Tavington/Carrenworth: The Narratives: Chapter Eleven: The Returns
"And I salute you for your courage, and I applaud your perseverance, and I embrace you for your faith in the face of adversarial forces that I represent." -Alanis Morissette
Tavington returned to London, amazed that the building hadn't been rented out to anyone since he's left it over nearly ten years ago. It was a prime location on a busy London street, literally smashed between a bakery and wig shop. The baker had taken the liberty of using the windows as a place to hang signs advertising his goods. The former dragoon commander scanned them quickly, "Fresh Bread, baked daily," "Muffins and Pies," and "The Best in the City." Irritably he tore the signs off the windows, crumpled them into balls, and tossed them into the gutter.
The brass plaque nailed to the door had held up remarkably well, and after a few minutes of intense polishing, the accumulated grim had thinned enough to reveal the still legible proclamation, William L. Tavington, attorney at law. He pulled a large, heavy key from the pocket of his new black civilian coat, jammed it into the lock and turned. Click!
Inside remained unchanged as well, except for the thick layer of dust that had settled in a sheet over the floor and furniture. There were a few neglected papers that had gone yellow and brittle and a copy of the Times from 1771.
"Gawd! I never saw you as the lawyer sort!" Karenna had exclaimed, nearly doubling over with laughter. Her black hair was braided and done up fashionably. She twirled around in the center of the room, her green skirts billowing out. "It just doesn't suit you at all."
"Well then, who does it suit?" William asked, somewhat curious.
"Oh, it suits old men in black, boys who are too thin, and the ambitious sons of typesetters," the lady explained. "I've always seen you as more the soldier type. You know, hair braided, new red uniform, and a foolish cockney to shine the buttons on it and your boots. You're the sort who needs servants. I can't see you doing anything. menial."
There was a door in the back left corner of the room leading to a set of stairs that, in turn, led to a small set of rooms above the office. Those had been Tavington's home for two years, before he was reacquainted with Mooreville. They were the same as always. There was a bed, a four-candle candlestick, and a chest filled with clothes that had been in style in the early 1770's.
"You were right, Karenna," Tavington said aloud to the empty room. "I never did like being a lawyer. It didn't suit me." Then, with an air of contempt he continued, "I suppose I wasn't such a wonderful dragoon either. That's why I've returned to this."
He had spent a week at the Bordon's, though he old man had invited him to stay longer, he had refused. Capt. James Bordon's war stories were becoming repetitive, and Tavington wasn't the sort of man to remain dependant on others for long. It was against his nature. There was also the fact that he no longer felt comfortable around any of the older dragoons. They had kept the secret of his family's history from him too long. Simply put, he didn't trust them anymore.
The former dragoon reestablished his law practice and enjoyed moderate success. He wasn't happy, but then again, he doubted that he had ever been happy.
It took a long time, so long that Tavington began to question his own mental stability, but the void created by the loss of Bordon, Karenna, the dragoons, his ignorance, his home, and most of the use of his left arm, began to fill. Time dulled the pain and helped to repair his shattered constitution. When he wasn't in court or bailing on of his drunken clients out of jail he would take his grandfather's saber down from its place of honor, decorating the walls of his bedroom, and give it a few test swings. It was still too heavy, too tiring.
It was the sad truth of the thing; he would never be a dragoon again. He had lost everything, everything but the faint flame of the force that had once driven his actions. Somewhere in the very core of his being there was still ambition, and it was ambition that gave Tavington the strength to carry on. There was always Parliament, there was always politics, and there was always another duchess somewhere who might like to marry a famous lawyer. Yes, there was always ambition.
Yet, even Tavington's fiery ambition found its flame dying as 1781 turned into 1782 and 1782 became 1783 with no change. He was still defending drunkards and pickpockets. Even the House of Commons had neglected to offer him a seat. A suffocating depression descended over Tavington and his law office between the bakery and the wig shop.
In early 1783, he was sitting at his desk calculating the fees he was owed by several clients. Rain mixed with ice beat against the windows. It was on that morning he received word of the death of Capt. James Bordon. He had been found sitting at his dinner table, a golden dagger neatly shoved through his throat. Atop the table, resting in a pool of blood, was a single, white rose.
* * *
"Dear me-show boy, I know you're not really into conflict resolution, or seeing both sides of every equation, or having an uninterrupted conversation." -Alanis Morisette
"Your sister will not be waiting for you," Howe remarked.
The carriage had pulled up in front of the Carrenworth estate, the moon was now hidden by thick clouds, but the outline of the massive estate was still visible through the darkness. No lights shone from the windows, the law was overgrown, no servants milled about. The whole place was dead, as it had been since the death of the last duke.
"Where are my servants?" Victor asked irritably.
"Sir, your sister," Howe protested.
"That is a secondary manner," the new duke snapped. "Where are my servants, the ones who are supposed to meet me at the door and offer me something to eat?"
"They've all gone, my lord." Howe fidgeted nervously with his fingers.
"Gone? What do you mean they've all gone?"
"With the duke dead they feared an attack by the Green Dragoons. You know the Tavington reputation for burning things down."
"Well, you certainly don't expect me to make my own bed and serve my own breakfast, do you?"
Howe continued to fidget. "Of course not, my lord, but it will take several days to round up all of the old servants."
"Several days!"
"Please accept my apologies, my lord. There is one servant left, your father's old manservant, de Fleur."
"I thought de Fleur was one of the dragoons?" Victor asked, greatly annoyed by the old general's complete lack of competence.
"He is. He was your father's second in command. He just also happened to be his manservant. You won't find a finer manservant, or a finer assassin for that matter."
"An assassin!" Victor exclaimed. "My new manservant is an assassin?"
"Yes, and who better to protect you from assassins than an assassin."
"As though I needed protection. I am perfectly capable of defending myself, thank you!"
Howe laughed. "Spoken like a man who has never dealt with a Tavington."
Victor raised his eyebrows. "Do you mock me, sir?"
"Of course not, your lordship."
Victor turned his attention back to the ghostly outline of his new home. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see that the place was so large that most would find it a horrible waste for only one person to live there. Perfect. That was just the way Victor liked things.
"Now, what were you saying about my sister?"
"Yes, Anna, the poor girl. The loss of her father and sister, Karenna, in so short a time seems to have driven the poor girl quite mad. One of the maids found her in the kitchens, and narrowly prevented her from slitting her wrists with a carving knife. We had no choice but to commit her to an institution, your lordship."
"So my sister is a lunatic locked up in a mad house?" the duke asked bluntly.
"Yes, your lordship."
"And I salute you for your courage, and I applaud your perseverance, and I embrace you for your faith in the face of adversarial forces that I represent." -Alanis Morissette
Tavington returned to London, amazed that the building hadn't been rented out to anyone since he's left it over nearly ten years ago. It was a prime location on a busy London street, literally smashed between a bakery and wig shop. The baker had taken the liberty of using the windows as a place to hang signs advertising his goods. The former dragoon commander scanned them quickly, "Fresh Bread, baked daily," "Muffins and Pies," and "The Best in the City." Irritably he tore the signs off the windows, crumpled them into balls, and tossed them into the gutter.
The brass plaque nailed to the door had held up remarkably well, and after a few minutes of intense polishing, the accumulated grim had thinned enough to reveal the still legible proclamation, William L. Tavington, attorney at law. He pulled a large, heavy key from the pocket of his new black civilian coat, jammed it into the lock and turned. Click!
Inside remained unchanged as well, except for the thick layer of dust that had settled in a sheet over the floor and furniture. There were a few neglected papers that had gone yellow and brittle and a copy of the Times from 1771.
"Gawd! I never saw you as the lawyer sort!" Karenna had exclaimed, nearly doubling over with laughter. Her black hair was braided and done up fashionably. She twirled around in the center of the room, her green skirts billowing out. "It just doesn't suit you at all."
"Well then, who does it suit?" William asked, somewhat curious.
"Oh, it suits old men in black, boys who are too thin, and the ambitious sons of typesetters," the lady explained. "I've always seen you as more the soldier type. You know, hair braided, new red uniform, and a foolish cockney to shine the buttons on it and your boots. You're the sort who needs servants. I can't see you doing anything. menial."
There was a door in the back left corner of the room leading to a set of stairs that, in turn, led to a small set of rooms above the office. Those had been Tavington's home for two years, before he was reacquainted with Mooreville. They were the same as always. There was a bed, a four-candle candlestick, and a chest filled with clothes that had been in style in the early 1770's.
"You were right, Karenna," Tavington said aloud to the empty room. "I never did like being a lawyer. It didn't suit me." Then, with an air of contempt he continued, "I suppose I wasn't such a wonderful dragoon either. That's why I've returned to this."
He had spent a week at the Bordon's, though he old man had invited him to stay longer, he had refused. Capt. James Bordon's war stories were becoming repetitive, and Tavington wasn't the sort of man to remain dependant on others for long. It was against his nature. There was also the fact that he no longer felt comfortable around any of the older dragoons. They had kept the secret of his family's history from him too long. Simply put, he didn't trust them anymore.
The former dragoon reestablished his law practice and enjoyed moderate success. He wasn't happy, but then again, he doubted that he had ever been happy.
It took a long time, so long that Tavington began to question his own mental stability, but the void created by the loss of Bordon, Karenna, the dragoons, his ignorance, his home, and most of the use of his left arm, began to fill. Time dulled the pain and helped to repair his shattered constitution. When he wasn't in court or bailing on of his drunken clients out of jail he would take his grandfather's saber down from its place of honor, decorating the walls of his bedroom, and give it a few test swings. It was still too heavy, too tiring.
It was the sad truth of the thing; he would never be a dragoon again. He had lost everything, everything but the faint flame of the force that had once driven his actions. Somewhere in the very core of his being there was still ambition, and it was ambition that gave Tavington the strength to carry on. There was always Parliament, there was always politics, and there was always another duchess somewhere who might like to marry a famous lawyer. Yes, there was always ambition.
Yet, even Tavington's fiery ambition found its flame dying as 1781 turned into 1782 and 1782 became 1783 with no change. He was still defending drunkards and pickpockets. Even the House of Commons had neglected to offer him a seat. A suffocating depression descended over Tavington and his law office between the bakery and the wig shop.
In early 1783, he was sitting at his desk calculating the fees he was owed by several clients. Rain mixed with ice beat against the windows. It was on that morning he received word of the death of Capt. James Bordon. He had been found sitting at his dinner table, a golden dagger neatly shoved through his throat. Atop the table, resting in a pool of blood, was a single, white rose.
* * *
"Dear me-show boy, I know you're not really into conflict resolution, or seeing both sides of every equation, or having an uninterrupted conversation." -Alanis Morisette
"Your sister will not be waiting for you," Howe remarked.
The carriage had pulled up in front of the Carrenworth estate, the moon was now hidden by thick clouds, but the outline of the massive estate was still visible through the darkness. No lights shone from the windows, the law was overgrown, no servants milled about. The whole place was dead, as it had been since the death of the last duke.
"Where are my servants?" Victor asked irritably.
"Sir, your sister," Howe protested.
"That is a secondary manner," the new duke snapped. "Where are my servants, the ones who are supposed to meet me at the door and offer me something to eat?"
"They've all gone, my lord." Howe fidgeted nervously with his fingers.
"Gone? What do you mean they've all gone?"
"With the duke dead they feared an attack by the Green Dragoons. You know the Tavington reputation for burning things down."
"Well, you certainly don't expect me to make my own bed and serve my own breakfast, do you?"
Howe continued to fidget. "Of course not, my lord, but it will take several days to round up all of the old servants."
"Several days!"
"Please accept my apologies, my lord. There is one servant left, your father's old manservant, de Fleur."
"I thought de Fleur was one of the dragoons?" Victor asked, greatly annoyed by the old general's complete lack of competence.
"He is. He was your father's second in command. He just also happened to be his manservant. You won't find a finer manservant, or a finer assassin for that matter."
"An assassin!" Victor exclaimed. "My new manservant is an assassin?"
"Yes, and who better to protect you from assassins than an assassin."
"As though I needed protection. I am perfectly capable of defending myself, thank you!"
Howe laughed. "Spoken like a man who has never dealt with a Tavington."
Victor raised his eyebrows. "Do you mock me, sir?"
"Of course not, your lordship."
Victor turned his attention back to the ghostly outline of his new home. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see that the place was so large that most would find it a horrible waste for only one person to live there. Perfect. That was just the way Victor liked things.
"Now, what were you saying about my sister?"
"Yes, Anna, the poor girl. The loss of her father and sister, Karenna, in so short a time seems to have driven the poor girl quite mad. One of the maids found her in the kitchens, and narrowly prevented her from slitting her wrists with a carving knife. We had no choice but to commit her to an institution, your lordship."
"So my sister is a lunatic locked up in a mad house?" the duke asked bluntly.
"Yes, your lordship."