Dearest Kate,
We have arrived in London and are ensconced at Thomas’s inn. I am not sure what he was thinking to have chosen it. It may do very well for a lone gentleman of a certain style, but it is really not the place for a family with young children. Particularly not when the children in question are my older three (Baby Alexander is thankfully not yet mobile enough to go out in search of adventures).
There were no additional anomalies about the grounds at Tangleford once James arrived home (much to my relief and Arthur’s frustration). James and I rode the boundaries together the day before our departure, he looking for suspicious physical evidence, I searching for more arcane manifestations. We found nothing, so I hope that our nocturnal visitor either was driven off by all the activity attendant on our preparations for departure or simply departed on his own.
London is, as usual, a hotbed of gossip. Lord Kernsbury has gambled away the last of his fortune and has been forced to fly the country to escape his debtors. Lady Prothmire’s daughter has broken her engagement to old Lord Heppelwith, and her mother has hauled her back to the country in disgrace. And the Duchess of Kent snubbed the Duke of Cumberland most pointedly in the park last week. Rumor has it that they are on the outs over her daughter Alexandrina, who some (including, of course, the duchess) think should stand next in line for the throne after her uncle William. The duke naturally thinks that as one of the old king’s sons, he should be king after his two elder brothers, while the duchess contends that since her late husband was older than the Duke of Cumberland, her daughter is the rightful heir.
The royal dispute is supposed to be private, but everyone knows of it. Even Aunt Charlotte has heard, though she has not visited London in weeks. I had a letter from her deploring the duchess’s actions and accusing her of pushing her daughter’s interests more than is seemly (which makes me think the Duchess of Kent must be quite an agreeable person after all). That is all the news I have been able to garner, but of course the Season has not yet properly begun.
James has gone to call on the Duke of Wellington, to see if he has anything more to add before we depart for the north, and Thomas is off at the Royal College. I am taking the opportunity to write you while I can, and to thank you and Thomas from the bottom of my heart for taking in my family. I would express a pious wish that they will be well-behaved for you, but I know it for a forlorn hope, at best.
I fully enter into your sentiments regarding Thomas’s probable response to two days’ travel with the four topmost shoots on the Tarleton family tree. Indeed, I could hardly help but do so, having just spent a day and a half getting them to London. (Diana was severely carriage-sick, which necessitated an unscheduled stop on the way; normally it is only a one-day ride, even with the children in tow.)
Arthur has conceived a passion for things mechanical, which I hope will be short-lived. He spent much of the carriage ride plotting with his twin to induce his godfather to take him to see some steam-works or other when we arrive in London. (He already tried to persuade James, without success; I believe that if the Duke of Wellington also fails him, he intends to try Thomas. I am torn; on the one hand, I would be quite pleased for the duke to get a taste of the difficulties he has made for us, but on the other, it would be just as satisfying, and somewhat more likely, for Thomas to have the honor. And if it is Thomas, then I shall no doubt have an account of the affair from you, while if the duke takes Arthur, I shall have to use my imagination.)
Later:
I was interrupted at that point in my letter by a summons from the innkeeper. With some trepidation, I followed him to the common room, to find a large ostler in a homespun cap and rather muddy boots glaring at Arthur and another boy. I noted with resignation that Arthur’s jacket was torn, his breeches muddied, and his left eye already beginning to swell. (I expect it will have come out in rainbow colors by the time he arrives at Skeynes.)
It was instantly clear that Arthur and the other boy had got into a row. The ostler’s part was soon explained—the row had been in the handling yard (how Arthur came there and what he thought he was doing have yet to be determined)—and they had disturbed some of the carriage horses, very nearly to the point of causing a runaway. Or so the ostler said. I thanked him very kindly for saving my son from the dangerous uproar, which threw him quite off his prepared speech, and saw him and the other boy off without further ado. I suspected he had intended to ask for compensation of some kind, and I was not prepared to commit to any such thing without first determining the facts of the case.
As soon as I had Arthur to myself, I took him to the private parlor that James had bespoke, then asked for his version of events. (It is best, with Arthur, to do this as soon as possible, without an audience, and most especially before he has had a chance to consult with Eleanor. Arthur has an unfortunate habit of adapting his story to the expressions of whatever adults happen to be within hearing, and he is very good at reading faces.)
“It was the burglar, Mama!” he burst out. “I saw him out the door when I came down to see if—when I came down. And I ran after him, and he ran between the horses, and I ran into Bill, and he said who did I think I was shoving, and I said don’t let him get away, and he said that’s it, then, and he knocked me down, so I got up and knocked him down, and the horse reared and the ostler shouted at both of us and called us bad names. And he got away.”
I gave him a stern look. “Setting aside, for the moment, whatever reason you saw fit to wander about the inn alone when I distinctly recall telling you to remain in the rooms until your father returns, I should like to know what possessed you to go running out into a strange place, after a person who may well be dangerous, without informing anyone of your whereabouts.”
“I could have caught him, Mama!” Arthur said.
“And what would you have done with him then? ” I said. “Even if it is the same man, he is much larger than you are. It seems clear that you require some practice with fisticuffs before you can successfully deal with an opponent of your own size and weight. It therefore seems highly unlikely that you would have succeeded in apprehending the villain.”
Arthur looked chagrined at this reminder of his poor showing against the stableboy, and I continued, “More likely, if it was the same person, he would have captured you, which would have greatly distressed your sisters and your father.”
“Not you?” Arthur asked.
“I should have thought that being kidnapped and fed only bread and butter in an underground dungeon was just what you deserved for so serious a lapse in judgment,” I said mendaciously. “As it is, you are fortunate to have come away with only a colored eye.”
Arthur grinned. Then he looked thoughtful. “I see. Next time, I will be more careful.”
I was not sure what to make of this ambiguous promise, but fortunately James and Thomas arrived at that moment, having met up at the Royal College of Wizards. At first they were inclined to be amused by what they took to be a schoolboy prank (Thomas even offered to teach Arthur to box properly). When they heard that Arthur thought he had recognized our prowler, however, they began querying him intently as to exactly how he had known the man and what the fellow might have been doing.
I slipped away to make arrangements with the innkeeper to pay the disgruntled ostler. If the prowler has indeed followed us to London, I am more than ever glad that the children are to come to you, though I think it most likely that Arthur is a victim of his own overeager imagination, and perhaps some similarity of headgear. Even quite a long look at someone is not enough to identify him positively when the look has been had in the dark at a distance of thirty yards or more.
We depart London tomorrow, in our several directions. James intends to put up at the King’s Head when we arrive in Leeds. I shall try to write you something more coherent as soon as things are more settled.
Yours,
Cecy