Chapter 9 #2
Clara watched him go and then looked down at Benny.
“Come, Benny. We’d best go home,” she said, for she did not wish to play the piano today.
The interval with Hawkney had unsettled her somehow, though she did not understand why.
Whatever the reason, it was best she leave and return home, to her aunt’s home, before her absence was remarked.
The Grand Hotel Building site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 29th July 1816
Gideon closed the door to the site hut and walked to the gate where the night watchman was laughing with some of the men as they left work for the day.
“Have a quiet night, Harold,” he told the guard with a polite nod as he walked out.
“It’s always quiet in Little Valentine, Mr Bramwell,” he replied jovially, before closing the gate and securing it with a chain and padlock.
Gideon nodded, not really hearing the man’s reply.
His mind was still stuck in the bloody asylum, the smell of the place lingering on his skin, though he’d washed and changed every stitch he had been wearing.
He’d even polished his bloody boots, a waste of time on site.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his mother's face, the hatred burning there, the fear. As if he wasn’t tortured enough by his visit to her, his brain insisted on imagining her restrained in that heavy chair by thick leather straps with metal buckles, afraid and struggling. His stomach clenched.
He walked back towards the promenade, back towards his lodgings over the cheese shop, and then stopped as the view opened up and he saw the sea sparkling against the horizon.
The sky was a deep cobalt today, dotted with fat, fluffy white clouds.
The air was blessedly fresh, and he drew in a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the reek of the asylum as he admired the glittering expanse of blue.
It reminded him of the evening he’d gone to Hatherley Hall, of the splendid view, the wine, and Hetty in her bright blue gown.
An oddly wistful sensation of regret struck him and, try as he might, he could not shake it off.
“I find the sea puts everything in perspective.”
Gideon jumped, though he was hardly surprised to find Reverend Honeywell standing beside him, his gaze also fixed on the horizon. “Does it?”
The reverend nodded. “It’s so vast, and it was here long before we were, and will be long after we have departed, yet it is still in thrall to the moon. Sometimes there is no escaping our fate, try as we might.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Gideon demanded with a scowl.
The reverend chuckled. “I find it comforting, oddly enough. We have free will but take a certain path and the outcome falls into place. It’s how we face the challenges before us that prove our worth.”
“What if it only proves us unworthy?”
The reverend regarded him, his blue eyes warm and so filled with compassion Gideon had to look away.
“We all feel that way from time to time, but I assure you, we often judge ourselves far more harshly than we deserve. Come, my boy. Why don’t you trot along to the vicarage with me.
I have a splendid bottle of cognac I’ve been wanting an excuse to open.
We’ll have a few drinks and put the world to rights, eh? ”
“It’ll take more than a few,” Gideon warned him darkly.
The reverend shrugged, apparently unconcerned. “I’m game if you are.”
Despite himself, Gideon laughed. The old man had been determined to round him up and add him to his flock and Gideon was too tired and sick at heart to fight him tonight. “Fine,” he said. “You win. I’ll come.”
Half an hour later, and Gideon found himself ensconced in the man’s study.
It was a small room, stuffed full of books and heaps of paper that made him twitch with the desire to tidy everything and file it away.
He could not abide mess and disorder and could not understand how the reverend functioned among such chaos.
But then some people seemed to thrive upon it, like Damian.
His brother was a force of nature, one that would sweep in like an incoming tide, turn everything upside down and then go on his merry way, usually leaving Gideon to clear up the mess.
To be fair, he’d not allowed Gideon to sort out the mess that was Rivington House.
He knew Damian had been burdened with debts along with the title, and whilst his brother might beg a loan if he was at low tide, he’d never once suggested Gideon help him restore the place.
He didn’t know if Damian would ever do so either.
More likely he’d burn it to the ground and dance among the ashes.
“Ah, here we are,” the reverend said, emerging, mole-like and blinking, from the interior of a heavy, dark wood cupboard. He lifted the bottle triumphantly. “Would you like a cigar, too? I have some.”
Gideon shook his head. “No. I never took to cigars, I’ll help you with the cognac though.”
Honeywell nodded approvingly and set about uncorking the bottle, pouring out two hefty measures. “There we go, my fine fellow. That’ll put hair on your chest.”
Gideon took the glass. “Cheers,” he said, taking a large sip. The cognac pooled warmth in his belly, firing through his blood, and easing a little of the tension between his shoulders.
“Ah, now, that’s an excellent vintage,” the reverend said, smacking his lips with appreciation.
He took another sip before settling himself in an overstuffed armchair, the twin of the one Gideon had taken. It was well worn and comfortable, and Gideon could well imagine the fellow snoozing after imbibing a glass or two.