Smirke 01 - An Unlikely Hero (12 page)

“Jean
Sébastien…” Five minutes later he was still clutching her close.
She eyed her other sons over John’s shoulder with raised eyebrows,
but they shrugged in ignorance.”

“Oh Mamma…you
smell like heaven!”

“Un autre
miracle; we commenced for England the hour I read James’s lettre
saying you were wounded. You look horrible; what happened?”

With his face
pressed into her hair, John was too overpowered to speak. Peter
Smirke fell into a chair and took out his snuff box, “The Earl of
Mulgrave wasn’t satisfied with running our John through the other
month. He waylaid John and p-punched him in the chest and then held
him p-prisoner. Belvedere made the rat weep like a b-baby.

“I merely
threatened to tell his mother of his unorthodox amusements and land
him in debtor’s prison.”

“Thank you
William; it means a lot to me.” Belvedere winked at his wife and
sat down resigned to share her attention.

“My cousin was
attempting, for some unfathomable reason, to force a match between
your son and Miss Lark. I believe he’s succeeded.”

Joan blushed
as she smiled at the room, “Mr Smirke wants to marry me.”

“What he
really wants to do is…ugh.” Cecil was silenced by George’s
elbow.

“Congratulations Miss Lark, we wish you much happiness. Don’t we
b-boys?” Peter’s insistent expression didn’t win even a murmur of
agreement. “There’s no need to look g-glum, there’s p-plenty of
other young ladies in England. We’ll go to London this next season.
Be grateful your Uncle John’s d-daughters are unlikely to be ugly;
you may have to marry one. John, if you’re going to hold Mamma all
night, let her sit down. She must be half shaken to death from
travelling.”

***

The pain in
John’s chest was almost forgotten as the afternoon and early
evening were swallowed up in exchanging stories and strenuous
efforts at being courteous to the man being discreetly familiar
with his mother’s person. John kept catching Belvedere’s wary eye
and looking away. His mother’s happiness couldn’t ease the hurt;
he’d never be able to impulsively visit and demand her attention
ever again. He’d have to compete with this man and his brats. The
only thing that saved John from becoming maudlin, was watching Joan
and wondering how many minutes before he’d get to kiss her again
and how many days it would take him to feel well enough to ride a
horse. Just the thought of mounting made him blanch, but waiting
three weeks to marry the wench was even more disagreeable. He’d
made up his mind; the internal pressure created by not knowing,
having or doing was agony. Waiting was for masochists. He’d marry
Joan and his aching chest be damned. A strange thought danced
through his brain, ‘waiting heightens pleasure.’ He shook his head
and flung the unpleasant thought into a dusty corner of his brain.
He wanted his cake now and he didn’t want a mouth ulcer getting in
the way of eating it.

At eleven
o’clock that evening John sat onto his bed in solitude pleasantly
feeling sorry for himself, but his peaceful suffering was short
lived. Rubbing ointment over his hairless chest; he was day
dreaming of Joan’s small hands assisting him when his door burst
open and a noisy flock of nephews flew in and dropped their trunks
and bags.

“This is my
bedchamber not a communal wardrobe.”

“Papa says
we’re sleeping in here.”

“What’s wrong
with your room?”

“Nana and
Belvedere need it. Have you noticed Uncle John, how married people
always receive preferential treatment? It’s hard being a single
man.”

“You’re
nineteen Cecil and hardly acquainted with hardship.”

“Who died and
made you an expert on suffering?”

“I did, now
pack yourselves off to the basement. You can use Wood’s old room.
He’s sleeping in a permanent bed of frozen dirt.”

Robert Smirke
sat on the bed and studied his Uncle’s chest wound, “Papa doesn’t
approve of Agnes’s servants quarters. He says there are no barriers
safeguarding the maids.”

“I’ll sleep in
the basement.” Sixteen year old Cosmo leered as he mentally lined
up the maids, “I’d be quite happy to sleep a few doors down from
the lovely Anna. She can come change my bed linen any dark hour she
chooses.”

Cecil rolled
his eyes in disgust, “In your erotic dreams boy; I get the basement
room and you’ll get to listen to Uncle John snore.”

“That’s not
faire!” George Smirke put his hands on his hips, “I’m eighteen and
just as much a man as you. I insist we flip a coin.”

“You’re all
boys. You won’t be men for years, now stop making a racket. I’m
trying to get ready to sleep.”

“Papa says I’m
a man.”

“Me too!”

“Yeah and
me…”

“I don’t care
what your Papa says, he’s clearly mad for putting up with you lot
day after day. I’ve told him a thousand times he’s should pack you
off to school.”

Cecil punched
his blushing younger brother George in the shoulder, “Papa says
we’re too pretty for public school…he says we can be educated at
home without being starved, beaten or molested by sadists, besides
Papa would be lonely without us.”

Peter Smirke
stuck his head into the room and was soon followed by his body.
“The servants are b-bringing t-trundles and bedding…”

“Uncle John
wants us to sleep in the basement…”

Peter gave his
brother a disapproving look, “You’re not sleeping near pox infested
maids until you’re old enough to understand what the pox is. You’ll
sleep in here end of discussion.”

“I know what
the pox is; it’s the common name for syphilis, a French disease
transmitted through the process of generation…”

“Yes, thank
you Cosmo, and you’re still not sleeping in the b-basement.”

Cecil’s eyes
filled with curiosity, “Have you had the pox Uncle John? Aunt Agnes
says you’ve bedded half the whores in England.”

John blushed
under the scrutiny of six pairs of eyes, “Agnes should mind her own
business. I’m in no mood to confess my sins or diseases.”

“Do you have
any bastards?”

“What is this,
the Smirke inquisition? Leave me alone!”

“I’ll wager
anyone five pounds…ugh.” Cecil was silenced by his father’s
elbow.

“I intend to
marry Miss Lark some time next week. I need peace and quiet to
recover my health. That means you will all have to sleep somewhere
else.”

“Why don’t you
sleep in the b-basement John?”

“I’m not
sleeping in a bed lately used as a corpse display for a vile dead
man.”

“James’s study
has a sofa just your size.”

“Fine. I’ll
kindly leave my comfortable bed for a wretched sofa, but if I
return in the morning to find my soap covered with hair or my
biscuits stuffed down your throats…” John belatedly remembered he
couldn’t take revenge. “…just leave my soap and biscuits alone.” He
threw on his dressing gown, grabbed his pillows and stomped out of
the room as his nephews helped themselves to the unexpected late
night feast.

Twenty minutes
later John sighed in relief as he sat down on his make-shift bed.
The cold stillness of the room was broken by angular shadows
jumping from the fire like angry ghosts. Cecil’s uncomfortable
questions had dredged up unpleasant memories of hell and a long
list of unhappy dead who might haunt him. As he listened, the
floorboards creaked from unseen footsteps and the wind moaned
against the windows. The hair was standing up on the back of his
neck when a knock on the door made him jump, “Go away!” The door
opened and closed ignoring his command.

His brother
Peter loomed over him, his black dressing gown making him look like
some sort of hell’s angel. “I’ve brought you a few necessaries. One
plate of b-biscuits, one pair of woollen socks, and a clean chamber
pot; essential equipment needed to pass the night in a study.”
Peter sat down beside him and handed him the socks. “I’m sorry
Cecil was so p-probing. You know his tongue flaps before his
b-brain thinks and he has a knack of asking questions one would
love to ask…”

“You’re a good
father.”

“I try.”

“I fathered
three daughters. Two died in infancy. The last one died at five
from some childhood illness. Her mother begged me to take the brat
because she couldn’t afford to pay the doctor. I told her I didn’t
care. The child was abandoned with strangers and died from neglect.
I could have saved her, but I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t
you bring her to me? I’d have adopted her.”

“I couldn’t be
bothered. You don’t have to give me that look; I know I was a
selfish bastard. If I could do it over I’d claim the brat. I’m
trying to be good Peter, but it’s cursed hard. Why didn’t I listen
to your annoying endless lectures? How do I learn to be good? How
do I learn how to love people when I don’t even know what love
is?”

“Love is many
different things. I loved Katie. The first time I heard her say
‘Good Morning my Lord’ from the next p-pillow made my heart ache
with happiness. The look in her eyes when I insisted that I was her
servant, made me feel like a King. I love my boys. I would d-die
for them. I love Mamma. When Katie became ill Mamma sent me her own
housekeeper. You know how fussy Katie was about the house being
just so… Mrs Pots convinced Katie not to worry about the b-boys
being fed and washed or the house being d-dusted properly. I love
Mrs Pots because she helped make Katie’s last few years p-peaceful.
I loved Papa. When I t-told him the b-boys at school laughed at my
stammer and one larger boy p-pummelled me weekly he said I didn’t
have to go back if I didn’t want to. He said, ‘Sometimes even the
b-bravest army has to retreat.’ I went back because I didn’t have
to and I loved him for allowing me to choose. I love my brothers.
You accept me as I am.” Peter stood up and affectionately ruffled
John’s hair. “Don’t forget to put the socks on; it’s going to be a
c-cold night.”

“Yes
Papa!”

Peter only
laughed at the sarcastic words, “My favourite title…sweet dreams
little brother.” John listened to the door shut and then hurriedly
pulled the socks onto his cold feet and curled up under the pile of
blankets feeling strangely warm on the inside and fell into
pleasurable dreams of making children with his bride to be.

As late
morning sun peeked through the curtains John tried to move in his
sleep, but couldn’t. Heart pounding, his eyes flipped open in fear,
“What the blazes are you doing?”

Smiling
cornflowers leaned closer to inspect his features. “I’m sketching
you…there’s no rule against sitting with one’s guardian in the
study.”

“There is when
he’s sleeping in the study.”

“Why are you
upset? You’re perfectly safe. I wouldn’t sit on you or poke you in
the eye, but I did kiss you. Your lips are so soft. You looked so
beautiful asleep I had to make a sketch. Have you ever seen such
beauty?” Joan held up a pencil sketch of John smiling in his sleep,
his right hand tucked under his cheek. “I won’t ask you about your
pleasant dreams, but you kept moaning my name…”

“You’re not
supposed to be in here listening to me sleep. Go before I do
something wicked.”

“Are you
always grumpy in the morning? I wake up happy…can I have a kiss?”
Joan dropped her sketchbook on the floor and flung her pencil over
her shoulder and leaned towards him.

“Didn’t they
teach you how to be a lady at that poxy school?”

“Just one
kiss?”

“I haven’t
cleaned my teeth.”

“Neither have
I.”

John leaned
back and tried to evade the approaching lips. “I order you not to
kiss me while I’m déshabillé until we’re married or I might…hmmm.”
Good intentions were abandoned as John whimpered in defeat and
forgot everything but the pleasurable sensations caused by the hand
in his hair and two exploring lips.

“Jean
Sébastien Smirke, what are you doing?” Joan bounced upright
exposing John’s parted red lips to the view of his mother’s black
eyes. “You are not to fumble Joan; fiancé or no.”

“I didn’t!”
Outrage was tinged with disappointment that he hadn’t had a few
more minutes.

“Go eat ma
chère.”

“Yes my Lady.”
Joan obediently jumped up and ran from the room giggling.

Lady Jemima
calmly bent over to pick up the fallen sketchbook. “Un splendide
portrait, she loves you non…”

“So she
says.”

“Do not sneer
Jean Sébastien at her heart. Do you love her?”

“I want
her.”

“Évidemment.
Do you love her?”

“You know I
don’t like morning interrogations.”

“Pierre thinks
you’re in love with the girl.”

“Does he?”
Smirke pulled his bedding up over his pounding heart.

“He’s not
alone.” John’s answer was a scowl as he lightly rubbed his chest.
“What is this about you dying? Agnes thinks your brain has been
damaged.”

“There is
nothing wrong with my brain. Look at this wound.” John threw off
his bedding, stood up and held his nightshirt open. “The blade went
all the way through the other side. I died Mamma and saw my life. I
felt all the pain, fear and heartache I’ve caused. I felt your
disappointment in me. It was unspeakably awful and I don’t want to
go back there; it was…it was hell. I have to be good and kind, even
if I feel like I’m going to die of boredom. It’s blasted hard!”
John’s shoulders relaxed as he took her loving outstretched hand
and pulled it to his lips. Don’t’ be angry with me Mamma. I told
Miss Lark not to kiss me, but she never listens…”

A polite knock
on the door was followed by Peter Smirke’s head, “Good morning
Mamma; John, your b-bath is waiting. You may want to hurry b-before
my boys eat everything in the house.”

An hour later
John ignored the fact he was in pain and entered the breakfast room
feeling resplendent in a new red wool jacket and blue trousers; a
red ribbon tying back his clean hair. If he was to travel in a week
he needed hourly kisses, rest and food in that order. The only
empty chair at the table was next to Joan. He carefully lowered
himself onto the seat and eyed her welcoming smile with
uncertainty. There was no telling what she might say. “Good morning
Mr Smirke. We were just going to wager how long you’d be. You smell
lovely…sniff…lemon drops and violets, delicious.”