Chapter Text
There was no corner of Winford from which Harwood Estate was invisible. It stood tall and solemn on the highland; even the thickest of mist could do nothing to conceal the structure, like a spectre its shadow lingered.
It had loomed over the town for centuries, slipping through the hands of nobility. Sir William Leatham, the military commander, was the original owner. It remained in his family until the death of his great grandson, the first Earl of Casterwick. The Earl died alone and childless and the property was granted to Sir Charles Peyton by James I. Under the ownership of the Peytons the great house had since remained and each generation was more reclusive than the last.
Albert Peyton was the estate's current proprietor. He was very seldom seen in Winford. Those who had glimpsed him likened his appearance to that of his home: handsome, imposing, cold. He was a gentleman of some nine-and-twenty years and supposedly spent several months perennially in Manston. Many believed he spent far more than that, given the scarcity of his sightings. Those in Manston, however, would no doubt swear the young sir rarely - if ever - dwelt in his secondary home.
Thomas Fenwick had little interest in Mr. Peyton and the myriad rumours that surrounded him. The mystery of the man simply did not have time to intrigue him: Thomas was a clockmaker by day, a resurrectionist by night and a painter in between.
Painting was what he loved, but his works did not earn him enough to live on. Were this due to the quality of them or to the lowly name attached, Thomas chose not to brood over.
Arthur Hume had purchased Thomas from a workhouse when he was ten. For the four years following, Thomas took care of Mr. Hume's various errands and did his best not to anger him. Hume was an unpleasant man with a short temper and fondness for violence. He never beat Thomas so much as to hinder his usefulness, but had often come close. It had welcomely simmered down in recent years; something Thomas owed to his growing up and Hume's growing old.
Upon observation, one would sooner think Mr. Hume were related to a leg of ham than to any of his fellowmen. He had a reddish, fleshy appearance. His stomach always seemed resentful of the waistcoats it was stuffed into and his breeches hugged his thighs in a way they surely were not designed to. His hair, once a drab brown, was now greying and thin. All four of his limbs were plump and plodding and his meaty fingers did not obviously lend themselves to the delicate craft to which they were dedicated.
It was four years ago, when Thomas reached the age of fourteen, that Hume somewhat reluctantly decided to teach him the art of his trade. Thomas showed little promise, however. There was a great deal of mathematics involved and Thomas's body vehemently rejected anything to do with the discipline. For this reason, Thomas handled only the simplest tasks within horology and instead tended to areas where Mr. Hume was lacking: carpentry and engraving. Thomas carved and decorated the cases and mantles of clocks, and embellished pocketwatches and clock faces with intricate designs.
It was also around four years ago that Thomas had started resurrectionist work.
Body snatching was, naturally, Thomas's least favourite means of income. The price for corpses fluctuated wildly and the work was harrowing. The stench of death hung thick in the air; it made Thomas's eyes burn and water; it made bile rise in the back of his throat. It was Godless work. Thomas tried not to think about how he would pay for it once his time under the sun was up. It was not all he would have to pay for, of course.
But he kept at it. Because when the money was good, it was good.
He and two other men made ten guineas from a Scottish anatomist last year. That was not a sum of money Thomas could easily forget.
Thomas's breath misted in the frosty air. The night was heavy and viscid around them. Sullen clouds cloaked the moon and somewhere close by dogs were barking; mean, snarling sounds veiled in violence. Far from refreshing, the nip of winter was suffocating. There was no light, save for their flickering lantern. It cast ghostly shadows over the grave as they worked.
The three of them had been digging for an unknowable number of minutes when Peter's shovel hit wood. A hollow thud rung out, disturbing the stifled expanse of the cemetery. Thomas paused, glancing up at the other two. Peter grinned, his yellow teeth mercifully concealed by dusk. The lantern's glow played on his gaunt face and Thomas thought, not for the first time, that Peter bore a striking likeness to the corpses in which he dealt.
Thomas and John cast their shovels aside and scrabbled out of the grave. Peter wedged his under the flimsy lid of the coffin, plying it open with a groaning creak. The corpse within was yanked out and John hurried to assist. Together, he and Peter hauled the body up onto the cold soil beside the grave. Thomas grasped the lantern and hopped over.
The corpse was a man's, wrapped in sullied linen. Thomas set the lantern beside its head and tore open the fabric covering the face. Stiff, blue-tinged features were revealed. Thomas's breath mixed with Peter and John's as they gazed at it. The face was a young one; no older than Thomas. A fleeting sadness washed over him at the fact.
"Let's get movin' then, eh." John rubbed his hands together and blew on them. "Thrillin' as it is to ogle cold meat, my balls are 'bout to freeze off in this fuckin' chill."
Peter gave one of his wheezing sneers and recovered his shovel. "What d'ya reckon?"
Thomas and John took up their shovels in the same manner and the grave they had emptied began to fill with earth.
"Five, maybe." Peter answered his own question.
"No chance." John scoffed. "Two - three at most." He let out a short, hacking cough. "Market ain't looked too 'ealthy recently."
Peter muttered something under his breath in response. Neither Thomas nor John caught it and neither Thomas nor John asked it to be repeated.
Once soil levelled the grave afresh, the men stepped back. The corpse was placed in a sack and Thomas retrieved the lantern and collected up their shovels. Peter moved to grab the body's feet while John took its shoulders.
Thomas led the way back to their wagon, trudging over weedy grass and lumpy earth. John and Peter slogged awkwardly after him, exchanging periodic jabs:
"'Ere, pull yer fuckin' weight." John growled, tugging his end of the corpse.
Peter hiked the feet in such a fashion that caused John to stumble. "You watch where ya put yer stinkin' feet."
"Yer a bleedin' maggot."
And so on and so forth.
Thomas always disembarked first, at the corner of Claremont Street. John and Peter would carry on to the cellar where the corpse would be salted and stored until such times as its purchase. Thomas had little to do with that side of business. He had little to do with any side of business not involving a shovel, in fact, and he intended to keep it as such.
Thomas boarded with Mr. Hume in the quarters above the workshop. Mr. Hume's room was large and decorated in a gaudy style. His bed was a deep, blood red. His curtains were a rich blue. Several of Thomas's paintings hung framed on the walls. This was not out of any pride or admiration for the work, but simply because Mr. Hume enjoyed portraying himself as in possession of a philanthropic heart. Not many had been fooled, so far.
Thomas's room was quite the opposite. His bed was a dull cream. His curtains were non-existent; Thomas's room had only one window and it was more of a peephole than anything else. The small space surrounding Thomas's bed was occupied by an easel, various canvases and painting supplies.
Their bedrooms were separated by a narrow wooden corridor which jumped at the opportunity to complain under even the lightest of feet. The kitchen and small dining-room were located downstairs, behind the workshop.
Thomas stripped once his door was closed and made his way to the washbasin in the corner. Exhaustion had by this time settled deep into his bones, so he did not spend long washing. With painfully leaden limbs, he crawled into bed. With an eerily quiet mind, he drifted off.
* * *
The following morning, like most mornings, found Thomas feeling inadequately rested. He rolled out of bed with a soft groan and shuffled to wash his face. He dressed in a loose linen shirt of faded white and some worn brown breeches finishing at the knee. He did not bother with stockings or shoes. In fact, he did not even bother tying or tucking his shirt; Thomas did not intend to be in the public eye today.
Leant against the wall behind his easel was Thomas's most recent painting. It was not anything exciting, nor was it a work Thomas felt particularly proud of. It depicted Harwood Estate at twilight, sitting grandly atop its hill. Below the regal property was the soft glow of Winford. The warmth of the town and the chill of the estate collided in the centre of the painting. Thomas thought it clumsy.
He tucked the canvas under his arm and headed downstairs. If Mr. Hume disliked the painting, Thomas would sell it. If Mr. Hume found the painting tolerable, Thomas would be forced to see it hung on their walls.
Hume sat at his workbench. His spectacles perched hesitantly on the tip of his nose as he fiddled with a pocketwatch. Upon hearing Thomas's arrival, he glanced up.
Distaste at once adorned his face. "Why are you only half-fucking-dressed?"
Thomas chose not to answer this and instead held up his artwork. "Do you like it, sir?"
"You look like a filthy, good-for-nothing wastrel!" Hume jabbered, taking off his spectacles. His fat fingers looked in danger of crushing the delicate frames, but they were by good luck delivered onto the bench unharmed.
Thomas said nothing to that, looking down at the painting. "It won't fetch more than five shillings."
"I suppose you were at the bloody alehouse all night, hm?" it seemed Mr. Hume was in no mood to judge Thomas's art this morning. "Do not think I won't cast you out, boy! Do not think yourself invulnerable simply because of my tender heart!"
Thomas exhaled softly through his nose and lowered the painting. "You do not like it, sir?"
Mr. Hume's sharp gaze skimmed over the artwork and he made a curt, dismissive noise. "Five shillings - hardly!" He scoffed and Thomas's eyes traced the line of his neck roll. "One would be a damned fool to pay five farthings for it."
Despite Thomas's distinct lack of satisfaction with the painting, something within him felt insulted by such a statement.
"No, save yourself the embarrassment, my lad." Mr. Hume returned to his pocketwatch and replaced his spectacles. "Put it in the back. I'll deal with it."
Thomas hummed and supposed he should do as he was told.
Not a moment after he took his first step to this end, however, did the door to the workshop open with a jingle. Both he and Mr. Hume glanced over and both he and Mr. Hume paused in disbelief at what they saw.
The door fell shut behind Albert Peyton as the gentleman coolly surveyed the shop.
Thomas had only seen Mr. Peyton once before, years ago. He had not changed in the slightest.
His frame was tall and athletic. His features were striking and glacial. His hair was dark and thick.
The first time Thomas had seen him, he had thought it; and this, the second time, he thought it too. Albert Peyton was terribly handsome.
Thomas was immediately ashamed of his sloppy attire and could not fathom what had possessed him to be so overhasty. But before he could decide how to flee in an inconspicuous manner, Mr. Hume rose from his seat. His chair scraped over the floor and seemed to delight in being freed from the great weight of its master.
With a breathless chortle, Mr. Hume performed a bow. "An honour, sir, to receive your patronage. Arthur Hume, at your service."
Mr. Peyton watched Hume straighten with indifference. His eyes flitted to Thomas and Thomas offered a meek nod of his head, body unwilling to listen to instructions for a stronger show of respect. Mr. Peyton's gaze lingered. Despite the disregard, there was something intense and somehow indefinable in his stare.
Thomas swallowed thickly and looked away.
"I came to commission a clock, sir." Mr. Peyton spoke at last, crossing the workshop floor until he reached Hume's bench. "Your craftsmanship is highly regarded."
Mr. Hume decided to give the breathless chortle another go and this time it came out with a choked edge. "That is gracious of you to say, sir. I am most humbly at your dispos-"
"-I want a longcase astronomical regulator, Mr. Hume." Peyton cut in and Thomas was unfortunately still too flustered to truly enjoy Mr. Hume's sycophantic quietening. "Am I correct in understanding you craft the case as well?"
"Oh indeed, sir!" Mr. Hume nodded so vigorously his spectacles flew off. Thomas watched with horrified amusement as they hit the workbench. There, they promptly decided they'd had enough of this world and fractured with a crisp crack.
Mr. Peyton beheld the event with apathy.
A deeper red than one should think possible bloomed over Mr. Hume's ruddy skin.
Thomas took a very slight step backwards.
Peyton's gaze flicked over.
Thomas stilled.
"I will leave the design to you." Mr. Peyton returned his eyes to Hume. "Though I request you stay away from the rocaille style."
Mr. Hume had by this time recovered. He smoothed out his straining waistcoat with a raspy breath. "Of course, sir." His right hand attempted to slot into a pocket, but the pocket was having none of it. "The boy is pitifully inadequate in all things," Mr. Hume said, deciding on clasping his hands together behind his back. "but he does have an eye for design."
Mr. Peyton did not appear to care for this information. "May I enquire after a timeframe, Mr. Hume?"
"It will be my top priority, I assure you." Hume avowed. "I shall see it completed before the month is out."
"That is good of you." Mr. Peyton replied and the conviction behind his words was feeble at best.
"Oh, say nothing of it!" Mr. Hume laughed. His laugh was not a merry sound; it rather made one fear for the state of his health.
Peyton's face remained glacial. "You will receive payment upon my satisfaction with the work."
"And satisfaction is guaranteed, sir. Guaranteed!" Mr. Hume attempted a smile.
"Indeed." Mr. Peyton said. "I will take my leave. Good day, Mr. Hume."
With exquisite sliminess, Hume began burbling a corresponding farewell: "And to you, sir, and to you!"
Mr. Peyton's gaze returned to Thomas as he - though one uses the verb tentatively - listened.
"May the good Lord smile on y-"
"-what is your name, boy?" Peyton asked, interrupting Mr. Hume's obsequious stream of noise.
Thomas was by no means expecting to be addressed. As such, a strange flutter of nerves scurried through him and he hesitated involuntarily before answering. "Thomas Fenwick, sir."
"That painting," Mr. Peyton nodded to the lowered canvas Thomas still held. "are you responsible for it?"
"Yes, sir." Thomas became aware his hands were clammy. "Do you like it, sir?"
Mr. Peyton made no answer, though his eyes stalled on the picture. At last, he stepped back, gaze once more on Mr. Hume. "Until we meet again."
Thomas watched Mr. Peyton depart with a peculiar feeling in his chest: an unwilling, indignant kind of curiosity.
The door had not been closed more than a second when Mr. Hume pounced.
A harsh slap was landed across Thomas's face and he stumbled back in surprise. Mr. Hume's foot was then swiftly delivered through the canvas and he began raving about Thomas's impudence; about Thomas's making Hume look a fool; about Thomas's shameful appearance.
Hume's foot became stuck in the painting and he wobbled and hopped, trying to pull free. Thomas, with his cheek stinging, quickly moved to steady the rotund man. Mr. Hume's cursing did not slow as he extricated himself from the canvas's grip and Thomas received a vicious shove for his assistance.
"Worthless, ungrateful boy!" Hume snapped, looking scornfully at the ruined painting. "Do you like it, sir?" The vein at his temple bulged. "Get this shit out of my workspace and make yourself useful for once!" Spittle coated his thin lips and he was quite out of breath from his sudden eruption. "Unless you want to rue the day your bitch of a mother gave you birth!"
Thomas lifted his broken canvas off the floor. "Sorry, sir." He could not help but feel it was such a waste, despite his impartiality for the painting.
Mr. Hume took to his chair with a grunt. "Finish Bridges' case today, lad, and draw me designs for Mr. Peyton's." He picked up his spectacles and examined the broken lens. "And fucking fetch me something to eat."
Thomas swallowed a tired sigh. "Yes, sir."
They had some cold meat, bread and cheese, Thomas thought, so he would fix Mr. Hume up with a sandwich. Something in the stomach was the surest cure for one of Hume's foul moods. Not a cure that ever lasted, of course, but Thomas did not mind that; for what is foul serves only to illuminate what is sweet. The value of one depended on the existence of the other; they could not be separated.