bonds. They must grow naturally, organically, not be forced like greenhouse flowers, but nurtured slowly and lovingly.

“I am sure you must be hungry after your efforts, my sweet,” she told Richard, then to Nurse Pring she said, “Perhaps you could see what Mistress Claddingbowl has in the pantry? I am sure there will be jam tarts.”

The nurse nodded and was about to open the study door when there came a knock. Howard, the butler, stood on the threshold and side stepped to allow Nurse Pring and her charge to leave the room.

“Yes, Howard?” said Lydia.

The butler, a heavy man with a gravelly voice, bowed. “A Mr. Lupton is here to see you, my lady.”

Momentarily forgetting herself, Lydia rolled her eyes. She had completely forgotten her appointment with the candidate for the position of estate manager. Richard took up so much of her time these days that all other demands seemed trifling. Yet a replacement for the late Gabriel Lawson was vital to the future prosperity of Boughton.

She rose from her desk and, smoothing her skirts unthinkingly, she told Howard she would receive her visitor in the drawing room. It was especially at times like these that she wished Thomas could be at her side. After her husband’s death she had been handed a mantle of responsibility that did not sit easily on her slight shoulders. For a few blissful days that summer, Dr. Silkstone had helped her bear her burden, talking through problems that presented themselves, suggesting solutions. They had shared the running of the estate, but now she had been robbed of that comfort by an Act of Chancery and so had lost his reassuring presence and unquestioning devotion.

Lydia’s first glimpse of Mr. Nicholas Lupton was of his rear as he stood, his feet planted squarely and his hands behind his back. His hair was sun-bleached, so that darker roots showed beneath the blond. He appeared quite stocky of build and his neck seemed to sink into his broad shoulders. Wearing a riding coat and boots, he was gazing out of the window and onto the lawns. He turned swiftly when he heard Howard announce her ladyship.

“Mr. Lupton,” greeted Lydia courteously, walking toward him, her hand outstretched. Had she not assumed that, as an estate manager, he was of middling rank, she would say from his bearing that he was a man of good breeding. When he drew nearer, his aquiline nose and his high cheekbones made her think he would be more at home dispensing orders rather than ensuring they were carried out.

Lupton ducked a bow and kissed Lydia’s proffered hand. His smile was easy and ready and, after the usual formalities, they both sat down to tea.

“I see you rode here, Mr. Lupton,” remarked Lydia, glancing at her guest’s attire. She warmed the silver teapot with water from the kettle of boiling water that Howard had left.

Lupton shifted in his chair and smiled. “Yes, your ladyship. I stayed the night at the Three Tuns in Brandwick.”

Lydia nodded as she spooned tea leaves into the pot and let it brew. “So you have seen a little of the area? That is good. Boughton Estate runs on either side of the road from the village.”

Lupton smiled. “So I believe.”

Lydia arched a brow. “You have been making inquiries?” She was partly intrigued, partly piqued by his answer. She poured the tea and handed him a dish.

As he reached for it, Lydia noticed his hands were those of a gentleman, and his nails were manicured.

“I would be failing in my duty to both myself and to you, my lady, if I did not familiarize myself with some rudimentary knowledge of Boughton’s affairs,” he replied disarmingly.

Lydia nodded. She would have preferred it had he come directly to her with his questions, rather than gathering up any rumors and insinuations that were blowing like chaff on the wind, but she forbore. “So, do tell me what you have discovered, Mr. Lupton.”

He took a deep breath and tilted his head slightly. “I heard that your ladyship is a widow, but that you manage your affairs most diligently and your care for your tenants is unparalleled.”

Lydia did not feel comforted by the remarks, even though she knew they were designed to flatter. She was all too accustomed to being told what idle tongues were saying about her. Nevertheless she felt compelled to listen.

“Go on,” she said.

Lupton resumed. “I heard that you have a good herd of Cotswolds, although their numbers have been much depleted by the recent fog, and that your barley and wheat yields were reasonable before, but could be improved.”

Lydia’s back stiffened. She was not certain that it was seemly to listen to her father’s life’s work summed up in a couple of perfunctory sentences, even though she privately acknowledged their accuracy.

“Interesting,” was all she would say before parrying his cutting remarks with a flourish of her own. “And what of yourself, Mr. Lupton? As I recall it is you who are applying for the position of estate manager. Perhaps you might like to summarize yourself.”

Lupton jolted slightly at the upbraid before his face broke into a smile. “Forgive me, your ladyship. You must think me forward. It is my habit.”

“And how might you have come by that?” interjected Lydia, suspecting that there was more to Mr. Lupton than he had told her.

He acknowledged her comment with a nod. “I fear that you have seen through me, your ladyship,” he said. “I come from a family whose interests lay in Virginia.”

“In America?” Intrigued, Lydia leaned forward.

“Yes, your ladyship. Now that we have lost the war, so have we lost our fortune. Our English home and lands all need be sold to pay our debts and so it is time for me to seek gainful employment.”

Lydia reached for the letter she had received the previous week from a gentleman of means who vouched for him. A business associate of his father, he spoke of Lupton in glowing terms, calling him “resourceful and of the utmost integrity.”

Integrity was a quality that Lydia had come to prize most in a man. In all her dealings with the opposite sex she had found it the attribute most lacking. She thought of her cheating husband, the duplicitous lawyer Lavington, her treacherous cousin Francis. Integrity was a foreign word to them; something that was not in their vocabulary. And as for principles, they were merely trifles, targets to be shot down at will. Only Thomas remained true to his ideals; never wavering from his purpose to help those in need and uncovering the truth in all things.

“I admire a man of principle,” she said finally, looking up from the letter. “I think we should take a ride around the estate.”

With Lydia at the reins, they toured ’round Boughton in a dogcart, first taking the track that led up to the pavilion. Lydia drove past her husband’s grave without remarking upon it. She had no wish for pity, or to draw more attention to her widowed status.

At the pavilion they paused to take in the view. The sky was gray and the fields were sombre in their winter garb, all checkered shades of brown, punctuated now and again by clumps of evergreen bushes or hedges that were black against the dormant landscape. The spire of the chapel, so long obscured by the Great Fogg, was now clearly visible and, beyond that, the tower of St. Swithin’s on the edge of Brandwick.

“The estate stretches as far as you can see,” said Lydia, with a gentle sweep of her hand. “Five thousand acres of arable and pasture land, commons and woodlands, too.”

Lupton surveyed the view in silence at first, as if drinking in every detail, then nodded his head. “A fine estate, Lady Farrell,” he acknowledged with a smile.

Lydia felt a kernel of pride within. His appreciation seemed genuine, unembellished, and, although there was no need, she felt grateful for it.

“Thank you,” she replied unthinkingly.

They returned to the dogcart and drove back down the hill. Passing through the woods, they joined the track that led to Plover’s Lake and the cottage that had been home to Gabriel Lawson. The noise of the horse’s hooves sent three or four geese squawking across the water. Two mallards took flight.

“This is where the new estate manager would live,” said Lydia, pointing to the house and its compact grounds.

Lupton smiled. “A handsome abode,” he remarked diplomatically.

“I am afraid it is probably much more humble than that to which you are accustomed,” replied Lydia. “But you would have a housekeeper.” She suddenly checked herself. “The estate manager, whoever fills the position, is given a housekeeper.” The truth was that apart from a clearly unsuitable applicant who wrote a ten-page diatribe on the virtues of the feudal system, there were no other candidates for the post.

Out of feigned guile or politeness Lupton should have let the faux pas pass unremarked, but he felt confident enough to draw attention to it.

“I am sure the arrangement would be most satisfactory,” he replied, “whoever takes the position.” He gave Lydia a sideways glance and she allowed a smile to flit across her face. She found his manner affable, if a little forthright, but she liked his approach. There were several similarities between his father’s small estate in Yorkshire and Boughton, he told her. He had worked with his own estate manager to turn ’round falling yields and made the tenants more productive by fostering a community spirit. Raising rents was always a risky move when times were hard, he’d found. Yes, he was a man of principle and integrity. She liked that. She liked him. She would offer him the job.

By the time they arrived back at the hall, it was growing dark. The November light was fading fast.

“I must away before dark or I might lose my way back to the inn,” said Lupton, stepping down from the dogcart. Will Lovelock, the groom, had been sent to fetch his horse.

“But you must be hungry, Mr. Lupton,” said Lydia suddenly, remaining seated in the cart. “Why do you not eat here? The cottage is not aired but you are most welcome to stay in the house, tonight.”

Lupton paused. If he had expected an impromptu invitation, he did not show it.

“I could not prevail upon your ladyship’s hospitality so,” he replied, shaking his blond head.

“Nonsense!” replied Lydia. “You are part of Boughton now. Part of the estate. We can talk of the fine details over dinner and there will be no need to rush.” She surprised herself with her own enthusiasm. She hoped it was not too obvious that she craved adult company. The prospect of an agreeable companion at dinner greatly appealed.

“You are most kind,” said Lupton, suddenly acquiescing.

Lydia smiled triumphantly. “Then it is settled. I shall have the servants prepare a room.”