by Edward Cline
With his mother he took long walks arm-in-arm through the estate grounds, the cold winter air somehow accentuating their closeness. He read to her some of his school essays, sang songs with her as she played the forte-piano, and taught her the movements and steps of a new gavotte. He joined the family and invited neighbors in parlor games, in the staging of nonsense plays, and even in snowball fights with townsmen on the great lawn. It was an interlude of gaiety, laughter, good fellowship—and rest.
Hugh’s parents were happy for him, and relieved for him, for it was apparent that he was forcing himself to endure the close proximity of his uncle. They were certain that an explosion would come someday, and that their son’s practiced reticence would have dire consequences for him and the family.
“I’m glad that Basil hasn’t much baited him,” said Garnet Kenrick to his wife one evening, “and that Hugh hasn’t taken what little bait Basil has tossed his way. But I’m still afraid that Hugh is merely a cask of gunpowder, and that every time Basil bids him ‘good morning, nephew,’ another pinch of the black stuff is added to it. And I cannot imagine what the spark could be that would touch it off.”
“Would you have him behave any differently?” asked Effney Kenrick.
Her husband smiled, and in his smile was a mixture of fondness for his son and mischief for his brother. He shook his head once. “No.”
Roger Tallmadge looked at Hugh with a benevolent envy, as he would an older brother who was brimming with tales and adventure stories from the great city of London. Hugh did not disappoint him. Hugh looked at Roger in the same way he looked at Hulton, as a friend who had the potential to become an even closer friend, on a par with Glorious Swain. Their reunion was exuberant, though Roger sensed that something was different about Hugh. He could not fathom the difference, and did not much bother to. He admired his friend, and could not even entertain the possibility that something could ever drive them apart.
Reverdy Brune could not stop looking at Hugh; that is, she caught herself looking at him, almost against her will, when she knew it was inappropriate to stare directly at a man. She, too, sensed something different in him, was fearful of it, and thrilled by it. Here, she thought, was a man who was going to be something, or someone. For the first time in their relationship, she was reluctant to speak. She did not wish to mock him, tease him, or practice on him her increasingly potent art of coy coquetry. Of all the people who spoke to Hugh during his stay, she said the least—less than even a servant—and she had every reason to say the most. She was unnaturally taciturn when they were together, whether alone or with others. She knew that little needed to be said to him, or by them to each other. She felt happy and fortunate that she was fated to a union with Hugh Kenrick.
Hugh reciprocated, and said little to her. He saw the woman who was to be his wife when the time came. She walked and moved with a sense of her own worth, with a pride that she was to be a part of his life. She saw him, he thought. This was all he required of her, for him to want her; to be seen and wanted by her, was enough.
Any doubts their parents might have had about the success of a marriage of Reverdy and Hugh were dispelled one evening when the couple danced a minuet. There was, especially during the dance, an extra element of solemnity in their movements, and how they held each other’s eyes with a happy absorption that made them conscious of nothing but each other and the music that harmonized their motions. Reverdy’s mother leaned closer to Effney Kenrick as they watched the pair, and from behind her fan, remarked, “It’s difficult to tell, my dear, whether the music lends grace to them, or they to the music.” Hugh’s mother could only nod in agreement.
Two days after Twelfth Night, Hugh left Danvers for the return journey to London. He was aware of the fact that his uncle would be there, but the man’s presence now loomed no larger in his mind than the ubiquitous presence of beggars on the city’s streets. His father received a letter from the Earl not long after Christmas, in which he reported that his business in London was nearly concluded and that he would return to Danvers in a month when Parliament neared its recess. Hugh remained in high spirits even though his coast-skirting packet was nearly driven against some rocks by the sail-ripping winds of a winter storm, and when the inn coach from Canterbury was delayed in its departure for London by snow. From the London coach inn a hackney took him to Windridge Court through a freezing rain. He greeted with a grin the servant who rushed from the house to open the hackney door.
Once he was inside, he told a servant, “Please ask Hulton to come to my room.”
The servant blinked and gulped once. “He is not here, milord.”
“Where is he? On an errand?”
Again the servant blinked. “He was…dismissed, milord.”
Hugh frowned and asked sharply, “Dismissed? Why?”
The servant paused to draw a breath. “I have been instructed by his lordship, milord, to request that you direct any inquiries to him that you might have about Mr. Hulton. We staff were all so instructed.”
“Then get me Mr. Curle.”
“This is his day off, milord. He went out, I know not where.”
“Then I’ll speak with my uncle.”
“His lordship has gone to a concert at the Opera House, milord, and is not expected back until very late this evening.” The servant lowered his eyes. “I am very sorry I cannot accommodate you, milord.”
Hugh slapped his gloves against his leg once. “All right. Take my things to my room. Then bring me some tea and bread.”
“Yes, milord.” The servant rang for another man and together they carried Hugh’s trunks and baggage up to his room.
Hugh had raised the idea with his father of establishing Hulton in a tobacconist’s shop in the city, and his father had regarded the idea as both novel and agreeable. “And what would you do then for a valet? I could send you Mr. Runcorn, but he is nearly the major domo of our household, and it would be difficult to replace him. Besides, he and Mr. Curle are near trading blows on the Danvers commons. Well, I’m thinking ahead of myself.”
Hugh had shrugged. “I’ll find someone to replace Hulton on recommendation. I don’t require much, and Windridge Court will not be as busy once Uncle has returned home. I’ll raise one of the servants.”
It was then that Garnet Kenrick revealed to his son that he was toying with the idea of venturing into a banking partnership with other men of means. “Not as greatly capitalized as, say, Vere’s and Glyn’s, but large enough to meddle in the trades. There is money to be made on commissions on bills of exchange and credit, even during a war. We could collect a percentage of Mr. Hulton’s revenue until he paid back the original costs of setting him up… He would need to be introduced to the essentials of trade, of course.” He smiled at his son. “I like this idea, Hugh. There is some risk in it, of course, but it appeals to me. It would be a small venture, perhaps just one of many small ventures that could grow to greater things, and our bank would be sending woolens to Portugal and manufactured goods to Holland and Russia and so on…but there is potential in this modest idea…”
He had wanted to share this news with Hulton. But now the man was gone. Hugh’s eyes narrowed in a suspicion he did not want to credit until he learned the truth behind Hulton’s dismissal.
It was while he was shelving some books he had brought back from Danvers that he became aware of things that were missing from his room: a pair of shoes with silver buckles; a suit of clothes; several pair of silk hose; some shirts; a porcelain statuette of a Greek goddess disrobing for a bath; the Marquis of Bilbury’s sword, which he had left propped next to his desk. Some candles. And some books—including Hyperborea.
He checked his desk last. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. There was his brass top, sitting next to a silver bowl of gold guineas and silver crowns. The topmost of the coins had collected some dust. From a sconce over the desk was suspended Reverdy’s miniature portrait in its silver locket. He finished shelving his books, knowing that he must control h
is shaking hands.
When the servant appeared again with the tea and biscuits, Hugh waited until the man had laid out the things on a little table before he asked, “What has happened here?”
“Milord?” replied the servant anxiously.
“Things of mine have been removed from this room. Why?”
The servant gulped. “It must have to do with Mr. Hulton, milord. He was caught stealing, you see, and his lordship dismissed him—Oh, milord! I have told you too much! You are to ask his lordship for the particulars…!”
“You may go,” said Hugh abruptly. His suspicion was now half confirmed.
The servant bowed out of the room, glad to escape the murderous fury he saw in Hugh’s face.
It did not matter to Hugh who removed or stole his things. The fact was that they were gone. They were extensions of his body, of his life. He felt the same about their absence as if he had been physically assaulted. They were his things, as much his as his arms and legs. But he would not yet allow himself to draw a conclusion about who was responsible for the violation, not until he he had all the elements before him.
He had finished, in Danvers, his paper on ancient eudæmonist systems. He reread it while he waited for his uncle to return.
Near one o’clock in the morning he heard voices downstairs. Hugh rose and left his room. He heard his uncle instruct a servant to prepare his room for retirement while he saw to some business in his study.
* * *
After a cordial, though strained exchange of pleasantries about the holidays with the Earl in his study, Hugh bluntly asked, “Why was Hulton dismissed?”
The Earl had expected this curtness, but still did not like it. “He was a thief, nephew. I discharged him when his thefts were discovered. There was not a single thing that is either recovered or still missing that could not have earned him a hanging, had I elected to bring charges. But, it was the season of benevolence, and so I granted him mercy. I warned him that if he was ever seen near this house again, he would be arrested, and the devil may take him.”
“Who discovered these thefts?”
“Mr. Curle. He noticed some things poking out from beneath the villain’s cot downstairs. He brought the matter to my attention, as was his duty.”
“And did you not suspect that Mr. Curle could have engineered these ‘thefts’? He has never liked Mr. Hulton.”
The Earl’s face flushed red. “That is a slanderous insinuation about a man who has been in honest and loyal service here for years! If Mr. Curle had been here to hear it, I would expect you to apologize to him.”
“Mr. Curle knows what I think of him, sire, and he’s never expected an apology. And if I once refused to apologize to a duke, I would hardly stoop to apologizing to that chap.”
“I would demand one, sir,” replied the Earl.
Hugh changed the subject. “What else was taken? From the house, that is?”
The Earl poured himself some brandy before answering. “Some plate, a tea chest, a pair of silver candleholders your grandfather had made as a present to Queen Anne—she died before he could make the gift, you know. A quarter gross of candles that cannot be accounted for. Odds and ends, bric-a-brac, some table service.” The Earl knew that his nephew did not believe him but could not prove any suspicions he might have. Everything that was still “missing” had been taken by Curle and dumped into the Thames the day after Hugh had departed for Danvers.
Except for the books. These had been burned in the study’s fireplace, the flames tended by the Earl himself before he departed that evening for the opera.
Hugh asked, “Why would he steal a book? Specifically, Hyperborea? It has no pictures or engravings in it, and he would not know its value. It is the only book of value missing from my collection.”
The Earl shrugged. “There is a market for filth, nephew. For all kinds of it. Pictures, objects, and even books. These things, I hear, fetch fabulous prices, and change many leprous hands. That must have been the fate of your precious books. Especially this libelous fiction you refer to. Your father should never have given it to you, in any event.”
“Then why would such a well-read, observant thief not help himself to the bowl of money on my desk? There are twenty-six pounds in it, all told.”
“I do not know, nephew.”
“And the Marquis of Bilbury’s sword? It was a beautifully made sword, and would have fetched a handsome price in the thieves’ market.”
The Earl sniffed at his nephew’s audacity. He had inspected the sword, and wondered why his nephew had it. “I know nothing about that, nephew. If it was taken by Hulton from your room, well, what were you doing with it?”
“I caught the young Marquis and his friends taunting a man one night. I bested him in a fight and took his sword as a prize. He did not know who I was then, but he knows it now.”
The Earl frowned. “Is that what you do here, nephew? Get into fights and behave like a rascal or a drunken apprentice?”
“That is a question you should put to the Marquis, sire,” replied Hugh, not caring what his uncle thought now. “When were these ‘thefts’ discovered?”
“A few days after you took our coach to Canterbury,” answered the Earl, staring with undisguised malice at his relation.
Hugh rose from his chair before he lost control of his anger and contempt and blurted out an accusation of complicity of his uncle in a conspiracy not only to remove Hulton from the household, but to punish him. Hulton, he realized, had merely been the means to a larger end. He did not believe in Hulton’s guilt; it was a certainty that went beyond the fact that the valet had had numerous opportunities to steal. “Good night, sire.” He turned without further word and left the room. He had seen the look of interest in his uncle’s eyes when he mentioned the Bilbury sword, a look of foreknowledge, of eager curiosity—but not of surprise.
The Earl chuckled at his nephew’s exit. He was content that Hugh could prove nothing, though the suspicion would fester in his mind. That was punishment enough! He turned and rang for Claybourne, and left his study to retire for the night.
Hours later, Hugh came downstairs and through the darkened house went to his uncle’s study. He approached the fireplace, and used a poker to stir the ashes beneath the dying fire. He soon came upon a charred but recognizable corner of a cover of one of the volumes of Hyperborea, and then the half-consumed fragment of a spine. There was even a whole page, from the center of one of the volumes, scorched brown but still readable. With the poker he moved them out of the ashes and embers to a spot just behind the firedog to let them cool off. Then he picked up the page and dropped it into his dressing gown. The other fragments he let lie, so that they would be discovered. His uncle should have had the fireplace cleaned out after committing the crime.
That morning he had breakfast in his room; he did not wish to see his uncle. He walked alone to Dr. Comyn’s School to report his return and to learn what his schedule of instruction would be for the months ahead. Then he took a hackney to Benjamin Worley’s office on Lion Key. Once they were past the mutual greetings, he made an unusual request. It startled the merchant, but he complied. “Does your father know, milord?” he asked.
“No. I shall write him at the first chance.”
“Well…let me think for a moment. There are so many places…Ah, yes! I know just the place! And not far from Windridge Court. On Cutter Lane. There’s a solicitor there I use now and then, Nathan Rickerby. Owns the premises, and shares the ground flat with other legal types. Lives with his family on the second flat, and rents furnished lodgings on the third. Board, of course, is included. No drinking allowed, and no table on Saturdays and Sundays. I’ll draft a letter of introduction for you immediately, milord.”
“Without it mentioning my association with my uncle,” said Hugh.
“Yes…of course. But, milord, how will you explain yourself?”
“Oh, I’ll make something up. I’ll say that I’m the son of a merchant who’s taking his family to I
ndia, or America, and that they’re enroute.”
“Yes…I’m sure you’ll be able to invent some plausible background.”
“And I’ll pay the month’s rate with ready money. That should quench his inquisitiveness.”
“It will, no doubt about that, milord,” said Worley. “And, as you’re the epitome of a gentleman, he won’t risk probing you too far. Well, let me get on with this letter…” He paused, though, because curiosity got the better of him. “May I ask what is the nature of the dispute between you and your…his lordship?”
Hugh did not mind telling him. “He’s a liar, and a thief, and he destroyed some of my property while I was away. Or had it stolen. It is his house—and my father’s—but I will not stay in it while he is there. He is returning to Danvers in a month.”
“I see…” Worley drafted a letter of introduction, then handed it to the clerk whose impeccable handwriting had won him the position of chief correspondence clerk at the firm. He worried, though, that his action might embroil him in a family affair.
Hugh presented the letter to Mr. Rickerby later that morning. The solicitor was sufficiently convinced by Hugh’s changed story that he was the son of a Devonshire squire whose family was preparing for a Grand Tour on the Continent, and that he, Hugh Kenrick, had been sent ahead to acquire a knowledge of Holland, Prussia, Spain, and Italy at Dr. Comyn’s before the family came to London to collect him and embark on the two-year excursion. He showed Hugh the single room in the rear of the third floor. Hugh approved of it, and handed him a month’s rent, one pound.