Chapter 7: All the King's Horses
My first assumption is that we are about to return to The Beech Nut, the likes of which I wish to never see again. Especially the morning and afternoon crowd for those poor souls are there to anesthetize woes that most of the rowdy nighttime gamblers have yet to know. I am relieved when we pass that street without rounding the corner. But this relief is short-lived. At the center of town, there stands a row of of heavily guarded buildings. Quite like Father's haunt of choice, it is a highly performative space where the elites gather to gloat and bicker senselessly. Each man is a gambler in his own right, dealing the cards of power where the loftiest price one has to lose is his soul. I excuse myself before Father has the chance to shove me through the door. My claim is that I wish to do something about my appearance before entering. In actuality, I plan on lingering outside until long after the brandy is poured and my presence is forgotten.
A carriage stands several yards from the entryway, drawn by two stallions with shimmering black coats. They are silent and cold as statues in a graveyard. Although they are cut from an entirely different cloth than those on the Appleby Property, they hold me captive in the same way. I glide my hand down their broad snouts. I watch the warped reflection of a nearby row of flags drift across their eyes, rich and brown, smooth and round as marbles. I have seen few horses of this demeanor. Even the finest beasts will jostle against one another and shake out their coats. Not them. They are frozen in place, regal, the most majestic creatures I have ever beheld. I nearly suspect that time itself has been stopped. That is, until the animal to my right spins one ear backwards in response to the click of a door. The carriage rises slightly as its passenger disembarks.
"Lovely, aren't they?" Says the low voice of an approaching shadow.
I continue looking on, frankly uninterested in the identity of their owner. "Exquisite. Imagine the thrill of riding one! It would be like gliding through the air!"
"If I had it my way, they would still be wild and free. Far away, on the ancient sands of Arabia. But then again, it would have been rude of me to refuse such a gift." The man chuckles deeply. Most likely he is flabbergasted by my refusal to turn. "And they possess hypnotic powers as well, I suppose! Are you an equestrian, too, Sir?"
"I become one." My answer is mindless, irresponsible.
"Oh?"
I blink, falling only slightly from my trance. Is there no safe haven in this city? No place where I can be alone with my thoughts without having to play act with the gentlemen in Father's social circle? "Excuse me."
"May I ask your name, Sir? Unless, of course you would prefer to keep it a secret. Likeminded individuals are a challenge to come upon, you see, given my occupation." As he speaks, I find the cadences, the timbre of his voice to be recognizable. I have heard it before, if not in such a close proximity. I lift my eyes from the animals and to the smiling face of their owner, blood racing to my cheeks and ears. I bow lowly, searching for my voice but the shock has rendered me mute. "You remind me of someone," says King George. "A promising young architect from London called Orlando Tavington. Any relation?"
"Yes, your grace." I glance up and down the street, stunned by this peculiar scene. There is no processional, no pomp and circumstance. Just the guards, the horses, myself and the man who claims sovereignty over us all. "Should you- nay, can you..." I hesitate as he raises his eyebrows, genuinely intrigued by what I am about to say. "Can you really just... stand here, in the street?"
"I can stand where I wish. In all truthfulness, you and I are waiting to enter the same scene. We just happened to cross paths in the wings. I, for one, am glad that we did."
A second carriage which is strangely more ornate than the one that we stand beside approaches. As it nears us, my companion vanishes without warning, back into the confines of the one truly private space he owns. A handsomely dressed Lord steps out onto the stoney street and brushes past me.
He examines my disheveled attire and snickers. "Got started ahead of us all, did you? What on God's green earth are you getting yourself up to out here?"
"Sir," I say, walking behind him towards the door, "you would not believe me if I told you."
...
I am seated by a large bay window. From this perch, I can see the King's horses unmoving in the quiet yard. Father hands me a crystal glass overflowing with golden brandy. One whiff and I can feel my stomach contort into a defensive fist. Still, I drink it down. I can vaguely recall the events of this morning. The first time that I lived through this date, I was a cocky, newly enlisted soldier who was eagerly awaiting the inevitable. I was enamored with the idea of war and longed to escape my disintegrating life in Liverpool. That was who Father expected me to be. Not this. Not this unhinged bag of nerves. My eyes dart from the street to the nearby clock. My mind is teeming with questions. I search my memory for the carriage, for any clues of King George's presence. He did not show himself before. We never conversed in my previous life. I continue drinking, just as I had mere hours ago. It loosens me up, retrieves my focus. I mingle, drawn to an idiotic conversation between two military men. We stand and sip. I sip a little more than is welcome. Gravity begins to tug on my boots, harder than before. The room spins and my ears ring.
Father's voice rips through that dizzying buzz. Every trace of animosity that I have ever felt for the man bubbles to the surface. My body begins to react as it always does when I am thoroughly exasperated. With one hand balled into a fist and the other one occupied by my overflowing drink, I spin on my heel. We are face to face now. I raise my arm, preparing to swing. It is then, however, that I find my strength being channeled elsewhere. Scream-singing. That's what Marigold calls it, anyway. It is a wildly obnoxious practice, favored by characters like our very own Pastor Benson and Tommy Martin. With sloppily hummed musical flourishes and all, I stomp after Father whilst scream-singing the entirety of Gilbert and Sullivan's "When I Was a Lad". I hardly know why. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The onlookers are at first bewildered and there is good reason for that. No such spectacle has ever been beheld in these halls. The only sign of true amusement comes during the bitingly accusatory lyrics of the final stanzas. I could have chosen a better means of humiliating Father. Or rather, taken a route that would not lead to my own humiliation. No applause comes at first, just a confused chuckle or two followed by a fit of solo clapping from beneath a nearby doorframe.
"This man!" The King exclaims. "How have I never heard his name before? Certainly, I have heard of Orlando and that damned oaf Julius Tavington. But never of this fellow! I don't believe I caught it earlier...?" He laughs to find me, once again, completely tongue-tied.
"His name is William, your grace," Father groans, looking as though he has just been clubbed over the head by a falling tree branch.
"There may yet be hope for your family, after all. I hear tell that your youngest enlisted. I presume that he and William are one and the same?"
"That is correct."
"Do be careful. I rather like you. I did not find the chance to say this earlier, but if you ever find yourself longing for a ride in the countryside, I will gladly accommodate you."
...
My father is a man who is prone to devastating bouts of jealousy. He is also known to hold grudges which span for decades. Seeing as I am the first of his sons to insult him before King and Country, I do not expect to be forgiven in this lifetime. Nor in any lifetime which follows. He glares at me from over his dinner plate. This he has done all evening, through every course of our meal. Hortensia, the young woman who mother appointed as the head maid of our house, is especially animated tonight. She dashes to and from the kitchen, carrying one dish after another and presenting them to us with upmost pride. It almost seems as though she has planned our meal, herself! The pleasantness of her demeanor causes Father to fume all the more. His temper is nearing its boiling point as the girl dances into the dining room, twirling and singing with a small parcel in her hand.
"Do forgive my ignorance if I am doing this out of order," she says, kneeling at Mother's side, "but it is our custom in my home to partake in gift giving before dessert. This one is from the entire staff! It is our way of thanking you for treating us so kindly!"
I nearly choke on my drink as guilt forbids me from taking another gulp. "Oh, Mother! We haven't forgotten your birthday, have we?"
"You and Julius have had so much on your minds lately, Sweetheart. Hortensia is with me every day! If she spent most of her time elsewhere, she wouldn't have known, either," she insists, shyly accepting the little box with a soft, "Thank you."
"Shut up! Why don't you just shut up, you? Nobody wants to hear your damned bellyaching! This is your favorite role in the playbill, isn't it? Poor, miserable, forgotten Harriet Currie! The saddest, most lowly lass in all of Peebles! I've given you this! All of this! All of the wealth and comfort and confounded gardening supplies that you could ever ask for! And what do you give me in return? Nigh onto forty years of your plain attire, your atrocious taste in music and day in and day out of your incessant pursuit of my sympathy! You shall have none of it tonight! Here we are as good as destitute and you are expecting me to shower you with gifts? Where is the shame, Hattie? Where is the goddamned shame?" Father leans back in his chair and pours himself another drink with a trembling hand. He takes a deep breath of the liquor and then proceeds, as though he has found the inspiration which he seeks sailing across the surface of the amber liquid. "Ah. Perhaps that's your tragedy, then. You are a woman carved from a stone of pure shame! You are so shameful that you have not a speck of gratitude to give away. To me, especially. Even after all that I have done for you!"
Mother is shaken. Shaken, but unbroken. I shift in my seat, about to stand, but she beats me to the chase. She rises, towering above the table. Her shadow falls over Father's rocking form. Neither a word nor a legible expression departs from her lips. She simply stands and after an elongated moment, turns to embrace Hortensia before heading through the back door and out into her garden.
"You have something to say, William. I can see it in your eyes. Let's hear it, then."
I look over at Hortensia's unopened gift, sitting beside Mother's plate. I stand and collect it, making towards the route that Mother had traveled. I remember this spat between them, if not vaguely. Last time, I remained with Father. Last time, I was too far gone to even know why that little box was there. I only know that we both found it ridiculous that a maid should give anyone a gift under any circumstances and it was chucked into the fireplace at the end of the night. "I have nothing to say to you," I state, leaving him alone in the empty dining room.
When I find Mother, she is kneeling in the orchard, trowel in hand. I watch from several yards away as she unearths a wooden chest from its shallow grave. Then, she slips off her shoe and pulls out a brass key which matches the hardware of the chest. I suppose she knows that I have been there this whole while because, without so much as a bend in my direction, Mother invites me to sit beside her in the dirt.
"I brought this for you. I'm sorry that you have to open it out here. Actually, I'm sorry for this entire night. Nobody thinks of you in that way. Not a soul. We all love you so very much. Even Father."
"I hardly mind opening it out here. This is my favorite place in all the world. I shall miss it dearly. You know, once we lose our home," she reaches for the box, beaming when she sees the little sprig of lavender beneath a bow of twine. "Of course, hearing Julius mention Peebles, I miss that home, too. How many homes can one person hold in their heart, I wonder."
"Many," I shrug. "I am only now beginning to realize how great a capacity a single heart has. Open it. Hortensia would want you to."
She places her slender fingers around the edges of the box, untying it with care and raising its lid. A golden ring falls into the palm of her hand and she moves it beneath a pool of moonlight. "I can't accept this. It is far too lovely! I will scuff it up or worse, lose it!"
"I think perhaps that is your husband's problem, too. He is afraid that if he loves you too loudly, he will ruin you, or lose you." I draw nearer, marveling at the dainty lavender signet at the center of the band. "Then again, I might just be speaking for myself. I, too, have mistreated you. I like to think that I know better now. For I have learned that Father and I are both susceptible to masking our weakness with cruelty. There is nothing wrong with you, Mother. Not a thing! If I could, I would take you away from all this. You could live with us. On our farm near Waterford. I vow it. If ever I learn how to go back, I will take you with me! That is my promise to you, my birthday gift!" I take the jewel from her loose grasp and slide it onto her right ring finger. "I vow it."
"You don't know better now," she embraces me. "You know what you have known all along. It broke my heart seeing my sweet boy grow into a cold and bitter man. Seeing you like this is the greatest gift of all. You are a miracle. A living miracle. All of my prayers incarnate. I love you, Son."
"I love you, Mother. I love you so!"
Tonight, like so many others, would be one spent without Father in the house. As I think on him, countless emotions bubble to the surface. While I am aghast at his mistreatment of Mother, I also feel as though I am failing him. He is not long for this world. In less than a month, he will reside in the graveyard beneath a stone so heavy that no living man can move it to free him. No longer will they see him saunter through the door of The Beechnut, no more will he sit in his chair by the fire and watch the embers fade to empty bits of gray ash. Tonight, although I am tempted to say that I will not miss him and that we are better off without his angered, drunken whims, part of me knows better. We were always close. I was more like him that Mother and Orlando combined. Now I feel as though I have chosen against him and deep down, I fear that I have pushed him towards his end. I meditate on his behavior. He never once offered me a ship until his descent into depression truly began to take hold. Shielded by his rage, I see other interests of his- the need for Mother to keep her garden, his sorrow for losing the estate. As I consider these gentler intentions, I can almost see the roadmap to his suicide unfolding before me. It was he who came to me in the woods. I can still see his pitiful ghost, bearing the rope that squeezed each lingering drop of life from him. He led me here for a reason. Until now, I cared more for saving Mother than him. What if it is in my power to save them both?
I throw on my coat, readying myself for the walk across town. Mother is sleeping down the hall, alone. I can hear her snoring and step softy so as not to disturb her peace. As I pass through the dining room, I see movement in the mirror which hangs above our table. Sensing the motion as not my own, I stop and look. The place appears to be a vacant annex with windows that look out over modern Liverpool. I can see the electric glow of distant buildings and the flash of passing headlights. A man, clothed in dark professional attire paces to and fro, puffing carelessly on a cigarette as he walks. I expected Arthur Tarleton to look more like my friend, more like Banastre. Indeed, his features are ones that I have seen before, if only on a different face. The blackness of his hair and eyebrows, the sharpness of his jaw are certainly his own. The way in which he carries himself is also familiar, except he is lighter on his feet, more confident and deliberate. He walks with an air of comical gusto, like a player on a stage and spins swiftly towards the adjacent door when it clicks open. My fixation with him quickly ends the instant that I see her. My lovely bride. She glides into the space, shaking the wrinkles out of her yellow poodle skirt.
"That's the best you can do? You're going to stick out like a sore thumb where you're headed!" Arthur examines her attire, smoke trailing behind him with every step. "I have no control over where we might end up. Should we get separated, you need to find The Bird Cage. It is a theatre that I am affiliated with. Meet me in the alley and try your best not to be seen. Do you have any questions? Marigold?"
She crosses her arms over her chest, looking down at her skirt and saddle shoes. "We'll be here all night if I go over all the questions that I have!"
"The baby will be fine," he touches her shoulder. "I've seen broads carry twins- even triplets across the border of time!"
"What if something happens? 18th century medicine isn't much to write home to about."
"I've covered all our bases," he holds up his finger and grabs a leather briefcase from across the room.
"What's in there? Ruby slippers?"
"Better than that! Much better!"
He invites her to draw closer as the case snaps open. A bundle of silk lies folded inside, white as virgin snow, unadorned. She reaches for it and he stops her. "Wait! Not yet," Arthur closes the lid, followed by the latch. He looks horribly severe, but only momentarily. Soon, an amiable smile creeps across his face. "I nearly forgot. I need you to listen to me, listen closely. The tapestry must never know of what you said earlier tonight. It is clever. It knows many things. It can read your mind, but only at a surface level. You see, it is rather uninterested in matters of the heart. But sometimes... sometimes it decides against our will to change course. I fear that if it learns of your regrets, something drastic might happen."
"My regrets?"
He gravitates away, taking an indulgent drag from his cigarette. "Yes. Regarding my father," a beat, "I've confused you again, haven't I? I need to stop doing that!"
"What do you mean? Banastre? I never knew the man."
"Banastre is my stepfather. Forget that I said anything. It hardly matters."
She looks at the briefcase. "Who are you?"
"Did he not tell you? I am..." he hesitates, licking his lips before proceeding. "I am a conductor and this here is your ticket home! Now. I need you to empty your mind. Pretend that you are in yoga class."
Marigold laughs, giving her golden head a slight shake. "I thought you seemed familiar! You're his son! But you two are right around the same age! How did you ever manage to?"
"I brought him back. Just like I did your William. Of course, that was because he asked me and fate saw to it, too." He wiggles the handle, gesturing to the vessel which houses the mysterious tapestry. "He meant every word, by the way. He is a good man and means well. I wanted to meet him and well... things got out of hand! As they tend to do. I probably shouldn't be telling you all of this. But as I said, regret is a potent thing."
"You're worried that I'm in love with Boris. And that the tapestry might learn that and send me to him instead of my husband."
"I'm more concerned about you wishing that you and William never crossed paths in the first place."
"I never said anything so ridiculous in all my life!" Marigold nearly shouts. "You're twisting my words! I was upset about what Boris said. Who wouldn't be? Learning the how and when of your own death is disturbing, to say the least! I don't want that for William and so..." she pauses, petrified by her own realization.
"Stop thinking. You need to quiet your mind for this process to work. Do you think you can do that?"
"What if I can't?"
"Then it is out of my hands," says Arthur, simply. "You are at the will of the universe's greatest mystery. If you can, then you and I shall meet again in Liverpool, 1775."
"Mabel, too?"
"ToTo, too, Dorothy."
She watches the mysterious item, hanging from the grasp of the equally mysterious man. "Would you believe me if I told you that I've seen it before? The stage, the players, the tapestry? I know of what awaits me when my time runs out. Death doesn't frighten me nearly as much as living here without him," she nods. "I'm ready."
"You swear it?"
"I swear it." Marigold watches intently as the briefcase is opened for a second time.
"Empty your mind. Hold out your hands, don't touch it yet. It needs to see you, just as you are. No emotions, no biases. Just you. Simple, pure. A life force and nothing more." As he speaks, the white surface gives way to a bright mosaic of dancing shapes. In each square, scenes and scenarios appear. I examine each one, smiling to see a tiny girl with golden ringlets running through the Waterford Museum. I see her grow, playing her first vinyl record, celebrating each birthday with her friends at Coffee n' San-tea. As my gaze moves over the fabric, I see myself dominating the spaces. I see our first encounter, our first kiss amongst the blowing autumn leaves, our wedding, the farm and finally our last moment together in a pool of her blood on our bedroom floor. I know that she is seeing what I see by the subtle tension and retreating of her hand. "Empty your mind," Arthur repeats. "I know that it is hard for you, the hardest thing that you will ever do. But you must be silent. Do you remember the facade of this building? You will see it appear alongside the images of your trip here. Do you see it?" He waits for her response, a thoughtful nod. "Empty your mind and when you are ready, touch the building." As the connection is made, a flash of light fills the studio. The normal lighting floods back in and Arthur stands alone. He extinguishes his cigarette on the ground and follows the same procedure Marigold has done, only he does not follow her down the rabbit hole. "An interesting twist, Mrs. Tavington," he chuckles to himself and packs up, making to leave the building. "An interesting twist, indeed. I'll have to see what can be done for you."
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading this story and also to the anonymous reviewer who left such a lovely note last week. This story means a lot to me and just knowing that it is being seen and enjoyed makes my heart happier than I can express. From the bottom of my heart, thank you! X