by Jan Burke
All along the way back to the Abbey, the men who helped me carry him on a litter, and then to place him in a wagon, recounted several of the strange riding accidents of which they had heard. It was their way, I realized later, of trying to make sense of what seemed impossible—that Lucien, an excellent horseman, would be so careless while riding among low-lying branches. I had the broken branch with me, though, to prove it, as much to myself as anyone. And I would show it to Lucien, and ask him what the devil he was about.
A fractured skull, the doctor said. Lucien never regained consciousness.
I knew the sort of blind rage that is the consort of our worst grief. I thought of burning the branch that had struck him. I thought of taking an ax to the tree, felling that which had felled him. I thought of shooting the horse.
I did none of these. Perhaps it was the horse’s name that cleared my mind: Fine Lad.
Charles needed me.
That single thought cooled my rage.
Lucien’s will made me Charles’s guardian and trustee. I knew he did not merely want me to keep Charles’s fortune safe, to simply be certain that he was sent to the best schools. I was to teach him what the Abbey meant to his family, what it meant to be the Earl of Rolingbroke, what he owed to his name, and owed to the memory of two good men who had held the same long list of titles before him. I had no fear that Charles would fail to be a credit to them—he was already so much his father’s son.
THAT EVENING, SITTING BEFORE THE FIRE, REMEMBERING LUCIEN, I knew that I would protect my young godson with my life. As the clock struck midnight, I vowed that I would do my damnedest to keep Lucien alive in his memory.
I had no sooner made this vow than the library door flew opened, startling me. Charles, pale and tearful, ran toward me, frantically calling my name. I opened my arms to him, taking him up on my lap, and waving away the small army of concerned servants whose grasps he had eluded.
As the door to the library closed again, I tried to soothe him. “What’s wrong, nipperkin?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.
“Papa’s alive again,” Charles sobbed.
“What?” I said, thinking I must have misheard him.
“Papa’s alive. But he was dead, and now he scares me.”
Was this some strange manifestation of a child’s grief, I wondered? “What do you mean, Charles?”
The boy shivered. “I mean, I saw him. His ghost.”
I sought an explanation. “You were sleeping—”
“It was not a dream!” he insisted, with a familiar obstinacy.
I hesitated, then asked, “Charles, have you been speaking to the Banes?” The odious family was here—the dowager, Henry, William, and Fanny. The Banes had insisted on sleeping in a different wing than the one they had last occupied, although Henry now pooh-poohed the ghost story, saying it was undoubtedly one of Lucien’s larks.
They had arrived, clearly, not so much for the funeral as for the reading of the will, and to say they were angry with its terms is to vastly understate the matter. Had William not intervened, the dowager, it seemed, would have been carried off on the spot by an apoplexy. “It is of no use, Mama,” he said. “You should have known how it would be.”
The dowager continued to bemoan her faithless nephew’s lack of consideration for his own family, but not quite so intensely. Nevertheless, there was enough ill-concealed venom among the Banes to recall to me my first encounter with them, and I made sure Charles was never left alone with them.
“No,” Charles said now. “I don’t like them.”
“You are a wise young man.”
“Then why don’t you believe me?”
“Did I say I did not believe you? Kindly refrain from making assumptions.”
“What are those?”
“Er—don’t believe you know something until you’re sure you do know it.”
He frowned as he puzzled this out, but he had stopped crying.
“Do you know, Charles—the more I think about this, the more I’m sure there is nothing to be frightened of here. Your father loved you very much, and would never harm you.”
“Yes,” he said, slowly. “And I have a great many things I should like to say to him, that I have been thinking of these past few days. But one can’t help but be frightened of ghosts, even good ghosts.”
“No one can blame you for feeling frightened. I’m glad you came to me. I promise I will protect you, Charles. Your father asked that of me, and I gave him my word that I would.”
He sat quietly with me for a time, lost in his own thoughts. He was past the age when he wanted to be carried or held, which gave me some idea of how terrified he was now. I was sure he had merely dreamed of Lucien, but I knew he did not believe this to be the case.
“Do you think he was trying to tell me something?” Charles asked.
“Perhaps he was,” I said.
“What?”
I reached for a packet of fragile papers lying on the small table next to us. “Let’s see if we can guess. When I was fighting in the Peninsula, and your father and I were far away from one another, he wrote these letters to me. Would you like me to read them to you?”
He nodded, and I chose one of the letters Lucien had written about him. He was pleased and laughed at Lucien’s comical descriptions of him as an infant, then asked me to read another. So we continued, until he suddenly said, “I smell smoke.”
“You have been listening to your Aunt Sophia.”
But before he could protest, I heard the shouts of the servants, and cries of “Fire!”
“We must help them put it out!” Charles said, jumping up from the chair.
I knew the same impulse, but what came quickly to mind were a series of drills that Lucien had insisted upon. I had always had the role of finding Charles in whatever room he might be in, and taking him to safety. I used to argue with Lucien, saying that a man with a pronounced limp was hardly the most suitable person to be saving his heir, but he remained stubborn on this point. Remembering my vow of hardly more than an hour before, I grabbed Charles’s hand before he was out of reach.
“Your lordship,” I said sternly, using the form of address which he knew to be a command to be on his best behavior. “You must not run toward the fire. You must allow me to keep you safe—just as we practiced. Come now.”
I saw the briefest mulish cast to his face before he relented, and allowed me to lead him out of the library. Fibbens, his face blackened with soot, was rushing down the stairs. “Oh, thank goodness!” he cried in relief. “Forgive me, Captain—we feared the young master had returned to bed! His chambers are on fire!”
“My room!” the young master wailed.
“He will tell you more when we are all safely outside,” I said, more shaken by Fibbens’s announcement than I cared to admit. “What of the staff and the other guests?” I asked, as we made our way.
“Everyone accounted for, sir. The fire has not spread beyond the young master’s chambers. If you do not mind, I’d like to assure the others that his lordship is safe—”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you, sir. Those who are not attempting to put out the fire should be downstairs shortly.”
At the front steps, it occurred to me that we were without cloaks, and Charles was without shoes. A fault in our drills, which had taken place in summertime. There had been little snowfall of late, but it was cold. I placed my coat around Charles’s small shoulders—much to his delight—and lifted him into my arms.
Soon the Banes began to join us on the front drive. Aunt Sophia was wrapped in what I recognized to be William’s many-caped driving coat. She’d not had time to put on her wig, and looked a positive fright. Fanny seemed to have borrowed boots from one of her brothers, but no coat—she shivered in a rather unbecoming nightgown. Henry appeared before us still fully dressed, but r
ather well-to-live, as the saying goes—from his unsteady walk, I suspected he had made substantial inroads on the Abbey’s wine cellars. William, too, was dressed, although from his mother’s criticisms, it was clear that he had remained in the building longer than she believed safe.
“And look! Your new coat from Weston—ruined!”
The expensive coat of blue superfine was indeed smudged. “Unlike some others I could name,” he sneered, looking reproachfully at Henry, “I attempted to make sure the old pile didn’t burn down around my family’s ears!”
Henry waved a vague hand of disinterest and stared toward the building. Smoke had stopped billowing from the window of Charles’s room. I prayed that meant the fire was under control.
“Here, Fanny,” William said, taking off the coat. “You wear it. You look as if you’re likely to freeze to death.”
But Fanny, after bestowing a grateful smile on him, proved to be her mother’s daughter. “Ugh!” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells of smoke.”
William rolled his eyes.
“I do not know why I allowed you to talk me into staying at this accursed place!” his mother said to him.
“I talked you into it! That’s a loud one!”
“Do not use that horrid cant with me, my young man! I won’t have it!”
I realized that Charles was providing an interested audience to this byplay. Still holding him, I walked a bit apart from them.
Bogsley and Fibbens appeared, bearing cloaks and blankets. Fibbens attended the Banes, while the elderly butler approached us.
“Bogsley, please tell me what has happened!” Charles said.
“I am pleased to say, your lordship, that the fire is out, and little damage done. Your dear father had made preparations, you know, and the staff responded in a way that would make him proud, if I do say so myself.”
“The next time I see him, I shall tell him how well you did,” Charles said.
Bogsley, that most self-controlled of all God’s creatures, did not blink an eye, but I heard the slightest catch in his voice as he answered, “Thank you, your lordship. I pray that will not be for some time yet.”
“One never knows,” Charles said.
Worried over the effect these words seemed to have on the butler, I quickly said, “You’ve given us good tidings indeed, Bogsley. I trust none of the staff took any hurt?”
“None whatsoever, sir.”
“Please thank everyone for saving our home,” Charles said, then turned to me. “Perhaps Cook could give a jam tart to each of them.”
“Yes, or whatever other treat might be managed,” I said, pleased with his show of manners, but hard-pressed to maintain my gravity.
“Your lordship is very kind,” Bogsley said.
“Thank you so much for the cloak, Bogsley,” I said. “I do not think his lordship intends to return my coat.”
At this Charles laughed, and we made our way indoors.
ONLY THE PROMISE OF A JAM TART CONVINCED CHARLES TO spend a few moments with Fibbens, while I inspected the damage. The hallway reeked of smoke, but the flames had been confined to one portion of Charles’s room.
“I’m afraid his lordship won’t be able to sleep in here this evening, sir,” Bogsley said.
“You remain the champion of understatement, Bogsley.” Charles’s bed had been reduced to ashes.
“Thank you, sir. It would seem that a candle or lamp was left burning on his night stand, and ignited the bed-curtains.”
“Except that being something of a little lion, his lordship does not suffer a fear of the dark, as some children do. He prefers a dark room, and has never required any sort of candle or lamp to be lit in his room. And in fact, he closes his bed-curtains about him, to keep out the light.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I looked in on his lordship earlier this evening. He was sound asleep. There was no candle burning in here at that time. I brought one in with me, and used it to see my way out. Has anyone else been in here this evening?”
“Until we were engaged in extinguishing the fire, no sir. I should say, no member of the staff entered this room since his lordship called for you, Captain Edward. But by that time, his lordship was rather determined to find you on his own.”
“And the Banes?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say, sir—not just at this moment.”
I knew he would discreetly question the Banes’s servants. After a moment’s silence, I said, “I will speak plainly to you, Bogsley. I am concerned for his lordship’s safety.”
“Understandably so, sir.”
“I will do my best to resolve this matter as soon as possible. In the meantime—”
“You may rely on me, sir—indeed, on all of us.”
“For which I’m grateful. Please have a truckle bed placed in my room until we can make other arrangements. I need not add that I would prefer we do not alarm his lordship with our concern.”
I thanked him again and fetched my nephew from the kitchen, where he was, as usual, being cosseted past redemption.
Charles, pleased that we would be sharing a room, nevertheless protested my plan to place him in my bed, while I slept on the truckle bed.
“But Charles,” I said, “there are no bed-curtains on the truckle bed, and as you can see, there is a great deal of moonlight tonight.”
He had no argument against this and thanked me politely before allowing me to tuck him in. “But keep the curtains open just a bit, if you please. Then I shall know you are here, keeping me safe.” So much, I thought, for hiding our concern.
I lay awake on the truckle bed, listening to his breathing settle into the rhythms of sleep. My feet suddenly felt a little cold, and then I heard a voice whisper, “Well done, Master Quakeboots.”
I sat bolt upright. By the light of the moon I could make him out, a faint but definite image of my dead brother, sitting at the foot of my bed.
My heart pounding, I opened my mouth to let out a cry, but I was frozen with fright.
“Please don’t,” he said. “I frightened Charles so badly early this evening, I don’t think I can forgive myself if I do so again. I cannot tell you how awful it is, Edward, to become a specter of horror to those you love. It nearly puts me in sympathy with Aunt Sophia, parading about without her wig.”
I felt a giddy sensation, but stopped myself short of laughing aloud. “By God, it is you!” I whispered.
“Lord Shivershanks, at your service.” He gave his familiar little bow.
“Oh, Lucien, how I’ve missed you already! How shall we contrive to get along without you? Whatever possessed you to ride so carelessly?”
He gave me a look as cold as the winter night. “My dear Edward, do not be a sapskull! Would I have endangered my life—to say nothing of the future of that precious boy sleeping next to you? Carelessly toss away my days with him? When have you ever known me to take foolish chances since his arrival?”
“Exactly my thoughts, Lucien, truly—”
“Yes, I heard you say so not long before I—well, I haven’t completely departed now, have I?”
“How good it is to be able to speak to you again! But—is it terrible for you?”
“Not in the least—well, no, that isn’t true. There are things that one longs for, and can never have in this state, so one certainly feels a desire to—to get on with it, shall we say? As much as I am loath to leave you—and I promise you, I did my best to stay—now I feel something like a traveler who has harnessed his horses, placed his trunks on the coach, and climbed within—but sits in his own drive.”
“Not—not unsure of his destination!”
He laughed, and said, “Hardly gratifying that you have doubts! But you may be at ease on that score. I’m quite curious about the place, but my departure has been delayed. I gather I have some unfinished business here,
and it isn’t difficult to see what it is. First, we must find my murderer, for that person is threatening my son’s life, now that I am—supposedly—out of the way.”
“Your murderer!” I said blankly.
“My dear Edward, have you not been attending?”
“The branch—”
“Was off the tree before it struck my head.”
“But I saw the place on the tree where the branch had broken off. It was not cut clean, as it would have been if cut off the tree with an ax.”
“I’m not saying my murderer was stupid. I’m only saying that the branch was already broken off the tree before it was applied—with some force—to my head.”
“Then how—”
“I’m not sure of all the particulars, but I’ll tell you what I do know. Examine Fine Lad, if you would, please—why are you looking so pale? You aren’t going to faint on me, are you?”
“The horse—I almost had him shot.”
He studied me for a moment, then said, “If I could have found a way to leave you without grief, Edward, I would have.”
I could not speak.
“I take it the poor creature has not been sent to his equine reward?”
“No, I decided that I needed to think of Charles, and not of killing horses or felling trees.”
“Dependable Edward. I could not have left Charles in better hands. Still, what impressive vengeance you planned on my behalf! I’m touched, truly. Now—let us channel that determination toward saving my son.”
“Yes. Tell me more about what happened to you—and your horse.”
“I was about to slow him, knowing we were coming up to that tree, when something slowed him for me—rather abruptly. Without the least warning, Fine Lad—who is quite sure-footed—stumbled hard near that tree. I flew from his back, landing flat on my face, the wind knocked out of me—disgraceful, but please note that I was still holding fast to the reins. I slowly raised myself to my hands and knees—a bit unsteadily—when suddenly a cloaked figure stepped out and knocked me senseless with that blasted branch. Hurt like the very devil—briefly.”