by Emma Newman
His hand drifted down to brush the door handle with his fingertips, resting there as he waited for that call, as his mind tried to imagine his father in the drawing room instead. Then he gripped the handle, unable to bear a moment more of this twilight state, and opened it.
It took mere moments to see what lay within, before he turned away, squeezing his eyes shut as the assault of images flicked through his mind. The desk as it always was, the swagger stick in its rest as it should be. The walls filled with bookcases and so many books they’d read together. The display cabinet, pristine, the military regalia inside. His father in his chair. Slumped to the left. Eyes open and glass-like. His skin so waxy and pale against his dark moustache. His uniform, rarely worn, buttons highly polished.
The blood.
There was a high-pitched whistling sound and sparkling prickles of light edged his vision. Tom lurched to lean against the wall of bookshelves to the left of the door. His legs gave way beneath him as his lips tingled and his vision tunnelled to a single coin of light. He sucked in a breath and gripped one of the shelves until the fainting spell passed.
A memory surfaced, like flotsam following the sinking of a ship, of the day he’d successfully recited his father’s favourite poem by Wilfred Owen. How the stern expression throughout his recital had been broken by one of his father’s rare smiles, followed by the opening of his arms and the swift, congratulatory embrace and a firm pat on the back for his efforts. He could still remember the smell of his father’s cologne and hair oil as he was picked up and sat on his knee.
“And what did the poem say to you, Thomas?” he’d said.
“That war is bad. Is it bad, Papa? It doesn’t seem bad in the stories.”
“An unjust war is bad, son. How do you think Wilfred Owen felt when he wrote that poem?”
“Sad.”
“And angry too, perhaps? He wanted everyone to know the cost of war. The cost of duty. He was angry at everyone merrily sending their sons off to war without knowing what horrors it held.”
“Did you see a man die in the war, Papa?”
His father had looked away then, haunted. “Many of them, son. Many friends amongst them. But they did their duty. Duty above all else, Thomas, that’s what matters. They did their duty and they died well.”
Now, his forehead resting against the hard wooden shelf, Tom wanted to scream at his father’s body, Is this dying well? What about your duty to us? But he kept his mouth tightly shut and forced himself to stay still as the rage tore through his heart and left a howling, terrifying grief in its wake.
He managed to get back onto his feet but not to look at his father again. The sound of rattling crockery at the doorway made him notice that Wilson had returned. “The tea will be in the drawing room, sir,” Wilson said, just as unable to look at the far side of the study.
Keeping his eyes away from the body and the worst of the blood, Tom scanned the floor near the desk and saw his father’s service revolver lying where it had fallen from his hand. He needed to pick it up and take out the bullets, but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. Shivering, he staggered from the room and closed the door behind him, half falling against it to rest there for a moment and gather the strength to join Wilson.
“Pour a cup for yourself, Wilson,” he said when he finally made it to the drawing room. “I…have some questions.”
Wilson looked as though he’d been expecting as much. “Yes, sir.”
Tom sat heavily in an armchair and clasped his hands together in an effort to hide how much they were trembling. “When did it happen?”
“Just before nine this evening, sir,” Wilson said as he poured the tea. “The Irises were due to call at nine for sherry before they travelled to Oxenford. No one was sure whether Mr Rhoeas-Papaver would be joining them, given the…” He blushed. “The…difficult circumstances regarding Mrs Rhoeas-Papaver, but at half past eight Mr Papaver came out of his study and asked the valet to dress him in his uniform. We assumed he intended to go to the ball in his regalia, as he’s been known to do so in the past. If you’ll forgive my personal speculation, sir, I wondered whether it was to help fortify him to go into public since Mrs Papaver left.”
“So Mother really has gone?”
“Yes, sir. A few days ago.”
The thought of his mother abandoning his father sat nonsensically in his mind as Wilson continued.
“Only Mr Reticulata-Iris knew. He visited the same day she left and I think Mr Papaver told him in his distress. Mr Iris has been very supportive over the past week. Of course, we’ve all been hoping she’ll return, after whatever it was blew over. But…” Wilson noticed he was still holding the teapot long after he’d finished pouring. He set it down and picked up the milk jug. “Where was I? I’m so sorry…Yes, it was just before nine and I was checking that the footman had sent for the carriage to be prepared in case Mr Papaver needed it. I was in the back parlour, the scullery maid was clearing the fireplace in the dining room, and Cook was having her break in the kitchen. The valet was tidying the dressing room. We all heard it. Just one shot. Out of nowhere.”
“Was his valet the last person he spoke to?”
“Yes, sir. He’s with Cook at the other house now. He said that Mr Papaver seemed…fine, as he normally was. Quiet. He’s been very quiet all week but that was understandable. What with…” He looked down at the milk jug still in his hand, unused. “I got to the study first. I saw…the…I…I saw how bad it was and there was a knock at the door and I…” He carried on staring at the milk jug. “It was the Reticulata-Irises, all dressed in their finery and I was so confused and shaken I…Mr Iris saw something was wrong and pushed past me and so did his wife and…” Wilson jolted, as if noticing the jug for the first time. He poured some milk into both cups and set it down. “I shouldn’t have let them in. I’m rather ashamed to say I shouted at them, for seeing it, and forced them into here. By then the rest of the staff had come from their various places and I had to settle them and…” He passed a cup to Tom. “It was awful. Cook was very helpful and gathered them up and took them out of the house.” His intense stare was broken with a jolt and he reached into his inside pocket. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry, sir. I’m…I’m not quite myself. I forgot to say…” He pulled out a letter and Tom recognised the paper and envelope immediately. Without having to see the handwriting, he knew his father had written it. “This was on his desk. I haven’t told anyone else about it. It’s too private.”
Tom took it. Thomas was written in the familiar hand on the front of the envelope. There was a red wax seal on the back and the poppy motif was misaligned. What he thought was a speck of wax was actually blood, and he put it beside him on the arm of the chair until he felt stronger. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say. “And please, do sit down, Wilson. You must be exhausted.”
Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Wilson sat in one of the other chairs and they drank their tea in silence. Tom felt as if the tea were the only real thing he could comprehend and drank it in three uncouth gulps, each one pushing down a surge of emotion. He had to be still, to stay calm and be strong for Wilson. It wouldn’t do to fall apart in front of the staff.
Wilson stood and placed his cup and saucer on the tray with care. “Sir…I don’t quite know how to say this, but the…the body. Should I contact the Agency for guidance?”
It seemed as though the floor lurched beneath his chair, and Tom had to put the cup down on the saucer for fear of spilling the tea dregs. He had no idea what to do. It felt like he needed to look for a responsible adult and for a ridiculous moment he thought to ask his father what would be best. Tom clamped his hand over his mouth, but the sob escaped nonetheless. Appalled, he gripped the arm of the chair with his other hand, trying to steady himself and rein it all in. The envelope crinkled beneath his palm and then any hope of maintaining his composure was abandoned as he leant forwards and wept uncontrollably.
By the time he came back to himself, Wilson was gone.
Tom was left with the dregs of his tea and the letter. It lay on the floor, crumpled, and he snatched it up, horrified by his own carelessness. He flipped it over to look at his name and back to the seal, trying to find some mote of strength within himself to open it. Eventually, the fear of what was inside was outweighed by the simple need to just get it over with. Better to know than to dread.
There was a single sheet of paper inside. He opened it to see his father’s familiar handwriting in its usual black ink.
Thomas,
There is nothing I can say that will make this any less cowardly, but I want you to understand why. That’s the least I owe you.
I simply cannot carry on in this life as the failure I am. Your mother has made it clear that she will never return and I have found myself considering why she left, now the rage has passed. Now that the three of you have lives of your own, the prospect of eternity with me alone was too much for her to bear. I find myself agreeing with her.
I haven’t been a good husband. I was a passable father to you and to Elizabeth, I hope, but I failed to curb Catherine’s wilful nature and upon reflection I wonder if I am more to blame for her behaviour than I have cared to admit. Please tell her I am sorry for all that I did to her. I do not deserve her forgiveness but perhaps the thought that I regret my actions will offer her succour.
Thomas, my boy, you are everything I could have hoped for in a son. I am so very proud of you and you do not deserve to be embarrassed by the sight of my fall from grace. George R—I— has made it clear that it is inevitable, but I will not permit him to take your birthright. All of my properties are yours. The deeds are in the leather wallet accompanying this letter. Simply sign your name on the transfer document for each one, beneath where I have written it, and say that you did so yesterday or whenever your schedule could have made it possible. It is imperative that the Irises do not take A— S— and that you resign your position as Marquis and protect our tenants now that I am unable to do so. I should have brought you here to do this in person, but in truth, I cannot bear the thought of you seeing me this way. How can I look you in the eye now? How can you see me as anything but the man who could not even keep his own wife happy?
Forgive me, Thomas. Be a better man than I.
Father
Tom carefully placed the letter back in its envelope and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket to sit safely over his heart. He rested his head in his hands, trying to understand the letter. How could he think about properties and resigning as Marquis now? Did his father think his love for him was so shallow that he’d be able to care about anything, having seen his dead body? What state could he have been in to think such a thing?
And then he was weeping again, not caring about whether he was being strong or not. Why didn’t his father send for him when he was struggling so? How could he have only found out about Mother now, days after she’d left? Was it all because of his father’s pride?
As he sobbed, he was only dimly aware of a knock on the door, unable to care about who it could be and confident that Wilson would turn them away. He soaked his only handkerchief and there was no sign yet of the tears stopping. Tom couldn’t remember the last time he had cried. He must have been very young. For as long as he could remember he’d always stopped himself, knowing that Father wouldn’t have been impressed by such weakness.
There was a hand on his shoulder, the familiar scent of warm spices, and he looked up to see Lucy there, tears in her eyes. “Oh, Tom,” she whispered, stroking away a tear with her thumb as she knelt in front of him. “You don’t have to go through this alone.” And then he was clinging to her, his face buried in her shoulder as he cried. Her hand stroked his back in slow circles until there was nothing left but a hollow ache inside.
“I know you didn’t want me to come with you,” she said after handing him a fresh handkerchief from her reticule, “but I couldn’t bear the thought of you—”
“No, I’m glad you came,” he whispered. Her eyes widened as something like hope filled them. Had he starved her so? He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You’re already doing it.” He wiped his cheeks and sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to do with myself. And I need to deal with…”
She watched his eyes flick to the hallway. “You don’t need to deal with anything right now. I’ll speak to Wilson and we’ll figure out what we need to do, and we won’t do anything until we’ve talked it through, okay?” There was another knock on the door. “Did Wilson call for some help already?” she asked.
“Not that I know of.”
They both watched the butler pass the open doorway and listened when he opened the front door.
“Is my nephew here?”
It was his uncle Lavandula, the Master of Ceremonies. With a start, Tom realised he probably should have informed his aunt and uncle about what had happened.
“I’m afraid Mr Rhoeas-Papaver is not receiving guests, your Grace,” Wilson said.
“I’m family, and I need to see him. Thomas?”
“Come in,” Tom called. “There’s no point arguing with him,” he whispered to Lucy.
“Thomas, my poor, darling boy!” his uncle said, dabbing at his eyes with a powder-blue silk handkerchief that matched his frock coat and breeches. “Lucy, a pleasure to see you, dear, despite the appalling circumstances.”
Tom helped Lucy up and went to shake his uncle’s hand. “You know, then?”
“Of course I do! That toad came and delivered the news himself. Pure greed dressed in false sympathy.”
Exchanging a confused glance with Lucy, Tom held up a hand. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
His uncle hid his mouth behind his handkerchief. “Forgive me, sweet nephew, I am behaving as poorly as the one who sent me into this rage. Allow me to express my condolences properly. I knew your father for hundreds of years and frankly, I’m still in shock.” He glanced around the room and then shut the door behind him. “The toad I referred to was George Iris. I came to tell you that your aunt and I won’t stand for it, Thomas, and we are fully prepared to do whatever it takes to put him back in his place.”
Sensing his confusion without even looking at him, Lucy spoke when Tom couldn’t find the words. “I beg your pardon, Mr Lavandula, but we have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Tom watched his uncle’s eyes widen. “Well, much as I hate to be the one to lay more awful news upon you, dear ones, I feel you should know. George Iris has claimed all of your father’s properties, Thomas, even the very house we stand in now.”
“But my father left them to me,” Tom said, thinking of the note in his pocket. “The deeds are in his office.”
“They’re not, dear boy. The Irises have them, and George’s signature was upon the transfer documents. I saw them with my very own eyes, along with the seals of authenticity. The Irises have all but taken Aquae Sulis, Thomas, and we must get it back!”
Now the comment George Iris had made about taking all the time he needed made sense. Tom closed his eyes, exhausted. Not this, not now, not on top of everything else. There was nothing left inside him and not even the anger at the Irises exploiting his family’s tragedy was enough to stir more than a flicker within him.
He felt Lucy’s hand slip into his and squeeze it gently. Such a small gesture, but at that moment it felt like the most important in the worlds. “Mr Lavandula,” she said, “I understand that terrible things are happening in this city, and I understand your justifiable anger, but my husband has had the most appalling shock and he needs time to catch his breath.”
“Yes, but—” Uncle Lavandula began, but Lucy cut him off.
“It will all still be there tomorrow,” she said firmly. “And the day after that. The Irises have made their move and there’s nothing to be done about that in this moment. There are more important and pressing matters that Tom and I have to deal with right now.
Okay?”
There was a pause and Tom opened his eyes, wondering if his uncle was going to make some sort of comment about the use of that colonial vernacular term. Surprisingly, he found himself ready to tear into him if he did. “Dear girl, you are indeed correct. I have behaved abominably. Forgive me, Thomas, darling. I have quite lost my head.”
Tom could only nod, and after another squeeze of the hand Lucy broke away to go over to Uncle Lavandula, smiling warmly at him as she touched his upper arm. “We understand. It’s a terrible time. May I see you to the door? I have some questions I’d like to ask you, regarding certain practicalities.”
“Of course, dear, of course. Thomas, we are just across the way, as ever.”
They left the room and Tom let himself drop back into the armchair, listening to the conversation fading as the other two went into the hallway. In the moments Lucy was gone, the horror of his father’s study returned, and he covered his crumpling face lest she see it when she returned.
Then she was back, sitting on the arm of the chair, stroking his hair, soothing. “I’m going to contact the right people to move your father out of the house, Tom, is that okay? I mean, is that all right?”
He dragged his hands down his face and looked at her. Her brown eyes were large and sad, her petite features so delicate. It felt like he was really seeing her for the first time. “I don’t think I can…”
“You don’t need to. I’m here. We’re gonna get through this, Tom. Okay? I promise.”
Tom sighed and then nodded. “All right,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
