by Fiona Hill
The one called Tom shrugged. “Then let’s ask it,” he said.
At this point Latimer spoke up. “My name’s Latimer—Latimer K—” he paused a moment—“Cross,” he ended. “Pleased to make your acquaintances.”
“Pleased to make yours,” said Tom, sneering.
“Your manners, Tom; your manners!” chided the first sailor. “You want to tell him your name as well. Cross, m’boy, this here’s Tom, and this other one is Alf. You can call me Plunk, since everybody does, and nobody knows my right name except my dear old mother.” He winked and grinned again.
Latimer extended his hand to shake those of his new friends. No one took it.
“Do we knock him about now, Plunk?” asked Alf.
“O, I don’t know as we will do that,” he replied. “I’m starting to take quite a shine to the lad, almost like he’s my own son. Just what might a regular swell like yourself be doing down here, Mr. Cross?”
“I’ve come to join the Navy,” said Latimer, as the serving woman came to the table and ladled out bowls of greasy stew for each of them.
“O, the Navy is it?” Plunk asked, taking a moment for a wide look and a wink at his companions. “Going to be a Admiral, I guess?”
“Well, maybe,” Latimer answered with an humble smile.
“If you mean to be a Admiral, Mr. Cross, I think you’d best ask your dad to purchase that title for you. Save time, see what I mean?”
“I don’t have a family,” said Latimer, his cheeks flushing.
“O, don’t you now? And since when is that?”
“Since—a long time ago.”
“All on your own, is it?”
“Yes,” Latimer agreed. “All on my own.”
“Well, I declare,” said Plunk. “Got any money?”
“Only a little,” Latimer replied nervously. “I’ll pay for this, though,” he added, indicating the meal on the table.
“You will, eh? No, we wouldn’t think of letting you do that, now would we boys?”
“I would,” said Tom.
“So would I,” Alf seconded.
For the first time, Plunk’s grin vanished and he glared at his friends. Then he beckoned to them and they leaned over, their three heads whispering together. In a short time they drew apart again and Plunk once more addressed Latimer.
“My mates and I have took a real liking to you, my boy,” he said. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Now we ain’t in the Navy, as you may have guessed by these—” he indicated his soiled clothing by plucking at the shoulders of his own shirt, “and we don’t suppose plain sailing would be good enough for you, since you’re a-going to be a Admiral.”
Latimer agreed that it wouldn’t.
“Howsoever,” Plunk continued, “you’ll need to have your sea-legs when you go into the Navy, so here’s what we propose. You come down to the ship with us today and walk about a bit. She ain’t too big a ship, but at least you can learn port from starboard on her. I’ll fix things wi’ the Captain so he won’t mind your coming.” He winked again at his colleagues. “Then, when you got your sea-legs on good and tight, we’ll take you to a place we know of in London where you can meet some real Navy chaps—maybe even some officers. Then tomorrow you can join up with them, and by next week you can be a Admiral. What do you say?”
Latimer knew perfectly well his ambitions were being laughed at, but the sailors’ scheme sounded like a good one to him any way. He agreed therefore, thanked them, argued over who was to settle with the inn-keeper, and went off with them to spend the day at the docks. The fact that they would not allow him to pay for the meal at The Angel re-assured him of their good intentions, and it seemed to him, as he applied himself to learning nautical vocabulary, that his plans were proceeding very well indeed.
He was pleased to find that he did not feel the least bit queasy, though as the day wore on he became increasingly aware that the sun was burning his forehead and the ropes were burning his hands. A trip to The Angel for supper and ale refreshed him somewhat, and when the last round had been ordered and drunk, he sat back in his chair like the others and listened avidly to their conversation.
“I say we go to McGinty’s,” Alf suggested, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“The Quarter-Deck has got more tables,” Tom disagreed.
“I still say McGinty’s.”
“Settle it, Plunk,” Tom requested.
“Me, mates?” said Plunk, as if astonished at being applied to. “Well, if it was left to me, I’d say we ought to call at Mrs. Stott’s establishment.”
“Stott’s?” Tom objected. He lowered his voice and spoke earnestly to Plunk. “I seen Quality in there, two or three times now. I know the stakes are higher, but…” his voice faded and he cast a meaningful glance at Latimer.
“Now, now,” said Plunk heartily, “you’ve no objections to going to a place where you might meet a friend or two, have you my boy?” he asked Latimer. “Seeing as how you’re all on your own, and so forth.”
“N-No,” said Latimer, adding resolutely, “of course not.” It had become clear to him that his new friends meant to visit a gaming-house tonight; he did not think it too likely that any of his London acquaintance would frequent such places. Any way, having convinced the sailors of his independence, he could not cry craven now.
“There, you see?” Plunk was saying to Tom. “Cross here has no objections. Now you just quit your worritting and mind your manners like I told you.”
Tom nodded but spat vehemently, as if to signify that he was under no obligation to submit to Plunk’s bullying.
A waggoner who sat at a table nearby and was on the road to London agreed to take them there for a small fee. The sailors sprang in with him and descended some hours later in a part of the town which Latimer had never seen. The narrow streets were laid out crookedly and no lamp illuminated them. Raucous laughter issued from several of the doors they passed, and a thin, faraway wail rose up and pierced the air again and again. Refuse lined the pavement and in a grey, huddled mass wedged against a door-way, Latimer discerned the outlines of a woman—a beggar with no refuge from the thickening night. When they had walked about a mile through this maze, Plunk knocked at a door with fresh black paint on it and whispered a few words to the woman who peeped out. When she had stepped back and permitted them to enter, Latimer had his first look at a gaming-hell.
The house was much better furnished than its exterior promised, and though the colours were gaudy and the upholstery cheap, it had a busy, prosperous air. The men removed their coats, handing them to the young woman who had admitted them, and proceeded directly up the narrow wooden stairs. Alf pinched the girl on her cheek and called her “darling,” but she did not respond. The second story of the house was divided into two large rooms, one devoted to Hazard, the other to Faro and similar games at cards. It was to the first of these that Plunk led them.
The voices of the players were so loud as to obscure the rattle of dice altogether. Clouds of smoke hovered just under the low ceiling, and the unpleasant odour of mutton-fat tapers pervaded the atmosphere. Most of the gentlemen present appeared to be sailors; all of them, certainly, came from a class of which Latimer had had very little experience. If there were any “Navy chaps” among them, as Plunk had promised, they were out of uniform. Though he began to feel, unwillingly, that there might be something sinister in his situation, at least Latimer had no fears of meeting anyone he knew. Alf’s idea of Quality and his own apparently did not coincide.
Mrs. Stott, a florid woman in a gown of slippery purple stuff, greeted the newcomers at the top of the stair-case. “English Hazard or French?” she asked, when Plunk had made an elaborate, insolent bow and introduced Latimer to the prophetess.
“English, m’dear,” he replied. “None of your foreign nonsense for us.”
Mrs. Stott’s smile only partially concealed her disappointment, for she preferred her clientele to bet against the bank, rather than against each other. Still, Pl
unk and his crew were liberal with their blunt—when they had any—and she could not afford to appear ungracious. “Got yourself a fat chicken, eh?” she whispered to Plunk as he passed inside.
Plunk merely smiled and repeated his satirical bow to the lady. He then turned his attention to Latimer, and did not take it from him until the end of the evening.
Mr. Keyes had never played at Hazard, either English or otherwise, and to expect him to distinguish himself at it on this first occasion—even under normal circumstances—would be to expect a great deal. His ineptitude as a beginner was exacerbated by the fact that these, of course, were not normal circumstances at all. His three gaming companions were, in fact, firmly united in their intention to make him lose as much as possible, and in this they succeeded very well. They forced upon him stakes much higher than any they would set among themselves; they plied him with quantities of nauseating gin, obligingly supplied by the cooperative Mrs. Stott; and whenever he seemed about to cry off, they mocked him severely and assured him of their willingness to accept his signature in lieu of hard cash. By the end of the evening—which seemed to Latimer to go on for ever—Plunk held notes from him which bound him to the payment of a sum exceeding three hundred pounds. At that point the sailors agreed that, in their words, Latimer had been “thoroughly plucked,” and was ready to be let go.
He emerged reeling onto the foggy street. His companions had given up all pretense of camaraderie and did not offer to find a bed for him for the night. Instead, they insisted that he lead them to his parents’ door—boxing his ears when he protested that he had none—so that they would know where to find him if he failed to pay his debts. Tom was for making him wake his father and securing a bank draught immediately, but Plunk judged this course too dangerous and merely cautioned their prey to come up with the money before next week. On these words they left him, and Latimer, feeling he had reached the extreme depth of degradation and folly, knocked upon the door. All were awake within, of course, for his disappearance had been the cause of the liveliest alarm, and James opened immediately. Latimer crawled inside in an agony of defeat.
The Prodigal Son himself did not receive a more compassionate welcome that did Latimer from his family. Lady Keyes wept, Daphne wept—even Sir Latimer might have been observed wiping a tear of relief from the corner of his eye. They had spent their day sunk in the most anxious conjecture, and nothing but Mr. Clayton’s earnest counsel prevented them from sending to Bow Street and launching an investigation that very day. Sir Latimer had meant to do so at dawn any way.
Though the hour was considerably advanced, and everyone exhausted, Lady Keyes insisted on a complete account of her son’s most eventful day. Stalwartly overcoming his natural reluctance, Latimer made a clean breast of it, reclining gratefully on the carved and gilt settee and sipping the cordial his mother had pressed upon him. When he mentioned the sum he had signed away, there was a general outcry.
“Above three hundred!” Daphne gasped. “O Latimer!”
“But I did not sign for it in my right name,” he protested. “I do not believe I can be held accountable, under the circumstances.” He turned towards the mantelpiece, by which Mr. Clayton was standing. “Must I pay it, Clayton? I signed the notes ‘Latimer Cross.’”
Mr. Clayton shut his protruding eyes and considered, holding a finger up to indicate that he would speak in a moment. “I do not think so,” he said at last. “However, the scoundrels might try to press charges—and in that case, a scandal would inevitably follow. I believe my Lady Bryde would be most unhappy if that were to happen.”
“O indeed!” cried Lady Keyes, distressed at the mere thought of her grandmother’s response to such an eventuality. “We must—perhaps we ought to pay them if that is our alternative.” She looked imploringly at her husband, who harrumphed loudly and looked in turn at Clayton.
“I believe our best course,” that gentleman continued slowly, “will be to settle with each of them for some reduced figure, and let it go at that. Their treatment of Master Latimer—who is, after all, still in his minority—was undoubtedly unlawful…but again, there is the problem of scandal.” He paused.
“God will punish them,” Lady Keyes assured him, dismayed at this fresh mention of scandals.
“Yes, of course my Lady,” said Clayton. “And resting in that knowledge, we can be certain that in giving each of them, say, twenty pounds, we will be acting rightly.”
“Still,” said Lady Keyes, her conscience unsettled, “it hardly seems correct to reward the ruffians.”
“Do you think they may yet be unsatisfied, and return to—to knock Latimer about?” asked Daphne, her dark gaze troubled.
“I am sure they will recognize that they are being treated better than they deserve to be,” Mr. Clayton assured her, adding for Lady Keyes’ benefit, “though not so well as to encourage them to pursue a life of crime.”
The family continued to discuss the incident, and to solicit details from Latimer, for another half-hour. Then their weariness overwhelmed them and they went to bed, Lady Keyes making sure to tuck her son in securely, and exacting a promise from him that he would never attempt such a foolish scheme again. The promise was easily and sincerely given.
The following morning Lady Bryde lay abed at Dome House and sipped her morning chocolate, as she did every morning. The Keyes’, quite naturally, had sent James round to her house on the previous afternoon to see if Latimer might be with his great-grandmother. Thus she had been alerted to the fact that he had disappeared, and her first plan this morning was to call at Finchley House to learn if he had been found. This project she speedily put into execution, not from any pressing desire to know, but out of a sense of duty. James opened to her and summoned Latimer to her presence in the drawing-room.
“Sit down, Latimer,” she directed him, indicating a chair opposite to her own. “I will ask you several questions. Now, did you leave of your own accord?”
“Yes,” he confessed.
“Did you return of your own accord?”
“No…not precisely.”
“Any officer of the law drag you back?”
“No,” he said, a small smile curling the corners of his lips, though he tried to prevent it.
“Ruffians, then?” she queried.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did any of the ton see you?” she asked sharply.
“No one.”
“You are certain, Latimer?”
“Quite certain, ma’am.”
She sighed relief. “How much did it cost, boy?”
“About sixty pounds,” he said guiltily. “It might have been more.”
“It might have been much more,” she agreed. She leaned back into the cushioned chair and closed her eyes. For the first time in his life, Latimer saw his great-grandmother look tired. Lady Bryde opened her eyes after a minute or two and said, “That is all. You may go.”
“I am terribly sorry,” he said, rising.
She waved an impatient hand. “Go, go,” she said. When he had obeyed she leaned back again and shut her eyes once more. “I am old,” she murmured to herself. Then she rose, let herself out of the drawing-room, and quitted Finchley House. At home again, she went to her study, scribbled a note, and summoned Hastings.
“Have this taken to Lord Houghton,” she told him, handing him the note.
The butler inclined his neat, silvering head.
“And Hastings—” she added. “No, nevermind. Have Goodbody bring a book to me. It does not signify which one.”
The butler bowed again and disappeared.
When Lord Houghton arrived—for the note contained a request that he wait upon her directly—the Countess was seated on the red plush chair in the drawing-room of Dome House, leafing through a well-thumbed volume of Dry-den. She set the book down gladly and extended a hand to her old friend.
“Anthony,” she said, after he had kissed her hand, “you will not be astonished to hear, I trust, that my great-grandson has got him
self into a scrape.”
“Not at all,” he smiled.
“No, nor was I. Neither will you be astonished to learn that he has somehow got out of it again.”
Lord Houghton bowed slightly before seating himself, to indicate his agreement.
“Daphne is bound to disgrace herself as well,” she said.
“I see no reason to believe—”
“No,” she interrupted him. “It is quite inevitable. It is the business of youth to get into scrapes, and the business of maturity to get them out again.”
“As you say,” my Lord conceded, still smiling.
“But Anthony, my dear, does it never occur to you that we are growing, perhaps, too old to bother about such things?”
“Never, my love,” he said. “Nothing ever occurs to me which has not occurred to you first, and I believe you have never mentioned this topic before.”
Lady Bryde lifted a single eyebrow in an expression at once weary and amused. “You are gallant, my dear; always gallant.”
“Gallantry is the only proper answer to charm—unless one is a wit, of course, which I have never been.”
“No,” she agreed, “indeed you have not. But Anthony—you are not angry with me for concurring with you, are you?” she broke off.
“Not at all. I was about to be, but I have thought better of it.”
The Countess smiled for the first time. “I am considering going abroad—for an extended period,” she informed him.
“London will miss you sadly,” he said.
As if she had not heard him, she continued. “I should like to see some exotic lands, as they are called. Not merely the Continent this time: Europe is simply England all over again, but with longer titles—which only makes them more difficult to remember and to pronounce. No, I should like to travel to the Orient, I think, or perhaps to Africa. I am told there are deserts in Africa, and I should like to see one.”
“If you long to see a desert, Margaret, I understand that London is a desert during December. Perhaps you might simply stop at Dome House over Christmas.”
