The Lazarus Curse (9 page)

Boughton Hall
Brandwick
Oxfordshire
November 1, 1783

L
ydia looked up from the piece of paper on her desk and glanced toward the fire blazing in the grate. Richard was lying on his stomach on the hearth rug, his legs bent upward, waving restlessly in the air. He was playing with some tin soldiers Howard had found in the attic. They had once belonged to her late brother, Edward. But she knew their novelty would wear off in a few minutes and her son would seek some new adventure. She took up her pen once more.

She was about to write
riding with Mr. Lupton,
but checked herself.

When Richard had woken that morning and looked out onto the snow-covered landscape, his first reaction was one of wonder and delight. This was not the first snow he had ever seen, but such was his joy that it took all of Nurse Pring’s strength to stop him from rushing downstairs and out of doors in his nightshirt.

Over breakfast Lydia had promised to venture out with him herself, although she was worried that the icy air would harm his already delicate lungs. So now, almost every ten minutes or so, he asked her the same question. When could they go out into the snow? And when she replied, as she always did, that she would take him out after she had finished writing her letter to Dr. Silkstone, he sulked and moaned and knocked down the soldiers in a display of temper that she found understandable but unseemly. And here it came again. Her son shifted himself up onto one elbow. Only this time his question was more strategic in its phrasing. It showed the military tactics worthy of a good general.

“Can Mr. Lupton take me out in the snow?”

Her pen hovered over the paper. Lupton. For some reason she had not thought to mention the new estate manager in her last letter to Thomas. She felt he was settling in well. He had been in post for just over a week and was getting to grips with the day to day management of Boughton. Richard also seemed to have taken to him. Ever since they had ridden out together, her son had continually asked if he could accompany Lupton in his duties. Not a day had gone by when Richard had not stood by the front door in his riding boots, waiting to saddle up with his new friend, only to be told he could not.

“Mr. Lupton is a very busy man, my sweet,” Lydia would say, adding: “Besides, you have your letters to learn.” That riposte was never well received and the child would whine and trail his feet into the study to sit sullenly while his mother taught him his alphabet. She knew full well that Richard needed male company, a man he could look up to, someone dependable, who would always be there for him. And the worm of doubt that had crept into her brain ever since Thomas had returned to London almost two months ago began to reemerge.

Now she found herself beginning to lose her patience, but she bit her tongue. “No, Richard. He cannot take you out,” was her curt response.

Taking a deep breath, she poised her nib once more, but before she could resume her letter, Howard appeared at the door.

“Mr. Lupton is here to see you, m’lady.”

Lydia arched a brow. Their daily meeting was not scheduled until the afternoon. She put down her pen. “Very well,” she replied.

Nicholas Lupton marched in wearing a thick coat and a muffler about his neck that obscured his chin, but not his mouth. His face was wreathed in a broad smile.

“Good morning, your ladyship,” he greeted her, jovially. He made a shallow bow, but his movement was severely restricted by the fact that he carried something large and wooden under his arm.

“Good morning, Mr. Lupton,” replied Lydia, somewhat bemused by the object that her estate manager was holding.

By this time Richard, on seeing Lupton, had scrambled to his feet and was dancing around him, tugging eagerly at his coat.

“Richard, please!” scolded his mother. “Leave Mr. Lupton alone or I shall have to send you upstairs.” She found herself raising her voice to the child, something she was doing with increasing regularity, and she disliked herself for it. She looked at the object of her son’s excitement. “I do apologize, Mr. Lupton,” she said.

The estate manager merely laughed. Waving dismissively with his free hand, he bent low to greet the young earl, who immediately began inspecting the strange object tucked under his new friend’s arm.

“What is it?” inquired the boy.

Lupton beamed again. “Why, this”—he announced with all the flair of a showman—“is a sledge.”

Lydia was shocked. Her son looked puzzled. The estate manager was holding what appeared to be a small wooden table with curved runners attached to its legs.

“A sledge. What is a sledge?” asked Richard, forming the unfamiliar word carefully.

Lupton eyed Lydia, trying to gauge her reaction. Had he overstepped the mark? She returned his gaze for a moment, before she, too, began to smile.

“A sledge is like a carriage for the snow,” she told her son.

The estate manager crouched down and planted the sleigh on the floor. “You sit on it, see?” he said, pointing at the planks, “and then I will whirl you ’round and ’round on the ice till you’re dizzy as a gadfly.” There was an infectious enthusiasm in his tone.

The boy laughed and plonked himself on the seat, then brought both his short legs up at right angles and tried to shuffle as if to make the strange contraption move.

“You have taken to it naturally, sir,” Lupton told him, patting the child on the back.

“Can we go now, Mamma? Please? Can we go on the ice?” Richard looked at his mother with large, pleading eyes and melted her resolve.

“Very well,” she relented. “But we must wrap up warm!”

And so the small party, Lydia, Richard, and Nicholas Lupton, boarded the dogcart and headed off on the track toward Plover’s Lake. The brilliant blue sky was cloudless and the sun was bright, but the air was freezing and their breath billowed about them like steam as the horses trotted along. Lydia was swathed in a fur stole and hat and her hands were tucked into a muff. She had made sure that Richard was equally protected, with woollen stockings, a worsted coat, and stout boots. A thick scarf hugged his neck.

The snow lay three or four inches deep on the road, but on the verges and against the hedges the overnight wind had blown it in drifts. In some places it was as if a giant had spread a bedsheet over the fields and hedgerows and forgotten to smooth it down. Lydia found herself smiling, despite the fact that her cheeks were tingling with cold.

After twenty minutes or so they arrived at the lake. Its surface was frosted white, like a huge mirror, and the reeds that fringed it were rigid as spears. A few ducks skidded comically on its icy surface as they drew up close by. Lupton offered Lydia his hand and she descended from the cart, her feet crunching into the snow below.

“How do you know the ice is thick enough to walk on?” she asked warily.

“I have measured it, your ladyship. ’Tis four inches thick. Safe as stone,” he replied.

The estate manager seemed sure of himself, but he held her gaze until she gave a nod of approval, then clapped his gloved hands gleefully.

“Come, come then, sir!” he chirped.

Richard, already standing up, jumped down into Lupton’s arms, then, taking him by the hand, pulled the estate manager, with the sledge in tow, toward the lake. Together they set foot on the ice, edging very slowly at first, keeping close to the bank. Lydia watched anxiously from the shore, but every few seconds Lupton gave her a reassuring smile.

“You’re sure the ice will not crack?” called Lydia, nervous as an ill-sitting hen.

“I give you my word, your ladyship,” came the unequivocal reply.

Both man and boy had stepped out onto the lake’s surface now, the ice taking the full weight of both their bodies. In one hand Lupton carried a stout log and, without warning, he hurled it out into the middle of the frozen plane. It hit the surface hard and skidded a few feet before finally coming to rest near the centre, the hollow echo that it made reverberating loudly in the still air.

“You see, your ladyship?” he called. “Frozen solid.”

Lydia silently acknowledged this reassuring gesture and tucked her hands back into her fur muff. At least that way, she told herself, no one could see that she was wringing them.

“Now sit yourself down, sir,” ordered Lupton, positioning the sledge. Richard eagerly obliged, drawing his legs and elbows inward and clutching the sides.

“Ready?” asked Lupton.

His charge nodded nervously. First threading a long length of rope through a hole in the seat, Lupton walked a few feet away from the sledge.

“Here we go!”

Extending his right arm, he began moving it in a wide arc. The sledge started to slide as if following the sweeping line of an unseen circle. It moved slowly at first but soon gathered speed and Richard squealed with delight as he slid ’round and ’round Lupton, pulled by the rope. Letting out the length, so that the circles made by the sledge grew bigger and bigger, Lupton, too, found himself whirling ’round and ’round. All the while he was laughing along with Richard.

Watching the pair, Lydia, although still fearful, permitted herself to smile. It was wonderful to see her son who, only a few weeks ago was so close to death, enjoying himself as a child should.

Faster and faster Richard went, as Lupton pirouetted on the ice like a ballet dancer. Keeping the rope taut, he let it out even farther until there was at least twenty feet between himself and the sledge, but still he continued to steer it ’round like a boat caught in a whirlpool. It eddied for a few more seconds until, seemingly exhausted, the estate manager jerked on the tether to slow it down. Lydia could tell from the way he lurched drunkenly on the ice that he had made himself giddy. The rope in his hand slackened. Richard called out.

“More!” he yelled. “More!”

Lupton’s head was bowed and his body began to pitch and sway like a sea-weary sailor before dropping to his knees on the ice.

“Mr. Lupton!” exclaimed Lydia.

Richard stood up on the sledge and stepped gingerly onto the ice.

“Are you ill, sir?” he asked, skidding toward the estate manager.

“No, Richard!” yelled Lydia. “Get back onto the sledge!”

The little boy jerked his head toward his mother. As he did so he lost his footing and went crashing onto the ice. Lydia screamed, but Lupton shook his head quickly, as if dispelling sleep, and heaving his frame up from the frozen surface, reached out for the boy.

“Here, Richard. Give me your hand.” His voice was calm and reassuring and in no time the child was back seated on the sledge and calling for another ride.

Lupton looked over to Lydia and saw her gesturing for them to make for the shore. They obeyed. “You’ve had quite enough excitement for one day,” she told her son as soon as he came within earshot. Richard’s face was flushed. The cold and the excitement had combined to turn his complexion bright red. Mr. Lupton’s face was also ruddy with his exertions. The child reluctantly disembarked from the sledge and scrambled onto the shore once more, followed by his playmate.

Lydia breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Can we do that again, Mamma? Can we? Please?” Richard pleaded, his large eyes looking up at his mother’s face.

Lydia and Lupton exchanged glances.

“We’ll see,” she said. “But now, we must return to the warm. You must both be frozen.”

T
homas found himself once more in the grand, wood-paneled room at Somerset House, where only a few days ago he accepted his most prestigious assignment. His ebullient mood had now ebbed and was turning to frustration and anxiety. Sir Joseph clearly shared his concern.

“I have heard nothing, Silkstone,” he said, rising from his desk and walking over to his globe. He spun it wistfully.

“It is most unlike Mr. Bartlett,” he mused. “So there is no news on this so-called official?”

“Extensive inquiries have been made, sir,” replied Thomas, relaying information he had received from Captain McCoy. “It seems the man was an imposter.”

Silence filled the cavernous space as the young doctor waited for a reply to an unasked question that hung precariously in their midst. Thomas was hoping that Sir Joseph would lift the veil on a situation that seemed to be beyond his own limited briefing. It was not forthcoming, so he pressed on.

“Were you aware, sir, that Dr. Welton’s journal was on Mr. Bartlett’s person?”

Sir Joseph looked up from the globe. He did not seem shocked.

“I feared as much.”

“Presumably he took it for safekeeping, sir,” replied Thomas. He had come to the nub of the matter; he could tell as much from Sir Joseph’s expression as mounting concern gathered on his features. It was obvious to Thomas that he was aware of the significance of the notebook above and beyond what he had thus far revealed.

“The journal was in a leather satchel that he kept about him at all times,” added Thomas, watching for a reaction. It came swiftly and decisively. With a face that had paled by the minute, Sir Joseph Banks paced over to his desk and tugged at the top drawer.

“A leather satchel like this?” he asked, shunting a package wrapped in brown paper across the desk. The reek of river water rose from it.

Thomas felt his hands begin to tremble as he gingerly opened the folds of the sodden parcel. Inside there was a kid leather satchel. The crest of the Royal Society was emblazoned on the front. He felt his stomach lurch.

Sir Joseph knuckled the desk.

“A waterman handed it in this morning, hoping for a reward,” he said. He sat down, his elbows on the desk, and tented his long fingers, brushing his lips as he thought. Finally he said, “This journal, do you have any idea of its contents?”

Thomas shook his head. “I only know that it was to act as my guide, sir,” he replied. “Surely it would be of no consequence to anyone else.”

Sir Joseph shot back, “That is where you are mistaken, Silkstone.”

Questions flooded into Thomas’s mind, but he held his tongue. He could tell from Sir Joseph’s expression that he was struggling to keep a secret from him, weighing up in his own mind whether he should divulge the truth. Doubt hovered in the air until, after an agonizing moment, the great man brought down his hands on the desk without revealing anything.

“This is a worrying development, Dr. Silkstone,” he admitted. His tone was measured, as if he were trying to deny the gravity of the discovery in the Thames. “The cutpurses at the docks would not think twice about robbing a man for a few coins,” he concluded. “But a journal would be worthless to them. ’Tis probably bobbing on the Thames tide as we speak.”

Thomas did not follow his master’s logic. He knew that a common thief would not have tossed the satchel into the river, but would have tried to sell it. He held Sir Joseph’s gaze for a moment, as if willing him to act, but he merely stared down at the floor, leaving Thomas with the impression that he was not prepared to divulge any more information. Then, without warning, the great man looked up and slapped the desk.

“I thank you for your help, Silkstone, but now you must leave the matter of Mr. Bartlett with me.” He rose and changed his tone. “Instead you must concentrate your considerable expertise on cataloguing all those specimens, eh?”

Walking from behind his desk, he offered Thomas his hand and patted him on the arm. There was a finality in his tone; their conversation was at an end.

“Of course, sir,” replied Thomas with an uneasy bow. Sir Joseph’s abruptness troubled him and he left the meeting, at which he had sought reassurance, deeply disturbed. Not only was he now more fearful for Matthew Bartlett’s safety, he was left wondering what knowledge contained in Dr. Welton’s journal was so momentous that a man may have been kidnapped, or even killed, for it.

The pale sun was low in the sky when they arrived back at Boughton Hall. Lupton had taught Richard the chorus of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” on the return journey and the boy was in high spirits, giving a hearty solo rendition before they reached the steps at the front of the house. Helping Lydia and her son down from the cart, the estate manager was in an equally buoyant mood.

“Thank you for your company today, my lady,” he told her, taking her hand and kissing it.

Lydia smiled. “No. It is I who must thank
you,
Mr. Lupton. My son has obviously enjoyed himself enormously.”

“And you?” he shot back, somewhat impertinently, Lydia thought.

She paused for a moment, unsure as to how to react. “Yes,” she said, nodding finally. “Very much.”

The estate manager beamed once more. “I am glad,” he replied, before turning to the young earl and lifting him down from the cart. “And I’ll wager you’ve had a fine time, sir!” he cried.

Richard nodded his tousled head. “Can we do it again tomorrow, Mamma? Can we?” he exclaimed.

Lydia glanced quickly at Lupton. “We shall see, my sweet,” she replied. “We shall see.” And with that she put her hand on Richard’s shoulder and turned to see Howard waiting to greet them at the top of the house steps.

Later that day, when Nurse Pring took Richard to his bed, Lydia found herself at her writing desk once more. She had resumed her letter to Thomas, but still the words did not flow easily. Buoyed by the morning’s outing in the snow, she felt lighthearted and cheerful. And yet she did not want her letter to give the impression that she was experiencing happiness without him, less still that the source of her mirth was the new estate manager about whom he knew nothing.

A grain of guilt planted itself into her conscience. Just why, she did not know. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Richard, just before he turned to climb the stairs with Nurse Pring, had told her: “This has been the best day of my life.” His words washed over her in a great wave of joy and she had rushed forward and hugged him. Now, on reflection, as the candles cast a soft glow over her own script, she realized that her son’s happiness had been brought about by a man barely known to either of them. A virtual stranger had burst into their lives like a jester into a king’s court, and brought with him fun and laughter. There was an infectious vigor and cheerfulness in Lupton’s manner that clearly endeared him to Richard. He was a clown, a playfellow, and—dare she even think it—he was fast becoming like a father. It was a role she had reserved for Thomas. He was the man who should take her son sledging or riding or fishing. He was the one who should make him laugh, or comfort him if he grazed his knees or burned his fingers. But he was not there, nor would he be in the foreseeable future.

Dipping her nib into the inkpot, she sighed deeply before starting another paragraph of her letter to Thomas.
We have enjoyed a pleasant enough day,
she wrote.

Phibbah sat huddled in the attic room, her legs drawn up to her chest. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks but the bridle around her head meant that if she cried out the spike would pierce her tongue. The iron collar weighed heavily around her neck and the chain was so short that she could barely move away from the wall.

Mr. Roberts had clamped the cage over her head last night, just after the beating. She had tried to bite him as he forced open her mouth to slip the plate between her teeth, but he only pushed it in harder, cutting her lips. Now the taste of blood and iron melded into one, seasoned with the salt of her tears. Unable to sleep for the pain and the cold, she had been plotting her revenge.

She’d once heard Mr. Roberts tell Cook he always ate well after he’d given a good whipping. He said all that exercise whetted his appetite and the sight of the blood put him in mind of a thick, juicy sirloin. As it was, he was usually happy to settle for a large bowl of Mistress Bradshaw’s mutton stew with dumplings. Well, she hoped that he had supped heartily because soon he would be eating his last meal.

Her blurry gaze slid along the cold floorboards to the far corner of the room, beyond her reach. There, hidden from view, pressed into a dark, dank crevice, was her obeah bag, a bag so powerful that not even Mr. Roberts with his callused hands and foul breath, or Missa Carfax with her small eyes and tongue as sharp as a bullwhip, could resist its magic. The nail clippings, the pig’s tail, the grave dirt, and the blood from her unborn child—all the special ingredients were there, new-charmed by the obeah-man. Together they were stronger than any chain or manacle. Soon she would put a curse on this house and so terrible would be its power that every white man and woman who entered it would fall on their knees and beg for death.

She was thinking about the bag when the wedge of light that sliced under the door was suddenly darkened by a shadow. She heard footsteps. Patience, perhaps, bringing her some illicit scraps from the kitchen, or Venus come to check on her. Yes, it was Venus. She recognized the slow glide of her footsteps. But there was another footfall; heavy, masculine, and a voice she did not know. In the landing’s glow she saw the two shadows meet.

“You have the boy?” said he.

“Yes,” replied Venus.

“They will come at midnight. See that he is ready.”

They parted and the footsteps retreated once more, leaving Phibbah alone and confused in the dark.