Bless Us With Content

by Tinnean

  Having accepted the inevitable, feeling oddly at peace, I parted the curtains so the moon would give some light to the room, then blew out the candle, pulled the bedclothes over my shoulder, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  Colling stood at the bottom of the shallow stairs leading up to the first floor of Laytham Hall, wringing his hands and shuffling from one foot to the other.

  “Has Mr. John come down to breakfast yet, Colling?” I was in… not a tranquil mood precisely; having spent the time at my morning ablutions in determining how I would tell John I would no longer be available to him, I was intent on having it out with him, knowing I would be able to stand fast to my resolve.

  “No… yes… that is to say….”

  “What’s wrong? You’re acting as if you have Saint Vitus’s dance.”

  The old man was pale. “It is Sir Eustace, Mr. Ashton!”

  Bloody hell! “Never tell me he’s arrived already?”

  “Yes, sir! He traveled through the night, and he’s in a beastly mood. Beg pardon, I’m sure, sir.” Obviously Colling was shaken. He blinked furiously and continued to wring his hands, and abruptly I saw him as the elderly man he was. Of course he now feared my uncle’s temper as much as any of us. He could be turned out without a character at a moment’s notice, and at his age, another position would be impossible to come by. “If Mr. Robert or Mr. John were here, I would fetch them, but they are not in the Hall, and Mr. Ruston says their horses are not in their stalls.”

  The two eldest of the Hood brothers were not around? That was most peculiar. Robert, and by extension John, made it a point to always be near Aunt Cecily whenever Sir Eustace was home, knowing that my uncle enjoyed hurting those weaker than he.

  “What of Mr. William?” He was as likely to leap to Aunt Cecily’s defense as his brothers.

  “I believe he is still abed, Mr. Ashton. That is to say, he hasn’t rung for his morning water as yet.”

  “Well, perhaps….” I thought I heard a muffled cry. My eyes shot to the butler’s, and he nodded, miserable.

  “Sir Eustace was quite… quite perturbed when he learned of the theft of the Flame of Diabul.”

  “You mean it wasn’t returned?”

  “No. When I went to Lady Laytham to inform her that the priest’s hole had been open all night, she gave me the unhappy news.”

  Unhappy indeed. I knew I hadn’t taken it, and Aunt Cecily and Arabella were both too far from the ruby to have purloined the precious gem. That left only the three Hoods, and in spite of his callous disregard for my feelings, I could not see John as the culprit. As for William, he followed slavishly in his brothers’ wakes, with not a notion as to how to go on himself. So it had to be Robert, the most honorable of the Hoods. I felt a mean sense of satisfaction, although Aunt Cecily would be devastated by the extent of his betrayal.

  “I am afraid Sir Eustace is taking it out on her Ladyship!” The old man’s faded blue eyes were wet with unshed tears. “What should I do, Mr. Ashton?”

  “Hell and the devil!” The words slipped out. Things were at a pretty pass if Colling was looking to me to take charge, for in spite of the fact that I was the heir, he much preferred to go to Robert Hood.

  I was ashamed to think how much I feared my uncle. His temper was volatile at best, and when things did not go his way, it was explosive. He loved to brandish his riding crop on the nearest target, and often as a child, I had felt it upon my back.

  “Where are they, Colling?”

  “In the morning room, sir.”

  I scrubbed a hand over my face, then straightened my spectacles, smoothed my hair, and gave a tug to my frock coat. More than anything, I wanted to take to my heels and escape to the stables, but I could not; I was a Laytham, after all, and in spite of what those in the Hall might think, I did have a sense of honor.

  “Very we… well. I shall d… deal with this.”

  As I approached the closed door to the morning room, I could hear muted sobs, and the rhythmic slash of that bloody-be-damned crop, punctuated by Uncle Eustace’s tirade.

  “It was bad enough that I had to take in Archibald’s whelp. You would saddle me with your friend’s”—he gave the word a nasty twist—“brats. Eating me out of house and home, costing me a fortune in school fees—”

  “Their father left them the money for their schooling!” she dared to protest, but Uncle completely disregarded her words.

  “Repaying me by stealing the Flame of Diabul!”

  “No, Sir Eustace, no! Not my boys! They would not!”

  “Wouldn’t they? I knew from the moment I saw them they were useless and worthless.” Because they had no fear of him? Still, I found it interesting to hear those words directed at someone other than myself.

  I did not bother knocking on the door—as I might have done at another time when they were closeted together—I just turned the knob and entered.

  Aunt Cecily huddled on the rug at his feet, her shoulders hunched, her hands shielding her face. Her hair was in a tangle about her shoulders, and her gown was in disarray. Had he also violated her? Uncle glared at me over his shoulder.

  “Well, sirrah?” he demanded. When had his face taken on such an unhealthy color, such deep-scored lines? “What is the meaning of this interruption?”

  “I heard you were home, Uncle. May I not come to greet you?”

  “May you not….” His eyes looked not quite sane, and I took an involuntary step backward. “I come home to find the Laytham talisman has been stolen, and you, you miserable jackanapes, think only to utter inanities?” Spittle flecked over his chin, and he began to hurl abuse at both his wife and me, his words becoming more and more vile, accusing Aunt Cecily of betraying him with various and sundry men and me of abominable, unnatural acts. Uncle strode from one end of the room to the other, slicing the air viciously with his crop.

  Good God, did he really think I could steal the family silver or take any of the female servants to my bed? I’d grown up with some of the housemaids, and it would have felt like incest. As for animals….

  I shuddered, banished his words from my mind, and went to Aunt Cecily. “Please, Aunt, let me help you up.” I took her elbow and urged her to her feet and, in spite of Uncle’s fearsome harangue, summoned Colling.

  “Yes, Mr. Ashton?” His expression was smooth and blank, but his eyes looked horrified. Uncle Eustace had never been this uncontrolled.

  “Colling, please assist her Ladyship to her chamber. I’m sure Flowers will know what to do, but perhaps Dr. Medford might be sent for as well?”

  The old man led his trembling mistress away. Before I could make good my own escape, Uncle wheeled, and his eyes fell upon me once again.

  “Where is my wife?” he thundered.

  “She is not well, Uncle. I thought perhaps it might be best for her to lie down….” I edged toward the door.

  “You thought…. Since when have I given you leave to use that pitiful excuse you call a mind? And where do you think you’re going?”

  I scrambled for a reasonable explanation to absent myself from his presence. “I was about to have a word with Cook,” I murmured as I faced him, my heart pounding in my chest.

  “Oh, indeed? A word with Cook?” A cruel sneer twisted his features, and the crop beat against his leg in a restless motion. “Close that door!”

  I swallowed, moistened my lips, and moved to obey him. We were much the same height, but while it had been some years since he’d struck me, I had no doubt he was about to do so once again.

  “Lady Laytham’s negligence has cost me the Flame of Diabul!” he snarled.

  “No, Uncle. She had nothing to do with it and did not deserve such treatment. The stone was….” Wanting to protect John, I hesitated to blame the theft on Robert, knowing that if one brother was involved, indeed they all would be, but I’d hesitated too long. Before I could amend my statement to “misplaced,” Uncle wheeled on me.

  “Do not try to sugarcoat it! It was stolen! I must
have the Flame of Diabul!” he howled. “It must be sold! I will be rolled up horse and guns if I cannot redeem my vowels! I will be barred from all my clubs! My honor will be in the dust!” He lashed out with the crop, and I flinched, drawing his attention to me once more. “Remove your coat, whelp!”

  “Uncle….”

  His open palm struck me high on my cheek, and my spectacles flew off, and I staggered back a few steps. “Obey me, boy!”

  There was no reasoning with him when he was like this; I knew from past experience there was nothing to be done until he had satisfied the demon that dwelled within him. I shed my coat and braced myself.

  The crop whistled through the air and sliced the material of my shirt. I bit my lips raw suppressing moans. My arms trembled, supporting the weight of my body, and soon my shoulders were as hunched as Aunt Cecily’s had been.

  Abruptly, in mid-stroke, the whipping stopped. There was a garbled, gurgling sound and then a thud. I moved cautiously, trying to put as little strain upon my back as I could.

  Uncle had toppled to the floor and was writhing upon it, his fingers scrabbling at his neckcloth, his face an alarming shade of purple.

  I watched in numbed disbelief as a vicious temper coupled with years of heavy drinking and high living got the better of him, and then haltingly made my way out of the room.

  The family physician was just coming down the stairs from Aunt Cecily’s suite of rooms, and I blinked in a vain attempt to bring his features into focus. “Dr. Medford. You got here very quickly.”

  “Mr. Ashton. Miss Arabella was… indisposed, and I had been sent for. You seem to have lost your spectacles.”

  I raised a hand to my face, then dropped it. So that was why my vision was so blurred. “Yes. I believe I have.” Pain was washing over me in waves, and I put out a hand to the banister to steady myself, grateful the side of my face Uncle had struck was away from Dr. Medford. “Is Aunt Cecily all right?”

  “Her woman is with her.” His lips tightened. He had been called to Laytham Hall more than once after my uncle had paid us a visit. “I have seen her better. Sir Eustace’s treatment of her… not gentlemanly! Not gentlemanly at all! It ought not to be allowed!”

  “Ah, yes, my uncle. He is not quite the thing, I fear. Perhaps you would see to him before you left? He is in the morning room.”

  I pulled myself up the first few steps to the landing as the doctor passed me. He turned, to say something cutting no doubt, but drew in his breath sharply instead. “God in heaven, Mr. Ashton! What have you done?”

  Of course. It was my fault. I had taken a whip to my back. “Nothing, Dr. Medford.” All I wanted was the peace of my room. “Please see to Uncle.”

  Instead of leaving me to make my way up the stairs, he slid an arm about my waist, carefully avoiding the worst of the gashes on my back, and got me up to my room.

  Colling peeked in and moaned. “I will get you more water, Dr. Medford.”

  “Wait! Not a word of this to her Ladyship, is that clear? It would… distress her.” As if it were only I who had felt my uncle’s crop. I waited until they both agreed before easing my shirt off my shoulders. My stomach twisted at the sight of my shirt, tattered and stained red. I shuddered and lay upon my bed. “Did he open Aunt Cecily’s back as well, Dr. Medford?”

  “No. A few welts and some bruising, but her stays protected her for the most part.” He placed gentle fingers on the old scars that disappeared beneath the waistband of my trousers. “I had no idea, Mr. Ashton!”

  “Why should you?”

  Dr. Medford muttered something under his breath and plucked the remnants of my shirt out of the cuts that crisscrossed my back.

  The door opened. “The water, Doctor.”

  “Thank you, Colling. Put it on the table there, please. Oh, and would you fetch us some tea?”

  “Of course. Cook is already preparing it for Lady Cecily. I’ll bring it presently.” The door closed once more.

  “Now, Mr. Ashton, I’m going to clean these wounds before dusting them with basilicum powder.”

  I sighed. Why was he telling me…? I hissed with pain as he dabbed as gently as he could at my back.

  “I’m sorry. I merely sought to prepare you. I thought surely, with the scars on your back, you would be aware….”

  “They… they were never treated. No… no matter. Just do what needs be done, please.”

  “Someone should bloody well take a whip to Sir Eustace’s miserable hide!” he growled, which didn’t surprise me. The entire neighborhood had a fondness for Aunt Cecily. A shrill scream interrupted his ministrations. “What in bloody hell… what is that?”

  I recognized the tones of our housekeeper. In spite of the discomfort I was in, I could not help giving a wry huff of laughter. “I expect that Mrs. Walker has found Sir Eustace.”

  Colling came hurrying in, his eyes wild with panic. “Doctor, you must come!”

  “Mr. Ashton….”

  “You had better go, Dr. Medford. I am… there is nothing more that needs be done here.”

  Medford growled again but followed the butler down to the morning room, where, after a cursory examination according to those who witnessed it, he pronounced Sir Eustace dead of apoplexy.

  Uncle was interred in the family crypt. Perforce the men and women who worked his lands must needs attend, but the turnout of those who came down from Town to see him to his final resting place was meager at best.

  To those who inquired, I merely said that Aunt Cecily was prostrate.

  I saw no need to tell them that she was prostrate with relief, and not grief. That was no one’s business but the family’s.

  It was a nine-day wonder that the Hoods also were not at the funeral, but that, too, was none of their business. It was only later in the day Sir Eustace died that the letters from the brothers were discovered in the priest’s hole, neatly stacked in the chest that had housed the Flame of Diabul. Each missive stated simply that the author was the sole thief of the valuable stone and that he alone was responsible.

  In spite of his treatment of me, I was loath to consider that John had done it; Aunt Cecily refused to consider any of the Hoods, but the fact remained that the Flame of Diabul was missing, and so were they.

  Flowers never left Aunt Cecily’s side, and Arabella, her indisposition forgotten, was there also, more than happy to fetch whatever her benefactress might desire.

  Aunt Cecily’s blonde hair had turned pure white almost overnight, and she dressed in unrelieved black, which heightened her fragility so that those who saw murmured over the poor lady’s bravery in the face of unbearable bereavement.

  Bereavement it was, although none outside the family knew it was due not to the loss of her husband but to the loss of Robert, John, and William Hood.

  The days passed. There was no time to coddle myself, for there was the new hay to harvest, followed shortly thereafter in the season by our usual crop of hops. For the last few years we’d had good crops, but Uncle was so seldom at home that I was able to excuse the meager funds they produced by fobbing him off with tales of otter moths and corn borers and crown gall and downy mildew, and he’d never cared enough to discuss the problem with any of our neighbors. I’d intended to use what I’d kept back in order to effect repairs on the cottages of our people, but they’d been in surprisingly good condition, and so I’d set the profits aside in hopes of starting a small, reputable stud.

  Now it appeared those monies must needs be used to pay off my uncle’s gaming debts.

  Each day I dreaded the arrival of the post, anticipating the dunning letters. To date, none had arrived. I couldn’t understand it, but I was grateful for the breathing space it afforded me.

  A thought occurred to me. Because Robert Hood was no longer here, the engagement to Miss Colbourne was effectively at an end; would Mr. Colbourne sue the estate for the breach of promise to his daughter? Floundering in the possibility of an even greater encumbrance, I began having trouble eating, and my sleep was di
sturbed by images of the Hall and its lands falling to wrack and ruin.

  And then one morning, a sennight after the Flame of Diabul disappeared, Colling brought a letter to the morning room. “Beg pardon, m’lady. This arrived in the morning’s post.”

  I sat up. Was this the start of it? “For me, Colling?” I swallowed, pleased that my voice hadn’t trembled or cracked.

  “No, Mr.—beg pardon, sir. Sir Ashton.” Would I ever grow used to hearing myself addressed as “Sir Ashton”? “It’s for Miss Arabella.”

  “I can’t think… who would be writing to me?” She seized the letter from the salver and tore it open. Her eyes widened as she read the words, and then she burst into tears.