Full Circle

Chapter One

Stewart

The hot July sun came streaming through the latticed windows onto the large four-poster bed where Stewart Hamilton lay languidly on his stomach. The hour was just before eleven―or so the clock said as it ticked away in its soothing fashion on the mantle shelf above the fireplace. He had spent two years in Italy, studying, amongst other things, astrology with an old family friend Rodolfo Visconti, the relationship with the families going back two generations to his Grandfather Charles Hamilton. As a child, Stewart had been fascinated by the subject, so later when life had become intolerable at home―because of the animosity Stewart held for his father Andrew Duncan―his mother Elizabeth had urged him to go; she did not want this, but the alternative was not an option. The problems had been masked while Stewart was boarding at Winchester College, but when he returned home at the age of eighteen, he realised at once the extent of the damage done by his father. At times, the fights between father and son had become so intense―though never physically coming to blows―there was a festering resentment between them, and Elizabeth came to fear for her son that in his rage Stewart would strike out at his father. Both had a temper that once lit could not easily be doused. So, in 1782, Stewart left England to find refuge with his mother’s friend Rodolfo in “Rapallo”, Italy. Stewart found an inner peace while he was there; Rodolfo listened without passing judgment, letting Stewart pour out his anger and bitterness as they sailed the waters of the Mediterranean. But as with all things, this peace was short-lived. Stewart became restless for home and his mother―she was an all-consuming part of his life―he needed to return; he had been away too long. So, in the late summer of 1784, he set sail for England.

Stewart stirred slightly, pushing his hands up under the pillow. The sun felt warm and luxurious as its rays beat down on his back. Stewart Hamilton was twenty-four years of age and handsome, a fact he knew extremely well, inheriting his mother’s thick black hair and deep blue eyes. His slim agile frame stood over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and a lean strong body, excelling in most sports, like riding and fencing. His face was lean in appearance, almost rugged, with a finely chiselled chin which had a slight cleft, and while his nose was straight and aquiline, it was inclined to turn up at the tip. A small black moustache-fringed full lips, and when he smiled, they exposed two rows of perfectly even white teeth. Most women were attracted to him like bees are to

the honey pot, and men despised him for the same reason―a fact that Stewart was very much aware of and played it many times to his advantage. In such company, he had an enigmatic smile, but one which never touched his eyes―these always remained sharp and alert to his surroundings. His true smile, which set alight his deep blue eyes and opened a window into his soul, was used only for those that he loved. His manner towards his fellow men made enemies of them, and while women worshiped him, he was closed to many as they only reached the surface, never penetrating to the sweetness within.

There was only one woman who could understand his dark temperament: his mother. Just by looking at him, it seemed, she could read his inner-most thoughts. They had a bond which transcended that of mother and son, and Stewart revered her. To him, her smile was like the kiss of a warm summer breeze, and her touch a comforting angel in times of trouble and darkness. After the desertion of his father when Stewart was just three years old, they became so inseparable that people whispered it was un-natural and unhealthy for a child to be that close, but both mother and son had witnessed things that Elizabeth would be haunted by, and Stewart would trap into the far most corners of his mind. People would often talk of his sanity, yet he was to prove them wrong in the years to come.

Stewart moaned and turned over, stretching his left arm as he did so across the bed. He lay there in a half sleeping daze with his eyes trying to focus onto the canopy above him, letting his mind wander back over the events of the previous evening. Oh God, he had got so drunk! Looking about him, he could see the detritus of clothes decorating the floor; he certainly didn’t remember getting home or into bed. Stewart raised his head but immediately let it fall back onto the pillow again as a striking pain stabbed at the back of his eyes. Somewhere in the distance birds chirped merrily, and he thought how it was they could be so cheerful when his head felt like it had drums inside it.

‘Damn drink,’ he muttered. ‘God, why do you have to drink so much?’ But he knew the answer without having to voice it.

Trivial things were coming back in waves now, especially Maggie with that soft comforting voice and her long, sweet smelling auburn hair which was always so silky. Stewart breathed in and smiled in remembrance; she was a good woman―Maggie―like Mother in some ways―all heart. He felt a pang of guilt thinking how he had intended to visit her that previous evening, but the stop in Mere at the Angel Inn had prevented that. The pull of the ale and friends’ company had been too strong to resist, particularly after the hot and dusty coach journey from Exeter. Pulling the pillow from under his head, he pushed it down over his face, trying to block out the sun and the unwanted memories that were now returning.

‘You use her, and she does not deserve it,’ he murmured into the pillow, as if by saying it, it would render legitimacy to how he behaved. He had met the Lady Margaret Stanhope not long after returning from Italy, having gone to her home with his cousin Alexander Hamilton―a relative on his grandfather’s side of the family. Alexander knew her from London, where she had been married from an early age to a man many years her senior. It had by no means been a love marriage, but a “grand match” which would secure her for life (as her father so delicately put it). Her husband, Lord Stanhope, had died two years previous in 1784, leaving Margaret a home in London, as well as a fine house near to the town of Mere. It was in this house at a dinner party she had held that Stewart was introduced to her by Alexander.

Lady Margaret was a strikingly beautiful young woman, slim in stature, just a little over medium in height and very elegant. Her hair was one of her most redeeming features; thick, curly, and deep auburn in colour it had a distinct lustre to it, which only enhanced the translucent creaminess of her skin―skin that most auburn-haired people are blessed with―and eyes the colour of emeralds. Her facial features were soft with high cheek bones, a small nose, a full pink mouth, and long elegant neck, but her qualities went far beyond her appearance, and Stewart knew this well.

Stewart closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Ah, Maggie, you never question me, pursue me, or want anything from me except my company... You comfort me and expect nothing in return except... kindness...’

Stewart’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted and drawn to other sounds coming from the garden beneath his window. He sat up slowly, leaning on his elbow, straining his ears, then grinned with pleasure on hearing his mother’s voice ring out in clear syllables from below.

Elizabeth Hamilton was the antithesis to her son. She was small and slim in stature but moved with a grace of those much taller than herself. Though pale in complexion, her facial features were soft and gentle to the eye, and when she smiled, she had a way of radiating kindness. In her appearance she was impeccably dressed in style, though not always in the first mode of fashion. Elizabeth Hamilton was a well-respected person within the society she walked in.

‘Oh, there you are, Spike,’ Elizabeth called breathlessly, seeing her gardener weeding amidst the flower beds. She watched him for some moments as his fingers deftly separated them from the flowers, turning over the earth around the plant where it had become compacted.

Spike turned and looked up at his mistress as she stood there smiling at him; he had known her since he was a young lad when he had first been taken onto the estate to work with his father―who had been head gardener to Lady Elizabeth’s father before him. He had lived in a small cottage on the estate since he was born, and then with his wife who had worked as housekeeper for Elizabeth. Sadly, Spike’s wife had been dead some four years now, taken with the sweating sickness that had claimed many in that area then, and as they had never been blessed with children, he lived alone.

Elizabeth had grown up with him and there was more than just a bond of servant and master―he was almost regarded as one of her family. Even his name was a “nickname” given to him by Elizabeth, as when he was young, he had an uncontrollable piece of hair that stood up on the crown of his head (hair that had long since gone). Elizabeth would tease him, and the name had stuck. Spike’s real name was John Wood, a man of 49 years of age, thick set, muscular even, and medium in height, though from years of working in the gardens his shoulders had taken on the stoop of his manual labours.

‘Thank goodness I have found you,’ she continued. ‘We have some guests coming for dinner this evening and I need some flowers for the table.’

Spike stopped his weeding and stood up, taking off his hat and nodding to Elizabeth. It was hot in the garden and Spike had the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, pulling them down quickly he spoke.

‘Mistress.’

Looking at her he noticed the frown that always appeared across her small forehead when she was confronted with the unexpected; it wrinkled the place just between her eyebrows.

‘Could you pick some for me please, and I will see that they are arranged?’ Elizabeth asked, turning her eyes searching the numerous flower beds, whilst drumming her fingers lightly over her cheek.

Spike watched her; this was another trait she had when she was perplexed or thrown off guard as she was now.

‘Oh, Spike, which ones?’ She turned to face him. ‘It is Milady Morris, you know―’ Elizabeth broke off in mid-sentence thinking why Eleanor Morris had put it upon herself to call on her at such short notice―another prospective daughter-in-law no doubt.

Spike smiled. ‘If I may be suggesting, Mistress, roses?’ he replied in his soft Wiltshire lilt. ‘They be at their best this time of year’―Spike inhaled deeply― ‘smell their fragrances,’ he added as he closed his eyes. It was true the air around them was pungent with it, and the heat of the day only seemed to add to the heady bouquet. A smile of relief came across Elizabeth’s face as he said this.

‘Milady Morris always admires your roses,’ she replied as she nodded slowly and smiled; this pleased him, as he knew he had made the right choice.

‘Spike, thank you,’ she added, resting her hand on his arm, looking warmly into the weather-beaten face. ‘You always have such impeccable taste, Spike.’

A slow smile came across Spike’s face in response. ‘I will be picking them directly, Mistress,’ he added, giving a small nod, and placing his hat back on his head he turned to go. ‘Impeccable taste, aye,’ he mumbled happily to himself, turning back once more to look at his mistress. Spike knew her secret from that night twenty-one years past; he had done what he could for her then and would do it all again if asked. He would defend her to the death if needs were, and if any man so much as laid a finger on her, well he would kill them with his own bare hands. He could feel them now clenching to fists at his sides as he remembered. Spike took a deep, slow breath, letting the memories and the anger slip away from him until he relaxed, and then picking up his step, he continued his way to cut the roses.

Just as Elizabeth turned to go to the kitchen, Stewart’s voice called to her, stopping her.

‘Good morning, Mother!’ Elizabeth’s head swung round in surprise, her eyes immediately resting on Stewart’s tanned form as he leaned from his bedroom window above.

‘Oh, good morning, Stewart.’ She paused to shelter her eyes with her hand from the sun’s glare. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she added in jest.

Stewart smiled; he could sense the intonation of those words. ‘As sound as the dead,’ came the reply.

‘I left word with Pip not to wake you; was the journey bad?’ she added with concern.

Stewart grinned, as his eyes took in the sereneness of his Mother, there could be a raging storm in her head, but one would never know from her calm appearance.

‘Mother dear,’ he paused shaking his head a little, ‘sometimes I think you know my mind better than I,’ answered Stewart thoughtfully. As he sat there now looking down at her, he could feel that powerful bond that bound them, like an invisible umbilical cord that could never be severed. Was this something that every mother and son experienced? After all, he had only had his mother beside him for guidance, his father. Well, that was another life. Elizabeth frowned as she watched him, and he noticed a look of apprehension come over her face,

‘Never mind,’ he continued, dismissing the subject hastily, before questions were asked.

‘So, we are to have Milady Eleanor Morris to dinner?’ he asked. ‘Anyone else to parade before me?’ he added under his breath. There had been a long procession of future wives of late and he was in no mood to be polite this day.

At the mention of food, Elizabeth’s mouth opened.

‘Stewart, you must be hungry,’ she paused. ‘I am on my way to the kitchen now to discuss tonight’s food, shall I ask Mrs Cottle to prepare you something to eat?’

‘NO,’ came Stewart’s quick reply. ‘No,’ he repeated softening his tone. ‘No, thank you.’ His stomach churned at the thought of it.

‘I could not eat a morsel,’ he added, putting his hand up and rubbing his brow. Mrs Cottle’s food at any time of day was mouth-watering but at this moment, his head or the foul taste in his mouth would not let him swallow a mouthful. Besides, Mrs Cottle would find a way of making him pay for having to find him breakfast at midday. Stewart chuckled to himself then took a lungful of clean air to clear his head. ‘I will saddle my horse and go for a ride, Mother; this day is too glorious to waste by lying in bed.’ Waving to her, he stepped back into his room.

***

As Pip entered the kitchen, Mrs Cottle turned to look at him.

‘He is awake then, Mr Pip.’

Pip smiled slightly and nodded.

‘And you be wanting a bowl of hot water, no?’ she added.

‘If you would be so kind, Mrs Cottle,’ Pip replied.

‘Hmmm... If it were me, I would be throwing icy water over him. Such a commotion last night, you cannot be telling me that my Mistress be hearing none of it.’ She stood there with her fists on her hips shaking her head.

‘That young man needs a wife, only that will curb his exuberance.’

Pip chuckled to himself and shook his head. ‘I be doubting that very much, Mrs Cottle.’

Mrs Cottle was a lady of ample proportions, with light brown hair and eyes to match. Although of the same age as her mistress, she looked much older. Outwardly, she gave the impression of a very stern matriarch, but under her brusqueness was a warm, gentle loving character, who when worried or upset gave the appearance of someone incredibly angry.

Violet Cottle clucked her tongue as she lifted a bowl from the wall and filled it with hot water. ‘He is a trial to my Mistress ever since he was but a small lad. Mr Pip, I do not be knowing how you be keeping your temper with him.’

Pip took the bowl from her, smiled, and inclined his head. ‘I thank you kindly, Mrs Cottle,’ saying this, he left.

***

Stewart stepped back into the room, Pip entered, carrying towels over his arm and the large bowl of steaming water, pausing slightly as he entered to survey the room. Pip, whose real name was Peter Wickens, was a man in his late 40s, slightly thickset, and shorter than average, with plain features; a nose a little larger than his face should have, but with sharp eyes that missed nothing.

‘Good morning, master Stewart,’ he greeted bowing. ‘I trust we are feeling a little better this morning.’ Pip added, putting his head to one side, and raising his eyebrows. Stewart’s eyes narrowed, immediately filling with mischief.