Turning the Stones (22 page)

The baron made an observation about the topography of Cheshire.

A hush descended as Eliza pondered his remark, but before it could settle, Mrs Waterland prompted her with a terrifying smile.

Eliza said abruptly, ‘What is the point of your coming to Nantwich?’

The baron placed his coffee bowl on the enamelled surface of the table beside his chair with a precise click. He leaned back and interlaced long fingers that called tendrils to mind. His wig sat gravely on the rostrum of his high forehead. He said, ‘You know, of course, that a very fine botanist stems from Nantwich. His name is John Gerard. He planted an exceptional physic-garden in London and published important catalogues of plants.’

The baron’s English was inhumanly faultless.

Mrs Waterland said in a silky tone, ‘Oh, we are great admirers of Mr Gerard.’

‘And you go about drawing plants?’ Eliza broke in.

‘I record them and their parts, yes.’

‘I suppose it is as good an excuse to travel as any.’ Eliza laughed as if she had said something witty. ‘And have you a patron, sir?’

‘My only master is science. It is on behalf of science that I attend to the task of systemising nature.’

‘Heavens, that sounds important,’ Eliza said, and made a face whose bared teeth and starting eyes were meant to convey mock-alarm.

Mrs Waterland was quick then to seize the tiller of the conversation and steer it away from Eliza’s dangerous reef. She remarked that we were living in an age of great enterprise and extraordinary discoveries where gentlemen of learning, how marvellous, breaking new ground, frightfully rational, the triumph of pragmatism, and so on and so forth … While her mother flattered the baron, Eliza quaffed her coffee with the heartiness of a Viking recently home from a successful raid.

Mrs Waterland was saying, ‘Inland navigations are the way of the future, so one is told. In fact my husband has recently purchased shares in a canal company.’

‘Has he?’ the baron said, without a flicker in his static gaze.

‘The trick is to sell them on for an immediate profit before the canal is built.’

‘I suppose he does not wish to own an actual canal. In England one buys imaginary things with imaginary money, one hears.’

Mrs Waterland laughed deliberately. She said, ‘The canal will make its profit. It will charge private operators tolls for its use and the company will use the funds from the tolls to
pay back the loans and pay dividends to its shareholders. But I am sure I have no need to explain financial workings to one as astute as you, sir.’

‘On the contrary, I know little of these matters. I can only commend your husband on his purchase.’

Mrs Waterland said, ‘In fact, it was done on the advice of our son, who has directed us latterly into numerous schemes certain to amplify our fortune.’

‘Your family is quite populated by clever fellows. I am told that another relation of yours is the mastermind behind the entertainment we must enjoy this evening.’

‘Ha!’ Eliza snorted. ‘Cousin Arthur is a bubble, if you ask me. The genius in our family is my brother, Johnny Waterland. He lives in London and makes huge amounts of money.’

The baron’s eye skewed towards his coffee bowl and he seemed to find something amusing in it.

Eliza pressed on, ‘Johnny is a banker and he has a townhouse and—’

‘That will do, my love,’ Mrs Waterland murmured.

‘Is it true, I wonder,’ the baron mused, ‘that the English economy is fuelled by credit? What a marvel. Now I suppose almost anyone in this land can buy more than he can directly afford.’

The baron did not intend to stay for an answer to his question. Drawing a gold watch from his pocket, he flicked open its lid with a thumbnail and expressed surprise at the revelation of the time. He snapped shut the lid, raised a perfunctory eyebrow and said he had had no idea that he had wasted so much of our time with his tiresome chatter.

‘Not at all.’ Mrs Waterland was swiftly casual.

The baron rose to his feet. With the sun at his back, he looked like one of those treasured artefacts locked up in Lady Broome’s cabinets. He exchanged a stiff bow with Mrs Waterland as if he were peering over a vertiginous parapet and said, ‘You are too kind.’

Suddenly he was gone, leaving behind an effulgent afterglow: sunlight poured through the window on to his empty chair.

My thoughts swung towards Eliza and the hopes that had been minced by the baron’s cutting condescension. But scarcely had the door closed on him than she jumped up and exclaimed, ‘I believe he was much taken by me!’

Do you see why I esteem Eliza in spite of all her blockheadedness? I know she could stand accused of delusion, but there is no gainsaying the mighty engine of her self-belief. It does overrun her obstacles with a roar. I felt a mixture of pity and tenderness towards her, too, especially when I caught the expression of fury on Mrs Waterland’s face.

*

The south side of Weever Hall gives on to a rose garden, enclosed on two sides by high sandstone walls and on the third by a long, shaded walk. That is where people had congregated, the local gentry and visitors from London, under lavish stars and a full moon. The scent of night flowers mingled with the aroma of roasted meat – there were two or three pigs and a flock of chickens rotating on clockwork spits. I watched the scene from the open windows of the breakfast room, where we, the maids and footmen, were stationed. Lady Broome was highly visible in a blatant silver gown and high hair, sweeping through the crowd. She was followed by footmen bearing cordials on glass salvers. Mrs Waterland, sumptuous in blonde
silk with pink serpentine ruchings, was sitting at one of the tables under the pergolas with the baron and Eliza. She was not disposed to give up easily.

There was an air of expectation as the gathering awaited Mr Paine’s electrical demonstration. I could see him directing the placement of a contraption at the rear of the stage – and with him, to my surprise, Johnny Waterland. I had not known he was expected at Weever Hall. Then I caught sight of Eliza zigzagging towards the house holding her cream silk apron out in front of her like a tray. The apron was marred by a horrible brown blotch. In her excitement at the arrival of her brother, she had dropped a chocolate ice on it. I relieved her of the apron and she hurried back towards the stage.

I found from a passing footman that it was possible to enter the laundry through an external door in the service alley. ‘Here,’ he said, and handed me his torch – a tallow candle in a wooden holder. ‘It is dark along there. Second door on the left.’

I stepped down into a shadowy passageway and paused to let my eyes adjust to the gloom. A huge boom sounded from the garden – it made me jump – and was followed by a noise like splintering ice, and assorted squeals from the ladies gathered. I swung round to see in the distance a yellow flash illuminate the stage and then a rope of blinding white fire leaped into the air with a harsh crackle. At that instant a hand grasped the ties of my apron and yanked me violently backwards.

I screamed so hard I tasted blood in my throat, but the scream was lost amid loud shouts of
Bravo!
and scattered applause commending the electrical display. An arm wrapped around my waist and dragged me struggling into the darkness. I knew at once that it was Barfield. I recognised the rotten smell of
him and the rasp of his breathing. From behind he clamped one hand over my mouth and forced the other down the front of my bodice where he clutched at my breast with a savage force, ripping the lace at my neck as he did so. I was still holding the chamberstick, its light reeling wildly. Barfield made a noise at the back of his throat, pushed my face to the passage wall and sank his teeth into my shoulder like a predator that meant to devour me. Grievous fear and outrage surged through my body and at the same time in a still corner of my mind I found the space to know what I must do. I slackened my resistance, which encouraged Barfield to loosen his grip. As I twisted around to face him, he let his hands came free from my mouth and my clothes. I saw his face wavering under the flame of my candle, his eyes glistening. He tangled his fingers in my hair to keep me close and the other hand fumbled at his breeches. The fumbling distracted him. With all my might I struck the side of his head with the chamberstick. He staggered backwards into the darkness, crashing into shrubs and bushes as he went, and I sprang away and fled towards the house.

I stopped on the way by a shrub, a dark solid-looking bush, a laurel perhaps. I was dizzy, the violet sky spun slowly, I remember that, and I had the urge to rest against the shrub for support and at the same time I knew that it was not reliable, that there was nothing to lean on and I would simply sink into its scratchiness. I pulled myself together and reached the safety of the kitchen. I was still clutching the chamberstick. I abandoned it on a sideboard and stepped awayfrom its taint, my heart thudding in my ribs. My hands felt sticky but I hesitated to wipe them on my apron. Incredibly, it was unstained. I expected to see it covered in gouts of blood. That’s
when with a gasp of panic I remembered Eliza’s apron. It must have fallen from my arm when Barfield seized me. I became aware at that point of some of the domestics gawking at the back entry and news of a commotion in the garden. How awkward it would be for Eliza and her mother, especially at such a delicate pass in their pursuit of the baron, if a servant of theirs were found to be involved in a sordid altercation.

I hurried outdoors again as if curious to find what had taken place. I bypassed the knot of people gathered around Barfield. Several men, servants and gentlemen both, were milling about with torches at the entrance of the passageway. I made my way there, crouched down at the step and flailed around until my fingers brushed against silk. As I snatched up Eliza’s apron, one of the servants asked me sharply what I was doing. I explained that I was en route to the laundry and I was allowed to pass.

In the laundry I filled a basin with shaking hands and began to soap the apron. Tears pricked at my eyes. I could not stop playing out Barfield’s assault in my mind’s eye. I was terrified not only by his violence, but by his persistence. Was I to be hounded by this beast until he succeeded in his aim? I felt anger then, burning in my heart. If I had dashed out his brains I would not have felt the least remorse. I imagined raining blow after unstoppable blow on him until he lay lifeless at my feet. I was shocked by the depth of my fury. I had not known that such a savage creature dwelled in the dark core of my nature. I looked down at my hands and shivered. The water was cold and greasy. How long had I been standing at the basin pulping the apron? It floated in the basin looking unpleasantly membraneous, as though it had slithered out of something monstrous.

The Summer House and the Servants’ Hall, Sedge Court
June, 1765

It was two or three days after Lady Broome’s dance and Mrs Waterland and Eliza were taking tea with Johnny and Mr Paine in the summer house. I was helping Eliza to manage the new samovar. I was glad of any reason to keep my face turned from the conversation, because they were discussing the assault on Barfield at Weever Hall. ‘What a terrifying figure he made,’ said Mrs Waterland, ‘staggering into the garden like that, dripping blood. I would not be surprised if the assailant were one of these Irish harvesters that begin to crowd the countryside this time of year.’

Naturally, I had said nothing to anyone about my part in the scene, and I thought it likely that Barfield would not mention me either, because there was no advantage in it for him. He would bide his time for another attack.

‘Is he in order, Johnny, do you think?’

‘Of course he is, Mama,’ Johnny said testily. ‘Barfield is indestructible.’

‘How impressive,’ Mrs Waterland said, ‘to take a ghastly attack in such stride.’

‘Oh, it amuses him to meet with a contradiction.’

‘But he could have been killed.’

‘Actually, the blow was rather feeble, you know.’ I felt
Johnny’s eyes stray in my direction and I could not help but flush. Of course, I realised then, he knew exactly what had occurred. But he would not say anything about it either, I wagered, for the same reason that I would not. It would not please his mother.

Mrs Waterland said, ‘So kind of Lady Broome to put up Mr Barfield while he recovers. We would have him here, you know, were he well enough to go abroad. Although, perhaps he would not get on with Baron von Boxhagen, who shall visit us imminently. I am in quite a mind to hold a dance when he arrives. Is there any chance, Arthur, that Mrs Paine might be persuaded to join us?’

Mr Paine was fiddling with a narrow wooden box that he had brought out of his coat pocket. At Mrs Waterland’s question his lips tightened. ‘Alas, Mrs Paine is on a pilgrimage to her nieces and nephews in Scotland. You know how very fond she is of her northern relations.’

A cloud passing at that moment across the sun dimmed the interior of the summer house and caused the encrusted walls to heave with grotesque shadows. I felt a pang of regret for the original, simple sandstone now concealed by the layers of shellwork and glass mosaic.

The box that Mr Paine was playing with looked rather like a receptacle for storing quills. He was sliding its cover back and forth with a click-clack sound and fussing with the thing in a manner that suggested he wished it to be a talking point. Eliza inadvertently gave him an opening by enquiring of Johnny, ‘Did you arrive in time to see Cousin Arthur’s show? I was petrified of the sparks, you know. How on earth does he make them?’ This said as if Mr Paine were two hundred
miles away in his study at Poland Street instead of perched at the tea table. The Waterlands have quite a genius for taking no notice.

Mr Paine leaned forward, a faint frown of eagerness pulling his ovine eyes closer together, and explained that an electrical charge, generated from a machine, produced the sparks. Johnny, getting wind of his cousin’s need for attention, was not disposed to satisfy it – he was looking about his chair as though he had lost something. Mr Paine was obliged to put his shoulder to the topic and launch it himself.