Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

By the time I approached Dover, I was soaked to the skin and would have been exhausted but for the unquenchable fuel provided by roiling emotions. My mother's dismissal harked back to too many other occasions when I'd been the wrong son, with too many manners or too few. I'd lacked Harry's charm, Arthur's consequence, Harry's humor, Arthur's gravitas…

And what I had brought to the bargain—a certain tenacity of spirit, an observant nature, a mind given to pondering puzzles—had been found wanting.

As Dover Castle came into view, I kept Atlas to the walk, in deference to the bad footing and because even his great reserves of stamina had been tested in the course of the day. When the scent of the sea blended with the aroma of mud and the squawking of gulls, I felt a kind of peace settling over me.

My mother had made her feelings quite clear, and it was time to accept that those feelings would not change. We could be civil—we'd proved that much—and the people who mattered most to me would understand why civility would be the limit of our dealings. I'd have to explain the situation to Arthur, but I'd do so in a manner that let him depart England untroubled by family woes.

I was a competent investigator. My mother had sought my help because she truly needed assistance. I wasn't wrong to proceed with what inquiries I could discreetly make.

I came to a tollgate on the outskirts of Dover proper and inquired within regarding stationers' establishments. The venerable tollkeeper squinted at me with rheumy blue eyes.

"Letting the family know where to forward your allowance, young sir?" He cackled at his own humor and slapped a hand on the counter before him. "Sending a young lady your fondest regrets? We get a lot of that here in Dover, now the peace is upon us. God bless the peace."

"I merely need to buy some decent paper," I said. "Preferably before the shops close for the night."

He looked me up and down. "Oh, right. Of course. Well, you paid your toll, so I'll tell you straight we have three proper stationers, though one of them was a printer in Queen Anne's day and got notions to expand into shopkeeping. They'd be along the High Street, Peverell's by name. If you continue down the hill and past the White Horse, you'll see Heeney's on the left. That leaves Crevecoeur near the market square. Family's been here since the Conqueror's day, or so they claim. They'll all take your coin, see if they don't."

I thanked him and returned to my tired horse. Dover lacked the natural harbor that made Portsmouth a mainstay for naval operations, but the town did lie directly on the sea, a dip in the terrain between two imposing heights. On the one hand, invading forces could gain land easily from such a location. On the other, defending the town from the high ground on either side had been a priority since the days of Henry II.

I took the road that wound below Dover Castle, sitting in all its grim glory on the western heights, and descended into the town itself. What Dover lacked in natural naval features, it made up for in ferry traffic, which ran at all hours—depending on the tides—and in many directions.

I handed Atlas off to a groom at the White Horse, an establishment dating back to the fourteenth century, and made for Heeney's shop across the street and about fifty yards south of the inn. The sign swinging above the door featured an inkpot and quill pen, as well as the words Heeney and Sons, Fine Stationery and Accoutrements in graceful script.

The sheer density of human activity took me aback. Wherever mankind gathered in any numbers, noise and stink followed. The street sweepers hereabouts were apparently behindhand, perhaps due to a day of wet weather. An underlying odor of rotting kelp suggested recent storms were working their dubious magic on the beaches, and the raucous strains of a fiddle testified to travelers fortifying themselves against the elements in the usual fashion.

I had forgotten the bustle and crowding of this port town, and if I'd been indifferent to it on previous occasions, in my current condition, I wanted no part of such turbulence whatsoever. I craved the peace and quiet of Caldicott Hall, the slow pace of country life, and the company of my few trusted familiars.

I entered Heeney's with a sense of relief. The shop smelled good—of paper, scented waxes, and fragrant sachets intended to keep documents safe from marauding mice.

"Evenin', sir," a young lady said. "Can I help you find anything in particular?"

The shop was tidy and spacious, with samples of writing paper laid out on standing desks around the room and three sitting desks lined along the front widows displaying blotters, wax jacks, pen trays, ink bottles, and standishes.

"I'm looking to purchase a gift," I said, withdrawing the single folded paper Lady Ophelia had sent over from the Hall. "My cousin is a music master, and he hasn't been able to find his favorite writing paper in London. Blue, though this example is faded, and I believe he bought it here years ago."

I passed over the page, and the young lady held it up to the light of a flickering sconce. "Aye, he would have. This is ours. The young gents like it. Not too dear, but a bit distinctive, and the color sets a man's correspondence apart without being too fancy. Most buy half a ream at a time, though a ream is the better bargain."

The shopkeeper conveyed two pieces of bad news in her recitation. First, the paper was still made by the shop and in quantity. Second, it was a popular item among young men minding their pence and quid.

"I don't suppose you recall a music master who was particularly devoted to this type of stationery? Good-looking devil, charming, tallish, dark hair?"

She laughed and passed me back the letter. "Dover's a port, sir. We do a regular traffic in charming devils of many nationalities. I wouldn't know a music master from a Latin tutor when a fellow simply wants to let his mama know he's safely returned from his travels."

"I'll take half a ream," I said, though I had no need to lug paper back to Tweed House with me. "You can send it along to the White Horse." I'd take a few sheets for evidentiary purposes and leave the rest with the inn for the use of their guests.

I paid for my purchase and turned tired steps back in the direction of the White Horse. The inn sat next to the venerable St. James' Church, where I was momentarily tempted to seek refuge, simply for the quiet to be had.

I pushed through the door of the inn instead. This late in the day, Arthur would be worrying about me. He would also attempt to conceal his anxiety from Osgood Banter. Banter, a quick study for all his pleasant manners, would fret anyway, as one did about a loved one given over to disquiet.

I asked for a room and asked to be announced to Mr. Banter's party. Arthur was traveling with as little fuss as possible, a decision I applauded both because Mr. Banter-and-friend would gain less notice than His Grace of Waltham would, and because safety for them both lay in greater privacy.

"Jules!" Arthur came down the steps a few minutes later, appearing positively beamish. "You look like a half-drowned cat. Come along, and we'll ply you with brandy and hear all the house-party gossip. Have you found Mama's letters?"

Clearly, the holiday had already begun. Arthur's smile was open and merry, and while he might have a well-hidden streak of mischief, His Grace of Waltham was not given to jollity in the usual course.

"Brother." I held out a hand, we shook, and even my form of address seemed to add to the duke's good cheer. In the normal course, I would have Your Graced him and set the innkeeper's wife to goggling, if she hadn't already known the august station of her guest.

"Have you had supper?" Arthur asked as I followed him up the steps from whence he'd descended. "The food is hot, delicious, and blessedly plain. Why does travel get such a bad name when the lowliest English inn can provide such ambrosial fare? The brandy is excellent, though we must decry the coastal trade loudly while we enjoy it, and the wind and tides seem to be favoring departure by noon tomorrow."

He stopped before a substantial door, the light of the corridor sconce casting shadows over his features. "I am nigh giddy to be leaving England, Jules. What does that say about me?"

He and I were apparently gifted at wringing guilt from even the happiest of occasions. "It means you are overdue for a holiday and have planned one you can honestly look forward to."

The door opened, revealing Osgood Banter in an exquisitely embroidered waistcoat, his cravat nowhere in evidence, his cuffs turned back.

"Jules, you must come away with us. Tour the great capitals, admire ancient Rome, sample all the best vintages."

"In reverse order," Arthur said, leading me through the door and closing it behind me. "Get you to the chair by the fire, Julian. Can't have you taking a chill. How are you and Mama getting along?"

He wanted a cheerful report, and I wanted to give him one. "We're managing. Your trunks have all been stowed?"

A look passed between Banter, who was lounging elegantly on the arm of the sofa, and Arthur, who settled onto the cushions opposite me.

"Mama's being difficult?" Arthur asked as Banter rose to pour drinks at the sideboard.

Arthur was leaving me to manage the Hall and the entire family proceedings for an extended period. On the eve of his departure, I could not burden him with my injured pride and filial frustrations.

"You have a certain look about you," Banter said, handing me a glass of amber potation. "Brooding in the grand Caldicott tradition and trying not to show it."

"Out with it, Jules," Arthur said, accepting his own glass. "I learned everything I know about being high in the instep from Mama, but she's actually softhearted to a fault."

Regarding her firstborn, perhaps she was. "Her Grace and I are having a small row," I said, taking a drink of exquisite spirits. The brandy's fire was exactly right—halfway between warm and fierce—and the taste both delicate and lingering.

"Good." Arthur grinned over his glass. "About time you two learned to have a difference. I will leave England relieved to know you and Mama are behaving exactly as family ought. My money's on you, Jules. You have Miss West in your corner, while Mama's immediate reinforcements are limited to Wisherd."

"What's the spat about?" Banter asked, resuming his slouch on the sofa arm.

I was reluctant to part with details, also aware that I would miss Arthur and Banter terribly. Banter and I shared a protectiveness toward Arthur that he tolerated grudgingly, and Arthur and Banter both regarded me as a younger sibling somewhat dodgy in the brainbox from time to time, but also capable of ferreting out truths when called upon to do so.

They respected my skills, in other words, and trusted them.

"We disagree about the missing letters," I said. "Her Grace had an affair with a much younger man when serving out her mourning, and she went from demanding that I find her correspondence to demanding that I forget the whole business." Demanding in front of both Hyperia and Atticus, to say nothing of a house full of curious guests.

"What will you do?" Arthur asked, once again the sober duke.

"I don't know. The situation is serious." I explained about Lady Barrington's and Mrs. Whittington's vulnerabilities and the growing list of potential malefactors. "If I can't find the letters before the house party ends, all manner of mischief might result."

"Or it might not," Banter observed. "You assume the letters will be used against Her Grace, but they don't reflect any too well on this Pickering creature either. Took advantage of a grieving widow, toyed with a lady's affections, accepted coin into the bargain. A music master's livelihood would be forfeit if that got out."

I was finally warm after hours of cold, damp misery, the brandy was good, and Arthur's blasé reaction to news of my disagreement with Her Grace fortified me. Families did spat and argue. Harry and I had had epic arguments as boys, casting each other into an outer darknesses that could last days, only to realize that fishing alone wasn't half so diverting as fishing with a brother. A few muttered words, a suggestion, and we'd be great friends again.

I considered Banter's observation, offered from the perspective of wealthy gentry rather than the aristocracy.

"I agree that the musical miscreant has much to lose if those letters became public," I said slowly. "The same isn't as true of the other two fellows—Ian and Hans—because they were more highly placed in Society, and the ladies were not duchesses. The talk seems invariably to devolve to the lady's discredit, while the gentleman is excused on the basis of rampant animal spirits."

Arthur made a face. "If we fellows can't govern our animal spirits, what right have we to be trusted governing the realm, much less every village in it?"

Banter patted his shoulder. "No brooding, you. We embark on the noon tide, and governing won't come into it."

Animal spirits would, which made me happy for them, also envious. "I have vowed to return to Tweed House and find those letters," I said. "I'm not sure I can keep that vow."

"Return to Tweed House," Arthur said. "If anybody can locate what has gone missing, Jules, it's you, and you must begin with Mama as you intend to go on."

"Bit late for beginning," I said, "given the ages of the respective parties."

"You went off to serve in uniform shortly after university," Arthur said. "Mama went off to Bath or Lyme or the shops. You are no longer a university boy who needs fashion advice or to be slipped a sovereign at the end of his holiday. Tweed House is your adult beginning with Mama. She hasn't had firsthand experience of your investigative abilities, after all."

"I'll vouch for you," Banter said, lifting his glass. "So will my entire household and the surrounding neighborhood."

The next thought to befall me was curious: Why would they do that? I had the sense this man spoke of some recent history with which I should be familiar, but as I regarded the glass in my hand—brandy, presumably—I realized I did not know the fellow's name.

Another man sat relaxed on the sofa opposite my reading chair. Good-sized, age about five and thirty. Strapping in a refined way and good-looking despite a slightly prominent beak.

I looked about me with a growing sense of dismay. "I do beg your pardon, gentlemen, but could one of you please tell me the purpose of our gathering, and how I came to be here?" For that matter, I wasn't in that moment sure of my own name or where exactly here was. I did not feel inebriated, but surely an excess of spirits explained why my wits had gone begging.

The fellow who had offered to vouch for me was another handsome specimen in his prime, though more slender than the seated man.

"You are apparently having one of your lapses of memory," the slender fellow said, setting his glass aside. "No cause for worry. Arthur, I've seen Jules like this before. He'll be right as a trivet in a few hours. Jules—you are Lord Julian Caldicott, by the way—this is your older brother, Arthur, and I'm his friend Banter. Please consult the card in your coat pocket."

Was I an opium eater, to have a brother I could not recall? I patted my pockets and came up with a card written in a tidy hand.

"How often do I have these lapses?" I asked, staring at the card in some dismay.

"Not often," Arthur—Banter had called him Arthur—replied, "and they never last long."

"You are the Duke of Waltham?" I asked. The card had referenced seeing me into the care of His Grace, my older brother.

"The same, and I'm supposed to leave for France tomorrow."

Panic was too mild a term for the sensations enveloping me at that news. I had forgotten my own name , and my brother was leaving me in this undisclosed location in the morning? Was that the measure of the fraternal loyalty I was due?

"Arthur…" the other fellow said in warning tones. "France isn't going anywhere."

"We've discussed this," Arthur replied, rising. "Our trunks are on that packet, and the wind could shift again without warning."

I ought to make some demurrer and tell these two that I could manage, that they needn't bother about me, but the bloody rubbishing hell of it was, I could not manage. Did I have money? Where was I in relation to any sort of permanent refuge? Was another brother on hand to see me there?

Had I a wife? A private residence? My clothing was well made. I was tall and in good trim, if a bit skinny. I wasn't the family reprobate, apparently, but neither was I in any condition to fend for myself.

I nonetheless tried to emulate Banter's air of unconcern. "Put me in a coach and send me on to the family seat, assuming we have one."

Arthur was tempted, I could see that in his eyes. "Not good enough, Jules. You are the only brother I have left, and you've never asked a damned thing of me."

So I was the proud sort, despite my faulty memory. "All I'm asking of you now is a coach, and some funds, if those are necessary."

Banter shook his head. "Arthur would fret himself to flinders, stuffing you into a carriage like some dowager who overstayed her welcome. There's time to see Julian as far as Tweed House, Arthur. I'll go. Her Grace likes me, and nobody would expect you to…"

Some sort of silent conversation took place, and it dawned on me that these two men were either very close friends, or close friends and lovers . I would be shocked by that just as soon as I was through being shocked at my own lack of meaningful recollections.

"Let's get you something to eat," Arthur said, tugging a bell-pull. "If we leave now, I can get you back to Tweed House and still make the packet, but we mustn't dawdle. Banter, you are to sail without me if I miss the packet. I'll catch up to you in Calais."

Banter clearly longed to argue. He instead nodded and began rolling down his cuffs. "We'll need to make arrangements for Julian's horse, and you'll want a hamper packed. You are both in for a very, very long night."

"Get him into dry clothes," Arthur said. "I'll notify the stable we need their fastest team."

He departed, and Banter sighed. "You heard him. Dry kit, a quick meal, and then we're sending you home to Mama."

I had a mother. That should have been cheering news, but for some reason, I wasn't cheered at all.

His Grace of Waltham and I traveled for hours through damp, chilly darkness. I dozed, but the rocking of the coach and unrelenting worry kept me from sleeping much. The duke—how was it possible my brother was a duke ?—saw to the changes of teams and fares and whatnot and between stops regaled with me a recitation of my life story.

I had served honorably as a reconnaissance officer under Wellington, lost a brother to the perfidious French, been held captive for a time by same, and come home from the wars weakened in body and spirit. My pockets held two pairs of blue spectacles because my eyes objected to strong light.

They were my very own eyes, and I hadn't known that about myself.

"Did my memory problem start during the war?" I asked as a fresh team trotted out of yet another cobbled coaching yard.

"You've said the first instances occurred at university. You attributed them to overimbibing, by Harry's report, though you were nearly abstemious by university standards."

I could recall nothing about this Harry person, nothing about captivity, nothing about much of anything. Still.

"You're sure my memories will return?"

"Yes." His Grace had paused for the merest heartbeat before speaking. He was not sure. He was hopeful.

"How long will you and Banter travel?"

Another hesitation. "The better part of a year. The trip was actually your idea. You and Harry had seen some of the world, albeit for the wrong reasons, and now—you claimed—it was my turn."

"And you are going on my say-so?" What sort of brother was I to give orders to a peer?

"We are."

I would not have called His Grace a warm sort of person, but he was doing the proper thing, getting me to another family member, and he was doing it at great inconvenience to himself.

"Am I a decent sort of brother?" I asked.

One corner of his mouth quirked up. "If you were any more decent, the term ‘excessive honor' would apply. Your loyalties are ironclad, your courage nearly as limitless as your determination, though to the untrained eye, you can appear merely stubborn to the point of eccentricity. You are fortunate, in that Miss Hyperia West has been training her eyes on you for some time, and she is a shrewd observer."

That sounded frankly intimidating.

"You and Banter are also traveling because your attachment to each other is unfashionably close," I said. "Or do I mistake the matter?"

The humor in the duke's expression receded but did not entirely fade. "Your powers of observation are undiminished apparently, and those are formidable as well."

I pondered what I'd learned of myself over the miles and what I'd learned of Arthur. He and Banter were devoted, despite the danger their liaison posed, and His Grace was fond of me.

"You aren't worried that my poor memory will put the family's affairs in terrible disarray during your absence?" I asked.

"Your lapses are always brief, Jules. Hours at most."

Hours had gone by, and I was still wandering in a vast mental wilderness without a single landmark. I spent the next few miles reviewing what the duke had told me and realized he'd left much out.

"Do we have sisters?" I asked some time later.

"Four, all married. You and Ginny are closest in age and close in spirit as well. The sisters all like you because you aren't stodgy, as I am, or arrogant, as Harry was. You are sensible, in their estimation, and they set great store by good sense. They all have children. I can tell you quite honestly they have come to this appreciation for good sense only after becoming mothers."

I could not recall these women or their children. I battled an impulse to leap from the moving coach and pelt out into the night in search of my memories.

"Tweed House, at last," His Grace muttered as the coach slowed to turn through a pair of stone gateposts. "I instructed the coachy to proceed to the carriage house. With luck, Her Grace will not be abed yet."

"It's the middle of the rubbishing night."

"This is a fashionable house party," the duke replied patiently. "They play cards all night, have amateur musicales until the small hours, put on ridiculous theatricals. It's a wonder Mama can tolerate it."

"She's sensible too?"

"The two of you are cut from the same bolt in so many ways, it's uncanny. Your hair used to be chestnut, by the way. Mama is a redhead."

I pulled a lock of hair forward. I was blond, the ends showing nearly white by the light of the coach lamps. "What on earth happened to my hair?"

"Your encounter with the French was something of a shock to your system. You've mostly come right, and your hair is regaining some color." He spoke briskly, suggesting I might not want to recall my encounter with the French, even if I could.

Except that I did want to, very much. Whatever had happened, the past was a part of me, and I wanted it put back where I could recall it, and I wanted it put back now .