Chris Nickson - At the Dying of the Year

They went out along Vicar Lane, past the houses, some grand, some old and tumble-down, then up the Head Row to the Market Cross. Emily’s voice was bright in the cold air, repeating something one of her girls at school had said that had forced her to stifle her laughter.

Other couples were parading arm in arm on Briggate. He saw a few faces he recognized, a girl he’d once liked walking with a man almost old enough to be her father. In the distance he made out the lanky figure of the deputy deep in conversation with a man.

As they crossed over Boar Lane he took a deep breath. Emily had stopped talking. At the door he looked at her. She gave a small nod and he knocked.

James Lister and his wife were in the parlour at the top of the stairs. The fire burned hot in the hearth and the room was full of the smell of roasting beef. Lister rose to greet them, beaming, taking his son’s hand in his own, while his wife, a bird of a woman long cowed into silence by her husband’s opinions and prone to attacks of nerves, stayed seated. The servant brought wine as his father talked, asking with apparent interest after their health and their work. A good host, Rob decided, but he’d seen the man that way before with the rich men of the city, putting them at ease.

Emily sat upright on her chair, her body stiff, her hand clutched tightly around the glass. She’d barely taken a sip, and she’d answered the questions politely but with a minimum of words, her voice soft and low. She’d never been here before, and he saw her glance around curiously, taking in the shelves of books, the thick Turkey rug and dark furniture that spoke quietly of money.

Finally the servant called them through to dinner, and carved the meat once they were seated, juice and blood pooling on the platter. They ate with a few passing compliments on the food, Lister pouring wine for himself three times before he pushed the empty plate away, sighing with satisfaction.

‘Nothing better than a good hot meal,’ he said. ‘Do you get enough of those in your lodgings, Robert?’

‘The landlady feeds me well. I don’t always have time to eat.’

‘You should insist on it. A full belly means a contented mind, an active mind.’

‘What about those who can’t afford to eat?’ Emily asked. ‘There are more than enough of those.’

‘The poor have always been with us,’ Lister said benignly. His wife cut small pieces of meat, chewing and looking around nervously. ‘That’s what the Bible says, isn’t it? And they always will be.’

Emily smiled sweetly. ‘But doesn’t the Bible also talk about the difficulty of a rich man entering heaven, sir?’

Lister laughed. ‘Indeed.’ He laughed and drank more, raising his glass to her. ‘Very sharp, young lady. But it’s the nature of man to have rich and poor. They balance each other; history’s shown us that. I don’t find any shame in having money. I do understand others aren’t as fortunate.’

‘There’s charity for the poor.’

‘There is, and a good thing it can be, too.’ He drank once more. ‘For those who deserve it, of course.’

‘What do you do to help them?’ she asked.

Lister opened his arms, palms upward. ‘That’s not my job, my dear. Plenty of people give – look at Mr Harrison last century with the church and almshouses he gave to the city. The Corporation offers money to those who are without. My job is merely to report it.’

Rob clenched his fists under the table. He could feel the clash rushing closer but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Emily took a tiny sip of wine, just enough to moisten her lips. ‘There but for fortune go all of us. Who can tell what God has in store?’

Lister nodded seriously. ‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Your family knows that well.’

‘We do,’ she agreed. Rob knew his father was baiting her and he felt a small surge of pleasure that she remained so calm. ‘But that was hardly fortune, sir, it was law. I’m sure you’ll agree with that. Laws made for men, not women.’

‘Laws made for all of us,’ Lister countered smoothly. ‘Your grandmother made her choices and had to pay the consequences by law.’

‘Tell me, sir, how much do you know about her?’

‘I know all that’s needful, my dear.’

Emily kept her voice sweet and even. ‘Needful?’ she asked. ‘Then I’m sure you’ll be aware she brought a large dowry that her husband stole from her, as the law allowed.’ She waited no more than a heartbeat and added, ‘More money than your wife commanded, perhaps.’

She stood, turning briefly to thank Rob’s mother for the meal, turned on her heel and left the room. As he stood, Rob saw his mother’s expression still blank, and his father’s eye hard with anger. Then he strode out behind Emily.

They were halfway down Kirkgate, Timble Bridge in sight, before she spoke.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘I know you’d hoped for a reconciliation. But he just goaded me so much.’ She shook her head. ‘And he managed it in so few words.’

‘I was proud of you,’ he insisted. ‘That was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone better him. You left him speechless.’ She gave a sad smile and he pulled her close, her cheek against his. ‘And we never have to go back there again.’

‘When will she start talking?’ James asked. He was kneeling on the floor playing with Isabell. She laughed with clear joy, grabbing for his hands, trying to grab them before he moved them out of reach.

‘Soon enough,’ his father told him. He leaned forward and added in a loud whisper. ‘If she’s like most girls, once she starts she’ll never shut up again.’

‘I heard that, John Sedgwick,’ Lizzie warned him. She’d pulled the old pot off the hearth and was dishing the pottage into bowls. ‘You’d better watch what you tell that lad if you want to eat here again.’

The deputy winked at his son. It felt good to be home, to sit in the firelight with his family. Most of Isabell’s spots had faded, just as the apothecary predicted, and the fear had vanished.

‘Of course, your mam’s not like that,’ he told the boy. ‘There’s not another one like her.’

She placed the food on the table. ‘You’d do well to remember that, too,’ she said with a smile. She scooped up the little girl and sat, holding her carefully on her lap.

It had been a long day. A couple had been robbed as they made their way home from service at St John’s. Young, dark and poor was all the description the pair could offer. It could have been half the young men in Leeds. He’d set two of his men to go through the beer shops and look for someone spending freely; they’d taken him before the clock struck four. Roaring drunk and joyful, he still had one shilling left of the five that he’d stolen. For that he’d spend the next seven years in the Indies. If he was lucky he’d survive long enough to come home.

He’d followed hint and whisper from person to person trying to learn more about Solomon Howard. At the house of someone who’d once clerked for Darden he’d sat in front of an empty grate and heard the man tell how the factor counted every penny and every pound each day.

‘Him and the master, they’d shut the door behind them and plot and scheme for hours.’ The clerk pulled his coat tighter around his chest to try and keep out the chill. ‘God alone knows what they talked about.’

‘What was he like?’ the deputy asked.

‘A cold bugger.’ The man shook his head. ‘Loves his money. I’ll give him this, though, he’s clever. He knows what’ll sell where and how to get the best price for it.’

‘What about whores?’

‘I only saw him working, and it was nothing but business there.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There was a woman he had as a servant for a while, though. She might know something.’