Death at the Boston Tea Party Read online

  At this Lady Eawiss let out a shrill scream. ‘Lord have mercy on me – I would never trust myself on the high seas in one of those contraptions ever again.’

  ‘Then, my dear Madam, you will have to swim for it,’ Tom answered drily.

  At this the lady fainted – or pretended to – slumping down on the person unfortunate enough to be sitting next to her. It was Jane Hawthorne, who virtually vanished beneath the folds of stained clothing and unwashed bulk. Reluctantly, John rose to his feet and went to assist. He pulled out Jane, who looked slightly nauseous, and automatically slipped his hand down the fat lady’s back to loosen her stays. She immediately woke up and hit him over the head with her portmanteau, which had not left her side since she came ashore. John reeled back. At this the big Scotsman bellowed, ‘Stop that,’ though to whom he was speaking was not at all clear, then crashed to John’s side. Jane burst into tears, mostly due to the strains of the last few days, and as if by magic Blue Wolf – who must have hearing beyond normal capabilities – leapt out of the forest and stood glaring at the entire group. Jane saw him and cast her watery eyes downwards, weeping harder than ever. John, meanwhile, was still shaking from the shock as the Scotsman with a mighty arm hauled Lady Eawiss to her feet.

  ‘I will not have this behaviour, Madam, ruining life in our peaceful community. How very dare you strike out when this man was only trying to help ye.’

  ‘The villain had his hands on my nether garments,’ she retorted, purple with wrath.

  ‘The man is an apothecary, Ma’am. Had you not heard? He may look where he pleases.’

  ‘Not on me he doesn’t.’

  The mighty creature drew her upwards so that his face was an inch from hers. ‘You will leave and go to Boston, Madam. We will not allow you to live here amongst us.’

  ‘If my late husband, Sir Bevis Eawiss were alive …’

  ‘Well, he’s not, is he, Milady. So stop blathering on about him. Now, go retake your seat and keep mum until this meeting is over.’

  She sat down with a great deal of huffing. Nobody moved except for Blue Wolf, who came a fraction closer to Jane and folded his arms. John looked at him in silent admiration.

  Miss Hawthorne wiped away her tears and spoke. ‘I worked as a housemaid and it took me ten years to earn enough money to sail to Boston. I would very much like to get there.’

  At these words Blue Wolf turned and vanished – almost literally – into the forest. John surmised that the man knew far more English than even Rafe was aware.

  ‘So,’ said Tom, ‘it is about half for going and half for staying.’

  And so it was. John, looking round, considered his fellow passengers to Boston. Besides himself and Tom were his three children, the two dandies, the Beauty and her younger husband, Jane, the large Lady Eawiss and a jolly ox of a man and his several children, though with a conspicuous lack of wife.

  ‘Going to Boston to find a spouse,’ the man announced cheerily to the entire company. ‘Got to have someone to keep my house and kinder for me.’

  ‘Couldn’t you get anyone in England?’ a voice called out.

  ‘Not to my liking,’ he answered.

  John smiled, thinking him a useful chap to have on one’s side in an argument.

  ‘Well, I’m going with my employer,’ said Tom, standing up. ‘So all bound for Boston come with me.’

  Lady Eawiss turned to Jane. ‘Will you act as my lady’s maid, child? Unfortunately my servant …’ she pronounced it savant, ‘… was drowned. I will pay you a respectable wage. Fortunately I packed all my money in my portmanteau which I brought with me.’ She patted the bag which her chubby hand never left.

  ‘Then we’ll have to borrow off you to pay the Indians,’ somebody remarked.

  Hugo, who was loitering nearby, interposed. ‘Money is of no use to them. You’ll have to offer them something tangible.’

  ‘And what would that be, Sir?’ enquired George Glynde, one of the two dandies.

  ‘A dead deer,’ answered Rafe dryly.

  ‘Is that a true fact?’

  ‘I don’t lie,’ replied the Frenchman, frowning and looking more bag-like than ever.

  ‘Then Tracey and I will go hunting,’ George announced cheerfully.

  All the men in the party agreed to go with them with varying degrees of enthusiasm. John was particularly queasy about the whole idea but knew that he must brace up for the occasion. He preferred not knowing the origin of his food, unlike most other males, but told himself that he was in pioneering country now and must drop the fairly civilized ways of London. So with a brave face on it he marched into the forest with the others, pretending that he was Robin Hood and bracing himself for the kill.

  In the event it was swift and done with a single arrow fired by Matthew, the broad-shouldered raw countryman who was going to Boston in search of a wife. They carried the heavy beast home and went straight with it to the Indian village. Here, it was explained by Hugo that the party wished to borrow two large canoes with skilled oarsmen. The chief, who appeared in full ceremonial headdress, replied that they would consider the undertaking on a day when the sea was calm. And with that they had to be content.

  That night John went to sleep with a sensation quite strange to him. He felt that not only was he on the brink of a terrifying journey but that many adventures lay before him – both for good and for ill – before he would be able to see his native land again.

  THREE

  For the rest of that month and four weeks afterwards the sea boiled and broiled and roared about the coast of the Isle au Haut. Angry breakers lashed against the rugged ocean line and the wind took up its vicious complaint and howled around the little community of inhabitants. The Indians, hardened to the ways of the weather, remained mostly in their stoutly built wigwams, only venturing forth to hunt. John Rawlings, itching to get back to his old life as an apothecary, began to study the herbs used by the tribe and was fascinated to find the medicine men compounding things like skunk cabbage for nervous disorders and horsemint for back pain. Most of the herbs were brewed into teas which the population drank without question, unlike some of John’s patients in London, who were curious about what they were being given.

  Then, one day in March, the weather changed and the sea calmed down. John knew that his days on the island were limited. He, his servant and the children had taken rooms with an elderly widow woman who’d lived alone since the death of her husband and was glad to have two able-bodied men around the house to do the chores that were now beyond her. At night, however, Irish Tom went about his own affairs, into which John never enquired. But his former coachman was always back by dawn and drawing the widow’s water from a pump which the settlers had organized. John, fascinated by people as he had always been, preferred to spend his evenings with the brothers Hugo and Rafe rather than sit in a rocking chair and stare at the ceiling. And on his last night before the journey to Boston began he was invited to dine and share in some wine which they had brewing in their storeroom. Perhaps because he was a little drunk and perhaps because he had always been immensely curious, John asked them the question which had puzzled him ever since the day of his arrival.

  ‘Tell me, if you would be so good, who was the subject of your assassination in France?’

  Rafe laughed – a fruity sound. ‘A very good question, that.’

  John stared at him. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Would it have been anyone I might have read about?’

  Now it was the other’s turn to chuckle. ‘Of course it would. The name was familiar throughout Europe. The trouble was that somebody very powerful found out and we had to run for it.’

  ‘Well, who was the target?’

  ‘The Pompadour.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The Pompadour. Louis XV’s maitresse-en-titre. Surely you’ve heard of her?’

  ‘Of course I’ve heard of her, but I thought she died in her early forties of tuberculosis.’

  The leather man and the fus
tian man laughed simultaneously. ‘Tuberculosis, my eye. We mixed arsenic in with her maquillage and she died, slowly but very, very surely.’

  John was astounded. So much so that he finished his glass of wine at a swallow.

  ‘Unfortunately a canny physician tested some of her make-up and found traces of the deadly substance.’

  ‘But why were you and Rafe suspected?’

  ‘Because we were part of her entertainment and always in and out of her apartments. We were tumblers in our heyday – and bloody good at it we were.’

  The conversation was growing more bizarre by the second and John sat with his mouth open, listening.

  ‘Of course, the physician told the King and he started making enquiries, discreetly you understand, conducted by men with unsmiling faces who infiltrated her group of servants.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We were tipped off that they were about to make an arrest so we fled for our lives. The rest you know. We became sailors and were shipwrecked close to this island.’

  ‘But who paid you to do it? I know Madame Pompadour had many enemies at court. Was it Richelieu? Or her husband? Who?’

  Hugo looked teasing. ‘Guess.’

  ‘I couldn’t. I don’t know enough about French affairs.’

  ‘It was a woman. The Pompadour’s husband was happy, miles away and enjoying life. The Duc de Richelieu – by the way, he was of the same family as the great cardinal, the Eminence Rouge himself – was prepared to play a waiting game. No, it was Marie Louise O’Murphy.’

  John shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I’ve not heard of her. Who was she?’

  Rafe took up the story. ‘By God, but she was a pretty little thing. Allowed herself to be painted naked, sprawled out on a sofa, bottom up, legs apart. Makes me grow hot just to think of it. Casanova fell in love with her when she was only thirteen years old and had a nude portrait of her painted – in a very similar pose to the one I have just described.’

  ‘So what happened to her?’

  ‘Well, Louis XV couldn’t wait to get his breeches down when he saw the painting. Mind you, that was the only thing that was down. Everything else was raised up to great heights.’

  John laughed raucously. ‘And?’

  ‘She was just fourteen when the King debauched her – she suffered a miscarriage by him and later gave birth to a daughter. And then, when she had become one of his many, many courtesans and had been in place for just two years, the stupid little creature made a great mistake. She sought to replace the Pompadour.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Overplayed her silly tiny Irish hand. You can imagine Madame’s reaction to that. The adorable childish plaything was married off to Jacques de Beaufranchet pretty damn quickly.’

  ‘But where does the poisoning come in?’

  ‘For years she nursed a private hatred as only a thwarted child could. Do not forget that when she gave birth to the King’s daughter she was only seventeen years old. And also recall she was not allowed to live at Versailles, despite that. She was put to live with the other minor mistresses in the Parc aux Cerfes, a small mansion nearby.’

  ‘Stags Park,’ translated John. ‘How very apt. But what happened?’

  ‘Well, husband number one was killed in battle a few days before the birth of her son …’

  ‘How terrible for her.’

  ‘Yes. Then she married again, an ageing widower with three children, the Comte de Flaghac. This gave her enough money and position to put her long-felt hatred into a solid idea. And, voila. The baby girl, the King’s adorable plaything, finally came across two brothers who were willing to listen to her terrible story and put the plan into action.’

  John drew a breath but said nothing, realizing for the first time that he was actually in the home of two assassins but still, despite everything, liking them, notwithstanding their amazing role in bringing down one of the best-known women of her time. But Hugo was interrupting.

  ‘The King and the Pompadour gave up sexual relations in 1750 because she felt she was too fragile to risk conception. She had had two nasty miscarriages in the years leading up to that time.’

  ‘Did she have any living children?’

  ‘None by the King but two by her husband: a boy who died in infancy and Alexandrine, who died aged ten, poor little soul. However, in spite of the lack of sex with Louis, she became his greatest friend, which must have taken some doing.’

  John could not help but smile at the way Hugo put things.

  ‘She used to entertain him in the evenings, give amusing supper parties for him, relieve him of the boredom of life at court. Funnily enough, his wife refused him her bedroom as well after she had given birth to ten children, the last one being particularly difficult.’

  ‘Small wonder he had other mistresses.’

  ‘But to what excess! Louis XV was ruled by his cock.’

  ‘So I presume that both of you joined her merry parties, tumbling for the highest of society.’

  ‘You presume correctly, mon cher ami. And that is the end of our story. Now we are simple homesteaders on a remote island off the coast of the Colonies – if this is part of the Colonies. Heaven alone knows. We are severely out of touch.’

  ‘But people dwell on the mainland, surely.’

  ‘The Indians tell us there are some settlers. You can probably do manual work on a farm in return for a ride in a wagon to help your journey. Or, perhaps, as you are an apothecary you will be able to find some herbs and cure the people of their various ailments.’

  ‘Do you think it is going to be that rough? What about my children and their comfort?’

  ‘Comfort is out of the question,’ Rafe answered cynically. ‘There are only half a dozen or so European communities there. In your shoes I would take an Indian guide with me.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Never more so, my friend. You have been shipwrecked on a harsh and unforgiving stretch of coast. Without a guide I wouldn’t give much for your chances. Any of you.’

  John blanched. ‘But I cannot subject my boys to that. Nor my beautiful Rose. And what about the rest of the survivors? How will they fare?’

  Hugo put a hand on his shoulder. ‘John, it would be wrong of us to give you a false impression. Existence is terribly hard. That is what persuaded us to stay here. Implore the Indians to let you have an escort.’

  But in the event it was easier than the Apothecary could have imagined. The minute the matter was raised Blue Wolf was offered by the chief to escort them as far as Penobscot, where, apparently, there was a township of colonists. The party eventually bound for Boston agreed to this with the exception of Lady Eawiss, who said loudly, hugging her portmanteau to her ample stomach, ‘I do not wish to go with that savage. He will murder us all in our beds and take our jewels.’

  Irish Tom, self-appointed spokesman, retorted, ‘There will be no beds to rest on, Madam. We will have to sleep rough at first.’

  She threw herself into the lap of poor Jane Hawthorne, who had already taken on the role of maidservant.

  ‘It’s monstrous, do you hear me? I should die of exposure if I had to sleep beneath the stars. How can you say such things?’

  ‘You have a straight choice, Madam. Either you stay here or you undertake the perilous journey with the rest of us. It’s Boston or bust.’

  There was a burst of laughter from the rest of the group, particularly from the wild boy, Jacob O’Farrell, the husband of the fading beauty who had revealed herself as Lady Conway and who, John guessed, had once been her groom. He could just see them riding side by side, the lady seated side saddle, the servant daring to look her directly in the eyes with his impertinent blue gaze. His thoughts were redirected to the present by the sound of Lady Conway’s voice.

  ‘Come along, my dear. A little courage, I beg you, or else the gentlemen will think us weak and vapid creatures. I personally am up for the challenge.’

  With that her hand moved surreptitiously from her side and sq
ueezed her husband’s thigh. He turned his head and lowered one of his eyelids. The Apothecary thought them an exciting couple.

  ‘Then we’re off,’ said Matthew, the countryman, going to Boston to find himself a wife.

  ‘Yes,’ chorused his two boys, while his daughter, little more than eight years of age, clung to her father’s leg and looked at the rest of the company with a large, solemn regard.

  Two days later they departed. Two long canoes, each with a couple of native oarsmen, took seven passengers each. John and Irish Tom, in company with the Apothecary’s three children, were seated beside the two dandies, George Glynde and Tracey Tremayne, who exchanged idle banter. In the other canoe were Lady Conway and Jake O’Farrell, Matthew and his brood, and the hysterical Lady Eawiss and her maid, Jane. Blue Wolf sat silently, his arms folded, gazing out to sea. When they had left the island behind them he crouched behind the leading oarsman and navigated. Not once did he glance in Jane Hawthorne’s direction. John thought his composure admirable.

  It seemed as if they were sailing through paradise. Everywhere was dotted with small islands, rearing out of the water as mere outcroppings of rock or topped with vegetation sweeping down to the ocean’s very edge. The sea itself was like a ribbon of silk, changing in the bright sunlight through every shade of blue imaginable. John feasted his eyes on glittering aquamarine, gentle cerulean where it lapped at the shorelines and deep sapphire further out to sea, all containing the sparkling liveliness of zircon jewels, leaping and lapping at the canoe’s prow as it hefted steadily through the rippling water. Eventually two islands lying close together came into view and Blue Wolf whispered instructions to the Indian wielding the front paddle, then stood up.

  ‘We land,’ he called across the distance between the two vessels, and both canoes obediently turned and made for a small cove. Somewhat surprisingly, Tracey, followed by George, leapt out and helped pull the craft on to the pebbly beach. Blue Wolf, still ignoring pretty Jane, did likewise. Glad of the opportunity to walk and to answer the calls of nature, both parties clambered ashore as best they could. Needless to say, Lady Eawiss had to be lifted down by a straining Matthew, and it was just then that John noticed something. Blue Wolf, who stood silently on the beach, seeing his passengers ashore, put out his brown hand to assist Jane Hawthorne, and she laid her own small wrist within his grasp and briefly, so briefly that it might have been an optical illusion, their fingers entwined. The Apothecary smiled to himself, wondering how it would all end.