Fortune's Son (14 page)

Philip had anticipated the day, for over four years, when he would actually have the means to live out his life independent of his accursed compassionless, controlling father.

Affecting all the airs of his forthcoming prosperity, he arrived at the offices of Phineas Willoughby, Esquire, administrator of his trust, proudly garbed in new, modish dress purchased from one of London's finest tailors.

Only a few scratches of the quill stood between him and two thousand pounds. Though it was a modest fortune, it would nonetheless transform him into a man of independence, allowing him to remain in comfort and exist in a manner more befitting his birth. Perhaps he would start by seeking better apartments, mayhap something at St. James Square?

He was lost in the happy reverie when the lawyer entered. “My felicitations on your coming of age, Master Drake, 'tis a milestone indeed.” The aged solicitor offered his hand with an avuncular smile. “Of course you are here to claim your inheritance.”

“Indeed I am.” Philip returned a broad grin. “I've looked forward to this day.”

“I am sure you have, but you may not be aware of another matter reserved for this occasion.”

Philip looked his question.

“There is an item of a more personal nature that I was asked to hold in safekeeping for you until this day.”

“A personal item from my mother? I have never heard of this.”

The lawyer unlocked a drawer and retrieved a box that he set gingerly atop his desk.

“What is it?” Philip asked, his heartbeat accelerating with anticipation.

Willoughby opened the box and removed a small jewel case and a sealed letter written in his mother's delicate hand. Philip took the letter, breaking the seal with a look of agitated bewilderment. It was dated a month before her death from consumption.

To my most precious Son,

I most earnestly wish that I might have seen this day that you became a man in your own right, and that I might have spoken these things I am now compelled to write. What I am about to reveal, I was sworn to withhold from you from the time of your birth, but now that you have reached your age of accountability, and I rest peacefully in my grave, I no longer feel bound to that vow.

This ring, my dearest one, belonged to my mother, and her mother before that. It is a symbol of your maternal heritage that I bequeath to you, in hope it might finally provide answers to the questions which have long caused you heartache and distress.

I pray that this revelation, though perhaps at first shocking, will explain the otherwise unexplainable—why a father would so reject his own son, his own blood.

Please accept this ring with my fondest wishes for health, peace, prosperity, and love.

Your Most,

Affectionate and Devoted

Mother

Philip opened the case to discover a simple band for a woman's hand, crafted in gold, unremarkable but for the unusual symbols engraved upon it. He examined it with the utmost reverence, as if any amount of pressure might break it. He rolled it slowly between thumb and index finger, puzzling over the characters with a frown.

“Do you know what this means, Mr. Willoughby? Is it a code of some sort? I've never seen anything like it.” Philip handed him the ring.

The solicitor accepted it, studied it, and shook his head. “I am a scholar of Greek and Latin; I have no knowledge of Hebrew.”

“Hebrew?” Philip repeated, stunned.

Willoughby flushed at what he had inadvertently revealed.

“My mother was an Englishwoman, born in Middlesex and raised in London proper. She was baptized in the Anglican church. Why would she own such an item?”

“Your mother was indeed an Englishwoman, but also the daughter of a Dutch merchant who immigrated during the days of William of Orange. The Dutch, as you may know, received many Jews into their midst in the last century, who over time intermarried widely within the merchant classes. Your maternal grandfather married such a Jewess.”

“A Jewess? My grandmother was a Jew?” Philip stared blankly at the solicitor. “Why was I never told?”

“As you are undoubtedly aware, the match between your parents was purely a business arrangement. Your maternal grandfather desired the social status and business connections an alliance with a peer of the realm could bring, and your father, after suffering crippling losses in the South Sea Bubble, was in need of the dowry to support his estate. Your mother was simply the means to their mutual ends, and was forsworn by the earl never to speak of her heritage.”

“I see.” Philip said nothing more, but sat stoically silent as full understanding dawned and the world, as he knew it, crumbled about his ears.

From his very birth, Philip's father had treated him with scorn and derision, almost as if he regarded him a bastard. Suddenly he understood. Although he was the earl's legitimate son, he was tainted by the very blood he carried in his veins. He was a one-quarter Jew.

“Rest assured I'll speak of it to no one,” Willoughby said apologetically as he handed back the ring. “As to the inscription, if you truly wish to explore this, not that I advise you to,” he hastily amended, “there is a man you might seek whose discretion you can assuredly trust. His name is David Nieto, and though a Jew, is considered by many a brilliant man of parts: philosopher, physician, poet, mathematician, astronomer, and theologian. He leads the Sephardic house of worship at Bevis Marks in Stepney.”

“I'll take it under advisement,” Philip replied vaguely, only half hearing the rest.

“Come to think of it, that brings to mind another matter. There is a gentleman of the same order by the name of Samson Gideon who might advise you well on the investment of your windfall,” counseled Willoughby. “The man's a veritable oracle of the 'Change. You are bound to find him among the stock-jobbers at Jonathan's Coffee House in Exchange Alley.”

“Thank you, Willoughby,” Philip said and slid the ring onto the little finger of his right hand.

***

Aside from one slightly disturbing revelation, Philip departed Willoughby's office feeling in every sense a free man.

Willoughby had counseled Philip to invest his capital in legitimate enterprise. Perhaps the East India Company, Jamaican sugar, or colonial tobacco. Many Scottish and Quaker merchants had garnered tremendous riches from Oronoco. Yet others continued to make their fortunes from the slave trade that supported the sugar and tobacco plantations. Philip reflected on the last only briefly before dismissing the notion with distaste. Let others profit by bondage.

Two thousand pounds wisely invested was enough to keep a single gentleman in superior lodgings with a gentleman's accoutrements for years. But what of Sukey's debts? He hadn't pressed her for figures and wondered how much would be required to settle them. He speculated how long the money might sustain them both.

She appeared to require immediate assistance. If he took on her burden, he would have no assurance of security. Sukey had the same love of fine things as he, and no greater self-restraint. Although she claimed to have made some efforts to economize of late, he'd be ill advised to think it lasting.

His steps grew heavier and his brow furrowed as Philip struggled with the dilemma of how best to help her without jeopardizing his own future. Certainly a few good nights at the tables might enlarge the largesse, but dare he risk it?

Deciding to put aside these weightier thoughts for another time, Philip chose instead to bask in his all around good fortune. Aside from one rather rattling disclosure that he continued to digest, he felt like a new man. With the commemoration of his twenty-first year, he had come into a great deal of money. Adding to that fortuity was a beautiful woman in whose arms he could lose himself to the point of oblivion.

The knowledge of having transported her to a state of unbridled rapture drove him half mad and imbued him with a deeper satisfaction than he'd ever known. The feel of her, the look on her face, and her sounds as she reached completion occupied his thoughts until he could only think of loving her again, and again, pushing her over the brink until she cried his name aloud.

Philip felt empowered with a newfound sense of self-possession that had begun in his lover's arms. He'd soon be the envy of every man of his acquaintance. Who would have ever thought it?

His face split into a self-satisfied grin at the utter irony.

Philip's pleasing ruminations added an air of self-conceit to his usual swagger as he ventured down the Strand. It surely was a day for commemoration and he fully intended to celebrate, once he reclaimed his possessions from pawn.

He entered the dingy shop on the Strand to repay the pledge for his silver-hilted dress sword, but passing by the fine jewelry case his eye caught the milky glimmer of emeralds, a very familiar set of emeralds.

“Might I have a closer look at these?” Philip asked the greasy black-toothed fellow.

“Aye. A finer set you'll not find in Lon'on,” said the man, removing the gems for Philip's inspection and adding with a wink, “'Twould get ye right quick a'tween any high-flyin' ladybird's thighs.”

Philip forced a smile to encourage the talker. “Can you tell me anything of their history?”

“A lady brung 'em in. Dressed like a maid she was, but didn't bamboozle me. Knew she was the quality the minute she opens her mouf. Lots of folks what pawn come in disguised-like.”

“When did you say you acquired these?”

“The emeralds and the ring, jes' yesterday, though she pledged some other gems the week afore. If'n ye'd like to see those, I've no doubt she'll not be claimin' 'em.”

The man produced a strand of pearls with a ruby clasp and a diamond ring that Philip examined with interest. The pearls he had never seen, but the ring? Was it her wedding ring? Philip made a mental note to observe if she still wore one.

“When will the items be available? I'm acquainted with a lady who might be particularly pleased to have them.”

“Loan's short term. If she don't pay the interest, as I expect she won't, ye can come for 'em in a for'night.”

“I'll strongly consider it,” Philip said, producing a contract. “For now I only wish to reclaim my sword.”

He was deeply disconcerted by the depth of Sukey's troubles, but still determined to find a way to sort it all out. He paused once more to ruminate over the ring in the jeweler's case, and, catching himself with a peculiar thought, shook it off immediately as a fatuous, passing fancy.

Seeking company with whom to revel over his change in circumstances, Philip set out to locate and make amends with George. Although he was certain to be surly after what transpired at Medmenham, affable ol' Bosky was of a forgiving temperament, especially to whoever was buying the drinks.

Not finding George at home, Philip made inquiries at the unusually vacant Will's Coffeehouse.

“They all be gone to the mill,” the proprietor said.

“The mill?” Philip asked.

“Aye. There's to be some gratuitous head-breaking. Had your own up yer arse the past sennight?” he asked cheekily.

“I've been otherwise occupied,” Philip said.

“Well, the entire of Lon'on's gone to see it. Lord Peterborough challenged Figg to find a man to beat the outlander, a giant Venetian brute he is. He's said to down a man with a single blow.”

“And Figg, of course, took up the gauntlet,” Philip said.

“Never known Figg to back down, though I hear the odds was favorin' the foreigner four to one.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Philip said, and left the coffeehouse to metaphorically kill two birds with a single stone. Knowing George for a most ardent votary of blood sport, Philip knew just where to find him, and with his pocket full of coin decided he may as well wager a few guineas as well.

The claim that all of London attended the match was little exaggerated. Philip had to wedge through the spitting, cursing, gin-tippling crowd forming around the wooden stage that served as the boxing ring at Oxford Circus. After a time, he located George Selwyn within the throng.

“You're in luck, Drake!” George exclaimed. “There's about to commence some gratuitous head breaking!”

“Cudgels?”

“Fisticuffs,” George corrected. “Seems an Italian noble with a Goliath Venetian gondolier has been flaunting his personal jaw-breaker as unbeatable in every capital of Europe. He offered a substantial wager to Lord Peterborough to find any man in England to best his champion.”

“And?” Philip prompted.

“Seems the fellow's indeed broken the jaw of most every opponent who's matched him, but Figg pledged to Peterborough, who's dropped a hefty sum on the match, to pit a man against the Italian who won't be broke with a sledgehammer.”

By this time the swarthy giant had appeared. Beaming with bravado, the Venetian commenced to strip to the waist, revealing massive shoulders, long brawny arms, and a torso hard as burnished bronze.

Awestruck by the Hercules before them, an awful silence prevailed amongst the spectators as he flexed his muscles and strutted the stage.

“What a brute!” George exclaimed.

“Who the devil might his lucky opponent be?” Philip asked, eying the foreigner with appreciative speculation.

“Bob Whitaker's the appointed one,” interjected a gentleman standing at George's elbow. “Godfrey. John Godfrey.” He introduced himself to George and Philip.

“Captain Godfrey of the
Sporting
News
?” George asked.

“The same,” he nodded. “And here's our man of the hour, Bob Whitaker, to take the brute's measure.”

“By any stick, I'd say Whitaker comes up short,” Philip quipped to the captain.

Godfrey chuckled. “Looks often deceive, my good man. Besides, after hearing the waterman boast that he'd take the shine out of any Englishman, Figg himself swore to come out of retirement and enter the ring if Whitaker knocks under. Heard him say myself he'd give the gondolier ‘a Figg to chaw that he'll have trouble swallowing' long before he'd let an outlandish waterman rule the roost.”

George remained skeptical. “I've seen Whitaker a time or two. The clumsy oaf half-throws himself at his opponents.”

“He's not known for his agility or grace, but none can deny Bob's true English bottom. Fists of iron, he has, and tough as elephant hide to boot. His secret is soaking his hands an hour a day in brine,” Godfrey remarked.

“But the odds are still four to one against 'im,” George said. “Though I'm loathe to wager against my own countryman…” He looked to the Venetian with a defeatist shrug.

“I've known Figg a very long time,” the captain returned. “If he feels Whitaker's up to the mark, my money's on our man.”

At these words, the bullish Whitaker appeared on the platform. Cool and steady as a rock, he approached his challenger who stood nearly a full head above him. Undaunted, Whitaker rose onto the balls of his feet, meeting the Venetian breast-to-breast and eyeball-to-eyeball, all to a chorus of English cheers and huzzahs. Encouraged by his compatriots, Bob tore off his waistcoat and shirt, tossing them heedlessly into the crowd.

“I grant him a fine pair of fine English bollocks, anyway,” George said with lessening skepticism.

Without ado, the men set to, much as fighting cocks in the pit. Coming together in a sudden flurry of blows, the Venetian struck such a hit to Whitaker's head as to catapult him over the stage and into the onlookers.

“Look! The man's already finished!” George exclaimed in dismay, having just placed a modest sum on the Englishman. Another frantic round of betting ensued with the odds now laying even thicker against Whitaker at six to one.

Though few believed Whitaker would come about, the unfazed English gamecock brushed himself off and with a grin, propelled himself over the rail, back onto the stage. Amid a second round of huzzahs and frenzied betting, Whitaker re-faced his opponent.

“I'll be hanged,” Philip remarked with admiration.

“He's got grit, I'll grant 'im that, but the Venetian's a longer arm. He'll never overcome that reach!” George remarked.

“Don't be too quick to count Bob out,” the captain said. “What he may lack in finesse, I assure you, he compensates in wiliness and vigor.”

Without further ceremony, and as if choreographed on the captain's cue, Bob crouched low, and with the ferocious roar of a raging bull rammed a solid English peg to the Venetian's gut, driving him gasping and careening to the floor.

“Now that's a devil's leveler!” George exclaimed with pure glee. “Bob's bellyful knocked him clean onto his Venetian arse!”

The crowd went wild with raucous guffaws and deafening cheers while the dazed and winded gondolier tried in vain to recover his feet, but Whitaker's hammer was relentless. Suddenly the odds shifted again to favor the English pugilist, whereby Philip and George were both eager to get in on the action.

Whitaker fell upon the bewildered Venetian, continuing his brutal, unrelenting assault while his beleaguered opponent, thus besieged, barely managed to find his feet against the firestorm of blows, eventually losing his guard altogether.

The match continued but within just a few rounds, the tenacious English bulldog, completely and indisputably, humbled his opponent to the point of fleeing the ring in mortification and disgrace.

Captain Godfrey's tongue-in-cheek report in the next day's
Sporting
News
would describe the defeat:

“The Venetian, after much vainglorious boasting, received a blow to the stomach with more rudeness than he could bear, and finding himself so unmannerly used, scorned to have any further doings with the slovenly English fist.”

***

Within minutes of the bout, the majority of spectators dispersed to their favorite taverns to celebrate or commiserate, depending on the results of their wagers. Philip and George, happily amongst the former group, accompanied Captain Godfrey to collect their respective winnings.

“Care to share a bowl of arrack punch, George? I've cause for celebration,” Philip said.

Having won nearly treble his stakes, George was in a perfectly conciliatory frame of mind. “Indeed a happy outcome, though one might mourn the short duration of it. Damnably feeble fighter the foreign fellow turned out to be. But still worth a toast to our man of the hour, Whitaker.”

“I don't just speak of the wager. Remember that windfall I spoke of?”

“I do recall,” said George. “Is it all you expected?”

“My change in circumstances has certainly come about,” Philip grinned.

“So you mean to set yourself up now?”

“I've the means to be comfortable, if that's what you ask.”

“Mayhap 'twould be better advised to maintain a low profile for a time, Drake. That debacle with Dashwood won't soon blow over, you know.”

“Surely you know I could not have done any differently.”

“Even so, you seem to be adopting a habit of late of poaching women and brandishing your sword at anything that moves. Not actions to endear yourself to the peerage, if you glean my meaning.”

“I fear you grossly overstate the events.”

“Do I? Have you already forgotten your little incident with the Prince of Wales? He's none too pleased you pinched his intended mistress, and now of course there's Dashwood. Though I daresay he won't meet you
this
time
, he vowed to make you answer for the episode if he ever lays eyes on you again. Sandwich will surely second him. You've made no friend of him either.”

“Surely you don't expect me to go into hiding,” Philip said.

“Don't you think it would be wise to play least in sight for a while?”

“If Dashwood feels the need to defend his dubious honor, so be it, George,” Philip said, with perhaps more bravado than he really felt.

“You'd best hope he remembered nothing of the incident when he sobered. The man did threaten to
kill
you
.”

Philip flushed rubicund. “Nevertheless, Bosky, should I meet Dashwood, or anyone else, I assure you I would acquit myself creditably enough to avoid
that
fate.”

“You would not expect to shed blood?”

“It would not be my plan to do so.”

“Very droll, Drake. And precisely how many duels have you fought?”

“I'm no stranger to breaking bones, George. I've not survived the past four years in the company I keep without encountering blade and cudgel a time or two.”

“A duel is a far cry from a tavern tussle, you know. Have you any formal training with the smallsword?”

“Some, though I don't boast of any great expertise.”

“And you wouldn't expect to get pinked? How would you propose to avoid it, my cocky friend?”

“It is my understanding that one is most successful by avoiding the
pointy
end of the blade.” Philip grinned.

“Well, you can expect to be called upon to use that shiny stick of yours if you continue in this current vein.”

“Then I must count on my luck, superior reflexes, and hope my opponent's the worse for drink.”

George paused, massaging his chin in thought. “You know, Drake, it's no laughing matter. If you truly aspire to adopt a gentleman's life, mayhap it's time to acquire more of a gentleman's accomplishments.”

Philip replied, “It's a bit late for that, don't you think?”

“Not at all, and it would not be unreasonable to put some of your so-called windfall to good use,” George replied, producing a card from his pocket. Embossed in the characteristic style of William Hogarth, it read:

James Figg: Master of the Noble Science of Defense,

Oxford Road near Adam and Eve Court.

“Teaching gentlemen the use of the sword and quarterstaff.”

George handed it to Philip and said, “Now how about that arrack punch…”