Death of a Radical (6 page)

Charles's dog came across him a few minutes later and his bark fetched the hunters. Charles stood over him cradling his gun, a look of irritation on his fine-cut features.

“What foolishness is this, Grub? Are you determined to catch a chill? Oh my! But there will be such drama back at the house. The servants will be in uproar. And what about Nurse? No thoughtful boy would put his nurse to such distress.”

Cousin Raif silenced him with a look. He crouched down beside the boy, helping him up.

“How do we find you here, Grub?”

“I only wished to go shooting with you and to see the wood.”

“So you get yourself lost?” Charles scoffed. “What if we had not found you? What if some stray dog had come upon you or a gypsy had carried you off!”

The young marquess pulled a face with wide, staring eyes. He stood there, not particularly tall, but well-made and strong. There was a healthy flush to his fair skin. His boots were worn and there was mud on the sleeve of his shooting jacket. Favian's toes felt damp. The thin pumps he wore were made to tread boards and carpet, not mud and grass. The little boy longed to cross over into Charles's world; to share in his liberty and strength. He could not express the passionate intensity of his feelings. Charles stared at him as the tears welled up. The boy felt his hero's hand warm and steady on his thin shoulder.

“Let him join us. We do not plan to be out long.”

Raif had taken the powder horn that hung over his own shoulder and he had fastened it about him.

“The youngest member of the party can carry the sup
plies. Only remember, Grub, next time you wish to favor us with your company, join the expedition at the outset. A man is less likely to get lost that way.”

“Oh very well,” conceded Charles. “Do try to refrain from sniveling; it disturbs the game.”

Favian felt such pride as he trotted after them into the sunny wood. He even felt happy to be in company with Charles.

The sun went in. The brisk March wind had gathered up some clouds. Favian had the impression he was being watched. He looked around. Across the cobbles another wing of the inn overlooked his seat. In a window on the first floor he caught sight of Miss Bedford's neat profile. She had removed her bonnet and was talking to someone beyond her in the room. She turned and their eyes met. Favian glanced away, blushing.

There were two men standing in discussion before the Royal Hotel. The first man, tall with a patrician profile, held himself with the posture of a military man. The second was a fellow with a sharpish nose and a pointed skull barely covered by a ginger fuzz of close-shaved hair. The latter man held his hat under his arm while he fiddled with a pair of bilious yellow gloves. Favian noted that the taller man did not show his companion the courtesy of uncovering.

Favian was intrigued as to what business the men might have with one another. Perhaps the gingery fellow might be a money lender, but then again, he looked too
eager. He glanced up. Miss Bedford was still at her window. He was certain she was watching him. He took out a pencil and paper as if seized by inspiration and jotted down a note. He contemplated it. “Yellow gloves,” it read. He underlined the “yellow” with a decisive stroke and sneaked a glance under his lashes. Miss Bedford was leaning forward, distinctly looking in his direction.

The two men parted. The man with the yellow gloves slid off. Favian tried to analyze precisely what it was that made the fellow look furtive—something in the line of his shoulders or perhaps it was just his sandy coloring and that ferrety face. The man swung his head round and stared in his direction. Favian flinched back out of sight, startled by the thud of his heart. He caught his breath and slid a glance into the street from the shelter of the window bay. The gingery man had disappeared but his taller companion was entering the inn. Catching a full-face view, Favian recognized the elder brother of a school friend. After the first shock of recognition he recalled that Strickland did hail from these parts. No matter. It should be easy to avoid his brother. There was no need for the fellow to enter the coffee room.

No need, but there he was, standing at the threshold, looking about. Favian hunched himself over his book.

“By Jove! Is that young Adley? Why it is! Still as fond of raspberry puffs, my lad?”

It is not easy to pretend to such studiousness as might render one deaf to so direct an address. The voice was distinct and the rest of the coffee room plainly heard it.

“Don't wish to recognize me, puppy? What, after all those teas I funded you and my scamp of a brother? For shame!”

Favian looked up with what he hoped was a fine performance of the scholar surprised and sprang up, blushing.

“Mr. Strickland, how do you do? Forgive me, please. When I read I forget the world. How are you, sir? And how is old Sticks? Haven't seen him in an age.”

Mr. Strickland towered over him, crumpling Favian's hand in his hearty grip. With his own kind he was a jovial man.

“He's lounging about at mother's. Mooning over some girl. Mother's pleased. Tells me the girl's suitable.”

As Favian recalled, Sticks had been an early devotee of the charms of the female sex, celebrated among his school fellows as a hero in the dynasty of Venus.

“So, how come I find you here?”

“I am awaiting the Carlisle coach, sir. I'm on my way north to visit my cousin Jarrett.”

Mr. Strickland tilted his head back to examine the slender figure before him. Poor Adley could do better with himself. His delicate features and ivory skin were perhaps a handicap he could hardly disguise, but his hair could be better dressed. The silky strands were looped back behind his ears in an untidy way.

Favian held the gaze, feeling his dignity leak away. By some unlikely insight, Mr. Strickland divined his unhappy accident.

“Been rusticated, have you! So what was the crime? Climbing in late? Boxing the watch?”

Damn the boy! By what right should the drab squib give him such a supercilious look? Mr. Strickland checked himself. Sorry for his lapse in noblesse oblige, he became over-jovial to compensate.

“Always had more mischief in you than met the eye, eh? Remember Hal telling me of the time you blew the top off old Dr. Hamgold's desk. Laughed 'til I cried. Should have liked to have seen it. Never fear—you'll not hear a word from me. Good shooting up there. I envy you. 'Deed I do.”

Favian burned with a strong sense of injustice. Mr. Strickland's thoughtless words belittled his poetic gesture, reducing it to the unthinking foolery of a schoolboy's prank. It was fortunate for his composure that at that moment a man came to the door to announce the arrival of the Carlisle stage. Favian mustered his dignity in a stiff bow.

“I must be off. This has been a happy chance, sir. Do give my regards to Sticks when you see him next.”

“'Deed I will. Give your cousin Jarrett my regards when you see him. A good man. Knew of him in Portugal.”

Mr. Strickland smiled after the boy as he left. He looked peaked, poor soul. He remembered his brother telling him that Adley suffered with his chest. He looked down and saw that the boy had left his pamphlet on the settle.
Pig's Meat
—Mr. Strickland frowned as he read the dedication. Silly puppy. He was half inclined to go after the
boy and give him some sound advice, but then no doubt his cousin would put him right. Good man—excellent riding officer. Mr. Strickland looked at the pamphlet in distaste. It was a mystery to him why anyone should be allowed to print such rubbish. It was positively incendiary in these times—particularly in this troubled district. For a sliver of a moment he wondered if he was wrong about the boy. The ridiculous notion of Favian's elfin frame concealing a dangerous Jacobin amused him greatly. Mr. Strickland chuckled to himself as he threw the pamphlet into the fire.

“Down to the bottom of Cripplegate and up t'hill,” Favian repeated under his breath. On a sunny day, when the sliver of sky above was blue and the sun's rays might slant a little way down the walls, the alley might have been considered picturesque. Today with the slate sky pressing down, there was an air of oppression about it that left Favian breathless. Descending at Greta Bridge he had chanced upon a currier who offered to convey him into Woolbridge. Leaving his trunk for collection he set off in the man's gig. The currier had deposited him at the end of the alley with instructions that a short walk would lead him into the heart of the town and to the Queen's Head, from where he might send a message to his host.

Favian congratulated himself. If a poet was to speak for the people he must acquaint himself with all conditions and here he was, for the first time in his life, in the midst of the dwellings of working men. It was a mercy that all smells were deadened in the cold air, for rotting
sewage clogged the simple drain cut through the packed earth. A building straddled the street over a barrel-vaulted arch. Following the curving passageway, Favian saw a flight of stone steps to his left. They rose to a half-court enclosed by several stories climbing up to the sky. He heard the sounds of a horse entering the narrow alley behind him. He climbed the steps out of its path.

The hoof beats and the clean ring of metal bridle furnishings were amplified within the high walls. Favian watched unseen as a horseman filled the narrow frame of the street, an officer on a black mount. The horse's eye was bright. Its neat head posed proudly on its glossy, curving neck. From the soft shine of the rider's boots to the sky-blue hussar jacket and the tall red-tasseled cap, the lieutenant was the perfect print of the military hero.

Favian felt an overwhelming sense of trespass. The pristine colors of the rider's presence seemed an unwarranted intrusion into the drab reality of the alley. He had an impulse to throw filth at the vibrant blue of the jacket, to rub mud into the insulting scarlet of the sash. The lieutenant seemed oblivious of his surroundings. His features were placid as he passed. The hoof-beats receded. Favian's chest was tight. It hurt. He sat down on the steps. He knew of old that if he could but sit a while and calm himself, he might avoid a full-blown attack.

Time passed, measured by each shallow breath. Favian glanced up to see a woman stagger down the alley toward him. She listed against the weight of a heavy basket,
helping herself along the wall with an outstretched arm. She dropped her burden and straightened her back.

“You ill?” she asked.

“Long day. Been traveling,” he managed to squeeze out, smiling at her as cheerfully as he could.

“Come up and sit by the fire.” Leaving the basket on the ground she grasped him unceremoniously by the arm and helped him up. She was a strong woman. Before Favian could protest she was steering him up the steps to her door.

“You sit there,” she said, depositing him in a chair by a scrubbed pine table. “Sara Watson.”

“Favian,” he croaked, between gasps, “Adley.”

“That's a fanciful name.” She set a tumbler before him and poured him some water. “Have a sup of that. I'll be back.”

The room was dim and calm and warm. Although his wheezing was a distraction, Favian was nonetheless thrilled by this novel opportunity. He had never seen the inside of a laborer's cottage before. He looked about him curiously. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The light from the window was as thick as amber. At first he thought there was parchment in it, instead of a broken glass, then he realized it was patched with newspaper, yellowed and faded in the light. The room seemed well swept and neat. There was a board floor under his feet. He didn't recognize the fuel smoldering in the stone hearth. It gave out a musty smell. There was a rack standing by the fire with some sort of
flat cakes on it. Shelves in the corner displayed a collection of earthenware pots and bunches of dried herbs. On the table stood a wicker basket filled to the brim with neatly folded stockings, a bobbin of matching thread balanced on top.

The air felt thick in his throat. He turned his face to the cold air flowing in from outside. The open door was an oblong of light. Through it he heard his hostess grunt as she wrestled her burden up the steps. She filled the doorway: a solid determined outline leaning out in counterweight against her laden basket. Face flushed, she heaved it onto the table with a crash.

“Turnips! They're a weight, I don't mind telling you.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Any better?”

Favian took a dutiful sip of water and nodded, fighting the impulse to cough.

“I am most grateful to you for your kindness, Mrs. Watson. May I … ?” He put his hand in his pocket. He paused at the look on her face. The room was so sparse, so bare, he could not help himself. He drew out his coins. They clinked under his fingers resting on the table top. Sara Watson stood very still. He glanced at the turnips piled in her basket and back to her face.

“To buy your family a better dinner,” he pleaded.

“They're for pigs out back!” she exclaimed, outraged.

Favian's cheek burned red hot. He heard a snort.

“Eeeh! Look at your face!” His hostess laughed out loud. “Where are you from, lad?”

“London.”

“Eat moldy turnips down there, do they? Times must be bad.”

Favian was overcome with a bout of coughing that bent him in half. Through his fit he felt the firm touch of a human hand. His hostess was rubbing his back. The intimacy from a stranger was startling. It was oddly comforting. He had had a nurse once who would rub his back like that when he was a little boy. He glanced up to see Mrs. Watson's face full of warm concern. Dimly he registered the sound of boots with metal rims on the outside stairs.

“Heard they're here already,” a male voice said. “A couple of days early; no one's sure why. They're resting out of town; at inn on't Carlisle road …”

The speaker blocked the light from the door, a young giant with a ruddy complexion. A slighter young man with thick brown hair with a curl to it stood behind him. He peered past his companion's meaty shoulder. He had well-spaced eyes and a generous mouth that looked as if it smiled easily. Favian gasped for breath trying to compose himself.