Bless Us With Content

Chapter 2

Chapter 2First impressions. Can one ever overcome them?

By the time I began to recover from my parents’ loss, the damage had been done, and I’d gained a reputation as a sulky, disobedient, ungrateful child.

Uncle Eustace was rarely at home, for which I wasn’t the only one who gave thanks.

Aunt Cecily was confined to her bed for some reason which was unspoken in my presence, and when she finally emerged, she was pale and wan, and there was a quiet grief about her. She spent what little time she could with me, but before we could develop any kind of warmth toward one another, she received a message in the post, and the household was thrown into turmoil once again.

“Oh dear God,” Aunt Cecily murmured brokenly.

“What’s wrong, Aunt?”

She looked up at me blindly, tears trickling down her cheeks, and her lips quivered. “Marian Scarlett has died.”

“Beg pardon, I’m sure, but who is Marian Scarlett?”

“She is…was a dear friend of mine. We married around the same time, although hers was a love match. They followed the drum. The loss of her William came as a great blow to her. He was a major in the 33rd Foot—only fancy, the Duke’s Regiment!—so of course they named their youngest son after the Iron Duke. Unfortunately when Major Scarlett fell at Waterloo, he left her a widow with three sons and no means to raise them. She remarried a Mr Frederick Peabody shortly thereafter.” Aunt Cecily frowned. “I didn’t have much opportunity to see her, although we had a prolific correspondence. Mr Peabody wanted a son of his own, and finally succeeded, only to lose the child and the mother in childbirth.”

I realised how distressed she must be to say something like that in my presence. “I’m very sorry, Aunt,” I said politely, but she didn’t appear to hear me.

“My poor, dear Marian. And those poor, poor boys. They’ve lost their mother and a baby brother, as well as their beloved father. As for their step-father—” She sniffed. “Mr Peabody is drinking himself into an early grave and neglects the boys shamefully, according to Marian’s sister. Vivien writes to me, begging for my assistance. She has six children of her own and cannot take in young William, John, and Arthur. Oh, of course they may come to live with me! I must write to Vivien at once.”

“Three sons?” That sparked my interest. There were no boys of quality in the neighbourhood of Fayerweather—Lord Hasbrouck’s sons were grown and away, and Squire Newbury only had girls—and while I had no objection to befriending the lads in the stables, both Aunt Cecily and Uncle Eustace did, most vociferously if they learned of it.

“Colling, inform Thomas Coachman that I wish him to take the landau to Panton Square. They will need a woman’s tender presence,” she murmured to herself. “I shall send Jane to fetch them home.” She bustled away to speak with the head housemaid.

Over the years, the maid had become head housemaid, and I was aware—if Aunt Cecily wasn’t—that Jane had her eye on Mrs Walker’s position.

And so, overriding Uncle Eustace’s objections for once, although I had no idea how she did it, Aunt Cecily had the Scarlett brothers come to live at Laytham Hall.

I lingered in the suite of rooms the brothers would be given on the first floor, and as the maids prepared them, I almost shivered with anticipation. Of course I was sorry for their loss, but here was an opportunity for me to make friends with boys of my own class.

The sounds of a carriage pulling up in the courtyard had me pelting down the stairs, but I drew up at the bottom and walked decorously to the entryway, waiting until they entered the Hall.

The two older Scarlett boys were almost the same height, a few inches taller than I in spite of the fact we were of an age, while the youngest was a few inches shorter. Their hair varied from shades of light brown to raven’s-wing black, nothing like the blond of my own hair, but their eyes were all the same bright, startling blue.

“How do you do?” I shyly offered my hand to the brothers. “I’m Ashton Laytham.”

Neither of the two older boys made an effort to shake my hand, and when the youngest attempted to, William stopped him.

“You’re Awful Ashton. We’ve heard of you.”

I felt myself turn pale and dropped my hand. I had never heard that appellation before. “What? How—?”

“We overheard the woman Aunt Cecy sent talking with Aunt Vivien’s housekeeper as they packed for us.” The two exchanged glances and sniggered, and then the third joined them, although it was apparent he didn’t understand their amusement. “They had no notion we could hear them. Grown-ups don’t tend to pay children much mind, or haven’t you learned that yet, Awful?”

I ignored his words. Was that how they thought of me below stairs? My eyes burned, but I’d learned shortly after I’d arrived at Fayerweather that tears neither helped nor solved anything.

Aunt Cecily arrived upon the scene just then and swept all three of them into an encompassing embrace. “My poor, poor boys! You’ll do well here, for I shall look after you. Ah. Ashton. You’ve met William, John, and Arthur. How fortuitous. You may show them their rooms and help carry their portmanteaux.”

“I don’t think so, Aunt. I have lessons.” I turned and left them. Obviously they had no need of friends, for they had each other.

* * * *

They were handsome children, everyone said as much, and Aunt Cecily turned her attention to them, doting on them as she had never doted on me.

Shortly afterward, there was another period of subdued excitement.

“Aunt Cecy is in an interesting condition,” William said knowledgably.

“Beg pardon?”

“You aren’t very bright, are you, Awful? She’s expecting a baby.”

“A baby?”

The three brothers burst into laughter and walked out of the room, shaking their heads, murmuring to each other of my stupidity.

But truly, weren’t babies born of love? And there was no love lost between my uncle and his wife. I was aware of that if the brothers were not.

Aunt Cecily was so happy for a time, but then she retired to her rooms for a number of weeks, and when she emerged, she was once again wan and melancholy, although the Scarlett brothers managed to make her smile upon occasion.

* * * *

Two years later Arabella Marchand, a cousin’s daughter, another orphan, arrived. Aunt Cecily smiled and clapped her hands. “How splendid! I have a daughter now, and the family is complete.”

An angelic-looking young girl, Arabella had glossy golden ringlets and eyes of cerulean blue, and everyone loved her on sight, spoiling her as no one had ever thought to spoil me.

It hurt, for I missed the affection my parents had so lavishly showered upon me. I determined, since I had already been given the appellation “Awful” that I would show them how very awful I could be, and so I became as obnoxious as I knew how in revenge.

William insisted I be included in their games—after all, who would be the villain? I, as the heir to Fayerweather, should have been the leader. However, William claimed the role of Robin Hood for himself. “Am I not the most capable?” he demanded smugly. And he seized and clapped on his head the jaunty green cap with the sweeping feather he had cajoled Aunt Cecily into giving him from one of her bonnets. And of course John was Little John, while Arthur assumed the role of Friar Tuck, even though he’d pleaded to be Will Scarlett.

“No,” William announced firmly. “No one else portrays Will Scarlet.”

“Why not?” I demanded “You’ve already got the plum role.”

“Shut your mouth, Awful. This is none of your affair.” He whipped off my glasses and tossed them aside, and I cried out in panic, terrified one of the clumsy oafs would step on them and leave me virtually sightless.

Fortunately, none did, but I learned a valuable lesson—not to challenge William Scarlett unless I was willing to pay the price.

So when I was deemed worthy only of being the Sheriff of Nottingham, or on occasion, Guy of Gisbourne, I said nothing and allowed it, assuring myself none of the brothers would have followed my orders anyway.

I did get something of my own back, when William said, “Let’s take our steeds over some jumps today. We’ll head out to Three-Penny Field.” He glowered at me. “Any objections, Awful?”

I shrugged. I’d protested once, when Giffard, who managed Fayerweather lands, had already planted a crop in that field. They would have ridden it anyway—and seen I got the blame—but Giffard happened to be there examining the hops for insects, so William had led the band around and back home. This season, however, the field was lying fallow, so they could do as they pleased.

John, no doubt seeking to curry his older brother’s favour, ordered me to saddle his Welsh pony. I could see he fully expected me to refuse, giving him the perfect excuse to knock me down.

“Yes, John,” I said meekly, and I trotted to the stables while the three brothers gave hoots of laughter at having finally taught me my place.

Jem, our newest stableboy, paused in mucking out a stall and smiled at me. “What can I do for you, Master Ash?”

“Nothing, thanks. Master John’s asked me to saddle his pony.”

“But that’s my job.” He seemed dismayed. He hadn’t been around the brothers very frequently.

“Not today, Jem. Would you mind saddling William’s pony, though?” I led Picton, named for one of Wellington’s generals, out of his stall and saddled him.

“Erm…Master Ash, you know Picton likes to suck in a gutful of wind.”

I smiled at him. “I know.” Picton had the tendency to swallow air, and if he wasn’t given a firm knee to the gut to make him release it, the saddle girth wouldn’t remain snug. I led the bay pony out of the stables to where the middle brother waited. “Here you are, John.” I handed him the reins and hurried back to get the mare—an older animal I’d been given to ride when I’d first come to Fayerweather and still used now—and saddled her quickly so I wouldn’t miss the fun.

The ride was uneventful until we reached Three-Penny Field. William took off at a gallop, followed close behind by John and then Arthur. I would say one thing for the brothers. They could ride—as long as their mount’s girth was securely fastened.

John kicked his heels into Picton’s sides, and the pony headed for the fence. He sailed over it tidily, but John remained on the other side, sprawled in the dust. All three brothers shouted and shook their fists at me.

Laughing quietly, I wheeled my mare around and let her make her way back to the stables at her own speed. There was no rush. The brothers would no doubt be waiting for me.

But it was so worth the pummelling I was sure to get.

* * * *

On this day in particular, I’d been roped into playing Robin Hood and his Merry Men once again. Arthur, the youngest Scarlett, had taken an ugly splinter in his leg from the stick that substituted as my sword, and William glowered at me. “This is your fault,” he snarled. “Little John, fetch something to remove the arrow.”

John scampered off, and I crossed my arms and glared at William. “That isn’t an arrow.”

“It is if I say it is!” He fisted his hands and loomed over me until I had no choice but to back away a step. Only then did he turn to his injured brother. “Now, Friar Tuck, I shall cut the arrow out of your leg.”

“Yes, Will.” The stupid little sod would no doubt say “Yes, Will” even if his brother told him “Arthur, I’m going to take off your leg.”

John returned before too long with a penknife I recognized as Uncle Eustace’s. “I’m telling Aunt Cecily,” I declared. One of us needed to use common sense. Aside from which, if it was discovered as missing, I was the one who would get the caning.

“You’d cry rope on us?” William’s face darkened and he took a threatening step toward me. This time I forced myself to stand fast.

Arabella exhibited her displeasure by kicking me in the shins, causing me to trip over my feet as I shied back, and the three brothers laughed, although Arthur’s chuckle had a hitch in it from the pain in his leg.

William dismissed my presence and unfolded the blade. Arthur’s eyes grew huge, and his lower lip trembled, for it suddenly must have looked as large as Cook’s carving knife.

“None of that now, young Arthur. You’re a Scarlett. Here, take this piece of wood and bite down on it if the pain becomes too much. Not that it should.”

“Yes, Will.” Arthur obeyed him, and I curled my lip in disdain.

William nodded in satisfaction, then said, “Chin up, stout fellow,” and began to dig out the splinter.

Arabella clutched Arthur’s hand. “You’re being so brave, Friar Tuck!”

“It…it doesn’t hurt very much. Honestly, Belle. I mean Maid Marian.” He bit down hard on the wood, his complexion turning green.

“Got the bugger!” William exclaimed triumphantly. Arabella clapped her hands over her ears, but she giggled.

The blood flowed freely, and I sat down abruptly, feeling lightheaded.

Arabella tore off a strip of her petticoat, dabbed at the wound, and then bound it. “Are you feeling better, Arthur?” She petted his arm.

Robin Hood gave a dramatic moan. “No! Too late! We were too late. The arrowhead must have been dipped in poison. You’ll pay for this treachery, Sheriff, you and your dastardly Prince John.” He shook his fist at me, then turned back to his youngest brother. “But for now—Friar Tuck died an honourable death. We must give him a hero’s funeral.”

“Dying from a wound gone putrid isn’t heroic,” I grumbled.

“None of that, Sheriff. It was through your actions…Hold on a tick. John, we need—No, you already risked all to fetch the knife for the field surgery. I shall go in search of the valiant warrior. You lot dig the grave.”

“I don’t see why I should have to.” I kicked at a tussock of grass.

But William raced off, and as usual, the others paid me no heed, instead scraping out a shallow hole in the ground near the pond’s edge.

It seemed William was gone a good three quarters of an hour, but perhaps I had that wrong. I grew bored and wanted to visit the stables, where at least the grooms treated me well and one of the stableboys was friendly to me, but I was shouted down.

Eventually William came jogging out of the Hall.

“Sorry, chaps. Had to go…er…searching. See what I found.” It was a lead soldier with the Tarleton helmet of the Light Dragoons, his coat painted madder red and his collar royal blue.

“I say, that’s…That belongs to me!” A friend of Aunt Cecily had given the set to me one Christmas, before the Scarlett brothers arrived and he realised he preferred them to me.

William sneered, not a pleasant expression, and he placed the soldier into the “grave” and tossed a handful of dirt into it. “I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord…” He intoned with righteous zeal. His eyes took on a faraway look, and I curled my lip once again in disdain, but he was so wrapped in his visions of nobility that he didn’t see. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”

Arabella sniffled. Being unable to stand, Arthur sat to attention. John stood beside him, his bugle in hand. He’d brought it with him from Panton Square and played tolerably well.

I sulked. It was my soldier, after all, and it had been commandeered without even a by-your-leave.

At Arthur’s other side stood William, his eyes lit with almost militant fervour. “Wouldn’t it be wizard to fight a final, desperate battle against overwhelming odds, chaps?”

“As Father did, Robin?”

“Yes, just as Father did!” His expression became wistful. “Father…He lies buried in a mass grave at the crossroads of Quatre-Bras. When I fall…”

“I shall see to it you have a hero’s send-off, Robin.” John rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“I, also,” Arthur chimed in.

“And I imagine you’ll visit his grave each year on the anniversary of when he fell and leave flowers?” I scowled, hunched a shoulder, and turned away. “What rot.”

But it would have been as well if I’d spared my breath.

“Thank you, chaps.” William cleared his throat. “Now, bugler, if you will?”

John raised his bugle to his lips and began to play “Last Post,” and I came to a reluctant halt, taken by the haunting notes in spite of myself. He drew in a breath and blew, drew in a breath and blew, and he did it so earnestly, never once hitting a sour note.

He had toyed with that bugle often and often, but this time…It occurred to me how very beautiful he was, with his thick brown hair falling haphazardly into astonishingly blue eyes, and it was then that I tumbled helplessly, hopelessly in love with him.

But it was not until six years later, on my seventeenth birthday, when we were all down from school, that I made lo- had John Scarlett the first time.