The Unknown Ajax

by Georgette Heyer

  Richmond burst into a crow of joy. ‘Lord, what a famous lark! I wish I might have seen it! Hunting the squirrel!’

  ‘No, no, how can you say such a thing?’ protested Vincent, in a pained voice. ‘How often have I told you that such tricks as that are not at all the thing? I wonder if I can be losing my precision of eye?’

  ‘A stupid and ill-natured prank,’ pronounced Lady Aurelia, with measured severity. ‘If I find that Claud has sustained any injury I shall be excessively displeased.’

  ‘Then I do most sincerely trust he has escaped injury, Mama. Unfortunately, a sharp bend in the road almost immediately hid the scene from my view, so I can give you no very certain information on that head. But never mind! Crimplesham is following me, with my luggage, you know, and I am sure we may depend upon him to render my brother all the assistance in his power. What is the time? Should I, do you think, present myself to my grandfather at once, or– No, I perceive that it lacks only ten minutes to five. I have brought my evening-dress with me, but it will take me quite an hour to dress without Crimplesham’s aid. You do still dine at six, I daresay? Such a depressing habit I find it! And my anxiety about Claud to make it worse! Poor fellow! But he shouldn’t have urged his postboys to hold the road when I wished to give him the go-by: really, I think he almost deserves to sustain some injury for being so foolish!’

  When Mrs Darracott learned of this episode, which she very soon did, from Richmond, who could not keep such a good story to himself, she was much shocked. It all went to show, she told Anthea, that everything she had ever felt about Vincent had been correct: he showed an unsteadiness of character which she would be very sorry to see in any son of hers; his temper was jealous; he was idle and expensive; and, unless she much mistook the matter (which was not at all likely), he had such libertine propensities as must cause his poor father to suffer the gravest anxiety. Or, she amended, the penance she had undergone that afternoon still fresh in her memory, they would have done so if Matthew had the smallest regard for anything but his own troubles. As for the stoic calm with which Lady Aurelia had received the news of what might well prove to have been a serious accident, that, said Mrs Darracott, was something that quite passed her understanding. Had any son of hers been overturned into a ditch she would have had the horses put-to immediately, and dashed to his rescue. She was extremely attached to Lady Aurelia, but it was impossible to forbear the thought that if Claud were to be presently borne into the house with his neck broken it would be a judgment on her.

  But no judgment fell on Lady Aurelia. Claud, arriving at Darracott Place half-an-hour later, had sustained no injury, except to his temper. This, however, had been seriously impaired, and he complained so bitterly and at such length of the usage to which he had been subjected that his father lost patience, and said testily: ‘Oh, that’s enough, that’s enough! Vincent forced your near wheels into the ditch, and it cost you twenty minutes to haul the chaise back on to the road! Very vexing, but no harm done! If you’re at outs with Vincent, go and plant him a facer! Don’t come whining to me, like a sickly girl!’

  Even Richmond, who wholeheartedly despised Claud, felt that this advice was unkind. His dislike of all forms of violence apart, Claud was both slighter and shorter than his brother: no match for him under any circumstances. He said, with pardonable indignation: ‘Dash it, he’d throw me out of the window!’

  ‘Well, go away and change your dress!’ said Matthew. ‘It won’t be Vincent, but your grandfather, who will throw you out of the window if you keep him waiting for his dinner!’

  This dreadful warning had the effect of sending Claud out of the room with much the mien and speed of a coursing hare. His father and Richmond both laughed, but Mrs Darracott was moved to say that she thought the boy had been very unkindly treated.

  ‘Oh, pooh!’ replied Matthew impatiently. ‘If he had ever had one half the tricks played on him which I had to endure when I was a lad it would have been the better for him! Besides, it’s his own fault, with his silly daintification, and his finicking ways. I don’t blame Vincent for making game of him!’

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say that making rough game of a younger brother was conduct quite unbecoming in a man of eight-and-twenty, but Matthew had begun to pout, and so she refrained, knowing as well as everyone else that the ill-will Vincent bore Claud was to some extent shared by him, and did not spring in either of them from any particular dislike of Claud’s dandyism.

  Five years separated the brothers. In appearance they were not unalike, each having the aquiline nose and rather sunken eye which made them unmistakeable Darracotts; but Claud was by far the better-looking, his features being more delicate, his complexion less swarthy, and his countenance unmarred by the deep, almost sneering lines that characterized both Vincent and Lord Darracott. In general, Claud’s expression was one of slightly vacuous amiability; Vincent’s was sardonic, and frequently unpleasant.

  In all but their features they were dissimilar. Vincent had a reckless intrepidity which drove him into all manner of dangerous exploits; Claud, though not (he hoped) hen-hearted, felt not the smallest impulse to ride straight at the worst oxer in the county, or to take the shine (at the risk of his neck) out of every other top-sawyer on the road; while as for putting on the gloves with Gentleman Jackson, there was almost nothing he less wished to do. But he was not without ambition. It was his ardent desire to become just such a leader of Fashion, such an arbiter of Taste, as Mr Brummell had been, until so short a time ago. He grudged Vincent none of his fame as a member of the Corinthian set; it would not have gratified him in the least to be hailed as an out-and-outer, a regular dash, or a right cool fish: his heart was set on becoming the chief Pink of the Ton.

  This ambition found no favour at all in the eyes of his parents, and would, indeed, have been impossible to realize had not a stroke of amazing good fortune befallen Claud. Hardly had he reached his majority when the maternal uncle after whom he had been named died, and left him the heir to a comfortable independence. Nothing then stood between him and the achievement of his goal but a want of genius. Try as he would he could neither create a new quirk of fashion, nor hit upon some original eccentricity which would make him instantly famous. He was obliged to exaggerate the prevailing mode, and to adopt as his own the tricks and mannerisms of other and more ingenious dandies, and somehow these expedients did not quite answer the purpose.

  Vincent, of course, recognized every one of these plagiarisms, but what would have amused him in a young brother no plumper in the pocket than he was himself became a matter for bitter contempt when Claud inherited an easy competence. Vincent, with nothing but his allowance and the erratic generosity of his grandfather to depend on, lived precariously on the edge of Dun Territory. He was a gamester, and his luck had more than once saved him from being run quite off his legs; but he had several times been out-of-town, as the saying was; and he was no stranger to an obliging individual known to every gentleman seeking to raise the wind as Old Tens-in-the-Hundred. Envy and resentment changed his indifference to Claud into rancorous dislike. He was irritated by everything Claud did, whether it was wasting his blunt on the reclining of his private chaise, or being such a muckworm as to travel behind job-horses. Nothing short of seeing Claud rolled-up would soften his dislike, and of that there was small likelihood: Claud’s fortune was genteel rather than handsome, but he had no taste for gaming or racing, and, like his mother, he knew how to hold household.

  It was an added source of exasperation in Vincent to know that his tongue had no power to wound Claud. Nothing short of being tipped into a ditch stirred Claud to resentment; and if he thought about Vincent at all it was with no other emotion than a sort of mild surprise. None of his brother’s hazardous exploits awoke in his breast a spark of envy or of emulation: he envied Vincent only his splendid shoulders, and the incomparable blacking which made his boots shine like mirrors. Unfortunately both these desirable possessio
ns were beyond his reach. Nature had seen fit to add drooping shoulders to his willowy form; and the secret of the blacking was locked in Crimplesham’s bosom. Buckram and wadding could supply what Nature had withheld, but neither guile nor bribery would ever win from Crimplesham the least clue to his secret.

  If it cost Claud a pang to know that Vincent’s Hessians outshone his own, this was nothing to the rage and the despair that filled his valet’s soul. Nor was the hostility that flourished between the brothers comparable to the feelings of jealousy, hatred, and contempt which filled the hearts of their valets. If Crimplesham excelled in the arts of polishing boots, and keeping buckskins in perfect order, Polyphant’s genius lay in his skill with an iron, and his flair for evolving new and intricate modes of tieing a neckcloth, or dashing styles for his master’s curled and pomaded locks. He believed himself to be by far the more expert valet, and it galled him beyond endurance to know that, while Crimplesham’s one excellence was apparent to all, his own talents must inevitably go to his master’s credit. Few people would suspect any aspirant to high fashion of entrusting the arrangement of his hair, or of his neckcloth, to his valet; none would suppose that any gentleman would black his own boots.

  By the time Claud hurried into his bedchamber, Polyphant had unpacked his portmanteaux, and had even found time to press the creases from a longtailed coat of superfine, and a pair of black satin knee-breeches. These Claud eyed with disfavour, uttering a protest: ‘No, I’ll be damned if I’ll wear that rig here! Dash it, it ain’t the thing, Polyphant!’

  ‘No, sir, and well do I know it!’ agreed Polyphant, in a feeling voice. ‘The proper mode, of course, would be pantaloons, since it is hardly feasible to suppose you will be taking a look-in at Almack’s.’ He ventured to point this pleasantry with a titter, but it did not answer; and upon Claud’s demanding peevishly how the devil he could take a look-in at Almack’s in September, and from Darracott Place, he at once banished the smile from his face, and said: ‘No, sir. Very true. But it might be wise to consider his lordship’s prejudice. Not that I would presume to dictate. I did venture to enquire of his lordship’s man if the custom of wearing knee-breeches every evening still obtains at Darracott Place. He assured me that it does, sir.’

  The sinister nature of this warning was not lost on Claud, and he said no more. It vexed him very much to be obliged to present himself to his family in a costume so out-dated as to amount to a sartorial solecism, but he had his reward in that he incurred no censure from his grandfather other than the comprehensive disapproval contained in that gentleman’s greeting. ‘Twiddlepoop!’ said his lordship, as Claud minced up to him to make his bow, and thereafter paid no heed to him.

  Dinner, in Mrs Darracott’s view (for her expectations had not been high), passed off very well. No lobsters had been obtainable, but Godney had procured some partridges, which, with some dried salmon, cleverly dressed in a case, quite made up this deficiency, and drew praise from Matthew, who was known to be a gourmet; and although the family reunion could hardly have been described as convivial it was not rendered hideous by any explosion of wrath from Lord Darracott.

  When the gentlemen rose from the table, my lord, recommending his son, and his younger grandsons, to join the ladies, bore Vincent off to the library, saying, as soon as they had reached this sanctuary: ‘Your father’s as sick as a horse over this business.’

  ‘And who shall blame him?’ returned Vincent. ‘I’m not chirping merry about it myself, you know, sir, and I should suppose that you are not thrown into transports precisely.’

  ‘No, by God!’ His lordship poured brandy into two glasses, tossed off the contents of his own, and refilled it. ‘I did my best to keep the fellow out, but the trap’s down. Got to lick him into shape.’

  ‘I feel sure you’ll manage to do so, sir. How old is he?’

  ‘Much your own age: seven-and-twenty.’

  ‘If he is as old as that, he’s irreclaimable,’ said Vincent cynically.

  ‘We’ll see that!’ snapped his lordship. After a moment he added grudgingly: ‘He won’t eat with his knife, at all events. He’s a military man: one of these new regiments, but still – !’

  ‘A military man! Oh, I was expecting a yokel in home-spuns! Er – commissioned, sir?’

  ‘Major,’ replied Lord Darracott shortly.

  Vincent’s eyes opened wide at that. ‘The devil he is!’ For a moment his expression was inscrutable; then he gave a short laugh, and said: ‘Well, it’s to be devoutly hoped that he’s up to the rig, for you can scarcely send a Major back to school, sir!’

  ‘Can’t I?’ said my lord, looking grimmer than ever. ‘This whipstraw is my grandson, I’ll have you remember! He’ll dance to my piping, or I’ll send him packing!’

  ‘Am I to understand, sir, that you have the intention of keeping him here?’ demanded Vincent.

  ‘Yes, if he behaves himself. I want him under my eye. The thing turns out not as badly as I feared, but there are plenty of rum ’uns with military titles these days, and this fellow was reared the Lord knows how – in a weaver’s hovel, I daresay! If I’d known – if I’d ever dreamt – !’ He broke off, his hands clenching and unclenching as they always did when his rage threatened to master him. He glanced under his craggy brows at Vincent. ‘Well! Between us we should be able to give him a new touch!’

  ‘Between us?’ repeated Vincent. ‘My dear sir, I would do much to oblige you, but bear-leading a cousin I heartily wish at the devil is a feat quite beyond me.’

  ‘I didn’t say you were to bear-lead him. You’re an idle, extravagant dog, but your ton is good: you’ll serve as a model for him to copy!’

  ‘If I had had the remotest guess that that was why I was invited I shouldn’t have come!’ said Vincent.

  ‘Oh, yes, you would!’ retorted his lordship. ‘And, what’s more, jackanapes, you’ll stay for precisely as long as I choose, unless you have a fancy for paying your own debts in future!’ He observed, with satisfaction, that he had at once infuriated and silenced his grandson, and smiled derisively. ‘Ay, that’s where the shoe pinches, isn’t it? Scorched again?’

  Regaining command over his temper, Vincent replied coolly: ‘Oh, no! Just a trifle cucumberish! I own it will suit me pretty well to remain here for the next few weeks – until the quarter, you know!’

  ‘The allowance your father gives you won’t bring you round,’ remarked his lordship.

  ‘No, sir, but the first October meeting may!’ countered Vincent.

  ‘I wish I may see it! Well, I didn’t send for you only for that. Since I can’t keep the fellow out of the family you’d best meet him at the outset, all of you!’

  ‘All of us?’ said Vincent. ‘Are we to have the rare felicity of seeing my aunts here, sir? Not to mention their numerous progeny, and –’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent, sir!’ barked his lordship.

  Vincent, who knew very well that he was perfectly indifferent to his three married daughters, and, indeed, to all his female descendants, bowed meekly. My lord glared at him for a moment, and then said: ‘I don’t care how soon the rest of ’em take themselves off, but I want you here.’ He paused, frowning. ‘It’s the boy!’ he said abruptly. ‘I’m not going to have that fellow putting ideas into his head: I’ve had trouble enough over that silly business!’

  Vincent raised his brows. ‘Richmond?’

  ‘Ay, Richmond. It’s gone off now, but he was devilish set on joining, six months ago. Fell into flat despair when I told him I wouldn’t have it. Well, as I say, the notion seems to have gone off, and I don’t want him to start moping and pining again. He’s a good boy, but he’s got an odd kick in his gallop, you know. For two pins he’d hang on this fellow’s lips – make a hero of him, I daresay! Well, he won’t do that while you’re here.’

  ‘Won’t he?’ said Vincent. ‘Er – what do I do if I find him talking to our unwanted cousi
n? Take him by the ear, and haul him off?’

  A sardonic smile curled his lordship’s mouth. ‘You won’t have to. Think I don’t know what he makes of you? Whistle him to heel, and you’ll have him following like a tantony-pig!’

  The prospect of having an eager stripling following him like a tantony-pig was not one which Vincent could bring himself to contemplate with enthusiasm, but he said nothing, reflecting that it would probably be unnecessary to do more than keep Richmond in a string. There would be no difficulty about that, for it was true enough that the boy liked and admired him. He would almost certainly take his tone from his Corinthian cousin, for to win his approval, to emulate his sporting prowess, had always been the top of his desire.

  As though he had read Vincent’s mind, Darracott said: ‘He won’t sit in your pocket. Won’t tease you either. But while you’re here, and he thinks there’s a chance you may take him off to see a mill, or some cocking, or teach him how to handle the reins in form, he’ll pay precious little heed to anyone else.’

  Vincent nodded. ‘Very well, sir: I’ll engage to charm him away from this– What is the fellow’s name?’

  Darracott’s face twitched; he replied shortly: ‘Same as his father’s. Signs himself Hugo. Don’t know why, and don’t like it.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve had letters from him, have you, sir?’

  ‘I haven’t. He wrote to Lissett – a damnable scrawl!’

  A smile flickered in Vincent’s eyes for an instant, but he swiftly lowered his lids. My lord’s own handwriting would have led no one to suppose that he was a man of birth, far less of education; but it would plainly be unwise even to hint as much. Instead, Vincent asked: ‘Did he – er – put forward his claims, as my father appears to believe?’

  ‘No, I’ll grant him that: he didn’t. Never gave a sign of life till I told Lissett to write to him. Seems not to have known he was the heir, unless he was shamming it. Very likely! He wrote that he was sorry to hear of Granville’s death. Gammon!’