by Joan Smith
“This is the most arrant nonsense. We are not Frenchies,” Hettie said angrily. “Really, Otto, your actions defeat comment.”
“That is not the impression your tirade gives, Auntie. If it takes such crude reminders as this to shame the Prince into keeping his promises, then so be it.”
“But will it mean you lose the Clarion?” I asked.
He seemed pleased at the question, or at my concern at least. His voice, when he answered, was almost tender. “I shan’t be left to bear the full brunt of the fine. I have colleagues—or do I mean cohorts?” he added, with an impish grin.
Felix cleared his throat and said, “You might have made your point in a manner less degrading to the Prince, Otto. You should have some respect for the position, if not the man.”
“I consider this very much an attack on the man, not the monarchy,” Otto said. “We have never done anything against mad old King George the Third. As he cannot help his condition, it would be mean-spirited to make fun of him. Prinney, on the other hand, has thus far escaped being declared non compos mentis. Until such time, he must be judged as a sane man.”
Gregory stirred to life. “They say he spends every afternoon at Manchester Square, with his head on her breast.”
“And his ear at her mouth, hearing things he shouldn’t,” Otto added.
Auntie called them to order. “You will please remember there are ladies present.”
Juteclaw appeared at the doorway and hollered that dinner was ready. Gregory and Felix darted to assist Auntie from her chair and escort her to the dining-room, one propping her up on either side. Horatio offered me his arm.
Otto strode forward and said, “You have had your turn, Horatio. Now it is mine.” So saying, he placed my fingers on his arm and patted them.
Horatio latched on to Mrs. Manner, and I finally had a moment’s private conversation with Otto.
“Would it help if you apologized—publicly I mean, in the Clarion?” I asked him.
“I have no idea, nor am I interested. It would be hypocrisy to apologize for the truth.”
“But what will you do if you lose the Clarion?”
“Then I shall open a new journal, and call it something else. The Phoenix, perhaps, as it will rise from the ashes of its former self. My list of subscribers would swell as a result of the scandal. You never want to underestimate the drawing power of scandal, Jess.” He inclined his head close to mine and added, “Now if you would just smarten up and make a scandal of yourself, you would have the gents bursting down your door.”
“It is not easy to institute a scandal in this house.”
“I beg to differ! I accomplish it every time I come, and you know what an unexceptionable fellow I am.”
“No, you accomplish it in London, and flaunt it here. What do you suggest I do?”
“You could take off your clothes and take a stroll into the village. Let me know when you want to do it, and I shall see that Cruikshank is here to sketch you au naturel. We’ll give you space on the front page. Let us say, about May. December is not the weather for it.”
Auntie would have swooned if she had overheard that conversation. I daresay it was a trifle broad, but that, too, was a part of Otto’s charm. He never went over the edge into licentiousness, however.
At dinner, Auntie had Gregory at her right hand, although that honour should have gone to Otto as the only one with any claim to a title. Otto sat on her left, and I sat across from him. We had a lovely dinner with two courses and two removes. The turbot did not taste too fishy, as it sometimes does. The roast beef was pink and succulent. For that interval, all troublesome conversation was set aside and we simply gossiped about family matters. Auntie liked to keep abreast of all that was happening. Our wineglasses were kept full. When dessert was served, I felt quite giddy and refused the rum-cake.
This white sponge cake with raisins, served with a jug of hot sugared rum, was Hettie’s favourite. She poured the syrup over hers until the cake was soaked. Horatio and Felix had fruit and cheese instead.
After dinner, the gentlemen cracked walnuts for us with their bare hands, except for Felix, whose fingers were not strong enough. Mrs. Manner complimented them on the strength of their sinewy fingers, and Horatio said it was riding and driving that developed the muscles. When Aunt Hettie rose to lead the ladies to the saloon, the gentlemen all stood up and bowed.
“Don’t dally over your port. I am fagged, but I would like to see you all for a moment before I retire,” Auntie said.
Within thirty minutes they rejoined us, and we had some pleasant conversation over the teacups. This was the crucial hour. Tomorrow Auntie would call her solicitor to discuss her will, so any good impressions to be made must be made before she retired. Felix spoke of his new book; Otto unwisely spoke of his journal; Horatio yawned, and Gregory just looked smug. The name “Mrs. Rampling” did not arise. At nine o’clock Aunt Hettie yawned and said she was for the feather tick.
“You will not want to stay up late, Addie,” she informed her companion. "Ten o’clock is plenty late enough. Naturally you will bring Jessica upstairs with you. You might bring me up a bottle of my cough syrup when you come.”
“Juteclaw has already taken it up.”
“A piece of the rum-cake then. I read for an hour to encourage sleep. I shall see you all tomorrow morning. Breakfast is at eight.”
The atmosphere changed the minute she left. All the play-acting could be dropped, and the gentlemen were at their ease. Juteclaw brought a bottle of sherry to replace the tea.
“You are looking mighty smug, Greg,” Horatio said. “She gave you the five hundred?”
“She is going to, tomorrow. I want to thank you for not telling her those oaks are already cut. I realized, when you were squinting at me, that you would have seen it on your way from Cleremont.”
“You cut that stand of oaks!” Felix exclaimed.
“Not to worry, young brother. Hanshurst does belong to me now, you know.”
“Was wondering,” Horatio said, “think there’s any chance she might dip into her purse for me? Five hundred...”
Gregory just shrugged. Otto asked Horatio what he needed the money for.
“If she doesn’t come across, I’ll see what I can do,” Otto said, when Horatio told him about the wedding gift, and the roof.
“Can’t ask you at this time,” Horatio objected.
“I haven’t lost the case yet,” Otto said airily. “Libel involves not only attacking a man’s reputation, but making unjust, i.e., untrue, statements. I printed no more than the truth. If he goes after me for treason, he’ll be laughed out of London. This suit is no more than an attempt at intimidation, to make us all tuck in our tails and be good boys.”
“But if worst comes to worst, the Whigs would kick in and help defray the cost?” Horatio asked.
“That is our understanding. They would also raise the mother of ruckuses in the House. Entre nous, we are hoping the case does go to court.”
“Then it won’t,” Gregory said, and laughed.
Otto shrugged. “It might. Bread and circuses—that is what the public want, eh, Felix? And it will be a fine circus, I promise you.”
“This is amabilis insania,” Felix said tolerantly, then went on to hint for a review of his book in the Clarion.
“I have every intention of reviewing it myself, as soon as I have finished reading it,” Otto assured him. “Unlike some journals, we make it a habit to read books before reviewing them. From what I have read thus far, I can tell you the review will be favourable. Are you not ashamed to write so well?”
Felix blushed. “Oh, I would not say that! Really, you are too kind.”
Otto, for some reason, looked first surprised, then embarrassed. “You have made great strides since that translation of Cicero you did—when was it—five years ago?”
“I cringe to think of that! I rushed into print to try to make a name for myself, and only did myself discredit. I have slaved for five years over Pl
utarch.”
“It must have been pleasant slaving, though, for a scholar,” Otto said. “There is such a wealth of anecdotage in Plutarch. I had forgotten all those jokes about the size and shape of Pericles’s head. I wonder Teleclides was not threatened with a libel suit for that poem about ‘Fainting underneath the load of his own head.’ Obviously Pericles had a better sense of humour than certain rulers who shall be nameless.”
“Oh yes, a long-headed fellow,” Felix said. “That is why he is usually depicted wearing a helmet, to conceal his disfigurement. He was a marvel—a supreme tactician at war, a wise and able ruler, a patron of the arts.”
“Not to forget a famous lover,” Otto smiled. “I am referring, of course, to Aspasia.”
Felix nodded. “And a tolerable musician as well, a pupil of Damon.”
Otto looked at him in that same surprised way he had looked earlier, when he asked if Felix was not ashamed to write so well. “It is spelled ‘Damon,’ but pronounced ‘Dammon,’ is it not? I seem to remember reading it in your own book, Felix. I chuckled to myself, thinking they were as bad as we English in that respect. What poor student of English would ever suspect ‘Saint John’ was pronounced ‘Sinjun,’ or ‘Leveson’ as ‘Loosen’?”
“You are quite right. I had forgotten that detail,” Felix smiled.
“Ah, well,” Otto said, “we cannot expect an eagle to bother himself with flies. I am enjoying your translation immensely."
“Perhaps Otto would like to meet John Weldon,” Mrs. Manner mentioned.
I thought Felix would enjoy to have his audience widened, but he frowned. “The fellow is a bit of a bore, to tell the truth. A quibbler. But I must be polite to my readers. I have told him I’ll see him again tomorrow, but I shan’t subject you to his ravings, Otto.”
“I have other plans for tomorrow,” Otto said, and turned a questioning look on me. “I am hoping to beguile Jessica away from Downsview for a drive into the village. She has to select a route for a certain pilgrimage she is to make in May.”
I ignored the curious stares of the others, and said I would be happy to go with him. Otto usually managed one private outing each year—the best part of the visit to me. He moved from his chair and sat beside me for ten minutes before we ladies retired. He spoke of the new London fashions and the plays and parties he had attended.
“It sounds lovely,” I sighed. “Coming to Downsview must be a dead bore for you.”
He flicked a curl over my shoulder and said, “Downsview has its own rewards. It is the only time I get to see you.”
“It is the only time I get to see anyone,” I complained.
“Ah, and here I thought you were going to say it was the only time you got to see me. That will teach me to take you for granted. Who is my competition? Gregory?”
Otto was an outrageous flirt. Of course he was smiling, but I soon imagined there was something more than mere flirtation in his dark eyes. “Oh no, he is Auntie’s flirt.”
“Is she hatching a match between the pair of you?”
“She would like it, I think. She puffs him off a good deal, but she has not actually suggested I marry him. I doubt he would agree to it.”
“There is no accounting for taste,” he said, with a shake of his head. "That is a compliment to you, my pet. You are worlds too good for him. Of course Hettie is too clever to actually say what she means. I wonder, though. Greg is looking mighty smug.”
“He got the promise of five hundred pounds.”
“It’s no secret she favours Greg. She also likes you, and must feel some responsibility to see you provided for. Perhaps she has some fond and foolish notion that you could settle him down. I should dislike to see you in his hands. He’ll run through the fortune in jig time. Then what becomes of you?”
“If she mentions such a scheme to me, I shall scotch it.”
“Good girl,” he said, and gave my hand a little squeeze. “And now it is ten o’clock. Even Cinderella was allowed to stay up until midnight. Auntie is very clutch-fisted with your time-—but then our moments together seem more dear for being limited.” He rose and assisted me from the chair. "A demain. We shall have more privacy for a good cose tomorrow during our drive. There is something—”
Mrs. Manner rose and came towards us. Otto wore an air of frustration at the interruption.
“Ten o’clock,” she announced. “I’ll remind Juteclaw about the rum-cake. Good night all.”
Otto waited at the foot of the stairs until Juteclaw brought the cake and a posset, but with Mrs. Manner present, Otto could not give me any idea what the “something” was that he had mentioned. I was thus allowed to take my imagination to bed with me, and imagine all sorts of impossible things.
It was the last happy evening I was to enjoy for a long time. In the morning, Aunt Hettie was dead.
Chapter Four
Duke took to fussing during the night. He sleeps in Aunt Hettie’s room on an old patchwork quilt in a basket beside her bed. I could hear movements from the room; something was knocked from a table, by either the dog or my aunt while trying to quieten him.
The guests sleeping in the west wing would not have heard him but we permanent occupants sleep in the east wing. The dog was old and not well. He was jealous of Hettie, and resented being separated from her for most of the day, or perhaps his arthritis was acting up on him. He continued whining occasionally through the night, but neither Mrs. Manner nor I thought anything of it.
I rose at my usual seven-thirty, full of excitement because of our guests, and especially my drive with Otto. A glance out the window showed the first rays of a golden dawn lighting the darkness of the winter’s sky. The jagged tops of fir trees bucketed in the wind, promising a chilly drive.
I dressed with care in the same green gown I had worn the day before, but with my woollen shawl to ward off the cold. I was just putting the finishing touches on my hair when Mrs. Manner came pelting in. She usually knocks, but she just flung open the door and stood, silent as a flower, but looking as if she’d seen a ghost.
“What is it, Mrs. Manner?” I demanded, with an awful premonition that something was going to rob me of my drive with Otto, and already resenting whatever it was. Her reply knocked all such selfish thoughts from my mind.
“She’s dead!” she exclaimed, clutching her heart. “She must have died in the night. I heard Duke making a racket but I never dreamed—”
“Dead? Aunt Hettie?” a strained voice exclaimed. I hardly recognized it for my own. “No, you must be mistaken.” My head felt as hollow as a drum. This could not be happening. Oh, but it was. It was.
“Come, Jessica.”
She latched on to my arm for support as we ran down the hallway and into Hettie’s room. It was dark as pitch, with only a triangle of illumination from the doorway pointing to the canopied bed. I flung open the draperies, and the morning flooded in to light her chamber, all baroque grandeur, with scarlet window hangings and a matching canopy on the ornate bedstead. Heavy old furnishings from the last century were all carved and inlaid with rare woods and mother-of-pearl. An ormolu mirror cast an image of the room back at me.
Duke was there, forlorn in his basket. He rose and looked up at the bed, then turned an accusing eye on us, whined deep in his throat, and trotted out of the room. Juteclaw would let him outdoors. I went to the bedside, but I knew at a glance that she was dead, because her eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. In death, the pupils had become enlarged. She had a pained expression on her poor withered face, and her hands clutched at the bedclothes, which she had been trying to rip off.
The carafe of water she kept by her bed had tipped over on the floor, wetting the pillow and my aunt’s flannelette nightgown, but they were nearly dry now. The red patterned carpet was darker where the water had spilt from the mouth of the crystal carafe. That was what I had heard fall in the night. If only I had come to help her!
“She died in her sleep. That is a blessing at least,” Mrs. Manner said. But tha
t agonized expression and the spilt water did not suggest a calm passing. Mrs. Manner murmured on in a soft voice, “I see she ate her rum-cake. See, the empty plate is on the table.” I glanced at the plate and fork. The cold medicine was there too, as was the book my aunt had been reading,
A huge lump grew in my throat. It was like the end of the world for me. For ten years Aunt Hettie had been my nominal mother. She had a sharp tongue, but she had been kind to me. And now it was all over; she was dead. I did not think, yet, what would become of me. That would come later.
“We had best call the doctor and Vicar Jennings,” I said. I stood a moment, just gazing at Hettie’s pain-clenched face, while a thousand pointless memories drifted through my mind. What had all her pride and peevishness amounted to in the end? She was gone. She had had so much in the way of worldly goods, but for as long as I had known her, I don’t think she had much enjoyed life.
“I’ll stay with her,” Mrs. Manner said. “A dead body shouldn’t be left alone. Could we cover her face?”
I drew the sheet up to hide the awful sight. It didn’t seem real. This was not really happening. In a daze I went downstairs and spoke to Juteclaw.
He stared as if he did not believe me, “She’s never dead!” he exclaimed. “The old malkin? I made sure she’d bury me. You leave me without a work in my cheek, miss.”
“It was very sudden. You’ll send for the doctor and Vicar Jennings.”
“That I will, and get out the hatchment for the knocker. Lord A’mighty, I couldn’t be more shocked if it was yourself, missie. Her never sick a day. Have you told the lads? It’ll pound the sugar out of them.”
“I’ll tell them when they come down to breakfast.”
I went into the cold purple saloon and sank onto a sofa to think. That tenebrous chamber seemed a suitable spot for reflecting on the awful mystery of death. I was glad her nephews were there to help arrange the funeral. They would all have come anyway, but I was glad they were here now, to help us. There would be no drive with Otto that afternoon after all, and no visit from the solicitor to discuss the will. It would remain as it had been last year. Aunt Hettie would not see Felix become a knight, and Gregory would not get his five hundred pounds.