P N Elrod - Barrett 2 - Death and the Maiden

by Death

  "It's not far from here," she explained. "I'd told all the servants that if there was any trouble to either go there or to Mr. Barrett's house for help."

  The rebels had not known about the closeness of the troops. They became so engrossed in their thievery that no one noticed the new arrivals until it was nearly too late. All but two fled, carrying what they could.

  "We were hiding in the cellar and heard the row, and then it became quiet. I thought they were gone, but when I opened the door, those awful men pushed their way in. They were going to wait, thinking to let the soldiers get well ahead before making their own escape. They thought they could find help by going to Suffolk County."

  "The only place they'll be going is a burying ground," said Norwood.

  "What?"

  Beldon murmured agreement. "Yes. One of them has a broken back and the other a broken neck. Young Mr. Barrett seems to have defended himself rather ably."

  Young Mr. Barrett sat up on the table, all thoughts of rest vanquished. My mouth was like dust. Death. I had smelled death in this room.

  Could still smell it. Could see it now.

  The big fellow, the one I'd rammed with the table, was on his side, bent backward at the hips. Bent very sharply. Nat lay nearby, his head twisted over farther than what might have been considered comfortable to a living man. His face was suffused with blood; his black tongue thrust past his lips. The marks of my fingers were clear on his throat.

  I stared at them and felt sick.

  Beldon returned. "Mr. Barrett?" He saw the look on my face and came over, standing between me and the bodies.

  "I killed them," I said. I'd lost much of my breath and not replaced it, so what came out was barely a sound at all.

  He pursed his lips. "Yes."

  "Oh, God."

  "As a soldier in battle must kill," he added. "Think of it that way, and it may be easier to bear."

  I swallowed with difficulty. Though there was nothing like food in my belly, it still wanted to turn itself inside out. "Was... was Father the first through the door?"

  "Yes, and I was just behind him. Why?"

  I motioned for him to stand away. Reluctantly, he did so. I looked at the dead men in their final, undignified poses; looked until the sickness in me passed.

  "And you're both all right?" I asked.

  "Perfectly."

  Nodding, I managed a smile, though it must have been a ghastly one. "That makes it easier to bear, Doctor," I told him, as though it were a profound confidence.

  He did not ask for any explanation.

  Beldon decided that my removal from the kitchen would be of more benefit than risk to my health and helped guide my steps into the next room. I was well able to walk, but saw the need to maintain the pretense of still being hurt. Too quick a recovery would invite comment. Norwood found a chair and dragged it over, and Beldon made me sit.

  "You're staying the night, Jonathan," said Mrs. Montagu. "You're dreadfully pale."

  "It's but a scratch or two, madam, I've had worse falling from my horse," I responded in a stout tone. As for my lack of color... well, I had an easy enough remedy for that. "A little rest and I'll be able to travel, but I think that you should not be left alone here."

  "Certainly not," said Father, smoothly stepping into the opening I'd given him. "I'd be honored to remain and make sure of your security, madam." He'd assumed a more formal manner of address to her, and she echoed it.

  "If it would not be too much trouble, Mr. Barrett."

  "None at all."

  Such was the resumption of their gentle pretense that they were no more than good neighbors to one another, not mistress and lover. Only their eyes betrayed the real feelings beneath the innocent words, and for the thousandth time I regretted the circumstances that prevented them from freely uniting as man and wife.

  While the servants tried to wrest some order from the wreckage, Lieutenant Nash and his troop of Hessians finally arrived. They charged into the house as though it were a battleground and halted, disappointed, perhaps, that there were no rebels to attack.

  Nash stared at the lot of us in wonder, then his eye finally fell hard upon me. "What the devil's going on here?"

  His greeting pushed home the fact that I was quite the terrifying spectacle with my bandaging and my torn and bloody shirt hanging from my shoulders.

  "Things got a bit warm here, Lieutenant," said Norwood. "Some of your lads missed a couple of the rebels and it was left to Mr. Barrett to deal with 'em."

  He'd said just the right thing at the right time, sparing us from any bullying Nash might have been prepared to deliver to us presumptuous civilians. The lieutenant was only too happy to listen to his lordship, and after inspecting the corpses commended me for my bravery and quick thinking.

  "Thank you, sir, but had I been thinking quickly from the start I might have avoided this and somehow spared those men."

  "They'd have hanged anyway, Mr. Barrett. I found no papers on them, which means they were mere looters, and part of no man's army. We've dropped more than a few from the gibbet over the months, and if this continues, we'll have others joining them, you mark me."

  Cold comfort, I thought, but better than none at all.

  Nash was of a mind to go track down the troops who had given chase to the other thieves. When Mrs. Montagu expressed concern for the servant who had run for help, he opined that the fellow was likely to be found with them. "Once a man gets the blood up for a hunt, there's no stopping him." He grimaced at Father, Beldon, Norwood, and finally at me. "If he's still in one piece, I'll see that he's escorted home again, madam."

  With this reassurance, he left behind one of his clerks-an Englishman attached to the commissary office-to get a more detailed account of the raid and left with the rest. Norwood watched them go, unable to refrain from showing a resigned wistfulness. He turned away and looked at me and assumed a more neutral expression. It came to me that from his point of view I'd had all the "adventure" that evening. I looked him over anew and tried to understand why I'd come to that conclusion.

  He was a solid, muscular man with a back like a ramrod, yet exuded a kind of restless energy. He had quick dark eyes and I hadn't noticed much expression in them, but put that down to the class he'd been born into. Such constant self-restraint must have been instilled into him from the cradle, if his raising proved to be similar to that of other duke's sons I'd met at Cambridge. His interest in the doings of Nash's men touched me, though, for his chances of participation in something more interesting than a tea party must have been rare to nonexistent for him.

  "Why don't you go along?" I asked.

  My question did not seem to startle him; he smoothly supplied the excuse I expected. "My duty lies here, Mr. Barrett, to lend what aid I may to the wounded son of my host."

  "Not at all, Lord James," I said. "I am quite able to manage, and Dr. Beldon is here, after all. Go along with them, if you can talk Nash into it, then come back to the house and tell us all that happened."

  His face lighted up, but he wavered, compelling me to urge him a bit more until he finally accepted the idea. He promised to provide a full account upon his return. So saying, he left, apparently seeing any objections Nash might have as being entirely surmountable.

  "He maneuvered you into that, laddie," Father observed, speaking to me quietly from one side of his mouth.

  "I know, sir. It doesn't matter."

  "Doesn't it?"

  "Not this time, anyway. Besides, I'm curious to know what's going on as well. Nash might be able to prevent you or Beldon from tagging along to see things, but he shan't turn down his lordship."

  "By God, I wonder who's doing the maneuvering here?"

  "I'm just taking advantage of what's been offered," I said modestly.

  He smiled, a small one, with his lips tight together, and looked me over narrowly. "How are you?"

  He was not asking after my wounds. "I don't know yet. I feel numb."

  "When the numbness wears o
ff, you come talk to me, y'hear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Then he enfolded me in a brief, hard embrace.

  Beldon and I got back well after midnight, but found the house still awake and ourselves the objects of excess worry. I kept my cloak tight about me at first, so as not to frighten Elizabeth, and told her and all the others that Father and Norwood were unharmed.

  "And Mrs. Montagu?" my sister anxiously demanded, for like me, she also had a deep affection for the woman.

  "Frightened and dismayed, but unhurt. Father and Lord James are staying there to reassure her and help better secure her home."

  Without difficulty, Elizabeth took my real meaning.

  "How is it with my brother?" asked Lady Caroline, also anxious. She was pale, except for two spots of color high on her cheeks, and I thought she looked very pretty, indeed.

  Prompted by that and further questions, I shared all that I knew with them, with some exceptions. On the ride home I'd asked Beldon to say nothing of the men I'd killed, and so he'd remained silent as I skipped over the unpleasantness; with that omission, I was also able to leave out the business of my wounding. Beldon had taken my insistence on that point to be a combination of wanting to avoid excessive fuss and a desire to spare the ladies further worry, for which he was entirely correct. Later, I would tell Elizabeth the whole story, but I was exhausted now. It could wait until tomorrow.

  Surrounded as I was by Elizabeth, Lady Caroline, Cousin Anne, Mrs. Hardinbrook, and-unfortunately-Mother, not to mention a dozen servants watching close by, I suddenly became aware of a desire to be alone that was as great as my weariness. I wanted time to myself, to touch and find assurance amongst the familiar treasures of my own room... to change from my wretchedly used clothes. With a deep bow, I begged leave to be excused and was able to escape for the most part. Elizabeth and Jericho went ahead of me, Jericho to prepare my room and Elizabeth because she saw there was more to things than had been said. Well, I wouldn't mind talking to them, but Mother...

  "You could have been killed, Jonathan Fonteyn," she said, as we all took the stairs. She was just behind me; Beldon, box of medicines in one hand, hat in the other, came last. I glanced back at her, surprised by this show of concern, but came to a disheartening conclusion: Mother's words might have the show of worry, but their substance indicated that her worry was for herself. Had I been killed, how might she, herself, be inconvenienced? As that question had already been answered for me last August, I should not have felt such bitter disappointment now, but did, anyway.

  Once at my room, Beldon invoked his authority as a doctor and requested everyone to leave, saying that I was in need of rest. For various reasons, no one was inclined to listen to him. Jericho busied himself pulling out my nightclothes, and Mother and Elizabeth stood just inside the doorway.

  "There will be no more of this foolish running off with soldiers, Jonathan Fonteyn," Mother stated, arms crossed and head high. She didn't seem to be looking at me so much as at something just over my left shoulder. I knew nothing was there, it was just her way. It suited me, as I had little stomach for looking at her, either. "You're a gentleman, not some kind of idiotic camp hanger-on for those soldiers. They don't need your help to do their duty."

  "No, Mother," I said meekly, hoping she'd finish soon and get out.

  "And don't use that long-suffering tone with me, young man. You're far too impertinent."

  "Forgive me, Mother. My fatigue troubles me and makes me short."

  "Fatigue," she spat. "I wonder how long it will take you to recover from this? You tell me that. You're far too lazy as it is, sleeping all day and not lifting a finger to help your father even when you do manage to dislodge yourself from bed."

  Each of her words beat against my head like some awful hammer. Bang, bang, bang. I'd been through enough disruption for one evening, but it appeared that more was waiting in store.

  When Mother paused for breath to continue her tirade, Elizabeth stepped forward. "He's very tired, Mother, can you not see that? Please let him rest."

  Mother, her mouth slightly open as she started to speak, stopped. She was still looking past me, but now seemed to see nothing. Her eyes... there was something dreadfully wrong there.

  And without word, without warning, Mother raised her hand and swung her whole body around. Her palm struck Elizabeth's face with a resounding crack and my poor sister was knocked right off her feet. It was so swift that I was unable to take it in for the first few seconds, not until I heard Elizabeth's sobbing gasp of pain, and then I was moving toward her, arms out to help.

  "I didn't send you to Cambridge for you to sleep your life away-" Mother continued, as though nothing had happened.

  "Mrs. Barrett!" cried Beldon from where he stood flatfooted in a corner, utterly shocked.

  But before I could get to Elizabeth, she'd surged right back up again, swift as thought. She had the beginnings of a red mark on her face oddly similar to the one Mrs. Montagu had received; beyond that the resemblance ceased. Elizabeth's expression, indeed, her whole body, was suffused with it: blind fury. While Mother still babbled on, heaping more reproach upon me, Elizabeth launched herself at her.

  Mother's speech abruptly stopped, replaced by a snarl of surprise and followed by thumps, howls, and thuds. They were on the floor, skirts flying and fabric ripping as they rolled on the floor and tore at each other like cats.

  "You bitch!" bellowed my sister, landing one solid blow after another. "Bitch, bitch, bitchV

  Beldon joined me quickly enough, but it was hard going to find an opening. He and I finaJly managed to make a lucky grab each and pulled them apart. I had Mother, and he got Elizabeth out into the hall, perhaps with the idea of taking her to her room. He'd need help there, for Elizabeth was still cursing and crying and fighting him, her face contorted and looking uncomfortably like Mother's.

  That lady was moaning in my arms, groggy, for she'd received the worst of it in the brief fight. Elizabeth had put all her rage-driven strength into it. Mother's face was bloodied, her hair all in disarray, and her gown in tatters. Any stranger seeing her in such a plight might have been moved to instant pity and an offer of immediate succor. But I was no stranger. I was her much disliked, if not despised, son, and hadn't the vaguest notion of what to do with her.

  Jericho had frozen in place during all this and now looked torn between going after Elizabeth and remaining with me. He'd also noticed something.

  "Mr. Jonathan... your clothes..."

  My cloak had fallen open, revealing the-literally-bloody mess it had so handily concealed. "Oh, God." I pulled the edges together to cover it all again.

  "But, sir-?"

  "Jericho, I promise you that I am unhurt, but please, don't ask about it just now. Beldon can tell you-"

  Beldon returned before I could further confuse things. With him came our guests and servants, drawn by the commotion. My room and the hall grew noisy with all the questions, all called at the same time, making it impossible for them to hear any answers, had we been of a mind to give any. Then Beldon shouted for silence, shoved back those nearest, and slammed my door in their faces. It was the only impolite action I'd ever seen him take.

  "Up there," he said briskly, returning to his patient and kneeling.

  We lifted Mother to my bed. Beldon had his box of medicines open and was reaching for the laudanum bottle. He measured out and prepared a dose-quickly, as he'd had much practice-and got Mother to drink it. He then checked over her other injuries.

  "She'll be all right," he stated hollowly.

  I accepted the news without a single flicker of emotion. I was dead inside. She was nothing to me. An irritant at the most, like a speck of dust in the eye that's washed away by a few tears and then forgotten. Except that I had no tears in me. Not for her, at least.

  "I'm very sorry, Mr. Barrett," he murmured.

  "Thank you." Other replies had come to me, but I'd ultimately settled upon the simplest as being the best.

  "Do you
wish your father to know what's happened?"

  That one required thought. On one hand, Father would want to know; on the other, he had enough worries for the moment. "Yes... but there's no hurry. You can send a messenger to the

  Montagu house at first light tomorrow. Despite the presence of Mr. Nash's men, I don't think it wise for anyone to be traveling alone tonight."

  "I agree. I shall see to your mother's needs, then write him a note. What about Miss Barrett? She was very shaken, if you want my help..."

  "Thank you, but I'll talk to her myself."