“All right. I believe that, too, for what it’s worth. Which is not all that much, as I’ll likely be dead soon, but still. And the second.”
“That I love you.” The words came softly, seeming to be addressed to the tabletop rather than John, but he heard them and was both shocked and annoyed to feel a small lump in his throat. He looked down, too, not answering. The sounds of the river and the marsh and the distant sea washed through the tiny room, and he could feel the blood pulsing in his fingertips where they rested on the rough wood.
I’m alive. I don’t know how to be anything else. He cleared his throat.
“Why do you suppose pelicans don’t call out?” he said. “Gulls scream and cackle like witches, all the time, but I never hear the pelicans make any sort of noise.”
“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.”