Page 2 of The Songbird of Wychwood
PERCY HARCOURT
I was startled from my musings by an ear-splitting scream. My nib skidded across the page, spraying ink over my newly penned poem. Dear God! What is it now mother? My mother had a taste for the dramatics and a reaction like this could be caused by anything as simple as spilling her tea or seeing a spider. I put my pen down and wiped my inky fingers on a damp cloth and then, driven by frustration I marched from my room. I hurried down three flights of stairs to where I heard a commotion coming from my grandfather’s study. The hysterical wailing and raised voices continued. The words I heard shared between grandfather and my mother took the fire from my anger and chilled me to the bone.
“I will not have my business ruined by that mountebank, Valentine. He has gone too far this time, too damn far,” Grandfather ranted.
“But Theodore, you cannot go through with this, surely you must know that duels are illegal? And it is so…unbecoming of a man of your station,” Mother cried.
“I do not care about the legalities, Evangeline. This about honour, and it’s about time Valentine learned what that word means! A duel is how my father sorted out disputes and his father before him. Our family has a notoriously good eye for the shot. I will shut that blaggard down once and for all, you’ll see my dear daughter-in-law, you’ll see!” Grandfather sounded pleased with himself, almost relieved that whatever he had planned was afoot.
My father piped in then, “Very well Papah, if you are determined to go through with this, as your second it is my duty to inform the other party where and when the duel will take place.”
“The sooner the better, I say!” Grandfather said decisively.
My hand rose to cover my mouth as I lingered outside the door. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Very well, tomorrow at sunrise, Greenwich Park, between the old oaks.”
“Thank you, Victor, you are the best son I could have wished for.”
Mother wept louder. I couldn’t believe what I had just overheard. This was utter madness. I inhaled to settle my nerves and then knocked on the study door.
“Enter,” Grandfather called. I stepped into the room to see my stalwart father standing by the mantle in a good suit, puffing on a cigar. Mother still wore her coat and hat, as if she had rushed straight into the study on arriving home from her Guardians of the Poor charity meeting. She was slumped in a hearth chair in a most undignified way, weeping and glaring at my grandfather in disbelief. Theodore Harcourt was sitting erect at his desk looking like the bullish businessman he was.
Blackwood Hall in Greenwich was the family’s London home. My grandfather had designed and built it from the wealth of his publishing empire. The Harcourt Press began in 1830 as Harcourt and you know full-well that it has an extensive national readership and an excellent reputation. Valentine’s new ha’penny rag is to be named The Gazette . He refuses to change it. This is unconscionable.”
Edmund Valentine was once grandfather’s dearest friend. They began their newspaper business together, hence the original name of Harcourt so maybe it was a gaming counter? Confused, I settled back and read:
“ My dearest Percy,
What I’m about to tell you is deeply private. I ask that after reading this letter you burn it so the contents will not bring shame upon the family.”
Well, as opening paragraphs went, this was both alarming and intriguing. I reached for the glass of claret, took a gulp for courage, and then continued.
“It grieves me to write to you in this manner, but I must face the fact that no matter the outcome of the duel, I am at the end of my days and will soon be with my maker. Whoever succeeds, neither Edmund nor I will have won satisfaction in this life.
I have many regrets, but my primary regret is that I did not extend the hand of peace to dear Edmund sooner. You see, it may shock you to learn that Edmund and I had a friendship that secretly stepped beyond the bounds of propriety. I loved him most dearly, more than anyone I’ve ever known, and he loved me in return. We loved in a way we both felt was completely natural, but society and the church would never see it that way.
We did not endeavor upon a physical love until after your grandmother passed away. I was in a state of the deepest grief when I lost Florence, and Edmund offered me comfort. We became entwined in all areas of life and kept the secret of our shared inversion. I cherished those years with him by my side and, you may think it scandalous, but also in my bed. I would not change what we shared for all of the riches in the world.
Our falling out was unexpected and deeply hurtful. Looking back after all these years it sounds childish, and I regret allowing things to become so muddled. You see, men like us cannot marry, and if discovered our love would lead us to prison or the gibbet. Edmund suggested that as we could not marry, we should make our partnership official in another way, by making him part owner on the deeds of Harcourt however, my passion was for poetry, and I was determined to experience life just like the romantic poets whose work I obsessed over throughout my youth. I too wanted to be able to express the truth of my heart.
Ordinarily, unless a letter was marked as private, my secretary would open the mail and pile it on my in-tray according to urgency. I was grateful she had missed one particular envelope. The letter in question stood out because of the attractive handwriting penned in purple ink. Maybe she thought it was a love letter, or an invitation. I locked my office door before returning to my desk, picking up the letter opener, and slitting the envelope. There were two sheets of paper within. First, I read that the next soirée for something called Club Fifty-Five would occur on Friday, this Friday in fact. A coach would collect me from Blackwood Hall at six p.m. and take me to the event.
The second sheet of paper listed the rules of Club Fifty-Five. Members did not share names, instead each had a number, and hence, the gold token my grandfather left me which was engraved with the number 36. Members were not permitted to bring guests. All intimacy that occurred at the event was to be consensual. The most important rule was that no one was permitted to mention Club Fifty-Five or share its location; for the safety of all who attended. Breaking the rules would lead to banishment from the club and any man who revealed the nature or address of the establishment would have a campaign ruination set against them. I understood the need for secrecy and the threat of ruination. As directed, I burned both letters after reading. This was all very cloak and dagger, but I must admit I was intrigued. It was my grandfather’s dying wish for me to attend. What exactly did gentlemen get up to at Club Fifty-Five?
I was about to find out!
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