by Lily Reynard
By the end of the fifth day, Kit and Margaret found themselves raising a tent very much like the one they had lived in while on campaign in Hungary. They, along with hundreds of other displaced Londoners, camped in a hayfield near the village of Islington.
I am come full circle, he thought, struggling to lift the tentpole with his good shoulder, the horizon bleak with the remains of smoldering church steeples.
He wondered when he might see Antonia again. He hungered for the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, and the sweet taste of her lips.
The following week, Kit finally presented himself at the Earl of Cranbourne's Hampstead House, whose Covent Garden location had escaped the fire.
His heart pounded in anxious anticipation as he waited for the porter to announce him. What should he say to her? What ought he say to her?
He longed to declare his love. And I'll do it. It's long past time to give her the truth of my heart.
Then the porter returned. "My lord the earl asks me to tell you that dowager countess has departed for her estates to begin her period of official mourning for her betrothed."
Kit stood in the soaring entrance hall in his worn boots, feeling his hopes shatter into jagged shards against the polished marble of the floor.
"But my lord said that he wished to speak to you when you came calling," the porter added.
This last was spoken in subtly haughty tones—Lord Cranbourne's servants were far too well trained to sneer, but Kit understood the unspoken message clearly. Presumptuous upstart.
The earl, however, seemed his usual calm, affable self.
With no outward sign of disapproval, he offered Kit a glass of wine in one of the parlors overlooking the courtyard garden.
"So, I suppose you know that she has left London?" he asked.
No need to ask who she was. Kit nodded. "Your porter informed me."
"I hope you're not thinking of following her," Cranbourne said, still in a conversational tone. He twirled the heavy crystal goblet between his fingers. "She's been exposed to quite enough scandal already, thanks to the events of this summer."
Trying to frame his reply, Kit gulped a mouthful of wine. It was Italian, straw-colored and sweet, tasting faintly of pears.
"My lord," he said, deciding that plain speech would serve him best. "I know she's in mourning. And I know how to behave."
"Unlike some?" Cranbourne gave a small, dry smile. "In any case, I did not wish to speak to you merely because of Aunt Antonia." He handed Kit a folded sheet of thick paper that reeked of jasmine. "This arrived by messenger on Tuesday. I didn't know where you'd gone to after you left the city, so I kept it here."
Kit slit the wax seal with his dagger, and opened it.
"My lord, Lady Castlemaine reports that she's managed to secure an audience with king for me," he reported, after a few moments spent scanning the text.
Castlemaine had obviously written the missive herself; it was badly spelled and the letters tilted crazily in all directions.
Kit continued, "I am to present myself to His Majesty the week after Christmas, if the fire does not exact too great a toll upon the city and disrupt the king's schedule."
Cranbourne gave a short laugh. "Trust my lady Castlemaine to hate being upstaged by anything, even an act of God. Will you go?"
"Why should I?" Kit asked, bitterly. "It's too late, my lord. Thornsby is in the Tower, my lady Cranbourne is safely gone from London, and all that I had has burned to the ground."
And I'll be paying for that damned bracelet for at least two more summers.
"But surely it cannot hurt to have your connection to the Edmonton family made public," Cranbourne said, taking a sip from his goblet. "After all, it will be difficult enough to ask a countess to become plain Mrs. Fitzgeorge. But if Mr. Fitzgeorge is the brother of an earl, even a disgraced one, well, that might change the calculations somewhat. And mitigate the scandal."
Kit choked on his wine.
"Would—would you approve of my suit, my lord?" he wheezed around the burning in his throat. The Earl of Cranbourne missed very little, it seemed.
"I can't say I would," replied Cranbourne, though his expression betrayed no hostility. "People are going to talk...though I suppose they always do. But I'll not oppose the match, if you can convince Aunt Antonia to bestow her hand after she emerges from mourning." He smiled ironically at Kit.
Kit felt an entirely unreasonable flare of hope. Four months until Christmas...
Chapter Thirty
To marry him is hopeless,
To be his whore is witless
—Shakespeare, The Two Noble Kinsman (Act II, Sc. 4)
Autumn was a season of loss.
Trying to halt the blaze before it reached Whitehall Palace, weary firefighters pulled down or blew up entire neighborhoods in London's western suburbs in an attempt to create a firebreak.
Cranbourne House lay directly in the path of the fire, and so it was destroyed with barrels of gunpowder on Wednesday afternoon.
At least no lives were lost, and working feverishly, Antonia and her remaining staff managed to empty the house of its furniture and valuables beforehand.
Antonia wept when she returned to the site after the fire had been contained, and saw the trampled, rubble-strewn expanse that had once been her beautiful mansion and gardens.
She stayed at Hampstead House long enough to attend Chelmsford's funeral, a grand affair graced by the presence of the king and queen.
Then she made a cowardly flight to Long Cranbourne, fearing her own weakness when Kit came to redeem the silent promises between them.
But once safely back home, surrounded by the bustle of the harvest, she felt like a butterfly trying to return to its chrysalis.
Her summer in London, as terrible and wonderful as it had been, had changed her, and her old, quiet life in the country now felt like exile instead of safety.
Her inner turmoil was only heightened by the letter she received from Kit at the beginning of October.
My dearest Lady,
I had wished to write you long since, but as you can imagine, my affairs have been somewhat in Disarray since the great Fire that hath so recently Ravaged our city. I hope this letter finds you in good Health, and that you are well-recovered from the Dreadful events of these weeks past.
Margaret and I are Presently settled in new Lodgings in the village of Islington. The Earl of Cranbourne hath showed us great Kindness with the loan of some bedsteads and tables, and for that we are most Grateful.
However, it is of Great Concern to me that I have not Yet regained use of my right arm, and Indeed, I am somewhat in apprehension that my use of the sword shall Henceforth be limited. And yet, even with my Arm bound in a sling, I find myself fully Occupied with teaching the art of the Sword, news of my duel with Lord Thornsby having spread throughout the city.
I have attempted to discourage the influx of Students by raising my prices, yet the demand for my Lessons grows apace. It is a very Strange thing, my lady, but it keeps me busied from Dawn to Dusk, so that I do not have the Leisure to pine for you during the daylight Hours.
After Dusk is another Matter entirely, but I shall not speak of Improper matters.
I hope I have not Offended by the expression of these Sentiments, but rather that this letter will commend me to your good grace and that you will keep me in your Thoughts as you dwell in mine.
With hearty wishes for your continued Health and Well-being, I sign myself,
Your most devoted Servant,
Christopher Fitzgeorge
PS: I enclose the sum of twelve pounds in Repayment of your initial investment. I remain most Grateful and not a day passes when I do not long to see you again.
Antonia held the letter for a long time after she finished reading it.
Mall bustled in with an armful of Antonia's petticoats, and stopped when she saw her mistress sitting at her dressing-table.
"It's from Mr. Fitzgeorge, isn't it, milady?" she asked, h
er mouth turned down in disapproval. "Will you receive him, then?"
"I don't know, Mall," Antonia replied, honestly.
Mall sighed. "Begging your pardon for saying so, milady, and I know Mr. Fitzgeorge means well, but trouble and scandal do seem to follow him like trained dogs!"
Antonia laughed in spite of herself. "We never suffered from tedium in his presence, did we, Mall?" Then she quickly sobered again. "What shall I do?"
This question was directed at herself, but Mall took it upon herself to answer.
"On no account should you encourage him, milady! It's only been two months since Lord Chelmsford died. What will people say?"
As recently as this past spring, Antonia would have immediately hastened to say the right thing in response to the implication of impropriety. She was, after all, merely a merchant's daughter who had been raised far above her station. There were appearances to maintain, a godly example to set for her household.
But that had been before Court...and before Kit.
She missed him with the fierce ache of an unhealed wound.
Now she asked herself: Why is my happiness always the first thing that others wish to sacrifice on the altar of propriety?
"I suppose I shall do the right thing," Antonia said, at long last. And see him when he comes.
She put aside the letter, and rose. "Now, were those bushels of apples delivered? I thought we should start pressing the cider this afternoon..."
Was she willing to be the object of scandal again? The Countess and her fencing-master...
But was redeeming her soiled reputation really worth the prospect of lonely years without him?
* * *
Christmas passed in a flurry of tailor's fittings and nerves, and a week later, Kit finally found himself face-to-face with King Charles in the royal apartments.
After Kit had been announced, and had performed all the bows and spoken all the courteous phrases as instructed by the king's chamberlain, he had a moment to look around at the Royal Withdrawing Chamber.
The king was sitting on a gilded chair under a gold-embroidered canopy, surrounded by only a few of his richly-dressed attendants.
With a start, Kit recognized several of them as his pupils, rendered almost unrecognizable by their enormous periwigs, rouge, and patches.
Then Kit noticed that the Duke of Selborough and the Earl of Cranbourne were also present. They had come to show their support for his petition!
Selborough did not acknowledge Kit's startled bow in his direction, but Cranbourne gave Kit a conspiratorial wink before turning his attention back to the king.
King Charles leaned forward. "Mr. Fitzgeorge, you have a petition to present me?"
His long, rather melancholy face wore an expression of polite interest as Kit unrolled the beautifully-lettered parchment scroll that the Earl of Cranbourne's secretary had helped him compose.
"Your Most Excellent Majesty," Kit said, as he had been instructed, hoping fervently his voice did not betray his nervousness.
He glanced down at his scroll, and began reading the formal phrases: "Whereas of late your authority caused an inquiry to be made of Julian Thomas Edmonton, the eighth Earl of Thornsby, and required him to confirm his kinship with me unto your Majesty, and upon his refusal so to do, ordered me to have been therefore imprisoned, confined, and sundry other ways molested and disquieted; I wish to confirm the truth of my claim to be the natural-born son of the late George Christopher Julian Edmonton, sixth Earl of Thornsby.
"I do therefore humbly pray your most excellent Majesty to consider the proofs I present to you, and to remove the stain of perjury cast upon mine honor by the present Lord Thornsby."
The king's melancholy expression had settled into a scowl by the time Kit finished reading. "The charge of perjury made against a peer is a serious matter. What proofs do you offer, Mr. Fitzgeorge? Can you produce witnesses to attest to the truth?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Kit handed a waiting attendant the petition, as well as the sworn and witnessed statement of the Thornsby vicar, who had baptized him and who attested that the parish records imputed the earl as Kit's father, along with the statements of the Thornsby Hall housekeeper, attesting that Kit's mother had gotten pregnant by the sixth earl.
Most damningly of all, the vicar had sent a small painting to accompany his attestation.
Set in a gilded wood frame, it depicted a stern, golden-haired man wearing one of the extravagant lace collars favored by Cavaliers twenty-five years past.
The sixth earl's resemblance to both Kit and Lady Anne Edmonton was unmistakable.
The king perused the evidence, his mouth pursed. Kit found it impossible to tell whether the royal expression of annoyance was directed at Julian's duplicity, or at Kit's petition.
"Are you claiming that your parents were, perhaps, secretly married?" asked the king, suddenly, pinning Kit with his shrewd dark gaze.
Kit shook his head. "No, Your Majesty, I do not wish to lay claim to any part of the Thornsby estate."
"Then why are you pursuing this?"
Thank goodness for Lord Cranbourne's advice, thought Kit.
"I wish only to be acknowledged in my true name. My father never acknowledged my paternity." Kit drew a deep breath. "I do not know if I have any other half-brothers or half-sisters in Kent, Your Majesty, for my father feared that if he acknowledged that he had fathered a babe outside of marriage, then there would be other claims."
It was a carefully-calculated appeal to the king's known feelings about men taking responsibility for their illegitimate children.
After a long, nerve-wracking moment, the king smiled slightly. "Very well, Mr. Fitzgeorge. Having taken into account not only these documents, but also the fact that the present lord Thornsby has proved himself a thorough villain through his recent acts, I approve your petition. Let it be known that Christopher Fitzgeorge is the natural-born son of the sixth Earl of Thornsby, and that he is to be granted such courtesies as his connections allow him."
"Thank you, Your Majesty!" Kit bowed, deeply, and prepared to depart.
Now, he could present himself to Antonia as a man with noble blood in his veins!
But the king was not quite finished. "A moment longer of your time, Mr. Fitzgeorge." He was smiling now.
"Of course, Your Majesty," Kit said, with a stab of apprehension.
What did the king want? Lady Castlemaine had not mentioned that the king would expect an additional gift or donation...
"Did you know that my lords Selborough and Cranbourne have petitioned me on your behalf for a knighthood?"
"No, Your Majesty!" Kit said, startled.
He glanced up and saw that while the duke remained impassive, Cranbourne was grinning from ear to ear.
"Indeed, they wished your services in capturing Lord Thornsby to be formally recognized as you did thereby save the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne from being kidnapped and ravished against her will, and you did also bring the murderer of the Marquess of Chelmsford to justice."
The king paused, his sharp gaze assessing, and Kit felt suddenly drab and humble despite his new coat and breeches.
The king made a gesture, and one of his attendants stepped forth with a small piece of furniture that resembled one of the velvet-cushioned prie-dieu used on the Continent.
It was placed directly in front of the king's chair.
"Approach, Christopher Fitzgeorge, and kneel on the knighting-stool."
Kit hastened to obey, nearly overcome with shock and gratitude. He lowered his head, and saw the glitter of the king's diamond shoe buckles only a few inches away.
King Charles reached out, and another attendant handed him a jeweled sword.
Smiling slightly, the king lowered the blade. As if in a dream, Kit felt the sword alight on his right shoulder for a moment, then rise and drop to his left shoulder.
"Arise, Sir Christopher, and receive the Order of the Bath."
Dazed, Kit obeyed. He caught a brief gli
mpse of a Maltese cross and crowns on the badge, before the king pinned it on Kit's jacket with his own hands.
He was a knight! He had never dared dream of this honor.
Kit remembered very little of the next few minutes. He must have acquitted himself honorably enough, thanking the king and the Duke of Selborough and bowing at the correct intervals, because no one frowned or reprimanded him.
Soon thereafter, he became aware that he was walking down a gloomy corridor, Cranbourne at his side.
"Did I—was I dreaming, just now?" Kit asked him. "My lord, I hesitate to question my good fortune, but—"
"Since I did not think you could be persuaded to drop your suit for my aunt's hand," Cranbourne said, smiling. "I thought perhaps to head off the worst part of scandal, Sir Christopher."
Chapter Thirty-One
...nothing yields more pleasure and content to the soul then when it finds that which it may love fervently; for to love and live beloved is the soul’s paradise both here and in heaven. In the State of wedlock there be many comforts to learn out of the troubles of that condition; but let such as have tried the most, say if there be any sweetness in that condition comparable to the exercise of mutual love.
—"A Model of Christian Charity" John Winthrop (1630)
March 1667
Exactly six months after the day of fire and blood that had marked his parting from Antonia, Kit put Margaret in the care of Mrs. Philpot, and departed for Long Cranbourne.
He did not know what reception he might expect once he arrived, for he had heard nothing from Antonia beyond a brief, impersonal missive in November acknowledging the sum he had sent her.
But he could wait no longer, not when their separation tore at him like an arrowhead embedded deep in his soul. He needed to know whether he had grounds to hope or to mourn.
Kit traveled for three days in a steady downpour of icy rain, the highway flooded in stretches and nearly impassable with deep mud in others. He saw few other travelers, and thought wryly that only love could drive a man to willingly undertake a journey in cursed weather such as this.
