Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  Garrett laughed.

  ‘What is it, Father?’

  ‘I was just remembering how we used to race each other to the front entrance at Dangan whenever we had been for a walk in the country. Do you recall?’

  ‘Why, yes, I do. I remember it well.’

  ‘Really?’ Garrett smiled mischievously. ‘Let’s see. Ready, steady . . .’ He lurched forward into a trot and called back over his shoulder, ‘Go!’

  ‘Father!’ Arthur cried in alarm. ‘You’re not well enough. Stop it! Please!’

  ‘What’s the matter? Afraid of losing? Come on, Arthur, run!’

  His son was already running, racing to catch up with his father, though not out of pride, just fear for the consequences of Garrett’s rash high spirits. ‘Stop! You must stop!’

  ‘Oh, must I?’ Garrett panted, awkwardly trying to lengthen his stride on legs not used to such exertion.

  ‘Stop Father! I beg you!’ Arthur caught up with him, and reached out to grab his shoulder. His fingers closed on the cloth and pressed on, closing around the bony shoulder beneath. Garrett slowed down and stopped. He was laughing as he turned towards his son. ‘Ah! I’m too old for these games . . . Too old.’ He paused, snatching at breaths, then he was gripped by a coughing fit, and bent double as he tried to fight it off, fist clenched to his mouth. The coughing worsened, racking his chest, and the first flecks of blood spattered on to the path. He felt his knees shaking, weakening, then the strength left his legs and he collapsed.

  ‘Father!’ Arthur cried out, dropping to the ground beside him.

  Garrett felt the boy’s hands reach under his shoulders and gently raise him up, cradling his head against Arthur’s chest. Garrett was still coughing when he was hit by a wave of giddy nausea. His vision blurred and went dark and far away, it seemed, he heard his son calling to him. Then there was nothing.

  Arthur saw his father’s eyelids flicker, then the body went limp. Garrett was still breathing, but each breath was drawn with a strained rasping sound. Looking round Arthur saw two grimy figures in workmen’s clothes walking down the path towards him. They were chatting loudly and had not yet noticed the little drama at the side of the path ahead of them.

  ‘You men!’ Arthur called out. ‘Come here! Quickly, damn it!’

  For an instant they froze, before sensing the urgency in the boy’s voice and his tone of command.Then they broke into a run and rushed to where Arthur leaned over Garrett.

  ‘I have to get my father home. Help me carry him to the carriage there, outside the gate.’

  As they drew up outside the house, O’Shea threw his whip aside and jumped down from his seat to wrench the door open.

  ‘Here, Master Arthur. Let me.’

  He carefully pulled Garrett out of the doorway and lifted him up as if the man weighed no more than a sleeping infant. Arthur jumped down behind him and followed O’Shea up the stairs to the door, reaching round the driver to turn the handle and shove the panelled door aside.

  ‘Take him into the parlour,’ ordered Arthur. ‘Then go for the doctor.You know the address?’

  ‘Wardour Street, sir. Dr Henderson.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  They crossed the hall to the small reception room used by the family for informal occasions. O’Shea carried Garrett over to chaise longue and carefully set him down. A face appeared at the door, one of the maids come to see what the commotion was about. She took one look at the ashen face of her master and raised a hand to her cheek in alarm.

  Arthur turned to her as O’Shea brushed past and hurried from the room. ‘Sarah, where’s my mother?’

  ‘B-begging your pardon, sir, but she’s taken the other children shopping.’

  ‘Shopping?’ Arthur almost wailed in despair. ‘Where?’

  ‘Davis Street, sir. She said not to expect them back until the afternoon.’

  Arthur bit down on his lip, his mind racing along in a blind panic as he struggled to decide what he must do. The doctor was sent for, at least. He glanced at his father, taking in the waxy pallor of his skin and the laboured breathing. Then he turned back to the maid.

  ‘Get some bedding down here. As soon as that’s done, get down to Davis Street and try to find my mother. Tell her to get back here as soon as possible.Tell her the doctor has been sent for. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then go!’ Turning back to his father, Arthur started to unbutton his coat and eased it from his back before removing the silk neckcloth and loosening the topmost buttons of the shirt. All the time his father was limp as a rag doll and the only signs of life were the laboured sounds of his breathing and the flicker of a pulse beneath the skin of his neck. Arthur used the coat to cover his body and then moved over to the grate to light the fire.

  Sarah returned with some blankets and pillows, and carefully lifted her master’s head to insert the pillows on to the arm of the chaise longue. Then she laid the blanket over his body.

  ‘Thank you.’ Arthur managed a grateful smile. ‘Now go and find my mother.’

  She nodded and hurried away. The flames cracked and hissed in the grate as the fire took hold and Arthur fed some coals on to the flames before he slid the vent into place and turned back to his father. He checked for signs of life and then tucked the blanket about the still body before hurrying back into the hall and opening the door on to the street. Dr Henderson lived over two miles away and O’Shea could not possibly have reached the doctor’s rooms yet so Arthur sat down beside his father to wait. The fire had warmed the room and some of the colour had returned to his father’s face, but his breathing was still ragged and Arthur willed the doctor to arrive as swiftly as possible.

  Finally, a full half-hour after O’Shea had departed, footsteps came scraping up the steps of the house and into the hall. Arthur jumped up from his father’s side and ran to the door.

  ‘In here!’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ O’Shea gasped. ‘Smashed the wheel of the carriage. On the kerb at Park Row. We had to run the rest of the way.’

  O’Shea stood aside respectfully and let Dr Henderson by. The doctor was clutching a battered black bag and his face was bright red with the effort of racing to the side of his patient.

  ‘Where is he? I see. Stand aside young man.’

  He brushed past and set his bag down beside the chaise longue. He took Garrett’s hand and felt for the pulse before he spared Arthur a glance.‘Your man explained what he knew of the situation. Your father’s a damned fool. Rest, I told him. Not bloody amateur athletics. He’s lucky to be alive. Barely alive but alive none the less. Well, you’ve done your bit, young man. Now leave me to my ministrations.’ For the first time he looked straight at Arthur and saw the dread and anxiety in the boy’s face. His tone softened. ‘You’ve done well. There’s nothing more you can do now.Your father’s in good hands and you can trust me to do what I can for him.’ He gave Arthur a sly wink. ‘Go and have a drink. Tell your cook I prescribe a cup of chocolate with a shot of rum in it for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’Arthur took a last fearful look at his father, and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He ignored the kitchens and made for the formal drawing room instead, and sat in a chair at the window to watch for the return of his mother and the other children. He strained his ears to hear anything from the back parlour, but there was no sound at all.

  The hours crawled past. Then it was noon and still no sign of his mother. Another hour passed and then at last he saw Sarah hurrying round the corner, followed closely by the others. Arthur stood up and walked slowly to the door, unsure of what to say, or how to react. He feared the worst but did not want to let the others read that in his face. So he swallowed his anxiety and tried to compose his expression as he heard their footsteps hurrying along the pavement and then clattering up the steps to the front door. His mother had overtaken Sarah. She rushed towards him, and grabbed his shoulders.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the parlour, Mother.’ Arthu
r saw that her lips were trembling.

  ‘Is he . . . still alive?’

  ‘Yes. He was when the doctor arrived.’

  ‘The doctor’s here?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘I sent for him straight away.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Gerald, Anne and Henry came up the stairs, the latter holding Sarah’s hands and red-faced from tiredness and tears. Arthur’s mother turned briefly to Sarah. ‘Take the children to the nursery and look after them, please.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She left them in the care of the maid and, with a short pause to collect her breath and compose herself, she entered the back parlour and closed the door behind her.

  In the hall the three children and the maid stared after her in silence until Sarah coughed and made herself smile. ‘Let’s go and play. There’s some nice games I know. We’ll have some fun.’

  ‘Sarah?’ Gerald spoke quietly. ‘Is Father going to die?’

  ‘Die?’ Sarah raised her eyebrows. ‘Of course not, my dear! The doctor’s here. He’ll sort him out. He’ll be right as rain before you know it. Now come on, who wants to play a game?’

  Without waiting for an answer, she bustled them upstairs to the nursery and pulled out the first box she could find from the toy cupboard: a collection of tin soldiers depicting the sides involved in the war in the American colonies.

  ‘Perfect!’ she smiled. ‘Now if we can find some marbles . . .’

  As the four children stood waiting, the maid rummaged through the cupboard until she found a small felt bag filled with china marbles.

  ‘Now all we need is a battlefield. This rug should do. Come on, Arthur, help me. If we stuff some shoes under it we can make some hills.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Bless me, you can’t not have hills. Wouldn’t be like the real world at all!’

  She cajoled them all to help her create a rough approximation of a valley lined with hills and then they began to set the troops up on either side.When all was ready Sarah sided with Gerald and Henry, and Arthur took his older sister, Anne, and they squatted down on the side of the rug where the redcoat army stretched out along a ridge formed by rolled-up dressing gowns stuffed beneath the rug. Sarah gave them each some marbles and explained the rules: each side to take alternate shots by flicking the marbles from forefinger and thumb and the side with the last man standing was the winner. Sarah proved to be an adept hand at marbles and the first battle was quickly over. A resounding victory for the blue-uniformed colonial army. As was the second battle. Arthur’s pride was piqued by the defeats and after his second defeat he glanced up at Sarah.

  ‘You set up first.’

  ‘Very well, Master Arthur.’

  She, Gerald and Henry set up their forces along the far ridge, just as before, while Arthur and his sister waited patiently. Then, when the last of the colonists had been positioned Arthur started placing his own forces. Only this time, the redcoats were lined up behind the brow of the hill.

  ‘Hey,’ Sarah protested. ‘That ain’t fair!’

  ‘Yes it is,’ Arthur smiled at her. ‘They’re still on the battlefield. I’m just taking advantage of the topography. It’s only fair, since you’ve obviously had some practice with marbles.’

  Sarah frowned, and then nodded determinedly. ‘As you will, Master Arthur. But we’ll still win.’

  ‘Really? Let’s see then, shall we?’

  As the third battle commenced it quickly became apparent that the redcoats had the advantage. Try as they might, Sarah and the younger boys could not find a direct angle to flick their missiles, and in the end they had to resort to high-trajectory lobs in an attempt to get at the invisible figurines behind the ridge. Before long the last of the blue figures was bowled over and Arthur let loose a cry of triumph.

  Before the sound had died on his lips there was a piercing shriek from downstairs. It came again at once and this time they recognised their mother’s voice as she cried out, ‘NO!’

  Anne nudged her brother and whispered, ‘What’s happened, Arthur?’

  He did not reply immediately, but strained his ears to catch the sound of cries of despair echoing up the staircase. He rose from the floor of the nursery, conscious that the others were watching him intently.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  He left the nursery, crossed the landing and began to descend the stairs as an icy sense of dread closed tightly around his heart like a fist. Downstairs he could hear his mother crying, and the softer bass notes of the doctor as he offered indistinguishable words of comfort.

  Then he knew the full and irrevocable certainty of what had happened and he felt a moment’s giddiness so that he had to clutch the stair rail to prevent himself from falling. The sensation passed and he continued down two more flights to the entrance hall. There was the door to the parlour, closed as before, but now pierced by the sound of his mother crying. Arthur hesitated, then turned the handle and entered. She was sitting on the floor beside the chaise longue, clasping her husband’s hand to her cheek. Standing to one side of her was the doctor, looking on awkwardly as he considered the impropriety of offering some physical comfort to a woman far above his social station. He glanced up at Arthur with an expression of relief and stepped aside, gesturing to the boy to help his mother.

  Anne sensed his presence and turned her head towards him, and Arthur was shocked by the animal expression of hurt and pain that ravaged his mother’s features.

  ‘Oh, my baby . . . my poor baby. Come to me.’

  He crossed over to her and as she clasped him to her breast he felt her body convulse with a fresh wave of grief. Over her shoulder he stared down at the face of his father. The body was quite still, deserted by the ragged breath that had sustained life not long before. His eyes were closed and the head lolled down on to his breast as if in sleep. Only the spattered drops of blood on his lips and the front of his shirt betrayed the malady that had finally claimed him.

  ‘He’s gone,’Anne cried, weeping into the wavy hair of her son. ‘He’s gone . . . He’s left us . . .’

  Chapter 22

  The funeral of Garrett Wesley, Earl of Mornington, was a subdued affair, even though plenty of people came to the service and, so they said, to pay their respects. His widow and her children, all of them dressed in black, stood at the entrance to the churchyard, waiting to accept the condolences of those who had attended and were even now heading slowly down the gravelled path.

  ‘Look at them all,’ Richard muttered. ‘A veritable plague of locusts. Creditors, distant relatives and those who call themselves friends; all of them hoping for a share of the spoils.’

  ‘Enough, Richard.’ His mother squeezed her eldest son’s arm gently. ‘This is neither the time nor the place.’

  Arthur plucked his mother’s sleeve.‘What does Richard mean, a share of the spoils?’

  ‘Shhh, child. Show some decorum. Stand still and bow your head. Like Gerald there.’

  Arthur glanced at his younger brother, standing at the edge of the path, head lowered and solemn-faced.

  ‘He’ll find out soon enough, Mother,’ Richard said quietly. ‘There’s no point in hiding from the truth, and there’s no shame.’

  ‘No shame?’ his mother hissed. ‘We’ll see how well you cope when we’re finally thrown on to the streets.’

  ‘Mother,’ Richard replied wearily,‘You said it yourself. No one is going to throw us on to the streets.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Her eyebrows arched. ‘Your father was something of a prodigy for squandering his family fortune. Those vultures haven’t even the decency to wait until his body has grown cold in the ground.’

  ‘Hush, Mother, they’re coming.’

  The bishop smiled as he strode the last few paces towards the family in mourning. He offered his hand to Anne first. She smiled.

  ‘My lady, may I be the first to offer my condolences?’

  ‘A fine service. I’m sure Garrett would have
appreciated it.’

  The bishop passed on, down the line of the rest of the family, offering his platitudes of comfort in a well-practised manner. Then came the other mourners: a steady procession of those members of London society who felt sufficiently moved to attend and had nothing more obliging for that date in their diaries. Once the better class of mourners had passed by, there followed a succession of composers and musicians, some of whom were so ingratiating that their efforts to ensure continued patronage embarrassed the Wesley family. Once the last of these had passed down the line a dour-faced man approached Lady Mornington and bowed his head.

  ‘Thaddeus Hamilton, my lady.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The man smiled. ‘I was the late Earl’s tailor. Of Coult and Sons in Davies Street?You may recall, you graced our establishment with your presence last spring.’ When she still looked blank the man raised his eyebrows. ‘Your husband purchased four shirts, and two coats, if you recall.’

  ‘Did he? I’m so sorry, Mr . . . Mr . . .’

  ‘Hamilton, my lady. Thaddeus Hamilton.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, it seems such a long time ago.’

  ‘I’m sure it does, my lady. That’s quite understandable.’ The tailor nodded. ‘Such a tragic loss. I’m sure that all manner of things are forgotten when weighed against the passing of so noble a man. So renowned a composer.’ He licked his lips nervously. ‘So fine a customer . . . I am sure that the late Earl would have been kind enough to continue being a customer of our establishment, and would have honoured the bill for the shirts and coats I mentioned. But for his tragic poor health in the final months of his life.’

  Lady Mornington stared at him coldly.‘Thank you for coming to pay your respects, Mr Hamilton. Rest assured, we will pay all that is due to my late husband’s creditors, as soon as we have finished grieving.’

  The tailor blushed. ‘My lady, I meant no offence. It’s just that we have sent several reminders and—’