Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘Thank you for your company, Madeleine,’ he said, ‘but now I must be on my way. I have much enjoyed our afternoon.’

Madeleine also rose, and took his hands in hers. ‘As have I. I hope there will be other afternoons.’ And, reaching up, she brushed her lips against his.

Thomas’s arms went around her. Feeling her relax and respond, he moved closer to her, his hands on her waist. Her hands reached for his shoulders and she pressed her lips to his. He breathed in the scent of roses. Then suddenly, without warning, she pushed herself away from him.

Thomas stared at her. There were tears in her eyes, and her hands were trembling. He was at a loss. ‘Madeleine, what’s wrong? Have I hurt you?’

Madeleine wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘No, no. It’s my fault. Do forgive me, Thomas. I’m unused to such attention.’

Thomas stepped towards her and held out his hands. ‘I am not exactly practised myself.’

Madeleine laughed. ‘That I find hard to believe, Thomas Hill. A handsome and intelligent man of substance. Do the ladies of Romsey not come calling at your door every day?’

‘Alas, no. If you were to call, however, I would of course throw the door open at once.’ Again, he took her hands, drew her to him, and gently placed his lips on hers. This time, however, she did not respond: her back went rigid and she pushed him away. He went cold. Mary was wrong. This woman had been toying with him. He quickly released her.

‘Thank you for calling, Thomas,’ she said quietly. ‘I will show you to the door.’

Not waiting to be shown, Thomas turned and left.

He walked quickly back to Piccadilly, taking the same route as they had earlier. He noticed neither the bewigged gentlemen in their skirts walking with their spaniels, nor the urchins playing in the street, nor the traders hawking their wares. He passed Somerset House and Worcester House without seeing them and for once the smells of the city went unnoticed by his sensitive nose.

By the time he arrived at the Carringtons’ house he was hot and angry. Angry at Madeleine Stewart for rejecting him, angry at Mary Carrington for giving him false hope, angry at himself for his stupidity.

Unable to face the Carringtons, he went straight to his room. He sat at the table and, as he used to do when wrestling with a difficult cipher, he cleared his mind before allowing it to wander. He was a fortunate man, but there was one thing missing in his life. And now it would remain missing. Despite Mary’s encouragement, Madeleine Stewart had rejected him. Just as she said she had rejected the handsome soldier who wanted to marry her. That Thomas could understand. Soldiers seldom made good husbands or good anything much except soldiers. What was harder to grasp was why there had been no more suitors. The young men of Hertfordshire must be a feeble lot to have let Miss Stewart get away. But was she telling the truth? Perhaps there had been others and she had rejected all of them, just as she had rejected him. Perhaps there was more to her than met the eye. Perhaps, perhaps.

Here he was in London, a city he disliked, recruited by Joseph Williamson to deputize for the absent Dr Wallis and now involved in four murders and a possible nest of spies. He had visited coffee shops and barbers’ shops, alehouses and brothels – well, one brothel – and apart from rumours of a mysterious foreign murderer at large he had learned practically nothing. He had been attacked in the street and had the remains of an ugly scratch on his face to show for it. What was more, his niece was enamoured of a young man who was not as virtuous as he seemed and he would have to do something about it.

And now Madeleine had spurned him. So much for retreat being cowardly. His advance had been repelled with ease. It was time to go home, agreement with Williamson or not. His Majesty’s adviser could find someone else to deputize for Dr Wallis. London was no place for Thomas Hill. His own bed in his own house was where he should be. Tomorrow he would tell Williamson his decision, suffer the inevitable rebuke and go back to Romsey. Decision made, he lay down on the bed.

When at last he went to sleep, he did so with Montaigne whispering in his ear. My life has been full of terrible misfortunes, most of which never happened . Was Madeleine Stewart a ‘terrible misfortune’? She had certainly ‘happened’. Forget her, Thomas, go home and take Lucy with you. And you, monsieur, bugger off back to your cabbages.

WHEN THOMAS WOKE, however, Madeleine was still there. Damnable woman. In the park, she had taken his arm, asked about his family, spoken about her own and hinted at a relationship closer than mere friendship. In St James’s, she had told him he was ‘as fine as any man in the park’. In her house, she had taken his hands, kissed him and smiled into his eyes. Then she had turned to stone. What was he supposed to make of all that? In the early hours of the morning, Thomas knew only that Madeleine Stewart had embarrassed him and he did not take kindly to being embarrassed.

Not bothering with breakfast, he set off for Williamson’s house soon after dawn. If he was still in his bed, that was just too bad. At that hour few other than milkmaids and pure collectors filling their buckets with dog shit were about, and he walked briskly along the Strand and Fleet Street to Chancery Lane. He knocked loudly on Williamson’s door, which was opened, to his surprise, immediately and by Williamson himself.

‘Good Lord, Thomas, you’ve made good time. I sent the messenger no more than half an hour ago,’ exclaimed Williamson, his head turned to the side to favour his lazy eye.

‘Messenger?’

‘Yes, man, messenger,’ and seeing the blank look on Thomas’s face, ‘Don’t tell me he missed you. Then how did you know about the letter?’

‘Letter?’

‘Thomas, it’s too early for games. Make haste, now. We must go at once to the Post Office.’ And with that, he swept out of the house and set off at speed towards Cloak Lane. Thoroughly confused, Thomas hesitated and then followed him.

At the Post Office they were met by Henry Bishop. ‘Joseph, Thomas. Good morning. I thought it best to ask you to come at once.’

They were ushered in and led straight to Bishop’s room. There Samuel Morland and Lemuel Squire were waiting for them. Morland looked even more irascible than when Thomas had last met him.

‘Ah, Samuel,’ said Bishop, ‘here they are. Have you the copy?’

Morland produced a sheet of paper from inside his coat and handed it carefully to Bishop, who handed it equally carefully to Williamson. Thomas wondered fleetingly if, like the silent clerks he had noticed on his first visit, this might be some sort of arcane Post Office ritual and whether, if Williamson handed it to him, he should hand it to Squire. Fortunately, Williamson kept hold of it.

‘Do be seated, gentlemen,’ went on Bishop, ‘and let us discuss what should best be done.’

Still having no idea what they were going to discuss, Thomas took a seat between Squire and Williamson around Bishop’s table and awaited developments. What he really wanted to say to Williamson would have to wait. This was probably not the time to announce he would be leaving London for Romsey that very day.

‘The letter is addressed to A. Silver Esq, Aldersgate, London, and was sent from Holland. We open every letter that comes from there. It arrived two days ago from Yarmouth,’ explained Bishop. ‘Lemuel was indisposed that day so his chief clerk put it on his desk, unopened.’

‘I opened it and had it copied as soon as I returned. Then it was sent on to the collection office in Star Court,’ said Squire. ‘I would normally have had the copy delivered directly to Thomas, but decided to show it to Mr Bishop first.’