Chapter Twenty-Seven
ROLLO FIDGETED, FEELING restless and caged.
Even sharing his father’s most spacious and comfiest landau, with only Willoughby for company, the journey was interminable.
His father, Kit, and Mr Elliot travelled together in the crested carriage, whilst Pritchard had the pleasure of Dobson’s halitosis.
If he hadn’t been so damned anxious, Rollo would have savoured this fact a lot more.
“Something is very wrong, Willoughby.” Since entering Norfolk County and its poorer roads, their progress slowed to a painful, bumpy walking pace.
The dreary constancy of the landscape made Rollo feel as if he were travelling the same stretch over and over, as if the very earth under their horses’ hooves conspired to keep him from his anguished beloved. “I feel it in my bowels.”
“So do I,” answered his brother, suppressing a yawn. He rubbed his belly. “I told you that beef pasty at the coaching inn tasted odd. But at least the blessed rain has stopped.”
Rollo felt for his hand and squeezed it.
“Cease teasing me, please. I’m too overwrought.
I mean, about Fitz. He’s…he suffers from the blue devils.
He denies it, of course. He’s too proud.
And he has a vicious temper which gets the better of him.
I fear when he runs out of pewter regiments, he will wield it against himself. ”
Willoughby squeezed his hand back. “Then we must hope that old Bony and his Imperial Guard stand firm a little longer.”
Their father and Kit joined them for the last few miles. Rollo was grateful for their presence.
“Goodness, it’s squally out,” the earl commented, wrapping his lap blanket tighter. “And such a flat, barren landscape.”
“Yes,” Kit agreed. “The winds must howl across it in winter.”
As much as Rollo appreciated their attempts at small talk, it failed to distract from his heart beating faster and the tumult in his belly.
“Mr Elliot is a delightful fellow,” continued the earl. “He holds your Lyndon in very high regard. I’ve heard all sorts of tales of his generosity of spirit. Did you know that Fitzsimmons engaged some of the finest physicians in Europe in an attempt to help him walk again?”
“I did not,” answered Rollo, though he was not surprised. Nor was he surprised Fitz had been too modest to mention it.
“And even though they have been unsuccessful, he’s forever trying to persuade Elliot to venture out more.” The earl peered through the glass to admire a distant steeple. “It is ironic, don’t you think, that the one time he does venture farther afield is without Fitzsimmons’s knowledge?”
*
HIS FATHER AND Kit were still cataloguing Fitz’s finer points when the carriage rattled through the gates of Goule Hall, though their conversation very quickly juddered to a halt.
A trail of decapitated hydrangeas heralded the first sign that something was amiss, the pristine Goule lawns strewn with ragged pink and blue heads like the aftermath of a bloody battle.
Even the big beech tree had not escaped the slaughter, with torn branches, like brittle bones, scattered at its foot.
It was as if a tornado had swept through the garden.
“I can appreciate that it’s breezy today, but still…” commented Kit as he peered through the window. His handsome face took on a troubled expression. “This destruction looks very much as if done by hand.”
“Oh, no,” breathed Rollo. He swallowed drily at a looming sense of foreboding. “It’s…it’s Fitz. It must be.”
“Then he is indeed a swordsmith,” murmured Papa, his lips tight. “I fear Mr Elliot was right in his assessment.”
Rollo clutched his father’s hand. “But I don’t understand. He loves his hydrangeas!”
Papa and Kit exchanged a look. “Let us not jump to conclusions. Perhaps it is the work of the wind, after all. We’ve had some dreadful storms all over recently.”
“An odd-looking old place, isn’t it?” observed Kit, peering up at the hall as they drew closer. No light reflected through the stark narrow windows, as if the grey flintstone facade had sucked up every thin November drop of it. Kit shivered. “And not altogether welcoming.”
“No,” agreed Papa slowly, returning the hall’s frosty stare with one of his own. “Rather chilling, in fact.”
Rollo remembered his own poor welcome and how he’d gazed up in dismay at the forbidding house. He’d nearly demanded the carriage be turned around. How strange that it now felt as much his home as Rossingley.
“It is warm inside,” he assured. “Peat is so plentiful in these parts, and Fitz is unstinting with his fires. All the waterways we crossed on the road here are made from peat digging.”
He was gabbling nonsense, and he knew it.
But he would cry if he stopped speaking about normal things, and once he started, he didn’t think he would stop.
“There are fires in each of the receiving rooms and in all of the bedchambers too. Can you see? Up on the roof? Four chimneys at the front and another four at the back. Perfectly paired. You get a far better view of the front ones after we’ve rounded this bend. Broad and solid, like—”
There were five. Five chimneys at the front.
Four were as he’d described, squat and compact, matching the four at the back.
The fifth was shorter and thinner. It wavered in the breeze.
And more strangely, it seemed to be on legs, two of them, long and untethered.
Occasionally, the legs paced, unsteadily, one in front of the other as if walking along a balance beam.
Rollo screamed.
“It’s…good God. It’s Fitzsimmons,” cried Kit. “He’s up on the damned roof. Look! There!” He banged his fist hard on the ceiling of the carriage. “Faster!”
Rollo leaped from the carriage before the horses had even drawn to a halt. He raced up the gravel, his father not far behind.
“Fitz!” Rollo yelled. “I’m here! I’m coming.”
If Fitz was aware of the commotion on the gravel below, he showed no sign.
“He can’t hear us, poor man,” the earl shouted. “He’s facing the wrong way, and the wind direction is too strong.”
“How does one get up there?” panted Kit at his shoulder. “Is there a staircase? A ladder?”
“I don’t know.” Rollo’s breath caught in his throat as a sudden gust tugged at the figure on the roof. “Oh, God, he’s going to fall.”
The distant figure swayed, alarmingly close to the edge. For a dreadful moment, Rollo thought he might cast up his accounts.
“Fitz,” he called. “Hold on. I’m coming!”
“You must stay calm,” barked Kit, grabbing Rollo’s arm. “No sudden movements. We don’t want him to suddenly turn and receive a fright.”
The front door flung wide, and Greaves came running down the steps, Berridge tottering behind.
“Thank heavens you’re here, sir,” Greaves called. “It’s his lordship. He’s been on the roof since sparrowfart, sir. Drunk as a skunk. I can’t get him down, sir.”
“I can’t watch,” sobbed Willoughby, hobbling to catch up. He buried his face into his father’s neck. “He looks as if he’s going to jump! Someone stop him!”
“No. He’s not,” interrupted a determined voice. “He’s not going to jump, dammit. He’s strong. He wouldn’t.”
As a rush of fire flooded his veins, Rollo recognised the voice as his own. “Because I won’t let him. Greaves, tell me how I get up there.”
“Through a skylight in the old nursery, sir.”
Elbowing the footman aside then barging past Berridge as if he wasn’t there, Rollo raced towards the house.
Somewhere over his shoulder he heard his father snapping orders to Greaves before giving chase.
Kit demanded the whereabouts of a set of ladders and sent Greaves rushing to find them. But there wasn’t time for that.
Rollo skidded across the hallway. Smashed toy soldiers turned to crumbs under his pounding boots. Paint brushes and oil pots skittered in his wake. He took the stairs two at a time, lungs swollen like overfilled balloons.
“Rollo,” the earl shouted behind him. “Slow down. For goodness’ sake. Think about what you’re doing.”
“I know what I’m doing, Papa.” Rollo rounded one corner and then another with his leg muscles straining. “I’m bringing one of best men there is down from that blasted roof!”
His breath sawed in short, harsh gasps. Please, he begged over and over, please.
Wait for me. Each tortured beat of his heart bolted after the other in a messy confusion of anguish, terror, and regret.
But mostly with ice-cold fury that this lovely, lovely man could, for a single second, believe that Rollo’s love for him was not constant.