by Debra Brown
“Emma, it is you that needs to be spared. But I have my reasons. Please trust me,” Winnie entreated.
Helena felt the need to content Emma with some of those reasons. “There are numerous things to be dealt with in this society. I have had to watch frivolous, ostentatious, blaring waste of resources under the Regency and ever since. The peers and peeresses under George IV followed his lead, and to this day they pour out money on gambling tables and all sorts of debauchery. While I love all the lovely things that our parents and His Grace have provided for me, I cannot bear to watch wasteful, callous increasing of debts on useless vices! In the meantime, the streets are full of scourings, and the living conditions of the poor are wretched. Some of them work day and night and then are taxed for the air they breathe in their miserable houses. Which air, I am led to believe, smells of sewage and dead animals! If Parliament will not, then someone must begin to stand up for the lower classes. Her Majesty, the Queen herself wishes it! We must set the example for the wealthy to invest their riches into improving the deplorable conditions. I implore you to do your part by introducing yourself into the homes of the peers alongside your Mistress. They must be introduced to someone of a lower class, to have to be seen with and made to talk to someone to become conscious of them all, to come to recognize them as worthy humans in need. You are an excelling example of lower class goodness to them, at least when we can get you in their doors! We do have some great standing and in most homes, our persuasion prevails. Few will create trouble. And when someone does, we will fight for you if you will just endure their malevolence.”
Emma became thoughtful, staring off into the high spaces of the entry below. “I see,” she mused. “I see. So it is for dear Mr. Seely that I am here. And little Robin and Kate in the orphanage, and Polly Kensby, who went into debtor’s prison with her father. I see. Indeed…indeed, I can bear it. I can. I will.” A determined smile appeared on her pretty face, and she became proud of displaying the ruby on her neck.
Handsome Wills made his way down the stairs to meet the women.
“Good evening, Wills,” greeted the Duchess. Wills bowed.
“A very good evening, Your Grace, Mama. And this astonishing creature here, Miss Emma Carrington, whose curtsies are an absolute work of art! Look at her, Mama; see what you have created? Off we must go; the time has come for me to face the loyal opposition.” Wills made a sweeping gesture toward the lower flight of stairs. “Is the nursery division ready? Have we heard?”
They went down the final flight of stairs to investigate and found the nanny and her charge waiting quietly on a divan near the entry, with Master Nicholas practicing his Visiting Manners. He was to be brought along to confront the future Mistress of Holmeshire Hall. Nanny Bowen would spend the evening walking Nicky through a visit, in a most civil and gentlemanly way. They would remain with the boy’s family and their hosts for some time until dinner. At that time they would separate from them, dine alone in Handerton’s garden and enjoy the evening in its spectacular game rooms.
Nicky had been thoroughly briefed and trained on behavior at a great house and had been given an extra long nap, whether he liked it or not. There in the entry, with all parties ready to go, Wills elicited horrified gasps when he taught the lad to hop from one of the checkered tiles to another. “Black tiles, only!” he commanded.
***
John Brown, Solicitor. The sign hung smartly over the doorway of the nicest brick building on the street. Uncombed, Mr. Scott pushed his way through the bell-rigged entrance into the orderly front room. The scent of the building’s freshly wooded walls was replaced with the stink of ale and tobacco. The clerk looked up.
“Benedict Scott, here, to see Mr. Brown.”
“Do you have an appointment, sir?” The youth knew of none, and scrambled to find Mr. Scott’s name on a tidy page. He looked up, puzzled and flustered.
“No, I don’t need no appointment! Where is the man?” Benedict looked impatiently at a clock and dropped some coins on the desk, keeping others hopefully stored in his pocket for buying rounds later.
“I’ll see if he can meet with you now, sir, but I cannot guarantee it.” The clerk’s chair screeched against the hardwood floor as he stood. He turned and left for a back room, and Benedict retrieved his coins. The youth returned momentarily with a bald, businesslike man, wearing a dark gray summer coat. He looked sternly over the top of his spectacles.
“I’m John Brown. What can I do for you?”
“You can help me solve a huge problem, sir. Let’s take it up in your office.” And off they went, with Mr. Scott demanding the utmost confidence in the matter, and possibly a scotch.
***
“And here we have appearing before us the grand Handerton House.” Wills waved his upturned palm toward the mansion on the outskirts of London. “At one time it belonged to the Royal Family. It was used to house visiting diplomats and royals from elsewhere in the world. I can imagine there were many royal teas served over there, at the tables near the rose gardens. The house was awarded to the Lord Breyton, along with the title, just five and twenty years past. He has no brother or cousin to inherit the house, and he will never have a son; doctors forbade it at Genny’s birth. Thus, the house is for my eldest son to claim when Breyton dies, or it will be mine should he die young. He is terribly angry that he had no son to take it all; he meant to build for himself a dynasty, as you know. He once warned my father that I was to be sure to have a son, for the house, if you please, and to give the child his name. I suppose I shall try very hard to please someday, but I am in no hurry to fill the nursery with his children presently.”
The scenery astonished Emma, and she gasped as they rounded the long, oak-lined drive; the trees alternated with baskets of purple and white petunias hanging on wrought iron poles over ivy-covered grounds. Their wonderful fragrance drifted through the carriage.
“You shall have this and Chenbury House?”
“Chenbury will be her settlement—ours to use as we wish and hers for life should she someday be widowed. Along with enough stacks of money to burn to heat it in the winter!”
“And suppose you are widowed?”
“Chenbury would probably go to our second son. To someone of Genny’s choosing.”
“And your heir will also have Holmeshire Hall?”
“That along with my father’s houses, likely, as I have no brother,” added Winnie.
“Nor do I,” laughed Helena, nudging her sister.
“I had far too many!” asserted the Duke. “And adequate houses, but no son. Your heir might just as well have some of my trinkets, too. It sounds like he will be in need. Or perhaps you shall have a third son more in need of a house than your firstborn, as mine will not be entailed to your heir. That is how I shall have it. A country house for your third son.” He and the Duchess exchanged a resigned glance.
As the horses finished clopping round the brick drive, Emma looked with nervous anticipation at the mansion. She longed to see the interior, and yet she dreaded it. This life would be wonderful, she thought, if only she could be accepted by the people. How she looked forward to being back at Holmeshire Hall again, fluffing up downy divan cushions for Winnie’s comfort. But the time had passed for any hope of deliverance from the evening’s ordeal. Footmen were coming to open the phaeton door and to assist the passengers to alight. Winnie and Helena were stepping out of the carriage, laughing and smoothing their skirts. Wills was eagerly motioning for her to come along. A stack of gifts, strapped together, was being pulled from the back end of the carriage to be carried in; she must enter with the people and not the packages! She gathered up her courage and put one foot in front of the other as the guests were admitted and announced by the butler.
Introductions and pleasantries abounded for a time, Emma receiving polite nods from the women, but some uncomfortable stares from Lord Breyton. She was relieved at her uneventful reception, with no one making rude comments, though she could not help feeling perhaps a bit
slighted. She wished that Breyton would just turn away, and she was relieved when, in a moment, the attention turned to the decor.
Emma followed behind as the arrogant Marquess bragged to his guests about each and every trinket. He had brought his love of India home, splashing it everywhere, leaving behind only the elephants. His wife, Grace, had few opinions of her own, but for having been raised to strictly abide the etiquette books, and was always ready to please. Breyton would have India in England, and she had hastened to add to his collections whenever traders brought more into Town. There was no changing the architecture of the ancient house, but the trappings were altogether Eastern. Genevieve despised it.
“I tire of showing people this house, Papa. They have seen it all before; have you not, Your Grace? But that Papa has added statues and enameled boxes to it. It is too much bright color for me, just too much! I wish you would agree to redo it in some soft, pale French design, Papa. Moires and damasks in blue and pistachio. Would Louis XV not be lovely in this grand house? Then I would enjoy presenting it before these dear guests.” Though always allowed to speak her mind, Genevieve lived a heavily orchestrated life and looked forward with longing to her new life as mistress of a house of her own.
“I shall have it this way, my dear girl, for as long as I live. Perhaps my grandson will make the changes you request.”
“I love old fashioned rococo. I have purchased tapestries and paintings for my house in Holmeshire. Someday. But look at the veiled ceilings here and the dark colors everywhere. One is at pains to even walk through all the wood carvings, palm trees and glasswork! I am oppressed and cannot bear to live in it any longer. Mama is happy enough with it all, though, are you not, Mama?” she sighed. “I’ve sent my monkey away; I could not endure the horrid little creature. It will be kittens and rococo for me.”
Wills decided it best to inform her of the discord in their plans for the castle at once. She had presented the opportunity; it might not come again! Contention not being something he feared, he took her aside, not far nor out of view, but to the other side of a tall Kent palm and under a brown-framed map covering most of a wall.
“I’ve been traveling, you know,” he began. “I stayed quite some time in Italy and shipped home two and thirty crates full of beautiful things for Holmeshire Hall. You will love it, as how could one not? It is all marble in light colors; it is very Italian.” Perhaps she could come to care for that? Or perhaps not. Wills took pains not to add detail for fear of making matters worse. Furthermore, should she recover, he might then receive excessive opinion or an offer of assistance.
She stared at him, incredulous; stunned, she could not converse. The futility of any protest began to dawn on her, for the investment had been made. Holmeshire would be Italian, and the rococo would go to Chenbury. “Do tell?” she at last haltingly acceded. “What sort of things did you buy? I’m breathless to see!” Surely, she hoped, some of it would appeal! Or, at the very least, she could do her own chambers in her preferred way? And the paramount matter, that she could go along to Holmeshire, soon, to make use of his supplies and recreate the home?
“Oh, no, do not concern yourself. It is all sitting in crates. Marble this, marble that, vases, paintings, materials for restoring the house. And it all comes complete with an Italian designer. He’ll be there and gone quite quickly.” She had feared that very thing. She began to suppose that if she was ever to have things her way; she would have to live alone. The thought was appealing!
And what was this that he was saying now? “I would so like you to become acquainted with Miss Carrington tonight! You shall be great friends, I am sure.” She cast a brief look at Emma. His mother’s lower class companion. Perhaps the two of them would share the Dower House?
“Miss Carrington? I am pleased to have met your mother’s companion, but I have no wish to distract her from her obligations. I do have some dear friends of my own, as you know. We have become quite occupied with Shakespeare, reading and performing his works amongst ourselves and dreaming of performing it for our friends. It will be far too time consuming for Miss Carrington.” She paused, nervously realizing that she had just invited her friends to Holmeshire Hall for lengthy visits, not something that would likely move matters in the right direction. She paused to regret it, resigned herself and then spoke with great trepidation on a third disagreeable matter. “Wills, should I be allowed to address you so as your betrothed, I have a question to ask of you. This Nicholas,” she nodded toward the tot, who was being kept fairly near his beautifully bedecked guardian, “I fear to ask, since no one has heard much of him before, from where did this child come, My Lord?” She hardly breathed while awaiting his reply.
“I have no desire to hurt or deceive you in any way, ma’am...”
“I cannot bear that you call me ‘ma’am’! Please call me by my name! And the boy?”
“Yes, my dear Genny, should I be allowed to call you that, I shall. As to the child, he is not my son.” He had turned his back to Nicky, and spoke quietly. “Be assured of that. My sons and heirs will be your sons, too. I can promise you my absolute allegiance in marital matters. My parents have taken great pains to teach me the dangers of infidelity—the trauma and the state of crisis that it can yield. It is my intention to provide you with the most pleasant home, the most comfortable life and the greatest confidence in your husband. You will be able to sleep in peace when I am gone, knowing that I am a man of absolute integrity to my nuptial vows. There, now you are aware of my views on that matter. As to Nicholas, he is the child of a man of the utmost importance to me, for whom I would do anything, and I have taken the responsibility of being the permanent guardian of the child. Until we have a son, Nicholas has been entered into my will as my heir, as I must have one. I ask that you will give him the same security and happiness that I intend to give you in our home.”
“And so I must raise this child?”
“Please, Genevieve, with my providing all the help you should care to have in the matter, do accept Nicky as part of the family.”
She absent-mindedly studied the picturesque rug she stood on, traced a design with the toe of her white-buttoned shoe and then looked back up at Wills. “I will do as you say, My Lord. May I ask, then, when we will begin this family life that we have discussed?”
Wills hesitated, not meaning to have created this adversity, and then responded, “I will provide you with a ring, someday, and a far more appropriate proposal of marriage than the conversation we just had could possibly have been deemed.”
Genevieve closed her eyes briefly, irritated and clenching her jaw. “I did not deem it, My Lord, an appropriate proposal, but there has never been another. To be or not to be! That is the question,” she flashed back at him. He patiently offered his arm for her to join him as he returned to the group, which was now examining a huge portrait of the great Marquess of Breyton.
***
A dinner of rice and spicy curries was served around a long table decorated with bouquets of flowers mixed with peacock feathers. Emma felt Breyton glaring across the table at her. He quickly turned his face away when she looked in his direction. She felt unwanted, but was determined to stake her place in the group and fulfill her purpose. Occasionally he looked at her as if trying to read her like a book, disapproving. She squirmed in her seat. If only something would distract him.
“Peacock feathers are widely used in fashionable Indian weddings,” volunteered the Marchioness, the Lady Breyton. “We have learned so much about the culture, weddings and all, you know.” She realized, belatedly, that had she sounded too forward. Nevertheless, she was most decisively informed of it.
“I am not planning a wedding, yet, Mother, and when I do, it will not involve Indian culture,” asserted her daughter, who had deeper dimensions of self confidence. “I will thank you to remember that my interests lie elsewhere.”
“Oh, indeed, I surely know of your admirable theatrical interests, my dear,” conceded the panicking woman, as she attempted t
o back out of having brought up what was surely a bitter subject.
“Not just any theater, and surely not your opera, Mama, but Shakespeare. And Shakespeare only! And I would like to announce to everyone that since there is nothing more important happening this summer, Mama and I wish to throw a huge ball with the theme ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ I’m sure Papa will allow us? A lady has to have something to work on to banish idleness and...and...wasted days.” She was clearly referring to the pathetic ebbing away of her life as a twenty-one-year-old maid and was certain that everyone at the table reproached her for it.
Lord Breyton replied, “I should think it would be a fine thing, my dear. You make your plans. I am surprised that you have nothing else intended for this summer, though?” He looked straight at Wills, who he had long presumed would marry his daughter and make her a Countess and Mistress over several houses at age seventeen. Wills smiled and nodded politely, not at all thrilled to be enjoying another evening at this discussion, but enduring, as the topic should surely soon burn itself out.
“I think that we should find a larger ballroom than what we have here. I want this to outdo all balls ever thrown!” Genevieve emphatically declared, while drowning in exasperation. “I shall do nothing else whatsoever the rest of The Season, but throw myself into this ball. We shall form a committee of some of Mama’s and my friends.”
“We may have to talk more about that, my dear,” asserted the Marquess. “We have ample space here and, quite truthfully, have plenty to show off.”
“Perhaps I prefer not to show it off. I pray, we will talk about it later.” A short delay preceded her addendum, “This above all: to thine own self be true. Nobody else is.”