Hugh Kenrick (8 page)

Mr. Galpin, on this day, called on Roger Tallmadge to recite some of the differences—cultural and geographical—between Spain and Ireland. The boy, stammering out of fear, confused the locations, the languages, and the climates. Mr. Galpin lit into him, and called him all the derogatory names he could think of. He did this because he was a miserable man, and because he had explicit permission from Squire Tallmadge to be as harsh on his
sons as he thought necessary. “If Francis and Roger do not take to knowledge,” said the Squire to his new tutor some years ago, “then they must be taken to it—in harness if necessary. Do not spare them. Be rigorous.”

Roger Tallmadge, standing at his desk, sobbed under the stream of invective, and was barely able to hold back his tears. Then Mr. Galpin stopped shouting, and laughed. The other boys felt free to join him, including Francis, Roger’s older brother, aged twelve. “And,” added the tutor with another bellow, “you are a
blubberer
!” The boys laughed even harder, and Francis picked a pebble stuck on the bottom of his shoe and flicked it at his sibling.

Hugh Kenrick rose from his desk and addressed the tutor in a clear voice. “Perhaps, sir, Mr. Tallmadge is at a loss because you yourself have not clarified well enough the distinctions between Iberia and Hibernia.”

The laughter ceased, and all eyes, including Mr. Galpin’s, turned to look at Hugh. “Excuse me, Master Kenrick?” asked the tutor.

Hugh did not repeat himself. He stood waiting for an answer.

Mr. Galpin drew himself up with some dignity and looked down his nose at the boy. “While I do not need to justify myself or my methods, young sir, I will say only that Master Tallmadge was not prepared for the question, as he should have been. He was not prepared, because he did not listen closely enough to my lecture yesterday afternoon.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied Hugh, “but you devoted a mere five minutes each to Iberia and Hibernia, and concentrated on Russia, Sweden, and Persia. You did not ask us to take notes on Iberia or Hibernia.”

This was true. Mr. Galpin scoffed. “Perhaps
you
can tell us about
Iberia
and
Hibernia
.”

Hugh did so. He recited from memory what little the tutor had said the day before about the two countries, and added: “Ireland is a Celtic country, and mostly Catholic. So is Northern Spain, parts of which are also Gaelic. ‘Gaelic’ is a variation of ‘Gaul,’ the Roman name for France, which was once a province of Rome, as was Spain. Southern Spaniards are of a different complexion and temper than Northern Spaniards, because of the long Moorish occupation. The Moors were thrust from Spain three centuries ago. Ireland has a fair climate, except in the fall and winter, when it is terribly wet and damp. It is notorious for giving men the ague. Spain, too, has a fair climate, but its summers are hot and fatiguing.”

Mr. Galpin raised his eyebrows. Francis Tallmadge muffled a laugh, but the tutor heard it and threw him a wicked glance. Then he smiled. “No
doubt you have taken your studies seriously, Master Kenrick—unlike some of my other pupils. You are to be commended. Thank you for the enlightening recitation.”

Some of the boys gasped. They had never before heard him compliment a pupil.

But Mr. Galpin read something other than acknowledgment in the boy’s eyes: not merely bravery or the knowledge of his lurking power, but contempt. His smile still fixed, he nodded to his pupil to take his seat again, then turned, and without looking at Roger Tallmadge, said, “I will quiz you again tomorrow, Master Tallmadge. You may be seated.”

Hugh’s fellow pupils wondered at the precedent. It was not just a matter of confronting and contradicting Mr. Galpin; some of them had done it before, out of boredom or bravura, and had been punished. They knew that the tutor would never again taunt Roger Tallmadge, thanks to Hugh Kenrick. They were beginning to believe that the future earl had a special power that made unjust and cruel men cringe and crawl.

When the day was over, Roger Tallmadge took Hugh to the family’s kitchen and gave him a pastry one of the cooks had baked. “Thank you, Hugh, for what you did today,” he said. He smiled tentatively. “You are more of a brother to me than is Francis,” he added with bitterness.

Hugh smiled. “You shall be my brother, when we are together,” he said.

“A brother?
I
, to you?” asked the other boy incredulously.

“If you wish.”

“Why?”

“Because you have never laughed at me, or mocked me. Because you try harder in your studies than does anyone else.”

“Yes! I do wish it!” laughed Roger Tallmadge.

Hugh smiled. “You ought to have known about Spain and Ireland,” he said. “Mr. Galpin often pulls that trick on us—mentions something one day, and examines us on it another. And Spain and Ireland are in your geography book.”

“I’ll be ready for him tomorrow!” laughed Roger.

For Hugh Kenrick, the idea of adopting Roger Tallmadge as his “brother” was a sudden impulse and a brainstorm. Since the stillbirth of a brother months ago, he had occasionally wondered about the value of a sibling. His sister, Alice, was too young, the other boys in his school too old for him or too preoccupied with concerns that were not his, and the boys in his uncle’s and father’s employ were too fearful of his rank to respond
naturally to his overtures, and risked little more than gruff, almost hostile acknowledgment of him. But in Roger was a perfect model for experimentation, someone a little like himself, an outsider, a scrappy maverick, enthusiastic about many things—someone with a sense of his own importance.

And so they kept each other company in the intervals between their tutors, more often than not in silent preparation for their lessons than in games or conversation. Hugh appreciated Roger’s unobtrusive presence when he wanted time alone for his thoughts; Roger appreciated the respect granted him by the older boy. Hugh saw in Roger a friendly, patient sounding board for his ideas and even for his presence; Roger saw in Hugh an almost regal mien which curiously was neither arrogant nor arbitrary nor an affectation, together with a cool approach to almost everything. Hugh broadcast a self-possession that Roger found intriguing, and so he felt worthier for having befriended him, though he never completely resolved the question either of why Hugh tolerated him or what about himself was worthy. Hugh unconsciously set the terms of their companionship; Roger submitted to them in deference to everything that was Hugh, and in doing so learned the value of unanxious solitude.

He also learned that virtually the only thing that commanded Hugh’s unreserved respect was knowledge, both in what was to be learned and in what degree it was demonstrated in others.

It was only in the social arts that Hugh exhibited extreme rebellion. All games bored him, and when pressed to participate in cricket and rounders, he played indifferently. Squire Tallmadge, who usually supervised games for the pupils in between their time with tutors, spoke to the Baron about Hugh’s laxness. And the Baron admonished his son. “You will encounter politics someday, Hugh. Games are a crude introduction to that most crucial sport of all.”

Hugh sighed. “I’ll try, Father.”

And he did try, but the games became now an exercise in duty.

On another occasion, he rode with his father one early winter day into the village of Danvers and observed how rents were collected from the shopkeepers. Riding through the cobblestone streets, Hugh saw a number of men, women, and children, sometimes together, sometimes singly, clothed in mere rags and shoed in scraps of leather, carrying bundles on sticks over their shoulders, trudging through the newly fallen snow without purpose or hope of finding any, but still with an almost tangible slyness that was both pitiable and repulsive. His father gave these creatures
a grave eye, but said nothing to them. These were paupers, and Danvers had no almshouse for them. The Baron rode to the constable’s house, and informed the man of the strangers.

“’Pon my word, my lord, I didn’t know they was about! So help me! They all know, these beggars, there ain’t no comfort for them here!”

The Baron frowned. “Refresh their memories, Mr. Stobb, or we’ll appoint a new constable. I don’t want to see a single ragged body loitering in this vicinity tomorrow.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As they rode back to the estate, Hugh said, “Father, I want to learn a trade.”

“What?”

“I want to
be
something.”

“
Be
something?”

“Yes.”

“You
are
something, Hugh,” replied his astonished father. “You are a knight banneret. You are to be a baron. And someday, an earl.”

Hugh turned his head to hide his grimace. “Like Uncle Basil?”

Garnet Kenrick raised his eyebrows. He knew what his son thought of him—he was grateful for that. And he suspected what his son thought of his uncle, and was grateful that his brother was too arrogant to sense his nephew’s estimate of him. The Baron sighed. “Hugh, what would you become? A coal-heaver? A silk-thrower, or a wool-puller like the men in our factory? A mudlark? An apprentice higgler? If you went to London or Bristol to apprentice a trade—with no support from your family—you would find yourself sharing a miserable, cold, rat-infested cellar with twenty or so other souls who called it home. You would spend all of your time working your trade, and the time you didn’t spend scrambling for pittance, you would spend scrambling for food. You would have no time for books, no time to make neat observations. You would be too tired, too hungry, too distracted. The mental energy you expend now on construing Latin wisdom and appreciating the prose of Milton and Dryden would be wholly diverted on the time, place, and composition of your every meal.”

The Baron paused to gauge the effect of this description on his son. Hugh was looking at him expectantly.

“Hugh, the men and women who must have trades are born with poor, dim candles for souls, made of the most adulterated, cheap tallow, which they spend all their lives keeping from sputtering out. One could say that it
is their sole purpose for living. Even so, their candles are stunted and do not illuminate much. You, however, were born with an untaxed candle, made of the finest, purest tallow and beeswax. It is tall and it burns brightly. In London or Bristol, that candle inside you would be snuffed out in a wink by the brutal exigencies of life, and you would become dross, like those paupers back there, or philistines, like those shopkeepers. You would see, but have no vision. You would become like them—able to appreciate a political cartoon, laugh at a puppet show, or marvel at an engraving by Mr. Hogarth, but be blind to a canvas by Titian, or deaf to a chorus by Mr. Handel.”

“The shopkeepers seemed to have some dignity. And cheerfulness. They must be happy about something. What?”

Garnet Kenrick chuckled. “Oh, I imagine the same thing that makes me happy, on occasion—the solid jingle of a fat sack of coin. We have that in common, at least.”

Hugh urged his pony to keep pace with his father’s bay. “Some men of vision have had humble origins, Father. And they seemed to have fashioned their own candles, and kept them lit through the most brutal exigencies. How can one account for them?”

The Baron shrugged his shoulders. “They had the help of God, Hugh. There is no other explanation for their existence. They are extraordinaries outside the plan of things.”

This answer did not satisfy Hugh’s curiosity, but he asked no more questions. He sensed that his father had no other answers. Instead, he said, “I could apprentice a trade in the village, and learn how to make the things we wear, or use, or eat. We put a value on these things, so there must be no natural disgrace in working in their manufacture.”

Garnet Kenrick smiled sadly at his son. He said, “Even if I agreed to such a scheme, Hugh, your uncle would never permit it. No, my boy, you must content yourself with nobler diversions.” He dug his heels into the sides of his bay. “Come! I’ll race you back to the house!”

Hugh knew that this was a closed subject. He obeyed his father, and used his heels to spur the pony into a gallop. The silence was broken only by the double tattoo of hooves on the dirt and pebble road as the two riders rushed up the quiet slope through the swirling snowflakes.

T
HE WEATHER, USUALLY FOUL WITH WIND, SNOW, OR GALE AT THIS TIME
of year, was perfectly placid, with a mild temperature and a blue, cloudless sky. The Earl had hired a man and horse to watch for the Duke’s approach in Todd Matravers, a village some miles northeast of Danvers on the King’s Highway, to alert the town of the Duke of Cumberland’s progress. Late on the morning of the twentieth of January, the messenger galloped through Danvers and up the estate road to the mansion with the news that from a hilltop he had seen the train of coaches and cavalry approach Todd Matravers. The household jumped to life, while the militia in town assembled to quick-march to the estate. A crowd of excited townsfolk followed the militia soon afterward up the immaculate estate road, thronging past the gatekeeper, stopping to marvel at the tall cypresses and sculptured boxwoods. The crowd stepped aside to allow the carriages and phaetons of the Tallmadges, Brunes, and other notables to pass; this, too, was something for the villagers to marvel at—Whig families eagerly paying a visit to a Tory citadel. A holiday spirit moved the townsfolk, even though they were recently satiated by the celebration of Twelfth Night.

The Kenricks had been ready for the Duke’s arrival since sunrise. It was the servants and the kitchen staff who hustled about their chores. The Earl and his family waited in the orangery, which had a view of the estate road. The Earl, watching from a window, grimaced at the sight of the townsfolk streaming up the road to trample promiscuously over the great lawn; the gardeners would need to make many repairs once the event was past. He dutifully left the sanctuary of the orangery to greet his guests as their carriages came to a stop before the fountain below, and instructed his servants to keep them happy in the drawing room with tea, punch, chocolate, and sweetmeats.

The Baroness, in one corner of the bright green-papered room, played with her four-year-old daughter, Alice, showing her how to dress and undress a doll. Hugh Kenrick sat idly in another corner, patiently spinning his brass top on a wing table; its distinctive hum competed with the ticking of the tall floor clock nearby. The Baron stood in another corner with two special guests, one of whom was here by design, the other by chance,
though they had arrived in Poole together on the same fast London packet two days before. The first was Benjamin Worley, of Worley and Sons of London, the Kenricks’ chief commercial agents. Worley had had a small hand in arranging the Duke’s visit; he and Wraxall of the army commissariat were inseparable card game partners in their London club. The second guest was Otis Talbot, of Talbot and Spicer of Philadelphia, the Kenricks’ colonial agents. Talbot had voyaged from the distant port on his biannual business visit to Worley and the Kenricks, only to be bundled back onto a boat by Worley for a sooner-than-expected journey to Danvers.

Hugh Kenrick glanced occasionally at the colonial agent, whom he had never met before. The man was about his father’s age, but he seemed younger. The face was ruddier, his bearing natural—almost reminiscent of the manner of the townsfolk, but with a regal element of certainty. He was as well-dressed as Hugh’s father, and wore a powdered wig beneath his hat, and spoke with a kind of confidence and presumption Hugh had never heard before. The man was English, yet his Englishness did not seem to be an actual part of him. Some indefinable difference existed in the man, an unnamed quality that set him apart from all the other men Hugh had encountered.

Another messenger rode up the estate road; Cumberland’s train had entered the other side of the village of Danvers, led by Constable Stobb, who had been assigned as guide for the cavalry escort. The Earl herded his guests and the household outside to take their places on the broad front steps.

No children under the age of five were permitted by the Earl to be a part of this reception, for they could not be trusted to act with dignity and deference in the presence of royalty. Thus Alice was sentenced with her nurse to watch the arrival of the Duke from an upper-floor window. Nor were any working children of the staff allowed to be present if they did not own the proper formal attire. Thus the scullions, stable boys, cooks’ helpers, and such had to be content with watching the reception from the roof.

Hugh Kenrick stood with the children of the guests and their governesses, in between eight-year-old Roger Tallmadge and ten-year-old Reverdy Brune. He wore a green suit under a black cape, and a black tricorn with gold braid. Reverdy Brune had taken his hand and squeezed it with excitement when the lead squad of the Duke’s cavalry escort came into sight far down the estate road, a column of scarlet bobbing under a
golden banner flapping in the wind. “Look, Hugh!” exclaimed the girl. “The
Duke
is coming!” Hugh had glanced at her, and saw the wild excitement in her eyes. “Hugh,” said Roger Tallmadge on his left side, “my father says that you will be presented to the Duke personally, and allowed to sit with him and the men when the ladies leave the room. Promise you’ll tell me what they talk about!”

All chatter and nervous movement ceased when the crowd in front of the mansion could hear the hooves of the cavalry escort, and then the crack of stone as wheels rolled over the pebbled road. And all eyes became fixed on the magnificent six-horse gold and blue carriage when it loomed into sight and rumbled around the oval lawn and fountain of the courtyard. The major of the cavalry stopped to doff his hat to the Earl, who merely nodded in acknowledgment. And then the great carriage slowed to a walk, and halted at the foot of the wide flagstone walkway that led to the steps. A train of seven other carriages, less ostentatious, pulled up behind the Duke’s.

A footman leapt from the back of the post-chaise and ran to open a door and place a gilded stool beneath it. As the Duke descended from the carriage, the bandmaster struck up the “Dorsetshire March.” Possibly the Duke had never heard it before, for he winced; no one dared to inquire whether it was because he was startled or because he found the raucous cacophony unbearable. He stood for a moment, watching the band, with an enigmatic but respectful smile, then turned and handed out a woman in a hood and cloak. This was Maud Harris, a London actress, and his current mistress. She was in her early twenties, and had a vaguely beautiful face and a permanent smirk made more pronounced by her flaunted liaison with the Duke. She was introduced by him to strangers as Miss Harris; in fact, she was Mrs. Harris, wife of the owner of a theater company from which she had taken a leave. Her leave had been bought with a handsome, discreet endowment from the Duke that would allow the company to play to empty houses for two years.

Miss Harris, too, glanced in amazement at the band. She touched a rolled fan to her lips to stifle a laugh. “Milord!” she said under her breath. “Not even Mr. Handel’s baton could salvage
that
!”

“Perhaps not,” replied Cumberland. “Still, it has some martial charm.”

Miss Harris giggled. “I know, milord! The next time you face the French, you could have
this
band play that
agony
in the field, and give them so thorough a fright that their ranks would drop their arms to hold their
ears! And the day would be yours!”

Cumberland chuckled. “Miss Harris, you are
too
droll!”

The Earl stood a few feet away, with his brother and the Baroness, waiting for the right moment. He stepped forward now as Cumberland offered his arm to Miss Harris and turned. The Earl bowed low to the Duke and faultlessly doffed his hat in a broad sweep. “Welcome to Danvers, your grace. You honor us with this visit.”

“Thank you, Lord Basil,” replied the Duke. “Your hospitality is gracious.” Cumberland smiled. “But, my word, sir! You
do
make a man feel at home! I had not expected such a commotion!”

The Earl nodded. “I would be pleased if you regarded it as a hero’s welcome, your grace. It is rare that we see men of your eminence in these parts.” He then introduced his brother and the Baroness. The Baron bowed in the same manner as did his brother, while the Baroness performed a low, solemn curtsy.

Pleasantries were exchanged. In time, the principal members of the entourage left their carriages and joined the Duke. More introductions were made: to Rear Admiral Sir Francis Edward Harle; to twenty-five-year-old Lieutenant-Colonel James Wolfe, seconded from the 20th Regiment of Foot and temporarily rescued from a binge of dissipation in London by the Duke’s need for his military advice; to Major General Sir John Ligonier, the Duke’s personal advisor; to Everard Fawkner, his secretary and chief-of-staff. A gaggle of aides, adjutants, secretaries, servants, including the Duke’s own barber and valets, debouched from other carriages and stood in the background, waiting for Cumberland to enter the mansion. The troop of cavalry had formed in two lines on the Danvers lawn and was also waiting. A number of townsfolk had also gathered on the lawn and stood in awe of the event. Some of them, women, wore a white rose or ribbon pinned discreetly to their hats or cloaks. And the band played on, this time laboring through a rendition of Handel’s “See, the conquering hero comes.”

The group then turned and, led by the Earl, made its way up the broad walkway to the steps of the mansion. On one side of the steps were lined the Earl’s staff, on the other guests and notable neighbors, including the vicar of St. Quarrell’s. Otis Talbot and Benjamin Worley stood rigidly with frozen smiles. As Cumberland, with a slight limp from a wound he received at Dettingen, ascended the steps, the women dipped in abbreviated curtsies and bowed their heads, and the men bowed their heads and bent their backs. The Earl, his eye sharp for the least departure from the courtesy by
guest or servant, walked a step or two ahead of Cumberland and Miss Harris, for he was, after all, a host welcoming a great personage into his home.

Hugh watched the arrival of Cumberland with an expectant reverence. His uncle the Earl preceded the Duke, who had a woman on his arm. His uncle’s mouth was a thin band of nervousness.

When the Duke came to the children, he paused to bestow a smile on them. The children emulated their parents, and the governesses their employers. The Duke even smiled at the laggard boy who did not bow, but stood looking at him with a mixture of curiosity, muted astonishment, and disappointment. Cumberland paused imperceptibly to allow the boy to correct this faux pas and when the boy did not bend and incline his head, moved on. The Duke’s glance shifted to the Earl, whom he saw glaring at the boy. The Earl seemed to feel this scrutiny, and turned briefly to hold his eyes. In the Earl’s look he saw anger, fear, and apology.

Hugh Kenrick was both oblivious to the others around him and fully conscious of them. As the Duke had come closer, he became less aware of the figures that preceded the man, figures that acted like the depressed hammers of a clavichord, and more aware of the bulky figure that caused the phenomenon. This figure was corpulent, the face bovine, the pale blue eyes cold marbles of inanimation, dull, unseeing, devoid even of the arrogance of station. The Duke went by and entered the mansion. Hugh remained insensible to the stares of those around him.

Cumberland did not wish to delay a rest from his arduous time in the coach by making an event of the anomaly. The Earl, who did not wish to call further attention to the incident, passed by with him, his face redder than anyone had ever seen it. The Baron and Baroness were aghast, but did not dare to stop and make a scene with a reprimand. They disappeared with the Duke inside.

Hugh felt a hand on his shoulder, and was roughly turned around. It was the vicar, whose face was purple with wrath. “Master Kenrick, you are in
grave
straits! I have never seen such…such impudence!”

*  *  *

The Earl escorted Cumberland and Miss Harris up the grand staircase to their quarters, while servants showed the other members of the entourage to their rooms. He quickly returned to the great hall, where this
evening’s banquet was to be held, and took his brother aside. The Baron did not need to ask why.

“
Where is he
?” hissed the Earl.

“I sent him to his room.”

“Is he addled?”

“I don’t know, Basil,” replied Garnet Kenrick helplessly.

“I
do
know that I would enjoy forcing a bottle of Daffney’s Elixir down his throat, followed by a more than ample helping of licorice to purge him of whatever bile is clogging his mind!”

“He has caused a fine tardle this time, my son Hugh,” conceded the Baron.

The Earl paused to throw an evil look at a passing servant who might have been eavesdropping, then said, almost in a whisper, “Do you realize that this incident will be reported in the
London Gazette
and God knows how many other newspapers? That it will be the subject of conversation and gossip at all the balls and dinners? Do you know what must be done?”

“No, Basil, neither I nor Effney know what must be done.”

“Your son’s action could cost us this contract, dear brother. In fact, I’m certain of it. That contract is the only reason we have His Grace here!”

The Baron sighed. “I can’t think of a remedy, Basil.”

“
I
will think of one!”

The Earl called on Sir Everard Fawkner in his room. Fawkner asked his valet, who was unpacking his employer’s trunks, to step out of the room.

When the door was shut, Basil Kenrick wrung his hands. “Please convey my humblest and most urgent apologies to His Grace, Sir Everard.”

Fawkner removed his wig and propped it on the bedpost. “Who
was
that boy?” he asked.

The Earl took a deep breath, then said, “It was my nephew, Hugh.”

Fawkner barked once in amusement. “Oh! Well, that’s awkward! I suppose we couldn’t ask you to flog him and terminate his employment!” He paused and grinned at the anxiety he saw in the Earl’s eyes. “Well, Lord Basil, something must be done, some gesture must be made. A mere apology won’t do. His Grace must be offered a substantial demonstration of regret.”

“Yes, I realize that.”