After Bibendum retired and Jane went to the berth, Seelye lay awake on deck, wrapped in a scratchy blanket by the crate. Whatever Odious Livens fed the creature had been responsible for Bibendum’s odor. The bear no longer smelled so sharply. His coat, too, had a healthier gloss. Perhaps his diet of vegetables, fish and wild forage made the difference. Whatever the reason, the bear was in rude health which was thanks to Jane.
He returned to the topic preying on his mind. Ralph Babcock had married years ago. It was Jane’s bad luck to love a man she couldn’t have. And what could he do about that?
As in war, everything came down to timing and dumb luck.
He’d been lucky to be left alive when his original regiment fell below establishment after heavy casualties. It was lucky Wellington folded survivors from other regiments into the 1st Royal Dragoons, where he was joined by Clun and Percy, and placed under the field command of Major Lord Maubray. (The foursome would be consolidated later into the Royal Horse Guards Blue.)
This meditation led to somnolence and then to something less fortunate, a recollection which yanked him fully awake. Or so it seemed.
He was outside Maguilla driving a renderer’s charnel cart through a long, hot June afternoon, cursing that flat-bottomed dolt General Slade who let his cavalry charge headlong after the enemy in a pursuit that exhausted their mounts and scattered their numbers.6 And Lallemend’s French cuirassiers took full advantage of his mistake.
If it hadn’t been for that idiot general’s senior officer, Major Maubray, it would’ve gone far worse. Jem Maubray recognized the trap and dispatched Clun, Percy and him to re-establish order before the detachment was butchered. They galloped off but it was too late. And sometime during the mêlée, Clun fell.
The British did manage to fall back, with Clun’s absence only discovered at the rushed muster before full retreat. All three accepted the probability of their comrade’s death, but he and Percy requested permission to stay behind to find him.
Rather than put both men at risk, the major denied Percy’s request and reluctantly granted his.
So the British retreated in haste toward Badajoz, which they now held, and Seelye galloped for the woods nearby.
Dense undergrowth concealed him, but from his vantage point, he could survey the carnage. Dead horses and men lay scattered in the meadow beyond. It was a skirmish, nothing more, but scavengers were already arriving to strip the dead and kill the dying to strip them more easily. Seelye wove through the trees on horseback. He scrutinized the fallen from the shadows, searching for Clun.
What caught his eye was a wiry man who struggled to load a much larger, black-haired man in a blue-trimmed scarlet uniform into his cart at the forest’s edge. It was farcical how hopeless it was. Try as he might the body was too big, and he was too preoccupied to notice a British cavalry officer advancing on foot with saber drawn.
Seelye crept up, recognized Clun, and sent his blade into the scavenger’s back. He put his whole weight behind the thrust and jerked himself awake.
Lying on a narrow boat deck years later, nausea returned in waves despite the cool, clean air. The sensation of flies crawling over his neck and face made him twitch.
The day still haunted Seelye, awake or asleep. That’s why he never spoke of Maguilla, not to Clun or anyone else.
Chapter 34
In which Mr. Whitcombe dooms a bear to save his own hide.
London
Reply to the express letter Whitcombe sent to Galway came in record time.
It’s recipient, Denis Bowes Daly, made clear his delight to arrange a proper welcome for the bear Richard Martin ‘dared set upon the neighborhood.’ Hunting down one of Humanity Dick’s pet projects ‘suited him to a tee,’ he wrote. And assisting him would be a disgruntled former tenant of Martin’s.
Whitcombe knew he’d chosen his champion well by the letter’s belligerent tone. In London, Mr. Daly made no secret of resenting his political rival while he served as the Member from Galway.
Daly and Martin opposed each other in disputed, often violent parliamentary elections in County Galway, in which one or the other finagled his victory with brazen intrigue. However, the wellspring of Daly’s animosity was not bare-knuckle politics. No, what the Irishman resented most was Richard Martin’s inborn sense of entitlement to, and abuse of, power. It boiled down to this: Dick Martin belonged to one of the fourteen ‘Tribes of Galway,’ wealthy families that controlled the economic, social, and political life of the city and its county. He did not.
In his reply, the Irishman introduced his choice of confederate, a farmer named Duane, who nurtured a grudge after Martin evicted his family from his tenant farm in 1805 with ‘no notice, legal cause, or recourse.’ More outrageous in Daly’s view, Martin dispatched his own armed yeomanry to accomplish the eviction. This militia tore down new walls, demolished other improvements, and trampled Duane’s crops to run the family off.
As luck would have it, the Duane family had not far to run. Daly offered the ousted farmer a tenancy on his own property, which lay to the south of Martin’s. Only a narrow dirt lane separated the two holdings. And for ten years, Duane had waited to repay his benefactor. And his enemy.
Daly intended to put Farmer Duane up in Roundstone to watch the harbor for a ship delivering the bear. Once sighted, he’d be sent for and arrive in time to ‘greet’ the party and kill the beast. He closed this entirely satisfactory correspondence with his own offer to have the bear’s head delivered to the earl with his compliments.
Chapter 35
In which our hero limps into Limpley Stoke.
Jane heard Seelye coax Bibendum back aboard and felt the narrow boat dip when the bear hopped onto the deck. With more murmured praise, the crate door creaked closed and the bolts shot home.
Silence.
Seelye padded stealthily around the deck in bare feet these days.
A hint of dawn brightened the portholes. She rose, splashed her face and washed her body with plain water. She slipped her chemise overhead, wriggled into the half-laced stays and left it slack under the cambric shirt as Fanny advised. She buttoned the skirt’s waist and was done. In less than a minute, she dressed herself. She marveled at the convenience of her simple clothes and decided against stockings and shoes. The chairman’s boat was sanded and varnished to a fare thee well with no danger of splinters.
She tiptoed past the crate without giving herself away—Seelye wasn’t the only one who could sneak around. But one look at him made her burst into whoops.
The pink of the ton turned and regarded her balefully, which made the sight funnier still.
She pointed at his head.
“Words, if you please.”
“Your—” she tried to answer, “hair, Seelye. Have you no glass?”
“And hang it where, in the bear’s crate?”
He stood before her, arms akimbo and much affronted. Half his burnished hair hung lank, the other half appeared nested by mice into a haphazard, listing heap over his ear.
He felt the disorder.
“Ha, ha,” he said sourly and patted some of it down from its flamboyant horizontality. Most of it remained frazzled and very funny.
“What I wouldn’t give for a portrait of you right now,” she said. “I’d call it ‘Beau No.’”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to watch the sunrise in silence,” he said and turned his back on her.
The back of Seelye’s head convulsed her again.
“I’ll deal with it later, Pest.”
She collapsed against the crate and cried, “With razor or torch, my lord?”
* * *
Early that morning, Seelye unwound himself from his scratchy wool blanket next to Bibendum’s crate. He lurched to his feet, stumbled over a coil of rope in the dark, and twisted his ankle. Despite the pain, he undertook Bibendum’s pre-dawn waddle into the wooded convenience for wildlife, by which the Invictus moored.
According to the skipper, Gripe Wood on the River A
von afforded the bear pleasant walks in complete seclusion. Pleasant for a bear perhaps, but an uneven and excruciating stumble in the dark for an injured man.
Sharp, stabbing pain plagued every other step. He tripped over roots he couldn’t see and exacerbated the sprain. While he hobbled, he cursed his feet, his fate, and her bear.
Having grown accustomed to Seelye’s grumbling, Bibendum ignored him and enjoyed his time wandering the woods.
After the bear returned to his crate, Seelye limped to the bow to take pleasure in the sunrise and solitude while his torment was still abed.
The sky gradually brightened and all was peaceful—until Jane burst into cackles like some gap-toothed dockside pasty seller. Her caterwaul startled waterfowl into flight. After which, she mocked his mussed hair.
It was hard to be mad at her, she was adorable, even when she was laughing at him. No, especially when laughing at him.
“I’ll deal with it later, Pest,” he growled at her.
“With razor or torch, my lord?”
He resisted laughing, so as not to encourage her impudence.
“And whose fault is it that I slept on the deck without a proper pillow? Or that I injured myself bumbling around to walk your bear? Hair is the least of my problems.”
With what dignity he still had, he tried to hobble past her and take look at himself in the berth washstand glass.
She stopped him. On tiptoe, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, “I am sorry for laughing, Seelye.”
And all was forgiven.
He limped down the hatch feeling no pain until he stepped up to the mirror.
“Good God.”
But she kissed me.
The Plimptons arrived in high spirits with the day’s draft horse. Jacob carried a string of fish for Bibendum’s supper.
The skipper hoped to get underway in time to see the Avoncliff Aqueduct at its best.
“The river at sunset were a pretty sight, but you’ll find the Avoncliff Aqueduct prettier still with mist all about. Like floating above the clouds, you might say. You’ll like the Dundas no less. It’s down canal from Limpley Stoke.” Plimpton had a sudden thought, “Quaint place, Limpley Stoke, an’ out of the way, sir. The lady might wish to see it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Plimpton. I’ll consider it.”
His knee-jerk reaction was, ‘Not bloody likely.’ But recalling an unexpected kiss, he amended that to ‘We’ll see.’
Jane was a surprisingly co-operative shipmate, going to the boatman’s cabin without reminding, answering questions when asked. Like her bear, she deserved a nice leg-stretch to relieve the tedium of close quarters.
First, he would reconnoiter. If the village proved as quiet as Plimpton said, Jane could have a civilized tea in Limpley Stoke.
The skipper stood by the ram’s head, pushing the tiller to send the boat into the channel as Marcus urged the horse forward. Not far along, Plimpton steered back toward the bank.
“My lady, up yonder they’s a path to see the aqueduct good an’ proper. Marcus,” he called out, “slow her down, lad.”
“Hold there, Jane, where are you going?” Seelye called after her.
But as soon as the narrow boat reached the bank, she leapt ashore and disappeared up a rough footpath. Seelye staggered after her to the lookout.
The Avoncliff Aqueduct crossed a valley on three tall brick arches buttressed with massive stonework like a medieval church. Clouds of mist obscured the river and swirled halfway up its great pillars. A double-width channel with a towpath on each side ran between low walls on top this massive structure.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Formidable,” he agreed, watching her.
“To think, we’ll float to the other side as if in midair,” she said. “It hardly seems possible.” She turned to him, eyes aglow. “Thank you, Seelye. This means more to me than you know.”
“I am beginning to understand,” he replied. “Mr. Plimpton says Limpley Stoke is a sleepy place. If that’s so, perhaps you’d like to have tea with me there.”
Jane twinkled up at him. “I long for a walk with more to see than a bear’s bottom or a horse’s tail.”
“You must let me make sure it’s safe first. We mustn’t cause a stir.”
“Yes, Seelye.”
If he’d had any inkling what would happen an hour later, Seelye would have never limped into Limpley Stoke.
* * *
For her visit to the village, Jane tightened her stays and wore her muslin gown, half boots, straw poke bonnet, York tan gloves, and pelisse. She vacated the berth for Seelye.
When he returned to deck, he’d shaved off his facial scruff and did what he could to tame his mane. He wore his frock coat, pantaloons, waistcoat, tall beaver, and scuffed top boots for to reconnoiter the village. He returned to collect her soon after.
For the most part, their clothing was unexceptionable, still they garnered a great deal of attention. Or rather, he did. And it wasn’t merely because he limped.
Jane felt Seelye’s arm tense at every lady’s swiveling head. Taking the hint, she lowered her bonnet brim and walked faster, anxious to reach the little tea shop he said was just up the high street.
She hurried along. Foremost in mind was his admonition to avoid notice. Unfortunately, her pace aggravated his sprained ankle. As a result, he hobbled his way up the main commercial thoroughfare.
Two bright-eyed matrons walked toward them and nodded to him with brazen familiarity. Jane waited to see what he would do, knowing that a gentleman did not address unfamiliar ladies on the street. Or vice versa.
Without a word, Seelye touched his hat brim with his far hand as propriety dictated. But he looked miffed.
“Could it be? Here?” the shorter lady asked her companion in a breathless whisper he was meant to overhear. “Is the poet himself in Limpley Stoke?”
Seelye stumbled to a halt. Propriety warred with outrage, much to Jane’s amusement. The latter won.
“No, ma’am,” he said, “it is not.”
The woman turned to Jane, her expression hopeful.
“Not a word,” he said under his breath.
But the entire scene tickled Jane so, she could not resist letting it play out. She nodded.
“I knew it,” the female gushed, cheeks ablaze. She curtseyed. “Welcome, your lordship. You honor us indeed!”
“He travels incognito,” Jane said, grinning up at him, “with his tamed bear.”
“Must you?” he said through gritted teeth.
“So like him,” the taller woman said, her soft gaze fixed on the fuming, wild-haired lord.
“Believe me, ma’am, I am no poet,” Seelye said stiffly.
“And such modesty! It becomes one so talented,” she enthused.
“I am not who you think,” Seelye repeated, and shifted to relieve his painful ankle.
The ladies eyed his chin then the foot he favored. Jane bit her lip to keep silent.
“You’ve lost none of your looks, Lord Byron,” the shorter of the two said. “Indeed, I should say they’ve improved with age and sunshine. Though your infirmity still troubles you, poor soul.”
He refuted this in a civil if chill reply: “I twisted my ankle only this morning, ma’am.”
“If you say so, my lord,” the taller matron twittered. “Will you honor our hamlet with a long stay?”
“No.”
“Well—” Jane said before catching Seelye’s wrathful eye. “We’ll take tea at the little parlor just there.”
Seeyle looked thunderous.
“Oh, dear! I must fetch something,” the tall one said, looking moonstruck.
“We’ll return in a nonce,” said the other, “if we may beg your indulgence.”
“You may not,” he muttered but the ladies had already hurried down the pavement and out of earshot.
“You mustn’t encourage their delusions,” he reproached Jane and ushered her into a tidy tea parlor, where he seated her at a
table away from the half-curtained front windows. He removed his hat but kept his head low.
“You’ve made them very happy,” she said, hoping to improve his mood.
“I’d have much preferred to disappoint them with the truth.”
The tea parlor’s proprietress greeted them politely and took their order.
By then, the matrons had re-appeared. With others. They peered through the parlor window, clucked like agitated chickens, and invaded the space en masse. One of them buttonholed the tea parlor’s owner and she stared with her mouth agape. The original twosome undertook to introduce daughters, an aunt, a sister-in-law, and the vicar’s wife, much to Seelye’s discomfort. And Jane’s delight.
That was not the end of it, not by a long shot.
In no time, others appeared in numbers so great, Jane lost count. Those who gained entry surrounded their table, pressing to their breasts one or another of Byron’s published works, the first two cantos of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Lara, Hebrew Melodies and The Corsair among them. They offered these up for his signature. An untold number remained outside, noses pressed to the glass, hopeful of admittance.
Seelye stood up awkwardly to clear his throat. “Ladies, I’m afraid I have to disappoint you.”
Silence fell.
“I am not the poet you think I am,” he said over the hubbub.
“So self-deprecating!” came from somewhere in the crowd.
“La, he’s such a quiz,” one lady trilled to another up front.
There followed an eruption of shrill titters, shakes of poke bonnets, and murmurs of “I’d recognize him anywhere,” “The very image of the man,” “Handsome, though less wholesome in person perhaps.”
At that, Jane gave Seelye a sidelong look, lips pursed to keep her composure.
He mouthed, ‘What now?’
Poor Seelye. He didn’t want to disappoint the ladies but was equally anxious not to mislead them. The group pressed forward. Seelye staggered back, yelping when his right ankle gave way.
“Poor lamb,” said one sympathetic soul.
His Lordship's Last Wager Page 29
