Applegate took the empty glass, went to the sideboard and refilled it. “Do not forget that you are scheduled to leave in less than an hour, milord.”
St. James nodded as he rubbed a finger over his upper lip, his eyes preoccupied. “Remind me again at the appointed time, Apple-gate.” And then as Applegate left the room, closing the door behind him, he ignored his plate and returned to his reading.
. . .I had noticed first upon my arrival a strange lackadaisicalness of the people. From small children to old men. I observed people sleeping on sidewalks at mid day, appearing unwashed and underfed. When they are awake, they move about as though they are in a trance and are unable to comprehend anything to any degree. Of course, I can not understand their language, but I have noticed a distinct lack of purpose or continuity to their speech when they are speaking. At first, God forgive me, I supposed it to be some sort of cultural lacking on their part.
As I moved further inland and away from the seaport towns, I noticed that more of the people appeared to be industrious and intelligent, although there was still a marked percentage of them that spent their days in this otherworldly state. Upon returning to the seaboard, I spent a great deal of time on the docks and spoke at length with some of our British sailors, a rough group to be sure, but very informative. They told me that it is the 'Opium Dens' that are causing the results of what I had observed, and that they are common throughout the country of China as far as they could discern, but most noticeably around the seaports as that is where the Opium is most prolific.
I expressed my astonishment that people should be taking a drug intended for medicinal purposes when they have no need of it, thinking, I suppose, about such dreaded draughts as cod-liver oil and the such. I was enlightened that Opium has long been used as a means of pleasure in China, and as I could see for myself, the results are damnedable.
I shall try to sum up briefly what I have learned: As some people (And I am sure you have had your acquaintances with such, as have I) can not merely drink but one or two drinks but are seemingly compelled to drink to a degree of intoxication in which they cannot even function, so are these that use this Opium. Only, I am given to understand, it has a potency in which anyone smoking it (for they use pipes to smoke it), even once, is compelled to spend his time doing nothing but procuring more and more. Many die, though whether it is from some toxic side effect with the continued use or merely from the starvation and neglect of their bodies I have been unable to determine.
Of course, many may point out to you, and perhaps you are thinking the same yourself, it could be some sort of character deficiency innate to the Chinese, but I was promptly disabused of this notion when I observed a great deal of our own British sailors enslaved by this drug also. Most damnedable of all, I had opportunity to observe some of our own sailors of the Royal Navy being felled by this same Opium. It is not beyond my imagination to realize that although this drug has been illegal for some time in our country (and you will of course note the paradox there: we do not wish it to be in our country, but we are perfectly happy to profit from it being traded to another country) that of a certainty, there is still an illegal trade of it to England, and that our country is dreadfully susceptible to this same dreaded scourge.
In short, this may be a commodity that, although very useful and promising when used correctly, may be better left in short supply. I would suggest that we for once look to the human factor in this debate, and although we will lose much in the way of profits, I feel that if all opium trade were immediately and voluntarily discontinued, that not only would the other points of disagreement preventing us from reaching treaty with China be rapidly overcome, but that we would also be insuring that we do not leave ourselves open to a similar crisis on our own shores.
By thus avoiding war, we would save the unnecessary loss of life that war always entails, and we would also likely protect good English people from a grave and seemingly insidious menace to their health and I am afraid even their morals.
The example I have seen here in China is frightening, and in truth, I can not fault their position. If the British Empire were to develop a similar fate, the loss of productivity alone in our country, if one does not care to study on the other negative factors, could be enough to rob us of our place as a leading nation in the new world of industry. I am afraid it would make our gin problem seem quite incidental in comparison.
As I had mentioned before, I have as much at stake as anyone in term of profits if we should lose this trade. I mention this so that if I have not adequately conveyed my feeling of horror over the possible consequences of going to war with China over a commodity that is currently savaging their population, and that by winning it, we may very well jeopardize more in our future than we are to gain in the present, that you may perhaps gain some understanding when I say that I would take my losses with no regret if you should decide to bypass pursuing this to the degree of going to war.
Let it be noted also, that I will not change my investments. For although if I had known what exactly I were investing in, I would not have bought into these holdings (as I feel probably a great many other investors would feel the same), I will not have it said that I anticipated any decision on your part and protected myself unfairly.
I do realize the position my recommendation would put you in, and that it is a vastly unpopular notion to allow one of our major companies to fail for what most will deem a failure on our foreign policy. I can only humbly suggest that you consider my observations in the decisions that you and your counsel come to.
I remain sincerely and loyally at your service.
St. James sat for several long moments stunned and deliberating.
He shuffled through the remaining reports in the envelope, determined that there were two more yet to be read, but for now, he thought he had quite enough to study upon just in what had been written in the first one.
“If your recommendations were made known,” St. James murmured to himself, “then I am sure you made your share of enemies overnight.”
For as his father had pointed out in his missive to a young and somewhat uncertain, at that point, Queen Victoria, there was a great deal of money at stake. And Dante's father's advice had been to throw profits to the wind and for people to possibly lose their initial investment also. Including his own.
But would someone have been enraged and threatened by bankruptcy enough to kill not only Dante's father, but his mother and her unborn child as well? And Dante if he had been in that coach as he was supposed to have been?
Also, St. James tapped his thumb on the report in front of him, these papers were highly confidential, from his father's pen to the Queen's eyes. Who else had gained knowledge of what his father had been recommending the Queen to do? Who had discovered that the Queen had at least seriously considered it, for if she had not been swayed by his father's arguments, then his arguments would have not been a threat. Had there been, possibly still was, a mole in the Queen's trusted inner circle? One who had been threatened by the loss of his fortune, or had he been a tool for someone else?
St. James picked up his glass, saw that during his reading he had finished the second drink as efficiently as he had finished the first. His plate of dinner, quite cold, sat untouched by his side, but he did not feel like eating. Instead, in a rare show of hopelessness, he laid his head in his arms on his father's report and thought now that he was making some progress, that he may in fact be unequal to the task after all of avenging his parents' deaths.
He did not have the luxury of lying there long, for there was a tap on the door, and raising his head from off his wine velvet sleeves he called, “Enter.”
Applegate opened the door. “Milord, it is time for you to be leaving.”
“Thank you, Applegate,” but he did not move to get up as Applegate withdrew. He unlocked his top drawer, moved his father's reports into it and locked it again, but his mind was very far away as he did so. It had turned not to what had been written, but to the pic
ture he had gained of his father. His memory of that man was not dim, for he had very clear and haunting memories of him, if rather few, for it had seemed that he rarely saw him as he was always on one assignment or another for the crown.
The picture he had gained of his father suggested someone not at all hard or cynical but someone earnest, dedicated and trustworthy. A man more concerned about human suffering than riches. A man untouched by dark thoughts and dark deeds.
And perhaps that hurt the most, because St. James had a glimpse of what he may have been, was meant to have become, if he had not been twisted at the young age of ten by a need to avenge.
His father had been the epitome of respectability. Not only a lord but a gentleman. If he were to know St. James as he had grown to be, he would have held him and his actions in abhorrence.
His father had never fought a duel, for he would not have been in company of anyone that would offend or be easily or ridiculously offended. He would not have ever played in a gaming hell worse than Whites or Boodles, and infrequently at those. He would have never walked the gin streets of London in search of assassins, and more rewarding in the way of information, women of assassins. He would not have set out to seduce young females of quality who were willing to bring him documents from their fathers' desks, unread and unaware. He would have never become involved with his peers' wives and opened dusty closet doors of their minds, asking questions of their husbands' business affairs that their husbands would have been shocked to know they even knew about.
And his father would have never proposed to elope with a girl he did not know or care for with the hopes of impregnating her and then springing her on society as only his fiancé with the grave possibility that he would not even be alive when the child was born to take care of either of them in any way but monetary.
And although Miss Murdock would have been protected by his name when after his death, his barrister would have produced the marriage certificate, her life would still have been a living hell.
He snapped from his inactivity. He rose from his seat, delayed long enough to go again to the sideboard, pour another brandy and downed it. His resolve, which had seemed wavering there for those few minutes as he examined all that his father had been, all that he should have been, returned to a strength that made him dizzy.
He could not change what had happened, he had accepted that fact long ago, and he reminded himself of it now.
Mayhaps his father would have held him in abhorrence if he were to be acquainted with him now. But if his father had walked with the dead as St. James for so long had, his father would not have fallen so easily at the whim of another and St. James would have been afforded the luxury of believing his world was safe.
He intended that luxury for his son, and damn it, he intended it for his soon to be wife. And if it meant being as he was, then that was the way he would be.
But of course, he had known that for many years now.
Only with the death of another could he in turn live. If it meant sacrificing his life in the effort, he did not feel that it was an unfair trade. As long as his objective was met.
“I have let her delay long enough,” he mused. “Mayhaps, too long.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room, a good deal of his anticipation for a pleasant evening provoking Miss Murdock drained from him. He had wasted too much time indulging his affection for her and he reminded himself that affection had no place in his plans.
By fair means or foul, he had to get her down the marriage aisle.
The longer he delayed, the more likely he would not be alive to see the nuptials.
And at odds with all that he had just read was still the gut instinct that his foe could tolerate him being alive, but would not tolerate his producing an heir. If it were so very important to his enemy that he did not produce an heir, then it was equally important to St. James that he should, and with some haste.
He went from the room, very aware of the lateness of the hour. And Miss Murdock was waiting.
Inside the drawer, trapped between the reports, was the other, smaller envelope that St. James had set aside for his perusal that evening. But with three drinks, no dinner, and a great deal on his mind, he had forgotten its existence.
Chapter Sixteen
“You look enchanting, Lizzie,” Andrew told her. Ashton had just closed the door of the drawing room behind her and she smiled up at Earl Larrimer as she came across the room
“I do not believe you, you know, but I still appreciate the sentiment.”
“No, I am quite serious. The pale yellow of that gown brings out just how refreshingly different you are. You make everyone I know seem too tall and too pale.”
She blushed, still only half attending him, for she was so full of trepidation she was nearly sick with it. “Yes, but in all their powdered paleness, they appear so cool, where as I am afraid I merely look as I am: flustered, and I fear, a little sweaty.”
He laughed the easy, boyish laugh that came so easily to him and that was infectious to anyone that heard it. “You do not look sweaty,” he reassured her. “At most, just pleasantly glowing. Dewy fresh.”
She smiled at his description which made her sound, she thought, like some manner of fruit. “I will ask your opinion again when we reach the assembly rooms and I am quite drenched with nervousness.”
“Whatever do you have to be nervous about?” he asked. “You realize that all the others being launched are several years younger than yourself, so you are sure to look gratifyingly self-possessed compared to them.”
“Oh, you are reassuring me immensely by reminding me that I am an aging spinster,” she teased. He gave her a half-humorous, half-hurt look that she seemed to be forever rebuffing his admiration for her, and she continued with more seriousness. “But I am afraid they have the advantage on me as they are fresh out of dancing class, and I, well the only tutor I had was my father,” she admitted.
“Really?” Andrew asked, quite diverted at this revelation. “You never had a proper dance instructor?”
“No, not at all,” Miss Murdock responded, thinking there had been no money to even have a maid, let alone tutors. But of course, Andrew had no clear understanding of this. She had the sudden vision of him being in place of St. James on that ill-fated night when the duke had arrived. Andrew following her to the kitchens. Good God, Miss Murdock, where are all your servants? He could not realize yet that there would be times when one merely did what needed to be done, for there was nothing else for it. “But I must say that for as portly as my father is, and, of course before his gout was quite as bad as it is, he was exceptionally light on his feet. I only fear that the dances he taught me are now so outdated that they will be useless.”
“Have you at least learned to waltz, Lizzie? For it is very popular, you know, although Almacks in all its 'wisdom' will only allow one per assembly.”
Miss Murdock looked more relieved than crestfallen to have her fears of inadequacy confirmed. “No, I have not, for my father says such a dance was not at all allowed when he was a young man.”
And Andrew with undeniable enthusiasm, said, “Well, then I must teach you immediately.” Before she could demur, he caught her hand, held it out from them in the correct position and quite took her breath away by wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her to the proper distance from him.
“But there is no music,” Miss Murdock hedged with desperation.
“I shall hum,” Andrew told her grandly.
He did begin to hum, and Miss Murdock laughed, and he went slowly at first until she caught the steps. He interrupted his impromptu music to tell her, “Hand on my shoulder, Miss Murdock, and three quarter time! One, two, three. One, two, three. Splendid! Now we shall speed up a bit, shall we?”
He swooped her in ever widening circles about the room until the large hoop of her buttermilk ball gown swayed about her like a bell being tolled. Despite herself she was enchanted, her face flushing as his humming became more exuberant and he swirle
d her ever faster, she clinging to his shoulder and he holding to her waist. Lizzie was laughing and breathless, and he was laughing and humming between his laughs, his face delighted.
Then in the midst of all this lightness, he dropped his hand from holding hers and released her waist also, so that, surprised and dizzy, she nearly fell. Andrew cupped her face in both his hands and kissed her with quick warmth.
She did not reject him, perhaps a little too stunned to even gather her wits. He was a handsome young man and reminded her most painfully of his cousin, but where St. James' mere kisses upon her wrist had induced her to slap him, when Andrew released her, she only had a sudden, lamentable fit of the giggles.
Which perhaps was not the reaction Andrew had been looking for.
“That is not at all kind, Lizzie,” he admonished her, frowning in real perplexity. “Has no one told you that when a man makes improper advances toward you, you are to promptly swoon from the thrill and danger of it?”
“Oh,” she managed through her giggles, which had redoubled at his chastisement, and said, “I have come up lacking again!”
“Well, since you have, you may as well tell me what is so funny. I was quite serious you know, for you are the grandest, if I may also say the damnedest, female I ever met.”
“Oh, now you are getting cross,” she said. “I am sorry,” but she continued to laugh. She put a hand on his shoulder. “It is only that I did not realize you were so thorough. You have taught me the art of flattery, waltzing, and now kissing. I am only afraid of what you will next deem necessary for me to learn.”
“That is not at all in the spirit that I meant it, Lizzie, as I believe you know perfectly well,” he told her, and she could see that she was trying him sorely, for although he was by nature amiable, even he had his limits to being a good sport.
“Yes, Andrew,” she told him, growing sober, “but I think it is best if that is the spirit in which I accept it, for it would not do otherwise, you know.”
In the Brief Eternal Silence Page 29