Lavinia closed the whispering box and caressed the carved wooden top. Then, throwing on a shawl, she stepped swiftly out of the bedroom.
Drawing the door bolt, Lavinia entered the kitchen. The glow from her candle skipped across the silent utensils hanging like gleaming stalactites from the ceiling rack. She slipped past the vast pantry and the wooden icebox, beyond the coal shute that led into the cellar,
and stepped out of the back door into the yard beyond.
The warm pungent atmosphere of the stables enclosed her. The sleeping horses filled the low building with a strange tranquillity, the serenity of a world that transcended the indulgences of men.
Several luminous black eyes opened and blinked slowly. One mare snorted nervously. Lavinia whispered, hoping to calm her. The foot of the attic ladder was visible in the far corner of the stables. Stepping carefully to avoid the soiled straw, she made her way to it and began to climb.
‘Who goes there?’ The cry sounded out from above her head.
‘Your mistress!’
There was a rustling, then the grumbling voice of a boy—one of the stable lads, Lavinia assumed, remembering that all of the stable staff shared the loft. The thump of footsteps travelled overhead, then the trapdoor was thrown open.
‘Has there been a death, madam?’The coachman rubbed his eyes blearily. He had hastily pulled his breeches over his nightshirt and flung on his riding jacket. There had been an illegal cock fight in Chauncery Lane that night and all the stable, bar two boys, had attended. It was a pastime Aloysius did not discourage, believing it innocuous entertainment that assuaged his lads’ high spirits.
‘No death.’ Lavinia fought a sudden sense of foolishness. ‘I need you to take me to the master.’
‘I don’t think that would be wise, madam.’ Somewhere in the darkness behind him, a boy whimpered in his sleep—the youngest stable boy struggling with a dream, Aloysius thought, and, not wanting to wake him, he stepped down and closed the trapdoor. ‘The master has ordered me not to disturb him under any circumstances.’
‘But you know where he is?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Is he alone?’
‘I cannot answer that, madam.’
‘Is he with Mr Hamish Campbell?’
‘I will not endanger my employment, Mrs Huntington, you know that.’
A night wind rattled the shutters of the barn door and Lavinia, bare-shouldered, shivered. She was still wearing the evening dress she had put on for a lonely supper attended only by servants. She steadied herself against the wooden railing.
‘You realise I could have you dismissed?’
‘You could, but it is not for a servant to go against the word of his master. I’m sorry.’ Aloysius averted his gaze, ashamed of his cowardice.
Lavinia looked at the horsehair button at the top of his nightshirt. His black chest hair curled over the top; the sight rendered him human.
‘Please, Aloysius, it has been three days without word from him. I am at my wits’ end. I fear for his life.’ She clutched at his hand. ‘For the sake of our friendship, please.’
The coachman hesitated, calculating the consequences if he should acquiesce. He looked down at her; she was thinner, the bones of her face pushing up under a new anxiety.
‘If I take you there, will you promise to insure my position?’
‘I swear.’
The coachman glanced at her evening gown. ‘As a lady, you will not be allowed entrance.’
‘In that case I shall dress as a youth. They cannot refuse a boy.’
‘They can and they might.’
‘I am prepared to take the risk. Now, lend me the stable boy’s clothes.’
He drove her to Mincing Lane in the City. In the dawn sky, the moon had faded to a cadaverous phantom that glared censoriously down. The street was empty except for the market stall owners who had begun to drift in like mute spectres. Their labour was a mechanised dance: arms swinging as the wooden carts became transformed with all manner of goods—fruit, cloth, cabbages, pots and pans. Donkeys and ponies stood patiently alongside, snorting into the chilly air.