by Celia Rees
Gabriel was wrong. Miss Sovay was in residence. She had not arrived dressed as a man but the clothes she had been wearing, although female, had Mrs Crombie’s eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling. She had got past awkward questions about that by tales of having been waylaid and having to borrow clothes after an accident on the road. She ignored Mrs Crombie’s curiosity about what kind of person might have lent her such outlandish attire.
Mrs Crombie had not seen the master for a week or more.
‘He didn’t stay over a day or two.’
‘Did he say anything about where he was going?’
‘Called away. “Urgent business” was all he said.’
‘No more than that?’
‘I’m not privy to his private plans, Miss Sovay,’ Mrs Crombie answered, masking her concern with a certain asperity. ‘He does not confide in me. I thought he had returned to Compton.’ She relented a little. ‘No sign of him, you say?’
Sovay shook her head.
‘Then perhaps he’s gone visiting.’ Mrs Crombie brightened and folded her arms over her ample bosom. ‘Yes, that’ll be the way of it. The master is a great one for visiting. He has friends all over the place. He might have gone to see one of them.’
‘Yes,’ Sovay agreed. The sinking in her heart told her that it was unlikely, but there was no need to worry Mrs Crombie further. ‘He might.’
‘There we are, then! Now let’s get you out of those dreadful clothes!’
Mrs Crombie was only ever seen in black, out of respect for her deceased husband, although he had passed on so long ago that Hugh doubted his very existence and declared that the housekeeper had come into the world a Mrs. That aside, she had a good eye for fashions and knew exactly what should be worn by whom and under what circumstances.
‘I’ve never seen the like, not outside a theatre, not that I’ve ever been into one of those establishments. I don’t know what kind of lady lent them, I’m sure,’ she remarked, still piqued by Sovay’s reticence and determined to have the last word on the matter. ‘Now, up you go. It’s a good thing Lydia has arrived with your proper things.’ Mrs Crombie shooed Sovay towards the stairs. She had worked at Compton before moving to supervise the London residence and had a tendency to treat Sovay as though she was still the child she remembered from her time at the other house. As for that chit Lydia, when Mrs Crombie left Compton, she had been a cheeky little scullion, lax in her duties and inclined to be slovenly. How she had ever risen to the heights of lady’s maid was beyond reckoning. ‘She should have drawn your bath by now and tell her to do something about your hair!’
By the time Gabriel and Fitzwilliam presented themselves, Sovay had bathed, changed, had her hair dressed by Lydia and was ready to receive visitors.
The two young men were shown into the drawing room. Gabriel had never visited the London house before, never having had the occasion to come here. The house was older than Fitzwilliam’s residence, the rooms smaller and more crowded with furniture, but he did not feel so out of place here. He liked it better.
Sovay made every show of surprise at seeing him now, but did not have to feign her astonishment when she saw his companion.
‘Mr Fitzwilliam. How nice to see you. To what do I owe this honour?’
‘Miss Sovay.’ He took her proffered hand, smiling up as he kissed it. He was adept at flirting. ‘The honour is mine and I would like to say the pleasure is meeting you again, but I’m afraid we come on graver business.’
‘Grave? How so?’ Sovay withdrew her hand from his. ‘What is the matter?’ She turned to Gabriel. ‘What has happened?’
Gabriel looked uncomfortable. Although Sovay appeared every inch a lady and harmless as a dove, he could not rid himself of the image of her spurring her horse on a violent course, while dressed as a highwayman. Sovay turned away from his troubled gaze. She always knew what he was thinking.
‘It’s Hugh,’ Gabriel said eventually. ‘I went to Oxford, to his college. He’s been sent down.’
‘Sent down?’ Sovay frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Asked to leave the University,’ Fitzwilliam explained.
‘For Heaven’s sake, why?’
Fitzwilliam told her the reason. ‘I thought he was safe at Compton,’ he added. ‘But Gabriel says not.’
‘We’ve not seen him since Christmas. Father missing. Now Hugh . . .’ Sovay shook her head.
‘Sir John is not here?’
‘No,’ Sovay replied. ‘He hasn’t been seen for over a week. Where can they be?’
‘That’s the problem,’ Gabriel said. ‘It may be even worse . . .’
‘Worse?’ Sovay stared at him. ‘How could it be worse?’
Gabriel’s discomfort grew. He looked to Fitzwilliam for help.
‘Hugh may have gone to France, to Paris, to join in the Revolution.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not certain.’ Fitzwilliam shrugged. ‘But he did mention his intention on more than one occasion.’
‘Do you think Papa may have gone after him?’ Sovay looked from Fitzwilliam to Gabriel.
‘It’s possible,’ Gabriel replied, ‘if he thought Hugh was in danger. He might have gone to fetch him back.’ ‘We don’t know that,’ Fitzwilliam interrupted. ‘First we must seek for word of him in London. Among his contacts here, people he might have met.’
‘But if he has gone to France . . .’ Gabriel gave a despairing shake of the head. If Sir John had followed his son to Hades, the idea could hardly have been less shocking.
‘If that is the case, then we will go there.’ Sovay began to pace the room. ‘Follow them.’
She would do it, too. Gabriel stared at her, despair giving way to resignation. He remembered how he’d seen her, not six hours earlier. Nothing she said or did now could surprise him.
‘A brave sentiment, Miss Sovay.’ Fitzwilliam gave a slight bow. ‘I commend you for it, but such an action might not be possible. France is in a most dangerous condition. We would be arrested as soon as we landed and tried as spies.’
‘If that is the case, what about Hugh? Or Papa?’
‘If Hugh went at Christmas, conditions then were slightly less dangerous. Besides, his French is fluent. He could pass as a native. I doubt that the same could be said of us.’
‘M Fernand was my tutor, too,’ Sovay objected. ‘I have some French.’
Her father had insisted on the two children being taught together, but Sovay had been very much younger. She had mastered more than basic vocabulary and grammar but her conversational powers were rather limited.
‘But you did not spend a year travelling with him in France,’ Fitzwilliam smiled, taken by her spirit. ‘Switzerland, Italy, other places. Fernand is, or was, a man of some influence within the Revolution. He might be in a position to protect Hugh, although such things change day by day.’
‘But what about my father?’
‘We do not know even that he is there.’ Fitzwilliam moved to calm her. ‘If he is, he may come under Fernand’s protection.’
‘In the past, he certainly had many correspondents in France. Mr Paine, others, too. Oh, but now I recollect, Mr Paine was arrested –’ Sovay stopped her pacing, fully alert now to the dangers that might be threatening her father. ‘What are we to do?’
‘It’s like Mr Fitzwilliam says.’ Gabriel spoke, as much to reassure himself as Sovay. ‘We don’t even know if he is there. Would it not be best to make inquiries in London before we start jumping to conclusions?’
‘Yes.’ Sovay commenced pacing again. ‘That would be sensible. The sensible thing to do.’ She turned to the two of them. ‘I trust that I can rely on your help in this?’
‘Of course!’ They both spoke at once.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘For if you will not agree, I will do it myself.’
That bold statement seemed to bring the conversation to a close. Fitzwilliam began to make his farewells, but Gabriel interrupted.
‘Before we go, could I have a wor
d, Miss Sovay?’ He glanced towards Fitzwilliam. ‘On an estate matter.’
‘Of course,’ Fitzwilliam smiled and took the hint. ‘Do carry on.’ He glanced around. ‘You have some fine paintings that I would like to examine more closely.’
He strolled off to look at a handsome Dutch interior as Sovay opened a connecting door into her father’s study.
The room was a smaller version of Sir John’s library at home, the walls lined with books and cabinets. A terrestrial globe and a spherical astrolabe flanked a desk scattered with slides and piled with books and papers. It was as though Sir John had just got up and left to look for a book in another room. A portable microscope stood next to the inkstand. It was typical of the man. Gabriel felt a deep pang of fear for his master and hoped that no harm had come to him.
Outside the room, Fitzwilliam ceased to be interested in the Dutch Master and drifted to the study door, which did not quite shut flush to the panelling. He listened out of pure curiosity at first, but what he heard pricked his interest.
‘It won’t happen again,’ Sovay said.
‘I hope not. It’s madness, Sovay.’
‘I was caught on the road –’ Sovay broke off what she was about to say. ‘I do not have to justify myself to you.’
‘What were you doing with him? Who is he?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘I want to know. Since your father and brother are absent, I am here –’ Gabriel began.
‘To take over charge of me? I think not, Gabriel!’
‘To protect you, I was going to say, but perhaps you prefer the protection of that scoundrel.’
‘His name is Captain Greenwood.’
‘Captain?’ Gabriel snorted. ‘Every villain of a highwayman calls himself Captain.’
‘Plain Jake Greenwood, then, if it is at all relevant. And as I will never see him again, then I think it is not.’
‘Let us not quarrel. You do need my help. You must admit that.’
‘Yes,’ Sovay sighed, some of the fight gone out of her. ‘The wallet I took. I would like you to look over the contents with me. The papers there may hold clues as to where to find Papa.’
‘If he has gone to France?’
‘Like you said, we don’t know that. There are names, contacts. People who might know. I want you to help me go through them. Come tomorrow, but don’t tell Fitzwilliam –’
Just then came the sound of steps approaching. Fitzwilliam moved smartly away from the door. He did not want to be caught eavesdropping by a servant. ‘Is there anything you require, sir?’ Mrs Crombie asked.
‘No, nothing. I was just admiring this fine collection of Sèvres porcelain. Mrs Crombie, isn’t it?’ Fitzwilliam smiled. He prided himself at remembering the names of servants.
‘Yes, that’s right, sir. Didn’t I see you at Compton with Master Hugh?’
‘You did, many years ago now.’ Fitzwilliam’s smile widened. ‘Fancy you remembering!’
‘Oh, I forget nothing, sir.’
Mrs Crombie’s face closed like a shutter. She remembered him all right, and there was something about him that she didn’t like. He’d been a knowing child, too ready with the charm, and there was something about those odd, light eyes. They saw too much, always darting about. He hadn’t changed. She could have sworn he was listening at the door to a private conversation for all he said he was examining the contents of the china cabinet.
On the way back to Hanover Square, Fitzwilliam asked when Gabriel might be visiting Miss Sovay again.
‘She has asked me to call on her tomorrow morning. On estate business,’ Gabriel added, mindful of her warning to come alone.
‘Morning, you say? Rather you than me. After a night in town, I am not good in the morning. Estate business sounds desperately dull.’ Fitzwilliam laughed. ‘A pity to worry such a pretty head over such matters.’ ‘Miss Sovay is no fool,’ Gabriel replied. ‘She might be headstrong at times, stubborn, too, but she is no silly young thing. Rather the opposite. With her father absent, her brother too, responsibility rests with her and she has a good enough head on her shoulders.’
‘Doesn’t she have an aunt?’ Fitzwilliam inquired. ‘Surely she –’
‘Lady Harriet is an invalid and rarely leaves her room,’ Gabriel answered. ‘Miss Sovay is quite capable, I assure you.’
‘I meant nothing by it,’ Fitzwilliam said mildly. ‘It is just that she is so young.’ He patted Gabriel’s arm. ‘It is good that she has you to help her.’
The aunt drank. He remembered that from his visits to Compton. A perceptive boy, and older than Hugh, he had read the signs that the family had tried to hide. Anyway, he had aunts of his own who liked to nap in their room after a brandy or two laced with laudanum. He had found Hugh interesting, with his passions and his poetry. He was one of the only boys who had interested him in the slightest bit, even among his contemporaries. That he was younger had mattered not a jot. The rest had been so deadly dull, apart from one or two of the prettier ones, who had been diverting in their own way, but Hugh had looks and conversation. A captivating combination. In return, Hugh had worshipped his older friend and continued to do so until this day, which was pleasantly gratifying.
‘The night is young,’ Fitzwilliam said, when they came to his rooms. ‘What say we go to my club? Seek some entertainment.’
Gabriel declined, pleading tiredness and that he did not have the right clothes.
‘Nonsense!’ Fitzwilliam ran an appraising eye over him. ‘You are about the same size as my brother, Henry. He leaves a press of clothes here for when he is in town. I’ll send Rufus to attend you. You are sure to find something to suit.’
Gabriel chose a set of clothes in the most sober colour that he could find: midnight blue with the minimum by way of decorative embroidery. Fitzwilliam’s tastes were more extravagant. Perhaps he wished to show himself to be different from the young Oxford don, for he appeared in the height of fashion, his hair powdered, his dark green velvet coat lined with ivory silk, the facings embroidered with quantities of pastes and spangles which winked and glittered in the light. He wore his black velvet breeches tight and his low-heeled shoes were fastened with shining steel buckles. He looked down to make sure that there were no wrinkles in his white silk stockings and laughed to see Gabriel’s reaction.
‘The don transformed.’ He poured a glass of brandy from the decanter that Rufus had left in the drawing room. ‘I’m the third son,’ he said. ‘In my family, the third son is destined for the Church. I find University life more congenial than some country parish. College life is rather like a club. Fine cellar, reasonable company for the most part, only the food leaves a little to be desired.’
Upon leaving the house, he summoned a couple of chairs for St James’s. Gabriel felt uncomfortable, he did not like to be carried and felt sorry for the poor fellows who would have to bear his weight, but Fitzwilliam had no such scruples.
‘How else are we to get there?’ he asked. ‘The streets are a midden. The muck will be over our shoes before we’ve gained the corner of the square. Besides, the poor devils are glad enough of our money. Would you deprive them of a living?’
Fitzwilliam looked at Gabriel. He was a pleasant enough fellow, but there was a fresh-faced naivety about him, a lack of sophistication. He wondered if taking him to the club might turn out to be a mistake.
Fitzwilliam went to play cards, leaving Gabriel to wander from room to room to observe the occupants eating and drinking, laughing, talking and gambling. So this was how rich men enjoyed themselves? He settled against a wall, sipped his glass of wine and smiled to himself. Not so different from the local inn, apart from the opulence and the lack of women. He supposed that they would be visiting the ladies later.
He was not aware of it as he surveyed the passing scene, but he in turn was being watched. Sir Robert Dysart’s eyes scarcely flickered from his cards but he saw Fitzwilliam as soon as he entered the gaming room and noted his companion. He’d never seen Fitzwil
liam’s young friend before and saw immediately that he was not used to such surroundings, yet he did not seem ill at ease. He conducted himself with a natural grace and dignity. That in itself was enough to make him stand out in the present company. Sir Robert turned in his hand, much to the relief of those who remained in the game. Dysart had a reputation for always winning. The only men who would sit down with him were as skilful as he was, or rich fools who thought they could go up against him and win. There were plenty of those sitting around the table.
Dysart was above average height, although his narrow build and slightly stooping posture made him seem smaller. He wore an old-fashioned wig, curled at the sides and queued at the back. His face was thin, with a rather prominent, pointed nose above narrow lips and a sharp chin. His pale, watchful eyes seemed focused on nothing in particular, but Dysart saw everything: who was at play and who was not, who was winning, who was losing, who was betting, how much and on what. He gave up his place to another and went to prowl the room. Neat to the point of fastidiousness and always dressed in black, he stood out among so many men of fashion like a raven in a room full of peacocks.
The men gathered here were among the richest, most powerful in the country: politicians, members of the aristocracy. They greeted Dysart genially enough, but few stopped to exchange words with him or cared to meet his eye. Dysart passed with a nod here, a thin smile there. His smile never reached his eyes. He was not here to socialise. He had something of interest on almost every one of them and liked to remind them of his presence.
Certainly, he knew a great deal about Mr Fitzwilliam. The young man was heavily in debt. He had no head for cards but he liked to gamble. He was the kind who became more reckless with every poor hand, throwing good money into the same pit as the bad. A younger son, dependent on a rich but miserly father, he had expensive tastes and lived far beyond his allowance. He was perfect for Dysart’s purposes. He was well connected. And desperate. He was handsome, personable, with an open face and charming manner, he moved with ease in many different circles. However vicious he might be underneath, people had a tendency to like Fitzwilliam, to trust him. The young Irish don was the very image of an aristocratic gentleman, yet all Dysart had to do was call in a tenth of the promissory notes in his possession and Mr Fitzwilliam would find himself in the debtors’ ward in Newgate Prison.