by Baird Wells
Without another word, he left.
CHAPTER TWENTY
London -- September 16th, 1814
He had visited every day except Sundays, for two months. Outside, the seasons had changed from pale green buds to lush leaves, to bare branches. Rose and lilac had blossomed, scattered their blooms across the walk, and been blown away on a fall gust. Spencer had made the walk in baking summer sun, and under the drenching, frigid downpour of August. It all passed him by unnoticed, muted by the ache of a broken heart. Bennet had been his only rock, binding his crumbling sanity with a word or a steady shoulder.
Today three steps to the door felt like a whole flight, and a walk from the hall up to Alexandra’s room, miles. They had stopped allowing her to sit in the parlor after a tirade which reduced a small table and half a bookcase to scrap.
Alix hunched, left side drawn up, bouncing arythmically in her high backed chair. Her blinking was repetitive, deliberate, out of time with a lock of hair she’d twisted near to breaking.
“Alexandra.” Spencer pulled his chair across from her, reached out and grasped her free hand. It hung limp and clammy inside his grip, but the moment they touched she grew still. She went on staring out the window, motionless, but he wanted to believe that she knew that he was there.
Each time, he prayed that the Patons would hand him a victory, that she would be dirty or bruised, in soiled clothes. He prayed for something that would tip the scales, but today, as on all the other days, there was nothing more sinister than Alexandra’s usual state.
For a while, he stared with her. A gust shook the trees now and then, caught curling golden leaves a handful at a time and drifted them to earth. Their color lent a glow to the sun, low on the horizon despite being just past midday. It shone through with a pale white light of autumn, illuminating the landscape while leaving it cold.
“I went to the Exchange today, early. Got business out of the way. I saw the Duke out on Copenhagen; that animal is meant to be a famous warhorse. You can tell he takes such pleasure in being ridden.” Spencer laughed and shook his head. “His ears perk up and he makes such high steps when anybody takes notice of him.”
Alix's eyes went on blinking. Her breathing didn't change.
“Laurel is shut up at home, now. I think she would be glad for your company. The physician says the baby will come in early January, but she's eager for it to come the last night of the year.”
Spencer heard his voice fraying. He took the hand from her hair and held both of hers. “Please say something, Alexandra. Today is no different than all the others, but …” He studied her face for a sign. Nothing. He looked down at their hands, twined loosely together. Her fingernails were torn, red with unhealed rips along her fingertips. Skin across her knuckles was dry and chalky.
He choked down a sob and wiped his eyes. “I'll come tomorrow. We can sit longer. Bennet's due home tonight, and …” He stood, jaw clenching down on more words. He claimed his hat, and brushed her hair one last time, then stood in the hallway a moment, closing the door slowly for every last glimpse of her.
Paulina was waiting when he turned around. “Lord Reed.”
“Mrs. Paton,” he managed.
“Doctor MacPhearson was by today.”
There was weight to the sentence. He shivered inside his wool coat. “Is that so.”
“Your visits … I'm sorry, Lord Reed. You will have to stop calling.”
“The hell I will!”
She rested a hand on his sleeve, for all the world looking sympathetic. “I am sorry, more than you know. When you leave she is an animal. Screaming, dashing off of the walls, agitated for hours. It drives Mr. Paton from the house in anguish.” She fished a cloth from her sleeve and pressed it to her eyes. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered.
He didn’t want to believe her, but he’d seen Alexandra’s fingertips, her tirade in the study weeks earlier.
“Let me take her!” he begged, grabbing Paulina's sleeve, cool blue silk escaping his fingers when he grasped harder.
“No! Charles has already told you as much. The magistrate will again, too. Alexandra is all my husband has, besides me. He will not abandon her, not even now.” She took a deeper fold of his coat. “Not one person in this house bears you ill will, lordship. You love Alexandra, as we all do. But she cannot be even as a child to you. She must stay with her family.”
And just so, it was over. At least, for now. His jaw twitched; he didn't bother struggling for a reply or even a 'good day'. Planting his hat hard atop his head, he pushed past Mrs. Paton and left the house for the last time.
* * *
“Absolute pig shite,” Bennet spit his disgust. He leaned forward in his chair and rested elbows on his knees with enough force to slosh his brandy. “You're not going to listen to her...”
He wanted to agree, wanted to march up to the house right now, but he couldn’t. He had no choice but to listen to Paulina. Until he convinced Magistrate Trumble to attend with more sense than Adams, he risked a stay behind bars at Newgate. A fortnight locked in the gaol wouldn’t do Alexandra any good, or make him look more fit to care for her.
“You have to do something,” demanded Bennet.
“My hands are tied, Bennet! I live by their leave, at least until I find some leverage. Waiting is all I can do.”
Bennet slammed his glass to the table top and leaned in. “And what happens when Paulina decides that the best thing for Alexandra is taking her back to New York?”
He stared at his brother, agape. She was so sick, so frail that it hadn’t occurred they might try to move her, but it should have.
“They won’t be obligated to grant you piss back in America, and the courts there will laugh you back out to sea. I know of what I speak. What then, Spencer? What will waiting have gotten you then?” Bennet demanded, pacing.
He didn't answer, instead throwing back his tumbler and swigging deep, sad to see its bottom. As he lowered the glass, something caught his eye: a sticky plum colored spot on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. “What in the hell ...” he sniffed at it, “is that?” It had a sweet smell with a boozy finish, but not from the brandy.
Bennet snatched his hand and examined it. Then without warning, he pressed his tongue to the spot.
“What in bloody hell, Bennet!”
Bennet spit into his empty glass, jabbed a finger at the substance, and fell back into his chair. “Laudanum.” Bennet stabbed with his finger again. “That is laudanum.”
He didn’t take the medicine, didn’t even keep it in the house. “And how would you damn well know that?”
Bennet shook his head, exasperated. “Because Captain Riley is an addict and he sodding spills it on every goddamn thing in his quarters. You can't open the tent flap without finding your fingers glued together. Ugh!” He scrubbed his tongue with a sleeve. “Something else mixed in it, though. I've a numb spot on my tongue.”
Spencer sighed, too drunk and far too depressed to care much for this particular mystery. “Well, I've no sodding idea where it came from.”
“Was the Paton’s house the last place you visited? Did you touch anything on your visit today?”
He raised both hands, weary and certain that Bennet wouldn’t give up. “Plenty of things.”
“Without your gloves on, you great ass.”
“No. Yes. Just Alexandra's hair, her hands.”
“So it could have come from her …” Bennet widened his eyes to near owl proportions.
“It could. Perhaps they give it to her to make her comfortable.” He recalled her torn nails and wild antics in the parlor.
Bennet's head was already shaking. “Just the opposite. Laudanum is only soothing in short. She might float a cloud for a few hours, but later she'd be an absolute hellion. If all they'd given her was the poppy.”
“How do you know any of this?”
“Miss Foster. She was the one to uncover Riley's habit.”
“The woman doctor?”
“A
ye. She’s a damn sight sharper than the pair of withered hands prodding Alix.”
“What's your point?” They had reached one of those moments when he desperately hoped Bennet would be the voice of reason.
“My point, brother, is that, if I didn't know better, I would say that someone is trying to harm her.”
A wild hope had sprung up in him, but weeks of being stymied left him cautious. Spencer resisted latching on to Bennet's theory, precisely because he wanted so badly to believe it. “For months? They could have done the job long ago, so why didn’t they? Why wait?”
Bennet shrugged. “I’m no scholar. You will have to answer that.”
“If I had answers, I would have given them to the Court weeks ago.”
“And you can't possibly go looking for them now?” Bennet scoffed. “Holding back was a benefit when they allowed you visits. Now that they've cut you off, really what is there to lose?”
“Ah, go to hell with it.” He wouldn't be tempted by Bennet's conspiracy, wouldn’t raise his expectations only to have them dashed for the hundredth time. Spencer spit and scrubbed the spot from his hand.
“Out, out damn spot,” muttered Bennet.
He raised from his seat. “What did you say?”
Bennet matched him. “I said you are a coward.”
He hadn't drunk enough to keep his knuckles from outright searing. The blow jarred his arm, clanked his teeth. Spencer shook his hand, to mitigate the throbbing.
Bennet's brow hadn't fared any better, red and angry, split and trickling a crimson line down his cheek. Spencer reached out his other hand and hoisted his brother up. “Say it again and I'll strike you twice as hard. It's what you deserve.”
Bennet shook his head, one hand on a chair for support. “I will say it again. Paulina Paton is a scheming bitch, rotten to her core. You're a fool to trust her a moment longer with even a shred of evidence that she's harming Alix. If you would truly go to any lengths for your woman, Spencer, you should damn well sort this out.”
“What do I do, barge into the house and start bellowing accusations? That met with spectacular success the last time.”
“Truly, Spencer? You can defend your men against a gun battery with two sticks and a sail cloth but you cannot reckon this out?” Bennet raked his fingers for a handkerchief, then pressed it sound against his temple and winced. “You really sodding hit me. Did it have to be so hard?”
Spencer took up his chair. “Line it out for my simple mind, then.”
“You've already given yourself the answer: motive. What would be the reason for keeping Alexandra alive, but her mind crippled? And who gains from it? That part should be the easiest.”
Bennet cocked himself at an unnatural angle to hold his head, and righted the leather armchair. “I'm foxed. My head's split and I'm going to bed. But I am just up the staircase if you need me.”
He did, more than anything. Spencer reached out and shook his brother's hand. “Thank you.”
“I forgive you for canning me.”
“I wasn't apologizing.”
“Not aloud, but you meant to.”
“No. No I did not.”
“It's no matter,” Bennet called back through the open door. “I know you meant to.”
“Brat.” He shook his still aching hand and pressed a torn knuckle. He was furious, and he really had hit Bennet hard.
Coward. He was furious, and now, motivated.
Bennet, you clever sod.
Spencer shook his head, taking stock of the room and where to begin. His desk. He settled against his chair's plush burgundy upholstery, scooted in, and laid his hands palm down atop the dark polished wood. He always thought better at his desk; his mind coached that it was a place for serious consideration.
He took the complicated web of Alexandra's family and began to pick strands away. The shipping company, Silas Van der Verre, the hidden shares. Alix had said her father took care of her in his will but not as she'd have liked. So what was her stake in Paton & Son?
He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a brown leather folder which housed her copy of the business papers, documents she’d had sent to him after their week in Haywood. Thumbing through pages of minutiae, he stopped when her name caught his eye.
‘Alexandra Rose Paton, being of the age of majority at this signing …’
He skimmed the lines, once and then again to be certain. Alix retained her shares unless wed, in which case they became property of her husband. At her death, without any children, they devolved to a Mister Thomas Meacham, 'able solicitor,' her father's attorney.
In two sentences Bennet's mad theory had grown far more plausible. For months, Silas and likely Paulina, and perhaps even Chas, had no doubt been digging into Alexandra's affairs. They had probably learned of the hidden shares, though he doubted they had quite put the pieces together to discover where and what name they were owned under. When they did, they would still need Alexandra; at least until Paton & Son belonged fully to Van der Verre. Then she would be nothing more than an inconvenience.
Bennet had been right; the time for waiting was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
London -- September 22nd, 1814
Spencer stepped back to allow Constable Bowen more room for another assault on the Paton’s door. The delay was frustrating but not surprising. It was just past four in the morning; most of the household staff would sleep for another hour or two.
“Open up! Crown business,” Bowen shouted again, bending his ham of an arm and jarring the door until flecks of blue paint chipped away. Spencer mused idly that the man resembled a bear wrestler he had once seen in a Russian circus; tall as he was broad, bald as a stone, and with a thick brow ridge bent to a perpetual angry line over slit eyes. Not a man any sleep-addled butler wished to find at his door before sunrise. “Last warnin',” Bowen barked, “or me and the lads'll step in uninvited!”
On cue, the lock grated in its tumbler and the door inched open. A bed cap and one weathered, suspicious eye was all the space revealed. “What business?” croaked a leathery voice.
Bowen hooked a sausage thumb in the band of his mile-long blue wool trousers, presenting his crisp, neatly-creased prize. “A warrant, served on Mr. Charles Paton and his lawful wife Paulina, and any domiciled within.” Bowen's wide chest puffed at 'domiciled', and Spencer got the sense the man had been practicing for just this moment.
He exchanged a knowing glance with his friend Ethan Grayfield, who had helped secure their legal papers on short notice. He’d sent a note to Ethan that first week, when his letters and visits had gone unheeded, and though he’d received no reply, there wasn’t a doubt in Spencer’s mind that Ethan had been digging. The man was an unmatched spy master, had himself dabbled in espionage for a time. Ethan could do little to sway the Courts or change a law, but when Spencer needed information, Ethan could procure it in spades.
“Wait here.” The sharp instruction was followed by the butler attempting to close the door. Bowen checked it with an elbow, throwing it wide and tumbling the butler onto his backside.
Once through the door, Bowen stepped aside and Spencer followed behind. He raised his hat to a host of owlish eyes, ending with Chas Paton on the third stair, bracing Paulina behind him.
“Reed. How did I know you were the cause of this?”
“Mister Paton, we are of course acquainted. And this is Magistrate Arindale, Constable Bowen, and his trusty leftenant, Noble. And my friend Lord Ethan Grayfield, as witness.”
Ethan crossed his arms and did not remove his hat.
“Witness to what?” ground out Paulina.
Bowen raised his prize again. “To escort you and your husband to Bow Street, unmolested, and to take custody of a Mrs. Rowan, sister of Mister Paton.”
Paulina scoffed. “There is no one here by the name of 'Rowan'.
Spencer leaned forward, raising in his boots to see the warrant over Bowen's shoulder. “Paton. It also says Alexandra Paton.”
Chas�
�s jaw clenched, blanching his pale cheek. “You are an unfathomable ass. You have been denied at every turn. We have tolerated you, your boorishness, your effect on my sister –” His voice hitched and he swallowed. “And still you force your will on us.”
Spencer almost applauded. That speech must have taken more courage than anything he’d said all year.
Arindale broke in. “I understand your concerns, Mister Paton, given the court's earlier findings. However, Lord Reed brought forward new evidence late last evening. We have reasonable suspicion that your sister is being held against her will.”
Chas lunged. “My sister!”
Bowen menaced forward at a sign of unrest and Chas lowered his voice. “My sister cannot dress herself. We keep a nurse to feed her.”
“Do you administer laudanum to your sister, Mister Paton?” This from Ethan, still lurking just inside the door.
“What? No!” Chas shook pleading hands at them. “She wouldn't tolerate its effects. She is barely lucid as it is.”
“Interesting.” Spencer leveled his gaze on Paulina, who glared back. “Herbs and potions, Mrs. Paton? I believe that is how Alexandra described it.”
Silence stretched awkward through the room, and finally she dropped her eyes.
Arindale waved a hand as though shooing stray dogs. “Constable, take them in,” he mumbled through his silver brush mustache, “and we'll go up and fetch Miss … Mrs… whatever her name is.” He turned back to Chas. “My men will take you up to dress. Be hasty about it.”
“Dress!” Chas's voice rose an octave, settling just below hysterical. “Why in the hell must we go anywhere! Taking Alix is insult enough. Where are we to go?”
Spencer wondered who Chas was more worried about: Alexandra or Silas. He'd had enough of the attacks on his character and of Chas's anguish, genuine or manufactured. “Mister Paton, what happens to Alexandra's shares while she is incapacitated?”