P N Elrod - Barrett 3 - Death Masque

by Death Masque(Lit)

  The huge structure had been built by Grandfather Fonteyn, who was presently moldering in a carved marble sarcophagus a few yards from where I stood. His eldest daughter's coffin was even now being pushed into its nearby niche by the pallbearers. Tomorrow its stone cover with a brass plate bearing her name would be mortared into place on the wall.

  As depressing as it was to stand here surrounded by the Fonteyn dead, it was preferable to standing 'round a gaping hole in the ground with the sleet stinging the backs of our necks. The cloying scent of freshly turned earth might have been too much for me, though being at a funeral, period, was bad enough. The same went for Elizabeth, for she not only had memories of my burial to wrestle with, but those of James Norwood's, too.

  I glanced over to see how she was holding up, and she gave me a thin but confident smile meant to reassure. Much of her attention was concentrated on Oliver, which was probably why she was able to get through this at all.

  Sheet white and shaking miserably with the cold, he looked ready to fall over. He wasn't drunk, and he should have been; he was in sore need of some muzzy-headed insulation from what was happening. He stared unfocused at his mother's coffin as they pushed it into place, and I had no doubt that every detail was searing itself forever into his battered mind.

  He must have help, I thought, and wondered what I could possibly do for him. No shred of an idea presented itself though. Perhaps later, after we were out of this damned death house, I could come up with something.

  The service finally concluded. Since I'd not listened to one word of it, I knew only by the last amens and general stir about me. No mourners lingered in this torch-lit tomb. As one, we left Elizabeth Therese Fonteyn Marling to God's mercy and all but galloped back through the crusty mud and snow to the lights and warmth of Fonteyn House.

  The servants had set up a proper feast for the occasion. and the family set to it with an unseemly gusto. Soon the gigantic collection of cold joints, pies, sweets, hams, and lord knows what else began to steadily disappear from the serving trays. The drink also suffered a similar swift depletion, but no one became unduly loud or merry from all the flowing Madeira. Oliver, I noted, never went near the groaning tables.

  Very bad, that, I thought.

  There had been an inquiry about Aunt Fonteyn's death, but only a brief one, since it was obvious to all that ii had been an accident. She'd been found in the center of the Bolyns' shrubbery maze, having had the bad luck of somehow slipping on a patch of ice and striking her head on the edge of the marble fountain there. Some servant had found her and raised the alarm. A doctor was sent for, but her skull had been well and truly broken; nothing could be done. At least it had been quick and relatively painless, people had said; that should be something of a comfort to her family. After all, there were worse ways to die.

  Of the talk I overheard or participated in, it was universally agreed how unfair and awful it was, but then God's will was bound to be a mystery to those who still lived. Thankfully, Cousin Edmond assumed the duties of making arrangements for the funeral. A lawyer himself, he moved things quickly along out of deference for Oliver's condition, and three nights later most of the family had gathered at Fonteyn House to pay their last respects.

  If everyone had not been garbed in black, it might have been another Fonteyn Christmas. All the usual crowd was present, and one by one they expressed their sympathy to Oliver. Some of them, being sensitive to his downcast countenance, were even sincere.

  One or two latecomers were ushered in by the sad-faced mute hired for the task. Gloves and rings had been distributed to the closest relatives; I'd gotten a silk hat hand and chamois gloves, all black. God knows what I'd do with them, being unable to truly hold any grief in my heart for the foul-minded old hag, but I was expected to put on a show of it, nonetheless. Hypocritical to be sure, but I took comfort from the fact that I could hardly be the only member in this gathering with such feelings. Aunt Fonteyn had not been the sort of person to inspire deep and sincere mourning from anyone in their right senses... then I suddenly thought of Mother and just in time whipped out a handkerchief to cover my painfully twitching mouth before betraying a highly improper grin to the room.

  The only thing that settled me was the knowledge that I'd have to write home with the news. Father wouldn't have an easy time of it-not that he ever did-once Mother learned about the demise of the sister she doted upon. With that in mind 1 was just able to play my part, nodding at the right times and murmuring the right things and trying to keep my eye on Oliver as much as possible.

  He was still hemmed in by a pack of relatives and not too responsive to whatever they were saying. Elizabeth was with him, doing her best to make up for his lack. Oh, well, no one would think badly of him for it and only put it off to grief.

  My lovely cousin Clarinda moved in and out through the crowds, having assumed the duties of hostess for him. 1 could not honestly say that black suited her; tonight she looked almost as drawn as Oliver. Though far more animated than he, her natural liveliness was well dampened owing to the circumstances. We'd exchanged formal greetings earlier, neither of us giving any sign of having a shared secret. I suspected, given Clarinda's obvious appetite for willing young men, that our particular encounter had faded quite a bit in her memory. Not that I felt slighted in any way; relief would best describe my reaction if this proved to be so.

  I moved among the various relatives as well, shaking a hand here, bowing to a lady there, but inevitably ending up with a group of the men as they spoke in low tones about the tragedy. As there was actually very little one could say about it, and since it was considered bad taste to speak ill of the departed, no matter how deserving, the topics of talk soon shifted from things funereal to things political. The dispiriting details of General Burgoyne's surrender were now in the papers, and the men here had formed the idea that I could somehow tell them more than what had appeared in print. But with my mind on Oliver's problems, I had no interest in discussing the situation in the Colonies tonight.

  "Forgive me, gentlemen, but I know only as much as you do from your reading," I said, trying to put them off.

  "But you're from the area, from New York," insisted one of my many Fonteyn cousins.

  "I'm from Long Island, and it's as far away from Saratoga as London is from Plymouth-and with far worse roads in between."

  This garnered some discreet laughter.

  "But you weren't so very far from the general fighting yourself if Oliver is to be believed."

  "I've been close enough, sir. There have been some incidents near our village concerning the rebels, but the King's army has things well in hand now." / hope, I silently added. feeling the usual stab of worry for Father whenever I thought of home.

  "You're being too modest, Mr. Barrett," said another young man, one of the many in the crowd. I had a strong idea he was here more for the feasting than to pay his respects. He was a handsome fellow and familiar, since I'd seen him before at other gatherings, but nameless like dozens of others. "I believe by now all of you know thai your cousin here is a rare fire-eater when it comes to batik. he added. "Perhaps some of you were there at the Bolyns" party and saw him in action."

  I didn't like his manner much or the fact he'd brought up the subject of the duel. Unfortunately, the other men were highly interested and wanted a full recountal of the event.

  "Gentlemen, this is hardly an appropriate time or place," I said, being as firmly discouraging as possible.

  "Oh, but we may never have another opportunity," the young man drawled with expansive insistence. "I think we'd all like to hear how you defeated Mr. Thomas Ridley after he'd so grievously wounded you."

  "Hardly so grievous or I'd not be here, sir."

  More suppressed expressions of good humor.

  "Do you call me a liar, sir?" he said slowly, deliberately, and worst of all, with no alteration in his pleasant expression.

  Great heavens, I'd dreaded that some idiot might turn up and make a nuisance of hims
elf by wanting to provoke a duel with me, but I hadn't expected it to happen so soon and leastwise not at Aunt Fonteyn's funeral. Those around us went very still waiting for my answer.

  1 could have found a graceful way of getting out of it, but the man's obvious insult was too annoying to disregard. "Your name, sir?" I asked, keeping my own voice and expression as bland as possible.

  "Arthur Tyne, sir. Thomas Ridley's cousin."

  If he expected me to blanch in terror at this revelation, he was in for a vast disappointment. "Indeed? I trust and pray that the man is recovering from his own wound."

  "You have not answered me, Mr. Barrett," he said, putting an edge into his tone that was meant to be menacing.

  "Only because I thought you were making a jest, sir. It seemed polite that I should overlook it, since we are all here to pay our solemn respects to the memory of my aunt."

  That was no jest, sir, but a most earnest inquiry. Are you prepared to answer?"

  "You astound me, Mr. Tyne. Of course I did not call you a liar."

  "1 find you to be most insolent, sir."

  "Which is not too surprising; poor Aunt Fonteyn often made the same complaint against me." If some of those around us were shocked by my honesty, then more were struggling not to show their amusement.

  "Are you deaf? I said you are most insolent, Mr. Barrett."

  "Not deaf, only agreeing with you, dear fellow." 1 fixed my eyes and full concentration upon him. "Certainly you can find no exception to that."

  In actuality, Arthur Tyne found himself unable to say anything at all.

  "This is a most sad occasion for me," I went on. "I should be sadder still if I've caused you any distress. Come along with me, sir. I am very interested in hearing how things are with your cousin."

  So saying, I linked my arm with his and led him out of earshot of the rest. Tyne was just starting to blink himself awake when I fixed him again with my gaze.

  "Now, you listen to me, you little toad," I whispered. "1 don't care if the idea to have a fight with me was yours or your cousin's, but you can put it right out of your head. You're to leave me and mine alone. Understand? Now get out of my sight and stay out of my way."

  And so I had the pleasure of seeing Arthur Tyne's back as he made a hasty retreat. He was visibly shaken, and the other men noticed, but I kept my pretense of a smile and easily ignored them. What I could not ignore was Edmond Fonteyn's sudden presence next to me. Unlike his wife. black suited him well, made him look larger, more powerful, more intimidating.

  "What the devil are you up to?" he demanded.

  "Just trying to avoid an embarrassing scene, Cousin," 1 said tiredly, hoping he would go away.

  He gave me a stony glare. "More dueling?"

  "Just the opposite, as a matter of fact."

  He pushed past me and went in pursuit of Arthur. I could trust that Edmond would find things in order. If Arthur was typical of the others I'd influenced, he'd not remember much of it; if not, and Edmond returned with questions... well, I could deal with him if necessary. It might even be amusing to see his grim face going all blank and vulnerable for a change.

  But there were more pressing things for me to deal with tonight than fools and irate cousins, and it was past time 1 got on with them. Putting Edmond and Arthur firmly from mind, I searched the ranks of the servants, at last spotted the one I wanted, and drifted over.

  "Radcliff?"

  "Yes, sir?" He was busy supervising the sherry and Madeira, making sure most of it went into the guests, not the servers.

  "I should like two bottles of good brandy sent along to the blue drawing room, please. Put some food with it, breads and sweets, some ham if there's any left."

  He raised one eyebrow, but offered no more comment, and went to order things for me. I now drifted over to Oliver and Elizabeth. As she looked pale and strained from the effort she was putting forth, her gaze fell on me and she grasped my arm convulsively.

  "Here now, you're not planning to faint, are you?" I asked, concerned that this was becoming all too much for her.

  "Don't be an ass," she whispered back. "I'm just tired. All these people..." There were quite a lot of them, and dealing with each and every one while looking after Oliver had put her teeth dangerously on edge.

  "Well, I'm taking over for you and no arguing. See that fellow by the wine table? Go ask him for anything you like and have him send it to some quiet room. Make sure you eat. You look ready to drop in your tracks."

  She needed no more persuasion, and I took her place at Oliver's side. I made sure the person who was presently trying to speak with him understood that my interruption had some urgent purpose behind it. He gracefully excused himself and I slipped a hand 'round Oliver's arm.

  "Come along with me, old man, something's come up that wants your attention." He passively allowed himself to be led away. We reached the blue drawing room just as one of Radcliff's efficient minions was leaving. I got Oliver inside, firmly closed the door, then steered him toward the warmth of the fireplace. "Beastly night for a burying, what?" I asked, pouring brandy for him. There were two glasses; I slopped a few drops into the second one for the sake of appearance.

  Oliver shrugged and decorously sat in the chair, rather than resorting to his usual careless fall. One of his hands was closed into a fist. He wore a mourning ring on that one, a ring made from his mother's hair.

  I picked up the brandy glass and offered it to him. He listlessly took it, but did not drink.

  "Go on, then, do yourself some good," I said encouragingly.

  He gave no sign that he'd heard.

  "You'll have to sometime, you know damned well I can'! touch the stuff. Come on, then."

  Casting an indifferent glance at me, he finally raised it to his lips and sipped, then put it aside on a table. "I'd really like to be alone," he mumbled.

  He wasn't the only one who could ape deafness. "Radcliff seems to have provided the choicer bits of food for you, so it's pity on me for missing out on the feast." In actuality, the cooked meats smelled nauseating, but I stoutly ignored the sensation.

  "Not hungry," he said, still mumbling.

  "I can hardly believe that."

  "Believe what you like, but please let me alone."

  "All right, whatever you say." I started to turn. "Haifa minute, there's something on your hand...."

  I caught the mourning ring and suddenly pulled it free from his finger, pretending to examine it. "Now, here's a grisly relic. Wonder if it's her own hair or from one of her wigs?"

  "What the devil are you-give that to me!" He started to lurch from his chair.

  "Not just yet." I shoved him back into place.

  He knocked my arm away. "How dare you!"

  "It's easy enough."

  "Have you gone mad? Give that-" He started up again. and I backed away, holding the ring high. He lunged for it, and I let him catch my arm, but wouldn't allow him to take the ring. I dragged us toward the middle of the room where there was no furniture to trip over, and we wrestled around like boys having a schoolyard scuffle.

  "I'm sure your mother... would be delighted... to know," I said between all the activity, "the depth of... your regard for her."

  Oliver had grown red-faced with anger. "You bastard... why are you... I hated her!"

  Now I showed some of my real strength, getting behind him and pinning his arms back as if he were a small child. Half-lifted from the floor, he struggled futilely, trying to kick my shins and sometimes succeeding; not that it bothered me much, I was too busy taking care not to hurt him.

  "You hated her?" I said in his ear, sounding astonished.

  "Damn you-let me go!" He wriggled with all his might but was quickly wearing out. His self-imposed fasting for the last few days had done him little good.

  "You're sure you hated her?" I taunted.

  "Damn you!" he bellowed and landed a properly vicious one on my kneecap with the edge of his heel. I felt it, grunted, and released him. He staggered a step to
get his balance and whirled around. His face was so twisted with rage, I hardly knew him. Had I pushed too far?

  Apparently so, for he charged at me, fists ready, and made use of them willy-nilly on any portion of me that I was foolish enough to leave within range. I blundered into tables and other furnishings trying to keep away from him. Ornaments fell and shattered, and we managed to knock a portrait from the wall; the worst was when a chair went right over and I went with it-backward. My head struck the wooden floor with a thud, and the candlelight flared and flashed dizzyingly for me.

  This is really too wretchedly stupid, I thought as my arms bonelessly flopped at my sides. I was too stunned for the moment to offer further defense and expected Oliver to take advantage of it to really pummel me... but nothing happened.