Men of Consequence

by Francine Rainey

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Hayden jerked awake, his breath in gasps, and his body in a cold sweat. He lifted his head and looked about the room only to drop back onto his pillow. It was dark – the only window having been boarded from the outside. Hayden had not cared a whit that the window was boarded to keep him from escaping; it had saved him the indignity of having one of the guards sit inside the room and watch him while he slept. At any rate, the darkness of the room mirrored his mood. Yesterday, he had felt like a ship tossed about by the sea and then crashed upon the rocks, and with it: all his best-laid plans.

  Hayden rolled over and closed his eyes. It was too quiet, and he could find no distractions for the thoughts clamoring within, demanding that he examine what he would have preferred to ignore. Hayden groaned and put a pillow over his head like he did when he was a lad and wanted to shut out his mother’s drunken rants. But what was ineffective as a child was imbecilic as an adult, especially when the rantings came from within.

  Hayden sighed. It was well before sunrise. Last night he had fallen into bed and was asleep by the time his head struck the pillow, his mind and body exhausted. But now, he was awake. It was as if his conscience required a reckoning, an examination of his actions, and he knew he would not sleep again until it was done. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbow to knees, head in hand, and with no liquor to dull his thoughts nor distractions to quiet them, the day of reckoning had come.

  Hayden groaned, the first thought that escaped into his consciousness was to wonder how had he reached this level of madness, that he would have hated another enough to kill him? He knew how he had gotten there, but it was no excuse. Hayden fell back on the bed and closed his eyes, suddenly grateful that he had not spewed a lifetime of rage upon one who was as innocent as he. He could acknowledge it now. Though Darcy received the benefits, he was no more responsible for the circumstances of his birth or their father’s actions then was he, himself. To have murdered Darcy would have given him no peace; he would have righted no wrong.

  He saw that clearly now – even in, or perhaps because of the darkened, silent room.

  Yes, he still hated Darcy. Well, hate might now be too strong a word, but he certainly resented him, even if it were irrational. A lifetime of bitterness would not be uprooted in an evening, no matter how illuminating the evening had been. It was odd, he thought, without the rage, he felt lost, unsettled. Without revenge as justification, how was he to view creating a life, Alexander, just to use him as a pawn in a game of chess he was destined to lose? Hayden felt nauseated. Surely, he was more despicable than even his father whose motives for creating him, though reckless, were at least easier to understand.

  Alexander. Suddenly, Hayden saw a picture of Alexander in his mind, bright eyes, smiling, trusting, his son. His. Son. He had for so long thought of Alexander as somehow belonging to Darcy, and the lie, treated as truth, had justified his detachment from the lad. But it was not true. Alexander did not belong to Darcy. Alexander was his son, his progeny, his offspring. Dry heaves racked his body, and Hayden fell to his knees, the realization of what he had done, nearly too much to bear. What madness, what hate had gripped him to do something so despicable? Suddenly, Hayden lurched to his feet, ran to the chamber pot, and vomited. The violence of the act twisted his face and seized his body and seemed in league with his treacherous behavior.

  When he had finished emptying the contents of his stomach, Hayden fell to the ground groaning, curled up in a ball, cold and trembling – but not from the mild Spring night. After a while, Hayden rolled onto his back, his chest heaving. The darkness of the room could not hide the truth of his actions, nor conceal the man he had become. He had thought mostly of himself all his life, squandering what he did have, in protest over what he did not. How foolish. If he did not stop now, squandering what he did have in protest over what he did not, like a weaver’s loom, he would repeat the pattern of anger and self-pity, and he would destroy his life – as his mother had destroyed hers. And he knew somehow, Alexander, too, would be destroyed in the process. He did not know how he would accomplish it; he felt fragile and weak, but he would try to become a different man, for Alexander, for his son. In the darkness of the night, he prayed for strength.

  Hayden remained there, wrestling with the truth and challenging the lies, until the sun, tenacious and strong, found a crack in the boarded-up window and slipped into the darkness, bringing light into the room. He rose at the knock at the door; the footman bringing food. He washed with the cold water that had been left since last evening, ate without tasting, then opened the door, and stepped into a bright corridor. He walked slowly into the main room and fully opened the curtains. He watched the dust flit in the sunlight, then he walked to the mantle and skidded to a halt. There sat his father’s chest. He stared, his breathing increasing. Hayden reached out his hand and then snatched it back and walked to the window opposite the fireplace, his fingers beating a quick staccato on the frame. He jerked around and stared at the box. Then he lurched away from the window, walked quickly to the mantel, grabbed the box, and threw the lid open. He peered inside, then slowly, with shaking hands, almost as if he were afraid the box contained a scorpion ready to sting, he rifled through the contents. Calming a bit, he examined each item: his boyhood enshrined in a plain wooden box.

  He picked up the pudgy looking “cow” horse. The first thing his father had taught him to whittle. “Father, look!” George Darcy had reached for the ill-shaped offering and smiled. “Good first effort, my boy.” Hayden dropped the horse as if it were a hot coal. He then picked up a stack of notes and untied the string. In his father’s hand, he read the riddle. The more you take forward, the more you leave behind. Footsteps, he read in his childish scrawl. Hayden chose another. What flies without wings? Time, he had answered. Silly games.

  Hayden picked up another tied packet of notes and furrowed his brow. He untied it quickly and opened the first note.

  22/10/1787

  The harvest was successful. I have sent a listing of the yield, expenditures, and profits. Young Master Mimms continues his lessons with the masters you have sent. He is a quick student, although keener for the out of doors but that is to be expected of a lad his age…

  They were reports from the steward to his father. Hayden scanned through the missives, three or four a year until he reached his majority. Hayden quickly selected another.

  18/11/1791

  The wheat has yielded less this year because of the rain….

  Hayden skipped through the harvest report to find his name.

  Master Mimms is still experiencing trouble in the community. Mrs. Mimms continues to speak of his true parentage, and the respectable families stay away. The fact that she is nearly always in her cups has not helped matters either.

  However, your provision of the boxing, fencing, and riding masters has proven to be advantageous. The lad spends less time with the tenant’s sons as he spends more time with the masters, especially the riding master. The lad seems to have taken to horses and can often be found in the stables….

  Hayden released the breath he had not known he held. Then he closed his eyes, dropped the papers, and slammed the lid shut.

  “Lizzy, tell me what is wrong?” Jane asked, stroking Elizabeth’s hand as they sat together in Jane’s sitting room.

  Elizabeth looked away. “Whatever do you mean, Jane?”

  “Come now, dearest Lizzy, you have been out of sorts since we returned. Will you not share what burdens you?”

  Finally, Elizabeth sighed and dropped her shoulders. “Jane, you know we have always said that we would only marry for the deepest love, and I am so happy you have achieved it, dear sister. But,” Elizabeth paused, “I am not certain it will happen for me.”

  “Are you speaking of Colonel Saye or Mr. Lancaster? Have either of them pressed you, dearest?”

  “No, not really,” Elizabeth stared down at her hands. “I assumed that if I did not find love, I woul
d be content being a governess or teaching your ten children how to play the piano very ill, but, I do not know if I can do that, Jane. I want more.”

  “Of course, dearest, you were meant for more. You shall have it. I am certain. Someone will recognize your worth and capture your heart.” Jane stroked Elizabeth’s hand, “Did the Colonel or Mr. Lancaster speak of their intentions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you not welcome their attentions? Do you not think you could love one or the other?”

  Elizabeth sighed, “I am uncertain, Jane. Colonel Saye is exciting, adventurous, and challenging, and Mr. Lancaster is solid, dependable, and calm.” Elizabeth drew her eyebrows together, “I compare them to a hot air balloon ride.” Jane raised her brow in surprise. Elizabeth rose and paced, speaking rapidly. “It may be thrilling to soar among the clouds, and when you are on the ground, you may dream of it, but when you have soared for a while, eventually you want to return to the ground. You want the ground to be there!” Elizabeth stopped, dropped back on the couch, and looked up at Jane with a frown. “Oh, Jane, forgive me. I am speaking little sense! I hate heights!” Elizabeth laughed nervously and pressed her hand to her face.

  “No. You speak perfect sense, dear girl. Both gentlemen offer you something you value, but neither offers all that you desire, and you are not certain if you can be happy with either because of what they lack.”

  “Yes, Jane! You are brilliant! How you deciphered my meaning from that jumble, I will never know, but you have the right of it! I do not always want to ride in the hot-air balloon, but I may, at times! Oh, dear, I am nonsensical! I am becoming Lydia!”

  Jane laughed, then calmed Elizabeth by rubbing her arm, “No, you are not becoming Lydia. You simply wish to combine the two gentlemen into one; you are becoming Mother!”

  Elizabeth gasped and stared. Then the sisters burst into laughter. “Jane! Did you just call our mother irrational? I do not know you any longer!” Elizabeth said between giggles.

  When the laughter had quieted, and the sisters had wiped their eyes, Jane spoke, “Seriously, if only you knew such a man!” Jane smiled and then frowned as Elizabeth turned away. “What is it, Lizzy?” Elizabeth shook her head, gave Jane a quick closed-lipped smile, and looked away.

  “Do not fret, Lizzy. I know you will find such a man.”

  “But what if I do not, Jane? What if the perfect man is out of reach? Can I love another? If Bingley had not declared himself, do you believe you could have loved someone else?”

  Jane pursed her lips and spoke slowly, “Not as I love him, but perhaps in time – in a lot of time, I could have loved another. But you are not already in love. You will find such a one.”

  Elizabeth smiled a watery smile, and Jane pulled her to her chest. “It shall be well, dearest. You are too lovely not to have all you desire in life.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and returned Jane’s hug.

  “Now, what shall you do for the rest of the day?” Jane asked.

  Elizabeth exhaled, “I have a letter from Charlotte and one from mama as well. Mama will only harangue me for not being engaged. I think I will read Charlotte’s first.

  Jane smiled, and the sisters separated for the day.

  “Is it India then?” Matlock asked, and Hayden nodded.

  “We should make our way to Bristol as soon as may be to secure passage,” Matlock said.

  “I am at your leisure,” Hayden said with a bit of his former sarcasm.

  “Very well, then we must decide what to do with Creston Hill.”

  Hayden crossed his arms over his chest. “Sell it. I care not.”

  “Hmm, and what of your son? Will you take him with you?”

  Hayden rose and took his usual stance at the window. Darcy and Richard, who had come with Matlock, looked on. “I have not been a father to him: too much bitterness. He would be better served remaining with Francesca.” Until I have become a better man, Hayden thought. Hayden closed his eyes and began again. “He would be better served remaining with Francesca,” he finished with finality, then he laughed a mirthless laugh. “Tis hypocritical, is it not? I repeat my father’s sins, and yet I hold him in derision,” Hayden shook his head.

  Matlock cleared his throat, “Darcy thought that you might decide so and offered a fine suggestion.”

  Hayden turned sideways and momentarily cut his eyes to Darcy swallowing the sarcasm that he would have previously hurled. “And what was that?” He asked instead.

  “He suggested you sign Creston Hill over to Alexander to be held in trust, administered by me and another of your choosing until he is of age. The estate could be leased until then, and a portion of the leasing profit used for his and Francesca’s living. What do you say?”

  Hayden looked out at the field, so lush and green from the Spring rains; he sighed and shook his head, “Yes, a fine idea. Creston Hill should be his. Make it so.”

  “And what of the second trustee, who should it be?”

  Hayden turned and sat on the sill and looked straight ahead. “Let him do it,” he nodded sideways at Darcy.

  Darcy stiffened and looked up quickly. When Hayden turned toward him, he held Hayden’s matching blue gaze and asked, “Why?”

  “Why?” Hayden laughed the mirthless laugh again and looked away. “Why not?” he shrugged, but then his face became solemn. “You will not squander it,” he said. “Alexander will be cared for.” Hayden paused and glanced at Darcy. “You are like father,” he said and glanced away.

  Matlock looked at Darcy, who stared for a while then nodded crisply. “Very well, there is something else you should know.” Matlock handed Hayden a bank ledger that indicated over 18,000 pounds in it.

  Hayden looked up with creased brow. “What is this?”

  Matlock explained that George Darcy had stipulated that a portion of the profits that were reserved for estate maintenance went into a trust until Hayden inherited. The trust was to be administered as Matlock saw fit, for either the benefit of Hayden or Creston Hill. George Darcy desired that if the estate were ever mismanaged, funds would be available to either salvage it or provide Hayden with a new start.

  Hayden swallowed, hard and then frowned, his gaze locked on to Matlock who nodded. “He cared for you, Son. And now you have the means to begin again and have the life he wanted you to have.”

  Hayden looked at the paper and shook his head. His father had shaken his beliefs again. First, with the treasured mementos, the steward’s updates, and now with this added measure to secure his future. Hayden sat for a moment, then he turned back to the window.

  “No,” he said. “I never developed a taste for squandering money at the gaming hells, and French brandy is not that expensive,” he smirked, “so, I am not destitute. I do not need it. Divide it between my son and Cassandra. You know of Cassandra, do you not?” He glanced sideways at Matlock, who nodded. Hayden turned back to the window. “She is a sweet one, though I have given her little attention.” He paused and with a severe look but a soft voice, he said, “She picks flowers and brings them to me,” he shook his head and grimaced. Having been so full of bitterness, he had been blind to so much. Turning back to them, he continued, “She is innocent. Give her a dowry and an education. She deserves that chance.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Hayden inhaled then exhaled slowly; the road to becoming a better man would necessitate thinking of someone other than himself, “Yes.”

  “Very well. I will have my solicitor draw up the papers, and then we will travel to Bristol.”

  “I have just one stipulation.” Hayden stood straight and looked Matlock hard in the eye. “Aunt Lilly gets the use of the Dower house until her death.” Matlock narrowed his eyes, unable to suppress his dislike for Hayden’s aunt. “I will entertain no opposition. Creston Hill is mine to do with as I will. Aunt Lilly shall have use of the Dower house.”

  Matlock returned Hayden’s gaze, then nodded. As the men prepared to leave, Matlock turned
back, “Has the cottage been to your liking?”

  “Tis fine.”

  “And the food?”

  “Superb, the wine better,” Hayden smirked.

  “Very well. It is best you remain here until we leave.”

  Hayden nodded. A prisoner, as if I have a choice. The unspoken truth hung in the air. “My horse?” Hayden asked.

  “She has been stabled. The solicitors will be quick. We will be for Bristol soon.”

  Hayden nodded.

  As the men resumed their exit, Hayden called, “Darcy!”

  Three sets of surprised eyes turned to Hayden, who grimaced and swallowed. “I,” he huffed and rubbed the back of his neck, then squared his shoulders, and looked Darcy in the eye. “My anger was misdirected, and my plans were unconscionable. For what it is worth, I am glad I failed.”

  Darcy studied Hayden, the hardlines upon Hayden’s face seemed to have smoothed overnight. The hatred was replaced with wariness and embarrassment as Hayden struggled to hold Darcy’s gaze without flinching. For the first time, brother looked at brother, and both saw something more than just physical resemblance.

  Darcy nodded, “I thank you. And know I mean you no ill will and will care for Alexander’s future.”

  “I do not doubt it.” Neither knew who made the first move, but large hand was gripped in large hand and shaken, and a tentative peace was forged.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  Elizabeth sat in her room, reading Charlotte’s letter.

  How I have missed you, my friend! It seems an age since we were last together. I hope you are enjoying your stay in town, and you absolutely must tell me what it was like at Darcy house! And no, I have not mentioned it to your mother nor mine, for I know they will have you engaged in an instant; therefore, for my loyalty, I must have all the tidbits!