Tavington: The Legacy: Chapter Eight: "In the Pursuit of Quality"
"Step away from that ledge, Prudence!" -my English prof., explaining the importance of names
North of London, in the middle of a vast moor, sitting atop a hill, was the Tavington Estate. The dragoons had always called it that, even though the place was little more than a glorified country house that was just a bit too small to be a mansion. It had been built by Col. William Tavington's grandfather, William XI, and he had spared no expense in decorating it with the finest furnishings. He had even commissioned two grand murals, one for the ballroom and another for the ceiling of the library, depicting fanciful warriors mounted on actual dragons, green dragons, of course.
When he had become Grand High Dragoon at the age of twenty-four, Mooreville had presented his ambitious young protégé with the deed to the estate. Tavington had always been very secretive about it. No one knew of the place's existence, or his ownership of it, besides the other dragoons and his loyal servants, Madeline the maid, and a butler simply called Groan. There was a very good reason for this as well. He still owed a great deal of money to his father's creditors. Should any of them learn about the estate he would have no choice but to sell it to pay off his father's old debts. That would leave him nowhere to live but the attic of his Aunt Morganna's school, and he had lived there quite long enough.
Going to the colonies had been a risk, and somehow he wasn't quite so surprised to return home to a notice of foreclosure, compliments of the Bank of England.
"Oh, you must be the former owner," the unfamiliar butler who answered the door stared down his long, pointed nose at Tavington. "The bank left this for you and here's a little something from a certain Capt. James Bordon." The butler handed him two, opened, letters. "Now, kindly remove yourself from this property before you infect us all with whatever dreadful plague you're suffering from."
The Bordons had always lived just outside of Liverpool, in an impressive mansion built with a combination of money earned through hard work and inheritance. Retired Capt. James Bordon, Henry Bordon's father, had always been renowned for his hospitality. He was the sort of man who enjoyed company, old war stories, and pointless conversation. Like all Bordons, he was an avid reader and willing to while the night away in discussion of his favorite books. More than anyone, James Bordon found it impossible to exist without companionship.
When he came to House of Bordon, Tavington never expected that he would be greeted at the door by his own butler, Groan.
"Mr. Tavington?" Groan asked, squinting a bit. He was eighty-three, and had lost just about everything, including his memory, his hearing, his hair, and most recently, the majority of his sight. "Ah yes, that is Mr. Tavington."
"Dear God!" Madeline the maid cried coming up behind Groan. "Oh you poor dear! Whatever did they do to you over there? Those heathen! Do move out of the way, Groan. Come in! Come in, dear!" She seized Groan by the shoulders and removed him bodily from the doorway.
"Now hold your horses. There's no need to push a man about, Maddy."
"There is when it's someone as old and slow as you, Groan," Madeline said with a laugh. Then, turning back to her former employer, "You color's quite off, dear. You're so pale. You went and got yourself sick or hurt or something to the like, didn't you? I swear! This is what happens when you don't have old Madeline about to give you advice."
Capt. James Bordon appeared in the hall. He had changed quite a bit since Tavington had last seen him, shortly before leaving for America. In those few years, the older Bordon had managed to go completely bald and cultivate a thick gray beard. He was noticeably heavier and there were deeper lines about his face, but he had managed to retain the same old jolly personality. Though, considering some of the stories of James Bordon's military doings he had heard from Mooreville, Tavington sometimes wondered how jolly a man who had sliced the head off a small girl could be.
"Groan, Madeline, what's all the fuss about? I thought." his voice trailed off and a wide smile spread over his features. With the beard, he looked like some sort of deranged Santa Claus.
"William!" he cried shoving past Groan and Madeline, to embrace the dashing young dragoon in the sort of rib-crushing hug reserved for returning friends who have been gone for a long while. "You look awful! Absolutely awful!"
He turned to the two servants. "Well, what are you two standing there like a couple of statues for? Hurry, go fix dinner! We have company."
Groan and Madeline hurried off, though for them hurrying really wasn't the word.
"Come in! Come in!" James Bordon said with a hearty laugh, we've much to talk about.
* * *
When his guests didn't seem to appreciate his hospitality, James Bordon tended to grow very uncomfortable. He looked across the table at Tavington, the candlelight accenting the blue highlights around his lips and eyes. Whatever had happened to him in the colonies, it hadn't been good. Bordon could only guess, but he assumed it that the green silk scarf Tavington had taken to wearing around his neck might be connected to it as well.
After Madeline served dinner, there followed nearly an hour during which Tavington toyed idly with his knife and Bordon ate.
"I'm sorry about your house," Bordon ventured finally. "I did all I could. I would have paid off your father's debt if I'd had enough. How a single man every managed to amass that much debt I'll never know. I hated to see the house fall into someone else's hands."
Tavington looked up, eyes like ice. "I won't take charity, Bordon."
"I don't offer charity. I only offered as a friend. As one friend to another, and as repayment for all you and your grandfather have done for us."
The silence descended again. Tavington looked around the Bordon's dining room. It was very plain, a simple table and chairs, pewter candlesticks with white candles, linen tablecloth, not-so-fine china. It was reminiscent of something one might find in a simple peasant's home only on a much large scale. Obviously the Bordons had cared more for size as a means of impressing others; unlike Tavington's grandfather who had relied on decoration.
Tavington was fondly reminded of his own dining room. Not being the sort of man who derived pleasure from eating in the way that Gen. Lord Cornwallis or James Bordon did, he rarely sat down for a formal meal; and that was only when he didn't neglect food completely. There were the few dinners he had enjoyed beneath the great vaulted ceiling with its exposed rafter beams ascending up into the blackness. Meals served on plates decorated with designs of intertwined dragons, wine in crystal glasses, red candles in silver candlesticks; those things had allowed him to feel, if only briefly, like something more than a peasant. He could forget his disowned father's debt and his own struggle for glory. Beneath that ceiling, he could be at peace.
"Your father was such a foolish drunkard that even your mad grandfather disowned him. Your mother was a common whore! You are a peasant and you will always be a peasant! You will never be our equal, never!"
Cornwallis might have been cruel, but O'Hara had been worse.
There were also the paintings; thirteen giant canvases, depicting every Grand High Dragoon from the time of William I, William the Green who stood in silent sentinel over the doors to the dining room. His painting was the only fanciful one. The tall, muscular young man with wavy black hair and piercing green eyes leaned was mounted on a black horse. Despite the fact that his all too green eyes were staring forward, his left hand pointed toward a dead green dragon. The beast had been slain in a most peculiar manner, a shining silver lance impaled through its neck.
Other than the fantastic portrayal of William the Green there was nothing truly spectacular about the paintings except that there happened to be two William the Ninths. Mooreville had never bothered to explain this particular oddity in his explanation of the family's history, but Tavington had inferred from reading the inscriptions on the small plaques mounted beneath each painting that the two William the Ninths had been twins. They shared a common birth date, though that was about the only thing they shared.
The first William the Ninth, William Edgar Tavington, had inherited all the physical characteristics that were typical of those with Tavington blood, dark wavy hair, greenish eyes, noble bearing, and broad shoulders. His twin brother, William Victor Tavington, could very well have been adopted. He was thin and graceful with thick dark red hair and porcelain white skin, the sort of man who would have made a very beautiful woman. William Victor had a sort of ethereal quality about his features, that characteristic of absolute flawlessness indicating a fragile hold on life. He'd lived to the age of twenty-three. Tavington wasn't surprised. His short life helped to explain why only the descendants of William Edgar Tavington were depicted in the paintings that came afterwards.
"Who's sharing dinner with my ancestors now?" Tavington wondered. It could have been any one of his father's creditors, but he suspected Mr. Gromwell, the fat old card player from the tavern with his red face and disgustingly fat body.
"The Duke of Fairenvail died yesterday," Bordon commented.
"You mean Karenna's father?" Tavington asked with sudden renewed interest in conversation.
"You didn't know?"
Tavington picked up the table knife and started toying with it again. "No, I didn't. At least dear Karenna will be there in hell to greet him."
Bordon laughed. "How true! The less of his bread in the world the better."
"I never knew the two of you were acquainted. When did you meet the Duke?"
Bordon looked confused. "He murdered your grandfather. Remember? Every green dragoon knows about the Duke of Fairenvail."
Tavington dropped the knife, it hit the table with a loud clack that echoed through the large room.
"What?"
"Mooreville. never told you?" Bordon asked, an nervous undercurrent to his voice, realizing too late that he'd said too much.
"He didn't," Tavington replied, standing and staring across the table at Bordon, his jade eyes burning holes in the retired captain's soul. "But you will. Explain, Bordon."
"Step away from that ledge, Prudence!" -my English prof., explaining the importance of names
North of London, in the middle of a vast moor, sitting atop a hill, was the Tavington Estate. The dragoons had always called it that, even though the place was little more than a glorified country house that was just a bit too small to be a mansion. It had been built by Col. William Tavington's grandfather, William XI, and he had spared no expense in decorating it with the finest furnishings. He had even commissioned two grand murals, one for the ballroom and another for the ceiling of the library, depicting fanciful warriors mounted on actual dragons, green dragons, of course.
When he had become Grand High Dragoon at the age of twenty-four, Mooreville had presented his ambitious young protégé with the deed to the estate. Tavington had always been very secretive about it. No one knew of the place's existence, or his ownership of it, besides the other dragoons and his loyal servants, Madeline the maid, and a butler simply called Groan. There was a very good reason for this as well. He still owed a great deal of money to his father's creditors. Should any of them learn about the estate he would have no choice but to sell it to pay off his father's old debts. That would leave him nowhere to live but the attic of his Aunt Morganna's school, and he had lived there quite long enough.
Going to the colonies had been a risk, and somehow he wasn't quite so surprised to return home to a notice of foreclosure, compliments of the Bank of England.
"Oh, you must be the former owner," the unfamiliar butler who answered the door stared down his long, pointed nose at Tavington. "The bank left this for you and here's a little something from a certain Capt. James Bordon." The butler handed him two, opened, letters. "Now, kindly remove yourself from this property before you infect us all with whatever dreadful plague you're suffering from."
The Bordons had always lived just outside of Liverpool, in an impressive mansion built with a combination of money earned through hard work and inheritance. Retired Capt. James Bordon, Henry Bordon's father, had always been renowned for his hospitality. He was the sort of man who enjoyed company, old war stories, and pointless conversation. Like all Bordons, he was an avid reader and willing to while the night away in discussion of his favorite books. More than anyone, James Bordon found it impossible to exist without companionship.
When he came to House of Bordon, Tavington never expected that he would be greeted at the door by his own butler, Groan.
"Mr. Tavington?" Groan asked, squinting a bit. He was eighty-three, and had lost just about everything, including his memory, his hearing, his hair, and most recently, the majority of his sight. "Ah yes, that is Mr. Tavington."
"Dear God!" Madeline the maid cried coming up behind Groan. "Oh you poor dear! Whatever did they do to you over there? Those heathen! Do move out of the way, Groan. Come in! Come in, dear!" She seized Groan by the shoulders and removed him bodily from the doorway.
"Now hold your horses. There's no need to push a man about, Maddy."
"There is when it's someone as old and slow as you, Groan," Madeline said with a laugh. Then, turning back to her former employer, "You color's quite off, dear. You're so pale. You went and got yourself sick or hurt or something to the like, didn't you? I swear! This is what happens when you don't have old Madeline about to give you advice."
Capt. James Bordon appeared in the hall. He had changed quite a bit since Tavington had last seen him, shortly before leaving for America. In those few years, the older Bordon had managed to go completely bald and cultivate a thick gray beard. He was noticeably heavier and there were deeper lines about his face, but he had managed to retain the same old jolly personality. Though, considering some of the stories of James Bordon's military doings he had heard from Mooreville, Tavington sometimes wondered how jolly a man who had sliced the head off a small girl could be.
"Groan, Madeline, what's all the fuss about? I thought." his voice trailed off and a wide smile spread over his features. With the beard, he looked like some sort of deranged Santa Claus.
"William!" he cried shoving past Groan and Madeline, to embrace the dashing young dragoon in the sort of rib-crushing hug reserved for returning friends who have been gone for a long while. "You look awful! Absolutely awful!"
He turned to the two servants. "Well, what are you two standing there like a couple of statues for? Hurry, go fix dinner! We have company."
Groan and Madeline hurried off, though for them hurrying really wasn't the word.
"Come in! Come in!" James Bordon said with a hearty laugh, we've much to talk about.
* * *
When his guests didn't seem to appreciate his hospitality, James Bordon tended to grow very uncomfortable. He looked across the table at Tavington, the candlelight accenting the blue highlights around his lips and eyes. Whatever had happened to him in the colonies, it hadn't been good. Bordon could only guess, but he assumed it that the green silk scarf Tavington had taken to wearing around his neck might be connected to it as well.
After Madeline served dinner, there followed nearly an hour during which Tavington toyed idly with his knife and Bordon ate.
"I'm sorry about your house," Bordon ventured finally. "I did all I could. I would have paid off your father's debt if I'd had enough. How a single man every managed to amass that much debt I'll never know. I hated to see the house fall into someone else's hands."
Tavington looked up, eyes like ice. "I won't take charity, Bordon."
"I don't offer charity. I only offered as a friend. As one friend to another, and as repayment for all you and your grandfather have done for us."
The silence descended again. Tavington looked around the Bordon's dining room. It was very plain, a simple table and chairs, pewter candlesticks with white candles, linen tablecloth, not-so-fine china. It was reminiscent of something one might find in a simple peasant's home only on a much large scale. Obviously the Bordons had cared more for size as a means of impressing others; unlike Tavington's grandfather who had relied on decoration.
Tavington was fondly reminded of his own dining room. Not being the sort of man who derived pleasure from eating in the way that Gen. Lord Cornwallis or James Bordon did, he rarely sat down for a formal meal; and that was only when he didn't neglect food completely. There were the few dinners he had enjoyed beneath the great vaulted ceiling with its exposed rafter beams ascending up into the blackness. Meals served on plates decorated with designs of intertwined dragons, wine in crystal glasses, red candles in silver candlesticks; those things had allowed him to feel, if only briefly, like something more than a peasant. He could forget his disowned father's debt and his own struggle for glory. Beneath that ceiling, he could be at peace.
"Your father was such a foolish drunkard that even your mad grandfather disowned him. Your mother was a common whore! You are a peasant and you will always be a peasant! You will never be our equal, never!"
Cornwallis might have been cruel, but O'Hara had been worse.
There were also the paintings; thirteen giant canvases, depicting every Grand High Dragoon from the time of William I, William the Green who stood in silent sentinel over the doors to the dining room. His painting was the only fanciful one. The tall, muscular young man with wavy black hair and piercing green eyes leaned was mounted on a black horse. Despite the fact that his all too green eyes were staring forward, his left hand pointed toward a dead green dragon. The beast had been slain in a most peculiar manner, a shining silver lance impaled through its neck.
Other than the fantastic portrayal of William the Green there was nothing truly spectacular about the paintings except that there happened to be two William the Ninths. Mooreville had never bothered to explain this particular oddity in his explanation of the family's history, but Tavington had inferred from reading the inscriptions on the small plaques mounted beneath each painting that the two William the Ninths had been twins. They shared a common birth date, though that was about the only thing they shared.
The first William the Ninth, William Edgar Tavington, had inherited all the physical characteristics that were typical of those with Tavington blood, dark wavy hair, greenish eyes, noble bearing, and broad shoulders. His twin brother, William Victor Tavington, could very well have been adopted. He was thin and graceful with thick dark red hair and porcelain white skin, the sort of man who would have made a very beautiful woman. William Victor had a sort of ethereal quality about his features, that characteristic of absolute flawlessness indicating a fragile hold on life. He'd lived to the age of twenty-three. Tavington wasn't surprised. His short life helped to explain why only the descendants of William Edgar Tavington were depicted in the paintings that came afterwards.
"Who's sharing dinner with my ancestors now?" Tavington wondered. It could have been any one of his father's creditors, but he suspected Mr. Gromwell, the fat old card player from the tavern with his red face and disgustingly fat body.
"The Duke of Fairenvail died yesterday," Bordon commented.
"You mean Karenna's father?" Tavington asked with sudden renewed interest in conversation.
"You didn't know?"
Tavington picked up the table knife and started toying with it again. "No, I didn't. At least dear Karenna will be there in hell to greet him."
Bordon laughed. "How true! The less of his bread in the world the better."
"I never knew the two of you were acquainted. When did you meet the Duke?"
Bordon looked confused. "He murdered your grandfather. Remember? Every green dragoon knows about the Duke of Fairenvail."
Tavington dropped the knife, it hit the table with a loud clack that echoed through the large room.
"What?"
"Mooreville. never told you?" Bordon asked, an nervous undercurrent to his voice, realizing too late that he'd said too much.
"He didn't," Tavington replied, standing and staring across the table at Bordon, his jade eyes burning holes in the retired captain's soul. "But you will. Explain, Bordon."