The baroness nodded without enthusiasm. “Yes, perhaps.”
After several moments of sterling silver forks clicking against Wedgwood plates, Violet said, “I have received a reply from my friend Mary Cooke and have plans to meet her tomorrow to visit the offices of Grover and Baker, to see their new sewing machines. Then I shall meet with Mr. Gladstone and be on my way back to Nottinghamshire.”
“How nice for you. You will have dinner with us tomorrow before leaving, though, won’t you?” The baroness didn’t seem as happy about Violet’s impending departure as she once had. It had been Violet’s experience that many mourners relied on their undertaker for expressing their grief, but Lady Howard de Walden wasn’t in mourning. Unless her son was causing her far more pain than even Violet could imagine.
Violet preferred to leave the moment she was done with Gladstone so she could get back to Sam, but acquiesced to the baroness’s request. “Of course, my lady.”
“You will speak well of your visit when you see His Grace?” the baroness asked, bringing her teacup to her lips and looking at Violet over the rim.
This surprised Violet, who had had no idea the lady was looking to secure a good report, or that her brother’s opinion mattered to her.
Without waiting for Violet’s reply, the baroness went on. “My brother has many quirks that the rest of us don’t have, but he is still a good Christian man who takes care of his family and of those less fortunate than he. He is simply”—Lady Howard de Waldon looked up, as if searching for the right phrase to describe Portland—“simply less forgiving of fools and simpletons, and sometimes it makes him seem abrasive or peculiar. He doesn’t appear to see you as a fool or simpleton, though, so I must assume you are neither since I have so little to go on.”
Violet thought that Portland’s actions and mannerisms went way beyond dislike of addle-brains, but there was much about the man she had yet to understand, so perhaps the baroness was right, although Violet wasn’t sure whether she had just been insulted again or not.
“I remember a particular time not long ago,” Lady Howard de Walden said, an actual smile making an appearance on her face as she put her cup down onto its plate with a delicate clink. “Our cousin William—who is the heir presumptive given that my brother is not likely to marry and beget heirs at his great age—went to visit John, to learn a little about the estate. I suppose William, sent there by his parents, of course, expressed little interest in the running of a ducal estate and more than likely demonstrated his utter boredom in eye rolls and sighs. Having had enough of the boy’s impudence, my brother ordered him to stand in an empty room for hours on end until William was reduced to humbly apologizing.”
At least, Violet thought, the boy was sure to have had a chamber pot available to him, no matter in which empty room he stood.
“He returned home chastened. Our uncle was outraged by his son’s treatment, but he’s still the heir and no damage was done, so that is that. Except there will be no more training, and William will be thoroughly unprepared to take the reins. I’ve no doubt he will end up like Fred—like so many others in his position.”
Violet contemplated all that the baroness had told her. Portland was peculiar—of that, there was no doubt. But did his eccentricities cover up something deeper and more sinister? She began to question why he had been so eager to send her to London. Was it not Jack LeCato or Colonel Mortimer with a motive to attack her but the duke himself? Portland had been terribly vague about his reasons for sponsoring her trip to London. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so trusting of him just because he was a peer of the realm.
Moreover, should Lady Howard de Walden have shared such an intimate family detail with her, a stranger with no real connection to the Cavendish-Scott-Bentincks? Violet was beginning to realize something important. The dowager baroness was a first-order gossip, and not a discreet one at that. She now understood why Portland hadn’t told his sister anything, for she suspected that anything that went into the woman’s ear would be spilled out at her next card party.
Samuel Harper willingly met Portland at Worksop Priory for Sunday services—strange as it was to have to witness the proceedings through a wooden screen in the rear of the church—then accompanied him in the ducal carriage back to Welbeck. Sam was treated to the same experience Violet had told him of in her last letter, with the four-mile trek mostly inside an underground tunnel. They exited next to a European-style chalet, which Portland referred to as his Russian Lodge. With a sharply pitched roof that dominated the entire structure, it could have easily been a home in Sweden, where Sam had visited the dynamite inventor, Alfred Nobel.
The thought of Nobel reminded Sam of his ultimate purpose in meeting with Portland, and he girded himself for whatever conversation lay ahead. He had no idea what it could be since Portland had been utterly silent during their bizarre underground journey and, in fact, had stared out of the carriage the entire time, as though there was something fascinating in the miles of endless stonework they passed.
Portland wore the same old brown overcoat that he had worn at the dynamiting site. On his lap was the same tall hat under which the man could have hidden a giraffe. The duke didn’t seem to be one for change in his life.
Sam refrained from grabbing at his own leg as he exited the carriage. Violet’s rub of Mr. Johnston’s Essence of Mustard had helped, but the autumn chill that seemed permanently set in the air meant that he was in for a painful few months. Colorado wasn’t so damp, and it was easier on his leg there, but Violet was flourishing back here in her homeland, so he ignored the soreness, which would be over soon enough.
Nevertheless, he landed hard on the leg that had been wounded in the Civil War, and he couldn’t help grimacing as he reached back into the carriage for his eagle-headed cane. Perhaps he shouldn’t dread the trip to Egypt for the opening of the Suez Canal next month. Maybe the desert would be more agreeable for his bones, which weren’t yet forty years old but sometimes made him feel older than Methuselah.
He shook off such morose thoughts. It was time for the thrill of a shoot, and the opportunity to talk to Portland about dynamite manufacture—that is, if the man would do more than stare off into space, avoiding him. Sam found the duke to be just as peculiar as Violet had described him.
They were greeted at the door of the lodge by a man who was as well groomed and sharply dressed as the duke was wild-haired and old-fashioned.
“Henry,” Portland said warmly, offering the man a handshake, “this is Samuel Harper, the American I wrote to you of who is involved with dynamite. Harper, this is my brother, Henry Scott-Bentinck.”
As Sam shook hands with the man, he noticed that, although Bentinck shared Portland’s hooded eyes, he shared no other physical features. In fact, he appeared to be much younger than his age, which Sam presumed to be his midsixties, versus his brother’s late sixties.
“Henry is a well-known hound man,” Portland said with pride.
In response, Bentinck put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The sharp sound brought a pack of about eight dogs running from nowhere. It was hard to count them as they dashed excitedly around the men, sniffing the air, the men’s trousers, their shoes, and whatever other item they could find. Some of the dogs trotted, as though they thought they were horses, while others wriggled their backsides enthusiastically as they moved.
Sam reached down to pat one on the head. It had a smooth coat of burnished brown, and its pink nose eagerly snuffled at Sam’s hand as its unusually short tail shot out proud and erect behind it.
“They’re vizslas,” Bentinck said with pride. “The breed originated in Hungary, and holds a rare position among sporting dogs, as they are also good household companions and guard dogs.”
“They have striking coats,” Sam murmured, scratching the same dog behind its floppy ear. As his reward, the dog sat squarely on Sam’s foot to better enjoy the attention.
Bentinck became more animated in his enthusiasm for the animals. “Yes, and
they are not only excellent pointers but admirable retrievers, as well. They are absolutely fearless and make brilliant swimmers. Outstanding noses, too, and can be trained to perform nearly any trick. I once even trained one to pick out ‘London Bridge’ on a piano. Ha!”
With so many perfect qualities, Sam wondered if the dogs shouldn’t be near to canonization.
With another whistle, this one not as piercing, the vizslas settled down on their rumps, expectantly staring at their master. “Stay here,” Bentinck said and turned back to the lodge. Sam and Portland followed him inside, where servants waited to help them select weapons and ammunition, a luxury to which Sam was quite unused.
A half hour later, they had hiked to a remote part of the estate with an attendant who kept their rifles loaded and cleaned. Soon they were firing at a variety of game birds—pheasants, plump little gray partridges, and French partridges with their bright red eye rings. The pheasants made a loud kok-kok-kok noise as the dogs frightened them into bursting out of their cover of shrubbery. The birds’ wings made a distinct whirring noise as they made a futile dash for cover.
The vizslas went wild with chasing the carcasses down and trotting back proudly with them gently cradled in their jaws, stubby tails wagging. The men rewarded the dogs with pats, then sent them on to the attendant so he could take the birds and string them together.
Sam enjoyed shooting the pheasants most. He was glad the duke kept them so well stocked on the estate, even if he was unlikely to be invited to partake in a meal that the estate’s cook might prepare with them.
In between shots and moving to other locations for the vizslas to scare up more fowl, the men talked companionably. Portland spent considerable time talking about his skating rink project, while tactfully avoiding the subject of the late Edward Bayes. Bentinck, who apparently had no current occupation other than his dogs, talked about past accomplishments.
“. . . then I was the member for North Nottinghamshire from 1847 to 1857. Our brother-in-law Evelyn Denison followed me into Parliament. Must keep things held close, eh? Ha!”
“Denison married our sister Charlotte,” Portland said as explanation. “They live at Ossington Hall, about fifteen miles away, and have no children, either, so I suppose we are lucky the family has so many other members to carry on the name, eh, Henry?”
Bentinck reddened, and Sam noted that the man had made no mention of a wife or children, so he assumed Portland’s brother was also a stopping point in the family tree. As disheartening as that was for commoners, how devastating was it for the aristocracy, what with their bloodlines and estates to manage and transfer? America certainly had her own aristocracy in industrialists like Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt and Andrew Carnegie, but their wealth was self-made and not invested in the propping up of ancient edifices and pedigrees.
Is one any better than the other? Sam wondered. Perhaps one day the Vanderbilts and Carnegies would also worry about posterity and the continuation of family greatness.
Sam’s contribution was to grouse about the state of banking in Great Britain. “With no offense meant, sirs, but it was nearly impossible to secure financing for my endeavor. Your new Debtors Act has fouled things up and made bankers frightened to loan money.”
“Ha!” Bentinck said. “You can be sure the banks are continuing to shovel in gold coins like brass buttons, even if they never release a single ingot. Isn’t that right, John?”
Portland nodded. “The same is true for other venerable institutions in this country.”
Sam noticed a storm brewing in the man’s expression after it had relaxed considerably while they had all been outside together. It cast a somber mood over the affair. Eventually, though, Portland guided their talk to the point of their excursion. “Tell me, how did you become an enthusiast for dynamite, Mr. Harper?”
“I’m a lawyer by trade,” Sam explained. “I became interested in dynamite after meeting Mr. Nobel, though, seeing the value of it for safer mine tunneling. We worked diligently to get authorization to open factories in Wales or England, but most authorities refuse to consider the idea that a powerful explosive may actually be safer that what has traditionally been employed. My wife tells me that even in private the queen herself is vehemently opposed to it.”
“Mrs. Harper knows the queen?” Bentinck asked, his mouth open.
The man’s astonishment filled Sam with immense pride. “Indeed. She has performed many services for Her Majesty, from assisting with the Prince Consort’s funeral to investigating suspicious deaths in the royal circle.”
The brothers lowered their guns as they lost interest in the pheasants with Sam’s revelation about his wife.
“I had no idea,” Portland said. “And you say our government won’t invest in dynamite? Hmm. I should definitely like to hear more about a substance Gladstone doesn’t like. Explain it all to me in great detail, Mr. Harper.”
This was Sam’s moment, and he dove in with enthusiasm, explaining what dynamite was and how the combination of nitroglycerin, diatomaceous earth, and sodium carbonate, formed into short sticks and wrapped in paper, made for better shaft tunneling because the nitroglycerin was far more powerful than black powder.
“If you know the formula,” Portland interrupted, “why don’t you make your own and cut Nobel out?”
“Mr. Nobel obtained a patent for what he calls ‘Nobel’s Blasting Powder’ in England in 1867, and is very serious about controlling his patents. Besides, I would never consider trampling upon my gentleman’s agreement with him.”
“I see.” Portland nodded thoughtfully. “You know what your problem is, Mr. Harper? Besides the fact that you’re a Yankee, of course.”
Sam had heard that particular refrain hundreds of times and remained silent. What was he to do about his American birth?
“The problem is that you have no one of . . . substance . . . championing your cause. Naturally, it has been a lost one, and probably never had any hope of success.”
Sam’s optimism dwindled like a meteor crashing into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Was this a lesson he should have learned during his trials with the banks? Should he have hung up his fiddle after the first “no” he’d heard back in London? Giving up wasn’t in his nature, though. If it were, he wouldn’t have survived the Civil War, wouldn’t be married to Violet now, and most certainly wouldn’t be standing before the Duke of Portland, discussing his business aims.
“Sir,” he replied resolutely, “I never give up hope. It defeats a man, and I am never defeated.”
Portland didn’t respond immediately but stared critically past Sam, not quite making eye contact. Had Sam somehow sealed Portland’s poor opinion of Americans?
When the duke finally spoke, though, his words were nothing Sam expected. “Yes, I suppose a man is defeated when he has lost all hope. It is deciding where hope is warranted and where it is best extinguished that is the conundrum. However, Mr. Harper, I believe that in your case, clinging to hope may have its reward. The sticking point here is what to do to make you acceptable in British eyes.”
Bentinck nodded understanding of his brother’s intent. “I’m a trustee for the British Museum,” Bentinck said to Sam before turning to his brother. “Perhaps to elevate his status a bit, we should give Harper a position there. Perhaps . . .” He rubbed his chin and addressed Sam once more. “Perhaps you could be curator of our firearms collection. Ha! An American managing a collection of munitions for Great Britain. We shall have to ensure you don’t decide to rebel against us again, won’t we? Ha!”
Sam wasn’t sure if the man was joking or serious about the position, so he remained silent.
“That may or may not be the right solution, but I believe it suggests that we can come up with one. Mr. Harper, I believe I should like to invest in your dynamite idea, and I can be of help in convincing the government to let you build. Would a thousand pounds be enough to start you on your way?”
Now it was Sam’s turn for his mouth to drop open. “Pardon
me? How much did you say?”
“A thousand. I expect a return on my investment, of course. Something far better than the infernal government bonds of which I cannot seem to divest myself. I shall also expect to be able to inspect your factory periodically. Have you considered building one in Nottinghamshire? Hmm, perhaps I can build a tunnel to it if it is close enough to Welbeck.”
Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was ready to exclaim that he would build his dynamite factory upon Welbeck grounds itself if the duke were willing to endow the project. Nobel would be beside himself when he read the news. Sam would have to send a telegram right away. But first he must attend to details.
“A dynamite factory in Nottinghamshire would be ideally situated, given the number of coal mines sitting atop the Nottingham coalfield,” he said. “However, Your Grace, I don’t know how close I can make it to Welbeck, given that I would put it far outside of town and I—”
Portland held up a hand. “I am not serious about the factory being close to Welbeck. Let us repair to the shooting hut to celebrate over a very old bottle of Taylor’s I’ve been saving.”
“What could you possibly be saving it for?” Bentinck asked. “A weekend card party? Ha!”
They returned to the Russian Lodge to drink port, with Bentinck joking about his brother’s vast subterranean wine cellar, suggesting that they transplant themselves down there so that they didn’t have to wait so long for another dusty bottle to arrive. Sam waited for a “Ha!” which for once did not arrive. Instead, Bentinck turned serious—perhaps it was the port weighing down his mind—and turned to the uncomfortable topic of the deaths that had occurred at Welbeck Abbey.
“They say that death comes in threes,” he said, shuddering. “You’ve had two in the past week, John. You should expect a third soon.”
“Come, brother, you’re being superstitious, like my servants. My cook, Mrs. Garside, also frets over it. Ever since Aristotle died, she has—Ah, there you have it. There have already been three.”
Death at the Abbey Page 18