Chapter 12
On the stagecoach, I began having second thoughts.
It had been years since I had last seen Carrot.
We had been boys then, playing at soldiers in the fields and woods around Black Hill; now we were older, he an earl, no less, and I— What was I?
To the world, I was the young manager of a successful worsted mill, but most days I felt like a boy still, trying to give the appearance of a man, capable and dependable—and terrified of being found out.
I was convinced I was the only young man in all the world who felt like a charlatan.
More than once on that journey I thought of Touch, he with his quiet and warm presence, his prodigious imagination.
Would that the three of us could be once more together, I thought, and I wondered, suddenly, if Carrot knew yet that he had passed on.
I laid my head back and closed my eyes and tried to imagine what Carrot would look like, what he would be like.
I did not even know what one calls an earl when he is a friend, but I was certain that it would not be “Carrot.” Still, anxious as I was, I could barely contain my excitement.
For many years after that trip, travel excited my spirits—bringing me back to that bright, early September day, the sky a cloudless blue, the fields of oats and barley blowing in the wind, the workers bending to their tasks, swinging their scythes; heather still rosy purple on the moors; and the delicious anticipation of seeing Carrot again.
We were in Napier by late afternoon—the trip as easy as it could have been; a good sign, I hoped. And Carrot’s man was already waiting for me with what seemed like a brand-new tilbury. He tipped his hat and stowed away my luggage while I climbed aboard.
Lanham-Hall was a large country house, slightly bigger than Thornfield-Hall, and more graceful in appearance.
Coming up the drive, I was struck by the great gables at the front of the house, and as we arrived, I noted the delicate stonework of the pediment above the massive oak door.
The scene carved there was—I recognized immediately—a stylized version of a drawing from an edition of Herodotus on the Battle of Thermopylae that had been Carrot’s favorite at Black Hill.
He had always insisted on being Leonidas to my Xerxes.
I smiled to myself: Carrot was, apparently, still Carrot.
His butler opened the door. “His lordship is still out riding, sir,” he told me. “He asks that you excuse him this indulgence. He will be with you immediately when he returns.”
“Of course,” I said, a bit put out at that lack of a grand welcome. When I stepped inside, I paused, taking in the blue-gray entrance hall, the gently curving staircase, the rose and white Turkey carpet. It seemed restful and pleasing to the eye, not at all what I would have expected of Carrot.
The butler, who introduced himself as Matthews, offered to show me to my chamber, and he led me up the broad stairs and down a short hallway to a room that overlooked the front of the house.
From the windows, I could see the long, curved drive, lime trees arching gracefully over it, and, beyond, the rolling fields of Lanham.
It reminded me something of Thornfield, though it is hard to say why.
At Lanham there was no tangled wood of hawthorn approaching the house, nor was there any moor in the distance.
It was no wonder that the place was decorated in pale colors: this was a thoroughly domesticated countryside.
“Make yourself at home, please, sir,” Matthews said, “and when you are ready, the dining room is just at the bottom of the stairs, to the left. I’ll have something put out there for you.”
I remained there at the window, feeling even more nervous now that the reunion with Carrot was upon me.
Then, as much to ease my mind as anything, I poured water from the ewer into the bowl and splashed my face and washed my hands.
I thought for a moment of changing into other clothes, but I had brought too little clothing to be changing at the least excuse.
When I had delayed as long as I dared, I left my room and walked down the stairs and into the dining room.
To my surprise, it was a small, intimate room lined with windows on one side and bookcases on the other three.
Mr. Lincoln would have been proud. I strolled the length of one wall, gazing at the books and at the paintings above them.
The cases rose only five feet or so from the floor, and above them were a series of lithographs and paintings: Columbus setting foot on the New World, a wonderfully engaging painting of Alexander at the Battle of the Granicus, and, not surprisingly, Turner’s rendition of the Battle of Trafalgar.
I had been there only a few moments and was still gazing in astonishment at the books and the art when a maid brought in a plate of pork roast and potatoes and peas, which must have been quickly warmed up from last evening’s dinner.
I sat down at the table, suddenly realizing how hungry I was.
I was just finishing when I heard a commotion in the reception hall right outside the dining room, and the door was flung open and Carrot appeared—older, of course, the ruddy complexion having faded somewhat, but the hair just as bright ginger as ever.
“Jam!” he shouted, as if I were a mile away instead of just across the room. “Jam! At last!”
I rose and he strode forward, his arms outstretched to embrace me, and sudden tears came to my eyes as I stepped into his embrace. Then he leaned back, his eyes full upon my face. “My God,” he said, “it really is you, after all this time!”
“I’d have known you anywhere,” I said, at a loss for words, though indeed I would have known him anywhere and under any circumstances.
“But not I, you,” he said. “No, indeed. You were—what? ten? eleven?—when we last saw each other.”
“Twelve,” I said, a bit disappointed that he did not know my exact age, as I knew his.
“Twelve, yes, and now here we are! You’re a man now; no wonder you look so different!” He turned then, suddenly. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”
I turned as well toward the door, fearing who it would be even before I saw him. “Rowland,” I said, trying not to register disappointment in my voice.
Rowland nodded wordlessly. He must have known I was to arrive. I wished at the moment that I had been similarly warned.
“And if two brothers were more completely different, I could not imagine it,” Carrot said.
There was a long silence, made more uncomfortable by the fact that Carrot still had one arm around my shoulders. Then I said, lamely, “I take after our father; he, our mother.”
Carrot’s hand slipped away from me as his mind moved on. “And what’s become of the women?” he asked Rowland.
“Oh, you know,” Rowland said, gesturing vaguely.
There are women guests as well? I wondered. And, suddenly, it occurred to me: Did Carrot have a wife? “You have a houseful,” I said.
“When has he not?” Rowland said, laughing.
“Not so many, actually,” Carrot said, “but it needn’t bother the two of us.
We have much to talk about, have we not?
” His hand was on my arm and he guided me out of the dining room, across the reception hall, and into a drawing room that was quite different from the rest of the house: swathed in deep reds and dark blues—a man’s room.
He led me to a vast maroon leather chair and saw me settled in and then asked, “What will you have?”
I did not know exactly what I should say, so I said the safest: “Whatever you are having is fine.” I watched as he stepped to a side table and decanted an amber liquid into two glasses, and cocked his head at Rowland.
At Rowland’s slight nod, he poured a third.
I gazed at the two of them—good friends, no doubt of it—and a flood of resentment swept over me.
I had desperately wanted to find my same old Carrot, my closest friend, but now it seemed Rowland had taken my place.
Carrot brought me a glass and, handing it to me, said, “A toast! To the three of us, united at last. Like brothers should be.”
I rose to the toast and lifted my glass to theirs, looking from Carrot to Rowland, and back to Carrot. Brothers, I thought.
Then, surprising me, Carrot turned to Rowland. “If you don’t mind, I would like a word or two with your brother.”
“Of course,” Rowland said, not turning red as I would have done if the circumstances had been reversed. He left us promptly, closing the door behind him.
“Jam!” Carrot said, once we were alone, laying his hand on my shoulder and searching my eyes. I smiled at him but felt somewhat at a loss, still. Carrot seemed to understand. “You are wondering what to call me, I imagine,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I responded, relieved that he had brought it up, as I had not had the slightest idea of how to approach the subject. He seemed so much exactly the same and at the same time so different that I hardly knew where I was to be in relation to him.
“Most people call me ‘my lord.’ Others call me ‘Lord Fitzcharles.’ My dearest friends call me ‘Fitzcharles,’ or ‘Thomas.’ I’m sure all of those seem strange to you, but there you are.
Choose from them as you like, but, for your sake as well as mine, please do not call me ‘Carrot’ in company.
I left that far behind at Black Hill. But, with the two of us… well, that’s different.”
“Yes,” I said, “of course.”
He stood staring at me a moment, until I added, “My lord.”
“Fitzcharles, perhaps,” he prompted with a grin.
“Fitzcharles,” I said. “Thank you for clarifying.”
“Jam,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind—or be hopelessly confused—if I still call you that: you have always seemed like the little brother I wished I’d had.”