by Jaima Fixsen
*****
At fifteen, Tom was still a loner. There were boys who would have befriended him, for he could level an opponent with a single punch. But Tom let no one close, making no attempt to hide his disdain for them all: the headmaster, the dormitory wardens, the choir master, the shy, asthmatic boy everyone knew idolized him. Especially the handsome, vicious winner of the school fencing cup, already an Earl.
Knowing the frustrated masters would look the other way, Tom’s classmates determined to take him down. It was the fencing champion, the young Lord Harvey, who hit on the idea and paid the mathematics teacher to keep Tom after class.
It was late, night’s curtains drawing over the sky when Tom finished scrubbing the schoolroom desks and braced himself to cross the quadrangle alone. Dinner was long past, but up in his room, folded in a napkin, he had the remains of one of Mrs. Finch’s pies. The mother of his blacksmith boxing teacher was an excellent cook.
Since six o’ clock, Tom’s stomach had assumed the form of a ravening beast; now he was only dimly aware of the clock chiming half-past seven as he climbed the stairs two at a time, thinking of his supper. He did not notice how quiet it was in the corridors. Breezing through his bedroom door, he only had time to halt, widen his eyes, and utter “Wha—” before they jumped him.
They had dressed themselves as savages, stripping to the waist, and painting their faces. Falling on Tom, they were savage indeed, throwing a pillowcase over his head and bundling him down the stairs and into the dark churchyard. Binding Tom to a tall grave marker, they fell back, allowing Lord Harvey to remove the bag from Tom’s head with a flourish and a sneer.
“You belong on a midden heap Bagshot, not here,” he said, and planted a punch squarely in Tom’s gut. Striped with charcoal and chalk, the boys leered and hooted like demons as each one stepped forward to take a turn.
Still gasping from Harvey’s punch, Tom willed his stomach muscles to turn to stone, as hard as the grave marker that was scraping the skin off his back. It was his only defense against the blows. Some of the fists were weak, but others robbed him of breath and made him retch. He counted twenty-two punches but didn’t know when he started crying. Dying from shame, he scarcely heard their parting taunts as they doused him with a pail of water and left him.
He stopped crying once his teeth were chattering too hard. The meandering breeze was scarcely stirring the overhanging oak leaves and the ivy climbing over the graveyard walls, but it drove through Tom like a musket ball. He could hardly stand, but letting himself sag against the ropes binding his chest hurt worse. He could call for help, but who would hear?
Through breaks in the cloud, he could see the stars, so very far away. A black shape obliterated their gleam for a moment, and Tom flinched. Owl, or bat? He wasn’t keen on either. Night noises pressed on him, and he glanced from side to side, afraid of what he might, or might not see.
Maybe a grim. Those great black beasts with slathering mouths were fond of graveyards. The creature would come on huge silent feet that left no mark, his misty breath a fog around his fangs.
Stop it!
Tom clamped back a whimper, seizing and discarding thoughts as they blew away like sheets of paper. His fraying bootlace, rice pudding with sultanas, the crack of Harvey’s nose when he broke it—surely he would do that—the Latin declensions he’d been unable to completely ignore. Doubles to four thousand ninety six, the eight times table, the changing price of beaver pelts in England in the last three years. Something moved in the long grass, and thought fled, leaving his brain bare and open.
“Help!” he called, but there was no answer.
He tried again, yelling until his throat was hoarse. His fingers were stiff with cold. His wet clothes stuck to his skin, but was that from the water or his own sweat? His lips were swollen, and it hurt to breathe.
A cat prowled atop the graveyard wall. Just an ordinary cat looking for mice, Tom told himself, not a familiar. He stamped his feet and curled his hands into fists trying to keep warm. They were long, long hours, filled with fear and cold and despair. Tom imagined the dawn long before he saw it.
The sexton found him in the early morning, cut him free and supported him back to the school. Tom was not the first boy he had found left in the graveyard. The night porter put Tom to bed with a nip of brandy and a hot brick. Safe in his bed, Tom swore he was done with school. Once he’d evened the score with Harvey, that is.
Chapter Six
Revenge
Tom was prepared to bide his time, waiting for the perfect revenge, but it fell into his lap two weeks later. Surely this was the work of divine providence, and not just Bella Finch.
One hesitated to mention Bella Finch in any relation to providence, unless it was her making—she had clearly been drawn on one of God’s better days. But she was the younger sister of Finch, the Blacksmith, and though the men in a five mile radius might lust after her, she was given a wide berth. Finch was an attentive brother and a strict Methodist.
Tom was such a fixture at the smithy that Finch scarcely noticed his comings and goings; certainly he didn’t know that Bella had allowed him to kiss her twice. For practice, she said. Tom knew full well that Bella intended to marry a certain local farmer with a fine house—it was only a matter of time before the farmer realized it himself and bowed to the inevitable—but he was no fool, and made the most of Bella’s offer. Two afternoons he had spent with her. They talked, when their mouths weren’t busy kissing. Tom might even have fallen in love with her, if she had let him, but Bella was a sensible girl. Tom liked her immensely.
Bella made good use of Tom, and often asked him to walk with her to the green when she knew her farmer would be sitting outside the tavern nursing a pint. Bella’s farmer was not the only one who noticed. Lord Harvey noticed too.
As Tom reluctantly strolled back to prison (school could never be home), Harvey stepped out of the tavern and joined him, keeping pace but staying out of arm’s reach.
“You’ve an eye for a sweet arse, Bagshot,” he said.
“Do you mean Bella Finch?” Tom asked, missing a step.
“Yes.” Harvey knew her name. All the Rugby boys did. “How is she?”
Not a twitch of an eyelid betrayed Tom’s flaring temper. He said coolly, “Damn good.”
“I knew it!” Harvey tipped his face up to the sky, exulting. “Stolen a march on all of us, you lucky dog.”
Revolted equally by Harvey’s crudeness and his friendliness, Tom kept his eyes on the road, listening to the gears whir in Harvey’s head. Fearing intimate questions that he wouldn’t be able to stand, Tom moved first, asking levelly, “Fancy a go yourself?”
Harvey laughed. “Who wouldn’t?” When Tom said nothing, he added. “Of course I would! Is it possible, do you think?”
A keener fellow than Harvey would have taken note of Tom’s crocodile smile. “Sure. I’ll put in a good word for you. Give me a week. I’ll let you know.”
Harvey clapped Tom across the back, then hesitated, sensing something not quite right in Tom’s face. “You’re a decent fellow, Bagshot,” he said lamely. “Think I made a mistake before. Misjudged you, you know.”
“Don’t,” Tom said, waving away the apology like a troublesome insect. “I assure you, there is no need.”
All week, Harvey grew twitchier as he tried—and failed—to catch Tom alone. Finally on Thursday, Tom let himself be cornered in the study hall. Spying Tom from the doorway, Harvey glanced nervously about the room before joining Tom at the table in the far corner.
“Well?” Harvey asked, licking his lips. Unable to resist, Tom looked up from his book, presenting Harvey with a mystified face.
“Bella Finch,” Harvey prompted in an urgent whisper.
“Oh yes. Nearly forgot. She’ll meet you tomorrow at midnight, in the choir loft.”
“Not in the church—”
“That’s where I did it,” Tom said, challenging. “Where else can you go where you won’t get caught? You’ve
seen her brother, right?”
Harvey licked his lips again, blinked twice. “I see what you mean. All right then. But how do I get in?”
“I’ll look after that.” Tom’s night in the graveyard had not scarred him so much that he had failed to notice where the sexton kept his keys. “I’ve done this before, remember? I’ll unlock the church and leave the keys in the choir loft.”
“All right,” Harvey nodded. “Thanks, Bagshot.”
Tom smiled, flashing teeth.
*****
Two nights later, Harvey slunk out of the dormitory alone, clutching a stolen lantern that was shuttered so it let out only a razor blade of light. The lapels of his coat were turned up to hide his white shirt, so only his pale face floated ghostlike across the quad. Distracted by the dark, his moist palms and dry lips, Harvey squelched into a pile of muck crossing the road to the churchyard.
Idiot! Now your shoes will stink! Closing his eyes, he swore fluently. He wiped his foot on the untrimmed grass against the wall surrounding the churchyard, scuffing his shoes against the stones, but hopefully removing any signs of his misstep.
The creak of the gate as he swung it wide was loud enough to summon the seraphim. Harvey hunched and looked over his shoulder.
Bagshot had to be the hardest, coarsest fellow alive if he was able to meet his doxies here. Suppressing a sigh of envy, Harvey crunched up the gravel walk to the church door, muttering under his breath that superstition was for fools. This injunction did not, however, make him immune to the gothic atmosphere. The gravestones were mottled and diseased in the shaky light of his lantern, and rolling fog covered the ground. Feeling his own dread creeping up behind him, Harvey closed the distance to the church at a sprint and shoved against the door. It was heavy enough he had to shoulder it wide, flinching as it groaned like a waking spirit.
“Bella?” his frightened voice echoed in the church, a high falsetto. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Bella?” There was no answer. He left the door open behind him. Cutting off his escape was more terrifying than the imaginary creatures that might be following him.
His footsteps seemed to shake the floor. It was a fight to keep his tread slow and measured with his heart whirring like hummingbird wings. Doing anything with Bella here was impossible. He’d have to bring her somewhere else. Hang Bagshot and his iron nerve.
The stairs to the choir loft were narrow and steep. He heard a noise, like someone shifting their feet and raised his lantern so that he could see the door above him. It stood halfway open. Dropping his fear on the steps, he gathered the remaining anticipation and anxiety into a knot in his stomach and pushed past the door.
“Hello?”
Something collided with his head, sending him sprawling. He picked himself up as his cry of surprise echoed through the church, buffeting him from all sides. His lantern was gone, flung into a far corner, the whip thin slice of light tilting crazily at the wall. He could not see, but he could feel the person approaching. Without thought, his feet found a defensive stance and he raised his fists.
A low blow stole his breath, collapsing him like a set of empty bellows and he fell again, hard on his tailbone. Understanding came as he rose. Bella wasn’t here. Bagshot hadn’t even spoken to her. He’d used her as bait to draw him here so he could pound him like a piece of meat.
“What do you want?” he asked, clinging to anger lest he betray fear. He and Bagshot were matched in height, but his strength was with the blade. He stood no chance with his fists, tripping in the dark over the rails and benches of the choir loft. Maybe he could pay Bagshot off.
“Just the satisfaction of using my fists,” Bagshot grunted. Harvey dodged the first punch and the second, but the third caught him hard in the shoulder. He shuffled back between two benches. Bagshot wouldn’t have as much room to move here.
“Settling the score? You got me this time, Bagshot. But what about the next? You can’t—” Bagshot’s fist cannoned into his face and Harvey spun like a drunken dancer. He raised a hand to his jaw, tasting warm blood from his split lip, but Bagshot was done waiting. With businesslike efficiency, he yanked Harvey’s arms behind his back and bound them together with a leather strap, towing him out of the benches and throwing him up against the wall.
“My father’s been to Canada you know,” Bagshot said and dropped him. Harvey choked back a cry as his hip slammed into the floor. Leaning back against the wall, he watched Tom circle him. His lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear the words over the blood pounding in his ears. Bagshot’s cheerful face made the hairs on his arm stand on end.
Harvey swallowed, wiping the blood trickling down his chin on the shoulder of his coat. Bagshot moved closer and Harvey whipped out a leg to kick him, but Bagshot was kneeling overtop of him in an instant, drawing a cord tight over his ankles.
“You like playing Mohocks, so I thought I’d share some of my father’s stories with you. He’s met many Indians.” A heavy threat lay under Bagshot’s conversational tone.
“You can’t hurt me,” Harvey sputtered, marshaling scattered thoughts in his ringing head. If anything happened to him, his father would—
Bagshot raised his hand. He was holding a knife.
“My father said he’s never seen a neater piece of work than an Indian skinning and gutting a beast,” Bagshot said over a high squeal that filled Harvey’s ears. It was the sound of uncorked terror, and it was coming from his throat. He strangled the sound with an effort that left him panting. His eyes were riveted to the blade in Bagshot’s hand. Surely he wouldn’t. He must be mad.
“No doubt you’ve heard what they do to their enemies,” Tom said and he took a step closer. Harvey froze, then his heart thundered back to life, his breath coming in shallow gasps as Bagshot stretched his fingers into his hair, yanking it so that his neck stretched, long and vulnerable.
“For God’s sake. Don’t. I’m sorry,” Harvey gasped. Bagshot stopped, his knife halfway to Harvey’s head, level with his eyes. “Please,” Harvey begged.
“You’re apology isn’t worth anything to me.” Bagshot shrugged. He slashed the knife through Harvey’s hair. Harvey screamed, unaware that he felt nothing, only strands of his hair sifting over his face and shoulders. Bagshot grabbed another handful.
“God’s mercy!” Bagshot was going to kill him. Sobs rattled out of his chest, and he thrashed, trying to tug free from Bagshot’s hands. Bagshot forced his head back against the wall, pressing his lips together as he executed another swipe and released another handful of hair over Harvey’s shoulders.
“I might listen to an apology for Bella,” he said.
Incoherent, Harvey retched out words. He was sorry, he ought never to have presumed. Miss Finch was a virtuous lady, who ought never to be touched. He wouldn’t speak of this; he wouldn’t even look at her—
“Good. Cause I told her brother. You won’t be handsome when I’m done, but you’ll really lose your looks if he gets his hands on you. Might be best if you stay away from the village.”
Harvey’s shrill wails rang through the church. Even when Bagshot put away the knife, he only quieted to ratcheting sobs, fearing what was next. Bagshot was staring at him, exasperation pinning his lips together.
“Maybe I belong on the midden heap, Harvey, but you’re the fly who eats it.” Turning, he disappeared down the stairs. It took a half-hour for Harvey to realize he wasn’t coming back.
*****
Growling, Mr. Henry Bagshot crumpled the letter from the headmaster and stormed from his study. “Sally! He’s run away again!”
She came running from her parlor, where she did worsted work when the maids weren’t looking. She had never been good at fancy stitchery.
“What?”
“Yes. Run away again! And this time the headmaster says he’s expelled! Some rubbish about leaving one of those starched and ironed boys tied up in the chapel and hacking off all his hair. They won’t have him back, not after this.”
Sally’s face blanched. �
��Not our Tom. He would never do such a cruel thing.”
“He ran Friday last. Who knows where he’s got to in this time. Have to call out the runners again.”
Sally clutched his sleeve. “Harry,” —for that was what she called him—“Do you think he’s all right?”
“Of course he is. We’ll have him in no time.”
But it took three weeks.
Three weeks of combing the countryside, asking at roadside inns, and checking shipyard manifests. Three weeks of Sally growing paler and paler, praying with every thought and word for her son to be restored, while Henry sickened with guilt and grief. At last they found him in London, working in a livery stable. Sure of a handsome reward, the lucky runner brought Tom back to Chippenstone, whistling in appreciation as they drove up to the house.
“Why’d you run from this then?” he demanded, but Tom, who had not spoken since his arrest, merely scowled.
After Rugby, he hated this house and all it represented. Give him honest folk and honest work.
When he owned this house, he would tear it down brick by brick, just to spite his father. In the meantime, he allowed himself to be escorted inside.
It was a remarkable day for the neighborhood, though no one knew of it, for both Cordell and Chippenstone were welcoming children home. As Sophy tripped up the nursery stairs, flanked by Henrietta and Jasper, Tom marched into the hall and into his sobbing mother’s arms.
There was no help for it. Tom had to be birched, but Henry deliberately softened his arm. Tom didn’t even squeak. That told Henry more than anything else. His son was not a boy anymore. He had no idea what to do with him. The boy he had threatened to scalp was an earl. Word got around; it was unlikely another school would take Tom after that. With an earl as his enemy, it would be hard for Tom to ever gain entrée with England’s elite.
