because I was in such a great rush to be off with Sir John to visit the Lord Chief Justice.
After all, Mr. Tolliver’s advice was simple enough: ”Just have her cut the fat off the meat, all but half an inch or so. That should be more than plenty. Simmer that in the stew-pot for the last half of the afternoon with potatoes and carrots and an onion, and you’ll have a good stew for yourself.”
That was what he said to me, and that was what I should have said to her-but did not. As a result, Clarissa did her best, but with no previous experience, that best simply was not good enough. She tossed in the meat as it had come to her from Mr. Tolliver, thick with fat with gobbets of flesh scattered through. And, knowing no better, she cooked it in the stewpot with the vegetables for the whole of the afternoon. The result was a viscous gray mess, bubbling greasy bubbles in our plates even after she had ladled the concoction out to us. It did not taste so bad as it looked. Yet what were we to do with these large pieces of light-colored, inert stuff which looked more or less like meat yet squirted pure grease when we bit down upon them? And the vegetables, dear God, the vegetables-they had cooked down so that they had lost their distinct identity: no longer were they potatoes, carrots, and onion, but rather mere lumps in the slime.
“Quite tasty,” said Sir John. ”I do believe, however, that I should have a happier time of it with a spoon. Will you fetch me one, Jeremy?”
I did as he requested and watched him empty his plate with great relish. He asked for more. It was provided him. He attacked it with the same enthusiasm. Inspired by his example, I dug in once more, trying to eat without looking at what I ate. That worked well enough for half a plate or so, but then a fit of belching overtook me, and I was forced to end my dinner there.
For her part, Clarissa took a bite, or possibly two, then began pushing her food about upon her plate, as if looking for uncontaminated bits. Finding none, she looked across the table at me quite miserably, shook her head, and quietly laid down her knife and fork. Through it all. Sir John continued to eat until he, too, began to belch with such alarming frequency that he was forced to end his meal rather abruptly.
As I did the washing up afterward, I confessed to our dejected cook that I had failed to tell her of Mr. Tolliver’s instructions and must therefore shoulder some of the blame she claimed for herself.
“Ah no,” said she, ”I should certainly have known better. How many times have I sat here in the kitchen with Annie, watching her trim the fat from the stew meat? You’d think I might have picked up a thing or two just being round her.”
“Ah, but Annie was one of a kind.”
“Indeed she was. Why couldn’t I have realized that while she was here and learned something from her?”
“But, well, you should be happy at least that you’re going down to Deal with us. They say that the sea air is quite beneficial. Think of it as a holiday.”
“Oh, I will. I do. But when we return, I shall have another test in the kitchen, then another, and another.”
”Well, if it is any consolation to you, your stew was no worse and probably better than most Mrs. Gredge cooked up.”
“Gredge? She was the old woman Annie replaced, wasn’t she?”
“She was,” said I, ”and not a moment too soon.”
Sir John had asked me to visit him in his study when I had finished washing up that he might dictate to me a letter to Lady Fielding explaining why it was he must leave London for Deal for a week, give or take a bit, and further, why he must take Clarissa with him. He promised that she would be well taken care of, and would, in fact, be staying at the home of a local squire, Sir Simon Grenville. In closing, he voiced his concern for Lady Fielding’s mother. Yet he declared that he was certain her mother would pull through her illness, as he had predicted, and that she, Kate, would soon be back in London. ”Until the happy day when we are reunited, I shall be but half a man, wandering about this lonely city, thinking only of you.” And then did he stipulate that the letter be signed, ”Your loving husband.” Unused to putting his name as ”Jack” upon correspondence, he asked my help in forming the letters. We practiced together two or three times, then did we sign him informally at the bottom of the text. I addressed the letter as he dictated and prepared it for mailing. But my mind being yet troubled by the matter of Henry Curtin, I remained on in that little room and attempted to think just how I might begin.
“Was there something more?” he asked.
“Yes, there is a matter I should like to discuss,” said I. ”Or perhaps better put, a matter I should like to confess.”
“Well then, let me hear it.”
I told him the whole tale. I told of how I had given the shilling to the coachman and asked that he see that Lady Fielding was well taken care of-all as Sir John had told me to do. But then, I went on to tell him how and how much I had enlarged upon his instructions. Insofar as I was able, I quoted myself exactly, though it proved embarrassing. I even told him how, when I feared perhaps I had overstepped myself, I told Mr. Curtin not to presume upon Sir John’s generosity; and thinking I had told him all, I ended it there. But then I did add that Clarissa had said I had done wrong, and as I thought about it through the day, I saw that she was right.
“Indeed she was,” said Sir John. ”But you realize it, too, and we may be grateful for that.”
Was I to be let off so easily?
“You see what you have done, don’t you?”
“I … believe I do.”
“Perhaps not. Let me lay it before you. What you have done is to blacken my name. You have suggested to this Henry Curtin that I would sell myself so cheap as to give leniency to him in court simply for doing what he is paid to do-look after one of his passengers. Who knows? Perhaps he will spread the word. I may wind up with a reputation so sullied that it may never be clean again.”
I hung my head, unable to look him square in the face.
He continued: ”But that is not likely.”
“Sir?”
“No, the chances are good that we shall not hear of Mr. Henry Curtin ever again. I hope that is so. I expect it will be so. Let us leave it at that, shall we?”
There was but one more matter, quite unrelated: ”I wonder, Jeremy, if you could go to the apothecary shop early tomorrow and get from him some preparation to bind my bowels. I’ve been troubled ever since dinner.”
TWO
It took over a day of hard driving to bring us to Deal. Lord Mansfield’s coach-and-four awaited us, as previously arranged, at the end of Sir John’s court session. Constable Perkins and I handed up our bags and portmanteaus to the coachman, who stowed them, secured, atop the vehicle, just as might be done upon any stagecoach. That gave us far more room inside in which to bounce about. Though I’m sure that the driver provided exemplary service going about London, he apparently could not resist running the horses once we were out on the open road. As a result, after hours of having our backsides brutalized, we were happy to put up at an inn somewhere beyond Chatham which had been recommended by Lord Mansfield.
Next day, however, was a bit different. It may have been that we had grown used to being battered about, or perhaps our backsides had hardened, or again (though less likely),
perhaps the driver had taken pity upon us and slowed the pace appreciably-whatever the reason, we traveled so much more comfortably that we actually found it possible to talk amongst ourselves. It must have begun as we slowed to drive through Canterbury. Clarissa remarked that it was the first walled city she had seen. Always trying to best her, I countered that London itself was a walled city-or had been such. When Clarissa leapt in to challenge my assertion, Sir John settled it by declaring that it was indeed so, but that so many centuries had passed that so far as he knew nearly all trace of it had disappeared.
Then, perhaps to keep us two from wrangling further, Sir John called upon the fourth passenger, rousing him from a bouncing doze.
