by Jan Burke
These were daunting instructions indeed. Summoning all my courage, I did as he asked, making my way to the earl’s side even as Lady Bane began to deliver herself of what promised to be a lengthy speech on the lack of manners of certain members of the younger generation. Henry, William, and Fanny, hardly exemplars of etiquette, eyed us with smug satisfaction.
“Never mind that, Sophia!” Lord Bane interrupted, loud enough to cause my mother to shrink back against the cushions of the sofa she occupied, but silencing—however briefly—his own wife.
No sooner had I taken up my position near the earl’s chair than he stood, picking up a decanter and walking toward Lord Bane, as though none of the havoc in the room was actually taking place. I looked to Lucien, who subtly signaled me to stay where I was.
“Lucien,” the earl said quietly, as he finished refilling Lord Bane’s glass, “I don’t suppose you would mind troubling yourself to give me a brief summary of the events of this evening? I am particularly interested in those which caused your cousins to fly to their mama and hold to her skirts.”
Lord Bane laughed at this, even as his wife protested. As my stepfather walked back toward me, he paused, and seemed to study me for a moment before refilling his own glass and returning the decanter to the drinks tray. “Edward,” he said, in the gentlest voice I had yet heard him use, “come stand here with me by the fire. My sister tells me all our chimneys smoke, but I fear I’ll need to feel some warmth while Lucien recites his chilling tale.”
So we moved nearer the fireplace, with its holly-draped mantel. The warmth of the fire felt good, and so did some nearly imperceptible change in my stepfather’s manner toward me. Lucien began his tale, but the earl kept his eyes on me.
“As you have so often told us, Aunt Sophia,” Lucien said, “you are a woman who is accustomed to finer treatment than we may afford you here at the Abbey, in part because you consider London your home, and were not often here as a child. That being so, I do not imagine the tale of the Headless Abbot has come to your ears.”
“I should say not!”
Lucien turned to his father. “I thought it only fair to warn my dear cousins about him, sir.”
“Your dear cousins,” the earl repeated. “Just so.”
Lucien again recounted the legend, this telling no less unnerving than the previous one. My mother had recourse to her vinaigrette no fewer than five times, but was an avid listener.
“Poppycock!” Lord Bane declared. “Fairy tales.”
“I used to think so,” Lucien said. “But if it’s just a fairy tale, there ought to be a good earl in it. But there isn’t, you see.”
“A good earl?” his father asked, looking sharply at him.
“Yes, Father. The abbey should have been protected by a good man, someone who cared about the defenseless men who lived there. He would not have let the ruffians who descended on the abbey have their way.”
“Perhaps he was otherwise occupied,” the earl said.
Lucien shrugged. “Perhaps he did not see his duty.”
The earl raised a brow. “Perhaps he was taking a switch to the backside of his impertinent son.”
Lucien gave a little bow. “I trust in your wisdom, sir. You must have the right of it.”
“Doing it much too brown, Lucien!” the earl said, but there was a twinkle in his eye, which did not abate, even as his sister upbraided him for using such terms.
“And why you talk of earls, which has nothing to do with the case, I’m sure I don’t know!” Lady Bane protested. “You seem to forget, dear brother, that Lucien has frightened poor Fanny and her brothers half to death!”
“I beg your pardon, Aunt Sophia,” Lucien said, when she paused to draw breath, “if I’ve caused you or my cousins any fright. But I do think the experience of seeing the ghost or hearing the hoofbeats is much less frightening if one is prepared. Imagine the shock one might feel, if he were to see a bloodstained, headless apparition floating outside his window at midnight, if he didn’t know the legend.”
“Nonsense!” Lady Bane declared. “We’ve spent Christmas here these past three years and more. Why have we never heard this legend before now?”
“If I may offer an explanation, Aunt Sophia?” Lucien said. “There is only one section of the Abbey which is haunted—beneath the chambers you occupy. No one is ever disturbed in any other part of the house, so we did not wish to frighten you with the tale. But since you wished to have the rooms nearest the north tower—”
“Oh! So this is my fault is it? Well, I’ll tell you why we are just now hearing of your ghost, my good fellow! Because some who’ve never been here before this year have invented tales. Outsiders!” She rounded on me, pointing. “It’s you!”
She received a chorus of approval from her offspring. I quailed before them, but then I felt the earl’s large hand on my shoulder. I winced a bit as he touched a bruise, and his hand shifted slightly. At that moment, I became aware that the room had fallen silent. Everyone was looking at the earl, whose face was a mask of cold fury.
“Are you assuming that my wife’s son has no place in our family?” he asked, icily. “I assure you, Sophia, he is not an outsider here. Lucien thinks of Edward as his brother, and I think of him as my son. Indeed, there are blood relations I would much liefer disown—and may.”
I could hardly believe my own ears, which were soon assaulted.
“No offense meant!” Lord Bane shouted.
He had spoken loudly enough, I was sure, to startle the villagers (including the deaf vicar) from their beds, several miles away. The earl, however, appeared not to have heard him. “Perhaps, Sophia, you would find Christmas in town more to your liking.”
“La!” she said nervously, “How you do take one up! Bane is right—I meant no offense. Lucien’s lurid tale has quite overset me!”
With that, she snapped at her children, telling them it was long past time for them to be abed, remonstrated with the governess for not having seen to it, and said, “Bane!” in a commanding tone that had her husband soon bidding all a good night.
“You, too, should be in bed, Edward,” my mother said.
“Time we all were,” my stepfather said. “Go on up, if you like, my dear. I’d like a brief word with the boys before I retire for the evening.”
As soon as she had left, the earl turned to Lucien, and said in a lazy voice, “I trust we have yet to see Act III of your little drama?” Despite his tone, I could see the amusement in his eyes, and for the first time, I perceived a likeness between the earl and his son that went beyond Lucien’s physical resemblance to his father.
“Tomorrow evening, sir. Tonight would be too soon. They are Banes, and being such, need time to think.”
“You frighten me—far more than your telling of the legend did—though I credit you with an admirable performance.”
Lucien bowed again, and said, “I had an excellent teacher.”
The earl gave a sudden shout of laughter, then said, “Impossible boy!”
“Again, sir—”
“No, don’t say I taught you to be such an impudent hellion, for I’ll swear I did not!”
“Then I shall say nothing, sir—except—except—thank you, sir!”
The earl raised a hand in protest. “’Tis the other way ’round, I believe.” He turned back to me and gently lifted my chin. “I see I have been remiss in your education, Edward. Or perhaps—yes—Lucien, you must teach your brother to be handy with his fives.” He paused, then added, “Lady Rolingbroke need not be apprised of it.”
“Thank you, sir!” I said.
“Oh, I demand a high price! If you fail to rid me of the Banes, you and that makebate Lucien will be served gruel for Christmas dinner—by whatever headless monk I can find to take it to the dungeon!”
WE WERE DESTINED TO EAT A SUMPTUOUS FEAST. BEFORE Lucien and I sought our bed
s, he enlisted my aid in creating a few hoofbeats along the secret passages near each of the Bane’s bedchambers. Henry had awakened to feel a ghostly presence in the form of a room that was suddenly terribly cold, not knowing that Lucien had merely left the entrance to one of the draftiest passages open for a time.
We left it at that. The next morning, of course, we denied hearing anything like hoofbeats. When Henry swore he had felt the ghost, and not even the other members of his family related similar tales, Lucien grew thoughtful, saying, “I wonder why he would single you out?”
This made Henry go very pale, and ask again if no one else had felt a bit chilly last night.
No one had, of course. The earl went so far as to say he had rarely slept so well.
Lady Bane was perhaps made suspicious by this remark, for she gave her husband a speaking look and asked him to accompany her into the village. Henry was rather quiet that day, if a little jumpy. William, owing to the increased watchfulness of several footmen and others, did not have any chances to harm me that morning. He later confided to us that Lord and Lady Bane had found the villagers ready to repeat all the salient points of the legend, and in many cases to enlarge upon it. After hearing something of this at luncheon, the earl strode up to Lucien and me as we were on our way to the stables. “Lucien, dear boy, I take it I am going to be generous to my tenants this Boxing Day?”
“Extremely, sir,” his unrepentant child replied. “But it should interest you to know that Aunt Sophia’s dresser has told Bogsley that she doesn’t expect the Banes to remain in this, er, ‘accursed place’ another night.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve enlisted my staid butler in these schemes? I would think it beneath Bogsley’s dignity.”
Lucien seemed to ponder before answering, “Perhaps, Father, it would be best not to inquire too closely on some matters.”
“Good God!” the earl declared, and walked away, seeming shaken.
The following night, I helped again with hoofbeats, and later to make howling sounds as Lucien—and Fibbens—contrived to swing a headless “apparition” past their windows. Bogsley had recommended the village seamstress who made the monk. Each of the Banes caught no more than a fleeting glimpse of this phantom, but judging from the pandemonium which broke loose, this glimpse was more effective than a full night’s haunting. The Banes, looking haggard, were on the road back to London before noon, swearing never to return to the Abbey.
The earl declared it the most delightful Christmas gift his son had ever bestowed upon him, causing my mother a great deal of puzzlement.
AS WE GREW OLDER, I LEARNED HOW RARE A GIFT I HAD FOUND in Lucien’s affection for me, and saw how infrequently he troubled himself to form friendships. He nevertheless grew into a man who was invited everywhere—and while his fortune, breeding, and rank might have guaranteed that to him in any case, there was a vast difference between the welcome Lucien was given by leading members of the haut ton and that afforded to others. That I benefited from my connection to him is without doubt, and was a fact decried by Lord Henry Bane, Mr. William Bane, Miss Fanny Bane, and the Dowager Lady Sophia Bane, who made no less imposing a widow than a wife. Lucien’s aunt might complain all she liked about “persons who were no blood relation” enjoying “privileges above their station,” but she found few who paid heed to her.
Our parents died together in a carriage accident when Lucien was but twenty-two. He succeeded to his father’s dignities, and two years later, married well. His wife was a young beauty with a handsome dowry, although his own wealth precluded anyone from imagining him a fortune hunter. Lucien, unlike so many of our order, married for love.
I was myself by no means penniless, having come into an inheritance through my mother’s family. Not long after Lucien wed, feeling restless, I used some of my own fortune to buy colors, and left for the Peninsular War, to see what I could do to hamper Boney’s efforts in Portugal and Spain. Lucien and I exchanged letters, and although the mail was not always reliable, his correspondence made my soldier’s life easier to bear. Some made me long to be home, of course. Of all of these, the most heartrending was the one in which he told me of both the death of his wife and of the birth of his son.
It was not his way to be effusive—neither in grief nor in joy—but in this letter he wrote a litany of all the small pleasures he would miss—hearing the soft rustle of her skirts as she entered the library while he read, watching her blush at an endearment, listening to her sing softly to herself as she walked through the Abbey gardens, unaware that he was near—and I came to a new understanding of how deeply he had cared for her. Beyond that one letter, he never wrote to me again of her, though even over the great distance between us, I could sense Lucien’s sadness.
But gradually, over the next two years, I began to see that he had found a new source of joy, as well. Letter after letter described the latest news of Charles Edward Rolingbroke, my nephew and godson. Lucien clearly doted on his heir. I saved these letters, as I had every letter before, reading them again and again.
I NEXT SAW LUCIEN WHEN HE APPROACHED MY BED IN A DISMAL London hospital. He looked for me there after Ciudad Rodrigo. He had seen my name among the lists of wounded and used his influence to discover what had become of me. I heard someone say, “Captain, you’ve a visitor.” I opened my eyes, and there stood Lucien, looking ridiculously worried. Delirious with fever, nevertheless I recognized him—at least for a few moments, when he seemed to me some last vision granted to me before dying. I was too weak even to speak to him, and remember nothing more than smiling foolishly at him. Neither do I remember being moved from that place, and taken to Rolingbroke House, his fashionable London residence. The quality of my care was improved immeasurably, and eventually, the fever subsided.
When at last I no longer burned alive with it, I was still weak and somewhat confused about my change of circumstance. I knew I was in Lucien’s home, and fell asleep not long after a recollection came to me of Lucien arguing with a doctor, refusing to allow me to be bled. This was confirmed by the doctor when I awoke the next morning. He chuckled. “No, wouldn’t let me bleed you, and offered to—how did he put it now? Oh yes, he promised to draw my own claret if I caused you to lose one more drop of yours. Well, my fine captain, I’d as soon fight Boney himself than try to cross swords with the earl.” My wounds, he told me, would leave me with a few scars and a permanent limp. “But only two days ago, I tried to convince his lordship that your funeral service should be arranged, so you are in far better case than expected.”
Not much later, Lucien himself came into my room, under strict orders not to make his visit a long one. I told him I did not want to burden him with the care of a lame stepbrother who was weak as a cat and not of as much use.
“I shall fetch that doctor back here,” Lucien said, “and demand a return of his fee. He distinctly told me you were no longer delirious, but here you are, speaking utter nonsense!”
“Lucien—”
“No, wait! Tell me you aren’t feverish, for I’m only allowed a short visit, and I shall be driven mad by your nephew if he isn’t allowed to at last lay eyes on his Uncle Edward.”
“He’s here?” I asked.
But that question was answered by the entrance of a small boy, who, over his nurse’s protests, opened the door and ran toward his father. He was the spit and image of Lucien.
“Papa!”
“Your lordship,” the flustered nurse said, “I beg your pardon! I’ll take him right out again.”
“Oh, no, madam!” Lucien exclaimed in mock horror. “Leave him with me. My brother has seen enough warfare as it is.”
She left us, and no sooner had the door closed than Charles’s questions began.
Did I feel better? Yes.
Had I hurt my head? Yes, that was why I wore a bandage.
Had I hurt my leg, then, too? Yes.
Did a Frenchy hurt me? Yes.
>
He offered to send his father to hurt the Frenchy in return. I thanked him, but said I would prefer we all just stayed home together for a time, for I had missed my brother, and would like to become acquainted with his son.
Why was my skin so brown? A soldier spends a great deal of time in the sun.
“That will do, Master Pokenose,” Lucien said, causing his son to giggle. Obediently, though, Charles ceased asking questions. He sat quietly while Lucien discussed plans for removing to the countryside. Quite against my will, I began to fall asleep. Charles brought this to his father’s attention, which brought a rich laugh from Lucien.
“Indeed, youngster, you are right. We’ll let him rest for now.”
I murmured an apology, stirring awake as I felt a small hand take my own.
“Papa says you’re a great gun and we must help you to get better.”
“My recovery is assured, then,” I said, “but it is your papa who is the great gun.”
OVER THE NEXT THREE YEARS, I WOULD COME TO BELIEVE MORE and more in the truth of that statement. Fibbens was made my valet, a job that for some months involved the added duties of attending an invalid. I came to value him greatly. As my physical strength returned, though, it was Lucien and his son who would not allow me to retreat from the world.
Charles’s energetic encouragement and Lucien’s refusal to permit me to mope over my injuries kept me from falling into a fit of the dismals. Before long, I seldom thought so much of what I could not do, as what I could. Charles continued to delight me—I could not have been more attached to him if he had been my own boy.
ON THE NIGHT FOLLOWING LUCIEN’S FUNERAL, RECALLING MY brother’s life, I wondered how I would be able to comfort Charles over the days to come, when the numbness I felt now would undoubtedly wear off.
When Lucien’s horse, Fine Lad, had returned riderless to the stable just three days earlier, a large group of men searched frantically for him—servants, tenants, and neighbors. It was I who found Lucien. I had followed a route he often took through the woods when he rode for pleasure and discovered his motionless form along this path. He lay pale and bleeding beneath a shady tree—a thick, broken, bloodstained branch beside him. I did my best to staunch the wound on his head, and to keep him warm, even as I shouted for help.