Flood: TWENTYEIGHT
...He and Arthur had had much in common. Arthur had been so far removed from his family in Sussex that he had now acquired a small plot of land in a rainswept churchyard in Yorkshire. Not really fair, when he had been hoping for a plantation in the Indies with dusky maidens willing to roll his cigar upon their inner thighs...
Emma Cookson continues her must-read novel of romance and revenge set in the 19th Century.
Harry Simms sat in the church where he had been married five months before and reflected upon the coffin that lay on the bier before the altar. Paying for Arthur’s funeral was the least he could do.
Obadiah Frost and Squire Barnstaple occupied the pew behind him and, despite the solemnity of the occasion, the Squire was making no attempt to regulate his flatulence. Mungo Ransome sat alone behind them and Ezekiel and Ezra from the hall were at the back of the church to make up the numbers.
St David’s was cold and damp. The day was grey and the air a wet mist. Squire Barnstaple, in his role as Coroner, had once again been obliging. Mind you, the facts were straight forward enough. The Honourable Arthur Petty had visited his old friend Harry Simms, had too much to drink, and fallen from his horse into the river as he travelled back to the rooms he had at the Wheatsheaf in Bradfield. Harry had been so concerned for his friend’s welfare that he had travelled with him as far as Moorbridge and the turnpike. That, he had told the inquest, had been the last he had seen of him. Arthur’s horse had been found wandering the road and his body had been washed into a mill pond two miles downstream. A verdict of accident death was a formality.
Frost and the Squire, as head of the local gentry, had felt an obligation to attend the funeral of the young man, especially as he had family connections to the Earl of Dartmouth.
Harry stared at the ceiling and reflected upon the vagaries of life. He considered his absentee childhood and wondered if things would have been different if his mother had lived. In those circumstances there would, in all likelihood, have been no Robert Dyce. What a wonderful misconception.
He and Arthur had had much in common. Arthur had been so far removed from his family in Sussex that he had now acquired a small plot of land in a rainswept churchyard in Yorkshire. Not really fair, when he had been hoping for a plantation in the Indies with dusky maidens willing to roll his cigar upon their inner thighs.
Never mind, Arthur, at least one of them might go. Marital and bachelor beds, his friend had said, and it was not a bad idea. Six months in each was a guarantee to make any marriage a success. Jane at home in the Pennines, dusky maidens in the Indies and trips to London in between times. A plantation was a definite possibility. The heat would be preferable to this damnable damp that seemed to ooze from the walls of a church that had begun to regulate his life, with weddings and funerals and Sunday services.
He remembered his father's funeral, with Mistress Dyce and her bastard son among the mourners. He remembered George's funeral, with distaste. When would Jane recover sufficiently to fulfil her wifely duties? He might have to be more forcefully persuasive. He smiled.
Forceful persuasion had ensured his inheritance of Musgrave Hall and the hand of Jane in marriage, the two things most coveted by his brother. Of course, circumstances had been fortuitous but it took a special kind of cunning to take advantage of circumstance. He planned on taking similar advantage over refloating the Bill to Parliament, which would provide enough spare change for another dabble in London's venture markets. First, he needed a trip to London, to reaquaint himself with the capital's flesh pots and possibilities, and make enquiries about tobacco.
There was little incentive to stay. Jane was a long way from normal and, if truth be known, he baulked at forcefully seducing a woman on the brink of instability. Particularly a woman with whom he suspected he might be in love. The concept was alien to him and made him twitch in distaste. Lust, yes, lust he understood, but love? The very thought of falling victim to an emotion beyond his control made him shudder. He snorted. Arthur’s death was making him melodramatic.
The church felt suddenly colder and he caught his breath. He shivered and pulled his coat closer. He cursed and urged the deity to speed up the interment before he fell victim to pneumonia or Squire Barnstaple's farts.
**
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