Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (26 page)

 
          
 
Fitz openly smothered a yawn. "Some
nineteen years too late," he observed. "I have no desire to reach for
either what my grandfather wears on his feet or on his head—his shoes or his
coronet—and within a reasonable space of time I hope to convert you to the
understanding of that. You see, my friend, I am not one of your countrymen. I
repeat to you what I have said to his Lordship—I am an American."

 
          
 
To arm for our country is never too late,

 
          
 
No fetters are yet on our feet,

 
          
 
Our hands are
more free
,
and our hearts are as great

 
          
 
As the best in the enemy's
fleet.

 
          
 
And look at the list of their navy, and think,

 
          
 
How many are left, to burn, capture and sink!

 
          
 
—the launching of the
Independence

 
          
 
Starr Court
after many years of rebuilding, additions,
and a few subtractions of wings and ells, had changed from a castle to a
gentleman's abode sometime during the stormy reign of Henry the Eighth. And,
though subsequent Earls had made changes of their own, the general form
thereafter remained the same. Fitz found it a little overwhelming. He had
always considered Fairleigh's "great house" something of an
architectural triumph. But Fairleigh could be placed within one courtyard wing
of Starr and easily be forgotten.

 
          
 
Inigo Jones was remembered by the whole of a
separate wing, and Wren had left his stamp on the latest section that had been
added. One walked through the history of English building when one traversed
these galleries and rooms, for there was even a small section of crooked wall
deep in the wine cellar which was said to be Roman work. And certainly the
defense tower dated back to the first lord of Starr, a certain Sire de Norville
who followed his Duke William into Saxon England.

 
          
 
Two days after his arrival at the Court, Fitz
was surprised when the valet who had been assigned to him brought him a
complete new uniform, but one which was the duplicate of the uniform he had
worn on the Retaliation. Since all of his other outer clothing had mysteriously
disappeared, he had to wear it or remain in bed. And he put it on with the
conviction that there was a trick intended.

 
          
 
He found Burnette in the breakfast room, and
the man nodded to him over a cup of tea. Fitz pulled at the lapels of his new
coat.

 
          
 
"An excellent fit.
Very well contrived, is it not? His lordship is always well served by any
tailor he cares to employ. It must remove a weight from your mind to assume
again your proper plumage as an officer in the service of these 'states,' I
believe one calls them. There is a nasty name applied to a man who wears the
coat of his enemies. We did not think you deserved that. And it might be most
disconcerting if anyone taxed you with such dissembling."

 
          
 
Fitz put down his cup. "So someone just
might accuse his lordship with harboring a spy, should I continue to wear false
colors while under his roof? That is most interesting. I thought that his
influence was great enough to cover such a petty annoyance."

 
          
 
Burnette touched his napkin to his lips. Over
the fine linen folds his eyes were very clear and bright.

 
          
 
"He has plenty of power—as you shall
discover. But-"

 
          
 
"Pulling the wires of his puppets takes
time? Now I can suggest a very easy way out of his lordship's dilemma, one
which will require no labor at all. Suppose I simply vanish from
Starr Court
—then there will be no spy for anyone to be
curious about."

 
          
 
Burnette shook his head. "Such a
disappearance would work against his lordship, since interested parties might
then say that you had been here and gone, after rest and refreshment. No, the
Earl of Starr's grandson—who in the hot-headiness of youth has been misled into
folly—must remain under restraint until a royal pardon for his silly venture
into treason is obtained."

 
          
 
"Or until my loving cousin can make his
spy tale popular with the authorities," amended Fitz cheerfully. "If
Farstarr is not wool-witted that is just what he'll try to do. I'd do it if I
stood in his shoes."

 
          
 
Burnette laid aside the crumpled napkin.
"Your wits are certainly not wool," he remarked dryly. "That is
just what Farstarr is attempting. He has been quicker at the business than his
lordship thought he would be."

 
          
 
"A case of Mohawk against Seneca,"
Fitz commented. "May the best savage
win.
But I
am not going to be involved in any family quarrel—especially if I am to be the
bone they battle over. I have no desire to be the Earl of Starr and I never
shall."

 
          
 
"Your
father "

 
          
 
Fitz folded his napkin neatly.
"Ah, yes, my father.
Crutcherly showed me his portrait
in the Gilt Gallery yesterday. Hugh Royance
Lyon,
aged
sixteen. At sixteen I was manager of Fairleigh and out in the fields from dawn
to dusk—our wheat crop was for the army. I had a hundred and ten blacks to
supervise, and many a day I was in the saddle for five and six hours at a time.
At night there were the accounts to do. I don't believe that Hugh Royance Lyon
ever stumbled into bed at
midnight
too tired to sleep, knowing that he would
have to be up again before dawn. And yet I do not envy him in the
slightest!"

 
          
 
He rose and went to the long window looking
out at the paved terrace which led, by a flight of stairs, down into a fanciful
knot garden of clipped hedges and bushes. Beyond that he picked out the point
of blue which was a lake.

 
          
 
Burnette pushed back his chair and now came to
stand at the other side of the window.

 
          
 
"Farstarr is worthless," he said in
a low voice. "His lordship is eaten with gout. Should it touch his heart
he would die in the space of a finger snap. Then-then all this will go, unless
there is some one to hold it together!"

 
          
 
He opened the tall casement of the window and
stepped over the low sill onto the terrace. Fitz followed. The morning wind was
clear and soft, bringing with it the scent of flowering shrubs and plants. And
the glint of sun made the knot garden a gilded pattern, as perfect as if it
were the result of needle art.

 
          
 
"Twenty villages and a market town,"
Burnette repeated almost to himself. "Several thousand souls owe all their
living to Starr. I've seen other estates in litigation and no one ever
gained—save the law. It would mean ruin for countless honest men if there is to
be no
Lyon
at Starr!"

 
          
 
Fitz shook his head firmly. "I am not
bred to the task, and I have no love for this land. You cannot appeal to a
sense of duty which is already engaged
elsewhere "

 
          
 
Burnette swung around.
"You
self-centered young fool!
/
love
Starr and I
have a duty "

 
          
 
"Which you will do your
best to hold me to!"

 
          
 
"I shall do my best to put you in my
lord's place when the proper time comes!" There was force in that answer,
enough to chill Fitz a little. Why, the man was a fanatic, he could not be
reasoned with on this subject.

 
          
 
Burnette went inside. Fitz stood alone. There
was little hope of escape—he had tried just wandering off, but there had always
appeared a brace of gardeners, footmen, or grooms before he could get far. But
as long as he stayed within the boundary of the formal gardens and the rides,
he was allowed to roam as he pleased. Now he started down the terrace stairs
toward the lake.

 
          
 
Three black swans carried out peaceful naval
maneuvers past the small ornamental bridge which led to an island graced with
the most fanciful version of a summer house. Fitz marveled at all this beauty,
well kept and polished, always ready to be viewed by a master who was almost
never there. Farstarr had not been to the Court in years, Fitz had heard, and
the old Earl was nigh bedridden with the gout and could never walk these garden
paths.

 
          
 
Someone was over on the island, betrayed by
whistling a gay dancing tune. As Fitz walked toward the bridge, a very young
man came out of the summer house carrying a hammer and some lengths of wood,
his shirt sleeves rolled up to his shoulders and smears of dust on the knees of
his breeches.

 
          
 
He was as tall as Fitz and his hair, brown and
curly, was tied back with a thong. When he saw the American he stopped and
touched his forehead half shyly.

 
          
 
"Good morning," Fitz leaned on the
rail of the bridge.

 
          
 
"A fair day t' ye,
sir."
The lad surveyed him with frank curiosity, and Fitz smiled.

 
          
 
"You're one of the gardeners?"

 
          
 
The boy's head went up with some pride.
"Third
gardener, that
be I, sir. George
Hawtrey "

 
          
 
"And I'm Fitzhugh Lyon."

 
          
 
"Aye, sir.
Be y'
part redman, sir?" The question burst out of him. "Dadda did say once
as how colonials lived right 'mong, sir "

 
          
 
Fitz laughed. "No, I'm no Indian. And who
is Dadda?"

 
          
 
The boy's face showed a bright scarlet flush
of distress. He dropped one of the boards and stooped to pick it up.

 
          
 
"My dadda's dead, sir. I live with Granny
Hawtrey. She was nurse t' Master Hugh a long time ago. M'dadda, he went
wi
' Master Hugh t' fight in th' wars. He came home—only he
weren't much good after. He died o'
th
' shakin'
sickness, ten years ago it were."

 
          
 
"Granny Hawtrey—my
father's nurse!"
Fitz straightened. "Does she live here?"

 
          
 
George nodded eagerly. "Aye, she has her
cottage— m'lady left her that in her will—all proper. Granny lives snug, she
does."

 
          
 
"I'd like to see her."

 
          
 
George's shyness was now all gone. "Oh,
sir, she'd be that pleased! She's been a-talkin' a lot o' Master Hugh—she was
his foster mother like."

 
          
 
So Fitz came to a small cottage set a little
apart from the villagelike collection of tiny houses where the outdoor servants
of the Court were quartered. And inside, in the dusk of the kitchen-living
room, he found himself confronting a woman as tall as her grandson. She
supported herself on a crutch, and her capped head was held to one side as she
stumped forward. But her face was not the network of wrinkles he had expected
it to be. Her skin was a firm and healthy brown, a fair setting for eyes as
keen and all-seeing as Burnette's.

 
          
 
For a moment she stood and studied Fitz, and
then she nodded as if pleased by what she saw.