The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  Apparently he had some connection with the weaving industry. He complained about the refusal of the “damned colonials” to import British goods—in protest against some of those taxes of which Girard had spoken, if Phillipe understood correctly.

  “But damme, we’ve the King’s Friends in power now!” the fat gentleman sputtered. “North shall bring those rebellious dogs to heel. Eh, what do you say?”

  The merchant’s mousy wife said she agreed. Oh yes, definitely. The fat man became all smiles and smugness. Dust boiled into the coach windows as it lurched along the rough but supposedly modern highway leading southwest along the coast.

  iii

  They arrived in Folkestone late at night, and Phillipe engaged a room. His English proved sufficient to the task, even though his pronunciation did elicit a momentary look of surprise.

  The landlord treated his French guests with reasonable courtesy, however, and at dawn he helped Phillipe hoist the trunk into the luggage boot of another coach. Shortly after sunup, Marie and her son were bouncing northwestward, through a land most pleasant to gaze upon. Gentle downs, green with spring, unrolled vistas of tiny villages set among hop fields and orchards whose pink and white blossoms sent a sweet smell into the coach. Marie even remarked on the welcome warmth of the sun.

  Phillipe got up nerve to ask an elderly lady what the district was called. She replied with a smile, “Kent, sir. The land of cherries and apples and the prettiest girls in the Empire!”

  Near the edge of a great forest called The Weald, the coach broke an axle. They lost four hours while the coach guard, leaving his blunderbuss with the driver for protection of the passengers, trudged to the nearest town. He returned with a replacement part and two young wheelwrights, who performed the repairs. Finally, on the night of Phillipe and Marie’s third day in England, the coach rolled across a river bridge into the village of Tonbridge, a small, quiet place in the valley of the Medway.

  They found lodging upstairs at Wolfe’s Triumph, an inn evidently renamed to honor the heroic general who had smashed the French at Quebec. In Auvergne, the general’s name was jeered and cursed.

  The inn’s owner was a short, middle-aged man with protruding upper teeth. Phillipe went downstairs to find him late in the evening. Marie was already in bed. Not asleep, but unmoving. As if the trip had proved too great a strain.

  A fragrant beech fire roared in the inn’s inglenook. The spring night outside had grown chilly. A crowd of Tonbridge men packed the tables, drinking and gossiping about local happenings. Most of the men were fair, ruddy-faced, in sharp contrast to Phillipe’s dark hair and eyes. But he was growing accustomed to drawing stares.

  As Phillipe approached, the innkeeper turned from an ale cask. He handed two mugs to a plump serving girl, who switched her behind and smiled at Phillipe as she walked off.

  “Well, young visitor,” said the proprietor, “may I serve you something?”

  “No, thank you. I am not thirsty.” Phillipe was careful to speak each English word clearly. But the answer was a lie He felt too insecure about the future to squander one precious coin.

  “Too bad,” said the older man. “I meant the first one to be a compliment of the house.”

  “Why—in that case, I’ll accept. With thanks.”

  “That woman who arrived with you—is she your mother?”

  Phillipe nodded.

  “Is she quite well?”

  “She’s tired, that’s all. We’ve come a long way.”

  “Across the Channel. You’re French, aren’t you?” The man drew a frothing mug from the cask, replacing the bung with a quick, deft movement, so that very little spilled. “Good English ale,” he said, handing Phillipe the mug. “I don’t hold with serving gin to younger folk. It’s the ruination of thousands of little ’uns up in London.”

  Phillipe sipped, trying to hide his initial dislike of the amber brew. “Mmm. Very good. To answer your question—” He dashed foam off his lip with his sleeve. “I am French. But I have a relative who lives near here. My mother and I need to find his house so we may go see him.”

  “Well, sir, Mr. Fox knows most if not all of those in the neighborhood. What’s the name of this relative?”

  “Amberly.”

  At the nearby tables, conversation stopped. Eyes stared through the smoke rising from clay pipes held in suddenly rigid hands. A log fell in the great walk-in hearth.

  Mr. Fox picked at a protruding upper tooth with one cracked nail. “Amberly, eh? Is that a fact?” Someone snickered.

  The landlord surveyed Phillipe’s shabby clothes. Then he asked: “You mean you have kinfolk serving the Amberlys, don’t you?”

  “No, sir. I’m related to the family itself. How far is their house from this town?”

  “If you mean their estate, lad—only us ordinary folk live in measly houses—” Laughter in the room. “Not far. A mile up the river. The Duke lies ill, did you know that?”

  “Yes. Is there someone I could pay to take a message saying we’ve come?”

  “My boy Clarence, I suppose.” Mr. Fox sounded both amused and skeptical. “But in the morning, eh?”

  At the appointed time, Phillipe paid a ha’penny and waited. By noon, his hope was failing. But then Mr. Fox came clattering up the stairs to knock and announce:

  “Clarence has returned! Lady Amberly is sending a cart for you and your mother at three this afternoon.”

  Mr. Fox was, without a doubt, dumbfounded.

  iv

  The cart clacked along the towpath beside the clear-running Medway. On the banks, green willows drooped their branches into the river. Phillipe and Marie sat in the cart’s rear seat. They were dressed in their finest. And Phillipe was conscious of just how threadbare that was.

  The elderly carter, by contrast, wore clothing far more elegant. Orange hose; a fragged coat of yellow velvet. Castoffs, perhaps. But rich garments nevertheless.

  Shortly after they left the village, Marie asked, “Can you tell me anything of the Duke’s illness?”

  The old fellow hesitated. “Well, ’tis really Lady Jane’s role to speak for conditions in the household. But I will say Dr. Bleeker’s much in evidence. I understand he bleeds the Duke regular. The Duke’s bedroom is kept dark. He’s never seen out of it. A shame, a terrible shame!” the man exploded suddenly. “Him having so many friends at court, I mean, and being talked about for an assistant secretary’s post, now that Lord North’s prime minister. For days, we’ve been expecting His Lordship to call personally. We had no word of other visitors,” he finished, pointedly.

  No, Phillipe thought, I’m sure my father’s wife would not announce our unwelcome arrival too widely.

  The cart horse ambled around a green hillock. The driver volunteered another bit of information:

  “There is much turmoil at Kentland, you must understand. Lady Jane engaged the famous Mr. Capability Brown to redo all the landscaping just before her husband fell ill. No matter how important you think your business may be, I’d advise you to make your visit brief.”

  Coloring, Marie started to retort. Seated beside her, Phillipe shook his head. The carter did not see the woman’s mouth and eyes narrow down.

  Hatred? Apprehension?

  Or both?

  But she accepted her son’s guidance. He suddenly felt much older.

  The carter jogged up the pony. The towpath curved around another hillock. Marie let out a soft cry.

  Kentland overlooked the river Medway with serene authority. The old, yellow Tudor brick of the vast, two-story main house shone mellow in the sunshine. The house was situated at the center of a grassy parkland alive with scurrying figures. Men carrying small trees with the roots wrapped, or turning the earth with spades. Phillipe was awed by the immense, rambling place. He counted six outbuildings as the cart rolled up the long drive.

  The carter let them off at the front door and drove away without looking back.

  v

  Afterward, Phillipe decided that every
detail of their reception had been planned to intimidate them.

  The intimidation began with the delay after his knock. The door did not open for several minutes.

  Eventually a footman in powdered wig, white stockings and satin livery answered. He turned away without waiting for them to state their identities. Apparently he already knew.

  The footman led them to a vast, airy room on the southern side of the house. There, great windows with tall mirrors between them opened onto green expanses leading down to the river. The drawing room boasted carved doorframes, a chimney-piece painted in brilliant white, and chairs and tripod tables of gilt wood with needleworked cushions.

  In one of these chairs directly beneath a huge crystal chandelier sat a woman of about Marie’s age. She did not rise as the footman ushered the visitors in.

  An austere, graying man lounged beside an open window where the scarlet damask curtains blew gently. He had a prim mouth, indifferent eyes. He wore black, with only white cuffs showing.

  But it was the woman who riveted Marie’s attention, and that of her son. She had gray eyes and rather sunken-looking cheeks. But obvious beauty could not be completely hidden by her masklike expression. Blue tinting powder in her wig caught random sunlight. The powder matched the rich blue of her long gown with Turkish sleeves.

  Marie did not wilt under the impact of the woman’s stare. Standing squarely, like a peasant ready to bargain, she announced in accented English:

  “I am Marie Charboneau. I have brought my son, Phillipe.”

  Lady Jane Amberly inclined her head slightly. Her quick inspection of Phillipe said a good deal concerning her feelings about having Amberly’s bastard in her drawing room. She addressed Marie.

  “I was not certain you would be able to converse in our language. Since you can, we may conclude our business with greater dispatch. I will not offer refreshments since this is not a social occasion. I wrote you only at my husband’s insistence.”

  Perhaps Marie drew on some reserve of inner strength. Or on her training as an actress long ago. Either way, she sounded fully as haughty as Lady Jane when she answered:

  “A correction please, my lady. I am not here primarily for business, as you term it. I am here first of all because your husband wishes to see his son.”

  “Since I wrote you, circumstances have changed. That may not be possible.”

  The damask curtains stirred again. Phillipe felt a sudden, inexplicable chill. The gentleman in black stepped forward with an air of authority.

  “Lady Jane is quite correct. The Duke’s wound is severely inflamed. Poisonous. The suffering drains him of sense and energy. He is seldom awake.”

  Once more the blue-tinted wig inclined just a little. Lady Jane sounded weary, as if each word were an obnoxious duty:

  “Dr. Bleeker is one of the most respected physicians in London. He is staying at Kentland to attend my husband. I do not wish the Duke to die, but the possibility exists. We must all accept it. And behave accordingly.”

  Phillipe studied the black-garbed doctor, thinking, From London? The expense must be staggering—

  Silence, then, save for the rustle of the curtains, the tinkle of the chandelier and a shout from one of the small army of gardeners laboring outside.

  Finally Marie challenged the silence:

  “Does James know his son is here, my lady?”

  “He was informed shortly after your message arrived this morning. He was awake briefly at that time.”

  “Then in spite of his perilous condition, I ask that we be taken to him without delay.”

  “Permission for that,” said Dr. Bleeker, “I cannot grant. The doors of the Duke’s bedroom are expressly closed to all but those few whom I personally admit. At the moment, a good friend and spiritual adviser to this family, Bishop Francis, is with him. Praying while he sleeps.”

  “The face of his son might be better medicine than prayers!” Marie said.

  “As to this young man being my husband’s son”—Lady Jane’s gray eyes touched on Phillipe again and dismissed him—“I have no evidence.”

  “But I have a letter, my lady. A letter from your husband granting Phillipe his rightful share of James Amberly’s estate!”

  Suddenly Lady Jane rose. “I will have no loud voices in this house, madame. I fulfilled my husband’s request. Reluctantly, but I fulfilled it. That is all I intend to do. If there comes an appropriate time for this boy you claim is the Duke’s illegitimate son to see my husband, well and good. If not—” She shrugged.

  “I claim nothing!” Marie retorted. “Nothing except the truth.”

  “Will you in the name of God lower your voice and speak in a seemly fashion? Don’t you understand? You are intruders! Having stretched my conscience to its limits and told him you’ve come, I will not have him disturbed further unless Dr. Bleeker approves.”

  Bleeker said, “For the immediate future, the prospect is doubtful.”

  Marie looked shaken. “Then we will retire to the inn at Tonbridge—”

  Lady Jane’s eyelids flickered, hooding her gray pupils as she frowned at the physician. For his part, Bleeker acted amused. Marie’s labored English had brought the name out as Town-breedge. Phillipe felt a raw impulse to use his fist to eradicate the doctor’s supercilious expression.

  As Lady Jane controlled her brief show of anger, Marie concluded in a somewhat stronger voice:

  “But we will not leave until my son has met with his father.”

  Lady Jane said softly, “To wait might not be prudent.”

  Marie caught her breath. Like her son, she sensed the threat that seemed to hover just beneath the surface of the remark. The breeze whispered at the windows. The moving curtains of scarlet damask created slowly changing patterns of sun and shadow that seemed somehow sinister. Phillipe felt cold.

  Was there a threat in what Lady Jane had said? Or was his reaction only a product of his own imagination, as he confronted a tense and difficult situation—?

  He managed to say, “I’m not certain I entirely understand your meaning, my lady.”

  “Oh—” A delicate shrug of Lady Jane’s shoulder; a false, waxen smile instantly in place. The gray eyes were all at once bland, unreadable. “I only meant I am aware that your funds must be severely limited. Even considering what my husband sent you.”

  Was that all she’d meant? Somehow, Phillipe doubted it—

  Dr. Bleeker broke the silence: “And I must repeat, the wait may be not only lengthy, but entirely fruitless.” He turned his shoulder to them, in dismissal, staring outside with a languid expression.

  “The decision is of course yours,” Lady Jane said to Marie. “I should, however, like to examine the letter which you say you possess.” Her voice had an unmistakable catch in it. Phillipe felt a point scored.

  She knows from my face that I’m his son, he thought. She knows the letter exists. And she’s afraid.

  There was brief, vengeful pleasure in the realization. By what right did this elegant woman continue to stare at Marie Charboneau as if demanding obedience from a servant?

  He heard Marie reply, “I do not have it, madame. It is put safely away.”

  “Then at some future time you will certainly permit me to see it. Verify its doubtful authenticity—”

  “There is nothing doubtful about—” Phillipe began loudly, only to be interrupted by a commotion of voices.

  He spun around, angry again. The laughter of the new arrivals told him that Lady Jane’s words about the grave situation at Kentland were at least in part a sham; a sham to intimidate the peasant woman and her peasant son.

  A young man of around Phillipe’s age burst into the drawing room, holding the hand of a girl of perhaps nineteen. Or, more accurately, he dragged her along after him. The pair stopped suddenly. The young man exclaimed:

  “Why, God save us! The French visitors? My supposed half-brother—what, what?”

  Phillipe could only gape. At first glance, the young man might have b
een a subtly distorted mirror portrait of himself.

  Yes, the mouth was thinner. The shoulders wider. And the new arrival stood half a head taller, even though he was at the moment affecting a somewhat limp posture. But the resemblance was still marked.

  Not in terms of costume, of course. In contrast to Phillipe’s plain garb, the boy was dressed in a long, checkered coat much like a dressing gown. His outfit was completed by loose Dutchman’s breeches and shoes of pink satin. He clutched a tall, varnished walking stick with a huge silver head. The carry-cord was looped around one wrist.

  The young man’s wig was stuck through with pearl-headed pins. Phillipe had never seen such a peculiar figure. Only much later did he learn that the apparel was, according to the lights of the macaronis—youthful noblemen who adopted the latest fads and aped the sputtering “What, what?” of the king—conservative.

  For perhaps a heartbeat’s time, Phillipe was tempted to burst out laughing at the young man’s bizarre appearance and studied pose of boredom. But two things checked the mirth—the first being the total lack of any softening humor in the boy’s eyes. Focused on Phillipe, those eyes belied the pearl pins and pink shoes and limp wrist draped over the stick head. They were ugly eyes—

  Ugly as the small, purplish birthmark Phillipe saw at the outer end of the young man’s left eyebrow.

  The mark was shaped roughly like a U, and tilted, so the bottom pointed toward the left earlobe. Then Phillipe noticed a cloven place in the mark’s lower curve. He decided the mark didn’t resemble a letter so much as a broken hoof.

  No more than a thumbnail’s height in all, the mark was still livid, disfiguring. Phillipe recalled the words in his father’s letter about the difficulties Lady Jane had encountered bearing Amberly’s legitimate son. Phillipe had no doubt about who the young man was—or why he stared with such open animosity.

  The scene held a moment more—as the girl drew Phillipe’s attention. She was beautiful, so softly beautiful, in fact, that he almost gasped aloud at his first close look at her.

  She was about the same height as her companion, but slimmer. High, full breasts were accented by her military-style riding costume. The double-breasted coat was dark blue, faced with white. A froth of white cravat showed at her throat. She wore no wig, her tawny hair bound in back by a simple ribbon. She tapped a crop against her full skirt, from under whose hem peeped the polished toes of masculine jackboots.