by Jane Ashford
Robert caught Philip’s eye and gave him a direct look. “I’m very glad you’ll have a good friend in place in Oxford. He sounds like a capital fellow. Have you eaten breakfast?”
“What? No.”
“Then let us do so.” Robert gave him a comradely smile and ushered him into the parlor. Thankfully, several others were at the table to divert Philip’s attention.
“I’ve been supervising the men gathering wood for the bonfire,” Philip said to Robert and Edward Trevellyn as they ate a bit later. “It’s going to be a tremendous Guy Fawkes celebration.”
Robert was thinking of Flora. An exceedingly common occurrence these days.
“Perhaps I should lend a hand,” said Trevellyn.
“You’re thinking of the mess with the balls and mallets.” Philip shook his head. “It won’t be like that. I have everything under control.”
Encountering his eager look, Robert realized he was looking for an ally. “There’ll be fireworks,” he replied, rather at random.
Young Philip seemed to take this as a criticism. “They’ll go off without a hitch,” he declared. “Papa has engaged an expert to manage them. He’s supervised displays for the king.”
Robert’s interest was caught. “Not the one that went wrong in St. James’s Park a few years ago, I trust?”
“Did you see the pagoda burn?” asked Philip eagerly.
Robert nodded.
“I read about that,” said Trevellyn. “Recreating the battle of the Nile, weren’t they?”
“They put a fleet of rowboats on the canal to represent Nelson’s ships,” Robert answered. “Celebrating a hundred years of Hanoverian rule as well. But the gaslights in the pagoda flared, and it went up like oil-soaked paper.”
Philip nodded with ghoulish enthusiasm. “I heard the crowd thought it was all part of the show.”
“There was wild applause,” Robert agreed. “A couple of men were killed putting it out.”
Philip subsided. “We’ll do nothing like that. Our display will be much smaller, out by the lake where there’s plenty of water. It’ll still be some jolly good fireworks though. After we burn the Guy.” He leaned in. “Don’t tell, but we’re dressing him as Napoleon.”
“Is that proper, now that he’s safely exiled?” said Trevellyn. “And anyway, isn’t the straw man supposed to be Fawkes? Gunpowder, treason, and plot and all that?”
“People use different costumes,” said Philip defensively. He looked to Robert again.
“I’m sure it will be splendid,” replied Robert, only half attending. Flora had come in, along with two other young ladies. She wore a rose-pink gown, the color as vibrant as her lips, and her eyes warmed when she noticed him.
Philip leaned close. “I’m to inspect the bonfire pile this morning, and I was just thinking. Perhaps you’d come with me?” He continued before Robert could reply. “I’ll be conferring with the fellow in charge of the fireworks, too.”
Robert was conscious of a spark of curiosity. But he had more important things to do. He intended to spend the day with Flora. “I don’t think—”
“Oh, Miss Jennings, you must come with us,” said a young lady across the table.
It was Victoria’s opinionated friend, Olivia, Robert saw.
“We’re walking into the village, and we need you to explain about the scents the herbal woman concocts.”
“I’m sure she would be much better able to tell you—”
“Oh no, you would be far superior!” Olivia turned to the girl at her side. “Miss Jennings knows everything.”
“I’d thought to write some letters,” Flora replied.
“You can do that any time,” scoffed Olivia. “I insist you come.”
“Very well.” Flora met Robert’s eyes as she gave in. She didn’t quite shrug, but he shared her rueful regret.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d help me,” said Philip at his side. “Or just lend your support, really. You needn’t do anything but look…older. He acts as if I’m a mere schoolboy.”
Which, in essence, he was. “I thought matters were well in hand.”
“Well, yes.” Philip shifted restlessly in his chair. “But I was thinking the display would look so much better against a dark stand of evergreens, you see. And that means moving it to the far side of the lake. However, I can’t get them to listen to me.”
“I suppose your fireworks man wants to save work.”
“Probably.” Philip looked glum. “It would be farther from the house that way, though. Remember the pagoda.”
“You think there’s a danger of Salbridge burning down?”
“No,” Philip conceded. “But…I wager he’d at least let me show him the spot if you were with me. It won’t take long.” He threw out another lure. “They’re going to be preparing their fuses and so on.”
He looked so hopeful that Robert couldn’t refuse. It would have been like leaving Plato by the side of the road. And the ladies were leaving. If he got this over with, he would be free later, when Flora had returned from her forced expedition. Finishing his breakfast, Robert resented the effort required to manage a bit of private time with her. He couldn’t wait to be married.
The thought brought a smile. He could hear Sebastian’s teasing voice, reminding him that he’d once vowed he’d only marry when he was forty or so and had dwindled into a dull country squire, which he’d called “as good as dead.” He shook his head, amused.
“Will you come?” asked Philip anxiously.
“Very well. I’ll bring my dog. He doesn’t get outside as much as he’d like.”
The younger man leaped up in elation. “Splendid. I’ll meet you at the back door in ten minutes.”
“Twenty,” answered Robert as Philip hurried out.
Upstairs, Robert put on his coat and picked up his hat and gloves. When he turned to inform Plato that they were going for a walk, he found the little dog already by the door, poised to set off.
At the back entry, Philip was practically dancing from foot to foot. He wore a voluminous greatcoat and a low-crowned beaver hat. “There you are,” he said. He was out the door before Robert could reply.
The November day was overcast and chilly, clouds streaming across the sky like a great gray river. Philip marched him to a flat, open space beyond the kitchen garden and proudly pointed out the logs piled up for the Guy Fawkes bonfire. The stack was huge, well above their heads. It was going to make a towering blaze, Robert thought, happy to see that it was well away from any buildings or trees. The grass right around it might catch, but the flames could be easily stamped out. The grass wasn’t dry; they rarely had a problem with that in England. Plato walked around the pile, taking an occasional sniff.
Philip proudly pulled back a sheet of oilcloth and showed Robert the Guy lying on the ground. The straw man wore an improvised French military uniform and a crested hat. “We made it short in stature, like Napoleon,” Philip said.
Robert didn’t understand why the lad was so eager for approval. His father was a pleasant person. Then Robert remembered things Philip had said about his sister and brother. He knew what it was to have very competent siblings, and to be compared to them. Compliments from outsiders had been quite important to him at one point in his youth. And so he smiled and admired and generally did his bit to give Philip that kind of reassurance.
Plato came over and put his nose to the Guy’s straw face. “Don’t let him chew it,” said Philip.
“I don’t think he will.”
Indeed, the dog merely gave one of his characteristic harrumphs and turned away.
The Guy was covered again, and they walked on to a small outbuilding to meet the fellow in charge of the fireworks. Robert was glad to see that they hadn’t put him too near the stables. Horses and pyrotechnics did not mix well.
There were actually two men bent
over a huddle of wooden crates inside, both stocky and strong looking, with sandy hair and sharp hazel eyes. Robert pegged them as father and son and thought that they looked smart and capable. “This is Mr. Andrew Phelps and his son Donald,” Philip said, confirming it. “Lord Robert Gresham.”
The place smelled of gunpowder. There were no lit lanterns or candles about, Robert noticed, which seemed sensible but left the shed dim, with deeply shadowed corners.
“Your lordships,” said Phelps. He had the air of a skilled professional, more like a doctor or solicitor than a laboring man.
“Lord Robert is interested in our display,” Philip added.
The elder Phelps seemed amused by the our, but glad to show off the paper tubes of the individual fireworks with their fuses. “We use a slow match to light ’em up,” he said, pointing out coils of cord. “Same as the navy does for their cannons. The rope’s treated with chemicals so it burns slow, see.”
He appeared to see Robert as a sort of inspector. His curiosity roused, Robert accepted the role. There was no harm in a double check, after all. “You don’t worry about being so close when the things go off?” he asked.
“We’ll be wearing these.” The man gestured, and his son slipped on a heavy canvas coat that covered him from neck to ankle and wrist. “There’s clay rubbed into the fabric so it don’t catch.”
“That’s clever.” His brother Alan would be fascinated by the coat’s composition, Robert thought. Sebastian would be angling to set off a few of the fireworks himself. Randolph would revel in the spectacle. He’d have to make certain Randolph got an invitation.
“We’ll be taking all this out to the lakeshore on the afternoon of the day,” Phelps went on, indicating the crates with a sweep of his arm.
“What if it rains?” Robert asked. That was always likely at this time of year.
“There’ll be an awning set up on the spot, and we’ve plenty of oilcloth. Have no fears, my lord. We’ll be able to set them off whatever the weather.” He paused and acknowledged, “The effect is less striking when it’s wet.”
“You seem well up on your subject,” Robert observed.
“Dad’s read every bit of that Frenchy’s Treatise on Fireworks,” said the younger Phelps proudly.
At Robert’s inquiring look, his father said, “It’s a book put out more than a hundred years ago, my lord. By Amédée-François Frézier.”
His accent was not at all bad, Robert noticed.
“I had a translation,” Phelps added modestly. “It’s about the uses of fireworks outside the military.”
“So, Lord Robert agrees that we should move things to the other side of the lake,” Philip blurted out.
This was more than he’d promised, Robert thought. He suspected his expression showed as much, from the look Phelps gave him.
“Just come, and I will show you how splendid it would be,” Philip urged.
In the end, he persuaded them, even though the wind had risen. They came out of the shed to find Plato waiting on the path that led back to the house. “We’re going this way,” Robert told him, indicating the opposite direction.
The little dog stared at him.
“He don’t think much of the idea,” said the younger Phelps with a grin.
“He is a creature of strong opinions,” Robert answered, earning amused looks from the Phelpses.
In the end, Plato conceded, and the group marched out to the small lake in the western part of the park and around its edge, Philip constantly assuring them that it “wasn’t much farther.” It couldn’t be, Robert concluded. They had to be more than halfway around the small body of water.
Finally, Philip came to a stop. The grass was sparse on this bit of shoreline, tufts interspersed with smooth mud and an occasional rock.
“You see how the fireworks would show against those trees,” the younger man said. He directed their attention to a line of evergreens. They looked almost black under the clouded sky. “And there’s plenty of space to set up,” he went on, striding closer to the water. “It would be—” Abruptly, as if he’d stepped into a hole, Philip sank to his knees in sticky mud.
With a startled exclamation, he threw up his arms. Mud squelched as he jerked and struggled. Then he seemed to slide a little sideways, and sank up to his waist. The skirts of his coat bunched up around him on the ground.
The mud quivered like a blancmange for several feet in all directions. There must be an underground spring here, Robert thought, saturating the lower levels. “Don’t flounder,” he said. “You’ll just go deeper.”
Philip didn’t seem to hear him. He lunged and clawed at the mud, cursing. The Phelpses moved as if to go to him. “Stay back or you’ll be mired too,” said Robert. “You too, Plato.”
The dog had climbed onto one of the small rocks and was surveying the situation. He looked over his shoulder at Robert as if to say he wasn’t such a dunce.
It started to rain.
“Philip!” said Robert. “Stay still a moment.”
“This beastly stuff has got one of my boots.” He bent and plunged a hand into the mud. “Pulled it off like a bootjack.”
“Leave it,” commanded Robert.
“They’re brand-new boots. From Hoby. They cost a mint. Papa will be angry if I lose it.” He groped in the mud. One of his shoulders went under.
“He’ll be angrier if you’re smothered by mud.”
Philip ignored him.
“We have to lend a hand, my lord,” said the elder Phelps.
“And so we shall,” Robert replied. One advantage to having five brothers was an encyclopedic knowledge of how to get out of scrapes. Just about any misfortune that could befall a person outdoors had happened to one or the other of them at some point. “Philip, you must stop flailing about and try to move as if you were swimming.”
The young man was still groping for his missing boot. He’d gotten mud on one cheek and into his hair. Now he paused. “What?”
“Lean a little forward and try to spread yourself over the mud. Imagine your legs are floating.” Robert turned to the Phelpses. Rain spattered his face. “You two find a stout branch.” He pointed to a cluster of ornamental trees nearby. “Break one off there. The longer, the better.”
The older man hesitated. “The earl won’t like us tearing up his garden.”
“Just do it!” Robert could rap out a command nearly as well as his father.
The Phelpses snapped to attention and went to attack the nearest tree.
“Do as I say, Philip.”
“But my boot.”
“To hell with your boot. I’ll buy you a new pair. If you haven’t sunk completely away, that is.”
Finally, the younger man listened. He stopped struggling and leaned over the mud, trying to float atop it, with mixed success. Robert could see that he was shuddering with cold.
The Phelpses returned with a branch as thick as Robert’s arm and as long as he was tall. They’d stripped off any twigs. He took it and moved very carefully forward, testing the ground at each step, stopping when his boots went in to the ankle. Bailey was going to be livid.
Robert bent and slid the branch toward Philip. Mercifully, it reached. Philip grabbed, nearly snatching it from Robert’s grip. “Easy! Slowly. Just relax and hang on.” Robert pulled. Philip shifted in the mud.
Robert gestured, and the Phelpses came up on either side. Each put a hand to the branch. “Steady pressure,” Robert ordered. His boots had sunk a bit deeper, he noted. “Move back slowly.”
They pulled, stepped backward, pulled some more. Rain soaked them. Gradually, with liquid squelching sounds, Philip came free. When his feet popped out of the mud, one bare, he made as if to stand. “Stay as you are,” Robert said. “Let us draw you along.”
Philip subsided. They slid him closer. At last, Robert judged he was well out of it. �
�You can get up now,” he said. The young man surged upright. He stumbled, staggered a few steps, and caught hold of Robert to keep from falling flat again. Robert supported him—and was slathered with mud from chest to knee for his pains. The sodden skirts of Philip’s greatcoat slapped the tops of Robert’s boots with still more mire. Rain pelted his face and ran down the inside of his collar.
The four of them stood like a tableau while Philip recovered. At last, the young man stepped back. He scraped at the mud caking him with shaking hands. Plato came over and sniffed at his bare foot.
“We’ll stick with the original spot for the display then?” said the younger Phelps.
Robert choked on a laugh.
“This is not funny!” said Philip.
“Not at all.”
The older Phelps snorted. He turned his back. His shoulders shook as he picked up the branch and carried it over to the trees.
“Let’s get back to the house,” Robert said.
“My boot.” Philip looked at the roiled mud. His left foot was white and mottled with cold. The mire had taken his stocking as well.
“Perhaps some of your gardeners will know of a way to search for it,” Robert suggested. “Come.”
They set off, Philip limping. The walk seemed even farther on the return journey. The Phelpses slipped away as they neared the stables; Robert supposed they’d been given a room there.
He slogged along at Philip’s side until they reached the back door and entered. There was no hope of avoiding notice. They were spotted at once by a kitchen maid and soon surrounded by exclaiming servants. These included Bailey, whose eyes bulged at the state of Robert’s boots and coat. “I know,” said Robert. He slipped out of the mud-slathered garment and handed it to his valet, who held it well away from his own immaculate clothing. “We’d best leave what we can down here,” Robert said to Philip.
The younger man seemed stunned now that they were back. He simply stood and shivered.
“Help him off with his things,” Robert told a footman. “Just leave his shirt and breeches. We’ll sneak up the back stairs to our rooms.”
“That is most improper, my lord,” said Bailey.