November 1764
Although her father’s words always provided some comfort, Thea lay awake all night, thinking again of all the reasons that Martha may have decided not to be in touch, even though she was back. There was someone else, she was disappointed in Thea’s lack of success, she had taken a blow to the head in a storm and lost her memory, she had simply fallen out of love with her. The same possibilities that circled her head endlessly. She got up early and was dressed by a silent Joan who had apparently assessed the situation and decided that no amount of cheering would work this morning. After taking Musket for a walk, during which he barked at everyone going about their business in early morning London, she roused the children and Annie and took them all to the British Museum in an effort to cheer herself up. Curiosities and her children were the best things in her life, and they toured all their favourite displays, but the outing only served to remind her of the first time she had visited. That had been with Martha, who was later lauded as key to Thea’s father’s research and subsequently had her paper on venus fly traps presented at the Royal Society.
Of course Martha was disappointed in her. She could barely manage to grow tradescantia and lilies.
By the afternoon she was exhausted from a morning shepherding three children around precious artefacts – even though Annie did most of the work – and had convinced herself she could feel no worse. She had to know. The carriage dropped the children and Annie back at St James’ Square, and Thea ordered it onwards.
‘Foxmore Square?’ asked Sanders, Thea’s favourite footman. He was Martha’s old footman and had transferred after their last, James, was killed in an accident on the Portsmouth Turnpike two years ago. ‘Is the countess returned, Your Grace?’ He faltered then, perhaps at the look on her face. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, of course.’
‘I merely wish to visit the premises,’ she said, trying to sound as neutral as she could. ‘You know Lady Foxmore appreciates me keeping an eye on her concerns.’ It wasn’t a total lie, but this was different. Although Sanders took her past regularly, they never did what she had planned today. They rattled through the streets, her anxiety building as they drew close. What would she find? The house would be shut up if Martha was in Denbury. But not shut up if she was still in the city. Or maybe she had gone away again already. Had she come to London as her mother suggested she might? Thea’s chest thudded again and she swallowed.
Sanders opened the door and bowed as she alighted. ‘You may wait, I won’t be long,’ she instructed him, her eyes assessing the property. Then her attention was entirely on it, and her heart leapt. The curtains were open and through one downstairs window she could see the covers were off the furniture.
Martha was in the city.
She pulled her cloak around her against the cold November air. Her steps felt loud on the pavement and the squeak of thelatch on the gate grated more than she remembered. Pulling the bell chain, she heard it jangle in the hall, and it seemed to jangle inside her at the same time.
Nothing. For a long time. She tried again but knew households like Martha’s were not this tardy. Neither were they ever left unoccupied. She was beginning to turn away, defeated but almost relieved, when a creak startled her.
‘Miss Morell.’
Thea turned back.
Mrs Jenkins, Martha’s housekeeper checked herself. ‘I mean, Your Grace. What an honour.’ Although it didn’t look like she thought it was an honour. Mrs Jenkins’ face was stony. The antithesis of the kind, round face with which Thea used to be so familiar. Another change, another sadness.
‘Mrs Jenkins,’ said Thea, taking a step back towards the door. She tried a smile, not sure what to say now she was here. What did Mrs Jenkins’ presence mean? Was Martha here too? She almost didn’t dare ask, and every bit of the duchess air left her. ‘Are you – keeping the house?’ asked Thea.
Mrs Jenkins blinked. It was a silly question to ask of a housekeeper.
‘As usual, Your Grace,’ she said quickly. Then she didn’t say anything else. For quite a long time.
Thea swallowed and steeled herself. ‘Is Lady Foxmore at home?’
Mrs Jenkins hesitated. Then, ‘No,’ she said.
‘Oh.’ They stood for a minute, each unsure of their next move.
‘Not, right now, anyhow’ said Mrs Jenkins, looking anywhere but Thea. She always was terrible at anything but outright honesty.
‘Oh,’ said Thea again, uncertain of what to make of that. Was Martha not there yet, or had she snuck out the back when Thea arrived? ‘I haven’t seen her in town,’ she tried.
‘No,’ said Mrs Jenkins again.
‘She has been back for some time?’ asked Thea, trying to keep a grip on her dignity.
‘A short while.’ That could mean anything.
Thea pressed her lips together, not wishing to ask more questions and be silently rebuked, but desperate for more answers. She fought to keep the emotion at bay, or at least, invisible.
‘I should think,’ said Mrs Jenkins after the silence stretched into discomfort, ‘that leaving things alone might be best.’ She stepped further out of the doorway, closing it a little behind her, and her voice softened a little. ‘To avoid any more upset.’
A thousand thoughts raced through Thea’s head. There it was. Confirmation that Martha didn’t want to see her. She was avoiding her, and Mrs Jenkins knew. As much as she would have liked to ask why, she felt the emotion rise and she knew that few words would come without tears. She summoned her most detached duchess demeanour as a last line of defence, drawing herself up to her full height and raising her chin.
‘I appreciate your time and honesty,’ she managed, and turned back towards the carriage.
‘Go back via Blackstone’s and pick up some soap,’ she instructed Sanders as she ascended the carriage steps. He nodded without questioning as he closed the door behind her. She didn’t need soap, but the chandlers was on Throgmorton Street over the other side of the city and the time alone would be necessary. She reached to the back of her neck with both hands and unhooked the cherished ammonite necklace Martha had once given her, throwing it on to the bench beside her. She managed three, controlled breaths while she drew the curtains and heard Sanders climb on to the footplate. Then the tears came. Her chest heaved against her stays as sobs wracked her body, glad of the noise of hooves and wheels. They clatteredon the cobbles just loudly enough to disguise the sound of an outpouring of the past five years of grief. She let it go, bereft of any alternative and feeling entirely alone.
What was it that made discomfort of the mind into a physical response? Thea mused on the problem as Dr Hunter pulled the intestines from a corpse. Hand over hand like winding rope it just kept coming, until Martin wavered again, disappeared behind the front row seats and then came the thud of living flesh meeting the floor. But there was no Speckle to pick him up this week, presumably out at an emergency call. The ginger chap in the second-hand suit was the first to Martin and hoisted him into a sitting position before a couple of the Doctor’s assistants carried him out into the corridor.
