Farrell came next, with Peterson beside him, both doffing their caps and waving to passers-by, who, despite having no clue what was going on, cheered with enthusiasm. We had ‘money’ written all over us. I could imagine the local merchants’ eyes glistening with anticipation.
Schiller and I followed on. I rode a dainty cream mare, spirited, but easy to control. She arched her neck and pranced, showing off like the rest of us. I pushed back my hood and made sure to smile.
Behind us rode a surprisingly dashing Major Guthrie, and Randall and Weller brought up the rear, driving a heavily laden wagon bearing the fruits of Mrs Enderby’s labours.
People shouted – for various reasons – my little mare neighed, dogs barked, Markham banged his drum. Oh yes, we had arrived.
There was the house and there were the two eagles over the door. The one on the right had a broken wing, just as Leon had described to me that rainy afternoon in my office. I caught Peterson’s eye and he smirked. He had found exactly the right house.
Leon stared up at it for a brief moment. He was seeing his nightmares come true. I smiled reassuringly as he helped me dismount. He formally offered me his arm and we mounted the steps to the front door. Markham flung one last fistful of money – Thirsk was going to have a fit – gave us one final dramatic drum roll and followed us up the steps and into the house. The door closed on all the clamour.
Now everyone knew where we lived.
Like most houses at the time, the front door opened directly into the main parlour. A screen protected us from draughts. Two large oak settles either side of the fireplace had to be more comfortable than they looked. A battered chest stood under the windows and a big, ornate cabinet affair loomed in a corner. All were of oak and beautifully made. A number of stools stood against the walls. Every room was panelled. The wooden floors glowed gently in the light of two very whiffy oil lamps. Some of the windowpanes were glazed, but others contained an opaque substance Schiller said was horn.
At the back, the kitchen was nearly as large and dominated by a big scrubbed table in the middle. Two benches stood against the wall and a series of mismatched wooden cupboards containing earthenware crockery ran down one side. I yanked open a badly fitting drawer containing spoons and knives. No forks. Another settle was pulled in front of the huge hearth, which bristled with irons, spits, stands, cauldrons, and other items of a dubious and culinary nature. I was reminded of the Spanish Inquisition.
The stairs were really not something you wanted to gallop up and down in a long dress bearing only a flickering candle.
Schiller and I shared the bedroom at the back and I saw my first tester bed – a four-poster with a red canopy overhead. It was small for two people and lacked matching hangings, but the feather mattress was unstained and looked quite comfortable. We dropped the sleeping bags we’d brought with us and looked around. Another chest stood at the foot of the bed. There was no wardrobe, but pegs hung around the walls for our clothes. Farrell and Peterson were in the front room, similarly furnished, and a small room leading off that would be where we stored the Queen’s gifts until required.
We had truckle beds, but Guthrie and his people preferred to sleep downstairs.
‘Just in case,’ he said.
We started to unpack, bustling about, feet clattering on the wooden floors until we laid down some carpets. We hung two or three on the walls where they could impress any visitors. Peterson had fires going in all the rooms and the place smelled of wood smoke, cloves, and warm wood, with not so pleasant undertones of tallow and burned fat.
I made a mental note never, ever to set foot in the backyard privy. Or even the backyard itself. I could feel my colon assuming a defensive posture.
‘It’s not so bad,’ said Peterson, cheerfully. ‘At least it’s in our own backyard. Most people have to trudge down to the midden by the stables.’
I made a mental note never, ever to trudge down to the midden by the stables.
He became aware of the silence.
‘Fine. There are buckets in the bedrooms. Just empty them into the privy as and when.’
Rampant constipation is not always a bad thing.
‘And then,’ he continued, ‘we can just empty the ashes from the fire over the top and it’s all nice and neat and there’s no smell. Cutting-edge hygiene, eh?’
‘Dear God,’ said Guthrie. ‘How are you people still alive? Did our last misadventure in Alexandria teach you nothing about methane?’
We stared at him.
He sighed.
‘I’ll keep it simple for the historians. There’s a pit, full of … effluent. Things build up. Some idiot tosses in a bucket of hot ash and maybe a glowing ember or two. No prizes for working out what happens next. I’ve been showered with shit once. It’s not happening again.’
We stared at him.
‘OK,’ said Peterson. ‘Scrub round the ash thing. Just chuck in your bucketful and retire immediately.’
Oh, the romance and glamour of time travel.