Hugh Kenrick (30 page)

Hugh presented the letter to Mr. Rickerby later that morning. The solicitor was sufficiently convinced by Hugh’s changed story that he was the son of a Devonshire squire whose family was preparing for a Grand Tour on the Continent, and that he, Hugh Kenrick, had been sent ahead to acquire a knowledge of Holland, Prussia, Spain, and Italy at Dr. Comyn’s before the family came to London to collect him and embark on the two-year excursion. He showed Hugh the single room in the rear of the third
floor. Hugh approved of it, and handed him a month’s rent, one pound.

In the afternoon, Hugh hired some porters to transfer his books, clothing, and other personal possessions to Cutter Lane. His uncle was at Lords. Alden Curle looked disapprovingly at the parade of porters coming and going on the main staircase. “What means this, milord?”

“What it means, Mr. Curle,” replied Hugh, “is good riddance to you.”

“But…what shall I tell his lordship?”

“That he offended me, more than you are wont to do, when you ask me questions I have not given you leave to ask.”

Curle stepped back, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and turned to retreat down a passageway.

When he was settled in his crowded lodgings on Cutter Lane, Hugh walked to the Fruit Wench. Mrs. Petty greeted him and gave him two sealed letters. One was from Glorious Swain, advising him of a Pippin meeting to be held in a week. The other was from Hulton, dated a week and a half ago. Hugh went to a table and read it:

“Most Honorable Sir:

While you was away, the most evil thing happened to me. I have been discharged by his lordship for theft of objects from the household. These objects were found, it was said, under my humble bed in the servants’ quarters, by Mr. Curle, who reported this to his lordship, who came to see for himself.—The day after you departed, I was given a day free, and the next day I had been sent out with Cook to the market. When I returned, I was taken to his lordship’s study and shown these objects, that had been put there, and told to account for where they were found. I could not do this, for these objects were in their proper places when I last saw them. His lordship also asked me about things that were nowhere to be found. I could only say that I don’t know, your lordship. Forthwith, his lordship told me that, as it was the season, he would discharge me that moment, instead of calling the watch to take me to gaol and bringing charges. I was turned out with my bag, hurriedly packed, and escorted out of the courtyard, and told never to come near the Court again. I will say here, swearing on a bible if I had one, and upon my honor, as a lord would swear at a Parliament trial, I am not guilty of these actions. I am not a thief. I will confess I carried the book of Shakespeare histories you lent me in the back of my breeches, and forgot it was there until hours after I was turned out, so much was I dismayed. I will keep it, and return it if we meet some day. Many of your possessions was on the table in his lordship’s study, even your favorite book,
and a fine sword, and the clothes you had me purchase for your larks about the city. I cannot think how all these things I saw and then the objects that were said missing could fit beneath my mattress. Your possessions were in their proper places only the day before when I dusted your room and made it tidy. I do not know who on the staff would hate me so that he would so trouble himself, except Mr. Curle, but I would not credit him with the cunning. I have sought employment in service, as I know no other trade, but his lordship has put out the bad word on me, and I have been rudely treated wherever I have applied. So I have taken the King’s shilling, for patriotism in the war, and for lack of chance in private service, for otherwise I must beg in the streets. It is a new regiment raised here in London, and the sergeant says I will rise in it for I can write decently. He lent me the pencil and paper on which I write this. I will now shoulder a musket, and maybe someday command men as I have been commanded. The officer who inspected me is not much older than yourself, milord. I bid your good self farewell, and thank you for all the kindnesses and considerations you have shown me. I am afraid of this new business, but a turn in the world might make me the man you think I ought to be.—Your most grateful and appreciative servant, Hulton.”

The letter was written in a labored, mongrel style, half print and half script. There was a blot close to the crude signature, noted Hugh. Was it his imagination, or was it a tearstain? He rose, went to the serving bar, and waved for Mrs. Petty. He asked her, “The man who left this with you: Was he alone?”

Mrs. Petty shook her head. “No, dearie. He was in the company of a recruitin’ sergeant, who stood over him like a hawk whiles he scratched out that note.”

“What regiment?”

“I don’t rightly recall, sir. Never saw the uniform in here before. New piping on the cuffs I don’t recollect seein’ anywhere.”

Hugh sighed. He wished Hulton had been more specific about the regiment he had joined. He gave Mrs. Petty a shilling for her trouble, and left the Fruit Wench.

U
NAWARE OF THE EVENTS AT
W
INDRIDGE
C
OURT
, G
ARNET
K
ENRICK
wrote to his brother, the Earl:

“Brother Dear: Although the details may cause you to nod off, I have entered into a banking partnership, as I had warned you I might before you left for London, and I owe you at least a brief sketch of the enterprise. I have been in correspondence with the three other principals for about a year. I will bring the largest amount of money to it—£10,000—while the others will pledge £5,000 each. Here is the roster: George Formby, a Lancashire mercer extraordinary, who also owns an ore smeltery which regularly pigs Swedish iron; John Swire, of Stafford, who has turned his late father’s pottery into a bustling capital of crockery; and James Pursehouse, who with his late father built up a prosperous grocer’s or wholesaler’s trade in London (and who comes to our project with a most felicitous name!). These men are also active in insurance, and to my knowledge have suffered no untoward losses in that realm, which points to a valued keenness for success or failure. Pursehouse owns shares in two merchantmen, and Formby and Swire own shares in the East India Company and are husbands of the Indiamen
Regale
and
Cronus
, respectively.

“Now, although I have provided the largest bloc of capital, and will direct some old but mainly new business to this fresh combination, I chose to insist that our family name be omitted from the public name of this enterprise. I wish this venture to sail on its own wind, and not because our family are known to be connected with it. Mr. Worley will continue to deal principally with the bank of Grimme, Holtby & Brizard on Lombard, so far as our present business is concerned, and the
Ariadne’s
balances will also continue there. Our personal accounts will be maintained at Martin’s Bank. Before you leave London, I invite you to call on the new bank’s premises, which is on Lombard, closer to Blakely Court than the Change Alley, and directly across the way from the Catherine Wheel Coffeehouse. Mr. Pursehouse owns this three-story building, and resides on the second floor with his family. The street floor will be converted into the banking office proper. The clerks will billet on the third. Mr. Pursehouse will manage our own accounts. It would be a nice thing if you expressed an
interest in pledging some capital, though neither he nor I will press you on the matter…”

Basil Kenrick read the balance of the letter, and sniffed at the invitation and the comments that preceded it, and set the letter aside, though he was tempted to treat it as he had his nephew’s note of two mornings ago. Hugh’s note had been much shorter, and less welcome:

“Sire: It is obvious that my person and presence excite no love, nor even the slightest benign feelings in you for me, just as, admittedly, your person and presence excite no fondness in me for you. The reasons for this mutual animosity need not be gone into here, as they are too well known to both of us. I enclose with this note evidence of your duplicity, as proof that I know you are the author of a grave falsehood and offense, and the perpetrator of an injustice that may cost Mr. Hulton his life. He was a better friend to me than you could ever be. Should you wish to communicate with me, please do so through Mr. Worley, or my father. Hugh.”

Hugh’s note, and the page from
Hyperborea
that had been pinned to it, were now ashes in the fireplace. No, thought the Earl, he would not be communicating with Worley or Pursehouse or Hugh. He merely despised Worley and Pursehouse for being simple commercial men. He hated Hugh for the act of daring to suspect him of the theft ruse, for having rooted through the fireplace for evidence of it, for having thrown that evidence back in his face. How dare he, a scion of the aristocracy, think that prerogatives exercised by a peer could be judged by the standards of the
mobile vulgus
? There was evidence of the corruption of the nobility! Damn them all, thought the Earl, including his brother and his presumptuous son! Damn them all! A lord can commit no definable wrong!

Secretly—secret even to himself—he damned anyone who could make him feel guilt for what he was, for what it was in his power to do, as he knew they could do, and had done. The guilt fought a nocturnal battle in his mind with what he wished the world to be, and though vanquished, remained at large on the periphery of his consciousness, stinging him with its muted taunts. What a mean, vicious creature was guilt! He would have nothing to do with it! Let it camp in the wastes of his soul, starved of recognition, and hurl its poisonous pebbles at the sturdy stockade of his concerns! Let anyone see if it bothered him!

Upon reading Hugh’s note, and the page from the unmentionable book that had accompanied it, the Earl had calmly set them aside, but then rose and flung them into the fireplace as though they were vipers. He angrily
rang for Mr. Curle and demanded the name of the servant responsible for emptying the ashes and cleaning the fireplace. When he learned the name, he gave the butler an order to dismiss the man, and reprimanded Mr. Curle for not having seen to it that the staff more thoroughly performed their duties.

This morning, he glanced once again, with amusement, at his brother’s letter, then rang for Claybourne to help him dress for this afternoon’s session at Lords. He would reply to his brother at his leisure, he thought. And as Claybourne carefully shaved him, and as the assistant adjusted the garters of his hose, Basil Kenrick wondered where his nephew was, and what reduced circumstances he must be enduring. He chuckled once at some dark thought, and Claybourne’s razor slipped with a sting and drew blood from a small cut. The Earl jumped out of his chair and slapped the valet. “Be careful, you damned fool!”

“You…laughed, your lordship,” said Claybourne, astounded by that, and stunned by the only physical violence the Earl had ever subjected him to.

“I’ll laugh when and as I please, you ninny, and you’ll learn to shave around it, or you’ll follow Hulton!”

Claybourne bowed and stammered, “Yes, your lordship.”

*  *  *

Hugh wrote to his father and apprised him of the incident, attaching to his letter Hulton’s farewell missive. “It is a breach between me and Uncle that can never be mended. He is moved by a malice I cannot comprehend, though I believe that he would bear less malice toward me were I his fawning sycophant. But then I should earn—and rightfully deserve—his contempt. And, perhaps, yours. Father, I am wounded beyond care, even should he attempt restitution. I do not wish to have a reason ever to speak with him again.”

Hugh moved back into Windridge Court after his uncle departed for Danvers, and only because, now that trustworthy Hulton was gone, he was nominally responsible for the place and its contents. He searched the city’s bookshops and managed to replace all his missing books but
Hyperborea
.

Garnet Kenrick read his son’s letter and Hulton’s over breakfast one morning, pursed his lips in anger, and handed the letters to his wife. “What are we to do with him?” he asked, referring to his brother, not his son.

When Effney Kenrick finished reading the letters, she replied, quietly but with finality, “Bear him as we would a cross, until he is gone from our lives.”

Her husband stared at her in amazement. These were the first rancorous words he had ever heard her speak about anyone. She looked at him and made no effort to hide the meaning and emotion he saw in her eyes. He thought he should feel offended by her words, but instead reached over and grasped the wrist of the hand that held Hugh’s letter. “Until then,” he said softly, “we shall bear it together.”

The next day brought a perfunctory note from his brother, advising him of his pending return, and mentioning Hulton’s dismissal only in passing. In light of his son’s letter, Garnet Kenrick knew that his brother’s assertions were lies. He implicitly trusted his son’s veracity, and implicitly trusted his brother’s deceitfulness. The Baron’s eyes narrowed in contempt, and he was tempted to crumple his brother’s letter into a ball and hurl it across the room. But he controlled himself, and showed it to his wife.

When the Earl arrived three weeks later, the Baron confronted him with the letters, Hugh’s and Hulton’s. He waited calmly until his brother had read them. The Earl finished them and tossed them to the floor. “Whose word do you trust, dear brother: mine, or your son’s and some menial’s?”

“My son’s and the menial’s, Basil.”

The Earl turned away in his chair, and said, with bitter peevishness, “You are no brother of mine, Garnet.”

“That, too, is untrue,” replied the Baron. “You see, dear brother: It is not merely a matter of it being your word against his and Hulton’s. All the tangible evidence has been destroyed, or disposed of. The evidence, for my belief in the statements of one or the other, lies within your character, and Hugh’s. You are wont to be vindictive; he truthful, and valorous.” He sighed. “In truth, Basil, I wish I could say that we were not brothers.”