As indeed tribulation it was. I did not like this affair. I perceived that no name was attached to this verse, but it looked to be the same hand as its predecessor. “How did it come?” I asked. “Did the poet bring it?”
“It was by our door this morning,” Mr Thomas told me. “Many of our poets spend their evenings in the Rooms, either dancing or playing cards according to the evening, and they pen their tributes during the midnight hours, leaving them by our door to find in the morning.”
By the cold light of day, I thought, many must rue their hot-headed declarations. No wonder the fashion for anonymity of the damsels so highly praised by the poets. Did the author of this last verse rue his violent declaration, or was it merely a lovers’ quarrel which time had solved? Somehow I did not think so. “Have you spoken to his lordship today?” I asked.
“Lord Foppington has not appeared this morning, and no wonder,” Mr Thomas said in a tone of disgust. “Nor, fortunately, has the fair Miss Olivia Cherrington, whom all know to be the nymph he threatens.”
“He is coming,” squealed Mrs Thomas, running to the window. “Husband, pray do something. Miss Cherrington accompanies him.”
There was a hush outside as all turned to the approaching couple, who seemed to take such attention as their rightful due. Her maid walked dutifully behind her. Both Lord Foppington and Miss Cherrington were in full dress, despite the early hour, he in berib-boned breeches and elegant frock coat, she a delightful shepherdess with ornate polonaise drapery, white stockings peeping below the calf-length skirt, and her hair piled high on her head. They looked as though they indeed graced a stage.
“Mr Thomas, Miss Cherrington is impatient to read my latest poem,” Lord Foppington drawled, seemingly unaware of the twittering disapproval around him.
“I would,” lisped Miss Cherrington. She looked a sweet child for all her affectation, although more a dainty automaton than a young lady with a mind of her own.
“Pray do not,” Mr Thomas said anxiously.
“Why?” she asked indignantly, turning the fateful page to read it. I made no attempt to dissuade her. If this was a true threat against her life, she should know about it.
“Oh!” A gasp, then Miss Cherrington grew very white and swooned into Mr Thomas’s arms. Mrs Thomas hastened to bring salts, which, firmly removing the young lady from her husband’s arms, she applied to the victim’s nostrils with no immediate effect.
“This is your doing, my lord,” Mr Thomas said angrily.
Lord Foppington smiled. “She swoons for my love.”
I stepped forward. “She fears, my lord. You must assure her it is a jest.”
“Fears? A jest? Who are you, sir?” Lord Foppington eyed me querulously.
“Parson Pennywick of Cuckoo Leas. Miss Cherrington fears you wish to kill her.”
“Kill her?” Lord Foppington looked blank.
“Your poem threatens it, sir.”
He cast a look at the verse and looking up, frowning. “This is not my poem. I wrote of love, I wrote of her beauty — not this.”
Miss Cherrington quickly opened her eyes. “It is your hand, my lord,” she snapped, and swooned again.
His lordship looked alarmed. “Fairest nymph, let me recite my poem for today. Hark — When fairest — takes the waters, Withdraw, all ye other daughters, So far in beauty—”
Mr Thomas had heard enough. “Do you deny you wrote this?” He pointed to the disputed verse.
“Certainly I do.”
Miss Cherrington, now fully awake, burst into tears. “You are a villain, my lord.”
Lord Foppington dropped instantly upon one knee. “Fair lady, it is not my hand,” he pleaded. “Depend upon it, this is Percy’s doing.”
“Lord Foppington’s rival for her hand,” Dorothea whispered to me in excitement. “Mr Percy Trott, younger son of the Earl of Laninton.”
“Of what am I guilty, pray?” The languid voice belonged to a full-bodied gentleman dressed à la mode, who was surveying the assembled company through an eyeglass without enthusiasm — until he spied Miss Cherrington.
A dozen voices enlightened him.
“You insult me, you mushroom,” Mr Trott accused his lordship indignantly, then turning to Miss Cherrington: “Madam, pay no attention to this clunch, this clown.” And back to Lord Foppington: “At dawn tomorrow, my lord, we shall meet. My seconds shall call upon you.”
Miss Cherrington’s recovery was now remarkable, and she beamed at the prospect of a duel. “I shall forgive you both,” she announced. “Whether alive or dead,” she added generously.
The three left their stage together, apparently all restored to good humour. Play-acting? Perhaps. But plays only succeed if based on true emotions — and what those might be here, I could not guess. The crowd began to disperse, no doubt reminded that it was long past the hour when they should be seen in déshabillé.
As for myself, Dorothea reminded me that I had apparently clamoured to take the waters, and docilely I agreed. Overhearing this exchange, Mr Thomas immediately said he would accompany us to the spring, although Mrs Thomas’ displeasure at having to remain in the store was obvious. The spring was at the end of the Upper Walk and it was the custom for visitors to the Wells to pay a subscription on leaving to one or other of the dippers for service during the course of their stay. This hardly applied to poor parsons but it pleased Dorothea when I produced a halfpenny.
Most of the dippers were of mature years, with a practised eye for the richest visitors, but Miss Annie Bright was a merry-eyed girl. Annie, so Dorothea explained to me, was the niece of Jacob’s housekeeper, Mrs Atkins, and so I acquired her services in filling the metal cup for me.
The pretty little hand closed around my halfpenny and its new owner gave me a merry smile — at which Mr Thomas too decided to take the waters. Annie spun me a tale of the wondrous properties of the spring and insisted I drank not one but three cups. An even number of cups would bring ill fortune she told me gravely, but an odd number would give speed to my legs, make my liver rejoice and my spirits rise. I felt neither of the first two effects, only the flat metallic taste of a chalybeate spring, but as for the third, my spirits did indeed rise, as she smiled at me.
But then I saw Lord Foppington chatting amiably to both Miss Cherrington and Mr Trott, the threat of the poem forgotten. Except by Caleb Pennywick.
That evening I was late to my bed, having been persuaded by Dorothea that I wanted nothing more than to attend Mrs Sarah Baker’s theatre on Mount Sion to see a performance of Mr Sheridan’s The Rivals. A most amusing piece. Early the next morning I was awoken by Dorcas. She is my housekeeper, and at home my dearest companion by day and often by night. It is she not I who keeps the difference between us for she maintains she has no wish to play the part of parson’s wife. She chose to come with me on my visit to Jacob, but remains in the housekeeper’s rooms, as she is eager, she claims, to learn new receipts for our pantry at Cuckoo Leas. Every morning therefore she visits the market on the Walks, and today had been no exception.
“Caleb, wake up, lovey.” She was gently shaking me.
I sat bolt upright in my bed. “Are there no more wheatear pies?” I cried, having dined and dreamed happily of them.
“There’s been a murder done.”
“Miss Cherrington?” I was fully awake now.
“No, Caleb. Young Annie Bright, one of the water dippers.”
The lass who had so eagerly received my halfpenny yesterday. My heart bled for the loss of innocence and joy in this world.
“Found by the sweeper at the spring this morning,” Dorcas continued. “A paper knife was stuck in her. In a rare taking is Mrs Atkins. I told her you’d find out who did it.”