Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  There wasn’t much Dallas could say to that, so he said nothing.

  ‘How is Pamela?’

  ‘She is well, sir.’

  ‘And her whelp finds it prudent to leave England?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Cousin Adrian picked up the letter and flicked his eyes over it. ‘There’s a berth on one of our ships leaving the day after tomorrow,’ he said finally. ‘Calais. Will that do you?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can pay?’

  Dallas flushed. ‘Of course –’

  Lord Wedderburn waved him to silence. ‘No matter. I don’t imagine that tightfisted father of yours sent you packing with much. Hang onto it. At least my dear cousin cannot accuse me of lacking in hospitality.’ Tis no pleasure but I’ll do what obligation requires of me. I would prefer to think that you come to me out of fondness or respect, but since that is not so I refuse to tarnish my good name on your behalf. Should misfortune befall before you sail do not seek further assistance from this quarter. You will be smuggled aboard tomorrow night. That’s the best I can promise. After that, you are on your own.’

  Grateful as he was, Dallas could not help but feel resentment at such obvious animosity. ‘My deepest thanks to you, Cousin Adrian. Were it not for the pressing circumstances in which I find myself, there would be no question of troubling you.’

  Lord Wedderburn gave a sour smile and tapped the letter with a forefinger. ‘Reading between the lines, I would say you have little choice in the matter.’

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘You do not shirk from the truth. That is in your favour. Of what are you guilty?’

  ‘Gross stupidity, cousin. Nothing more.’

  That seemed to amuse the marquis. ‘How old are you, boy?’

  ‘Twenty-one, sir.’

  ‘Old enough to know better?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And young enough to think you’d get away with it, eh?’

  Dallas looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well. If your mother is correct, it would seem that the constabulary may already have an interest in finding you. The ship’s passenger manifest will list you as, let me see . . . hmmm . . . yes, Monsieur Debrett – a returning trader. That will do nicely. What name you use once in France is not my concern. In fact, I implore you not to divulge your intentions to me. The less I know of this unsavoury affair you flee from, the better. Martin will show you to your room. Dinner is at eight sharp. You will meet the rest of my family in the parlour, no later than five-and-twenty before the hour. Keep your true identity from them, it is best that way.’ Lord Wedderburn rang a bell and Martin reappeared so quickly that Dallas thought he might have been listening at the keyhole. ‘Take Monsieur Debrett to the Yellow Bedchamber. He’s obviously in need of water to bathe. See to it.’ With that, Cousin Adrian left the room.

  Dallas followed Martin to the second-floor suite of rooms. It was very grand. In the main bedchamber, a simple but elegant stucco ceiling was enhanced on its four corners by a swirling fleur-de-lis frieze that had been picked out in vivid yellow. The cornice repeated a simplified version of this design. A gilt four-poster bed was finished with gold damask that matched the curtains, while other furniture, handmade from Spanish mahogany, was also upholstered in the same richly coloured silk. By contrast, the dark polished cedar floor set off a matching pair of Persian rugs, predominantly red in colour and of the finest, hand-knotted workmanship. Hanging tapestries were from Antwerp and well over a hundred years old. They both displayed intricate floral designs. Two magnificent gilt pier-glasses and console tables occupied space between the windows, and the white marble chimneypiece and mantel were Italian.

  Off the main bedchamber was a dressing room in which the predominantly yellow and gold theme was continued. Adjoining this, the chamber boasted a hipbath and earth closet. Dallas had heard of, but never seen, these supposed innovative contraptions where fine earth, kept somewhere in the attic, periodically flooded the pipes helping carry waste to the cesspit. He was quite pleased to find a good old-fashioned commode as well.

  Martin supervised the installation of his sea chest and valise before saying, ‘I will light the fire, monsieur, then have hot water brought up.’

  While Martin busied himself at the hearth, Dallas took in the view from a window. The weather had cleared. He could see High Bridge further up the road, a two-tiered structure with one level for road traffic and the other for trains. Cousin Adrian’s house was on Grey Street, a tree-lined avenue fronted by many elegant facades. The street outside was busy with activity. Vendors pushed barrows, calling out the nature of their wares, carriages bore ladies of quality to and from social engagements, elegant gentlemen on horseback tipped their hats as they passed, ever-hopeful beggars sought hand-outs until moved on by the local constabulary, nannies returned from the park with their charges before the cold of evening set in. A lamp-lighter was already going about his business and a merry troop of thespians made their way towards the Theatre Royal in good time for the evening’s performance. Dallas turned back into the room. ‘Do not trouble yourself unpacking the chest, Martin. The small valise contains all that I need for now.’

  ‘Very well, monsieur.’

  Dallas wondered about Martin. The man had shown not a flicker of surprise when Lord Wedderburn announced that he would be staying. Given Dallas’s rumpled and unsavoury appearance, most butlers would have managed to convey haughty disapproval. And an envelope bearing the crest of one of Britain’s most prominent families would surely have caused curiosity, especially from the hands of such a dishevelled traveller, and particularly so seeing as that person went by the name of Debrett, not Acheson. Cousin Adrian had not considered it necessary to explain anything, unless of course he had done so before Martin fetched him from the entrance hall. Lord Wedderburn must place a good deal of confidence in his butler’s discretion, since most servants would have been quick to gossip about such an unlikely guest.

  Martin rose from the now crackling fire and collected up the shirt, breeches and jacket that he had unpacked. ‘I will send hot water, monsieur. A maid will freshen these before dinner.’ He looked Dallas up and down. ‘If you wish, monsieur, I will arrange for the clothes you wear to be laundered.’

  ‘That would be most welcome.’

  Bucket after bucket of steaming water soon arrived. Dallas undressed and left his filthy clothes on the floor. Real soap, not the homemade tallow variety, was provided. Maids kept the water coming, one or two openly admiring the strong arms and shoulders of the young French trader who, surprisingly, was being shown the kind of courtesy usually reserved for visiting members of the peerage. Dallas seemed quite unconcerned by their shy giggles and the offer of one to scrub his back.

  The relief of soaking in a tub and removing six days’ grime and growth of whiskers was immense. By the time he emerged from the closet, Dallas felt more human than he had for days. His dinner clothes, freshly pressed, were laid out on the bed and his boots gleamed with polish. Coals glowed in the grate, sending out welcome warmth. His bed had been turned down and the curtains drawn. Of his discarded apparel there was no sign. This was life as he understood it. A copy of William Wordsworth’s The Prelude lay on the mantelpiece and Dallas flicked idly through it to while away time until he dressed for dinner. He had to enlist the aid of a passing chambermaid to show him to the parlour where family members would be gathered.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur Debrett, I trust you are refreshed?’ Lord Wedderburn handed him a glass of wine.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. I feel like a new man.’

  ‘Excellent. Come, all are most anxious to meet you.’ He led Dallas to the fire where a plain, slightly built woman toyed with a glass of cordial. ‘May I present my wife, Lady Wedderburn. My dear, this is Monsieur Debrett who is to be our guest this evening and indeed, tomorrow.’

  Lady Wedderburn inclined her head. ‘Such a pity your visit is so short, Monsieur Debrett, for we w
ould have been delighted to show you this fine city of ours.’

  She spoke so softly that Dallas had to lean forward in order to hear. ‘Alas, my lady, business demands that I return to France as soon as possible.’

  ‘My son, Lord Rupert,’ Cousin Adrian went on. ‘He’s home from Oxford.’

  Dallas shook hands with a young man who appeared to be a couple of years younger than himself. Dallas had also been to Oxford but, of course, was unable to mention it.

  Lord Rupert looked decidedly bored. ‘In what do you trade, Monsieur?’

  His father answered the question, which was just as well since Dallas couldn’t think of a single thing. ‘Monsieur Debrett is not a mere trader, Rupert. He is here on behalf of the French government and has held confidential discussions with the President of Council.’

  Dallas was relieved to hear that. At least he could take refuge behind the secret nature of his negotiations and not have to fabricate a story.

  ‘I see.’ Lord Rupert didn’t, but wasn’t going to admit it. ‘Is this your first trip to Newcastle?’

  ‘Indeed. A very splendid city from what little I’ve seen.’ Without being aware of it, Dallas had developed the slightest of accents.

  ‘My younger son, Lord James.’ Cousin Adrian indicated a gangly youth of around sixteen. ‘He’s still at Eton.’

  Lord James shook Dallas by the hand, smiled toothily, and returned to contemplation of the fire.

  ‘My dear, shall we go in?’

  The dining room was every bit as opulent as the rest of the house. Family portraits adorned the walls, including one Dallas recognised as being of his own grandfather. Keeping up the pretence of being a French trader, he was unable to comment on it. What did strike him, however, was that the old man wore just as sour an expression in this portrait as he did in the one at home in Edinburgh.

  Dinner was elaborate and, for Dallas, still suffering from Victor’s culinary tastes, most satisfying. Thick artichoke soup, followed by red mullet on a bed of crisp cucumber. A marrow pâté preceded lamb cutlets with peas and asparagus. Roasted side of venison came next, duckling after that, with plovers’ eggs in aspic before fruit, dessert, and a lemon ice finished off the feast. Wine, sherry, Madeira and champagne were served throughout the meal.

  Conversation remained stilted but the younger son’s enthusiasm for music became clear. He spoke incessantly of a Russian composer called Tchaikovsky who was set to take the world by storm. His observations revolved around such expressions as ‘melodic vein’, ‘the brilliant colour of his orchestral power’, and ‘how he expresses himself with such strong emotion’. Interesting as it was, Dallas had the feeling the boy was quoting something he’d read in a book. The family had obviously heard it many times before and kept trying to change the subject.

  Lord Rupert, by contrast, seemed determined to exclude Dallas. Having made it abundantly clear that whenever he wasn’t at university he held a position of some responsibility and authority in one of his father’s businesses, he kept returning the conversation to matters that were known only to himself and Lord Wedderburn. The lady of the house had very little to say on any subject and deferred most questions either to her husband or one of her sons. Midway through the meal, two little girls in nightdresses, their hair twisted into sausages by coloured ribbons, were shown in to say goodnight. They giggled shyly. One sucked her thumb.

  After dinner, Cousin Adrian invited Dallas to take a stroll. It was then that his mother’s veiled references to her cousin’s unsavoury side were confirmed. Dallas never established whether Lord Wedderburn actually owned the house of ill-repute but noted that his host was greeted like a regular and favoured customer.

  ‘Take your pick,’ the marquis said magnanimously, disappearing upstairs with a flame-haired wench of generous proportions.

  Dallas was only human.

  They returned to Grey Street a little after midnight. Lord Wedderburn seemed in excellent spirits and said a jovial goodnight at the top of the stairs, whistling all the way to his bedchamber.

  The fire in Dallas’s room had recently been built up. He undressed and fell gladly into bed, wondering if Cousin Adrian regularly indulged in good food, wine, and other things. No comment had been made about their visit to the brothel, other than an inquiry as to whether Dallas enjoyed himself. He appeared amused by the younger man’s enthusiastic response.

  Other thoughts crowded for attention. This was only the beginning. From here, life would never be the same. Lying in bed watching the flickering firelight send dancing shadows around the room as he waited for sleep, Dallas allowed his thoughts to ramble. He was not yet safe and could never consider himself so until on board ship heading for one of the colonies. If he were apprehended, and a charge of rape were proved against him, irrespective of his social status and family connections he would be hanged. Whatever lay ahead had to be better than that.

  And what of his new life? Dallas, for the first time, realised just how privileged the peerage actually was. Deference, respect, luxuries, everything he had taken for granted would suddenly have to be earned. As Lord Acheson, doors had opened. As Dallas Granger, there was no choice but to do the job himself. As Monsieur Debrett . . . but no, that was too temporary to even bother about. He was at least free of the somewhat restrictive rules of aristocracy. That was good. But the liberty which came with it was in itself a set of chains, tying him to the pursuit of life’s necessities. Dallas realised he could face this in one of two ways. A challenge to be conquered or a threat waiting to bring him down.

  Sleep eluded his restless mind. Where would he end up? There was not much point in speculating about a future until that at least became clear. Even then, what on earth could a man of his background actually do? He knew a bit about farming, could shoot and his manners were impeccable. Come on, Dallas thought, lying in the darkness. There must be more to my life than that.

  There was. He’d had an excellent education, was young and healthy, and knew his way around a lady’s body. Nothing there to reassure him much.

  What did he want to do? Difficult question. Far easier to decide what he didn’t want or couldn’t do. A civil service position was out of the question. He would find the red tape, petty squabbling and repetition boring in the extreme. Dallas had always liked being out of doors. A desk-bound job would drive him mad. Besides, any civil or military employment meant he’d be working for the British government and that was a bit too close for comfort. Unlike brother Glendon, Dallas had no calling for the church and even less interest in doing good works. Which left what? He’d always been propped up and secured by the system. Dallas knew he could no longer rely on that. All he had was a bit of money and his wits.

  His eyelids grew heavy. The last conscious thought before sleep overtook him was that everything that had made sense up until now no longer mattered. The future could become anything he damn-well pleased. If only he could work out what that was.

  The next day passed at adagio speed. Lady Wedderburn, probably wondering why a French trader was staying in her home, didn’t quite know what to do with the unexpected guest. She treated him to a tour of the gardens before excusing herself. Dallas found the library and read for a while. Cousin Adrian was nowhere to be seen. Rupert, if last night’s conversation were any indication, was presumably off doing whatever he did in one of his father’s enterprises. The younger son, James, and the two little girls whose names he had forgotten, came and went with nothing more than a surprised, ‘Oh, good morning,’ or, ‘Good afternoon,’ as though they expected him to have gone.

  Bored, Dallas went in search of Victor, only to be told by Martin that he was already on his way back to Scotland. ‘Left early this morning with a note for Lady Dalrymple from his lordship.’

  ‘I would have appreciated the chance to bid him farewell,’ Dallas said coolly.

  ‘His lordship thought it best that he leave quickly. The servants talk, monsieur. Victor’s accent marks him as a man from north of the border. Strangers e
xcite attention and in order to gain access to Lord Wedderburn the two of you were not exactly discreet. It would be most unfortunate if your real identity became common knowledge, monsieur, so close to the time you leave. I have the utmost faith in Cook’s discretion but cannot guarantee likewise for the groom. He has been allocated tasks that will keep him busy for a few days but may still gossip with the others.’ Tis impossible for me to keep them all under lock and key.’

  Martin’s expression remained unreadable but Dallas thought he detected sympathy in the man’s voice. ‘Quite so, I was not thinking. Thank you, Martin.’ Dallas returned to the library.

  At ten past six Cousin Adrian found him there. ‘The police have been to see me,’ he said with no preamble.

  Dallas was dismayed. ‘They know I am here?’

  ‘No. But I must let them know should you seek passage on one of my vessels. They watch the port and have posted your likeness around town. So, dear cousin, I won’t exactly be sorry to see you leave.’ He moved to the sideboard and selected a decanter of claret, raising an eyebrow of inquiry and pouring two glasses when Dallas nodded. ‘Naturally I have taken steps to cover myself against any question of aiding your escape. If it becomes known that you sailed to France under an assumed name, I’m afraid “liar” and “cowardly absconder” will be added to your reputation. I cannot be seen to have abetted you in any way. Regrettably that is the way it has to be. For myself it is of little consequence but no scandal can be allowed to touch my family. I do hope you appreciate the situation.’

  ‘Most certainly. Rest assured, Cousin Adrian, that should I be so unfortunate as to fall into the hands of my pursuers your good name will remain unblemished.’

  ‘I thank you for your undertaking, cousin. Your word as a gentleman is good enough for me. I’m pleased to be of assistance but it would help to know of what you stand accused. The police would give no details save to say that you are a desperate man who will stop at nothing to get away.’

  ‘I am guilty of no serious crime, Cousin Adrian, though, to protect the honour of a lady, I find myself accused of the foulest deed. Bear with me and I will endeavour to put your mind at rest that you do not harbour a desperate criminal, merely a man who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. Should you then decide to wash your hands of me, do so knowing I bear no ill will.’ Dallas outlined the events leading to his flight. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘there was little or nothing I could say in my own defence without tarnishing the reputation of Lady de Iongh.’