Household (3 page)

Mr. Mercer, the gaoler at the Keep, reflected this attitude. He could not imagine his Lordship should take any interest in old Hodges, a cantankerous prisoner if there ever was one! He was astounded when Richard asked if the man might be set free.

“Oh, no, no, no, my Lord. His Lordship, the Justice of the Peace, would ’ave my ’ead. ’E’s got to come up before Asizzes. ’E ’as ’n like as not they’ll ’ang ’im an’ good riddance. Can’t go about shootin’ the gentry. Sets a bad example to the young.”

“Well, perhaps I could see him and make life a bit easier for him,” Richard persisted. “What he has left of it.”

To say that Mr. Mercer was surprised was a considerable understatement. However, he was also pleased. His-Lordship’s mention of making life easier for the old goat could mean only one thing. He wanted to give him money, and that sort of largesse would eventually find its way into
his
pocket. Mr. Mercer had a stock of comforts to lighten the sufferings of those who could afford it. Plugs of tobacco, beer, watered down to be sure but still tasty, and sundry other items were among his stock. “I’ll see wot I can do, if you’ll take a seat, my Lord.” Indicating a battered wooden bench, the gaoler hurried off.

His fortnight in the Keep had not improved old Hodges’ looks, and certainly it had wrought on his temper. He came stomping into the room, clad in malodorous garments, his face covered by a dirty grizzled beard, his eyes hot with an anger hardly assuaged by his surroundings. His hands were chained, as were his feet. He glared at Richard out of those small, reddened eyes and growled, “Wot’re ye doin’ ’ere? Come to look at the animals in the menagerie?”

“On the contrary, my good man,” Richard began.

“I’m not yer good man,” snarled the prisoner.

“’Ere that’s no way to talk to ’is Lordship,” the gaoler protested, evidently envisioning Richard’s money fading away.

“Never mind,” Richard said. “I am sure Mr. Hodges has been sorely tried. I have come to offer my sympathies, since I can do little else. I’d hoped to free you, sir.”

“Free me!” Mr. Hodges howled. “Free ’im wot killed yer own blood brother? Yer another just like ’im, not a scrap o’ conscience between ye. An’ my poor Emmy saddled wi’ one o’ yer good-fer-nothin’ brats. Free me, indeed. T’was my pleasure to do wot I done’n I be willin’ to pay the price.” He raised both hands and shook his chains. “I’d kill ye, too, if I ’ad my way ’n rid the world o’ all the Veringers, all o’ ’em, d’ye ’ear?” He spat on the floor. “My curse on ye, Richard Veringer, may ye rot in ’ell wi’ yer brother afore yer much older!”

“I’d best take ’im below, your Lordship,” said the discomfited and disappointed gaoler.

“I expect you must,” Richard agreed.

“Aye, take me away from ’im. ’E’s got a prettier face but ’e’s just like his damned brother. Curse ’im, I say. Curse ’im.”

Richard waited until Mr. Mercer returned. Producing a half-crown, he handed it to the astonished man. “See that he has a few creature comforts,” he said gently.

“Oh, I will, I will, never you fear, sir,” the gaoler promised as Richard strode out of the Keep.

He was whistling as he rode toward the Hold. “Three times is the charm, if one believed in that sort of thing,” he muttered to himself. “Ah, superstition! That is the real curse... keeping the common mind in thrall. It’s fortunate that I’m among the enlightened, holding with neither curse nor oath, God nor the devil!”

At that moment, a cloud passed over the moon, briefly darkening the landscape. As it sailed away, Richard added with a quirk of his eyebrow, “Nor do I believe in so-called portents. The natural cannot be joined with the supernatural—since there is no supernatural!”

❖

Lady Veringer, lying in her curtained fourposter, heard her second son come whistling up the stairs. She muttered several words that Fulke and his father had been known to employ when in a temper. She was glad that she had had the opportunity to lock up all of her late son’s clothing. Richard would need to appear at London gatherings looking like a country parson—or not at all.

“A
nd here I was of the opinion that you were man of the cloth, Lord Veringer,” Sir Frances Dashwood said as the condemned man, purple-faced from the tightening noose, jerked about on the gallows.

“Not I.” Richard was glad to shift his gaze from spectacle to speaker. Though a visit to a Tyburn hanging was one of the great sights of London, he had not found it much to his liking. His new acquaintance, Sir Francis Dashwood appeared to be enjoying it greatly. He had also compared the hanging to several others witnessed over the past few weeks. “Quite the best of the lot,” he was now assuring Richard. “This rogue’s lasted at least five minutes longer than any of the others. I’ll make money on it. Lost last week... great hulking fellow, strong as an ox, but heavy. If I’d thought about it, I’d’ve known the weight would pull him down. It’s the small ones that usually take the longest. Remember that, if you lay any bets on ’em, Lord, look at him dancing. Ah, that’s it. Dead and fifteen guineas for me!”

Richard was reminded of the Jack o’Diamonds which put him in mind of his mother, which put him in mind of what Sir Francis had said about his presumed calling. He frowned. The remark was based on the clothes he had been forced to wear until his new suits could be finished. He glanced down at himself and smiled.

Nothing could be less clerical than his blue coat, flared at the back and matched by tight-fitting breeches of the same material. His vest was heavily embroidered with red and blue threads in a swirling pattern, and over the fall of lace at his throat was a black ribbon called a solitaire. He had clubbed his hair at the nape of his neck and tied it with a silk ribbon. He could guess what they would have said at the kirk had they caught their minister in such garb.

“But,” Sir Francis said suddenly, “you
were
a man of the cloth.”

“I was,” Richard admitted reluctantly.

“And left it? Why?”

Richard found that Sir Francis’ eyes a mild grey, were alight with curiosity. He wondered briefly whether he were of a religious persuasion and preparing to harangue him on his duties, but doubted that such a one would be laying bets as to the longevity of an expiring criminal. He decided to be frank. “I left it because I came into the title on the unexpected demise of my elder brother. Quite truthfully, I had been most reluctant to take holy orders, having little vocation for the ministry.”

“But you took ’em,” persisted the baronet.

“I did.” Richard smiled wryly.

“And how long were you in the ministry?”

“Upwards to two years—ordained.”

“Ah, but that is excellent,” Sir Francis rubbed his small, rather plump hands together and also smiled, more broadly than Richard’s effort. He bowed. “I trust we’ll meet a third time.”

Nodding cheerfully, he strolled away, disappearing amidst the multitudes and leaving Richard puzzled. He had remembered where he had seen Sir Francis before. It was a fortnight ago, just after his arrival in London and a new friend had taken him to Whites. He had been feeling uncomfortable and out of place in his rusty black clergyman’s attire. He had exchanged a few words with Sir Francis and probably had excused his garments, as he was in the habit of doing to everyone he met. He wondered about the baronet now. Judging from his friendly attitude, it would seem he might have asked his direction and suggested another meeting, but he had not. Still, and-Richard did not know why he was so sure of it, he was positive that Sir Francis intended them to meet again. Shrugging, he threaded his way through the crowds and strolled toward his lodgings, keeping as near to the street as carriages, wagons, sedan chairs, hawkers, herb and fruit sellers, beggars, street musicians, running footmen and horseback riders would allow. He had no wish to find himself drenched with the contents from a slop jar, a not unlikely prospect during any walk in London.

❖

By the time he was in his parlor, Richard had forgotten about Dashwood in contemplating what he would wear to the theater that evening. He had three hours in which to make this momentous decision, the play not commencing until six. However, he had reasons for wanting to look his very best—rather, a reason.

Her name was Catlin O’Neill. She was appearing in
The Lover’s Stratagem
, a play he had seen on Tuesday evening, Wednesday evening and would see again tonight, Thursday evening, when it would close, having had, in the eyes of some spectators, far too long a run for the indifferent farce it was. Richard, however, could have seen it every night in the week, even though he must needs suffer through the ludicrous work that preceded it—something about a Dane named Hamlet, whose indecision almost proved his undoing, had it not been for his best friend Laertes, brother of Ophelia to whom Hamlet was engaged. It was Laertes who warned Hamlet that his uncle was preparing to poison him. Consequently Hamlet turned the tables on Claudius, spearing him, and marrying Ophelia, who had supposedly drowned, but actually had swum to safety, collapsing on the river bank and being nursed back to health by a friendly fisherman.

It was a great mystery to Richard why the audience preferred this work to
The Lover’s Stratagem.
He usually slept soundly through it and, indeed, had slept that first night waking up just in time for the face of Catlin. Ah, Catlin, Catlin! It was a name that warmed his heart and heated his blood. He had gone backstage to the Green Room to meet her, only to be informed that she had left the theater directly after the curtain fell. This information was provided by the Ophelia, who, judging by her winks and smiles and flutters with her fan would not have been adverse to his company. However, Richard, who judged her old enough to have been a young aunt or an elder sister, if not his mother, ignored the lady’s blandishments and persisted in his desire to meet the charming Miss O’Neill.

“You’ll not be having much luck with her,” snapped the affronted Ophelia. “She be an Irisher and they’re all crazy! This one brings her nurse to the theater along with the old lout who purports to drive her here in her own coach. To my notion, he’s keeping her though he don’t look like he has two groats to rub together. And I warn you, he’s a tough one.”

Last night, Richard had managed to get to the Green Room in time to see the beautiful Catlin who, unlike Ophelia, was even lovelier without her makeup. Unfortunately, she was met by a grave, elderly Irish woman in a shawl, obviously the nurse, who elbowed her way through the crowds to join the girl. Seizing her arm, she hustled her past a group of young men, which Richard found himself eyeing just as sternly as the nurse. Their remarks, directed at Catlin, were probably intended as compliments but they bordered on the obscene. If he had not been so intent on following Mistress O’Neill, he would have made them pay for those ill-advised witticisms. He came out of the stage door just in time to see an immense man join the woman and her charge. This new arrival had bright red hair, bright blue eyes and a pugnacious expression on a wide, freckled, snub-nosed face. There were rolling muscles on his arms that not even a frayed green coat could conceal. With the help of the nurse, he whisked the young actress into a waiting coach and they were off.

Tonight, Richard vowed, would be a different matter. He had learned his lesson. He would linger outside until it was time for Mistress O’Neill to emerge. Meanwhile he would bribe the pugnacious coachman. A pound should do it. Judging from his threadbare appearance, the huge Irishman would pocket it gladly. And after he had Catlin in his grasp... Richard frowned.

He had not really decided what he would do once he was face to face with the ravishingly beautiful girl and eventually side by side with her in the coach he would hire for the occasion. He could, of course, kiss her passionately but while such an action was delightful to contemplate, he was not precisely sure how it would be received. She might yield immediately. That would be wonderful, but also disappointing. Much to his surprise, he found he did not crave an easy conquest. He wanted a show of reluctance on her part, even fright. Then he would soothe her, assuring her that he meant no harm. Once she trusted him, he would take her to supper and afterwards...

He was angry at the heat he felt on his cheeks and forehead! A man of 22 was blushing at visions which should have been realities four years earlier, save that there had been Christina four years earlier, and he himself had been the perfect knight, Chaucer-style. Later, though there had been rawboned lassies wandering about the kirk, he had still been too much in love with faithless Christina to attempt anything so bold as a kiss. As for the lassies, they giggled when he passed but seemed too awed by his occupation to give him so much as a come-hither look, not that he wanted one. Eventually, he had lost his uncomfortable virginity at an inn with a mob-capped maid-servant, who also giggled but was eager and surprisingly accomplished. That relationship had sufficed until she married. There had been no one since Meg; her name, he recalled, had been Meg MacDonald. It was difficult to affix a face to the name since their meetings had always taken place in the dark.

Richard stopped thinking about Meg. It seemed almost obscene to couple his faceless paramour with the beauteous Catlin, even in his thoughts. He set about deciding what he would wear to the theater. As yet, he had only two choices—back or white. He wished he had hired a valet. Most of them were knowledgeable about clothes, but he had been too eager to see the various sights of London to cool his heels in an employment office. Besides, the thrifty habits he had learned while an underpaid minister in an out-of-the-way kirk still remained with him. He was able-bodied, and consequently he could bathe, shave and dress himself! And, at this juncture, he was better off without a servant. Servants gossiped, and it would not help Catlin’s reputation to have her name bandied about. If she partook of a midnight supper with him, he must needs serve it himself.

He decided on the white suit.

Two hours later, standing in front of a long glass, he surveyed himself with pardonable pride. There was a fall of fine lace at his throat, a diamond glittering amidst its folds. His vest, a cream-colored brocade, was patterned with large, stylized chrysanthemums. A silk braid edged his buckram stiffened vest. His coat, also brocade and pure white, stitched with silver, was similarly stiffened. Though not really comfortable, it was certainly fashionable. His breeches matched his coat. His stockings with the dark embroidered clocks were silk, white, of course, as were his shoes. He did not wear high heels. Though these were the very epitome of fashion, they were uncomfortable, and he did not need the extra height, being two inches over six feet. However, as a concession to the occasion, he wore red heels and buckles studded with seeming diamonds.