He smiled, hiccoughed. King George arrives and Jack Absolute leaves. Quite a day for the Corporation of Bath!
He spent nearly half a minute trying to understand why his key didn’t work. Then he realized the back door had been open and he had just locked it again.
‘Bloody Fagg,’ he muttered, pushing in. ‘Lazy in everything.’
Tiredness was a strange thing. So complete the one moment when he thought he might not even make his bed. Completely gone the next, when a hand reached out from the dark and seized his arm.
*
Drunk he may still have been. Incapacitated he was not. And he had done a lot of wrestling in his Cornish youth.
The hand that gripped him was gripped in its turn, twisted against its inclination. At the same time Jack stepped away and back towards the door. Through it there was space for flight or further fight; above all, there was light.
His left hand had gone straight to the shoulder above the twisted arm, pushing the man’s face towards the floor, turning his body away from him. If he had a knife or a cudgel in his other hand he should not be able to use it. If he had a pistol, mind …
‘Faith, man, is this how you greet your friends?’
The voice was pained – and recognizable. ‘Red Hugh?’
‘The same. And if you’re quite done with it, could I be after having me own arm back?’
Jack released his grip but, just in case his brain was playing him tricks, he also stepped the other way, to the door, throwing it open. A rectangle of pale light came through. In the centre of it squatted the Irish Grenadier.
‘Christ, man, you’ve broken me bloody arm.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack, leaning against the doorframe, his legs suddenly weak. ‘We’d have heard the crack.’
Suddenly, both men were laughing. Red Hugh rose, and they each extended a hand. ‘Easy now, me lad. It might yet fall off.’
They shook and Jack saw the man wince. Looking down, even in the faint light, he could see a stain on both their palms, feel the stickiness of blood. ‘I did not do that, did I?’
The Irishman shook his head. ‘An earlier misfortune.’
‘And this?’ Now he was closer and his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that his hand was not the only hurt sustained. There was bruising on his cheeks, one eye was nearly closed, and there was blood running from his nose.
‘I know. I know.’ Red Hugh saw the concern in Jack’s eyes. ‘’Tis superficial only. Sure and you should see the other fella.’ The laugh that came pained him and a hand went to his side.
‘We should get you upstairs to a bed,’ Jack said.
‘That would be fine indeed. But I came in the dark and I must leave the same way, observed by no one.’ He tipped his head to the ceiling. ‘Will your servant not be about your business?’
‘Fagg?’ Jack snorted. ‘He’ll only be about the business of sleeping for a good two hours yet. You will not be seen.’
‘Then I’ll take that offer of a lie-down and perhaps some brandy if you’ve any about.’
Though he moved slowly, he did not need Jack’s arm. And once he was sitting in a drawing-room armchair, brandy in hand, a pipe lit and the worst of the blood and dirt washed away, he seemed already revived.
‘I thought there was a rib stoved but now I think ’tis only bruised. Other than that, just a few cuts and scrapes. This one,’ he held up his right hand, wrapped in a handkerchief that Jack had supplied, ‘might need some stitching, if you’ve needle and cat gut.’
‘I can get some.’ Jack shook his head, wonderingly. ‘You’ve got another story to tell and no mistake.’
Red Hugh blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. ‘A dull one, my boy. Tawdry, to be truthful. Not the storming of a breech under a Turkish cannonade, or a night attack across an ice floe.’ He sighed. ‘I told you I had creditors in this town.’
‘You did. Those men at the theatre were their representatives. You never told me what you owed or why.’
‘Another piece of dullness. But these fellows decided that my bond was not good enough. They decided they wanted flesh as well. Or instead.’ He smiled. ‘Shylock, isn’t it? Anyway, those big boys you saw came for me in an alley and,’ he gestured to himself, ‘well, I got away but I’m half sure I killed one of them before I did.’
Jack went across, filled the empty glass. ‘And will they seek you again?’
‘Undoubtedly. My time in Bath is over, methinks. If you wouldn’t mind my sleeping here for the day, I’ll slip out with the night.’
‘You are most welcome. Though since it is our joint prize money that has paid for this abode, it’s as much yours as mine. And didn’t you stow some stuff in the cellar?’ He received a nod. ‘I don’t know how much rest you’ll get, though. They are presenting the house next door to the King today. There’s bound to be a marching band, fanfares and other hot air.’
‘The King? I had forgot. And next door, is it?’ Red Hugh had put down the glass and was peeking under the handkerchief at his cut. ‘Well, he’ll not disturb me. Caesar entering Rome atop an elephant having triumphed over Vercingetorix would not wake a McClune when he has a mind to sleep. As he does.’ He gave a huge yawn.
Jack poured the man another tot of brandy. ‘Have you, uh, seen your cousin at all?’
‘Laetitia? I have not. My troubles, alas, have kept me from her lovely company.’ The glass was halted halfway to the mouth. ‘You’ve met my cousin, then, Mr Absolute?’
‘Ah,’ said Jack, and proceeded, awkwardly, to tell his tale. It was received in silence and a cold stare, which began, gradually, to thaw. At its conclusion, a long silence held before the Irishman spoke again.
‘And you say her guardian approves the match?’
‘To Jack Absolute? She does,’ replied Jack eagerly. ‘Indeed, all parties do.’
‘Well, I am not as close a relation as Mrs O’Farrell. But close enough to demand the family’s honour is upheld.’ He studied Jack closely. ‘Will it be?’
Jack nodded. ‘I swear to you, sir. The former self you disapproved of is no more. We love each other and she has consented to be my wife.’
Red Hugh smiled then frowned. ‘Beverley’s wife.’
‘Ah, you have hit it, sir. There lies my problem.’ Jack rose, began to walk up and down the room. ‘The guise that enabled me to woo her now stands between us. I can’t marry her as Beverley. I must own myself again. Yet if I do, will her cursed romantic nature not rebel at a marriage everyone approves of? Will she not resent the subterfuge I used to win her?’ He sighed. ‘I am at a loss, sir, I confess.’
Red Hugh came and placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘You said it yourself: two weeks of low inns on the road to Scotland will surely cure the romance of poverty. While two weeks of your company will win her for yourself, certain. Do not doubt your own power to attract, dear soul. I’ve told you, haven’t I, how you remind me of me in my youth? And was there a lady of Clare that did not desire a better acquaintance with both my face and my mind? None, I say!’
‘Then you think—’
‘Give her the elopement she craves, lad. Then marry her as yourself.’
Jack flushed with excitement. ‘By God, I will. I’ll be about the preparations instantly. Midnight cannot come fast enough.’
He turned, as if to begin. But the Irishman’s hand turned him back. ‘Now there’s the only point of disagreement between us. And it’s the usual quarrel of age with youth. Do not attempt the elopement at midnight.’
‘But I thought—’
‘D’ye hear that rain?’ They both listened. ‘It’s the type that will come and go all day and on through the night. The roads will be awash, the carriage ruts concealing holes to trap a horse’s hoof. Six gets you three, you’ll lose your way, circle about and, by dawn’s light, be drenched and exhausted scarce five miles from Bath.’ He raised a hand to forestall Jack’s protest. ‘I acknowledge romance almost demands the midnight escape. And I know you wish Laetitia to ti
re of poverty sooner rather than later. But not at five tomorrow morning.’
Jack was disappointed. Midnight was indeed the time prescribed for elopements in all those ghastly novels. However, he could also see the sense. ‘What hour would you suggest?’
‘Tomorrow still but early in the afternoon. People always think the night best for mischief but daylight is when no one’s expecting it. I’ll get a message to Mrs O’Farrell, luring her away from noon till three. And another, advising Letty. How’s that for friendship?’
‘I would not want you to risk encountering enemies on the street again.’
‘Rest easy, I’ll take care of that at no exposure to myself, I assure you. It’s the least I can do – and probably the only wedding present I can afford.’ He gripped Jack’s shoulder, looked deep within his eyes. ‘Sure, don’t I already consider you a relation? I cannot tell you my delight in knowing that the relationship will soon be made official in a church – cousin!’
‘Cousin!’ echoed Jack with a grin. Preoccupied elsewhere, he had forgotten just how much he liked this man.
Another yawn came, larger than all the rest. ‘But if I’m to accomplish anything today, I must get some sleep. Was there not an offer of a bed?’
Jack led the way from the parlour and up the stairs. ‘I’ll make sure I forestall the servant from entering. You will not be disturbed.’
‘I am beyond gratitude.’ He looked into the bedroom. ‘A snug billet, sure. What’s through there?’ He pointed to the door on the other side of the landing.
‘Another bedroom,’ replied Jack, ‘but empty of all furniture.’
Red Hugh had already gone and sat on the bed. He was pulling at his boots, and it obviously pained him, so Jack helped him off with them. Then he went to close the shutters and shut out the creeping daylight. Glancing into the street, he saw that some workmen were already before the house next door, about final preparations. Flowers were being arranged in pots, bunting threaded through the railings that fronted the building. What had his Cornish friend called his bedroom? ‘The best view in Bath.’
‘You know,’ he murmured. ‘I would not have minded seeing the King receive his house.’
A voice came from the bed, muggy with sleep. ‘Don’t worry, dear honey. I’ll tell you how it all turns out.’
– THIRTEEN –
Hail to the King
It was hard labour, leading three horses through the streets of Bath. Two were sullen and venerable nags, typical of what could be hired at coaching inns across the land. The third, a bay gelding that Jack had mounted, was younger and at least had some spirit but showed it mainly by nipping at the others and, when they were unavailable, at passers-by. This latter activity increased as the crowds thickened at the top of Stall Street, causing him to be cursed frequently and, on two occasions, struck with sticks. There was a wall of backs ahead of him, heads reared to catch sight of the day’s great attraction: the King, having bathed and taken the waters, progressing up the town toward the Circus and the presentation of number twenty-one.
The noise was horrendous, for not only did the crowds shout and huzzah at each glimpse of royalty, but the royal progress had attracted every brass player in Bath. There seemed to be a formal orchestra giving a bottom line to the music, a selection of popular favourites like Arthur o’Bradley or Black Eye’d Susan. But over it was a cacophony of mainly French horn, played by men with some talent, little or none.
The horses, already twitchy, did not react well. When he was jabbed a third time by an irate victim’s stick, Jack turned and forced his horses back the way he’d come. The nags, sensing their home at the Three Tuns, sped up and Jack had to ply his own stick quite viciously to force them past the inn and finally onto the Lower Borough Walls. It was a roundabout route to his goal. But since his was the same as the King’s, there was no chance of getting there this side of Christmas if he followed the crowds.
Outside St Mary’s Chapel he was blocked again by the surge of people pouring into Queen Square. He forced the horses left, glancing back once to glimpse a rotund man mounting a platform to general acclaim, a tricorn hat lifted from a bewigged head and waved. He had, at least, seen the King. As he led his horses on a further detour, he prayed that he would not see him again.
The chapel’s bell had sounded one, an hour later than he had planned and Red Hugh had warned Letty of. It was yet another twenty minutes before Jack was tying the horses to railings behind her house. He sighed and tipped his head to the rain that had begun to fall again. It wasn’t a warm day but his labours had soaked his uniform in sweat, great patches appearing at the armpit. Rain cooled him a little and, replacing his hat, he made a final check of the horses’ cinches, bridles and stirrups, for though he was in a hurry, he feared that Mrs O’Farrell might have been distracted only so long, that he would have to snatch his prize, mount and ride fast. He had calculated Letty’s height for her side-saddle, thought he had it right. One nag had Jack’s – Beverley’s – paltry possessions attached to it, with straps uncinched to take what Letty must bring. He hoped Red Hugh had passed on his advice to travel unencumbered.
At the back gate he paused, drew a deep breath, looked once more to the skies. ‘Why are you doing this, boy?’ he murmured. ‘Why?’
Then he pushed the gate in and had his answer. She was pacing close to the house, her riding boots crunching on the wet hoggin. She was dressed in the simplest of dark brown gowns, the apron atop it made of linen, not impractical silk. On her head she wore a man’s tricorn, uncocked, so that the brim sloped down over the face that turned at his whispered, ‘Letty!’ The plainness of her dress only heightened the effect of her beauty, and Jack had to take another breath before she ran into his embrace.
‘Your aunt?’
‘Gone to see the King.’
‘I think you and I must be the only people in Bath who have not.’
‘I have my own king here.’
Jack laughed. It was a speech that could have come from any of those novels that she so loved, or most of the comedies in the playhouse. He had to keep remembering that she was only seventeen, a full year younger than him, with not one-tenth of his experience in the world. It was one of her delights, this naivety. So what if it was wrapped up in all this fol-de-rol? A man dallied with the Fannys and Clarys of the world; even the Widow Simkins. But the same man married a Letty.
He’d pulled her tight. Now he could feel her shaking. Disengaging slightly, he said, ‘Are you cold, dearest? I have kept you waiting in this garden too long.’
‘A little cold, yes. And I have not slept, for nights now, it seems.’ Her lower lip was trembling and, as he looked, her eyes welled. ‘But it is also … also …’
‘What, my dearest? Come here.’ He led her to the white garden bench. It was sheltered beneath a Judas tree and thus not too wet with rain, his cloak used to sweep aside some drops and the tree’s few fallen seed pods, its purple flowers. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
She twisted her hands within his. ‘Should we not be riding?’
‘Presently. But if Mrs O’Farrell has gone to view the King she surely will not leave until he has received his house. That will not be for a while because I suspect young Georgie is only now leaving Queen Square.’
Indeed a marching song had begun to play within the din. They had time. ‘Tell me,’ he said again.
‘It’s just … just.’ The tears spilled out.
‘Have you had second thoughts,’ he said, ‘about me?’
She clutched him tighter. ‘Of you, never! Never! But it seems a low trick,’ her lips trembled, ‘to practise on the people who love me.’
Jack was suddenly stricken. It had all seemed such a game up to now. A play, one of a thousand enacted each day in Bath, just as Fanny Harper had said. There hadn’t seemed any true harm in being a player in one of them. Yet now, as he touched a tear upon her face, it came to him that what he was about was not entirely honourable. Not honourable at all. He’d always planned on telling he
r, was certainly not going to let her marry ‘Beverley’, but he’d hoped to leave the revelation till they were away from Bath, from her inevitable instinct to run in anger back to her guardian. To tell her in a quiet of village in Scotland, after two weeks’ travelling, of truly getting to know each other, knowledge deepening their love. Now her tears rebuked him.
‘Letty,’ he said, ‘there’s something—’
A finger came onto her lips. ‘Hush! Hush now! Never mind me. Just a young girl’s foolishness. Come!’ She was rising, pulling Jack by the cuff of his jacket. ‘We will talk more when we are certain we are safe.’
‘No. You must hear me. I …’ He was resisting her impulse and the rest of the words he would utter were taken away by a loud rip. Suddenly she was standing there looking down at him, with one of his red sleeves in her hand.
‘Oh, Gemini,’ she said and giggled, and so did he, and then they were both laughing so hard she had to sit down again. When she got her breath, she added, ‘So sorry, sir.’
The play had suddenly turned farce! ‘Pray, madam, give it no mind.’ He took the sleeve back, held it to the dangling threads. ‘Could only be an improvement to this damned coat.’ The tailoring was poor, it had obviously been repaired before and the sweat of his labours had rotted the few threads that somehow had held it together. He hated the bloody thing! He loved his clothes and here he was disguised as a man with no purse and lamentable taste. What must she think of him? What would she think of him, when all was finally revealed, when she’d forgiven him the follies love had driven him to, when she stood before the Scotch parson and looked at him, stinking, rotten, sleeveless Scarecrow Beverley! No, he would be marrying her as Jack Absolute. And, dammit, he would be wearing Jack Absolute’s uniform!
‘Excuse me,’ he said, rising. ‘I will be but a moment.’
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