P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 22
In actuality, Arthur Tyne found himself unable to say anything at all.
"This is a most sad occasion for me," I went on. "I should be sadder still if I've caused you any distress. Come along with me, sir. I am very interested in hearing how things are with your cousin."
So saying, I linked my arm with his and led him out of earshot of the rest. Tyne was just starting to blink himself awake when I fixed him again with my gaze.
"Now, you listen to me, you little toad," I whispered. "I don't care if the idea to have a fight with me was yours or your cousin's, but you can put it right out of your head. You're to leave me and mine alone. Understand? Now get out of my sight and stay out of my way."
And so I had the pleasure of seeing Arthur Tyne's back as he made a hasty retreat. He was visibly shaken, and the other men noticed, but I kept my pretense of a smile and easily ignored them. What I could not ignore was Edmond Fonteyn's sudden presence next to me. Unlike his wife, black suited him well, made him look larger, more powerful, more intimidating.
"What the devil are you up to?" he demanded.
"Just trying to avoid an embarrassing scene, Cousin," I said tiredly, hoping he would go away.
He gave me a stony glare. "More dueling?"
"Just the opposite, as a matter of fact."
He pushed past me and went in pursuit of Arthur. I could trust that Edmond would find things in order. If Arthur was typical of the others I'd influenced, he'd not remember much of it; if not, and Edmond returned with questions . . . well, I could deal with him if necessary. It might even be amusing to see his grim face going all blank and vulnerable for a change.
But there were more pressing things for me to deal with tonight than fools and irate cousins, and it was past time I got on with them. Putting Edmond and Arthur firmly from mind, I searched the ranks of the servants, at last spotted the one I wanted, and drifted over.
"Radcliff?"
"Yes, sir?" He was busy supervising the sherry and Madeira, making sure most of it went into the guests, not the servers.
"I should like two bottles of good brandy sent along to the blue drawing room, please. Put some food with it, breads and sweets, some ham if there's any left."
He raised one eyebrow, but offered no more comment, and went to order things for me. I now drifted over to Oliver and Elizabeth. As she looked pale and strained from the effort she was putting forth, her gaze fell on me and she grasped my arm convulsively.
"Here now, you're not planning to faint, are you?" I asked, concerned that this was becoming all too much for her.
"Don't be an ass," she whispered back. "I'm just tired. All these people . . ." There were quite a lot of them, and dealing with each and every one while looking after Oliver had put her teeth dangerously on edge.
"Well, I'm taking over for you and no arguing. See that fellow by the wine table? Go ask him for anything you like and have him send it to some quiet room. Make sure you eat. You look ready to drop in your tracks."
She needed no more persuasion, and I took her place at Oliver's side. I made sure the person who was presently trying to speak with him understood that my interruption had some urgent purpose behind it. He gracefully excused himself and I slipped a hand 'round Oliver's arm.
"Come along with me, old man, something's come up that wants your attention." He passively allowed himself to be led away. We reached the blue drawing room just as one of Radcliff's efficient minions was leaving. I got Oliver inside, firmly closed the door, then steered him toward the warmth of the fireplace. "Beastly night for a burying, what?" I asked, pouring brandy for him. There were two glasses; I slopped a few drops into the second one for the sake of appearance.
Oliver shrugged and decorously sat in the chair, rather than resorting to his usual careless fall. One of his hands was closed into a fist. He wore a mourning ring on that one, a ring made from his mother's hair.
I picked up the brandy glass and offered it to him. He listlessly took it, but did not drink.
"Go on, then, do yourself some good," I said encouragingly.
He gave no sign that he'd heard.
"You'll have to sometime, you know damned well I can't touch the stuff. Come on, then."
Casting an indifferent glance at me, he finally raised it to his lips and sipped, then put it aside on a table. "I'd really like to be alone," he mumbled.
He wasn't the only one who could ape deafness. "Radcliff seems to have provided the choicer bits of food for you, so it's pity on me for missing out on the feast." In actuality, the cooked meats smelled nauseating, but I stoutly ignored the sensation.
"Not hungry," he said, still mumbling.
"I can hardly believe that."
"Believe what you like, but please let me alone."
"All right, whatever you say." I started to turn. "Half a minute, there's something on your hand . . ."
I caught the mourning ring and suddenly pulled it free from his finger, pretending to examine it. "Now, here's a grisly relic. Wonder if it's her own hair or from one of her wigs?"
"What the devil are you—give that to me!" He started to lurch from his chair.
"Not just yet." I shoved him back into place.
He knocked my arm away. "How dare you!"
"It's easy enough."
"Have you gone mad? Give that—" He started up again, and I backed away, holding the ring high. He lunged for it, and I let him catch my arm, but wouldn't allow him to take the ring. I dragged us toward the middle of the room where there was no furniture to trip over, and we wrestled around like boys having a schoolyard scuffle.
"I'm sure your mother . . . would be delighted . . . to know," I said between all the activity, "the depth of . . . your regard for her."
Oliver had grown red-faced with anger. "You bastard . . . why are you . . . I hated her!"
Now I showed some of my real strength, getting behind him and pinning his arms back as if he were a small child. Half-lifted from the floor, he struggled futilely, trying to kick my shins and sometimes succeeding; not that it bothered me much, I was too busy taking care not to hurt him.
"You hated her?" I said in his ear, sounding astonished.
"Damn you—let me go!" He wriggled with all his might but was quickly wearing out. His self-imposed fasting for the last few days had done him little good.
"You're sure you hated her?" I taunted.
"Damn you!" he bellowed and landed a properly vicious one on my kneecap with the edge of his heel. I felt it, grunted, and released him. He staggered a step to get his balance and whirled around. His face was so twisted with rage, I hardly knew him. Had I pushed too far?
Apparently so, for he charged at me, fists ready, and made use of them willy-nilly on any portion of me that I was foolish enough to leave within range. I blundered into tables and other furnishings trying to keep away from him. Ornaments fell and shattered, and we managed to knock a portrait from the wall; the worst was when a chair went right over and I went with it—backward. My head struck the wooden floor with a thud, and the candlelight flared and flashed dizzyingly for me.
This is really too wretchedly stupid, I thought as my arms bonelessly flopped at my sides. I was too stunned for the moment to offer further defense and expected Oliver to take advantage of it to really pummel me . . . but nothing happened.
After a minute I cracked an eyelid open in his direction and saw his legs. Traveling upward, I made out his hands—fists no longer, thank God—then his heaving chest, then his mottled face. He hiccupped twice, and that's when I noticed his streaming tears.
"You are. A bastard." He swiped at the tears with the back of one arm.
I felt like one, too. I also felt pretty badly from the fall and took my time getting untangled from the chair and standing. Jericho would be appalled when he saw my clothes; I'd have to assure him that the damage—buttons torn from the waistcoat, a coat sleeve partly ripped from its shoulder, shredded lace, and dirtied stockings with gaping holes over the shins—had all been in a good cause.
"Here," I said shakily, holding the ring out.
He grabbed it away and tried to thrust it back on again, but was trembling and half blinded by tears; he just couldn't do it.
"Damn you, damn you, damn you," he said throughout his efforts.
"And damn you for an idiot, dear Cousin," I growled back.
"You dare? How can you—"
"You hated her, so why do you even bother with that?" I gestured at the ring.
He took another swing at me. A halfhearted attempt, I successfully dodged it.
"You think anyone here cares whether you're in mourning or not? Or are you worried about what they might think?"
"I don't give a bloody damn what they think!" The next time he swung, I caught his arm and, after more scuffling, dragged him to the chair and more or less got him to sit.
"I'll kill you for this!" he roared.
"I don't think so. Now shut up or—"
"Or what? You'll use your unholy influence on me?"
"If I'd planned that, I'd have done it sooner and spared myself a beating. You'll behave now or I'll slap your poxy face until you're silly."
He must have decided that I was serious, for he slumped a bit. "My face isn't poxy," he muttered.
This was said with such pouting sincerity that I stopped short to stare at him. He returned with a stubborn look of his own for a full ten seconds, then both our faces began crumbling, first with a sharp pulling at the mouth corners, then suppressed snickers, then full-blown laughter. His was short-lived, though, quickly devolving back to tears. Once started, he kept going, head bowed as he sobbed away his inner agony. Putting an arm around his shoulders, I wept myself, not for any grief of my own, but out of sympathy for his. Then some oaf knocked at the door.
I wearily moved toward it, wiping my nose and eyes, and when I'd put myself in order, opened it an inch. "Yes?"
Radcliff was there, along with a few other servants, all seeming very worried. "Sir, we heard something break . . . is there a problem?"
They'd heard more than that from the looks I was getting. I gave them an easy and innocent smile. "No, just had a bit of a mishap. Nothing to worry about. Mr. Marling and I are having a private talk and would appreciate it if we could be left undisturbed for the time being."
"If you're sure, sir . . ."
"Quite sure, thank you. You may all return to your duties."
With considerable reluctance and much doubt, they dispersed, and I shut the door, putting my back to it and leaning against it with a heartfelt sigh. My head ached where it had struck the floor, and I half debated on vanishing for a moment to heal, then dismissed the idea for now. Though Oliver knew about that particular talent of mine, an unexpected exhibition would likely alarm and upset him; he had more than sufficient things to worry about.
He was presently sniffing and yawning and showing evidence of pulling himself together. His eyes were very red, and the white skin above and below them was all puffed, but a spark of life seemed to be returning to them.
He held up the mourning ring. "Did that on purpose, did you?"
"I plead guilty, m'lord."
"Humph."
In deference to my head and bruised shins, I crept slowly from the door, taking a chair opposite him. The table with the food and brandy bottles was between us, and he gestured at it.
"I suppose the next step is to make me eat or get me stinking drunk or both."
"That's exactly right, dear Coz."
"Humph." He turned the mourning ring over and over. "Y'know, this is the closest I ever got to touching her. She wouldn't allow it. Messed up her dress or hair, I suppose, though now when I think about how Grandfather Fonteyn might have treated her . . ."
"There's no need to do so."
"I have, anyway. Because of him I really had no mother, just a woman who filled the position in name only. My God, the only woman who was a real mother to me was my old nanny. Even if she didn't exactly spoil me, she didn't mind getting or giving a hug now and then. I'll weep at her funeral—and for the right reason. I wept tonight because . . . because . . . I don't know." He rubbed his face fingers digging at his inflamed eyes.
I waited until he'd finished and was able to listen. "My father says that guilt is a useless and wasteful thing to carry in one's heart, and it's even worse to feel sorry for oneself for having it."
"I'm guilty?"
"No, but you have guilt, which is something else again. It's not your fault you came to hate your mother. What is, is your feeling badly about it."
"Sorry, but I can't seem to help that," he said dryly.
I shrugged. "It'll go away if you let it."
"Oh? And just how might this miracle be accomplished?"
"I'm not really sure, but sooner or later you wake up and it doesn't bother you so much."
"How do you know?"
"It has to do with forgiveness. All this heartache I've felt for Nora . . . she hurt me terribly by making me forget everything. Even when I came to understand that she must have had a good reason for it, I was still hurting. But over the last few weeks . . . well, it's faded. All I want now is to see her again. I suppose I've forgiven her."
"Very fine for you, but then you've said you love her. Besides, Mother had no good reason for how she treated me."
"True, but the similarity is that you were hurt—"
"And the difference is that I can't forgive her," he finished. "I still hate her for what she did to me."
"Which is the source of your guilt. You want to live with that pain the rest of your life?"
"Of course not, but I know of no way past it, do you?"
He had me there . . . until a mad thought popped into my mind. "Maybe if you talked to her."
Incredulity mixed with disdain washed over his face. "I think it's just a bit late for that."
"Not really. Not for you. Have some of that brandy, I'll be back shortly." I limped from the room, pausing once in the thankfully deserted hall to vanish for a few moments. My head was wrenchingly tender, making the process more difficult, but when I returned, my body was much restored. The headache was fading, and I could walk unimpeded by bruises.
I took myself quickly off to find a suitable lackey and sent him to fetch dry cloaks and hats and a couple of thick woolen mufflers. Despite my disheveled appearance, he hurried to obey and got a penny vail for his effort, which impressed him to the point that he wanted to continue his service by carrying the things to my destination. I pleasantly damned his eyes and told him to see to the other guests. When he was gone, I went back to the blue drawing room.
Oliver had drained away a good portion of the brandy I'd poured earlier and had wolfed down some bread and ham. I hated to interrupt the feasting and particularly the drinking, and so slipped one of the brandy bottles into the pocket of my coat.
"Put this lot on and no questions," I said, tossing him half of my woolly burden.
"But—"
I held up a warning hand. "No questions."
Exasperated, but intrigued, he garbed himself and followed me. I took us out one of the back entries, managing to avoid any of the other family members as we quit the house and slogged over the grounds.
Our sudden isolation made the sleet seem worse than before. It cruelly gouged our skin and clung heavily to our clothes, soaking through in spots. The unrelenting wind magnified the glacial chill, clawing at our cloaks. The [missing], which we'd used to tie our hats in place, were scant protection against its frigid force. Someone had opened the door to hell tonight and forgotten to close it again.
"This is bloody cold," Oliver commented, with high disapproval.
I gave him the brandy. "Then warm yourself."
He accepted and drank. Good. The stuff would hit his near-empty stomach like a pistol ball.
Ugh. My hand went to my chest. Wish I hadn't though of that.
"What's the matter with you?" he demanded, unknowingly pulling me out of my thoughts about black smothering graves.
"No questions," I said, plowing forward through the wind with him in my wake.
It was a devilish thick night, but Oliver's eyes had adjusted to the point where he could see where we were headed.
He balked. "We can't go there!"
"We have to."
"But it's . . . it's . . ."
"What, a little scary?"
"Yes. And I feel like we're being watched."
"So do I, but it's just the wind in the trees."
"You're sure?"
I cast a quick look around. "This is like daylight to me, right? Well, I can't see anyone. We're quite alone."
"That's hardly a comfort," he wailed.
"Come on, Oliver."
I took his arm and we continued forward until once more we stood in the mausoleum before his mother's coffin. Two lighted torches had been left behind in this house of stone to burn themselves out.
"Now what?" He sounded tremulous and lost, for which I could not blame him. Out here in the dark menace of the cemetery with the wind roaring around the tomb as if to give an icy voice to those departed, I felt my own bravado preparing to pack up and decamp like a vagrant.
I cleared my throat rather more loudly than was needed. "Now you're going to talk to her."
His mouth sagged. "You have gone mad."
"True enough, but there's a purpose to it. Talk to her. Tell her exactly how you feel on her treatment of you. I guarantee that she won't object this time."
"I couldn't do that! It's foolish."
"Is it? Hallo there! Aunt Fonteyn! Are you home?" I shouted at the end of the coffin that was visible to us. I thumped at it with a fist. "Are you in there, you horrible old woman? We've come to call on you and we're drunk—Oliver is, anyway—"
"I'm not drunk!" he protested, looking around fearfully.
"Yes, you are." I addressed the coffin again. "See? Your son's drunk and your least favorite nephew's gone mad and we're here to disturb your eternal rest. How do you like that, you bloody harpy?"
Oliver gaped, horrified. I grinned back, then shocked him further by bounding up on Grandfather Fonteyn's sarcophagus and jumping down the other side. "How about that, Grandfather? Did that wake you up? Come on, Oliver, have a bit of exercise."
