The Essex Serpent(11)

‘Somewhere in there,’ said Cora, returning to Martha’s side, ‘All in the rubble and dust, there’s a pair of his shoes and probably the bones of the legs he’s lost …’

‘I don’t believe a word of it: look, the lights are coming on, and it’s past five. We should get back and see to Frankie.’ This was true: they’d left Francis in bed, wrapped tight and rigid as a mummy, tended to by a landlord who’d raised three sons of his own and thought Cora’s a docile thing whose cold could be drowned by soup. Francis, wrong-footed to encounter a man who viewed him not only without suspicion but barely with any interest, had consented to a brusque kindliness his mother could never have provided. He’d been seen to give the landlord one of his treasures (a piece of iron pyrite which he half-hoped would be mistaken for gold), and had taken to reading Sherlock Holmes stories. Cora wondered how it was possible to feel anxious for her son (when ill his face grew luminous and girlish and broke her heart) yet relieved at their enforced separation. Living in those two small rooms had brought all his little rituals to her door, and his indifference to her anger or warmth could not be ignored; her day of freedom by the castle keep and the bare willows down by the River Colne had been a delight, and she was loath to end it. Martha, who had a trick of voicing Cora’s thoughts even before they’d formed, said: ‘But look, your coat’s dragging in puddles and your hair’s wet through: let’s find a cafe and wait for the rain to pass.’ She nodded towards a dripping awning beneath which a pair of windows bulged with cakes.

Cora said, tentatively: ‘Besides, he’ll be sleeping by now, don’t you think? And he’s so cross when he’s woken …’ Complicit, they headed across wet pavements made bright by a low sun, and had reached the awning’s shade when Cora heard a familiar voice.

‘Mrs Seaborne, I declare!’ She peered into the dim street and said, ‘Has someone seen us?’

Martha, resentful of further intruders on their time, tugged at the strap of her bag. ‘Who can know you here? We’ve been here less than a week: can’t you ever just be overlooked?’

The voice came again – ‘Cora Seaborne, as I live and breathe and have my being!’ – and with a cry of delight she plunged onto the pavement and raised her arm. ‘Charles! Come over! Come over and see me!’ Coming towards her beneath a pair of umbrellas so large they commandeered the street, Charles and Katherine Ambrose were an unlikely sight. Once a colleague of Michael Seaborne – undertaking one of the many Whitehall roles Cora was never able to fathom, and which seemed to entail twice the politician’s power with none of the responsibility – Charles had become a regular feature of Foulis Street life. The brightness of his waistcoats, and his insatiable appetite for all things, shielded a shrewdness which went undetected by most; that Cora had picked it out on first meeting had made him more or less her slave. Perhaps surprisingly, he was entirely devoted to his wife, who was diminutive where he was large, and who found him ceaselessly amusing. The pair of them were generous, benevolent, and interested in the lives of others; when they’d insisted that no doctor but Garrett would do for the ailing Seaborne, it had seemed impossible to refuse.

Cora gave her companion’s waist a mollifying squeeze. ‘You know I’d rather it was just you and me and our books. But it’s Charles and Katherine Ambrose: you met them, and liked them – no: really, you did! – Charles!’ Cora made a deep ironic curtsey, which might have been elegant if the toe she extended hadn’t been concealed in a man’s boot mottled with mud. ‘You know Martha, of course?’ Beside her, Martha unfurled to her full height and gave an unwelcoming nod. ‘And Katherine, too – I’d no idea you knew England extended past Palmer’s Green: are you lost? Can I lend you my map?’ Charles Ambrose looked with disgust at the muddy boot, and the Harris tweed coat which was cut too broad across the shoulders, and the strong hands with their bitten nails.

‘I would tell you it’s a pleasure to see you, though I never saw anyone look more like a barbarian queen bent on pillage: is it necessary to emulate the Iceni just because you’re on their turf?’ Cora – who refused to wear anything that might restrict her waist, who’d raked her hands through her hair and stuffed it into a hat, who hadn’t worn jewellery since she tugged the pearls from her ears a month before – was not offended. ‘Boudicca would be ashamed to be seen like this, I’m sure. Shall we go in, and have coffee, and wait for the clouds to break? You’re pretty enough for the pair of us.’ She tucked her hand in the crook of Katherine Ambrose’s elbow, and they winked at each other, and watched Charles’s velvet back make an impressive entrance into the cafe.

‘But how, actually, are you, Cora?’ Katherine paused at the threshold, and taking the younger woman’s face between her palms, turned it to the light. She surveyed the high-boned face, and the eyes which were like slate. Cora didn’t answer, because she was afraid to betray her shameful happiness. Katherine, who’d suspected more of Michael Seaborne’s dealings with his wife than Cora ever guessed, found her answer, and stood on tip-toe to plant a kiss on her temple. Behind them, Martha feigned a cough; Cora turned, stooped to pick up her canvas holdall, and whispering ‘Just another half-hour, I promise …’ hustled her companion inside.

‘Well: what are you doing here? I associate you both so much with Whitehall and Kensington that I supposed I imagined you evaporating at the borders of town!’ Cora surveyed the table with satisfaction. Charles commanded an awestruck girl in a white apron to bring at least a dozen of the cakes she personally liked best, and a gallon of tea. She evidently favoured coconut: there were macaroons, and speckled shortbread, and lozenges of cake doused in raspberry jam and rolled in coconut flakes. Cora, who’d walked several miles that morning, placidly ate her way towards a centrepiece of madeleines.