The Firstborn

Chapter Six

Haughton had not yet left Stantreath. The roads, he'd been informed, were too wet to facilitate an immediate departure following his interview with that confounded Brixton woman. The streams and local canals were too high. Several of the bridges he would need to cross were rendered impassable by a rainstorm that had occurred several days ago some miles inland, the effects of which were only now visiting their destruction on the village and its outlying areas.

This, of course, was the explanation for why he had, in contrast, experienced little difficulty upon his journey to Stantreath. There had been some mud, and one of the horses had thrown a shoe, but apart from that, nothing more than minor inconvenience had marred his forward progress.

But now, the owner of the inn—a Mr. Treacher, who had become the most irritating of bootlickers the moment the crest on Haughton's coach, along with the contents of his wallet, had become known to the odious man—did nothing but protest against Haughton's plans for departure. Surely, he should stay for at least another night, possibly two, until it was certain that all roads toward London were passable again!

And every person in the inn seemed to be in collusion with one another, the stable boys reporting that his coach needed repair, that one of the horses was displaying signs of lameness; while the maids insisted that he needed to change rooms, that the mice had gotten in and wouldn't he more comfortable on another floor? And all while Mr. Treacher added more items to the bill: Another meal, a fresh set of linens for the new bed, two more scoops of coal for the fire.

Haughton sat in a private sitting room at the back of the inn, a space that bore more resemblance to a spacious cupboard than an area intended for the comfort of a fully-grown person, and sipped at a tepid cup of tea. He could ring for someone to bring him a fresh cup, but no doubt the avaricious Mr. Treacher would add three more items to his bill (quality tea being such an expense, the landlord had informed him) and he would be expected to place a gratuity into the palm of whichever overly-obsequious maid took it upon herself to deliver the tray.

And so he took another swallow of cold tea, and he made a third attempt at reading the same newspaper he had been nursing for as long as his dismal beverage had rested near the arm of his chair.

The knock at the door that interrupted this rare moment of leisure was faint, but considering the scant size of the room, there was little chance of him pretending not to have heard it.

"Enter," he said, and didn't deign to look away from his newspaper as the red-faced Mr. Treacher puffed into the room.

"Beg pardon, your lordship." Mr. Treacher attempted a bow, but managed to upset a small table decorated with cheap, vulgar knick-knacks. The landlord apologized profusely, while attempting to set everything to rights, and Haughton shook out his paper and rolled his eyes heavenward. Four ghastly figurines shattered to pieces. He'd be shocked if they didn't show up on his bill as the most precious examples of Ming China in all of Northumberland.

"Yes?" Haughton prompted while Mr. Treacher continued to fuss over the now wobbling table.

One table, broken, was how he imagined it would be transcribed. Along with: Chippendale, irreplaceable.

"You've a visitor, your lordship," the landlord said, before he wedged a book beneath one of the crooked table legs and stepped back to survey his handiwork.

"Oh?" Haughton straightened in his chair. There was only one person he'd called on since his arrival in Stantreath, and he wondered if a night spent thinking over his offer had finally brought Mrs. Brixton around to his view of things.

"The Reverend Fenton, my lord. Sir. Your lordship." Mr. Treacher took up the corner of his soiled apron and used it to wipe the sweat from his upper lip. "Come to pay his respects, I'm sure. He asks for only a brief moment of your time."