Frederick maneuvered the reigns of his horse mechanically as he rode. He
directed the steed unthinkingly, automatically; and although he squinted in
the face of the setting sun as its brilliant rays struck his face, he was
completely oblivious to the passing scenery. His thoughts were in another
realm completely.
So much had transpired in the last weeks. It had been almost a shock to go
home and see that everything was the same; to have James greet him
perfunctorily as if nothing were wrong, commenting on the latest gossip and
informing him of a recent invitation to Prince George's engagement ball; to
see his estate perfectly in order and exactly as he had left it. The change
had been within himself: and now that man of a few short weeks ago seemed
irretrievably lost, a silly, naive boy with a sadly limited perspective of
the world. Now he was wiser, but such sagacity came at the cost of that
ingenuous Garden of Eden. To think that there would have been a time when
he looked at his previous life--which had not been immune to hardship--as so
superficial and unconcerned!
But now he had a definite destination in mind, and as he turned onto the
grounds of Blakeney Manor, his thoughts were darker and more desperate than
the somber mourning clothes he wore. The memories replayed themselves in
his head: the dead duc's weight as Frederick carried the man, the
unconcerned chatter of the serving girls about an Englishman named
Hastings...but such thoughts were nothing next to the onerous burden that
weighed upon his soul. Yet another thing that could be laid exclusively at
the feet of the man he was going to see.
He didn't look at the stable-boy who took his horse, and the lad was
probably just as glad not to have those hooded eyes turned upon him. The
girl who answered the door obviously recognized him, but shrank from those
brooding eyes, that domineering stature, those black clothes of mourning.
"I need to see your master," Frederick told her in a quiet, terse voice,
stepping into the foyer heedless of whether she had invited him. The girl
scurried off, and Frederick paced listlessly as he waited, tugging at his
black leather riding gloves as he brooded. Waiting for Blakeney to appear.
The relentless sound of the rapping woke him, and startled for
position in house and country, a snort escaped his nose and the small
blue rim around his pupils grew wider. Someone was at his den
door. "Coming, I hear you, don't begin to shake the Manor down
say?" Standing, he patted down his shirt to somehow manage the
wrinkles and opened the den door a crack. His afternoon nap to
escape Lady Blakeney was disturbed and he expected to see her on the
other side.
Instead, it was Patrice, one of Thomas's girls. The slightly amused
grin crossed his features and he quickly took to torturing the poor
maid. "Heavens child, is there a floppish action with your wrist or
has all the dusting ceased the work of the muscles?" The girl stared
at the eccentric man before her and then quickly gave her reasoning
for the disruptance.
"Here here. Well done in your purpose. I'm both awake and found.
Tell Lord Clayton I'll see him shortly." Turning and closing the
door, Sir Percy went back to fetch his coat and lazily put it on.
His mannerisms were slow moving, however his mind was eager to learn
of the news of Lord Dewhurst and the safety of his wife. No news
reached his ears of trouble or otherwise, so the answer to him was a
mystery.
From the top of the staircase, he could see Frederick pacing about in
the manner of an African hyena. Something itching perhaps beyond his
reach or the man might just be being impatient. Sir Percy brought a
lace cuffed hand to his mouth and yawned, ending in such a high pitch
he sounded more hound like than aristocracy. "Zounds you inturupted
a damn good nap. What brings you out on such a hot day?" Every
gesture about him spoke of selffishness as Blakeney was careful to
put his questions behind him for the moment.
Frederick's anger blazed up in outrage for a moment, rage at the selfishness
of the man's tone, of his uncaringness. He had been fiddling with his hat
in his hands as he paced, and his gloved hand tightened on the brim
momentarily, trembling with strength as it crushed the fine material.
But only for a moment. Just as suddenly all his anger seemed to die, to
drain out of him until it left only that hollowness that had been his
constant companion since the ordeal in France. He raised his eyes to
Blakeney's, and they expressed no hatred--just an everlasting fatigue.
Then, very softly, without the slightest hint of accusation, he said simply,
"Edward is dead."
Still fighting off the pleasant nap that was just his, the Baronet
smiled in his whimisical way and glanced at Frederick's love affair
with his hat. Just when Blakeney was going to witlessly ask if there
would be a honeymoon soon, he heard words that made his face whiten.
With a laugh, he waved his hand around his face and chuckled. "Damn
my ears and the left over of my nap, Lord Clayton. Tis the nearest I
ever came, to near betting my fortune that you said Hastings left
this world."
He closed his eyes, shook his head and chuckled again. "Damn me
twice."
He knew he should erupt in rage at such disrespect for his close
friend, but still too drained, all he felt was an aching fatigue.
Perhaps Blakeney was only reaffirming the contempt Frederick had
always felt for him. When the Englishman spoke again, his voice was
mild and dry, with the hint of sarcasm that had become so customary
in the years since his sister's death. "Dammit, Blakeney, don't you
care about anyone?"
Feeling his back stiffen, the good nature smile tightened across his
face and the laziness of his eyes narrowed. This phrase seemed to be
the theme of his life. Words from Sir Algernon. Accusations of
Frank. Stares from passing aristo-folk. Pesterings from both of the
St. Justs. Could no one understand his life and how he set to live
it?
He looked away, out the tall, elegantly draped windows that showed
only the pristine lawn of the manor, with the sun slipping slowly
over the horizon. So peaceful. "I thought you'd care," he continued
after a moment, eyes still unfocused in the distance. He felt
detached from the world somehow. "I see now that I
was wrong." A strain of bitterness seeped into his voice then, and
without preamble he donned his hat and turned abruptly to
leave. "Good day."
"Surely you wouldn't dare ride in such blistering heat without a
proper cup of tea in your system. As much as I have always admired
your rival fashions, that *hat* certainly does not do you justice."
For years he had conditioned himself to believe the worst of
Blakeney. Now, as he turned his back on the man, all he felt was
contempt at Blakeney's ego, his obsession with fashion, his
uncaringness. Contempt and disgust. Until the touch on his elbow.
A few steps forward and he placed his hand on Lord Clayton's
elbow. "If you are in such haste, tis not my place to keep you, but
I think I need to learn more of your latest hat news." He tried to
look at Frederick, to show some sort of understanding about the
mismatched conversation. If Edward was dead..... how, where and
why? The curiosity and failure in ego held him steadfast to chase
after Frederick if need be.
He was about to sweep out without another word when the absurdity of
Blakeney's words suddenly penetrated his consciousness. Even for a
man as fashion-obsessed as Blakeney was, this abrupt fanaticism with
hats was...out of context. The words somehow seemed odd and out of
place.
He turned slowly to face the other Englishman, his expression
revealing nothing. The look of earnestness in Blakeney's eyes,
however, nearly made him take a step back. So this *was* about more
than hats...and it was only then that Frederick realized the other
man was trying to give him a message.
"On second thought, perhaps I will stay for a cup of tea," he
answered slowly.
"Well done." The lazy blues smiled and his voice was soft and kept
even. That is, until he turned his back on Frederick, his front to
the rest of the hallway, and clapped loudly to the rest of the Manor
staff: "Jolly good and Chop chop! Candice! Where are you hiding
you little spry fillie? Two for tea please! Out in the garden. How
I looooove a nice sunset tea in the garden!"
With a brisk walk, he headed toward the back of the Manor, turning
his head once to bark, in a carefree way, at Lord Clayton. "Well
don't stand there as if to help hold up the house! Let us be off!
There is fashion to discuss. Tea to drink. And Lo! Hat designers
to learn much about." His eyes flashed a bit on the last line, and
Sir Percy continued forward, humming an off keyed tune.
Mildly annoyed, Frederick followed the ridiculous Englishman. Hat
designers! Gad, it seemed Blakeney was more interested in disguising things
for its own sake rather than for the necessity of it. Fashion! And the
nerve to tell *him* that something was well done, when he was being led
around in the dark in the first place...
His temper was beginning to seethe, and he tried to calm it as he followed
Blakeney into the garden. It was a beautiful evening, but Frederick didn't
notice. More important things were on his mind. As they seated themselves,
Frederick answered whatever inane chatter Blakeney offered with monosyllabic
responses. If Blakeney wanted to run the show to his own liking, let *him*
bring up the subject that Frederick had come here to discuss.
All the way into the garden, he sauntered in a gayity way. Sir
Percy's staff began to arrange the tea and eateries, so upon sitting
down, Frederick and he were quite alone. The Pimpernel, with
purpose, seated himself so he would face the Manor.
Once Frederick was seated too, the gay voice lowered and the eyes
kept watch for anyone approaching. "Quickly now, do tell what this
is of Hastings and death? Tell me, I pray to you, else I find myself
soon sick." Blakeney felt the guilt creep in and did what he could
to keep himself composed. Hastings was dead. He could not believe
it.
How could he switch personas so quickly? Just like that. Take off one
jacket, don another. Fighting off feelings of--was it envy? Disgust?
Resentment?--Frederick attempted to gather his now hopelessly scattered
thoughts. Why did Blakeney always have to do this to him? Damn the man!
And there below it all was still the pain of Edward's death...
Frederick took a deep breath and began to speak, keeping his tone as low as
Blakeney's had been. "I was in France," he began, "Rescuing Tony's wife,
you remember?" The implication of forgetfulness would be a slap in
Blakeney's face, but Frederick's bitterness could not resist. "It was at an
inn...damn!" He kept the exclamation as low as everything else he said,
letting it escape in a hiss. The expletive summed up his frustration at his
sudden inability to express himself articulately, at this tide of emotion
that he was being forced to ride. He took another deep breath, calming
himself, and continued. "I heard the serving girls gossiping about an
Englishman having died in his room there. They said his name was...dammit!
I knew then, but still I hoped it could be all a mistake; I never saw...God
willing. But how many Edward Hastings could there be in France? Then I
stopped by his estate, as soon as I returned, and his servants--they
received word this morning. An unofficial post from the innkeeper who
found--who found him." He could not bring himself to say, 'the body.'
"They found his name and address inside the coat he was wearing,
apparently...it will be all over England soon enough...." He trailed off,
unsure of what else to say. What else was there to say? He closed his eyes
for a moment, gathering himself, then reopened them to study the man across
from him. What would Blakeney's reaction be? Rage? Regret? Grief?
Maybe, just maybe, a little bit of remorse?
Intertwining his fingers, Blakeney leaned his neck forward and rested
his forehead on his hands. Hastings had actually gone to France. On
his orders. All this time Percy wrote Edward off as a coward who
could not even show up and give his ideas a chance. Instead the man
had gone, alone at Percy's request, and met a very distasteful ending
fate of death.
Doubt crept into Blakeney and he remained with his head lowered,
unable to look Frederick in the eyes.
The silence between the two men lengthened. Blakeney sat across from
Frederick unmoving, his head lowered. Somehow Frederick had not expected
this response of--was it guilty defeat that he saw in Blakeney's posture?
He glanced around the garden, which suddenly seemed too small for comfort.
At this moment he wished to be anywhere but here.
Part of the Baronet wished to whisper it was not his fault that
Hastings died. The man had every chance they all did to survive and
it was not his fault Edward could not handle the pressure and passed
on from this life. Blakeney could not bring himself to form the
words, however. The ego too crushed for such things, he remained
still like a statue.
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he decided that what he had come for was
through, and besides that, it seemed Blakeney was best left alone. He knew
he should feel vindictive, delivering this news and causing pain to his
bitter nemesis, but the looming prospect of a friend's death took everything
away but the all-encompassing grief.
Frederick cleared his throat, pushing back his chair. "I--suppose I'd
better go now. Eh--I'll see you at the Prince's ball, I assume." He stood
to take his leave.
Ever so slightly, Blakeney lifted his head. Still he could not meet
Frederick's gaze, and nodded a bit. Clearing his throat, for he felt
a bit misty, Percy softly added, "Yes. We can see each other
there." He thought a moment and knew he, alone, should be
responsible. "I, " the words did not find him easily for it
admitted his guilt. "I will make arrangements for retrieving
Hastings..."
Blakeney doubted himself and his last statement came off as a near
question for Frederick's approval.
Frederick realized he was staring--not simply making eye contact, as
Blakeney's gaze was averted--but actually staring, and he quickly glanced
downward. It took a moment or two for him to get over his shock, however.
Maybe a little remorse, that was the most his expectations had challenged
Blakeney to give, but...this? This utter and complete defeat, this loss of
the usual flippant confidence that shrouded Blakeney like a cloak, no matter
what character he was playing? Blakeney, the man indifferent to everyone
around him, the man whose ego was so great that he forcibly dominated every
show, the man who cared nothing for friends and comrades...was feeling
*guilty*?
The silence continued and Percy slowly felt himself go numb. As his
mind began to tell him Hastings death was of the man's own making,
his soul told him, by God, he should repent.
Was this the real Blakeney, the man behind the rotating facade that he
changed constantly but never let down? Or was this yet another act, a
persona the cold man behind it had calculated to play on Frederick's
emotions? Frederick had let an uncomfortable silence drag out, and, suddenly realizing this, he coughed into his fist as a precursor for breaking it.
The cough broke him from his thoughts, and Percy glanced up, ever so
slightly. He made his eyes travel up to about Frederick's waist, but
could not further his gaze.
Shuffling his feet a little, he tried to think quickly of the appropriate thing to say, tried to patch together the puzzle of what Blakeney's real motives
were. Sincerety? Or a trap? No matter which it was, the Baronet seemed to
be somehow second guessing himself, to be asking for *his,* Frederick's,
approval...and *that* was such a disconcerting situation in itself that
Frederick wasn't sure quite how to respond to it.
The dead silence continued. `Say something Frederick,' he pleaded in
his mind. `Say Hastings is alive and its all been a mistake… that I
will wake up soon…' The lack of speech droned on.
But even as he realized that, he realized that this was the first and
possibly the only time he would ever see Blakeney like this. So he drew
himself up, his last thoughts having taken only a moment to pass through his
head, and donned a pretense of confidence and calmness. "I think that would
be a--" he paused for a moment, "a nice gesture, Percy.
His heart restarted. Frederick finally spoke and almost spoke a
praise that he sorely needed. It did not last however.
"I need not remind you,"
The heart quickly sank.
"However, that it may be...more prudent not to connect yourself with
his--with Edward's--presence in France. I assume that we are all
merely concerned friends, nothing more."
Blakeney nodded for a quiet response. He was getting somewhat of a
just reprimand for his irrational actions. Wasn't he?
As for retrieving--the retrieval--" here
he stopped to clear his throat, mildly annoyed with the need, "I am
sure his servants would be most grateful if someone stepped in and
took things over. I will give you the address of the inn if you
like." As he searched his jacket pockets for the address, he kept
talking. Though he had started out with the intent of showing
confidence in the face of the other man's consternation--an event he
felt Blakeney would not be soon to forget--he continued now because
of the obligation he felt to Edward. Blakeney was his enemy--he
could not and would not forget that--but if anything could be done
for Edward, he would not shortchange that for his own vindication.
The blue eyes dropped and he slightly held up his hand. Somehow, it
did not seem dignified. It did not seem just. Blakeney deserved far
worse than this for punishment for sending an innocent man… friend…
to his death.
"Here it is," he said finally with some authority, drawing the
address from his breast pocket and placing it on the table. "When I
visited Edward's estate this morning, the servants were distraught
and had no idea what to do. I volunteered to take over the
administration of his estate, at least until a--a next of kin can be
found. You don't happen to know, do you...?
Sir Percy slowly shook his head. He was falling into that protective
place that Sir Algernon's son built up so long ago. Near
submissively, he lowered his hand for Frederick either had not seen
it, or choose not to make contact.
I am keeping on the staff for at least the next few weeks, to keep
things in order until everything can be straightened out. I--I
appreciate your help with retrieving him from France. Beyond that, I
believe any other plans--ahem--a funeral--and so forth--" he again
found it necessary to pause, "will have to wait until relatives are
informed." Gad! Why had he said that thing about appreciating
Blakeney's efforts? Why this whole speech at all? Why in the one
instance in which he suddenly showed more confidence than this man,
he was having trouble keeping his composure? None of that would be
true if he were not wrapped up himself in Edwards death. He wondered
if the world were conspiring against him.
Nodding again, his hand covered the small slip of paper that lay
alone on the table. The evening had come and the candlelight
flickered in an accusing way at Blakeney. His thin fingers wrapped
around the paper as he slowly dragged it towards him. Percy did not
wish to read the Inn name. He did not wish to think of a dead body
lying there. Rotting.
"I'll go the day after tomorrow." His voice was near a quiver and
quite soft. Tomorrow was the ball, and he had no choice but to
attend. Cursing himself in his head, Percy knew he had planned to go
to France alone soon. Never had he thought it would be under these
exact circumstances.
Quietly he made a resolve not to inform anyone else until he had
taken care of the business. If Frederick wished to tell others that
Hastings was dead, let him. He was not yet able to face it himself,
much less point out his weaknesses in full.
Frederick nodded. After a slight pause, he asked, "Do you need help?" He
had no desire to help Blakeney. It was Hastings he owed his friendship to,
and he could and would set aside his animosity for the
Baronet--temporarily!--in order to see that everything was done right for
Edward. He hoped Blakeney would say no to his question; Frederick had much
to do here in the manner of settling Hastings' estate, etc., etc...but he
could always delegate someone else to administer to that, if necessary.
"It is probably something I should do alone Frederick." How could
Percy explain himself to others? Sir Percy was a social, jovial
creature. It was his doing that indirectly caused Hasting's death.
How could he expect Frederick to understand?
The comment was a queer one, but Frederick simply nodded again in response.
Strangely enough, however, he thought he understood--or, if not fully
understood, at least empathize, if such a word could be used for an enemy.
He had caught a strange glimpse of Blakeney during this interview, and it
had been a suprise to realize that this confident, egotistical man had his
own demons to wrestle with. Frederick, being a solitary creature who had
never felt quite at ease in "society" but had always felt a little out of
sync, a little off kilter; Frederick, whose ghosts of the past and present
continuously haunted his soul; Frederick, if anyone, could understand such a
feeling. Ordinarily he may have argued, if only to make Blakeney feel more
uncomfortable. But in this instance--it was too serious, and he himself was
too hurt and too tired. Besides, he had no real desire to accompany the man
to France; it seemed another instant in the company of both the Baronet and
the knowledge of Edward's death would almost be too much to bear. It would
be much easier to do what he could here.
"Unless you feel you should....." What was he going to say? 'If
you feel you should because I already did quite a job with the body
when it was alive?' 'You should because you have nothing better
to do?' 'Unless France calls and, like me, you just can't bear
the thought and need to ease your own guilty mind?'
Blakeney did not finish the phrase, however he did raise his eyes to
finally gaze fully at Lord Clayton.
"No," he answered, more gently than he meant to. He paused, hesitated, and
almost added: "I understand." But he was too used to hating Blakeney, to
hiding things from him; to hiding his emotions from everybody. Instead, he
simply donned his hat and nodded genially. "Good day, Percy. Until
tomorrow." With that, he turned to go.
Alone in the garden, Blakeney whispered, "Au Revoir..... Edward...."
Outside, unsure of what to think of the interview, Frederick distractedly
took his horse from the servant who brought it. The sun had set, and as
Frederick mounted he reflected that the thick darkness--complete with a
cloudy, starless sky--was the perfect mirror for his present mood.
Kicking his heels against the horse's flanks, Frederick rode off into the
night.