The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  His vision began to swim. He saw a double head on Mr. Esau Sholto’s burly shoulders. He blinked away the illusion as Hosea thrust himself between them.

  “Good God, Esau, will you have us chatter all night on top of a fresh corpse? Even the scruffy singers who were sleeping yonder have more sense than you. They ran off.”

  Esau laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’d not have met any trouble at all, I wager, if it had been my kind of evening.”

  Hosea snorted. “Spring—Vauxhall Gardens open—an hour of that dreadful orchestra music—and home to bed, early and bored.”

  “Hosea, you are a narrow young man, thinking only of gaming and skirts. If you weren’t my brother you’d be a thoroughly detestable fellow. As it is, I find you merely half-detestable. Do the Sunday sermons never bore past your ears?”

  “Well, I’m usually dozing, so—”

  “How many times has our father read the story of the Samaritan aloud?”

  “Thousands,” Hosea Sholto sighed. “To savor the King’s English—”

  “And drum some moral precepts into your thick skull. He’s failed miserably.”

  Hosea took the rebuke in embarrassed silence. Esau asked Phillipe, “Have you some means of employment in town?”

  “No, sir. But I expect I can find some. You’ve been of great help, don’t trouble yourself furth—”

  “I’ll trouble myself as long as I please, thank you! Permit me to give you another quick piece of advice. Sleep somewhere else tonight. Far from here. The beggars of St. Paul’s are a curious brotherhood. They remember faces. Even voices. They never forget grievances. It’s the way of the ruined, gin-crazed poor. If you run into some of them again, it won’t go easy with you. Or that woman you were protecting. Who is she?”

  “My mother.”

  “Still sleeping,” Esau said, sounding surprised.

  “She’s not well.”

  Hosea rolled his eyes toward the stars as Mr. Esau Sholto dug thick fingers into his waistcoat pocket.

  “Perhaps I can spare a coin for lodging tomorrow night. I don’t know a respectable landlord who’d admit you this late. I suggest you and your mother go back west, out toward Mayfair where the beggars seldom rove—”

  All at once, St. Paul’s Yard began to reverberate with the heavy clang of bells. Hosea stamped one buckled shoe. “Damme, Esau, it’s twelve of the clock already.”

  “All right, all right, coming!” Esau extended two copper pieces to Phillipe. “Here, and good fortune to you. Let’s hope other nights in London prove more hospitable than this one’s been. There’s work for industrious youngsters—”

  “Younger in years, maybe,” Hosea grumbled. “Look at his eyes. Living to four-and-twenty hasn’t given you a corner on keen observation, you know.”

  With a tolerant chuckle, Mr. Esau Sholto dropped the coppers into Phillipe’s hand. Somehow he lacked the power to close his fist. All at once his teeth were clacking. Waves of weakness, then nausea, wiped out his strength. He lurched forward.

  Phillipe crashed against Esau Sholto, dropping the casket, the sword, the money. The coppers rang on the paving stones as he slipped to his knees at Esau’s feet.

  “Here!” exclaimed the big young man. “His mother’s not the only one in bad health, it seems.” Phillipe felt a callused palm on his cheek. “Why, his head’s hot as the bottom of a kettle.”

  Phillipe mumbled apologies, tried to stand, couldn’t. Esau’s voice seemed to echo from a far distance:

  “And that slash on his neck badly needs dressing—”

  “Oh, damme, I suppose you’ll summon the most expensive physician in London!” Hosea complained. Phillipe’s skull rang and hummed. He saw only a blurred glow, as if the linkboy’s torch had been lost in fog. He scrabbled blindly till one hand bumped Marie’s casket.

  “And why not?” Esau Sholto retorted. “You won at cards for a change. We’ve plenty of empty rooms. You go fetch the woman, you mean-souled wretch. Be quick, or I’ll give you the kind of knocking I gave those beggars!”

  Hosea’s voice retreated: “Dear God, what would I be without you for a conscience?”

  “A sot, flat broke, afflicted of the whore’s pox—not to mention detestable.”

  Big hands supported Phillipe under his arms. He let the foggy orange delirium give way to the dark of unconsciousness.

  iii

  A beamed ceiling, dark with age. Beneath his head, a feather pillow of amazing softness.

  He felt other sensations. The scratch of some kind of wool garment against his legs. A nightshirt? The thickness of a plaster dressing on his neck, where the General’s broken blade had gashed.

  The bed was a place of incredible warmth and comfort, thanks to the feather-filled blanket. But the bed-frame vibrated occasionally from heavy thudding somewhere below.

  He smelled something hot and fragrant, focused on a china cup held in the tiny hand of a small, mobcapped woman whose face was a crisscross of wrinkles.

  “Can you drink this?” the woman asked. “Esau said you speak English although you’re French—do you understand me?”

  He nodded, astonished that he found himself in such luxurious circumstances.

  “I doubt you’ve eaten in a while,” she said.

  He shook his head to agree.

  “That’s the reason we’ll begin gently, with some black Bohea.”

  She cradled the back of his head with one hand, held the cup to his lips. He gulped, then spluttered. The woman laughed.

  “Slowly, slowly!”

  Thus, still feverish, Phillipe was initiated to his first taste of a beverage that, later, came to symbolize the essence of the haven he’d found. A haven whose full nature and identity he did not yet know.

  He drank more of the strong tea, thanked the woman, said, “My mother was with me—”

  “She’s asleep on the other side of that wall. She’ll mend with rest, I think. I bore Mr. Sholto five children. But only my two sons lived. The three little girls died early. Since we bought this house for a sizable brood, we’ve no lack of space.”

  The little woman said all this without a hint of pity for herself. As she left his bedside, she added:

  “My son Esau has his father’s good sense. Hosea is a good boy too, but he drinks too much. In fact Mr. Sholto caned him six times for being so reluctant to help last night. Hosea apologizes. Now try to sleep if you can.”

  With that she vanished, closing the door behind her.

  Phillipe drifted back to drowsiness against the pillow, marveling at the comfort, at how safe he felt. Most miraculous of all was the renewed realization that the world was not entirely populated by Amberlys.

  The occasional thudding continued below. Speculating on the cause of it—such a tame problem for a change—he slept.

  iv

  Mrs. Emma Sholto would not let him get up, except to use the chamber pot, for three days.

  Big-shouldered Esau appeared a few times, wearing black-smeared breeches and an equally stained jerkin over a full-sleeved shirt. And Hosea visited too, once, rather sheepishly. He was equally black-stained and smeared.

  Hosea stated that he hoped the visitors were receiving good care and recovering their strength. Then he said with a guilty smile:

  “Esau keeps reminding me I’ve no capacity for port. You do understand I was somewhat drunk in the churchyard?”

  “You really didn’t show much sign of it.” Phillipe smiled back.

  Hosea looked chagrined. “Some fall down. Some puke up their guts. But I walk around like a perfectly normal fellow—paying no attention to anyone but myself. I got Mr. Sholto’s cane across the ass several times, by way of chastisement.”

  “Your mother mentioned that.”

  “I also got extra evening work, which I suppose is good. I won’t squander so much of what I earn at the clubs. We’ll produce our new editions more speedily. I’m not altogether certain whether Mr. Sholto’s insistence that I work more hours is chiefly in
the interest of punishment or profit.”

  Phillipe hitched higher in the bed. The plaster aside his neck itched. “Editions? Do you mean books?”

  “What else? Don’t you recognize this hellish black paste?” He displayed his smeared hands. “It takes hours to scrub it from under the fingernails. I thought you’d have heard the press thumping, too.”

  “I did, but I couldn’t identify the sound.”

  “We work downstairs, live upstairs. This is Sholto and Sons, Printers and Stationers, of Sweet’s Lane. Only a few paces from where we found you. Well—I’m under orders not to tire you out. Just wanted to make amends for the other evening—”

  Phillipe grinned. “Not necessary.”

  With a wave and a smile, Hosea left.

  Reflecting on his new circumstances, Phillipe again drifted into deep, relaxed sleep.

  v

  On the evening of Phillipe’s fourth day in the Sholto household, the patriarch himself appeared for the first time. At least if the man had looked in before, Phillipe hadn’t been aware of it.

  In truth, he probably wouldn’t have known if a coach thundered through the room. He had been luxuriating in sleep and security.

  Mr. Sholto was a small person, lacking the breadth of shoulder of his sons. Both of them appeared with their father, standing behind him as he took the only chair in the modestly furnished bedroom.

  Mr. Sholto’s most prominent features were his oversized stomach, all out of proportion to the rest of him, his stern brown eyes and his aroma of ink.

  The printer subjected Phillipe to a careful scrutiny, as if totting up his impressions before starting a conversation. His tiny, wrinkled wife appeared with a tray. Crisp-crusted mutton pie, a roast apple, a cup of the inevitable Bohea.

  “Well, sir, I am Solomon Sholto,” said the gray-haired man at last, as Phillipe dug into the mutton pie with ferocious hunger. “You are French, I understand. You have a mother in our next bedroom, and both of you were beset by the ungodly rascals who loiter at St. Paul’s after dark. That’s most of what I know. Are you well enough to tell me anything more?”

  “First, Mr. Sholto, that we’ll be in your debt forever for your kindness. I wish we could repay you.”

  “Who has asked for payment? We do our duty to our fellow men, according to the precepts of the Scriptures.” The brown eyes darted momentarily to Hosea, who had wandered to the far corner of the bed, perching there until his father glanced his way. Immediately he stood up. He clasped his inky hands together, first at his waist, then behind him. Leaning against the wall, big Esau covered a smirk with one black-nailed hand.

  “Your mother has wakened once or twice,” Mr. Sholto said. “But the fever still claims her. And so far, we don’t know your names.”

  “Mine’s Phillipe Charboneau, sir. Of the province of Auvergne.”

  “A long way from London,” the elder Sholto observed. “What brings you to the city?”

  Phillipe hesitated, the teacup at his lips; he was already beginning to like the strange, strong brew.

  “Come, sir,” Mr. Sholto chided firmly. “Enlighten us! French people don’t simply pop up from nowhere. Unless you’re an escaped murderer destined for hemp out on Tyburn Road, you’ve nothing to fear.”

  Phillipe thought a moment, then said carefully, “We came to England because of an inheritance.”

  “Somehow connected with that box you guarded so well?” Esau wanted to know.

  “Yes, it—where is the casket?” he asked abruptly.

  “Safe in the wardrobe in your mother’s room,” Mrs. Emma Sholto assured him.

  “Along with that French sword,” Hosea put in. “I’d give a deal to be able to hang that elegant sticker at my hip next time I visit White’s.”

  “You and the fleshpots of St. James’s Street,” grumbled Solomon Sholto, “will not become reacquainted for quite some time. Would God that those infernal dens would shut all their rooms to the merchant classes, not just their subscription rooms. But extra presswork will serve the same temporary purpose. And allow time for reflection on the sins of drunkenness and vanity, which permit no thought for the well-being of others.”

  Hosea cringed. Esau again looked amused, only this time he let the amusement become a guffaw. Solomon Sholto silenced him with a glare equally as stern as the one he’d thrown Hosea. Then he continued to Phillipe:

  “We do not pry into the belongings of our guests, you may be certain. So whatever’s in the leather box, only you know.”

  But his straightforward gaze as he hunched over, one ink-stained hand on his knee, indicated that he would very much like the information.

  Phillipe glanced from face to face. Esau. Hosea. The small, strong wife. And finally the heavy-bellied head of the household—

  Danger seemed remote. He offered a hint to test that conclusion:

  “My mother and I fled from a village in Kent because we incurred the wrath of a great family. My life was threatened. We thought we’d be safer in the city crowds.”

  Mr. Sholto said nothing, merely continued to stare. Warmed by the food and by these plain, open faces, Phillipe felt resistance and suspicion melt. It was a relief to speak.

  He told them most of it, omitting only the primary reason for the fateful struggle with Roger—Alicia.

  At the end; he leaned back on the pillow with his hands around the still-warm teacup, awaiting a reaction.

  “Amberly!” Mr. Sholto exclaimed with sudden animation, hopping up and pacing the plank floor. “I don’t wonder you fled from that high-handed Tory crowd. This house is of a different persuasion. The Whig persuasion, which does not fully approve of the antidemocratic policies of the King or his puppet ministers—that little clique of King’s Friends. From all I know of Whitehall gossip, your father would have been welcomed to that group with enthusiasm, had he not suffered an untimely death.”

  “My mother speaks nothing but good of James Amberly,” Phillipe protested. “It was the same with the landlord and several others in Tonbridge.”

  “Yes, well—the dead are the dead. Why haggle over their politics? I rather admire your audacity in challenging such a family. But I sense you have discovered what I could have told you merely from knowing the Duchess of Kentland’s reputation. You waged a lost battle from the start. Nor would you be any more successful here, I expect. For every twisty-tongued lawyer you could buy, they could buy a baker’s twelve, plus judges, magistrates—and thugs of every ilk, if that became necessary. When a woman like the Duchess wishes to refuse your claim, it will be refused, fair means or foul. Babies from the wrong sides of noble blankets can be found on every street in London. Some very few are lucky. Press their causes to successful ends. But most fail. For your own safety and peace of mind—as well as your mother’s—I’d advise you to give up your quest, find a means to earn enough money to pay your way back to France, and forget the whole matter. Above all, say absolutely nothing about your claim—and your origins—outside this house. You’ll never become rich, but you’ll live longer.”

  Emma Sholto rested a tiny hand on her husband’s shoulder. “He’s tiring, Solomon.”

  “Nonsense, he’s a stout young man.”

  “Still, I insist we let him go to sleep.”

  Garrumphing, Mr. Solomon Sholto pushed the chair back to its place. He herded his sons toward the door. Both stared at Phillipe with new appreciation.

  After the printer’s wife had gone, Esau and Hosea lingered in the hall while the elder Sholto paused in the doorway.

  “Should you decide to follow my advice, young man, and wish to do honest labor to accumulate that passage money back to France, we might be able to make a place for you here.”

  “I wouldn’t want special favors, Mr. Sholto.”

  “None given, sir! You’d be in for hard work, I guarantee.”

  “Don’t London craftsmen keep apprentices to help them?”

  “Aye, and I’ve had two. Both have run off. I am demanding, but not cruel. The lad
s, however, considered me the latter. I wouldn’t tolerate the swilling of gin by ten-year-old boys. Where they came by the stuff, I preferred not to know. Stole it? Killed for it?” He shrugged unhappily. “They were already so hardened before I took them on, they reminded me more of ancient dwarfs than children hopeful of learning a trade.”

  “Bad sorts, both of ’em,” Esau agreed.

  Phillipe broke in to say that the Methodist landlord of Wolfe’s Triumph had mentioned the evils of gin drinking among the London lower classes.

  “Then,” said Mr. Sholto, “there’s a point at which I, a High Churchman, and your friend of a Dissenting sect, may agree. But it’s no wonder boys like that must besot themselves early in order to survive. They’re brutalized from age seven or eight on up. With long hours. Back-breaking labor suitable only for grown men. The abuses of inhumane masters. I don’t blame a lad who’s known nothing but brutality and poverty for learning to drink, and drink hard, almost as soon as he can walk. For that reason, I did not order pursuit of either of the runaways—you realize there are severe punishments for the crime? Fingers or toes may be cut off. The two boys I lost one after another will be punished enough before their days run out all too soon. Ah, but I’m chattering on—Mrs. Emma will have after me in earnest. You’ve heard we have an opportunity here. Esau could teach you the fundamentals, I imagine—”

  “Right quickly,” Esau grinned.

  “And it’s a noble trade, because it promulgates that which neither kings nor armies can put down. The free traffic of the ideas of men’s minds.”

  A small, protesting voice sounded from down the hall.

  “Yes, Emma, yes—a moment more!” He looked at Phillipe. “To put it plain, we would welcome your assistance. Especially since some in the firm prefer virgins’ sighs to vellum bindings. The offer is open.”

  The door closing hid the three—including Hosea, who had turned all red again.

  vi