The Blackstone Key: A Novel

The clock at Great St. Mary's Church in Cambridge tolled the half hour on a grey, gloomy, October morning in the year 1795. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds made further showers likely, while the wind streaming down from the north had a wintry bite. In short, it was the sort of morning that could easily have defeated scholarly enthusiasm and kept the shops on King's Parade dark for at least another hour. And yet traffic was brisk and included more than one gentleman's carriage, while at the Eagle, a prominent coaching inn, such was the noise from the crush of patrons that the bells of the University Church went unheard.

The door of the Eagle opened, unsuccessfully at first, for there was someone standing against it, and a young woman slipped inside. She was dressed in a traveling cloak and a black tricorne. In a less crowded establishment the tricorne might have excited interest. Everything else about its wearer suggested the economy of a woman in genteel poverty. Her cloak was worn and frayed along the bottom, and her boots had been resoled, while her scarf had been knitted by inexpert fingers, one of which peeked out of a hole in her glove. Against all of this the tricorne was a rebellion, for such a hat could not have been purchased for less than ten shillings. Moreover, when perched jauntily upon auburn curls, it conveyed an independence of spirit that had not yet been overwhelmed by circumstances. Amid the hubbub of the Eagle's parlor, however, none of this attracted much attention.

Only one man was aware of the newcomer's presence, and that was because he knew her. Dr. Smithson Nichols was a Fellow of Trinity College, and usually he took notice of few facts apart from that one. The young woman in the doorway, however, looked remarkably like one of the teachers at the school in nearby St. Ives where his sister, Miss Nichols, was also employed. Therefore he waved imperturbably in her direction and, as the man sitting beside him was smoking a particularly foul-smelling cigar, even made the effort to cross the room to speak to her.

"Ah, it is Miss Finch, is it not?" he intoned upon reaching her side. "Greetings and felicitations from the alma mater. I see that my dear sister does not accompany you, but I trust that all is well? Mrs. Bunbury's academy remains unchallenged in the land as a temple to female learning?"

Mary Finch disliked Dr. Nichols and his dear sister, but she was feeling sufficiently ill at ease to regard him with more friendliness than she would otherwise have done. She had little experience of a noisy public house, and Dr. Nichols at least had the advantage of familiarity -- even if he was a pompous windbag. "Yes," she replied, endeavoring to smile in appreciation of his witticism, "We are all well, only...I am...making a journey."

"A journey?" repeated Dr. Nichols. He rolled the word around in his mouth, as if he did not quite like the taste of it. "I see."

There was no reason why Mary need offer an explanation to Dr. Nichols, but there was something in his tone of voice that made her feel as if she ought to do so. Or perhaps she was anxious about the entire scheme and wished to justify herself. At any rate, she answered his unspoken question. "Yes, to visit my uncle, Mr. Edward Finch. He has an estate in Suffolk, and he has invited me to visit him. You may read all about it in Cary's Atlas -- about his estate, I mean."

Mary felt foolish as soon as the words were spoken, and the implication that he might be in the habit of perusing such a common publication made Dr. Nichols frown. "Indeed," he replied, loftily. "Most gratifying, I am sure, to know that the particulars of one's drainage are perused by readers of Cary's Atlas. Whomever they may be," he added, after a slight pause.

"Yes, well..." Mary looked about her, thinking that Dr. Nichols was even more unpleasant than his sister. He might be the...the duke of Cambridge, the way he talked, whereas in fact he lived in his college rooms and very likely knew nothing whatsoever about drainage. And he would probably go straight back to Trinity and read all about her uncle's estate in Cary, for all his airs and graces.

Fortunately none of this indignation was perceptible in her next remark; at least it was not perceptible to Dr. Nichols. "How very crowded it is," she observed. "Do you know, is this usual?"

Perhaps surprisingly, this question caused Dr. Nichols to unbend slightly. He liked being asked his opinion -- he gave it freely, whether or not it had been requested, but he preferred to be asked. "No, indeed," he explained, "today's unpleasant crush is the result of a horse race."

"A horse race?" Mary cried. "Here? I mean, in Cambridge?"

"No, no, at Newmarket. The contest has long been anticipated, so I am told, in consequence of which anyone with either an equine interest or a desire to rid himself of a large sum of money -- which includes a very large proportion of the populace -- is hurrying to that locality by any means possible."

"Oh, dear," said Mary, "then I suppose that it may be difficult to book a place on the coach."

"Nearly impossible, I should say. But you can have no interest in witnessing such a gross spectacle, surely. I would certainly not recommend it."

"Well, I might be interested," countered Mary, if only because she did not want to accept any recommendation from him, "but I must go to Newmarket regardless. It is on the way to Suffolk, you see."

"Ah, yes, to be sure." Dr. Nichols had forgotten about Suffolk, or, rather, he had not listened very carefully in the first place. "Well, this is not the day to travel to Newmarket," he decreed. "I would advise putting off the journey until tomorrow, or next week."

Mary recalled her employer's less than enthusiastic response to the proposed leave of absence. If Mary were to return now it would be ever so much more difficult to get away a second time, and it would look so...weak to acknowledge oneself defeated by the first obstacle. "It would not be quite convenient to put off my departure," she replied, with as much coolness as she could muster.

Dr. Nichols seemed to recall that Miss Finch was a somewhat headstrong young woman -- she would undoubtedly please herself whatever prudence (in the person of Dr. Nichols) might suggest. He merely shrugged his shoulders, therefore, to acknowledge his helplessness in the face of her shortcomings, and observed that she had better try to book her place.

"Yes, I had better," she agreed, and, drawing herself up, she edged forward into a gap in the crowd without waiting for a reply. Dr. Nichols considered this highly ill mannered, especially as it prevented him from offering a final admonition against young women traveling alone in public coaches. Instead, he pursed his lips and said, "Good morning," to the place she had just vacated and took his leave.

Mary threaded her way into the taproom and finally reached the bar, where the landlord confirmed Dr. Nichols's prediction: all the places on the Ipswich coach were already booked, at least as far as Newmarket. Then a group of men in long riding coats pressed forward, competing with Mary for the landlord's attention, and her further conversation with him was conducted in a series of shouts.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as a large man pushed past her.

"Should've booked earlier," bawled the innkeeper. He served up three foaming tankards and mopped the bar where one had overflowed. "All right, I heard you -- two pints of the Old Reliable."

"Yes, but what shall I do now? When is the next coach?"

"Day after tomorrow!"

"What? I beg your pardon!" This time she pushed back. "Is there nothing else?"

The landlord wiped his hands and consulted his booking register, running down the page with his finger. "Sorry, miss, I can't see -- no, I tell a lie. I've the one seat left on the Norwich diligence."

"But I wish to go to Ipswich!" Mary reminded him as a man leaned over her shoulder to collect his drink. She steadied herself against the bar, and her hands came away sticky from spilled beer. Why was everyone in such a state, jostling and calling out? Some of the men behind her seemed almost angry, and the race was still some hours away.

"The diligence'll beat the coach to Newmarket. Wait a minute now, sir; I'm dealing with the young lady. You can change there, miss, and carry on to Ipswich!"

"Well, I suppose I must do that. I trust there will be places after Newmarket?"

"Bound to be," agreed the landlord. "It's only this race has brought the crowds. Hi, Bill! Here's the last for the True Blue! Tell Jeb that all's secure! Better make your way to the yard as soon as you can, miss. Jeb Miller's that particular about setting off to time."