Chapter Fourteen
A fortnight, or so, later
The sun was merely a promise, hues and hints of orange and pink mingling with purple and turquoise at the edges of the sky, proper sunrise still a couple hours away, but already, this part of the city was alive, buzzing with life and excitement, for it was market day.
Pens, covered spaces, carts and signs vied for attention amidst the mass of bodies—human and animal of all varieties.
A thousand cries—bleats, snorts, yells, and everything else one could imagine—mingled and punctuated the complex aroma to be expected in such a place—dung, sweat, and feed every so often offset by a hint of perfume or lavender soap—and though this one didn’t quite rival the greatest city markets, it was enough be a proper example of such a place as humanity had seen for millennia.
The hum and energy was admittedly helping Thorn gain in liveliness and enthusiasm—otherwise stymied by a two a.m. departure, so they could arrive in time, and not have to pay for lodgings for the night, or someone to undertake this endeavour for them—and he took a long deep breath, letting everything, pleasant and unpleasant, penetrate him fully.
This…this too is part of who you are now.
‘So this is a livestock market,’ Hypatia said, now they had a moment to breathe, settled in their allocated spot as they were, somewhat awed.
A sentiment which, if he was honest, he shared; on many counts.
Surprisingly, it was also Thorn’s first visit to such a place—not just a livestock market, but a market of this scale.
Perhaps he might’ve, to give demonstrations of his skills, or drum up new clients; however, he’d been lucky in inheriting a solid business from his father, with enough well-paying and faithful clients—who also admittedly brought more custom through word-of-mouth—and any further patrons he sought, he did so discreetly, and personally.
So while he’d been to markets before, fetes, and fairs, this was another beast altogether for him too.
His awe and fascination, akin to Hypatia’s, was also likely due in some measure to being in the thick of it, of not being some browsing potential buyer of whatever wares or produce was on offer, or curious onlooker of all the same, but instead being here to sell.
Not being a visitor, but instead an integral part of this strange new world.
Which someday might not feel so strange at all; as all the rest of the novelties in my life have become normal.
‘We did well, I think,’ Hypatia commented, glancing at those others around them; their pens, their signs and general presentation, including their clothes. ‘Especially given the time in which we prepared.’
‘Yes. We’ll have to thank Reeves.’
Indeed, when they’d finally sat down and begun to organise, they’d realised…they had no real idea of how to organise, of the way things were done, what to do, really, and it wasn’t the sort of knowledge which could easily be acquired from books.
Equally, no one they knew well enough to ask had much to offer on such things, being mostly experienced with other manners of trade or markets.
And it wasn’t as if Hypatia and Thorn particularly cared to go knocking on doors, asking for help.
So it had been a boon when Reeves had turned up at their door—with a lamb in tow for Hypatia, which Henry had thankfully taken charge of, and who had since become fast friends with Truffél, wreaking havoc on poor Langton’s kitchen garden, amongst other tomfoolery.
It had thankfully been a sunny day, so they’d been able to invite Reeves for tea in the garden, where Henry and Mary had set up some wrought iron garden furniture they’d found who knew where; Thorn had learned to be grateful, and not ask questions.
In any case, over tea, Mr Reeves had advised them on this market—Maidstone, a city with a long history of trade and commerce, and featuring the closest and best market for their purposes—as well as given them a detailed idea of how things ran, and how to prepare.
So they’d followed his advice, gathered as large and varied a selection as they could transport themselves in three carts—Thorn, Ian, and Danny each driving one—and packed their supplies, including a simple wooden sign marked Gadmin Hall Farm Thorn had made, and here they were.
Dressed in their new clothes—Hypatia’s dress sans adornments in the end—looking the part of well-to-do, but not too out-of-their-depth aristocratic landowners and farmers. Now, all there was to do, was…wait.
And pray someone wanted what they had to sell.
A wait which grew rather exponentially as it happened, hours trickling by, though potential buyers were aplenty. Except none seemed interested in what Gadmin Hall Farm had to offer, though they would stop at the farmers around them.
Thorn and Hypatia watched, trying to discern how to better attract clients, only there seemed to be no fixed method. Some would engage, others let their pigs, goats, chickens, cows or geese do the talking. The only commonality seemed to be ease and familiarity.
‘Oi, Joe Morton, I got them chickens ye wanted!’
‘Why, Mr Banner, ye’ll be pleased with these bucks I have today!’
‘Susan still making that nice cheese for you, Mr Waters?’
It wasn’t that Hypatia and Thorn didn’t try to engage with a hello here or a good day there—if anyone dared come within a few feet as opposed to leaving wide enough a berth the HMS Victory might pass—and sometimes would be afforded a look, but nothing more.
A dismissive glance, a judgemental up-and-down, a quick, unjustified measuring-up of the swine on offer, and they’d move along.
Soon enough, the sun had properly risen, and it wouldn’t be long before it would come time to clear out; at this rate, they’d be going home worse off than they’d come.
Thorn glanced to Hypatia for perhaps the millionth time—Danny and Ian having been sent to do some shopping, and fetch some tea, the four of them certainly not needed at present—to see if the despondent look they’d both sported progressively more obviously with each hour whiled away, remained, but instead he found his wife’s gaze focused on a large man across the way, who was well, but not expensively dressed, and engaging in haggling the price of hogs.
‘We’ve hogs here, at good price, Mr Fairchild,’ she said, not shouting, but not delicately either, taking a step forward.
Thorn wouldn’t say the market quietened completely, but he would’ve said there was a definite hush, as heads turned, including that of this Mr Fairchild, who raised a brow, and Hypatia smiled.
‘Lady Gadmin, of Gadmin Hall Farm,’ she said, extending a hand, which the man took an age to shake, though he finally did, approaching slowly.
‘If I heard correctly, you’re looking for some well-priced hogs to expand your herd.
A butcher such as yourself will appreciate the quality of these very unusual animals.
We’ve porkers too, should you wish to trial the meat with your customers first.’
Fairchild watched her for a moment, before turning his attention to the pigs.
Jumping into the small enclosure, blessing his good fortune again at having such a clever, forthright wife, able to do what he’d not been, Thorn coaxed forth one of the porkers Hypatia mentioned for the man to examine.
‘How much?’
‘Six and a half per pound for the porkers, half crown for the hogs.’
‘I’ll give ye a joey for the porker.’
‘I can perhaps go down to sixpence, but not a joey.’
‘A joey and a ha’penny.’
‘You’d offer another a shilling per pound, Mr Fairchild, so a sixpence is more than a fair price. These are good pigs, of a kind not oft found these ways, and the meat will speak for itself.’
‘I heard about Gadmin Hall, and the mad earl who went to Gloucestershire to fetch his precious pigs, and spent all he had of money and mind on building a herd. Last I heard, they were rottin’ away, and bein sold for feed.’
Fairchild glanced at Thorn, as though he might be the mad earl in question, and though Thorn was beginning to feel like he might fit that denomination given enough time, he wasn’t the aforementioned.
‘As you can see, reality and gossip often diverge greatly,’ he said, holding the man’s gaze.
‘The past is the past, and those who contributed to any veracity such tales might hold had best examine their own actions before vilifying others,’ he continued, wagering Fairchild had either heard the truth, or that scum Warren flung muck at the Gadmin name as he departed the area.
‘The animals all have a recent clean bill of health, and as my wife says, the meat will speak for itself. As will you, with your expert eyes.’
‘Or this gentleman’s,’ Hypatia chimed in, roping in another unsuspecting passerby, who’d demonstrated too much curiosity at the goings-on. ‘What do you seek, sir?’
‘I’m in need of some sows,’ he said, realising he’d been caught, and not a little charmed by Hypatia; a sentiment Thorn understood all too well.
Another like I who dared glance too long at this woman and was ensnared.
‘Six and a half it is then,’ Fairchild sighed. ‘I’ll have three porkers for now, if you have them, but mind you, one complaint from any of my customers, and ye’ll not do business here again.’
‘Excellent, Mr Fairchild,’ Hypatia grinned, gesturing for Thorn to come complete the sale.
Which he did, half an eye and ear on his wife, who continued to work marvels, attracting more and more, if nothing else, curious souls; tempting a few more here and there to part with coin, and take some of their animals away.
Danny and Ian arrived not long after, helping where they could, and in one of the quieter moments, Thorn permitted himself to lean against the enclosure, and merely watch his wife work, pride filling him to the brim.
At least, until one of the neighbouring farmers came to stand beside Thorn, watching Hypatia as he leaned on his walking stick that more resembled half an oak’s trunk.
‘Had one like ’er once,’ the older, grizzled man said, and Thorn might’ve thought it in pleasant reminiscence had he not punctuated his statement with a hack and spit.
Thorn frowned, turning slightly to the man, who shrugged.
‘That woman wouldn’t peck, she’d drive, and nearly drove me off a cliff, till one day I said: “Woman, I’m yer ’usband, not yer servant.
” And she said she didn’t need me, and I’d see just how well I got on without ’er, and ’ere we are, seven years later, and I’ve never been so ’appy.
But ’twas my own doin’, lettin’ her think she could run the place. Ye mind yerself, son.’
And with a tap to the side of his nose, and what Thorn supposed was meant to be a wise man’s knowing gaze, he hobbled off. Thorn shook the comment off, and turned back to his wife, and thought something along the lines of some men just cannot abide a strong, capable woman.
Except, the man’s words were like poisonous, thorny vines, wrapping themselves and clutching to already dark ground. He thought about how the man had said he’d never been so happy; yet he looked unkempt, sallow, and frayed. He looked like he had needed his wife; was lost, bereft, without her.
And perhaps that was what held fast to Thorn most of all, as they finished their time at market—having sold a good half of their stock, which was disappointing but far from disastrous—and too exhausted and frankly penniless to do anything else, they began the three-hour trip back home, in quiet silence; a silence he knew Hypatia noted, but took as mere tiredness, though she bounced with energy and satisfaction on the cart beside him.
Through every mile travelled, that man’s transformation in the face of love’s loss, held fast to him.
For Thorn had realised early on, he needed Hypatia.
She was the strong, capable one, and there was certainly nothing wrong with that, but as he grew to need her more every single day, in ways he daren’t even think on, she seemed to need him less and less.
Oh, she enjoyed his company—in every way possible, or so she’d demonstrated since their first true evening together—and welcomed his thoughts, and opinion.
But she still left him every night, having gotten the pleasure she sought, and she made more and more decisions without his consultation—not that they were bad, or his consultation was required—and he was always the one to initiate any sort of sweet touch, and in every way, she thrived, and would, with, or without him in her life.
It was part of her charm, part of what he liked about her, part of what astonished him every day.
And yet, from the first, that divide between them—her thriving and adapting so easily to everything whilst he struggled and felt an imposter—had been felt.
Though it had been hidden, diminished by gratitude, respect, and yes, to a degree, his besottedness, it had remained.
And now, more than ever, he felt his own lack in comparison to her.
As he had, admittedly and not, with his father, who’d built a business, not been given it, with Helen, who’d wanted more than he ever had, with strangers even; and though it was unfair, and he knew it well, he began to feel angry.
He began to feel resentful with Hypatia for that, for not sharing his need, or indeed, his feelings.
For being strong, and secure in herself, and needing no one really.
Nothing but books, to fix roofs, and sell pigs, and charm idiots like him.
It would only get worse too. Here, it was noticeable, the chasm of competency, but how would it be in London?
How would it be when came time to fulfil all those societal and political duties he’d already been overwhelmed with—and that was having only dipped his toe into the murky ocean?
Would he be forever asking Hypatia to tell him what to do in the House?
Letting her lead the charge at parties and other such nonsense?
How long would she remain by his side? Endure being the better of them both, before she grew tired, restless, resentful?
How long before her freedom sparked her to have dreams, and she realised she dreamt of more than merely him, and what little he could offer? Where would he be then?
He wondered, and that resentment grew, for knowing, for having always known, she would be better at any and all of this than he ever could; more of a countess, worthy of his inheritance than he.
By the time they arrived home, all that putrid resentment had truly festered, and so he told her that he and Danny would see to what beasts remained, and not to wait for him, for dinner or bed.
So she didn’t, and well, that just made it worse.