Noblesse Oblige
Book Two
Indian Summer

By: Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2013-2014 by the authors)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 28
The Fourth Marquess 

“Yes I understand perfectly well, Dr Alexander.  No, I’m all right Derby; I’ve been preparing myself for this moment and I’m determined to face it sensibly.  William will want me to, and he has forewarned us often enough.  Come on, let’s go in,” he said, taking Stephen’s hand all the same.

Dr Alexander had just told them that William was gravely ill.  The course of Neosalvarsan, which had halted the spread of the disease, was no longer effective and William’s fits had grown distressingly worse and his organs had begun to fail.  Now pneumonia had set in and, as Dr Alexander put it, ‘it was only a matter of time.’

Martin had only been back at school a week when he’d been summoned to William’s bedside, the telephone having again proved its worth and Stephen had hurried down from London to join him.

They found William in bed with his eyes closed.  Martin had thought for a moment he was already dead, but then he noticed the rise and fall of his chest.  His breathing was laboured as Martin had expected it to be due the pneumonia.  He turned to look at Stephen.  Stephen had a frightened look in his eyes so Martin squeezed his hand, glad for once that he could be of comfort.

Martin called his brother’s name.  William opened his eyes and gave a little smile.  Thank you for coming, Martin.  Are you all right?” he said quietly and with difficulty.

“Yes, I’m fine, William.  How are you?”

“Not too good as you can see.  This is it, I’m afraid.  Is Stephen with you?”

“Here I am, William,” said Stephen, stepping out from behind Martin.  “I wouldn’t let him come to see you without me.”

William made a movement with his hand and Stephen took it and a look from William suggested that he’d like to hold Martin’s hand as well.

“I don’t think we’ll need the screen in front of the doors today,” he said with difficulty and gave a little smile.  Stephen thought he’d break down in tears, but managed to stifle them.

“Are you in pain, William?” asked Martin.

William gave a little shake to his head.  “Morphine.”

Martin began the recitation of all those who sent their love.  William closed his eyes and may have been listening, but it was hard to tell.”

“Job?”

“Job’s fine William.  He caught a rabbit the other day.”

“I’m not afraid,” William whispered.  “There’s nothing out there; it’s just the end.  Don’t mind that…want it.”

Martin felt disturbed and William must have sensed this for he tightened his grip on the boys’ hands.

“Don’t worry, my dear fellow.  Everything’s in order when I go,” said William turning to him with a look that suggested that he desperately needed Martin to understand this.  “I’ve fixed everything.  You and Stephen…safe.”

“We know, William.  We are very grateful.  You’ve been wonderful.”

William gave their hands a little shake. “For my boys,” he almost chuckled.  He sighed a little and then gulped for air.  “Tell…me… about the school.”  He released their hands and Stephen arranged chairs while William put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

Martin launched into the latest news, glad of something to say. “…and they will start the building in May as soon as the plans are finalised and I will be looking over them with Stephen before that Tatchell can butcher them.  You know he’s swanking about in a big new Rolls Royce.  I had to name the school after him, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him open it. You’ll never guess who I’m getting to lay the foundation stone, William.”

“Not me,” William managed to say. “Sorry old chap.”

Martin suddenly realised that William would never get to see it.  Life will go on remorselessly without him.  This was an awful feeling.  Cruel.

“The Prince of Wales, William.  It will only be his second public duty and he will come to Croome on his way to Cornwall, if all goes well.  That will be one in the eye for Tatchell,” enthused Martin.

He looked at William who appeared to be asleep. “William?”

“Still with you boys.  What day is it Stephen?”

“Monday.”

“Is it?  Has the gardener’s boy been?”  He managed a smile.  “Go for some lunch, if it’s that hour, I won’t die until you get back,” he said quietly, “I will just close my eyes for a bit.”

Stephen and Martin left the room just as the nurse came in with more morphine.  Dr Alexander stopped them in the hall.  “We’re keeping him as comfortable as we can your lordship. He’s not fighting the pneumonia.  He has been a fighter for so long, but I think that he may just slip away in the next few hours; I think he’s ready for it now, if I may say so, your lordship, but you can’t always predict these things.  He has been anxiously waiting for you to come.”

“Thank you Dr Alexander.  And thank you for being frank.  My brother despises cant.  But please don’t let him suffer.”

“I promise that, your lordship.  Are you going out on the front?

“Yes, just for a bit; maybe along the pier—although it’s cold.

“I’ll send someone after you sir…if there’s anything…”

Martin and Stephen walked slowly along the promenade and stopped for tea but didn’t drink it.  They made their way back and, true to his word, William was still alive, however he said very little and closed his eyes for most of the time and catching his breath was now a great effort.

At one point he said something about their father.  Martin couldn’t make out what it was- possibly it was his agony over what had happened to bring him here.  Then he started to say something about their grandfather, the first Marquess of Branksome, but Martin couldn’t make out what the urgent huffings were about.  He reflected suddenly that he would be the fourth Marquess and possibly the last if the line died out and the title became extinct.  He didn’t like to think about that.

It was dark now and Martin had no idea of the time.  William did not speak again.  It must have been about 11 o’clock when his breathing became tremendously noisy and at the same time William became agitated in the bed.  Martin and Stephen tried to calm him, and rubbed his hands and shoulders.  Martin wiped his forehead with a damp cloth.  At Martin’s insistence Stephen fetched Dr Alexander.

“Please help him, Dr Alexander, he’s in distress.”

“I can’t give him any more morphine, your lordship, he’s had the maximum dose.”

“Oh please.  Look how agitated he is.  I don’t want this.  You said you would…”

Dr Alexander prepared a syringe and administered it.  Shortly afterward William seemed calmer, but every breath was now noisy and barely human.  Stephen and Martin now stood on either side of the bed.  They were there for a long time, listening and thinking.  Then, in the small hours, the breathing stopped.  William was gone.

Dr Alexander was summonsed and in his dressing gown he confirmed the obvious.  Stephen thanked him on behalf of them both and he shepherded Martin out of the room, Martin turning one last time to see his brother’s face, now in cold repose.

It was grey and bleak in the morning and Stephen thought it matched their mood.  A hotel servant brought a large envelope to the boys’ room.  It was from Dr Alexander.  Inside was a series of letters from William.  Some were in his own handwriting and some had obviously been dictated to another—possibly Dr Alexander himself—and only signed by the shaky hand of the late Lord Branksome.

William had left instructions about his funeral and how he did not want great mourning or mourning clothes to be worn. “What would people think if we do not wear black, Stephen? They would surely think we lacked respect.”

He had written letters to both Martin and Stephen.  There was one for Uncle Alfred and one for Chilvers to read to the servants.  There was a number for other people as well.  The boys read their respective letters in silence, hot tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Stephen, I want to go back to school now.  I have important work to do—there are exams soon.  I think the routine of school will help me cope.  Will you be all right?”  Stephen nodded.  “I will come back to Croome for the funeral.  Do you think it could be in a week’s time?  It will give people time to organise things, but I want someone else to do it all.  I must concentrate on my schoolwork.  Is that selfish?”

“No, Mala, you’re being sensible.  William has let us know his wishes; that is remarkable on his part, don’t you think?  There will be others who will do it all and I can spend a couple of days at Croome before I also must go back to University.  Sir Danvers can read the will after the funeral.  Will that be satisfactory, Mala?”

Martin nodded, wiping his eyes.

“You’re the Marquess of Branksome, Martin; Croome is yours.”

“Yes, but it sounds funny to my ears—my father really remains Lord Branksome in my mind.  I’m still the Earl of Holdenhurst, by the way, and Baron Purbeck.  I’m also the Hon. Colonel of the Earl of Holdenhurst’s Own Yeomanry.  I’m entitled to fish for lampreys in the River Frome.  I’m a member of the Fishmongers’ Guild.  And when I’m 21 I can sit on the local bench and fine you for public drunkenness or for letting your cattle stray and I can also sit in the House of Lords wearing a coronet decorated with pearls and strawberry leaves in scarlet robes trimmed with the nasty skins of dead Mustela erminea.  I think I can also piss in the Strand— but William told me that and he may have been making it up.  And you Stephen, you’re now a rich man.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.  It’s a bit numbing.  I always was a rich man, Mala,” he said, kissing him.

“That’s very lovely of you to say, Derby.  I’d swap places with you in an instant, if I could.  I didn’t sleep well last night but I feel better for having read William’s letter just now.  Do you think we could go back to bed for a bit?  I’ll get the 11 o’clock train.

*****

Back at school everyone made a fuss of Martin. He assured them all that he was quite alright, but it was nice anyway.  The masters were most impressed that Martin got straight down to his work again. “I really want to go to Cambridge now, Plunger.  I want to read Philosophy and History so I can talk to Mr Churchill and to cousin Friedrich.  I’ll never be as smart as you or Stephen, but I can try to improve myself.”

“Are you sure you’re alright Poole?  You’re coping remarkably well with your brother’s death, I must say.”

“Well, I knew it was coming.  We still have the funeral to get through—you are coming aren’t you?”  The Plunger nodded.  “And I have had a bit of a blub in the dead of night, I must confess.”

“I know I’m no substitute for Stephen, but would you like me to sleep with you tonight—just to keep you company?”

“Why Plunger, that’s very sweet of you.  You’re my best friend.  I’d like that very much, but isn’t it a bit risky?”

“Well, I was talking about how upset you were with Dr Mitcham,” said The Plunger, referring to their housemaster, “and he urged me to keep an eye on you and I happened to give him a pearl tie pin that he had admired and a shilling to Spong has purchased his vigilance…”

“That’s so romantic Plunger, you’ve sort of seduced me like Casanova, but you shouldn’t have given away your lovely pin.”  The Plunger made a gesture of dismissal.  “Perhaps we shouldn’t try ‘Stephen’ again,” said Martin indicating the gutta-percha dildo that was hidden in plain view on the mantelpiece.  We didn’t have much success last time, did we?”

“No we didn’t, Martin.  I did try, but I didn’t want to rupture you.  Are you sure he’s that big?”

“Yes, I saw them take the cast.  It just seems different when Stephen is on the other end. Perhaps I just want him more in real life, but you would be a great comfort in bed tonight, Plunger.  I won’t feel so bereft.  I promise there’ll be no blubbing.  You know, I’ve lost all my family now, except for my uncle and aunt.”

So The Plunger discreetly made his way to Martin’s room after lights were out and climbed into his bed. “I’m wearing new silk pyjamas made by Charvet in Paris, Poole, I hope you like them.”

“They’re lovely Plunger,” said Martin who was already in bed, “But I don’t think Stephen would approve and I want to feel your skin.  That would be more comforting.”  The Plunger reluctantly removed the costly garments and threw them into the pile of dirty clothes that seemed always to be the main feature of Martin’s room.  “That’s nice Plunger.  I love your white skin.  You gingers are very masculine.”

“Thank you Poole,” said The Plunger, genuinely flattered.  Let me put my arm around you and you can go to sleep.”

“But Plunger, I don’t want to sleep.  I was hoping for some of your big ginger cock.”

The Plunger sat up in surprise.  “You don’t mean that you want…I mean Stephen always said that it was special…”

“Stephen doesn’t mind.  He wants you to.  We both love you, Plunger.  It would be a great comfort to me if you did.  You haven’t gone off me because I’m now a peer, have you?”

“Oh no, Poole, of course not.  I still have quite a pet for you even…”

“Even though you have Tsindis?”

“Well there is that, but it’s not the same and he is ten years older than us.”

“Well, come on then.  I’ll get you started.” 

*****

In the morning the two friends were still in curled up together when Spong shook them. “Mr Poole, Mr Poole, wake up!”

Martin stirred and then sat up when he saw it was Spong. “Mr Poole, Mitcham will be along in a few minutes; get Mr Craigth back to his room.

Archie was woken and his pyjamas retrieved.  He found a shilling in his dressing gown pocket and held it out for Spong in his fingertips. “They’re dancing up in Rochdale,” said Spong.

What do you mean, Spong?” said The Plunger still holding the coin as he tried to straighten his hard cock.

“Well they’ll have to put on an extra shift at father’s factory at the rate you’re using the salve.”  He said, indicating the spent tubes lying about.  “Will I cook you a sausage Mr Poole or have you had enough for one night?”

“Cheeky monkey!” cried The Plunger as he tried to box his ears.  Spong dodged out of the way, laughing, and snatched the shilling.

*****

The funeral was a big affair, but it was different from the funerals of Martin’s parents.  Mr Destrombe had read out a letter from William to the parishioners on the previous Sunday.  In it, along with some suitable sentiments about the affection with which he held the people on his estate, he made it clear that he wanted no black clothes worn on the occasion.  Some thought this an odd and disrespectful wish, some even going as far as to say that they had black clothes especially for funerals and now they would be wasted, but the majority were touched with the notion of the letter addressed to them—from beyond the grave so to speak—and were pleased to opt for their Sunday clothes which did much to lighten the occasion.

In place of the usual flowers there were autumn leaves, berries and evergreens—winter being upon them.  Douglas and Reuben Owens would have been able to name the great variety of hips and haws gathered from the hedgerows of the estate.

The Plunger had been a great help to Martin.  Even before the funeral Martin received a mountain of cards and letters from friends and officials such as members of parliament, the Lord Lieutenant of the county, the commander of the Territorial Forces and there was even one from Buckingham Palace.  Martin, after he had finished his prep, devoted two hours every evening to answering all the letters personally.  He and the Plunger devised a formula of words that suited most replies and The Plunger wrote many of them himself, with Martin just appending his signature.  Spong was kept busy with the stamps and envelopes.  The Plunger also accompanied Martin down to Croome for the funeral.

Stephen had relied on the servants at Croome to organise the visitors and Chilvers and Mrs Capstick opened up dozens of seldom-used bedrooms and removed dustsheets from all the public rooms.  Lord Delvees and Uncle Alfred had seen to the arrangements and Sir Danvers Smith KC was expected to see to legal matters, including the will.  Conditions below stairs were crowded too for many of the servants from Branksome House, especially the older ones who had known William all his life, were also anxious to pay their respects to their late master.

A new arrival was Higgins, Lord Alfred’s valet, and Carlo and Glass also journeyed down. In a gracious gesture, Chilvers invited Glass into his room and they sat for nearly an hour talking as equals about the mysteries of their craft.

Bedrooms were found for Donald Selby-Keam and Christopher Tennant.  Stephen was overjoyed to see them—almost in tears—and they immediately quit the house and went for a walk with Martin and Job so they could talk undisturbed.

“We’re determined to go back to Antibes in the New Year,” said Martin.

“We want you all to come,” completed Stephen. “William would have wanted it.  In one of the letters he wrote he said that Christmas must go ahead in the traditional manner and that he regretted not being able to join us this year.” Martin tried not to become tearful at this thought.

“Can you both get away? The Plunger can.”

The boys thought they could after various family obligations were dealt with.

*****

Where is Thayer, Derbs? Asked Martin when he had a moment to collect himself.

“He’s gone back to London, Mala.  He wanted to give us some privacy and he couldn’t very well work with all this going on.  He said that he should be just about be finished by Christmas; it’s going well.”

Derby, have you told your stepfather and Miss Tadrew about your change in circumstances now that William is dead?”

“No, I haven’t worked out what to tell them.  Titus did ask who was now my guardian.  I said I wasn’t sure if it was you or Uncle Alfred, or if it stopped when I was 18 or 21.  I’ll have to ask Sir Danvers.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if you were now my adopted son, Derbs!”

“Not funny at all; you’d be a very naughty old man.”

*****

The funeral came and went.  William was laid to rest in a plot alongside his parents in the churchyard.  A marble tablet was already in place in the west transept.  There was a luncheon and many of the mourners departed while others remained until the following day.  Stephen wanted Christopher to sleep with him, but he didn’t ask and Christopher remained in his own room and left by an early train.

It was a much smaller gathering that heard the will read in the red drawing room.  The first part concerned William’s personal fortune.  There was a handsome sum for cousins Antony and Sophia, held in trust until their majority.  Sophia was pleased that it was not tied to her marrying.  There were sums for Tsindis and two other men whose names Martin did not recognise.  He exchanged glances with Stephen.  There were some legacies for servants and hospital staff.  The main item concerned the bulk of William’s private fortune that was to pass to his adopted son, Stephen Knight-Poole, and it was to be held in trust by his guardians, Uncle Alfred and Sir Danvers, until he was 21.  There were no comments from anyone.

The next part concerned the estate of Croome with its farms, villages, tenants, woods and broad acres as well as Branksome House in Piccadilly and all the accumulated capital.  Uncle Alfred’s allowance from the estate was to continue, but all the rest—including the investments that Daniel Sachs was so carefully managing—passed automatically by the law of primogeniture to Martin, the new Marquess of Branksome, Earl of Holdenhurst, Baron Purbeck, and 17 year-old captain of the lacrosse team.

The listeners departed, except for Stephen and Martin.  Sir Danvers was busily packing up his papers when Stephen asked: “Sir Danvers, could you tell me roughly what sum my legacy from William amounts to?”

“Oh, Mr Knight-Poole, I’d say about a quarter of a million pounds.”

Stephen went pale and rushed to the window.  He opened it and vomited into the garden bed.

Martin spoke for him. “Sir Danvers we were expecting about ten thousand or so.  Can it really be that much?”

“Yes, your lordship.  He was left two thirds of that sum when your father died— it was largely your mother’s money originally—and he invested wisely and, unfortunately, didn’t get to spend a great deal.”  He produced a handkerchief and gave it to Stephen who was shaking and had broken out into a cold sweat.  “He was so happy anticipating this moment, Stephen.  I hope he’s looking down.”  With that, the reserved and correct jurist shook Stephen’s hand and then, surprisingly, embraced him in a fatherly hug.  After a pause he said; “He had Sachs manage his affairs over the last two years.  It will be up to you if you continue with him, of course.  I do hope that I can be of service to you in the future.  I’m very fond of you—of both of you.”

*****

In bed that night there was much to talk over.  At one point Martin said, “It’s no more than you deserve, Derbs.”

Stephen almost turned on him in anger, but then, at the last moment softened his approach. “Yes it is more than I deserve, Mala, outrageously so.  I’m not going to hand it back, but I don’t deserve it.  Why should I have so much money when a dozen other boys from the village—or millions across England—who have done nothing wrong don’t have it—don’t even have enough to get by?”

“Well William wanted you to have it, Derby,” said Martin a bit shocked by his vehemence.

“Yes he did.  Now I have it.  I will do my best with it, but please don’t ever say I deserve it.”

“I take your point Derby.  I’m sorry.”

“No, that’s alright, Mala.  You love me and you wanted me to feel happy so you said it for my benefit.  Thank you.  I’m far from ungrateful.”

“I don’t know why some people are born rich while others are poor, Derbs.  I don’t know why some are born smart and beautiful and other are not.  I suppose I’m a Tory, but I don’t believe in the divine right of kings, but it is the way things are.”

“Yes, I understand that.  As long as they don’t have to stay that way forever and there is a difference between being poor and being stupid; one can be remedied,” said Stephen kindly, now with arm around Martin.  They were silent for a few minutes, hoping that their money would not cast a pall over their love.

“Derby, will you fuck me or can I fuck you?  I have learnt a new trick from The Plunger I’m anxious to share.”

“Perhaps we can do both, Mala, we won’t be seeing each other until Christmas, and I’m feeling particularly randy.”

To be continued... 

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.

Posted: 01/03/14