P N Elrod - Barrett 1 - Red Death

by Red Death(Lit)

  After that bitter humilation, I was less ready to judge Beldon and Mrs. Hardinbrook so harshly for their toad-eating.

  After my shameful scene with Mother, I went to see Father. It took me a while to work up the courage, but I finally introduced an idea that had been stirring uneasily in my brain: the possibility of having her declared incapable. I had feared he would be angry with me, but came to realize that he'd already thought it over for himself.

  "How do we prove it, laddie?" he asked. When I faltered over my answer, he continued. "It would be different if she wandered about raving at the top of her voice all the time, but you've seen how she is. She's been in a temper over that incident, but you need more than that to take to court. In public her behavior has always been above reproach."

  "But we've plenty of witnesses here to the contrary."

  "To what would be dismissed as an unpleasant altercation within a family. No court would judge in our favor with-"

  "But surely as her husband, you are able to do something." I could not keep a whine from invading my tone.

  Father's face darkened and with an effort, he swallowed back his anger. "Jonathan, there are some things that I will not do, even for your sake. One of those is compromising my honor. To go down the path you are suggesting would do just that."

  My eyes dropped; my skin was aflame. For the second time I stammered out an apology, only now I meant what was said.

  He accepted it instantly. "I do understand exactly how you feel, I've been there many times. Life is not fair, but that doesn't

  mean we can't make the best of what fate-or your mother- drops on us."

  Cold comfort, I thought.

  The morning after those talks marked the official opening of Elizabeth's quiet campaign against Mother. We rose early and left early for the church. She'd managed to keep out of Mother's sight since the fight for fear that Mother might stop her from showing herself in public once she saw the extent of the damage dene. Elizabeth's dress had been carefully chosen for its color, which brutally accented her fully developed bruises. She made no effort to hide them. Being a favorite among the women of our village, she was surrounded by a group of the concerned and the curious almost as soon as she stepped from the carriage. While I sent the driver back to the house for the rest of the family, Elizabeth made excellent use of her time.

  I still disapproved, but since she was telling the plain truth, 1 had no difficulty supporting her. When the carriage rolled up again to discharge Mother, Mrs. Hardinbrook, Beldon, and Father, the atmosphere of avid curiosity mixed with revulsion was nearly as thick as a morning fog. Distracted by her guests, i Mother did not notice it. A few late-comers who hadn't yet heard the tale came over to greet her and meet her friends, but as soon as they detached themselves, others took them aside for a confidential whisper. If Mother had been oblivious to the subtle change in the people around her, Father was not. But what he guessed or knew, he kept to himself.

  Somehow we got through the service and returned home, me to brood on my disappointment, Elizabeth to her first feeling of triumph. She was all but glowing with satisfaction when I found her in the library. This dampened somewhat when she looked up and successfully read my face. Not wishing to intrude upon her, I'd kept my news, or lack of it, to myself throughout the morning.

  "She wouldn't listen, would she?" she asked, all sympathy.

  I threw myself onto a chair. "I don't think she knows how. I talked with Father, but it's hopeless. He won't do anything."

  "You're not angry with him?"

  "No, of course not. If he could help, he would. I'm going to have to leave."

  "1 wish I could come with you, then."

  "So do I, but you know what Mother would make of that."

  "Something evil," she agreed. We fell silent for a time. "What will you do at Cambridge?"

  "Be miserable, I'm sure."

  "It will be a long, long time. When you come back, you'll be all grown up. We won't know you."

  "You think I'll change so much?"

  "Perhaps not, little brother. I'm only being selfish, though."

  "Indeed?"

  "Whatever shall I do with myself while you are gone?"

  "You'll miss me?" I gently mocked.

  "Certainly I'll miss you," she said, pretending to be insulted in turn.

  "Nothing selfish in that."

  Her pretense melted. "There is when all I can think of is day after day of facing that horrible woman and her toadies, instead of worrying about you being off by yourself."

  "Oh."

  "Don't think badly of me, Jonathan."

  "I don't. Believe me, I do not. I've just never thought of how things might be for you while I'm gone."

  "Then thank you for thinking of it now. But it mightn't last forever, you know. You saw how it went at church today. She and that precious pair plan to go calling tomorrow, but I believe many of the people they'll visit to be unavailable. Oh, dear, what's wrong?" Her forehead wrinkled at my expression.

  "I just don't feel this action is worthy of you."

  She started to either object or defend, then caught herself. Her face grew hard. "Indeed, it is not, but she hurt me terribly and I want to hurt her back. It may not be very Christian, but it does make me feel better."

  "I know, I just don't want you to become so accustomed to it that it consumes you, otherwise when I return, I shall not recognize you, either."

  The feeling behind the words got through to her. "You believe I might become like her?"

  "Not at all, but I should not like to see you influenced by her into becoming someone you are not."

  "God forbid," she murmured, staring at the floor. "Mirrors can be awful things, can't they? But they do give you the truth when you bother to look in them." "I don't mean to hurt you..."

  "No. I understand what you mean."

  "What will you do?"

  "Whether my actions demean me or not, I will see them through. If Mother leaves, well and good, if not, then perhaps I may adopt Father's example and leave the house myself. I have many friends I can visit, but give me some time, little brother, and trust in my own sense of honor."

  There was a word to make me wince. After that, I stopped chiding her.

  Hopes of a reprieve dashed, there was little else to do but follow Father's advice. I played the puppet in Mother's presence and it paid handsomely. The allowance Father was able to arrange for me was more than generous. Perhaps she was trying to buy my affection. Perhaps she just didn't care. Only later did I realize that her purpose was for me to make an impressive show to others. She gave many tedious lectures instructing me on how to behave myself once I was in England. I'd had lessons a few years before, but for a while feared that she'd hire another dancing master to refresh my memory about correct posturing in polite company.

  The next month saw me through a round of farewell parties with our friends, fittings for new clothes, and careful decisions on what to take along. As Elizabeth had predicted, Mother's reception into our circle had turned decidedly cool, but there were some occasions that required the presence of our whole family, so the woman got her share of social engagements. These were enough to satisfy her, but Elizabeth was sure that once I was off to England a dramatic drop in invitations would take place. She promised to write me in full detail.

  I used my penknife to work out more pieces from another broken walnut. Across the room an argument was going on between two drunken workmen that looked like it was going to develop into a full-blown battle. Their accents were so thick I couldn't make sense of what they were shouting, though the swearing was clear enough. A group of ladies huddled together and stopped up their ears, except for one who fell to praying. She started with a little scream when one of her friends accidentally brushed her ear with an upraised elbow.

  My teeth crunched against some overlooked shell. I spat it out and continued munching more cautiously. One of the men took a wide swing at the other and missed, generating a lot

  of
amusement in the crowd. Bets were made, but called off when the landlord and a couple of younger men intervened and escorted the drunks outside. A few others joined them, perhaps to see if the fight would continue. I had half a mind to follow, but was too full of food to be bothered.

  I spat out another shard of walnut, smug with the knowledge that it would have offended Mother. Across the room the ladies had unstopped their ears and put their heads together for a good talk. One of the younger ones smiled at me. Carefully polite, I nodded back, lazily wondering who and what she was. By her dress, manner, and the company around her I decided that she was not a whore, or else I might have done more than nod. I hadn't forgotten the promise to myself that once on my own I would take the earliest opportunity to lose my virginity.

  The pander and his woman came to mind again, only to be dismissed with disgust. I wasn't that desperate or drunk.

  The young lady turned her attention back to her friends. My face grew warm as I deduced by their manner that they were talking about me. From the smothered smiles and bright looks thrown my way I concluded that their opinions were highly favorable. I smiled back. Perhaps that first opportunity was about to present itself.

  Or perhaps not. The fight between the workmen had developed into what sounded like a proper war. Though I hadn't followed the two combatants outside, others had, and in a few scant moments sides were taken and blows were struck. Members of the inn's staff abruptly disappeared, though two of the maids clogged the room's one window trying to keep up with the course of the battle.

  "Jem's got that 'un!"

  "Arr, he's bitin' orf 'is ear! Get 'im, Jem!"

  Then both girls squeaked and jumped back. A young tough with a bleeding ear sprawled half in and out of the opening. Before his admirers could rush to his aid, he raised up, threw us all a foolish grin of pure glee, and bobbed from sight. The girls returned to the window to cheer him on.

  The more refined ladies of the neighboring table had produced screams of alarm, but crowded toward the door for the purpose of escape. They were hampered by others in the hall without, who were apparently trying to get out for a better view of the fight. The smiling girl was among them.

  So much for that opportunity, however slim it had been. I stood, brushed stray crumbs from my clothes, and made for the window. Offering my apologies to the maids, I pushed past them and stepped through it into the courtyard to see what all the commotion was about.

  A wild-eyed man who had lost his shirt, but retained his neck cloth, rushed past me waving a bucket and howling. The man he seemed to be pursuing was making an equal amount of noise but in a slightly different key. A dozen other men were having a sort of wrestling match with one another in the middle of the yard. On the edge of their muddy sprawl of arms and legs, I spotted the porter swinging a cudgel and bellowing in triumph each time he connected successfully with someone's head. He'd worked out a simple routine of knocking a man senseless, then moving on so the waiters could pull the body from the fray. They had the start of a fine stack of them by now, though it wasn't much of a discouragement to newcomers eager to join the riot.

  "What's it all about?" I asked a young gentleman next to me, who was content to be only a witness rather than a participant. He wore dusty riding clothes and an eager expression.

  "God knows, but isn't it grand? Five shillings that that big fellow with the scar will be the last to drop."

  "Done," I said, and we shook on it. I kept my eye on the porter and was not disappointed. Before long, he worked his way 'round to the fellow in question and gave him a solid thump behind the ear. The result fell short of my expectations, for he only went down on one knee, shook his head, and was up and swinging as though nothing had happened. The waiters wisely passed him by.

  "Bad for you," said the gentleman.

  "There's time yet."

  My faith in the porter's arm was given a second test. As he made another circle of the gradually diminishing fighters, he was able to use his cudgel on the man again. This time more force was applied and the fellow was knocked to both knees. He got up more slowly, but he did get up.

  "What's his skull made of?" I asked. "Stone?"

  "Cracked him a good one, though. He's drawn blood, see?"

  That was a good sign. Stones don't bleed. I called encouragement to the porter for another try, but he was distracted when the man with the bucket blundered into him. Both fell over into the

  general melee and were momentarily lost. The porter emerged first, roaring with outrage. When he swung his cudgel back to deal with the newcomer, it caught the scarred man in the belly by mistake and he suddenly dropped from sight.

  "Third time's the charm," I said. We waited, anxious for different reasons, but the man remained down. The waiters darted forward and dragged him out. Three more men waded in to help the porter and amid groans, curses, and with the breaking of a few more skulls, order was gradually restored to the courtyard. The gentleman shook his head and paid up. "What a show. Pity it was so short." He was about my age or older, with a high forehead, long chin, and broad, childish mouth, the corners of which were turned down as he settled his debt. He had very wide-awake blue eyes that added to the somewhat foolish air of his overall expression.

  "Pity indeed," I agreed. "Since there's no chance for you to win this back may I buy you something to ease the sting of your loss?"

  He cheered up instantly. "That's very generous of you, my friend. Yes, you may. It's too damned hot out here, don't you think?"

  We retired to the common room, but found it quite clear of waiters, maids, and guests.

  "Probably still cleaning up the mess," he said, then proceeded to bellow for assistance. A boy cautiously appeared and I promptly sent him off to fetch us beer.

  "Unless you'd prefer something else?" I asked. He threw himself into a chair. "No, no. Beer's what's wanted on a day like this. I've been on the road all morning and have a great thirst."

  'Traveling much farther?"

  "Only to this roach trap. I'm supposed to meet some damned cousin of mine and take him home." "Really?"

  "Damned nuisance it is, but-" A new thought visibly invaded his brain. "Oh, dear, suppose he's out there among the wounded?" He launched from the chair toward the window and leaned out, shouting questions to the men in the yard. I sat back to watch the show. He excused himself to me and went over the sill to investigate something, but returned just as the beer arrived. "Did you find your cousin?" I asked.

  "Thought I had, but the man was too old."

  "What does he look like?"

  "Oh, about this tall, forty if he was a day, and bald as-"

  "I mean, what does your cousin look like?"

  "Oh... him. Damned if I know. He's fresh off the boat from one of the colonies. Probably gets himself up with feathers and paint like a red Indian."

  "Really? What's he over here for?"

  "Come to get an education. We're going to be at Cambridge together, but since he's supposed to be reading law and I'm doing medicine, we might be spared one another's company."

  "What? You've never met the chap and you don't like him?"

  "I daresay I won't if he has Fonteyn blood in him. Not that I'm against my own family, but some of the folk out of Grandfather Fonteyn's side of things would be better off in Bedlam, if you know what I mean."

  "Bedlam?"

  "That great asylum where they put the mad people. Damn, but that was good beer. Here, boy! Bring us another! That is, if you care to have one, sir."

  "Yes, certainly. You intrigue me, sir. About this cousin of yours... would he be about my age, do you think?"

  He squinted at me carefully. "I'd say so." His mobile face suddenly went blank, then his eyes sharpened with alarm. "Oh, good God."

  "I'm not that awful, am I?"

  His jaw flapped as he tried to put words to a situation that required none. As he floundered, the beer was brought in.

  "Would you care for anything to eat, Cousin?" I asked while the boy put down his
tray.

  "A pox on you, sir, for misleading me," he cried.

  "And my apologies, sir, for being unable to resist the temptation to do so."

  "Well-a-day, I've never heard of such a thing."

  "Perhaps it is the Fonteyn blood showing through. Jonathan Barrett, at your service, good cousin." I stood and bowed to him.

  "A fine introduction this is, to be sure. Oh, pox on it!" He stood and gave a hasty bow, extending his hand and smiling broadly. "Oliver Marling, at yours."

  "Oliver 'Fonteyn' Marling?"

  He made a face. "For God's sake, just call me Oliver. I absolutely detest my middle name!"