Household

by Stevenson, Florence

  She had loved the Hold, he also remembered, loved it as a child because its high slit windows figured in their game of “Damsel in Distress.” He had always been her knight in those days with Fulke scorning to join in their silly “child’s play.” He preferred jousting and tumbling with the rough lads of the village. Richard frowned. Banishing these encroaching memories, he spurred his horse up the curving road, thinking that even given the fact that it was close on November the place had a desolate look he never recalled having seen before, almost as if the grounds themselves had gone into mourning over Fulke’s death.

  The servant who obsequiously ushered him into the hall was gone a long time before returning with the information that Sir Gerald and his lady would be delighted to receive him in the small drawing room. Joining them, it seemed to him that her ladyship looked very peaked in the black she wore for the late bridgegroom, and also she seemed to be both discomfited and pleased to see him. She was at pains to tell him that Christina, currently resting in her room, would be down very soon. She added that though the girl was naturally grieved over the death of Fulke, she had recovered her spirits to some extent although as was only natural she had her good and bad days. She stopped talking midsentence and went off to fetch her daughter, something she might have delegated to a servant but which she obviously preferred to do.

  Sir Gerald, who had mumbled a greeting of sorts, glowered at Richard and then made a palpable effort to produce a smile. He had been, Richard noted, looking extremely gloomy and downcast, a condition which could have been attributed to his gouty leg. Now, with an effortful smile, he cleared his throat twice before saying, “Remember how close you and m’daughter used to be. That’s true, ain’t it?”

  “We were, sir,” Richard agreed. “Before I commenced studying for the ministry.”

  “’Twasn’t long ago, though. Not more than three years,” growled Sir Gerald.

  “Four, sir.”

  “Four! You’ll never tell me that!” the baronet exclaimed accusingly.

  “I was eighteen, sir, and am turned twenty-two.”

  “Twenty-two... twenty-two,” his host muttered. “My gal’s twenty. Time does fly, don’t it?”

  Richard nodded, reflecting that for Sir Gerald, time must fly backwards since Christina was nearing her twenty-fourth birthday.

  “Been a bit cast down my girl has... sewing the trousseau, you see.”

  “A sad loss.” Richard decided that he really wasn’t lying in making this admission. Certainly Fulke’s death must have been a sad loss to his fiancée.

  “Indeed, yes. Cut off in his prime, damned rascal...”

  Sir Gerald fastened his eyes on Richard. “I’m talking about old Hodges that did for him. Hanged, sir, I’ll see him hanged as high as the Jack o’ Diamonds. Though that’ll be your prerogative, I’m thinking.”

  “If he can be brought to justice, Sir Gerald.”

  “Has been,” the baronet rasped. “Down with the rats in Oldfield’s Keep, didn’t you hear?”

  Richard hadn’t heard, and now he made a mental note to secure the man’s release before setting off for London. He was about to say something soothing and noncommittal to Sir Gerald when Christina made her entrance, moving very slowly, her mother fluttering behind her like a nervous moth.

  Christina was not wearing black. Her gown was a pale blue brocade, almost the color of her eyes. Her golden curls were elaborately dressed, or at least that was his first impression. A second hinted at a hasty gathering and pinning with some three or four locks straying to one shoulder when only two should have been there. She was wearing quite a bit of rouge over the leaden-white paint, much favored by ladies determined to ape the London styles.

  Richard, who had been inwardly amused at his reception, felt a quick pity for the girl he once had believed he loved. In those years, Christina had been beautiful and slim. Despite her makeup and despite the fact that the gown, its wide skirts fanning out to the imminent danger of any small table or chair in her immediate path, was designed to emphasize a slender waist, Christina was neither beautiful nor slender. Her face was puffy, and it would have been better had she worn mourning, for the black would have minimized the thickness of her middle. His suspicions were not without foundation. He wondered how soon she would be dropping the brat concealed by her skirts and mentally damned his brother.

  Remembering his manners, he bowed low. “Christina,” he murmured, kissing the back of her plump and trembling hand. “How well you look.” Unfortunately, his eyebrow had quirked up and he hoped that Christina, who had once known him so well, would have forgotten that telltale mannerism.

  Fortunately, Christina, sinking into a deep curtsy, did not appear to have noticed, but it soon became obvious, through a series of grimaces, that she needed help in rising. Her mother hastily provided it, murmuring, “Poor Christina is quite weak with grief.”

  “You have my deepest sympathies, Christina,” Richard said.

  She raised her eyes and Richard, seeing that they were blazing, realized that the eyebrow had not gone unnoticed. “I thank you, Richard. You were... most kind to come and see me.”

  “We have thought of you so much. I know Christina has missed you sorely,” Lady Dysart gushed. “You were all so close when you were young... and Christina hard put to choose between you, were you not, my love? And poor dear Fulke... such a tragedy.”

  “Indeed,” Richard agreed solemnly.

  “Have you come home to stay?” Christina asked.

  Had he heard the barest hint of hope in her tone? He was not sure. To his surprise, it gave him considerably less pleasure than he had anticipated to reply, “No, as it happens, I’ll be leaving for London on the morrow.”

  “Really, so soon!” Lady Dysart exclaimed, distress written on her face.

  “I must go.” Richard felt it incumbent upon him to add, “There are matters concerning the estate that need my immediate attention.”

  “Have you no man of business?” Sir Gerald asked. Richard, regarding him, found fury in his stare. “I am thinking of changing solicitors,” he replied.

  “And how long do you intend to remain in London?” Christina spoke a trifle breathlessly. She was smiling now, her eyes masked by her lengthy and artfully-darkened lashes. “I hope it will not be a lengthy visit, now that we have you home at last.” She attempted but did not quite achieve a coquettish smile.

  Pity warred with ire at the deception Christina was willing to practice upon him for her effort to legitimize his brother’s bastard. “I do not know,” he said. “I’d think I would be there upwards of six months to a year.”

  “Six months to a year!” Sir Gerald roared. “Now what in hell would ye be doing in London for so great a time?”

  “My dear...” his wife protested.

  “Mama...” Christina suddenly moaned, her hands pressing down against her wide skirts.

  “My love.” Lady Dysart was at her side, her eyes wide with concern. “What is it?”

  “I... I told you... it was better, I mean... I... ohhh...” Christina groaned loudly. “The physician,” she gasped. “The physician... you’ll need to f-fetch him... I was... not wrong. The pains—”

  “Oh, gracious, sit down, love. Something she ate,” Lady Dysart moaned in Richard’s direction.

  “My horse is just outside,” Richard said. “He’s a swift goer. I’ll ride for the physician.”

  “No, please.” Lady Dysart flung out a protesting hand. “Gerald?”

  “Oh, let him go,” commanded the baronet, an eye on his gouty leg. “Do you imagine the young scapegrace hasn’t cottoned to the situation ere now? He’s another like his thrice-damned brother, may he be burning in hell!”

  “That I’m not,” Richard countered as he turned toward the hall. “And I_promise you, that whether he’s my nephew or she’s my niece, the babe’ll be provided for.”

  “A pox on ye,” Sir Gerald yelled. “D’you think I’d not maintain my daughter’s bastard? I curse ye and the
lot of ye.”

  “Curses,” Richard said, moving swiftly into the hall. “Curses, as I told my mother earlier this evening, are extremely medieval. This is 1758, my dear Sir Gerald!” Since he did not have a handy suit of armor to fell, Sir Gerald had evidently concentrated on the nearest china ornament. Richard heard the crash but could not tell what it might have been, because by the time it landed he was just closing the door behind him.

  ❖

  Having seen the physician ride off on his mission of mercy, Richard was put in mind of the other or, rather, the most recent brat his brother had sired. He rode at once in the direction of Oldfield’s Keep, intending to do as he had promised himself he would and demand the release of old Hodges.

  The Keep had once been a castle, but time and the warlike natures of several generations of Oldfields had damaged it to the point that Squire Oldfield had built a new manor house. The round stone Keep, all that was left of the original building, had been let out as a prison. It was a damp, unhealthy bastion with several floors, all occupied by malefactors of various stamp. Some were political prisoners, some were poachers, some vagrants and some, like old Hodges, were there because they had taken what was euphemistically termed the “law” into their own hands, righting wrongs no one else was willing to face.

  Richard was positive that even his prudish mother believed Emmy Hodges had suffered but little at the hands and the other less visible extremity of Fulke. She would maintain that Mr. Hodges had acted with an overweening pride. That the Emmys of this world were put there to serve the young master was a fact with which no one of his class would argue. Unlike Christina, these females were treated like rutting animals and sent to workhouses or prisons when they were in trouble. Their parents usually had a brood of them and one wouldn’t be missed.

  Mr. Mercer, the gaoler at the Keep, reflected this attitude. He could not imagine his Lordship should take any interest in old Hodges, a cantankerous prisoner if there ever was one! He was astounded when Richard asked if the man might be set free.

  “Oh, no, no, no, my Lord. His Lordship, the Justice of the Peace, would ’ave my ’ead. ’E’s got to come up before Asizzes. ’E ’as ’n like as not they’ll ’ang ’im an’ good riddance. Can’t go about shootin’ the gentry. Sets a bad example to the young.”

  “Well, perhaps I could see him and make life a bit easier for him,” Richard persisted. “What he has left of it.”

  To say that Mr. Mercer was surprised was a considerable understatement. However, he was also pleased. His-Lordship’s mention of making life easier for the old goat could mean only one thing. He wanted to give him money, and that sort of largesse would eventually find its way into his pocket. Mr. Mercer had a stock of comforts to lighten the sufferings of those who could afford it. Plugs of tobacco, beer, watered down to be sure but still tasty, and sundry other items were among his stock. “I’ll see wot I can do, if you’ll take a seat, my Lord.” Indicating a battered wooden bench, the gaoler hurried off.

  His fortnight in the Keep had not improved old Hodges’ looks, and certainly it had wrought on his temper. He came stomping into the room, clad in malodorous garments, his face covered by a dirty grizzled beard, his eyes hot with an anger hardly assuaged by his surroundings. His hands were chained, as were his feet. He glared at Richard out of those small, reddened eyes and growled, “Wot’re ye doin’ ’ere? Come to look at the animals in the menagerie?”

  “On the contrary, my good man,” Richard began.

  “I’m not yer good man,” snarled the prisoner.

  “’Ere that’s no way to talk to ’is Lordship,” the gaoler protested, evidently envisioning Richard’s money fading away.

  “Never mind,” Richard said. “I am sure Mr. Hodges has been sorely tried. I have come to offer my sympathies, since I can do little else. I’d hoped to free you, sir.”

  “Free me!” Mr. Hodges howled. “Free ’im wot killed yer own blood brother? Yer another just like ’im, not a scrap o’ conscience between ye. An’ my poor Emmy saddled wi’ one o’ yer good-fer-nothin’ brats. Free me, indeed. T’was my pleasure to do wot I done’n I be willin’ to pay the price.” He raised both hands and shook his chains. “I’d kill ye, too, if I ’ad my way ’n rid the world o’ all the Veringers, all o’ ’em, d’ye ’ear?” He spat on the floor. “My curse on ye, Richard Veringer, may ye rot in ’ell wi’ yer brother afore yer much older!”

  “I’d best take ’im below, your Lordship,” said the discomfited and disappointed gaoler.

  “I expect you must,” Richard agreed.

  “Aye, take me away from ’im. ’E’s got a prettier face but ’e’s just like his damned brother. Curse ’im, I say. Curse ’im.”

  Richard waited until Mr. Mercer returned. Producing a half-crown, he handed it to the astonished man. “See that he has a few creature comforts,” he said gently.

  “Oh, I will, I will, never you fear, sir,” the gaoler promised as Richard strode out of the Keep.

  He was whistling as he rode toward the Hold. “Three times is the charm, if one believed in that sort of thing,” he muttered to himself. “Ah, superstition! That is the real curse... keeping the common mind in thrall. It’s fortunate that I’m among the enlightened, holding with neither curse nor oath, God nor the devil!”

  At that moment, a cloud passed over the moon, briefly darkening the landscape. As it sailed away, Richard added with a quirk of his eyebrow, “Nor do I believe in so-called portents. The natural cannot be joined with the supernatural—since there is no supernatural!”

  ❖

  Lady Veringer, lying in her curtained fourposter, heard her second son come whistling up the stairs. She muttered several words that Fulke and his father had been known to employ when in a temper. She was glad that she had had the opportunity to lock up all of her late son’s clothing. Richard would need to appear at London gatherings looking like a country parson—or not at all.

  Two

  “And here I was of the opinion that you were man of the cloth, Lord Veringer,” Sir Frances Dashwood said as the condemned man, purple-faced from the tightening noose, jerked about on the gallows.

  “Not I.” Richard was glad to shift his gaze from spectacle to speaker. Though a visit to a Tyburn hanging was one of the great sights of London, he had not found it much to his liking. His new acquaintance, Sir Francis Dashwood appeared to be enjoying it greatly. He had also compared the hanging to several others witnessed over the past few weeks. “Quite the best of the lot,” he was now assuring Richard. “This rogue’s lasted at least five minutes longer than any of the others. I’ll make money on it. Lost last week... great hulking fellow, strong as an ox, but heavy. If I’d thought about it, I’d’ve known the weight would pull him down. It’s the small ones that usually take the longest. Remember that, if you lay any bets on ’em, Lord, look at him dancing. Ah, that’s it. Dead and fifteen guineas for me!”

  Richard was reminded of the Jack o’Diamonds which put him in mind of his mother, which put him in mind of what Sir Francis had said about his presumed calling. He frowned. The remark was based on the clothes he had been forced to wear until his new suits could be finished. He glanced down at himself and smiled.

  Nothing could be less clerical than his blue coat, flared at the back and matched by tight-fitting breeches of the same material. His vest was heavily embroidered with red and blue threads in a swirling pattern, and over the fall of lace at his throat was a black ribbon called a solitaire. He had clubbed his hair at the nape of his neck and tied it with a silk ribbon. He could guess what they would have said at the kirk had they caught their minister in such garb.

  “But,” Sir Francis said suddenly, “you were a man of the cloth.”

  “I was,” Richard admitted reluctantly.

  “And left it? Why?”

  Richard found that Sir Francis’ eyes a mild grey, were alight with curiosity. He wondered briefly whether he were of a religious persuasion and preparing to harangue him on his duties, but doubted
that such a one would be laying bets as to the longevity of an expiring criminal. He decided to be frank. “I left it because I came into the title on the unexpected demise of my elder brother. Quite truthfully, I had been most reluctant to take holy orders, having little vocation for the ministry.”

  “But you took ’em,” persisted the baronet.

  “I did.” Richard smiled wryly.

  “And how long were you in the ministry?”

  “Upwards to two years—ordained.”

  “Ah, but that is excellent,” Sir Francis rubbed his small, rather plump hands together and also smiled, more broadly than Richard’s effort. He bowed. “I trust we’ll meet a third time.”

  Nodding cheerfully, he strolled away, disappearing amidst the multitudes and leaving Richard puzzled. He had remembered where he had seen Sir Francis before. It was a fortnight ago, just after his arrival in London and a new friend had taken him to Whites. He had been feeling uncomfortable and out of place in his rusty black clergyman’s attire. He had exchanged a few words with Sir Francis and probably had excused his garments, as he was in the habit of doing to everyone he met. He wondered about the baronet now. Judging from his friendly attitude, it would seem he might have asked his direction and suggested another meeting, but he had not. Still, and-Richard did not know why he was so sure of it, he was positive that Sir Francis intended them to meet again. Shrugging, he threaded his way through the crowds and strolled toward his lodgings, keeping as near to the street as carriages, wagons, sedan chairs, hawkers, herb and fruit sellers, beggars, street musicians, running footmen and horseback riders would allow. He had no wish to find himself drenched with the contents from a slop jar, a not unlikely prospect during any walk in London.