‘What do you think’s best?’
It might have sounded as if Archer was trying to wheedle his way back into Fecker’s good books, it might have sounded patronising, but however Fecker heard it, he remained stoic.
‘With horses, we go another ten miles most,’ he said, patting Shank’s neck. ‘We sleep in shed, or freeze. You have money?’
‘Of course.’ That was the voice of a snob. ‘I mean, yes I do. What are you suggesting?’
‘There is tavern. We ask for train, we warm, horses stabled. A good night for all better than ten miles into shit.’
Archer almost laughed, but Fecker hadn’t meant it to be funny.
‘You’re quite right,’ he said and turned back the way they had come.
The nearby inn was unimaginatively called The Station Hotel. It offered a room for the men and stabling for the horses which, for a little extra, came with an experienced groom. Even so, Fecker insisted on brushing the animals and bedding them in. By the time he joined Archer in the hotel bar, the sun had set, and the midwinter twilight was faintly lingering.
The viscount seated himself beside the fire, aware that he smelt of sweat and his trousers were dirty. It amused him to think that his horses were wearing clothes from The Row, but what was not so funny was their predicament. The landlord had informed him that the tracks would not be cleared until the morning at the earliest. There was, apparently, a snowplough making its way from Euston to Rugby, where the tracks were clear, and another coming in the opposite direction. The two were scheduled to meet at Bletchley during the night, but even if they were successful, the rolling stock would take hours to be put in place. The best Archer could hope for was a reopening of the service to Westerpool the following afternoon, providing there was no more snow.
Fecker joined him at the table, throwing his fur and his greatcoat over the back of a chair and causing it to tip over. He collected the items and righted the chair before sitting. He had tied his hair in a ponytail, something which had earned him sniggers from a couple of youths across the bar, and Archer was grateful Fecker hadn’t seen. The man was still in a silent mood, which could have meant anything.
‘What will you drink?’
Fecker regarded Archer’s tankard of beer and weighed up his options. ‘That,’ he said.
At least they were talking and sharing a table. Archer brought him a beer, and a moment later, the landlord brought two small glasses and a bottle of Vodka.
‘I want us to be friends,’ Archer said, seeing the look of bewilderment on Fecker’s face. ‘This is to apologise for my behaviour.’ He poured them each a shot and raised his glass, giving the Russian drinking toast, ‘Nostrovia!’
Fecker, arms folded, stared blankly.
‘What?’ Archer said. ‘It’s vodka.’
Fecker’s drink went untouched.
His stare unnerved Archer, and he shifted in his seat. ‘You want me to apologise again?’
No answer.
The silence was interrupted by a clock chiming five and Archer waited for the clangs to fade before he asked, ‘What’s wrong?’
Fecker wasn’t staring at him, and any unsettled mood he might be suffering suddenly had nothing to do with the viscount. He shuddered, gasped and glanced behind. Turning back, he did something Archer had never seen him do; he crossed himself in the Eastern Orthodox manner and his face, previously pinked from the cold, drained of all colour.
‘What on earth is it, man?’ Archer too felt uneasy, probably because Fecker had blanched so quickly.
‘Something bad happened to Banyak,’ Fecker said, but the moment passed. He shook himself, focusing on Archer with mild surprise as if he hadn’t expected to see him. ‘You try,’ he said, his distant mood suddenly gone. ‘I like you for that.’
‘I don’t understand, Andrej.’
Fecker’s lips broadened into a smile that hung clownlike over his cleft chin. The sparkle returned to his eyes.
‘You give me sorries,’ he said, chuckling. ‘You think you owe me sorry.’
‘I do. I behaved abominably.’
‘Abominably.’ Fecker imitated the viscount, his chuckle becoming a laugh.
‘Yes, very well, take a shot at me,’ Archer said, annoyance rising. ‘I deserve it.’
Fecker fell back in his chair in a loud guffaw before thumping his forearms on the table and wrapping thick fingers around his glass.
‘Geroy,’ he said, the laugh subsiding but still present. ‘You say sorry to Ukrainian with Russian vodka and Russian toast. But you try.’ He raised his glass. ‘Pryvitannya!’ He threw back the drink in one swallow, slamming the glass and immediately reaching for the bottle. He filled both glasses, and Archer raised his before Fecker had a chance to toast again.
‘Pryvitannya!’ he said, pronouncing it as best he could.
They downed their drinks, Archer choked, and by the time he recovered, Fecker was leaning across the table and holding his head. He kissed him firmly on the forehead before pushing him away and sitting.
‘Geroy,’ he said. ‘You are my favourite idiot.’
He laughed loudly, and Archer, releasing his stress, joined him. They made so much noise, the landlord had to ask them to temper their jollity or be evicted.
Eight
James had been schooled, to a point, and he had loved every minute. His teachers from the earliest age had been strict but fair and had allowed him space to create and learn. They had encouraged his interests and nurtured him over his classmates because he showed a keen interest in reading and writing. He had a talent, one teacher had said.
All that came to an end when, again out of necessity, he took the job at the post office. His mother’s fingers were worsening, and she was unable to work the fine detail on the bonnets she made, handing the work on to other women and thus reducing the family income. At this time James’ father was at sea more than he was at home, and when he did return, most of his wages were spent before he left the dockyard pubs.
Two days after his fourteenth birthday, James joined the Central Post Office as a messenger. Three days after that, he experienced the worst bullying of his life. It wasn’t the incident so much as what came after. Still finding his feet, and uncertain of his duties, but doing his best to enjoy the morning parade and physical exercise, he fell prey to three older boys.
‘You’ll soon have your initiation,’ one threatened.
‘Happens to everyone,’ said the another. ‘Be ready.’
The third, a taller, unattractive boy by the name of Edward Lovemount, kept quiet.
James didn’t know what to expect, but he knew something was coming. He asked other messengers who had, he assumed, been through the same initiation, but none would speak on the matter. The threat hung over him until the tenth day, when as he was changing at the end of his shift, he was set upon by the three youths.
They caught him in the process of removing his trousers and grabbed him from behind. Before he had a chance to shout or scream, he was shoved head-first into his locker. The space was two feet deep and one wide, and he held against its wooden walls as the bullies ripped off his underwear, stole his clothes, slammed the door and locked him inside.
He was left there, thumping the door and bleeding, until the superintendent discovered him three hours later. By that time, he had wet himself out of necessity and was a blubbering wreck of a lad crying for his mother. The humiliation continued over the next few days as the older lads laughed, the younger ones ignored him, and the adults tutted at the mess he had made.
That was bad enough, and he had suffered a fear of cramped, dark places ever since, but what made it worse was being called to the superintendent’s office and being admonished for disgracing himself as if what had happened was his fault. He was charged for the cleaning of his locker, which he was made to do himself
, and was the butt of the restroom jokes for the rest of his career.
His humiliation was compounded when the superintendent docked his pay for a week, and James was unable to put his side of the story. If he was to stand a chance in the job, he had to swallow his pride and obey their orders. He was made to apologise to Lovemount for behaving like a child, even though he was one, and he had no say in his future. His rights had been taken from him because of other people’s actions, and there was nothing he could do. The nightmare images came back at unexpected times, crashing over him in waves of frustration that broke into embarrassing tears.
He was as angry at his own helplessness now as he had been eleven years ago, but gradually, as the hall darkened, his sobs lessened. Soon it would be night, and instead of being on a train to Larkspur and the new experiences it offered, seeing Tom again and serving Silas, he was crumpled against the front door, alone and pathetic. Adelaide had walked into Clearwater House, owning it from the second he stepped foot, decreed that Silas be taken away, ignored his right to know why, and stolen James’ only friend.
‘No, you’re not alone,’ he whispered to the shadows. They edged towards him, bringing claustrophobia. ‘Silas is alone. You have friends.’
One was at Larkspur, the other two had vanished. There were no more.
‘There are.’
He thought of Doctor Markland and Mr Marks but didn’t know where to find them. The lad at the opera house, Jake, had helped Silas, but what could he do against the City police? Mrs Flintwich had left, he didn’t know Norwood or his wife, there was no-one he could turn to apart from his mother. He might as well telegraph the viscount and tell him Silas was done for.
‘No!’
His voice echoed around the hall and was underscored by the sound of his fist thumping the door. The force of it moved the knocker, and each thump was chorused by a clatter of brass.
There was someone who could help Silas. Him.
James Joseph Wright was many things, but a coward was not one of them. He was the son of a talented seamstress and a merchant seaman, the employee of a viscount and lover of the most principled man he knew. In addition to that, he was a neighbour to Archer’s godmother, Lady Marshall. He climbed to his feet, seething and determined, and was crossing the hall when the baize door opened, and light spilt from the backstairs.
‘Is everything in order, Mr Wright?’ It was Norwood, either concerned or nosey.
‘Yes,’ James snapped back. Whatever the man’s intentions, he needed to stay below stairs. ‘Nothing I can’t see to. Thank you, but please stay below and not a word to anyone. It’s His Lordship’s business only.’
‘Of course, Sir,’ Norwood said. He sounded more concerned than inquisitive. ‘If we can help…’ With that, he slunk away, and James bolted for the stairs.
Ten minutes later, he was washed and changed, and his mind was made up.
Adelaide was no better than Lovemount. It didn’t matter if Silas had done something that warranted an arrest, what mattered was that he was treated correctly and fairly. From what James had seen, that was not going to happen.
He lit the lamps as he descended, cutting from the backstairs to the bedroom corridor before taking the main staircase to the hall. There, he set the sconces hissing and glowing to drive away the darkness and checked his appearance in the mirror. The suit he had brought with him to Clearwater was too large, he had lost weight since arriving, but it was all he could find in his hurry. He took a moment to straighten the cravat. Silas had his overcoat, so he borrowed one of Archer’s from the stand. Thomas would throw a fit if he found out, but the viscount would understand. He was acting on behalf of Lord Clearwater, and he was Silas’ protector. If anyone complained about a servant using the main entrance, he would shove them in a locker until they pissed themselves.
His anger was blasted from him by the temperature, and the shock caught him off guard. The distraction was a good thing because by the time he arrived at Delamere, he was calmer.
‘Yes?’ Saunders answered the door. He was an imposing man with an eye that missed no detail, but one who reminded James of an animal he had seen at the zoological gardens. A camel perhaps.
‘I need to see Her Ladyship,’ James said, standing erect. ‘Is she at home?’
‘Her Ladyship does not receive after her first gin,’ Saunders said sharing a little too much information. ‘And it is past five of the clock.’
‘Would you tell her that it is Mr Wright on urgent business for Lord Clearwater, please?’
Saunders attitude changed. He realised who this was and took a step back. ‘What are you doing at the front door, boy?’ he hissed, preparing to shut him out. ‘Get round the back.’
James put his foot over the threshold, intending to bypass the man, but Saunders blocked him.
‘It’s urgent, Mr Saunders,’ he said, struggling.
‘Around the back.’
‘What on earth is happening out there?’ Lady Marshall’s voice rang from somewhere on the other side of the barricade. ‘There’s a wind whistling up my dress as though it is the Khyber Pass. With whom do you joust?’
Saunders gave up the struggle and passed James a withering look as he allowed him to enter.
‘Oh!’ Lady Marshall stood in her drawing room doorway, a pair of lorgnettes held to her long face. ‘Hello?’ She asked more than greeted, and James stood to attention.
‘It’s the footman from next door.’
‘Yes, Saunders, no need to make it sound such a sin. James, come in.’ She turned as if on a turntable and drifted away, her dress brushing the tiles before falling in behind.
Saunders clicked his way to the drawing room, beckoning James with one finger. ‘Footmen enter at the back,’ he complained as James passed.
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that was exactly what next door’s butler said before James fucked him in the bath, but it was a fleeting distraction that had no place in his current predicament.
Lady Marshall had arranged herself on a settee the size of a dining table and was reclining in a corner. She was in the process of raising her feet to a low stool and James was surprised to see that she had been knitting. The room was the same size and shape as Clearwater’s, but reversed, and the decoration was more feminine.
‘Thank you, Saunders.’ She waved her butler away and paid attention to James as if he was any other gentleman come to call. ‘Will you sit, or will that make you feel uncomfortable?’
‘I think it best I sit, Your Ladyship,’ James said. The shock of the arrest, his descent into despair and his anger-driven climb from it ganged up on him much like the three messenger bullies. They had weakened his legs, but now he was in the presence of someone mature and knowledgeable, relief was trying to push its way out through tears. He fought them back. That was not the James Wright he knew he could be.
‘Then don’t hover. Take a pew.’ Lady Marshall waved her hand generously at an armchair. ‘And tell me what brings you here. Aren’t you all off to the country?’
‘We were, Ma’am.’ Unnatural though it felt, James sat in the armchair, only then noticing that snow was melting from his shoes. He leapt to his feet.
‘Don’t worry,’ Her Ladyship said.’ Saunders likes to have something to complain about. Sit!’ It was a bark, and James obeyed like an obedient dog. ‘I can see you have come in a hurry, else you would have found a better-fitting suit, surely. Tell me, what is the matter?’
James took a deep breath and began the story.
He told her that Lord Clearwater had been called away unexpectedly, to which she said, ‘That doesn’t surprise me. That boy is always flitting.’ She didn’t ask why, for which he was grateful as he hadn’t prepared a cover story. He told her that Mr Payne was at Larkspur dealing with some problems concerning staffing. She was side-tracked by that, askin
g if James knew what and keen to learn gossip, but he was truly unable to say more. He explained the retainers had come to care for the property, and he and Mr Hawkins were due to catch the night train that evening, but it had been cancelled, which she found quite understandable.
‘So, what is the problem?’ she asked kindly. ‘Are you to rearrange tickets and need finance?’
‘No, Ma’am, it’s not as simple as that.’
Another deep breath followed, and he told her of Silas’ arrest. She listened calmly but with her eyes stretched and a glass of gin halfway between the side table and her mouth. When he had finished describing the scene, she took a long drink and replaced the glass, her thoughtful blue-grey eyes never leaving his.
‘That is most peculiar.’ She said it as if he had just told her he had recently had a scuffle with a camel. In a way, he had.
‘I remembered,’ he said, ‘that on my first night working for His Lordship, you told me I could come to you if he was in trouble. He isn’t, but Mr Hawkins is, and I don’t know what to do about it.’
‘You certainly do, dear boy,’ she countered. ‘You have come to me. I knew from that dinner party that you were a decent chap, handsome, too if I may indulge myself. Of course I can, it’s my bloody house.’ She laughed, and James wondered if there was anything watering her gin. ‘Where did that odious man take the poor boy?’
‘He said to Bow Street, Ma’am.’
Lady Marshall shivered, and her satin dress followed suit. ‘It gets worse. But he said nothing about charges?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘Did you see the warrant?’
‘Mr Norwood did.’
‘And the inspector said what else?’
‘That Silas… Mr Hawkins would be questioned in the morning, and I couldn’t go with him.’
As Lady Marshall thought, James played with the ring tight on his little finger. It connected him to Silas who wore it on his middle finger, and its diminutive size reminded him of his friend’s vulnerability. Silas was only just twenty, and no matter how experienced on the streets, he was alone in a cell among strangers while James was being treated like a gent in a grand, comfortable home.
Fallen Splendour Page 8