by William Hunt
“Wait on,” John replied, and after removing the bricks in question, withdrew the leather pouch. Much to Charlie’s great surprise, the pistol was ceremoniously laid out on laid the bare floor.
“We’ll if you aren’t the quiet one, Johnny,” he chuckled admiringly, “I thought I ’ad you figured right enough, but I was wrong.”
John sat back against the wall his feet stretched out. There was a moment’s silence. John noticed the brightly burning candle threw a halo of light around Charlie’s head giving him a somewhat saintly aura. Despite their miserable situation; the unlikely religious connotation made John chuckle.
Then Charlie got down alongside John and spoke his mind, "I’m done with England mate. No good ere".
John understood.
“God willing, we take our leave in the morning, Charlie. But before we do, there’s one last debt of repayment sorely to be made.”
It was clear enough. In the darkness outside, a fox yowled for a mate, whilst the two men huddled together for warmth. In between they fitfully slept, and sometimes talked of things they’d never spoken of before… And all the time… both waited patiently those long hours, for the slow coming of daylight.
His Lordship’s countenance stood in marked contrast to the proceedings that evening. Before dinner, he made a brief speech of welcome to the partygoers, but with a preoccupied air that bespoke of a mind not fully focussed on the task at hand.
Afterwards the guests made their way to the main hall where the ensemble struck up the joyful tunes of the ‘Roger De Coverley’ and a gayer atmosphere prevailed.
It was also noticed that Rupert and Toby maintained a cold distance from each other throughout. Acknowledgement of the others presence came only when home of formal necessity.
During a minuet, Mlle Rosalyn partnered Toby and took the opportunity to pose the question, “Have you quarrelled with Rupert?” she politely enquired. Toby raised his eyebrows quizzically, but said nothing.
As the evening progressed, Lord Arlingham gravitated towards Major Bullimore. Troubled by the earlier revelations, His Lordship sought the confidence of an old fellow regimental officer. And as soon as privacy permitted, he unburdened himself.
“I have to tell you, Alan. We found Paine’s book here on the estate.”
“That blaggard!” Major Bullimore exclaimed angrily. Then he further expressed his disapproval in tones of polite but exasperated criticism.
“Pardon me, my lord… But I am at a loss to understand why His Majesty’s Government allows this man licence to preach everlasting sedition against his own country.”
Lord Arlingham was bound to agree on that score.
“Ah yes, indeed. I fear we have become far too complacent Alan. The sooner these pernicious outpourings are curtailed by Parliament – the better for England.”
“Here, Here!” Major Bullimore gustily responded by taking up his wine glass, and forthwith he proposed a toast to these much desired, but long overdue measures.
“Speed the day of enactment my lord… A plague on that republican ship – say I… And all who sail in her.”
Much heartened, His Lordship raised his glass of Bordeaux claret in response. And without a trace of irony both men drank to the sentiments expressed.
That self-same evening, ‘La Vagabonde’ lay turned and moored at the ‘Port O’ Gloucester’." Waiting the moment of departure, when first lift of the morning Severn tide, would give passage downriver to the Bristol Channel… and onward to the open seas that lay beyond.
The night drew on, and the Portlocks took their leave of Hardcourt Hall. Guided by the light of the carriage lamps, the coachman confidently gauged the three miles to Manor Farm would be completed within the half hour.
Of late, the once close intimacy between the two families had noticeably cooled. The termination of the Grand Tour, in conjunction with the obvious estrangement between Rupert and Toby, served to bring the Portlock’s special relationship to an end. And with it came the loss of their one-time accustomed privileges.
Chief among these was the withdrawal of the usual invitation to remain overnight at Hardcourt Hall. The snub was duly noted, and once within the privacy of their homeward carriage, Squire Portlock was quick to take his son to task.
“Well sir… There appeared little love borne of yourself and Rupert tonight.”
“Oh?” Toby donned the mantle of feigned indifference.
“Well, it was quite apparent to me and a few others too I might add,” his father pointedly remarked.
“In all fairness to Toby,” interjected his mother, “Our hosts were less than convivial this evening. Did you not think?”
“Humph! That was only too apparent my dear,” Squire Portlock tersely observed. Oblivious to the innermost quarrels of the two young men, the Squire was left to conjecture the reasons for their fall from grace.
“Maybe the poaching business Rupert got mixed up with had some bearing on the night’s events,” he ventured to his wife.
Johanna Portlock shrugged indifferently, but Squire Portlock (with the rift from Hardcourt Hall uppermost in his mind) addressed his son in urgent fashion.
“Listen, Toby my boy. We must give serious consideration to your future and soon, do you understand? The hunting season won’t last forever.”
“Yes Father,” Toby dutifully replied.
“Can this not wait, Jonas?” Johanna Portlock interjected peevishly.
“All in all, it’s been the most tiresome evening.”
Squire Portlock took the hint and nothing further was said. Half an hour later, (as the coachman promised) the Portlock’s carriage arrived at the gates of Manor Farm.
“Not as grand as Hardcourt Hall,” Squire Portlock observed as they approached the solid red-bricked farmhouse entrance. The heavy oaken front door was open wide, and the passageway lit in anticipation by the household staff waiting on the front door steps.
“Why Jonas, Manor Farm is good enough for me. It’s our home after all,” Johanna Portlock gently reminded her husband.
“And what do you say, sir,” Squire Portlock enquired of his son. Toby took the opportunity to boldly affirm the Portlock position.
“I say this!” He loudly proclaimed. “We are freehold, and not tenants of Hardcourt Hall. And furthermore, hold two hundred goodly acres to our name… I am satisfied enough father. As well you should be too.”
Toby’s bold declaration found its mark.
Laughter reverberated through the carriage, and the good humour of the Portlock’s homecoming was fully restored. Now in an altogether brighter mood, the Squire and his wife led the way through the portals of Manor Farmhouse. But as Toby followed behind, he felt a discreet tug on the sleeve of his coat. It was the housekeeper.
“I beg your pardon, Master Toby,” she spoke in a quiet undertone. “But you have a visitor.”
The housekeeper directed her gaze towards the harness room in the comer of the stable yard. Slivers of yellow lamplight could be discerned peeping through the chinks of the door.
Toby looked wonderingly at the housekeeper who returned his gaze with a noncommittal expression, before attending to her duties inside the farmhouse.
Curiously, Toby crossed the yard and entered the harness room. To his great surprise he found Melody inside. But no longer was she the confident and headstrong lass of recent memory. Her pale grieving face told a different story altogether.
“Why, Melody… What brings you here?” Toby asked ingenuously, whilst simultaneously he began thinking the thoughts of all men in like situations.
“My father has been taken to gaol,” she declared.
“So, I understand,” Toby responded warily.
Melody’s restless eyes wandered, unfocussed and distracted, before she continued with the reason for her presence.
“With my father gone, things will be hard for my family. But there is a way we may still hold together.”
“I see…” Toby became intrigued, “And what might this be?�
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“I shall marry,” Melody firmly announced. “And when God wills it; return with my husband to Moorend.”
Toby contemplated the desperate measures the maid was prepared to undertake to protect her kin. Certainly, there would be no shortage of eager suitors. That was all too obvious.
“And what would you have me do?” He asked blankly.
Melody came close, and with her lovely face upturned, implored Toby to use his influence and speak with Rupert Valans. Could not Rupert (when time came) guide her (and her future husband) towards the tenancy of the family home at Moorend? Richard Amos vouchsafed her family were safe for the moment, but it couldn’t last.
“You and he are good companions. I beseech your help, Toby?”
Toby gave a start of incredulous laughter. To be pressed to undertake such a task when his friendship with Rupert was totally extinguished. (And due in no small measure to the maid herself.) Placed Toby in a nigh on impossible situation.
“Why, you may as well ask me to quench fire with brandy,” he frankly admitted. Melody began to weep, and so moved Toby embraced her closely.
“Listen, I will do all I can,” he did his best to reassure her. Then a distant voice broke the clandestine intimacy of the two.
“Toby? Toby? Where are you, sir?” Squire Portlock called out from doorstep of Manor Farmhouse.
Toby released the maid and brought his finger to his lips.
“Stay here. I will send over vittles’ and drink,” he spoke softly and further vowed to return to her side, as soon as possible.
Melody nodded obediently, and with her hopes restored she smiled serenely and trustingly at him… Toby’s heart contracted. He had never seen her look so beautiful.
Once at Manor Farmhouse, Toby issued instructions to the housekeeper to provide refreshment for the languishing maid. And joining his parents by the fireside in the living quarters, he engaged in small talk, whilst all the time thinking to conjure up a valid pretext to excuse himself.
In the event there was no need. Shortly afterwards, the housekeeper discreetly took Toby to one side with the disconcerting news that the maid was gone.
Home Truths
The following morning Lord Arlingham took his customary ride through the estate. The day was cold but bright, and the bracing air sharpened his appetite.
His Lordship was in a far better mood this day. After breakfast, he and Rupert, (in the company of their French cousins) would depart Hardcourt Hall to spend Christmas together at their Gloucester town house in Westgate Street.
A convivial social occasion held out its promise… Not least now that the newly opened ‘Theatre Royal’ staged live entertainment for paying clientele. With pleasurable times shortly anticipated, the disquieting events of yesterday receded into distant forgetfulness.
Resplendent in his tall riding hat, long brown overcoat, leather gloves and black shining boots, Lord Arlingham cantered along the woodland ride of Hanging Covert on Windmill Hill.
A little distance off – a gang of farm labourers busied themselves hedging and ditching the hedgerows of the Great Meadow.
Then came the sound of a distant gunshot. Flocks of fieldfare and redwing scattered high over the covert canopy of Windmill Hill. The men were unconcerned and continued working. Such sounds were commonplace around the estate at this time of year.
Suddenly a riderless horse galloped out of Hanging Covert.
“’Ere! That’s Lancer!” exclaimed one. All knew this to be Lord Arlingham’s favourite mount. Amid shared glances of concern, the men promptly down tools, and set off to investigate.
Lord Arlingham picked himself up from the woodland floor and staggered confusedly to his feet. Blood ran down the side of his face. Thrown from his mount, he had miraculously escaped serious injury by falling against the fresh grown stems of a coppiced hazel bush.
As he stood erect, he discerned John Hughes wide eyed with a smoking pistol in his hand. The attempt to shoot Lord Arlingham had failed. Incredibly, the pistol ball had no more than grazed the Viscount’s forehead.
“Bugger it all!” Charlie cursed. You only creased ’im Johnny… Reload!" John fell to his knees, and fumbling with powder horn and ramrod, he hastily began to re-arm the pistol. Lord Arlingham looked on in bemusement. He was too winded to run. And with a life spent giving commands, the concept was totally alien to him anyway.
“What? What is the meaning of this?” He finally demanded in dazed confusion. The question was ignored. Instead Charlie closed with the bigger opponent, and roughly drove him hard back into the hazel bush.
“I got the London letter you sent and the Frenchie money too,” Charlie spat venomously into the Viscount’s bloodied face.
“What are you gabbling about man?” His Lordship replied, thoroughly disgusted with the proximity of the smelly unkempt Charlie.
“Oh! Didn’t you know?” Charlie leered re-doubling his hold over the prostrate peer.
“Me and another did a little job in Dover St once. At Mr Bagshaw’s place of residence I do believe.”
Lord Arlingham was confounded. His mind boggled as he grappled to make sense of what was happening to him. Then recollection of these events returned and, ordering his thoughts, he spoke out indignantly.
“A robbery was committed. And the man’s wife was murdered as a consequence.”
“Ah that would be, Billy,” observed Charlie with a wry smile.
“Great God! How is this come to pass?” Lord Arlingham croaked in bewildered astonishment.
“Stand aside, Charlie,” called John, the pistol now re-loaded and cocked. Charlie released his hold, and scrambled out of the line of fire. Lord Arlingham stood as tall as he could, and faced his two assailants.
“Shoot; why don’t you?” He spoke defiantly.
“I’ll not bend my knee, nor will I plead with knaves and wastrels.”
John unnerved by the Aristocrats contempt and bearing, sought to give as good as he got.
“I am from County Wexford,” he declared. “Squireen McDavitt carried out the biddings of Hardcourt to the dire cost of my family. I seek not contrition from one such as you. I come to avenge the wrongs you did to us… As God is my witness.”
Lord Arlingham stared at the spectres raised from the pages of his past correspondence (now incarnate before him) with utter disbelief.
“Shoot him!” urged Charlie. “No more talk. Do it!”
John straightened his arm; Lord Arlingham braced himself… Time hovered in eternity… Then suddenly!
“My lord? Is all well?” A voice called out from the woodlands edge. Startled, John and Charlie abruptly turned to their rear. Lord Arlingham seized the opportunity; and summoning up the last of his strength, shoulder charged his would be assassins.
“Dogs!” he cried. “Damnable dogs!”
Both men were scattered asunder. The pistol exploded upwards. Lord Arlingham, faint from loss of blood, collapsed to his knees on to the woodland floor.
“Here! Here am I!” He gasped out to his would be rescuers.
John and Charlie scrambled to their feet. Their advantage lost forever. Through Hanging Covert, they fled in headlong flight. Guided ever northwards by the distant limestone tower of the Cathedral, where below lay the Port O’ Gloucester. And the precious highway that flowed out of England.
Toby Portlock had given his word to the maid, and was honour bound to champion her cause. Indeed, the events of the unexpected liaison the night before had left an indelible mark on his psyche. For the first time in his young life, a feeling of compassion entered his soul.
To see Melody in such abject sorrow, and mindful of the disaster that had overtaken her family, he discreetly (though no less determinedly) left Manor Farm early the following morning to fulfil his mission.
Along the way, he recalled those halcyon days of the past summer. Then the carefree wench ran bare limbed through the corn for all to see. How confident again at the fair when she held sway in beauteous aplomb to the speechle
ss wonder of Rupert Valans.
Toby Portlock rode through the gates of Hardcourt Hall before routinely dismounting at the foot of the steps. Afterward, he was ushered in to the drawing room by a footman and left there to cool his heels.
In the silent room, Toby once more took note of the decor. The dragoon horseman once atop the mantelpiece had been withdrawn, and the smiling portrait of Lady Caroline gazed out over the empty space. Things did not bode well for the forthcoming meeting, but there was nothing else for it now. Toby had crossed the Rubicon. He waited patiently, until finally Rupert came.
“I understand you wish to see me,” Rupert spoke in icy tones, setting the terms of engagement for what was to follow. Toby took a deep breath and prepared to summon up what diplomatic skills he could muster under such trying circumstances.
“I’m sorry to disturb The Honourable Rupert Valans,” he apologised, “But it is a delicate matter that brings me here.”
“Oh! I find it hard to associate you with delicacy of any kind, Toby.” Rupert’s sarcastic rejoinder stung, but maintaining his self-possession, Toby brushed off the insult, and proceeded to give a full account of Melody’s predicament.
“I see. But why did she not come to me herself?” Rupert queried. Toby was prepared for that one.
Ah! She thought it would be most improper. Far better I speak on her behalf.
Rupert nodded condescendingly, “Quite correct, but she has clearly contacted you without hesitation it would seem.”
“Uh! The maid craves your indulgence Rupert. She did not know whom else to turn to.”
Seeking to warm the proceedings, Toby evoked their past association. “And I as a close friend would wish for old time’s sake that you will be magnanimous in any future judgment on this matter. And the spirit of the law will take precedence over the letter.”
“So, she seeks marriage, does she?” Replied Rupert ignoring Toby’s entreaty. “But why not with you, Toby? After all you took possession of her; did you not?”
“With all due respect Honourable Rupert,” Toby replied uneasily, “That is hardly the question here.”
“Oh, but I think it is,” insisted Rupert stridently. “You both saw fit to make mock of my deepest feelings… Whilst I exalted my love from afar with poetry, you were both engaged in the couplings of the pig sty.”