The Spider's Touch (17 page)

The boy standing before Hester now was a far cry from the room’s usual visitors. His clothes were dirty, he smelled of the street, and the widening of his eyes as he gazed about the room told her that he had never been inside a house of quality. Despite these obvious disadvantages, though, he did not let the room intimidate him. When she asked to hear what he had to say, he drew and regarded her through narrowed eyes.

“I were told to give it to a bird by the name o’ Mrs. Kean and nobody else.”

“I am Mrs. Kean. You may deliver your message to me.”

He frowned. “Now, ‘ow am I surposed t’know if yer be tellin’ the truth? Yer might be ‘avin’ me on.”

Hester could see that this was no mere stubbornness on the boy’s part. He had obiously had it impressed upon him that he must not relay his message to just anyone. Her pulse, which she had tried to stifle, began to dance. Who else would require such secrecy, but St. Mars?

“I do not know how to convince you of my identity. But you asked the footman to see Mrs. Kean, and he released you to me. Does that help?”

“It wouldn’t,” the boy said, “but the codger ‘oo sent me told me somethin’ about what yer look like. ‘E made yer sound a bit better lookin’, though.”

Hester would have pleased to hear this, if his description of the sender had not thrown her. “The
...
codger? An elderly man sent you?”

The boy did not look absolutely certain. He reflected aloud, “Well, ‘is ‘air an’ ‘is brows is gray and ‘is back is all crook’d-like. But ‘e don’t
seem
very old, if yer knows what I mean.”

Hester’s excitement had all but evaporated, before she realized that St. Mars would have had to disguise himself. He could cover up his hair and make his brows look gray, but he would find it harder to conceal the energy that characterized a younger man.

“Were his eyes very blue?  And does he have long, slender fingers?”

The boy nodded quickly to her first suggestion and even more vigorously to the second, which made her hope return.

“Then I know the gentleman,” she said. “And I’ll warrant that he offered you generous payment if you brought his message to me.”

Beneath the dirt on his forehead, the boy’s eyes gleamed. “‘E sure did that! Which is why I don’t want to bungle it, yer see.”

“Well, if you don’t deliver it, you will never be paid. I can appreciate your endeavour to carry out his orders correctly, but I can assure you, you have found the right woman, even if your employer’s description of her is somewhat flattering.” Hester felt the warmth of a delayed reaction to this bit of news. She had to bite her tongue not to ask the boy precisely what the gentleman had said.

“Oh, yer all right.” He must have read her thoughts. “‘E just made yer sound a lil’ more
...
I dunno,
special,
I s’pose.”

Hester decided that she could be perfectly content with that description, even as her wiser self said that anyone who had helped St. Mars to solve his father’s murder would necessarily be a special friend.

At last, the boy seemed satisfied that she was, indeed, the person she pretended to be, so with visible relief he finally divulged the words he’d been withholding.

“This ol’ codger, see,  at the White ‘Orse—the one wif the rum glaziers—the blue ones like yer said—well, ‘e says ‘e’ll giv me a slat if I takes this message to a Mrs. Kean what lives in a swell house in Piccadilly. So I makes ‘im show me the slat, see, ‘cause I weren’t born yesterd’y. And ‘e
‘ad
it, so I tells ‘im I’ll go, but if ‘e tries to picque without payin’ me, I’ll tell the bluffer e’s a prig.”

The boy’s choice of words left Hester with a very poor understanding. “Yes, that is all very good. But what did the gentleman wish you to say to me?” They had wasted considerable time in getting this far, and the delay might rouse her aunt’s suspicions.

The boy proceeded to recite his message, as if he had been made to repeat it several times. “’E says, I’m to say that Mr. Brown is come up to town, an’ if it wouldn’t be too much of a pother, ‘e needs to speak to yer as soon as ‘e can. ‘E says I’m to wait for a reply and that the lady—meanin’
you
—should tell ‘im where and when to meet yer.”

On hearing St. Mars’s alias, Hester’s heart gave a leap. “Of
course,
I will meet him,” she said.

Then, she furiously searched her head for a place where they could speak without being observed. As eager as she was, and anxious to discover why he wished to see her, she might not be at liberty to leave Hawkhurst House at any particular hour of the day. She could invent an errand, but either Isabella or her mother might require her at that moment or decide to send her somewhere else. And she couldn’t be certain that St. Mars could risk walking the streets during the day.

Tonight would be out of the question, for they were promised to Mrs. Jamison, and tomorrow they were expecting guests. As much as Hester hated to postpone their rendezvous, she could think of only one place to suggest. And its name implied intrigue of a different sort.

“Pray tell the gentleman that I shall be going with a party to Spring Gardens on Friday night. I should be able to step away from my friends for a few moments. Those are the gardens at Vauxhall—not the old ones at Charing Cross,” she added. “Pray, be sure to give him the right gardens.”

The boy was not shocked by her suggestion. No doubt he had seen much more scandalous behaviour in his short life than Hester would ever see.

“Friday night at Foxhall gardens,” he repeated. “Is that it?”

She would have liked to send word of how happy she was to know that his lordship was safe, but the sound of a voice from upstairs, decided her that anything else could wait.

“Yes, that’s all.” With an excitement akin to panic, she turned him by his shoulders and sent him on his way. “You had better go, and do not repeat either of our messages to anyone, even if you are questioned going out of this house. Just say that you came from the monkey vendor to tell me he doesn’t have any monkeys right now. And do not forget,
Friday, at Vauxhall
. Tell my—tell him that he will recognize the members of my party. And thank you,” she whispered loudly to the boy’s retreating back.

Her heart was beating so fast that she had to linger downstairs before returning to her aunt.
To see St. Mars! And this Friday night!
Hester had told herself again and again that it might be months—even years before she might see him. She had thanked providence for every distraction that Isabella and her new situation had provided so she would not be forced to dwell on how long it might be. The days, filled with entertainments, had passed more quickly than she would have believed possible, but now the prospect of three more seemed to stretch before her like a dreary road. All she could do was pray that nothing would occur to stop St. Mars from finding her in the Spring Gardens after dark.

* * * *

Gideon received Mrs. Kean’s message to meet her on Friday night. He would have been intolerably frustrated by the delay, had he not also received instructions to return to Ormonde House at eleven o’clock that evening.

Arriving on the stroke of the hour, he found the porter looking out for him and was whisked inside without a minute’s wait.

As he followed a liveried footman, Gideon could not help being anxious about the Duke’s reaction when he learned the identity of his visitor. As far as the public knew, Gideon was a murderer, who had escaped arrest. The Pretender’s supporters in France were apparently convinced of his innocence, but he had no way of knowing if the Jacobites on this side of the Channel believed him innocent, too.

Another source of worry was the pamphlets he had read. If the government was making a case against the Duke, he would have to call for the rising before they pounced. With the this uppermost in his mind, Gideon had prepared himself to ride for France as soon as he had warned Mrs. Kean. Clearly, it was time for Ormonde to act or to tell the Pretender that his chances were not great enough to risk men’s lives.

The footman, who was Irish like the porter, led him up the grand staircase. Their footsteps echoed in the vastness of the house. Faces of heroic proportions gazed down from the painted ceiling over their heads. Enormous tapestries lined the walls. Once on the first floor, they passed some rooms with open doors. Gideon wondered if the Duchess and her daughter were at home. The open doors revealed parlours that were furnished with hardly more than a table and a few chairs each. The grandeur of the house, so impressive on the outside, seemed to extend only to a small portion of the interior, but the Butlers had not held their dukedom for long.

The Duke of Ormonde received him in his private drawing room, where velvet in white, green, and gold relieved the nearly Spartan starkness of the rest of the house. Tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome, with a courtier’s grace, the Duke faced Gideon gravely across an ebony table inlaid with gilt.

Ormonde did not know him at first. But when Gideon made his bow and began to speak, a look of recognition came over his face and his eyebrows snapped together in a frown.

“Is that you, St. Mars? Good Lord! How do you come to be in England?”

“The Pretender sent me. He knows that I am innocent of my father’s death, and has asked me to be one of his messengers.”

The Duke did not contest his statements. Rather, he treated them almost perfunctorily, saying, “Yes, a tragic business, that. Sad about your father. But you are still in danger here, you know.”

Gideon bristled at the casualness with which the Duke could dismiss events that had caused him so much pain.

His Grace seemed to sense a blunder, though he mistook the cause of Gideon’s displeasure. Waving him into a chair, he said, “I know what you’re thinking. You are wondering why none of us came to your defense. But it happened so fast—at a time when the Whigs were threatening every one of us. You saw what happened to Bolingbroke! We were so busy defending our own backs that we didn’t have time to take on your troubles, too.

“Then you were gone—and no one knew where—so naturally we assumed that you had fled to his Majesty’s side.” Ormonde gave him an avuncular smile. “And so you have, it appears. Welcome to the cause.”

Gideon did not tell him that the Pretender had found him instead. He was involved now, so what difference would it make?

“You are his messenger then,” Ormonde went on. “What does his Majesty desire?”

His manner was curiously detached. Nothing about it suggested a man who was planning an imminent rebellion. Gideon had to wonder if Ormonde was trying to conceal something from him.

He took the pipe out of his pocket, extracted the Pretender’s curled up note, and handed it to the Duke.

“I have been asked to discover when the rising will take place. James is growing anxious. The Duke of Berwick has advised him to remain in Lorraine until he gives the signal to move. But it has been a very long time, and still James receives no word.”

Gideon stopped, because Ormonde was reading the note. When he had finished, he nodded indulgently. “I know his Majesty must be impatient, and I honour him for it. The lad has courage. It will be a glorious day when he is restored to his throne.”

“He’s begun to doubt that his brother has his interest at heart. Berwick is ever engaged on Louis’s business, and Louis keeps them far apart.”

Still nodding, Ormonde gave Gideon a look of sympathy. “It must be hard on his poor Majesty. I assure you, my heart aches for him. But you must tell him that Berwick is to be trusted. The time is simply not quite right.”

Gideon was nonplused. This was not the reaction he had expected, particularly after reading the pamphlet against Ormonde.

“But the season—” Gideon had to restrain himself before he insulted Ormonde’s superior knowledge of military affairs. Who should be better suited than a general to know the risk of a winter campaign? James could never win without a man of Ormonde’s experience, so Gideon had to be careful not to offend him in the Pretender’s name.

“So you plan to wait another year? If the country is not ready—” He tried very politely to frame his questions.
Are our people for James or are they not? And, if they are, why not strike now?
James was far away in Lorraine. He would need weeks of warning simply to journey to the coast.
Even two more months would push the rebellion into the stormy season, making it hard for his boats to cross the Channel. And winter would be much worse. It would be impossible to raise men to fight in winter. Even ignorant as he was of armies, Gideon knew that much.

“Oh, the country is ready,” Ormonde heartily assured him. “You may tell his Majesty that each and every day brings him more and more adherents. How could they not with that turnip farmer on the throne? Tell him that his countrymen will be overjoyed to see him. But we cannot be hasty, you know. It never does to plunge into a thing without the arms to pull it off, and we’re still short there, from what I’ve been told.”

“How long will it be before you have enough?”

Ormonde chuckled as affably as a country squire, discoursing on the subject of his favourite pig. “One can never have enough. But you can reassure his Majesty that when the time comes, we will win with whatever we’ve got.”

Vague statements were not what James would want to hear. Gideon could well comprehend his frustration, if this was the sort of report he received. Gideon was so bemused by Ormonde’s attitude that he had to wonder if the Duke were lying because he did not trust him. But a suggestion of indecisiveness in the man’s features somehow reminded Gideon of the unfurnished rooms of his house.

Gideon asked about the pamphlet he had seen advertised in the news-sheets.

His question brought a momentary cloud to Ormonde’s brow.

“That’s the Whigs’ doing. And it galls me—I’ll not deny it. But they mistake a mistake if they think they can discredit me. I’ve got the army’s and the people’s confidence.  You do not see them celebrating Marlborough’s birthday in the streets, as if he were a king.

“They attacked my wife’s coach last night—did you know? Three men on horseback. My coachman, who’s a sensible fellow, said that they were too well armed and well mounted to be highwaymen, but that’s how they were disguised. They asked if I was in the coach, and when they saw that I wasn’t, they let her go. She was on her way here from our lodge at Richmond.”