Lord Barnham was less convinced.
‘I’m not sure that I would like you to go, Rachel,’ he told her. ‘His room is in the most desperate part of the city – there is squalor all around – taverns and inns of the lowest possible sort, nests of criminals, fallen …err women – I do not think it would be safe for you to go.’
‘Well, let me come along with you just once, Robert, and let me judge for myself. I might be able to take the footman with me if I think it could be done.’
So Lord Barnham had reluctantly agreed, and what his sister was to see on that journey was destined to affect her for the whole of the rest of her life. For, until that very moment, and in common with almost all young ladies with any pretensions to gentility whatsoever, she had never even imagined that such places as Milk Street would exist. The narrowness of the streets, piled with dirt and rubbish, the height of the buildings blocking all light from the muddy, dingy roadways and damp hovels below; the stench of sewage drifting from the river at the far end of the road; the sight of ragged children, little arms and legs exposed to the cold February air, coming up hopelessly to her and begging for some bread - Miss Forster saw horrors and deprivation that she had never even imagined existed, and which she never ever wanted to see again.
But once inside old Mr Forster’s room – once she had checked her tendency to retch at the noxious smell, and managed to peer through the dusty half light from the grimy black window – it was soon very apparent to both Miss Forster and Lord Barnham that the family should face a further diminution within a very short space of time. Mr Forster was lying on his mattress, as usual, coughing up an evil-looking black mess at regular intervals, which he deposited most disgustingly in a broken bowl upon the floor. He scarcely opened his eyes when Lord Barnham walked in. He didn’t even notice Miss Forster as she hesitated shyly in the doorway. But this time, instead of roundly abusing his great-nephew for visiting him, his reception of him was milder, more welcoming, and he beckoned him weakly to kneel by his side.
‘Your father found me an attorney, Barnham,’ he croaked, so quietly that Lord Barnham had to bend his head to hear. He was acutely aware of the noises from the street – children screaming and shrieking, women bawling to them to ‘get back ’ere this instant or I’ll knock yer bleedin’ blocks off’, men making merry with street girls in the inn – the sound of industry emanating from the grubby workshops at street level, removal men transporting expensive furniture from warehouses to the elegant terraces up in town. But in here, in the dying man’s chamber, everything else was silent. There was only the faint rustle of wind as it crept through the broken pane in the dirty window, and the faint crackling whisper as the old man breathed his last. ‘He will sort out my bits and pieces for you when I am gone. I have left them all to you, Barnham. I would have left them to your father, but he has gone to the churchyard before me. But you are a good lad, Barnham. You’re being more than fair by me. And I want to make it up to the family,’ here he coughed and spat again. Lord Barnham tried not to pull himself away. ‘I need to make things up.’
Lord Barnham looked at him enquiringly.
‘What is it that you need to make up to us, uncle?’ he asked him, quietly. ‘What is it that you have done?’
The old man closed his eyes weakly. For a moment his lordship thought that he had fallen off to sleep. But they opened again in an instant – opened wide in a look of fear and of regret.
‘I did a very bad deed to your father, Barnham, a very bad deed that I’ve regretted all my life. I wanted to make it up to him, but he’s gone and left me beforehand – so now I’ll have to make it up to you instead.’
‘But what was it, uncle? What was this very bad deed that you had done?’
The old man took a shallow breath. It was as much as he could do.
‘I know that your father has told you about how he came to fix his interest with your mother,’ he whispered. ‘We have had some quite long discussions since we found each other in Bath. He has told me a lot about you, Barnham – about how you were pursuing kelter over happiness, about what he said to you in return.’ Here Lord Barnham flushed. He wondered in what terms his father had been speaking of him. ‘But I also know that when he told you about how he came to splice your mother he only told you the partial truth. I know the rest of it, Barnham. I want you to know it before I breathe my last.’
Miss Forster, standing still in the doorway, crept forward a little and sat herself gingerly on the stool. The dying man hardly noticed her. He was determined to tell his story and he no longer cared about who ever might overhear.
‘I was the youngest of my parents’ children. My brother, Thaddeus – your grandfather – was the oldest. There were several sisters between him and me, though they all died early, before I was born. And by the time I appeared my parents were getting old. They had worn themselves out. They did not want another son. My mother had no time for me - she was grieving for her girls. My father saw no merit in me – he had eyes only for Thaddeus. Thaddeus was the favourite one – the brilliant one. Thaddeus was the golden child – charming, clever, brave and strong. He was my parents’ firstborn, and the apple of their eyes. He was the one who would make the family fortunes. To my parents he could do no wrong, whilst I – the younger son, the puny one, the spare with no real role,’ here the old man’s voice rose, fierce with bile. It was as if he were re-living the resentments of his childhood once again. ‘Everyone revered him – whilst I could do no right. Everything he did, everything he touched – he seemed to turn it to gold. He was the one to fix his interests, he was the one to produce the heirs. Ha! He even got hold of a peerage. He went for a soldier, like our father before him. He covered himself in blood and glory, and was handed his peerage as a reward. I saw him being given everything whilst I was given nothing at all. And yet I knew him for what he was, Barnham – I knew him for what he was. Yes, he could be charming. Yes, he could be brave, and strong. But there was another side to him altogether – a darker side, an evil side – as if all of those strengths – all those advantages – all those attractions - they had to face their opposites somehow. So as well as being convivial he was a hell-hound. As well as being a charmer he was self willed – headstrong - ruthless – a knight of the blade - totally and utterly determined to have whatever he wished. Nothing and nobody could ever stand in his way. He used his charm, his cleverness, his deviousness to get whatever he liked. And if his charm didn’t get him what he wanted then his scaly, vicious violence invariably would. He was jealous of what little attention I got from our parents. The sad dog wanted it all for himself. So he got his way by bullying me – his little brother – taunting me, fagging me, demeaning me, constantly putting me down. He managed to rid himself of me in no time. I was only too happy to hike away to sea. And then he wanted a wench that I fell for – a wench whom I wanted to marry and who wanted to marry me. I had not told my brother about her – I did not want him to know – but he learned about her somehow and decided to have her for his own. He had never loved his poor, sweet, badly treated wife. He couldn’t bear the thought that I’d find happiness where he had found none. So he set out his stall to win her. He turned on all his charm. But his charm was rapidly fading. He was a fuddle cap, out at heels, ageing. My sweetheart would not have him. She wanted to wait for me. But he took her anyway – took my poor, sweet Susan and got the wench with child. The devil himself had lain with her and forced her to bear his child. Poor Susan could not cope with it. She went into decline. From a lovely, healthy, blooming mort she turned into a wraith. Three months it took – just three short months – to kill my darling and kill my hopes. I was out at sea when it happened. I didn’t know straight away. But when I did eventually come to hear about it my world just came to an end. My anguish - I was mad with anguish – mad with anguish and overcome by hate. All the petty insults, all the taunts, all the wounds – all these were as nothing compared to what he had done to my poor little Sue. And it was then that I plotted my revenge
. I’d take his life and I’d happily hang for it. I’d be free of the bastard come what may. So once I was back from my travels I set out immediately, determined to track him down. But as always he managed to outwit me. I was just a month too late. The blackguard had died before I could even get my hands on him – died in his sleep, like an innocent babe. I could not even get at him. A paltry month too late. The man who had taken everything had stolen my chance of revenge.’
Here Simon started coughing once again. Lord Barnham could see that his fists were clenched under the paper-thin cover, willing him to go on. He helped him to some stingo. It seemed to do some good.
‘So I could not revenge myself on my dastardly brother. But if I could not take my revenge on my brother, then his family would have to do. I waited, and watched, and bided my time. I waited and watched for a long, long time – a very long time indeed. Revenge, they say, is best served cold – and the longer I waited and the longer I watched, the colder I became. My opportunity came when your father fell in love with a sweet young mort – Becky they called her – as lovely a little thing as ever a man could wish for – little rosebud of a mouth, clear hazel eyes, shining hair – so dainty she looked as if a breath of wind would blow her quite away. He himself was a fine young blood in those days – tall and dashing, already a viscount, though with hardly a croker to his name. He had inherited all of his father’s charms, and none of his terrible viciousness. He wanted her to splice with him – was desperate for her to splice him – and he said he would enlist as a soldier in order that she could. And then I saw my chance had come. It was time at last for me to make my move.’
Lord Barnham’s eyes widened and he caught his breath. He felt a shiver of horror pass through him. He knew exactly where the story would go from here.
‘I was making my fortune as a privateer – you may not know that I was a privateer? – and just at the time that they were making their plans I brought my fortune home. I had a good deal of kelter – a vast amount of kelter – and the parallel with my brother was alluring. So I found a way to get back at him. I seduced little Becky with my balsam and my charm – oh, yes, I had a good deal of charm in those days, Barnham, the family was replete with it, though I know you won’t believe it now. I had weasly ways with women, my lad – all seamen do, and we privateers – well, we spun some yarns that drew them all in, like pretty little moths to our lascivious flames. So I tapped his little Becky and enticed her quite away. But I did not splice with the mort. I did not want to give your father the satisfaction of knowing that I’d rescued her. But even then he was prepared to have her. He loved her so much that he was still prepared to splice with her, and she agreed to do so in the end. She died giving birth to a six-month child on the very day that they should have wed. I even took him to see her when she died – took him to see the love of his life, who had just then departed our world whilst bearing me my own dead bantling. And when I saw your father’s face when he looked at her – looked at her death-pale face, and the tiny little bundle in her arm – I suddenly realised what a bastard I had been – how the devil had got hold of me and filled me with evil and hate. I had hardly thought of it before. I had hardly thought of anything – my hatred, my lust for revenge had been all-powerful, all consuming – even on an innocent lad, as he was, and even on an innocent young wench. But suddenly – seeing his face as he stared at his loved one – seeing what I’d done to that poor mort and that good, innocent man – suddenly I saw myself for what I had become.’ He fixed his gaze on a cobweb that hung, black, above the mattress. There was a faraway look in his eyes. It was as if he were back there, in that room, surveying the ghastly scene, re-living again and again the evil that he’d done. ‘I looked in the mirror and all I could see was evil – black, despicable evil, an evil so foul that I could hardly bear to look at it. So I slunk away – I slunk away like the odious sea-snake that I was, back to the oceans where I belonged. And every day since then I have thought of it – thought of her pretty face, that little child, your father’s despair at what I had done. Every day I have thought of it, and repented of it, and every night it has hounded me, hounded me for thirty years and more. The ghost of that poor sweet mort has followed me wherever I have gone – across the seas, to foreign lands. Everywhere I have gone, the ghost of her has gone with me, reproaching me with that sad, pale little face and those lovely, rosebud lips. I detested myself and I detested my life, but I’d do nothing to relieve myself of all those ghosts. I could not beg for forgiveness – from him, from God, or from myself. It was my own way of expiating my sins, living with those ghosts. So I never went back to him, never threw myself upon my sword. And I never had sight nor sound of your father from that day onwards, and thought I never would. So I never saw your father again – not until this past few weeks, when we came across each other in the baths, and recognised each other as if it had all just happened yesterday. And as soon as he saw me your father came up to me and insisted on shaking my hand. And when I saw him I realised what a very great gentleman your father was – a greater gentleman than anyone I have ever known in the whole of the rest of my life – not in monetary terms, or society, of course – I don’t mean anything like that – but as a person, as a man. The man whose happiness I had deliberately destroyed came up to me and insisted on shaking my hand. And from that very moment, Barnham, the ghosts disappeared into nothingness and I could find some peace at last.’
His wide, frightened, regretful eyes closed wearily. It had taken him all his strength to finish his tale. Lord Barnham shuffled uncomfortably as he kneeled still on the floor. Miss Forster hardly knew whether to stay, or go. But they both remained there, transfixed by what the old man had told them – transfixed by it, feeling privileged to hear it, and feeling sickened and appalled that such terrible things could ever have taken place.
‘You have made your peace with my father, uncle, and you have made your peace with us,’ muttered his lordship, eventually, ‘and now you can make your peace with God. Thank you for telling us your story. It was important for us to know. I only wish – I only wish I had understood it earlier – a long, long time ago. I would have felt more compassion for my father had I understood the truth.’
He felt beneath the cover and pulled out his uncle’s trembling hand. He clasped it for a moment with tears in his eyes. Then he assisted his sister from the stool and they quietly left the room.
The next day Lord Barnham and Miss Forster went back to Milk Street to check on him once more. And this time the mattress was completely covered over, and the sad and remorseful old gentleman had finally joined the nephew whom he had so badly wronged.
Chapter 32
‘I say, Barnham – now your old man’s passed on I suppose it’s you I have to talk to about my allowance, is it not, old chap?’
Tom Springfield had suddenly reached this most delightful conclusion in the midst of discussing important world events with his cousin in the inn on North Parade. The important world events in question had focused on news of the Prince of Wales’ appointment as Regent and, more particularly, on the new Regent’s first levee, due to be held the following week, which Lord Barnham, as a new peer of the realm, would most certainly be expected to attend.
Lord Barnham broke off in mid sentence and eyed his cousin suspiciously.
‘It is indeed, Tom,’ he acknowledged. ‘But why do you feel the need to raise it with me now?’
‘Well, what an absolute hoot. I’ll be able to do exactly what I want from now on, thank God. You couldn’t advance me a monkey today, could you, old chap? Only I’ve got a dun on me tail who’s making a blasted nuisance of himself at the moment and I’d be really glad to send him on his way, if you know what I mean. If you can’t manage it today then I daresay tomorrow will have to do…’
Lord Barnham frowned as he drained his glass for the sixth time that day.
‘And what makes you think I’ll be advancing you anything at all, cousin?’ he asked him, pleasantly, smacking his lips and r
eplacing the glass on the table. ‘My father allowed you a monkey a year, if what I see in the paperwork is correct, and sorted all your household bills on top. A monkey is a very great figure for any young gentleman to spend, though I may be persuaded to increase it very slightly in a year or so’s time. But I have no intentions of giving you carte blanche, my friend. There is no question whatsoever of me doing anything of the kind.’
Mr Springfield stared at his cousin disbelievingly. He had just been in the middle of downing a deep draught. He nearly choked on it.
‘What?’ he gasped, spluttering a little. ‘What the hell do you mean, Barnham? Of course you’ll give me access to me rag. I’ve got no end of plans for it. Why, I’ve ordered some new outfits at Jackson’s already on the strength of it, and I’ve not quite paid for the last ones yet. And then there’s Fellowes and Smythe-Grey to pay – I can’t get out of those ones, that’s for sure, or I’ll never be allowed in White’s again. And…and…’
His lordship was visibly less than usually impressed. Mr Springfield broke off in confusion. And then an unwelcome thought made its way into the ether of his consciousness and he glared at his cousin with a look of great mistrust.
‘I say, old chap – I know you’re stiver cramped and all that – poor old James, lacking his commission. Wanted to be a – whatever did that King bloke say he would want to be – an ensign or something? – and you thinking of that Wetherby woman for a while – whatever went wrong with that one, anyway? – seemed to be going on quite well, to me. I say - you’re not thinking of dipping in on your own account, are you? I’m not too sure that I’d be entirely happy with that.’
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