All I Ever Needed (2 page)

Gabriel Richard Whitney, known as East to his best friends, was one-quarter of the Compass Club. It was not a recognized institution at Hambrick Hall. Certainly it did not have the prestigious lineage and history of the Society of Bishops. The origins of the Compass Club were not steeped in vaguely mysterious circumstances, nor was there a long oral history to pass on to generations of new initiates. In contrast to the Society, the Compass Club had only recently come into existence. The members had not once considered the idea of future generations, and although they had recently adopted a charter, it was merely bad verse penned by South. They all liked it well enough, but no one, not even South, denied it was bad verse.

Still under rather heated discussion was the matter of a blood oath. There was no disagreement concerning the oath. To a man they were in favor of being
sworn enemies of the Society of Bishops.
It was the issue of blood that cleaved them squarely down the middle.

Brendan Hampton, North to his friends, and Viscount Southerton, addressed familiarly and affectionately as South, were in favor of a bloodless oath. Evan Marchman, the one they called West, and Gabriel were of the opinion that blood shed over an oath was not only highly desirable but perhaps even necessary. The outcome was yet to be decided, but Gabriel suspected in this matter he and West would prevail. North and South could not maintain their position too fiercely lest it be mistaken for missishness. Gabriel knew he was not the only one who did not want to be compared to a female.

This last thought brought Gabriel around to face his predicament. He'd agreed to not using force to settle this dispute with the Bishops, and for all that he was only ten, he was still a man of his word. With some effort, he allowed his fingers to unfold and settle lightly around the parcel again. The smell of the baked goods was tantalizing. His mother had wrapped the package herself, he knew, but the contents were Mrs. Eddy's. At his mother's behest, their cook had been preparing all manner of special desserts for him for as long as he could remember. He was particularly partial to custard pie, but that confection did not travel well from their country home in Braeden. The Bishops would have been suspicious of custard, or at least they should have been if they'd read Hufeland's "Macrobiotics, or the The Art to Prolong One's Life." There were certain foods one should take pains to avoid, especially if they were three days old.

"How much is the toll?" Gabriel asked. He felt the heat in his cheeks recede as he put his mind to the mission at hand. If his composure in the face of their teasing wasn't enough to end it, he would simply have to ignore it. A certain amount of diplomacy was required here, and although it sometimes pained Gabriel to engage in such reasoned discourse, he also understood the necessity of it.

Barlough dismissed Gabriel for a moment to eye the package. He wondered about the scone-to-muffin ratio. He was not partial to muffins because there were often raisins, though he liked them plain well enough. Perhaps he would pick out the raisins for the others to have and keep the muffins for himself. There would be a mild protest from Pendrake and Harte, but they would accept his leavings because he was the archbishop and there was no higher authority in the Society. His decision would be the final word. "Your parcel," Barlough said to Gabriel. "Hand it over."

"All of it? I say, that's rather steep, don't you think?" It was tantamount to robbery, though Gabriel refrained from saying so. It was also not unexpected. For three weeks the Compass Club had been observing Society members exacting tribute from their Hambrick Hall classmates. Boys in anticipation of receiving posts from home were their targets. Society members followed their hapless classmates until an opportunity presented itself to make the demand of payment. Usually the collection involved money, but exceptions were made. Young Master Healy had paid with his favorite commander from his army of tin soldiers. Reginald Arnout had been required to hand over a slim leather-and-gilt volume of Blake's poetry. The coup de grace was the payment they received from Bentley Vancouver: a dozen cards illustrated with heretofore unimaginable acts of sexual depravity. They were French, of course, a gift to Bentley from his older brother on the eve of his thirteenth birthday. After only a fleeting glimpse of the promised land as he walked from the post, Bentley had been accosted by the advance guard from the Society. He had had to produce the cards that he had just tucked away and give them over. Poor Bentley was inconsolable.

It was then that Gabriel decided they must act. Once he was convinced that thrashing Barlough was not a sound strategy, he had offered his own dependable parcel from home as the best means of exacting retribution.

"I don't think I like giving you all of it," Gabriel said. "Perhaps a few of the scones will do."

One of Lord Barlough's eyebrows arched dramatically. "You're a cheeky brat, aren't you?" He looked around the courtyard. It was all but deserted. The few boys that were visible were hurrying to class and knew better than to take an interest in what was transpiring under the stone archway. As long as there had been a Hambrick Hall there had been a Society of Bishops. They remained in existence because they went about their business without fear of reprisal. "Are your friends hiding nearby? Is that what makes you so brave?"

Friends. It made Gabriel smile to be reminded that he had friends. It was a relatively new experience for him and one he'd discovered he quite liked. He'd been lonelier than he knew, solitary in his room except for the cakes and tarts and biscuits he kept hidden under his bed, in his desk, and at the bottom of his armoire. No one except his mother seemed to understand how much he missed being at Braeden, and although it was a poor kind of comfort to eat one of the pies when he was alone, it was better than not being comforted at all.

"My friends aren't around," Gabriel said, schooling his features quickly. "They have important matters to occupy them."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"It was a rhetorical question I put to you. That means it does not require an answer."

"Oh."

"Your brain is a bit fat, isn't it?"

"I beg your pardon?" Gabriel's fingers were tightening again. To keep from throwing the first punch, he repeated the promise he'd made like a mantra. His lips moved around the words he could not utter aloud.

"Fat clog your ears, too?"

Gabriel's cherubic features remained very still, though his eyes—an almost exact match for the polished chestnut color of his hair—were watchful. It was no good to try to look menacing. He hadn't developed the countenance for it yet, what with his defining bones still softly molded in a perfectly round face, his jawline lost in the fold of a small second chin. He was unafraid to physically take on these members of the Society, even though he knew he would ultimately lose. Their numbers alone would defeat him. The well-deserved reputation he had as a thrasher would not serve him when the tribunal counted three and he was but one. The realization that perhaps what the Society wanted was more than what he carried in his arms helped Gabriel manage his temper this time.

"Let me pass," Gabriel said evenly.

On either side of Barlough, arms were immediately raised. The young lord nodded approvingly at Pendrake and Harte for their quick response. "Your parcel, Feast."

Gabriel frowned. Had Barlough truly just called him
Feast?
"East, m'lord. My friends call me East."

"It matters not a whit to me since I am in no way your friend. I shall call you Feast. You look as if you regularly eat one." Barlough held out his hand, palm up. "Now, your parcel. I admit to a partiality for scones, and I suspect from the look of you that these have much to recommend them."

"I don't think you'll like these."

Barlough did not ask for an explanation. He was weary of the haggling and more than a little sorry that Gabriel could not be stirred to some ill-considered action. In a fluid motion that put everyone who witnessed it in mind of a cobra striking, Barlough snatched the parcel from Gabriel's hands by neatly slipping his fingers under the binding twine. He tossed it into the air when Gabriel made a lunge for it. Pendrake, the tallest of them, easily caught it. He held it out of Gabriel's reach by simply holding it overhead.

Belatedly aware of the ridiculousness of his position, Gabriel let his arms drop to his sides. He had an urge to hang his head but wisely chose not to overplay his hand. Instead he made a swipe at his eyes and brushed away the pitiful tear he had managed to squeeze out.

With a derisive smile that spoke more eloquently of his thoughts than any words he could have summoned, Barlough stepped aside. He made a show of graciousness by bowing slightly and using his arm in a sweeping gesture to indicate that Gabriel could now safely cross the courtyard.

Wishing he had a black eye and a few scraped knuckles to show for this encounter with the Bishops, Gabriel nonetheless knew that there had been a victory of sorts here. He had not only chosen his battle, but he had chosen a strategy that did not involve violence. He wondered if he was on his way to becoming a tinker after all.

* * *

All four members of the Compass Club were standing in the darkly paneled upper corridor of Yarrow House when Barlough bounded out of his room and skidded into the hallway. The door behind him might have slammed shut if Pendrake and Harte had not been following so closely on his heels. For a moment they looked around, their movements frantic, eyes darting, arms swinging. Their feet danced in place while they considered what to do. Occupied by the problem that pressed them, they did not notice the small gathering at the far end of the hall. Even if they had, sunlight streaming through the stained-glass arched window put the individual faces of the Compass Club in dark relief and concealed the immediate identity of North, South, West, and most particularly East, who was standing at the forefront.

Trying first one door, then another, finding each one locked in turn, they hurriedly made their way down the hall in search of the very thing that would give them respite. Pendrake and Harte were startled to find they could not enter their own rooms. "Now what do we do?" Harte demanded. Bent awkwardly at the waist, his legs pressed tightly together, he gripped a brass handle to yet another door that would not open to him.

Pendrake's bowels rumbled uncomfortably. It was the only reply he could make, and it echoed so loudly inside his body that he was certain the others could hear it. They might have, but their own bowels were engaged in similar activity. At the end of the hall, the sound of so much digestive thunder gave the Compass Club their first unrestrained smile since East had been accosted that morning. Their patience had been borne out.

Barlough saw them first. His manner changed immediately as he strove for some measure of dignity. He walked stiff-legged, his buttocks clenched tightly. "You!" he said, patently astonished by East's presence in the private quarters of the Society's residence. "What are you doing here?"

East merely smiled.

Barlough looked at the others. "All of you! Out! You're blocking my way."

"Oh?" East asked as Pendrake and Harte came up behind Barlough. "And which way is that?"

Harte groaned softly and clutched his stomach. "The water closet," he managed. "It's the last door on the left."

"Is that so? I didn't realize." He stepped aside, and the rest of the Compass Club followed suit.

Pendrake lunged at the door, shouldering it when it resisted his first efforts to open. Since there was no lock, the only explanation for its refusal to open was that it was barricaded on the other side. Swinging around, Pendrake stared at the four young intruders. "What have you done to it?" He didn't wait for a reply. He fairly screamed at Barlough, "They've stoppered the door! We can't get in!"

Barlough's fair complexion was reddening now, and there was a faint sheen to his brow and upper lip. The restraint he was placing on his body's natural functions was beginning to show. He stared pointedly at Gabriel. "What is it you want?"

"The toll, if you please."

Barlough gritted his teeth but he persisted. "Name it."

"Sign this." From behind his back Gabriel produced a neatly drawn-up treaty. "Would you like to read it or shall I?"

Afraid that Gabriel would draw out each word of the document until the Bishops were writhing in pain or soiled themselves, Barlough grabbed it out of his hands just as he had the parcel. It was in that moment that he realized what Gabriel's intent had been all along. "The scones," he said.

"And the biscuits," Gabriel said helpfully. It was clearly a struggle for Barlough to talk now. "And the sweet raisin muffins."

"You poisoned us."

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. That is, there are no lasting effects." He spared a glance for Pendrake and Harte. "At least I hope not. I was most particular on that account."

Harte groaned again. His knees buckled a fraction, but he didn't drop to the floor. "Do something, Barlough, or I swear I shall explode on the spot!"

Barlough's thinking was not so foggy at this point that he disbelieved his friend. He felt as if he might explode himself. The humiliation of it would drive him from the school.

He would be the first archbishop of the Society to leave disgraced. Holding up the treaty that Gabriel had carefully penned, he read through it quickly.

"You don't intend I should sign it in blood, do you?" Barlough asked.