The Almanack Read online

  Ahead of her loomed the high peak of Beeston Castle, casting a fairy-book silhouette against the blue sky. Pulling off her pinching shoes, she walked barefoot on the silky grass, enjoying the coolness between her toes, inhaling bruised mint. How many times had she walked this path? Here was the cave where a band of village children had conspired to sleep one night, until a flurry of lights sent them shrieking home again. Joshua, their leader, had said they were the torches of dead Roman soldiers, hunting children to work in their mines.

  There had been peculiar objects buried in the dirt, she remembered now. Turned to stone by witches, they had seemed, the blackened knives, spearheads and bracelets; all of them magical, especially the thumb-sized figurines like petrified fairies. Sometimes their finds were snatched and used as charms by the village women. Mostly, she recalled taking relics up to Bold Hall, where the De Vallorys’ steward paid a penny for every trifle they found. She paused at the hollow oak where the children had often played and now found warm embers and charred animal bones. Tinkers, she thought, or tramps halting on the road.

  She left the wood, and soon Eglantine Hall and its park came into view. The ancient Tudor tower stood intact and impressive, but the house had been shot to a soulless shell in the Civil War. The sun flashed on only a few mullioned windows rising above the ruins.

  A stone fish pond glittered through the undergrowth; a boon to a sore-footed traveller. Slipping through the shrubbery, she crept to the water’s edge. Above her, she caught sight of a wisp of smoke, rising from the tower’s barley-sugar twisted chimneys. So Eglantine Hall was tenanted, for the first time in years. She must be silent and secret – but no one was going to stop her bathing her raw toes.

  TWO

  A Riddle

  It bears me many miles away,

  Yet in my room it’s there.

  It has no wings to soar and play,

  Yet lifts me through the air.

  It is the craft of fastest motion,

  Yet has no need for sail nor oar,

  With speed of thought I cross an ocean –

  One instant and I’m on the shore.

  The 31st day of July 1752

  Lammas Eve

  Luminary: Moon rises 24 minutes after 4 of the afternoon.

  Observation: Mercury the Messenger is with the Moon.

  Prognostication: Unsettling change is at hand.

  Nathaniel Starling lifted his spyglass to his eye and surveyed the view from his lofty perch on the roof of Eglantine Hall. Over in Netherlea, groups of villagers moved like ants, dragging branches across the green to the unlit bonfire. It surprised him that such customs had survived the wars, but tonight was Lammas Eve, accounted by antiquaries a most uncanny night. If the old rites were followed, tomorrow the loaf-mass would be baked from the first corn and carried to church to be blessed. Tonight, however, would be rather less holy. Did these rustic maidens and their swains still chase each other in the greenwood? That plump-cheeked dairymaid was forever playing the coquette when he called at the farm. He resolved to stroll over when the first fire was lit.

  Nathaniel pulled aside a lock of unwashed hair and, through his eyeglass, surveyed the road to Chester. He saw none of the usual passers-by: the vagabonds heading for Tinkers Wood, or Mr Dilks the parson bowling along to Bishops Court, or Sir John’s brother, Doctor De Vallory, returning from a consultation in a coach that bore the family crest.

  Neither was there anything astir behind the diamond panes of Bold Hall. It was a fine old manor from the days of the Tudors, three storeys of blackened antique timbers laid in stripes and chevrons over white plaster. In what luxury that man lived. Sir John De Vallory had not a care in the world, save for pocketing his rents and choosing how to spend his money.

  The task Nathaniel was set upon – to introduce himself to the man and gain his trust – made him sick with apprehension. Yet he had to do it. Death and bones, even the contemplation of it made Nathaniel weary. He yawned. All night he had been puzzling his imagination hot with slow stranglings, the anatomization of cracking bones and steaming guts, and today his spirit felt as filthy as his stained hands. Later he would strip himself of his night-stinking clothes and dive into the pond to sluice himself of these horrors. His every atom felt unclean.

  Taking a draught of ale from the leather jug, he turned his eye to the woods: massy green foliage intersected by twinkles of silver dancing on the river. Sir John’s fields were a chessboard of ashen oats, silk-green barley and yellow, ripening corn. He yawned. The zephyrs cooling his cheek were perfumed with flowers, and wood pigeons cooed from their roosts in the stone walls below him.

  Suddenly the sound of splashing water reached his ears. Perhaps that fat drake had returned and he might have roast duck for dinner? But leaning over the battlement he saw instead a woman seated on the banks of his private bathing pond. He made a silent inspection of the intruder. Not the usual coarse village girl, but a fine-looking woman, tantalizingly half-dressed in expensive underclothes. Nat held his breath as she dabbled her toes and leaned back lazily on her palms, her strong face uplifted in the sun’s beams, eyes closed and unpinned hair tumbling groundwards. A garland of Ophelian wildflowers crowned her head.

  Jerkily, he directed his lens across her form, wondering who in Heaven’s name she might be. And why was this nymph so scantily dressed? To bathe, perhaps? Or had she a lover nearby, for whom she had pulled off her gown? No: his spyglass showed him no companion; she was as self-contained as a nut in a shell, lost in languorous oblivion. He leaned forwards, wondering where he might have seen her before. Was she an actress perhaps, a beauty he had once admired on the London stage? Her lips parted, and a moment later her song drifted upwards, fainter than the murmuring brook and the fluting of the pigeons.

  ‘And then my love built me a bower, bedeck’d with many a fragrant flower;

  A braver bower you ne’er did see, than my true love did build for me.’

  The savagery of the night was banished at once. The air was magically still.

  ‘Oh, fragrant flower,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, glorious nymph.’

  He was resurrected from his long sojourn in the stews. Why did he sink to such vileness when he so longed for beauty? Perhaps he could compose poetry again, poetry worthy of this Euterpean muse. He turned the brass dial to frame the woman’s languid, dreamy face, and her image filled his eyes, so close he might reach out and caress her cheek. Oh, sweet God; it was happening again, as it did almost every sap-high summer. Would he never learn? Imbecile that he was, he was falling in love.

  THREE

  A Riddle

  Though I’m nothing that breathes, I’m dreaded by all,

  And strange to declare, owe my rise to a fall.

  I am always around, but I’ve never been seen,

  You take pains to avoid me, but can’t escape me,

  I may choose to visit when you’re old and grey,

  Or if fortune foretells it, I’ll grasp you today.

  Manners dictate I give you strong embrace,

  As I settle a final cold kiss on your face.

  Whether I meet you in prayer, dread, or hate,

  I will find you, I promise –

  I am everyone’s fate.

  The 31st day of July 1752

  Lammas Eve

  Luminary: Sun rises 24 minutes after 4 of the morning.

  Observation: The Sun enters Leo at which time Saturn is retrograded.

  Prognostication: A complication that is worse and better, good and bad.

  Hearing voices raised in merriment, Tabitha slowed her pace as she neared Netherlea. Through a gap in the foliage, she saw the familiar great oak, spreading its branches over Church Common, and behind it Netherlea’s ancient church and splendid modern parsonage. A bonfire was being built, by a crowd she knew only too well. There was Zusanna the dairymaid, whip-tongued queen of the village gossips, laughing shrilly with the young bucks, one hand at her waist and the other holding a tankard. Cam, her black-bearded giant of a
husband, reclined on the grass with a jug at his side – perhaps dozing, perhaps watching his wife. Huddled at the church wall were Zusanna’s mother Nell Dainty and her two cronies, passing judgement on their neighbours like three grey-haired harpies. Tabitha felt a powerful reluctance to show herself there so ill-dressed. Instead, she took the shady lane that followed the brook, wondering how in the Devil’s name she might find herself a fashionable costume in such a backwater.

  Soon the brook broadened where the tide ran down from the mill race. At the ford, she lifted her hem and strode nimbly across the stepping stones. She had sung ten verses of her ballad before the thatch of her mother’s dwelling peeped above the treeline; she quickened her pace, anticipating an affectionate greeting. Rounding the final turn, a squat wattle-and-daub cottage came into view, golden brown thatch sagging over the windows like a bonnet pulled low over two wide-set eyes. Behind the wicker fence, pink, yellow and purple blossoms ranged around canes of green beans. It was hard to credit that she had lived upon that tiny square of earth for nineteen years, reluctantly drilled in every homely art by her mother, from baking to brewing to mending and cleaning. This time, prodigal though she was, she would try to be a worthy daughter. She must fortify herself to talk with her mother and ask forgiveness for calling her a hypocrite, and worse.

  From the perfumed garden, she entered the gloom beyond the open door. Not a jot had changed. The blackened fireplace cast a thin red glow across the rag rug to her mother’s empty wooden chair. There were few possessions: a shelf of ancient platters, oddments of brass, a few pieces of time-polished furniture, while above her head hams and herbs hung from the ceiling beams.

  ‘Is the kettle boiling?’ she called, an ancient jest of theirs, for her mother’s kettle boiled perpetually on the fire hook.

  A figure stepped out from the back room – a slender young woman who pulled up, stock-still, like a frightened coney. Tabitha started too – dressed in a white cap and apron, the girl had the uncanny appearance of being the phantom figure of her own younger self.

  ‘Who are you?’ The girl had a sweet voice, high-pitched with surprise.

  ‘I am Tabitha Hart, Widow Hart’s daughter. I might ask you the same.’

  Making a curtsy, the girl said, more warmly, ‘It is me, Miss Tabitha. Jennet Saxton. You gave me such a startle, I couldn’t think who you were.’

  Tabitha could barely remember Joshua’s stepdaughter, save as a slinking, silent child. Had she grown so quickly in the last year?

  ‘Mother!’ she called towards the bedroom. ‘I’m home.’ She had pulled up a wooden chair to the fire before she noticed Jennet’s woebegone expression. ‘What ails you, girl?’

  Receiving no reply, she sprang up and lifted the curtain between the parlour and the bedroom. What she saw there threw her heart hard against her ribs. On the narrow bed stretched a figure that was her mother and yet not her mother at all, a small figure lying as if asleep in a nightgown and cap. Behind her, Jennet mumbled, ‘It were only yesterday …’

  Her mother’s face was swollen, and mottled with patches of bluish red. Like the round eyes of a hideous doll, two copper pennies lay upon her eyelids. Tabitha sank to her knees at her mother’s bedside, taking a cold, resistant hand and pressing it against her cheek.

  ‘I’ve come too late,’ she whispered. If only time might turn around. If only she could have been spared a few moments more before her mother’s spirit had left this earthly realm.

  She was still kneeling by her mother’s bed when the bass notes of men’s voices in the parlour roused her. Jennet pulled back the curtain and whispered, ‘Miss Tabitha, the parson and the doctor have come a-calling.’

  Tabitha hauled herself up, woefully aware of the sun-pinked flesh displayed above her stays. Damn that plaguey thief! Her mother would have been mortified by her appearance. Rifling through the few garments in the room, she found a modest grey linsey gown and bodice. She was a good hand’s-breadth taller than her mother, but beggars, as she was coming to comprehend, could not choose their dress. She swallowed back a little sob. The fabric felt like arms enfolding her, very soft from long wear, and smelling of lavender and her mother’s body.

  ‘Parson, Doctor.’ Tabitha cast her eyes to the floor – whatever rumours Netherlea might whisper of her, she was determined to behave with propriety.

  The doctor rose, a puzzled look on his grave face.

  ‘You are Widow Hart’s daughter, newly returned from London? Tabitha by name? A sad homecoming for a daughter.’ With kindly condescension, he touched her hand; she rubbed her nose, and tried to smile, despite her wet eyes. The doctor wore the black fur-trimmed robe of his profession – though, as Sir John’s own brother, it was said he practised medicine only from a noble vocation to help his fellow man. As he sat, Tabitha drew up a wooden stool for herself.

  ‘Sirs, pray tell me what has happened? Mother wrote to me to come home. I cannot comprehend—’

  Parson Dilks broke in. He was as different from the doctor as a sow’s ear was from silk; a bloated toad, squashed into her mother’s narrow chair.

  ‘God moves with hidden intent,’ he rasped. ‘You must console yourself that your mother is safe with Christ now. Your neighbour, the constable, Mr Saxton, found her drowned in the river. He tried his best to rouse her, but … too late, on this occasion.’

  ‘Drowned? But no one knew the river better than Mother.’

  The doctor nodded in sympathy. ‘I am afraid your mother’s mind was disordered somewhat since the springtime. We all observed how she forgot her duties, arrived and departed at unexpected times, went wandering in the night. I am afraid the softening of the brain is a common plight of those who age before their time.’

  ‘But she was no more than forty-five years of age.’ Tabitha’s voice rose in indignation.

  ‘It is a hard life for a widow, I fear, though it was agreed that young Jennet here should call each day and help her.’ The doctor nodded at the girl waiting in the corner. ‘Yester eve, alas, she must have had one of her fancies, and gone out wandering in the woods.’

  Tabitha closed her eyes tight, trying to hold back tears. ‘Come quickly, dear,’ the letter had begged, ‘before July comes to an end.’

  When she recalled herself again, the parson was speaking in his grating voice, familiar to her from a thousand sermons. ‘Tomorrow will do, after the Lammas service. And, you’ll need to borrow the pauper’s coffin.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That is, unless you mean to purchase a coffin yourself?’

  Tabitha shifted uneasily. ‘Sirs, upon any other day I should have provided my mother with only the finest oak, and an engraved headstone too. But I was robbed this morning of all my money by a rogue who rides the coaches. I had no choice but to walk from Chester with only the garments on my back. I am entirely penniless.’ She lifted the corner of her mother’s apron and wiped her eyes.

  Parson Dilks could barely hide his satisfaction. She would never forget his tirade when she had left Netherlea. ‘Strumpetting baggage!’ he had shouted down the lane after her. ‘Abandoning your brat to the care of your mother!’

  As if at his cue, he asked, ‘I trust you will soon return whence you came?’

  ‘Certainly. But you must understand that my lack of funds constrains me at present.’

  ‘Dilks, you are not for setting this unfortunate out on the road tomorrow, are you? What of charity, man?’ demanded the doctor.

  Through his clenched, yellow teeth, the parson replied: ‘My dear doctor, it is the parish that pays for this cottage, and Widow Hart’s stipend. I must consider who is worthy to be lodged here.’

  The doctor tapped his cane impatiently on the floor. ‘May I make a suggestion to you and to your parish board? Appoint this young woman as her mother’s successor as village searcher. Else she is left without a roof for her own head – or her child’s.’

  Tabitha shook her head. ‘I cannot do that, sir.’

  ‘Where else will you go without funds?’ the doctor asked.r />
  The parson turned his unwholesome features to Tabitha. ‘Are you even aware of the searcher’s duties?’

  Bewildered, Tabitha gave a little nod. ‘Yes, sirs. I often accompanied my mother in her duties. To lay out the dead when the doom bell rings. And to write down the cause of each death in the Book of Mortalities.’

  The parson shook his head. ‘What of Nell Dainty? She has herblore and has waited long for this cottage. You employ her yourself in your garden, Doctor. She is deserving of charity.’

  ‘Alas, I regret I cannot recommend her as searcher. She is competent at lesser tasks, preparing herbs and simple distillations, but her penmanship is poor. Tabitha, I recollect that you can read and write to a good standard?’ The doctor was watching her closely, coaxing her to comply.

  ‘I can, sir. I can read any book fluently, thanks to my mother’s teaching, and I write a good gentlewoman’s hand.’

  ‘There were certain allegations made,’ the parson retorted. ‘This … female … is not respectable.’

  The doctor turned to him, still courteous, but very cold. ‘Should you like me to refer the matter to my brother? He always had a certain fondness for Widow Hart and her daughter, as I recall.’

  As Tabitha listened she had time to gather her wits. ‘I confess, a few weeks here to tidy my mother’s affairs would be a great kindness, Doctor. Then I will be on my way.’

  ‘Then it is agreed. I will recommend the appointment to my brother.’ She felt the doctor’s smile fall upon her like a benison.

  From a second curtained chamber came a sudden raucous sound of wailing, growing ever more insistent. As both men made ready to leave, the doctor pointed his cane towards the curtain.

  ‘And here is another reason to lodge Tabitha here, Parson. Now the child need not be paid for by the parish, either.’

  The parson’s expression brightened. ‘That’s very true, sir. You are ahead of me in your arithmetic.’