The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  When Marie asked questions about his frequent walking trips, he gave evasive answers. Excuses: Boredom: no work to be done at Wolfe’s Triumph. The deception was but one more signal that his feelings for Alicia were growing more serious than he’d ever intended.

  It was, all in all, a May of changes.

  Thunderous weather struck the Kentish countryside. Swift-flying spring stormclouds blackened the sky. The world did not glow. That seemed appropriate, because he knew his time with Alicia would pass all too soon.

  ii

  “Alicia?”

  She answered with a sleepy murmur. They were deep in a dell they’d found, two days after the first of June.

  They lay together on a mossy bank, Alicia with her bodice unfastened, Phillipe with his head resting between the pink-tipped hills of her breasts. Across the dell, bluebells nodded in the oppressive air. High up in the sheltering trees, raindrops patted tentatively on leaves just beginning to stir in the wind. Thunder boomed in the north.

  When he didn’t speak immediately in reply to her murmur, she stroked his forehead, as if to soothe away the hesitation she sensed. He rolled onto his stomach, touched the coral tip of her left breast and watched it rise. At last he said:

  “Lovers shouldn’t have secrets, isn’t that so?”

  “That’s so.” She pressed his caressing fingers against her body. “Secrets are only for husbands and wives. I’m not even wed to Roger yet, and think of the bagful I’ve hidden from him.”

  Completely true. By now there was no intimacy Phillipe and Alicia had not practiced.

  “Go on, speak your mind,” the girl urged softly.

  “All right. Do you know what I thought of you that first day we met?”

  “Tell me.”

  “I thought you were a fine lady—and a proper slut.”

  “What a horridly truthful young man you are, Phillipe! Of course you’re perfectly right. Earls’ daughters are taught to practice feminine wiles. How do you think I got Roger to agree to the match our parents arranged? Still, isn’t knowing the art of love a good thing—for lovers?”

  “For lovers,” he agreed. “But what about those who fall in love?”

  She sat up as thunder echoed along the river valley. “You mustn’t say such things, Phillipe.”

  There was no reproof in her remark. Only sadness. She avoided his gaze. He pulled her head around gently, stared into her eyes.

  “You mustn’t,” she insisted. “We have no chance together.”

  “What if Lady Amberly was finally forced to acknowledge my father’s pledge?”

  “It will be a long time happening—if it ever does. You see how skillfully she resists. Letting you sit and sit, wait and wait, cooped up in the village—”

  “Damme, how I hate her for that!” he exploded, jumping up. “Then other times, I have doubts—”

  “About what?”

  “Doubts that I don’t know my proper place.”

  “Lady Jane would concur with that opinion,” Alicia told him, though not with any malice. She tried to gesture him back to her side. But he stalked across the dell, scowling. She let her hand fall back to her side.

  A moment later she began to lace her bodice. The mood was broken; they had strayed onto perilous ground.

  “In my opinion, Phillipe, the reason you feel doubt is just because you’re still trying to decide who and what you are. I’ll admit my own feelings are tangled, now that we’ve started—well, you understand. I don’t care for Roger, although I should, since I’ll marry him. I love to be here with you like this, although I shouldn’t.”

  Phillipe went back to her, kneeling and closing his hand on hers. “Alicia—”

  “What, dear?”

  “I’ve wondered since the beginning whether you’ve said similar things to other lovers.”

  Her blue eyes never blinked. “And I’ve wondered when you might ask me that.”

  “Is there an answer?”

  “Yes—never. You were and are the first. Do you wonder I’ve been shaken so? And risk these rides—the stares and questions afterward? You don’t know what you’ve done to me, Phillipe. Now I have nights when I can’t sleep at all. Nights when I lie weeping and dreaming it was all different. When I wish to God I could board a ship and run off—perhaps all the way across the ocean, to live with a family like the Trumbulls and never have you torment me again.”

  He asked her who the Trumbulls might be. She explained that her mother’s sister—Aunt Sue, she called her—had married and emigrated to the American colonies. Aunt Sue’s husband, one Tobias Trumbull, had become exceedingly wealthy as the owner of the largest ropewalk in Philadelphia City. He lived in a fine house, endorsed the policies of George III and his ministers and was altogether a right-thinking Tory gentleman.

  “There, at least,” she concluded, “I’d be safe from what’s happened. Something I never imagined would happen at all. For as I told you, anything beyond meeting this way is quite impossible. I am not strong enough to follow any course except the one planned for me. Marriage with Roger.”

  “Remember what I told you that first time? You could do whatever you wanted—if you wanted it badly enough.”

  “Badly enough? Oh yes, there’s the problem—!”

  Then she flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him and crying. It was a facet of her personality he’d never seen before. It touched him. Made him—yes, why not admit it?—love her all the more.

  The rain began to drip through the leaves. She broke away, ready to ride back to Kentland. The parting lent urgency to his sudden question:

  “Tell me one thing. Are they tricking us? Is my father really so ill?”

  “Oh, yes. That doctor with his bleeding basin seldom leaves his side.”

  “Then if you care for me at all, help me this much. Use your skills to persuade Lady Amberly to relent just a little. My mother’s nearly out of her mind with worry. She feels we’re being deceived.”

  “Not deceived,” Alicia said, adjusting the ribbon in her hair. “Fought. On very genteel terms. But fought nevertheless. Lady Jane is particularly afraid of you. I understand why. I told you a moment ago—you haven’t decided what you want to become. A proper nobleman’s bastard. Or a man who spits on noblemen.”

  “That’s beside the point. Can’t you persuade her to let my mother see the Duke for even a moment?”

  Alicia pondered. “I can try. It must be discreetly done. A seed planted one day, then nourished little by little. She’s not an evil woman. Only protective of what she considers is rightfully hers—”

  “Like my mother.”

  “—and it is possible she might bend to a suggestion from her future daughter-in-law.”

  Alicia’s eyes grew somber. “But it would have to be arranged for an occasion when Roger’s away. That might happen quite soon, however.”

  “How so?”

  “Lady Jane’s leash is wearing thin. She realizes it. Roger storms about in a perfect rage most of the time. And whenever he talks about going to Tonbridge, there’s a fearful row. Even behind locked doors, he and Lady Jane practically shake the house. I know she’s trying desperately to persuade him to take a holiday in London. You see, it’s as I said—she does fear you. Not only because of the claim but because of the harm you might do to her legitimate son. Yes”—she nodded suddenly—“what you suggest could be possible.”

  “Please do what you can. We’re nearly out of money.”

  She lifted her face to the wind stirring the leaves. The afternoon had grown heavy with stillness before the storm. “And time. Time’s our enemy, Phillipe. Sweet Christ, I sometimes wish you’d never come here! Forcing me to a choice I want to make and can’t—!”

  She turned and ran.

  “Alicia!”

  The cry died away. He was left alone in the dell as the rain slashed down through the treetops suddenly.

  For a moment he felt thoroughly miserable. He suspected some of her motives one instant, and the nex
t cursed the system that had locked her into a preordained future. But despite the torment, he couldn’t deny it—he loved her.

  From the edge of the trees, he watched the mounted figure receding into the black-clouded distance. He trudged back to Tonbridge feeling utterly alone.

  iii

  Alicia’s seed, planted on his behalf, took three weeks to mature.

  One afternoon on Quarry Hill, he found a note in the message tree telling him to come that night to a different spot—a willow grove along the river between Tonbridge and Kentland. Wary over the possibility of a trap, Phillipe nevertheless kept the appointment—though he surveyed the grove carefully before setting foot into it.

  Alicia was waiting. She had only moments to report that Lady Jane had won out. In a day or two, Roger, at his mother’s absolute insistence, would be off to town—London—to select items for a new fall wardrobe and learn the latest gossip in the coffee houses.

  Further, Lady Jane did show small signs of yielding.

  But Alicia had to exert pressure carefully, she said. She must not seem too unlike herself; not show too much interest in the welfare of the claimant and his mother. She’d positioned the suggestion as a possible means of ridding Kentland of the presence of Marie and her son. Once having seen the Duke lying comatose, she argued, the unwelcome visitors might realize their wait was hopeless.

  For his mother’s sake, Phillipe was encouraged. For his own—just the opposite. Alicia had all but admitted falling in love with him. Yet she was still protecting herself with exquisite care.

  On a showery Saturday, the arrogant old cart driver appeared at Wolfe’s Triumph. Lady Amberly requested their presence at the estate, he said.

  She personally met them at the door and ushered them to the stair leading up to the second floor. Of Alicia there was no sign. But she had done her work, as Lady Jane’s remark to Marie testified:

  “Though it should not, my conscience began to bother me. I wondered whether you thought I was perhaps not telling you the truth. This visit will put your mind to rest on that score, certainly.”

  Marie’s cheeks showed patches of scarlet. She looked as if she wanted to run up the steps. Following the two women, Phillipe was conscious of footmen below staring scornfully.

  At the head of the stairs, a maid waited with a candle. She led them down a dim corridor that had a dank, unhealthy reek. Near the corridor’s end, a shadow seemed to dissolve out of the wall. Phillipe recognized Dr. Bleeker, in black as always.

  The physician eyed the visitors with disapproval. Standing in front of carved double doors, he said:

  “You may not enter, only look at him from here. I’ve granted that much at the request of Lady Amberly. I wouldn’t have done so on my own.”

  Marie’s right hand dug into Phillipe’s wrist as Bleeker opened one of the doors.

  At first all Phillipe could see were the flames of two candles flanking the great bed in the draped and darkened room. The air gusting out smelled even more foul, a mingling of smoke and sweat and the bitter tang of some balm. Marie let out a low cry, took a step forward.

  Bleeker shot out his black sleeve as a barrier. Marie’s hand flew to her mouth. Lady Jane turned away, gazing at rain-washed leaded windows at the end of the hall.

  The candles flanking the bed quivered a little. At last Phillipe discerned a white face on a pillow. He might have been looking at an older version of himself.

  Then came the sound—an incoherent muttering from the man lying in the stifling room. Details leaped out. A trace of saliva trickling from the corner of James Amberly’s mouth; the gutter of sweat on his waxen forehead. Phillipe’s legs felt weak.

  Marie grasped Bleeker’s arm. “Please let me go near him. Just for a moment!”

  “I forbid it absolutely. You see his pathetic condition. Even when awake, his mind is not his own.”

  Marie stared into the room again. In a moment, Bleeker shut the door.

  “I trust we have extended ourselves sufficiently for your convenience, madame.”

  Marie didn’t hear. She was weeping. Phillipe wanted to strike the insufferable doctor. He went to his mother instead, anxious to take her out of this place of sickness and horror. We shouldn’t have come, he thought. It’s worse for her to see him this way than not at all.

  Quickly, he hurried Marie toward the stairs. She was trembling but she’d gotten her sobbing under control. He would never dare tell her that he had arranged the viewing. He’d hoped that the sight of James Amberly would lift her spirits. The effect was exactly the reverse. And he was to blame.

  As fast as he could, he helped her down the staircase and across the foyer. They were but halfway to the front door, Marie still clutching at him, when Lady Jane spoke from behind:

  “Now that you have gotten your desire, madame, I trust you’ll trouble us no further. Leave England. Do you hear what I say?—leave England. He cannot answer you. He cannot speak to your claim. I am the Duke’s voice now. And while I live, I will deny the contents of that letter with all my power. Finally—you know quite well how my son feels concerning this alleged claim—and the claimant.” Her glance at Phillipe was pointed. He shivered. “I cannot forever guarantee to hold my son’s natural instincts in check. Good day.”

  A footman had glided forward to open the door, as if to hasten their departure. Looking back at Lady Jane, Phillipe felt rain spatter his neck. He heard the noise of a coach rattling up the drive. Now he understood why Alicia’s seed had fallen on fertile ground.

  Lady Jane had summoned them not out of kindness or conscience but out of a desire to intimidate them even further—this time with the threat of direct intervention by Roger.

  Phillipe suspected the threat might be a bluff. But it would be rash to accept that assumption completely.

  In any case, Amberly’s helplessness, Lady Jane’s determination and the absent heir’s vengeful temper were now openly ranged against them—and would defeat them. That was the message the encounter had been meant to convey. It did no good for Phillipe to remind himself that he and Alicia had actually been responsible for Lady Jane gaining her desired end by suggesting the strategy to her. The point was, she had seized on it eagerly.

  And when Marie stumbled on the steps leading down to the drive, Phillipe knew how well the strategy had succeeded.

  He couldn’t catch her in time. She landed on her knees in the mud. He helped her up, filled with humiliation and rage.

  iv

  Marie’s skirt was filthy with spattered mud. As Phillipe lifted her to her feet, he saw a splendid coach-and-four arriving, its wheels throwing off more mud as the liveried driver braked and reined in the white horses.

  Astonished, the senior footman called into the house, “My lady—unexpected visitors!” He darted down the steps to assist the liveried postilion just opening the gilded door.

  Leaning on her son, Marie seemed to be regaining her composure. For his part, Phillipe was fascinated by the sight of a plump, wigged gentleman alighting from the coach. The only word for his apparel was magnificent, from the buckles on his shoes and the ribbons fastening his breeches at the knees, to the ruby-and-emerald-studded hilt of his sword and the intricate frogging around the golden buttons of his plum-colored coat.

  The footman, the coach driver and the postilion gave Phillipe and his mother angry looks, because they still stood near the coach’s right front wheel—at the foot of the steps up to the front door.

  Lady Jane appeared in the doorway. “My lord, we’ve been anticipating your arrival for weeks. But we finally assumed that matters of state prevented a visit. We’re not prepared—”

  “I realize my presence is long overdue,” answered the new arrival, pausing on the coach step. “And I cannot stay long—indeed, you can see my journey was made in extreme haste, without my customary full retinue. But I seized the moment because I am anxious to extend my sympathies and learn of my good friend the Duke’s condition.”

  The coach driver whirled on Phi
llipe and Marie. “Stand aside, if you please.”

  His clothes daubed with mud, his emotions still chaotic because of the grim scene upstairs, Phillipe glared at the new arrival. The man remained on the coach step, only a twitch of his pink lips revealing momentary displeasure. The bedraggled woman and her son effectively blocked his way to the stone steps.

  “Stand aside!” the driver demanded.

  Phillipe said, “Why?”

  “My lord, excuse these ill-mannered foreigners—” Lady Jane began.

  Now the new arrival looked faintly amused. He lifted one ringed hand to stay the angry servants, stepped carefully down into the mud and around a puddle, confronting Phillipe face to face.

  The man might have been a cousin to Bishop Francis in the general shape of face and figure. But his countenance was different in one way: it lacked oozing piety. Indeed, it had a certain merry charm. Yet the eyes were not those of a light-minded man. They met Phillipe’s in a direct, challenging way.

  “Why stand aside, sir? Because these good people believe some small deference is due the Prime Minister of England.”

  The senior footman seized Phillipe’s arm. “You ignorant sod, this is Lord North!”

  Savagely, Phillipe threw off the footman’s hand. “And I should therefore step aside?”

  The second most powerful man in the British Empire looked mildly astonished. But he managed to maintain a surface geniality.

  “Yes, sir, that is essentially the reason.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn who you are,” Phillipe shot back, too overwrought to let reason exert a calming influence. Stunned and furious, Lady Jane was rigid in the doorway. The Prime Minister said to her:

  “I detect a trace of the French in his accent. Do you suppose we have here a disciple of the infamous Rousseau?”

  “I’ve read him, yes,” Phillipe said.