Fairchild (7 page)

“Just the satisfaction of using my fists,” Bagshot grunted. Harvey dodged the first punch and the second, but the third caught him hard in the shoulder. He shuffled back between two benches. Bagshot wouldn’t have as much room to move here.
 

“Settling the score? You got me this time, Bagshot. But what about the next? You can’t—” Bagshot’s fist cannoned into his face and Harvey spun like a drunken dancer. He raised a hand to his jaw, tasting warm blood from his split lip, but Bagshot was done waiting. With businesslike efficiency, he yanked Harvey’s arms behind his back and bound them together with a leather strap, towing him out of the benches and throwing him up against the wall.

“My father’s been to Canada you know,” Bagshot said and dropped him. Harvey choked back a cry as his hip slammed into the floor. Leaning back against the wall, he watched Tom circle him. His lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear the words over the blood pounding in his ears. Bagshot’s cheerful face made the hairs on his arm stand on end.
 

Harvey swallowed, wiping the blood trickling down his chin on the shoulder of his coat. Bagshot moved closer and Harvey whipped out a leg to kick him, but Bagshot was kneeling overtop of him in an instant, drawing a cord tight over his ankles.
 

“You like playing Mohocks, so I thought I’d share some of my father’s stories with you. He’s met many Indians.” A heavy threat lay under Bagshot’s conversational tone.
 

“You can’t hurt me,” Harvey sputtered, marshaling scattered thoughts in his ringing head. If anything happened to him, his father would—

Bagshot raised his hand. He was holding a knife.
 

“My father said he’s never seen a neater piece of work than an Indian skinning and gutting a beast,” Bagshot said over a high squeal that filled Harvey’s ears. It was the sound of uncorked terror, and it was coming from his throat. He strangled the sound with an effort that left him panting. His eyes were riveted to the blade in Bagshot’s hand. Surely he wouldn’t. He must be mad.

“No doubt you’ve heard what they do to their enemies,” Tom said and he took a step closer. Harvey froze, then his heart thundered back to life, his breath coming in shallow gasps as Bagshot stretched his fingers into his hair, yanking it so that his neck stretched, long and vulnerable.
 

“For God’s sake. Don’t. I’m sorry,” Harvey gasped. Bagshot stopped, his knife halfway to Harvey’s head, level with his eyes. “Please,” Harvey begged.
 

“You’re apology isn’t worth anything to me.” Bagshot shrugged. He slashed the knife through Harvey’s hair. Harvey screamed, unaware that he felt nothing, only strands of his hair sifting over his face and shoulders. Bagshot grabbed another handful.
 

“God’s mercy!” Bagshot was going to kill him. Sobs rattled out of his chest, and he thrashed, trying to tug free from Bagshot’s hands. Bagshot forced his head back against the wall, pressing his lips together as he executed another swipe and released another handful of hair over Harvey’s shoulders.
 

“I might listen to an apology for Bella,” he said.
 

Incoherent, Harvey retched out words. He was sorry, he ought never to have presumed. Miss Finch was a virtuous lady, who ought never to be touched. He wouldn’t speak of this; he wouldn’t even look at her—

“Good. Cause I told her brother. You won’t be handsome when I’m done, but you’ll really lose your looks if he gets his hands on you. Might be best if you stay away from the village.”
 

Harvey’s shrill wails rang through the church. Even when Bagshot put away the knife, he only quieted to ratcheting sobs, fearing what was next. Bagshot was staring at him, exasperation pinning his lips together.
 

“Maybe I belong on the midden heap, Harvey, but you’re the fly who eats it.” Turning, he disappeared down the stairs. It took a half-hour for Harvey to realize he wasn’t coming back.
 

*****

Growling, Mr. Henry Bagshot crumpled the letter from the headmaster and stormed from his study. “Sally! He’s run away again!”
 

She came running from her parlor, where she did worsted work when the maids weren’t looking. She had never been good at fancy stitchery.
 

“What?”

“Yes. Run away again! And this time the headmaster says he’s expelled! Some rubbish about leaving one of those starched and ironed boys tied up in the chapel and hacking off all his hair. They won’t have him back, not after this.”

Sally’s face blanched. “Not our Tom. He would never do such a cruel thing.”
 

“He ran Friday last. Who knows where he’s got to in this time. Have to call out the runners again.”

Sally clutched his sleeve. “Harry,” —for that was what she called him—“Do you think he’s all right?”
 

“Of course he is. We’ll have him in no time.”

But it took three weeks.
 

Three weeks of combing the countryside, asking at roadside inns, and checking shipyard manifests. Three weeks of Sally growing paler and paler, praying with every thought and word for her son to be restored, while Henry sickened with guilt and grief. At last they found him in London, working in a livery stable. Sure of a handsome reward, the lucky runner brought Tom back to Chippenstone, whistling in appreciation as they drove up to the house.
 

“Why’d you run from this then?” he demanded, but Tom, who had not spoken since his arrest, merely scowled.
 

After Rugby, he hated this house and all it represented. Give him honest folk and honest work.
 

When he owned this house, he would tear it down brick by brick, just to spite his father. In the meantime, he allowed himself to be escorted inside.
 

It was a remarkable day for the neighborhood, though no one knew of it, for both Cordell and Chippenstone were welcoming children home. As Sophy tripped up the nursery stairs, flanked by Henrietta and Jasper, Tom marched into the hall and into his sobbing mother’s arms.
 

There was no help for it. Tom had to be birched, but Henry deliberately softened his arm. Tom didn’t even squeak. That told Henry more than anything else. His son was not a boy anymore. He had no idea what to do with him. The boy he had threatened to scalp was an earl. Word got around; it was unlikely another school would take Tom after that. With an earl as his enemy, it would be hard for Tom to ever gain entrée with England’s elite.
 

Henry glared, leaning over his desk. “You’re well and truly finished, boy.”

“Good.”
 

“Just what do you plan to do now?”
 

“I was doing well enough for myself.”
 

“Working at a livery!” Henry snorted.
 

“I enjoyed it. If you won’t let me work with you, I’ll find my own way.”

“I meant you to have better than this.”

“I don’t want it. You can’t make me.”
 

His dream of his son being a gentleman was finished, impossible. Henry sighed. “You’re right I can’t. Sit down.”
 

Surrendering to the inevitable, Henry gestured Tom to one of the armchairs by the fireplace. He sat without a grimace, causing Henry to reflect that he really had done a poor job with the birching.
 

“Well, Father?”

Henry rubbed his thumb over his side whiskers. “I won’t have you worrying your mother again, hear?”
 

Tom had the grace to look ashamed. “I am sorry for that.”
 

“You should be. Since you’ve left me no other choice, I’ll give you a start. You can go with Fulham on the next ship. If you want to be in business, you’ll have to learn. I’ll expect you to work hard.”

“Of course. I can earn my place.”

Henry gave a loud humph. “You’d better. You’ll leave before the month’s out. In the meantime, you do what you can to make your mother happy.” Sally would not like seeing her son take to sea. But what else was there to do?
 

Tom’s lips parted, as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. Well, and if this was what the boy wanted, why shouldn’t he have it?
 

Springing from his chair, Tom crossed the distance to his father, then hesitated, swinging his empty hands. His face was bright, flushed with pleasure. “I won’t disappoint you father,” he promised.
 

Henry smiled, and took his son’s hand. “Of course not. You should tell your mother.”
 

Long after Tom raced from the room Henry sat there. He had known for a long time that Tom would be good in the business. He’d also known that no matter how Tom succeeded in the world of commerce, he could not help but be disappointed. It was not the life he wanted for his only son.
 

Up in Cordell’s nursery, Sophy spent a sleepless night, agonizing over the loss of her mother’s sketches and the consequences of angering Lord Fairchild. She could not afford to offend her only protector. In the morning, she trembled as the new nursemaid conducted her to the library. Though Lord Fairchild accepted her wooden apology, she seemed to have killed any interest he had in her. She glimpsed him only once in the following fortnight.
 

The nursery was lonely and dark at night; she often woke, cold and terrified, too afraid to leave her room and with no one to call. Awake or asleep, she dreaded being sent away from Cordell Hall.
 

Escaping in her free hours to the park, it didn’t take Sophy long to find the ruin her mother had painted. How she longed for those pictures! Surely she would not be so troubled in that great empty nursery, if only she had them with her. After her angry outburst she was too afraid of Lord Fairchild to ask for the pictures back. The more time passed without speaking to him, the more timid she became. It hurt, knowing he had taken a share of her mother’s love, but she locked pain and resentment away.
 

Lord Fairchild did not guess she was lonely, or he would have gone to her again. After her rebuff, he told himself he must wait until she was willing to know him. He watched carefully, but she never gave any sign. Always, she subdued herself in his presence, retreating as soon as possible. Only when he watched her unobserved did he see her come to life: running back to the house, red-cheeked, from the gardens; rollicking with Henrietta in an empty salon; flitting away from the kitchen with a ginger biscuit in her hand. He waited, increasingly impatient, but the sign never came.
 

Despite his own repeated counsel—she was young, she knew nothing of him, she was grieving—he was wounded by her cool dislike. She lived in his house, yet he felt almost as removed from his love-begotten child as he had the past ten years.
 

Sophy spent most of her time in the schoolroom with Henrietta and the adenoidal Miss Frensham. From the beginning, Henrietta had been eager to embrace her half-sister. Illicit novels were her lifeblood. She viewed Sophy as a tragic heroine, becoming quite disappointed when she learned Sophy had not been rescued from the workhouse. But she was an eager listener and Sophy’s stories turned out to be better than the one she had imagined. She liked few things better than hearing Sophy’s caricatures of Mr. Lynchem and the worthy ladies of Bottom End, or her retellings of Fanny Prescott’s fairy tales. Sunny natured, there were truthfully very few people Henrietta disliked; even dour Miss Frensham was not wholly despised.
 

It didn’t take long before the girls began swapping schoolwork. Henrietta might have made a mathematical genius, had her mother allowed it, but she had almost no facility with French. Sophy spoke with a delightful accent, but needed help marshaling her thoughts when confronted with a row of numbers.
 

Cordell was an unhappy house, Sophy realized, with Henrietta its one bright flame. Lord Fairchild indulged her, fond of his beautiful, high-spirited daughter. Lady Fairchild was proud of her and ambitious for her, already mapping out her marriage prospects and her brilliant social life. Even Jasper’s teasing was done with obvious affection. Henrietta was the pride of the all the servants, more so than Jasper, who could be churlish under his smooth veneer. Like everyone else, Sophy could not help loving her.
 

Henrietta’s company was some solace, but still, Sophy was often alone.
 

Vast and sprawling, the park at Cordell was moist with rotting leaves in the fall, rimmed with frost and blighted by wind in the winter. A hardy soul, Sophy ventured out in all weather, until the day that Jasper spied her sliding across the frozen lake. Hauled back to the house, she was lectured by Miss Frensham, by Dessie, the nursery maid, and most awfully, by her father, whom she still called Lord Fairchild. He sentenced her to a fortnight indoors, so Sophy took to exploring the house. Venturing undetected into rooms, eventually she mapped it all, from the fastness of Lord Fairchild’s library to the steaming laundry. She tiptoed through the airy prettiness of Lady Fairchild’s suite, wandered the staterooms and finally ingratiated her way into the cellars, the exclusive domain of Jenkins, the butler.
 

“She’s an endearing mite,” Dessie admitted at table in the kitchen, "Even with that naughty streak. Lord, it's impossible to keep her in the nursery.” Just that day, Dessie had found Sophy in the gunroom and the dumb waiter.
 

Liza sniffed, exchanging looks with Millie Dawson, Lady Fairchild’s maid. The two were united in their disapproval of Sophy’s presence in their Lady’s house, but otherwise the servants liked her.

When Easter came, Lady Fairchild punished her husband by inviting her family for the holiday. Sophy spent her days hiding from the guests. Once she was summoned to the library to speak to her guardian; it was a difficult interview with long silences, but she hoped she had convinced him that she was doing her best as a scholar and endeavoring not to make trouble. He was still a stranger.