The Poet and the Paragon, page 1
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No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Rita Boucher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
COPYRIGHT © 2021 Pearl Englander
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Also by Rita Boucher
About the Author
Prologue
Yorkshire, 1806
It was time to abandon hope.
He would not come.
Rebecca Creighton schooled her expression, knowing that every person in the church was watching her, storing away each detail, a tidbit of gossip to savor with their afternoon tea. She met the stares of her father's congregants squarely and forced a resigned smile, hoping that there was no evidence in her eyes of shame, no trace of the wreckage of her crumbling dreams. Beneath the rising hum of the wedding guests, she could already hear fragmented whispers magnified by the acoustics of the church nave.
“...aimed too high…"
"Pity... never thought her the sort of gel for a fellow like Rowley."
"Shame... almost pretty... does well for the dressing...”
“...Poor dear thing... Ollie should be horsewhipped…"
"... Jilted at the altar."
Rebecca closed her eyes, knowing that soon every home in the county and beyond would know the tale.
“...think Miss Creighton will cry?"
Her lids flew open. By heaven, she would not give them that satisfaction. Though her throat was constricted with misery, Rebecca determined that she would not shed a public tear for Oliver Rowley. Besides, Rebecca's stepmother had already begun to make up for any deficiency of weeping on her stepdaughter's part.
Lydia Creighton was caterwauling copiously into her husband's new surplice, and Sarah, Rebecca's sister, had already joined in the lamentations, bawling into their stepmother's skirts. Even the Reverend Creighton seemed to be having some difficulty in keeping his upper lip steady as he patted his pregnant wife's arm in an awkward, comforting gesture.
Strangely enough, not a one of them seemed to think that the bride might be in need of some consolation. Perhaps that was fortunate, since a kind word or a condoling hand would have sufficed to breach the bulwark of Rebecca's precariously built defenses. Unconsciously, she pleated the skirt of her dusky rose gown, crumpling the delicately embroidered trim between her nerveless fingers.
Her first London gown... Lydia had insisted that her stepdaughter not appear the gapeseed. Rebecca moaned inwardly as she reckoned the other costs that Lydia had mandated so that Rebecca might be fired off in a style befitting her new estate.
Waiting at the rector's manse was an enormous wedding breakfast, a reckless extravagance of fine wines and lobster patties. As for the lavish trousseau that Lydia had assembled, Rebecca knew full well that she would wear none of it. All of those glorious garments were suitable for a viscount's bride, not a vicar's daughter who spent her time visiting the sick and needy.
A fitting end to vanity, Rebecca thought, forcing her betraying hands to be still and wishing for the concealing refuge of pockets; but there were none in the frivolous confection that she wore. When she had seen herself in the mirror this morning, she had scarcely dared to presume that the woman in the glass was the vicar's eldest daughter.
It would have been self-deception to describe the reflection as beautiful. Still, with her chestnut curls tumbling free from her usual austere knot, her oval face glowing with excitement and anticipation, and her slim figure enhanced by the cunning cut of a modish gown, she had actually begun to believe that Oliver might actually find her pleasing, even pretty. "Vanity of vanities," quoth Ecclesiastes.
An awkward quiet fell as Oliver's father, the Earl of Elmont, advanced slowly toward the front of church, his usual attitude of confident command shattered. "Arthur...” he began hesitantly, making his closest friend's name into a plea for understanding, for forgiveness. "I shall make this right, Arthur, I swear it."
"Can you?" the Reverend Creighton asked softly, looking past his daughter's calm demeanor and reading the turmoil in her tawny eyes. "Can you, indeed, Horace?"
Chapter 1
London, 1816
The rumpled piece of paper that Michael pulled from his pocket was barely legible. He squinted in the morning sun, trying to puzzle out the scribbled directions once again, even as he tried to maintain a façade of cool confidence. Instincts that had saved his life many a time in battle warned that there were eyes watching, calculating if he was easy prey, wondering why a man whose garments screamed Mayfair and Bond Street was abroad in the warrens of Whitechapel at an hour when most of the young blades of the Quality had just settled into their beds.
Damn Ollie for leading me on this chase! Michael thought as he adjusted his superficial attitude to the confident deportment of a man out for a stroll in Hyde Park. When the message concerning the Viscount’s likely whereabouts had reached Michael, there had been no time for him to return to his apartments for a change of clothing. Swallowing a sigh of exasperation, Michael fingered the pistol in his pocket, grateful that he had intended to make a stop at Manton’s for a match later in the morning, or else he would only have his fives to depend on for defense.
"Got a penny for a man what fought for king and country?" A beggar stretched out his good hand, the ragged remnants of a uniform hanging empty from the other shoulder.
"Regiment?" Michael Fairgrove asked quietly as he fingered some coins, preparing to choose. Unfortunately, these days there were red-coated mendicants aplenty who were using the uniform to solicit alms, yet they had never set foot on the battlefield.
"Sixth, sir," the beggar responded, straightening unconsciously at the air of command in the other man's voice. "Name's Eager. I did for Lieutenant James Robertson, sir, if you knowed him, rest his soul."
"Aye, I knew James. Charleroi, was it not?" Michael questioned watching the man's eyes closely to see if he would react to the deliberate lie. If Eager was telling the truth, he would know the details. If not, bad luck that he had chosen an officer that Michael had happened to know.
"Nay," Eager shook his head, vehemently. "'Twas Hougemont, where the Major went down. Buried my arm with him, they tole me. Don't know if it's true."
Satisfied, Michael's fingers slid from the smaller silver tanner to a golden guinea. "Would you work, if you could?"
Eager laughed bitterly. "A one-armed man, sir? Naught left but the street or the alm-house for the likes o' me."
"If you want to work, there is a place in Marylebone called 'Soldier's Sanctuary.'" Michael said, sliding the coin discreetly into the man's hand. "'Tis not far from the church across from where the old gardens used to be. Tell them Fairgrove sent you by."
"Fairgrove? " Eager asked, a catch in his voice as he saw the gold glinting in his palm. "Wouldn't be Major Fairgrove would it? The hero of Vittoria?"
"We were all heroes, Eager," Michael said with a sad smile. "You and Robertson much more than I, in the end. Now, you could do me a favor if you would? Is there an apothecary hereabouts?"
Eager dipped his head. "Aye, Old Deems' shop, just down the street a bit. Wouldn't trust him to grind a powder for a cat, though. As like to give a man hemlock as horehound, he is."
"I am not seeking a cure, but an old friend," Michael assured him. "Is there a new lodger above his shop?"
"Aye," Eager said, "a big 'un. Light hair? A bruiser, by the look of him?"
Michael nodded. "That would be him." He pulled out another coin, this time silver. "Remember, Soldier's Sanctuary in Marylebone."
The beggar gave a rusty smile. "Aye, might be I will."
As Michael walked on, he prayed he wouldn’t need to fire a shot at another human being. He had shed more than enough blood in his lifetime. The soaring price of grain had turned England into a tinderbox, with riots in Ely and Littleport. London was rife with the fear that its streets could become a potential battlefield. Little wonder that crime was on the rise when so many despaired of an honest living, and brave men like Eager begged on the streets. With so many soldiers returning home, there was a more than fair chance Michael might find himself shooting at a man who had fought beside him.
Buried my arm with 'im, they tole me. The ex-soldier’s word echoed in Michael’s head. Eager and Robinson, now there was a tale that deserved telling! It would be a perfect way to end his Hougemont canto. Relentlessly, Michael put aside the lines of poetry that were suddenly spinning themselves into being. Somehow, he knew that they would still be there when the time came to pu
t them to paper tonight.
Instead, the poet forced himself to concentrate on the here and now. The letter in Michael’s pocket might very well be Ollie’s only chance to avoid flight or prison. He mounted the stairs next to Deems’ shop slowly, his frown deepening with each rickety step. The rank stench of poverty permeated the dim hallway—sweat, boiled cabbage and stale urine, mingled with the odor of frying fish from the cookshop next door.
A far cry from Portman Square, Michael thought grimly. But then, his friend’s rapid descent was no surprise. Ollie, too, was one of those soldiers whose life was suddenly at loose ends. With his older brother’s recent demise, Ollie had gone from younger spare to heir to an Earldom and forced to resign his commission. If anything, the Earl’s more intense focus on the affairs of Oliver Rowley, newly raised to the title of Viscount Arden, had intensified his propensity to skate on the edge of disaster. Most recently, Ollie had disappeared in the dead of night, leaving the proprietors of the Albany to join the growing legions of his debtors. It had taken Michael and his ex-soldier friends better than a week to trace his tracks.
Though Michael pounded the dilapidated door for several minutes, screams and curses from the flat below and the growing din from the street masked any reply that might have come from within. Once again, Michael folded his fingers into a fist, battering at the entry with all the force of his frustration and a sudden niggling sense of fear.
Abruptly, the door gave way, swinging open with a squealing protest of rusty hinges before slamming up against the wall. A glance at the doorpost revealed no sign of a damaged lock; the latch had been open all along. "Idiot," Michael muttered, in a mix of annoyance and affection.
Oliver had always been better with his fists than with his wits, but now it would seem that his attic had gone entirely vacant. The neighbors here would gut a man for a ha'penny, not that they would find much worth the trouble of taking these days. In the past few weeks, most of Ollie’s valuables had either found a new home beneath the golden balls of the pawnshop or been sold outright.
Still, as Michael entered warily, there was no mistaking that this was Oliver's den. Whitechapel or Mayfair, the shabby chamber had already assumed the ambiance of a nursery that had been left too long without a nanny. The table was littered with an assortment of crockery bearing the congealed remnants of meals.
In the corner of the room, his fair head pillowed upon the papers that covered his battered escritoire, Oliver slept, a half-drained bottle perched precariously by his elbow and another empty one nestled near his boots. Michael crossed the room and took a whiff of the contents. Gin? Matters were grave indeed if cheap blue ruin had become Oliver's drink of choice.
"Ollie!" Michael called, grasping his friend by the shoulder, trying to bring his sizable bulk to an upright position "Get up, you oaf."
"Tell old Nosey I shall be there shortly," Oliver mumbled. He blinked bleary-eyed as he tried to focus on the wavering shadow that swam before him. "Inform my man that my horse must be readied at once."
"Your horse went on the block at Tattersall's last month," Michael said, cupping Oliver's chin in his palm. "As to Nosey, he has no need of either of us, if you recall. Hougemont? Waterloo? Boney is out the remainder of his miserable life on St. Helena. He is utterly exploded."
"My head, too." Oliver moaned softly as he rose unsteadily to his feet, his meaty hands suddenly clutching at his stomach.
"Not on my Hessians, Ollie," Michael warned, taking a cautious step back. Hastily, he grabbed a large bowl from the table and shoved it in his friend's direction. As Oliver cast up his accounts, Michael set aside his coat and automatically began setting things to rights.
"Ain't at Eton any longer, Michael," Oliver reminded him gruffly, wiping the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief of dubious cleanliness. "Don't have to fag for me anymore."
"Aye, it is somewhat like the old days at Eton, is it not?" Michael remarked with a fond smile. "You, shooting the cat, and me, mopping up after you," Michael recollected as he began to pile up the crockery.
"Must have been the smallest runt in Eton's history. You came into your own soon enough, though," Oliver allowed. "A wicked set of fists on you, Michael."
"Still, if we are reckoning obligations, then the tally is still weighted in your favor," Michael said, grimacing as he saw a suspicious gray shadow skittering about in the corner of the room.
"More than made up for it, I should say," Oliver mumbled, blinking his blue eyes against the light. "Bailed me out more times than I care to count and now... by heaven, if you can track me down, then the duns won't be too far behind."
"A week," Michael said, "perhaps more since they have to rely on inferior information."
"Aye, those pet soldiers of yours are everywhere, ain't they?" Oliver said, shaking his head and moaning at the ache that resulted. "Should have known that you would find me in the end. Well, I might as well tell you that I have been a fool, Michael, an utter fool."
"The mille you lost?" Michael asked.
"Heard the news already, have you?" Oliver sat down heavily, his head in his hands.
"How could you expect it to be otherwise?" Michael asked, setting the dishes aside in exasperation and running a nervous hand through his hair. "A thousand pounds on the turn of a card? The ton laps up such lunacy as a cat savors cream! You swore to me the last time...”
"Know I did, " Oliver said miserably. "But the cards were in my favor, Michael. Hell, I knew...”
"You always know," Michael said, painfully recalling the past few months and Oliver's struggle with a peace-time existence and ever-mounting losses. "Unfortunately, you have been wrong more often than not these days."
"Already admitted to being a fool," Oliver said, blinking owl-like. "What more do you want? Swear I won't ask again, if you could just...”
Michael knew the question that was surely to come by the look of abject shame in his friend's eyes. Steeling himself, he decided to spare Oliver the humiliation of the asking. "This time, I fear that I cannot tow you out of Tick, my friend."
"Why not?" Oliver asked petulantly, rising from his chair, only to fall back once again, cradling his aching head. "Become so much the blooming Cit these days, with your connections in the bourse. Were it not for your title I doubt the Patronesses would let you squeeze past Almack's sacred portals."
"Indeed?" Michael remarked with a wry smile. "Perhaps I ought to go dine with Nathan Rothschild and Isaac DeSilva more often. Maybe they will bar me altogether."
"DeSilva wouldn't lend me a sou, for all he's a friend of yours," Oliver grumbled. "Sentiment don't butter bread with a man like that."
"You went to Isaac DeSilva to borrow to pay your gambling debts?" Michael asked, setting down the dishes with an incredulous thud. "By heaven, man, he and Rothschild helped to finance Wellington's war!"
"Still a moneylender, ain't he?" Oliver argued doggedly. "Besides, you don't know how much I owe." He reached back and grabbed a batch of papers from the desk, letting them sift from his fingers to the floor.
Michael bent and picked up some of the notes, holding his breath as he mentally calculating the sum. He let out a slow whistle.
"My debts." Oliver said, his expression boyishly woebegone. "Aye, almost out-Prinnied Prinny. Couldn't get past DeSilva's clerk till I mentioned your name. Then it was all 'Yes, milord.' 'Good to see you, milord,' 'Can I help you, milord?' The old man holds you high, seems to me, else he would never have sat me down and spoke like he did," Oliver remarked. "Told me that m'father sent a letter to every bourse in town, said that they were fools if they lent me more than a tuppence. As it stands, the Earl would as soon throw anything that ain't entailed into the Thames as leave it in my hands, and if he could do the same with the entailed property, he would take it to Hell with him."
"And now I suspect that there is not a cent-percenter who is unaware of those sentiments," Michael observed.
