Westward, Tally Ho!
Page 1
Westward, Tally Ho!
A Novel
Milo James Fowler
www.milojamesfowler.com
Westward, Tally Ho! © 2016 Milo James Fowler
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Sara,
For believing in me
Contents:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Prologue
Clarence Oliver Edwards was too young to die.
Dust grated against his eyelids. His tongue lolled from chapped lips. His back roasted under the sun. Sweat-drenched horsehide chafed his cheek with every labored step of the animal beneath him. He lay sprawled across its back, his arms and legs dangling along its foul-smelling flanks.
What the devil am I doing here?
He strained to raise his head, to crack open his eyes against the grit.
Where are we?
The horse to his right stumbled. The woman clothed in rags, barely clinging to its back, slid off to the side and hit the ground with a puff of dust. There she lay, dead to the world.
But Clarence could see the weak rise and fall of her sunburned chest.
"Ho there," he rasped, sliding off his mount and dropping to his knees.
He crawled across the sunbaked hardpan with perspiration dribbling down his face in rivulets. It plummeted to the sand, dark spots visible for just a split-second before evaporating in the heat. He approached the woman and covered her flushed face in his shadow. All he could do was stare down at her. He struggled to swallow, but it felt like his throat had sealed itself shut.
They needed water. That much was obvious. They both would die without it.
How did it come to this? Why did we—?
More to the point, why had he come to America in the first place? Clarence knew himself fairly well, and he was no cowboy. He was an Englishman. And as far as he knew, Englishmen didn't steal horses from bloodthirsty natives and ride blindly at breakneck speed out into the untamed wilderness. It simply wasn't done.
So why in the world wasn't he back in Hampshire, where he belonged?
Chapter 1
Clarence Oliver Edwards had been too young to die—
Of boredom. He knew that one more tea party, or excessively extravagant ball, or visit from another stuffy member of Parliament would send him right over the edge.
For the first half of the summer, he had stayed at the Edwards Family Estate, and those weeks had been full...of rubbish. At times, perhaps, he'd enjoyed the fox hunts and parties and dances; any lad who completes his term with honors deserves to be rewarded with a bit of frivolity, after all. Months away at boarding school had left him feeling out of touch with his relatives and extended family, and he had, at first, enjoyed the time to connect with those who shared his blood, his dialect, and his hereditary mouthful of teeth.
But as the days passed, he found himself feeling more at odds with his surroundings. The daily routine never changed: wake up at noon; have tea served bedside; take a little nap (two hours, on average); wander around the sprawling grounds of the estate; sit for a while on the terrace and admire the handiwork of the gardening staff; wander back to the enormous dinner that the entire Edwards clan religiously ate together; then stroll down to the pub where he and his mates spent the evening with darts and cards in a room full of smoke. And on particularly exciting nights, they would play billiards. Clarence Oliver Edwards had always enjoyed playing billiards.
But he came to hate it.
And billiards was not all that Clarence found himself hating. He despised it all: everything to which he had grown accustomed over the past months. His routine. His friends. Even his relatives and family.
What could have brought about this change? Why would a lad so privileged and carefree begin to loathe his very existence? Why was he so discontent?
"Because it's all so very pointless, Mother!"
Mrs. Edwards, a short, double-chinned, gaudily dressed, snooty gossip-monger of sixty-odd years, was taken aback by her son's outburst at the dinner table. The family—close and extended members alike totaling somewhere in the vicinity of thirty—lined a long, elegant dining table, and as there were no special guests tonight, Mrs. Edwards had decided to articulate the question that every one of them had wondered for the past week: What had come over their dear Clarence?
"Pointless?" Mrs. Edwards scoffed, her nose pointed upward. "Are you referring to the way of life we Edwards have enjoyed for over a century?"
Clarence attempted to swallow the suddenly uncomfortable lump of pheasant that had lodged itself in his throat. He tried to focus on the glass of wine he was raising to drink, tried desperately not to squirm uncomfortably under the pairs of buggy eyes that had turned on him and remained on him. Silence held the dining room as everyone awaited his answer, forks held mid-bite, glasses held mid-slurp, mouths gaping half-filled, and platters having passed from hand to hand suspended for the moment. It was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.
"I say, was that a pin dropping?" Clarence said.
"Don't you dare try to wheedle your way out of this one, my boy!" His mother glared at him. "You have insulted us, and we demand an explanation—and an apology!"
Clarence dropped his gaze and clutched at the white cloth napkin draped across his lap. Why had he been so foolish, blurting out what he'd blurted out? And why couldn't he remember what exactly he'd blurted out?
Now there was no going back. He had to speak his mind and be done with it. The consequences that followed would do so regardless of how long he gripped his napkin and stared at its stitching.
"Speak up, boy," Uncle Cyrus did his best to encourage around a mouthful of potatoes.
"Well…" Clarence was not off to a running start. "I-uh, I…" He squirmed in his chair, shifting his lanky legs, and accidentally kicked into his mother's foot under the table.
"My gout!" She released a bloodcurdling cry, causing most of the family members to jump,
startled, and gag on the lumps of pheasant in their own throats. "You idiot!" Mrs. Edwards clutched her foot in her lap and knocked into the table, spilling her wine. "Blast you!" she wailed.
The gagging family members fell red-faced from their chairs and clutched at themselves in agony, writhing about the floor, sending over potted plants with loud crashes, inadvertently rolling themselves up into various Persian rugs along the way. Mrs. Edwards cradled her foot and rocked forward and back in her chair until it tipped over backwards. Sprawling into the tapestries, she tugged them down on top of herself. She hit the floor with a tremendous boom that made Clarence wince.
Needless to say, with all of the chaos that had suddenly seized control of the Edwards' dining hall, no one paid the least attention to Clarence's lack of a good comeback to his mother's question. And so, with a sympathetic glance at his flailing relatives and with a sigh of pity and remorse directed at the shrieking form of his tangled mother, Clarence Oliver Edwards wiped his mouth on the napkin and took advantage of his good fortune by rising from the table and saying,
"Excuse me."
Then he ran upstairs.
Chapter 2
In his spacious, fully furnished bedchamber, Clarence sat downcast at his roll top desk and stared at the blank sheet of paper set before him. He fiddled with his dip pen, expecting a million or so thoughts to be running through his head.
But there were none. For some reason, his mind remained as blank as the paper.
What could he say? How could he write an explanation for the feelings he could no more sort out and understand than say aloud at dinner? What was he feeling, exactly?
Trapped. Angry.
It was as though some wild animal held captive inside him—perhaps a fox, like one of the hundreds he'd chased on horseback over the years—had come alive, giving him a sudden keen awareness of his desire to live far beyond the limits of his current life. Where was the adventure? How could anyone waste their limited days upon God's green earth in such a mundane fashion?
Shaking his head in despair, he brought down the pen, scratching it across the paper with a trail of black ink spiraling in its wake:
Dear Mother, I—
A sharp knock sounded at the door.
"Yes?" he demanded with weary impatience. "Who is it?"
"Guthrie, sir."
"Guthrie? Why, come in, old boy." Clarence swiveled his chair to face the door as the butler entered the room.
"Good evening, sir," Guthrie greeted soberly—as was his nature—in that thick, husky voice of his. Close to the age of Clarence's mother (which she never told a soul), he managed to stand as erect as a man half his age, to fit perfectly into his tailored suit after so many years, and to keep his shoes polished like new every day. He'd been the head butler of the Edwards estate for as long as Clarence could remember; as far as he knew, Guthrie had come with the price of the property.
"Has someone called for me?" Clarence noted the curious way Guthrie shifted from one foot to the other, leaning his weight out the doorway.
"No, sir. No one has called." He cleared his throat. "I—I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir."
"A word?" Clarence wondered if this had anything to do with the mayhem downstairs.
"Well, perhaps a few words, sir." He seemed eager in his own way. "Might I come in?"
"Of course, old chap." Clarence stood to receive his guest, but found that Guthrie had suddenly ducked out into the hall. "Old boy?"
Guthrie returned, his solemn grey eyes fixed on an enormous suitcase he lugged through the doorway, with a topcoat slung over one shoulder and a pristine black felt derby perched precariously on the bald dome of his head.
"I say..." Clarence found himself nearly dumbfounded. "What in the devil are you up to?"
Guthrie set down the luggage and straightened up to remove the hat. Carefully running the palm of his hand across his head (an old habit from the days when hair still thrived in the vicinity), the butler shut the door before turning to Clarence. "Sir, your mother—"
"How is she, Guthrie old boy?" Clarence fell back into his chair and started fiddling with his pen. "I really shouldn't have kicked the old girl. It was an accident, of course, but right in the gout, no less. Oh, I am an idiot." He turned away, burying his face into a fist—or attempting to. "I shall never be able to face her again!"
"Your mother is fine, sir," Guthrie said haltingly, shifting his weight. "She—"
"And my relatives? How are my close and extended family, old boy?" Clarence fought back tears of regret.
"They are fine as well, sir."
"Thank God! I would've thought they'd all gagged to death."
"Uh-no, sir, they did not. I came upon them in time, I believe. I was able to—"
"Thank you, dear boy. I owe you." Clarence shook his head. "They wondered what was wrong with me, why I've been behaving so odd as of late. My mother—I don't want to hurt her." He rose suddenly and slammed the desk with his fist. "But blast it all, Guthrie! I can't stand it here any longer. I feel that if I stay a moment more, I'm apt to go mad! I've just got to get away, as soon as possible."
"As do I, sir," Guthrie said quietly.
"What's that, old boy?"
Guthrie seemed anxious—not true to form, to say the least. "Your mother, sir—she informed me that my services here are no longer required." He seemed very matter-of-fact about it, but the hurt in his eyes was plain to see.
"She what? Dear heavens, why?"
Guthrie shifted his weight to his other foot. "Well, sir, she was making quite a fuss about her gout after I hauled her out of the tapestries, and she ordered me to come up here and give you a spanking."
"A spanking?" How old did she think Clarence was?
"Uh-yes, sir. But I told her that you are of an age when spanking is no longer necessary, and that difficulties between her son and herself need to be dealt with in a more adult manner."
"Quite right, old chap. Good show!" Clarence nodded. "And what did the old girl have to say to that?"
Guthrie cleared his throat. "She dismissed me with crude and obscene language, sir, told me my services here were no longer required, and hurled things at me."
Clarence's jaw dropped open. "Not my mother..."
"I am afraid so, sir."
"My goodness," Clarence mused, strumming his chin, which had yet to sprout its first whisker. He tried to imagine his mother using coarse language. Just the thought of it almost brought a grin to his face.
"I'll be leaving, then, sir," Guthrie broke the silence. "Tonight. Eight o'clock." He seemed as though he would say more, but he remained silent for a few awkward moments.
"Where to, old boy?" Clarence probed.
Guthrie struggled with the words to say and tugged at his waistcoat. "To America, sir."
Clarence neglected to blink. He frowned instead, staring hard at his butler. "America? You mean the colonies?"
"Yes, sir." Guthrie stood at attention. "Though I do believe they have enjoyed their independence for well over a century now."
"America." Clarence stroked his chin, fairly deep in thought. He knew that Guthrie had never been one to make rash decisions. It was only logical to assume the old butler had a reason for choosing the States as his destination. "Why America, dear boy? Why not Rome or Paris, someplace civilized? From what I've heard, America is quite an...unrefined place."
Guthrie shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I know it may sound impetuous of me, sir—"
"And absurd." Clarence shook his head and rubbed between his eyes, leaning forward on the desk. "There's no denying your age, old chap. You're not a young man ready to face the world anymore, let alone America. If I were you, I would pack away this idea of yours with your luggage and go to—"
"It's America, sir. My mind's made up, thank you." He picked up the suitcase and draped the topcoat over his forearm, derby in hand. "You are right about my age, sir. I've been a butler most of my adult life. The way I see it, the time has come for a change
of pace." With that, he turned away and paused at the door to say, "Goodbye, Master Clarence."
Then he was gone.
Unable to move, his eyes staring vacantly as a million thoughts started whirling through his mind, Clarence faced the empty doorway.
America... A change of pace... Absurd... Impetuous... America... A butler all my life... About time for a change... Unrefined... America... Guthrie is gone... AMERICA—