by Joan Vincent
Finally sitting upright, fully awake, Lucian couldn’t decide. Dream? Nightmare? Reality?
“Gotta get some drink,” Lucian muttered. Marshalling his strength he wobbled to his feet. Everything swam before his eyes but then steadied. He vaguely noted he was in a parlour that had seen better days. An English parlour from the scent of beeswax and lemon oil polish.
An ancient spotted mirror above the fireplace reflected a haggard figure badly in need of bath, shave, and clean garments. A vile taste rose in his throat. Lucian turned from the image and saw a slight figure curled up in a blanket at one end of the sofa. “Jemmy” popped into mind.
With a growl at the vague memory of a connection to the boy Lucian staggered from the room. In the hall he spied the open door at the far end. How did he know it led to a kitchen and back door? The roil of his stomach sent him towards it at a tottering pace. He lurched through the back door and cast his accounts to the side of the steps.
When his stomach stopped heaving, Lucian spat and swiped a sleeve across his lips. With shaking steps he headed back into the kitchen. A blunderbuss beside the door raised the image of the monster once again. But the vile taste in his mouth and deep thirst dimmed it.
He run his gaze around the rest of the room, saw the bucket and the metal cup, and lunged for it. After gulping down the water he tossed the cup aside and winced at the too loud clatter. Water proved a feeble satisfaction and Lucian began to prowl for the drink he so badly needed.
After wrenching open the few cupboard doors above the cabinet without regard for how they banged and thudded, he stumbled to the crates stacked on the floor. Lucian tossed aside the loose top on the nearest and rifled through it. He tossed aside its contents with growing impatience. He worked at loosening the lid on the next crate, but then angry shouts crashed over him. He clutched his head.
“Stop what you are doing. Haven’t you a care that others still sleep?”
Ruth? Disbelief filled Lucian. He swung up sharply and turned only to have to grab a hold of the back of the closest chair to keep on his feet. When he looked again Lucian sucked in his breath. She was here and more beautiful than he remembered.
Desire plucked a chord in Lucian despite his miserable state. He released the chair, his only thought to draw her in his arms and kiss her soundly. But with his first step Jasmine wavered before him. Dread flowed into the vacuum created by desire’s flight. Lucian halted, put his head into his hands.
“Are you all right?” Ruth asked.
He heard uncertainty and fear in her voice. The unkempt image from the mirror filled him with loathing. A desperate desire to escape rose along with an intense need to destroy any “bridge” between them. He wasn’t certain why but he had to make her very certain about the kind of man he was.
“Where’s tha port?” he emphasised the slur. “Brandy?” When Ruth stared at him Lucian staggered a step closer. “Where’s something ta drink in the house?”
“We have nothing but water.”
Her tone, the blend of what he took for dismay and pity in her eyes stung Lucian to greater effort. “Need somethin’ stronger than that,” he said in as nasty a tone as he could muster. He thrust one foot in front of the other until he was almost upon her. “Where’ll I find it?”
“In Whitby,” Ruth snapped. She pointed imperiously at the door to the hallway. “Just walk that direction.”
Lucian snorted, aware of only a searing need to get away from her. “’Twill be a pleasure to go.”
Apologize, a voice in the back of his mind begged. Retrieve lost ground.
The pang to do so angered Lucian. “Yer as mad as your father,” he gritted and then a glimpse of a memory provided fiendish inspiration. “Except you remember him.” Her ashen face seared his mind. He turned and with unsteadily steps headed for the front door. He reached it at a staggered run and went out as if the devil trod on his heels.
Ruth stared after Merristorm. One emotion after another tumbled in a confused jumble.
“What were thet ‘bout?” Jemmy asked from the doorway. He rubbed a hand through his hair and yawned.
“Nothing,” Ruth uncharacteristically snapped and stalked to the stove where she blindly set about stoking the fire.
“Hot cuppa tea set him aright,” the boy offered tentatively. “Coffee’d be even better.”
“Mr. Merristorm is not coming back,” Ruth said. Refusing to acknowledge the great urge to sniff over the prospect, she swiped a finger beneath her nose.
“But he has to,” Jemmy said matter-of-factly. “His boots still be in the parlour.”
Ruth stilled and turned to the boy.
“Took ‘em off him meself,” Jemmy said. He began to yawn and then gingerly touched the back of his head. Grimacing he asked, “The monster weren’t no dream?”
“You must be hungry,” Ruth said looking away from the fearful questioning eyes. “I’ll make some porridge.”
“He saved us, Miss Ruth. I’m goin’ aft’r him.”
“Don’t take his boots to him,” she blurted.
Jemmy flashed a smile and hurried away.
Ruth picked the pots Lucian had tossed from a crate and rose with a sigh. At the click of the back door’s knob she grasped the handles and raised the pots in a defensive gesture.
“Save thet fer the creature,” Sairy Jane advised. She bustled to the counter and began to carefully set the eggs cradled in her apron onto it. “Thought everyone’d have an appetite this morn after all the goin’s on last eve.”
Eyeing the brownish orbs Ruth asked, “We have hens?”
The colour bought to the old woman’s cheeks by the cold morn heightened. “Will soon ‘nuf.” She put the last egg down and shook bits of straw from her apron as she eyed Ruth.
“Ye’d best see ta getting’ dressed. Wouldn’t want thet Mr. Merristorm ta think ye were ‘advertisin’ yer wares now would ye.”
“I—I—you don’t understand,” spluttered Ruth, furious at the false accusation. But heat flooded her face her.
“He’s the look o’ a man as could take what he wants,” Sairy Jane said as she took the pots from Ruth. “If’n ye ain’t certain o’ wantin’ him, stay clear o’ him.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere near him,” Ruth said indignantly. “I directed him to leave the house just moments ago.”
“Ye’d best hope he didna go far,” the old woman said on a sigh and thumped one pot onto the stove. “Yer not so welcome here thet ye can send those who’d help ye on their way.”
Shivering at the truth of that, Ruth headed for the stairs.
“Child, why do you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders?” Sampson Clayton chided gently as he slowly came down them. “We’ve much to do if I am to hold Sunday service.”
Hope stirred. Resolve welled. “Did you sleep well, Father?” Ruth asked.
“The Yorkshire air agrees with me,” he told her.
Ruth’s heart warmed beneath his now seldom seen smile. Better yet, he remembered where he was; who she was.
“I had best see how Mr. Merristorm fared the night.”
“He has left, Father.” Ruth met his gaze and was startled to see he believed he knew something she did not. “Coffee is brewing.”
“Good. I shall take him a cup.”
Ruth started to say he could not but her father had continued down the steps. Let us keep him for a time, Lord, she prayed as she hurried up the stairs and repeated it aloud as she entered her bedchamber.
“Keep who?” Marietta asked as she peered over the edge of her coverlet.
A blush flared up Ruth’s cheeks. The prayer was for her father, but her heart whispered it was also for Lucian.
* * *
Jemmy stood in the front doorway and met Lucian’s glared frown with a quizzical cock of his head. “What’re ye doin’?”
Lucian took a deep breath and opened his mouth to blast the boy but thought better of it. He raised his eyes heavenward, then looked down
at the stockings on his feet. “Bloody hell,” he swore. Several other colourful epithets escaped as he minced and winced his way back across the sharp stones to the steps.
“Addlepated thing ta do, thet. Shoulda put on yer boots, sir,” Jemmy said as Merristorm put out his right hand and slowly sat down on the top step. Lucian grimaced when he put his weight on his hand.
The boy nodded. “Bet thet shoulder’s sore,” Jemmy said knowingly. He sat beside Merristorm and wrapped his arms about himself to ward off the cold. “Sairy Jane said the blunderbuss like ta knocked ye both off the steps.” He looked up and met the man’s half angry dark gaze.
“Thank ye, sir. Fer savin’ both o’ us.”
Lucian stared at the boy for several long moments. Wild scenes flashed before his eyes. Had he wrestled for the blunderbuss with the old woman? Everything from last eve was too incredible to be more than a hallucination. His brow furrowed as he searched for a hint of what the lad meant.
Looking away as the silence stretched between them, Jemmy clasped his hands. “’Tis understandable ye don’t ‘member–seein’ as how ye been bosky since I met ye.” The lad looked back at Lucian. “East Retford?”
The admiration and expectation in Jemmy’s eyes sent a shaft through Lucian’s anger. He muttered expletives. Wishing the vile headache plaguing him and this boy to perdition changed nothing.
Lucian sighed a momentary surrender. He slowly kneaded his sore shoulder. “Tell me the whole of it. From when we met through last night.”
After hearing how he rescued the lad and then how Ruth had taken care of both of them, Lucian’s headache worsened. The boy’s artless telling, coated as it was in high regard, sank Lucian into an even more morose mood. It deepened when Jemmy related “Miss Ruth’s” many kindnesses to them both and the family’s reception in Whitby.
Each cut direct, each slight they had received was another slash through Merristorm’s desire to flee. His vague memory of the noises in the house and the “creature” dealt it a deathblow.
Lucian had not realized Jemmy had stopped talking until the lad poked him in ribs that proved as sore as his head and shoulder. He winced but more from the boy’s expectation than from pain.
“What’re we goin’ ta do, sir?”
“Good morn, gentlemen,” Sampson Clayton boomed cheerfully behind the boy and dishevelled young man. When he saw Merristorm lower his head into his hands the vicar touched the lad on the shoulder.
“Sairy Jane has porridge ready for you. Best eat it while it is hot.”
Jemmy stood up. “Comin’, sir?”
“Yes, do come inside, Mr. Merristorm. A bracing cup of coffee will help set the world to rights for you.”
“’Cor,” Jemmy breathed in disbelief as this bald lie. He stared in fascination at the old man.
“Go to the kitchen,” Sampson told him. “Sairy Jane will tell you what to do when you finish eating.” When the boy left he offered Lucian a hand.
“I set a steaming cup of coffee on the table by the sofa. Come in before you freeze off your toes.” He chuckled dryly. “Your boots await there also.”
With bitter resignation Lucian accepted his help. Every part of his anatomy objected to motion. He bit back more than one groan as he got to his feet. Once he was up Sampson went ahead of him. Lucian was grateful to the privacy as he limped back inside behind him.
The aroma of the steaming coffee threatened to undo Lucian’s stomach, but he knew it a steadying remedy. He picked up what was in reality an oversized bowl and gulped down several swallows of the scalding liquid. When it stayed down and warmth began to unfurl in his gut he took another drink. Soft footfalls told him the vicar had left his side.
After another long drink Lucian leaned back and closed his eyes. When he heard the slap of leather on wood he opened them.
“Thought this would suit you more than porridge,” Sampson said. He set a plate with a slice of toast and a piece of cheese before Merristorm. “Ruth says you will not eat it. That you haven’t taken little but spirits since we left London.”
There was no accusation in the words but the sadness struck Lucian like a reprimand. He opened his mouth to protest, to explain, and found nothing to say. “Your daughters have little reason to think well of me,” Lucian said.
“I did not mean to give the impression that they do not,” Sampson told him.
Lucian kept his gaze on the plate and wondered if the cheese would undo his stomach’s tenuous state.
“Ruth sent a rather large basin along with the plate,” Sampson noted dryly.
With a slight shake of his head Lucian put the cheese atop the toast and took a bite. He chewed and swallowed; repeated the action until both were consumed and then took a long drink of coffee. Another swallow emptied the bowl. He looked up and met the vicar’s amicable gaze.
“Would you happen to have something a little stronger? Rum perhaps?”
Sampson smiled apologetically. “Both our lives would be forfeit if I offered you anything else. I do not know if there are any spirits in the house.”
The gaze was solemn but Lucian had a sudden vision of child-like petulance that metamorphosed into a vacant gaze. He frowned, uncertain of the true face of the man. Even as he sorted through vague memories the vicar’s expression altered, brightened.
“Earl Gilchrist,” Sampson said with an acknowledging bow. “Knew I would think of it.”
Lucian’s heart stuttered in his chest.
“Halstrom is a bloody bear with a rather prurient reputation but that is no excuse for your current state and these wild ways.” Sampson shook his head. “Gilchrist, you had the chance to be one of the best Greek scholars of our day.” Clayton strode to the fireplace rubbing his forehead. “You could still show ‘the Blanchard’ a thing or two.”
Lucian watched in amazed puzzlement. The vicar’s voice and movement was that of a much younger man. And how did he know about “The Blanchard?” He searched frantically and vaguely remembered a story of how Blanchard’s fellow students had dubbed him with the sobriquet because of his unrivalled brilliance.
“I could hardly match Dr. Blanchard much less excel him,” Lucian said to himself more than to Sampson. He stared at his begrimed hands. “Those days are forever past.”
“Not if you seek redemption and begin again,” Sampson urged fervently. “Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.” Clayton came and sat beside Lucian.
“Do not deny what is within reach of your grasp out of spite for your father. The sins of the father are only visited on the son if the son commits them also.”
The words chilled Lucian. No one had ever broached the subject. How dare this man speak of such to him?
Sampson laid a hand on Lucian’s forearm. “Discard neither my words nor your future. Hate your father all you will, but you are bound to the title and will sire a son to continue it. Your hate does naught to your father but it corrupts you.”
Lucian jerked his arm away and rose, pain forgotten in his great turmoil. “You know nothing of this.” At the touch of the vicar’s hand he turned ready to spew his anger over the man like vomit. But Clayton stood close and stared at him with large bewildered eyes.
“Are you he—or the son?” he asked slowly, each word clutched from amongst too many others. “You are very like him.”
“Every time I look into a mirror I see a murderer,” Lucian said bitterly. “I damme his soul.”
“No,” Clayton said faintly, “you only damme yours. No man can condemn anyone but himself to damnation.” His brows rose slowly bunched.
“Stranton Merristorm?” The vicar raised both hands as if to ward off an attack, then slowly raised them as if to reach for something just out of his grasp. “His son disowns him.” Sampson turned, his shoulders hunched and walked
away with the wobbly gait of an old man. “Poor Halstrom. What was it he told me?” Clayton murmured.
He rubbed his chin and then turned back to Lucian. “The woman decided to have him instead of his son?”
Intense coldness poured over Lucian as if he stood beneath an icy waterfall. “What do you know? Who told you this?”
Blankness filled the vicar’s eyes and inched across his features. He looked around. “Do you live here?”
The childish petulance and voice, at so very great odds with the man’s demeanour just moments ago staggered Lucian. He grabbed the old man by the shoulders.
“Who told you that?” Lucian demanded and shook him hard.
Chapter Thirteen
“Stop! Stop it!”
The panicked feminine voice penetrated Lucian’s mind before he felt the grip on his arm.
“Sir, don’t hurt him.”
Lucian came out of the mental fog that enveloped him. Clayton’s empty frightened gaze, Ruth’s bleak terror-stricken features and furious eyes, and Jemmy’s incredulous disenchantment short circuited his violent need. He now saw that the man’s eyes were empty, as if his spirit had fled and only a husk remained.
Releasing the old man Lucian stared into Ruth’s eyes, now a green blaze. His heart slammed against his ribs at the contempt he read there.
“Make him go away,” he heard the vicar whine plaintively.
Colour rose across Ruth’s cheeks. Embarrassment and fear crept into the depths of her eyes. She released her biting grip on Lucian’s arm and took her father’s. Without a glance at Lucian she softly murmured to the vicar and led him away.
“He’s just a poor old sod,” Jemmy said. “He were kind ta ye when few would’a been,” he added. The lad backhanded threatening tears from his eyes. “Why?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Lucian said. Guilt harshened his tone. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Jemmy studied him with a perplexed frown. “Then ‘splain it,” he demanded. “Ain’t it bad nuf he’s addlepated and now the whole town is set on doin’em harm?”
