Deryn Lake - Death at the Wedding Feast

He went up the stairs rather slowly, thinking of this, and made his way to Elizabeth’s room where he knocked on the door.

‘Come in,’ she called.

She had changed from her travelling dress and was sitting deshabille at her dressing table, brushing her long black hair.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘how timely. You may do this for me.’

‘A pleasure, Milady.’

He looked at her reflection and saw that though the birth had weakened her she was now recovering and some of the old fire was returning to her. He thought of Dr Hunter’s description of her — red wine and spice — and realized yet again what a rare creature she was.

‘Do you remember the first time we met?’ he asked.

‘Very clearly. I can recall fighting you in the fog.’

‘I was thinking more of when we came back to this house.’

In the mirror he saw her smile up at him and then turn to look at him. ‘I can remember that. I said I longed to kiss you. And that is what I want now. If it is no trouble, Mr Rawlings.’

‘Never a difficulty as far as you are concerned, Madam.’

And he bent his head to her upturned face and kissed her full on the lips while one hand reached down inside the open robe she was wearing to caress her lovely neck and shoulders.

They went to bed but did not make love, for John knew how bad for her this would be. But for all that they gently played and embraced until Elizabeth finally fell asleep. Then the Apothecary rose quietly and tiptoed along the corridor until he reached his own room. His trunk had arrived long since and some clothes had been sent up to him at Lady Sidmouth’s so that he had been able to abandon the ghastly green and was now soberly attired in Venetian blue. Looking in the clothes press he determined to go to Exeter on the morrow and see a tailor. And also to renew his acquaintance with Sir Clovelly Lovell and try to glean some more information on that soon-to-be-married fellow, the elderly Earl of St Austell.

‘The trouble with old St Austell,’ said Sir Clovelly Lovell, thoughtfully nibbling with sharp little teeth upon a sweetmeat, ‘is that he won’t act his age. Still thinks he’s a helluva fellow. Can’t — or will not — accept the fact that he’s seventy-two.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed John, who was sitting opposite him, toying with a glass of sherry. ‘I hadn’t realized that he was quite that old.’

‘In his younger days he was the very devil of a rake. And with respect to Mr Hogarth, St Austell’s progress was from woman to woman. Just couldn’t get enough of ’em. Different one every night — that is, when he wasn’t on the ran-tan.’

‘He was a heavy drinker?’ asked John.

‘He was everything you can imagine,’ said Sir Clovelly with weight, and allowed his words to sink in.

The Apothecary was frankly bemused. His mental picture of Lord St Austell had been one of an old man in love with a girl a quarter of his age, probably a frail old being whose last declining years were going to be spent happily while she ran around him. But a different portrait was emerging, that of a raging-bull young man — large limbed and ready with his fists — who would grow into something quite cruel in his declining years.

‘What does he look like?’

‘A giant of a fellow, though somewhat stooped these days I fear. He had a shock of long hair, now white, on the top of which he would slap a wig which never sat right on his head. His eyes are a brilliant blue. The sort of eyes which one could imagine as belonging to the Devil — or am I being fanciful? He has strong features, with a great roman nose in the middle of his face, and a large mouth full of gnashing white teeth. These are now false, alas, and somewhat more subdued than once they were. I remember him biting some young man in a tavern brawl and the poor chap was scarred for life.’

‘He sounds a thoroughly nasty piece of work.’

‘He has mellowed as we all do with the onset of age. Uses a stick to support himself and has grown somewhat hard of hearing. But he’s still got a violent temper so I hope his poor bride does not step out of line.’

If ever there was a young woman more likely to misbehave than Miranda Tremayne, John would like to see her. A cold shudder clutched his spine and he shivered involuntarily.

It was noon and a raw March day, with a chill wind blowing from the river and echoing down the streets of Exeter. Against its cold Sir Clovelly had had fires lit in every room, so within his house in The Close it was warm and welcoming. John, who had taken Elizabeth’s small carriage into town, had called upon the tailor who had made his scarlet suit and had then gone on to visit Sir Clovelly, that sweet little man whose passion was eating. He had put on weight even since John had last seen him and now resembled a tub, in fact he was almost as broad as he was long. But his jolly face with its many chins and his merry little eyes all a-twinkle welcomed his guest, so that John was pleased to sit down with one of his dear friends and partake of a midday repast, at which John picked. Sir Clovelly, on the other hand, dug in with much enjoyment and smacking of the lips.

‘So old Montague’s getting married again,’ he said between mouthfuls.

‘Yes. Do you know the bride-to-be?’

‘A cousin of Lady Sidmouth did you say?’

‘Child of a cousin I would imagine.’ John leant forward. ‘She’s a bit of a handful in my opinion. Rather a rude little madam.’

‘Old St Austell will soon cure her of that. He won’t stand for any nonsense.’

‘But surely at his age…’

‘Don’t you believe it. He’ll take his cane to her if necessary.’

John sat nonplussed. ‘Well, the situation is not as I read it at all. I thought she would be marrying some compliant old fool who would sit in the corner chumbling his gums while she went out and about as she pleased — and with whom she pleased.’

Sir Clovelly shook his head. ‘Well, unless St Austell has plunged downhill in the last few weeks I would suggest, my dear John, that you have got that entirely wrong. Montague will guard her like a lion and no doubt about it.’

That said, Sir Clovelly dived on to a plate of red blancmanges made with port and began to attack them earnestly.

On his way home John called in at the apothecary’s shop to cancel his order for Feverfew and replace it with Marsh Mallow. He asked to be sold some roots and seeds which he intended to boil in wine to help Elizabeth’s supply of milk and to ensure that her breasts did not become lumpy or swollen. He had just been handed the packet by the apothecary who, by now, he knew quite well, when the door of the shop opened in a hurry and a young and flustered woman came in. Seeing John, she backed to the other end of the counter and pretended to study what was on display. The apothecary approached her.

‘Can I be of assistance, Madam?’

She shot a look at John and muttered something in an undertone.

‘I’m sorry, Madam, I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘I wish to have something to bring on my courses,’ she whispered.

John immediately guessed the situation. The woman’s monthly moon flow was late and she feared she might be pregnant. He had one or two remedies for such an occurrence in his own shop but this was Exeter and he wondered what the other apothecary was going to do.

His answer came at once. ‘If you would like to step through into my compounding room we can discuss the matter in private.’

‘Certainly,’ she replied, but at that moment her reticule came undone and the contents spilled over the floor of the shop.

‘Allow me,’ said John, and helped her to retrieve the contents.

It was only as he was leaving the shop that he found a card case with some newly printed cards inside it. ‘Lady Imogen Beauvoir’, he read, before hastily placing the cards back in their holder. He retraced his steps and looked round but Lady Imogen was still ensconced in the compounding room. John left the card case on the counter in a place where she was bound to see it and went on his way.