“Good day, sir. Are you Mr. Jacobson?”
He looked up, still squinting. “I am. I don’t do women’s boots, though.”
“I am not here for boots, although yours appear quite fine. Mr. Hume met you and thought you might be able to help me.”
“Hume? That troublemaker? What’s he doing, sending a woman to me? All talk, he is, and let someone else take the lead ball, that’s all that one is.” He returned to his work. “Nearly came to blows over all his talk causing trouble but him never being the one to risk his neck.”
“This has nothing to do with politics. I came to ask you if you knew my family in Northumberland. He said you came from there, near Newcastle.”
“’Tis a big county, lass.”
“Yes, very big. Yet there are long and wide family connections in it, and it is always possible you knew them if you lived near the village of Caxledge. It is near Kenton.”
He nodded grudgingly. “Possible, as you say. I didn’t live far from that town when I was a lad. What’s the name?”
“MacCallum.”
“Scot. Well, that narrows it a bit. I knew MacCallums. Went to church school with one. He wasn’t Catholic, or a Scot to hear him, but his father wanted him to get some learning, and that was one way to do it.”
“That could have been my father. He was educated at the St. Ambrose School in Newcastle but started at a local parish school.”
“Could have been him, then. He was younger than me, and I didn’t stay long, what with taking an apprenticeship, so we did not know each other well. I can’t tell you much about him.”
“It was my grandfather I was hoping to learn about. His father, James.”
Mr. Jacobson set down his tool. His brow hooded his squint. “Seems to me my father knew him, at least in passing. Fostered nearby, I think. An old couple. Forget their name.”
“Mitchell. Harold and Katherine.”
“I wouldn’t know. There was some bad feelings when he left the church as a young man. Haven’t thought about that in years. Odd how old memories come easier these days than new ones. I only remember because my father thought it wrong for him to then send his son to the school if he left the church. That’s probably the only reason I recall your family at all.” He paused over his own words, then shrugged. “One reason at least.”
“There is another?”
He sat in thought, as if pawing through old parchments in his head, looking for the right document. “A strange thing to say, I thought,” he spoke to himself.
“For whom to say?”
His profound distraction lifted. “My father. When MacCallum died, he told my mother. It was odd enough it stuck in my head. MacCallum caught fever and died, he said.”
“Not so odd to tell her if they had attended the same church when younger.”
“MacCallum caught fever and died, he said. The baron is gone.” He grinned. “Carried himself like one, I suppose. Made you take notice, now that I picture him. It was a name they must have given him to goad him about that.”
“Probably so.” Her astonishment made it hard to get the words out.
“Proud, I suppose. A common enough sin. There are worse. Although he weren’t the best family man either, now that I poke my brain about him. Put his son in that school, but he’d leave his family from time to time and wander off for a spell. Kept needing new situations for clerking because of it. Seems to me my mother had something to say about that. She didn’t approve, of course.” He chuckled. “Never saw my father dare to take a holiday from us or his work, I’ll tell you that much. She wouldn’t a had it.”
“Few women would.” Where did he go when he left for a spell? How long would he be gone? This man would not know, but she wished he did.
“I went back there, oh, ten years ago. Don’t remember word of them. Don’t remember you at all.”
“My father left when I was thirteen. We moved north after my mother died.”
“Ah. That would explain it, then. Not more I can tell you. As I said, I didn’t know any of them much.”
She wished he could tell her much more, could regale her for hours with stories and memories. She wished he and her father had been good friends, so he might fill the hole inside her with details she could cling to. “I thank you for telling me what you do remember. It was good to hear about my grandfather, and about my father when he was young.”
He picked up his cobbler’s hammer. “Was an easy service to provide. Tell that fool Hume to come and get some boots. The ones he wears don’t fit him proper.”
“I will do that.” She took her leave and went out to the street, where she released her excitement. Finally, she had something to indicate she was not on a fool’s errand. While it was possible her grandfather had been called the baron due to his bearing, it could also have been a reference to his history, known to those alive when he was brought to the region. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she had expected this visit to give her.
The little clue distracted her until someone brushed past and jostled her to alertness. She paid better attention to her path then, but walked home with a lighter heart than she had experienced in months.
* * *
Stratton hailed Eric and galloped his horse across the park. Eric stopped and waited for him, then noticed that Langford brought up the rear.
“Odd to find you here this early,” Stratton said while his horse snorted and whinnied in the crisp autumn air. “I thought you would be sequestered at one of your meetings.”
“The day is chilled but fair, and I needed a ride to clear my head.” He turned his horse and paced along while Langford bore down on them.
Stratton fell into place on his right. “If we are interfering with deep thought, we will ride on.”
“Clearing one’s head means you put deep thought aside for a spell.” I am riding in order not to think about a Scottish woman who is trying to steal land from me.
Langford took up position on his left. The wind proved too strong for hats, so all their hair blew around their heads.
“And here I thought you had such deep thoughts plaguing you that you could not afford to put them aside,” Stratton said.
“I am spared thoughts that deep.”
“Interesting,” Langford murmured.
Eric glanced over at him, then turned his attention to Stratton. Both of them appeared ever so uninterested and casual. Studiously so.
Damned if he was going to offer up thoughts, deep or otherwise. If they waited for something, let them wait.
They all turned toward the reservoir.
“We haven’t seen you much the last few days, but Clara said you called on her, so you must not be playing the hermit,” Stratton said.
“I never play the hermit.” Hermit implied total retreat, and also self-denial. He did not engage in either, ever, although there were times when he might not be very social.
“Well, not since that time when we were much younger,” Langford said.
Eric did not respond. He could not believe Langford had mentioned that, or even remembered. Memories crowded forward again, about how he had not been a hermit at all then, merely engaged in something no one could know about. Fire. Madness. Inexplicable loss of control . . . He closed the door forcefully on the impending reverie.
“It was good of you to call anyway,” Stratton said.
“Why was it good of me?”
“There has been some talk about her and that journal since the party, so it was good of you to show again that you hold her in high esteem.”
“She told you about my call?”
“Only that you did call.”
“And now you wonder why.”
“Not at all. If you choose to call on my wife when I am not at home, that is fine with me.”
“It isn’t as if he thinks you have designs on her,” Langford said from the other side. “He’d never suspect that, would you, Stratton?”
“Of course not.”
“I think she did te
ll you why I called. What did she say?”
Stratton shrugged. “She only said it had to do with the journal. Hence my thanking you for letting society know your high esteem again.”
Eric debated whether to leave it at that. Eventually, the problem with Miss MacCallum was going to get out, however. If the king’s Household knew, eventually the world might. Who knew if Hume would be discreet. Probably not, if he saw some profit in talking.
“It did concern the journal. However, it also concerned Miss MacCallum.”
“I told you,” Langford said triumphantly to Stratton. “As soon as you said the journal, I thought, and who writes for that journal? Hmmm? I told you he has a fascination.”
Eric chose to ignore Langford. The alternative was to thrash him and, tempting though that might be, they were in the middle of the park and he loathed creating a scene. “There is no fascination. There is no interest. There is only annoyance and a good deal of pique. Not only with her but with your wife, Stratton.”
“I trust you did not call on Clara to scold her. I won’t have it.”
“Hell, no one scolds Clara. Even you don’t, nor would any man who wants to live five more minutes. I merely called on her to ask a favor. And she graciously granted it.”
That stopped the two of them in their tracks. He rode on. A patter of hooves brought them to his two flanks again.
“What favor?” It was Langford who had the cheek to ask. “You have told us this much, you may as well tell the rest. Clara may never confide in Stratton, but Amanda will surely tell me if I work my wiles on her.”
“I have no reason to think Amanda knows about this.”
“Of course she does. Or she will. She said all they do at that club is gossip. They are worse than men, according to her.”
Knowing how successfully Langford worked his wiles, that meant Amanda would indeed tell him if he was determined to find out.
“Miss MacCallum has come to London to petition to have lands returned to her that she claims were confiscated several generations ago and given to someone else. That is her true reason for being here, not to write for Parnassus and not to serve as a tutor.”
Langford’s brow knit. “So who has the lands now?” He glanced askance at Eric. “Ohhhh.”
“She had a meeting at St. James’s a few days ago. As did I. The king has been avoiding her, but that became impossible because someone’s wife interfered and wrote to the king on her behalf.” He glared at Stratton.
“Not much interference,” Stratton said defensively. “The king does not like Clara.”
“He could not ignore a duchess, though, could he? He had Haversham speak with her. And with me.”
Stratton reddened. “You had the temerity to meet with Clara and ask her to stop interfering?”
“I asked her to allow matters to resolve themselves. I asked her not to publish anything about this in that damned journal of hers. That is why the king agreed to have Miss MacCallum be heard out. He knows about that journal, and your wife’s patronage of it, and he probably imagined being shown as a liar in it.”
“A liar?” Once more, Langford could not allow anything to pass. How like him.
“There had been a promise a few years ago. I was very thankful Clara indeed said she would not publish anything.”
“That is not like her,” Stratton said. “She must like you more than I realized. I always thought that she and you—”
“Yes, yes. Well, I sweetened the favor a little. She gets the whole story if there is ever one to tell.”
“I trust you included the provision that Lady Farnsworth would not be the one to write that story,” Langford said. “Because even if you are in the right, she can make you look like an ass.”
“Still bitter about that, are you, Langford? Since the lady all but adopted your wife, you should probably let that water flow under the bridge.”
“What are you going to do about this?” Stratton asked. “Can you disprove her claim?”
“I’m the one holding the lands. Let her prove her claim, not that there is anything to prove.”
“I doubt that is how the king sees it,” Langford said. “He probably wants you to fix the problem.”
He probably did. Haversham had all but said as much. Damnation.
“Maybe you can just buy her off somehow,” Stratton said. “Find a compromise.”
“I am not inclined to compromise. Nor would either of you if you were in my position. Are we all to give away parts of our estates to any swindler with a sad story? I intend to prove she is the fraud she is.”
“You are sure of that?”
“She has no damned proof.”
“I suppose if you need to prove she is a fraud, you will have to get to know her,” Langford said. “Spend some time with her to catch her up on her inconsistencies. That sort of thing.”
“Probably so, hellish though it will be.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Langford grin broadly across at Stratton. Stratton responded with a slow smile of his own.
He turned to give Langford a furious glare, but by then Langford looked as innocent as a babe.
Chapter Six
It was all Davina could do to keep her mind on the lessons. She kept finding ways to avoid having to, by giving Nora mathematical problems to work on her slate, and a Latin passage to translate. All the while, she sat with books open in front of her, pretending to prepare for tomorrow, while in reality her thoughts dwelled on Mr. Jacobson.
It would be helpful to find another Northumberland native who had the same memory, but she doubted that would be likely. It would have to be someone at least Mr. Jacobson’s age, and from the area around Caxledge. What were the chances of that? Even Mr. Jacobson would have never been found if he had not gotten into an argument with Mr. Hume at a recent meeting.
She had learned that much at dinner last night, after returning from the boot shop. Mr. Hume had been all curiosity. When she described Mr. Jacobson’s dislike of him, he explained about the argument. It had yielded the information about Mr. Jacobson’s history, however, so he considered it a row worth having.
Then he had said he would think about her next move and they would discuss it later. She assumed that meant today.
She had already decided her next move. It waited on her writing table in her chamber. Last night she had composed a letter to Mr. Haversham, explaining she had met a man whose father knew her grandfather as the baron. Perhaps Mr. Haversham would take her a little more seriously when he learned that.
As expected, Mr. Hume wanted to discuss her problem. He waited until his mother and daughter left, but asked her to stay in the dining room. To her discomfort, he then moved to sit closer to her. Not right beside her, but closer than normal. Within arm’s reach.
“I have ruminated on your discovery,” he said. “I think there are several options for further action.”
“I agree. One is to go to Northumberland.”
He drew back, horrified. “And what of us—I mean, what of Nora’s lessons?”
“I am sure a good finishing governess could take over.”
“I don’t want her finished. I want her educated.”
“Surely there are women who can provide an education besides me. This is London. And I only said it is obvious that is one path, not that I am leaving tomorrow.”
“I was thinking more of a newspaper advertisement, seeking others from that area. There must be some in London. Probably many. I would gladly pay the fee.”
She had not considered using the newspapers that way. She admitted to herself that Mr. Hume was proving useful. “I would prefer to pay the fee myself. How do I accomplish this? Present myself at the paper and ask to put in a notice?”
“I will help you. We only have to write it out, then I will bring it to them.”
They spent some time deciding which papers to use. Fifteen minutes later, they had a plan. Mr. Hume insisted that contact be through a third party, and recommended a stationer nearby
.
“I thank you for your advice, sir.” She slid off her chair and stood. “I will go and compose the notice and make several copies. I will leave them in the library with some money, because you have offered to bring them around.”
“You do not need to hurry off, Miss MacCallum. If we put our minds to it, we can probably think of other things you can do. I already have several in mind myself.”
She wondered what those might be. Unfortunately, he was looking at her in that too warm a manner again. “I need to finish this tonight, then get my rest so I am fresh for Nora in the morning. Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me your other ideas.”
“As you prefer.”
She hurried up the stairs to write her advertisements.
* * *
Two days later, two things occurred at breakfast that ensured Eric would not enjoy the day.
The first happened while he perused the Times. He normally did not read the advertisements, but because they appeared on the front page, one could hardly avoid them. This day, while he scanned them to see if any of his partnerships were calling for more funds, his gaze landed on a short notice and halted there.
Desire to make contact with anyone who once lived near Caxledge in Northumberland. Replies with directions can be left at Montague Stationers on Norwich Street.”
Norwich Street was not far from Hume’s home. While any number of persons might want to contact someone who once lived in Northumberland, he suspected he knew who this person might be.
The second thing to happen was far more disagreeable. A hand-delivered message came while he read his mail. It was another invitation to be received by His Majesty, this time at three o’clock.
He had planned to spend the afternoon doing other things, and fought the temptation to respond with his regrets. That would never do, much as he wanted it to do very neatly. And so, at quarter to the hour in question, he entered St. James’s.
No Haversham greeted him. Rather, one of the pages immediately showed up to escort him. Across the large chamber they paced, through the door, and through several chambers until they reached a private one used by the king.
Never Deny a Duke Page 5