by Peter Rimmer
“Her grandfather is…”
“I don’t care if her grandfather was the Maharaja. She is Indian, sir, and you are an Englishman. Do I make myself clear!”
A cold Florentine wind played across the street. He could see her as clearly as if she were walking with him. They had been discreet, but the love was far stronger than the warnings from her father or Colonel Jones and they were found out.
“You will resign your commission, sir. Immediately, do you hear? I want you out of India and I shall write to your father, though I rather think that will be unnecessary. Your conduct is unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman. Worse, you gave me your word. When an Englishman breaks his word, he breaks the cornerstone of our code of conduct. This time I will not ask for your word. I want your signature. Now. You are no longer welcome in the officers’ mess. I have given an instruction that no officer in my regiment will speak to you again. You are a disgrace to this regiment and your country. Good day to you, sir.”
They were the last words spoken to him by a fellow officer. He signed the paper, resigning his commission. He had left Chittagong by boat the same day; an Italian boat which had brought him to Italy.
Looking silently at Sir Henry Manderville walking next to him, he wondered what the baronet had done to be ‘sent to Coventry’, to be cut off from his own people, to be exiled. Maybe this Africa with its thousands of acres would give them the chance to talk about their past. He just hoped the new country they were to occupy for Rhodes had never heard of Captain Gregory Shaw, ex-Indian Army.
Whilst her father and Gregory Shaw were buying the only two passenger tickets on a boat carrying marble to Cape Town, Emily was watching the snow fall on the stone terrace at Hastings Court. The long sash windows through which she stared were little protection against the winter. Once the heavy curtains were drawn, the room would grow warmer. The falling flakes removed all thought from her mind. Soon the light would go. A sharp wind rattled the windows and without thinking, she tightened the central lock without any effort and ice cold air blew on her chapped hand. The rest was silence throughout the house and outside were the stark, leafless trees in front of the terrace and a leaden sky above the battlements of the old house. Apart from the servants and her son, she had not spoken to a soul all week; The Captain and his wife had made a rare visit to London and Arthur. Finally, putting the heavy curtains together, she turned away from the winter cold. Even her son had become a burden to her misery. She might just as well have been dead. Without her son, she would have killed herself. She was quite sure Sebastian was long dead. Even the fire, when she walked to it, failed to warm her body, let alone her soul.
Some people said the Reverend Nathanial Brigandshaw was the nicest member of the family and with better connections, he could become a bishop in the Church of England and take his place in the House of Lords. Arthur was known to be devious. James the military member of the family was aloof and superior. The youngest, Sebastian, had been sent away to sea never to be seen again. No one said it to his face but The Captain, with all his money and mansion, was far too pushy and really rather common. His wife, Mathilda, rumoured to be the daughter of a draper from Chester, wherever that was, agreed with everything everyone ever said to her and had never been heard to hold an opinion of her own. No, they said, Nathanial, the second son who had gone into the church, was the pick of the bunch. He listened, he advised, and he was always available night and day in his squalid parish which included part of the London docks. He had been administering the small, impoverished parish for three and a half years as many potential vicars older than himself preferred to remain curates until something better came along. Career paths in the Church were as clearly defined as career paths in the army. Good regiments and well-to-do parishes were the way to military and ecclesiastical promotion. The chances were that Nathanial, two years younger than Arthur, would end up a saint rather than a bishop. His was the way of all good men.
His wife was so glad. She had found herself a husband, and she put up with the parish, yet Nat gave away to the poor the money he sometimes received from his father.
Bess heard the loud knock on the front door and put down her sewing. Placing the guard in front of the coal fire, she went down the narrow stairs to the small hall that made enough room for a hat and an umbrella stand. The grandfather clock began striking eleven o’clock the same time the brass door knocker was again struck with authority. ‘The police again at this time of night,’ thought Bess, hurrying down the wooden stairs, sliding her hand down the polished banister to prevent herself going down head first in such a hurry. The peelers often consulted the vicar but never before, to her knowledge, at eleven o’clock at night.
Drawing the top and bottom bolts having first lit the gas lamp in the hall to see what she was doing, Bess opened the front door of what was nicely called the vicarage, there being identical doors up and down the long street of attached houses, all narrow and four storeys high. The lamplight showed her a tall man with broad shoulders wearing a hat made of grey leather of a style Bess had never seen before. The smiling man was wearing a long coat of the same leather which came down to the bottom of his boots and she noticed they were covered in mud. The long hair down to the shoulders and full beard disguised the man’s features. The man stood on the top of the steps that led from the road and kept on smiling, the blue eyes watching her with great amusement. With great aplomb, the strange-looking man swept off the wide-brimmed hat and made her an overly ridiculous bow.
“Is this the residence of Reverend Nathanial Brigandshaw?”
“It is, but the vicar is out. Maybe you could call…?”
“I’ll wait.”
“You can’t.”
“And why ever not… Bess?”
“You know my name?”
“Of course. Have I changed that much?” He knew perfectly well that he had. “I’m your brother-in-law, Bess.”
“You can’t be.”
“I can be. Now, may I come in?”
With the front door closed, Sebastian threw his heavy coat over the top of the hat stand. A hook on the wall took his hat. Slowly he followed his sister-in-law up the narrow stairs, to the cosy room with the coal fire burning. The girl seemed struck dumb and picked up her sewing. With Seb left standing, they listened to the clocks in the house while they waited for the vicar to return.
Nathanial was tired, very tired when he reached the steps leading up to his front door. He told himself some people were incapable of helping themselves with an attitude of ‘woe is me’ in their self-induced poverty. It was always somebody else’s fault, the reason for their plight. They never thought of blaming themselves. Their greatest happiness was to find themselves reliant on others. The couple he had just left had never tried to do a day’s work, and to listen to them, which is what they enjoyed most, the poor were a creation of the rich. Only the poor were right in their misery. He was quite sure the shilling he had just given them would have now been converted into gin. The woman was no more sick than dying. The vicar, if he came, was good for a shilling. Nat sighed to himself. ‘God made man in strange ways.’
It had begun to snow again, the flakes quickly turning into a dark sludge. The streetlight behind him spluttered from a surge of gas as he put a foot on the first step up to the door. All he wanted to do was get into bed and go to sleep.
The first thing confronting him when Bess opened the door was a long coat made from grey leather he had never seen before. He stood looking at the coat as his wife closed the door. A pattern of what looked like wrinkles ran the length of the coat. On the hook where he normally placed his own hat was a strange headgear with a wider rim than Nat had ever seen before and made of the same grey leather.
“Your brother is upstairs,” was all she said.
There was no room for his own coat so he left it on and followed his wife upstairs. Standing with his back to the fire was an unknown man well over six feet tall who began speaking to him like an old friend.
&
nbsp; “Sorry about the late hour, Nat, but I need your help. I sail for Africa again in two days’ time and the tide waits for no man… Glory be, have I really changed that much? Now look, as far as I see it Father wanted me out of the way while Arthur married Emily. There was no other motive. Hastings Court was a bonus.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Captain Doyle. I’m one of his customers. I also know that Harry is mine and not Arthur’s. You all must be aware of that?”
“Seb, be careful. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“But I can count, which is more than you can. Em and I were lovers.”
“What do you want of me?”
“Nat, that’s not very friendly for a priest. What I want is the woman who should be my wife and my son.”
“She’s married to Arthur. You can’t break God’s words. They were married before God. ‘In the name of the Lord, I pronounce you man and wife.’ You can’t change that, Sebastian.”
“Sit down, Nat, you look exhausted.”
“I am. Look, I’m sorry. The last person I expected to find in front of my fire tonight was you. I’ve prayed for you, Seb.”
“I’m glad because quite often I needed the help.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Hunting elephant. Just the old and discarded. Even old elephants got thrown out by their relatives.”
“Yes of course.” Nat had no idea what his brother was talking about.
“Bess, ask the maid to bring some tea, please?”
“She’s sound asleep. I’ll go while you talk. The prodigal son returns,” she said over her shoulder.
“Without the fatted calf,” finished Seb. “You got any whisky, brother Nat?”
“Yes I have, matter of fact.”
“Good. Cancel the tea, Bess. Now, are Mother and Father back home at Hastings Court?”
“No, they return tomorrow afternoon. You want to see them?”
“Not really.”
“You’re going to abduct Emily?”
“Yes, I am. But first a whisky with my brother. I had to be sure where the parents were tonight. Have you been to Hastings Court?”
“Of course. It’s Father’s home now. Well, Arthur’s really.”
“But he doesn’t stay there too much? Arthur, I mean.”
“You seem to know everything. What’s that coat downstairs made out of?” Nat was trying to change the subject.
“Elephant hide.”
“How did you come by it?”
“Well, first I shot the elephant.”
“You’d better start at the beginning. I rather think it’s a long story. Funny, I’m not tired anymore.”
Sebastian left at one o’clock in the morning with his brother’s blessing. There were things about Arthur that Nat had never heard. Their elder brother was a sadist with a taste for perversion, something first heard of by Seb in Cape Town. Once Seb was making Captain Doyle money, their relationship had gone into reverse. The most profitable high value, low weight cargo for the Indian Queen was ivory, and this was known to Doyle and his crew who shared in the profit. From being the disgraced youngest son of The Captain, he, with Tinus, was a source of wealth. Another five-tonne shipment of ivory would see the senior hands going ashore for the rest of their lives with enough money to buy a small business. There were many ships plying the route to India, some with captains equally well known to the Bombay ivory carvers. From Captain Doyle to the second mate, they all wanted to curry favour with the men who brought them the ivory. Their talk in the taverns of Cape Town to Seb was mostly about Arthur. Even the crew knew The Captain’s eldest son was a parasite. When he found out the date of Harry’s birth, the day The Captain had marked by giving the crews of Colonial Shipping a bonus, he knew he had to go home.
Leaving Tinus and Tatenda in Cape Town to wait for him, he had taken the fastest boat back to England, arriving ten days before the late-night confrontation with Nat. By the time Seb walked quickly to the docks and his waiting coach, any shadow of doubt about his brother’s behaviour had vanished. The vicar, his own brother, knew a lot more than he was prepared to say and even as Seb walked fast he knew his brother was going out to warn their mother and father. He doubted if he would go to warn Arthur as he doubted if Arthur could give a damn.
The first call was to borrow an extension ladder from the ostler and then with two fresh horses they began the dash down south to Hastings Court. The ladder was strapped on top of the coach. By the time his mother had fuddled around and got in his father’s way, it would be near to dawn.
An hour before dawn Seb was racing across Epsom Downs.
Emily woke to a thud on her bedroom window followed by the sound of breaking glass and the squeaking of the sash window moving on its cords. A draft of bitterly cold air came into the room.
“Emily,” called a voice, “have I got the right bedroom? Em, are you in there? It’s dark and I can’t see. Light the gaslight for heaven’s sake before I break my neck. And hurry. Hell, it’s cold in this country.”
The light flared, and the bedroom came into perspective and Emily screamed. Seb moved across the room quickly.
“Quiet or you will wake the servants. Put on warm clothes and get Harry from the nursery.” The girl’s face was pressed against his chest while he stroked her hair to calm her down. “We are going back down the ladder before anyone can do anything to stop us. By tomorrow night we’ll be out of the country. Em, you do want to come with me?”
The Captain, knowing his business, went to the docks first to block his youngest son from leaving the country. There were only three ships bound for Africa within the week and their captains were warned of the consequences of sailing with an abducted wife. The description of a tall, bearded man with a young woman and young son was more than enough. Leaving his hysterical wife in their suite at the Savoy Hotel overlooking the Thames River, The Captain took a fresh horse and rode for Hastings Court. It was still dark when he left the stables at the Savoy. He was in a cold rage.
Back in his house feeling more like Judas than Nathanial, Nat was unable to sleep. He had never before seen a man totally lose his temper. For a moment in the hotel suite, The Captain was insane and Nat had moved quickly between his mother and father. The cold fury that followed the rage was even more frightening. “I will not have a son of mine gainsay me!”
At dawn, Nat’s conscience and the remains of the bottle of whisky got the better of him. He walked quickly in the cold light of dawn to the local inn and took a cab to his elder brother’s house in Baker Street. Never before had he called at the house. The address had been given to him by his father with the instructions to tell Arthur. Asking the cabbie to wait outside, Nat walked up the steps similar to his own and knocked on his brother’s front door. The woman who answered was in a dressing gown that fell open as she shut the door on the cold morning showing the vicar two large naked breasts.
“Well, what can I do for you, luvvy?” said the woman he had first imagined was the maid.
“My brother, Arthur Brigandshaw, is he at home?”
“Art’s asleep in bed.”
It was obvious the woman was more than a servant to ‘Art’, a derivative Nat had never before associated with his brother.
“Could you call him down? It’s urgent.”
“You want me to wake him up? Don’t be daft. He only went to bed an hour ago.”
“Show me his room.”
“Go up them stairs and you’ll hear him snoring. Always snores when he’s drunk. Rather you than me waking him up still drunk.”
“I am his brother.”
“So you said but be careful. You want a cup of tea?”
“No thank you.”
The ladder was still up against the window when The Captain arrived at the front door. The butler opened it and stood back silently. None of the other servants were to be seen. Silence, empty silence wrapped the old house.
“Where is my grandson?” asked The Captain
too quietly. The butler chose to keep his mouth shut. “Did you hear me?” The butler had served in better circumstances and was unable to keep the contempt out of his eyes. With the last of the Mandervilles out of the house, he intended handing in his notice. Good service required good manners in return. “You’re fired.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the butler allowing himself the glimmer of a smile.
“And don’t smirk.”
“Shall I leave straight away?”
“Get out of my sight.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have they both gone?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Why didn’t anyone stop them?”
“They went out through the window rather quickly.” This time he allowed a smile to spread over his entire face.
“You’re smirking again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Frustrated, The Captain turned tail and once in the forecourt he remounted his horse without any idea of which way to ride. Making up his mind he rode the exhausted horse to his own stable and took a fresh horse. In the village, he asked if a coach with his daughter-in-law had passed their way. The villagers gave him dumb looks. They all knew. In deeper fury, the once popular ship’s captain realised he was hated, and it was all the fault of his youngest son. Ever since Sebastian had been sent to the colonies, the people had turned their backs. Nothing was ever said. The disapproval was written on their faces.
By the time The Captain reached his son’s townhouse in Baker Street, Arthur Brigandshaw had sobered up and sent the lady home to her mother. It was a Sunday and the office of Colonial Shipping was closed. Subduing the feeling of relief and delight, Arthur was full of righteous indignation and went to the local police station to lay a charge against his brother for abduction. The process was painfully slow and his hangover was screaming for a drink.
