by M C Beaton
Rory raised his large, limpid eyes to Henrietta’s face and said in his clear soprano, “You are jealous of my mother. She is very beautiful.”
Up till that minute, Lord Toby had had no idea that his Henrietta had a waspish temper. She had always—until last night anyway—been sweet and smiling and docile.
“How dare you?” screamed Henrietta. “As if I would be jealous of a Scot. Heathenish savages. They should be exterminated!”
Rory’s eyes flashed hate mixed with malice and then he scampered off. Lord Toby felt quite rigid with shock.
“Hear this,” he said quietly. “You are never to raise your voice in my presence again. That was extremely cruel. You will go to Lady Murr and apologize for your behavior, which was totally unreasonable.”
The wheels and cogs of Henrietta’s mind churned and turned rapidly. She knew she had gone too far. She knew what she must do.
“Oh, Toby,” she sighed. “Of course I shall apologize. I am so much in love with you that it makes me behave badly.”
Lord Toby should have been gratified to hear his beloved’s pretty, docile apology. He should have been angry at Morag for her chilly acceptance. But his thoughts were in confusion and he felt strangely trapped. The pressure of Henrietta’s little hand on his arm began to feel like a manacle.
With all the acute perception of the child, Rory recognized Henrietta’s apology for what it was—a wile to charm Lord Toby.
He felt hurt and restless and when he felt hurt and restless, he craved mischief as an addict will crave his card game or his opium.
After the meal had been served, the guests were invited to view the rooms of the Montclairs’ new cottage. Despite its title of “cottage,” it was large enough to house at least four farmers, their families and their laborers. The guests crowded into the drawing room, which looked exactly the same as the other rooms, with one exception. A newly painted portrait of Lady Montclair hung over the fireplace. In the painting she was dressed in her best purple silk with her ample bosoms well hitched up. A purple turban ornamented her head and her small mouth was fashionably pursed and slightly open.
Lady Montclair stood under her portrait and complacently awaited the expected compliments. She slowly became aware that her guests were staring at it with expressions of shock on their faces. She turned around and looked up. And then fell into a swoon, her husband leaping forward to catch her just in time.
Someone had drawn a balloon from the portrait’s painted mouth and in the balloon, neatly painted in black, one vulgar, shocking four-letter word.
Lord Toby looked across the room. Rory was standing with his little hands folded and a pious expression of shock and bewilderment on his angel face.
“Now I know what makes you tick, young man,” thought Lord Toby with a strange mixture of anger and pity. Anger that the boy could be so cruel, pity for his narrow, overprotected life.
If only Henrietta would release her clutch on his arm for one minute, then he would be free to talk to Morag.
The guests had been treated to a French play and a Tyrolean concert and were once again promenading in the gardens before the start of the proposed ball which was to be held at the conservatory at the back of the house.
Still with Henrietta clamped to his side, Lord Toby walked sedately through the failing romantic light of dusk and wished he could escape. He had quite suddenly taken her in dislike and did not know what to do about it. He could not propose to a girl one day and hate her the next! If only she would leave him for a minute so that he could arrange his thoughts.
“Oh, look at that pretty fountain!” cried Henrietta, leading him toward a shallow basin in the center of which a merman held a spouting dolphin. Lord Toby stopped dutifully and stared at the merman. The dolphin, he noticed idly, spouted water by means of a thin copper pipe passing through its tail and up through its mouth. He frowned. He could have sworn a white hand, glimmering in the dusk, had twitched at the pipe.
The next minute, Henrietta screamed. The water from the dolphin’s mouth, instead of spouting up into the air as usual, was suddenly directed straight at her, soaking her from head to foot in a matter of seconds.
Lord Toby darted off to the other side of the fountain but there was no sign of anyone. A crowd attracted by Henrietta’s screams began to gather. Mrs. Sampson led her weeping daughter off to the house.
And Lord Toby was free.
He went immediately in search of Morag. At first he could not find her anywhere among the guests and so he wandered farther into the gardens and away from the house. Then he saw a faint glimmer of a straw-colored dress over by a clump of larch. She was alone.
The blustery wind had died and the evening was calm and still.
He walked quickly up to her, afraid that she would disappear. He rehearsed all sorts of formal openings to conversation in his mind and ended up by simply saying, “Morag.”
She swung round and looked up at him. She had removed her pretty bergère bonnet and was holding it in her hand by the strings. Her hair glowed like rich mahogany in the fading light.
“I received your apology, Lord Freemantle,” she said hurriedly, looking down. “You have changed,” she added in a low voice.
“Changed? I? In what way?”
“You have become harder. I have watched you in company today. You are often almost rude. It is the fashion, I know, but somehow I thought you would be above the dictates of fashion. There is a want of sympathy…”
“Enough!” he cried. “I am grown older and wiser, that is all.” He looked down at her. He had wished to speak to her about her son. The boy should go to school or at least have a tutor. He needed the company of fellows of his age before he turned into a precocious calculating monster. In fact, thought Lord Toby grimly, he already was a precocious monster. He was about to tell her so when he realized she was trembling and that her face was quite pale.
He found himself saying, “Why, Morag? I went to your room and you were not there. It was very wrong of me, I admit, for you were married. But to agree to see me and then fly to make noisy love with your husband…”
“I have never…” began Morag and flushed.
She had been about to say that she had never made love with her husband. But then, how could she account for the presence of Rory? Instead she said in a suffocated voice, “My lord called for me. He was in great pain. He wished me to pull a tooth for him… which I did. It was very difficult to get it out and it took some time. I had to get up on the bed and kneel over him and pull as hard as I could, and…”
She stopped amazed as Lord Toby let out a great shout of laughter. Those words and noises and bed creakings which had burned like fire into his brain all those years ago were now very simply explained. At last he stopped laughing and said almost dreamily, “And when you had got it out, the earl said, ‘Och, Morag, my love, my precious. Naebody could ha’ done that like you.’”
“Yes, something like that,” said Morag.
“But don’t you see what I thought from hearing that?” cried Lord Toby.
“Oh.” said Morag after a moment, with a slight blush. “Not that evening,” she continued in a small, chilly voice. The secret of Rory’s birth must be kept at all costs.
Her words hurt but he had to admit that again he was behaving badly. The earl had been her husband, after all.
“I gather congratulations are in order,” Morag continued, throwing more ice on his fire.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “Thank you.”
Lord Toby thought wearily that he should put a good word in for Rory to prove to the boy, if nothing else, that at least someone was prepared to help him without being forced to do it.
“My Lady Murr,” he began in formal tones when Morag gave a little cry and started as some small nocturnal animal ran across her foot. She stumbled and fell heavily against him.
Lord Toby’s social poise, his arrogance, his coldness melted away and before his brain could relay any warning to his churning emotions, he ha
d caught her in his arms and was desperately kissing her hair, her nose, her ear as she struggled and tried to escape.
He muttered something incoherent under his breath and forcing her chin up pressed his mouth violently down on her own. He wrapped his arms tightly round her, moulding her body against his own. He felt he was being driven crazy with a mixture of intolerable lust and a burning sweetness.
Her initial resistance was gone and she kissed him back with a strangely innocent passion. She was wearing that elusive perfume which smelled of a mixture of heather and the summer wind.
At last he drew away, his green eyes glinting down at her in the pale light of a rising moon. Her mouth was bruised and swollen and her lips were trembling.
“Oh,” she cried, putting a shaking hand to her mouth. “You are faithless!” And with that, she turned and fled, leaving him standing, staring after her.
What on earth could she mean? She was no longer married.
Henrietta! Morag was free. But he was not. Hell and damnation! He had forgotten Henrietta!
Rory awoke and stared around, confused for a moment. Then he remembered where he was. He had fallen asleep on a small sofa in a corner of Lady Montclair’s drawing room. He shifted lazily against the silken cushions, wondering vaguely why his mother had not come in search of him.
Then he heard a vague murmur of voices. One of the voices, a man’s, sounded vaguely familiar but he could not place it immediately. His mother had so many admirers.
The sofa on which he was lying was tucked into a recess at the window so he was concealed from the room. He would wait until whoever it was went away. He felt too tired to cope with the inevitable adult questions about why he was not at school. Then the man’s voice, the familiar one, rose slightly. “The Corsican fishermen are loyal?” it said.
Then another man replied in French—no doubt one of the French actors from the play.
The familiar voice spoke again.
“The fact that I am English makes no odds. You think I am doing it for money, my dear chap. True enough. But I am loyal to Boney, have no fear…”
The voices faded away and he lay very still. How strange.
Then he heard his mother calling him.
He slid down from the sofa and ran to the door of the drawing room.
Morag looked very white and strained. “I was asleep, mama,” he cried. “Do not look so worried. I was tired but some men talking woke me.”
He thought he heard a sudden indrawn hiss of breath and swung round. But there were various familiar faces in the crowd, crossing and recrossing the hall. He forgot about it immediately. He wanted to go home as soon as the firework display was over.
Morag was strangely quiet on the road home but Rory was too sleepy to care. He felt he could sleep for a whole day.
Soon they were moving through the still-busy streets of London. Morag, who had been gazing idly out of the carriage window, gave a sudden exclamation. “Do but look, Miss Simpson,” she cried. “That little child.”
Miss Simpson followed her pointing finger. Although it was midnight, there was almost as much traffic as there was at midday. Through the coaches and carriages drove a small boy. He must have been only twelve years old. He was quite alone and driving a small cart pulled by a large dog, which he tooled with masterly ease through the press of carriages.
“All alone!” said Morag in wondering tones.
“Nothing so strange in that,” said Miss Simpson wearily. “In this country, ma’am, the children are men at eight and hanged at twelve.”
Rory stared with envy after the disappearing child. Morag held him very close. Lately she had begun to worry that she was perhaps overprotective toward Rory. But now she was sure she was doing the right thing. Children seemed to become adult so soon, and childhood was a precious thing. Rory should be protected for as long as she could possibly manage.
Chapter Nine
Rory was awake before anyone else and the first thing he remembered was that letter Miss Simpson had been writing. He dressed himself and ran downstairs. The morning’s post had not yet arrived but there was a sealed letter lying on the half table in the hall on the silver tray which had been placed there for calling cards.
He looked around quickly. No one.
He picked up the letter and scampered back to the safety of his room. He cracked open the seal and quickly read the contents, his eyes widening as he read a concise catalogue of his sins.
An idea started to form in the back of Rory’s brain. He read the letter again. Miss Simpson had made no reference to her own position in the household.
Dear Lady Murr,
Do not consider me Presumptuous. I am writing these unwelcome Facts for your Own Good. Rory is spoilt beyond Comprehension. He accepts Bribes from your callers, desirous of seeing you. He tells Lies. He drew that Unmentionable Word on poor Lady Montclair’s portrait, for one of the maidservants told me.
I pray you, before his character has become Degenerate beyond recall, see that he is soundly whipped as he deserves. It is often better to be Cruel in Order To Be Kind. Such Sins if not beaten soundly out of a child, foment and nourish.
I have nothing more than yr Best Interests at Heart.
Yr Humble and Obedient Servant,
A. Simpson.
Rory stared long and hard at the signature. Then he crossed to his little desk in the corner of his room and sharpened a quill pen to a fine point. Dipping it in the standish, he bent over the parchment and carefully and with delicate flourishes changed the “A” to an “H.”
Then he changed the “i” of Simpson to an “a” and, sanding the letter, ran downstairs again.
He rummaged in an old desk of the late earl until he found a small anonymous-looking seal, and melting a blob of red sealing wax over the old broken seal, he stamped it firmly, and returned the letter to the tray in the hall.
His mother would get the letter, only it would appear to have come from Henrietta—a female that Rory remembered from the breakfast with intense dislike. He knew his mother disliked Miss Sampson also. She would ignore the letter, Rory judged, and assume that Miss Henrietta Sampson had run mad.
But this piece of mischief did not soothe his ruffled feelings as he had expected and he ambled aimlessly into the drawing room and stared out into the street.
How long it took for the days to begin in London!
Everyone who was anyone stayed up half the night and then spent most of the day in bed.
The Tsar of Russia and the King of Prussia were expected to make their state visits in June. Rory had enjoyed the parades and galas for the visit of the restored French monarch, Louis XVIII, and the celebrations for the Russian and Prussian monarchs promised to be grander still. That old hero Blücher, the Prussian commander, and Platov, the leader of the Russian Cossacks, were also due to arrive. Although his mother frowned on stories of war, Rory had picked up enough to admire and long to see these great allied commanders who had helped Wellington defeat Bonaparte… although Rory, like most Britishers, secretly thought the great Duke of Wellington could have done the job himself and with both hands tied behind his back.
There were also great Peace Celebrations planned for July.
But whatever was happening, whoever was arriving, you could be sure nothing would happen in the morning.
It was a miserable morning with a damp, wet fog pressing against the windowpanes.
Rory pricked up his ears as he heard the confused sound of voices coming along the street. Perhaps it was a raree man, come to display his bag of tricks on the doorstep. Rory polished the window with his sleeve and peered out into the mist.
Three rough-looking boys were walking along the street, carrying a sack between them and arguing loudly.
Rory continued to watch. There was nothing else to do anyway.
The boys stopped outside and one of them opened the sack and dragged out a wriggling striped cat. One of the others threw a rope over the lamppost and started to make a noose.
/> They were going to hang the cat.
Rory watched with interest.
Then the mist thinned and he saw the cat clearly. It was a big, shabby animal which had seen many back-alley fights. One ear was ragged and its mouth had once been torn, giving it a strange lopsided smile.
It had eyes as green as Lord Toby Freemantle’s and it fought and clawed and struggled for its life.
But the boys were strong and they got the noose round the demented animal’s neck.
Rory didn’t know what happened to him that moment, but the next thing he knew he found himself out on the pavement, punching and clawing and biting like a fiend. The boys were much bigger than he but Rory took them by surprise. They dropped the cat, which crouched against the railings.
Rory placed his small figure in front of it and put up his fists. The boys had had time to recover from their shock and let out jeers of laughter at the sight of Rory in his frilly shirt, knee breeches and golden hair.
“Let’s spoil ’is pwitty phiz,” laughed the biggest and drove his fist into Rory’s face—but fortunately Rory had been in a few scraps with the village boys and had learned every dirty trick in the book.
He proceeded to use every one he could. He managed to get in a few good jabs, but they were beginning to inflict more damage than they received. Blood was pouring from Rory’s nose, his head was reeling, his clothes were torn.
He took a fierce pride in the fact that he was still somehow standing, that the cat was behind him, but he knew he could not last another minute. He had not even thought to cry for help.
The street door behind crashed open and Hamish hurtled out. Rory’s assailants took to their heels and fled.
Rory wiped the blood from his face with his cuff and knelt down beside the cat. It lay very still, its eyes half closed. He put out a hand and stroked its great, awkward head.
“Now, laddie,” began Hamish, “down to the kitchen wi’ ye afore yer mither finds…”
