The Birth of Blue Satan (15 page)

“He also knew that, as an old man, I could be of very little use in spite of my constant devotion. I am sure his tendency not to confide his private business to me was more to the purpose of keeping me out of harm’s way than due to any lack of trust.”

He paused, then added in a voice full of grief, “He always protected the people who depended upon him, as well as those he loved.”

Gideon suddenly got the uneasy feeling that Mr. Bramwell had, if nothing else, believed that some great matter was afoot. He would not press him now, but after tomorrow’s service he would see what more could be got out of him.

He asked Mr. Bramwell to walk with him up and down the gallery a few times before he went to eat his supper. They strolled at a more moderate pace than Gideon would have chosen, but even this slight movement helped to clear his mind.

As they passed a portrait of his great-great-grandfather, painted by Van Dyck, he asked, “Had my father had many visitors of late?”

“Very few, I am afraid. The Tories, you know, have been quite unsettled by this German prince, and I am afraid the most recent parliamentary elections have tended rather to drive them far apart rather than bring them together. Your father was greatly distressed both by the elections and by the nature of the attacks the Whigs have made on our former party leaders. I am certain my Lord Bolingbroke sent a messenger here with notes describing their vicious nature, with a plea for his old comrades not to desert him.

“I am afraid that some of our old friends have not shown the courage of their convictions as they should. But —” he gave a sigh— “I suppose it is one’s Christian duty to forgive them.”

They had walked to his father’s portrait painted by Michael Dahl, a Swede. Lord Hawkhurst had refused to let “that Whig” Sir Godfrey Kneller have the job. Neither man could approach the talent of a Van Dyck, and Gideon had never much cared for this lifeless portrait. Now, pausing to stare at it, he was grateful that at least a shadow of his father remained.

The painter had done only minor justice to Lord Hawkhurst’s fiery character. It was there, certainly, in the hook of his nose, in the craggy brow, and in the stern, disillusioned lips. But the artist had failed to capture his lightning-quick temper and his equally strong urgency to forgive. Gideon had understood his father’s impulsive emotions, so very much like his own, as well as the reason and fairness that always triumphed over them. But had someone else taken offence?

Looking up at the picture, Mr. Bramwell said, “Various people have suggested that your father had a harsh face, but I always tell them that appearances can be deceiving.”

Gideon gave a smile. “Which one of his features was deceiving, do you think? The hawk-like beak, which all the male members of our family seem to be cursed with, or his threatening brows? I confess I can hardly remember him before they became so wild and thick.”

“I cannot pretend to know what other men saw in him, but he was a good man who always put duty before his personal wishes. For a man like that, he lived in difficult times. He made few attachments, but those he had were deeply sincere, even if he did not express his feelings well.”

Gideon knew that Mr. Bramwell’s intention was to console him for the manner in which he had parted from his father, but all he could feel was guilt for the part he had played in provoking him. The words they had exchanged had been laden with hurtful emotions he would be condemned to remember all his life.

They had reached the end of the gallery, and Gideon would have turned to continue, but Mr. Bramwell asked to be excused in order to prepare for tomorrow’s obsequies.

Recollecting that supper awaited him in his rooms, Gideon was about to bid him goodnight, when Mr. Bramwell said, “I believe I said that appearances can be very deceiving, my lord. While that is so, I might also say that they can hold truth for those who choose to search for it.

“Goodnight, my lord,” he said, turning to leave.

And Gideon was left to ask himself just what Mr. Bramwell had meant to suggest with such a curious remark.

The funeral had been set in the day, instead of in the evening which would have been more customary, to allow the mourners to return at least part way to their homes. After breaking their fast in their respective bedrooms, they spent the better part of the morning dressing in their suits of black superfine, most of which had been last worn for Her late Majesty Queen Anne. The peers among them had added scarves and hatbands in black Alamode, while the servants had all received new black livery for the occasion.

As Gideon walked from his rooms in his parents’ wing towards the Abbey chapel, the two constables he had managed to lose for one precious night appeared at the top of the stairs. He ignored them as they fell in behind him like sentries.

He came across his noble guests in the antechamber to what had once been the queen’s suite. Here they had gathered, framed by the tapestries that hung on the walls. He saw that the mourning gloves had already been passed out.

The noise from the gentlemen’s visiting dwindled to a close as one by one they marked his entrance. In the midst of the crowd stood his cousin Harrowby, clad in a splendid mourning suit, with black lace trim, heavily embroidered with lilies. A new raven-coloured wig fell softly onto his shoulders.

Harrowby had the agreeable air of a host at a private party. He seemed on the verge of inviting his guests inside, when he started at the sight of Gideon.

“Zounds! Dear Cuz, how you do give one a fright! You look positively ghastly, you know.”

The others watched the interaction between the two before their eyes were drawn in shock to Gideon’s two constables. A few of the gentlemen stepped backwards as if to avoid an offensive odor. Others seemed not to know where to look.

Among them, Gideon noted a score or more of his father’s oldest friends, and—surprisingly— off to one side the Duke of Bournemouth.

He welcomed them all and said, “Harrowby, I must thank you for taking care of my guests.”

One of his father’s plainer-speaking cronies, Lord Peterborough, his short, squat body encased in black velvet, examined him grimly through a glass. “St. Mars. Didn’t know you would come.”

A suggestion of chagrin in the old man’s voice made Gideon say, “I must suppose you to refer to my recent illness, my lord. For no other reason would I be absent from my father’s funeral.”

“Of course not!” As if ashamed, the earl quickly stepped forward to take Gideon’s arm. “Glad to see you up and about. Shocking business this, an’t it? Your father would be highly displeased by the foolish talk. For myself, I do not credit one word of what is said! You must not allow it to distress you, my boy.”

On the contrary, it had come as a great shock to learn that one of his father’s closest friends could harbour a shred of suspicion, even if only for the briefest of moments. Gossip must be truly going against him if this was so, and he had been too seriously ill to counteract it. In a society where people’s letters were filled with false rumours of people’s deaths and marriage speculations, no one could afford to be entirely silent on his own account.

If this were a normal situation, he would ignore gossip and let it sort itself out. But today he decided he had better take advantage of this olive branch, or risk alienating the few friends he seemed to have. He gratefully accepted the baron’s arm and invited the others to enter the chapel so that the service could begin. They would watch it from the gallery, while his father’s servants and tenants sat on the benches below.

After taking his seat centre front as the chief mourner, Gideon waited for the noise to subside, before giving a nod to Mr. Bramwell, who stood below in his clerical robes.

The chapel, with its two-story ceiling, was the Abbey’s crowning glory. At the Restoration, with Charles II’s blessing, Gideon’s grandfather had had it redesigned after the fashion of Rome, with marble columns, leafy Corinthian orders, painted Italianate ceilings, and a fine gilt altar. A set of marble crypts had been built into the floor.

It was into one of these that Lord Hawkhurst would be lowered. At the sight of his father’s casket, covered in a black velvet pall and decorated with the family coat of arms, Gideon felt a squeeze in his heart.

As the sacrament began, his mind moved in painful directions. Never would he forgive himself for the words he had spoken to his father. Cruel memory revealed their argument in stark relief, every hurtful phrase, every threat that had been made. Only now, drained of his selfish passions by grief and guilt, Gideon could hardly recall the vicious anger that had made their last conversation so bitter. He could hardly recall Isabella’s face.

It would be so much easier to bear this day and the days to come if he could draw on her beauty and her affection to see him through. He should not be ready yet to forgive his father for the harsh words he had said about her, but Gideon could no longer feel justified by the emotion he had experienced on hearing them. For the moment he had too great a need to avenge his father’s death.

Contrary to Philippe’s dire prediction that he would make himself sick again and end up back in bed, Gideon felt his strength rapidly returning. The bit of exercise last night, a heartier meal and a decent night’s sleep had put an end to the shaking in his limbs. He could feel his body growing stronger with every step he took. And with this strength, his longing for Isabella would surely return.

At first, the pain from his loss had made him want her more, but he could not help feeling torn by his father’s opposition to their match. He should not  think of her now when his father lay covered by a pall. The comfort he wanted and needed from her would come later, after he had brought Lord Hawkhurst’s killer to justice.

A short break in the ritual caused him to raise his eyes to his father’s servants and friends. Looking on their bowed heads, Gideon realized suddenly that one of these people was most likely his father’s murderer. The sickening notion made him examine each one of them with a searching eye.

To all appearances they mourned sincerely, the commoners more loudly below. To his father’s tenants and servants, Lord Hawkhurst had been both a father and a god, a powerful being who exacted their obedience just as surely as he bestowed his blessings. Had one of these people turned on his domineering master?

Up here, the nervousness of the listeners spoke of the suspicion under which Gideon laboured, as well as the uneasiness of their times. His father’s friends would want to believe in his son’s innocence, but they could not be certain that Sir Joshua’s accusations were false.

As Gideon glanced about the chapel, one thing struck him enough to make his thoughts take another turn. The men who had gathered to mourn his father’s passing—with the notable exception of his cousin and the Duke of Bournemouth—were all at outs with the new King. They were all known privately to espouse the cause of the Pretender. With George of Hanover now installed, they were all under suspicion themselves.

Later, after the mourners had been served with wine and food and had been given the mourning rings and gifts his father had willed them, Gideon stood upstairs in the Great Chamber to bid them farewell. As the last of them departed, his Grace of Bournemouth appeared unexpectedly at his elbow.

Seeing the Duke reminded Gideon of Isabella, and he tensed to think of the progress her other suitors might have made. He wondered why his Grace had come when, to his knowledge, he had never been one of his father’s friends.

After expressing his condolences in a conventional way, the Duke cast a glance at Gideon’s two shadows, the two constables—too far away to hear—and said, “I wonder—what disposition, if any, has been made of your father’s papers, St. Mars?”

“I beg your pardon, your Grace?”

The Duke gave a tight, little smile, which might have been intended to express sympathy, but failed. “Forgive me. I have surprised you. You wonder why I raise such a mundane matter on this unfortunate occasion; however, your father was keeping certain papers of mine, and I naturally wish to have them restored.”

“I have only just arrived. As you may imagine, there are matters more pressing to me than disposing of my father’s papers. If you will describe them, I will ask my father’s agent to search for them in due time.”

“You mistake me,” Bournemouth said coldly. “I will take them from you and from no one else. I expect them to be returned before they are examined by other men for whom the contents can be of little interest.”

It was a moment before Gideon recognized his words as a threat.

He narrowed his eyes. “You say they hold no interest? Then I fail to see the cause of your Grace’s concern. When, and
if
I find them, I will, of course, return them to you—provided I agree on their provenance.”

The Duke gave a start. A flash of fear showed on his face before his eyes were filled by a rage he barely managed to check.

“You would be wise not to offend me in this, St. Mars. You have few friends at Court just now. Your father’s cronies are too busy defending themselves in Parliament to come to your aid, should you find yourself in need.” With a tighter smile, he let his gaze veer towards the constables and back. “Let us say that in your current predicament, it would be a grave mistake to offend those few friends you have.”