After a minute I cracked an eyelid open in his direction and saw his legs. Traveling upward, I made out his hands- fists no longer, thank God-then his heaving chest, then his mottled face. He hiccupped twice, and that's when I noticed his streaming tears.
"You are. A bastard." He swiped at the tears with the back of one arm.
I felt like one, too. I also felt pretty badly from the fall and took my time getting untangled from the chair and standing. Jericho would be appalled when he saw my clothes; I'd have to assure him that the damage-buttons torn from the waistcoat, a coat sleeve partly ripped from its shoulder, shredded lace, and dirtied stockings with gaping holes over the shins-had all been in a good cause.
"Here," I said shakily, holding the ring out.
He grabbed it away and tried to thrust it back on again, but was trembling and half blinded by tears; he just couldn't do it.
"Damn you, damn you, damn you," he said throughout his efforts.
"And damn you for an idiot, dear Cousin," I growled back.
"You dare? How can you-"
"You hated her, so why do you even bother with that?" I gestured at the ring.
He took another swing at me. A halfhearted attempt, I successfully dodged it.
"You think anyone here cares whether you're in mourning or not? Or are you worried about what they might think1"
"I don't give a bloody damn what they think!" The next time he swung, I caught his arm and, after more scuffling, dragged him to the chair and more or less got him to sit.
"I'll kill you for this!" he roared.
"I don't think so. Now shut up or-"
"Or what? You'll use your unholy influence on me?"
"If I'd planned that, I'd have done it sooner and spared myself a beating. You'll behave now or I'll slap your poxy face until you're silly."
He must have decided that I was serious, for he slumped a bit. "My face isn't poxy," he muttered.
This was said with such pouting sincerity that I stopped short to stare at him. He returned with a stubborn look of his own for a full ten seconds, then both our faces began crumbling, first with a sharp pulling at the mouth corners, then suppressed snickers, then full-blown laughter. His was short-lived, though, quickly devolving back to tears. Once started, he kept going, head bowed as he sobbed away his inner agony. Putting an arm around his shoulders, I wept myself, not for any grief of my own, but out of sympathy for his. Then some oaf knocked at the door.
I wearily moved toward it, wiping my nose and eyes, and when I'd put myself in order, opened it an inch. "Yes?"
Radcliff was there, along with a few other servants, all seeming very worried. "Sir, we heard something break... is there a problem?"
They'd heard more than that from the looks I was getting. I gave them an easy and innocent smile. "No, just had a bit of a mishap. Nothing to worry about. Mr. Marling and I are having a private talk and would appreciate it if we could be left undisturbed for the time being."
"If you're sure, sir..."
"Quite sure, thank you. You may all return to your duties."
With considerable reluctance and much doubt, they dispersed, and I shut the door, putting my back to it and leaning against it with a heartfelt sigh. My head ached where it had struck the floor, and I half debated on vanishing for a moment to heal, then dismissed the idea for now. Though Oliver knew about that particular talent of mine, an unexpected exhibition would likely alarm and upset him; he had more than sufficient things to worry about.
He was presently sniffing and yawning and showing evidence of pulling himself together. His eyes were very red, and the white skin above and below them was all puffed, but a spark of life seemed to be returning to them.
He held up the mourning ring. "Did that on purpose, did you?"
"I plead guilty, m'lord."
"Humph."
In deference to my head and bruised shins, I crept slowly from the door, taking a chair opposite him. The table with the food and brandy bottles was between us, and he gestured at it.
"I suppose the next step is to make me eat or get me stinking drunk or both."
'That's exactly right, dear Coz."
"Humph." He turned the mourning ring over and over. "Y'know, this is the closest I ever got to touching her. She wouldn't allow it. Messed up her dress or hair, I suppose. though now when I think about how Grandfather Fonteyn might have treated her..."
"There's no need to do so."
"I have, anyway. Because of him I really had no mother. just a woman who filled the position in name only. My God, the only woman who was a real mother to me was my old nanny. Even if she didn't exactly spoil me, she didn't mind getting or giving a hug now and then. I'll weep at her funeral-and for the right reason. I wept tonight because... because... I don't know." He rubbed his face fingers digging at his inflamed eyes.
I waited until he'd finished and was able to listen. "My father says that guilt is a useless and wasteful thing to carry in one's heart, and it's even worse to feel sorry for oneself for having it."
"I'm guilty?"
"No, but you have guilt, which is something else again. It's not your fault you came to hate your mother. What is. is your feeling badly about it."
"Sorry, but I can't seem to help that," he said dryly.
I shrugged. "It'll go away if you let it."
"Oh? And just how might this miracle be accomplished?'
"I'm not really sure, but sooner or later you wake up and it doesn't bother you so much."
"How do you know?"
"It has to do with forgiveness. All this heartache I've felt for Nora... she hurt me terribly by making me forget everything. Even when I came to understand that she must have had a good reason for it, I was still hurting. But over the last few weeks... well, it's faded. All I want now is to see her again. I suppose I've forgiven her."
"Very fine for you, but then you've said you love her. Besides, Mother had no good reason for how she treated me."
"True, but the similarity is that you were hurt-"
"And the difference is that I can't forgive her," he finished. "I still hate her for what she did to me."
"Which is the source of your guilt. You want to live with that pain the rest of your life?"
"Of course not, but I know of no way past it, do you?"
He had me there... until a mad thought popped into my mind. "Maybe if you talked to her."
Incredulity mixed with disdain washed over his face. "I think it's just a bit late for that."
"Not really. Not for you. Have some of that brandy, I'll be back shortly." I limped from the room, pausing once in the thankfully deserted hall to vanish for a few moments. My head was wrenchingly tender, making the process more difficult, but when I returned, my body was much restored. The headache was fading, and I could walk unimpeded by bruises.
I took myself quickly off to find a suitable lackey and sent him to fetch dry cloaks and hats and a couple of thick woolen mufflers. Despite my disheveled appearance, he hurried to obey and got a penny vale for his effort, which impressed him to the point that he wanted to continue his service by carrying the things to my destination. I pleasantly damned his eyes and told him to see to the other guests. When he was gone, I went back to the blue drawing room.
Oliver had drained away a good portion of the brandy I'd poured earlier and had wolfed down some bread and ham. I hated to interrupt the feasting and particularly the drinking, and so slipped one of the brandy bottles into the pocket of my coat.
"Put this lot on and no questions," I said, tossing him half of my woolly burden.
"But-"
I held up a warning hand. "No questions."
Exasperated, but intrigued, he garbed himself and followed me. I took us out one of the back entries, managing to avoid any of the other family members as we quit the house and slogged over the grounds.
Our sudden isolation made the sleet seem worse than before. It cruelly gouged our skin and clung heavily to our clothes, soaking through in spots. Th
e unrelenting wind magnified the glacial chill, clawing at our cloaks. The s, which we'd used to tie our hats in place, were scant protection against its frigid force. Someone had opened the door to hell tonight and forgotten to close it again.
"This is bloody cold," Oliver commented, with high disapproval.
I gave him the brandy. "Then warm yourself."
He accepted and drank. Good. The stuff would hit his near-empty stomach like a pistol ball.
Ugh. My hand went to my chest. Wish I hadn't though of that.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded, unknowingly pulling me out of my thoughts about black smothering graves.
"No questions," I said, plowing forward through the wind with him in my wake.
It was a devilish thick night, but Oliver's eyes had adjusted to the point where he could see where we were headed.
He balked. "We can't go there!"
"We have to."
"But it's... it's..."
"What, a little scary?"
"Yes. And I feel like we're being watched."
"So do I, but it's just the wind in the trees."
"You're sure?"
I cast a quick look around. "This is like daylight to me, right? Well, I can't see anyone. We're quite alone."
"That's hardly a comfort," he wailed.
"Come on, Oliver."
I took his arm and we continued forward until once more we stood in the mausoleum before his mother's coffin. Two lighted torches had been left behind in this house of stone to burn themselves out.
"Now what?" He sounded tremulous and lost, for which I could not blame him. Out here in the dark menace of the cemetery with the wind roaring around the tomb as if to give an icy voice to those departed, I felt my own bravado preparing to pack up and decamp like a vagrant.
I cleared my throat rather more loudly than was needed. "Now you're going to talk to her."
His mouth sagged. "You have gone mad."
'True enough, but there's a purpose to it. Talk to her. Tell her exactly how you feel on her treatment of you. I guarantee that she won't object this time."
"I couldn't do that! It's foolish."
"Is it? Hallo there! Aunt Fonteyn! Are you home?" I shouted at the end of the coffin that was visible to us. I thumped at it with a fist. "Are you in there, you horrible old woman? We've come to call on you and we're drunk- Oliver is, anyway-"
"I'm not drunk!" he protested, looking around fearfully.
"Yes, you are." I addressed the coffin again. "See? Your son's drunk and your least favorite nephew's gone mad and we're here to disturb your eternal rest. How do you like that, you bloody harpy?"
Oliver gaped, horrified. I grinned back, then shocked him further by bounding up on Grandfather Fonteyn's sarcophagus and jumping down the other side. "How about that, Grandfather? Did that wake you up? Come on, Oliver, have a bit of exercise."
He took a deep draught of brandy, coughing a bit. "I couldn't," he gasped. It was but a faint protest, though.
"You most certainly can. What's it to him? He can't feel it. But you will." I hopped up, capered on the carved marble, and dropped lightly next to him. "Right, if you don't want to dance, it's all one with me, but you are going to talk to her. Scream at her if you like, no one's going to hear a word."
He shot me a dark look. "You will."
"Hardly. I'm going back to the house." So saying, I turned and started away. "Best get on with it. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can enjoy the fire and food waiting there."
He returned about half an hour later, teeth chattering, and skin gone both red and white with the cold, but with a sharp gleam of triumph in his eyes. Not all of it had been inspired by the brandy.
He'd talked to his mother.
He'd also shouted, bellowed, and cursed her in a most splendid and inspired manner. I knew, because I'd hung back out of sight, just close enough to hear his voice but not understand the words. Once I was sure he was truly into the business, I hared off to have some hot broth waiting for him in the drawing room. Radcliff brought it himself, clucking unhappily over the breakage there, but hurriedly leaving at my impatient gesture when Oliver walked in. The talk in the servants' hall would doubtless be quite entertaining tonight.
Oliver flopped into the chair with his familiar abandon and declared that he was ready to perish from the cold.
"Feels like the devil's grabbed my ears and won't let go," he cheerfully complained. He held his hands out to the fire to warm them, then gingerly cupped his palms over his ears. "Ouch! Well, if I lose them, I lose them. I'll just have a wig made to cover my unadorned ear holes and no one'll be the wiser. What's this? Broth? Just the thing, but I'd like more brandy if you don't mind. And some ham, no, that thick slice over there. Gone cold, has it? Just let me catch it with the fire tongs and toast it a bit.... there, that'll hot it up nicely. Y'know she would never have allowed this, Dining's to be done in the dining room and nowhere else, but to hell with the old ways. This is my house now and there will be changes made, just you wait and see! And see this, too!"
He held up the mourning ring in his long white fingers.
"Are you watching, Coz? Are you? There!" He tossed the ring into the fire. It landed softly and Oliver was silent as the flames crept up and quickly consumed it.
"There," he repeated more softly. "No more hypocrisy. No more damned guilt. Dear me, but the ham's scorching. Hand that plate over, will you? Mind the brandy, precious stuff, that."
I stayed with him, listening with a glad heart to his chatter as he made inroads on the food. He was drunk and getting drunker. Tomorrow he would have a very bad head, but that would give him something else to think about than his guilt-if any remained. I rather thought there might be, for the stuff has a tenacious grip on certain souls and Oliver had already shown his vulnerability to it. But I was also thinking that the next time he felt its talons digging in, he'd go out to shout in the mausoleum again, now that he knew to do so.
Soon Oliver, replete and bone tired, asked if I could take him upstairs and put him to bed.
"Don' think I cou' manage on m' own 'n' tha's God's own truth, Coz." He confessed this woeful tiding with a wobbling head.
I told him that I'd be pleased to assist him. After getting him to his nerveless feet, we staggered into the hall and found a stairway to stumble up. He was not exactly quiet, giggling and declaring that I was the best damned cousin in the world and he'd give challenge to any man who said otherwise. This brought out some servants to investigate the row, one of whom was an older woman that Oliver greeted with tipsy joy.
"Nanny! You won'erful oF darling! How 'bout a nice hug for your bad lad?" He flailed out with one arm, but I kept him from toppling over and falling on the poor woman.
"Mr. Oliver, you need to be in bed," she in a scolding tone, putting her hands on her hips. She was tiny, but I got the impression her authority in the nursery was never questioned.
Oliver smiled, beatific. " 'Xactly where 'm goin', Nanny. May I please have a good night choc'late, like ol' times?"
"Have you a room we can put him in?" I asked her.
"His old one's just here-no, that might not be a good choice, being bare as a dog's bone. This way, sir."
She took us along to one that had been made up for the use of guests who would stay overnight. A small chamber for the new master of the house, but the fire was laid and the bed turned down and ready. I eased him onto it and let her fuss over him, taking his shoes off and stripping away his outer clothes as though he were still four years old. Oliver, for what little he was aware of it, seemed to be enjoying every minute. As soon as his head struck the pillow, he was asleep, snoring mightily.
The nanny dutifully tucked him in, then paused to make a curtsy to me on her way out. We got a good look at each other. I saw a cautious but kindly face, not pretty, but certainly intelligent. What she saw I wasn't sure of, but her expression was strangely reminiscent of Oliver's own version of pop-eyed surprise. Then I remembered that ray clothes wer
e still in need of repair. No doubt torn sleeves and missing buttons were a rare sight in this house. 1 made a polite nod to her and sailed from the room as if utterly unaware of my dishevelment.
Unfortunately, I sailed smack into Cousin Edmond, colliding heavily with his sturdy frame. He snarled a justifiable objection to my clumsiness.
"I do beg your pardon," I said, having all but bounced off him. He was about as solid and forgiving as any brick wall.
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