Chapter 1

CHAPTER1

June 1815

Genevra Tate looked up from her vigorous polishing of the beer engine handle, as a new customer strolled into the tap room. Welcome summer sunlight streaked through the mullioned windows across floorboards worn and grey with scrubbing, taking the morning chill off the air. It was mid-morning and only a handful of the regulars were present, muttering into their tankards of porter or sharing a coffee-pot and late breakfast.

She tracked the stranger as he wandered in, looked about and spied her at the bar. He smiled, drawing an answering smile from her. He was tall, well-made and handsome, with unfashionably long dark hair and a dark stubble on his jaw. His clothes were casual but of good quality, he had eschewed a hat, jacket and neckcloth in deference to the summer heat, and wore only a shirt and waistcoat with well fitted breeches and boots.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Would you care for a drink?”

“I would at that me darlin’,” he said with a striking Irish accent. As he came closer, she got the full effect of his startlingly dark blue eyes. “A half pot of porter,” he said leaning on the bar and smiling with blatant admiration.

Genevra fetched a pewter pot and pulled the handle of the beer engine to dispense the porter, the dark liquid forming a thick, delicious, creamy head on top. Pausing at halfway to let it settle, she looked up at her customer and said encouragingly, “Would you like a bite to eat with that?”

“No, thank you sweetheart. I’ve just eaten.”

She topped up the rest of the pot.

“Ah, thank you,” he said, receiving the pot from her and taking a long draught. “That’s a fine drop.”

“Whittaker’s” she said, flicking a stray strawberry blonde curl behind her ear as she wiped down the bench.

He nodded. “Would Jacob Tate be around me darling’? I’ve a mite of business with him.”

Genevra’s heart skipped a beat. “What would your business be with Jacob?”

“That would be my business, love. Can you direct me to him?”

“He’s buried in the St Giles Church cemetery six feet under!” she said with perhaps more venom than the situation warranted. After all the man was dead and couldn’t hurt her anymore.

Her customer pursed his lips in consternation. “Can you tell me who the publican of this fine establishment might be then?”

“That would be me. Genevra Tate. Jacob’s widow.” She held out her hand. “And who might you be?”

“Connor Mor at your service ma’am. Delighted to make your acquaintance. Forgive me manners, I tort you was the bar maid.”

“It’s a common mistake Mr Mor, how may I help you?”

He leaned in and said softly, “It’s a matter of some delicacy, you may want to do this in private ma’am.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a moment and then waved him round the bar to the office behind it. She showed him into a small square wood panelled room, dominated by a scratched desk and two battered chairs.

“Well?” she said, her arms crossed.

“It’s a matter of some debts,” he said apologetically, and her heart sank. She had enough debt as it was. What had Jacob done?

“How much? And to whom?”

“The debt is owed to Mr Garmon Lovell, of Lovells’ gaming hell in St James Street.” He handed her a slip of paper he had taken from his waistcoat pocket.

She took it with a hand that trembled slightly and opened the paper. She couldn’t believe what her eyes were seeing.

“Five hundred pounds?” Her voice squeaked in outrage. She thrust the paper back at him. “I do not believe you. My husband could not have incurred such a monstrous debt.”

He refused to take the paper. “I assure you that he did Mrs Tate.”

“Where’s the proof?”

He took another piece of paper from his pocket and held it up for her to read. It was an I.O.U. signed by Jacob for five hundred pounds to Garmon Lovell and dated to January 9th, 1815. It was undoubtedly Jacob’s handwriting. She groped for the chair behind her and sat down heavily. “My God,” she whispered. “It’s a fortune!”

“You note the date Mrs Tate. That is six months ago. Mr Lovell has been very patient, but he really must insist the debt be paid in full by the end of the week.”

“The end of the week?” she jumped up. “That’s impossible! I had no notion of this debt until this very moment. I cannot summon five hundred pounds out of thin air! You must give me time- I -”

“As I pointed out Mrs Tate, Mr Lovell has been very patient. He requires that the debt be paid immediately. I will call again at the end of the week.” His expression had hardened, and she shivered. “I can assure you, that should you not have the required funds Mr Lovell will take steps to recover the amount from you by means you will not like.” He shook his head. “I should not like to see violence perpetrated against such a lovely lady as yourself my dear, but business, as they say, is business.”

She shuddered, terror slicing down her spine. “Get out!” she said, pointing to the door.

He bowed. “Good day to you Mrs Tate. Thank you for the fine porter. I will see you on Friday.”

He turned to leave the room, and she followed him. “It’s four pence!” Holding out her hand. He turned, fished in his pocket and dropped the coins into her palm.

“Good day ma’am.”

He turned and sauntered out, cool as you please. She fumed and then reaction set in, her knees gave out, and she went back into the office, collapsing into the chair shaking with terror.

The look in Mr Mor’s eyes as he threatened her with violence just brought it all back. She bit her lip hard, to stop its trembling, and blinked back tears. She would not cry, damn it! Jacob was dead and could not harm her anymore. Yet he could reach beyond the grave to haunt her with his unpaid debts, bringing terror and financial hardship to her door. When would it end? When would she be rid of him? He was like a curse.

“Mrs Tate?” Annie one of the barmaids called out from the tap. Pulling herself together with an effort, she plastered a smile on her face and went to the door.

“Yes Annie.”

“There you are! Joe says can you come down to the cellar, something about rats?” Annie shuddered. “I’ll mind the tap for you.”

“Thank you, Annie,” she said wearily and headed towards the cellar to manage the immediate crisis. Mr Lovell’s debt would have to wait until she had a spare moment to address it.