The Bastard: The Kent Family Chronicles (29 page)

So, the next night, Phillipe Charboneau again glimpsed a world he was trying to forget.

The spring dusk smelled of thawed earth and the perfumes of the finely dressed folk dining in lantern-lit pavilions scattered around the vast pleasure park. Ladies in brocaded gowns and gentlemen in suits with sequinned buttons filled the twilight with much laughter and loud talk.

Admission to the park had cost Mr. Sholto a shilling per person. Mrs. Emma had therefore insisted on preparing her own birthday meal—which, Mr. Sholto privately revealed to his sons and Phillipe, he had planned for her to do all along, generosity having its limits.

Ignoring the food and drink available for sale on the grounds, they chose an open stretch of lawn from which they could hear the musical performance, spread blankets like many others around them were doing and enjoyed a splendid supper featuring minced chicken and two newly bought bottles of claret. The lilting strains of a string orchestra drifted from the far part of the grounds. And as full darkness settled, the garden walks livened with the scurrying footfalls of men and maids, not to mention other, occasionally sensual sounds. The only illumination came from the pavilions and from a few glowing lanterns hung from trees.

Soon Hosea began to display signs of impatience.

“May I have leave to wander a while, father? I don’t have the ear for Mr. Handel’s airs that Esau does.”

“Yes, I suppose. But don’t be gone longer than half an hour. I’m told those dim walks are dangerous places after the concert ends.”

A moment or so later, Phillipe jumped up and announced that he wanted to walk too. The spring air, the sweet music, the muted laughter of lovers wandering the mazy paths had brought disturbing memories of Alicia Parkhurst. He hoped a little activity would dispel them.

He started off down the sloping lawn in the direction Hosea had taken. His mother, busy helping Mrs. Emma close the hampers, left her work and caught up with him.

“Look well at the places where the genteel folk are spending the evening, Phillipe.” Her voice was low, but full of the intensity he remembered from Auvergne. “That’s where you belong. And that’s what you’ll throw away if you keep entertaining this foolish dream of going to America. I promise you one thing. I’ll never let you do it so long as I draw a breath.”

She turned her back, leaving the soft steel of her words to twist in his mind.

Well, she’d given him the answer he’d wondered about ever since their first argument. The lines of battle had been laid out. She’d only been awaiting the proper moment to deliver the first salvo.

Unhappily, Phillipe hurried down the slope to catch up with Hosea.

The two young men circled a large pavilion. Under its lanterns, a bewigged young macaroni was heartily puking all over the gown of his female companion. Other ladies and gentlemen in the party squealed in exaggerated shock. But several applauded drunkenly.

Phillipe hurried on by, wishing Marie could view the coarse scene.
That
was the world she wanted him to. join?

Granted, it had its attractions. But sweet Christ, how could she overlook its darker side so easily? Those people lived with the assumption that any behavior, no matter how gross, could be excused—even approved—because of their wealth and position. Did Marie honestly prefer such standards over the simple decencies they’d found in an ordinary household like that of the Sholtos?

Of course, he realized his sweeping judgments were just that—and consequently, in certain instances, unfair. Hadn’t Mr. Fox assured him that his own father did not conform to the pattern?

Still, Phillipe had conceived a hatred of all noblemen and their frivolous, painted women. He knew it was partly because he hadn’t been good enough for one such woman, and because he’d threatened another—to the point where she retaliated through her son. But as he and Hosea ambled, trying to explain away the reasons for the hatred did little good. The hatred remained.

Shortly, Hosea was no longer content merely to amble. He literally hopped from one foot to the other, excited by something he’d spotted behind them. Phillipe came out of his reverie, heard feminine laughter.

“Shopgirls!” Hosea hissed. “Two of ’em—and damned pert looking. Come on, let’s follow.”

Phillipe grinned. “I didn’t think you slipped away from your father just to study the botanical plantings.”

“Stop gabbing or we’ll lose ’em, Phillipe!”

Tempted, Phillipe finally shook his head. “You go if you want. I’ll meet you back where we saw that young beau amusing his friends by throwing up. Then your father won’t suspect we’ve done anything but stroll.”

Hosea needed no further prodding. He ran off after the two flirts, who had disappeared around one of the many turnings the path took between high hedges.

Phillipe wandered on. He inhaled the night air, watched the clear stars, listened to a nearby nightingale singing in harmony with the violas and cellos and French horns of the orchestra. No matter how he resisted, memories of Alicia flooded his mind.

Head down and pensive, he wandered deeper into the unlighted sections of the gardens. He failed to hear the footsteps until they were very close behind him.

All at once the back of his neck prickled. He realized that some solitary walker was approaching with unusual speed. He turned.

The glow of distant lanterns filtered across the tops of the hedges. Silhouetted against the faint light was a tall man. Phillipe could see nothing more.

The man reached him in three long steps.

“I have a present for you, sir,” said the shadow-figure, who seemed to be rummaging in his right-hand pocket. “The one to whom you gave a ruined hand gives you this in return—”

The vague light between the hedges flashed on the barrel of a pocket pistol.

Phillipe only had time to fling himself forward and down as the pistol crashed. A spurt of fire showed him the hem of the killer’s dirty coat. Once it had been a vivid color. Orange—

The pistol ball hissed through the leaves directly behind the spot where Phillipe had been standing a moment before. On his knees, he grappled at the man’s jackbooted legs. He knew the identity of his attacker now, even though tonight the man wore no sword.

The man cursed, pulled back, aimed a knee at Phillipe’s jaw. Phillipe let go, wrenched his head out of the way, seized the heel of the viciously flying boot and heaved upward.

The man tumbled, dropping his pistol. His left hand dove into his coat for another.

Phillipe attacked, clumsily, but with power. He jumped on the bigger man’s belly, driving his knee down hard, then again. At the same time he struck at the attacker’s face.

The man slammed his head to one side, dodging the blow. Phillipe’s fingers raked something leathery. An eye patch, he was certain.

On the far side of the hedge, he heard feminine cries of fright. The killer’s left hand was coming up. For one dreadful instant the dim light again glared on a pistol barrel pointed directly at Phillipe’s forehead.

He beat both fists against the man’s wrist an instant before the attacker triggered the pistol. The cock fell; the powder flashed; the gun exploded. Phillipe wrenched aside, felt the sharp sting as the ball grazed his left temple. Only his fists, striking the attacker’s wrist and angling the ball high and to the side, had saved his life.

The killer beat at the side of Phillipe’s head with the butt of his empty weapon. One dizzying blow. Another—accompanied by blasphemous curses. Phillipe lunged backward, managed to gain his feet. He tried to jump in and stamp on the bigger man’s throat. But by then, the outcries from nearby sections of the gardens had begun to multiply. Boots hammered the paths—

“Hallo, who shot?”

“Over this way!”

“No, to the left!”

The killer sprang up, kicked Phillipe’s shin. The hard blow brought more pain. Off balance, he crashed into the hedge. The whole left side of his head was wet with running blood. He was certain the killer would come at him again.

Instead, the tall man hesitated, as if listening to the approaching runners. Then he ran himself, six steps taking him out of sight around a curve of the path. The hedges hid the belling skirt of his dirty coat of orange shot silk.

Panic and shock overwhelmed Phillipe as two men arrived from the direction opposite that which the one-eyed man had taken in flight.

“Here’s the fray, Amos,” yelled one of the arrivals, skidding to a halt and plucking something from the path. “Or what’s left of it. A pistol. And the victim—or the cause?”

The man confronted Phillipe. “Who are you, sir? What happened here?”

About to blurt an answer, Phillipe’s panic got the better of him. He snatched the pistol from the astonished man’s hand and bolted off in the direction the killer had gone.

“Here, stop! The watch must look into this, sir. You must make explanation—!”

A foreigner make explanation of attempted murder by a thug employed by the Amberly family? He wanted none of that!

As he ran blindly through the pathways, he felt much as he had when he and his mother fled from Tonbridge. His hatred seethed because he knew again that he was a nobody, to be disposed of at their pleasure. How long had the search been going on while he foolishly thought himself secure at Sholto’s?

A young couple barred the path ahead. “ ’Ware his gun!” the affrighted young man yelled as Phillipe raced by them, accidentally bumping the girl. She began to scream:

“Blood! He’s messed me with blood!”

Her scream shrilled up the scale, hysterical. Now that same blood was running into Phillipe’s left eye. He plunged right, then right again, trying to find his way out of the warren of hedges, alert to the sounds of people searching for the cause of the commotion. Finally, he broke into the open. Off to his left he thought he recognized a pavilion near the lawn where they’d taken supper.

Moments later, he found the Sholtos and Marie.

They were all on their feet, wondering at the outcries and alarms. Marie let out a low scream at the sight of his bloodied face. Sholto exclaimed, “We heard two pistols discharge—”

“Both aimed at me,” Phillipe panted. “By the one-eyed captain. But the Amberlys hired him.”

At that, Marie seemed about to swoon. Mrs. Emma supported her. Phillipe threw his coat aside as Solomon Sholto demanded to know what had become of Hosea.

Pulling off his shirt and using it to wipe the blood from his face, Phillipe told them the younger son had gone off by himself. As he flung the shirt away, Mr. Sholto snapped, “Find him, Esau. And let’s hide this.”

Phillipe felt the pistol tugged out of his belt where he’d thrust it while he ran. He didn’t even remember. “Bring Hosea to the chaise with all speed,” Mr. Sholto called after his son. Then he bent to conceal the pocket pistol in his wife’s hamper.

Next he picked up Phillipe’s coat, draped it around the younger man’s shoulders. “Everyone to the carriage—and quickly. In case we’re stopped, we’ll tell them the lad drank too much, fell and hurt himself—here, let’s go to the left. Around that milling mob near the path.”

They walked rapidly in a group, Phillipe in the center. Mr. Sholto’s head swiveled constantly, surveying the situation. People dashed to and fro. Back in the hedges from which Phillipe had escaped, torches and lanterns bobbed. Mr. Sholto’s nervous excitement showed in his almost nonstop speech:

“The devil who fired on you may still be lurking—we mustn’t linger. But the park’s crowded—and thievery’s common—practically a robbery a night. We may be able to get away. We don’t want to be questioned—”

Phillipe’s eyes blurred. The lanterns in a nearby pavilion swam and grew hazy. He managed to say, “No, because I can’t tell anyone the truth.”

“Are you positive the man was sent by the Amberlys?” Sholto asked.

“Roger Amberly. He wasn’t mentioned by name. But the man said my—my
present,
as he called it, came from the one to whom I gave a ruined hand.”

He could barely gasp out the final word. His head ached violently. He felt blood running again, staining the coat Mr. Sholto had wrapped around his shoulders. The printer cautioned him in a whisper:

“The gate watchman’s eying us—” Loudly: “A casualty of the perfidious gin bottle, sir. The young scoundrel fell and cut his head. We must get him back to town—to a physician, then to a state of sobriety!” Sholto’s smile was feeble and nervous.

But the guard seemed more interested in another subject: “Why all the lights and hallooing?”

“There’s been a robbery, I think.”

“Something new,” said the guard, with sour amusement. “Pass on.”

Phillipe’s step was unsteady. He heard Mr. Sholto say, “The chaise is just ahead.” But he never really saw it. He was only dimly aware of climbing inside.

Hours seemed to pass before he heard voices he recognized as belonging to the brothers. Mr. Sholto whipped up the hired team. The chaise clattered away from the lights and clamor in Vauxhall Gardens.

“Safe, thank heaven!” Mrs. Emma exclaimed.

Barely conscious and feeling sick to his stomach, Phillipe knew despairingly that the safety was illusory. Somewhere under the stars Phillipe could hardly see, the one-eyed man was still alive.

St. Paul’s tolled one in the morning. Near the lamp on the Sholtos’ kitchen table, the dismantled weapon gleamed. A turn-off pocket pistol, its center-mounted box lock and the screw-on barrel lying separately.

Solomon Sholto had ordered the serving of a third bottle of birthday claret he had left behind when they went on their outing. Phillipe drank a little, feeling better physically. His head was wrapped in a clean linen bandage. The graze was not deep. It had clotted soon after Mrs. Emma cleansed it.

Hosea poked the coals in the kitchen hearth. The poker clanged loudly as he hung it up. Esau scowled an uncharacteristic scowl.

“You are
certain
the attack was made with a purpose?” Mr. Sholto inquired.

Phillipe sighed, nodded. “There’s only one person in the world who could accuse me of destroying his hand. Roger, or his mother, or both of them, hired that one-eyed fellow. He probably searched a long time in London before he located me. Through the beggars around the church, I don’t doubt.” Phillipe covered his eyes. “I fought so damned clumsily. If I’d killed him, that might have been the end of it.”