‘Ah, just time for a little light luncheon beforehand.’
‘Then I take it you will come?’
‘I shall be glad of an outing, my dear John. And I thank you for inviting me.’
‘It is entirely my pleasure.’
Sir Clovelly’s idea of a light meal was what other people would regard as a small banquet. John, who had breakfasted well, found himself refusing several courses leading to the inevitable questions as to why he was off his food.
‘I am not, Sir, I can assure you. It is just that I am not used to eating at this hour of the day. I prefer to dine at night.’
‘Oh, I do that as well, don’t you know. Of course the damn doctors tell me to cut down but I find food such a great consolation, eating such an enjoyable pastime.’
Once again the Apothecary was struck by the pathos of the man and he determined at that moment to ask Sir Clovelly if he would stand as godparent to the unborn child. But how to broach the subject? John cleared his throat.
‘Sir, I wonder if I might ask you a favour?’
Sir Clovelly paused, a wing of fowl halfway to his mouth.
‘Certainly, my boy. Ask away.’
John hedged. ‘Have you seen the Marchesa recently?’
‘No, can’t say that I have. I really must call. How is the dear girl?’
‘Actually that is what I want to talk to you about.’
‘Why? She ain’t ill, is she?’
John actually blushed, a deep uncomfortable red. ‘No, she’s perfectly alright. The fact of the matter is that she is with child.’
Sir Clovelly put down the piece of chicken and gazed at John with small twinkling eyes.
‘And I’ll wager she still won’t marry you.’
There was a momentary silence, during which the two men stared at one another, Sir Clovelly brimming with bonhomie. It was too much for the Apothecary who felt the start of a smile twitch at his lips. The next second he was grinning like a schoolboy caught committing a prank.
‘You’re quite correct,’ he said. ‘She won’t. Society will surely close its doors to her as a result.’
‘Now there you are wrong,’ Sir Clovelly answered, resuming his consumption of food. ‘Elizabeth is too powerful in her own right to merit such treatment. She is rich and she is charming. Maybe one or two of the more stuffy families will cut her but the rest of her friends will remain loyal, you mark my words.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘Of course I am right.’ Sir Clovelly finished his piece of chicken and wiped his hands. ‘And, my dear boy, can you imagine Elizabeth in London? Can you imagine her as the wife of — forgive me — an apothecary? She is too free a spirit, too wild a soul, to be so constrained. The best thing you can do is to accept the fact of your forthcoming fatherhood with joy and see your child as often as is possible.’
John nodded. ‘It’s a bitter pill to swallow but I agree with you. I know that she would never settle down in the capital. But yet I had a glimmer of hope…’
‘Best forgotten,’ interrupted Sir Clovelly. He looked at his watch, fishing for it in a lower pocket of his coat which strained at bursting point over his extremely ample stomach. ‘What time did you say this bout was?’
‘At two o’clock, Sir.’
‘Then we’d best depart.’ And with a great deal of effort Sir Clovelly struggled to his feet.
The fight was scheduled to take place in a field slightly west of the High Street. John, entering the arena, felt quite overcome with excitement for the place was alive with every kind of trader, every booth, every hawker, that it was possible to imagine.
It seemed that the whole of Exeter — or at least a goodly proportion of its citizens — had decided to make this event a holiday, for the field was packed with people. Tall men of Devon walked with their round, rosy wives while children, shouting excitedly, played games of catch and blindman’s-buff. There were stalls selling household goods, trinkets and sweetmeats, to say nothing of gloves, haberdashery, and one devoted entirely to ribbons and trimmings. There was delicious marchpane together with sugar cakes on sale, one of which Sir Clovelly bought, munching it with much relish and smacking of lips.
‘Is it good?’ asked John, smiling at him fondly.
‘It’s made of rose water and oranges. I think I’ll take some home. They are very light and enjoyable.’
In the middle of the field a piece had been cordoned off and it was here that the two men were going to fight. But there was another quarter of an hour before the bout was scheduled. The Apothecary, his spirits raised high by the general buzz and excitement, wandered to a booth in front of which children sat on the grass, watching marionettes acting out a story of knights and dragons. In his fond imaginings he could see Rose sitting with a little sister — or could it possibly be a brother? — beside her, watching with large eyes and a toss of flame-coloured hair as a very realistic dragon roared at a brave knight. Happily, he wandered on. And then he stopped dead in his tracks because coming towards him was that Exeter solicitor, Martin Meadows with, of all people, the sensible Lucinda Silverwood. Standing directly in their path, John gave a fulsome bow.
‘Good afternoon. What a surprise to see you both. Greetings, Madam, I trust your daughter is well?’
Looking slightly flustered, Lucinda curtseyed. ‘She has not yet had her child, thank you Mr Rawlings. I thought I would have some time to myself while I could.’
Meadows gave a laugh that to John’s ears sounded somewhat guilty. ‘We met here by chance and I asked Mrs Silverwood if she would accompany me.’
‘Quite so,’ the Apothecary replied smoothly. ‘I take it you have both heard the news of Gorringe’s murder?’
‘Indeed we have. The Constable called at my office this morning.’
‘And he tracked me down yesterday evening. My daughter was quite alarmed, I can tell you.’
‘I wonder if he has been so lucky finding the rest of the travellers.’
‘I wonder indeed,’ said Meadows, looking a little bleak.
There was a call from the area in the middle of the field. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, the fight will begin in three minutes.’
Excusing himself, John went to stand with Sir Clovelly amongst the crowd of onlookers. Glancing round, the Apothecary could not help but notice the young blades of Exeter packed in little groups on either side of the home-made ring. Dressed very finely, their breeches tight and their coats cut back, displaying excellent thighs and interesting bulges, they all had stylish tricornes on their heads and many sported diamond pins in the folds of their cravats. Thinking that he must pay some attention to his wardrobe when he returned to London, John saw that Mrs Silverwood stood several rows back beside the mild-mannered Martin Meadows.
Nathaniel Broome stepped into the ring and announced in a surprisingly loud voice, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the Black Pyramid.’
‘Indeed you may,’ shouted one young beau and during the ensuing rumble of laughter, the Negro climbed into the arena.
He was stripped to the waist and wearing only a pair of black tights, and John gazed in frank admiration at the beauty of the man’s body. He gleamed like polished oak, in fact he seemed almost incandescent as he flexed his muscles, his torso rippling like a waterfall. His shoulders were so broad and strong that he resembled a dark god that had come down from Mount Olympus to play amongst the mortals. John could not remember ever seeing such a healthy specimen. Yet the Black Pyramid was not young, probably about forty or maybe a year or two older.
A roar went up from the crowd as he walked round the ring with his arms raised aloft. Then another man, very bald and somewhat rat-faced, stepped up beside him.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray welcome Gentleman Jack McAra.’
There was an even louder cheer as Gentleman Jack leapt into the ring in a sprightly fashion and cavorted before the crowd. Looking at him through narrowed eyes John decided to place a bet on the Black Pyramid, for McAra was frankly running to fat and appeared generally out of condition. He turned to Sir Clovelly.
‘Do you fancy a wager, Sir?’
‘I do indeed. I’ll put a guinea on Gentleman Jack.’
‘And I’ll see you. I think the Black Pyramid is going to win. Will you take the bet?’
