CHAPTER 1 - Roger Reborn
He knew something was wrong the instant he opened
his bleary eyes. He was lying in the middle of a totally unfamiliar room. The mattress
was uncharacteristically soft in a four-poster bed of elegant, antique design. The
sheets seemed to be made of either cotton or coarse linen, but they were unusually
rough to the touch. The bed was covered by a thick counterpane that he eventually
pushed aside. The rest of the bedroom furniture looked like a quaint collection
of museum pieces. To his greater surprise and not inconsiderable annoyance, there
was no telephone visible anywhere in this strange room. He shook his head in bewilderment.
There was no telltale sound of traffic, nor were there any sounds of computers or
televisions. All was strangely silent as if he were the last person alive on a dead
planet.
The pungent odor of recently produced wood smoke
pervaded the room. He quickly noticed a filthy fireplace that contained an almost
completely consumed log, which was covered thick with ashes. A few embers still
glowed like forlorn sentinels guarding the blackened wood remnants.
He muttered, "Christ! I must have had way too much
to drink."
His voice didn't sound right. It was as unfamiliar
as the antique looking room. The tell-tale intonation of a British accent struck
his ears with shocking precision. He definitely felt strange
as he hesitantly slid out of bed like some gradually undulating lava flow.
His brain ached with an insistent throb that clearly
told him that all was not right with his world. His head swam in an unexpected dizzy
whirl when he finally stood on quaking legs. It took him several long seconds to
regain some degree of equilibrium before he took in more details of this completely
unfamiliar room. The light, such as it was, hurt his eyes, increasing the pain in
his already befuddled head.
A richly embroidered oriental carpet covered a
broad-planked wood floor. However, this elegant rug was utterly foreign to him.
His staggering steps led him to an alcove where a marble stand held a pewter wash
basin, half filled with water. Beside it were implements for shaving. A large, ornate
mounted mirror completed the elegant toilet. However, the image he saw in front
of him only served to increase the shock of this completely unfamiliar place. He
grew pale with fear as he beheld the completely alien face that looked back at him.
He wiped his hand over his eyes, hoping to restore proper vision. Unfortunately,
the strange visage continued to blink back at him, as if mocking his very existence.
He gasped, "What the fuck?"
He was staring into a very young man's face, late
teens he imagined. The eyes were deep and bloodshot, revealing a rich hazel coloring.
His head was covered with thick, curly chestnut-brown hair. He moved his shaking
hand over his eyes yet again in hopes of clearing away the unknown specter in the
looking glass.
In spite of his desperate motion, it was still there. He gaped
in wonder at the small birthmark on the left cheek and the unfamiliar dimple in
his chin. Was it his chin? Was it somebody else's? The high forehead hinted at the
possibility of high intelligence, although he wasn't feeling very intelligent at the moment. He grimaced just a bit when he realized he needed
a shave.
Using the unfamiliar razor and lathering soap took
some effort, but eventually he got it right. He opened a nearby bottle and gave
it an inquisitive sniff. It smelled of some kind of cologne
and alcohol, so he used some to brace his slightly scratched-up face. It stung like
the devil, but at least he'd found the aftershave. He hoped that's what it was.
He finally discovered the commode, but there was
no toilet or bathtub. That was very strange. How the hell did one get a bath around
here? Where was here anyway? If this was a motel, it was rustic beyond belief.
He eventually stumbled back to the bed area and
looked for clothes. He found knee stockings and britches, along with a somewhat
crumpled shirt and unbuttoned waistcoat that were slung on the back of a wood chair
near a roll-top desk. He shook his head again as he put on the odd, old-fashioned
clothes. The waistcoat was an attractive, dark green color, while the tan britches
were a pleasant contrast to the above-described waistcoat. The shirt and stockings,
of course, were white.
He soon discovered some shoes and boots. For no
particular reason he could think of, he opted for the boots,
which were of rich dark brown leather. They covered the stockings in full and fit
like a well-fashioned glove. He'd never seen these clothes before, yet they fit
him perfectly. It was passing strange.
After dressing, he went to the bedroom door and
listened attentively. He could hear the faint sounds of voices, somewhere in another
part of the house. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered again, "Might as well
find out what the hell is going down. This is one mother of a trip. It's like the
fucking Twilight Zone, for Christ's sake!"
He entered a carpeted hallway and slowly proceeded
toward the sounds of human conversation. He noted that his room was the second door
on his right before he reached the stairway. That meant it would be the second door
on his left when he returned, assuming he was able to return. He had never seen
a stairway quite like this one unless it was in some eighteenth-century costume
drama. It curled down in a half circle to a huge entrance hall. The highly polished,
hand-carved oak balustrade proclaimed opulence. The magnificent stairway debouched
upon a gleaming, rose-tinted marble floor. The immaculate stone actually glowed with rich tones of colored light that dazzled
his bewildered eyes. This shimmering luminescence streamed across the hall from
exquisite, stained-glass windows. He slowly descended the steps, expecting at any
moment to suddenly regain an apparently lost reality.
The voices grew louder. They seemed to be coming
from the rear of the house. As he reached the bottom, a young woman came around
the corner and practically ran into him.
She quipped, "Well it's about time sleeping beauty
arose from interminable slumber."
Before him was a young spitfire with dark, lustrous,
brown hair and sharp blue eyes. She was a girl just blossoming into womanhood. This
grinning, female imp was attractively fitted in a primrose-yellow taffeta dress
that accented her dark brown hair beautifully. The sprightly girl was markedly shorter
than him. She looked up into his face with saucy irreverence. Her smile was more
like a sneer as she waited for a reply.
He mumbled, "I have a headache."
She laughed derisively, "Well my poor, poor brother
Roger! I should think you would have a headache after the prodigious amount of spirits
you consumed last night. My God, you're the talk of the entire bloody county."
He was tempted to argue with her, but her antique
clothes and unusual accent stopped him cold. She looked like a living relic from
a costume drama except he had the uneasy feeling that this sure wasn't a movie.
The girl's lilting British accent made the occasional word a little hard to follow.
He covered his eyes with a trembling hand for a moment and finally asked, "What
day is it?"
She cackled with hysterical laughter, "It's Sunday,
April Fool's day! My God, Roger, you look like you're lost in London. By the way,
father wants to see you in his study immediately, if not sooner. He's going to tear
you limb from limb! You are so naughty, Roger! Well, you'll pay the piper now."
His mind was having trouble keeping up with it
all. In his confusion, he closed his eyes for a moment while he considered his next
move. Apparently this was not Boston. Evidently his name was Roger and this was
his sister-? By God! What a sarcastic sibling! She obviously took complete delight
in his perilous discomfiture and with such unabashed relish too. He didn't even
know where the damned library was. In fact, he didn't know
where anything was located. Perhaps he could get the hellcat to guide him without
raising her suspicions.
He extended his arm towards her and said in a quiet,
controlled, voice, "Well my loving sister, why don't you lead your helpless brother
to the slaughter?"
She giggled mischievously as she grabbed his arm
and led him towards the front of the house, approaching a shut door on the right.
Her smile was radiant with anticipation.
She taunted, "I think you'll be weighed in the
balances and found completely wanting. I wouldn't miss this for all the tea in China!"
Roger figured she liked to see her older brother
humbled on occasion. In front of the door, he bowed slightly and then gave her a
mock salute. "We who are about to die salute you."
She clapped
her hands together. Her laughter filled the hall like a bubbling brook in spring.
Then she extended her right hand and gave him the thumb down as she grinned with
undisguised glee. He made a brief stare up at the ceiling and knocked at the door.
A stern voice called out. "Enter!"
Roger attempted to shut the door quickly behind
him, but not before the yellow-clad creature passed in front of him. She was still
giggling.
Roger tentatively approached the ornate library
desk that dominated the opulent room. The bookshelves were filled with leather-bound
volumes of every shape and description. There were three high backed chairs sitting
in front of the cherry wood desk. But it was the man sitting behind the desk who
arrested his entire attention. Here was an august presence that demanded respect.
The dark, penetrating eyes watched him with ill-concealed anger. His aristocratic
face was well formed, with a hawk-like nose that made his scowl even more sinister.
He retained a full head of dark brown hair only slightly graying at the temples.
This only added to his deep, foreboding frown. The middle-aged patrician looked
like a thundercloud ready to explode into booming noise and electrical fire. From
what Roger could see, the older man had on a dark blue coat with a white shirt and
elegant ruffles at his throat. The clothes were obviously of expensive and excellent
quality.
"You may leave us, daughter! I have much to discuss
with Master Roger, and I'm sure much of it will not be appropriate for the ears
of a young lady."
The saucy sister whined, "But papa!"
"I mean it! Leave us or I'll tan your backside
for you!"
Roger's sister covered her mouth in mock shock
and quickly left the room. She knew from long experience when daddy was serious.
Roger placed a trembling hand on one of the chair arms at the
moment his sister departed the foreboding presence.
The older man snapped, "Well sit down, damn your
hide!"
Roger quickly complied without comment and stared
at this man who actually sent fear jolting through his
troubled mind. Still, he kept asking himself where the hell he was. The older gentleman
spoke with a definite upper crust British accent. The "o" sound was generally much
longer than he was accustomed to hearing. The occasional "g" somehow disappeared
from words with an "ing" ending. In fact the vowels were pronounced differently,
although the meanings of the words were precise and all too clear.
"Well, my impetuous son, what do you have to say
for yourself? What excuse do you have this time for your utterly reprehensible behavior?"
It was becoming painfully clear to Roger that this
angry man was apparently his father. It was even more disconcerting to realize that
the older man was straining to control a temper bordering on the volcanic. The frowning
father unconsciously massaged his aching temple.
"I have nothing to say in my defense, sir. I truly
am sorry."
That answer actually surprised
the thunderhead. Sir Allan looked at his son much more closely now. Gone were the
almost perpetually whining, tones he was so used to. Those hazel eyes looked back
at him as if they were looking at a stranger, and Sir Allan found the experience
somewhat disconcerting.
He frowned as he continued, "Well that's a bit
different. At least you're not making ridiculous excuses like you usually do. What
the hell was the matter with you? You insulted the Langdon family and the Earl's
son in the bargain. On top of all that, I finally found out the extent of your gambling
debts! Three thousand bloody pounds! By Christ! You are a God damned burden to me!"
Roger's mind was racing to keep up with all this.
If he was in the era that he seemed to be in, insults weren't taken lightly. Apparently
he'd amassed a sizable gambling debt to boot. This was not looking promising. The
older man had paused, expecting some kind of an answer.
Roger's croaking voice was little more than a whisper.
"I will write the appropriate apologies immediately. I'm afraid I don't recall much
of what went on. Did I have a lot to drink?"
A harsh laugh emitted from the grim face of the
lord of this manor, "Drink, indeed! Christ in heaven, man! You put enough away to
besot a dozen men. Did he have too much to drink, he says! It's no wonder you don't
remember much, as you put it. Well, Roger Hallworth the last, let me enlighten your
besotted mind. Worst of all of your dubious achievements,
you actually spit on the face of Sir Edward Devereau, son of the Earl of Essex.
Mister Langdon and I had to restrain him or he might have skewered you on the spot.
Then you proceeded to call Kate Langdon an ugly cow and her parents shameless social
climbers who were prostituting their worthless daughter. Not content with these
outrageous improprieties, you insulted other guests, breaking all the amenities
and social graces that are expected of a man of privilege and culture. On top of
all that, I found out from Robert Chilton that you owe certain gentlemen a grand
total of 3,124 pounds that apparently has been accumulating over the last six months.
Are you deliberately trying to ruin your reputation and destroy your inheritance?!
Are you that much of a benighted fool, or are you simply bent on your own self destruction?
I'll have an answer, sir!"
Allan could see the shock in his son's face. He
knew there was something amiss when he heard another uncharacteristic response from
his wayward son.
Roger answered, "You must believe me when I say
that it gives me pain to know I am the cause of so much irritation to you. I suspect
that a mere expression of sorrow is not nearly enough either for you or the persons
I have so rudely abused. I will follow your instructions to the letter, sir. Only
please bear with me, I really am not myself today. I can honestly say I don't know
what has come over me." Wasn't that the truth? If this were a dream, it was the
most realistic phantasm he'd ever experienced.
Allan's mouth dropped in complete surprise. "What
has come over you? Contrition and obedience in the same breath? Are you feeling
ill or something? Or do you think to lessen your chastisement by a stratagem?"
Roger smiled ever so slightly. "I must confess
to you, I don't feel quite like myself this morning. I haven't had breakfast yet,
and my head aches like the devil. I'm sincere in my willingness to make things right.
I don't know why I would have been stupid enough to gamble, but that will stop.
I will write letters of apology and listen to your council in future. What else
can I do?"
Allan smiled without a shred of mirth, "You can
write your letters and by God, you won't bet another farthing unless I give you
leave. But that might not be enough. Sir Edward may demand satisfaction in any case.
He was fit to be tied. I'm surprised he hasn't sent his second to confront you already."
There was a very long moment of silence as Roger
listened to the Grandfather clock ticking methodically in the corner. He shrugged.
"Well I'll have to cross that bridge if it comes to that. It appears my letter will
have to be a work worthy of Cicero."
The older man gave him a piercing glance along
with his acidic retort. "You can lay to that, young man. The problem is I can't
afford to lose you, as you are the sole heir to all you see around you and then
some. The estate will be in jeopardy if you make your bed six feet under the sod.
Oh, Roger, how could you be so senseless? I've given you all the advantages and
you toss them away as if they were worthless dross!"
Roger heard the pain and anguish in the older gentleman's
voice. He replied quietly, "Then I'll have to make sure that I survive all this
and make proper amends. However, I hope it is many, many years before I become your
successor. I mean that in all sincerity."
There was the faintest trace of amusement in Allan's
voice as he quipped, "Oh, and how many years would you allot your disgusted father,
hmmm?"
Roger looked straight into the troubled man's eyes
and gently replied, "If it were in my power, sir, I would add fifty years or more
from this day present. I would wish you the best of health, with a clear mind and
untroubled soul."
Allan noticed a tear trickle down the young man's
cheek, and he was touched by the sincerity of the reply. He moved from behind his
desk and approached his son, putting his arm around the shuddering shoulders. His
voice became tender when he spoke again. "A gentle answer, Roger, a gentle answer
indeed. You're like a different person today. What has happened to you?"
Roger looked into the
now concerned dark eyes. "There's a great deal I don't understand myself. But I
now see that I've hurt you very deeply. I'll really try to make things right."
Allan sighed, "We'll see what tomorrow brings.
Meantime I'll send for Bodkin and have him bring you in some breakfast. What can
I get you?"
He was on slippery ground again, not knowing what
might be available, so he tried to play it safe. "Some tea with milk and a little
sugar, bread with whatever preserves you might have at hand, and some sort of meat.
I don't care what as long as it has been well-cooked."
The older man looked at him quizzically but rang
a bell that was conveniently placed on the desk. In moments, a tall man who looked
fifty or more with gray hair and impeccably dressed entered the study.
"Bodkin, bring us some tea, bread with strawberry
preserves and a little mutton from last evening's repast if you please."
Bodkin answered in practiced politeness, "Very
good sir, I'll be back presently."
Roger took in another important scrap of information.
Bodkin was apparently the family butler, and this would prove very useful for finding
things around the house without drawing undo suspicion.
Allan spoke again when Bodkin had left, "Why don't
you start writing that letter to the Langdons while breakfast is prepared? Sit over
here."
He indicated the desk, and to Roger's relief, he
noticed an inkpot and quill pen sitting beside some blank sheets. Allan watched
as his son began to write with a shaky, seemingly unpracticed hand. Roger made several
blots before attaining the wording desired. It took a third draft of the letter
on another paper before the document was of acceptable appearance. He was still
writing when the food was silently brought in. Roger looked up and said, "Thank
you, Bodkin, your service is appreciated."
Bodkin looked at the young man in obvious surprise.
"You're very welcome, sir." There was a bewildered expression on Bodkin's face as
he walked out. Allan was staring at his son in disbelief. To his recollection, it
had been years since Roger had complimented any servant of any household. He experienced
even further surprise when he read the letter that was finally completed by his
apparently contrite son. At this moment, Roger was thankful he'd had an extensive
legal background.