The Marquis sighed. “Vittese, you have…” He licked his lips and considered his words and me with narrowed eyes before smiling again. “Go and get those men back on the ship.”
“Non,” I said quickly, and all eyes were immediately on me. “I will not have him near Gaston.”
“You need not fear another attempted abduction,” the Marquis said amiably.
“I do not,” I said. “But I do fear another incident of violence. They hate one another.”
“Lord Marsdale,” Vittese said tightly. “Please do not presume to know how I feel. And I will not harm him.”
“You sent men to collect him from the street like a wayward dog,” I snapped. “I do not call that respect or fondness. And you will not harm him because I sincerely doubt you are capable of it. Non, I am concerned that you will provoke him such that he will harm you. And I care not if he tears you to pieces, I simply do not wish to have to explain the matter to the governor.”
The Marquis was chuckling. He grabbed the front of Vittese’s coat and looked the man in the eye, and then all amusement vanished from him and his voice held the command of a wolf. “Go to the ship and tell Deloise to send his man around to collect them. You have done enough this day.”
Vittese winced at the rebuke, but he said nothing to defend himself. He nodded and left us smartly.
With a final nod and a “Good day, my Lord,” to both of us, the courtier followed.
The Marquis cleared his throat and fidgeted with his cane, whilst a parade of emotions marched across his features. It was as if he displayed every thought he had, but none remained long enough for anyone witnessing them to know which would stay and govern what he did. The fox’s smile at last returned, though, and stayed. I realized it was a mask. I knew I must watch him carefully if I wished to truly see anything of merit revealed.
“Gaston…” he said at last with a bemused little smile. “However did he gain that name?”
I shrugged. “He was ever quiet among the men he hunted with on the Haiti. They awarded it to him as a jest. He is now known as Gaston Sable. Amongst the Brethren he is known as Gaston the Ghoul.”
“The Ghoul?” He seemed amused by this. “Because he is a surgeon?”
“Non, because in the aftermath of battles he would arrange bodies to honor them.” It was not a thing I expected him to understand, nor one I wished to explain. And I knew I should not have said it, but my Horse was battling me for my tongue. Gaston felt his father had sent him away as a child because Gaston and his sister had arranged their mother’s body to mimic a painting of the Madonna and Child after their mother died in childbirth.
The Marquis was frowning, but even that basic expression was tinged with a flow of regret, guilt, and anger.
He quickly collected himself, the grin returned, and he changed his tack. “In his letter, he mentioned you. He implied that you were… lovers.” His eyes narrowed as he gauged my response.
I sighed. “We are not merely lovers. We are matelots, which among the Brethren is akin to marriage. We are partners in all things.”
“I had not known he favored men…” he said with a moue and a sideways nod of his head, rather like a shrug, as if it were no matter to him, merely a thing to be noted. It was disingenuous, though.
“He does not favor men in general,” I said coldly. “But he favors me in specific a great deal.”
He seemed relieved: I could see some of the tension leave his grip on the cane and the set of his shoulders. “And why is that?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
I decided not to lie. I did not wish to give this man anything, but I wished for him to know the truth.
“Because I love him despite… everything,” I said. “Because he has lived a life devoid of love.”
It was true, but I found it caused my stomach to roil, as if I had just overturned a stone and discovered a dead thing beneath it. I wondered at that, but I could spare it no more than a glance. The truth in it had hurt the Marquis, and I pushed the unsettled feeling away with my satisfaction that I had scored some point upon him. Then I thought that foolishness: if he was truly hurt by my words and what they implied, maybe he was not as worthy of my hate as I wished him to be.
He turned away and gazed with feigned interest at the ship being unloaded on the nearest wharf. “Is he angry over today’s incident?” he asked at last, turning back to me nonchalantly.
I gasped with incredulity as the anger bit deep. Damn my attempts to view this meeting without prejudice. Damn my attempts to award him the benefit of doubt. My father, his father, they were baffling figures I wished to smite again and again until I could break through their armor, their masks of social propriety, their wolfish miens that smiled only to bare their teeth. I wished to reveal some truth of their souls, to reveal that they even possessed souls.
“Well,” I said with force. “We have not had a chance to truly discuss the matter, as he has been busy tending the wounded, some of whom have lost limbs, which I suppose is better than the fate of those who lost their lives, all because of some poorly given orders and a fundamental lack of respect…” I let that part of it go, lest I charge off in the wrong direction. “I believe your son is hurt to be treated so. For you to send your damn man to collect him as you ever did when he had to be moved from one horrid school to another throughout his childhood. He feels you hate him.”
The Marquis recoiled as if I had struck him, and his mouth moved, forming the start of words he did not voice. Initially there was no anger, only regret and pain, and then the rage flashed deep in his eyes, as he reached for it in defense as most men do when cornered.
“He has ever been the cause of his being treated as he was,” he snarled, sounding so very much like Gaston that it was eerie. “Do not lay all blame on Vittese; there were times when I wished to leave the boy wherever he was, but Vittese always volunteered to fetch him. And it was Vittese who suggested the monastery, which was the only damned place my son did not harm someone. I paid thousands of pounds to repair property and met with dozens of lords with wounded sons to make amends. And you can thank Vittese for his life. I wanted to beat him to death that night, but Vittese suggested I flog him, and then that I send him far away instead of locking him in an asylum as everyone with any sense said I should!”
It was far more than I expected, but it did not dampen my anger. “Non, I shall not blame Vittese if that is the case, and I will thank him heartily when next I see him. But you have explained a great deal. I thought you were merely some cold-hearted bastard capable of flogging your son near to death in the name of punishment. But non, I will give you credit for your mercy then, and Vittese too. But you are to blame for your loss of money and pride. You are the damn fool who sent a boy with no control over his emotions off to be harassed and provoked by others of his kind that are whelped and nursed on nothing but cruelty. And do not blame him for that night. That was his mad sister’s doing. She summoned him home. She drugged him. She seduced him. She asked him to deliver her from pain by ending her life so that she would not suffer the sin of suicide. And I pray God is not so stupid that he did not judge her for it anyway. Then she left him there for your wrath. And then, you bastard, you did not kill him when he wished for death, when he had lost the only person he believed had ever cared for him. You cast him into Hell. But the final jest is on you. He became a man anyway. One who is loved. One who can love.”
I could read nothing on his face or in his stance as I wiped the rage-born froth from my lips. He stood still, every thought hidden. I knew I had struck home, and I felt great satisfaction in it.
He turned and hurried away, nearly tripping on coiled ropes and colliding with barrels and crates.
I stood there, panting, the rage coursing through me, my fists clenched such that my nails dug into my palms. I was tempted to chase him down and strike him. I wished to punch him as I had my father.
Then I was moved to spew the bile in my stomach into the dirty waters of the wharf.
“Will?” Theodore queried softly from nearby as I straightened and wiped my mouth.
“That went poorly,” I said quietly in English. “I am ever at the mercy of my temper.” That was not true, but it was a sentiment he would expect.
My temper had not run away with me; I had let my Horse have the bit. My Horse had wished to run the man down in the name of countless injustices, many of which he had not committed. And my making such an outburst was not a thing common in my life: not until recently, when I had learned I must let my Horse run on occasion too, just as Gaston did. There was a time when I could have exchanged pleasant-sounding jabs with a man I wished to kill all day and into the night in the name of propriety, but those days had passed.
I hoped Gaston would understand, or at least not be terribly disappointed that I had driven the man away before he could say such things himself. But perhaps he would not have said such things; and that made me sadder still, that I had not spoken for him as I should, in that I had not honored his wishes, perhaps. But, it also concerned me that he might not ever say what truly needed to be said to the man. And thus, perhaps the entirety of it had not gone poorly at all. This thought did nothing to assuage my feeling troubled, though.
I began to follow Theodore back to the gaol. I looked about, truly aware of my surroundings for the first time since the encounter began: I had been so intent upon the Marquis I had not deigned to notice much else. Several men were looking at me from the deck of the ship, but as she was an English vessel, I took heart that they probably did not speak French, and thus were merely curious at the angry exchange and not now in possession of secrets of Gaston’s past. The same was true of Theodore and the men from the militia who stood outside the gaol.
There were now a number of Frenchmen inside the gaol who might have understood the angry words, and not the ones we had wounded. These newcomers were busy helping the wounded who could walk to their feet and putting the man who lost his leg on a litter. Gaston was busy speaking with a man in French.
I waited outside until he finished; guilt and anger still roiling about in my belly. At last I was able to go inside and help him with his medicine chest. He appeared much calmer than before, and he immediately sensed my duress.
“What is wrong?” he asked urgently in French as we carried the box outside to where Theodore and Striker were waiting.
“I have met with your father,” I whispered with guilt. “My Horse had a great deal to say.”
He stopped walking and regarded me with neither amusement nor recrimination across the chest. “Is he dead?”
I gave a short bark of laughter. I supposed that would have been a far worse outcome. “Non, not when last I saw him. I did not strike him, but I hurled a great many words, such that he fled the battlefield. And then I found I was so overwrought I spewed my belly in the bay.”
His gaze was sympathetic and filled with love. It made my heart ache and brought tears to my eyes.
“I am sorry,” I whispered. “But I cannot unknot him from my father in my heart, or forgive him for how you have been treated.”
He leaned across the chest and kissed me gently. “I forgive you. Let us find the puppies and see where we will sleep, and then you can tell me of it,” he said calmly, and returned to walking toward our friends.
As Striker led us to the new house, I mused that all the love I felt for Gaston was truly warranted, and that I could do no wrong in defending it.
Theodore parted our company at New Street.
“Please thank Mistress Theodore for her patience and forbearance in doing without you these last days,” I told him as we embraced in parting.
He snorted. “That will do little to calm her, but I appreciate the sentiment. And I was glad to be of such service to my friends. And… it is nice to get away on occasion.” He grinned and began to leave us, only to pause and turn. “And thank you for the bump on my head.”
I chuckled. “Well, it is often a thing that happens when a man is unused to combat. You do not know where to move or stand, thus you get struck by something.”
He laughed and left us.
We continued down High Street until we came to York, and then walked down it until I saw a wide two-story building with a balcony that I was sure must be Sarah’s: it did not resemble the white-washed frame structures surrounding it.
Striker stopped before the narrow and towering three-story house next to it, though. “This is your… wife’s house.”
I sighed. I had forgotten about her yet again. “I will pay her a visit on the morrow.”
“I thought as much,” Striker said with a grin.
I ignored the dwelling place of matters I did not wish to face, and studied Sarah’s house as we walked up to the double doors set deep upon a low stoop. The walls were stone for the first floor, and the second floor wood. On the street side, the entire width of the second floor was fronted by a balcony, with tall louvered doors opening onto it from what must have been several rooms. It formed a nice shady overhang before the entranceway.
Striker opened the door, and light spilled out to greet us, making me realize how very late in the day it was.
We entered a tiled foyer with benches that opened into an atrium – or courtyard as Striker called it, though it was not technically one – containing awnings, wooden settees, tables, a pond, and many flower planters. Rooms ringed it on three sides, and the back was open to the cookhouse, stable, and other assorted outbuildings. I gasped with pleasure. She had indeed duplicated what I had described of Doucette’s house in Cayonne. The rooms on the second story were even fronted by a balcony that ran all the way about the structure in a horseshoe shape, with stairs in the interior corners. All of the second floor rooms opened onto the balcony with louvered doors.
We were set upon by happy women before I could see much else. Sarah was every bit as large as Pete had described, such that I wondered if she carried more than one babe, but her pale blue eyes glowed with life and in all she looked happy and healthy. Agnes was thin and fidgety as usual, but she embraced Gaston and me with fervor.
Behind them I was happy to see Theodore’s slave, Samuel. Though, since he was here, I thought it likely he was now Sarah’s and not Theodore’s. He smiled and bowed for us.
“What happened?” Sarah asked. “Pete said you were set upon by French fools, and that it has to do with Theodore and his message to you? What is amiss?”
I looked to Gaston and he shrugged.
“Gaston’s father, the Marquis de Tervent, is in port,” I told them. “He has come all this way to see Gaston. His method of inviting us to that meeting, or rather, Gaston, left a great deal to be desired, though. They apparently thought they could just collect Gaston upon the street and haul him before his father.”
She embraced Gaston yet again. “I am sorry for you. Pete said they were rude.”
“My father’s men were as they have always been toward me,” he sighed. “I feel they think me still a child.”
“ThemThatWere ThereDon’tNoMore,” Pete said and handed me a bottle of wine. “SoWeBeMeetin’ WithThisLord?”
“We?” I teased him, but I quickly sobered. “I have met with him. I do not know now…”
“Where are the puppies?” Gaston interjected.
Agnes waved for him to follow and led him to the stable.
“You met with him?” Striker asked quietly after Gaston was beyond hearing. “How did he seem?”
“Everything and nothing like I expected,” I said and took a long pull of wine. “I do not know what will come of it. I told him many things I wished to say and he did not wish to hear.”
“Good,” Striker said, and Pete nodded agreement.
Sarah was studying all of us intently. “Does Gaston have a relationship with his father similar to the one we have with ours?”
“Aye and nay,” I sighed. I was actually surprised Striker and Pete had not divulged more of what they knew. “Gaston’s father exiled him here. He disinherited him due to his
madness, and even went so far as to have him declared incompetent to manage his affairs and gave him over to Doucette as his ward.”
Pete and Striker exchanged a look, and then they frowned at me.
“I will not tell you why the other occurred,” I said.
“What other?” Sarah asked.
I took her shoulders and spoke quietly. “Gaston’s father flogged him almost to death before sending him here. It is complicated, and I am not at liberty to speak of why.”
“That is horrible,” she said sympathetically. “And now you have seen this man. What does he want?”
“According to his letter, to make amends,” I sighed, “but we did not speak of that this day.”
“So what will…?” she began to ask.
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “No more tonight. I wish to see the rest of this fine house you have built. I am very pleased with what I have seen so far.”
She smiled and looked about happily. “Thank you, and I have been waiting most anxiously for you to see it.” She turned to me and sobered. “But there are other matters we should discuss, though I doubt you will wish to do so tonight.”
“I know, I know,” I sighed. “Was there word from our father before the storm season?”
She shrugged and then shook her head. “Aye and nay. Mister Theodore received a letter, which he shared with me, bless his heart, but it was very succinct and spoke little of me or you other than to inquire of Lady Marsdale, and I think that was primarily a bid to have Mister Theodore corroborate her continued existence and the marriage. He also sent a letter to Uncle Cedric, but it said nothing of import, or so our Uncle says.”
“He would not let you read it?” I asked.
“Nay,” she sighed and moved to sit. “And there was no missive for you or me.”
“I hate them,” I said.
“Who?” Striker asked as he sat next to his wife and put an arm about her shoulders.
“Fathers,” I said.
“Aye,” Pete said.
Sarah smiled with bemusement. “We would not exist without them.”
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