Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  “I will be found dead in my bed,” stated Viscount Wilbourne, “before I am ever caught agreeing with a Scot!”

  Both Hillier and Sir Henoch laughed in relief for the diversion. Hillier exclaimed, “Your lordship, you’re a poet!”

  Viscount Wilbourne glanced around the table with imbecilic delight. The Earl, though grateful for the diversion, too, began to wonder just how much the Viscount’s mind had decayed.

  Hugh turned to his uncle. “Sire, may I be excused before dessert?”

  This, too, caused the Earl to feel relief. His nephew’s request would save him the bother of sending him away. “You may, nephew.”

  “We shall only be discussing imaginary revenues calculated on imperative expenditures, milord,” said Hillier. “Dull matters, no doubt, for one so lively as yourself.” He paused. “Or perhaps some other excitable subject.”

  “Say, rather,” chimed Sir Henoch, “imperative revenues based on imaginary expenditures, sir. I confess I don’t see the distinction.” He turned to Hugh and smiled broadly. “Good night, milord.”

  Hugh nodded. “Good night, gentlemen.” He bowed slightly to the pathetic form of Viscount Wilbourne. “Good night, your lordship.” And with a final bow to his uncle, he turned and left the supper room.

  When the doors on the far side of the room closed behind Hugh, Sir Henoch turned and addressed the Earl. “Your lordship, you have a nonpareil relation in that boy. I don’t recall ever having observed so much bottom in one so young.”

  “He has been a pain to me, at times, Sir Henoch,” replied the Earl, a subtle menace in his words, “but he is blood, and quite above judgment by all but his father and me.”

  Sir Henoch shook his head. “No aspersions intended, your lordship,” he replied. “And forgive me the presumption, but I do believe he reads things less innocuous than Tacitus and Plutarch. Why, just the other day, he admitted to me that he bosoms that stigmatized work, Hyperborea, and even speculated on what its villainous author might have said in answer to my speech! What an obsession! What an imagination!” He shook his head again. “I could not believe that his lordship allowed such trash in his house, so I did not credit it. Though if his father your brother approves of it, as he intimated to me at my house some time ago, well,” concluded Sir Henoch with an expression of pouting incredulity, “one can’t know what to think.”

  The Earl studied his guest with a mixture of admiration and contempt. “You hanged the author, did you not, Sir Henoch?” he asked.

  Sir Henoch frowned. That question again! “No, your lordship, I did not. I merely saw to it that he was.”

  “I would not allow it, Sir Henoch,” said the Earl after a short moment, “and you were wise not to believe that I would.”

  Sir Henoch rushed to say, “I sincerely hope that his lordship does not contemplate punishment for the lad’s words to and about me. I cannot be insulted! I have been called worse things than a patriot—much worse—and been the subject of inelegant hilarity.”

  “I have not yet decided, Sir Henoch,” replied the Earl with a finality that closed the subject of his nephew.

  A moment of silence passed. The Earl signaled the servants to begin serving dessert.

  “Speaking of boots, your lordship,” said Sir Henoch, reaching inside his coat and bringing out some neatly folded sheets of paper, “I dictated my speech to my secretary, and now take the liberty of presenting you with a copy of it, so that you may better judge its force and wisdom, word for word. I have received many compliments on it, and some criticism. Why, some spy in the galleries took it all down, and I’m told it will appear in Gentleman’s Magazine or some other gossipy rag—though my name will be changed to some unflattering style.” He handed the papers to the Earl.

  “Thank you, Sir Henoch, for your thoughtfulness.” The Earl took the papers and put them to the side. “I shall read it tonight, before I retire.”

  Viscount Wilbourne abruptly grinned. “Have any of you heard the latest gossip about Bute and the Prince of Wales? The daft Prince dotes on the Earl, and the Earl dotes on the lad’s mother, the Dowager. An unnatural ménage, that!”

  The members for Onyxcombe and Canovan were startled by the Viscount’s outburst and the relative sanity of his subject, and the Earl was embarrassed. But even though the topic had been raised by a man whom they by now had concluded should be mourning the loss of most of his faculties, the career of John Stuart, third Earl of Bute, Groom of the Stole, and advisor and confidant of both the Dowager Princess of Wales and her son, George, absorbed their attention for the remainder of the evening.

  But not entirely the Earl’s. A number of things seethed beneath his awareness of the social gossip and political speculation. One was the oily guile of Sir Henoch Pannell, who was, he was forced to admit, what his brother had called him, “an objectionable, slithery snake who needed regular whacking.” The man could be useful, but only with careful handling. Another was the embittering presence of Viscount Wilbourne. It served him right for having absented himself from Lords for so long—two years, he recalled—for otherwise he would have known of the man’s pronounced senility and never chosen him for table ballast. The Viscount had been quite sane this morning in Lords, and had even given him a warm welcome, which fact alone should have alerted him to the man’s condition, for in the past he and the Viscount had exchanged barely twenty words.

  And, finally, there was his nephew, a model of decorum all evening, until he rose to Sir Henoch’s bait and all but bit off the hand of that angler. Basil Kenrick did not know whether to be pleased that Hugh had put the man in his place, or to be angry with Hugh’s pointed and contemptuous treatment of a man who could be an important political ally. Well, he would not make the mistake of inviting Hugh again to another of these conferences. The Earl resolved to reprove his nephew on the matter, but not harshly.

  There were, after all, other kinds of punishment.

  Chapter 20: The Society of the Pippin

  HUGH’S EXIT FROM THE SUPPER ROOM WAS MORE AN ESCAPE FOR HIM than a polite withdrawal. He had tried to abide by his father’s request not to provoke his uncle. But he could stand it no longer. His uncle’s advice, in fact, was in part more practical than his father’s; he had spoken from true motives, though sententiously, for there was no avoiding that if he was to say anything at all. His uncle had only himself to blame. If he had pursued the exchange with Sir Henoch—if he had said, “By your own argument, sir, the Romans were largely incautious, if caution is to be taken as the sole measure of reason”—he would have only invited more of the man’s sophistry, and there would have been no end to it. So he had let the man have the last word.

  There was a strange irony, he thought. If it had been a private exchange between himself and Sir Henoch, he would have driven the man to the precipice. But it had taken place in front of witnesses who, like Sir Henoch, did not seem to mind the man’s error or his interest in that error. They, in fact, approved of it. Sir Henoch was determined, for his own reasons, to have the last word, as though having it demonstrated the efficacy of something more than the man’s sophistry. Hugh could not imagine what that might be. No, thought Hugh, as he walked to his room: If he had had the freedom to debate Sir Henoch, the man’s last word would have not been a word, but a howl. It would have been deserved justice for such a shifty, slap-dash soul.

  Hugh’s frustration was tempered by the disturbing revelation of the extent to which his uncle was enmeshed in the country’s politics. And if his uncle was an active agent in those matters, then his father must also be somehow involved. Hugh had not devoted much thought to politics—it was a realm as distant from his consciousness as were the politics of Egypt and Persia—that is, politics as it was actually practiced. The secretive nature of the supper, together with the tone of conversation, repelled him. If that was the essence of what his uncle had called “true politicking,” then he wanted nothing to do with it.

  Before he reached his room, he was intercepted by Hulton, who p
roffered a salver that held a sealed note. “It came about an hour ago, milord,” said the butler, “and I would have asked one of the attending servants to hand it to you, but his lordship instructed us that there were to be no interruptions.” He paused. “A young boy delivered it.”

  Hugh eagerly snatched the note and tore it open. It read: “Greetings, sir. If it is convenient to you, please meet me and my friends at the Fruit Wench this evening at eleven of the clock. You have been adjudged worthy of our company. We will be sitting in the rear of the place, behind the last partition of curtains, which are green. Ask Mrs. Petty for a pippin and she will admit you. Do not introduce yourself, and greet me by no name but Muir. Your grateful servant, G. Swain.”

  With a triumphant bark of a laugh, Hugh rushed into his room, threw off his wig, and began to change into a suit that was less lustrous and more practical. Hulton followed him in and attempted to perform his duty as valet, but Hugh was too much of a whirl of movement for him to keep up. “Are you going out, milord?” he asked.

  “For a while, Hulton.”

  “Is it advisable, at this hour of night? It is nearly eleven.”

  Hugh grinned. “You may accompany me, if that will put your mind at ease,” he said. “But you will need to sit in a tavern for a while. The Fruit Wench. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, milord. It is a reputable establishment, though it has had some moments of commotion.”

  “I am meeting some new friends there. A club of thinkers, I believe.”

  “I see, milord.” Hulton frowned. “Is his lordship’s supper finished?”

  “No. I asked to be excused from it, and Uncle allowed me to go. I got into a scrape with Sir Henoch.”

  “A scrape?”

  Hugh shrugged. “An argument, which he thinks he’s won.” He paused to reflect, then said, in an exaggerated, theatrical tone, “‘He daubed his vice with a show of virtue.’ Richard the Third. Richard, vilifying one of his victims, at the same time construing the method of his own villainy.” He laughed. “And Shakespeare never even met a Whig!”

  “That is a nice observation, milord,” said Hulton after some hesitation. “It could have been made about my colleague, Mr. Curle. But I am not acquainted with either of the gentlemen you cited.”

  Hugh paused to stare at the man with astonishment. Then he grinned, went to his bookcase, and took out a volume of Shakespeare’s Histories, and handed it to Hulton. “For you to peruse in the Fruit Wench. I am surprised and disappointed that you have not availed yourself of these plays.”

  Hulton smiled in self-mockery. “I glanced through them, milord, but they looked longish and forbidding in their language and complexity.”

  Hugh shook his head. “That is not the way to wisdom, Hulton,” he said. “Although you are better read than you let on.” He continued as he retrieved his greatcoat, “The portrayal of Richard the Third may or may not be a fair one, but I believe his creator was speaking to the ages about the requisites of power. His observations on that subject can be applied to worms like Mr. Curle, and Sir Henoch…and my uncle.” Hugh put on his hat. “Well, let us get you into your own coat, and pick up a lantern and a pistol, and be off.”

  As they made their way through the chill air and darkness out of Whitehall to Charing Cross and the Strand, Hugh asked his companion, “If you had the liberty to choose, Hulton, and could get out of service, what would you like to do, or be?”

  After a moment, the butler replied, “A tobacconist, milord. I enjoy a pipe now and then, and am at my most thoughtful when I have one and am at my ease.”

  They walked on, and after a moment, Hugh said, “I shall speak with my father about setting you up somewhere, Hulton, and giving you generous terms for repayment, if you are willing to risk it.”

  Hulton was speechless for a moment, then asked, “Why would you do such a thing, milord?”

  “I would like to see you independent, Hulton. It would give me great pleasure. I could say to myself, as I passed your shop, ‘I know that man.’ And it would get you away from mere service, and away from Mr. Curle’s machinations, and my uncle, who I know does not like you, either.” Hugh paused, then reached into his coat and took out some coins. “Here is some money to slake your other thirst, while you wait for me in the tavern.”

  Hulton took the coins. “Thank you, milord.”

  * * *

  London was large enough a metropolis that the Society’s members rarely risked encountering each other in public or in private. Yet, while they lived and worked in widely separated parts of the city and in disparate professions, and were habitués of various strata of London society, the club had a rule that governed even this happenstance: should one of them recognize a brother Pippin in the street, or in a tavern or other public venue, he would not enquire after the other’s identity, and each would greet the other as strangers; and should he inadvertently learn the other’s identity, he would keep the knowledge to himself.

  It was a spacious private room that Hugh was escorted into by the proprietress of the Fruit Wench, with its own fireplace and chandelier. A large table held the remains of a supper. Seven men sat around it in armchairs, each with a tall glass of port, ale, or brandy before him. Some smoked pipes or long churchwardens, and the thick smoke in the air seemed to have been generated by the combustive energy of their conversation. The room was the last compartment of three in the tavern, separated from another private room and the main room beyond by a neck-high curtain on a brass bar above a paneled partition. The middle compartment, also occupied by a private party, served to diminish the raucous hubbub of the business in front.

  “’Ere’s your gentleman you was waitin’ for, you scoundrels,” said Mabel Petty with mock contempt. “Looks too fine a gent for the likes of you.”

  “None of your sass, Mrs. Petty,” said one of the men. “And bring us another round of port, if you please—and none of that lymphate brew you serve sailors and soldiers. We want something that bites back!”

  “I oughta bite your nose off for such lyin’ slander!” replied Mrs. Petty, who exited with a peal of laughter.

  All the men turned to look at Hugh, who stood waiting at the entrance. Glorious Swain grinned and nodded in greeting.

  “Forgive me for being tardy,” said Hugh to the company, “but I was detained and got your invitation only a short while ago.”

  “No matter,” said one of the men. “One or another of us is usually past the appointed time of sitting.”

  “Approach, young sir,” said the oldest of the men.

  Hugh stepped closer to the table.

  “You are truly the author of the interesting tract on King John?” asked the same man.

  “I am, sir,” said Hugh, “if the tract is the one I gave to this gentleman some time ago.” He nodded to Glorious Swain, who was sitting placidly back in his chair with a pipe.

  “A very diverting argument you make,” said another man, “about malice. It is a subject the Society has never before thought to discuss.”

  “It was an ingenious, entertaining read,” said another.

  The oldest man said, “Only one of us had reservations on the subject, but our agreement was unanimous that you should be permitted to attend our synods.”

  “Your sponsor here was quite enthusiastic about your character and mental ambition, sir,” said another man, “and championed your candidacy with sometimes frightening fervor.”

  Hugh smiled, and bowed slightly. “You honor both him and me with the wisdom of your decision, sirs.”

  One of the men laughed. “No false modesty! There’s a Pippinish qualification, brothers! A fellow who knows what he’s all about!”

  “Hear, hear!” agreed several of the men together.

  The oldest man rose from his chair. Leaning against it was the rosewood cane Hugh remembered was handed to Glorious Swain in the tavern by one of the members. Its silver knob was in the shape of a pippin resting on a bed of ornate leaves. “Your sponsor states that he has explained
our rules to you, sir. Do you agree to observe them?”

  “I do.”

  “Your demi-membership,” continued the man, “was the subject of some vigorous and often bitter debate among us, at an extraordinary meeting called for that very purpose. Muir’s proposal was, at first, quite upsetting to us all. It entailed the relaxation of a strictly enforced rule.”

  “The rule of seven,” said one of the men.

  “I still say that our subject was, more properly speaking, a proposed quasi-membership,” speculated another.

  “But Muir was equal to the hustings, and defended your nomination with brilliant reasoning.”

  “We hope, therefore,” said the oldest man, “that you appreciate the exception we are making for your and our brother’s sake.”

  Hugh nodded. “I do, sir, and promise to observe your rules as intimately as I maintain my honor.”

  One of the men idly addressed Hugh. “It’s going to be a novel distraction, being audited by one so young—by a mere boy, in fact.”

  The man’s words contained a challenge. Hugh knew this, and so did the other men. They waited for a reply. Hugh drew himself up and said, “I will not mind your many years, sir, if you will not mind my few. I am not aware of a Newtonian law that proclaims that sagacity is the exclusive preserve of the aged.”

  The men exploded in laughter. “Well said!” proclaimed one of them.

  The man who had tried to nettle Hugh nodded in concession. “What you hear, sir,” he said, waving a hand to indicate his friends, “is the beating of a chamade for my surrender. But, I parley no more with you. You are right. Here is my sword.” He raised his glass of port in salute.