“I shall not force anyone to move, you may be sure, but there is a great deal of waste in the present arrangements. For instance, there is Durran House, which has twelve bedrooms and a staff of above twenty, occupied solely by Aunt Charlotte and that little mouse of a companion of hers. They neither entertain nor even leave the house, so far as I can determine, and that estate could be leased out to someone who would at least enjoy the fishing there, for what is the point of grounds that stretch down to the river when no one ever casts a line there?”
“Hmm… are we in the basket, Ran? Retrenching? Because a little bird told me that Orrisdale was not very forthcoming over the dowry, and—”
“How the devil does this stuff get about? But no, we are not in the basket, sister dear, far from it. I have been in sole charge of the management of the Litherholm estates for almost five years, since Father became too ill to concern himself with business matters, and I can assure you we are considerably better off now than we were then, Ruth’s dowry notwithstanding. I am not concerned about the expenses of Durran House, if that is what you are inferring. It merely distresses me to have such a prime property occupied by two elderly ladies who make no use of it. If there were a family settled there, I should be perfectly content.” He paused, frowning. “What happened to that old governess of yours?”
“Miss Draper? She went back to Romsey, I believe, to her sister’s house. She must be eighty if she is a day, Ran. You will want someone younger for your own children.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I wondered if she needed any help, that is all. Money, or a cottage here. With her sister, if she wishes. Will you write and ask her? And Hollingsworth, our last tutor. He was from somewhere near Birmingham. I will see if he needs anything, for his annuity is very small.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “What an excellent duke you are turning out to be, brother.”
“I should like to be, one day. All these years I have been no more than a steward, continuing the rather haphazard policies Father began and all the time waiting — for Ger to take over and give me new policies. But now, I need wait no longer. I can do as I wish, and implement my own policies, more modern ideas, but systematically, rationally. Valmont is my responsibility now, and I like the feeling very well.”
~~~~~
Before Audlyn and Elizabeth left Valmont, Ran arranged a small dinner for some of the local families. They sat down twenty four at table, which was a comfortable number for the smaller dining room, known as the Buttery. Ran took care to ensure there were three full courses, for his careful management of Valmont did not run to any economy towards guests.
With the exception of Audlyn, all those present knew each other well. The Lorrimers, the local squire, a baronet, the physician and some minor gentry made up the numbers, and amongst them was not the least ill-feeling towards Ran for not marrying the daughter of one or other of them, as might have been supposed. When the modest estate of a gentleman with a thousand or two a year abuts the vast holdings of a ducal estate like Valmont, the local residents tend to be grateful for any notice — some shooting in season, perhaps, and the occasional evening engagement, nothing more. Although they would have been glad indeed if the duke’s eye had fallen on one of their daughters, there were no expectations. Nobility must marry nobility, for that was the way of the world.
So there was genuine rejoicing at the news of Ran’s betrothal, and a great curiosity to meet the brother of the future duchess.
“He will be a heart-breaker when he is a little older,” Alice Lorrimer whispered to Ran, as they gathered in the Gold Saloon before dinner. “Very handsome. He will cause havoc amongst the ambitious mamas of the season. Or is he spoken for already, as Ger was?”
“Very likely. Orrisdale is most efficient in that way.”
“Poor boy!”
“Because his father chooses a suitable bride for him?” Ran said, amused.
“Indeed! I feel myself very fortunate to have a completely free choice where to marry — or not to marry at all, if I please. I am very happy to keep house for my brothers. How lowering to be forced to marry someone who may not be compatible in the least, however suitable.”
“No one can be forced to marry, you know. It is against the law.”
She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Not forced at the point of a sword, perhaps, but there may be any amount of subtle pressure brought to bear — expectation, obligation, money. We are all of us raised to obey parental dictates, Ran, and matrimony is not excluded from that consideration, even, or one might say especially, amongst those of rank.”
“You do not suppose that I was pressured, for—”
“No, no!”
“—I am very happy with my choice, I assure you.”
“Doubtless, my friend, but what of Lady Ruth? She may feel obliged—”
Ran had no idea how to answer the point, for he could not in his heart be at all sure of Ruth’s sentiments. He did not think she was being forced into marrying him, exactly, but he was not the man she would have chosen, that he knew. If Ger had not died, she would have gone gladly to the altar with him. Ran was very much her second choice, the expected choice. The suitable choice.
Fortunately, he was not required to formulate an answer, for the squire and his wife arrived just then, and Ran was drawn away to greet them, and smile politely as they congratulated him on his betrothal.
As the evening rolled on, Ran could not help thinking of Ger. He would have enjoyed the occasion, he knew, for he was amongst friends. There was nothing he had liked better than to spend an evening with a group of people who knew each other intimately. There was no pretence, he had always said, no need to stand on ceremony, no stupid formality. All was ease and pleasure.
In town, he had been nervous amongst such large crowds. ‘They stare so, and only care about the title,’ he had said gloomily. ‘I wish I were plain Mr Smith. An attorney, say, or… or a vintner, or some such. Or the proprietor of a gaming hell. I should do well at that, should I not?’ And Ran had reminded him that since he never accepted notes of hand, such a venture would be unlikely to thrive. But Father had insisted they both acquire some town bronze, so they had paraded themselves at Almack’s and Carlton House and all the fashionable squeezes, and Ger had hated it more each year. As often as not, if there was an instrument to be found tucked away in a corner, there he would be hiding — anything to avoid dancing, or making insipid conversation. Poor Ger!
But this was just the sort of entertainment that had brought out the best in him, and Ran found it took all his powers of civility to play the host and move easily amongst his guests, when his mind’s eye could see Ger lounging against the mantel with his mischievous grin, or engaged in a spirited debate with the squire about some horse or other, or sitting at the card table, an expression of amused benevolence on his face as the coins piled up in front of him.
It was foolish, he knew. Ger had left England four years ago, and had been lying in the mausoleum for a year. The initial shock had become disbelief, and that had gradually become grief, settling into a dull but steady ache that never left him. One day, perhaps, he would be free of it. But not yet.
~~~~~
APRIL
Mr Willerton-Forbes wrote that he had gathered together a number of references to Ger’s time in America and his last days for Ran’s perusal, and should His Grace wish to see them at once, or when he was up in town? Ran still had much to do at Valmont now that he had begun ordering matters in his own way, so he set a date for the lawyer to visit Valmont. He hoped, in that way, to set the final niggling concerns about Ger’s death to rest before he travelled up to London to claim both his title and his bride.
He bethought him to reread Ger’s letters, neatly collected in a box the estate carpenter had made for the purpose, the lid engraved ‘Gervase in America’. Ger had been an erratic correspondent, some letters being several sheets closely inscribed, and others, perhaps many weeks later, saying only ‘Arrived in Boston. Hotel very
bad.’ Ran took the box to the Long Gallery, and settled down on a sofa positioned directly opposite the portrait of the twins. It was the place he had gone to very often after Ger had gone to America, when their father was in his final decline and Ran had felt so alone. He never actually spoke out loud to Ger’s image, as he did in the mausoleum, for one never knew when a footman might creep about and overhear one addressing a painting, and how peculiar that would look! But he had sat on the sofa and gazed at his brother’s smiling countenance and remembered him in his high good humours.
Opening the box, he took out the first batch of letters and untied the ribbon that bound them. The earliest ones were all of the excitement of the adventure — the ship and the rough seas, and how exhilarating it was to be on deck at such times! And then landing in New York and the first taste of American society. But after two or three months, the tone had changed and excitement had given way to the familiar ennui. American hostesses, it appeared, were just as keen to entertain the Marquess of Beckhampton as English ones had been, and he had been fawned over and petted and grovelled to in much the same way. ‘Thank God for Ruth,’ he had written, ‘for at least I may truthfully say I am spoken for, and need not fear to raise expectations in their hopeful daughters.’
But after a few months, there was a change of tone, as if he were somehow happier, or more settled. The grumbles ceased, and his reports of social events were more reasonably worded. He made no further complaint of the ‘monstrous toad-eating’ he had encountered initially. Perhaps it was because his starchy valet had fallen ill and had to be left behind in New York, or perhaps it was that he had fallen in with a band of travelling actors, who treated him with a refreshing lack of deference, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, finally.
That lasted until word of Father’s death reached him, several weeks after the event, the black-edged letter chasing him from town to town. ‘Oh God, Ran, I am the duke now! How shall I bear it?’ he had written despairingly. Then there had been the sombre business of arranging passage back to England, and the long gap between letters as his ship traversed the Atlantic Ocean. And then nothing but brief announcements of his arrival in Ireland, his intention of travelling to Dublin to catch the Howth to Holyhead packet, and then one, final letter.
‘Brother, A slight change to my plans, for there is a ship due in Dublin on Monday, the Brig Minerva, which will bring me to Southampton, all being well, on Saturday. Is that not convenient? You will be able to meet me, and I shall be able to avoid the Holyhead road. Best of all, I shall have a surprise for you. I am very well entertained by Kilrannan and his three daughters until then. One of them even plays the harp tolerably. Gervase.’
He would never now know what the surprise was.
~~~~~
Mr Willerton-Forbes and his companions, Captain Edgerton and Mr Neate, arrived promptly on the appointed day. Max had gone off to wrangle with the workmen at Elizabeth’s lodge, so Ran saw the three alone. They brought several notebooks, the relevant pages marked with neat strips of paper, wherein they had recorded the testimony of the numerous people they had interviewed in their endeavours.
The most interesting, in being the most descriptive, were those of the Earl of Kilrannan and his family and various guests. The earl occupied a mansion in Dublin and was most hospitable towards anyone of noble birth or wealth who passed through his town on the way to or from the English ports. There were several passages describing Ger, waxing lyrical about his style, his manners, his appearance and his open-handed nature, as would be expected of anyone of such rank. The observers were diplomatic about his faults, and Ran laughed at the circumspect way they spoke of ‘His Grace’s unequalled enthusiasm in the dance, which gave great pleasure to those privileged to watch it.’
“Indeed, Ger was never the most elegant of dancers, for he paid no attention to the dancing masters Father employed, and hated balls so much that he never improved. But what does this mean? ‘The duke also frequently graced the card tables, where his good humour, even under the worst runs of luck, won him many admirers.”
“It means that he lost large sums and made no fuss about it,” Mr Neate said, with a smile.
“Lost large sums? He was an excellent card player.”
“It is a courtesy in a wealthy guest to obligingly lose to the host’s family,” Mr Neate said.
“Hmm. That is possible, I suppose. Perhaps Ger had learnt the art of diplomacy at last.”
“There was no mention in any of our original records of the ring His Grace wore,” Mr Willerton-Forbes said. “I took the liberty of writing directly to Lord Kilrannan on the matter, and he confirms that it was worn on the little finger the whole time His Grace was at Kilrannan House, so you may set your mind at ease on that score, Your Grace. Nothing untoward happened with the ring during the voyage of the Brig Minerva or afterwards. Your Grace? You are still concerned on the matter?”
“The ring… I cannot say on that point, but it troubles me that he always lost at play. ‘…the worst runs of luck…’. Ger never had that kind of ill-luck. He played only games of skill, and he usually won. Furthermore, I have seen no mention of his playing of the pianoforte. He was a most accomplished player, yet no one ever mentions it, even in this lengthy description of a musical evening. He would certainly have performed on such an occasion.”
For a long moment, all four men were sunk in thought. It was Mr Willerton-Forbes who broke the silence.
“If — and it is a most implausible notion, if I may say so but if this person was not, in fact, your brother, it raises a great many questions. Who was he, and why was he impersonating your brother, and, perhaps more to the point, where was your brother? Did he perhaps stay in America?”
“Impossible, for he wrote to me from Ireland, from Dublin, even, using the Beckhampton seal. He was there and he intended to take the Brig Minerva, so even if that person who wore his ring was not Ger, he was still on the ship and still drowned and it makes no difference. It is just… so strange.”
“There is a way in which the matter might be set to rest,” Willerton-Forbes said, steepling his hands. “If you have a painting or drawing of your brother, it could be sent to Lord Kilrannan to confirm once and for all whether the man claiming to be the Duke of Falconbury was your brother or not.”
“Oh yes! A portrait! There is one, although it is full-size, and too big to be sent without difficulty.”
“Mr Neate is a tolerable artist. He could take a likeness, I daresay.”
“Let me show you, and then I shall find paper and pencils,” Ran said eagerly.
He led them through corridors and up the back stairs to the Long Gallery, where the portrait of the two brothers stood. Captain Edgerton was distracted by a line of sabres mounted on the wall, but Willerton-Forbes and Neate drew near to the painting.
“Ah, an excellent likeness of you, Your Grace, and this must be—” Willerton-Forbes gave a strangled noise in his throat. “Michael! Michael!”
Captain Edgerton abandoned the sabres and wandered over. “What is it, Pettigrew? Oh, a fine piece of— Good God!”
“You know him?” Ran said, puzzled. Then, his voice suddenly hoarse, “You have seen him? He is alive!”
Willerton-Forbes only nodded, the power of speech having failed him, but Captain Edgerton said softly, “Oh yes. He is alive and living in Cornwall under the name of Jonathan Ellsworthy.”
8: Trehannick Inn
“Are you quite certain?” Ran said. His voice sounded far away, as if under water. “There can be no mistake?”
“None,” Captain Edgerton said. “Willerton-Forbes and I have met him three times now, and concluded from very good evidence that he was Nigel Pike from Carlisle. But although he calls himself Jonathan Ellsworthy, he is beyond doubt the man in that painting.”
Joy bubbled up inside Ran. Ger was alive! He was not alone after all! “It is a miracle — the most wonderful news! You cannot imagine— But how? And why?”
Willerton-Forbes made some inartic
ulate noise in his throat, then, “Astonishing… I congratulate you, Your Grace.”
Ran laughed. “I am not Your Grace any longer.”
“Possibly,” Edgerton said. “Best to say nothing until we have more information. Pettigrew, you are very pale.”
“Such a shock!” Willerton-Forbes said. “How could we not have guessed? How could we be so wrong, Michael?”
“You are right, he is very pale,” Ran said. “Do come downstairs, sir. Let me get you a brandy.”
He took them to the Royal Withdrawing Room, brushing aside the curious butler and two footmen loitering in the hall. “Mr Willerton-Forbes felt a trifle faint. No, thank you, we shall not need you, Brent. A little brandy and a rest will do the trick.”
“I believe Mr Vine is here to talk to you about the woodcock, Your Grace.”
It was on the tip of Ran’s tongue to blurt out that he was no longer a duke, that the real duke was alive and well, but he caught Edgerton’s eye. “Please inform him that I shall not be able to see him today after all. I shall send word when I next have an opportunity. If Mr Lorrimer returns, pray tell him that I shall not need him for the rest of the day. The other secretaries, too.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I send for Mr Preston, Your Grace?”
“No, no. Mr Willerton-Forbes will be better directly. He does not need a physician.”
The butler bowed with punctilious formality, rather put out to be summarily dismissed when there was clearly a crisis in the air, but Ran ushered his guests into the room and firmly shut the door.
“Edgerton, would you be so good as to light the fire? There, sir, sit down here and I shall find the brandy.”
He poured three large measures, and was relieved to see that after a few sips, a little colour returned to Willerton-Forbes’ face.
“Pray forgive my feebleness,” he said, smiling wanly. “I cannot remember when I have sustained a greater shock, but one does greatly dislike being so sadly misled.”
The Duke (Silver Linings Mysteries Book 6) Page 8