Red, Red Rose

by Marjorie Farrell

  “A well-earned vacation, I might add,” said the earl.

  “Father thinks it time for me to go away to school, Val.”

  Val nodded, wondering what this had to do with him.

  “But I told him I didn’t want to leave Faringdon. Not alone, anyway. I want….” Charlie glanced over at his father for confirmation and the earl nodded. “We want you to come with me.”

  Val was too surprised to keep his face expressionless. “Are you mad, Charlie? I’m a blacksmith’s apprentice. And I couldn’t get out of my articles even if I wanted to.”

  “Father will buy you out.”

  Val looked over at his father, astonishment on his face. “Whyever would you want to do that, my lord?”

  “Charles needs to be away with other boys his age, Valentine. His mother wanted to wait, and when she died, I hesitated to send him. But with you accompanying him, he would feel less alone.”

  “George Burton would never let me go,” Val said flatly.

  “Oh, I daresay he could be persuaded,” the earl replied with an ironic smile.

  “Please say yes, Val,” Charlie pleaded.

  Val ignored him and stared at the earl. “Might we converse alone, my lord?” he asked formally.

  “Of course. Charles, please wait in the drawing room.”

  “Father….”

  “Charles.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie left with a pleading backward glance at his brother.

  “Well, Valentine?”

  “Why would you do this now, my lord? After all these years?”

  “Because Charles has grown fond of you. And because I think your mother would have liked you to have the opportunities your birth fits you for.”

  “My birth! That’s a fine joke, my lord. I am nothing but your bastard. By-blow of an earl and a farmer’s daughter. And I’ll thank you not to imagine what my mother would want. How would you know, once you deserted her?” All the anger Val had been holding in flared up and the words were out before he realized it.

  “You may be a bastard, Valentine,” the earl responded calmly, “but you are, as you put it, an earl’s bastard. And your mother held schooling to be very important.”

  “That hasn’t seemed to concern you all these years.”

  “It was your mother’s wish that I stay away from her and you. She had given guardianship to her sister long ago. I had no way of knowing until recently that your aunt was so different from Sarah. Your allowance went through my solicitor. It wasn’t until Charlie found out about you that I discovered the truth about George Burton.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Val replied hotly.

  “Be that as it may, I am now offering you an education and freedom from a laborer’s life.”

  “And what would I do with such an education? Become the best-read blacksmith in Devon?”

  “If you wished. But I would suggest considering the law or perhaps estate management as an alternative,” the earl replied with dry humor.

  Val was quiet for a long time and his father waited patiently while the boy considered his offer.

  To go to school? To be out from under George Burton? To have some choice in his life? Not to lose Charlie? How could he say no? Yet how could he accept this from a man who was only acknowledging him fifteen years after his birth?

  “It is a hard decision to make,” Val finally choked out.

  “I understand.” And Faringdon did. The boy was proud and did not want to be beholden to the man he saw as the victimizer of his mother. “But it would be so helpful to Charles….”

  If the earl had mentioned his mother or his position, Val would have said no immediately. But Charlie? How could he not give something back to the first person who had offered him affection since his mother died?

  “I will try it, for Charlie’s sake,” said Val, standing up. “But I will not thank you for it, my lord.”

  “No, I suppose I did not expect gratitude,” Faringdon replied. “Well, then, I will send Robinson to Burton to buy you out.”

  “I wish to go with him, my lord. To say a farewell to my aunt and thank her. It has been hard for her all these years, trying to protect me and at the same time remain loyal to her husband.”

  “Very well. You should be ready to leave tomorrow.”

  * * * *

  The look on George Burton’s face when Robinson informed him of the earl’s intentions was reward enough for all the years the man had brutalized him, thought Val. The man was outraged, greedy, and obsequious all at the same time. He accepted Robinson’s third offer, not realizing that he could have held out for more.

  “This will more than provide you for another apprentice, Mr. Burton,” said Robinson as he handed over the earl’s draft.

  “Aye, one I’ll have to train from the very beginning,” he grumbled.

  “Do you have anything to collect, Valentine?” Robinson asked in a kinder tone than Val had ever heard from him before.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, get your things and meet me at the inn. I would like to be off within the half-hour.”

  Val turned his back on George Burton and the shop and headed toward the house. He collected his books and two shirts, leaving behind a patched pair of corduroys and an old pair of brogues. There wasn’t much, even after seven years, he thought sadly.

  His aunt was in the kitchen, setting out the bread to rise, and his appearance at the door startled her. “Why, Val, I thought you’d be staying a few more days. Did you not enjoy your visit?”

  “I am only here to collect my things,” Val told her gently.

  His aunt looked over at him, a puzzled frown on her face.

  “The earl wishes to send me to school.”

  “But George?”

  “The earl has paid him well for the last year of my articles,” Val reassured her.

  His aunt put a hand over her heart, as though to calm it. “Oh, Valentine, this is what your mother would have wished. I have often felt so terrible that I couldn’t do better for you.”

  “You did what you could, Martha,” Val told her. “And it has not been so bad, once I grew strong enough.”

  They both knew he didn’t mean strong enough for the hammer, but strong enough to keep George from beating him.

  “I always tried to stop him,” she said with helpless regret.

  “I know, but he needed to hear it in his own language, Martha,” Val said with a reassuring grin. “Now, come and give me a good-bye hug and wish me luck. God knows I’ll need it.”

  Martha clung to him for a long time. When she finally pulled away she had to wipe her eyes on her apron. “You remember you are Sarah Aston’s son, Val. She was a good, strong woman, so don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed.”

  There was color in Martha’s cheeks and for a moment Val saw his aunt’s resemblance to her sister that became apparent from time to time. He caught her in his arms for another long hug and this time it was his eyes that were filled with tears. “I will keep in touch, Martha,” he promised.

  “I know you will, Val. God be with you.”

  With all the times he had wished for his freedom and dreamed of his escape, Val had never imagined it would be hard to leave the smithy behind. And yet, as he walked down to the inn, he realized he was leaving the only home he had known since his mother died, and his closest connection to her.

  He had learned a lot from George Burton, he had to admit. First, how to survive cruelty, which was no small thing. Second, how to stop a bully. And third, a trade that had made him physically strong and with which he could support himself if he ever needed to. In a strange way, he was even grateful to the man, he realized with a grin as he stepped forward to greet Robinson and begin his new life.

  * * * *

  Queen’s Hall was a smaller version of Eton and Harrow, educating, as they did, the sons of the nobility so they could take their places helping run the nation.

  Or ruin the nation, Val thought cynically after his first month there. He w
asn’t sure what he’d expected of the legitimate issue of earls and marquesses, but certainly something different than the young ruffians of Queen’s Hall. With the exception of a few boys in every form, the majority were as mean-spirited and intolerant as the worst of Westbourne. They pounced on any weakness and exploited it. The upper-school boys tormented the lower-school boys just because they were younger and smaller.

  He only saw Charlie at meals and then it was from three tables over. There were occasional stolen moments in the hallway when Charlie would give him a smile that lifted his spirits for a few days. And there were a few free hours on Sundays after chapel.

  That seemed to be enough for Charlie, who recovered quickly from his first few weeks of homesickness and threw himself into his schoolwork and games. It became obvious to Val that his brother was immensely popular and had the makings of a natural leader.

  Val was not faring as well. While Charlie was entering school only a few years after boys his own age, Val’s classmates had been at the Hall for seven years. They knew the routines, the schoolwork, and, most of all, each other.

  Val’s natural intelligence and hunger for knowledge helped him to catch up in most of his classes. But Latin was Greek to him. He was sent to the lower school to sit in a small chair with the seven-year-olds, his baritone voice overshadowing their piping tenors as they repeated their “amo, amas, amats.” Finally the humiliation became too much and he visited the school’s head to convince him Latin was a subject not required for someone who would most likely end up an estate manager. The head needed no convincing, for he regarded Val’s presence mainly as an interesting social experiment and an additional source of income. It wasn’t that the Hall hadn’t educated the occasional by-blow before, but never one quite so muscular, he thought after Val left.

  * * * *

  Things might eventually have turned out well had it not been for Lord Lucas Stanton. He was an arrogant upper classman who, from the first, had whispered slurs just loud enough for Val and one or two of Stanton’s lackeys to overhear, but never anyone in authority. It wasn’t easy for Val to ignore him, but he did, knowing any response would only feed Stanton’s desire to humiliate.

  Then Val caught him in the washroom one day twisting the arm of one of the skinnier eight-year-olds while commanding the boy to lick his boots clean. On the one hand, Val knew the lad was lucky it was only Stanton’s boots he was being asked to lick. On the other, he couldn’t ignore the pain and fear in the boy’s eyes, so he ordered Stanton to let him go.

  “And who are you to give me orders, Mr. Aston?” sneered Stanton, all the while twisting his victim’s arm even harder. Val quickly grabbed Stanton’s free arm and twisted it behind the bully’s back. Stanton yelped in pain and Val motioned the younger boy to the door. The lad, tears pouring down his face, gave Val an admiring and grateful look, and fled.

  Stanton struggled but was no match for Val. “How does it feel, Stanton?” asked Val, twisting his arm even harder. He let go suddenly and Stanton staggered and almost fell. “You are a pathetic excuse for a gentleman,” said Val with disgust. “If I ever catch you torturing a small boy again, I’ll make you lick your own boots clean.”

  Stanton had never been a friend, but it was now clear that Val had made an enemy. The insults became more frequent and instead of sotto voce, were often uttered aloud and in public. Val continued to swallow them, knowing there was no alternative unless he was willing to fight. But fighting was against the rules, he thought angrily, while tormenting little boys was not.

  On one rainy Friday at the end of a long, rainy week, things came to a head. All of the boys were feeling pent up, having been confined indoors for so long. They gathered around the tea tables, ravenously eating biscuits and muffins, jostling one another, and rattling their teacups. Just as Val entered the room, Stanton said from across the floor, loud enough for all to hear, “Here he is, Faringdon’s bastard. Do you know, I’ve found out who his mother was: a tuppenny whore who died of the pox.”

  Of all the insults he had endured and ignored—and Val had ignored many—this was the first time Stanton had commented on his mother. He pushed his way through the openmouthed boys.

  “What did you say?” he demanded in a low voice.

  “I said, Aston, that your mother was a tuppenny whore.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Val’s arm swept the teacup out of Stanton’s hand and the sound of the shattering china quieted the room immediately.

  “Come outside, Stanton.”

  Stanton glanced out the window. “I think not, Aston.”

  Val’s hand was at Stanton’s throat in an instant, grabbing his cravat and twisting it. “You will come outside, Stanton. Or are you afraid to?”

  “I’m not afraid of a rude fellow like you, Aston,” Stanton managed to choke out.

  “I’ll meet you behind the kitchen, then,” said Val and, turning on his heel, he walked out of the room, ignoring Charlie’s hand on his arm and his desperate plea to “Ignore, him, Val. You’ll be thrown out for fighting.”

  The tearoom emptied in a minute, and half the school gathered outside with the other half crowding the hall windows.

  Val had stripped his shirt off and was standing in the rain, the hard little needles hitting his chest and arms, but his anger so energized him he didn’t feel cold or wet. When Stanton came out he stripped quickly and rushed Val, pushing him down into the mud. As Val stood up, Stanton caught him a blow on the chin and a muffled gasp went up from all the boys. This wasn’t going to be an imitation of a bout of fisticuffs at Jackson’s.

  Val pulled himself back up and rubbed his chin. “No gentleman’s rules, Stanton?”

  “You’re a bastard, not a gentleman, Aston,” Stanton sneered.

  Val moved so fast that Stanton never saw him coming. He swept the viscount’s leg with his and Stanton went down to his knees. With his two hands together as though he were holding a blacksmith’s hammer, Val smashed him on the side of the face and Stanton went over into the mud. Val looked down at him. “Where I come from, you don’t kick a man when he’s down, Stanton, so get yourself up.”

  Stanton stood up, and landed a blow to Val’s right eye.

  As Val went down, he was blinded by the blood from his split eyebrow and didn’t see Stanton’s boot coming until it was too late to avoid it. He knew his nose was broken as soon as it was hit. He was down on all fours like an animal when Stanton grabbed his hair and, lifting his head, said, “Would you agree, Aston, that your mother was a pox-ridden whore?” He was just raising a hand to hit Val’s face when Val grabbed him between the thighs and squeezed. Stanton doubled over and then they heard a new voice.

  “What the hell is going on here, Stanton?”

  “Why, er, nothing, Wimborne,” Stanton grunted, trying to straighten up. “Just a little sport, that is all.”

  James Lambert, Marquess of Wimborne, looked around at the silent spectators and then down at Val. “I don’t call it sporting to insult a man’s mother, Stanton,” said the marquess, looking at Stanton with disgust. “And your fighting techniques belong in Seven Dials. Now all of you get yourselves out of here before the head finds out. Henry, help me with Aston.”

  The marquess and his friend lifted Val up and when he tried to pull away and stand on his own, James said with sympathetic humor, “Relax, Aston. I’m only taking you to my rooms to get you cleaned up a bit before supper.” So Val let himself be led.

  The Marquess of Wimborne was in his last year at Queen’s Hall. He was one of the best-loved pupils in the school, both by the boys and the masters. To be his fag was like being adopted, not enslaved, for while he used the younger boys for errands, he also jollied them out of their homesickness, encouraged the shy ones, and controlled the bullies. Val, who was two forms below him, knew of him and had even received a smile in the hall, but had never expected to speak with him, much less be rescued by him.

  “I’ve been watching you, Aston,” said the marquess as he cleaned the b
lood off Val’s face with a wet towel. “Stanton has been after you for weeks, but you’ve managed to ignore him. Which is always the best course with bullies like that,” he added with a warm smile. “What set you off?”

  “I am used to being offered insults to myself, my lord,” Val answered, “but he insulted my mother’s memory.”

  “Yes, I thought it might have been that,” murmured the marquess as he gently ran his fingers down Val’s nose. “I fear ‘tis broken, Mr. Aston, and you will have an even more raptor-like look in the future,” he joked as Val winced. “Not that it won’t make you more interesting to the ladies,” he added.

  “I doubt that any lady will be interested in me, my lord,” Val replied with a strained smile.

  “Nonsense, you are just the rugged sort they love. Now then, Henry, can you get me a clean shirt from the clothespress?”

  Val started to protest, but the marquess just put up his hand. “Do you wish to be sent down, Mr. Aston?”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. I have heard that you are quite good in all your classes…except, perhaps, Latin?”

  Val looked up, expecting an insult and finding only a sympathetic twinkle in Wimborne’s eyes. He grinned. “I must confess I felt like a bullfrog amongst the peepers, my lord.”

  “An apt metaphor, my friend,” said the marquess with an appreciative laugh. “I saw you with your knees up around your ears.”

  They both laughed and Val felt all the muscles in his back relax. He realized that it was the first time in weeks that he wasn’t holding himself guarded and tense.

  “Look, old fellow, I know Stanton is a brute,” said the marquess seriously. “I try to keep the youngest boys safe from him, if you know what I mean.”

  Val nodded. He knew what went on. Some of the boys relieved their tension by stroking themselves, and others were drawn to one another out of loneliness. A few, Val knew, had genuine affection and desire for their own sex. He’d heard of two men like that, in the next town over from Westbourne. He didn’t really understand it, and didn’t know quite what he felt about it, but what he did mind was the way some of the older boys were rumored to force those of the lower school. To him, that was buggery, pure and simple, and he had had a hard time accepting that it was the way things were done. Val was happy to know that his new friend deplored the practice as he did.