Page 36 of The Wordsworth Key (Regency Secrets #3)

Chapter Twenty-One

Town End, Grasmere

D ora felt a gust of relief when the tower of Grasmere church came into sight.

Knotte had not been lying– he had taken her on a scenic circular walk past an idyllic tarn hidden high over the village and she had panicked for no reason.

They came down the hill above Dove Cottage, the former home of the Wordsworths, now let to a Mr De Quincey, another of the Wordsworth circle and not a person her escort admired.

He was apparently too cosy with the ladies of the family and was treated like a cousin or brother when there was no blood relationship between them.

Dora sensed a deep jealousy that didn’t bode well for the man.

Fortunately, De Quincey wasn’t in residence, but the cottage next door had been let to Thomas Wright who, according to Knotte, had wanted to get as close to where the poet had lived as possible.

‘His father is prepared to fund his writing holiday for this summer,’ said Knotte, ‘lucky beggar, but then it is into the business for poor Wright where he has to learn the ins and outs of cotton manufacturing.’

Was this case about fathers– or those who were thought of as father figures?

‘Tell me about your father,’ she asked, remembering Knotte’s odd comment up by the sheepfold.

‘Which one?’ said Knotte archly.

‘Er… the one who raised you? Is that not the same?’

‘Do you think a plodding farmhand like Michael Knotte could sire a child like me?’

That seemed a loaded question, dripping with arrogance. ‘As I didn’t know your parents, I’m afraid I can have no opinion on the subject. Is he still alive?’

‘He drowned. In fact, he drowned in Loughrigg Tarn, close by your cottage door.’

The creepy feeling she’d had in Knotte’s presence at Michael’s Fold came back. ‘I didn’t know. How very sad for you.’

‘We used to live in the other cottage in that valley. You must’ve noticed it?’

‘I thought it was empty.’

‘It might well be as it’s got an unhappy reputation locally. First my mother dying of a canker in her stomach, and then my father choosing not to save himself when he went into the water one summer night.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two years ago. I was due back from university but when I reached home, I found, rather than a celebration, I had a funeral to arrange.’

‘I’m truly sorry for your loss of both your parents.’

He flashed her a strange smile, all teeth and no humour. ‘Still, more fodder for my pen, is it not? Rural suffering?’

‘I suppose that life experience does make for a better writer.’ Though the way he put it sounded heartless.

‘We were at odds you see, Michael Knotte and I. He wouldn’t admit that he wasn’t my natural father; he gave me harsh words for casting aspersions on my mother’s character.’

As well he might if his son was deluded. ‘Then who…?’

‘My mother was from Hawkshead. There was only one poet there at the time when I was conceived.’

‘Surely you can’t think…?’

‘Can’t I? A young man destined for Cambridge, a pretty girl who loved reading and stories– no, I don’t think my imaginings are too farfetched. I even look like him, don’t you think?’

Dora glanced at him with this new information in mind. He did have a high forehead and curly fair hair, that was true, but the resemblance was not striking. ‘I’ve only seen Mr Wordsworth two times and both very briefly.’

‘He’s not how he presents himself to the world.

He has his secrets. I heard him talking to his sister at a time when he might’ve guessed I was listening, talking about his illegitimate child and the responsibility he feels towards it.

That was when I realised that he had been telling me this all along in as many words in his poetry.

Choosing Luke as the name for the shepherd’s son! I know that he knows that I know!’

That sounded entirely wild, but he did not look as if he would welcome a dash of common sense. She’d been told it was dangerous to wake a sleepwalker and Knotte was wandering far in his reveries of poetic genealogies. ‘I see, but he’s never spoken to you directly about this?’

‘How could he? His wife would make him repudiate me. Like this I can receive his encouragement without her interference.’

‘What encouragement would that be?’

‘He listens to my verses and offers advice. You should see him: he has such a paternal air of concern.’ His eyes sparkled with feverish enthusiasm.

He had seized on this idea and driven himself into a frenzy with it, not listening or wanting any gainsaying.

‘I’m sure he was the one who sponsored my education.

He had to use a local gentleman to funnel the payments, but I’m sure it was him behind it. ’

‘Well, I’m speechless,’ admitted Dora. Knotte sounded like he should be under the care of an asylum for the sake of the Wordsworth family.

She wanted to ask him about Leyburn but she was acutely aware that now was not the time to risk such a difficult subject, on a steep hillside alone with him.

They had other questions, though, that she might venture to ask, ones that were less inflammatory.

‘Tell me, Mr Knotte, do you spend all you time here in the Lakes, near your… er… father?’

‘Naturally not. I’m no country bumpkin if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘I wasn’t– truly.’ No, she had been thinking that he might be a killer.

‘I am seeking a publisher for my first collection of verses. Friends have given me some printers to try– in Liverpool and elsewhere.’

‘In London too?’

‘Certainly. It is the obvious place for an aspiring writer to attempt to make his start, would you not agree?’

‘Any luck recently?’

‘I’m hoping Mr Murray might take them on. He’s not rejected them yet and he was very encouraging when I met him.’

Was Byron’s publisher going to take a gamble on the Cumberland Shepherd? ‘How long has he made you wait for an answer?’

‘Oh, not long. I’m sure he gets many manuscripts submitted so I don’t take it as a sign one way or another.’

She couldn’t press for a more exact answer but that gave them a place to check in London. If Knotte had taken his work in person, then Alex could ask at John Murray’s publishing house if anyone remembered seeing him there in July.

They emerged from the trees level with the slate roofs of the houses below. People were within call, so she felt a little safer.

‘Mr Knotte, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why have you confided this story about your true father to me? You barely know me.’

‘It’s simple.’ Knotte handed her over a stile to reach the track.

‘It is?’

‘You asked. I’m proud of the connection. I’ll tell the same to anyone who troubles to enquire about my origins. And when I’m published, I’ll make sure the world knows.’

That sounded a grim prospect for the poet’s family, a blow they could do without. Wordsworth could deny the connection, of course, but gossip had a way of muddying a reputation.

They were about to cross the road in the little hamlet of Town End to take the lane into Grasmere when a shout from a few houses away caught their attention. Dora spun and saw Moss running towards them, waving his hat.

‘Quick, Knotte, run and fetch Dr Sandys, or Mr Scambler if he’s not available.’ When Knotte showed no signs of moving, Moss shoved him. ‘Hurry man: Wright’s life depends on it!’

‘What!’ blurted Knotte.

‘Bring a doctor to his cottage– now, at once!’

With another push, Knotte broke out of his shock and ran for the village. Dora knew full well that Jacob was likely either still at Barton’s cottage or on his way back, but she could hardly tell Knotte Jacob was away to search where he was thought to be staying.

‘Try Mr Scambler first!’ she called after Knotte. She saw a woman watching them out of her cottage window. ‘Mistress, Dr Sandys should be riding this way soon– bring him in.’ She gave a quick description of what Jacob was wearing and his horse.

‘I’ll do it, an’ I will,’ said the neighbour. ‘But what’s got thee all maffled?’

‘All I know is that Mr Wright needs the doctor urgently.’

Dora hurried to catch up with Moss.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked Moss, following him to the open door of a cottage on the roadside.

‘I went to check on Wright because he didn’t come to the procession.

’ His story came out in a rush as they ran.

‘I went round the back and I could see he was lying on the far side of the bed, on the floor. Stupidly, I thought he’d passed out drunk– it wouldn’t be the first time.

I then grew concerned that he might choke on his own vomit so decided I had to get in.

It was all locked up, which surprised me?—’

‘Why not break a pane?’ If she’d been in his shoes, she would’ve put a brick through a window.

‘And find he was just snoring on the rug? Perhaps I should’ve done so but I wasn’t sure enough of my suspicions.

I wasted precious minutes tracking down the farmer who owns the cottage– he was up the damn fell with his sheep– but he told me where to find the spare key.

’ Moss hurried through the cottage into the backroom. ‘Can you help me lift him?’

Wright was sprawled on the floor by the bed, a pool of blood under his head. His honey-brown hair was matted with it. She kneeled to test for a pulse in his neck.

‘He’s still alive. We’d best not move him until a doctor has examined him. Pass me the quilt.’

Moss whipped the patchwork counterpane off the bed and Dora put it over the injured man.

‘How did this happen?’

‘He was drunk last night, as he is all nights. Perhaps he stumbled and hit his head getting into bed?’