Hugh Kenrick (39 page)

Robert Brune, confined to a wheelchair with the gout, had merely laughed in dismissal of his wife’s worries. “If what you say is true, deary,” he said, “our Reverdy can only become the wiser. Besides, James and the Baron and Hugh himself contradict you.”

“He is not…normal,” answered Mrs. Brune. “He is a troublemaker. There was that incident with the Duke, and now, I hear, he won’t even speak to his uncle, the Earl. It’s…scandalous.”

Robert Brune refused to discuss the matter further. He did not like the Duke of Cumberland or the Earl of Danvers, while the Five Axioms of Alfred the Great had no special place in his ethics. Mrs. Brune, for her part, composed a letter to Duncan McDougal in Surrey that gushed with compliments for his son, Alex, and extended an open invitation to him and his family to stay at the Brunes’s.

*  *  *

Hugh left the great house on a lone, two-day outing to inspect the rabbit warrens and hutches his father had had dug the past winter. He called first on Mr. Hanway, the warden, and received a report from that man that the cony population had increased dramatically, and that the only poachers were transient vagabonds. He gave Hugh a map of the hutches’ locations, and advice on how to deal with poachers. Before Hugh rode from his lodge, the warden discreetly inquired if the Baron was satisfied with his
management and policing of the estate. “My father is quite satisfied, Mr. Hanway, have no doubt about that. I wish merely to become more familiar with the grounds.”

“Then, good day to you, milord, and may no harm come to you.”

Hugh smiled, touched his hat, and rode off. He carried a fowling piece, two pistols, matches for a campfire, and, with other necessities in his saddlebags, some books and a notebook. He had volunteered to inspect the warrens, first, because he was curious about them, and then because he desired a quantum of solitude, a time away from everyone, including those he cared for.

At the end of the first day, he sat in a deserted tenant’s cottage and wrote a proposal for his father to consider: Instead of maintaining warrens and hutches in the wild in which to breed rabbits, why not set aside an acre and build coops? This would save the grasslands and meadows for more important pasturing of sheep and cattle, and prevent poaching, and make more efficient use of the warden’s and gamekeeper’s time. It seemed to make no difference, he noted, where conies lived, so long as they were fed, and he did not think that artificial confinement would affect their multiplication. It was a modest suggestion, thought Hugh, but if implemented could save the estate the bother of letting land lie fallow until it recovered from the damage caused by the conies’ appetites.

He sat at the door of the cottage until past midnight, staring at the moonlit landscape, glancing occasionally up at the stars, at peace with himself and with the world, not permitting memories of the past or thoughts of the future to disturb his inner tranquility.

It was late afternoon on the second day when he approached the end of his circuit around the estate and neared the property of the Brunes. He had passed through two villages and many leaseholds and farms, and forded two streams that wound their way from the Onyx River to irrigate the flat meadowland that was now giving way to heath. He had toyed with the idea of taking another day to ride south to the coast and skirt the cliffs as far as St. Aldhelm’s Head, or even travel from Lulworth to Steeple.

The sun was warm and he decided to rest himself and his mount near the last stream. There was a cluster of young pines and shrubbery clinging to the banks of the stream, and beyond that he could see the dots of the Brune house and its outbuildings on the horizon.

As he neared the pines, he espied another horse, tethered to a shrub, and then a woman’s garments and a straw hat atop one of the bushes.

When the stream came into sight, he reined his mount to a halt.

Reverdy Brune emerged from the water. Her black hair, longer than he had imagined, fell to her shoulders. Drops glistened on her face and bare arms. She was clad only in a cotton camisole that clung to a body whose planes and curves he had only guessed at—and had, he knew, guessed correctly. She stepped onto the grass, closed her eyes, and raised her arms to let the warm breeze caress her. She stood that way for a long time, oblivious to Hugh’s presence and everything else around her but her own being.

Hugh sat very still, enchanted by the sight, drawn to it, his desire to leap down and hold Reverdy fighting his desire to prolong this vision of her.

His mount shook its mane and caused the bridle to jingle.

Reverdy opened her eyes, but otherwise did not move. She recognized her observer instantly. Then, holding Hugh’s glance, she lowered her arms to her sides. She made no attempt to flee, made no sign of false modesty. The breeze played with the camisole and sharply sculpted her legs and breasts.

Hugh dismounted, threw the reins of his mount over a bush, then removed his hat and coat and let them drop to the ground.

He walked up to Reverdy, then fell to his knees. He took her hands and kissed their palms, then allowed his own fingers to wander over her body to trace her legs, hips, waist, and breasts beneath the wet cotton. He looked up at her, and saw a faint hint of fear in her eyes, together with a hope that he would do with her what he would—and a courage to accept it. Instead, he encircled her with his arms and buried one side of his face between her breasts.

She heard him inhale deeply, as though to breathe her aroma and drink the water from her camisole. His arms tightened as he pressed her closer to him. She rested trembling hands on his head and greedily stroked his hair and the side of his face. They remained that way for a long while. Reverdy shut her eyes, thinking that this would dispel a new fear that was growing in her.

The next thing she knew, Hugh had risen and kissed her. He held her away. “We will be married next year,” he said in a voice that rasped slightly, “and we will spend our wedding night here, on this grass. Can you wait?”

She nodded once.

He ran his hand once more from between her legs, up over her breasts, her neck, and finally her face and hair. She looked up into his intent eyes and face straining to control the violence of his ownership of her, and
wished she could be smashed by them. Her own knees gave way, and she knelt before him to rest her head against the buckle of his sword belt. Then she sat back on her heels, undid the lace string that held the camisole to her shoulders, and let the garment fall. She pushed it away from her so that her hair dangled in the air beyond her shoulder blades. She held his glance, openly challenging him, testing his power over her and himself. She was unsure whether she admired or feared his control, for it was a servant of his own purposes, and she did not know if she approved of those purposes, or if she could ever influence them. She sat there, exposed to him, proud of what he was seeing, proud that it was hers and that she had it to submit to his sight and carnal enjoyment, wanting him to surrender to it and crush her here and now in the grass…because if he surrendered, she would know that a life with him was possible…and if he did not surrender, that she would be a helpless appendage to his life, a willing one but still helpless, and she was not certain that this would give her happiness. These thoughts came to her fast and unbidden, and were clouded by the throbbing in her temples and the blood racing through her veins, and were quickly dissolved by the ecstasy of expectation.

She was about to raise her arms in invitation, when he said, “You will look like this on our wedding night.” He reached down to run gentle fingers over her forehead. Her hands came together to hold his hand and pressed the fingers closer. Then he withdrew his hand and stood to his full height. “Get dressed,” he commanded in a hoarse near-whisper. “I’ll escort you back as far as your west gate.” He turned and walked back to his mount.

When she was finished dressing—and she resented the necessity of it, for she would rather have ridden back naked and flaunted her intimacy with Hugh to her parents—he tied the ribbon of her hat beneath her chin, then lifted her up onto her side-saddle. They rode in silence in the direction of her house, their hands clasped together. When they reached the west gate, he raised her gloved hand and brushed the palm over his cheek, then let it go. He said, “I’ll come over for tea at noon tomorrow.” Solemnly, he doffed his hat, then reined his mount around and rode off at a controlled trot.

T
WO MORNINGS AFTER
H
UGH
K
ENRICK LEFT
L
ONDON FOR
D
ANVERS, POSTERS
were found pasted to the great doors of Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral, and were instantly and furiously ripped down by the deacons who found them. Knots of merchants, tradesmen, and other men able to read gathered to peruse similar posters that had appeared overnight on the pillars in the piazza of the Royal Exchange, on the doors of Westminster Hall, on some walls of the King’s Bench Office, and on walls around the Inns of Court. The homes of some peers, and that of the Speaker of the Commons, boasted the posters. Soon watchmen and constables arrived and tore them down. Some spectators cheered, while others were silent. Bailiffs found bundles of the posters, wrapped in twine, deposited in front of Old Bailey and Newgate Prison. The watchguard on Westminster Bridge turned over to a justice of the peace bundles of the poster found in alcoves on both sides of the Thames.

The text of the poster read:

“Arise to establish a New Order! Liberty and Monarchy are eternal enemies! Scripture is a Prescription for Tyranny, and Atheism is England’s only Salvation! Elevate and honor the Proud, and humble God and his credulous sheep! Question the Legitimacy of His Mongrel Majesty from Hanover! George’s bloody reign rests on a dung heap of sophist whirligigs! His heir the Prince of Wales could not earn a farthing as a dustman or glover, yet will rule a nation of his Betters! The Crown is a tiara of cobwebbed dogma, but has the appetite of a pig, and consumes our sustenance! Join The Society of the Pippin!

Londoners had heard of the Beefsteak Club, of the Robin Hood Society, of White’s Club, of the Literary Club, and of Boodle’s and Crockford’s. Clubs and societies were as numerous as churches and chapels, and as diverse in their purposes and practices.

But no one had ever heard of the Society of the Pippin. There was some talk about the posters in the taverns and coffeehouses among that small portion of the public that had read the posters before they were removed, but the pressing matters of politics, war, and trade caused those men to
forget the posters and what they had said. Some letters appeared in newspapers a few days later, complaining about the posters and calling for a government investigation. The authorities, accustomed to mobs, riots and spontaneous demonstrations of public support or anger, fully expected to hear reports of a rabble marching through the streets to Parliament, and debated among themselves whether or not to recommend to His Majesty that he advise the army to be prepared to disperse it.

Nothing, however, happened, and for two reasons. No one knew anything about the Society of the Pippin, much less how to communicate with it or enlist in its ranks. And, while the statements on the posters were undoubtedly provocative, offensive, and even libelous, few who read them understood them. Except for the blasphemy against the Scriptures, and the aspersing of the royal family, the statements were too broad to be connected to any current or past subject of controversy or cause. The posters did not reappear, and the authorities concluded that they were the work of a tilted crackpot who had exhausted his funds in carrying out the mischief.

A poster had been put on the door of the residence of the Marquis of Bilbury. A servant took it down and brought it to Brice Blissom, who showed it to his father over breakfast. The elder Marquis was outraged, as was his son. The son assured his father that he would look into it and find out who was responsible so that legal action could be taken. The elder Marquis grunted in satisfaction, content that his son was maturing at last.

It was Brice Blissom who had put it on the door, after the family and household had retired. It was he also who, incognito, had paid a handful of men to put the posters up around the city; had paid to have them secretly printed; and had paid William Horlick to compose the call to revolution from the Society’s ledger of minutes.

Two evenings after the posters appeared, he entertained, in a private supper box at Vauxhall Gardens, a junior attorney-general who was a distant cousin and engaged to the religious daughter of an equally religious earl, and a junior solicitor-general, who was not related but who owed the young marquis a thousand pounds from a night-long game of faro. With the exquisite food and fine drink came two reputable and pretty courtesans, whose company the junior officials could not otherwise afford. A drunken orgy ensued, and the party made such a commotion that the manager requested that the Marquis and his party leave. As a favor, Brice Blissom paid the manager not to report the “delicate but damning doings” to anyone.

Early the next day, Brice Blissom called at the office of the junior attorney-general and presented to the hung-over man “some interesting documents.” These were a copy of the poster and the minutes ledger of the Society of the Pippin. He stated that he wished to file informations of a conspiracy to disturb the tranquility of the government, and of published libels of the king, Crown, and Parliament. The posters, he explained, had been broadcast in many boroughs, as municipal authorities could confirm. He had knowledge of the date, time, and location of the next meeting of the Society of the Pippin, and, in conformance with his duty to His Majesty and the nation, wished to sue to bring the conspirators to justice with all possible dispatch.

The Society and its posters, he explained to the stunned junior attorney-general, could be a part of a larger, insidious French plot to incapacitate England with civil strife. The French, he said, had tried it before during the ’Forty-five with the Young Pretender. The Marquis pointed to the heads of the Scottish rebels—or what remained of them—visible through his distant cousin’s window. They were impaled on poles over the Temple Bar Gate, and had looked down on passersby for ten years. He reminded his stunned cousin of his duty to the Crown and to the king, and also of the favor he had so recently done for him, and assured him that, even though it might seem a minor matter, the Crown and king would be grateful for any swift action taken.