Easton's Gold Page 4

  “Yes, my lord?” His hand feels like heated iron around her wrist. She has to make an effort of will not to wriggle. “Promise me you will help me find my son.” “I promise,” she whispers. Suddenly, she is released.

  With a gasp she makes for the door then, collecting herself, turns back to make sure the Marquis is comfortable.

  Already the blanket is moving with a steady, light snoring.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fleet approaches the crossroads. The night is quiet save for a faint buzz from the market beyond the dark trees. He peers hard through the dim moonlight. At first it looks like a cluster of branches awaiting an axe to turn it to firewood, but as he draws closer, he sees the straight edge of a post. Then a slight movement reveals a human outline—the dome of a head and skeletal shoulders. The man is on his knees and bent forward, his arms outstretched. Fleet’s heart quickens.

  Fleet has walked to the very southeastern edge of London to this half-forgotten crossroads because this is where erring slaves from the market are punished in the stocks. He has come to fulfill his promise.

  Slowing down, he closes upon the man. Pebbles from his shoes scatter around the slave’s knees, but the slave—chest heaving with pain, arms wrenching against the shackles—doesn’t look up. Fleet waits a moment, wondering how to start. He hears the slave’s unsteady breathing then becomes aware of his own. All of a sudden, he is at a loss. His clothes feel alien to his skin; it is as though he is wearing the enemy’s colours in war. Too much time has passed for him to claim kinship with the slave. I am no longer what I think I am. I should fold back into the shadows and disappear.

  But now the man’s head moves, and his eyes stare full on him. The expression, which Fleet catches as the moon brightens, is at first difficult to fathom—just a steady, watery gaze. It might be fear of fresh blows to add to the bruises on his forehead or lips; it might be hope, or defiance, or hatred. But it is not new to Fleet. Slowly he remembers; that look is beyond pain, despair, or anger. It is man stripped and alone.

  Fleet crouches down and the pebbles scrunch under his feet. The slave lurches so violently from the stocks that his wrists tug hard upon the wood, his shoulders bulging.

  “Stop!” Fleet whispers. “Stop struggling. You’ll tear away your hands!”

  The slave calms a little, slackening the pull on his wrists. But his eyes are alive now, and Fleet can hear his short gasps.

  “I’ve come to free you,” Fleet says, taking the long chisel from his coat pocket. He slides the bar through the hoops in the stocks bracket. There is a lock joining both hoops and thereby securing the contraption. By working the whole bracket section away from the wood, Fleet knows he can at once open the stocks and prevent its further use. Crouching on the opposite side from the slave, he holds his bar at the top and begins levering toward him. As he had hoped, the wood is aging and half-rotten. In a few seconds, it begins to creak, a sign that the bracket is loosening.

  The slave pants harder as he hears the creaking.

  “Just hold tight,” Fleet reassures him. “In a few seconds, you’ll be free.”

  The slave shuffles forward on his knees. “You hold!” he hisses through the dark. “You hold what you do!”

  The lock is already tearing from the wood, but Fleet stops pulling and frowns back at the man.

  “You not from the market. You not the man who put me here.”

  “No,” Fleet explains. “I’m going to break you out.”

  “You break me out. They hang me!”

  They are now face to face on either side of the stocks, the man steady-eyed and defiant.

  “They won’t find you,” Fleet says quietly. But he draws his metal bar out of the lock hoops to calm the man. “Everything will be good. I know how to hide you.”

  “You know?” he repeats. “What you know? You know nothing.”

  Fleet feels the steam of the man’s breath on his face. Something tightens in him.

  “So you want to remain a slave?” he says, raising his voice. He puts his hands on his knees as though to rise.

  “Want?” the man growls. A touch of the slave’s spittle lands on Fleet’s cheek. “Want got nothing to do with it. I am a slave in this place. Will always be. You go play white man’s games some other place.”

  “You think that’s what it is?” Fleet splutters. “White man’s games? You have me wrong.”

  “I don’t care,” the slave moans. “I don’t care who you are or what you do.”

  Sighing, Fleet slips the chisel back in his coat and stands.

  “Now,” the slave spits, “leave me be before you get me into trouble.”

  Without a word, Fleet turns and scrunches through the gravel back the way he came.

  __________

  MY FEET ARE HEAVY AND MY knees are stiff, but walking is not the great effort I had thought it would be. It seems I am not dying after all.

  Hardly breathless, I lean against the window frame and gaze out. Moonlight glimmers on the Thames as though its rolling waters were made of onyx. Night has cleared, and the stars begin to pierce the sky; the houses and trees of the south bank stand distinct in silver and black. Downstream, I catch the glistening Southwark Church spire. Birds no bigger than ink blots skim and tumble above the river’s surface. Otherwise there is little activity on the river. Only an old punt weaves its way gingerly through the current, heading, it seems, for the Fleet River.

  A sudden cool breeze ripples my nightshirt, and I have to close my eyes and smile. What route did the roving air take on its way here? I breathe in deeply and taste the clean, crisp air of the north where bears the colour of snow hunt amid the frozen dunes.

  They will humour me, I know. When I lay out my plans for the voyage, they will whisper and titter. Jacques will mock me, of course, in private if I seem in good health and to my face if I am sick. They will imagine the journey is a whim that will be forgotten in a day or so. When I do not forget; when I will not be swayed; when I pay the captain and close up the house; when victuals, livestock, supplies, and furniture are packed in boxes and loaded on a ship at the Bermondsey pier, then they will worry.

  Illness and age are my only enemies. I must become fit. I must exercise and keep taking this medicine. Action is the only answer to this kind of remorse, and if I spend the last breath of my life, so be it; I will go to Newfoundland to find the boy.

  I can hardly wait until dawn kisses the dark rooftops opposite. How quickly I will turn this household into a torrent of preparation. My heart beats faster at the thought. I imagine the spittle of salt water on my face again.

  I have heard once more that ancient herald that first called me to the sea. I must and will follow.

  __________

  GABRIELLE IS HALFWAY UP THE broad aisle of a vast cathedral. Overhead are lofty arches. The floor shines with black and white tiles. Stone angels line both sides of the aisle. A young priest behind the altar, host held high in both hands, smiles at Gabrielle, beckoning. Gabrielle tries to make her way to the altar, but the angels converge upon her, jutting into the aisle, blocking her path. She tries to weave in and out as she presses on toward the priest, but an angel toe snags her dress and she has to bend and tug it free. Then a wing tip nudges her shoulder, and a stone hand becomes entangled in her hair. Still the priest beckons, so Gabrielle continues, letting the angel hand rip away some of her hair. She weaves, dodges and even climbs over the angels, but the priest and the altar seem to come no nearer.

  Suddenly, there is a ringing sound, faint and far off. Gabrielle assumes it to be the cathedral bell above her but wonders why it should be so quiet when it ought to be deafeningly loud. She tries to call out to the priest, telling him the angels are blocking her way, but the words get stuck in her mouth, and she finds herself staring at a grey plaster ceiling.

  The angels are gone, and so is the cathedral. But the bell is still ringing.

  Gabrielle sits up in bed and listens; the ringing stops for a second then starts again. It’s the Mar
quis. He must be in trouble! She throws off her blankets, spins around and lowers her feet to the floor. She looks across to see Philippa open-mouthed, close-eyed. On the other side is Maria, her face buried in the pillow. The light is faint; it must be only just dawn.

  Gabrielle throws on her day clothes and winds a scarf around her hair. In a second she has opened the hatch and is climbing down, imagining all manner of ills that may have befallen the old man. She sees him lying in a pool of fresh blood, having fallen out of his bed. She sees him clutching his chest, his face turning deep green from asphyxiation. He cannot die. He cannot die. She repeats this over and over as she runs down another flight of stairs. There is just too much at stake for him to die.

  She reaches the ground floor and hurls herself at his door. Flinging it open, she stands upon the threshold trying to make sense of what is before her.

  Standing expectantly, back to the window, fully clothed in formal attire, is the Marquis himself. His eyes are alert, his hair well combed, and there even appears to be a streak of dark in it Gabrielle hadn’t noticed before. Unlike Jacques, the Marquis researched the current fashion in England before returning. The result on him now—black jacket with white puritan collar, black breeches, and dark shoes with silver buckles—would make him not only respectable but fashionable were he to stray onto a London street.

  The Marquis stares at her, a trace of amusement playing on his lips. Gabrielle realizes she has been standing with her mouth open for some time.

  “My lord!” she eventually exclaims, scuttling into the room. She realizes that her eyes have become quite moist. She has to palm back a tear.

  “My lord,” she says with a sniffle, “you are a miracle!”

  The Marquis bows and unclasps the hands behind his back. He places the bell on the window ledge and takes a couple of paces, circling the room. His movements are slow, and he walks with deliberation, as if afraid of falling. “Much credit goes to you, Gabrielle, for finding the only honest apothecary in London. The profession is infested with tricksters who publish their false cures far and wide.”

  Gabrielle sighs in happiness. “I’m so glad it’s working. I should go again straightaway.”

  “Yes, Gabrielle, you must. And then you must bring your apothecary back here. I have a favour to ask him.”

  “I’ll try,” Gabrielle says hesitantly. “He is a strange man, but I’ll try.”

  The Marquis looks at her with a half smile. “I’m sure you could persuade any man to do anything.”

  Gabrielle smiles again, nods and backs out of the room.

  Her cheeks burn and she has an odd, bittersweet feeling as she hurries through the crisp, dawn air. It moves her that the Marquis thinks she is charming. Yet the phrasing he used is notthe compliment she wanted from him. She recalls the words and says them over and over, changing them so that they are more to her taste. “I’m sure you could persuade any person to do anything.” Much nicer than “any man.” And perhaps that’s what he meant to say.

  The cobbles around her clatter with activity just like yesterday, and Gabrielle has to slow down and dodge carts, donkeys, and groups of small boys before she reaches Fleet’s door.

  This time it does not open to her push, so she balls her fist and bangs hard three times. Nothing happens. She takes a few steps backwards and looks up.

  “Sir!” she shouts. “Mr. Fleet!”

  The lattice windows stare blankly down at her; most are dark, but one diamond catches the rising sun.

  She makes a voice tunnel with her hands. “Mr. Fleet, sir, please open up. It’s important!”

  __________

  THE VOICE WAS SO CLOSE IT sounded like it must have come from somewhere in his room. Fleet turns on his side. Could it have been a dream? It seemed too loud not to be real.

  “Mr. Fleet, please!” the voice comes again.

  It isn’t a dream and it’s outside. Fleet tumbles out of bed, the skull rolling into the dip in the mattress. He makes for the window, undoes the latch and throws it open.

  Beneath him on the street is Gabrielle smiling broadly at him, showing her white teeth in a way he has not seen before. “I thought you’d never answer!”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” he mutters. Closing the window, he turns back into his room and prepares himself as well as he can, splashing water on his face and changing into his day clothes. In a few moments, he is running down the narrow stairs, crossing the floor and unlatching the front door.

  Gabrielle slips in like a cat uncertain of its welcome.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you, but it’s past dawn.”

  “It must be good news,” he gasps, still a little breathless. “You worried me at first.”

  “He is dressed and walking around the room.”

  Her dark eyes sparkle in a way that is captivating. She is speaking to him as a sister might; there is no reserve at all, and she assumes he will share her joy.

  “That’s wonderful!” Fleet says, still holding the door open. “I suppose you’ll want some more?”

  “Yes,” says Gabrielle, bounding toward the counter ahead of him. “But more than that, I need you.”

  Fleet stops dead.

  She glances back at him, still grinning, then she takes out her purse and surveys everything around her.

  He lets the door shut and coughs, covering the bottom half of his face with his fist, then strides across the room. What does she mean “I need you”? He steps behind the counter and opens the drawer, rubbing his temples as though deep in thought.

  “You have some more, don’t you?”

  Fleet frowns intently, pretending to check.

  “Yes, I still have some,” he says.

  “Could you come with me now back to the Marquis’s house? He needs to see you.”

  “He wants to see me?” Fleet repeats. He had wanted this all along but expected it would take longer.

  “Yes, that’s all right isn’t it? You weren’t open anyway, and it’s just around the corner.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

  Fleet pulls a cloth from a hook and lays it down upon the counter. He begins spooning out a dose of moss powder as large as that of the day before. He senses Gabrielle’s eyes wandering from shelf to shelf.

  “Where is the skull this time? You said it never left the shop.”

  Fleet clears his throat again and slides closed the drawer. “I keep it somewhere safe when I am not guarding the shop.”

  “I could almost believe you take it to bed with you!”

  Fleet glances up at her dark, shining eyes. He returns her smile and starts drawing up the corners of the medicine bag.

  “Can you bring it now for the Marquis to drink out of?”

  Her tone has become more serious, and Fleet feels her attention on him. His face burns in the silence.

  He begins tying the bag with string. “It’s too early for that, but I will come to meet your Marquis.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She knocks quickly three times, and butterflies rise in Gabrielle’s stomach as she waits for an answer.

  “Come,” the Marquis’s voice bellows.

  Glancing backwards to make sure Fleet is still there, she turns the brass door handle. As the door creaks open, she is surprised by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. She hasn’t seen the room in full daylight since they arrived from France and has forgotten the colour of the walls—deep pink like spring tulips.

  As she catches sight of the Marquis, she lets out a laugh of pure joy; he sits behind a writing desk that has been placed diagonally in the far left corner of the room. This must have been arranged within Gabrielle’s half-hour absence. Judging from the yelling back and forth between the servants and the frantic racing around in the hallway, there have been many such directives since she left.

  Gabrielle ushers Fleet to follow her in. The Marquis is scribbling something. The feather of his quill trembles with each movement of the nib. The Marquis at work! Gabr
ielle feels a rush of pleasure. There is something regal in his white hair and stocky frame. Restored, he is like an eagle—noble, powerful, and wise.

  “Mr. Fleet, I presume!” the Marquis says, laying down his quill. He shifts a little, and Gabrielle suspects he would like to rise but is afraid of revealing his infirmity to another man, even the one he has sent for to cure him.

  “At your service, my lord,” Fleet replies in an unfamiliar monotone. He bows at the neck very slightly and walks only a single pace forward. Gabrielle, who is standing between them, backs off to the wall.

  “Should I leave you two, my lord?” she asks.

  “Stay, Gabrielle, as what we have to talk about concerns you also. I do not want to repeat things unnecessarily. My strength is returning, but I must not tempt Providence and undo the good apothecary’s work by taxing myself too early.” Then he addresses the newcomer, “I commend you, Mr. Fleet, your physic works like no other I have taken.”

  “I am glad to be of service,” Fleet says, and again Gabrielle is perturbed by the strained tone in his voice and his too-slight bow. She frowns at the apothecary, wishing he would show for the Marquis some of the respect that she herself feels. But the Marquis himself doesn’t seem to notice anything awry.

  “So, Mr. Fleet,” says the Marquis. “What makes you different?”

  “Different?” the apothecary returns, brow knitted.

  “Why do your treatments work when so many others do not?”

  Fleet appears to think for a moment. “It’s very simple,” he says, shuffling his feet, “so simple that any mystique around myself and my work must disappear upon the hearing.” He looks up at the Marquis whose head is cocked now. “It is merely that I choose my cures by their effect on the body, not by their appeal to the imagination. Salt crystals catch the light; sulphur gives off a strange glow when burning. But their curative powers are limited.”

  “A good answer!” laughs the Marquis, a hint of something youthful retuning to his eye. “A good answer,” he repeats in a whisper. Then he is silent for a moment. “Now, learned apothecary,” he begins again, leaning back in his chair, “what would you say if I told you I intend to uproot myself entirely and take a sea voyage across the Atlantic Ocean?”