“Is your pension secure, Samuel? I’d hate to see you without a pension in your later years, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Good night again.”
Reginald closes the door quickly.
Ollie silently walks five paces ahead of Mr. Tubbs, who doesn’t say a word. When they arrive back at the Perry house, Ollie stops at the door. For a minute, maybe longer, he just stands there facing the house, afraid to face Mr. Tubbs, not ready to enter the door. At last he turns, staring at the ground. Mr. Tubbs is still there.
“As I recall, in our earlier conversation you promised that we’d talk when you returned,” Mr. Tubbs says. “Of course, if you’re not up to it—“
“No, I want to talk.”
“My place?”
“I’d rather, uh, stay outside, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I don’t blame you. How about the Green?”
Ollie nods yes.
On the Green, the moonlight is bright and the air has a cool bite. Ollie sits down, his back to a mulberry tree. Mulberries remind him of Bushruyih. Mr. Tubbs sits on the ground.
“You knew, didn’t you?” says Ollie. “You wanted to warn me earlier.”
“Yes.”
“But you let me go there.”
“I am not one to force my will onto others, unlike another party we both know. But in my defense, I must add that I was just outside the office the entire time.”
“Then you know I tried to escape.”
“I do.”
“He’s a monster.”
“Has been for decades.”
“You mean he’s done this before?”
“Many times, I’m afraid. A man like that—he’s very clever.”
“He said he was writing a manuscript about the resurrection.”
“He wrote that manuscript forty years ago. I doubt that he’s changed a word of it since. Another boy many years ago told me about the vile lies it contains. I think Reginald originally wrote it as a simple tool of seduction, but over the years he started to believe it. He’s over seventy, Ollie—old and lonely and desperate.
“And dangerous.”
“Yes, that too. He’s ruined many a boy’s life. But one of them in particular, well—“
“Tell me.”
“I’ll try. One particular boy was here four decades ago when I had just arrived myself. I was only ten or maybe twelve years older, but this boy and I got along famously. What a lad he was! Bright, confident—intending to become a Priest. Would have made a good one, too.”
“But then Reginald—“
“Corrupted him, yes. As with you, the boy was not a willing participant. At first, the boy fell under the wizard’s spell, but shortly he came to his senses and realized what a grievous position he was in. Then Reginald threatened him. The boy so desired the Priesthood! And Reginald held that cherished dream in his hands, offering it as a reward, wielding it like a noose.”
“What happened?”
“At long last, the boy abandoned his dream of becoming a Priest and left school. He became a Presbyterian minister.” Mr. Tubbs stares at the boy, who digests this last bit of information. And then the full meaning of the story rushes through Ollie like a flooding river.
“Augustus?”
“Yes, your grandfather.”
Ollie puts his head into his hands. He can’t breathe, and then he can’t stop gulping air. The wine, the abuse, the revelations—it’s too much. Suddenly, he is trembling uncontrollably. Too much!
Mr. Tubbs reaches out, tenderly touches the boy—but Ollie twitches, pulls away fearfully. “It’s all right, Ollie,” says Mr. Tubbs.
Ollie looks at him, realizes that this butler, this friend, is not the monster Reginald Pennick. He slumps into the old man’s arms.
He cries.
And so does Samuel Tubbs.
Chapter 9
Breakfast is a lazy, unorganized affair on this first day of Christmas holiday at Charterhouse. Ollie picks at his food. Many of the boys—those living further from the school—had departed for home the previous evening accompanied by smiling mothers and father, aunts and uncles. Bored, Ollie looks up and sees the shuffling form of Mr. Tubbs fast approaching.
“Mr. Chadwick, sir,” says Mr. Tubbs excitedly when he nears the boy. “There is a carriage waiting.”
So soon! Ollie had thought the carriage would arrive later. It is not so far to Mum’s house. “Thank you, Mr. Tubbs,” he says, giving the old man a hug. They exchange a long, knowing look, and then Mr. Tubbs says, “You’d better be off now.”
Ollie breathlessly races to his room, retrieves one small bag and a wool coat, and darts back down the stairs to find the carriage empty except for the grizzled driver who greets him with a formal “Good day, sir.”
“Good day.”
“May I get your things, sir?”
“I’ve only this one bag.” Ollie climbs into the carriage, disappointed that neither Mum nor Anne has chosen to make the short trip. Suddenly he realizes how profoundly lonely he has been these past several months.
“Try to make yourself comfortable, sir. It’s a bit of a ride to Chillington-hall.”
“But I thought I was going home!”
“You are, sir. The Hall at Chillington has been in your family for generations now. A fine manor-house it is, if I may say so. Are you ready, sir?”
Ollie is confused. He has never heard any mention of Chillington. “How far is it?” he asks.
“It will be evening when we get there, sir. Your family is already there. Shall we be off?”
“I want to ride up there with you.” Ollie clambers up into the seat next to the driver.
The driver jerks the reins and the steaming horses lunge forward, as eager as the driver to be moving. Mr. Tubbs, watching from the Perry House, waves goodbye, but Ollie doesn’t see him.
Once out of London proper, the carriage slowly bumps along the rutted roads, groaning like an old man with arthritis. Ollie watches the thick-bodied carriage-horses, frosty plumes rhythmically exhaled from their cavernous nostrils. He listens to the comforting clop-clop of the hooves, the gentle moaning of a breeze in the bare branches, the occasional curse of a sheepherder and the staccato bleats of his animals. Ollie’s nose is cold; he vigorously rubs it. The once-blue sky has turned steely gray. Heavy clouds begin to tumble in the wind. Clop-clop, clop-clop. The cold sun is finally erased by clouds, and with its disappearance all color is sucked out of the landscape. A gray wilderness surrounds Ollie, and the chill penetrates to the bone. Clop-clop. The freezing wind makes his eyes water and carries to him the stench of Reginald Pennick’s wine-sour breath. In the knotted burl of a passing oak tree Ollie sees the pompous-pudgy face of the old Priest—sneering, leering. Clop-clop, clop-clop. A finger of wind snakes down his collar, teasing his chest like the old man’s cadaverous hand. Ollie pinches off the collar to thwart the assault, but it is too late. His heart has grown cold, his soul has turned to ice. The damage is done. He tries to pray for forgiveness but can’t name his offense. Jesus, are you listening? Muhammad, help me! Only the faint howl of the wind replies, and he knows that God has abandoned him.
Clop-clop.
The driver mercifully stops at a roadhouse for lunch. Bread and cheese, a mug of ale. Ollie can’t eat. Even the warmth of the fireplace cannot thaw Ollie’s frozen heart.
Into the carriage again. “A few more hours,” the driver says. Ollie stares upward at the glacial sky. A snowflake lands on his eyelash, making him blink. For hours he sits there, jostled by the lurching carriage, dusted with snow, eyes blankly staring at the road ahead. Suddenly a large hare bounds across the road, startling the horses. The carriage rattles. Ollie watches the hare bounce into a dark hollow beneath a fallen pine, and only then hears the angry shriek of an eagle and sees the predator’s sinewy talons brush the top of the rotting limbs that guard its prey. A narrow escape.
The carriage drives past the drama and Ollie looks back. Stay there, Ollie silently comm
ands the hare, and be safe. The eagle soars overhead, searching for another victim. The fortunate hare stays hidden. And for the first time today, Ollie smiles.
Rolling meadows blistered with groves of forest continue to unfold themselves as the carriage clatters onward. The gray winter light turns lavender, then blue, as the hidden sun begins to set. At last they reach the village of Chillington, a cluster of thatch-roofed cottages that line a silvery stream not yet skimmed with ice. The hamlet is cloistered in a majestic forest of ancient oaks, beeches, and colossal pines. As the familiar carriage rambles through the village, the inhabitants stop and wave. Here are woodsmen, fishermen, shepherds and farmers, scarf-covered wives and mothers, children in coats and mittens, barking dogs and clucking chickens. Over their humble abodes, the Hall of Chillington has prevailed for centuries, a true Northern manor-house, magnificent yet rude in its massive plainness.
The gateway to the Hall is in the heart of the village and the carriage passes through it. A square, windowless central tower, having survived the old Border wars, still guards the rest of the manor-house, which shows the influence of many generations in its overhanging roofs, carved balconies, and numerous chimneys. The carriage pulls up a few yards from the front door. An elderly gentleman in a powdered wig and rich livery of blue and scarlet immediately opens the door and bolts to the carriage as if he has been waiting for this moment for years.
“We were worried sick,” the old gentleman says to the driver.
“The roads were a bit mucky, what with the weather and all.”
“And this must be young Master Chadwick,” the old man says to Ollie, extending his arms to help the boy down. Ollie refuses the help and jumps to the ground.
“I am Oliver Chadwick,” he announces.
“Yes, you certainly are,” the wigged man replies. “If you would be so good as to follow me, then.”
The two of them enter the famous Chillington-hall. In the main foyer, Anne rushes to meet her son, taking him in her arms and squeezing him so tightly that he pulls away. “My darling son, it’s been so long! So long!”
“Hello, mother,” Ollie says matter-of-factly. He had expected to be overcome with emotion upon seeing her, but now that the moment has arrived, he feels something else… detachment, perhaps. No, no—anger, that’s it. Resentment for abandoning him to the care of Charterhouse. For not being there to protect him. For not having visited or written. For having put her speaking career ahead of their relationship. For having torn him away from his home only to abandon him to the wretchedness of Dr. Russell and Reginald Pennick.
Anne senses his remoteness. “Why, Oliver, don’t you love your mother?” she begs. “I’m so sorry that I haven’t been there for you, but you see, everyone said it would be easier for you this way, without a doting mother to interfere with your new life at school. But now that you’re doing so well, perhaps we can get together now and then. Would you like that?”
Of course he would. But his stubborn tongue won’t form the words.
“Oh, Ollie, you’re angry with me, I know. But let’s have a pleasant time together while we’re here. I missed you so very, very much.” She hugs him again. He can smell expensive perfume on her. Lilacs. At last he discovers some words that he can say.
“Where is Mum?”
Anne pulls back, stares at him painfully. Rejected absolutely. The corners of her mouth turn down and she sniffs back tears. She has been put in her place. “Why, Mrs. Chadwick is in her bedroom. Not feeling very well, I’m afraid.”
Ollie looks up at the wigged man, Corcoran, and with the steely resolve of Master Chadwick says, “I wish to be taken to her now, please.”
Corcoran glances at Anne, then nods silently to Ollie and says, “Follow me, please.”
They walk through echoing chambers and up a wide, intricately carved staircase that would have impressed royalty. Behind them, Anne stands stiffly in her place.
Mum lies on a gargantuan four-poster bed draped in lace and silks. Propped up on flower-print pillows she looks so frail, yet she smiles when Corcoran leads Ollie into the bedroom.
“Oliver, my son, come to me,” she says. Ollie hesitates for a moment—is he resentful of Mum, as well?—but then races to the bed and hugs his great-grandmother as if she is the most precious thing in the world. Of course she could not have visited him at Charterhouse; she has been ill. It’s not as if she had forgotten him. Despite their physical separation, she had written him letters, warm and loving letters, full of encouragement and news.
“I’ve missed you, Mum,” he says, his face buried in her neck.
“And I missed you too, Oliver. But now we are together for the holiday.”
Ollie raises his head, looks at the old woman’s rheumy eyes. The spark is gone. Something is wrong, something more than the gout. “Are you very ill, Mum?” he asks.
“Oh my, you are a curious one, aren’t you? That’s a rather personal question.”
“I’m worried about you, is all.”
Mum looks him straight in the eyes. She has known for a long time that her body is eating itself up, the malignancy spreading through her body. She can feel it, the gnawing pain like buzzards picking at her flesh, the debilitating weakness that increasingly overtakes her.
“I am ill, Oliver, that is quite true, and some day I am going to die. But not tonight, I promise you.”
Ollie hugs her again. “I don’t want you to die.”
“There often comes a time when people embrace death, Ollie. For a just cause. Or for relief from pain. But let’s not be so serious. Corcoran—will you fetch Ollie’s gift?”
“Of course, madam,” Corcoran walks to the closet and retrieves a wrapped package.
“Go ahead, open it,” Mum says with a broad grin.
Ollie tears off the wrapping paper and opens the box. He gently lifts out several garments such as he has never seen before.
“Don’t look so puzzled, my son. You must wear the correct attire when you undertake your first fox hunt in the morning. Go ahead, try them on. I paid a good penny to Edmund Gooch, the tailor, and I want to make sure they fit properly.”
Ollie has heard the boys at Charterhouse talk with great fondness of fox hunting, but he is not quite sure what to make of it. Still, the prospect of riding a horse again excites him. In the morning! Yes, he’ll be on the back of a horse in the morning. With thoughts of his beloved desert stallion flooding back, Ollie begins to put on the assortment of odd garments. White riding breeches. Canary vest with brass buttons. Sky-blue silk stock tie (Mum helps him tie the knot) with horizontal gold stock pin. Scarlet swallowtail coat with purple collar edged in gold. Black leather boots with tan colored tops. White string gloves.
Completely assembled, he moves to stand in front of a large dressing mirror, impressed with himself. Corcoran hands him a hunting crop with thong and cord snap, showing him how to carry it. Ollie is the picture of the English gentleman fox hunter and Mum stares at him, beaming. In the mirror’s reflection, Ollie sees a portrait of a young man on the wall behind him. He wheels to see it more clearly. The boy in the painting, too, is similarly attired—exactly the same, in fact. The boy is holding a fox. Ollie turns to Mum. A question hangs in the air.
“It’s your grandfather, Augustus Chadwick,” Mum explains. “He was about your age when we had that portrait done. What a glorious time we all had!” Mum’s thoughts seem to drift off into another time that makes her smile.
Ollie and Corcoran patiently await her return.
At last she sighs and, turning to Corcoran, says, “Please show Ollie to his room.” Then she turns to Ollie. “You will find appropriate dinner clothes there. After you change, dinner will be served. Everyone is waiting. I will try to join you downstairs.”
As Ollie leaves the room, Mum stops him with a whispery “I love you, Oliver Chadwick.”
“I love you too, Mum.”
Again Ollie glances at the portrait, his eyes focusing on the fox, an animal that is so much like, like�
�Reginald Pennick. So cunning in his crimson garments. So crafty in his moves. Yet so devious pursuing his desires. Yes, Reginald is a sly old fox. Vermin. And sometimes you simply had to get rid of the vermin. What Ollie needs now is an eagle. A bird of prey.
Mum, sensing the swirl of emotions that are rushing through the boy, tenderly places her hand on Ollie’s arm to comfort him. Yes, he has an eagle at his command. He can almost hear the beat of Mum’s wings, feel her steely talons on his arm.
“Mum,” he says, “I have something terrible to tell you.”
“Yes, dear. Anything. You know I’ll understand… and protect you.”
“It’s about Reginald Pennick.”
Chapter 10
She is burning up. Not with fever, but with rage. Consciously she knows what a pitiful creature she is, so utterly consumed with vengeance and so helpless to turn the rudder during the final days of her life. Seated alone in her bedroom, the words of her great-grandson still burn her soul. Reginald Pennick. Augustus. Oliver. Betrayal. Revenge.
In hindsight, it all seems excruciatingly clear. For decades, one man has stood at the center of her agony and her son’s pain. A declared man of God. A charlatan who now threatens the one living person that she truly loves.
Mum’s rage simmers, then boils over, exploding uncontrollably. She violently throws a vase into a mirror. Shards of glass and porcelain spray the floor. In a frenzy, she flings an end table against the wall, flips over a large chair, kicks the cushions across the room, madly strips the bed and slumps into the snarled pile of covers on the floor, exhausted and sobbing. This is where the maid finds her a few minutes later. She is no longer crying. Her eyes are dry and steely, her body rigid with a single-minded purpose. Her rage has been replaced with absolute determination. For some time she has known about one problem that requires her intervention, but now she has two individuals who must be brought to justice by her own hands.
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