“The French have abolished their monarchy and there is talk of war. Six whole days! England will have need of us soon. We are prepared. Our pact is formed. The Free Fellows are born.”
—Griffin Abernathy, Journal Entry, 07 January 1793
Derbyshire, England
The Knightsguild School for Gentlemen
They slipped away in the dead of night.
The three young men moved quickly, quietly, weaving their way through the rows of identical iron cots in the dormitory of the Knightsguild School for Gentlemen. Three young gentlemen enrolled in the school—scions of the oldest and most prestigious families of England and Scotland—carried with them paper, pens and ink, sealing wax, leftover stubs of candles, a paring knife, a yellowed bit of newspaper printed with the seditious writings of the colonial rebel, Thomas Jefferson for inspiration.
The business they were about was serious, and their dreams of becoming England’s greatest heroes were not to be taken lightly. Heroism required dedication—dedication to honor and to one’s country—and dedication required sacrifice. The heroes they read about and dreamed of becoming were dashing figures willing to forgo the comforts of family and home, of wives and of children, in order to fulfill their destinies. True heroes remained free of encumbrances in order to make the ultimate sacrifice. Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod prepared to do likewise.
There would be no more long, tearful nights filled with empty longing for the familiar comforts of home and hearth. No more waiting in vain for letters from loved ones. No more tender hearts thoughtlessly trampled by ignorant females who looked down their noses at lesser titles and dwindling fortunes, who blamed the son for his father’s shortcoming, who thought more of the title than of the boy.
Wrapping themselves in blankets to ward off the bitter January chill, the boys headed toward the storeroom behind the kitchen. They moved with great stealth and cunning, tiptoeing out of the dormitory, down the stairs, past the schoolrooms and the refectory, toward the vast kitchens and the little-used storeroom behind it.
The candle stubs they carried barely illuminated the way, but perhaps that was just as well for the work they were about had to remain a secret. Even from the other boys.
“Damn!” Griffin Abernathy, the seventeenth Viscount Abernathy, swore as his candle stub guttered and hot wax dripped onto the back of his hand.
“What happened?” Colin McElreath, the twenty-seventh Viscount Grantham asked in a loud whisper that bespoke his Scottish heritage.
“My light’s gone,” Griff answered. “You’ll have to lead the way.”
“Quiet! Both of you!” Jarrod Shepherdston, the twenty-second Earl of Westmore, warned. “You’re making enough noise to wake the dead. And if we get caught, there will be canings all around.”
“We’ve suffered canings for lesser crimes,” Colin answered, cupping his palm around the candle flame, shielding it from the draft as he changed places with Griff. “Without complaint.”
Griff nodded at Jarrod. “You’ve never minded canings before.”
“And I don’t mind them now,” Jarrod retorted. “What I mind is missing the puddings.” He gazed at his friends. “It’s bad enough that they practically starve us to death in the name of discipline, but you know that in addition to caning us, the headmaster will take away our puddings—for at least a fortnight, if not more.”
Jarrod’s companions nodded. They didn’t object to suffering through the painful canings Mr. Norworthy, the headmaster, administered nearly as much as the other punishment he inflicted.
The founder of Knightsguild had been a military man, and the school was run accordingly. Meals were served on a strict regimen of two full meals per day, at breakfast and at the nooning. Breakfast consisted of porridge, tea, and toast, and the nooning meal consisted of boiled meat and vegetables. The students did not receive an evening meal. Soldiers in the British army were only allotted two meals a day, and what was good enough for His Majesty’s soldiers was good enough for the boys who would grow up and replace them. Evening meals meant paying a staff to work extra hours to prepare it, and even if Knightsguild had provided another meal, it could not have compared with the meals the boys enjoyed at home.
Only Saturday tea came close, and that was only because Mr. Norworthy had a voracious sweet tooth. Saturday tea was the one event the boys all looked forward to. The pastries, cakes, biscuits, and puddings served in place of the noon meal were the highlight of their existence at Knightsguild, and forfeiture of the puddings was the most effective punishment the headmaster had yet devised.
Norworthy had learned long ago that growing young men never willingly gave up dessert.
Griffin grinned at Colin, then at Jarrod. “Then we’d better not get caught.” He nudged Colin in the shoulder and urged him forward in his best imitation of a Scottish burr. “Lead on, Macduff.”
“McElreath,” Colin growled. “My name’s McElreath, not Macduff.”
“I was paraphrasing Shakespeare’s Macbeth,” Griff told him.
“A play Englishmen seem to find so fascinating.” Colin smirked. “I suppose you think that because he wrote about them, Shakespeare knew all there was to know about the Scots?”
“Not about everyone.” Griff grinned once again. “Just their mad kings.”
“Quiet!” Jarrod pushed past both of them and pinned Griffin with a look. “This was your idea,” he reminded him. “Do you want to get us caught?”
Griff shook his head.
“Then keep quiet,” Jarrod ordered. “Or your blathering will sink us all.”
“It may have been my idea,” Griffin defended, “but we all embraced the idea, and we all agreed to it.”
“That’s true,” Jarrod said. “But you thought of it because of him.” He nodded toward Colin. “Because he went and got his hopes dashed and his heart trampled by a girl.”
“Colin can’t help that the fact that Esme Kelverton’s father broke Colin and Esme’s marriage contract because Lord McElreath can’t gamble worth spit.”
“I canna blame Sir Preston,” Colin interrupted, his Scots burr thick with emotion, “for wanting the best for his daughter. And there’s no doubt that with my father’s ill fortune at the card tables, my prospects have dimmed. The only thing I’ll inherit is a title and a mountain of debts.” He took a deep breath and fought to keep from crying. “But I canna help but feel bad about Esme. We’ve been betrothed from the cradle. I thought she cared more about me than about my prospects.”
Jarrod let out a contemptuous snort. “You’d do better to learn it now. Nobody cares about us. We’re eldest sons. We’re supposed to stay alive because as long as we’re breathing, the family line is safe. We’re supposed to breathe, but we’re not supposed to live. The only thing anyone cares about when it comes to eldest sons is their titles and prospects,” Jarrod pronounced, staring at Colin and Griffin as he imparted the wisdom his extra year of life and his higher rank had afforded him. “And there’s no use sniveling about it because, you see, girls are the very worst sort of snobs. They have no choice. They have to marry a man with good prospects. To do anything less is to disappoint the family.” He drew himself up to his full height. “Better to do as we’ve decided and swear off girls altogether.”
“That’s right,” Griffin chimed in. “Who needs them?”
“Not us.” Jarrod reached around Griff and gave Colin a keep your chin up punch in the arm. “We’re going to be the three greatest heroes England has ever known! And no girl is going to stop us!” He smiled at the others. “Now, let’s attend to what we’re about. Follow me. I’ll lead the way.”
“Go ahead.” Colin grinned. “You always do anyway.”
Jarrod led the way through the kitchens to the storeroom. He set his candle on the brick window ledge, took out the paring knife, and carefully sliced through the leather cord holding the wooden latch. Once he gained entry, Jarrod pushed the door open and stepped inside. Griffin and Colin followed.
The heat from the kitchen ovens on
the other side of the brick wall kept the storeroom warm enough for the boys to shed their blankets. They folded the blankets into neat, woolen squares to use as floor cushions before pulling a battered wooden crate they had hidden in the storeroom into place to use as a table. When the crate was situated to everyone’s satisfaction, the three companions placed their collective offerings of pen and ink, paper, candles, knife, and sealing wax on it and set down to work.
By the time they emerged from the storeroom, an hour or so before the breakfast bells rang, the three boys had formed a pact that bound them together and made them brothers. They had formed a secret society guaranteed to protect them from further pain wrought in the name of love and family and had fashioned a charter to govern it. And their composition was worthy of Thomas Jefferson’s best efforts.
They called it the “Official Charter of the Free Fellows League,” and as they pricked their thumbs with the paring knife and eagerly signed their names to each of the three copies of the charter in blood, Griffin, Colin, and Jarrod swore to honor the agreement as long as they lived.
Chapter One
“Massena has been appointed to command the French in Portugal. The purchase of my commission in the Eleventh Blues is complete. My regiment leaves for the Peninsula in eighteen days. Tomorrow I’ve an appointment at White’s to inform the earl. My future has begun.”
—Griffin, Lord Abernathy, journal entry, 18 April 1810
Barely a Bride Page 4