True Prince of Vaurantania , livre ebook

The True Prince of Vaurantania
Brenda W. Clough

www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café edition May 11, 2021 ISBN: 978-1-61138-956-2 Copyright © 2021 Brenda W. Clough
Table of Contents
Book 1
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 2
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s account
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
From the papers of Walter Hartright
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 3
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 4
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walther Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Book 5
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Book 6
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Walter Hartright’s narrative
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Read a sample from The River Horse Tsar
From the papers of Marian Halcombe Camlet
Marian Halcombe Camlet’s journal
Acknowledgments
Also by Brenda Clough
Copyrights & Credits
About Book View Café
Book 1
Walter Hartright’s narrative
I invited Theophilus Camlet to the Slavery RedemptionistClub’s annual oyster outing because he had a brown scar like mine around hisleft ankle: the mark of fetters. The shocking assassination of the Americanpresident earlier in 1865 had galvanised the Negro resettlement initiative, anda representative from the American Colonization Society was to address themeeting about a colony of freed slaves on the western coast of Africa.
My brother-in-law’s tendency to seasickness had entirelyslipped my mind, but Camlet was game as a pebble. He assured me that the motionof a chartered paddle steamship in a flat calm would not discomfit him toogreatly. On the trip from London downriver Camlet sat in a corner with his eyesclosed, neither moving nor speaking. But he immediately revived when we arrivedin Greenwich, where we were regaled with punch, oysters, and lobster.
To men of a liberal mind the cause was of great interest nowthat the Civil War in the United States was over. The speaker’s American twangwas somewhat challenging to the English ear, but he was energetic andinformative. “As with the children of Israel in the Old Testament,” he said,“we have found that the Negro in America, having passed through the fiery trialof slavery, knows well how to survive adversity.”
A more skeptical voice in the back piped up. “Are they notchildish and incapable, ruled by white masters for so many generations?”
But rising to reply was the Inimitable himself, CharlesDickens, the greatest novelist of our age and incidentally a friend. “The formerslave,” the great man replied, “is clever, industrious and of a cooperativebent, because all those who were not fell by the wayside. With such a citizenrythere is every hope that the new settlement shall flourish.” And there was apatter of applause.
When we came back again the long mild September evening wasjust drawing in. The Thames teemed with river traffic, trippers enjoying thefine weather going up or down, and the sky shimmered with a golden haze thatreflected from the water and made London a glowing, magical place. We dockedagain near Waterloo Bridge and climbed the rickety wooden steps up from thewater’s edge to the lane that ran uphill to the Strand.
“What a lovely night! Let us walk a while, Camlet. You lookas if you could use it. Does not the evening call to you?”
He smiled for the first time since leaving Greenwich,pulling down his hat brim. “I admit I’m happier on land. How much punch did youtake, brother?”
“Enough to make it worth walking off. We’re no longer boys,you know. If you don’t take care, you’ll become portly in middle life. Come,this way.”
The crowd of our fellow passengers clogged the narrow lanethat led uphill, and I led us down a cramped byway that connected to the nextstreet over. As is often the case in London, a mere half-dozen steps sufficedto carry us from a respectable thoroughfare into a far less salubrious neighbourhood.Here by the banks of the Thames the ferry wharfs and the pleasure-boat dockswere cheek by jowl with twisting unimproved streets of appalling poverty. We foundourselves in a rookery, a narrow lane with a stinking gutter running down themiddle of it, teeming with the scum of the city – barefoot children in rags,boys eyeing our fine clothing, ill-clad ruffians who scowled at our passage.
But the sky was still bright with the last of the daylight.The two of us, sturdy men of the professional class walking briskly together,should have had no difficulty.
Then some ragged urchins spied us and, more dangerously,Camlet’s face. Until just that year he was of the most unremarkable appearance,with steel-rimmed spectacles, light brown hair and side whiskers barbered toswoop down and then up into a moustache that made his face pleasantly square.But an accident with a carriage earlier that spring marred him with a prominentdiagonal red scar that took in eyebrow and cheek. The low rays of the sunslanted under his hat brim and made it shockingly visible.
A boy whistled shrilly, and his companion hissed, “Oi! ’tisOld Nick!”
“Ooh, handsome-bodied in the face, is what we’sgot here.”
A group quickly coalesced around us. “Look at that chalk!”
“Keep going,” I murmured to him. “We’ll soon be out of this–”
“Too moose-faced for the likes of us!” A clod of horsemanure went whizzing past my top hat, nearly knocking it off. I clutched thebrim, ducking. My first impulse was to take to my heels.
But Camlet turned in one swift motion. “Keepyour distance, gutter-slush!” He had a gold-topped walking stick inhand, a recent affectation. As he hefted it I realised the knob was weighted,possibly with lead. But it was his scowl that made them fall back. Magnified byhis eyeglasses, the ugly scar lent him an inexpressibly evil air. Even I felt achill, though I had known Camlet for years as the kindest of men. For aninstant the street arabs actually shrank back in horror. We retreated warilyand hurried around the corner up the steep lane to the Strand.
“Perhaps we should take a cab after all,” Camlet saidquietly.
Shaken, I hailed a hansom and we climbed up, directing thedriver to the northern suburb of Hampstead. When we were well away I said,“Does this happen often?”
In the dimness I could just make out his rueful smile. “Notin the districts where I’m known. But I find I must take care now in somestreets.”
“This is intolerable.”
“I take a cab, or my carriage, nearly everywhere,” heassured me. “As long as I’m aware, and keep my guard up, I have no difficulty.”
“Camlet …” But I could offer no usefuladvice. We are acknowledged the world over as the pinnacle of human civilisation.But the Englishman still has a cruel streak. I am not yet forty-five, and I canremember the bear-baiting when I was a lad. The singular or the crippled areoften street targets. Even the cats of London know not to sit on doorsteps orwindowsills facing the public street, and any stray dog may find itself with apan tied to its tail. How long had Camlet felt obliged to carry a heavy stick?At last I said, “Does Marian know?”
“Good heavens. You must not tell her.Give me your word on it, Hartright.”
“Of course.” His wife, Marian Halcombe Camlet, is my wife’s half-sister.And she is the most frightening female of my acquaintance. I could not imaginewhat she would do or say, if she learned that her beloved husband was a targetof street harassment. But it would probably involve firearms of a heavycaliber. “Perhaps you should no longer go about alone. Your coachman couldfollow you everywhere, for instance.”
“I’m postponing that day, but may be forced to it in time.”
The streets were noisy and thronged, not conducive toconversation, and the ugly incident cast a pall over my happy spirits. By thetime we arrived at Camlet’s home near Hampstead Heath it was quite dark.Sandett House glowed in the summery night, light pouring from every open window.Camlet had refurbished his garden yet again this season, and as we passed theshadowy flower beds we moved in and out of baths of perfume, roses, lilies, allthe bounty of the season. As he doffed his hat in the portico I noticed that itwas not a tall hat like mine, but a less fashionable low-crowned derby, withthe wider brim that could be angled to shadow his deformity.
We pushed open the front door with difficulty. Baskets,bundles, fallen leghorn hats, flasks of lemonade, and discarded toys filled thehall. Our wives had taken all the children out for a picnic on the heath, andhad plainly just returned. Camlet forced his way in, stepping over the clutter.
Just beyond, in the passage that led to the back premises,little Lester Camlet was reflectively skipping a rope. “Lottie gave it me andshowed me how, Papa,” she said. “Shall I recite ‘IHad a Little Brother’ for you?”
Camlet caught his younger daughter up in his arms. I wasglad to see that the child showed no fear or disgust at the sight of herfather’s visage so close. “In due time, my girl,” he said, fondlykissing her. “Where’s your mama?”
“A telegram came for Aunt Laura, and they went upstairs.”With her customary intelligence and self-possession she added, “Will you stepup, Uncle Walter?”
I did so, following Camlet up the stairs. Marian used herhandsome blue-hung bedroom mainly for dressing. Now the half-tester bed washeaped with hats and bonnets, a riot of ribbons, plumes, flowers, and frills. Hatboxes were stacked on the floor. Delicately beautiful, my dearest wife Laurasto