Death of a Radical

by Rebecca Jenkins

  “What do you know of everyman’s heart, young Grub?” demanded Charles. “He’s a dull and empty ass, who will not drain a foaming glass!” he sang in a reasonably melodious baritone. “Now there’s a song for you.”

  “I am learning, cousin,” Favian said with dignity. “I have begun some acquaintance here among the weavers. You must know,” he appealed to Raif. “They tell me such things. In the old days the work was spread between the families but now the big manufacturers would have it all. Full-fashioned work at an old-fashioned price, that’s all the weavers ask. There are rumors of machines. They say wherever the machines arrive the masters want more for less. They will put all the small men out of work. It’s happened other places. Something must be done. I tell them the independent men should form an association. If they combine together they can stand against Bedford and the rest.”

  “Who’s been telling you this?” demanded his lordship, half sitting up on his sofa. “Keep to your poetry if you must but don’t meddle in such things. You know nothing of the matter!”

  Favian’s neat features took on a stubborn cast. He expected as much from Charles. Charles had everything his way and there was nothing he cared for so deeply as his own comfort. But cousin Raif was different. As an officer he had cared for his men—men of all degrees and none. He moved with ease in all companies and listened to what was said. Raif understood justice and had the strength of character to stand up for it. He focused his attention on the artist behind the canvas.

  “What is your opinion, cousin? Should the weavers not have justice?”

  Jarrett narrowed his eyes at the painted figure emerging from his canvas.

  “I think any man must give his mind to consequences as well as action, Grub. With your connections you may kick a lieutenant with impunity—you may even set light to a warden’s lodgings, but a man who does not share your privileges risks much more.”

  “What can you mean?” Favian demanded. His face was burning.

  Jarrett gave him a sober look. “You know what I mean. It’s all very well to make friends among men of different degrees but you should never forget the responsibilities of your station.”

  “My station!” Favian protested. Raif continued over him.

  “You don’t want your new friends to come to regret the acquaintance,” he finished dryly.

  Favian swallowed hard. His throat felt stiff. Raif spoke as if he were an unruly puppy to be slapped down. He had always thought that they understood one another—that they shared a natural sympathy without elaboration or explanation.

  Charles swung his boots to the floor.

  “Grub used to be such a compliant little chap,” he mocked. He walked round to peer again at the canvas. “Don’t you remember the way he used to follow us about with that trusting little face? Not a scrap of trouble—and now look at him!”

  “You’re in my light,” said Jarrett.

  Favian moved his supporting hand and rolled his head to loosen his neck. Raif stood three-quarters turned to his canvas. The light from the window highlighted the athletic line of his body and the planes of his face. When Favian was a boy no tales thrilled him more than Raif’s stories of soldiering. He used to spend hours dreaming of accompanying him on his adventures. Favian shrugged his shoulders to dispel the tension. He resumed his pose.

  “You were at Walcheren, weren’t you, cousin?” he asked.

  “I was.”

  “I have been longing to speak to you about how it was. Your experiences …”

  The brown ochre flowed from his brush. For a moment Jarrett could feel the bark at his back. He saw himself once more under the tree where the officers hung their gear. He would write to the boy when he could, illustrating his letters with little sketches—the mule that fell through the roof of the barn; the fat sergeant losing his boot in the bog. As if telling amusing tales of soldiering to a sick boy who rarely left his room was proof of his own humanity. A preservative against the suspicion that the savagery, the burned villages, the mud and the blood and the stench of death had made him a monster. The wash was threatening to flood the line. He caught it with his brush.

  “Will you tell me about it? Walcheren, I mean.” The boy’s voice was insistent.

  “Very little to tell. Mosquitoes, marshes, boredom and men dying of fever.”

  Favian thought of his verses. That was not how he imagined it. His cousin’s tone was flat; a wall thrown up against further prying. The strokes of rough bristle caught against the weave of the canvas.

  “But you came through all your campaigns. I think nothing can hurt you, cousin.”

  Jarrett’s eyes met his, startling in their intensity. There was a sadness there that chilled him. The connection broke.

  “There was no glory in Walcheren, Grub.”

  “But you were an honorable soldier.”

  “I tried.”

  “And you did your duty.” There was beauty in the exercise of duty—to protect and serve others.

  “I hope so.”

  “You did your duty for the good of others …” Favian forged on stubbornly. Raif made a derisive noise.

  “Soldiering is about following orders, Grub. I followed orders and tried to keep my men alive. A contradictory pair of duties, as often as not,” he added.

  Favian stared at him. Could the man he had once thought so admirable be merely ordinary?

  “But why did you take to soldiering if not for honor or something fine?” he demanded indignantly.

  Jarrett thought fleetingly of how he had sailed from England all those years ago. He was very young at the time; he probably had dreamt of a noble death in distant lands but now he was older he knew better. That youth had fled rather than face the dilemmas of his life. No honor there.

  “So why?” Favian’s voice was shrill. “Why did you soldier then—you must have thought you were good for something!”

  It was not something he liked to speak about. Jarrett focused on the canvas before him.

  “For necessity,” he replied casually. “The army would take me and a man has to eat.”

  There, sitting in that sunny room, his body twisted in that tortuous pose, Favian Adley’s idolatry shattered. The scales fell from his eyes and Raif Jarrett stood before him a mere soldier; a fine physical specimen who took orders, risked his life and took others, so that he might eat.

  “You would support the colonel,” he demanded, “a man you despise—even if he brings in soldiers to crush local men, these weavers?”

  Jarrett shot him a glance. He could see the boy was upset. Raif Jarrett had been raised by a proud English-woman who had spent many years in exile on the continent among foreigners. From childhood he had been schooled in the belief that British liberties, and the system of king and parliament that sustained them, were the envy of the world. Time had tempered his convictions but some residue remained. The boy had been out in the world so little, he thought sadly.

  “If men don’t break the law, the colonel can do nothing—for all his wild suspicions,” he reassured him. “Ison cannot act alone.”

  Favian snorted indignantly. “So you would do nothing!”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’ve barely arrived, Grub. You need to get a better sense of things.” Favian had turned pale. Jarrett thought he caught the glint of tears in his eyes. He smiled coaxingly at him. “Besides, any man of action should scout a problem thoroughly before he attacks it. Go in blind and you are likely to come to grief.”

  “An honorable man stands behind his beliefs—you taught me that,” the youth protested.

  “It’s never that simple, Grub. Taking violent action in support of beliefs leads to their betrayal more often than not. Imperfect order is better than anarchy.” Jarrett paused; his voice deepened. “I have been in places where men operate without order and believe me, humanity does not flourish.”

  A clock struck in the hall below.

  “Have you enough for now, cousi
n? The fairs open at noon.”

  Jarrett put aside his brush and wiped his hands. “Enough for now. Go. You are at liberty!”

  Favian nodded. With an uncomfortable half-smile and lowered eyes he left.

  Jarrett watched the empty doorway a moment.

  “I’ve disappointed him.”

  “Nonsense. You’re his hero!” blustered Charles with just a touch of envy. “What better man to emulate than our Raif?”

  “I’m no one’s hero.” Jarrett repudiated the notion in disgust.

  “You’re my hero!” trilled Charles, clasping his hands before him and fluttering his eyelashes like some trollop in a play. Jarrett buffeted him with his spare hand.

  “I know I was young once, but I was never that young,” said Charles.

  “You have never felt such passion?”

  “You know I am quite without enthusiasm,” Charles responded. A glimpse of self-knowing amusement crossed his face. “A gentleman should never be too passionate—it is unsettling.”

  “For you or for the order of things?”

  “Precisely.”

  Jarrett snorted.

  “Don’t it strike you as odd,” Charles continued, “that the family should have chosen the pair of us to set the little fellow back on the path to righteousness and sobriety? I don’t know as I like being cast as a dull, preachy fellow.”

  Jarrett turned his back, busying himself with his brushes at the table.

  “Mrs. Adley does not ask for sobriety. She is content with all the manly vices. It is the exaltations of the poet that unsettle her.”

  Charles’s eyes were on the portrait. “What father would not take pleasure in looking upon the image of such a son?” He remarked ironically. “But I fear canvas is the nearest Grub’s parent shall come to it.” He stilled. “The shape of his head,” he said, “don’t he remind you of … ?”

  Jarrett was caught out. It surprised him that after all these years the pain of one child’s loss could still catch him in the heart.

  “I sometimes think of what little brother Ferdy might have been,” Charles went on quietly, “had he not been taken from us.”

  “I know.”

  “Instead we are left with this brat!” he exclaimed.

  They stood side by side surveying the image taking shape on the canvas. Favian sat in a cloudy form of darks and lights and through the window behind him a sweep of land and big sky.

  “Is it safe to let him roam like this—full as he is with his new wondrous notions?”

  In his mind’s eye Jarrett saw Favian surrounded by his new acquaintances at the Red Angel the night before. They seemed a decent group of men. He liked what he had seen of Miss Lippett’s oddly independent servant. For all Favian’s outrage at his glimpse of the conditions of the working man Jarrett knew of no acute distress among the weavers—certainly none of the kind likely to fuel real dissent. Let the boy explore this new world. Perhaps his singing companions would teach him sense.

  “A cousin of the mighty Duke of Penrith?” he said lightly. “What harm can he come to in this neighborhood?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The whole population of Woolbridge, it seemed, and that of quite some miles beyond, had braved the chill to gather along the route of the fair. Booths choked Cripplegate down to the bottom of the hill where the wool and leather goods were displayed in front of Bedford’s mill. By law nothing could be sold before the opening rituals but here and there stallkeepers struck bargains behind counters and awnings while keeping a weather eye out for the constable. Favian spotted a free space by the railings in front of Bedford’s house. As he was making for it his breath caught. It was the same neat figure, the glossy hair, the pink cheeks. There, sitting in an open window, was the young girl who had befriended him in the coach.

  He crossed the space between them. There was a half-basement. His eyes were on a level with her waist. He tilted up his face.

  “Remember me?” he asked.

  She stood up in a fluster and took a step back into the safety of the room.

  “Sir! We have not been introduced.”

  “F-Favian Vere Adley at your service,” he stammered. He recalled his wits, thinking of their journey north together. “But we have been introduced,” he said.

  “By a stranger!” she protested, as if he had cheated at a parlor game.

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want that frightful woman’s acquaintance,” he responded, shuddering at the memory of the importunate milliner. His companion stifled a giggle.

  “If we’ve been introduced, you must remember my name,” she said boldly.

  “Miss B—” he stumbled as the significance of her family name struck him. “Bedford,” he pronounced, sounding startled. “You see, we are old acquaintances.”

  She held out her hand. She wasn’t wearing any gloves. Her hand was small and rounded with the neatest little nails imaginable. He took it carefully and bowed over it. She made a soft sound halfway between a cough and a sigh.

  “I’m a poet,” he announced, straightening up. Now why had he said that? he thought to himself, appalled.

  “I thought you might be something of the sort,” Miss Bedford responded matter-of-factly. “You are the first poet I ever met.” They gazed at one another in bashful silence. He cleared his throat.

  “You must be very clever,” said Lally in a rush. “I wonder where you find your ideas!” She stopped abruptly and bit her bottom lip as if embarrassed by the sound of her own words.

  “From all around,” he replied, recovering himself. “A man meets inspiration everywhere. In the street,” he waved a hand to encompass the scene before them. Then inspired at that very moment, he turned back to her. “Or in a window.”

  Her lashes fluttered. She looked down and blushed. He teased the edge of the red handkerchief that protruded from his cuff.

  “I have something I should return to you.” He drew her handkerchief from its hiding place and held it out. She looked at him as if he had just produced a toad. “It is laundered,” he said quickly, “just a little crushed.”

  “Oh!” she leaned forward a fraction.

  “I shall always remember your kindness to me,” he blurted out. “I hope I did not distress you.” In the coach he had thought—just for an instant—that he might die. It seemed to him that that moment had created an intimacy between them. His very skin glowed in the warmth of her dark brown eyes.

  “Are you recovered?”

  Her solicitous inquiry made him realize that his chest had not felt tight all day.

  “Perfectly recovered,” he replied energetically. “This country air, you know, it does one a power of good.” There was a butcher’s stall up wind. The drain flowing behind it was clogged with pungent blood and guts. Miss Bedford wrinkled her nose skeptically. He caught the joke a step behind her and for a moment there were just the two of them bound together in the shared humor of it.

  She reached down tentatively to take the handkerchief. He pulled his hand back.

  “May I keep it?”

  “Why?”

  “For inspiration.” She cocked her head like a curious kitten.

  “Keep it then,” she said.

  “I shall cherish it as a token …” He stopped himself. He didn’t want her to think him an ass. “A reminder of your kindness,” he amended. “I shall write a sonnet in its honor.” His mind raced ahead to a delicate, witty composition playing on the sentiment of how a heart might be snared in a simple square of cloth.

  “Hey Book Boy!”

  Favian glanced over his shoulder. His companions from the night before had emerged from the crowd at the mouth of Powcher’s Lane. Dickon Watson towered above the rest.

  “Your friends are calling you,” said Miss Bedford briskly. He looked up at her.

  “Why not come down and join me?” he asked.

  She hesitated, doubt and inclination at odds in her expressive face.

  “My aunt …”

  “Come with me,” he c
oaxed. He swept his best London bow. “Miss Bedford, may I beg your company for a tour of the fairs? I dare say you would find it amusing.”

  The lady darted a look behind her and made up her mind.

  “I shall fetch my things,” she said and disappeared.

  Dickon strolled up on his long legs. He dropped his chin.

  “All right?” he greeted Favian. “Who’s that?”

  Favian wondered if he looked any different. He knew he was not the same man Dickon had seen the night before.

  “Miss Bedford!”

  “Bedford?” Dickon’s eyes narrowed.

  “I am to escort Miss Bedford around the fair.”

  Dickon scowled. “I thought you were with us on this!” he said belligerently.

  The old Favian might have been intimidated. The new one floated, buoyed up on a cloud of fresh emotion.

  “I am!” he protested.

  A sly grin dawned on Dickon’s face.

  “Bedford’s niece! Quick thinking, Book Boy,” he said approvingly. “We’ll walk ahead of yous.” He backed away to rejoin his friends. “Got plenty of coin?” he called. “You’re going to have to buy her things, know that, don’t you?”

  “Ribbons at the very least,” Jo agreed.

  “Or fairings. My Nancy likes fairings,” chimed in Harry Aitken. Dickon jerked his head at the tousle-headed weaver.

  “And Hen’s married, so he’d know,” he said, mock solemn, and they walked on up the hill laughing.

  Jarrett shrugged his shoulders, drawing his heavy cloak about him. The wind was blowing from the east. He detected a yellow tinge to the solid lid of cloud. There would be snow by nightfall. He had taken up a post at the top of a small flight of worn steps overlooking the tollbooth. The marketplace, filled with pens and beasts, stretched out to his right and Cripplegate Hill, crammed with its people and stalls, dropped down to his left. A clutch of excited young girls—no more than twelve or thirteen years old—stood below him exercising their lungs calling out as a group of adolescent boys passed by. His eye traveled on in their wake. Half-concealed behind an ample mother checking her rampant charges, just to the left of the burly father uncomfortable in his unaccustomed bindings, he spotted two soldiers. They were wearing greatcoats buttoned up over their red jackets, their eyes on watch. One glanced over as if to check a position. Jarrett followed the line of sight and picked out another soldier. Soon he had identified a good half-dozen men posted up and down the crowd.