An Appetite for Violets (3 page)

‘Wait, I near forgot my news.’ He held me back with his calloused hand. ‘This footman fellow of hers just come from town. A brown-skinned fellow he is, a right chimney chops, wearing one of them gold footman’s coats. He’d got a letter from London. Billy saw it in his hand. So maybe the master is coming home after all. Sir Geoffrey might put his hand in his pocket when we wed.’

‘Maybe, maybe not, Jem. When he was younger, perhaps. His bride coming up here on her own, that don’t bode well.’

Just then a waft of bitter smoke reached me from the kitchen. ‘My damned pies!’ I cried and turned back inside.

Jem caught my wrist as I turned. ‘Where’s my kiss then?’

‘They’re ruined,’ I snapped. ‘Teg must find you a morsel.’ I am sure that’s what I said that day, that I confused his victuals with his kisses.

When I rescued the pies they were greasy brown and tasted of cinders. ‘You stupid distracted numkin,’ I cursed to myself as I stared at my ruined handiwork.

But before I could tip them in the trough I felt a shadow at my back. Turning about, I found Teg twitching like a puppet on a string.

‘Biddy, come quick. There’s a lady in the kitchen asking for the cook, but I just run off dumb.’

III

Loveday dropped down to squat outside his mistress’s door. He didn’t like those chairs that left his legs dangling, and to stand all day made his old wound ache. Squatting on his haunches, as he had always sat with the other men of Lamahona around the fire, he could think. His velvet breeches pulled at his knees, and his gold-trimmed coat dragged in the dust, but his muscles stretched taut. Behind the door Lady Carinna was weeping and shouting, spitting fire like an angry mountain. He puzzled over the words of the letter he had half an hour earlier secretly opened and read:

Devereaux Court

London

27th October 1772

Dearest Sis,

I received your letter this morning and must confess to my absolute confusion. Why the devil have you journeyed alone all the way up to rustic Cheshire? Puss, what schemes are hatching in that clever head of yours? If you had but invited me, we might have travelled in style together, but instead you abandon me alone here, subject to the ranting of our uncle. He is not happy, sis, that you have left your husband so soon – but then what did he ever know of the feelings of others? As for me, I at least comprehend that you cannot abide another moment in that old man’s disgusting company. Bravo sister, for reclaiming your freedom!

You ask for news of Town, so here is what little I have. In short, the gaming table has not favoured me, but I believe one may win as easily as lose, it is all in the turn of a card. My losses are nothing beside Lord Ridley’s; the rumour mongers report it at £10,000, and he has departed for the Continent to escape the consequences. Our uncle laughed to hear Ridley will pass by his old villa in Italy, claiming he will be harried by another stinging plague of mosquitoes.

Other gossip is that I saw frowsty Sarah Digby about town with your old admirer Napier, who has certainly shown his true colours, as I predicted he would. The story is that they were married last week at the Fleet, all on account of her £30,000. Jane Salcombe is also making a fool of herself, and danced all evening with Col Connaught (only a measly £2000) which is desperate measures indeed.

I am certain that since our uncle has made a match for you, he plots the same for me. My only saving grace is that he thinks me too much of an idle drone to snare some vulgar heiress, and thank the devil for that. He is still as tight as ever, but did give me £50 to parade myself at the pleasure gardens last week, but instead I went alone to Mr Garrick’s Jubilee at Drury Lane and savoured each word spoken by the divine Prince of Denmark.

As for the rest of the cash, I am now the possessor of a black velvet coat that I am sure you will like me in well, but with only a modicum of gold, the rest I lost quite heroically at the tables.

So tell me, is your husband’s estate worth the journeying? Our uncle boasts it is a fine place that brings a steady income. I expect you have splendid horses up there, and judging from your husband’s scarlet Malmsey nose, a fair cellar. P’raps you could invite me to more closely inspect his property while the master continues away? What a jest would that be?

How soon do you return, sis? If not within the week, might you also send a little ready cash, and kiss it for luck to help me turn our fortunes?

I Remain Your Ever Affectionate Brother,

Kitt Tyrone

The letter was from his mistress’s brother, whom his mistress indulged like a child. Yet the meaning was hard to understand. Ridley, Sarah, Napier, Col: they were names of no meaning to him.

His letter-reading was a secret, the gift of kindly Father Cornelius from the mission on Flores. Only a white priest would have paid the high price of a Portuguese dollar for Loveday, broken as he had been after living as a slave of the Damong clan. In return for shelter and schooling he had learned to be a good houseboy and pray on his knees before the big stone Mary. But all that Bible chanting and sitting on hard benches could not make him forget who he was. He was Keraf, father of Barut, a hunter of the Lama Tuka clan. He could read and speak some English, but he still secretly honoured the skulls of his ancestors. And when he prayed he did not chant mumbling words as the Catholic fathers did, but let his mind drift on the tides of time, just as his mother, the daughter of a Spirit Man, had always done, and her ancestors before her.

Behind the door the sounds of shouting and Bengo’s excited yapping quieted. Loveday stared past the flower-decorated papers that lined the corridor and began to still his mind. Since falling out of his old life into this chilly underworld, his habit was to sink into reveries when alone. He recollected his life on Lamahona, summoning his wife, Bulan, and his little son Barut. Was Bulan still as lovely as the moon after which she was named? He wondered if her dark lips still smiled and twitched in her sleep as the baby sucked at her breast. No, Barut must be tall now, he must be sailing his father’s
prahu
out across the bay. Or so he prayed. Or were Bulan and Barut also slaves? For all the pleasure his visions gave him, their pain pierced Loveday as sharply as the iron harpoon that had once been his greatest treasure. Shifting on his haunches, he set his wits to tackle his problem. How could he return to his own world, to Lamahona and his precious wife and son?

Willing his breathing to slow, he let his mind slip like a sea serpent, away from the quayside of this cold world. He conjured the beach on Lamahona; heard the hiss and tumble of the waves. Crossing the sugar-white sand, he waded into water that shone like blue glass and was as warm as mother’s milk. Flipping onto his back, he floated like a sea cow in the twinkling, bobbing sunlight. The salt on his upper lip tasted good. Ideas bubbled and popped around him. When he was still like this, alone and untroubled, he could fish for the future as well as any Spirit Man. For a long time he drifted, seeing once again his wedding feast, his son’s birth, his parents’ pride.

He was lost. This alarmed him, as he knew the ocean as well as any man knows the landmarks of his own country. But as he swam amongst the islands, each scene was unfamiliar. The conical peak of a mountain loomed towards him where he expected to find a jagging reef. Here was another unfamiliar island, and then another. In frustration Loveday searched the horizon, peering through narrowed eyes. Then, glancing down into the darkening ocean, he started back to see a strange boat directly beneath him. It was not a Lamahonan boat at all, but a ship as big as a whale, with pearly sails and pale-skinned men wandering the deck. Loveday peered down, so close that the brine stung his widening eyes. If he could hold his breath like a pearl fisher and explore that magic ship, he would find his journey’s end. He reached down deep into the water and felt the wisp of the ship’s pennant pass between his fingers like a ribbon of seaweed.

*   *   *

Loveday felt a blow to his side that sent him headlong against the hard floor.

‘What’s this, you idle heathen? Asleep at your post?’

He had been kicked by a vast leather boot that stood by his blinking eye. With a lurch he scrambled up and tried to stand poker-straight to attention. The old man Mr Pars stood over him, his face as grim as a time-worn boulder. This man was Number One over all the servants, he knew that much. Loveday rapidly grasped that his work as Lady Carinna’s footman was an easy post that he must strive to keep, for it promised days of idleness, free of beatings.

‘Only one instant my eyes close, good sir,’ he said, his head bobbing like an oar in a storm. ‘On my life, it is the first time.’

‘Your mistress has three letters waiting for you,’ the big man said. ‘And I’ve got my eye on you, you cheating ape. Do you understand the King’s English?’

‘Yes, sir. I always listen good, sir.’

‘Then understand I will have you kicked out on the streets if I find you asleep again. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Loveday scuttled off to his mistress’s door. As he entered, he wiped all expression from his face, so that Lady Carinna would have no reason to shout at him. He held out the silver tray so they need not touch as she dropped a neat new letter. His mistress’s red cheeks still looked feverish.

‘Jesmire has left one, too,’ she snapped. He picked up a second, neatly copper-plated letter.

‘Mr Pars, he say three letter, My Lady.’

She stared at the crumpled balls of scribbled paper. ‘The other is impossible to write. Take those.’

Back outside, he puffed his cheeks out in relief to see that Mr Pars had disappeared. He raced up the stairs two by two, singing under his breath in celebration of the hour of freedom a journey to the post house would earn. He hesitated by the gallery fire, unsure whether to open the letters or not. That fellow Mr Pars had stared at him like a devil man. But his instincts told him that his survival depended on understanding the private thinkings of those around him. Picking up a lighted tallow stump he headed for his garret. Once he was alone in his gloomy room beneath the eaves, he sliced at the seal with his razor and read the first letter.

30th October 1772

Mawton Hall

Cheshire

Dearest Uncle

I have arrived at my husband’s estate and found it to be a mouldering ruin on the far edge of nowhere. Is this the reward for my suffering? As for the bitter cold and damp, (not to mention the strain to my nerves), it is all most dreadfully injurious to my health. Sir Geoffrey refuses to write or to see me and has sailed away (the arrant coward!) to his estate in Ireland. I am quite ill from it all and wretched, truly wretched.

I know that you would say I should gather my wits and play on. I must puzzle it all out myself I suppose, and play my hand the best I can. I expect the immediate business here to take some short while, after which I shall write again, so I beg you prepare my old chamber at Devereaux Court for my return.

We may speak freely then,

Your devoted niece,

Carinna

Loveday shook his head and bit down the urge to smile. ‘Turn back London,’ he muttered, as he wet the seal with a drop of stolen wax. Whatever tide he was riding, it was turning rapidly, after all.

The second letter was in Miss Jesmire’s curly hand. The message was less veiled and he understood every single word. So the old woman was eager to escape as well:

The Editor

The Lady’s Magazine

30th October 1772

Messrs GGJ & J Robinson

No 25, Pater-noster’s Row

London

My Dear Sirs,

I should be grateful if you would post the following Notice in an attractive and prominent position in your Advertisements for Employment, within the pages of your soonest edition. I enclose 2 shillings secured within a twist of paper in payment for your services.