Chapter 38: The Return of Ulysses
Everything conspired against Tavington the following day: a message to his brother from the workmen at Wargrave that needed immediate attention, a wheel of the curricle that required repair, his own horse that threw a shoe. He refused to put off their departure until the following day, and so it came to pass that they did not trot under the heraldic archway of Colneford Castle until after three in the afternoon.
After a single suggestion that they stop for dinner—furiously rejected--Sir John said nothing more on the subject. Tavington was wound so tightly that any further delay would certainly result in an explosion. Sir John suspected that his brother was feeling rather guilty about his cavalier dismissal of his wife. So he should. Will had made an utter idiot of himself over Kitty, and John hoped he never witnessed such nonsense from him again. Kitty was a pretty enough girl, to be sure—though not in a style that John favored himself. Yes, a pretty, pleasant girl, but hardly worth all the drama she had inspired. Perhaps it was the long-standing rivalry between the cousins that had caused Will to prove he could win at that game as well. Damn foolishness.
And now he would have to bear the consequences back in London. Who could blame Jane if she were angry? She was a good sort, John thought, and even if she was not the most beautiful woman of their acquaintance, Will had married her and so owed her some sort of allegiance. There was nothing John despised more than a man who let his wife down.
He looked about him, and remembered what he had meant to suggest to his brother. "Look here, Will, the Bell is up ahead. That's the place they stopped at before they were set upon. The people there might know something more. Let's water the horses, and have a drink."
Tavington scowled. "We should just ride on through. I've got to see Jane as soon as possible. If you must stop for a pint, do so, but I shall ride on."
Keeping his temper, John proposed a compromise. "We won't even dismount. Let's just ride up and ask the ostlers what they know, and if someone comes out with a pint for us, so much the better!"
And so they did. Questions about the Carver brothers and their humiliating defeat at the hands of lady brought a crowd of local loungers about their stirrups, each eager to tell the gentlemen different versions of the story. The innkeeper came out to greet them and was back in a few minutes with a tray of foaming pints and his own, colorful additions. The gentlemen sat their horses by the watering trough, all of them drinking deep. The curricle team eased forward for their rightful share, and the valets downed their own ale, while exchanging eager gossip in whispers.
"Beautiful as the day, she was," pronounced the innkeeper. "Dressed like a queen. Ah—you don't see many such!" He followed this effusion with a pretty accurate description of Letty, who had somehow become the redoubtable Mrs. Tavington.
John grinned at his brother's irritation, and asked, "Has anyone seen the Carvers since?"
"Not to my knowledge, sir. Could be they're laying low, like, hiding their shame at a lady putting them to flight. Could be they'll find a new stretch of road—and good riddance!"
"Did you hear if any of the ladies' party were injured?" Tavington put in.
"I did not, sir. As far as I know the lady kept all her party safe. So sweet and fair-spoken she was, too. God bless her."
It was entirely, as Tavington could have predicted, a waste of time, except for the good ale. Tavington finished his, and let John pay, since it had been his idea in the first place. At least their valets had enjoyed their drink and were still chatting amiably with the gossips milling about.
"For God's sake, let's go," he hissed at his amused brother, and they were off again.
"We must tell Mrs. Tavington that the publican of the Bell considers her as beautiful as the day," grinned John.
"Oh, stop. No. You tell her that. With any luck, she'll box your ears, and the delay will not have been in vain."
"No doubt she knows that the Morning Post has compared her to Queen Boadicea."
"Stop."
"And has called her 'a fiery example.'"
"It was probably Moll Royston all along."
"She should publish a pamphlet with all the gruesome details."
"I suggest you stop talking about it right now." He scowled, not wanting to let John get the better of him. They rode along for some time, glancing at the shadows in the trees. Tavington was irritated enough with his brother that he brought up a subject that he knew would vex him. "I know you don't like to hear this, but I still think you should marry. As the avowed champion of married women, you should add at least one to their number!"
"You're right. I don't want to hear about it."
"But John—it is not too late. A wife could be a pleasant companion and give you an heir for Wargrave. You could be happy—" His brother looked reproachfully at him, and Tavington refused to be repressed. "You could make her happy, too—and set an example to the rest of us of how to treat one's wife. This business about Mamma forbidding it is just nonsense. You ought to get out and about and look for the right woman."
John breathed heavily through his nose, looking near to losing his temper. Finally he let out the breath with a sigh, and said directly. "The business about Mamma forbidding it is a useful way to stop conversation on the subject. I already met the right woman. Are you satisfied?"
Sensing that this was an unhappy subject, Tavington asked quietly, "Did she refuse you?"
"No."
"Then why are you not married—?"
"Because her filthy bugger of a husband doesn't have the decency to crawl off and die!"
"She is married, then?"
"Yes, obviously. If she weren't, I'd marry her tomorrow."
"Do I know her?"
"No."
They rode along in silence for awhile. John looked quite wretched, and Tavington was sorry he had brought it all up.
Finally, John said, "You might as well know the whole story. It may be that someday… Well, her name is Emily Martingale—Mrs. Peter Martingale. I knew her husband before I knew her—we frequented some of the same gaming houses. Her father is a gentleman with a small estate in Kent. Emily had a little money of her own, and when she married Martingale, everyone thought she had made a smart match.
"As you might guess, everyone was wrong. Martingale was always in over his head, and eventually had the bailiff after him for debt. He fled to Antwerp, but not alone. He was accompanied by his whore, for he deserted his wife, taking every penny she had brought to the marriage. He did not even have the decency to leave her a letter. She had no idea where he had gone, and was terrified when his creditors began hounding her.
"She had heard Martingale speak of me, and sought me out, begging me to help her find her husband. She thought he had been the victim of a crime, and might be lying injured somewhere, in need of her. All of our crowd, of course, knew the truth. She was such a pretty creature, and so friendless. I hated to be the one to tell her, and so I prevaricated, and called on her many times, and told her to go back to her father in Kent. She was still resolved on finding Martingale, and would not leave. One day, I called on her after having a few too many drinks, and told her what I knew.
"The news quite broke her. She had lost her earlier affection for the fellow--he had abused her scandalously--but she had still felt some loyalty for him. To find out how he had despised her—it was too much. She fell ill, and I helped her sell off her valuables--all her jewelry--I cheated a bit and added whatever I could to the sum. I paid some of Martingale's debts that she did not know of. What can I say? She was lonely, and had been abandoned in the cruelest way. And I, God forgive me, am a weak and foolish man.
"You can imagine the rest. Emily is a sweet soul, and still had a reputation to lose. After the child was born, she—adjusted-- the date of birth a little. Her family thinks the child is Martingale's. For that matter, Martingale thinks the child is his. Emily is not free of him. He has slunk back to London twice to my knowledge, trying to get money from her. She had tried to open a school, and had some success—but Martingale would not have it. He thought it demeaning to him for his wife to work for her living. He ordered her to give it up and took all her earnings, and then she had to give up her house as well, for she could no longer afford to maintain it. She lives with her parents at the family estate in Kent. And there is not a day that goes by that I do not wish she were mine."
Tavington was thunderstruck. He had imagined he knew John. "When did all this happen?"
"In the winter of '77, mostly. Fanny was born in December of that year, and is now almost four. A beautiful child. If anything happened to Emily—and she is not well--Martingale could come and claim my little girl and do anything he liked to her—place her in a charity school, apprentice her to an alewife or a lacemaker, put her to work in a mill, keep her to be raised by his whore—anything he liked, and there is nothing I can do about it."
"Do you ever see her?"
"Not often. Emily lives in dread of scandal. I have offered to set up an establishment for her and the child under my protection, but she cannot bear to hurt her family. I last saw the two of them in June. I plan on going to Kent next month for Fanny's 'official' birthday—I am her godfather to all the world. Perhaps you would like to go with me. It's not like she could inherit Wargrave, even if she were legitimate, but she is still your niece. I did not want to tell you, but now I feel better that you know the truth, if ever anything happens to me."
"Don't talk like that. That Martingale swine sounds like the sort likely to be murdered by a creditor, I'd say. Why didn't you call him out?"
"I'd have to find him to call him out. And he would only laugh. He cares nothing for honor. He would never accept a challenge."
"We could track him down in Antwerp, kill him, and throw the body in the sea."
John stared at his brother. "Good God, Will! Don't joke about such things!" He spurred his horse forward, shaking his head.
Tavington shrugged, and muttered, "What makes you think I was joking?" He rode after his brother, now understanding much better John's indignation on Jane's behalf, and his protectiveness towards Mrs. Porter. "Are you saying that there's been no one else since?" he asked John in amazement.
"Don't talk rot! I'm not a monk, after all. But as to marriage, no. I don't see that I can, in honor, marry anyone else. And that's an end of it!"
-----
A damp, chilly darkness had settled down on the city by the time they arrived at the door. John complained bitterly that they had missed dinner altogether, and must ask the cook for sandwiches, for he was too tired to go to White's.
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, John," Tavington cut him off sharply, "if there's no dinner, we can have a late supper. And it won't hurt you to miss another night at White's. Come join us in the drawing room, and Jane can give you all the 'gruesome details' of her adventure you could possibly desire."
"There is that. And a few beef sandwiches—a roast onion—perhaps a slice or pudding or a good, ripe cheese—will make the story the more satisfying."
Tavington shrugged, feeling rather hungry himself. The two brothers dismounted, and tossed the reins of their horses to Doggery.
Sir John gave a few brusque instructions. "Take the curricle and the horses back to the stables. Have the horses properly cared for. Go to the kitchens and scrounge what you can for supper. We'll ring when you're needed."
Tavington blew out a breath, preparing himself to face Jane's wrath—or tears—or contempt—or all three. Before he could touch the knocker, however, the door was flung open, and he was nearly bowled over by a pair of rowdy young gentlemen, obviously the worse for drink.
"Beg p-p-pardon," one stammered, glassy-eyed, and nearly fell down the steps to the servants' entrance. His friend seized him by the sleeve and swept the Tavington brothers an exaggerated bow.
"Fresh blood for the tables!" he cried. "They've quite cleaned us out! Better luck to you, sir!"
Tavington stared at them in disbelief, and then saw that John was just as confused. No—they had not mistaken the house. What was going on?
The two of them pushed through the door and met Rivers in the hall. The butler looked harassed, which alarmed Tavington immediately. Rivers prided himself on his control, but tonight he was red-faced and tense. He brightened instantly, however, at the sight of the them.
"Sir John! Colonel! Thank God you're back!"
There was a raucous shout from the dining room, and Tavington leaned around the corner to see a group of men-about-town stuffing their faces at a dining room table laden with sandwiches, cakes, and fruit. Tom, their footman, his face full of blank disdain, was waiting on them, filling their wineglasses as if he wanted to hit them over their heads with the decanter. Food was trodden into the carpet. Wine puddled on the table, staining the linen like blood. There was a used chamberpot in the corner of the room, which had apparently been set there for some sort of target practice. Alas, most of the users had missed.
John turned to the butler, and growled low, "What the devil is going on? Who are these men?"
Rivers leaned forward, speaking quickly and quietly. "While you were gone, gentlemen, Lady Cecily took it into her head to host gaming parties here at her own house. She gave out it was all in jest—like a masquerade—but the house has filled up with gamesters and charlatans and people nobody knows. Her ladyship has opened the ballroom and filled it with gaming tables and a roulette wheel, and more tables yet in the drawing room. It's been like this night after night, sir, and the fellows come in and run wild over the house."
Seeing John's horrified expression, the butler said, "I took the liberty of locking up the library and your private study, sir, and also your private bedchamber, and yours, too, Colonel. Her ladyship insisted that her guests be able to amuse themselves in the billiard room. I'm afraid the table—"
"My billiard table?" shouted Sir John, beginning to get very red himself.
"What about my wife and sisters?" Tavington broke in. The reality of the situation was just becoming hideously clear to him.
"They lock themselves in after dinner, sir. Sometimes they go up to the nursery to sit for a little while, but they have to lock themselves in there, too. I've had to lock the maidservants in after dinner as well. It's not safe, sir, with all manner of strange men roaming the halls. Mrs. Tavington cannot go up to attend young Master William without Mrs. Royston accompanying her both ways. It's a frightful state of affairs. The cook is about to give notice, what with all these fellows demanding fish pie and bombarded veal and negus and what have you until dawn!"
"So the ladies are in the nursery now, do you think?" Tavington persisted.
"Yes, Colonel, they should still be there. I must tell you," he confided, "that there was a tremendous quarrel. Lady Cecily wanted Miss Rutledge to sit with her in the gaming rooms and entertain the guests with her singing, but Mrs. Tavington absolutely forbade it, and the poor young lady did not know what to do! In the end, she obeyed her sister, but there were tears and screams, and Lady Cecily and Mrs. Tavington are not on speaking terms, and I'm just this close—" he gestured with a thumb and finger—"to giving notice myself!"
"Don't give notice, Rivers," Tavington snorted. "We are quite equal to putting an end to this state of affairs. Rather like the Return of Ulysses, isn't it, John?"
John looked aggrieved. This was just the sort of confrontation he had always dreaded, and now it was upon him. "Well, I suppose it could be worse if I had to do it alone. Do you suppose the old woman has gone mad, Will?"
Tavington stopped still. The thought had not occurred to him before. It was true she seemed more erratic, more unreasonably demanding than he remembered from the days before he had left England. And she tried to keep Lucy a prisoner.
"No time for suppositions. You are Ulysses, whether you like it or not. I'll be Telemachus, since I'm younger and handsomer—"
His brother grunted in disgust.
Tavington laid his plans quickly. "Rivers. How many men are upstairs?"
"At least two score, sir. And some ladies—and some females who are not exactly ladies."
"Good God!" John rolled his eyes. "Now we're keeping a bawdy house, too?"
"Not after tonight, at least," Tavington said, perfectly in his element, rather excited at the idea of his planned raid on the unwanted guests. "Rivers, go to the kitchens and tell Cook that she can stop cooking, clean the kitchen and get on to bed. Sir John and I will speak to Lady Cecily ourselves." John groaned. "It must be so, John. There's nothing else for it." He waved the butler away. "Look sharp, Rivers. Find the rest of the menservants and bring them here as soon as you can."
Rivers hurried away, glad that someone knew what to do. Tavington turned to his brother. "And now to reconnoitre."
He walked down the hall to the billiard room. The green baize of the table was torn and soiled, but that did not disconcert the man and woman coupling on it. The man's wig was slipping from his head. The woman was masked.
Sir John groaned again, "My billiard table!" He looked closer, and was outraged. "I know him! That's Oliver Strangways! He's a member of White's!" He considered the woman. "Don't think I know her, though," John confessed. "Don't recognize the bubbies."
Tavington shrugged. "At least there are only two in there."
Further down the hall, they were relieved to find the morning room locked as well. Since the breakfast parlor could only be accessed through the morning room, there were two more rooms that should not be filthy wrecks, at least. "We'll clean out the dining room first," Tavington decided.
"We" included Tom, who recognized the master of the house and his brother with relief, and came at once when Tavington beckoned discreetly. "And this is our faithful swineherd, John," Tavington declared.
"Here, now!" Tom, innocent of the classics, remonstrated.
Sir John hurriedly explained. "My brother is referring to an old story about a gentleman who comes home to find his house filled with riff-raff. He tosses them out with aid of his servants, including a faithful swineherd."
"Oh!" Tom considered this. "All right then!" He retrieved a stout walking stick from the stand in the hallway. "Let's toss 'em!"
The three men strode to the door of the dining room, Tavington entered first, arranging his troops just inside. "Gentleman," he rapped out, his "command" voice cutting over the diners. "Leave at once! This house is not a gaming establishment, but a private home. You will depart directly!"
Some of the men did not respond: too drunk to understand him. The others were indignant. "Look here, sir!" cried one. "I paid good money for admittance, and I intend---"
Tavington crossed the room with two strides and grabbed the man by the throat. "Get out!" he snarled. He shoved the man toward Tom, who caught him neatly and dragged him to the front door. Before the man knew what had happened, he was outside, and the door slammed behind him. The other men at the table slowly began to understand that someone was asking them to depart.
"What are you, the magistrate?" asked one man blearily, his mouth open, revealing a half-chewed pastry.
John lost patience. "I am the master of this house, and you are trespassing! Now get out and don't come back!"
When the men did not respond quickly enough, Tavington took a threatening step toward the nearest. The man jumped up, knocking the chair back. "All right! But I want my ten shillings back!"
"Go to hell!" Tavington roared, and grabbed him, too.
The other men looked too unsteady to put up a struggle, but two at least were fighting drunk. Tavington punched one in the stomach and Tom whacked the other across the back. Somewhat cowed, the rest stumbled out, protesting. One bold fellow snatched up a bottle of wine and made off with it before Tom could stop him.
"Let him go, Tom," Tavington shrugged. "Good riddance. Lock the door for now, so none of them can come back in, and wait. I'll deal with the romance on the billiard table. They should be done by now, I would hope."
Not quite. Strangways was puffing effortfully, and the woman was squeaking along. They sounded like a worn-out barrel organ. Tavington eyed them in disgust and barked, "That's bloody well enough!"
The woman looked around, startled. Strangways ignored Tavington, intent on his own purpose, and collapsed on his partner a moment later, with a satisfied grunt. "What do you want, sir?" he drawled. "Impatient, are we? I'm quite done now. She's all yours."
The woman shoved him off of her and pushed her petticoats down, mortified. "You utter ruffian! I trusted you!" She looked like she wanted to shout at Tavington, as well, but was too embarrassed. She covered her breasts hastily. The paint on them was smeared, showing pink under the artificial white. They were still quite nice breasts, though.
Tavington eyed the woman gravely. "Do you have a way of getting home?"
"My coachman—" she faltered. She suddenly asked, clutching her mask fearfully. "Do you know me, sir?"
"Do you want me to know you, Madam?"
"No—oh, no!"
Tavington took her arm, none too gently, and escorted her down the hall. "Tom, call this lady's carriage. And be careful if some of the wretches are hanging about the door."
"My cloak!"
Tom found the white satin cloak, and saw the lady out the door. John stood watch, and Tavington went back to deal with John's fellow club member.
Strangways had nearly finished buttoning his breeches, but had fastened them awry. Tavington sneered. "Time to leave, sir. This establishment is closed—permanently."
"Unfortunate. I knew it was too good to last. Your mother knows how to make a man feel welcome."
Instantly he was on the floor, gasping in agony.
Tavington asked with calm curiosity, "What was that you said?"
"Nothing—nothing! Good God, sir, are you mad? I'm a member of Parliament!"
"As is my brother, sir. He is just outside the door, and is quite put out with you."
He gripped Strangways by the upper arm and dragged him out and down the hall.
Sir John looked at his acquaintance with reproach. "Rotten thing to do to a man's billiard table, Strangways. Remind me to piss in your soup, the next time you dine at the club."
"Sir John, I—"
The door was opened, and he flew through the air. They did not wait to see his feet meet the ground before the door slammed behind him. John went down to the billiard room, peered in, and considered the new stains on the green baize.
"I'll take every penny he owns, the next time we play."
"Do so." Tavington was feeling quite stimulated by the little fracas.
The real difficulty still lay before them. They could not start a fight in the drawing room with over a score of guests without destroying it. Some tact would be necessary, and they must approach their mother with a show of civility. At least now they could not be attacked from the rear.
Rivers arrived, bringing with him the two other footmen who had been waiting on the guests upstairs. With them were the two valets, Pratt and Doggery. Doggery was finishing off a chicken leg. Catching Tavington's annoyed eye, he shoved the gnawed bone in his coat pocket.
"You—Peter, is it?" Tavington addressed the smallest and youngest of the footmen. "Clean up the mess in the dining room as best you can. Salvage what you can of the food, and Sir John and I will sup from it later. If you hear anyone coming downstairs, be ready to show him the door—and don't listen to any arguments!" To Rivers, he said, "Give Peter the key to these rooms. I want the billiard room, the dining room—everything—locked up, so that when the guest upstairs come down there is nowhere else to go but out the front door. Pratt, stay here with Peter." It would be safer to have two guarding the front door.
And then, with Tavington in the lead, they ascended the stairs, hearing the clamor of excited talk above—the bets, the jests, the bursts of laughter.
"Is my mother in the drawing room, Rivers?" Tavington asked the butler in a whisper.
"She was, when last I saw her, sir,"
"Very well. We shall go there first."
A few curious faces turned their way as they entered. The drawing room doors were opened wide, letting into the music room beyond, where a cluster of young men lounged about the harpsichord. One of their number was picking out a rude ballad, much to his friends' amusement.
Closer to them was their mother, enthroned on a sofa, dressed and jeweled in her finest, fanning herself, and looking on the revel before her with great complacency. Her maid, sitting beside her, was the first to notice the tall shadows cast over them. Her gasp caught Lady Cecily's attention.
"Well," said the lady, with a sneer, "you are returned from the country at last, after deserting me for your uncle. It matters not. I have found better friends."
"Madam," John said, very seriously. "You are not well. These people are destroying your home. I have no idea what you mean to prove by such a bizarre display, but it stops now. These people are to leave, and not return."
"This is my house! I can invite whom I like." She turned angrily to her younger son. "Just as you had no compunctions forcing on me the acquaintance of that horrid little Colonial creature. Such impudence. Her manners are as ugly as her face."
Tavington bit back a harsh reply. John's suggestion—that Mamma might be losing her mind—made him shiver. Her manner was composed, but her words so outrageous, and the idea of opening the house to gamesters so strange, that the possibility did not seem unthinkable. He controlled himself, and said quietly. "My brother is right. You are unwell. It would be best if you went to your room and stayed there until you are more yourself."
"I fear, Lady Cecily, that your sons have the right of it." Lord Fanshawe had materialized beside them, and now stood before their mother, smiling kindly and offering their mother his arm. "Allow me the honor of escorting you from the room. All this noise, this heat—it is perfectly understandable that you should be fatigued. I pray you, my lady—take my arm."
He murmured, in an aside to Tavington, "You do not come before time. I saw this state of affairs when I escorted your lady wife and her sister to the Theater Royal, and was most alarmed."
Aloud, he said, to the confused Lady Cecily. "Yes, that is right, Lady Cecily. It was amusing for a diversion, but one grows tired of sameness, and these people have been here quite long enough. Your maid is here—so Providential! A glass of wine in your own quiet boudoir is what I would advise. Let your sons bid your guests farewell."
Lady Cecily looked at the men confronting her. They were all against her. With dignity, she took the proffered arm and hissed at John, "See that the dealers at each table pay my share! I won't be cheated!" She swept away, with the maid following in her wake.
John was flabbergasted. "Good God! She was taking a cut of the dealers' winnings! That's illegal! We're lucky that the magistrates haven't raided the house!"
"Steady, John," Tavington urged him quietly. "Calm down. Fanshawe said truly that we were not before time. I think the thing to do is to announce that the house is closing, and they may finish what they have in play, but that that is the last, and that there is no more food or drink."
"Yes—that's sounds reasonable. Tom—pound your stick, and Rivers, make the announcement!"
Tom rapped the floor lustily, and Rivers, seeing that he had the guests' attention, declared, "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! I regret to inform you that due to the indisposition of Lady Cecily, the house is closing and will not be opened for gaming again. Finish your play and depart, I pray you. No more food or drink is available. The servants below will call you your carriages or a chair, as you wish."
A great clamor of protest rose. Tavington remained closemouthed, and refused to enter into any arguments. He simply said, "no," to any attempts to persuade him otherwise. John was getting red with anger as he talked to the dealers. Table by table, the games were finished under the icy blue eyes of the Tavington brothers, and the people escorted out by the servants. Some—especially women—left voluntarily, fearing that the Watch might be called. It was a miserable business, and took over half an hour to accomplish in the drawing room alone. There was much indignation over the lack of wine, and a few men of their acquaintance pronounced it all very "bad form."
"Really?" asked John cuttingly, now very angry. "And how would you like a gang of Mohocks to come into your house and use it thus? Bad form, indeed! It is we who have been badly done by. Look at this!" he snarled, gesturing at the harpsichord, its keys stained with food and wine, "Or this!" he said, pointing to torn upholstery and broken ornaments. "You've behaved like a pack of savages. You are not welcome in my home, and I'll thank you to leave!"
And then they had to repeat the process in the ballroom, which was in some ways, even worse. The real professionals were here, away from the pretense of gentility in Lady Cecily's drawing room. The announcement was made, and along with the protests, there were some quietly venomous stares—the sort that made Tavington wish he had gone for his pistols before undertaking the business. All of these men were armed, of course, and not just with their dress swords, but with pocket pistols and knives. A few people had sneaked in here after the drawing room was closed and locked, and they too were persuaded to leave, one by one. Tavington did not wish to provoke the opposition into outright violence, but there were shoves; there were curses; there were threats.
One hard-eyed dealer, of a famous and noble name, completed his game and dismissed the grumbling players, and then swept his own winnings into his purse, leaving out a few coins. "Here," he said, contemptuously. "Give these to her ladyship with my compliments." John did not press the matter, but Tavington fixed the man with an unyielding glare and saw him out himself.
"We'll meet again," Lord Torrenham said pleasantly, giving Tavington a measuring glance at the front door. "I don't doubt it. I'm inclined to ask if my friends might not call on you tomorrow, for that matter; but I am inclined to make allowances for the possibility that your manners have become rather rusty with disuse, slaughtering Patriots in the colonies. Be as that may, I feel certain that we will shall meet again soon."
"Not at White's, surely," Tavington replied with an innocent smile, knowing that Lord Torrenham was a Whig, and would not set foot in the place. "But I will be glad to meet your friends—and you—whenever you like. My manners may be rusty—but my sword is not."
They finally whittled the interlopers down to a little knot of faro players, stonily intent on their own game. These young bucks, gaudily decked out, had the decided air of a group looking for a fight. The Tavingtons and their servants surrounded the table.
"Leave," Tavington ordered, in a flat, bored voice. He was ignored. There was a brief silence, save for the slap of a card and the muttered words over the game. "Tom," Tavington said, "These young gentleman seem to have trouble standing away from the table. Perhaps it is hampering them. You and Doggery will assist them."
Instantly, the two servants seized the table by the corners and upended it. Coins rolled away with a musical ring, and cards fluttered around them. The players tried to hold the table in place, but to no avail, as the other two servants stepped in.
"If you want to take your money along," Tavington suggested, in the same bored tone, "I suggest you retrieve it now, for you are leaving at once, with or without it."
Two of the young men dived after the coins spilled on the floor. The three others came up fighting—one even drew his sword. A serious mistake. Tom whacked one young fool over the head with the end of his stick. John grabbed the other by his coat and boxed his ears. Both collapsed, the second one puking over the scattered cards.
Tavington faced the would-be swordsman, but did not even bother to unsheathe his own weapon. His reflexes were faster than those of an untried puppy full of wine. He evaded the point and reached in, grasping the boy's wrist in a vise-like grip. He slammed the wrist over the end of the upturned table and was rewarded a scream of pain. Tavington caught the rapier before it reached the floor, snapped it over his knee and shoved the broken half back in the boy's scabbard.
"In America I would have shot you down like the stupid boy you are; but I'm back in civilization now. I have to respect the niceties in my mother's house. A word of advice. Don't fight a man on his own ground when you're too drunk to stand unaided. And for God's sake, take some fencing lessons. Now get out."
One boy was drunker or braver than his friends. As Rivers dragged him through the ballroom door, he shouted, "You'll regret this! My father is Lord Lieutenant of—" His threat was cut off as he was shoved onto the steps and fell, bouncing down roughly.
John dashed after him, shouting in his turn. "I know your father, you young blackguard! Run to Papa, will you, you sniveling little poltroon? I shall be writing him myself, with a claim for damages!"
At the base of the stairs, two of the boys made a last stand, and abused the Tavingtons in the foulest language until they were dragged away by the footmen. They were ejected without even the courtesy of calling chairs for them. The door was slammed behind them, and locked, and bolted.
"And now, by God, for some supper!" Sir John declared. "I think we've all earned it! You lot come on in. We'll all go shares, this once."
Peter had done well in the little time he had had. They found some untouched bottles of wine, and plenty of roast beef and Cheddar, some mutton pasties, some pickled onions, and quite a lot of plum cake. The servants were both dutiful and sincere in their praise of their masters. Tavington felt a surge of nostalgia for his days of campaigning in America, and for many a meal spent with his brave soldiers around a campfire. In some ways, this was as satisfying. People might say that "no man is a hero to his valet," but he felt that he had gained considerable stature in the eyes of the servants tonight. And so had John, who had done his part in clearing the house of parasites and ruffians.
Of course, there would be a reckoning tomorrow, when they would have to confer about Mamma and her shocking behavior, but for tonight, there was the victory to savor. Then too, while the masters might share their feast, it was the privilege of rank to leave the washing-up entirely to the servants. Rivers was given instructions for the morning, and the two brothers went upstairs, glancing rather glumly into the shambles of the drawing room.
"I'm tempted to simply shut up the ballroom altogether," John muttered.
"After they clean it, John. God knows what may raise a stink in there if it's not scrubbed down."
"I suppose." He yawned. "Well, I'm off to bed. Everything may look better tomorrow."
"Let's hope it does. However—" Tavington was determined. "We must talk tomorrow morning—right after breakfast—about this situation with Mamma. It's impossible. Perhaps we should have a physician in to examine her."
"She won't half like that!" John exclaimed. Then he smiled. "No, she won't, will she? A capital idea, Will!" Much cheered, he strolled down to his bedchamber.
Tavington looked at his watch. Good Lord! Half-past ten, and I haven't yet seen Jane! He made his way to his wife's chamber, feeling that perhaps he was rather like Ulysses, after all. And he acknowledged that his Penelope might be rather more resentful of his absence that the original.
Notes: "Mohocks" were gangs of rich young thugs in the early 18th century, who sometimes affected "Red Indian" styles of hairdressing, and committed assault and vandalism for sport.
Emily Martingale's situation was based partly on that of Mary Robinson's mother, whose odious husband went off to Canada with his mistress. The man then inflicted endless petty tyrannies on his abandoned wife—including the episode in which he forced her to close her school.
"Meeting your friends" or "Sending my friends to call upon you" was aristocratic code for threatening to call someone out--to challenge him to a duel. The aggrieved party would send his second to call on the person to be challenged (or sometimes would send the second to call on the other second). The seconds would arrange time, place, and weapons.
I would be the first to admit that this "Return of Ulysses" owes more to The Wind in the Willows than to Homer. Tavington is the Water Rat, of course. He's my favorite character. Had Lord Colchester been present, we would have had Badger, too.
Next—Chapter 39: Compromised Honor