Devil Water (11 page)

Lady Lichfield soothingly promised, and broke the promise at once by hurrying off to find Lord Derwentwater, with the first tentative offer of Betty’s hand. She did not confide in her daughter, partly to shield Betty from possible disappointment, and partly because the child’s further emotions had now no bearing on the matter at all, though Charles’s had; and Lady Lichfield had tonight shrewdly brought along their cousin Frank Lee and instructed Betty to flirt with him, so that the situation might not look too pointed.

At seven Dr. Radcliffe rose. The time had come for the feast. Mr. Lee hastily made his excuses and told Betty he would see her later at the ball. Mr. Petre gathered up Colonel Radcliffe, who was still drowsy, and said that he would make sure the poor man was safely consigned to his valet before his own retirement for private devotions.

That left a party of ten, who proceeded to the dining room followed by the musicians. In the hall the Duchess created a slight diversion by relinquishing Dr. Radcliffe’s arm as she cried, “Oh, Paulet! I have forgot a message to you from the Duke! I vow my memory worsens daily! ‘Tis of rather a private nature --” she lowered her voice in an aside to Dr. Radcliffe, “to do with the governorship, you know -- and I really must speak to the man a minute, if I may?”

“Of course, dear madam,” said the Doctor. “In the anteroom there?” Henrietta gave him her dazzling smile and walked into the anteroom, followed by Paulet and Juba. She shut the door.

The company waited, and Dr. Radcliffe said importantly, “ ‘Tis not generally known that the Duke of Bolton may resign his governorship on the Isle of Wight in favor of Ireland, some such thing is in the wind. I believe Mr. Paulet is often used as confidential agent.”

“Useful man, I expect,” Francis drawled suddenly, “ ‘Id do anything his masters pay him to, I’m sure. We should have one like that in
our
family, James.”

“I see no particular need for such,” said the Earl pleasantly. And they continued to wait until Henrietta reappeared with Paulet and Juba trotted to the kitchens. The Duchess preceded the others to the dining room. She seated herself at Dr. Radcliffe’s right, James beside her, little Anna Webb next, and then Mr. Paulet, whose vacuous expression was quite unchanged by whatever news the Duchess had given him. Since the child, Lady Mary, was on his right, he felt no need to exert himself, and the entire meal passed without his uttering a word. Lady Lichfield sat on the Doctor’s left and Betty found herself between Francis and Charles.

There was a silence, then Betty burst out, “The moon was rising as we came in the coach but I wonder if it might snow again.”

Charles said, “Well, ‘tis the season for it.” Francis coughed and did not bother to say anything. There was another silence, which Dr. Radcliffe broke. “Look, what’s coming in the door! We must greet our Twelfth Night cake!”

Everyone turned to see two footmen bearing an enormous creation on a silver platter. It was a tiered cake, frosted with marchpane figures -- a gold crown on top and sugared sculptures of the Three Kings and their camels around the bottom layer. The footmen solemnly deposited the cake in front of the host

They all exclaimed, the girls clapped their hands, and the Doctor, with a gesture to the musicians, began to sing.

“Now, now the mirth comes, with cake full of plums
Where bean’s the king of the sport here;
Besides we must know, the pea also
Must revel as queen in the court here.”

“How delightful!” cried the Duchess. “What a truly splendid cake! Hasten, sir, and let us find out who are to be our rulers tonight!” She seemed as full of youthful merriment and anticipation as the children were, there was no sign of ill humor about her.
The
Doctor cut the cake and carefully portioned out the slices with a knowing smile. Everyone duly hunted for the mystic bean and pea which would turn them into temporary royalty, according to a custom observed since the Romans had brought it to the island with Julius Caesar.

Betty crumbled listlessly through her slice, for the Duchess would certainly be Queen. Those matters were usually arranged beforehand. Great was her surprise, therefore, to find the hard green pea at the same moment that Charles sheepishly held out the bean. Everyone clapped again, even the Duchess, whose gaiety did not diminish. “We salute Your Majesties!” she cried, getting up and curtseying to Charles and Betty.

The servants brought purple velveteen robes trimmed with false ermine and gilded brass crowns which were encrusted with paste brilliants, as were the two scepters. A small dais was carried in and the young couple’s chairs placed upon it. The Doctor conducted the coronation, and made a speech which slyly hinted that perhaps this was not the only occasion in which the “King and Queen” would be seated side by side as the principal figures in a ceremony. Betty blushed. James smiled. Lady Lichfield beamed. The Duchess gave her most tinkling laugh and said, “La, dear Doctor, you are indeed a consummate master of the revels. Now surely their majesties have a command for us?”

This sudden notice and the Duchess’ magnanimous behavior bewildered Charles, but all Betty’s constraint had vanished, her head was spinning with excitement and the consciousness that Charles -- now linked so publicly with her -- looked handsome in his regalia, and she cried, “We command that you amuse us! Do we not, my liege lord? A riddle! Let the Doctor tell a riddle!”

Dr. Radcliffe immediately complied with

“My first’s a negation as all will agree,
My second’s deep water but not from the sea,
My whole is the season of festivity.”

Charles got it first, “Nowell,” and began to enjoy himself. The Duchess had obviously decided to forget the past. Betty was a gay co-ruler. The Wassail bowl circulated freely. The port and claret bottles were brought, whereupon the Doctor rose somewhat unsteadily and said, “Before we drink to the Twelfth Night, I propose the health of our true king-over-the-water! To King James!” He raised his glass, drained it, and flung it into the fireplace, where it shattered. The others sipped more delicately, Lady Lichfield after a moment’s hesitation, the Duchess with a shrug. “You are courageous, sir,” she said to the Doctor. “Many would think such a toast was treason, but to be sure we are all friends here. Dear friends,” she repeated, smiling at him through her lashes, and squeezing his thick mottled hand. He had just been telling her of the huge legacy he intended to leave to her young son, Lord Nassau-Paulet. This legacy was not the only benefit Henrietta knew how to extract from the Doctor -- and with the minimum of effort on her part.

The feast continued. They had a boar’s head and sang “The Boar’s Head Carol.” They ate eel pie and plum puddings. They told jokes and more riddles. Charles, having found his voice, vied with Betty in issuing commands. The jests grew more bawdy. The young girls were sent to bed. Francis, after the fourth glass of claret, even roused himself and recited a ribald poem in French, which none of them quite understood except James, who laughed.

It was then Betty discovered that Mr. Paulet had disappeared.

“Why, look!” she cried, waving her scepter and frowning. “One of our courtiers has left without our permission. We are
most
displeased.”

Charles added, “We are displeased. When he returns he shall be punished by dancing a jig for us.”

Betty fancied there was a peculiar look on the Duchess’ face, though Henrietta’s voice was sweet and mock-apologetic as she said, “Forgive the poor wretch, Your Majesties, he has a weak head; he has doubtless need of air.”

“To be sure,” said Lady Lichfield, who was finding her stays too tight. “And indeed ‘tis time we
all
set off for Ormond House.”

The Doctor instantly agreed. One of the footmen went to summon the coaches, and reported that Lady Lichfield’s coach had not returned, that there was a message from the coachman saying it had broken an axle.

“Ah,” cried the Duchess gaily. “But ‘tis of no consequence! Our King and Queen shall ride in
my
coach, and there’s ample room for the rest of us in the Doctor’s. Yes, yes, I insist! The royal couple must ride beneath a ducal coronet at least. ‘Tis only fitting.”

Henrietta was irresistible, since she appeared to be making a benevolent effort to give the young couple a ride alone with each other. Betty had a qualm. Surely the Duchess had never before shown like willingness to relinquish any of the trappings of her rank, or to squeeze herself into an inferior conveyance. But nobody else saw anything peculiar, and her mother was actually nodding approval.

Betty and Charles laid aside their robes and crowns, donned their cloaks, and entered the gilded coach, which was manned by four servants -- the coachman, a footman on the box beside him, another on the step behind, and a postillion on the near lead horse.

In the darkness of the great coach, constraint returned to Charles and Betty, and they sat primly far apart upon the satin cushions. They listened to the rumbling of the wheels on the cobblestones, the clatter of hoofs from six horses, the crack of the coachman’s whip, and the warning shouts of the postillion. Neither spoke for some time until Charles, peering out the window, said with some surprise, “Why, I don’t see any lights, and there seem to be trees around us.”

Betty looked through her window. “Ormond House is in St. James’s Square, isn’t it? I should’ve thought we’d stay in town to get there, but perhaps the coachman thinks the streets will be too crowded on Twelfth Night.”

“It may be,” said Charles, but he frowned as they passed the dim outline of a tiny thatched building which looked like a village tavern, and then plunged into the darkness of a tree-lined road, while beneath the wheels the bumping of cobbles had given way to the crackling of frozen dirt.

Charles reached up and knocked on the sliding panel which communicated with the footman behind. His knocks produced no response, nor did the panel budge. “Jesus!” said Charles. “What’s the matter with that knave back there!” and he banged on the glass dividing them from the coachman. By the flickering coach lamps they could dimly see his rump high on the box, and that of the footman beside him. This effort produced no result, either, except that the long whip snapped and the horses went faster.

“ ‘Tis odd,” Charles muttered. He did not wish to make a fool of himself by opening the door and shouting for attention, in case this were a customary byroad between Bloomsbury and St. James’s Squares. Betty had no such reflection. “How
dare
they ignore us!” she cried, and jumping forward she grabbed the ponderous door handle, shouting, “Halt, I say, halt! Open the door!”

The coach stopped and the door opened, though it was not because of Betty’s shouts, as they soon learned. The rear footman, a great burly fellow, thrust his head inside and said in a hurried voice, “We’ re in trouble, milady, there’s a ‘ighwayman outside. Now keep quiet and ye won’t get ‘urt.” The footman reached in the coach, scooped Betty up in his arms, stood her on the ground, and held her pinioned with his huge arms before the astounded Charles could move.

Then Charles drew his sword and was out of the coach at a bound. Directly in front of him in the wan moonlight there was a shadowy masked figure on horseback; the figure held a large shiny pistol which pointed at Charles’s head. “Give me your purse,” said the masked figure to Charles in a muffled falsetto.

“By God, I
won’t!”
cried Charles. “And what’s the matter with you scoundrels up there?” he shouted turning to the Duchess’ motionless servants. “There’s only one of
him!”

“We wouldn’t want to get shot, sir,” said the coachman calmly. “Best do as ‘e says, if ye value your own life.”

Betty gave a shrill cry, which was at once stifled by the hand of the footman who held her.

The highwayman brandished his pistol and said to Charles, “So you’ll not obey me -- then I must shoot.”

It was not so much courage that caused Charles’s next move as blind firry consequent upon the sudden perception of a plot He knew that this was no real highwayman, and that the whole scene was as sham as any play-acting the stage could offer. That there might be real enough danger as well he did not think. With all his agile young strength he lunged sideways for the horse’s head, and whacked it across the nose with his sword. The horse snorted and reared, the pistol went off and smashed the coach window, whereupon the coachman and his mate and the postillion had their hands full calming the six frightened horses.

Charles grabbed the highwayman’s leg and yanked the man from his saddle. Charles jumped on him and began to flail with his fists.

Betty, who had ceased struggling as she watched, felt the restraining arms around her begin to loosen. And she heard the footman begin to chuckle. “Go it, young sir,” he whispered. “Bash ‘im in!” Charles neither heard nor needed the advice. The man beneath him hit back as best he could, but Charles delivered a violent punch on the nose and the man went limp.

“ ‘Ave ye killed ‘im, sir?” asked the footman who held Betty. Charles heard that and slowly drew back, staring down at the face from which the mask had long since fallen off. Despite the bleeding lip and mud smears, the narrow pimply face was recognizable.

“It’s Paulet!” said Charles blankly, his head spinning. The footman released Betty, walked over to the man on the ground, and felt him. “No, ye’ve not killed ‘im, sir, I see. Mr. Paulet’ll live to do ‘er grace’s dirty biddings yet another day.”

“Shut up, Will!” called the coachman angrily. “Dump Mr. Paulet in the coach, and get back where ye belong. That free tongue o’ yours’ll get ye ‘anged at Tyburn yet.”

The footman shrugged. “What abaht them?” he said gesturing towards Charles and Betty.

“Leave ‘em ‘ere,” said the coachman. “We’ll know wot ter sye to any story
they
tell.”

The footman shrugged and, picking up Paulet, flung him into the coach, slammed the door, and climbed up to his perch.

“Wait!” cried Betty. “You can’t leave us here like this!”

“Aye but we can, milady,” said the coachman. “Ye may be sure our orders wasn’t to coddle ye,
or
the young gentleman, an’ I obey me orders.” He cracked his whip and the horses started.