A Murder at Rosamund's Gate

6

Lucy found her cloak in the kitchen the next morning. She wondered if Adam had returned for it, or more likely Bessie had recognized it and fetched it back. She didn’t know if she was happy or angry as she went out on the stoop to await the raker.

Standing away from two huge basket tubs that held the week’s rotting foodstuffs, slops, and bodily excretions, Lucy held a linen cloth scented with rosemary over her face, trying to ward off the unbearable stench. A few months ago, the city government had mandated that all household refuse be carted away, which meant that servants like Lucy had to wrestle with heaping buckets of waste, instead of throwing everything out the window as servants had been doing for many centuries.

As she waited, Lucy gazed into the dirty fog. The Fumifugium. She rolled the word around on her tongue, tasting its full acridity. John Evelyn’s word, she heard the master say the other night at supper. The word could only begin to evoke the disgusting cloud of smoke that ever rose from the city’s chimneys and became mired in London’s ever-present fog. All she knew was that the putrid smoke felt like a murderer, stealing among the Londoners, clouding their lungs, taking their breath, and pilfering lives. Or at least that’s what Evelyn had said.

Finally Bessie came out, her face paling as she caught a whiff of the stench. She plopped down heavily on the stoop, without a word of greeting. Lucy could see sweat beading across her forehead, and her face seemed unnaturally pale and waxy, despite two blotches of red on either cheek. She looked ill.

Lucy’s mind flashed to something Missus Gray had gossiped about the other day. “Something troublesome is going on, down by Drury Lane. A strange sickness, ‘distemper’ they’re calling it. Bah. Whoever died from distemper?” At the other women’s encouraging clucks, Missus Gray added, “I ask you this: Would that explain the bodies being carted out at night? Would it explain the dogs’ howling?”

“What say the magistrate, Mary?” Mistress Vane had pressed Cook. “Do you know?”

Cook and Lucy had exchanged glances. They knew what the magistrate thought, but neither spoke. Several houses in Drury Lane, a few miles away from their home, had been quarantined by a fellow magistrate, but according to Master Hargrave, probably not nearly the number that should have been.

Indeed, Lucy had heard him tell the mistress, “The Bills of Mortality have been reporting an unprecedented number of deaths in Drury Lane, but there may be many more. The problem is, families are trying to hide their marks of infection from the law and may be dumping bodies in other parts of the city.” Here he had looked sternly around the family, his gaze taking in the servants. “There may well be plague upon us, but it is our duty not to start a panic.”

Without thinking, Lucy felt Bessie’s head anxiously for fever, but it was cool. “I guess you don’t have the plague.”

“Plague? What? No. I’m all right.” Bessie wiped her mouth. Glancing down the street, she pointed at a man slowly bringing a cart up the street. “Look, here’s the raker. I’ll be back.”

Bessie did not come back outside, though. Lucy had to heave the filth from the tubs into the cart by herself. She noted with disgust that the cart was leaking excrement onto the street. “So much for improved city cleanliness,” Lucy commented to no one.

Returning inside, she found Bessie drinking some water from the kitchen pail. Sweat had drenched the back of her muslin dress. Without saying anything, Bessie left to attend to Mistress Hargrave. Sighing, Lucy poured sand across the stone floor of the kitchen, for Cook had asked her to scour the floor after breakfast.

* * *

Lucy had finished the floor and started on preparing dinner when Lucas came into the kitchen a short time later, whistling a catchy tune. He plopped himself at the other end of the bench, watching as Lucy pared potatoes with a knife. Peering hopefully into one of the iron bowls cooling on the table, he spoke.

“Dear Lucy, will you give a poor lad something to eat? Just a small bite?”

Lucy tossed him a carrot from one of the wood baskets lining the kitchen’s ample shelves. “Here, eat this.”

Making a face, Lucas nonetheless bit down on the carrot. “I thought you had a heart. I’m beginning to believe you don’t care about me at all. I’ve not had a bite to eat all day.”

“As I would wager it is just ten in the morning, I feel none too sorry for you or your clamoring belly. Besides, you should feel lucky Cook is not here to shoo you off, with your tales of woe. Which I don’t believe, by the way.”

“Hmmm. Don’t be so sure. Cook loves me,” Lucas said. “By the by, where is dear Cook?”

“She is off visiting her son, Sam, in Leadenhall.”

“Ah, yes, the fishmonger. An’ you and Bessie did not get to go? What a shame!” Lucas grinned. He knew all about Sam’s wandering fingers.

“Yes, we do miss him terribly, but someone must tend to supper.”

“Of course. Quite noble and kind of you, to be sure.” He looked around. “And Bessie? Off today, too?”

“No, off getting thread from the seamstress. She lives not too far from here. The mistress did need her new bonnet fixed. The winds tore it something terrible when she got caught out in this morning’s rain.”

“Uh-huh.” Lucas leaned over to stir a pot. “And Adam?” he asked, idly.

Hoping the faint blush was not evident on her cheeks at the mention of Adam’s name, Lucy shook her head, chopping quickly. “Off to see Miss Embry, perhaps.”

Lucas looked at her keenly. “Now why would you assume that?” He held up his hand. “No matter. He’s just as likely at the pub. No, I jest. I’m sure he’s off somewhere studying or some such nonsense. He’s seemed a bit anxious of late to finish his legal studies.”

“How are you getting on with the good Reverend Marcus?” Lucy asked hurriedly, hoping to change the subject.

“Quite well, actually.” Lucas chuckled. “I think I may have found my calling after all.”

Lucy could not quite tell if he was teasing. There was a little glint to his smile that she had never before seen. A bit of self-mockery, a bit of hesitant pride—he reminded her of Will, trying to find his way in the world. “I’m so glad, Lucas.”

Perhaps seeing the admiration on her face, Lucas settled more comfortably on the hard bench. “Have you any more of that cakebread?” he wheedled, licking his lips. “The currants, the spices, mmm.”

Shaking her head, Lucy pulled out the last piece of cakebread from yesterday’s supper. Mistress Hargrave had given Cook a copy of A Boke of Gode Cookery this past Christmas, but it was Lucy who had begged her to try the recipe. Everyone had heartily enjoyed it. Indeed, she was surprised there was any left.

“I knew it!” Lucas clasped his hands to his chest. “I should marry the girl who produced this cake.”

“That would be Cook,” she teased. “I’m afraid John will not let her go.”

“But ’twas your sweet hands that produced this delight out of thin air. A wondrous feat, to be sure!”

Lucy flicked a towel at him. “Get on with you, and mind you do not spill crumbs on the floor!”

“I’ll sweep them up, I promise.” Now settled with the cakebread and a bit of mead, he continued. “So, you asked me about the good Reverend Thomas. He has the most uncanny ability to read a man’s soul, and he does not hesitate to berate a man—or woman, for that matter—about the wages of sin. Gentry and digger alike.”

“He is like to make some enemies,” Lucy said doubtfully. “I should think that people do not like to be confronted with the wages of their sins.”

“Quite wise, and so true, Lucy.” He licked his plate. “I’m starting to believe in the power of the pulpit, nonetheless, and even more so the purpose of a minister. There are a lot of sinners in this world, and it’s the Church who must help them see the error of their ways.” He seemed more resolved than she had ever seen him.

She laid a bun in front of him. “I wish I had such a purpose.”

“Women’s callings are different. You’ll find it.” Smiling, he took the bread. “Now, tell me, Lucy. How is brother Will these days?”

“He is doing very well indeed with the smithy. In a few more years, he will be a master himself. He could set up his own shop. He should even have the means to marry.” Her face clouded slightly. “He’s taken up with Bessie, you know, but I cannot make headway about his feelings for her.”

“Do you think he wishes to marry? Is he willing to wait, do you think, until he is his own master?”

Lucy smiled. “I don’t really know. I haven’t truly inquired after his heart in some time now, but Will is always a lad to have several girls after him, with not one a particular favorite. There is a girl back home, Cecily, but ’tis only Mother who favors the match. I find her sweet but a bit dull myself. I’d be happy enough to call her my sister, though, should he choose her.”

“Oh, I see,” Lucas said, pondering the last drops of mead in his cup.

“I do not think,” Lucy continued, enjoying having someone to share her thoughts with, “being truthful, that Will wishes to wed either Cecily or Bessie, at least not now. He plays among the lasses, but I think he still desires a place for himself.”

“Well, that be the way of many men, before getting married. Hopefully, he will see his sinning ways before it is too late. A good man will not string a woman along.” Seeing Lucy sniff, he added, “Oh, but you are frowning. You’re not thinking about Will, are you? My dear Lucy, is there someone you are pining after who has not been faithful to you?”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily. “No sweetheart. No one like that.”

“Good,” Lucas said, his face flushed. “I should not like to see you give your heart away, especially to some fickle lad who doesn’t deserve it. Or,” he said, leaning closer, “to someone from a family you can never marry into.”

Lucy looked up sharply, catching his troubled look.

“It is the way of the world, I’m afraid. Like marries like.” He shook his head ruefully. “Of course, that’s the good thing about someone like me,” he said, his eyes suddenly intent. “I can marry whom I please. Perhaps some charming wench who will conjure up a cakebread whenever I ask.” He stood up. Without warning, he kissed her forehead, just below her cap. “Don’t change, my sweet. I’m off now, nary a crumb to be found, so we will not face the wrath of Cook.”

The door slammed behind him, and Lucy sat on the bench Lucas had just vacated. The way of the world, indeed, Lucy thought. She looked around the happy kitchen in sudden distaste. Why did the walls feel like a prison?