Part 12 – On The Street

Rustling. He hears rustling. Like the sound of clothes on quiet, busy people. It's dim. Must be night. No, his eyes are shut. He struggles to lift his eyelids. They're too heavy. He tries again. Same result. All right then, forget the eyes, go back to the ears. His ears are working fine. Rustling. And quiet footsteps pacing patiently to and fro. They sound like they're coming nearer. He tries to open his eyes again, to see who it is, to see where he is, to see anything at all.

A shadowy form hovers briefly, is gone, is back. A cool hand touches his forehead and he jerks in surprise. And now a voice, "Ah, you are awake. I shall summon Doctor." The shadow rustles away. By the time it returns with a slightly taller shadow at its side, the subject of their concern is asleep again. Doctor makes a note, Matron continues her rounds, and all is quiet once more.

The next time he opens his eyes, it is brighter. Must be day now. He's stiff and sore and his head aches. A shaky hand slides up to feel the dressing there. He turns his head just enough to see to the side. A bed. A man in a bed. And beyond him, another man in another bed. The faint acidic tang of lye wafts past and everything suddenly falls into place.

Hospital. I'm in a hospital. How did I get here? I was on the street, going home from somewhere important, from meeting someone important. But who? My banker? My lawyer? No. It was dark, much too late for an appointment. I was carrying something bulky, something awkward but not very heavy… a satchel… an empty satchel that had been full of…

MONEY! A satchel full of money! I delivered the contents right into Holmes' hands. I remember how quiet everything was when I slipped back out onto the street, how I almost made it to the end of the block before I heard crashing boots ahead. Then the mob had swept around the corner and I was caught up, swept along, away from order and safety and the end of my task.

He remembers roaring and fighting. He is an old hand at portside brawls but this was different. The mob had many bodies but only one mind, to escape the Bow Street Runners in pursuit. He'd been slammed into a wall, smashed to the ground, and trampled by running men. He remembers covering his head with the empty satchel and curling into a ball. It's probably what saved him.

And now he's in a hospital. Thank goodness he hadn't been dragged to gaol, given his appearance and being caught up in some sort of riot. Now he must get back home and put his life to rights by restoring his financial and social standing. The dissolute gambler is no more. The mission is finished. Now he can go back to being the taciturn and dependable Baron Featherington once more, once those touts have been taken care of.

As his eyes flutter shut he consoles himself with the thought that all this can be done tomorrow for now he must sleep. Funny, he thinks, as he drops into slumber, I don't hurt as much as I should, considering the pounding I took last night.

The next morning, as Matron bustles about readying him for dismissal, he finds out why he doesn't hurt as much as he should. He stares at the kindly woman with wide eyes. "HOW long?"

"Two months, my duck. You hit your head. Doctor said you might never regain your senses." She looks at him with a critical eye, "But you did. You talked a lot in your sleep. Didn't make much sense but it showed you were still in there so we kept trying to wake you up. And, yesterday, you did!" She smiles like minor miracles happen all the time here, and maybe they do, he has no way of knowing.

And that's why, several hours later, Archie finds himself standing in the dusk outside his manor house. He'd had to walk since he'd been brought to the hospital with empty pockets. No identification and certainly no money. Well, he was lucky to be merely robbed and not stabbed too. As he'd walked, he'd wondered about Catia. Did she make it out of England? Is she safe? I'll check in the morning but Catia is surely gone, 2 months gone, escaped back to Portugal and, hopefully, back to her old life.

As must he. He must go back to his old life too.

But now he stands outside his home and suddenly feels like he's been stabbed after all, an ice pick right through the heart.

For, inside, through the windows, he'd seen a gay gathering celebrating something momentous. There is Penny looking anxious. There is Prudence looking sullen. And there is Philipa… with Albion Finch! Philipa with flowers in her hair and dressed in wedding splendor! She had a firm grip on young Finch's arm and smiles in triumph.

Archie can't help himself, he grins. So! Albion came back and won the day, did he? Good for him. I knew old Gregory's blood would out. That boy and I will have many a long walk as I instruct him on how to avoid the pitfalls of marriage. If I can help him form some sort of real bond with Philipa then…

But then the stab comes; out of the dark, straight to the heart, totally unexpected, and all the more shocking for that. For now Portia comes into view with flowers in HER hair and dressed in even gaudier wedding finery. Next to her, gripped equally firmly, is Archie's younger brother Chauncey, simpering and grinning and bowing to one and all. Archie hears the cheers from the guests faintly as they toast the new Lord and Lady Featherington, like echoes of lost sailors wailing on a tempest-tossed sea.

Archie can only stand and watch as if in a trance. He wants to storm through the front doors, scatter the guests, and throw this usurper out onto the street where he belongs! He wants to demand what in the holy hell did his wife think she was doing? He wants to… wants to… he wants to understand. He was only gone 2 months. How could things change so drastically so fast? They act as if he's dead!

Then his brain kicks in and he remembers the two thugs, the poison, the death threat, the street riot. It had been a night of great foment and violence. If a man went missing on the streets, why wouldn't he be presumed dead? And if that wasn't enough, he'd been in hospital anonymously for 2 months. Everyone must have thought him truly dead. The title would have passed to his ambitious and jealous brother who would have lost little time in racing to London to claim it.

And Portia, being desperate and seeing which way the wind was blowing, would have lost little time in steering 'Chauncey the Chump' into holy wedlock to clinch her financial security as well as her position in society and The Ton. Now Archie growls. The Ton. Always the bloody TON!

He stands for a long time, watching the boisterous celebrations within as chaotic thoughts crash in his head. Finally his mind quiets as a new and almost impossible future hesitantly beckons. He takes one last look at the revelers. He's glad to see Philipa and Albion looking so happy. He is less glad to see the greedy triumph on Portia's face but that is assuaged slightly by the clueless look on his brother's face.

"Young fella-me-lad," he mutters as he turns away, "you are in for a world of hurt if she treats you the way she treated me… and it couldn't happen to a better chump, you chump!" He waves a hand over his shoulder. "Goodbye and good luck! You're going to need it!"

Moments later, a dark shape makes its way down the wide avenue, heading for the docks.

END – part 12

*ffh notes: The general use of antiseptics in hospitals or surgeries did not happen until the 1860s. Archie is lucky the voluntary or charity hospital he ends up in believes in soap!*