The Last Crossing, page 4
Pearl, the only girl whom he had ever permitted to see him hold some stolen gentlelady’s article to his nose at the moment of climax, of spending.
How many lace handkerchiefs, embroidered gloves, muffs, had he posted anonymously to their virgin owners after using them to sop up the juices from Pearl’s mott, after giving that curly black bush a thorough wiping after love?
But there was no Pearl at Sythe Grange. Tonight, he would inhale Miss Venables’s fragrance, imagine her under him, perform the old rituals and ceremonies with Alice. Her protests be damned. Afterwards, he would make it right with her.
But Miss Venables’s glove must not be posted, however great the temptation. Miss Venables had exacted his promise to treasure it, to keep it close, so she might live in the knowledge that chivalry was not dead. It seemed he had given her a great moment in her young life.
Addington found himself at the foot of the stairs leading up to the servants’ quarters. He was not sure how he had got there. He looked up to where Alice lay abed. “Pearl,” he whispered, “dear girl. Best of girls.” Then he began a climb he knew would end in nothing but disappointment.
5
CHARLES Until Addington attempted to requisition this room for his own use, I was disgusted by the state of it, the very room which the proprietor boasts is the finest the Overland Hotel has to offer. Pure luxury, a maple commode, a dresser missing one drawer, a bed which customarily sleeps two gentlemen, an unsteady deal table upon which to write, a ladderback chair carved with the initials of former guests of the establishment, peeling, dirty blue wallpaper emblazoned with silver fleur-de-lys.
But now, after four glasses of port, I feel triumphant that I occupy such a snug berth. All because Addington envies it and presses his claim, arguing that as leader of our expedition he requires more commodious quarters to plan operations, to spread his maps. A small victory won, not to yield place to him. Addington remains ensconced down the hall in a wretched room no bigger than a cupboard. That will teach him to dally.
Finally, the great man has arrived, assumes command, after keeping me waiting interminably. His domineering presence only softened by five cases of port which he shepherded over the deeps of the Atlantic, across the fruited plains of America, up the Missouri from St. Louis to Fort Benton. It’s very good port, the flies like it. I have to place a sheet of notepaper over the mouth of the glass after every sip, otherwise they swarm for the privilege of drowning themselves in it.
Addington, come in high style with stores and equipage unimaginable. His only explanation as to why he is more than a month late, “the difficulties in procuring necessary items in London.” Blithely sauntering down the gangplank of the steamer Resolution in the early June sun, offering me the coolest of handshakes and introducing his new boon companion, Mr. Caleb Ayto, a horrible, vulgar American stepped right from the pages of Mr. Dickens or Mrs. Trollope. Mr. Ayto playing spaniel, straining to establish his doubtful bona fides to me. “A mere ink-stained wretch is what I am, Mr. Gaunt. An ‘arti-cleer’ in the Republic of Letters. In short – a newspaperman. But a newspaperman who knows a thing or two about this part of the world. Hard-won knowledge of the useful, practical variety.”
Addington is given to taking up with unsavoury characters, but in Ayto he has outdone himself. His motive in collecting this buffoon resplendent in a garish waistcoat a Piccadilly pickpocket would covet is no mystery. Before leaving England, I procured a stack of books written by gentlemen adventurers in order to familiarize myself with conditions in North America. Addington dipped into them as well, a page here, a page there – read just enough to decide his forthcoming escapades will need recording too. I suspect he harbours a notion that this greasy journalist can “work something up” about his forthcoming rambles on the frontier, scribble a flattering portrayal of Captain Addington Gaunt, intrepid British explorer and sportsman, for the delight of the public back home. The man’s vanity is incredible, infinite.
So far he evinces not the slightest urgency in getting us under way. Pays no attention when I tell him I have learned nothing of any use after weeks spent interviewing whomever might have a clue to Simon’s possible whereabouts. Nothing learned, so how do we proceed? He only shrugs and says, “All in good time. I have things to see to.”
The problem is that for the moment, Addington finds Fort Benton too congenial a place to immediately remove himself. There is game to be had a short ride out of the town, and he and Ayto make frequent visits to the pestilential brothels. He immensely enjoys cutting a figure in the bar downstairs, buying rounds of drinks for men who are only too happy to hear him bray and brag as long as he keeps the whisky flowing.
I try to force home to him our position, but he blithely waves me off. Last night, when I caught his ear for a moment and pointed out to him that more than a month has already been lost due to his dilatoriness, he suddenly said, “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, Charles. You’re being a very dull boy. There’s a magic show on the steamer tonight. It’ll brighten you.”
It did not brighten me, sitting through that endless, preposterous farce. But let Addington have his fun, I thought, and perhaps that will entice him to be more tractable. Allow me to seize an opportunity to talk to him seriously after the performance. But no, that was not to be. It was so in keeping with Addington’s character to find the spectacle of yokels galloping that female magician up and down Front Street too amusing to leave. In the end, I walked away and left him there. He was very late getting back to the hotel. I fell asleep waiting to snare him for a conversation when he returned.
All these tedious weeks in Fort Benton I have harboured one delusion. That when Addington arrived, and heard my anxieties and fears, he would dispel them with some bluff, practical soldier’s talk. Assure me that Simon is being held captive by tribesmen and can be ransomed. Tell me that he is holed up in the solitary cabin of some prospector or trapper, waiting to be found. No matter how implausible the scenario, Addington could give me faith and courage if he would only act.
My reunion with him has served to forcibly remind me that we never shared one jot of fellow-feeling. My brother does not seem to experience the slightest anxiety for Simon, or be prepared to acknowledge that our reason for being in this godforsaken place is not to entertain him, but to learn what has happened to our brother. Yesterday, at the levee when I attempted to engage him on the topic of Simon, Addington abruptly announced, “I believe the Governor is losing his mind.”
I could scarcely credit my ears. “Father losing his mind? What sort of nonsense are you speaking?”
Addington seemed to have already half-forgotten what he had just said, his attention compromised by a likely-looking horse being led along the riverbank. But when I repeated myself, he vaguely answered, “Father’s got it in his head there’s a conspiracy directed at him.” So like Addington to burden me with more uneasiness when what I need is reassurance. To give a twist to my mind as he used to twist my ear when he was fourteen and I was six. “The butler found him on the carpet, beneath the library windows. He assumed the old boy had tripped and taken a tumble, tried to help him to his feet, but Father refused to get off the floor. Said he wasn’t about to show himself to anyone lurking about outside. Next day, he ordered the draperies drawn, day and night.”
“But who can he suspect of plotting against him?”
Addington simply shrugged. “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it.”
Thinking of Sythe Grange denied sunlight, that hideous interior, the sitting rooms cluttered with burly mahogany tables, Wanstead sofas, voluminous, dusty curtains of dark-red rep and bottle-green velvet, everything draped in claustral gloom, all I could say is, “The loss of Simon has temporarily driven him to distraction.”
“I’m not so sure,” Addington replied. After that, I could get no more out of him. He had to meet Ayto for a libation.
Of course, it is Simon. Father cannot really be going mad. Not that sturdy old warhorse. It is for affection that he hungers, the filial love which Simon always openly showed him and which I was chary to display, fearing rebuff. Neither Addington nor I can supply that for him. Yet, strange to say, I did hear Father claim that Addington, too, had once been capable of loving, unbelievable as that seemed to me as a boy of six or seven.
The sound of Father ranting had beckoned me to the door of his study that day. I remember earlier noting the arrival of the family solicitor, Mr. Fry, and catching a few words exchanged among the servants about Master Addington being in trouble at school again. Ear pressed to the door, I kept a lookout for Simon, who disapproved of my taste for eavesdropping. Even at that tender age, what a stickler he was for proper conduct. But not self-righteous, no, never that. Not once did he reprove my curiosity, but if I attempted to pass on any of the intelligence I gathered, he would stuff his fingers in his ears and run away. I could not stop myself spying, but I did my best to keep it from Simon. His good opinion meant the world to me. We two were still one in everything, undivided souls, and I felt him to be my better half. He had not yet become an embarrassment to me; our adult paths had yet to diverge.
Father was in a rage. “I want you to find a school that will take my son Addington, Mr. Fry! Let ’em beat him, starve him, whatever it takes! I want him well and truly corrected!”
Mr. Fry’s quiet reply was unintelligible, but the tone of it was temporizing and placating. Whatever the solicitor said prompted Father to lower his voice. Nonetheless, he could still be heard through the heavy oak door. Father can always be heard; not to share his verdicts with the household is beyond him. “Ah, perhaps you are correct, Mr. Fry,” he said. “Perhaps his mother’s death did work a change in the boy. Addington worshipped and adored her. When my Eunice died giving birth to the twins, it must have put the worm in the apple.”
For the first time, I understood the reason for Addington’s hatred of us. Because Simon and I were twins, inseparable, connected by a bond he recognized but could not share. More important, because, with the unswervable conviction of a child, Addington could never forgive us the death of his mother. For years, I turned this over in my mind. Addington hated us, but could he not see how we, too, longed for a mother to warm that cold house? And if Simon and I were equally guilty of murder, why was it only me that Addington relentlessly persecuted? That he mercilessly cuffed, pinched, frog-marched headlong into walls?
Simon he never dared touch, not from fear of Father, but because of something in my twin that stayed Addington’s hand. What’s more, if Addington happened on us, the “cursed twins” together, he never harmed me, simply stalked off muttering threats of future assaults. If Simon was near me, I was safe. In some way I could not fathom, Simon, weak as he was, was my protector. His spirit affected all of us in a mysterious fashion: in Father, awakening a passionate love; in me, a conscience, however sporadically. In Addington, a check for his savagery. To put a word to Simon’s power, to define it, is impossible. But I think Simon saw more in us than we realized. We all felt it.
How laughable that Addington should be curbed by the angel of the house, the pet of all the servants, the friend of all. How strange that Simon should be the darling of Father, a man for whom nothing exists if it cannot be measured, while Simon has no interest in calculation, was seven before he could count, ten before he could tell time. A boy content to let his nerves and heart chart the world for him.
Never the least drop of hurry in Simon’s soul, his slow way of speaking, a faint, lingering smile on his lips as he wandered about the house. A child who would wind his arms around the leg of a servant, stand rapt, rubbing his face against a skirt. Even indomitable Miss Dowell, the governess, allowed him this intimacy. Often we would find him sound asleep in the hallway with the mastiffs, William the Conqueror and Alfred the Great, his white-blond head pillowed on the gently heaving flank of a dozing dog, lamb lying down with the lions.
And there was his button collection. Father did not approve, not when he spent good money providing suitable toys for the amusement of his boys – a jolly Noah’s Ark, tops, hoops and sticks, lead soldiers, a train. Father afraid an eight-year-old’s preference for buttons would leave the impression he was a simpleton. Henry Gaunt could not have an idiot son. He confiscated them.
Simon raised no hue and cry, simply started another collection abetted by Mrs. Bullfinch, the housekeeper, who doted on him so much she was willing to run the risk of Father’s ire. Soon, Simon had another set of buttons rattling in his pockets. If it were me, I would have hid this from Father, but not Simon. He spread them on the carpet in Father’s sight like a jeweller displaying precious gems. And it worked. Father overlooked the flouting of his authority, retreated before Simon’s fascination with bits of glass, ivory, jet, bone, mother-of-pearl, wood. Buttons, buttons, ordinary buttons. He spent hours tracing their shapes with his fingers, staring at them, sometimes even popping them into his mouth and sucking them as avidly as he would lemon drops.
One afternoon in the library, he lifted a button of blue glass to the summer light cascading through the tall windows. I heard him murmur two words, “How bright!” and, as he did, a spot of unutterable brilliance, a tiny patch of shimmering, blue, celestial fire winked on his face as he waggled his button in the sunshine.
I edged closer. Simon exchanged a bone button for the glass one. Squeezing it tightly, he exclaimed ecstatically, “How warm it is!” and passed it to me. I felt an animal heat burn in my palm, felt that old, dry piece of bone pulse with living blood and marrow. I hurled the button to the carpet, frightened by Simon’s powers of suggestion.
I was not the only one susceptible. Without Simon, Mr. Balducci would never have come to Sythe Grange as drawing master. All my pleas for lessons in art Father rebuffed, scornfully dismissed. He scoffed at the notion that one of his sons could possibly be interested in “daubing paint.” Seeing me so crestfallen, Simon intervened on my behalf. Every morning at breakfast he importuned Father. “Please, sir, Charles and I wish to learn to draw.”
Father said nothing, dove behind his paper, but in a few weeks, to my astonishment, fat Mr. Balducci came bouncing up the drive on an estate cart stacked with his luggage. When his presence was explained, when I realized the miracle Simon had wrought, I burst into tears. After all, he had no interest in drawing, a boy so awkward his printing could scarcely be read, a boy who covered his shirts in inky blots whenever he touched a pen. And yet he had done this for me. For my sake done the unthinkable. Told a lie.
During Mr. Balducci’s tenure at Sythe Grange, Simon always haunted the “studio,” encouraging my first crude efforts, declaring them wonderful. And Simon’s enthusiasm ignited Mr. Balducci’s. The Italian would rub his hands gleefully together and parrot my brother’s judgment. “Yes, excellent! Most excellent!” It was not excellent, but it was the first approval I had received from anyone other than Simon for what Father described as “Charles’s doodles.” My wilted heart drank it in thirstily.
Father attempted to raise all his sons to fully appreciate the advantages which accrue to men with a respect for numbers, for bald information, for hard facts. But facts did not take with Simon. I cannot imagine he would ever be capable of recording the nonsense I see before me, something Father has such a taste for, and which I have only recently begun to post to him daily, yielding to his orders. An account, in his words, “Of weather, temperature, geography, business conducted, occurrences ordinary or unusual pertaining to the enterprise.”
Today’s letter, on the table, reads, “Temperature as of seven a.m., sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Sky clear, cloudless.” It is as far as I have got. What else to say? Business conducted. What business conducted? And then I dredge up the one decision Addington has taken and cavalierly turned over to me to implement. I begin to write.
“Brief confab with Addington after breakfast yesterday. He wishes to engage scout familiar with topography and tribes of Upper Missouri and North-West Territory. Old frontier hands met by Addington on journey upriver recommend Mr. Jerry Potts, a Scottish half-breed and highly regarded guide, as the man to hire.
“It has fallen to me to locate Mr. Potts, and strike terms with him. Mr. Ayto, a fellow whom Addington met on the steamer to Fort Benton, has volunteered to help us in the search for Simon. Addington has accepted his offer, and agreed to pay Mr. Ayto’s expenses. It is Mr. Ayto’s advice that on no account should remuneration in excess of fifty dollars a month be offered to a half-breed. They may be had cheap. I shall take Mr. Ayto at his word.”
What more can be said?
“Temperature as of midday, eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit. Strong wind all afternoon, dying away shortly before six o’clock. Sixteenth consecutive day with no precipitation. Drouth threatening Fort Benton. No news pertaining to Simon. I press Addington to leave Fort Benton and journey north with all dispatch. If he agrees, this may be the last letter you shall receive in some time. No regular post will be available after we depart. Yours sincerely, Charles Gaunt”
Simon Father loves. Addington he respects because he admires ruthlessness. At his warmest, Father ignores me. So I was surprised when he asked me to paint him a room. Filled with momentary elation, I believed it an opportunity to win a tiny bit of his esteem.
Perhaps he has already examined my effort, opened the room which I locked, carrying the key away with me in my pocket. Despite his solemn oath not to inspect the murals until I was finished, Father would not hesitate to have the servants force the door if curiosity got the better of him.
Father denied me nothing to accomplish my commission. Immense trestle tables, quantities of paint, brushes, dozens of lamps equipped with reflectors, hundreds of beeswax candles to make night bright as day. At first, I worked like a demon. All those exact geometrical calculations, the ruling off of grids on the plaster for my cartoons, grids drawn to scale from those superimposed on preliminary sketches. And yet, the whole project was compromised from the beginning. In my heart, I knew he would never be satisfied, could hear him comparing my work unfavourably to those wall paintings that he saw in that restaurant twenty years ago and that he believes the height of artistic expression. “Well, my boy, it may be ‘interesting,’ but it is no Polar Latitudes. There was a fellow who could paint!”
