A Death in the Small Hours clm-6

by Charles Finch

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Lenox had grown accustomed to rising with the daylight this past week, with so much to do, and having taken the previous evening off he was at his desk at six the next morning, reading the minutes of meetings he had skipped, answering his correspondence, and poring over lists of the members of the House who attended sessions infrequently, in the hopes of finding a name or two that might be rehabilitated and brought into the fold. Every so often he rubbed his eyes or took a sip of coffee. Otherwise there was no break in the work.

  At half-seven he went upstairs to change from his comfortable morning coat, with its tattered hems at the wrist and the heel, into a smarter suit of clothes, appropriate for dining at Frederick’s club. He felt tired in his bones as he mounted the stairs, but brightened when he saw Jane was upstairs, dressed for a morning round of calls.

  “Have you seen Miss Taylor?” she said.

  “I have not.”

  “She wished to speak to us.”

  “It will have to wait, unless it is about Sophia’s health, in which case—”

  “No, no, it is nothing of the kind. I shall tell her it must be later, though she was rather pressing in her request.”

  Upon saying this, Jane looked at him meaningfully: Dallington. Lenox frowned. “I hope she won’t want to leave us. Just when we are all so used to each other’s ways.”

  “In all likelihood it’s some trifle. She’s a methodical young woman.”

  “Let us hope so. In the meanwhile help me with this watch-chain, would you dear? I must be on my way to see my cousin.”

  The Carlton Club was a sleek and stuffy place — mahogany, red velvet, quiet voices. Quite foreign territory for Lenox, since it was occupied primarily by conservative politicians. In the dining room he waited for Frederick at a table, covered with a white cloth, laid out with silver and a slender crystal vase that held a rose. As he studied the flower two men from the opposite benches passed him with a cordial salutation. “Coming to our side, is it, Lenox?”

  He laughed. “At any rate to your club.”

  Frederick, when he came down, looked fresh, not as dulled and battered as he had the night before. In fact Lenox would have told him he looked younger, if it didn’t sound fanciful.

  He skipped the last step up to see Lenox. “Charles! There you are! Here, I shall sit, don’t stand — but look.” He put the folded newspaper that had been tucked under his arm onto the table. “I find in the Times that you are made very great! You might have told me last night, anyhow.”

  Lenox frowned. “What have they reported?”

  “Is it not true that you are to be a Junior Lord of the Treasury?”

  “Ah, so they’ve got hold of that, have they? Yes, Hilary asked me on Wednesday. I must give him my decision tomorrow. It will be yes, I think. It must be yes.”

  “A thousand pounds a year, Charles! And then, the Treasury — you will be able to find Wells.”

  Lenox laughed. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. There are plenty of men better equipped to handle the treasury than I am. It’s more in the line of a … you might call me a whip. It will be a great deal of work, I fear.”

  “You look almost wistful, but it is a high achievement, Charles! Your father would have been proud. Your mother, too.”

  “I thank you. As to it’s being a high achievement — they sent round a few sheets of paper with all the trivial details of the post, and there they hastened to remind me that even in this exalted new position, I must enter a room after the eldest sons of viscounts. They included a list, who else was it? The youngest sons of earls—”

  “The eldest of baronets, the youngest of viscounts—”

  “And the commissioner of Bankruptcy may positively lord his situation over me! While I am a very inferior creature, not even in the same field of play as the Master of Horse.”

  Both were smiling now. “Still, I propose a toast. Hail that man and ask for champagne.”

  Lenox did it. His smile came from pleasure in Frederick’s company, not from the promotion — of course it was happy news, but like all happy news it carried with it an implication of forsaken choices. Nevertheless Lenox accepted his cousin’s congratulations with good grace.

  The waiter came back with the champagne. “Shall I open it?”

  Lenox was about to nod, but Frederick said, “After we’ve eaten, Sam, thank you. If we might have eggs, fried bread, a few sausages, and a good deal of coffee — Charles, is there anything else you would like?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  A silence crept into the moment after the waiter had gone, and then began to expand until it became rather embarrassed. Both men were conscious that they had now to address whatever it was that the elder of the two had wished to speak about, and Lenox, for his part, disliked to push the issue. After fifteen or twenty seconds they both undertook to speak at the same time.

  “No, you must begin,” said Lenox.

  “I do have one or two things I should like to discuss with you.”

  He steeled himself. There would be legal matters over Everley’s ownership, advice to ask about the old-planted forests — might they be protected from cutting for some term of years — and perhaps even a confidential word or two about Wendell, that Lenox should bear him some special kindness.

  There was still a pang in his heart as he contemplated these questions, but it was muffled now. He had made up his mind to let go of Everley.

  As it happened, however, his expectations of the conversation were incorrect. What Frederick actually had to say astonished him.

  “At my age there is no refined way of saying this, Charles.” He coughed and looked down at the table, adjusted his fork and knife. “I am to be married.”

  At this very crucial moment, when Lenox was agog with interest at what his cousin said, a white-haired gentleman came to their table. “Mr. Lenox,” he said. “I agreed whole-heartedly with your speech.”

  Both of the men rose. “Baron Rothschild. I know of all you did in the famine in Ireland, so your support is not unexpected — but I am very glad indeed to hear of it.”

  “Much good may it do you — I think I shall very probably be turned out of my seat at the next election.” He laughed, croakily.

  This was Lionel Rothschild, scion of the great banking family. He had had one of the most interesting careers in the history of English politics; many years before he had won a seat in the Commons, but, because he was Jewish and therefore would not make the Anglican oath of office, had been barred from taking it. In protest he had left the seat vacant for a decade. To his eternal credit, Lord John Russell — off-and-on-again prime minister, and one of Lenox’s closest allies in politics — had forced a law through the Houses permitting Jews to sit in Parliament. Nevertheless Victoria, the Queen, had, despite the entreaties of many powerful men, positively refused to elevate Rothschild to the House of Lords — to her eternal discredit, some might say.

  “Do you know my cousin, Frederick Ponsonby?”

  Frederick shook hands and said, “I don’t know that we have met, but I once saw one of your horses at Epsom, in ’sixty-eight. A beautiful creature.”

  The old man smiled; he had been very handsome once, but now stood rather rickety. “We shall win Epsom one of these times, too. Good day, gentlemen.”

  They bowed, and when Rothschild had paced off some ten slow feet away from them sat down again. “My goodness,” said Lenox in a low voice, “you do keep your cards hidden, Freddie. You have my sincere congratulations. Who is the woman?”

  “There is another piece of news to go along with this.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was quite sincere when I said I was coming to London in order to see Wendell, to speak with him about the transfer of Everley’s ownership. But I think that my new plans — well, I knew that I would throw the dice one final time, and it happens by pure luck that they have turned up in my favor. I shall keep Everley for myself a while longer, to put it plainly. With a partner it may be
easier, I hope.”

  Lenox felt his heart rise with joy. “Then I shall love the woman even more. But who is she?”

  “I suppose I must seem mysterious, but it is only because I must ask your indulgence.”

  “Mine? Why?”

  “The young lady in question is your governess, you see. Miss Taylor.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Lenox was speechless.

  “Well, Charles?”

  “You have my congratulations! I scarcely know what else to say, I’m so surprised.” Amid all of the various puzzlements the news presented, one stood out. “You only saw her in passing yesterday, though, I believe? Has this been settled for some time?”

  Frederick shook his head. “With the parcel of cuttings I left for her yesterday evening was a letter, and this morning I had her acceptance by messenger. I had scarcely dreamed she would say yes — had fully planned on proceeding with my plans to hand Everley over to Wendell — but now this wonderful thing has happened, you see, it changes everything. You are not dissatisfied with my conduct, Charles? She is a wonderful woman.”

  “Dissatisfied, never, so long as Miss Taylor is happy. Merely knocked for a loop, cousin.”

  “The gap in our ages is very great.”

  “Lord Wrexham married a seventeen-year-old when he was in the back half of his eighties. I don’t think you and Miss Taylor will excite much comment.”

  “Except in Plumbley.”

  Lenox laughed. “It’s true, they’ll be surprised in Plumbley.”

  Frederick put a hand on the champagne bottle that stood in its silver bucket by the table. “Perhaps we might have our toast now?”

  As the idea lost its newness over the course of their breakfast, as he grew accustomed to its counters, it came to seem less outlandish to Lenox. He pictured them as they had been at Everley, amiably walking through the gardens, she with a sobriety beyond her years, after the annealing tragedies of her youth, he with a long provincial gentleness that looked, perhaps, something like youth.

  Then her birth was good, if not excellent, and her character was sterling.

  He recalled the glint in Freddie’s eye after his long day upon the road to Bath with Wells and Oates. What had he said that night? It shows a man what he wants from life, believing he will die. The past weeks had certainly changed him. It was a happy change, too; after their second glass of champagne together, the squire’s face was shining with an unwonted joy, with a vitality that had been missing a month before.

  What would Jane think? he wondered.

  Dallington might be disappointed. Still, he would have dozens of chances to marry, if he wished, while Freddie must have given up on the idea, what, ten or twenty years before. It was providence that had brought Miss Taylor to his home.

  “Have you spoken about when you are to be married?” Lenox asked, spearing a sausage on his fork

  “No. I am inclined to wait until the spring. At any rate I am staying in London a few days longer than I had anticipated, that I might see her.” A troubled look passed over his face. “Perhaps a wedding would be undignified, though.”

  “Never in life. It needn’t be a large wedding, or a town wedding, of course.”

  “The difficulty of being married in Everley is that I’m the magistrate.”

  “Rodgers can do it,” said Lenox, smiling.

  Frederick laughed. “It is not unlikely that I can persuade the vicar to do the job.”

  After they were finished they went to the club’s library and sat among its lines of morocco-bound books, smoking and talking in low voices. Frederick was an unexcitable soul, but there was a placid euphoria in his words and gestures.

  After they had parted, the squire off to see his heir, Lenox stopped by the Commons briefly to have a word with Graham, then returned to Hampden Lane. There he found his wife pacing the front hallway.

  Lady Jane had a combination of warmth and reserve that Lenox loved; she was rarely discomposed, and absorbed news quietly and methodically, but never coldly. He was surprised, therefore, to observe her agitation.

  “Jane,” he said.

  “You had better come into the drawing room. Miss Taylor would like a word with us together.”

  “Is everything quite well with Sophia?”

  “Yes. Did your uncle tell you — no, come in, speak with her for yourself.”

  He put a hand on her wrist to stop her pacing. “Freddie told me. You are not upset, surely?”

  “I am upset for John Dallington, yes, and I think it entirely inappropriate that two people of their respective ages should break convention and make themselves a spectacle.”

  “Come, this is not like you,” he said in a quiet voice. “It means Freddie will keep Everley.”

  “As if I cared a fig for that.”

  Suddenly Lenox perceived that Jane’s plans for Dallington and Miss Taylor had borne a far greater weight of aspiration than he had previously understood. The Duchess of Marchmain was one of her closest friends, her concerns quite intimately Jane’s concerns. “Is she quite upset, Dallington’s mother?”

  “You were always as blind as a mole, Charles. Everyone in London is speaking about her son’s behavior at Gordon’s. She hasn’t slept in weeks, she hasn’t—”

  There was more to it than that. They were losing their governess, she was a new mother, easily rattled, she had put Lenox’s speech before her own needs for many weeks now. And her friends were, perhaps, all unhappy. “Did the post this morning bring anything else from Toto?”

  She looked him in the eye, her lip trembling. “No, unfortunately, it did not.”

  “Come and sit with me for a moment in the study, my dear. You shall have a glass of sherry.”

  “At eleven in the morning?”

  “At eleven in the morning.”

  It was low of him, but he felt a kind of pleasure in bringing his own calm to bear on her consternation for once. So often it had been the reverse. He led her into his study, sat her by the fire — low and glowing orange now, soon rekindled — and stayed with her there until she had regained her composure. In time, he knew, she would find great happiness in Freddie’s betrothal.

  After ten minutes, she said, “Miss Taylor is still in the drawing room, Charles. She’ll have heard you come home.”

  When he entered the drawing room Lenox smiled kindly at the governess. She was more self-possessed than Lady Jane, but he didn’t know what words had passed between them, and there was a certain color in her cheeks that might have indicated high emotion. Then again it was a cool day.

  “I’m so sorry it has taken me this long to come and see you, Miss Taylor,” he said.

  She rose. “I received this letter from your cousin yesterday, Mr. Lenox—”

  “I don’t need to read it, only to offer my congratulations.”

  “I would feel happier if you read it, since I live under your auspices, currently.”

  To oblige her he took the note. It was written very formally and rather beautifully, too. Since I first walked with you in the west gardens a fortnight ago, Frederick began, I have entertained the liveliest affection for you — indeed I might call it love, if I did not fear it would be a trespass against your goodwill. I write now to ask whether you might reciprocate my emotions. It went on to describe his situation in detail, what she might expect as an allowance, the society of Plumbley, his general aversion to London (though he agreed that he might take a house in town for “a week or two in the season, should we be wed, preferably the shorter duration”), and ended by describing all that he found congenial in her character, and restating his admiration of her.

  “I think it is a very fine letter,” said Lenox, “and again, can only offer you my congratulations. We shall be sorry to lose your services, of course, but it will be a delight for Sophia to know you as an aunt.”

  “Do you think him a good man?” asked the governess, waving away his politeness.

  “I know of none better.” Lenox hesitated for a moment. “F
or some time I thought John Dallington might have been courting you, however.”

  She smiled. “John? He’s only half a boy, you know. About Freddie — you do not think I would be making a mistake? I believe I love him,” she said, and for the first time he heard the tone of petition in her voice.

  It was because of this tone that he saw what he had not before. What she sought was not his congratulations, but something else, something she could not find elsewhere: a father’s advice.

  With a sense of tenderness, mingled with pity, he gestured for her to sit down. “Let us take it point by point,” he said, and semi-conciously his voice lowered a half-step. “First let us discuss his social position, then, and after that we can move on to his finances, and then we ought to review his—”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” she said, sitting back, and her face was flooded with relief.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  That was a very cold winter in London. In the House of Commons one could see one’s breath, and for Lenox, in his new position, the hours and days and weeks were taken up with work, with long, exhausting meetings, too often unproductive, and — just as often — with coaxing recalcitrant liberal members to vote as the leaders of the party wished. These conferences were almost always made under a social pretext, and he grew wholly tired of the sight of his club on Pall Mall, which had once been a refuge to him.

  Still, each morning he permitted himself a half hour with Sophia. She was growing rapidly, it seemed to both him and Jane, and she could sit unsupported now, even recognized voices from other rooms; her taste in toys, meanwhile, had become positively sophisticated, though she had a regrettable fondness for the loud rattle, painted a lethal shade of mauve, that her uncle Edmund had given her.

  Miss Taylor was still living there, because in all truth she had nowhere else to which she might remove herself, unless it be lodgings, and all concerned, especially Frederick, considered this too dreary a prospect. It helped to have her in the house: From afar, Jane was planning the wedding at Everley.