Hugh Kenrick (28 page)

The rout offered a bounteous fare, an orchestra, and a dazzling array of the crème of London society, and was a gay, brilliant affair. The Marquis regarded himself as a connoisseur of the arts and letters, granting small pensions to painters, poets, and composers whose work he helped to exhibit, publish, or have performed. On this occasion he had had two rooms of the Pantheon turned into galleries for the work of several of his painters, while the orchestra would introduce two new country-dances by one of his composers.

The Marquis contrasted violently with both the affair and his artistic pastime. He was a tall, waxen-faced, cadaverous man who, even in his finery, looked as though he had just risen from a coffin. His wife, the Marchioness of Bilbury, was a squat, rotund, ugly woman whom no amount of finery or cosmetics could prettify. The jaded, the debauched, and even the most civil of their guests avoided protracted conversation with the pair and spoke with them only when absolutely necessary.

The eighteenth Marquis of Bilbury was the father of Brice Blissom, now merely Baron Ainslie, but heir-apparent to his father’s title. He was their only son. He was not at his parents’ side to receive guests when the servant announced the entrance of “The Right Honorable Lord Kenrick, Earl of Danvers, and his nephew, the Honorable Hugh Kenrick, Baron of Danvers.” Brice Blissom was on the other side of the hall, entertaining other young, aristocratic bucks with a lewd story. He heard the announcement, though, excused himself from his friends, and rushed across the circle. His father had expressed a wish that he meet the Earl, an important political ally. But he had not expected to hear the name of the person who had disfigured his hands at Eton years ago. It was with an admixture of curiosity, anger, and obedience that he shot across the floor through the knots of guests.

He nearly stopped in his tracks when he saw Hugh Kenrick, the boy who had bested him in Rooker Alley. He continued on, biting his lip and feeling his face turn crimson. His father made the introductions, and the
young men behaved as though they had never encountered each other before now. Their elders watched them closely for any signs of lingering animosity, but all they detected was an apparent mutual indifference in the young men to each other’s presence.

The Marquis dismissed his son, instructing him to introduce Hugh to some of the more important guests.

As they walked together around the promenade, the young Marquis asked, “Have you told anyone?”

“No,” replied Hugh. “The incident was not important enough to relate to anyone.”

“Will you?”

“No, not unless someone asks me why I possess a sword bearing your coat-of-arms. Then I shall say I found it in a gutter, which would be near the truth.”

The young Marquis did not wish to introduce Hugh to anyone, much less his friends, who would subject him, and not Hugh, to their acid mockery and make jokes about his gloved hands. So he stopped near a group of guests he was certain did not know the story. “So…you are a patron of blackamoors?”

Hugh shrugged. “I am the friend of a man, who calls me friend.”

“You took up a sword in defense of that?” scoffed the Marquis. “At the risk of your own life?”

“And would again, sir. At times, one acquires friends in the most unusual circumstances. These friends make living with the rest of humanity tolerable.”

“Blackamoors cannot be said to be wholly human, younker.”

“Good only for service in the king’s navy, or for porters’ work?”

“Or worse.”

Hugh shook his head. “Sir, have you not read your Aristotle? You were merely born, but allowed your rank to fashion your character and concerns. My friend also was born, but fashioned himself and his concerns with his own hands. Ergo, he is your moral and intellectual superior. He is a duke in his realm. You? You are a lackey in the realm of others.”

The Marquis’s features twisted in pure hatred. He hissed, “That is…unchristian, blasphemous filth you utter!”

“Call it what you will,” replied Hugh, “but it was no insult, neither to you nor to my friend. It was merely a fact I wished to point out for your edification.”

The Marquis stopped to face Hugh, and leaned his face closer to his nemesis’s. “I will have satisfaction against you someday,” he warned, “and the world will owe me a favor!”

Hugh smiled. “That is not a very Christian purpose, sir,” he replied. After a pause, he said, “I knew you would be here this evening, sir, and in the coach on our way here, composed a doggerel in your honor. I had not planned to recite it to you, unless I received an invitation to. May I?”

“Go ahead!” dared the Marquis. “Add ridicule to your offenses!”

“‘Blink, blink! I splashed my eyes with ink! Blink, blink! It’s such a chore to think!’” Hugh grinned. “The first line can accommodate a thousand variations, as long as it rhymes with the second and agrees with its subject. The second line is immutable, though its noun can accommodate a thousand synonyms. To wit—‘Blink, blink! I wish not to see the link! Blink, blink! It’s such a task to think!’ I shall call it ‘The Bilbury Lament.’”

The Marquis’s face had grown crimson again. He narrowed his eyes and stepped back. “Stay away from me, younker!” he warned.

Hugh bowed slightly. “As easily done as said, your lordship.”

The Marquis turned sharply and retreated into the crowd.

The evening passed for Hugh without further incident. He could be charming and gracious in polite society when he had a reason to be, which tonight was some kind of satisfaction with himself. He inspected the paintings, mostly portraits and pastorals, in the galleries, and exchanged intelligent comments on them with other guests. He engaged in civil but inconsequential conversation on politics and the royal family with others without provoking them. He surrendered to a contagious benevolence and complimented several of the young ladies present—most of them daughters of aristocracy, some of them courtesans—on their beauty, and a few of them wondered why the handsome young man was blind to the inviting flutters of their fans. He even felt bold enough to essay a minuet, a courant, and a gavotte. At the end of the gavotte, he found left in his hand a lady’s scented lace handkerchief; he smiled in bemusement and wondered which of the now-dispersed half dozen elegant women he had partnered with had put it there.

It was while he watched the orchestra perform a country-dance that he was startled to recognize a Pippin among the players. It was Steven—twin brother of Sterope—or Peter Brompton. The musician happened to glance up from his sheet music and missed a note on his violin when he in turn recognized the young aristocrat staring at him from the promenade. The
youth he knew only as Miltiades inclined his head with a wink and a restrained grin. “Steven” returned the wink with a smile.

The young Marquis of Bilbury, who had surreptitiously watched Hugh Kenrick’s course over the hours with seething anger, observed the silent greeting between Hugh and the musician with special curiosity. The Earl, who was too far away to note it, however, had observed his nephew’s conduct throughout the evening with grudging approval.

Those who knew him well, knew that the best praise one could expect from the Earl was his silence. This was how he complimented his nephew. Other than desultory remarks on the health and fortunes of the elder Marquis and some of his guests, he said nothing in the coach that took them back to Windridge Court. Hugh volunteered an appraisal of two of the portraits he saw in the exhibit, and briefly commented on the quality of the orchestra. When they arrived at Windridge Court, Hugh and the Earl went to their separate chambers without further word, Hugh to begin packing for his journey home, the Earl to prepare to retire.

Two mornings later Hugh’s baggage was loaded onto the Earl’s coach, which would take him to Canterbury, where he would board an inn coach for Dover. There he would take a packet to Portsmouth and Poole. In his baggage were presents for his family, Roger Tallmadge, and Reverdy Brune, and also his notebook, which he called his “diary of ideas.” He had begun making notes for an essay on the differences in the eudæmonist systems of the ancient world, part assignment by his instructor in moral philosophy, part private project. He hoped to have time to work on the essay during his holiday.

He gave Hulton two guineas as a present, and promised the butler-valet that he would return with an answer from his father about starting the man in his own tobacconist’s shop. “And take care not to give my uncle cause to dismiss you, Hulton.” Snowflakes began to fall and gather on the ground.

“I shall bury myself in Mr. Shakespeare’s
Histories
, milord,” replied Hulton, “and never frown when his lordship interrupts my leisure.” He paused. “Are your pistols handy?”

“And primed,” said Hugh, patting the pockets of his greatcoat. The blue coach bore the Kenrick coat-of-arms on its doors, and so stood a very good chance of being stopped by highwaymen. A loaded musket with double ball lay hidden beneath one of the interior seats. Hugh was determined not to be robbed.

The Earl had gone to Lords earlier in the morning, and Hugh had already bid him farewell. Hugh stepped into the coach, Hulton closed the door behind him, and they exchanged waves before the butler signaled the coachman to go.

*  *  *

That evening, before supper was served, Basil Kenrick came into Hugh’s room and took stock of its contents, paying particular attention to the bookshelves and the desk. He returned to his own study, took out a sheet of paper, and made out a list of items. Then he rang for Alden Curle. When the major domo appeared, he asked, “Curle, where is Mr. Hulton?”

“He has retired, your lordship.”

“Has he seen to my nephew’s room?”

“He has cleaned and prepared Master Hugh’s room, your lordship, and locked the door to await his return.”

“Give Mr. Hulton the day free tomorrow, Curle.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Curle, there is something I want you to do tomorrow, while Mr. Hulton is out. Remove these things from my nephew’s room, and bring them here.” He held out the list.

Curle took it, glanced over it, and bowed. “Yes, your lordship.”

H
UGH
K
ENRICK RETURNED TO
W
INDRIDGE
C
OURT IN THE MIDDLE OF
January, his mind still aglow with pleasant memories of his holiday at home in Danvers.

His parents, as he and they learned, could no longer regard him as just a child. Now he was a man, an independent force who moved for his own purposes and by his own power. This they all acknowledged the moment he alighted from the coach that brought him from Poole Harbor to the broad steps of the great house. His parents welcomed him as an intimate, were pleased with the adult stranger who embraced them, and accepted him as both a son, a man, and a special friend. They were pleased with their son, and pleased with themselves.

Hugh spent endless hours with his father, in his study, on horseback traversing the snow-dusted estate, hiking in the hills around the house, talking about school, politics, Mr. Worley’s business, London, and the Earl. He was home two days before either his father or mother thought to ask him about the Earl’s health and business. He told his father about his encounters with Sir Henoch Pannell, and his conversations with his uncle. He did not tell anyone about his latest clashes with the Marquis of Bilbury, or about the Society of the Pippin.

With his mother he took long walks arm-in-arm through the estate grounds, the cold winter air somehow accentuating their closeness. He read to her some of his school essays, sang songs with her as she played the forte-piano, and taught her the movements and steps of a new gavotte. He joined the family and invited neighbors in parlor games, in the staging of nonsense plays, and even in snowball fights with townsmen on the great lawn. It was an interlude of gaiety, laughter, good fellowship—and rest.

Hugh’s parents were happy for him, and relieved for him, for it was apparent that he was forcing himself to endure the close proximity of his uncle. They were certain that an explosion would come someday, and that their son’s practiced reticence would have dire consequences for him and the family.

“I’m glad that Basil hasn’t much baited him,” said Garnet Kenrick to his wife one evening, “and that Hugh hasn’t taken what little bait Basil has
tossed his way. But I’m still afraid that Hugh is merely a cask of gunpowder, and that every time Basil bids him ‘good morning, nephew,’ another pinch of the black stuff is added to it. And I cannot imagine what the spark could be that would touch it off.”

“Would you have him behave any differently?” asked Effney Kenrick.

Her husband smiled, and in his smile was a mixture of fondness for his son and mischief for his brother. He shook his head once. “No.”

Roger Tallmadge looked at Hugh with a benevolent envy, as he would an older brother who was brimming with tales and adventure stories from the great city of London. Hugh did not disappoint him. Hugh looked at Roger in the same way he looked at Hulton, as a friend who had the potential to become an even closer friend, on a par with Glorious Swain. Their reunion was exuberant, though Roger sensed that something was different about Hugh. He could not fathom the difference, and did not much bother to. He admired his friend, and could not even entertain the possibility that something could ever drive them apart.

Reverdy Brune could not stop looking at Hugh; that is, she caught herself looking at him, almost against her will, when she knew it was inappropriate to stare directly at a man. She, too, sensed something different in him, was fearful of it, and thrilled by it. Here, she thought, was a man who was going to be something, or someone. For the first time in their relationship, she was reluctant to speak. She did not wish to mock him, tease him, or practice on him her increasingly potent art of coy coquetry. Of all the people who spoke to Hugh during his stay, she said the least—less than even a servant—and she had every reason to say the most. She was unnaturally taciturn when they were together, whether alone or with others. She knew that little needed to be said to him, or by them to each other. She felt happy and fortunate that she was fated to a union with Hugh Kenrick.