Gaston frowned and shook his head sadly. “I signed a paper my father had drawn up, saying that I would relinquish the title and my inheritance in favor of my half-brothers.”
“How old were you?” Theodore asked.
“Sixteen years,” Gaston said. “I planned to become a monk. But… that was right before… that night.” He shook his head irritably. “We all thought it would be better. I knew so little of myself then, and he… hated me.”
“I do not know how binding such a document could be,” Theodore said with a frown. “Of course, it is eclipsed by the determination of the court as to your competence. However, it could be said that if you are as incompetent as the other suggests, then you are, and were, incapable of executing an agreement of that nature. But that is all neither here nor there at the moment. Let us assume the other matter will be resolved, and in the meantime, the matter of your being the Comte de Montren, and all that that entails, is between you and your father alone. Once the matter of your competence is resolved, you could, of course, go to court and make suit against him over the matter, but until then, you do not have the legal standing to do so.”
“Has he said he will return it to me?” Gaston asked sadly.
“Nay,” Theodore sighed and gave him a kind smile. “But he is willing to go to great length to remain here and assuage your fears as to his intent, despite all the misunderstanding and trouble today. He has agreed to send the ship he arrived on away, to Petit Goave. It will be instructed to return in December. Until then, he wishes to remain in this house, or in some other dwelling from which he can visit with you as often as possible.”
“He says if we see any of his men about town we can shoot them,” Striker added. “And they took that bastard Vittese out on a litter. You well know he won’t be a problem for a long time.”
It was infuriating. I wished for Gaston’s father’s reasoning to be as enigmatic as my own father’s: then we could muster ample reason to hate him. But Gaston’s half-brothers must have died before the Marquis received the letter of last year from Gaston; and their deaths and his being without an heir must have prompted his great need to make amends with God and his son. And even though he professed not to believe his only surviving son had written the letter, he had still sailed halfway around the world on the hope that he had. I could see where he wished to come and claim whatever son he might have here, in whatever manner he had to, in order to make things right and recover what he could of the shambles to which his plans had fallen. Of which much of it, if I were honest, was not his fault at all.
I shook my head and swore. They all turned to regard me and I sighed. I did not wish to admit to the real reason behind my anger.
“It appears the Marquis truly wishes to gauge Gaston’s competence and madness,” I said. “So what is Gaston to do to prove himself?”
“That has not been discussed,” Theodore said, and quickly held up his hand to stave off any interruption I could make while he chose his next words. “I do feel that he has judged Gaston to be worthy of the effort. He is willing to leave himself stranded in a vulnerable and awkward situation in order to accomplish his professed aim of making amends with his son.”
“I see that,” I said.
“We’re willing to let him stay, if it’s what you want,” Striker said.
“I do not wish to have to appease him.” Gaston said angrily.
“Unfortunately,” Theodore said gently but firmly, “that is the way of it with all sons who wish to inherit from their fathers.” He gave me a pointed look.
“I do not wish to inherit,” I said.
Theodore sighed tiredly.
“And,” I added, “If Gaston is to inherit, then I cannot.”
“True,” Theodore said with resignation, “However, I still maintain that you will do yourself and those associated with you a great favor by continuing the illusion that you will inherit for as long as you can. And Gaston’s inheritance will take years to resolve.”
I wished to rage with childish petulance at the unfairness of that, but it would be to no avail and only serve to make me appear the fool. And Theodore was correct, despite all I might say about how there was little value in it when I did not plan to keep it, I knew well there was value in my being a lord. The incident at the Chocolata Hole yesterday proved that: any other than a lord would have been seriously questioned over such a matter, but as Modyford valued his ambition and that entailed bowing and scraping before nobility, I had been allowed to make whatever excuse I wished for the deaths of several men.
“So,” Theodore was saying to Gaston. “Do you wish for your father to remain here, alone? Except for his translator. I feel it is in your best interests if you truly wish to claim what is due you. But, of course, you must feel comfortable with the arrangement and not be concerned for your security. If there is some aspect of the matter I have missed – that would lead to you not being safe – then please let me know.” He smiled ruefully. “I am trained to see how men can harm one another with laws and papers, not with swords and pistols.”
I smiled grimly. “As long as he does not have any men about, I do not see how he can do much by himself. Unless he goes to Modyford and demands his son.”
Theodore sighed. “I did think of that. I believe your being a lord of his own country and obviously not being in favor of surrendering Gaston far outweighs any attempted claim the Marquis could make to grant favor to our governor.”
I sighed and slumped with resignation and defeat.
“As for any trouble when the French return in December, our men will be back before his ship returns,” Striker said thoughtfully. “At least they should be,” he sighed.
“The arrangement will be acceptable,” Gaston said at last.
Theodore nodded.
I looked to Striker. “Thank you, and my sister, for housing this mess until it is resolved.”
Striker shrugged. “I think it’ll be a bigger bloody mess if your father ever comes calling.”
“I cannot see him finding us worth the effort,” I said, as much to reassure myself as him.
They left us. I sat on the bed next to Gaston and took his hand.
“You will do this for me?” he asked quietly.
His confidence had apparently fled with our friends, and now I beheld a scared and befuddled boy, though there was none of the Child about him.
I met his beseeching and apologetic gaze and whispered, “Oui.”
“I am sorry I did not…” he began.
I shook my head. “There has been no time to discuss it, and you have been in no state to do so.”
“It is a thing I never thought I could have,” he whispered, and began plucking at the bedding. “When he said they were dead… it was as if the Heavens smiled upon me. Now he needs me.”
“I understand,” I said. And I truly did.
I mustered as much cheer as I could. “Well, at least he is not my father, who we must ask the Gods for portents of concerning his intentions. He will be here and you can demand to know what he wants.”
“I cannot prove I am sane,” Gaston said sadly.
“Neither can he,” I said. “Or, I, or any of us, truly. I feel he wants to know if you can control your madness, or be controlled.”
“What if he wishes for me to marry and have children, as your father wishes of you?” he asked quietly and with great concern.
I sighed. “Then you shall marry Agnes and… As you said today, perhaps your children need not be as mad as you.”
He considered this with a thoughtful frown. “That would not be so very bad.”
Then he moved to sit astride my legs, his eyes boring into mine. “I want this, Will, but I will not surrender you for it.”
Tears filled my eyes as I realized how very much I had needed to hear that. “I know, my love,” I whispered.
He embraced me, and I held him, and wondered what the Devil the Gods wanted and what They were willing to sacrifice to gain it.
Fifty-Eigh
t
Wherein We Contemplate Sacred Trusts
Pete arrived at our door to inform us that Sam had made supper, despite all the chaos. I discovered I was grateful for this news when my stomach grumbled at the thought of it. We left the doors open, and Gaston dressed hurriedly, not in his proper clothes, but in his usual maroon canvas breeches and tunic. I decided we would carry arms to dinner.
“WeBeEatin’In TheDinin’Room,” Pete added as he watched us prepare.
“Is that why you are wearing a shirt?” I teased. “And that is a fine shirt.”
“Nay, BeWearin’It ’CauseWeGotGuests.”
Pete leaned on the balcony railing and smoothed the shirt he wore with some pride. It was fine linen, and so blue it matched his eyes. It was not Striker’s, as Pete’s physique is more muscular than his matelot’s, and anything tailored to fit Striker would have looked stretched and uncomfortable on Pete. I guessed Sarah had insisted he wear something other than breeches on occasion, and had had clothes made for him.
It reminded me that we now must truly do the same for Gaston. The tailor would be our first order of business on the morrow. Though perhaps sparring on the beach for a time in order to tire our Horses should come first, as it could be done before the shops opened – and most probably should be done before delivering Gaston on to those shops for hours of measuring and perusing fabrics and all the falderal a visit to a tailor’s entails. And the Devil with his Horse, I would likely have to fortify mine with wine in order to tolerate the endeavor.
If I was not careful, I would be doing a great deal of drinking until the end of the year; and though it was how I had managed to drift through my prior life, I did not wish to ever again live in a manner that required my being drunk to sleep or even carry on pleasant conversations. But here we were, going to a very awkward supper, the first of many; and then there was the party on Saturday, and I prayed there would not be many more of those in the weeks before we were rid of the Marquis.
But that reminded me of yet another thing. “Did you see your invitation?” I asked Pete with glee, because misery so loves company.
“NotGoin’.” He crossed his arms and awarded me a disappointed sigh that I should tease him.
“Would Sarah not be pleased to have you go and look after Striker?” I asked.
He snorted. “SarahAn’MeLike TaHaveTheLoutOutta TheHouseAtTimes.”
I stopped adjusting my baldric and regarded him with a raised brow. “She is with child.”
“YaDaftBugger,” he said with another derisive snort. “WePlayChess. Canna’’Ave’ImAroun’. ’EDoesna’UnderstandTheGame, An’’E’sAlways Sayin’How’EWould DoItAnAskin’What WeBeDoin’Next.”
“I would like to play chess with you again,” Gaston said with interest.
Pete grinned with feral glee. “Aye. WeNa’PlayedMuch SinceYaTaughtMe. IBeBetterNow.”
Gaston sighed as we followed Pete down the balcony. “I could barely beat him before,” he muttered in French.
“Have your father play him,” I said with amusement.
Gaston smiled. “That would serve him.”
Everyone else was already gathered in the dining room. Gaston touched my arm as we crossed the atrium. He kissed me lightly when I turned to him. He appeared earnest and concerned.
“I do not know how I will face him,” he said. “I do not wish to meet his gaze.”
“You found your mask this afternoon.”
He shook his head. “That is only because I was so angry. I cannot now.”
“Well, not that I wish to advocate for the Devil, but if you feel uncomfortable, imagine how he must feel. He is not loved here, and you are.”
“I am loved,” he said softly and nodded. “And you are loved.”
I smiled. I wished to say that that love was all I wanted in the world, but I thought that might sound as if I were prodding him to guilt over his desires. And thinking that, and realizing I could not voice either thought, made me very much want to drink, because I could see no path to the future that did not involve brambles. But if I drank, it would only be worse, because instead of following even the roughest path, I would simply brazen my way through the thick of them.
I affixed a presentable smile upon my face as we entered the room. Gaston simply chose to study the floor and the food. Striker sat at one end of the long table, with Sarah at the other and Pete at her right hand. Their chosen seats had little to do with decorum. The positioning allowed Striker to watch one door to the room, and Pete the other. With that in mind, Gaston and I walked around to the back side of the table where we could watch both doors. The Marquis had apparently never had to be mindful of who might enter a room behind him, so he sat on the outside of the table, with his back to the doors and Dupree on one side of him and Agnes and Rucker on the other. I chose to sit across from the Marquis, and Gaston settled in next to Pete and across from Agnes. All were uncomfortably silent.
Our supper was to consist of the spiced stew I had once had the pleasure of eating at the Theodores’, and a thick cake or bread made of some type of yellow meal that proved to be surprisingly tasty with butter when I sampled it. There was wine, but even though the cake was rich, I did not gulp my glass dry, and when Sam asked what else we might need, I requested water and Gaston did likewise.
I finally glanced at the Marquis and found him regarding Gaston. My matelot was, of course, sitting at the table with excellent posture, and he had straightened his spoon and bowl several times while waiting for Sam to bring the tureen around.
“Pete and Gaston are considering a game of chess this night,” I said pleasantly.
Striker sighed, but his wife chuckled.
“Well,” Sarah said, “I am sure it will be entertaining, but I would rather not have Pete get any practice. I cannot win as it is.”
“YarTooCautious,” Pete said.
Dupree – who like all good translators would eat very little of his meal – had been translating all that was said, but at Pete’s statement, he stopped, his head slightly cocked and his face contorted in concentration in a quite comical manner.
I tried very hard not to laugh at the poor fellow. “Pete’s… accent requires time to master,” I said lightly in French. “He said that my sister’s game is too cautious.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Dupree said quickly.
“He plays chess?” the Marquis asked quietly of Pete in French, with a gesture at Dupree to indicate his words should not be translated.
“Aye, Pete is one of the best chess players we have ever seen,” I said loudly enough for all to hear in English. “Perhaps you would like a game with him. I see you as a man who likes to play games of strategy.”
The Marquis waited patiently for Dupree’s translation, and then he awarded me a small and cunning smile. “Whereas I do not see you as a man who favors games of strategy. Do you perhaps favor games of chance?” He did not wave off Dupree’s translation this time.
I smiled. “I do, but it is because I consider games of chance, and dueling, to be matters of strategy. But, as I have aged, though my age is not as venerable as some, I have come to realize I would quite prefer to shoot a man rather than engage him in games of the mind, whether they are over a chess board, a hand of cards, or even stew.”
Gaston spit a mouthful of stew back into his bowl. “I cannot take you anywhere,” he said quietly in French with a grin.
Everyone else, except Agnes, Dupree and the Marquis, had smiled or chuckled at my words.
“At least I am consistent,” I told my matelot gleefully.
“How many men do you think you have killed?” the Marquis asked.
He was not quite as challenging as Sarah had been when she asked me that question at my father’s table. It amused me that she answered.
“I believe you said the count was at nineteen – that you were sure of their death and who were not merely wounded – before you came here,” Sarah said. “I would not hazard a guess as to how many men my brother has killed in t
he West Indies,” she told the Marquis.
“Well,” I said with a shrug, “there has only been the one in the past two months, and that was yesterday.”
“Is this a thing of which you are proud?” the Marquis asked. It was a coy question.
I snorted, and met his gaze levelly. “Aye, I am proud it has only been the one of late. But, nay, I am not proud of them, not the Spanish, not the men I feel I have downed rightfully, and most especially, not the ones who I should not have had to kill due to a misunderstanding, such as the man I shot yesterday. I am proud that during my travels I have killed far fewer men than my father ever has by taxing the men who work his land to starvation or urging his associates in the House of Lords to do the same for all the country. With the exception of the military engagements I have been involved in here against the Spanish, I have had to look every man I have killed in the eye; and while I have not known all their names, I do remember their faces. I feel there is some honor in that.”
His eyes had fallen from mine as I talked, and now he studied the table thoughtfully. “There is honor in that.” He shook his head. “I have never killed a man.”
I bit back many words. I was sure Vittese had killed men for him: that was why a lord had a man like Vittese in his employ.
“And the families that work my land live well,” he continued. “I pay the salary of the physician, support an orphanage, and provide other relief for the poor as is needed. I feel it is the sacred duty of a nobleman to care for the land and the people upon it who are entrusted to him.” This last was said with a note of rebuke.
“That is what I was taught was the duty of the nobility – by men other than my father,” I said with amusement. “I believe my father views the sacred duty of the nobility to be guaranteeing the continuation of the nobility. The first Williams was named Earl of Dorshire for supporting Henry the Sixth in his battle for the throne.”
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