by Sophia Tobin
‘Mr Kinsburg,’ boomed Henry, as loudly and authoritatively as he could. ‘Pray, don’t come any further, sir. We can speak in the lodge. The site is dangerous.’
Kinsburg stopped and looked at him, frowning. ‘I think I can find my way well enough,’ he called.
Henry shrugged and turned away, knowing that he was rude to do so but unable to feel sorry or careful about it. He was aware of tension in Mr Brokes, who had sweat breaking out on his face even in the chill morning air. He had taken off his hat and was looking between Henry and Kinsburg.
Ashton arrived and was given an account of what had been discovered by the now uncomfortable Mr Brokes, as Henry stood, focusing on a distant point, attempting to radiate superiority and efficiency. Eventually Brokes excused himself at a nod from Henry, who eventually made himself look at Ashton. As always, he found the rich man’s visage as smooth as an egg at first sight; but at second, in the daylight, he saw the vertical lines in his forehead, indicating a constant frowner. Grey eyes, a high forehead, topped by a luxuriant spruce of black hair. Henry fought the urge to touch his own curly, slightly thinning thatch; a gentleman had no business having such luxuriant hair, he thought, almost like a lady’s. And today Ashton had the habit of running his right hand through it repeatedly. He had never seen him do that before.
‘Are you satisfied with the site?’ said Henry brusquely, but his words were lost on a gust of wind and he had to repeat them.
Ashton looked around, taking his time before replying. ‘Yes. It looks very orderly. Are you running to time?’
‘As much as possible. Perfection never quite runs to time,’ said Henry. ‘The marble samples provided by the quarries in Belgium and Italy are not quite as I wished them. The alabaster from Staffordshire is exactly what I wanted, however. And I have secured excellent craftsmen for the scagliola.’
‘I can see your design now: those audacious pinks, yellows and deep greens,’ said Ashton, with a smile.
Henry said nothing, annoyed that Ashton could remember so clearly elements of the design of the Stair Hall. He must have committed the design to memory.
‘I am working on interior sketches of the Dining Hall,’ Henry said, just for something to say. ‘If you remember, the committee asked for small adjustments.’
‘May I see them?’
‘They are not ready for inspection yet. And they are in the lodge.’
‘I was planning to take tea in the lodge. Just informally, perhaps you can show me.’
They went without another word, Henry hoping that the dinner invitation had been forgotten, but he suspected that Ashton Kinsburg was the kind of man who forgot nothing. Henry rambled on about the Dining Hall interior, not showing the drawing, and trying to be as inexact as possible. They were drinking their last mouthfuls of tea before Ashton spoke.
‘You haven’t replied to my dinner invitation,’ he said. ‘It would just be a brief dinner. My London house is not open at present; my wife is in the country.’
Henry tried not to exhale with relief. ‘The invitation slipped my mind, I am sorry to say. I am so engaged with the details of the building. And I must decline, due to a prior engagement. Forgive me, I hope my absence this time will be remedied at some point in the future.’
‘You should come and stay with us at Redlands. I have done much to it; you would hardly recognize it as the house of my fathers. Two new wings. I’d be interested in your opinion of it.’
‘I have no opinion on domestic architecture. Civic buildings are what concern me these days.’
‘No opinion?’ Ashton gave a short, rather surprising, high peal of laughter. ‘I have never met a man of taste and knowledge who had no opinion, Mr Dale-Collingwood. If you think to be polite, do not mind it – I can take a frank opinion.’
Henry said nothing, sure only that Kinsburg would not wish for his frank opinion about anything.
‘You do not like me, do you, sir?’ said Ashton. Henry felt his heart thunder to life in his chest, at the danger of it. All at once the site outside, so busy and productive under the blue and cloudless sky, seemed at threat. He could find no answer and was clearing his throat when Ashton continued.
‘But I like you, very much indeed. And whatever wrong impression of me you have, I am determined to clear my name of it. You simply do not know me yet, and if I am reserved – well, that is a reserve of a gentleman who is most often concerned in business. But this is not business, Mr Dale-Collingwood; this is pleasure. And as I like you, I am determined you will like me.’
‘I have never said . . .’ Henry trailed off. He had dealt with awkward situations before – relaxed, with valour – but this was different. It was unnerving.
Ashton tutted under his breath, as though addressing a spaniel dancing at his feet, and all at once Henry saw him in his house, with acres of grounds and a plethora of dogs and possessions and paintings and gilt, and a wife. The man had everything, even the freedom to come here and interrogate him, and he could not be older than two-and-thirty.
‘Come now,’ said Ashton. He was trying to be soothing but it did not come off well to Henry’s ear. ‘I am a friend to you, sir. We are all in awe of you, and of your accomplishments. You are just as much of an artist as your painter friends, but also an engineer, a technician. There is no honour I would not lay at your feet. But you are tired.’ He sought Henry’s gaze, until at last Henry had to give it to him. ‘You are tired. Where is the affable fellow I met last March, so relaxed that he would unroll his plans on a table without ceremony and with confidence?’ He paused. ‘I have heard of your losses. You do not have to be at this site every day. You may come and visit us at Redlands. There is no luxury that we do not have.’
His face was just inches from Henry’s; his eyes grey and unblinking, cold and yet filled with a kind of concern that Henry had never seen before.
‘I will think on it,’ said Henry gruffly.
Ashton seemed satisfied, and their conversation returned to normal matters, the younger man showing such a cool distance that Henry half-wondered if he had dreamt Ashton’s intensity. Mr Kinsburg left soon after.
*
When Ashton wrote, giving possible dates for his visit to Redlands, Henry tried to ignore it. So often, he told Peregrine, obligations evaporated when one merely ignored them. But Ashton persevered. He did not pay another site visit, but he wrote each week. Brief letters, barely covering even one half of the folded page, which he sent sealed. His black writing slanting, large, jointed like insects’ legs. That matter we spoke of; I would be grateful if you could give it your attention as soon as possible.
‘I say, old chap,’ said Peregrine. ‘Do you think he loves you?’ Only Peregrine could say things like that.
The pile of letters built up in Henry’s office, for he took them there rather than leave them around his room at his club. It was business correspondence, after all. Peregrine cautioned him – hardly necessary, for Henry knew the danger of angering a patron. But he kept distant, and continued with the work. Heavy rain had delayed the digging. None of the committee came to London. With satisfaction, Henry worked on, unencumbered.
Then, the letter which tipped him into decision came. On a Tuesday morning, with a sigh, Henry pierced Ashton’s latest letter savagely with his letter knife. His eyes ran over the phrases, neat and polite, asking him when he would come to Redlands. Then, beneath it, another hand. So different from his: lighter strokes, looping forms showing a hand that had long been disciplined but in which individual character was struggling to break out.
My husband begs me add a few words here, to tell you how much we wish to see you here at Redlands.
It would be a great favour to both of us if you would come here, and give your thoughts on my husband’s works. Yours etc, Charlotte Kinsburg.
He put the letter down. He felt his tiredness engulf him. He kept it at bay so often, and yet his grief always seemed to be waiting for him. In this moment, he dearly longed to be able to speak to his father and s
eek his advice.
He made a flying visit to Peregrine’s nearly completed ultra-Gothic folly, and showed him the letter. ‘He solicits her to his cause now,’ he said. ‘Will you come with me?’
Peregrine read it in the shadow of the pointed porch while Henry studied it. Arches within arches.
‘Do you think he forced her to write it?’ said Peregrine, only half-jokingly, for there was sorrow in his face. ‘You look awful, by the way. You have been shutting yourself away with your difficulties.’
‘I am quite well. He may blame her if we do not go. It is simply the matter of ordering a carriage, if you will let me know when it is convenient for you.’
‘Oh, Henry,’ said Peregrine. ‘Very well. But if we go, when we return, you must open the Russell Square house. These things cannot be put off for ever.’
‘Very well,’ said Henry. ‘Life has to begin again, I suppose.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
1839
‘I believe you’re enjoying this,’ Peregrine said, as they rattled down the lanes of Hertfordshire. Dressed splendidly, wearing a waistcoat depicting knights on horseback – having embraced the Gothic nature of his latest project – he was nevertheless looking carriage-sick, rather than valiant. ‘And why did Kinsburg insist on providing the carriage and driver from the George? Does he not know you are a gentleman too? I swear you could have provided us with a cleaner ride.’
‘He insisted that he would convey us this last part of the journey, at a time of his choosing,’ said Henry. ‘And it seems fine to me, but I travel better than you, perhaps. If it helps, once we’re on his land the road should be in perfect order. I’m sorry to put you through this. I could have come alone. I believe I’ve overblown the whole thing.’
When he’d fixed on a date, Henry had felt a sharp stab of despair, which dulled into calmness over the next few days. He would see Mrs Kinsburg again. And it was highly likely that she would disappoint him. The mild romantic infatuations of youth had often left him untouched within a short time, for he was good at seeing things in the round. Prettiness faded, he knew that, and he told himself that, beneath sweetness, often other things lay. The sudden rush of feeling, of connection, that had occurred on the day of the accident would be revealed as a temporary, fleeting thing, as human and as intangible as a trick of the light. No one to blame, he thought soothingly, least of all her. And yet, he put his hand in his pocket, and it closed over the fragment of letter he had cut from Ashton’s: a small piece of this woman, something she had touched.
‘It’s best that I’m here,’ Peregrine said, with a dry glance in Henry’s direction. ‘Is this land all his? Kinsburg’s? I haven’t seen any gold glinting in the distance yet.’
‘It’s all on the inside,’ said Henry, with a brief smile. He felt fully in control of himself; and he had arranged himself so that every line of his body seemed to tell of relaxation. But beneath it all, it were as though he had drunk a glass or two too much of champagne and might behave unpredictably. Only he was aware of it, and he knew that he did not betray himself by the slightest movement as they traversed the deep, hollowed-out lanes beneath trees, the acres of neatly cultivated land. He thought of the house awaiting him in Russell Square, under dust sheets and empty of life. It was an absence, rather than a presence, in his life, and he dreaded returning to it. ‘I wish every day could be so picturesque as this,’ he said. ‘Look at that sky: perfect, blue, cloudless. And these fields.’ He touched the sketchbook in his pocket. ‘If we weren’t moving, I’d try and draw it.’
‘You’d be bored in no time,’ said Peregrine. ‘Besides, these people have no need for buildings. There is but one in this vicinity. You and I would have to fight over the yearly alterations. Oh, look at you. Don’t go all misty-eyed over the idea of a simple life. You came from that, remember? And you ran from it, to the city, as fast as you could.’
‘Perhaps I should not have. Been . . .’
‘What? A country clergyman? I don’t think so. A schoolmaster? Or perhaps you would have found a home in business, with your connections. Don’t even toy with the idea, Henry. You and I both know you love your work. Creating balance, and worth, and harmony, and you are doing the job that the good Lord put you on earth to do, so don’t start getting sentimental at one glance of a haystack.’
Before long, they were approaching Redlands, and were at the lodge house. And then, carefully, but definitely, the driver pulled them up. After a moment or two, Henry leaned out of the window.
‘What’s amiss?’
The driver turned and touched his hat. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Dale-Collingwood. Mr Kinsburg asked that we arrive at four, or as near to as we can. I had measured the distance from the inn to here, and done a run more than once, but I’m a bit ahead of myself today. My watch here tells me so.’
Henry settled back into the carriage with a mystified frown at Peregrine, who had heard it all.
‘What kind of man is so pernickety about time?’ snapped Peregrine. ‘It’s bad manners, is it not, to keep us waiting this far from the house? I’d bet he’s on the roof leads with his telescope.’
‘He likes to control things,’ murmured Henry. ‘That is all, I suppose. He has taken it a little far, rather.’ And he inspected his fingernails.
They sat there for a while, the horses shifting gently, and a soft breeze of early summer moving through the trees. Henry looked at his pocket watch. ‘We should be on our way soon, Perry,’ he said.
And, as if at his words, their horses – two finely matched chestnuts – set their hooves upon the surface of the two-mile drive, moving at a brisk trot down that road, the trees evenly spaced either side, so that now the carriage fell into sunshine, and now into shadow.
*
‘I am unwell,’ Charlotte said. ‘Dearest Ashton, I am unwell.’ She bit her lip: the ‘dearest’ had been too much.
‘Our visitors will be here soon,’ he said.
‘I know they will, and I know that it is my duty to ensure their comfort,’ she said. ‘If you would but let me rest during tea? I can then be fresh for dinner. Barbara would like to be the hostess at tea, you know that. She has arranged some of her very best dainties.’
His expression was impenetrable. ‘What has tired you so much?’
She sprung on this hope. ‘It is the planning. Mrs Alton has been wonderful, and the staff most obliging, but I have felt the need to create our very best menus, as you asked for, and it has taken much study, and much thought over ordering of provisions, and stocking the ice house. I have supervised the selection of the flowers, and arranged them myself: thirty arrangements. And I have overseen every detail, from the bringing out of the first service and the polishing of the silver, and the arrangements of the tables, and the seating plan.’ As she spoke, she saw his expression fade and sour. Her husband did not care for problems.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘You have over-tired yourself for two visitors? Arranging the flowers, when you simply could have left instructions? I do not understand it.’
Charlotte put her hands behind her. For the last arrangement she had removed her hot hands from her gloves, and they were speckled with a small number of thorn pricks. Ashton saw the gesture, reached around and pulled her hand out, and inspected it. A deep sigh escaped him, a signifier of his misery.
‘Cover them,’ he said. ‘Charlotte, you are the mistress here, and you have been for some years now, which makes this even more mystifying. Pray, behave as though you are worthy of the role. If you have injured yourself with overexertion, it is no fault of mine. You must appear to greet our guests. It would spoil the whole effect if not. They will be here very soon.’ The shadow of displeasure aged his young face. He could not look at her, but she could sense that he was actively trying not to be harsh. ‘Go and check that Thomas is ready,’ he said. She nodded, pressed a kiss to his warm cheek, and went.
*
Charlotte’s son was looking out of the window when his mother arrived. Isabel sat nearby,
playing with her dolls, ignored by her brother. She was judged too weak to attend this weekend, with her usual feverish aches and pains, but Charlotte knew that, although Ashton did not wish his little girl to be ill, it hardly mattered to him whether she attended: his son and heir was the central concern. Charlotte touched her daughter’s hair, and they exchanged a smile. But it were as though Isabel knew why Charlotte was here: she looked towards her brother, standing at the window. He had not turned at his mother’s approach. He was dressed as a miniature version of the master, in trousers and a waistcoat and jacket to match his father’s. Charlotte couldn’t help but remember that, when she had met Ashton, she had noticed that he was fully aware of what kind of power his wealth and good looks gave him. He had transmitted the same deep confidence, bordering on arrogance, to their tiny son.
Charlotte felt a dull storm cloud around her, the vapour of nausea, so it was with effort that she approached Thomas, and smoothed out his jacket. She crouched to adjust it around his neck, her dress spreading out around her, pale cream with richly embroidered flowers and leaves.
‘Do not dirty your gown, Mama,’ said Thomas, a little frown on his face. He took her hand and played with it absently. ‘Nurse told me about my sister Loveday,’ he said.
Charlotte rose, and as she did so the floor seemed to tilt; a strange dizziness came to her. She winced with it, as the nurse came forwards, full of excuses. ‘He asked about Miss Loveday, madam. It was not I who told him of her.’
Thomas was tugging on his mother’s hand. ‘Do not worry, Mama, do not worry.’ Charlotte looked back at him. ‘For surely, I am as good as my sister? As a son I am better than both Loveday and Isabel.’ His twin did not even murmur or look up.
He gave her the sweetest smile. Charlotte disengaged herself from his hands and stepped backwards. ‘All of you are precious to me. Let us not speak of it. Are you ready to receive our visitors?’