The Almanack Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Martine Bailey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Who Am I?

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Solutions to the Riddles

  Acknowledgements

  Recent Titles by Martine Bailey

  AN APPETITE FOR VIOLETS

  THE PENNY HEART

  THE ALMANACK *

  * available from Severn House

  THE ALMANACK

  Martine Bailey

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2019 by Martine Bailey.

  The right of Martine Bailey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8863-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-983-2 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0195-9 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To my grandparents, Alf and Emily Hilton,

  who made the fields and hedgerows

  come alive with country lore.

  Who Am I?

  I with a vizard-mask am born,

  To show my face the world I scorn;

  And though the curious searchers strive

  Me of my vizard to deprive;

  Although they bite their nails and frown,

  Long as I can I’ll keep unknown,

  Nor am I without cause this shy,

  For when bold mortals me descry,

  I at that very moment die.*

  * Solutions to all riddles can be found at here.

  ONE

  A Riddle

  Insensible as clay, deaf, dumb and blind,

  I yet possess each passion of the mind,

  Rage, tenderness, guilt, joy and fear

  Dwell in my breast and in my words appear.

  Some at my sight you’ll see with horror start –

  While others fondly press me to their heart.

  But though the object of a strong desire,

  Ungrateful folk oft doom me to the fire.

  The 30th to 31st day of July 1752

  Luminary: Sun sets 35 minutes after 7.

  Observation: Venus is in the Ascendant and shows many perturbations.

  Prognostication: An unlucky day for travel.

  ‘An unlucky day for travel.’ The phrase tolled like a doom bell in Tabitha’s skull as she woke. Wincing against the over-bright morning, she groped a hand to the other side of the bed, but found no warm flesh there, only cold rumpled linen. Raising herself stiffly, she pushed skeins of hair from her face. No doubt her gentleman had gone to the privy or, even better, to settle her bill. Busy voices and clatter from the downstairs of the inn told her she’d slept exceedingly late.

  Her first stab of misgiving was heralded by the disappearance of the gold sovereign from the table. And where was her box, her trunk, her bag? In a twinkling she was up on bare feet, scrabbling beneath the table, beneath the bed. ‘The black-hearted dog!’ she cursed, then a tremor shook her voice. ‘No, no. My mother’s money …’

  Casting around the room in despair, she found even her flowered silk gown had vanished. After pulling hard on the maid’s bell, she laced the few garments the rogue had spared her over the top of her stale shift. Here was her quilted petticoat and satin stays; but not a thread remained of stockings, cloak or hat. Ill-matched with this scanty apparel, the villain had left her fancy ribboned shoes neatly at the bedside.

  A scrawny serving girl appeared.

  ‘The gentleman in black and green. Where is he?’

  ‘Why, he got the early morning flyer, madam.’

  ‘But he said …’ Oh, what did it matter what he had said? ‘I have been robbed by the rascal! Fetch the landlord.’

  The Malmsey-bloated landlord appeared at the doorway, his face pinched with suspicion.

  ‘Look, sir! I have been robbed – by one of your patrons, no less. And he’s taken a deal of money I owe my mother.’ Her eyes pricked at its mere mention.

  ‘Now hold your horses, missy,’ grumbled the landlord. ‘Even if he were a gentleman, I never set eyes on the fellow before you led him to your chamber. I charged his drinks to your bill, just as he asked.’

  She wanted to spit in the rogue’s eye. Lifting empty palms, she cried, ‘The villain has taken every farthing I own, and my box and clothes besides. What am I to do, sir?’

  Pushing the door closed, the landlord took a few steps towards her. ‘So? Is it the magistrate you be wanting?’ He lifted his bushy brows, knowing the answer well enough.

  She shook her head, unable to disguise her wretchedness. ‘But my bill of charges …’

  ‘That scoundrel’s made a proper fool of you, young miss. Mend your ways, is my advice. If you don’t want any trouble, clear off smar
tish and I’ll wipe the slate.’

  Chastened by his kindness, she mumbled, ‘I shall repay you when I can.’

  ‘Repay me by keeping clear of this inn, you hear?’

  The little maid hung back after her master had left, jittering excitedly. ‘Some of these villains carry the timetables to all the rattlers – sneaking from inn to inn, forever acting the stranger. Travelling folk be easy pickings to them.’

  Wearily, Tabitha remembered her own sorry plans to strip the fellow of his purse and abandon him at first light. If only she had woken first. What a fool she felt herself – the biter bit, indeed.

  Tabitha had intended to hire a carriage to take her baggage to Netherlea, but now she was forced to walk. Though she was mortified to appear outdoors in such undress, it was at least a fine summer’s day, the sun shining bright upon the hard-baked road. Down Chester’s Bridge Street she strode as fast as she might, past high-gabled brown and white half-timbered mansions, avoiding the eyes of strangers. Passing the bridge tower, she crossed the River Dee in a throng of hawkers and market folk, weaving to avoid horses’ hooves and the pole-ends of sedans. On the far side, she turned aside for the water meadows and near-forgotten path to Netherlea. Passing a familiar sandstone tomb, she idly traced the gritty image of a spear-bearing woman, just as she had on a hundred childhood errands. It had been the local custom to make a wish there, to some pagan witch or other. What was her wish now? Everything she truly wanted was impossible: to have her money back and more besides, to have Robert at her side again, to be a thousand miles away, inhabiting another, carefree life.

  The events of the previous night blazed in her mind as she marched steadily on beside the river. Two days had already passed since the date she had told her mother to expect her. Robert had kept her back in London, promising a fine farewell, so she had bought herself the flowered gown and ribboned shoes. Their encounter had ended with violent words in the street; he complaining that his wife was ill, at which Tabitha replied she hoped the malady would prove fatal. Then the coach had run tiresomely late, trundling along rutted byways and through naked and uncivilized land for mile after mile. Chester’s church bells had been ringing eleven chimes, the moon a sickly crescent, when the coach rolled into the walled city.

  When she had strode into the smoky fug of the White Lion, all eyes had risen and fixed upon her. She wore her hem raised high to show scarlet heels and pretty ankles. Sending the landlord’s boy upstairs with her box and bags, she sauntered to a table by the fire. Taking her seat, she laid her head back against the panelled oak, content to breathe in pipe tobacco and hops, and find herself blessedly motionless.

  ‘The gentleman’s compliments,’ the tapster had announced, setting a bottle of garnet-red claret and two glasses down before her. From the chimney corner, the said gentleman tipped his hat in her direction – a lean-faced cove, in a coat of black with green frogging. She had not turned a trick since meeting Robert, but now that he had scorned her, what price a loyal heart? Rapidly, she calculated. After she had given her mother five pounds, and paid her fare home again to London, she would have less than twenty pounds to keep herself afloat. Sitting upright, she banished weariness and turned to her admirer, posing a coquettish question with her eyes. Slowly he approached, and though his deep-pocked visage was not quite as handsome as the shadows had promised, she thought him no less agreeable than many another.

  Setting his tricorne on the table, he poured her a glass of claret. ‘Have you travelled far?’ His voice was hoarse and low, with a faint Irish lilt.

  ‘From the capital. I miss it sorely, already.’

  ‘You are seeking business tonight, lady?’

  Well, straight to business he goes, she thought sourly, at the same time affecting laughter. ‘I should rather say I am in pursuit of pleasure, sir.’ No, that wouldn’t do; she was not about to give the goods away for free. ‘Most especially, with a kind and generous gentleman,’ she added airily.

  He leaned towards her and narrowed his grey, gleaming eyes. ‘Why, just today my banker gave me a fresh-minted sovereign of the prettiest gold. Is that … agreeable?’

  After a pause, Tabitha nodded, raising her glass. ‘Now business is done – let us raise a toast to pleasure.’

  He took a long draught of claret, then delved in his pocket and pulled out a globe-shaped silver article. Turning it upside down, he flipped open the top.

  ‘That’s a curious trifle.’ She leaned forward to gain a better view. It was formed in the shape of a human skull, but about the size of a bantam egg. He had swung its jaws open on a hinge, revealing a silver watch-dial marked with Roman numbers and circled with gold. The time was accurate: it wanted only thirteen more minutes to midnight.

  She reached out to touch it, but he snatched it to his chest.

  ‘Hold. His teeth are sharp. Death has his bite, see?’

  With great care he closed the mouth and displayed the miniature skull on his palm. It was gruesomely beautiful, decorated with tiny figures, mottoes, hollow eyes and bared teeth. Across its domed brow was a familiar scene from Robert’s collection of curiosities.

  ‘Death bearing his scythe and hourglass,’ she murmured. ‘Standing between a castle and cottage with equal favour. A memento mori; a reminder we all will die.’ Then, meeting the Irishman’s eye, she uttered a favourite remark of Robert’s: ‘So passes the glory of the world.’

  ‘Now who would have thought a girl of the night would fancy herself a scholar?’ he said coolly. ‘It’s almost midnight. Time lost cannot be won again; that is my creed.’ Pocketing his macabre toy, he extended a hairy hand towards her. With barely an instant’s hesitation, she let him lead her up the staircase.

  Her chamber had not been the cheapest the inn could offer, but she was glad of the wide, damask-draped bed and feather-plump mattress. He pulled her towards him the moment the door was closed, and she put up a lively performance, running her fingers up and down his body and coaxing him ever closer to the softness of her flesh. Aha, there was the pretty vanitas, a solid lump inside the silk of his coat. Distracting him with burrowing kisses, she helped him from his coat, and at the same time slipped the silver skull into the secret pouch inside her petticoat. After that, the gentleman had applied himself manfully, but she had been glad he made no great effort to prolong their congress. Before she fell asleep, she had mused that the gruesome watch alone would turn the night’s venture to profit.

  The silver skull. Pausing on the grassy path, she rooted inside her petticoat and pulled out the watch, swinging it like a pendulum on its silver chain, gratified to feel it hang as heavy as a bag of silver. She placed it to her ear: it had stopped ticking. Then her predicament struck her. Skin the dog alive, she couldn’t even pawn it. If the thief was riding the coaches, the watch must have been stolen from some traveller, and might be searched for in Chester. She needed to keep it secret until she could find a trusty fence, down in the capital. Until then, not a soul must see the grinning skull.

  Moving on, she made an inventory of all her other losses: her favourite gown and ruffles; a coral bracelet given to her long ago by Robert; laced linen that conjured happier days abed; a shell mirror; a token in the shape of Venus allowing admittance to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. It was mortifying to turn up at Netherlea as ill-dressed as she had left it. The shame of it burned like a branding iron.

  Again she heard an echo of the past. All the previous day, a farmer’s wife on the Chester coach had prated from her almanack. ‘Today is a day of misfortune on the roads – an unlucky day for travel.’ Beneath the shade of her saucily tipped bonnet, Tabitha had rolled her eyes, wondering at what a credulous age she lived in. But was not her own mother a devotee of the same Vox Stellarum almanack, making a ritual of marking the days, and reading the prognostications without fail?

  A little whimper escaped her lips – she had lost her mother’s letter with her stolen box. Yet there was no need to reread the tremulous lines, she had them by heart …

  It
would be best, Tabitha dear, if instead of posting the money for the infant you delivered it here by your own hand, for I must have words with you, of a grave and private sort. There is something afoot that may only be an old woman’s foolishness, yet I can confide it to no one else in the world. Come quickly, dear, before July is ended, as I fear time may be short. I should dearly love to see your bonny face once more, and pray your sharp wits prove a fretful old matron wrong.

  Your affectionate and ever-loving,

  Mother

  How her heart had sunk when she first opened the letter, recalling her shameful departure from Netherlea more than a year past. It was a reminder, too, of a blood oath, unthinkingly sworn one desperate winter’s night. Her fingers felt sticky; she fancied, too, that they smelled faintly of iron and salt. Devil take it, why must she venture back? Netherlea was a village of countrified clods, gossips and whisperers. Yet it also held her mother’s home, where Tabitha had been born and reared, and whence she had, with much relief, escaped. In London she had kept her past tucked away like dirty clouts, hidden behind the baubles and glitter of her new life. Now, with a sense of dread, she took the soiled memories out once more. She must keep her visit short, and her secret secure.

  The riverside path was deserted that morning; from the golden motes in the air, she guessed most folk must be hay-making. Crossing a well-remembered meadow, she drank at an icy brook and breakfasted on bilberries fresh from the earth; the taste of them, tartly sweet, was fresher than any food she had eaten in years. Thereafter her way grew easy and she passed the succeeding miles serenely. She had forgotten the lushness of the Cheshire sward in midsummer; the murmur of insects on the wing, the wildflowers that bedizened her path. Idly she picked meadowsweet, wild rose and ragged robin, twining them into a chain and then winding it in a circlet through her hair. Why, in London she often paid twopence for half-dead twists of heather. And truth be told, her diminished costume was suited to the glorious heat, leaving her arms bare of all but her thin shift.