He walked on. The portico was screened by two large black lamps to the left and right. He greeted the two doormen that stood there politely. They asked him his business. Jake only needed to mention the name of his host and the door was promptly opened for him.
When he entered, he was ushered to a dark wooden desk that barred the way to the main club. There, he was asked to sign in, as they obviously did not recognize him. Jake repeated the name of his host and that he expected him. On cue, the demeanour of the rather insipid looking man miraculously changed to one of charming courtesy. “Please allow me to escort you, Sir. It is very easy to get lost in here.” The usher chuckled to himself in little snorts.
Jake gulped when he stepped into the purely masculine domain that hosted the elite of Britain. Chives had not been lying. Everywhere Jake looked within this imperious structure; he could ascertain the power of the British Empire. Men stood hither and thither discoursing on all manner of things – the main topic being politics, power, and money. The place was so masculine that Jake imagined the members would not even deign to discuss their mistresses here.
The floor was covered with white stone that had intervals of black in it, in imitation of a checkerboard. The walls were of a darkish satin, but Jake was not sure – this was not something that usually interested him. In the centre of the hall, there was a large wooden staircase with a dark carpet on it.
Taking a deep breath, Jake continued to follow his escort who had remained completely silent as if he was in a burial procession. They soon entered into a large rectangular-shaped drawing room. The far wall was white with a large portrait hanging in the centre. A large hearth below boasted a crackling fire. Next to it, the walls were thick oak panelling.
The room that was more of a hall was full of men dressed in meticulous suits. The unpleasant usher directed Jake to a table located before a bow window. It was obvious to him that this was a seat of distinction. Here sat the most socially influential men in the club.
And so, it was – as it turned out, Jake was not to be alone with his counterpart for the discussion that involved two men’s lives. Four men sat at the table. When Jake and his temporary escort came to a halt, the staff member cleared his throat. Jake assumed that he practiced this on a daily basis in front of the mirror. He slowly lowered his head until his mouth was right by one gentleman’s ear. He began to whisper. When he was finished, he returned to his full height, bowed slightly and without another word walked back in the direction he had come.
“Good evening, you must be Mr. Jake Farrows,” said a man Jake assumed to be in his fifties. Contrary to his good friend Sir Thomas, he was as thin as a reed. It almost appeared that his clothing might slide off his frame. His face was a different matter. It effused confidence and something else that Jake recognized as ruthless business acumen.
“Yes, Sir…delighted to make yer acquaintance,” Jake said, holding out his hand.
“Excellent, I am Sir Arthur Cartwright, 4th Baronet of Wycombe…your servant, Sir,” he said, getting to his feet and taking Jake’s hand. Then, he swept his arm over the table. “You are very fortunate this evening Mr. Farrows…we are in exalted company.”
Jake arched his eyebrows as he scanned the other men at the table. There was one very fat man in his fifties and two much younger men. One of them was fiendishly handsome in a slightly effeminate way. But that was not what caught his eye the most. It was his attire. The other gentlemen present were impeccably dressed, but this man carried his clothing as if he were born in it. There was nothing too different about the colouring or the fabrics or his waistcoat – small details like the way he wore his neckcloth or how his waistcoat fell made him stand out. It almost made Jake feel totally inadequate.
“May I present to you George Augustus Frederick, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent.” Sir Arthur bowed theatrically, indicating with a floating arm in the corpulent man’s direction.
Jake’s eyebrows arched of their own accord. He could not believe that he was in the presence of the prince regent. This was worse than being on board the Triton in the middle of a sea battle. His heart seemed to stop beating, and his breath got stuck in his throat, as he bowed automatically. When he finally straightened, he thought that he was going to pass out.
The fat man was the Prince Regent. Jake could barely hide his surprise at the royal’s chubbiness. He reminded him of a whale he’d once seen while sailing with Jonathan. And the elaborate outfit - it made him look like something from the court of Versailles of old.
“Mr. Farrows was just passing by to pick up a spot of news, weren’t you, Sir,” said Sir Arthur, becoming unfriendly the moment the introductions, that included the chief members of the ‘Dandy Club’ in the form of Beau Brummell and Lord Avanley, had been completed. The Prince Regent turned away upon hearing this, clearly disinterested. The other two men immediately began to regale him with talk.
Jake sneered at him. “And I think I can imagine what the news might be.”
“There’s no need to be un-sporting about it,” said Sir Arthur, noticing his scorn. “I am afraid there is nothing for us to discuss this evening concerning the duel. Sir Thomas flatly refuses any form of entreaty. He is rather keen on getting this thing done, Sir.”
“Well then, I suppose I better get going,” said Jake, starting to turn around.
“A duel, a duel, how exciting,” said the Prince Regent, getting to his feet. “Who is taking part?” He almost jumped up and down on the spot with excitement.
“It is nothing of consequence, Your Royal Highness,” said Sir Arthur, trying to avert the conversation going any further.
“It’s between my friend, Jonathan Mitchell, Commodore in the United States Navy and Sir Thomas, 1st Baronet of Windom, Your Royal Highness,” Jake said while bowing.” He paused. “They will be fighting with pistols,” he added for Sir Arthur’s benefit.
The regent arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Now this is truly exhilarating – an American here in the middle of a war.” He frowned. “What on earth is he doing here?”
“My friend is here for an English lady, Your Royal Highness,” said Jake.
“How absolutely scandalous – I love it! We shall make a grand festivity of it. There will be an orchestra, plenty of tasty morsels and dancing to conclude the event. It will, of course, be hosted at Carlton House – I will broach no argument on the matter – I absolutely insist.”
“Your Royal Highness, don’t you think dancing and a banquet might be construed as tasteless and slightly how shall I say gauche,” said Sir Arthur, looking extremely worried.
The regent laughed in a high-pitched tone. “My dear, Sir Arthur, I think everyone will be thrilled. It is not often we get the chance to host such an event – an Englishman against an American. Nothing could be more aptly suited, especially with a war going on.” The regent chuckled again. “And besides, I really don’t think anyone will have any trouble with an American getting shot, eh?” The prince laughed hysterically, inducing the others except Jake to join in.
“Your Royal Highness…I don’t think that this is a good…”
“How dare you interrupt me when I am in mid creative flow, Sir Arthur.” The prince thought for a few moments. “Yes, you shall tell your friend…his name…what’s your friend’s name, Sir?” He continued to mumble something and looked at Sir Arthur fiercely while tapping a finger on the table.
“Sir Thomas, 1st Baronet of Windom, Your Royal Highness,” added Sir Arthur in assistance.
“Yes quite…that’s the one. You shall inform him that the duel shall be held at Carlton House.” When Sir Arthur sighed and made to sit down, the prince frowned. “Now, what do you think you are doing? Didn’t I tell you to do something?”
“Now?”
“Of course, now, you fool.” The prince inspected his nails. “Your company bores me anyhow…so, off you go and be a good gentleman…make haste; the poor man must be informed of his fate.” When the chastened peer scampered off with his tail between
his legs, the regent turned to look at Jake with a large smile on his face. “And you, dear sir, shall tell me all about America…you are American, eh?” When Jake nodded, the prince laughed. “Excellent! Now spare no details. I want to hear it all, good sir.”
Chapter 28
The Cut
London, England, October 1814
“At least it is a lovely day,” grumbled Amelia’s mother in a sullen tone that did not convey the voice of what she was describing. She had been miserable ever since Lord Templeton French had walked out of her house on that fateful day. She sensed the harbinger of bad things to come. It was inevitable. Society was like some flesh-eating plant; there were those that managed to survive dancing before it, and then there were those that were devoured – it was as Darwin would one day suggest: ‘survival of the fittest.’
Amelia looked up to the empyrean. Mother was right. The sky was a clear blue. A few fluffy bodies of cumulus that looked like white candyfloss hung in the sky. They gave the blue canvas upon which they floated an added flourish and a soft touch that spoke of a bright day. It was autumn at its finest; the time of year when the season was still not certain whether it wanted to keep the vestment of summer or don the apparel of winter.
If only my sentiments were as gay as the weather, thought Amelia. It had been over two weeks since Papa had demanded satisfaction. Every day she had hoped that her father might retract his challenge but to no avail. On the contrary, he had become even more adamant that he was the wronged party. Amelia had tried to reason with him, but he would not listen. And mother was still a useless wreck. She still feared for her reputation. So far nothing had happened. It appeared that Lord Templeton French had kept his mouth shut, but for how much longer.
After Jake’s visit to the White’s Club, things had taken a different and far more prolific turn. The Prince Regent was involved now. Without invitation, he had offered his services as a referee, and of course, no one dared counter his wishes. He had set a date for the duel in a few days time. As far as he was concerned everything was ready.
Papa had been training every day with some of the finest shots in the country. He had spared no expense in this endeavor. He had even reduced his daily intake of food and wine and spirits so that he might be better prepared for the encounter. Amelia had never seen him so charged up and eager for something. His behavior even superseded his excitement when he was on the cusp of securing a very lucrative business deal.
All of it was daunting. Amelia had wondered what Jonathan’s preparations were exactly – he never mentioned them to her in his letters. His words were mainly devoted to matters of the heart, not that Amelia minded though.
Her tummy warmed, and her heart skipped a beat when she thought of the most recent letter Jonathan had written her. It was one of many since they had established a mode of communication, but this one, Amelia considered his masterpiece. She had read it the night before and this morning at least thirty times before she could put it down – the state of the paper it was written on bore testament to her keenness for the message it harbored. And she promised herself that she would read it again the moment she returned home after her promenade in Hyde Park.
She had already memorized the words:
London, October 1814
My dearest Amelia,
Since you were taken from me twice, I have this feeling of being constantly maudlin. I know that to experience true happiness, I have to be near you. Without cessation I live in the sweet memory of our last kiss. I reminisce daily of our caresses and even more so do I hanker after your wit and charm. The way you laughed when we were at the Richmond hotel still fills me with joy. What fine memories that we will build upon when we are reunited…it will be soon, my love, so very soon…I promise.
Whenever I walk in the park and I look at the grass, I see your eyes twinkling back at me in their seductive emerald green. It is in moments like these that I stop, ponder and wonder whether it is me you are thinking about, as I think of you.
You, Amelia, kindle continually a burning and blooming fire in my heart. I thought that I loved you back at Fair Weather Heaths’, but since being parted from you, I feel as if my affection for you has grown a thousandfold. Is it possible…yes dearest Amelia, it is for you I feel love growing with each beat of my heart.
I am thankful to Jake and Anna for letting us share these few words whenever they manage to meet. If it weren’t for them passing our letters, I think I would go mad. Let me promise you, my dear sweet love, that I will do everything in my power to reunite us. It won’t be long now and we will be together.
I think of you always, with the greatest respect and devoted love
Yours,
Jonathan Mitchell
Amelia was so grateful that Anna provided her with letters such these – it gave her that feeling of being that bit closer to Jonathan. They were, of course, a small consolation in comparison to the real thing, but at least, like this, she could read what he felt for her, and she could write to him in turn and profess her undying love.
Amelia pressed her lips together when she cast a furtive look in Anna’s direction. She was the fortunate one out of the two of them. She could leave the house unescorted and visit Jake whenever she had a free moment from her duties. How Amelia wished she could do the same – Seeing Jonathan in her house that day was like being given a glimpse of heaven only to have it immediately taken away again. It always made Amelia’s heart warm when she listened to Anna speak of her clandestine rendezvous with Jake. Love is so beautiful, she always would think.
Amelia was held like a prisoner within the confines of her own home. It was only at times like these that she was allowed out in the company of her mother and Anna. How she wished just to see Jonathan again.
She knew that it would not be long now. The day of the duel was fast approaching, and her father insisted she join and witness Jonathan’s fall in person. In truth, Amelia would not miss seeing him for the world no matter how frightened she was for his wellbeing. Just seeing him would be enough for her. Also, she would be strong for him. Jonathan needed her there. He had to see that she loved him and would be there for him no matter what.
Ever since the prince regent had gotten wind of the duel, the entire affair had turned into a rather strange business. In general, duels were predominantly private matters, involving only the duelists, the seconds, maybe some friends and a doctor. The one taking place between Jonathan and Amelia’s father had turned into a spectacle, and to some with carefully wagging tongues: a farce and mockery of this brave institution. It was enough to make Amelia want to be sick – how could things have gotten so out of hand?
“This duel has me worried; it is such a sordid thing to make it all so public,” said Amelia to nobody but herself. She stopped walking and looked up at the trees that had already started to dispense with their leaves. Already, many lay on the ground around the trunks, creating a carpet made up of different colors.
“How can you mention that? It serves the American right for barging into our lives like that and ruining everything for us. He should’ve stayed where he belonged…in that ghastly place they call the United States,” hissed Amelia’s mother.
Amelia scowled. It was so like mama not to understand anything but her own interests. Not once had she taken a moment to try and appreciate how Amelia felt. “And what if it is Papa who is the one to get a musket ball in his gut? I hear the pain is excruciating,” she said.
Not once did Amelia’s mother look away from her perusal of the strolling people in the park; it was all she had been doing since they left the house. Lady Felicity, 1st Baronet of Windom, was in search of someone of standing to speak to.
“That will never happen. Your father is an excellent shot,” she said, at last, stopping her walking and turning around to face her daughter; she stood a few feet away and regarded her daughter snidely. Even though the temperatures were those of an Indian summer, she kept her hands hidden in a fur muff; on her frame she wore a thick ladie
s coat in mauve.
Amelia arched her eyebrows. “You do realize that Jonathan…”
“How dare you call him that. If you must speak of the man, you will refer to him by his proper rank. You are not familiar with him; he was your jailer; he is not your betrothed. He is a buccaneer and a scoundrel that operated without a letter of marque and harassed British shipping like the common pirate he is.” Mother’s neck appeared to elongate with her every utterance, much like a turkey.
“I shall call him Jonathan for that is what he wants me to call him. And sorry to disappoint you, Mother, but he is the man I love. And even if you don’t, won’t or can’t believe it, he is also my betrothed. I never loved Lord Templeton French, but I love Commodore Jonathan Mitchell, who also happens to be from the Scottish aristocracy if you must know.”
Amelia saw a small twinkle of interest in her mother’s eyes at the mention of a title. It soon disappeared as her mind worked feverishly. “Poppycock…he is an American revolutionary and a traitor. Scottish aristocrat, what a ridiculous notion. It just surprises me the lengths you would go to…to accredit that man with some sort of honor.”
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