Saving Time

Chapter 38

Murphy’s Law of Combat and Life #1

“You can win without fighting, but it’s a lot tougher to do. And the enemy may not cooperate.”

May 14th

When her grandmother would nap, Melissa took long walks to dampen her anxieties over Nana’s health and the lack of any word from her captain. Her heart was balanced on the hope Nana’s readings of the amulet were true. She pressed her hand against the continuing warmth of the metal hanging around her neck, soaking up the reassurance.

Returning to the house this morning, she went directly to Nana’s room and as usual planned to stay there all day caring for her, much to the annoyance of her sister and brother-in-law. A prominent man among the local gentry, her sister’s husband was often gone, which only added to Elizabeth’s frustrations with the children and staff.

Nana seemed to rally and then fail again. She would laugh when Melissa became concerned over her health’s continuing to seesaw. She would say, “I’m just stubborn, and won’t let nature have its way.”

Melissa would order her to stop talking in such a fashion, that she would get well, but Nana would only smile that knowing smile of hers.

Reaching her nana’s room, she found her uncle sitting with her grandmother, his aunt, the curtains pulled back to let in the morning light.

Melissa smiled, saying, “Uncle, it’s good to see you,” but she could not wait through any conversational niceties. “Any news?”

Colonel Graham, wearing a smart green coat, buff trousers, and Hessian boots, grinned at her impulsive question. He held up a bound stack of letters. “Well, I’ve received a few from Captain Sparhawk.”

She gulped back relief and tears with the confirmation of Nana’s mystical assertion. Rig is alive! She saw her nana’s satisfied smile. Melissa, mouthing the words, sent her an unspoken thank you. Claiming the letters, she curtsied to her uncle in thanks and hurriedly excused herself, rushing out to the garden to read them.

Sitting in the shade of an old oak, Melissa tore open the letters in the order of the date on the stamp.

Dear Mel:

I still didn’t know where you are, but I assumed London, sending the letters in care of Colonel Graham at the Horse Guards. I have been told repeatedly that it is ‘Horse Guards,’ with no ‘the.’ I know my first few notes were short. All I could do was repeat the same message, that I was safe in Portsmouth, and wondering where you were. And I know my longhand is awful. Block letters are so much easier.”

In his posts, he related all that had happened to him since La Corunna, several pages each of sometimes humorous and sometimes glum descriptions.

“Robert kept things interesting in Portsmouth. He knew or found what must be every tavern and pub in the city. He went so far as to pick a fight with some naval officers. Only the intervention of a massive bartender kept the scuffle from becoming serious. The amusing thing is that Robert wasn’t drunk at the time.

I miss you. You are my only link to myself. I want to, need to see your beautiful face again, to have you near me.

Your Rig.”

The last part she re-read many times.

His last letter, only a week old, proved the most surprising, disturbing, disheartening. An inheritance and debtor’s prison in one fell blow? He wrote to her to say he had little hope of escaping the sentence come the end of August.

That cannot be!

He wrote to her to be well, but she would not be seeing him any time soon.

What could she do? She could not leave her grandmother while so ill. She had no money for travel. Unless Uncle Thomas traveled to London, she must remain here. Did Rig realize that? She rose, and collecting the letters, she strode into the house to talk to her uncle and then to write back to Rig.

~ ~ ~

One of the Brooks’ footmen approached Rig at breakfast to say that someone was at the servants’ door asking for him. At the doorstep, Rig found Calley in street clothes, hat in hand, making the most outrageous request.

“I wish to be your man as you have no valet or ‘servant for all cares,’” he said, nervously pushing around dust with his shoe. “My twenty years in the army are served. If I stay in the Army, I be shipped off to Spain again. Or I accept entering the Reserve Army, a demise by boredom. I would rather work for you than anything.”

Rig sighed, saying, “my situation is not promising. In three months, I am headed for prison.”

Calley waved it away, saying, “I don’t mind at all. If you could find our company tents and ale, you’ll cogitate something, Captain —I mean my lord.”

Two days later, Rig rode up a small lane called the Hillsdale Road toward the village of Aston Rowant, east of Oxford. With him rode Robert Brooks and now retired Sergeant Calley on a rented nag. Calley proved useful organizing my new equipment and clothes, taking things out to be repaired, and finding the best prices among the many markets. He did create a ruckus lodging with the Brooks’ servants, particularly among the single women, but in general Rig was glad to have him along.

The will and entail contained a description and location of the estate, Aston Abby, which includes more than 15,000 acres. Rig couldn’t believe it, more than twenty-five square miles of land. He was told that it lay along the Thames River in South Oxfordshire, none of which meant much to Rig, but Robert thought it all excellent country. The villages of Aston Rowant and Kingston Blount lay within his parish. His parish. Unbelievable.

The middle of May was a beautiful time of year in this part of England, and he was enjoying the slow pace of travel. Robert had asked their family solicitor to speak to Rig. The man had suggested he go to the estate, see if anything was sellable, and speak to those who were owed money, perhaps obtain an extension or reduction from them. With no collateral because of his inability to sell the estate because of the entail, loans were out of the question.

They rode through the village of Aston Rowant, getting directions to Aston Abby. The word of their arrival spread through the village and a crowd developed to watch them ride in. They stopped at the Rowant Wilds Tavern to speak to those who were owed money. No one seemed hostile, but neither were they friendly nor willing to extend any credit.

Once on the road again, Robert said, “They rely on the estate for food and work, so the many years’ neglect has been hard on them. They have nothing to give in the way of an extension when there is little hope in you.”

Rig gave Brooks a squint-eyed “Thanks” for his less-than-encouraging observation.

Two miles further, they came to the Thames, running deep and about eighty meters wide. The road turned and followed the river where they finally passed a stone and brick arch, they had been told was the entrance to the estate. The driveway, over a half a mile long, crossed a stone bridge and culvert. The trees cleared at the top of a rise. Below, sitting among more ash and oak trees, festooned with ivy and honeysuckle and ivy rested Aston Abby. It squatted among the greenery as though it had spent years digging ever deeper into the soil. Of gray stone, the huge mansion sat welcoming among the garden-like foliage on both sides of the driveway.

Riding up to the front entrance, Rig could see the river a kilometer away, sparkling in the sunlight. In every other direction, lush green fields crisscrossed with hedges and clumps of trees could be seen. He could make out a number of outbuildings and a large mill down by the river. Robert laughed. “Bless my breeches, this legacy is bang-on choice, to say the least.”

Rig had to agree. He sat on Chief, taking it all in, smelling the sweet honeysuckle, the sunlight reflecting off the score of windows. He shivered at the strange impressions which struck him physically, a calm, settling sensation permeating his body. This place harbored peace, a land settled in the lap of nature, content.

He met the staff—no, his staff—as they slowly filed out the front doors, appearing apprehensive. Robert whispered sardonically that the village outpaced them to inform them the lord of the manor was coming.

He gazed at the people now lined up by the front steps, old and young, a mix of men and women, all looking pessimistic about their future with him.

For the longest time, making everyone nervous, he gazed at the stonework, the massive oak tree at the far corner of the Abby, and even some of the damaged eves above the second story before dismounting. He approached the staff, fifteen of them.

The obvious leader greeted Rig. “Lord Aston, I am John Tapperton, your butler,” and waving his hand toward the waiting line of people, “these are your house servants.” As Tapperton introduced them by name, Rig found it all so strange, like reviewing his Ranger company for the first time.

He could sense that the butler and staff were devoted to the estate and concerned for its future, as well as their own. Rig thanked them for meeting him. He told them that although his and their situations were not promising, he gave his word that he would do what he could for them.

Mr. Tapperton invited Rig, “Lord Aston,” and his party into the Abby through tall double doors. Inside, the oak wood-paneled hall spoke of ancient realms and traditions. Rig stopped in the center of the hall, taking in the massive staircase, the second-floor balcony, chandeliers, paintings, and the clutter of furniture, some fancy, others old and plain. Rig smiled, whispering “Epic, absolutely epic.” With dozens of rooms, most of them hardly used, the house breathed history, waiting to embrace new families again but stalwart all the same.

~ ~ ~

May 30th

“Well, if you are going to write letters,” said Robert, “Cally and I will do something industrious and head down to the river to inspect the mill and ferret out some fishing spots.”

Rig sat down at a table outside in a gazebo, and waved them on. He watched them stroll away, while he stayed, surrounded by acres of gardens behind the Abby. Rig enjoyed the air, crisp and warming in the morning sun. The letters he’d received at White Hall lay about the glass top of a metal table. With an inkwell next to him and quill in hand, he labored to write a letter.

Dear General Mel:

It was so good to finally receive your letters along with Colonel Graham’s. You have beautiful handwriting. I have read your letters so many times. You can see I am struggling with longhand. I’ve been told writing with block letters is uneducated. I am now at Aston Abby, a sprawling place, beautiful, still having a lot of potential after the neglect of the former baron. I think you would like the estate.

I guessed that your nana wouldn’t know how to send me back to my time. The amulet doesn’t seem to operate by incantation or any sort of hoodoo. It just does what it does. Beyond my occasional flashes of rage, cursing that hunk of metal, I have come to accept that I am stuck and must ‘Embrace the Suck’ in Ranger fashion.

I understand for my title and inheritance to be official, as the heir presumptive, I must receive a Writ of Summons to Parliament to be presented. Robert Brooks, who is here with me, a good friend, and invaluable help, says I may not receive the Writ if I can’t pay for it, or clear my debts. Until then everyone here is addressing me as Lord Aston.

I have talked to most of the late-baron’s creditors and only a few are willing to give me an extension beyond August 31st. I don’t have enough doubloons to stave off the creditors. Did Sparhawk knowingly throw me to the wolves? We will never know. As Robert says, “I’m in a coil.” If I can’t see a way out of this legal trap, I have three months of freedom left. Perhaps Robert’s lawyer can come up with a solution, though he didn’t appear optimistic.

Edward Calley, my company’s corporal, has asked to be my ‘man of all service,’ and by doing so leave the army, which surprised me. It was accomplished simply with a short letter from me to the Horse Guards—a very strange process for a military organization. I’ve asked Calley to stay at the Abby and help where he can. He can write and ‘do figures,’ which amazed Robert, so I think he might fill in for the steward who left when the old baron died. He is a leader.

I want to see you, I need to see you. I ache to have you in my arms, but I understand your need to stay with your grandmother and lack any way to travel to London. From what I understand, I am not in any position to see you socially or have answers to any questions your uncle has for me regarding my future and you. Besides the crazy legal system, I am coming to hate British propriety and its entrenched reserve, and that is my view as a British noble.

I have many things I want to say to you but in person, not in a letter, and not while my future looks so bleak.

I am returning to London with Robert to see if I can scare up anyone willing to loan the Baron Aston the money I need. So far, no one with money has given me a second look. I will write again soon.

I understand this is how letters are signed:

Your Obedient Servant,

But not with you, Mel: Affectionately, Your Captain,

Rig, The Baron Aston, Captain R. Sparhawk, Lover of a Scottish Woman,

Rig put the pen down and folded the pages into an envelope. He’d have to have it wax-sealed later. He sat back, feeling the estate soak into him, promising a peace he realized he craved, needed, and hadn’t felt since his family’s farm. It reminded him of the physical satisfaction of caring for the land. He did remember good times with his mother, a successful team. Wanting to share this with Mel, this new kind of loneliness without her, he suddenly realized what his mother had missed with his father’s death. As she’d said many times, Rig’s presence was like having his father close. When he’d started being involved in sports and his band, she must have felt that same loneliness all over again. With that new understanding, knots of anger loosened.

~ ~ ~

July 12th

The large, cold raindrops beating on her umbrella only added to Melissa’s heartache and misery. By the grave, the Right Reverend McPherson spoke so softy she could hardly hear his eulogy for her nana over the sounds of the wind and downpour. She felt the stiff bulk of Rig’s letters in her coat pocket. She was never without them, a comfort as well as one more source of her dowie sadness.

In the last weeks, Nana had taken to long naps, sleeping most of the day. Then one evening the past week, she didn’t wake up. After their reminiscing, discussions of Melissa’s experiences, and Rig’s problems, all Nana would say about the amulet was repeat, “Always wear the Nathair òir and never leave it off. It has the gift of protection and lucky occasions.” Nana had regretted how much knowledge of the amulet had been lost to time. What possible good it could provide Rig, Nana couldn’t say. She’d confessed ignorance as to what more the ancient family heirloom was capable of.

At the end of the eulogy, they laid flowers on the casket before heading back to the family estate. Uncle Thomas walked close by, telling her that a headstone for Nana was being carved in Perth.

Now that Nana was laid to rest, the caring for her done, Melissa knew her sister would press her ever harder to assist or worse, replace the current nanny and governess, “saving the family money which we must spend on your upkeep.” Unexpectedly, Nana left Melissa a small inheritance. With it, Melissa begged her uncle to take her with him when he returned to London and the army.

Now that she’d had her adventures and faced death, had found such a man who cared for her, returning to her former life in Scotland proved twice as bleak. Walking into her sister’s house, Uncle Thomas put his arm around her, as though he could read her thoughts. “This will pass, lass, this too will be but a memory one day soon.”

~ ~ ~

Wineglass in hand, Rig wandered among tables at Brooks’ Gentlemen’s’ Club which were surrounded by rowdy young men dressed to the nines. They were drinking, smoking, and gambling. Candlelight made the tables wavering centers of activity, the spaces in-between where Rig meandered, dimmer and overlooked. Robert had brought him to Brook’s in hopes that some frivolity and drink would liven his spirits, as well as rub shoulders with those with money. Rig had spent a week searching out any source for a loan, banks, businesses, Jewish lenders—the only ones who seemed to offer loans at reasonable rates outside of a few banks. Robert even hit up his family and friends. Without any collateral apart from the dubious promise of the estate’s future crops, no one showed any willingness to loan money to a virtual unknown.

The late baron’s years of lax oversight was common knowledge. Even the ‘loan sharps’ from the infamous South End who required outrageous interest rates turned him down.

Robert said, “I would loan you the money if I could, but my aunt who willed her estate to me included a stipulation.” It can’t be sold or made collateral on any loans.” He sheepishly grinned. “Though I was her favorite, my aunt knew me too well.”

Rig had even hoped the courts might send him back to Spain with the army in lieu of prison as he heard they did with enlisted men, but he’d been told at the Horse Guards, “That simply is not done, my Lord Captain. You’re an officer and a peer, not some lowly miscreant.”

Exhausted, out of options and out of ideas, Rig hated his mounting apathy, a literal weakness in his limbs and mind. He didn’t have the energy to be frivolous, even if he’d wanted such diversions.

The evening dragged on, though Rig did appreciate the nice buzz he’d developed after four glasses of brandy. Drinking became far too attractive an alternative. He listened to the talk of horses and women echoing in the long hall, of epic wagers, and how the round of this year’s social events promised to be much the same tedium as last season.

From comments it was clear that these young ‘bucks’ as Robert called them, spent an inordinate amount of time drinking and gambling at Brooks’, a better class of club than others, with far less gambling than “Boodles” and “Whites.’” Rig hadn’t been interested in visiting the ‘gambling hells.’ He knew how such establishments worked. He’d just lose the money he had.

When the clock in the main hall struck eleven, Rig told Robert he was ready to leave. It proved impossible to pull Robert away from the card table because he’d been winning at Hazzard and then Faro for the last hour. As he stood watching Robert’s game, he heard Melissa Graham’s name spoken in a nearby group.

In the middle of the gathering was Captain Mountharron, eyeing him, a devilish smile on his face. Rig went back to watching the game until Mountharron’s voice rose, clearly heard calling Melissa no better than the lowest camp follower. Robert heard it too, and suggested Rig ignore the drunkards. He didn’t. Striding over, the men moved out of the way until he was looking down on Mountharron.

“Come to defend your bobtail lover?”

A few of Mountharron’s friends chuckled but most remained quiet, waiting for the fight.

Rig knew this wasn’t the time to lose his temper, but he couldn’t let that smirk remain. “Captain, you must be drunk to be attacking a lady like Miss Graham.”

“Oh, but you’re here to save her honor? Don’t like hearing the truth?”

“I haven’t known you long, Mountharron but you’ve not shown much interest in the truth. Gossip and slander are more your style.”

Mountharron’s face darkened. “That’s an insult!”

Rig eyed the growing number of men watching the by-play. “Well, unlike you, when I insult someone, it’s to their face, and never a lady.”

That reply generated mutterings and head-nodding. The target of the insult clenched his fists and narrowed his eyes. He was about to lose his temper. Robert had come up beside Rig and he turned to suggest they leave when Rig felt a slap across his cheek. Turning on Mountharron, who backed up, Rig saw a glove in his hand.

“I challenge you to a duel, you giant toad.”

Leaning over to Robert, Rig asked how he was supposed to respond. His friend said, “To accept, you slap the man back with your glove.”

Mountharron scoffed. “Hardly an officer or gentleman. He doesn’t even know the simplest etiquette concerning a challenge.”

Rig frowned, looking at his hand. “Well, darn, I left my gloves with my hat and coat.”

Mountharron must have thought this meant Rig would back down. His shoulders settled and his face relaxed.

Rig shrugged saying, “But I do have my hand,” and slammed a fist into his challenger’s face.

All hell broke loose as men yelled at Rig or defended him, or simply gaily kibbitzed over the commotion, while Mountharron attempted to stop his nose bleed with his cravat.

Robert grabbed Rig’s arm and hustled him to the cloak room, gathered their things, and exited the club.

Robert swore, standing in the street, looking back at Brooks. “Bloody hell, Sparhawk, that little stunt will have you banned from Brooks and the owner is a cousin of mine. He lets me carry a tab, or he did until now.” Robert pointed to the building on the other side of the street. “Let’s duck into White’s.” Once inside, he sent a messenger to Brooks. “I’ve seconded you and let Mountharron’s friends know where to find us.”

Up the stairs, the two entered a large hall much like the one they’d left filled with young men drinking and losing money. Robert ordered two whiskeys and sat at a table. “Now, you’ve done it. General Mountharron is that popinjay’s father. You can say adieu to your military career. You’ll be defending Malta or New Wales once free of the debtor’s prison.”

An officious-looking young man, emphasis on ‘young,’ introduced himself as Captain Baker, Mountharron’s second, and asked what weapon Rig had chosen, his right as the one challenged. Rig asked Robert about fists or knives but with a chiding shake of his head, said no.

Rig shrugged, feeling it didn’t matter, and selected sabers. This led Baker to blanch. Rig and Robert settled on a place and time early tomorrow.

With business concluded, Robert leaned back in his chair with a grin.

Rig frowned. “What is so amusing?”

“After your fight at the bridge, you have a reputation with a sword. That and your height. You have a superior reach on Mountharron. The captain may be having second thoughts about that duel. I imagine he was hoping for pistols. We should hear a confirmation from the second soon.”

Neither said anything more, other than to order cigars.

Sometime later, a beefy man in the army’s red uniform approached their table. Robert whispered, “Merde, it’s General Mountharron. He’s going to demand you apologize.”

Rig settled into his chair, whispering, “Oh, really?”