Hugh Kenrick

by Edward Cline

  The House of Lords considered itself, after the Privy Council, the exclusive and privileged advisor to the king, and any member, or group of members, or even the House as a whole, reserved the right to call personally on the sovereign to offer direction on policy, strategy, or controversy.

  The Commons was especially jealous of Lords for its judicial prerogative, and resentful of the fact that Lords could foil its best constructed or most well-intentioned bills, for endorsement by both Houses was necessary for a bill to become law—after the king’s signature. Lords viewed the Commons as little better than an elected rabble and mouthpiece for the mob, and resented that House’s power over money and supply bills, not to mention the necessity of having to expend precious time and money every election to guarantee friendly blocs of seats in St. Stephen’s Chapel.

  Hugh was aware of these facts, though the corrupt—and corrupting—link between the two Houses was not quite real to him. Parliament was an idealized abstraction, flawed in his mind only by a few technical blemishes, and by the fact that men like his uncle and Sir Henoch Pannell could have a role in it. Parliament the ideal and Parliament the fact sat in his mind in much the same manner as did his knowledge of the solar system: There was his conception of the sun and its six planets and their satellites, derived from charts and descriptions in books; and there was the orrery, that imperfect but still marvelous, whirling representation of it. As Hugh did not have a mathematician’s knowledge of the solar system, he did not have a solution to Parliament’s blemishes. He was certain, however, that there was something wrong with the institution, and this certainty stemmed not exclusively from a knowledge of politics or political history—which was growing formidable—but from the unflawed knowledge of his own existence, coupled with an implicit resolve that neither the solar system nor Parliament ought to be an impediment to his life.

  Hugh stood for an hour below the bar, straining his hearing to listen to exchanges between some of the peers on some private enclosure bill. The spectators around him whispered or talked among themselves. His uncle sat in a row of other berobed and beribboned peers, and nodded to him with cold approval. The earls on either side of him seemed to be asleep. The peers looked like guardians of some sacred responsibility. He knew that, in fact, it was less than what it ought to be. The scene before him was his future, or rather what his father and uncle insisted would be his future. He felt a terrific headache intrude upon his thoughts. The whispers and talk of the spectators and the speeches of the peers became painful. He turned and left for Windridge Court.

  After that day, Hugh did not pursue any serious matter with his uncle. He listened to him, mentally shrugged, and escaped his uncle’s company when he could. His task was to endure the time with his uncle, and then depart for Danvers for the holidays. The Earl of Danvers simply wanted to make his nephew tolerable.

  Hugh was obliged to spend almost every evening in the Earl’s company, sometimes alone with him, at other times at dinner with the Earl’s guests. Glorious Swain left a note with Hulton inviting him to an evening at a nearby coffeehouse; Hugh wrote a letter of apology to his friend, explaining his predicament, and left it at the Fruit Wench with Mrs. Petty.

  The single Sunday with his uncle began with services at St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he and the Earl sat in a borrowed pew near other families of aristocrats. The minister on that day, in unctuous tones magnified by his canopied pulpit, weaved his sermon around certain passages from Richard Allestree’s The Whole Duty of Man, a popular devotional manual that preached against resistance against authority, and advocated passive obedience of a sovereign’s laws, regardless of the consequences. “For what matters it to our mere fleshly existence,” he spoke to the congregation, most of whose members were wealthier than he could ever dream to be, even for all his connections within the Anglican Church, “that it may be made miserable by the whims of a king, nay!—even by a king’s ministers? A king and his satraps will answer to God as surely as will their subjects! And who is to say that a king’s devilment is not a test by God of his children? A king is anointed, regardless of his character or personal construction, and to obey him is to obey God. His character, his vices, his weaknesses are all God’s concern, not ours. And so, I ask anyone, who can stretch his hand against the Lord’s anointed, and be guiltless?”

  “I can,” replied Hugh, his lips moving in silence. His glance was raised to study the great dome above him when the minister’s words reached his ears, and he did not fully grasp the import of his reply until a moment later. He had been imagining the great feats of engineering required to erect the dome and ensure that its walls and sides held it in place. It was a superb edifice, he thought, and ought to serve some better purpose than as a place for ministers to mouth platitudes and homilies for the instruction of posturing congregations. The place demanded reverence, he thought, for heroes of some kind, for greatness in some form; for the adoration of something other than an elusive, allegedly all-knowing and all-powerful ghost. The notion of God had always been superfluous to what drove Hugh to think and act as he did. God was irrelevant to all his purposes, great and small, absent from all his thoughts.

  These thoughts stunned Hugh, but did not shake him. He had not committed apostasy, or deserted the faith; the faith had never found a comfortable home in his mind. It was the faith that deserted him, after a contentious and unprofitable tenancy.

  Hours later, in the sanctum of his room, Hugh wrote these and companion thoughts in his notebook. He was pleased and proud for having had them.

  * * *

  The two weeks passed for Hugh Kenrick with excruciating slowness, gauged, it seemed to him, to the fall of stubborn, damp grains of sand in some malign hourglass. He found relief from his uncle and his awareness of time in his studies, at Dr. Comyn’s school, at Mr. Worley’s office, and in Hyperborea. As the day of his departure for Danvers drew nearer, he began to relax and congratulate himself for having endured his uncle’s presence and demands. He even generously credited his uncle for not being as autocratic as he knew the man could be.

  Another respite from Windridge Court was an evening with Glorious Swain over supper at Shakespeare’s Head tavern in Covent Garden, where they lost themselves in talk about Romney Marsh’s novel and the virtues and vices of modern English literature.

  Hugh felt reckless and invincible, enough so that he gladly accompanied his uncle to a rout at the Pantheon Pleasure Gardens on Oxford Street, two evenings before his departure for Danvers. The Pantheon was a smaller, more intimate version of Ranelagh, with a great brick stove in the center of its circular promenade. It had been hired for the evening by Guthlac Blissom, eighteenth Marquis of Bilbury. The Blissoms were an ancient family, as old as the Kenricks. The Marquis and the Earl were once schoolmates at Eton and Cambridge, and the Marquis now controlled eleven seats in the Commons. Unlike the Earl, however, he professed a sincere though unreasoning belief in the country’s mercantilist laws and statutes, and would have been shocked to learn of his colleague’s arm’s-length connection to smuggling. Had he learned, he would have ventured to Lords and delivered an attack on the Earl of Danvers and on such law-breaking.

  The rout offered a bounteous fare, an orchestra, and a dazzling array of the crème of London society, and was a gay, brilliant affair. The Marquis regarded himself as a connoisseur of the arts and letters, granting small pensions to painters, poets, and composers whose work he helped to exhibit, publish, or have performed. On this occasion he had had two rooms of the Pantheon turned into galleries for the work of several of his painters, while the orchestra would introduce two new country-dances by one of his composers.

  The Marquis contrasted violently with both the affair and his artistic pastime. He was a tall, waxen-faced, cadaverous man who, even in his finery, looked as though he had just risen from a coffin. His wife, the Marchioness of Bilbury, was a squat, rotund, ugly woman whom no amount of finery or cosmetics could prettify. The jaded, the debauched, and even the most civil of their
guests avoided protracted conversation with the pair and spoke with them only when absolutely necessary.

  The eighteenth Marquis of Bilbury was the father of Brice Blissom, now merely Baron Ainslie, but heir-apparent to his father’s title. He was their only son. He was not at his parents’ side to receive guests when the servant announced the entrance of “The Right Honorable Lord Kenrick, Earl of Danvers, and his nephew, the Honorable Hugh Kenrick, Baron of Danvers.” Brice Blissom was on the other side of the hall, entertaining other young, aristocratic bucks with a lewd story. He heard the announcement, though, excused himself from his friends, and rushed across the circle. His father had expressed a wish that he meet the Earl, an important political ally. But he had not expected to hear the name of the person who had disfigured his hands at Eton years ago. It was with an admixture of curiosity, anger, and obedience that he shot across the floor through the knots of guests.

  He nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw Hugh Kenrick, the boy who had bested him in Rooker Alley. He continued on, biting his lip and feeling his face turn crimson. His father made the introductions, and the young men behaved as though they had never encountered each other before now. Their elders watched them closely for any signs of lingering animosity, but all they detected was an apparent mutual indifference in the young men to each other’s presence.

  The Marquis dismissed his son, instructing him to introduce Hugh to some of the more important guests.

  As they walked together around the promenade, the young Marquis asked, “Have you told anyone?”

  “No,” replied Hugh. “The incident was not important enough to relate to anyone.”

  “Will you?”

  “No, not unless someone asks me why I possess a sword bearing your coat-of-arms. Then I shall say I found it in a gutter, which would be near the truth.”

  The young Marquis did not wish to introduce Hugh to anyone, much less his friends, who would subject him, and not Hugh, to their acid mockery and make jokes about his gloved hands. So he stopped near a group of guests he was certain did not know the story. “So…you are a patron of blackamoors?”

  Hugh shrugged. “I am the friend of a man, who calls me friend.”

  “You took up a sword in defense of that?” scoffed the Marquis. “At the risk of your own life?”

  “And would again, sir. At times, one acquires friends in the most unusual circumstances. These friends make living with the rest of humanity tolerable.”

  “Blackamoors cannot be said to be wholly human, younker.”

  “Good only for service in the king’s navy, or for porters’ work?”

  “Or worse.”

  Hugh shook his head. “Sir, have you not read your Aristotle? You were merely born, but allowed your rank to fashion your character and concerns. My friend also was born, but fashioned himself and his concerns with his own hands. Ergo, he is your moral and intellectual superior. He is a duke in his realm. You? You are a lackey in the realm of others.”

  The Marquis’s features twisted in pure hatred. He hissed, “That is…unchristian, blasphemous filth you utter!”

  “Call it what you will,” replied Hugh, “but it was no insult, neither to you nor to my friend. It was merely a fact I wished to point out for your edification.”

  The Marquis stopped to face Hugh, and leaned his face closer to his nemesis’s. “I will have satisfaction against you someday,” he warned, “and the world will owe me a favor!”

  Hugh smiled. “That is not a very Christian purpose, sir,” he replied. After a pause, he said, “I knew you would be here this evening, sir, and in the coach on our way here, composed a doggerel in your honor. I had not planned to recite it to you, unless I received an invitation to. May I?”

  “Go ahead!” dared the Marquis. “Add ridicule to your offenses!”

  “‘Blink, blink! I splashed my eyes with ink! Blink, blink! It’s such a chore to think!’” Hugh grinned. “The first line can accommodate a thousand variations, as long as it rhymes with the second and agrees with its subject. The second line is immutable, though its noun can accommodate a thousand synonyms. To wit—‘Blink, blink! I wish not to see the link! Blink, blink! It’s such a task to think!’ I shall call it ‘The Bilbury Lament.’”

  The Marquis’s face had grown crimson again. He narrowed his eyes and stepped back. “Stay away from me, younker!” he warned.

  Hugh bowed slightly. “As easily done as said, your lordship.”

  The Marquis turned sharply and retreated into the crowd.

  The evening passed for Hugh without further incident. He could be charming and gracious in polite society when he had a reason to be, which tonight was some kind of satisfaction with himself. He inspected the paintings, mostly portraits and pastorals, in the galleries, and exchanged intelligent comments on them with other guests. He engaged in civil but inconsequential conversation on politics and the royal family with others without provoking them. He surrendered to a contagious benevolence and complimented several of the young ladies present—most of them daughters of aristocracy, some of them courtesans—on their beauty, and a few of them wondered why the handsome young man was blind to the inviting flutters of their fans. He even felt bold enough to essay a minuet, a courant, and a gavotte. At the end of the gavotte, he found left in his hand a lady’s scented lace handkerchief; he smiled in bemusement and wondered which of the now-dispersed half dozen elegant women he had partnered with had put it there.

  It was while he watched the orchestra perform a country-dance that he was startled to recognize a Pippin among the players. It was Steven—twin brother of Sterope—or Peter Brompton. The musician happened to glance up from his sheet music and missed a note on his violin when he in turn recognized the young aristocrat staring at him from the promenade. The youth he knew only as Miltiades inclined his head with a wink and a restrained grin. “Steven” returned the wink with a smile.

  The young Marquis of Bilbury, who had surreptitiously watched Hugh Kenrick’s course over the hours with seething anger, observed the silent greeting between Hugh and the musician with special curiosity. The Earl, who was too far away to note it, however, had observed his nephew’s conduct throughout the evening with grudging approval.

  Those who knew him well, knew that the best praise one could expect from the Earl was his silence. This was how he complimented his nephew. Other than desultory remarks on the health and fortunes of the elder Marquis and some of his guests, he said nothing in the coach that took them back to Windridge Court. Hugh volunteered an appraisal of two of the portraits he saw in the exhibit, and briefly commented on the quality of the orchestra. When they arrived at Windridge Court, Hugh and the Earl went to their separate chambers without further word, Hugh to begin packing for his journey home, the Earl to prepare to retire.

  Two mornings later Hugh’s baggage was loaded onto the Earl’s coach, which would take him to Canterbury, where he would board an inn coach for Dover. There he would take a packet to Portsmouth and Poole. In his baggage were presents for his family, Roger Tallmadge, and Reverdy Brune, and also his notebook, which he called his “diary of ideas.” He had begun making notes for an essay on the differences in the eudæmonist systems of the ancient world, part assignment by his instructor in moral philosophy, part private project. He hoped to have time to work on the essay during his holiday.

  He gave Hulton two guineas as a present, and promised the butler-valet that he would return with an answer from his father about starting the man in his own tobacconist’s shop. “And take care not to give my uncle cause to dismiss you, Hulton.” Snowflakes began to fall and gather on the ground.

  “I shall bury myself in Mr. Shakespeare’s Histories, milord,” replied Hulton, “and never frown when his lordship interrupts my leisure.” He paused. “Are your pistols handy?”

  “And primed,” said Hugh, patting the pockets of his greatcoat. The blue coach bore the Kenrick coat-of-arms on its doors, and so stood a very good chance of being stopped by highwaymen. A l
oaded musket with double ball lay hidden beneath one of the interior seats. Hugh was determined not to be robbed.

  The Earl had gone to Lords earlier in the morning, and Hugh had already bid him farewell. Hugh stepped into the coach, Hulton closed the door behind him, and they exchanged waves before the butler signaled the coachman to go.

  * * *

  That evening, before supper was served, Basil Kenrick came into Hugh’s room and took stock of its contents, paying particular attention to the bookshelves and the desk. He returned to his own study, took out a sheet of paper, and made out a list of items. Then he rang for Alden Curle. When the major domo appeared, he asked, “Curle, where is Mr. Hulton?”

  “He has retired, your lordship.”

  “Has he seen to my nephew’s room?”

  “He has cleaned and prepared Master Hugh’s room, your lordship, and locked the door to await his return.”

  “Give Mr. Hulton the day free tomorrow, Curle.”

  “Yes, your lordship.”

  “Curle, there is something I want you to do tomorrow, while Mr. Hulton is out. Remove these things from my nephew’s room, and bring them here.” He held out the list.

  Curle took it, glanced over it, and bowed. “Yes, your lordship.”

  Chapter 23: The Theft

  HUGH KENRICK RETURNED TO WINDRIDGE COURT IN THE MIDDLE OF January, his mind still aglow with pleasant memories of his holiday at home in Danvers.

  His parents, as he and they learned, could no longer regard him as just a child. Now he was a man, an independent force who moved for his own purposes and by his own power. This they all acknowledged the moment he alighted from the coach that brought him from Poole Harbor to the broad steps of the great house. His parents welcomed him as an intimate, were pleased with the adult stranger who embraced them, and accepted him as both a son, a man, and a special friend. They were pleased with their son, and pleased with themselves.

  Hugh spent endless hours with his father, in his study, on horseback traversing the snow-dusted estate, hiking in the hills around the house, talking about school, politics, Mr. Worley’s business, London, and the Earl. He was home two days before either his father or mother thought to ask him about the Earl’s health and business. He told his father about his encounters with Sir Henoch Pannell, and his conversations with his uncle. He did not tell anyone about his latest clashes with the Marquis of Bilbury, or about the Society of the Pippin.