Chapter 16

Marcus stood at the gates of the Everwood Asylum. He couldn't see the building itself, only a set of wrought iron gates. A stone wall surrounded the grounds in which the asylum was set and trees gave the building and its inmates privacy. Behind him, a short walk to the east lay the village of Streatham, itself five or six miles south of the Thames.

The coach that had carried him here had been sent away again. He did not want the driver to observe his indecision. With one gloved hand, he reached out and took hold of one bar of the black, iron gates. Beyond it and beyond the winding drive that disappeared between Hawthorpe and Hazel, lay the place where his mother had been committed.

Is that why she didn't intervene to keep me when my father sent me away? Had she been declared mad and sent to this place? Or was she party to it until father decided to dispose of her too?

Part of him thought that perhaps separation from her son had driven her mad. It was a thought that made him feel less alone, less rejected. But, it was wishful thinking and he knew it. He let go of the metal and looked to the side. A bell hung from the stone gatepost. A frayed rope descended from it. He supposed that one was to ring the bell to get the attention of the custodians of the asylum.

Once he tolled that bell, he would be admitted and then would be taken inside. In just a few minutes, perhaps ten or fifteen, he would be face to face with the woman who birthed him. Would she recognize him? Would she scoff at the notion that he was Arthur? Would she simply laugh, the mirth of one who has lost their grasp on reality? His hand lifted but stopped a few inches short of the rope.

Fingers grasping at air, he could not move his hand closer. Marcus let it fall back to his side and turned his back on the gate. It had beaten him. He was not ready to face her, to learn the truth. He looked towards the buildings and chimney smoke of Streatham, the farmland that surrounded it, church steeple rising above the other rooftops. Then he turned north.

He had no desire to be among people, to endure the curiosity and questions of parochial village folk. They would wonder what business he had at the asylum, who he knew there. The talk would spread across the district. The gentleman who had a loved one residing in the lunatic asylum. Worse would be if any of the villagers recognized him.

Except that was impossible. They might recognize Arthur Roy, assuming he had spent time in London. But not Marcus. Who had spent almost his entire childhood in Cumbria.

And my entire Dukedom as a veritable hermit at Valebridge.

The walk back to London was a long one but it went, for the most part, through villages and countryside. It would be solitary and would give him plenty of time to think. To think about whether he wanted to revisit the past and see his mother. Or let history be. Then there was Selina Voss, soon to be Selina Roy.

What trouble would her father make when he discovered that she had married without his blessing? And a match that benefited him not at all. Marcus would not pay the man a dowry for a daughter who was old enough to decide for herself if she wanted to marry. Besides, any man who allowed another to strike his daughter did not deserve any such consideration.

A marriage of convenience? I am not sure I can go through with it. I thought it would be easy. A wife in name only but otherwise live how I want to live. Selina has made that impossible. I cannot marry her and not be her husband in the fullest sense. But I will not force her into anything.

The quandary of their meeting and coming together was a tangle. To make matters worse, he was impersonating someone and she believed that was the man she was marrying.

Or does she? Is she marrying me for who I am, regardless of what she believes my name to be?

Night had drawn in by the time Marcus' weary feet brought him to Clapham. The river was near, he could smell it. A glow announced the heart of the metropolis over the river. To his left was the dark void of Battersea Fields, while ahead of Lambeth was a mass of dark buildings, made merry by the glow of candle and lamplight.

Over the river was where royalty lived and Parliamentarians debated. That was where the gentry sported themselves in parks and attended balls. South of the river, London became more humble, with the exception of the Archbishop of Canterbury of course. Marcus had chosen to rent a house on the outskirts of Lambeth precisely to avoid the ton and its gossip.

Inviting selected members of the county set to Valebridge was one thing. He was not yet ready to introduce himself to the ton of London. Not least because he didn't know how well-known Arthur had been. Or how infamous, for that matter. It seemed prudent to test the water first before beginning to move into the circles of London society.

The house he had rented was a modest townhouse of two stories and no servants, at the crossing of Lambeth Walk and Broad Street, mid-distance between the Vauxhall and Westminster Bridges. It had an ivy-covered front with a slate roof and chimneys at either end. A wrought iron gate and railing separated its front from the pavement, the front door reached by a set of stone steps.

As he put a hand to the gate, a voice came from out of the darkness.

"Your Grace, the Duke of Valebridge?"

It was a rough voice, carrying the accent of the streets and the hoarseness of a life lived hard. Despite that, there was strength in it. Marcus turned. A man had been standing in the shadow of an alleyway ten yards away and was walking towards him. He was dressed in a top hat, perched at an angle on his head, a patched and dirty overcoat and collarless shirt beneath.

His feet were shod in heavy working boots and he carried a cane in one hand. Marcus narrowed his eyes.

"Yes?" he asked.

The man came closer and narrowed his own eyes before grinning. "No, you ain't. Sorry to trouble you mate. Mistook you for another."

He turned to go but Marcus called after him.

"If you seek the Duke of Valebridge, then I am he," he said.

The man looked back over his shoulder, grin knowing.

"Arthur Roy, yeah?"

"Yes," Marcus said.

He had no choice but to lie. This man had clearly known Arthur, but Marcus couldn't ask him about his brother without giving away the fact that he was an impostor.

"No, mate, you ain't," the man said, more firmly now.

He turned away again, but this time Marcus seized him by the arm. The man whirled. He was broad of shoulder and walked with a slouch but there was speed and agility in his burly frame.

"I am the Duke of Valebridge," Marcus said, not relinquishing his grip.

The man's jaw firmed as his lips sneered. He clasped a broad hand onto Marcus' hand, attempting to remove the hold. But Marcus stepped closer, tightening his fingers.

"Take care that you do not insult me further," he murmured, deciding to brazen out the lie.

The consequences of caving in before the man's assertions were too much to contemplate. If word spread that the Duke was not actually the Duke, then who knew how far the news would spread. Certainly, Parliament would want a possible impostor to be investigated because Valebridge came with a seat in the Lords.

"I don't insult nobody, guv," the man snarled, "I did business with Arthur Roy. I knew him to look at. For one thing, he had hair white as snow. He was also twice the age I judge you to be."

That last part, at least, could not be true. Unless Arthur had looked far older than his actual age, leading this ruffian to judge him older than his years. Marcus released his grip, having no answer to this. The man nodded.

"Where are my manners, eh? My old mum would be turning in her grave at my rudeness. Bill Baxter, at your service, my good sir."

Baxter put on a mockery of an upper-class accent and made a clumsy bow, grinning derisively. Marcus wanted to ask what business Baxter had transacted with Arthur but was afraid he could guess. Besides, he could hardly ask and also claim to be Arthur.

"Arthur Roy was a good customer of mine so I was sad when he stopped coming around. A little bird told me he'd taken a house here in Lambeth though."

Baxter pronounced the name ‘Lambef' and dropped the ‘h' sound from the word house. Despite his uneducated speech, he had an intelligent gleam in his eye and watched Marcus like a hawk.

"So, I thought I would head over here and see if my old friend needed anything," he continued.

"Well, I do not. I have recently recovered from an illness and my memories are a little jumbled. Possibly why I do not remember you," Marcus replied, thinking fast and unable to come up with anything better.

Baxter laughed, a grating, ugly sound.

"Aye, that sounds like it, mate. Sorry, I mean, Your Grace, isn't it."

"Yes," Marcus said.

"Well, maybe I should remind you. Our business was in the nature of a transaction, so to speak. You gave me money in exchange for goods. Goods you was very keen on having on account of your health. Perhaps, not being able to get a good supply of said goods was what affected your health so badly, eh?"

"Quite. Whatever it was, I have no more need of it. So, I will bid you a good evening."

Marcus turned to the steps.

"Not so fast, guv. Not so fast. You may think you don't need it but I'm sure if you give it some thought, you'll realize you was wrong. I'll be around. You'll find me at the Black Boar, Bank Side most nights, just next to the Southwark bridge. Think it over. Problem with me is drink has the opposite effect on me to most men. Makes most men spill every secret they've got. Not me though, I stop talking when I'm drinking. Problem is, you can't drink without money to pay for it, can you? See you around, squire."