In the Brief Eternal Silence (26 page)

“By-the-by, boy, does your mother know where
you are?” the duke asked when they had reached a less congested
part of the street.

“Aye, sir. I took's me crown to her on me way
back here. But the tuppence and ha-penny, I kept for meself,” the
boy replied in short, breathless bursts. “She wasn't happy about me
working for you, m'lord, but she were happy about the crown. That's
what decided it, m'lord.”

“It usually does, lad,” St. James replied,
and as the street was clear for a straight section, he put his
heels to his horse and it went into a canter.

And so, my lord, Effington summed up at the
bottom of his letter, it is with great regret, but with, I deem,
necessity, that I resign my position as your valet. If you wish, I
can recommend someone for replacing me, but as you do not seem to
require the services of a valet to the degree that a valet is
trained for, indeed, spends a good many years studying for, I can
not in all conscience recommend any one that I admire as a friend,
for I fear that they would never forgive me for doing them such a
grievous disservice.

I only hope that my resigning will at last
shock you into realization that you owe your station more in
respects to your attire and appearance than you have so far been
wont to show, and that you will take this into consideration upon
hiring another valet, and allow that employee more leeway in doing
his duty.

Yours regretfully but sincerely,

Effing~

“Effington!”

His name being shouted from one floor below
startled that proper valet to such a degree that he put an
unsightly blotch where the end

of his name should have been, and he fussed
over it, wondering if he should in fact rewrite the whole letter.
As there were some three pages of it, he decided that of course he
should only rewrite the final page and at the same time he got up
from his desk with a guilty start and hurried from his room. “Yes,
milord,” he asked with as much serenity as he could manage as he
saw his employer standing not in his rooms, as he had expected, but
at the bottom of the stairs. His coat was filthy, Effington noticed
with disapproval, with what looked to be, but surely could not be,
some young urchin's hand prints.

“When was this missive delivered?” St. James
asked, holding out a rather plain envelope with the seal now
broken. “I have asked Applegate, but he said you were below stairs
and took delivery of it.”

“Yes, milord. Half past two, I believe,
milord.” Effington paused for a moment, his eyes straining to see
what looked to be a royal seal on the paper held in his lordship's
other hand. “Is it something important, milord?” he asked, unable
to hide the eagerness in his voice. “I took no particular notice to
it as it was delivered in only a plain envelope.”

St. James looked more irritated than eager.
“Yes, damn it.” He glanced at the short, one paged missive that he
raised from his side and Effington was now certain that it was a
royal emblem at the top of it. “And I have already had a rather
commanding summons from my grandmother to be at her home this
evening, and now I shall in no way make that. Effington, you will
finally get your wish for you had better outfit me in whatever is
deemed appropriate for a visit to Buckingham.”

Effington had to hold on to the newel post to
keep his hand from shaking at the sudden fervor that went through
him. “Yes, milord. Certainly, milord. It will be my pleasure,
milord. Is that to be for this evening, milord?”

“Yes, blast you, Effington, and you needn't
look so bloody eager.”

“Is it to be an audience with the Queen,
milord?” Effington asked in a near reverential whisper.

“I am not at liberty to say, Effington, but
you may outfit me to whatever degree your imagination deems
necessary. And a God-awful miserable evening it shall be,” St.
James muttered. “I will be below in my study as I will have to
write a very unwelcome note to my grandmother expressing my
regrets. Of which, I may add, I am sure I will be paying for for
some time and I will not even be at liberty to tell her what
'pressing matter' has come up to make me beg off. Although, I doubt
in her mind that even the Queen herself would be a suitable
engagement to keep me from coming to her when she has so brusquely
commanded my presence.” He turned to Effington before descending
further down the stairs. “Not a word of this to anyone, Effington,
you understand,” and the gold eyes were very piercing indeed,
making Effington draw himself up in defense.

“No, of course not, milord. I have never had
lack of discretion laid at my door, I need not remind you.”

St. James relaxed enough to grin. “Much to my
benefit, you would probably like to add. But of course, you are
much too discreet to say so.”

“Indeed, I am, milord,” Effington
replied.

St. James only waved a dismissing hand. “Go
about the business of dreaming up how you shall shame me tonight
with your notions of fashion, Effington.” He continued on down the
stairs and so did not see that man rub his hands together in glee,
already envisioning what he would attire his lordship in. Royalty
deserved something bright, he decided, but not too bright, for the
Queen herself still remained in mourning. Perhaps conservative
black with a colorful cravat, waistband and boots? he wondered. No,
he shook his head. Black boots. Black waistband and black cravat.
That would show a proper degree of respect for her majesty's
mourning and at the same time allow him the liberty of dressing his
lordship in more colorful pantaloons and shirt. And his jacket
could be something colorful also. A turquoise jacket, Effington
thought, yellow pantaloons and shirt. Yes, that would be
fashionable and with the black counterpoints, properly respecting
the Queen's sensibilities. If, indeed, it were the Queen his
employer had been summoned to see. It must be, Effington thought,
for he doubted anyone lesser than the Queen could induce the Duke
to allow his valet full control of his wardrobe for the
evening.

But of course, before he could do any of
this, he had to return above stairs and rip the letter he had been
writing to shreds.

“Applegate,” St. James said to his butler
upon reaching the ground floor of his house. “I have a new
messenger boy. He's in the

kitchens now, I believe. See to it that he
has the proper clothing.”

“Yes, milord. Will you be dining in this
evening, milord?”

“Yes. But then I will be going out after. I
do not know how late I shall be so please do not remain up.
By-the-by, when you speak to this messenger boy I have retained,
send him round my study in a bit for I shall have several notes for
him to deliver.”

“Very well, milord.”

St. James continued into his study to compose
first a note to Tyler, short and easily written, and then a
somewhat more difficult note to his grandmother.

In between them, he paused, stared at the
fire for a brief moment wondering why ever the Queen should have
the sudden desire to summon him to Buckingham Palace. It was an
annoyance at best and could be a distraction at worst, and at the
moment he didn't need any further distractions, for he already had
one in the form of Miss Murdock residing at his grandmother's
home.

With this thought in mind, he began the
composition of his letter, and it came more easily than he had
expected:

Dearest Grandmother,

I received your warm regards earlier today
and had every intention, of course, of coming around your house at
the appointed hour. I am sorry to say that I have become aware of a
pressing and unavoidable obligation. Please know that only
something of the most supreme importance could keep me from you
when you have asked for my audience. Or from Miss Murdock, for that
matter. Please express this to her. I am sure she will find it
comforting to know that my attention has not strayed from her in
the hours I have been gone from her presence.

Until I can be there,

Your loving grandson,

Dante

St. James laughed to himself as he put his
signature to the letter. His grandmother would be most enraged to
find him thwarting her wishes but he would wager Miss Murdock would
be even angrier when she was conveyed his warm sentiments.

The damnedable part of it was she had been on
his mind for all of the day. This was understandable, he reminded
himself, as she was a most important part of his plan. What was not
understandable to him was the way he remembered her: her accusing
glare as she turned from reading her newspaper in the inn's parlor
to find him partaking with abandon of the available brandy. And the
degree of shocked discovery in her eyes when he had held her hands
to his chest a good many drinks later.

Perhaps a look of discovery that had mirrored
his own.

A discovery, at any rate, that he had no time
for, nor wish for, and that he had no desire for Miss Murdock to
feel either. But it did so amuse him, he conceded, to provoke her
just a little more in his letter, and to sit, now idle, at his
desk, and spend a brief moment imagining her cheeks flushing in her
plain face and her solemn eyes trying very hard to hide in their
brownness as though she could become invisible to him. And his
attention.

For if nothing else, Miss Murdock did have
his attention.

St. James reread the final line of his
letter. If it did not disquiet her so for him to fluster her, would
he take such a perverse pleasure in doing so? No. He thought not.
But it amused him, and inspired some strange sympathy in him as
well. A sympathy for what, he really could not name, other than,
perhaps, it had to do with the way she was forced to reexamine how
she thought about herself. And that was nearly a shame, for she had
seemed to have it all sorted out quite neatly and now he was
forcing her to reevaluate who she was and where her place was in
the world. Although he was of the opinion that her place in the
world would be better as a result of his interference than what she
had, was it really for him to say what it was she sought for and
would be happy with?

If she were happy being as she had been: a
near spinster caring for her father in lamentable circumstances,
did he have any right, whatever his motives, to take that from
her?

St. James shook his head, and a ruthless part
of his mind overrode this bit of rare second-guessing, for he
understood only too well what having things taken from you was all
about. If Miss Murdock were to mourn what she had before, he could
only try to assuage that grief as best he could, but he would not
be able to wipe it away entirely, however this turned out. This he
would regret. But this he would live with as he had so many regrets
before this.

He rose from behind his desk, found the boy
he had employed waiting in the doorway. “There you are, laddie. You
may take these to the same address as before. This one is for
Tyler, whom you have met. This one you are to deliver to the butler
of the house.”

“Aye, m'lord,” the boy said. He was cleaner
now, his face scrubbed, his hair slicked back and he had on some
clothing which did not fit him well but which were at least clean
and decent. “I'm to get new clothes, m'lord, they tell me,” he
confided, looking uncertain whether to be happy or disgusted.

“T'is a great shame, I know,” St. James said
with uncharacteristic gentleness. “But if you wish to work here,
you can not look like a street urchin.”

The boy nodded. “Aye, m'lord. I ken that.
It's just—you shan't have someone beat me should I gets them dirty,
should you?”

St. James shook his head. “No. You shall have
several sets of clothes, and you shall change them every day and
the maids will clean the dirty set while you wear the clean
set.”

“Every day, m'lord?” the boy asked. “And will
I have to wash every day, too?”

“It is generally recommended, yes.”

“Coo, m'lord! Lucky you're payin' me 'n' all,
for I wouldn't take a bath that often elsewise, I wouldn't.”

“Yes, it is a great bother, isn't it? Now,
lad, you may return home to your mother each night if you wish, or
if she wishes, or you may have a room here and see her on your days
off. You will let Applegate know which you choose, shall you?”

“Aye. I will, m'lord. A room all to meself,
m'lord?”

St. James thought about the disruption of
staff hierarchy for a moment, then allowed, “Yes. A small one, mind
you. But it will have your own bed and your own dresser for your
things. Will that be suitable for you?”

The boy nodded. “T'is all a boy could ask for
in the world, m'lord.

Me mother will be very happy.”

“Good. That will be all, lad.”

The boy took the envelopes before leaving the
room. St. James nearly stopped him, deciding that maybe he should
at least know the boy's name. But he let the boy go on. He needn't
a name. St. James already knew enough names. He went to the
sideboard and bypassing the gentler liquors, reached for the
decanter of whiskey in the back and poured himself a very stiff
one.

In the silence of the study, he made a toast
that only he heard. “To vengeance and death. Whether another's or
my own.” Then he drank in a single, continuous swallowing, feeling
the alcohol burn down his throat and into his stomach. Then in a
rare, out of control movement, he slammed the small, elegant glass
into the fireplace, shattering it with finality.

Chapter Twelve

Miss Murdock sat with fortitude as the
hairdresser drew his brush through her hair and exclaimed something
in muttered French.

The Duchess was seated in Miss Murdock's
dressing room with them, her old, frail hands crossed and resting
on the head of her cane in a picture of perfect patience. Lady
Lydia was there also, but she flounced in her place upon the chaise
lounge, and was bent upon giving the Duchess's hairdresser frequent
and contradictory instructions on how to go about his business.
Miss Murdock had the impression that his muttering was as much
directed at that Lady as at her troublesome hair. Her new lady's
maid, Jeannie, was also in attendance, standing to one side and
providing pins, ribbons, combs and the hot iron when asked for
them, and picking them from the floor in silence when the
frustrated hairdresser threw them down in exasperation.