Page 3 of The Songbird of Wychwood

CHAPTER 2

PERCY HARCOURT

I was startled from my musings by an ear-splitting scream. My nib skidded across the page, spraying ink over my newly penned poem. Dear God! What is it now mother? My mother had a taste for the dramatics and a reaction like this could be caused by anything as simple as spilling her tea or seeing a spider. I put my pen down and wiped my inky fingers on a damp cloth and then, driven by frustration I marched from my room. I hurried down three flights of stairs to where I heard a commotion coming from my grandfather’s study. The hysterical wailing and raised voices continued. The words I heard shared between grandfather and my mother took the fire from my anger and chilled me to the bone.

“I will not have my business ruined by that mountebank, Valentine. He has gone too far this time, too damn far,” Grandfather ranted.

“But Theodore, you cannot go through with this, surely you must know that duels are illegal? And it is so…unbecoming of a man of your station,” Mother cried.

“I do not care about the legalities, Evangeline. This about honour, and it’s about time Valentine learned what that word means! A duel is how my father sorted out disputes and his father before him. Our family has a notoriously good eye for the shot. I will shut that blaggard down once and for all, you’ll see my dear daughter-in-law, you’ll see!” Grandfather sounded pleased with himself, almost relieved that whatever he had planned was afoot.

My father piped in then, “Very well Papah, if you are determined to go through with this, as your second it is my duty to inform the other party where and when the duel will take place.”

“The sooner the better, I say!” Grandfather said decisively.

My hand rose to cover my mouth as I lingered outside the door. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Very well, tomorrow at sunrise, Greenwich Park, between the old oaks.”

“Thank you, Victor, you are the best son I could have wished for.”

Mother wept louder. I couldn’t believe what I had just overheard. This was utter madness. I inhaled to settle my nerves and then knocked on the study door.

“Enter,” Grandfather called. I stepped into the room to see my stalwart father standing by the mantle in a good suit, puffing on a cigar. Mother still wore her coat and hat, as if she had rushed straight into the study on arriving home from her Guardians of the Poor charity meeting. She was slumped in a hearth chair in a most undignified way, weeping and glaring at my grandfather in disbelief. Theodore Harcourt was sitting erect at his desk looking like the bullish businessman he was.

Blackwood Hall in Greenwich was the family’s London home. My grandfather had designed and built it from the wealth of his publishing empire. The Harcourt Press began in 1830 as Harcourt & Valentine, for printing newspapers and periodicals. Grandfather’s pride and joy was The Daily Gazette which had been printing for thirty years, and as the business grew, he added a host of monthly periodicals: The Builder, The Rambler, and The Archaeological Journal. Theodore Harcourt was in his eighties now, still a hard worker, and a stubborn taskmaster of a man who, after losing his wife when my father was a baby, never took another.

“What’s this I hear about a duel? This has got to be a joke, grandfather,” I said incredulous as I stepped into the study.

“Oh, it’s no joke Percy. This is a very, very serious matter, one of corporate sabotage, no less,” Grandfather replied. “Edmund Valentine has gone too bally far and I will not stand for it.” He thumped a hand on his desk top for effect.

“What’s he done this time?” I sighed as I slumped into the chair in front of the grand desk and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“That man has had the temerity to take the name of one of my publications for his own. The Daily Gazette has been mine for thirty years; and you know full-well that it has an extensive national readership and an excellent reputation. Valentine’s new ha’penny rag is to be named The Gazette. He refuses to change it. This is unconscionable.”

Edmund Valentine was once grandfather’s dearest friend. They began their newspaper business together, hence the original name of Harcourt & Valentine. The business thrived for many years. However, after a falling out before I was born, Valentine left the company and set up his own publisher where he printed periodicals and was in direct competition. The two had been fierce adversaries ever since. No one knew why they had argued, but part of me saw it as inevitable that their tempestuous rivalry would eventually come to blows. I did not, however, hold the same confidence as my father or grandfather as to his ability to shoot straight. The man was eighty-one years old and wore thick spectacles for goodness sake, and Valentine was ten years younger.

I knew by the determination on Theodore’s face that there was nothing I, a mere grandson more than fifty years his junior, could say to prevent what had already been set in motion. All I could do was to be a supportive son and grandson, and offer comfort to my mother. A stone’s weight sank into my gut. This was going to be awful.

****

I’d not even had a day to let this madness sink in. It was a frigid and foggy morning as I travelled in our family carriage to Greenwich Park where the duel would commence at sunrise. We were just thirty minutes to the end of the life of one man or another. Dueling had been illegal for over ten years now and if the police discovered the duel, both parties would be tried for attempted murder, so this business needed be dealt with swiftly before word spread. And so, there was no fighting talk as our carriage trundled down the misty roadway towards the prominent ancient oak trees that were a focal point in the park. Theodore was quiet, stoic and seemingly resigned to this being a thoroughly ghastly business. My father gripped a rosewood box that held his long dead uncle’s dueling pistols. I wished I was still in my bed and that this was just a bad dream, but no, I was forced, as a dutiful son and grandson to bear witness to this event.

We stepped down from the carriage and assembled by the old oaks as the early morning mist roiled like waves across the parkland. Grandfather’s physician, Dr. Brownlow had arrived before us and nodded solemnly as we joined him. The other parties, Edmund Valentine, his seconds Henry Jones and David Cuthbert, and their physician a Dr. Claremont stood together in a huddle, the two friends seeming to desperately try to get Edmund to change his mind.

“Grandfather, are you sure you want to go through with this? Surely, we can talk with Valentine and some agreement can be made?” I pleaded, desperate for this madness to stop. Theodore Harcourt resignedly put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it, and then shook his head. He turned and sent a glance to Edmund as the man sent his gaze to Theodore. Something wordless passed between them that made my heart lurch. These men had once been the dearest of friends and I found I was consumed with frustration that they could not find an agreement. How had it come to this?

“Time waits for no man. Let’s get on, aye Theo,” Valentine called to grandfather, who licked his lips and nodded. My God, they were going ahead with this. All was in motion and I could do nothing but watch aghast.

Mr. Cuthbert and my father called the men to attention. He asked Valentine “Choose heads or tails.”

“Tails,” Valentine decided, Cuthbert nodded and tossed a coin. “Heads,” Mr. Harcourt will take the first shot.”

Then my father opened the rosewood box displaying the pair of single-shot flintlock dueling pistols. The seconds loaded the pistols with a single lead shot and gunpowder, and then, Grandfather permitted Edmund Valentine to choose his pistol. The seconds passed a loaded weapon to each man. Mr. Cuthbert kept an eye on his pocket watch and on his command, Theodore and Edmund stood back to back. As the sun rose and began to burn away the morning mist he explained the rules.

“Gentlemen. On my order you will step ten paces and then turn and face your opponent. Harcourt is first shot. May God have mercy on your souls.”

My mouth went dry and the silence of trepidation fell. Even the birds in the park refused to sing.