The Fire Court. Andrew TaylorЧитать онлайн книгу.
damnable question of money,’ he said. ‘I wish I had not taken yours.’
‘Sir, you had no choice in the matter. Neither of us did. If you hadn’t taken it, both of us would have starved.’
Cat had lent him sixty pounds in gold on Lady Day, all the money she had in the world, taken from her dead father’s body. Hakesby had been behindhand last quarter’s rent and the wages for his employees. He had owed his own landlady for two months’ board, and there had been a host of other debts. The commissions were flowing in but few clients paid promptly for the work. With luck, most of the money would come in its own good time, and they would be more comfortable, but in the meantime they all had to live.
‘Money confers an obligation,’ he said. ‘I’m worried I may not be able to discharge it.’
‘Of course you will. But at present we need ready money. Which is why Marwood was a gift from heaven, sir. If you go to a moneylender, they would rob you.’
‘I can’t get reasonable terms.’ Hakesby held up his right hand. The bony fingers fluttered. ‘This grows worse.’
‘It’s been a hard winter, sir. Everyone says so. But now summer is here, the warmth will soon—’
‘I have seen the doctors. This ague of mine will not get better. In time, it may touch the mind, as well as the body. With your help, and Brennan’s, and perhaps another draughtsman’s, we shall manage for a few months, perhaps a few years. But then …’
‘We shall contrive somehow,’ Cat said. ‘If you rest more and worry less, the ague will progress more slowly.’
‘And how will I pay you back if I cannot work? Or Marwood?’
‘You give me shelter, sir, and you give me work. That is repayment. We’ll manage with Marwood. He looks prosperous enough to be kept waiting a little.’
After a pause, he said: ‘What will become of you if I’m not here?’
A silence spread between them. Cat did not want to think about the possibility of Hakesby’s death. It was not just the trembling that was growing worse, it was the depression of his spirits.
Hakesby straightened in his chair, squaring his shoulders as if for a fight. ‘Fetch me the ledger, Jane. We shall reckon up the accounts. Let us find out how bad matters really are.’
‘My husband,’ Jemima said, sitting at her dressing table in Pall Mall and staring sideways at her reflection in the mirror, ‘is a fortunate man.’
And Mary, whose own reflection shimmered and shifted behind her mistress’s, murmured like a mangled echo, ‘Yes, my lady, the master is very fortunate. I’m sure he knows it too.’
Yes, Jemima thought, and when my father dies and Syre Place and everything else is mine, he will be even more fortunate. Because of me. When her father died, her husband would have the management of Syre Place and everything that went with it. Including herself – unless she could learn the art of managing him.
When she was ready, she descended the stairs, one hand on the rail of the bannisters, the other clutching Mary’s arm. She wore her grey taffeta, sombre yet elegant, and a pendant with a diamond the size of a pigeon’s egg. Mary had dressed her hair and applied the patches and powders to her face.
Rather than go directly to the dining room, where there was already a murmur of voices, she went halfway down the stairs to the kitchen. The smells of their dinner came up to meet her, and made her feel queasy. For a moment her hand touched her belly. Was it possible she could be pregnant?
In the kitchen, the birds were turning on the spit over the fire, the fat sizzling as it dropped on to the hungry flames. The cook and the scullery maid curtsied, Hal the coachman doffed his hat and made his obedience, and the boy, Hal’s son, tried to hide behind the scullery door until Hal dragged him into the open and cuffed him so hard he fell against the wall. The Limburys did not maintain a large establishment in London – all of their servants were in the kitchen, apart from Richard and Hester, who were serving at table upstairs, and the gardener.
Without speaking, Jemima stared at them. She had sent Mary down with her orders. But it was good to show oneself in the kitchen too, even if one didn’t want to. Marriage was a contract, her father had told her, and she would fulfil her part of it, to the letter, even if her husband faltered in his.
Faltered. What a puny, insignificant, inadequate word.
‘Well?’ she said.
The cook curtsied again. ‘Yes, my lady. Everything as it should be.’
She held the cook’s eye for a moment, as her mother had taught her to do all those years ago at Syre Place, and then let her eyes drift over the other upturned faces, from one to the next.
‘The guinea fowl will turn to cinders if you don’t have a care.’
The cook gave a strangled yelp and dived towards the fireplace. Without a word, Jemima tightened her hold on Mary’s arm and turned. As they climbed the stairs to the hall, she felt as much as heard the rush of pent-up breaths escaping in the kitchen below.
In the hall, she hesitated. She had not seen Philip since he had come to her chamber the previous afternoon, though this morning he had sent up to make sure that she would dine with them today. She did not like meeting strangers, even in her own house. She did not want to see Philip, either.
As if sensing her mistress’s anxiety, Mary touched her hand and murmured: ‘You look very fine, my lady. I’ve never seen you look better.’
In the dining room, the gentlemen rose and bowed as she entered, and Richard moved forward at once to help her. Richard was Philip’s servant, brought with him from his other life before their marriage. He wore his livery and had his teeth in, so he made a respectable show. Mary said he hated to wear his teeth because they hurt his gums.
Jemima curtsied to the gentlemen and allowed herself to be assisted to her chair.
‘My wife has not been well these last few days,’ Philip said, ‘but she would not keep to her bed when she knew you would be dining with us, Sir Thomas. And our old friend Gromwell too.’
‘What a charming diamond,’ Gromwell said, staring admiringly but respectfully in the direction of Jemima’s bosom. For all her dislike of him, she was forced to concede that he was a tall, fine-looking gentleman. He had once known great prosperity but his fortunes were now much reduced. ‘My Lady Castlemaine was wearing one that was very like, only the other day, but it wasn’t nearly so fine. Smaller, too.’
‘It was my mother’s,’ Jemima said coolly, impervious to his attempt to charm her. The last time they had met, at Clifford’s Inn, his charm had been in short supply.
‘Quite outstanding,’ he murmured, leaving it discreetly ambiguous whether the compliment referred to her diamond or her bosom.
Sir Thomas cleared his throat and ventured into a complex and finely nuanced expression of opinion, which, though initially obscure, seemed to suggest that in this case the wearer adorned the diamond, rather than the other way round.
Philip smiled down the table at her, his brown eyes soft and adoring. It was a smile designed to melt the heart and during their courtship it had melted hers, against her better judgement. ‘Lucius is right, my love,’ he said, ‘and Sir Thomas too – you look very well today, better than ever perhaps, if that can be possible.’
‘How can one improve upon perfection?’ Gromwell enquired; his manners were courtly though, like his yellow suit, they were a trifle old-fashioned. ‘But my lady has. Behold, a double miracle, a miracle of both nature and logic.’
‘You are pleased to jest, sir,’ she said automatically, and twitched her lips into what could