“Your second, sir?” Captain Dalton raised an eyebrow, his skin weathered and worn by salt spray. “So that’s it. You aim to kill a man on every continent, and you require my help?”
“You are lucky, captain, that I appreciate your candour,” Julian shot back. “I will be in my quarters. Do not disturb me until ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“I am in your charge,” Dalton wistfully began to whistle a lively tune while he counted the coins.
Julian was about to enter the main cabin when he stopped, confused by the silence around him.
“Dalton, where is the crew?”
“Getting foxed up is most likely.”
“Tomorrow, see that it is not likely.”
“Aye, sir,” Dalton whistled back, and Julian retired for the evening.
* * *
The next day Julian rose with purpose. He was going to shoot Lawrence and retrieve Mary-Anne from the Duke of Rutland’s estate. He should have pursued her sooner, he knew, but he was confident that she remained there, for where else would she go? Certainly not back to Holloway’s, no she knew it wasn’t safe there.
If only she truly understood, he thought, that I only mean to save her from poverty. If only she would listen! No matter, she will have plenty of time to come about on the voyage to Africa.
But first, before he could claim his desired bride, he had to fight a duel. He had done it before, in India, and knew his way around a brace of pistols. He was confident in his ability but also aware of the fact that he was a massive target.
By mid-morning, Morris Seton had come to the dock and called up to Julian’s ship.
“What do you want, Mr. Seton?” Julian called back, leaning over the gunnel.
“I have the confirmation,” Morris said, raising an envelope in the air.
“Very well,” Julian hobbled down the gangway and took the letter from Morris’s gloved hands. After looking it over, he handed it back. “It is all in order. I shall see the two of you in umber of bells.”
“It is not too late, Mr. Bastable, to pack up and retreat,” Morris said. “It would be a shame to see you buried in a London pauper’s grave.”
“I shall see you in two hours,” Julian withdrew back onto his ship with heavy footfalls, indicating his irritation.
“Very well,” Morris sighed, and turned to leave, but paused to admire the line of sailors straggling down the dock, shaking their heads with the last night’s drunkenness. They were corraled by Captain Dalton and funneled their way onto the ship. “You have a fine crew, Mr. Bastable!” he called one last time. “Make use of them and leave!”
Julian sat in his cabin, watching Morris make his way down the dock. “Oh, I will leave,” he said to himself. “When I am good and ready.”
Noon came, and the parties assembled in the agreed-upon place. The field stretched outside the city, within view of the river wharf and the East India docks, but only as a background. If anyone were looking, the assembly seemed just a gathering of specks on the horizon.
Carl, the poor clerk and notary from the Seton’s office, stood with a box of dueling pistols between them. The wind blew hard and cold against everyone’s faces, tugging at the edges of their clothes.
“If ever there are words to be spoken in order to avoid the following violence, now is the time,” Carl said through the howl of the wind. “Does the challenger wish to apologize?”
“He does not,” Captain Dalton called back.
“And does the challenged?”
“He does not,” Morris replied.
“So be it,” Carl opened the case. “Step forward and receive your weapons.”
Julian and Lawrence walked to the case, and each drew forth a silver gilded duelling pistol, already loaded with a primed pan.
“As the challenger, you have the option of calling the coin,” Carl approached Julian. The clerk closed the now empty gun case and took out a pound from his pocket. The coin was flipped, Julian called it, and it was determined that Lawrence should have the first shot, a fact that seemed to greatly please both him and Morris.
Julian looked at Lawrence with cold calculation, turning away from him to check the pistol. He then handed it to Dalton for inspection, as Lawrence handed his to Morris.
Once the seconds were satisfied with the integrity of the pistols, they were returned to the combatants who took their marks back to back at the designated point.
“Each are to take six paces forward, on my mark, then turn and fire in accordance with the agreed-upon order,” Carl announced. All were familiar with the rules of a duel, be it swords or pistols, but still, it had to be announced.
“On your marks,” Carl shouted. “One!” they began to move apart, the pistols held upright in front of them. “Two! Three! Four!”
He is going to kill me, Julian thought, suddenly terrified for his life. Having the second shot was practically a death sentence if the other person was any kind of marksman. This is how it all ends.
“Five!”
Here it comes.
“Six!”
Lawrence and Julian spun around, the wind still whipping up all around them. Lawrence fired, and his frame was obscured by a great puff of sulphuric smoke; the muzzle fire seemed to leap out at Julian, reaching for him. The sound of the shot was snatched away by the beating wind, as was the bullet, and Julian stood there unharmed.
I am alive, he realized. The fool missed his shot! He squared his shoulders confidently, raising up the pistol. Lawrence paled, staring down the barrel of his enemy’s pistol. Julian adjusted his aim for the wind, closed one eye, and fired.
Lawrence collapsed with a wicked jolt.
Julian dropped the pistol, walking towards Lawrence who writhed on the ground. Morris ran to his son, shouting out for help. Carl ran to the carriage, flinging open the doors, and then back to Morris. The two of them tried to haul Lawrence into the coach so that he might have a chance of seeing a doctor, but he expired in their arms.
Morris began to wail a terrible sound, as his years of corruption, seemed to catch up all at once, in the form of Julian’s bullet. The bullet that killed his son and heir.
Julian stood on the spot where Lawrence had fallen. He was victorious. Even in defeat, he had destroyed his enemy. Now, he thought, I must recover my future wife.
Chapter 27
Oliver had found his life much changed as of late, and entirely for the better. In a matter of weeks, he had gone from a crowded cottage loft to the servant’s quarters in the manor. He ate more regular meals, was hardly ever cold, and enjoyed the small jobs and odd errands assigned to him by Mr. Marton. By all of Oliver’s standards, re-hanging drapes and fastening shutters was better than the fields any day of the week.
He had also found himself with far more leisure time than he was accustomed to. His duties were fairly minimal, and even on the days he spent labouring in the hog pens, he finished up well before sundown. The evening was fun for Oliver who enjoyed being a part of the kitchen workings to an extent; he learned a great number of things about food, that was sure.
When he was dismissed to spend his time freely, he would run off like a wealthy child on Christmas morning, skipping joyfully down the road to visit Lucy, the baker’s daughter.
The people who lived in the cottages were always pleased to see him, for he was a fun and loving individual, and it seemed he was making something of himself, pulling himself up out of the mud, at least to the tenant farmers.
Oliver had just had his birthday and was feeling very confident about being a year older. This added boost in turn with his new position in the manor saw Oliver waltzing into the village that day with extra exuberance.
He made his way around the street, nodding hello to the entirety of his acquaintances. Coming up on the rear of the baker’s hut, he spied Lucy carrying a bucket of water. He slunk up around the cottage and jumped out behind her, causing her to jump with fright.
“It’s me, it’s alright,” he laughed, swinging her to one side and lea
ning in to kiss her, but she turned away and shook free. “Lucy, I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said.
“It’s nothing,” she brushed him aside, trying to hurry away. “I am fine.”
“Lucy, wait!” Oliver called, catching up to her. “What is the matter? Are you not happy to see me?”
“No, I mean I am. I just…” Lucy let out a long sigh, turning around to face Oliver, and set down her water bucket with a slosh. “I am troubled.”
“What is this trouble?” Oliver asked gently.
“I did not wish to speak with you yet,” Lucy said taking her head in her hands.
“Lucy, tell me, what is the matter?”
“I am with child,” she said finally, looking away.
“With child?” Oliver was stunned, his brain trying to wrap itself around the words.
“I have only just found out,” she said, turning back to face him and trying to wipe the welling tears from her eyes.
“Why do you cry?” he asked, taking her in his arms. “We will have a child, you and I.”
“And what will the child be fed with? Or housed under? We have nothing, Oliver, nothing but these crowded cottages. It is a fine enough life, but my mother is also expecting a child, and your family is well too crowded.”
“We will find a way, hmm?” Oliver said, only starting to consider the ramifications of having a family. He would have to build a cottage, lay his own field, and for all that he needed money. “Our child will not know hunger like you and I.”
“I thought you would be angry,” Lucy said into his chest, letting her tears dry on his shirt.
“Angry? Why would I be angry? Are you angry?”
“No, I am not angry,” Lucy said, tilting her head to look up at him. “I am scared for the child and also for myself.”
“It will all be well,” Oliver said, cradling her head.
“I love you, Oliver,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Do not abandon me.”
“I love you too, Lucy,” Oliver whispered back, his mind racing to all possible corners of thought and back again. Yet again, his world had flipped itself about, and he looked down a long, unfamiliar road with excitement, fear, and anxiety.
* * *
Oliver was fairly useless the next day as he attempted to re-shingle a section of roof with Mr. Marton.
He gazed out over the view, looking at the almost entirely fallen leaves decorating the ground like some kind of painting that had been shaken around while still drying.
“The claw hammer, Master Hanson,” Mr. Marton called again.
“What?” Oliver shook himself back to reality to see Mr. Marton looking down at him from the higher of the two temporary scaffolds, his hand outstretched.
“The claw hammer,” he said for a third time. “What’s got you in a puzzle, lad? You ain’t yourself a bit today.”
Oliver looked up at the old groundskeeper, who had only ever been a friend to him, and decided to trust him with his secret.
“It’s Lucy,” he said.
“Which one is it?” Mr. Marton asked, climbing down to Oliver’s scaffold. “Is she leaving you, or is she pregnant?”
“The latter.” Oliver sighed, giving Mr. Marton a surprised look. Sometimes the old man could be surprisingly crass, but it came off in a friendly way.
“Congratulations to you,” Mr. Marton said, sitting down beside the young man and pulling a small flask from his coat. “Have a drink.”
“Thank you, sir,” Oliver saluted with a hint of sarcasm, taking a drink of the gin.
“Oh, come on,” Mr. Marton smiled. “Frightening, sure, but exciting.”
“A bit of both, to be sure,” Oliver took another drink of gin.
“Whoa there,” Mr. Marton laughed, taking back the flask. “Careful lad, we are still on the roof.”
“So, we are,” Oliver chuckled back, and realized that Mr. Marton had successfully gotten him to laugh.
“So, what are you worried about? Getting married? It’s nothing, lad. Got to be done, everybody does it. Get over that one fast, lad, because you have got to be married, and right quick before the belly shows.”
“It is not that,” Oliver laughed harder, catching his breath for a moment. “I have no money.”
“House servants are paid fairly well, as far as it comes,” Mr. Marton replied.
“I have given it all to my uncle for housing me all these years,” Oliver confessed. “And if I am to build a cottage and farm, then I will not have the time to work in the house any longer.”
“That is noble of you,” Mr. Marton remarked seriously and took a sip from the flask before squirreling it back into his heavy coat. “But on this land, you cannot do better than you are now. Why don’t you ask the Duke to take Lucy into the house as a servant? Then the both of you could make fine enough wages, before the child comes, to get your start.”
“Would he do something of that nature?”
“Not normally, no,” Mr. Marton admitted. “But he seems to rather like you.”
“I have thought of the army.”
“And make half of what you make now? Why would you sign up for the likes of that? You can make more at a London manufactory than in a pair of boots somewhere far around the world. Shame of you for thinking of it.”
“Everyone tells me the same,” Oliver sighed. “Yet where else is a life of adventure for my poor soul?”
“Your adventure is about to begin,” Mr. Marton rebuked. “Having a family is its own voyage. Talk to the Duke, and don’t you dare mention the army.”
“There’s a forty-shilling signing bonus,” Oliver countered. “A month and some of wages in my current position.”
“And followed by years of servitude and fever. Besides, all the wars are over.”
“For now,” Oliver challenged.
“Come on then, Master Hanson,” Mr. Marton labored to his feet, steadying himself against the scaffold. “Let’s finish this roof and get all this wood taken down, eh? Got to be done with this roof before the Duke gets back from the shore.”
“When will they be back?”
“Day after tomorrow, most likely,” Mr. Marton guessed. “Now come on lad, work will put your mind at ease.”
They labored on and finished the task and took down the makeshift scaffolds. Although the project helped to distract Oliver for a while, his mind inevitably came back around to one, singular thought: How will I support my family?
Chapter 28
“It was a splendid procession, but I thought the drummer boys were too young. It changed the mood entirely for me,” Phyllis said, referring to a parade she had attended thirty years before.
“Drummer boys are always young, Grandmother,” Neil remarked. “That is why we call them boys.”
“Oh, come off it, Arthur,” Phyllis said. “I only meant that they looked very young to be in the service.”
“Their father was likely a soldier and brought their mother along with the army,” Neil explained, setting down his book on the table, as his concentration had been thoroughly disrupted. He tried desperately not to look at Emily, who sat perfectly just beside Phyllis on alert. “And they were likely born in an army camp. It is all they will ever know.”
“Women with the army?” Phyllis scorned. “What kind of woman does that? A doxy does that, I tell you. A no good, soldier-hopping doxy.”
“Oh, a great variety of women follow the army, Grandmother,” Neil said, glancing down at his timepiece. She is rather animated today, Neil thought. “But namely the ones that truly love their husbands.”
Three more minutes. I cannot stand to wait any longer, yet I must.
“A doxy,” Phyllis repeated, flatly.
“If you say so, Grandmother,” Neil sighed.
“I am your mother, why do you call me Grandmother? Is it some cruel joke?”
“No, of course not,” Neil apologized, watching the second-hand tick by. “I am Neil, your grandson.”
“Neil!” Phyllis’ face lit up in a brilliant wa
y that made Neil smile reactively. “You are back from France!”
“Yes, Grandmother, I am,” Neil smiled. “Hail the victorious heroes,” he chanted with a short whine, whirling a makeshift flag over his head with his napkin, then returned to his book.
“Tell me about Paris,” Phyllis pressed, leaning over the table.
“Alright, Emily,” Ruth called, entering the room through one of the servant doors. “I can take over now.”
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