“I don’t know.” Percy’s voice was stronger now, though he also had to stop to clear his throat. “I—that’s all I wanted—all I needed to say to you, John. Have you … anything to say to me?”
“God. Where would I start?” But he didn’t say it unkindly. “No. Or—no, wait. There’s one thing.” The notion had just come to him, and he doubted that it would be of any help; Percy was a coward and always would be. But maybe … He straightened up and leaned toward Percy, the chain rattling on the floor.
“Richardson doesn’t allow me paper or ink—probably thinking I’ll try to toss a message to some passing boat below. I can’t write to anyone—last words, I mean, or farewell, or what-have-you. I gather you have some freedom, though.” He’d seen, from his port, Percy being rowed ashore now and then, presumably doing errands for Richardson. “If you can, will you at least go to my house—it’s Number Twelve Oglethorpe Street—”
“I know where it is.” Percy was pale, but his face had settled on its bones.
“Of course you do. Well, if you meant what you just said, then for the sake of any love you’ve ever had for me—go and tell my son that I love him.” He badly wanted to shout, “For God’s sake, tell Willie what’s happened! Tell him to go to Prévost and get help!” But Percy was terrified of Richardson—and everything else in the world, he thought with an exhausted pity—and to ask him to risk something like that was likely to make him run away, get drunk, or cut his own throat.
“Please,” he added, gently.
It was a long moment, and he imagined he heard the wingbeats of the pelicans passing soberly over the river below, but Percy nodded at last and stood up.
“Goodbye, John,” he whispered.
“Goodbye, Perseverance.”
152
Titus Andronicus
WILLIAM CAME BACK TO the house after yet another unfruitful search of the docks and the taverns on the roads leading out of Savannah, to find Amaranthus pacing to and fro in the front garden.
“There you are,” she said, in a tone mingling accusation and relief. “A man’s come; I saw him at Mrs. Fleury’s tea, but I don’t know his name. He says he’s a friend of Lord John’s and he knows you. I’ve put him in the parlor.”
He found the man who’d been introduced to him at Mrs. Fleury’s as the Cavalier Saint-Honoré in the parlor. He’d picked up one of Lord John’s treasured Meissen plates from the sideboard, and was running a finger gently round the gilt edging. Yes, it was the same man, a Frenchman; he’d seen him briefly at Madame Prévost’s luncheon, too.
“Your servant, sir. Puis-je vous aider?” William asked, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. The man turned round and his face changed as he saw William, going from exhaustion and strain to something like relief.
“Lord Ellesmere?” he said, in a thoroughly English accent.
William was too tired and in much too bad a temper to make either inquiries or explanations.
“Yes,” he said brusquely. “What do you want?” The fellow was much less soigné than when last seen; minus his wig, his hair was short and curly, frosted with gray and matted with sweat, and his linen was soiled, his expensive suit crumpled.
“My name is—Percy Wainwright,” the fellow said, as though not quite sure that it was. “I am … I was … well, I suppose I still am, come to think … I’m Lord John’s stepbrother.”
“What?” By reflex, William grabbed the Meissen plate before the fellow could drop it, and set it back on the sideboard. “What the devil do you mean, stepbrother? I’ve never heard of a stepbrother.”
“I don’t suppose you would have.” A faint grimace that might have started as a smile faded, leaving Wainwright’s face pale and exhausted.
“The family no doubt did their best to expunge me from memory, after … well, that’s of no account. There was a rupture, and a parting of ways—but I still consider John my brother.” He swallowed, swaying a little, and William thought the man was unwell.
“Sit down,” he said, grabbing one of the small armchairs and turning it round, “and tell me what’s going on. Do you know where Lord John is?”
Wainwright shook his head.
“No. I mean … yes, but he’s not …”
“Filius canis,” William muttered. He glanced round and saw Amaranthus, lurking curiously just outside the door, and jerked his chin at her as though she were the maid. “Get us some brandy, please.”
He didn’t wait for it to arrive, but sat down opposite Wainwright. His stomach had curled up into a ball, tight with apprehension and excitement.
“Where did you last see him?” he asked, hoping to restore Wainwright to coherence by means of simple, logical questions. Rather to his surprise, it worked.
“Aboard a ship,” Wainwright said, and straightened up a little. “An—an Indiaman, called the Pallas. A Greek name, I mean—a god of some kind?”
“The god of battle,” Amaranthus said, coming in with a glass of brandy on a tray. She eyed Wainwright narrowly, then glanced at William, lifting a brow. Should she stay or go? He gestured briefly to another chair and turned back to Wainwright.
“A ship. All right. Where is this ship?”
“I don’t know. They—they move it. They were lifting anchor as I—as I left. I didn’t abandon him!” he cried, seeing William’s frown. “I—I would never have left him, but I could do him no good, and I thought—well, he told me, in fact. He told me to go and to find you.”
Amaranthus made a small hum, expressing doubt. William shared it, but no choice but to go on and hope the man could be encouraged to make more sense.
“Of course,” he said, trying to be soothing. “And what did he tell you to say when you did find me?”
“He didn’t … say … exactly. I mean, there wasn’t time for a message, they were getting ready—”
“More brandy?” Amaranthus asked, getting her feet under her.
“Not yet.” William raised a hand and she sat down, her eyes fixed warily on Wainwright, who was looking more wretched by the moment. All three of them were silent, while Lord John’s clock ticked peacefully on the mantelpiece, the cloisonné butterfly within its dome slowly raising and lowering its blue and gold wings. At last Wainwright looked up from his tight-folded hands.
“It’s my fault,” he said. His voice trembled. “I didn’t know, I swear it. But—” He licked his lips and squared his shoulders. “Lord John has been kidnapped and is in the hands of a madman. He is in great danger. And yes, please, more brandy.”
“In a moment,” Amaranthus said, sitting forward on the edge of her seat. “Tell us who this madman is, if you please.”
Wainwright looked at her and blinked.
“Oh. His name is Richardson. Ezekiel Richardson.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” William was on his feet and had jerked Wainwright out of his chair by his shirtfront in an instant. “What the devil does he want with my father? Tell me, God damn it!”