by P. N. Elrod
One or two latecomers were ushered in by a sad-faced mute hired for the task. Gloves and rings were distributed to the closest relatives; I’d gotten a silk hat and chamois gloves, both black. God knows what I’d do with them, being unable to generate any grief in my heart for the foul-minded hag, but I was expected to put on a show of it, nonetheless. Hypocritical to be sure, but I took comfort from the fact that I could hardly be the only member in this gathering with such feelings. Aunt Fonteyn had not been the sort of person to inspire deep and sincere mourning from anyone in his right senses. . . . Then I suddenly thought of Mother and just in time whipped out a handkerchief to cover my painfully twitching mouth before betraying a highly improper grin to the room.
The only thing that settled me was the knowledge that I’d have to write home with the news. Father wouldn’t have an easy time of it—not that he ever did—once Mother learned about the demise of the sister she doted upon. With that in mind I was just able to play my part, nodding at the right times and murmuring the right things and trying to keep my eye on Oliver as much as possible.
He was still hemmed in by a pack of relatives and not too responsive to whatever they were saying. Elizabeth was with him, doing her best to make up for his lack. Oh, well, no one would think badly of him for it and only put it off to grief.
My lovely cousin Clarinda moved through the crowds, having assumed the duties of hostess for him. I could not say that black suited her; tonight she looked almost as drawn as Oliver. Though far more animated than he, her natural liveliness was dampened owing to the circumstances. We’d exchanged formal greetings earlier, neither of us giving any sign of having a shared secret. I suspected, given Clarinda’s obvious appetite for willing young men, that our particular encounter had faded in her memory. Not that I felt slighted; if this proved to be so, then relief would best describe my reaction.
I moved among the various relatives as well, shaking a hand here, bowing to a lady there, but inevitably ending up with a group of the men as they spoke in low tones about the tragedy. As there was very little one could say about it, and since it was considered bad taste to speak ill of the departed, no matter how deserving, the topics of talk soon shifted from things funereal to things political. The dispiriting details of General Burgoyne’s surrender at Saratoga were now in the papers and the men here had formed the idea that I could somehow tell them more than what had appeared in print. But with my mind on Oliver’s problems, I had no interest discussing the situation in the Colonies tonight.
“Forgive me, gentlemen, but I know only as much as you do from your reading,” I said, trying to put them off.
“But you’re from the area, from New York,” insisted one of my many Fonteyn cousins.
“I’m from Long Island, and it’s as far away from Saratoga as London is from Plymouth, and with far worse roads in between.” This garnered discreet smiles.
“But you weren’t so far from the general fighting yourself if Oliver is to be believed.”
“I’ve been close enough, sir. There have been some incidents near our village concerning the rebels, but the King’s army has things well in hand now.” I hope, I silently added, feeling the usual stab of worry for Father whenever I thought of home.
“You’re too modest, Mr. Barrett,” said another young man, one of the many in the crowd. I had a strong idea he was here more for the feasting than to pay his respects. He was a handsome fellow and familiar, since I’d seen him before at other gatherings, but nameless like dozens of others. “I believe by now all of you know that your cousin here is a rare fire-eater when it comes to battle,” he added. “Perhaps some of you were there at the Bolyns’ party and saw him in action.”
I didn’t like his manner much or the fact he’d brought up the subject of the duel. Unfortunately, the other men were highly interested and wanted a full recountal of the event.
“Gentlemen, this is an inappropriate time and place,” I said firmly, as discouraging as possible.
“Oh, but we may never have another opportunity,” the young man drawled with expansive insistence. “I think we’d all like to hear how you defeated Mr. Thomas Ridley after he’d so grievously wounded you.”
“Hardly so grievous or I’d not be here, sir.”
More suppressed expressions of good humor.
“Do you call me a liar, sir?” he said slowly, deliberately and, worst of all, with no alteration in his pleasant expression.
Great heavens, I’d dreaded that some idiot might turn up and make a nuisance of himself by provoking another duel with me, but I hadn’t expected it to happen so soon and certainly not at Aunt Fonteyn’s funeral. Those around us went still waiting for my answer.
I could have found a graceful way of getting out of it, but the man’s obvious insult was too annoying to disregard. “Your name, sir?” I asked, keeping my own voice and expression as bland as possible.
“Arthur Tyne, sir. Thomas Ridley’s cousin.”
If he expected me to blanch in terror at this revelation, he was in for a vast disappointment. “Indeed? I trust and pray that the man is recovering well from his own wound.”
“You have not answered me, Mr. Barrett,” Tyne said, putting an edge into his tone that was meant to be menacing.
“Only because I thought you were making a jest, sir. It seemed polite that I should overlook it, since we are here to pay our solemn respects to the memory of my aunt.”
“That was no jest, sir, but a most earnest inquiry. Are you prepared to answer?”
“You astound me, Mr. Tyne. Of course I did not call you a liar.”
“I find you to be most insolent, sir.”
“Which is not too surprising; poor Aunt Fonteyn often made the same complaint against me.” If some around us were shocked by my honesty, then more struggled not to show their amusement.
“Are you deaf? I said you are most insolent, Mr. Barrett.”
“Not deaf, dear fellow, only agreeing with you.” I fixed my gaze and full concentration upon him. “Certainly you can find no exception to that.”
Arthur Tyne found himself unable to say anything at all.
“This is a most sad occasion for me,” I went on. “I should be sadder still if I’ve caused you any distress. Come along with me, sir. I am interested to hear how things are with your cousin.”
So saying, I linked my arm with his and led him out of earshot of the rest. Tyne was just starting to blink himself awake when I fixed him again in place.
“Now, listen to me, you little toad,” I whispered. “I don’t care if the idea to have a fight with me was yours or your cousin’s, but you can put it right out of your head. You’re to leave me and mine alone. Understand? Now get out of my sight and stay out of my way.”
And so I had the pleasure of seeing Arthur Tyne’s back as he made a hasty retreat. He was visibly shaken, and the other men noticed, but I kept my pretense of a smile and ignored them. What I could not ignore was Edmond Fonteyn’s sudden presence next to me. Unlike his wife, black suited him well; it made him look larger, more powerful, more intimidating.
“What the devil are you up to?” he demanded.
“Just avoiding an embarrassing scene, Cousin,” I said tiredly, hoping he would go away.
He gave me a stony glare. “More dueling?”
“Just the opposite, as a matter of fact. Had to discourage the fellow from making a mistake.”
He pushed past me and went in pursuit of Arthur. I could trust that Edmond would find things in order. If Arthur was typical of the others I’d influenced, he’d not remember much of it; if not, and Edmond returned with questions . . . well, I could deal with him if necessary. It might even be amusing to see his grim face going blank and vulnerable for a change.
But there were more pressing things for me to deal with tonight than fools and irate cousins, and it was past time I got on with them. Putting Edmo
nd and Arthur firmly from mind, I searched the ranks of the servants and at last spotted the one I wanted and drifted over.
“Radcliff?”
“Yes, sir?” He was busy supervising the sherry and Madeira, making sure most of it went into the guests, not the servers.
“I should like two bottles of good brandy sent along to the blue drawing room, please. Put some food with it: breads and sweets, some ham cut thick, if there’s any left.”
He raised one eyebrow, but offered no more comment, and went to order things. I drifted over to Oliver and Elizabeth. She looked pale and strained from the effort and she grasped my hand convulsively.
“Here now, you’re not planning to faint, are you?” I asked, concerned that this was becoming too much for her.
“Don’t be an ass,” she whispered back. “I’m just tired. All these people . . . .” There were quite a lot of them, and dealing with each and every one while looking after Oliver had put her teeth dangerously on edge.
“Well, I’m taking over for you and no arguing. See that fellow by the wine table? Go ask him for anything you like and have him send it to some quiet room. Make sure you eat. You look ready to drop in your tracks.”
She needed no more persuasion, and I took her place at Oliver’s side and slipped a hand ’round Oliver’s arm.
“Come along with me, old man. Something’s come up that wants your attention.”
He passively allowed himself to be led away. We reached the blue drawing room just as one of Radcliff’s efficient minions departed. I got Oliver inside, firmly closed the door, then steered him toward the warmth of the fireplace.
“Beastly night for a burying, what?” I asked, pouring brandy for him. There were two glasses; I slopped a few drops into the second one for the sake of appearance.
Oliver shrugged and decorously sat in the chair, rather than resorting to his usual careless fall. One of his hands was closed into a fist. He wore a mourning ring made from his mother’s hair.
I picked up the brandy glass and offered it to him. He listlessly took it, but did not drink.
“Go on, then, do yourself some good,” I said encouragingly.
He gave no sign that he’d heard.
“You’ll have to sometime, you know damned well I can’t touch the stuff. Come on, then.”
Casting an indifferent glance at me, he finally raised it to his lips and sipped, then put it aside on a table. “I’d really like to be alone,” he mumbled.
He wasn’t the only one who could ape deafness. “Radcliff seems to have provided the choicer bits of food for you, so it’s pity on me for missing out on the feast.” In actuality, the cooked meats smelled nauseating, but I stoutly ignored the annoyance.
“Not hungry,” he said, still mumbling.
“I can hardly believe that.”
“Believe what you like, but please let me alone.”
“All right, whatever you say.” I started to turn. “Half a minute, there’s something on your hand—”
I caught the mourning ring and suddenly pulled it free from his finger, pretending to examine it. “Now, here’s a grisly relic. Wonder if it’s her own hair or from one of her wigs?”
“What the devil are you—? Give that to me!” He started to lurch from his chair.
“Not just yet.” I shoved him back into place. He knocked my arm away. “How dare you!”
“It’s easy enough.”
“Have you gone mad? Give that—” He started up again and I backed away, holding the ring high. He lunged for it and I let him catch my arm, but wouldn’t allow him to take the ring. I dragged us toward the middle of the room where there was no furniture to trip over, and we wrestled like boys in a schoolyard scuffle.
“I’m sure your mother . . . would be delighted . . . to know,” I said between the activity, “the depth of . . . your regard for her.”
Oliver had grown red-faced with anger. “You bastard . . . why are you . . . I hated her!”
Now I showed some of my real strength, getting behind him and pinning his arms back as though he were a small child. Half-lifted from the floor, he struggled futilely, trying to kick my shins and sometimes succeeding; not that it bothered me much, as I was too busy taking care not to hurt him.
“You hated her?” I said in his ear, sounding astonished.
“Damn you, let me go!” He wriggled with all his might but quickly wearing out. His self-imposed fasting for the last few days had done him little good.
“You’re sure you hated her?” I taunted.
“Damn you!” he bellowed and landed a properly vicious one on my kneecap with the edge of his heel. I felt it, grunted and released him. He staggered a step to get his balance and whirled around. His face was so twisted with rage, I hardly knew him. Had I pushed too far?
Apparently so, for he charged me, fists ready, and made use of them willy-nilly on any portion of me that I was foolish enough to leave within range. I blundered into tables and other furnishings to keep away from him. Ornaments fell and shattered, and we managed to knock a portrait from the wall; the worst was when a chair went right over and I went with it—backward. My head struck the wooden floor with a thud, and the candlelight flared and flashed sickeningly for me.
This is really too wretchedly stupid, I thought as my arms bonelessly flopped at my sides. I was too stunned for the moment to offer further defense and expected Oliver to take advantage of it to really pummel me . . . but nothing happened.
After a minute I cracked an eyelid open in his direction and saw his legs. Traveling upward, I made out his hands, fists no longer, thank God, then his heaving chest, then his mottled face. He hiccupped twice, and that’s when I noticed his streaming tears.
“You are. A bastard.” He swiped at the tears with the back of one arm. I felt like one, too. I also felt badly from the fall and took my time getting untangled from the chair and standing. Jericho would be appalled when he saw my clothes; I’d have to assure him that the damage—buttons torn from the waistcoat, a coat sleeve partly ripped from its shoulder, shredded lace and dirtied stockings with gaping holes over the shins—had all been in a good cause.
“Here,” I said shakily, holding the ring out.
Oliver grabbed it away and tried to thrust it back on again, but trembling and half blinded by tears, he just couldn’t do it.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you,” he said throughout his efforts.
“And damn you for an idiot, dear Cousin,” I growled back.
“You dare? How can you?”
“You hated her, so why do you even bother with that?” I gestured at the ring.
He took another swing at me. A half-hearted attempt.
“You think anyone here cares whether you’re in mourning or not? Or are you worried about what they might think?”
“I don’t give a bloody damn what they think!” The next time he swung, I caught his arm and, after more scuffle, dragged him to the chair and more or less got him to sit.
“I’ll kill you for this!” he roared.
“I don’t think so. Now shut up or—”
“Or what? You’ll use your unholy influence on me?”
“If I’d planned that, I’d have done it sooner and spared myself a beating. You’ll behave now or I’ll slap your poxy face until you’re silly.”
He must have decided that I was serious, for he slumped a bit. “My face isn’t poxy,” he muttered.
This was said with such pouting sincerity that I stopped short to stare at him. He returned with a stubborn look of his own for a full ten seconds, then both our faces began crumbling, first with a sharp pulling at the mouth corners, then suppressed snickers, then full-blown laughter. His was short-lived, though, quickly devolving back to tears. Once started, he kept going, head bowed as he sobbed away his inner agony. Putting an arm around his shoulders, I wept myself
, not for any grief of my own, but out of sympathy for his.
Then some oaf knocked at the door.
I wearily moved toward it, wiping my nose and eyes, and when I’d put myself in order, opened it an inch. “Yes?”
Radcliff was there, along with a few other worried servants. “Sir, we heard something break. . . . Is there a problem?” They’d heard more than that from the looks I got. I gave them an easy and innocent smile. “No, just had a bit of a mishap. Mr. Marling and I are having a private talk and would appreciate it if we could be left undisturbed for the time being.”
“If you’re sure, sir . . . .”
“Quite sure, thank you. Please, return to your duties.”
With considerable reluctance and much doubt, they dispersed. I shut the door, putting my back to it and leaning against it with a heartfelt sigh. My head ached where it had struck the floor; I debated on vanishing for a moment to heal, then dismissed the idea for now. Though Oliver knew about that particular talent of mine, an unexpected exhibition would alarm and upset him; he had more than enough concerns.
He was presently sniffing and yawning and showing evidence of pulling himself together. His eyes were red, and the white skin above and below them was puffy, but a spark of life seemed to be returning.
He held up the mourning ring. “Did that on purpose, did you?”
“I plead guilty, m’lord.”
“Humph.”
In deference to my head and bruised shins, I crept slowly from the door, taking a chair opposite him. The table with the food and brandy bottles was between us, and he gestured at it.
“I suppose the next step is to make me eat or get me stinking drunk or both.”
“That’s exactly right, dear Coz.”
“Humph.” He turned the mourning ring over and over. “Y’know, this is the closest I ever got to touching her. She wouldn’t allow it. Messed up her dress or hair, I suppose, though now when I think about how Grandfather Fonteyn might have treated her . . . ”
“There’s no need to do that.”
“I have, anyway. Because of him I had no mother, just a woman who filled the position in name only. My God, the only woman who was a real mother to me was my old nanny. Even if she didn’t exactly spoil me, she didn’t mind getting or giving a hug now and then. I’ll weep at her funeral and for the right reason. I wept tonight because . . . because . . . I don’t know.” He rubbed his face, fingers digging at his inflamed eyes.