I had some trouble at first with this, the web site went down under the load of traffic owing to the rise in PB prices.
I intend to post draft copies of my work here for my fans to comment, and will remove all but the first chapter when I publish. All rights reserved, no copying of any portion of my writing without permission. Copyright Sarah J Waldock.
Tuesday, June 20, 2023
Saturday, June 3, 2023
Friday, May 19, 2023
moorwick chronicles dramatis personae
I'm afraid the text boxes which lined up prettily are now annoying extraneous boxes; they work fine on the template but not, apparently, here.
Dramatis Personae
Ellery Morecambe, 7th Earl Wroth
Anne Morecambe, Countess Wroth, his wife.
Hortensia Maplin, cousin of Anne, brain damaged. Ellery’s pensioner.
Peacock, the butler at Wrotherhyde Hall
Mrs. Yorke, housekeepr at Wrotherhyde Hall.
Jagger, head groom at Wrotherhyde Hall, has flamboyant style in waistcoats.
Lady Amanda Hyde
Lady Miranda Hyde
The daughters of the dowager, collectively known as
‘the gerundives’ for their names.
Lady Lucenda Hyde
Larry [Laurence] Hyde, 6th Earl Wroth, deceased diseased.
Selena Johnson, illegitimate daughter of opera dancer, Celeste Johnson, and Fenton Harcourt, an uncle of Larry Hyde, Selena is a friend of Drusilla/Tiffany, also charity girl in Mrs. Chorley’s school.
Jane Jefferson, parlour boarder in Mrs. Chorley’s school, friend of the charity girls
Amelie Dubois, daughter of a ci-devant vicomte, pupil at Mrs. Chorley’s school. Not a nice girl.
Francis Hyde, 4th Lord Wroxley, deceased. Depraved waste of space.
Hugo Hyde, 5th Lord Wroxley, nephew of above, captain in the 7th hussars. – Marries Lady Amanda Hyde
Collins, his devoted valet and ex batman
Lord Robert Bradley, magistrate, widower. A fair man.
The Hon. Thomas Bradley, his son. Less of a pill than he used to be
The Hon. Amelia Bradley, his daughter. Still coltish
Miss Lydia Lawford, Amelia’s governess. A nervous lady
Sir Henry Bradley, brother of Lord Bradley, colonel of local militia.
Lady Sophia Bradley, his wife, motherly and sweet.
John Landry, wealthy industrialist, bully and voluptuary. Dead and unmourned.
Aurelia Landry, his trophy wife. Older daughter of a parson with unholy instincts.
Beatrice Clement, Aurelia’s sister, the daughter who was not favoured. Married Jack Mayhew qv
Susanna Gorringe, Aurelia’s maid/dresser/companion/crony. The real mother of small John Landry, b spring 1813, as Aurelia refuses sexual contact with her husband. ½ sister of Aurelia and Beatrice.
Ephraim Porkins, disobliging gardener/groom/coachman/handyman, soft spot for Aurelia.
3 maids, see Aggie Dinsdale
Luke Sanderville, owner of Kersey Abbey, late of the 7th Hussars, missing a hand
Ophelia Sanderville, his wife
Matthew Sanderville, their son
Lucy Sanderville, Luke’s daughter AKA the Queen’s Own Lucy
Philemon/ Phil Rackham
|
Ophelia’s brothers who live with her and Luke |
Eglamour/Egg Rackham
Mrs. Celia Rackham, mother of Ophelia and the Rackham boys, self-absorbed now in Bath.
Micklejohn, ex soldier, butler. Ex Sergeant, missing a leg, known to Jem Butler as Mr. Mouthfulman.
Mrs. Micklejohn, Housekeeper, fat and jolly.
Crawford, coachman, ex soldier, missing an arm; father to Maggie Butler. Late of the 95th rifles.
Davis footman, ex soldier, Methodist.
Jem Butler, poacher, now Luke’s Bailiff
Maggie Butler née Crawford, chose Jem for his good teeth and fitness over any younger men, she is a fine shot.
Jemima, b. Early 1813
Luke due late 1814
Bessie Porrit, aka Madame Bellescheveux. Married daughter of Luke’s bailiff, Jem Butler.
Maggie, who married Jem. Children James and Eliza, 6 and 4
Andrew, Bessie’s husband
Jeffery Thorngate, son of factory owner, raised as a gentleman, quite erudite grey eyes, titian hair. Working on being less careless. Open handed and pleasant.
Sisters: Priscilla, b 1793, married; Penelope b1796, ginger
Brother, Miles, b 1797, scholarly, amiable, a bit slapdash, dark auburn hair.
Paul Fulkard, son of an old family of gentry folk, very musical which was denied to him by his parents.
Miriam Fulkard née Mayhew, his wife, oldest daughter of the Rev. Mayhew. Musical. Bright red ginger hair
Death Morville, son of old family of gentry, his first name is his mother’s maiden name but he refuses to pronounce it De’ath. Had infantile paralysis and is left with a limp.
Crumshawe, Morville’s devoted valet.
Tiffany Morville, née Drusilla Haversedge/Tiffany Hyde, illegitimate daughter of Larry Hyde, charity girl in Mrs. Chorley’s school. Mrs. Death Morville.
George, an infant, brother [half or full not known] to Tiffany, adopted by Death.
Jack Mayhew, the eldest son of the Reverend Mayhew. Has job as apprentice joiner to pay for his siblings’ education. Chestnut hair.
Beatrice Mayhew, née Clement, Aurelia’s sister, the daughter who was not favoured.
Miriam Mayhew, oldest daughter of the Rev. Mayhew. Musical. Bright red ginger hair married Paul Fulkard qv
Michael Mayhew, second son, already at university. Auburn.
James Mayhew, third son, aspires to university, musical. Bright red ginger hair
Ezekial/Zeke Mayhew fourth son, wants to work outside. Bright red ginger hair
Abigail Mayhew, second daughter. Strawberry blonde
Other Mayhew children:
Elizabeth and Esther. Sandy red hair.
Daniel/ Dan. Chestnut hair
Gabriel/ Gabe. Auburn hair.
Gabe, Dan, and Zeke are being reared by Luke and Ophelia
Jesca. Strawberry blonde.
Reuben, musical. Bright red ginger hair.
Adalia and Aziza, musical. Bright red ginger hair.
Priscilla. Chestnut hair.
Mark. Strawberry blonde hair.
The four youngest are being raised by Miriam and Paul
Tobias Smith, cornet in local militia, yeoman farmer’s son
Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Tobias’ parents
Polly [Mary], their daughter
Mr. Wickes, schoolmaster
Mrs. Wickes, schoolmistress of girls, née Catherine [Aunt Catty] Dawlish, wife of Mr. Wickes and former companion to Mrs. Rackham
Harry [Henry] Tweedie, adoptive son of the Wickes, he and one sister being the sole survivors of typhus. Sister Amy, b c1808
Towser, a dog, rescued by Harry at risk to his own life. A faithful and intelligent hound.
Lionel Samms, an old school friend of both Ellery and Luke, a Corinthian and noted horseman
Maggie and Emmie Thwaite, village girls from Wrotherhyde, good at sewing; working for Selena in her shop.
Miss Jemima Thorrington, ageing teacher at Mrs. Chorley’s school happy to become a companion to Selena.
Aggie Dinsdale, wife of Dick Dinsdale the butcher
Patty [Martha] Lumley, née Dinsdale, relict of a drunken carter, son Robert b late 1812. Patty is cook/housekeeper to Aurelia and Susanna
Minnie [Mary] & Amy [Amelia] b 1797, twins, maids of all work to Aurelia and Susanna.
Fanny [Frances] b 1799, at school
Richie [Richard] b 1801, at school
Torquil b 1804, named for an uncle, known by his fellows as ‘Teapot.’
Jinny Goodchild, wife of Goodchild the baker
Joe, b 1794, works for his father
Charlie, b 1797, at school, wants to be a Royal Engineer
Thwaite, farrier, horse-doctor and sometime midwife
7 daughters; Doll and Moll married;
Ellie, 1798, Judy, 1800, Rosie, 1805, Hetty, 1807, Biddy, 1809.
Tom Kentworth, Blacksmith
Tommy, b 1795, works for father
Billie, b 1797, at school, wants to be a lawyer
Kenworth the saddler, offspring mostly stupid and willingly ignorant. Oldest boy b 1796. Once floored by Ophelia.
Anne b 1803, in school, and has ambitions to escape her family.
Reverend Jerome Blake, vicar in Wrotherhyde
Jerusha Blake, his daughter.
Miss Jane Sneddon, an incomer of genteel poverty and malicious disposition
Mrs. Merivale, wife of yeoman farmer Merivale, husband beater and gossip
Captain Thomas Death Sanderville RN, cousin of both Luke and of Death Morville, bought The Place from Aurelia Landry and renamed it Fourwinds. Somewhat drawn to Miranda Hyde...
Jim Cooper, yeoman farmer
Andrew, b 1799
Alice, b 1801
Alexander, b1805
Arthur, b 1808
Rev. Edmund Baillie, new rector in Withersedge [where Aurelia et al came from], a bit of a squarson, chubby, but with lugubrious sandy muttonchops.
Lizzie, his wife, thin, but jolly, musical
Nicholas, b1797 a bit of a know it all and hearty and inclined to throw weight around. Handsome with golden brown hair.
Matthew, b1799, opinionated but squashable; mid brown hair.
Lydia, b 1801,musical, fine needlewoman, mousey hair, a bit clumsy
Stephen b 1803, very musical, charismatic, sandy curly hair, not very tall.
Susan, b 1806, golden brown
Philip, b 1808, nut brown.
Monday, May 8, 2023
Moorwick Tales 1
Chapter 1
“You don’t think there’s anything suspicious in the hasty weddings of Jack Mayhew to that Beatrice Clement and Miriam Mayhew to Mr. Fulkard do you?” asked Mrs. Jinny Goodchild, as she wrapped a loaf of bread for Aggie Dinsdale.
“Suspicious? What do you mean, Jinny?” asked Mrs. Dinsdale.
“Well, there was that house party, and suddenly three of the women there get married. Well, we know what the old Earl Wroth was like, was they debauched by the new Wroth?”
“Now you stop that silly talk right there, Jinny!” said Aggie Dinsdale. “Dinsdale hears a lot about the gentry from Jem Butler, and the countess is the sweetest lady, like our own Mrs. Sanderville, and a connection of hers, too, and Captain Sanderville is a friend of the new Lord Wroth and he wouldn’t be friends with any loose fish! Anywise, there’s a perfectly good reason for vicar’s eldest two getting wed in a hurry.”
“Oh, what’s that?” asked Jinny, with salacious glee. The goings on of the gentry were always of interest.
“Well, it was because it was on their mother’s death bed, and she wanted to see them wed to their sweethearts,” said Aggie. “And I had that from the nurse, before she went back to Harrogate. There ain’t anything suspicious, and don’t you go accusing those Mayhew youngsters of anything untoward, a nicer family you wouldn’t find, for all that there are so many of them. And with Mrs. Sanderville taking those boys off their father’s hands, they won’t be getting into trouble, nowise.”
“Well, happen ‘twill be no more than they have already with the Rackham boys, and their mischief isn’t nasty,” said Jinny, indulgently, who had a soft spot for Eglamour, or Egg, Rackham.
“Yes, and I wager they are much relieved that their mother has shabbed off to Bath,” opined Aggie.
It has to be said that the inhabitants of Moorwick village were in general much relieved when the Widow Rackham left for Bath.
“Fancy her leaving them nice little boys!” said Jinny.
“Well, Mrs. Micklejohn was buying ham from Dinsdale for the Abbey for Christmas last, and she was holding forth about how Mrs. Celia Rackham goes on about how she dotes on the young masters, Sebastian, Philemon and Eglamour, and then she can’t bear to be in their company as it makes her head ache. And she’s downright nasty to Miss Lucy, aye, and her father, the captain, even though he pays his mother-in-law a handsome stipend. Mrs. Micklejohn says he lets her live on in the cottage rent free and gives her quite four hundred a year!”
“Only fancy that!” gasped Jinny, who thought she and her husband did well to make seventy pounds a year. “She lived at the Abbey with her children until after Christmas.”
“Yes, and she was so slighting that the captain threw her out, bag and baggage, and him the most even-tempered of men,” said Aggie, with relish. “She can’t keep a maid, my poor cousin Lizzie fled in tears when she had a chamberpot – full, mind – thrown at her. Anyway do you want to know what Mrs. Micklejohn told me last week?”
“Yes, do go on!” said Jinny, her nose twitching.
“Well, the captain got rid of her to Bath a-purpose, so that Miriam and her man could have the cottage, and he did it by declaring that she could ride over daily to Harrogate to take the waters and did not need to remove to a spa city, so of course, she was determined he should pay for her to go to the furthest and most prestigious.”
“Sithee, she’s a contrary piece,” said Jinny. “Well, good riddance to bad rubbidge, I say. So is Miriam still taking in sewing? She has I don’t know how many of her siblings with her. It’s a lot for a woman to take on.”
“Well, Mr. Fulkard has hired all sorts of servants; he paid for the nurse, too, so hap... I guess it must be a long term arrangement,” said Aggie, biting back the urge to use local vernacular, having been a ladies’ maid before she married Dinsdale the butcher, and considering herself a cut above the likes of Jinny Goodchild. “There’s five of them plus the baby Mrs. Mayhew birthed afore she died. But Miriam, Mrs. Fulkard, I should say, is only sewing for her particular friends, and making gowns for the gentry.”
“That new lady what took a cottage, happen she’s a lady fallen on hard times, she reckons Mi... Mrs. Fulkard... can’t sew fine clothes being just a country vicar’s daughter.”
“Her!” snorted Aggie. “That Miss Sneddon is an incomer, and she has no idea! Why, I’ve hear Mrs. Fulkard’s creations are reckoned equal to anything from London! Well, I must get on.”
Miriam made gowns for friends which did indeed rival those by any London modiste, let alone the nearest big town, Harrogate, and offered piano lessons to those who wanted to learn. She did not turn away the children of yeoman farmers whose parents had ambitions for their offspring, though she was quite brutally honest about the abilities of any of her pupils if she felt them to be wasting time and money.
Mrs. Fulkard was looked up to as Mrs. Rackham had never been. And an incomer like Miss Sneddon was bound to be treated with suspicion and resented, even when not trying to take business from one of their own.
Miss Sneddon was a lady in genteel poverty who was moving to a less expensive area, which had enough gentry present to, in her own estimation, make it worth her while. Miss Sneddon proclaimed herself a modiste and milliner, and set up shop.
The locals could not afford her prices, even if they had not looked down on her.
The gentry continued to buy their gowns from Miriam Fulkard.
Miss Sneddon managed to corner Ophelia Sanderville as she shopped. Ophelia wanted to let Dinsdale, the butcher, know that he was permitted certain pheasants to be delivered to him. Dinsdale was not averse to buying from poachers, and Luke Sanderville liked to let his poachers know that he knew how many birds they had taken. It kept them on their toes. Ophelia smiled serenely, and as Miss Sneddon was already in there, used the language of poaching, and said, demurely,
“I believe you may be offered three brace of owls, Mr. Dinsdale. The captain is amenable.”
Dinsdale blushed, but he had given up blustering or asking what Mrs. Sanderville meant.
“I’m obliged,” he muttered.
“Owls?” chirped Miss Sneddon. “Oh, Mrs. Sanderville, I cannot think it would be nice to eat owls!”
“Who said anything about eating them?” said Ophelia. “It was a private conversation, Miss Sneddon.”
Miss Sneddon laughed.
“Oh, but one could not help overhearing!” she declared. “I am so glad to have run into you, my dear, for I am sure that you are going to be wanting a new wardrobe for the autumn, and you won’t want to be turning to a provincial little mouse like Mrs. Fulkard. I am sure, I don’t know when she has time to sew, having all those children, and she scarcely looks old enough!”
“Well obviously she is not old enough to be the mother of her siblings,” said Ophelia. “Good grief, you are surely not accusing the Reverend Mayhew of incest, are you?” She took exception to her friend being insulted by an incomer.
“They ... they are her siblings? I ... I did not realise,” stuttered Miss Sneddon.
“Perhaps you should have asked,” said Ophelia. “We are rearing two of her other siblings at the Hall with my own brothers and stepdaughter. And I have to say I cannot think it ladylike to append an unflattering description on my friend.”
Miss Sneddon realised she had made a tactical error, and gave a little titter.
“Oh, no insult was intended, but you have to admit that Mrs. Fulkard is not well travelled. Her ability to envision the ... the dernier cri of fashion must surely be limited.”
“I doubt it; she takes more fashion magazines than you do, and she is extremely talented,” said Ophelia. “If I was you, I’d stick largely to millinery and taking in a bit of sewing. Miriam prefers not to mess about with hats and bonnets and only sews for her closest friends. I am sure you can make a good enough living out of providing us with headwear, and outfitting those for whom Miriam will not sew. Going behind her back in order to do her down, when she has lived here all her life, is not going to get you anything except losing those of us who might become your customers. I would go into Harrogate to avoid sly innuendo and spite. And forgive me for being plainly spoken, but if you attempt to undermine my friend, I will ask my husband to see if there is any clause on your tenancy agreement which you have violated, and at the very least to refuse to renew your rental after the next quarter day.”
Miss Sneddon paled. How was she to know that the red-haired chit was a friend of the lady of the manor?
“It is, of course, your choice,” she said, in a tone which implied that Ophelia was making a mistake.
“Why, yes, I believe it is,” said Ophelia.
Ophelia popped in to see Miriam.
“Hello, Miriam, how does married life suit you?” she asked.
“Oh, Ophelia, very well. Paul wishes me to take herbs until Rhoda is stouter, and thanks to you I know what to do. I don’t intend to die of exhaustion and leave a family without a mother! Thank you for sending your brothers and little Lucy to me for piano lessons, they are a delight to teach. Some of my pupils are not exactly a waste of time – I will not take them if they are – but they can be an upward struggle. Polly Smith, for example, who likes music well enough, is not finding it easy. But her brother, Tobias, is entering higher society than their parents; yeoman farmers, and if Polly can perform adequately in society, she has a better chance of marrying up.”
“There’s a harp and guitars in my music room at the Abbey; bring her up one day and see if she performs better on something different. I’ll loan you anything she is good at.”
“Oh, Ophelia, how kind you are!”
“I love to see people enjoy music,” said Ophelia. “I wouldn’t want the poor child suffering from it, if I can offer an alternative.”
“Thank you; I dare not consider reducing music lessons, there’s a new dressmaker in the village, and she as good as told me, when I met her in Dinsdale’s, that I was going to be finding my clientelle reducing, when Mrs. Dinsdale introduced us, because she’s more fashionable and skilled.” Tears stood in her eyes. “Just because Paul is well-off does not mean I can be profligate.”
“The cat!” cried Ophelia. “Well! I gave her a set-down just before I came here, because she isn’t more fashionable or skilled, not that your friends would abandon you anyway. You take more magazines than she does, and your creations are original, beautiful, and sought-after! Well, she spoke to you before I warned her this morning, so I won’t do anything if she heeds my warning. I told her to stick to millinery, as you hate it, and she would do very well. We shall see, But I did not like her manner, not at all.”
“She treated me like a village girl who had got above herself,” said Miriam, resentfully.
“Nasty,” said Ophelia. “Now, I grant you, her attitude might be a mask of excess gentility to hide that she fears failing to make a living because you are already in situ, and I can forgive her for thinking that you sew as a hobby, having a wealthy, dilettante husband, but as she sneered at you for having so many children ... she seemed to think you precocious enough to be their mother ... I cannot think she is aware that Paul is well off. I put her right about that, since if she said anything untoward, it could be taken that your father was as incestuous as Beatrice and Aurelia’s wicked father.”
“And even worse when it is a clergyman or someone in a position of trust,” said Miriam. “Thank you for taking up cudgels on my behalf. Paul is wealthy, but his allowance is not really enough to raise my siblings without a little extra, and it’s worth having the servants to enable me to make clothes for those of you who would rather buy a gown from me for thirty guineas than pay twice that in Harrogate.”
“And yours are better,” said Ophelia. “Now if Miss Sneddon had come to you and suggested combining efforts, so you could collaborate on headwear to match your gowns, and purchase in, between you, some haberdashery, it would have enriched you both. Now I am considering getting Luke to buy out a haberdashery, so you can have cloth at wholesale prices, and perhaps setting up someone deserving to sell cloth in the village at better prices than Harrogate, for not having such expensive rent and overheads, and for the convenience of villagers not wanting to go into town.”
“I wager my sister, Abigail, would have liked that, if she were a few years older,” said Miriam.
“Yes, at fourteen, she is too young,” said Ophelia. “But now Mr. Wickes’ school has Mrs. Wickes running a school for girls, one of them might suit; or a young lady of charity status from Mrs. Chorley’s school.”
“Tiffany and Selena might know,” said Miriam. “And I am fitting Jane Jefferson later in the week, as she is still at the school, as a parlour boarder.”
“Excellent, yes,” said Ophelia. “But not the ci-devant vicomte’s daughter, who was mean to Tiffany and Selena.”
“And to Jane, for being only a banker’s daughter,” said Miriam.
Ophelia chuckled.
“Tell Jane to remind her that another banker’s daughter is Sally, Countess of Jersey, who is a Patroness of Almack’s, not the sort of place to which an impoverished emigré and his family might aspire.”
Miriam laughed.
“I shall,” she said. She felt much lighter; her friends would stand by her, and the Sneddon female’s claims otherwise were nothing but spite.
“And I shall be wanting gowns to accommodate a pregnancy soon,” said Ophelia. “No, I do not plan to be permanently increasing; it was, as you might say, an accident, and a happy accident when there is only one other infant in the nursery, but one I shall endeavour not to repeat too often. By my count there will be almost two years between small Matthew and this one, which for the first two babies is perfectly reasonable.”
“You can, they say, reduce the chance of conception by feeding for yourself, not having a wetnurse,” said Miriam. “Along with taking other measures. Rhoda’s wetnurse wants her own baby, though, so she plans to wean her at six months, as Rhoda does not suck well anyway. I do not plan to give up any of my own to a wetnurse if I am able to feed them myself. But Rhoda being orphaned as soon as she was born, I have no choice. And I should like to have her back in my house.”
“Of course,” said Ophelia.
The tragic death of Mrs. Mayhew had far-reaching consequences.
Friday, May 5, 2023
mad Mikolaj and the Austrian infiltration iv bonus
IV
“Let me practice my Telemann concerto until you hit notes no horn can manage,” said Mikołaj. Gosia giggled.
“I might have to practice my fingerwork on you,” she said.
“Sweetness! A musical interlude!” said Mikołaj, happily. “Oh, how outraged that little fircyk would be if we were audible, I could wish he was the spy with all the outrage he and his damp flower meadow of a title could muster at the suggestive comments Frydek and I were managing about horns and lip work!”
Gosia gave a dirty snigger.
“I need a demonstration,” she said. “And how you manipulate those valves.”
“My wife works me very hard,” said Mikołaj.
Further conversation ceased, though music was made.
oOoOo
“Feeling better?” asked Friedrich, when they emerged.
“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Gosia.
“I’d like to boast about how good my influence is, but I’d just be blowing my own trumpcard[1],” said Mikołaj. “OW!” he added as both Gosia and Friedrich poked him. Then he giggled as they both found sensitive parts of his midriff.
“I have observed your towarzysze undertaking such discipline when you are out of hand,” said Friedrich. “It is extraordinarily satisfying, especially when you are so ticklish.”
“Fiend!” cried Mikołaj. “Pax! I could not resist the pun!”
“Go and eat something to fortify you for our musical evening,” said Friedrich. “I have word that a letter was left by one of our suspects; I do not know who, and as yet the letter is being read, transcribed, and then heated to reveal any secrets. Von Frettchen will report after the music.”
“I remember doing that the first time we met,” said Mikołaj.
“Yes; you bowed to me like a Polish gentleman, and knelt to Bach. And probably justified in that choice,” said Friedrich. “I don’t like it on the odd occasion you’ve knelt to me, it means you’re apologising for having upset me, and it makes me uncomfortable that you care that much.”
“I do care, you know,” said Mikołaj.
“Oh, go away and do Polish war on your appetite,” said Friedrich, rudely.
“A lance charge at the wurst!” said Mikołaj, happily.
oOoOo
They were playing Telemann’s gigue, suite 1 in D major for trumpet and strings. Mikołaj had switched to his rather battered military cornet, which he felt happier playing, as the trumpet did not have any valves[2], and if he made up what he did not know, only Friedrich rolled his eyes and put up with it because Mikołaj improvised well enough for the sound to be pleasant. Friedrich played the horn part on his flute, and Gosia joined the string part with the harpsichord.
Mikołaj might rest then, as Friedrich showed how he was equal to the most demanding of Bach’s flute concertos.
“Maestro!” said Mikołaj, in deep respect, bowing to the ground, as the king got his breath back.
“The old man forgot at times that his puppets have to breathe,” laughed the king. “But the exquisite torture is sublime.”
“This musical weekend is one neither of us will ever forget,” said Mikołaj. “Ah, if only there was a way to capture a memory of how it sounds.”
“Ah, but who then would listen to real musicians?” said Friedrich.
“Those who know that sublime comes in different flavours,” said Mikołaj.
They played on until half an hour before dinner, and Mikołaj and Gosia retired with the king to find Von Distelkamp waiting.
“One of your pages retrieved a message from a summer house in the garden, and took it to the Austrian Embassy in Berlin,” said Von Distelkamp. “He was stopped, and was much upset. He is under the impression that he has been carrying love letters. I have detained him; but he was frank, he said that when a strip of cloth was hung from a particular window, he was to go and find a letter. The window in question is that of the linen closet, so no clue to the writer. Unlike some people, he does not brazenly reveal personal details or sign it floridly.”
“It’s pick on Mikołaj day again,” said Mikołaj, mournfully. “I knew you were going to do that,” he added, when Friedrich and Gosia both poked him.
“It’s your own fault for being ticklish,” said Friedrich. “Well, we can see which spy it was when we know which story he told; we used a different one for each.”
“Ah, ingenious,” said Von Distelkamp. “Ostensibly, this is a love letter to the Austrian ambassador, in nauseatingly servile tones. However, the application of heat to the document produced something else.”
“So, is it the talks with Russia, or the submarine vessel?” asked Friedrich.
“Neither, sire,” said Von Distelkamp. “A submarine vessel, really? Isn’t that unlikely?”
“You didn’t have to escape from one which was heading for the bottom of the Baltic,” said Mikołaj, with feeling. “Deliberately holing a vessel in the middle of the sea is one thing, doing it underwater is something entirely different. Nearest I’ve ever come to dying.”
“Mikołaj! You did not mention that, only that you’d gone fishing and caught a submarine vessel!” said Gosia, indignantly.
“I’m sorry, sweetness. I didn’t want to worry you,” said Mikołaj, contrite.
“There was a submarine vessel, it was Swedish, and Mikołaj discouraged the practice,” said Friedrich. “I am only relieved that he was not kidnapped by mermaids who wanted his beautiful body.”
“There is that to be grateful for,” said Mikołaj.
Von Distelkamp sighed, heavily, and cleared his throat.
“Well, the story was neither of those. This is a rather unlikely story about combining with Poland to seize the Holy Roman Empress, supposedly for ransom, but that you are not aware that the Polish king purposes to divorce his own wife and forcibly marry Maria Teresa, having declared her divorced by fiat,” said Von Distelkamp.
Friedrich sat up straight.
“That wasn’t one we discussed,” he said.
“That was the third story, we let an eavesdropper overhear whilst you slept earlier,” said Mikołaj, grimly. “I’m sorry, Frydek, my pet. You aren’t going to like who it was.”
A bleak look crossed the king’s face.
“Hansel,” he said.
“We heard him come back to spy on what high jinks we might be up to with you,” said Mikołaj. “It seemed a good idea to test him too, so Gosia and I just improvised. And if he already has a means set up to carry letters... did not the page boy know who it was?”
“He thought it was the king as he was detained one night by a figure in a mask and cloak who came out of the king’s rooms. It was the boy’s idea to use the linen closet. He thought it prodigiously good fun. He is very young.”
“A potential recruit for you, Von Distelkamp,” said Mikołaj.
The spy looked startled.
“I suppose so,” he said. “Actually, it’s my nephew who was serving as a page before he enters the military, but I could do worse than train him up. He’s such an innocent, he thought your majesty had assignations with the Ambassador’s wife.”
“He’ll lose that soon enough,” said Friedrich, cynically. “I am glad he is only involved peripherally and relatively innocently. Well, my friend, I have already got Han... Johann Wurfel... confined, because he attacked the Lady Gosia with intent to break her hands, under the impression that my new keyboard player was after my body.”
“I’ll find out if that was just the excuse or if he wanted to torture her to find out more,” said Von Distelkamp.”
“I am sure you will find out everything,” said Friedrich, with distaste. “Must I attend?”
“Don’t ask it of him; I’ll question the little shit,” said Mikołaj. “I’m still angry enough about him trying to hurt my treasure and take away her music from her. I wager I can make him talk without any use of torture.”
“Mikołaj...I am angered by him, but... please.” Friedrich was relieved.
oOoOo
Mikołaj travelled to Berlin in the morning, after Wurfel had had the night to reflect in a cell. On Mikołaj’s instructions, several young soldiers had been indulging in a bit of amateur dramatics down the corridor, with groans and cries. One of them had hired a whore, known for her inarticulate vocalisation, and she had been paid well for, as she put it, a nice easy night.
The young page, one Hasso Finsternacht, had volunteered to be thrown into the cell with Wurfel, apparently completely broken. He had been dragged out of the cell at dawn, seemingly unable to walk without aid, and had been tied to a stake outside the window, where a rattle of musket fire made him sag in his bonds. He was carried away, to be slapped on the back by both Friedrich and Mikołaj.
“That was fun in a gruesome sort of way,” said the boy. He was all of nine.
“The more you can scare people, the less you have to hurt them,” said Mikołaj.
“He’s scared,” said Hasso. “I snivelled all night, and he kept saying ‘but he’s just a boy! What will they do to me?’ so I think he might just talk. I wondered if he’d talk to me, but I pretended not to know him, like you told me.”
“Good lad. Did he apologise to you, at all?”
Hasso’s eyes flashed.
“No,” he said.
“If he had, I might have gone easier on him,” said Mikołaj.
Mikołaj slid into the cell.
“Hello, precious,” he said. “Now, I’m still very peeved with you for threatening to break my wife’s fingers, you know, as well as you being unfaithful to my pet, Frydek.”
“Wha... wife?” Wurfel stared.
“Well, I couldn’t bring her to Sans Souci in her usual clothes, could I? It’s in the rules. No women. So I put her in boy’s clothes. What, did you think she was my catamite? How delicious. But if I’d been that way inclined, a catamite under my protection would still have been in the situation of a wife, you know. Now, they’re leaving you to stew and reflect on how much trouble you got that poor little boy into. And yet, I don’t see any remorse in your face.”
“Why should I care?” said Wurfel. “He ignored me when I hinted that I could give him a good time.”
“Of course he did; he’s too young to understand what you meant, you child-spoiler,” said Mikołaj, with scorn. “What a whore you are; taking Frydek’s love gifts, but also writing passionate letters to the Austrian ambassador, and trying to seduce little boys. He shouldn’t have been here, but his father’s busy and it was supposed to be a safe place.”
“Shut up about him! What are they going to do to me?”
“Well, they’ll have a job doing anything, precious, because I got to you first, whilst Von Distelkamp mourns his nephew. The page, you know. Now, I’m Polish, and we take attacks on our family members very seriously. Frydek wouldn’t hand you over to me yesterday, but I suspect right now, he wouldn’t care that I got to you before the official torturers. Now, what I’m going to do is to break all your finger bones as you threatened Gosia, and I brought along some blacksmith tools to do it a bit more efficiently, and an interesting box here which I can put your hand in, and turn this screw at the top, and it settles down on whatever body part I have in mind, and I keep turning this handle until it’s thoroughly crushed. And we don’t have to stop at your hands, precious.” Mikołaj had borrowed a rather clumsy nut cracker. He smiled, brightly. “And I don’t have a need to keep you alive, you know, because I only care peripherally why you hurt Frydek. What I care about is that you planned to torture my wife to find out how much she knew about any plot to kidnap the Austrian woman. You wouldn’t be about to break the hands of a musician if you didn’t plan to question her.”
“I didn’t know she was a woman! How should I? But how can she be? She beat me up and she pulled sword on me!”
“My treasure! She’s such a good little towarzysz,” said Mikołaj delighted. “Oh, she might be ill at the moment, but even sick she’s more than a match for a worm like you. So, you planned her torture...”
“No, it wasn’t! I was jealous!”
“No, precious, you weren’t jealous. Jealousy implies love, and if you loved Frydek, you wouldn’t be betraying him so thoroughly. I mean, if you were Austrian, the spying is understandable, even forgivable, but you were busy rogering the Austrian ambassador as well, which is a nasty betrayal.”
“I never! He never! He told me to write as if to the king, so it looked like a love letter; he only likes women. I might have used the odd page or servant, it’s nice not to be submissive all the time, but that’s not the same.”
“It’s exactly the same,” said Mikołaj. “Well, if you weren’t doing it for the love of the ambassador’s muddy brown eyes, why would you sell out your country?”
“For money of course! I want to live the sort of lifestyle you useless noblemen live! I... I can pay you to leave me alone! I’ve put it all aside....” he was sobbing. “I lay with the king for his money too, I hate it, he disgusts me, he’s old and he’s boring. Always talking about music, or battles or some idiot called Katte.”
Mikołaj drifted out of the cell before he did anything fatal.
“You got all that?” he said to Von Distelkamp.
“Yes. No ideals, only money. Filthy little swine.”
“Oh, well, you can hang him now.”
Mikołaj went back to Sans Souci to calm his nerves, and he broke the news to Friedrich that Wurfel had been purely mercenary. He left out most of the details.
And then he and Gosia played for the monarch.
[1] Trumpf in German and so an even better pun.
[2] The baroque era trumpet was like a long cornet which makes the works of the likes of Telemann even more extraordinary, and the players worthy of much kudos.
and that, folks, is all I have prepared. I've been singularly disinclined on the writing frnt.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)