The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles

by John Jakes

  She produced the letter from the bottom of the trunk, passed it to him.

  Sealed with wax but bearing no sigil, it showed signs of much handling. The address, in a delicate, unfamiliar hand, read Mr. Philip Kent, Esq., and was written in care of Ware’s home in Launder Street, Boston.

  He looked up. “How did you get this, Anne?”

  “A private courier brought it to the door. Only hours before we loaded the trunks into the chaise.”

  “You mean you didn’t see my name in the usual list in the paper? You didn’t go down to the postal office for it?”

  Anne shook her head. Her voice sounded hollow as she said, “Someone spent a great deal of money to hire a messenger and have it delivered faster than the regular service would have.”

  Somehow, then, Philip had an eerie sense of fate working. The plain room all gray with rainy light suddenly became a place where the gale winds of chance could reach and storm around him. He didn’t know why he felt frightened holding the wrinkled letter. But he did.

  He broke the wax hesitantly, unfolded the sheets inside. As he began to read the finely-inked lines, a lump congealed in his throat. The room seemed to blur.

  The top of the letter bore the words Philadelphia City, and a recent date. The salutation was a hand from the past that clawed and held him remorselessly:

  My darling Phillipe—

  After much difficulty encountered in strenuous ocean travel, I have arrived here at the home of my Aunt and her Husband, Mr. Tobias Trumbull of Arch Street. I write this to you in secret, by the candle’s light. In the next chamber Roger lies abed, barely conscious and perhaps already in the thrall of death.

  Before he took ship from England with his regiment, we had agreed that, in the event military duty in the colonies resulted in any serious injury, he would if possible communicate with my cousin by coach mail or private post rider. No matter their location in the Empire, the army hospitals are known to be places where death for the badly wounded is a virtual certainty, due to unclean conditions, poor physicians, and such like.

  During a brief wakeful period after he was discovered lying stabb’d in some publick thoroughfare and conveyed to one such hospital—

  She knew! Philip thought, the hand of the past tighter now, making him breathe hard, and with strain.

  —he managed to pay for a rider to Philadelphia. From here, my good Aunt Sue dispatched a private coach northward to bring him back. Many bribes were necessary to effect this departure. But as funds are never lacking to Roger, it was accomplished. My Aunt forwarded the dread news to me on the first fast packet. I have come to Roger’s side, landing in Philadelphia Harbor only yesterday. Last night my husband was awake long enough to talk with me a while. He survived the journey over the rough roads, though barely, and—

  The next words were underscored with quick slashing lines.

  —he named his assailant. He told me where and how the act was done.

  He spoke both your new name and the older, more sweetly familiar one by which I have addressed you. And so, my dearest Phillipe, I come to write the truth of my heart—I have never forgotten Quarry Hill, nor can I. I tell you from the depths of my Soul that I want nothing more than to see you. Speak with you. Be close to you—yes, I admit without shame—as close as we once were.

  Horror crawled over Philip for a moment. He imagined her bent by a candle in some dark, musty room that smelled of a suppurating wound.

  I do not know whether my husband also named you his assailant before he was borne here. From all I can gather, I do not think so. Perhaps, in his weakened state, he was first concerned for his own welfare, and communicating with my Aunt.

  But I have no assurance. If there is never a response to this, which I am sending to the Street in Boston City whose name Roger breathed out last night, then I will know.

  Yet if by some miracle this letter finds you, I beg you come by any swift means to Philadelphia City so that we may meet and speak. You will be safe from any reprisals, believe that if you ever loved me. I only desire your sweet presence again. For though I may be damn’d eternally for writing it, my husband is what I knew him to be long ago. A cold, empty man. To marry him was folly which I have long since regretted. I beg you to answer my plea, Phillipe. Take all precautions you deem necessary. But come even if we may meet only for a day.

  As token of my good faith and undying love for you, I close by telling you that I have asked the doctors attending my husband to make certain he receives heavy draughts of an opiate to relieve his sufferings—and also to prevent him from again speaking your name, which I alone heard in the privacy of his room last night. My Aunt and her Husband do not know of you, of that much I am positive. For God’s sake come, my darling!

  The letter ended with more savage underscorings of the last six words, and a single shattering signature—

  Alicia.

  Shaken as never before, Philip looked at Anne.

  She must have guessed it was something like this, he thought. Her face was a study in pain as she took the letter from his numbed hand and began to read it.

  CHAPTER II

  A Death in Philadelphia

  i

  AT THE END, ANNE re-folded the sheets, put them down on a small table, turned to stare out the window. When she spoke, her voice had an edge to it:

  “And what will your response be, Philip?”

  He couldn’t tell whether she spoke in anger or sorrow, probably because he was so unsettled himself. The letter had reached across the years to rouse emotions he hadn’t felt so acutely since Quarry Hill.

  Anne sensed his uncertainty, spun to face him. He was again aware of how pale she’d grown. Was she ill, refusing to tell him—?

  Her suddenly scornful look shocked him out of all such speculation. “She’s a proper lady, isn’t she? Arranging to meet her lover while her husband lies in the next room—perhaps dying. And she’s going to drug him in case he should wake and interrupt the proposed assignation! Oh, yes—a woman of fine principles!”

  “Anne—”

  “You haven’t answered my question. Are you going to run to her, the minute she commands?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My God. You’re actually considering it!”

  He stood speechless—accused.

  “Philip, do you know how far it is to Philadelphia? Will you travel almost four hundred miles just to let them arrest you?”

  “Arrest—? I don’t think that’s part of her plan.”

  But he had to admit it well could be. Possibly Roger wasn’t in serious condition at all. Perhaps he was recovering, and had prevailed on his wife to help set a trap for the one who had brought him to grief.

  Contemptuously, Anne said, “On second thought, I doubt they’ll even bother with legal formalities. They’ll probably follow their more familiar course. Hire men from some gutter gang—to finish the work your brother started in England. Surely you won’t let yourself fall prey to such a transparent plot. You can’t be that brainless!”

  Her voice rang loudly in the dim parlor. As the sound of it faded, the tap of the March rain on the shingled roof counterpointed the strained sibilance of her breathing.

  Philip had trouble framing exactly how he wanted to approach a reply. He knew she was struggling against Alicia, as she’d vowed to do months ago. So she’d no doubt exaggerate the dangers inherent in answering Alicia’s plea for a meeting.

  Yet, the dangers might be entirely real. He said carefully:

  “I’ll admit everything you suggest is possible. Except for one fact. Alicia had no part in Roger’s schemes in England—”

  “She certainly didn’t try to prevent them!”

  “Yes, she did. In Tonbridge, it was only her warning that helped my mother and me escape in time. After that, I’m not even sure she knew what Roger was up to.”

  “Who are you trying to convince, Philip? Me? Or yourself?”

  “Dammit, Anne, listen to reason—!”

 
“About a woman who wants to take you away from me? No.”

  “But you’re not looking at it clearly—!”

  “Clearly! That’s the pot calling the kettle black! Who said I must, anyway?”

  “Anne, if Roger were recovering, I think he’d have already arranged for the kind of men you described to visit Launder Street. To find me or, failing that, force an admission from you about my whereabouts. He wouldn’t lure me all the way to Philadelphia.”

  “You keep saying all that because it’s what you want to believe!” Anne cried, tears starting to show at the corners of her eyes.

  “I’m trying to think it out!”

  “Well, spare me! I’ve gone through quite enough for your sake these past few weeks. You seem prepared to forget that.”

  He understood the tactic painfully well, a womanly tactic, springing from her anger. He didn’t blame her for the attack on his seeming ingratitude. But neither would he yield to it.

  “You were also protecting Daisy and the sergeant. You helped hatch Lumden’s plan, remember?”

  “The plan never included killing Amberly.”

  “Or his arrival! Or the boy selling us out!” Philip countered, his voice louder.

  “Don’t deny the killing wasn’t welcome revenge—”

  “I will deny it!” He stepped close to her, reached for her arm. “He meant to hurt you. That was what went through my mind first and foremost—”

  She flung his hand off, white with rage.

  “You’re lying! Lying and evading the truth! You’ve become an expert at it! Does everything that’s happened to you in Boston mean nothing? All the work for Edes—was it a dumb-show, without any feeling, any conviction on your part?” Then she lost control completely. “And what passed between us—was that meaningless too?”

  No!”

  He clenched his fists, regretting the shout. He lowered his Voice, but it remained harsh. “But I told you clearly, Anne—I would not be tied—”

  “Because you can’t decide what you are!” Anne mocked. “A free man, or the trained pet of that—that British whore. Why would you even consider going to her?”

  “If I tried to explain, you wouldn’t—”

  “A man of conviction would consign that damned letter to the fire instantly. But maybe I misjudged you. Maybe you really do want to be what she is. Maybe you aren’t strong enough to bury all those sick, false dreams your mother poured into you—”

  Face darkening, he exploded, “Don’t speak of my mother that way!”

  “I will! Because she’s brought you to this—all her rantings about your rightful place as a little lord—”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “Not till I’m finished. One thing’s certain. If you go to Philadelphia, you’ll no doubt save yourself from the battle that’s coming here. That may be the final proof of what you really are—a cowardly aristocrat like that woman’s husband. Well, go and be damned. I’m sorry I ever had hope for you—or let you touch me!”

  “I believe, Anne, that decision was yours.” His enraged counterattack proved futile. She was trembling on the edge of hysteria. The last faint color had drained from her face. The half-circles of fatigue looked stark beneath her eyes. He wanted to strike her—

  He jammed his fists to his sides, tried to speak calmly:

  “Anne, you know I care for you—”

  “Stop it! We’ve nothing further to talk about.”

  “Yes, we do. There’s no other way to put the past to rest but to see Alicia one last time.”

  “Another lie!” she cried, letting the tears come at last.

  “No, believe me—”

  “You don’t belong in Massachusetts, you belong in some stinking, perfumed manor house across the Atlantic. You’re going exactly where you want to go—!”

  In blind fury she shot a hand toward his throat. He jumped back, startled, as her fingers twisted under his collar, found the chain, tore it savagely.

  He felt the chain part, cutting at the back of his neck. She lifted her prize up between them—the broken links, and the medal.

  “But don’t travel with this, Philip. You’re not fit to wear it!”

  She flung the medal. He heard it strike the wall, clink to the floor.

  Anne looked at him hatefully. Her lips were tight together. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, taut against her gown. He wanted to take her in his arms, try to make her understand that only by confronting the demon of his past could he reach a final point of decision—

  He couldn’t put it adequately into words. He tried for a moment, but the result was only incoherent stammering. Anne turned from his outstretched hand.

  At last he managed to say, “Just because I go doesn’t mean I won’t come back.”

  Her fury changed to sorrowing pity. “And still one more lie. Maybe you can’t even recognize the way you lie to yourself any longer. If you go, Philip, I know I’ll never see you again.”

  “By whose choice? Mine or yours?”

  “Both!”

  Covering her eyes, she ran. The bedroom door crashed shut.

  A spatter of rain struck the window. He stalked to the door where she’d disappeared.

  “Anne?”

  Silence. He wrenched the knob.

  Bolted.

  Grim-faced, he surveyed the parlor. Saw Alicia’s letter on the threadbare carpet, brushed from the small table. He bent slowly, picked up the letter, slipped it into his pocket. He heard soft, anguished crying from the bedroom.

  He was angry, ashamed and bitter over the scene just concluded. A weary acceptance dropped over him suddenly. He could be no more and no less than what he was: a man caught in the present but pulled relentlessly toward a past he thought had died.

  He lifted Gil’s sword, the green glass bottle and his mother’s casket from the open trunk. He walked out leaving the liberty medal where it had fallen.

  ii

  As Philip clattered down the stairs, Lawyer Ware glanced up from his conversation with a group of Concord men in Wright’s public room. Philip kept straight on toward the front door.

  Ware rushed after the younger man.

  “Kent, a word! Anne’s been sickly of late. I have a suspicion as to why she—”

  But Philip had already stalked out into the rain. He swung up on the mare’s back, jerked her head toward the bridge and O’Brian’s farm. He heard Ware shout his name, this time angrily. But he did not turn to look.

  iii

  O’Brian pressed Philip on the reason for the journey. He got noncommittal answers, except for Philip’s use of the term “urgent.” Finally, O’Brian agreed to let him have use of the mare. But when he heard Philip’s destination, he cautioned:

  “Some of those Boston express riders claim they’ve covered the distance in eleven days round trip. Push Nell that hard and she’ll die on you. No more than thirty or thirty-five miles a day for her, mind. And rest her often. Or you can’t have her.”

  At that rate, Philip reckoned the trip one way would take more than ten days. But traveling mounted, though slowly, was preferable to the impossible alternative—trying to make it on foot.

  “All right, Mr. O’Brian, I promise.”

  “This is truly a pressing matter?”

  “Believe me, it is.”

  “Then ask Arthur to pack saddlebags for you. Bread and some of the apples from the root cellar. We’ve an old skin you can fill with the apple wine—”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where will you stay at night?”

  “Fields, barns—anywhere. I left what little money I’ve saved in the hands of Mr. Edes, the printer. God knows what’s become of it with things as they are.”

  “Well,” the blue-eyed Irishman said, “I doubt you’ll be permitted to sleep in the streets of Philadelphia. I’ll advance you a little money—with the proviso you pay it back.”

  “I appreciate it, sir. Of course I will.”

  “You do intend to come back soon?”

 
; Philip hesitated a moment. “That’s my present plan.” He felt guilty about the half-truth. He had no clear idea of the outcome of the journey.

  The farmer scratched his nose, scrutinized Philip closely. “Something’s happened today—something very strange. I’ve never seen you so jumpy. Not even when you were dodging Arthur’s musket that first morning. I’d still like to know what sudden emergency hauls you off so far.”

  The truth of it came automatically, and painfully:

  “A personal matter I need to settle for good.”

  “Colonel Barrett won’t be happy to lose even one musket man from the Concord company.”

  “Tell him I have no choice.”

  He left the farmhouse to search for Arthur in the barn, and say his farewells to Daisy and George Lumden. By early afternoon he was mounted and riding through the drizzle on the road back toward Lexington. Alicia’s letter was folded into the pocket of his surtout.

  He was still too shaken to know whether what he was doing was right. But he had told O’Brian the complete truth at least once:

  He had no choice.

  iv

  That night, he tried to sleep in the lee of a stable belonging to some Cambridge farmer. He couldn’t doze off. He was bedeviled by a sense of his own inadequacy and weakness.

  And by guilt.

  He’d acted unfeelingly, brutally toward Anne Ware, who had given so much of herself with so little reservation. Excusing himself with the argument that he’d acted in the heat of the moment helped not one whit. And though Anne’s accusations still tormented him, he was no longer capable of feeling angry. She’d said what she had because she loved him.

  Huddled in the dark with the mare, Nell, standing head down nearby, he fell prey to guilt from another source as well. His own emotions.

  He couldn’t pretend that he felt no passion for Alicia Parkhurst. The passion had only been submerged out of necessity, and because of Anne’s presence. But whether his feelings for the earl’s daughter went beyond the physical, he was too weary and confused to decide. Perhaps, during the solitary trip to the city of the curious sect called Quakers, he could sort it all out.