P. N. Elrod - Barrett 03, page 23
He took a deep draught of brandy, coughing a bit. "I couldn't," he gasped. It was but a faint protest, though.
"You most certainly can. What's it to him? He can't feel it. But you will." I hopped up, capered on the carved marble, and dropped lightly next to him. "Right, if you don't want to dance, it's all one with me, but you are going to talk to her. Scream at her if you like, no one's going to hear a word."
He shot me a dark look. "You will."
"Hardly. I'm going back to the house." So saying, I turned and started away. "Best get on with it. The sooner you begin, the sooner you can enjoy the fire and food waiting there."
He returned about half an hour later, teeth chattering, and skin gone both red and white with the cold, but with a sharp gleam of triumph in his eyes. Not all of it had been inspired by the brandy.
He'd talked to his mother.
He'd also shouted, bellowed, and cursed her in a most splendid and inspired manner. I knew, because I'd hung back out of sight, just close enough to hear his voice but not understand the words. Once I was sure he was truly into the business, I hared off to have some hot broth waiting for him in the drawing room. Radcliff brought it himself, clucking unhappily over the breakage there, but hurriedly leaving at my impatient gesture when Oliver walked in. The talk in the servants' hall would doubtless be quite entertaining tonight.
Oliver flopped into the chair with his familiar abandon and declared that he was ready to perish from the cold.
"Feels like the devil's grabbed my ears and won't let go," he cheerfully complained. He held his hands out to the fire to warm them, then gingerly cupped his palms over his ears. "Ouch! Well, if I lose them, I lose them. I'll just have a wig made to cover my unadorned ear holes and no one'll be the wiser. What's this? Broth? Just the thing, but I'd like more brandy if you don't mind. And some ham, no, that thick slice over there. Gone cold, has it? Just let me catch it with the fire tongs and toast it a bit . . . there, that'll hot it up nicely. Y'know she would never have allowed this. Dining's to be done in the dining room and nowhere else, but to hell with the old ways. This is my house now and there will be changes made, just you wait and see! And see this, too!"
He held up the mourning ring in his long white fingers.
"Are you watching, Coz? Are you? There!" He tossed the ring into the fire. It landed softly and Oliver was silent as the flames crept up and quickly consumed it.
"There," he repeated more softly. "No more hypocrisy. No more damned guilt. Dear me, but the ham's scorching. Hand that plate over, will you? Mind the brandy, precious stuff, that."
I stayed with him, listening with a glad heart to his chatter as he made inroads on the food. He was drunk and getting drunker. Tomorrow he would have a very bad head, but that would give him something else to think about than his guilt—if any remained. I rather thought there might be, for the stuff has a tenacious grip on certain souls and Oliver had already shown his vulnerability to it. But I was also thinking that the next time he felt its talons digging in, he'd go out to shout in the mausoleum again, now that he knew to do so.
Soon Oliver, replete and bone-tired, asked if I could take him upstairs and put him to bed.
"Don' think I cou' manage on m' own 'n' tha's God's own truth, Coz." He confessed this woeful tiding with a wobbling head.
I told him that I'd be pleased to assist him. After getting him to his nerveless feet, we staggered into the hall and found a stairway to stumble up. He was not exactly quiet, giggling and declaring that I was the best damned cousin in the world and he'd give challenge to any man who said otherwise. This brought out some servants to investigate the row, one of whom was an older woman that Oliver greeted with tipsy joy.
"Nanny! You won'erful ol' darling! How 'bout a nice hug for your bad lad?" He flailed out with one arm, but I kept him from toppling over and falling on the poor woman.
"Mr. Oliver, you need to be in bed," she in a scolding tone, putting her hands on her hips. She was tiny, but I got the impression her authority in the nursery was never questioned.
Oliver smiled, beatific. "'Xactly where 'm goin', Nanny. May I please have a good night choc'late, like ol' times?"
"Have you a room we can put him in?" I asked her.
"His old one's just here—no, that might not be a good choice, being bare as a dog's bone. This way, sir."
She took us along to one that had been made up for the use of guests who would stay overnight. A small chamber for the new master of the house, but the fire was laid and the bed turned down and ready. I eased him onto it and let her fuss over him, taking his shoes off and stripping away his outer clothes as though he were still four years old. Oliver, for what little he was aware of it, seemed to be enjoying every minute. As soon as his head struck the pillow, he was asleep, snoring mightily.
The nanny dutifully tucked him in, then paused to make a curtsy to me on her way out. We got a good look at each other. I saw a cautious but kindly face, not pretty, but certainly intelligent. What she saw I wasn't sure of, but her expression was strangely reminiscent of Oliver's own version of pop-eyed surprise. Then I remembered that my clothes were still in need of repair. No doubt torn sleeves and missing buttons were a rare sight in this house. I made a polite nod to her and sailed from the room as if utterly unaware of my dishevelment.
Unfortunately, I sailed smack into Cousin Edmond, colliding heavily with his sturdy frame. He snarled a justifiable objection to my clumsiness.
"I do beg your pardon," I said, having all but bounced off him. He was about as solid and forgiving as any brick wall.
"What? Are you drunk as well?"
"No, but poor Oliver needed some help finding his way up."
"I'm sure he did. Half the house heard his disgraceful carrying on." Edmond pushed past me for a look into the room to grunt at Oliver's sleeping form and growl at the nanny. "Mrs. Howard, what the devil are you doing here? Get yourself along and see to the other brats. The one in here is long past your help."
Apparently well used to his rough ways, Mrs. Howard plucked her skirts up with underplayed dignity and left. She quickly covered a fair amount of the hall without seeming to hurry and turned a corner without looking back.
Edmond glared after her, then focused the force of it on me for an instant. His lips curled as if he wanted to speak. I waited, but nothing came forth. He thinned the set of his mouth into a tough line of contempt, but after all that had happened, I was utterly immune to intimidation from him. When one has gone to a cemetery in the dark of a winter night to dance with the dead, it takes more than a bad-tempered cousin to shake one's inner esteem. Perhaps he sensed that. Without another word, he pushed past me to go below.
"Edmond?"
He stopped halfway down and did not quite turn to look. "What?"
"Just wanted to let you know that your work making the arrangements was excellent and much appreciated. Olivet is very grateful, y'know."
He said nothing for a moment, then grunted. Then he moved on.
Even as he descended, my sister ascended, glancing after him pensively.
"You look much improved," I commented, happy to see her again.
She reached the landing, her eyes wide as they raked me up and down. "What on earth have you been doing?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just had a nice little chat with Oliver. He feels all the better for it."
"You must have been chatting in a cockfighting pit. What's happened to you?"
I gave her a brief explanation for my condition.
"And Oliver's all right?" she asked with justifiable disbelief.
"Right as rain—at least until he wakes up."
Now she took her own opportunity to look in on him. "God, what a row," she said, in reaction to his snores. "I suppose he must be better if he can make that much noise. So what was troubling Cousin Edmond? He seemed more broody than normal."
"He had some objection to Oliver's carrying on is all." Poor old stick-in-the-mud Edmond, I thought. "Maybe his temper will improve with Aunt Fonteyn's absence."
"Jonathan!"
"Or is that too much to hope for?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were drunk. So will anyone else."
"Bother them. They're probably thinking the same as I about her, but they'd just never admit it. Oliver is now the new head of the family, and he's bound to be more congenial in his duties than she, so everyone ought to be celebrating tonight. Things are looking up for the Fonteyns."
"Unless Mother decides to take things over when she comes to England," Elizabeth pointed out.
"She can't. It may have been Aunt Fonteyn's will, but hers was mostly a continuation of Grandfather Fonteyn's testament. Except for a few special bequests and such it stays the same, and his eldest daughter's eldest son inherits the lot."
"What? Nothing for his own sons?"
"That's already covered, as in the case of our incomes. The old man had his favorites—and they were his daughters."
Elizabeth briefly shut her eyes and shook her head. "In light of your speculations about—about how things were with them . . . well . . ." She spread her hands, unhappy with the ugly idea.
"It explains much about Mother and why she is the way she is," I said in a small voice, starting to feel a cold emptiness stealing over me. It was a kind of black helplessness that settled on my heart whenever this subject was mentioned. Perhaps if we had known, if any of us had had the least inkling of what her young life might have been like, then things might have been different for our mother. I wondered if we had a similar night like this awaiting us in the nebulous future, requiring that we shout at her coffin to exorcise our guilt.
"God forbid," I whispered.
"What?" Elizabeth gave a little start, having perhaps also been in the thrall of dismal thoughts. "Forbid what?"
"Just thinking aloud. It's nothing. Well-a-day, I wish I could get drunk, but I expect if I mixed brandy with my usual beverage it would just send me to sleep."
She straightened her shoulders. "Yes, and we all know how alarming that is."
"Nothing for it, then, I shall have to brave the family sans defenses."
"You've plenty of better ones to make up for that lack, little brother. What was the problem you had with the young man who left you so fast? I saw how you were speaking to him. Who was he?"
"Thomas Ridley's loving cousin Arthur Tyne, and he was either hoping for revenge or to make a name for himself as a duelist. He tried to provoke me tonight."
"Good God! You're not—"
"I've had enough of fire-eating, dear sister. I sent him off for good."
"But if he insulted you and you allowed him to get away with it—"
"He didn't, my honor is unsullied. Not that I give hang for him, but I'm just not in a hurry to send the dolt to hell for just being a dolt. Now, if he'd said anything against you, funeral or not, he'd be wishing he hadn't."
"You'd kill him?"
"No, but I'd serve him as well as I served his poxy-faced cousin."
"But Thomas wasn't poxy," she said thoughtfully. "In fact he's . . . Jonathan, what are you laughing about?"
Even the most entertaining funeral must end sometime.
Those mourners who were not staying the night began to take themselves home, causing much bustling for the servants as they prepared things. New torches were lighted, carriages were brought around, farewells were exchanged, and one by one the relatives departed, leaving Fonteyn House a bit roomier than before. Those who remained behind, either because of their reluctance to face the weather or the fact that they lived too far away, were lodged in every likely and unlikely corner of the house.
Clarinda and Elizabeth oversaw things, each bringing her own expertise in organization to the problems that arose, from a shortage of blankets to what would be served to break the morning fast. My talents for such matters were sadly undeveloped, but I made myself useful directing people to this room or that, according to the list I'd been given.
After all were settled, I planned to return to Oliver's house as usual, since my bed of earth was there. Thus would I be spared the task of having to influence a veritable army of servants into ignoring my peculiar sleeping arrangements. Elizabeth had been staying at Fonteyn House since the day after Aunt Fonteyn's death and would yet be lodging here, this time with a roomful of other young women.
"How enviable," I said lightly.
"You may think so, but they're bound to talk until dawn, wanting to know all about you."
"Well, try to be as discouraging as you can. The ones I've met always seem to think that any stray unmarried male is only interested in finding a wife."
"I know, that's been made abundantly clear to me since we moved into Oliver's and started getting callers. The ladies coming by to see you outnumber the gentlemen paying respects to me by nine to four. Perhaps I should be jealous of you."
"Rather blame it on the shortsightedness of the London men. There's also the possibility that they may feel the same about marriage as I."
"I think not, little brother, I've already gotten three proposals."
"What?"
She laughed at my stricken expression. "One was from a mature lad of ten who was pleased with my face."
"And the others?"
"Fortune-hunting cousins on the Fonteyn side of the family."
Now didn't that sound familiar? "What did you say?"
"I told them that my aunt's funeral was hardly the place to be making marriage proposals."
"But that's not a proper refusal," I said, worried. "They might be back."
"Indeed they might," she agreed. "One of them was rather handsome in a horsy sort of way. I wonder if he is descended from Cousin Bucephalus?"
"Good God, Elizabeth, you're not seriously—"
"Certainly not, but I want to have some enjoyment of life while it's still mine to enjoy. When I think of what a cheerless, bitter existence Aunt Fonteyn made for herself, I could just weep at the waste and sadness of it."
"After the awful things she's said and done you can feel sorry for her?"
"Wounded animals, Jonathan," she reminded me. "It's not their fault that someone's been cruel to them. With that in mind, it's easy to understand how they might lash out at those who stray too close."
"Does this mean you'll form a more lenient attitude toward Mother?"
She made a wry face. "You do ask a lot, don't you? I suppose I must then say yes, but then again, it's easy for one to be tolerant when one's source of irritation is several thousand miles away."
"Very well, I'll ask you again when she's closer."
"I'm sure you will." Humor lurked in her dry tone, but I sensed that it was meant to cover some well-concealed low spirits.
"Are you going to be all right here?" I lifted a hand to indicate the vast house. "I mean after the funeral and all. I can take you home, y'know."
She shook her head decisively. "I'm fine. It's not what I'm used to, but I don't mind a little change now and then. Besides, I'm needed here. Poor Oliver's going to be feeling the torments of hell when he wakes tomorrow, and I thought I'd try one of Dr. Beldon's remedies on him."
"And what would that be?"
"Tea with honey and mint. Better than moss snuff for his head, I'm sure." She wilted a little. "I hope that they're all right, too. Father and the others, I mean."
"As do I, but I'm sure they are, so please don't worry. You've had more than your share of it already. Getting on well with Clarinda?"
"Very well, thank you. She's quite different from Edmond. I wonder how they ever got together."
"Who knows?" I said with a shrug, not really caring.
We said good night, and I promised to be back soon after sunset tomorrow. Oliver's new status as master of Fonteyn House required that he remain in it for some time longer before returning to his own home. As I put on my cloak and wrapped up against the wind, I speculated on whether he would forsake his other household and move back. For all the gloomy corners, it was still a fine big place, and he had promised changes. Heavens, he might even open the shutters and put in some more windows. That would make Grandfather Fonteyn spin in his coffin, and I could think of no one more deserving of the disturbance, unless it might be his eldest daughter. Unlike Elizabeth, I found it difficult to summon compassion for the wretched woman even if she was dead.
On my way out I saw Edmond and the unpleasant Arthur Tyne with their heads together by the main door. I hung back, wanting to avoid both of them. They were garbed for the weather, ready to leave; Edmond was probably headed home, the same as I. Perhaps he didn't mind abandoning Clarinda to her own devices for now, not that anyone remained in the house to tempt her to an indiscretion. The guests were either too young or old, too married or the wrong gender for her—unless one wished to count Oliver. She might find him attractive, I knew, but on the other hand he was dead-drunk and not likely to be of much use to her.
I fidgeted, wishing Edmond and Arthur would get on with themselves so I could go. Perhaps I could just vanish and float past them. I'd planned to exercise myself in that manner on the trip home, anyway, providing the wind wasn't too much of a nuisance.
"Jonathan?" A woman whispered from the darkness of the hall behind me, giving me a start.
I squinted against the shadows and made out her figure, then her face. "Clarinda?"
She remained in place, partially hidden, so I went to her. Reluctantly. Edmond had only to look over and see me, and if he somehow recognized his wife's form in the—
"What is it?" I whispered back, my neck hairs rising.
"I must talk with you."
Oh, dear. Was this the prelude to another seduction to be consummated in some deserted room? "Well, I was just leaving, y'see—"
"This is important. I want only a minute. Please come away."
Her tense tone hardly seemed appropriate for so delicate a thing as a carnal interlude. Perhaps the nearby threat of Edmond was providing a cooling mitigation for her normally ardent nature.
With him discouragingly in mind—not to mention uncomfortably close—I cast a fearful look 'round, then followed her into the deeper darkness of the hall.
