James, Earl of Crofton

by Rebecca Cohen

  His father let out a desperate whine, then huffed out in pain. “But that is not all. I have further suspicions, but not yet proof, of far worse deeds.”

  Stephen hissed and bent over, his face contorting in agony, robbing him of his words. Although James wanted to hear more of what his father had to say he could not sit and watch him suffer. He sprang to his feet and snatched up the tincture, popping the cork. His father shook violently and it took all of James’s strength to get him into a position to administer the laudanum. Much of what he tried to give trickled out of his father’s mouth, and James hardly knew what to do.

  “I will fetch Dr Toling.”

  Although he hated to leave his father alone, James raced to the room a few doors down in which the physician was sleeping. He did not wait to knock and instead barged into the room. “Doctor, you must come quickly. My father, he is in terrible pain.”

  Dr Toling sat bolt upright in bed. His confused expression and the nightcap’s strange angle might have been funny if James was not in so much a state of panic. “My lord, whatever disturbs you so?”

  “Nothing disturbs me! It is my father. Now come.”

  If Dr Toling had not moved, James would not have been above pulling him out of bed, but thankfully it did not come to that. Although he didn’t go as fast as James would have liked, he roused himself, grabbed a leather satchel from a chair and followed James back to Stephen’s room.

  His father lay panting, curled on his side, knees to his cheek. James raced to his side. “I tried to give him the tincture, but I spilt more than he swallowed.”

  Dr Toling didn’t answer; he went straight to his patient. James watched impotently as Toling examined Stephen, his father now almost delirious from pain.

  “I will not lie to you, my lord. Your father is in a poor state. I fear all I can do is give him relief from the pain.”

  “Do what you can.”

  “I need you to hold his lordship’s head as still as possible. As you have seen, it is difficult to administer a treatment to a patient when they are in such a way. I have something a little stronger that will ease the pain and give him dreamless sleep, but maybe only for a few hours.”

  James didn’t care what magical potion Toling had, only that it could stop his father’s suffering. He cradled Stephen’s head in his hands, trying to keep it as still as possible, which was not easy given the moaning and occasional thrashing. Toling took another vial from his satchel and a funnel.

  “Hold him still,” Toling instructed. James did his best, and using the funnel, Toling was able to pour half of the vial’s contents down Stephen’s throat.

  The medicine was not a miracle cure, and his father continued to moan in pain for several minutes. Toling laid a cool compress across Stephen’s forehead, and James willed his father’s agony away. Eventually, Stephen stilled and sleep claimed him. Only once his father’s shallow breathing filled the room did James relax and sink back into the chair.

  “Thank you, Dr Toling. I will watch my father.”

  “He should sleep for several hours. Perhaps, my lord, you should take the opportunity to do the same.”

  James did not turn to look at Toling. “I said I would watch him.”

  “Very well,” muttered Toling. “If you need me, I will come at once.”

  James barely acknowledged Toling leaving, his eyes fixed on his father. Stephen was close to death; James could not deny it further. He reached out and took his hand. He had hoped for more time, to learn more about being the earl, but instead all he had learnt was someone was swindling the family—a crime Stephen was so keen to put right. And there was the ‘far worse deeds’ he had been given no chance to find out more about. James could at least deal with the issue of the estate and then investigate the other matter. He would settle those wrongs as his father would have wished it. But that would need to wait. For now James sat in silence and watched his father’s chest rise and fall in painless sleep.

  James was only vaguely aware of the hours slipping away. His father had slept on, a few whimpers here and there, but whatever Dr Toling had given him had assured several hours of peace. The door opened and his mother entered. The sun had risen, giving him enough light to see her drawn face and sad eyes.

  “I had to fetch the doctor, but he is resting now,” he explained, standing so his mother could sit.

  She smiled sadly, squeezing his hand as she sat down. “Having you by his side will have eased him further.”

  “I shall have a maid bring up some fresh water and cloths. Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head. “I have little appetite for food. But you must get some rest.”

  He withdrew and left her. His parents had been married for thirty years; they had shared so many happy and sad times. James was not their first child but the third. The first two had not survived to the age of three. Francis had also been another much-desired child, them having lost a further two babies before he was born. His mother was a strong woman, but he could see in her distress she had not prepared herself for this. His father was only fifty-two; they had all thought they would have many years ahead of them.

  James had no desire to sleep. Instead, he decided to head to his father’s study to see if he could find the diary, in the hope of understanding his father’s concerns better. Anything would be an improvement on letting his mind wander. He’d had enough heartache in his past and another death of someone close would only lead him to the brandy bottle to find oblivion.

  Personally, he would not have chosen the room his father had for an office. It was tucked away at the back of the hall, with a small window which didn’t give much natural light. When he’d been in there with his father, it had always felt cramped, almost as if he didn’t have enough room to breathe with the way the walls were lined with bookshelves and the desk taking up more space than necessary. Maybe his father had made the room feel that way deliberately, so not to encourage people to linger when he was busy, or not so welcoming he chose to spend too much time there when other more hospitable areas of the hall beckoned.

  James ran his fingers over the top of the desk. It was one of the pieces that had survived unscathed when they had left the hall, and his father had said once that it had belonged the first earl: James’s great-grandfather, Anthony. Three drawers sat either side of the foot well. The top of each stack had locks, and James could have kicked himself for not asking his father where he kept the key when they had discussed his diary.

  He tried the top drawer on the right, expecting it not to yield, and frowned as the drawer glided out. James was certain it should have been locked, but he pulled it open farther to see what was inside. There was no sign of a diary or any other book, and save a few sticks of wax, the drawer was empty. James tried the drawer on the other side and was further perturbed when that, too, opened and was empty. He quickly checked the ones that could not be locked, but they held no sign of a diary or other important papers.

  The door to the study opened and his father’s secretary, Braugh, entered. “Oh, my apologies, my lord. I had not expected anyone to be in here.”

  James understood why his father had chosen Braugh to be his secretary. He had a stalwart, dependable nature, but there was a curtness about him that his ruthless efficiency could not overcome, in James’s opinion, and James had no intention of taking him on for his own needs. “I was looking for something for my father. Is his desk always unlocked?”

  “Unlocked? No, my lord. His lordship is most insistent that the desk drawers remain locked at all times he is away from his study.”

  “Then can you explain this?” He gestured to the opened drawers.

  Braugh usually wore a pinched expression, but on seeing the unlocked drawers his whole face seemed to scrunch up. “I can’t. Those drawers were locked by his lordship three days ago, and I do not have a key.”

  “Somebody unlocked them.”

  Braugh bustled over, wearing his indignance like a cloak. He bent down and examined the keyhole, s
troking the surface of the brass plate. “There are scratches on the outside of the lock and it looks like someone may have rammed something into the hole to force it open.”

  James looked where Braugh was pointing. He could see some damage, but it wasn’t obvious until he peered close, which meant someone had opened the drawer and didn’t want anyone to realise it for as long as possible. “Is this the drawer where my father keeps his diary?”

  “Yes. It is his lordship’s habit to make an entry before he retires for the evening and then lock it away. The key goes with him.”

  James sighed. He would have no further joy with the desk. “There was something he wanted me to read. I suppose it will have to wait for now.”

  It didn’t sound like his father had confided in Braugh about his concerns, and James wasn’t about to either. He excused himself, leaving Braugh in the study. Maybe he should try to sleep. A breathless servant came running towards him. “My lord, her ladyship begs you come to the earl’s room with extreme haste.”

  James did not wait to hear further explanations. He sprinted down the corridors and flung himself into his father’s room, where he stopped still at the sight of his motionless father and his mother sitting by the bed sobbing. He staggered backwards, not ready to see what was before him.

  His mother stood and turned to him. James swallowed back the bile as she curtsied low. “My lord.”

  James knew it was all a matter of etiquette—he was the earl now—but he didn’t have to like it. “Please, Mother, it is not necessary.”

  She straightened. “It is not a matter of necessity. It is just the way it is. You are now the Earl of Crofton.”

  James stepped away, not wanting to face the inevitable. “I will fetch the doctor.”

  “The maid—”

  He didn’t wait to hear the rest and instead bolted from the room. He wasn’t ready to be the earl, but letters must be written, people informed. He retreated back to his father’s office, relieved Braugh had left.

  The next hour he spent scratching out message after message to be dispatched, informing the most important men in the land of the death of the most important man in his life, while desperately trying not to think about how he could possibly hope to fill the shoes his father had worn so well.

  Chapter 8

  Francis didn’t have the haunted look James knew he wore, but then his brother wasn’t now the earl. He had none of the expectations that were laid at James’s feet, and James had never felt so much regret that he was the oldest. To be fair to Francis, he had been helping with the arrangements for the funeral, while James had spent the last two days going through estate records to distract himself yet still be able to assure himself he was doing something useful.

  Francis had stormed into the study without invitation and sat opposite. “Are you going to hide in here all day?”

  James may have grasped the pen he was holding too tight; he felt the nib poke painfully into his palm. “I am not hiding. I have many important things to do.”

  “You have been in here two days, only leaving to sleep. Mother is worried.”

  “And I am worried about the state of the earldom.” He waved a hand over the pile of papers in front of him. “It will not manage itself.”

  “But you do not have to do it singlehandedly. You have a whole army of servants at the manor devoted to the upkeep of the hall, the grounds and us.”

  “Who will keep all those servants in line? Who is the one who needs to make sure the people who are meant to be loyal to us are not stealing from us under our very noses?” James didn’t mean to snap and snarl, but Francis had no idea of what he had to contend with. Being at Cambridge, being the second son, meant Francis could hide away and never even have to consider such things.

  “What are you talking about? Your grief and worry are distorting your mind. James, the world is not against you.”

  James thumped the desk. “You are naïve. You do not get to stand in front of me and preach that I am out of my mind when you know not one whit of what is upon my shoulders.”

  Francis got out of his seat and leaned across the desk. His face was set in a sneer—an expression James didn’t think he’d seen his brother sport before. “Maybe if you had spent less time cavorting around at court and more time here, learning on how to be the earl, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

  James sprang to his feet. “You should watch your mouth, Brother. What right have you to accuse me of shirking my duties?”

  “Right? You talk of rights? I have seen your ways, the stream of women and men who turn your head. You are more often in London than here. Making pretty at court instead of being where you are needed.”

  James slammed his fist on the desk. “You know nothing. Yes, I was in London, but I was doing Father’s bidding, supporting the crown and keeping this family relevant. What good would it be for us to mither away, hiding in the shires when the country is being run from London?”

  “Fine words, but good for nothing if the estate were to crumble away.”

  “Nothing! Nothing! Who do you think negotiated the new contracts for the spice ships? Who gained His Majesty’s blessing to extend our business interests?” James could barely believe Francis’s cheek. “You are a snot of a boy. Hiding in the spires of college. What have you done for this family? What use have you been?”

  “Do not turn this on me. It is not I who have skulked around in here. And what is that, if not a sign of guilt? Your guilt washes from you in waves.”

  “Hold your tongue.”

  “Why would I take orders from you?” Francis tilted his chin defiantly.

  James stood to his full height. “Because I am the fourth Earl of Crofton.”

  “Then you should act like it.”

  James needed to leave before he lashed out and struck Francis. His brother should be grateful he was not the violent type; some men would have already silenced him with a sharp blow. “If you value your nice academic life, cosy without constraints, I suggest you stay out of my way before I find reason to revoke your stipend. Even better, think on your words and prepare your apology.”

  James ignored the dismissive snort as he strode out of his office, desperate to put distance between himself and the words that spewed from Francis’s mouth, knowing his brother had only said what James had been thinking himself. Empty threats did nothing to make him feel better and he sped up, needing to be alone.

  James almost sent a hall boy flying in his haste to get away, but there were other ways to escape than merely closing a door on the outside. “You! Have a bottle of brandy sent to my room immediately.”

  The boy stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, before realising he was expected to give an answer. “Yes, my lord.”

  With anger and bile burning through him, James charged into his room. At some point he would be expected to take the earl’s room, but that could wait at least until his father was buried, if not indefinitely. He stood, impotent, shaking with rage and grief, the weight of expectation weighing down, crushing him like nothing he’d endured before.

  A timid knock made him turn, and he only then realised he had not closed the door. The hall boy stood clutching the brandy, clearly wary of James’s reaction.

  He walked over, took the bottle and murmured a quiet thank you, then firmly closed the door, resisting every urge to slam it, lest he trouble the poor boy further.

  Without much thought, he pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it to one side. Several long pulls of brandy burnt his throat as he drank it down, but he welcomed the oblivion that would follow. He collapsed forwards onto his bed, tears burning his eyes and unrelenting thoughts plaguing his mind.

  Remembrance stood at his bed side. James had to blink away the stickiness from his eyes due to tears and drunken sleep. His head was clearer than he had any right for it to be. He sat up, pleased to see a face from his life in London at the hall. “Oh, good, you’re here.”

  “I arrived late last night, my lord
. One of the servants directed me to your rooms. I did knock, but you were fast asleep and I thought you wouldn’t want to be disturbed.” He bent down, picked the brandy bottle off the floor and placed it to the side. “I tried my best to make you comfortable, but you weren’t making it easy for me.”

  James laughed despite the bitter ache in his chest. He could have had the pick of any of his staff, or even someone who came highly recommended from another household, to be his personal servant, but Remembrance’s ways were more refreshing than a cold bath. Even though James didn’t think Remembrance realised how he acted might not be the way an earl’s manservant should behave.

  “I did manage to unpack a few of your clothes though. Dark colours and the like. Oh, and your tailor is waiting for when you wake up.”

  “Tailor? Makepeace has travelled from London?”

  Remembrance snorted, then remembered himself. “I doubt Mr Makepeace is one for travelling, my lord. I was informed that Mr Davy is your tailor from Hertford.”

  “Yes, of course.” Perhaps Francis had a point and James had been spending too much time in London, or, alternatively, the grief and weight of expectation had addled his brain, making it difficult to order his thoughts. “I will need suitable attire for the coming days.”

  “Right you are. I’ve left some fresh water and linens, so once you’re cleaned up I’ll send him in.” Then added, “My lord.”

  James scratched his head and wondered where his wig had ended up. Remembrance must have removed it and placed it on the dressing table. His neck was stiff and his head felt full of moss, but not so bad considering he’d drunk the best part of half a bottle of brandy. What he wanted to do was get back into bed and hide away, but that was no longer allowed. Last night had been bad enough. He’d run away from an argument—not something he would usually do—and hadn’t even had the good grace to excuse himself from supper. Now he needed to present himself properly, help with the funeral arrangements and start acting like the earl.