by Regina Darcy
“I shall be delighted to permit him to call upon me,” she responded immediately, without taking her eyes off of the Viscount.
“His Lordship is a fortunate man,” the Viscount murmured. “And the heir to an earldom, as I understand. I compliment you, Miss Stanford, on your discernment.”
“Oh, Phoebe isn’t at all interested in titles,” Uncle said. “She’s not easily impressed, I assure you. She has a very clear head, quite impressive.”
“Indeed. Not every woman would fail to be swayed by the lure of a match with the nephew of the Earl of Chessington.”
Phoebe was about to retort that permitting a gentlemen to call was hardly an invitation to a wedding, but the Viscount had turned his attention to her uncle.
“You and the Earl were deep in conversation last night, old chap,” he said. “Were you planning nuptials?”
“No, indeed. Phoebe would never forgive me where I to do such a thing without her countenancing it. She is an independent young woman and quite capable of deciding for herself whom to wed. No, the Earl and I have formed a friendship of late. He is an interesting man with unexpected opinions.”
“Unexpected in what way?” inquired the Viscount lazily as if he asked only to be polite.
“Oh, this and that,” Lord Glastonburg said vaguely. “He’s more aware of what’s going on than is usual among the aristocracy which, I think you will agree, who notice nothing that does not immediately affect them.”
“The lower classes lack sufficient enticement,” replied the Viscount. “What is one to discuss with them? They know nothing of gaming, tailors, or the waltz. Very dull conversation, I should think.”
Although she was aware of that sunlight-upon-moss gaze her way, Phoebe did not rise to the bait. Both because she did not want to be bested by his surprisingly agile tongue and because she wanted him to forget all references to last night’s conversation. A conversation in which her uncle had taken part in a discourse which had not found the topic of the lower classes at all dull.
FIVE
Phoebe prevailed upon her uncle to go riding the next morning along Rotten Row, the day being a bright and unexpectedly sunny one for winter. He was agreeable but surprised that she should show an interest in one of the customs which had more to do with one’s social visibility and less with one’s interest in riding, although it was a way for young women of marriageable age to show off their equestrian carriage.
Phoebe, as the daughter of a major who expected his offspring to show themselves to advantage on horseback, rode well enough, but she thought that the chaise would provide a better opportunity to speak with her uncle while being alert to passersby. She intended to come upon Lord Billingham and his uncle, and from there to procure an invitation which would allow her access to the Earl’s house so that she could find out for herself what might be transpiring with the men who had been involved in the conversation at the night of the ball.
“The fresh air will do you good,” she argued when her uncle protested that he was well beyond the age when a morning trot in the company of society was to his liking, particularly in winter.
“Fresh air and solitude are, I confess, a splendid antidote to the tedium of one’s class,” he argued as they, in common with other members of the upper classes, travelled along the course.
“You were not so disdainful of your class the other night,” she reminded him. “I saw you in conversation with the Earl, and other gentlemen.”
“Oh, well, yes, that was unexpected. The Earl seems to have views which are most untraditional for a member of his rank. I was quite surprised by his words.”
“Really? What did he say?”
“Oh, I can’t remember precisely, but he seemed aware that there are rumblings among the English that will not be pacified by the reign of a new king. Whether his awareness will influence him in Parliament to vote his conscience and not his class, I cannot say.”
“Is that all? A political discussion about how he will vote?”
“We did not discuss his vote,” he corrected, sounding almost prim at the thought that he would seek to influence a man’s political decision. “But we discussed the state of the Empire and he agreed that unless something is done, the country risks anarchy.”
She wondered if the Earl agreed that anarchy was a risk or if he actually sought to promote it, but she was too relieved by her uncle’s obvious candour and innocence to pursue the matter. She would need to find out for herself.
Luck was on her side. As she and her uncle rode along, two horsemen came up alongside them; Billingham and his uncle.
“Glastonburg, a delight to see you again. Miss Stanford,” the Earl, a tall, spare man who in the saddle looked like a tower of elegance in his riding garb as he tipped his hat, “I regret that we were not introduced the other night at the duchess of Tenley’s ball. My nephew speaks of you with great favour.”
Billingham, grinning from ear to ear in acknowledgment of his uncle’s words, nodded vigorously.
“I should like to get to know you better, and of course, continue our discussion with your uncle. Will you do us the honour of joining us for a small supper party on Thursday next? I will be away from town on business until then but upon my return I would be delighted to have you both number among our guests.”
“We should be most gratified to accept,” Phoebe said quickly before her uncle had a chance to offer his customary regrets for social engagements which took him away from his books and his home.
“Phoebe,” Lord Glastonburg began as they made their way to home again, Rotten Row having served its purpose. “I trust your judgment implicitly and you are a most astute young woman, but I must ask you if your affections are engaged by the Earl’s nephew. I understand that he is the heir, and that you are not a young woman to be persuaded by such blandishments, but I know that it is your mother’s wish that you marry well, and daughters are particularly influenced by their mothers’ wishes. That said for my part, I do not believe that Billingham is your equal in intellect. A match with someone so clearly your inferior would not, I must assert, bring you the happiness which you deserve.”
Lord Glastonburg was startled when his niece, who although affectionate was not demonstrative, suddenly captured him in an embrace. But Phoebe was filled with emotion at her uncle’s words and his honest evaluation of Billingham, a man who in his view was not equal to his niece in his mental abilities.
“Dear Uncle,” she whispered, “you are a treasure!”
“My dear, I only meant to say that you need not marry for wealth,” he said, embarrassed but pleased by her outburst. “You shall be most comfortably provided for, I assure you, in my will, and while I am not as wealthy as some, you shall not be reduced to counting pennies for your library collection.”
She wondered what her mother would have said if she knew that Uncle Glaston planned to bequeath a legacy upon her daughter rather than upon her sons. But that was not for her to address.
“I merely mention it because I want you to know that you may marry where your heart and mind, and not your purse, take you,” he continued humbly. Then, as if he had by intuition read her mind, he added, “I have not spoken of this to your mother.”
“I understand,” Phoebe said, and there was perfect concourse between them. “Please rest assured that my affections are not engaged. But I must send Mama the news of my social engagements and if she is assured that I am being entertained by members of the ton, she is less likely to gnaw and worry at my reading and other interests.”
Comprehension dawned upon her uncle. “I see,” he chuckled. “Very wise, my dear, very wise. Sending out a false scent to your mother is most astute of you. Very good. And you promise me that you will marry for your own happiness?”
“Of course. I am not thinking of marriage at all, Uncle. I am enjoying myself and I intend to continue to do so.”
But her intention seemed to be challenged later that afternoon when she went into the library to select a book from her u
ncle’s commendable supply only to find that the Viscount Sunderland was his guest and the two were intent over a game of chessboard.
SIX
“My apologies,” she said, making to bow out of the room rather than disrupt the match and risk another encounter with the Viscount which would leave her at a disadvantage.
“Not at all, not at all. Please come in. Lord Sunderland has me in a most perplexing trap and I require diversion so that I can get myself out of it. He has already won a match and I do not intended to let him win a second today.”
“Miss Stanford,” the Viscount said, standing up. “I could wish that chess were played by three so that I could watch you underplay your queen.”
“I am searching for a book to read,” she replied coolly. “Please sit down and continue to play; I would not interrupt.”
“It is not my move,” he answered, leaving the chessboard to make his way to her side. “What sort of material are you seeking? I believe that although Mrs. Radcliffe is no longer writing, there are others of her ilk who produce material which is said to be entertainment for the ladies.”
“MY lord,” she said frostily, “I am currently reading an eight-volume series on the history of England.”
“And Ivanhoe, by Scott,” added her uncle. “Which I am also reading when she is not, and I must say, Lord Sunderland, that it’s a thrilling work.”
“Yes, I’ve read it,” the Viscount offered.
“Pray, tell me why a novel by Sir Walter is acceptable to read, but one by Mrs. Radcliffe is not?” she demanded. “Is not the business of a novel to entertain? And does it matter if one does so with a tale of a disinherited knight or a haunted castle?”
“Perhaps not, Miss Stanford, but for a serious aficionado of literature, you must concede that disinherited knights have their roots in our own history. Haunted castles, perhaps less subject to proof?”
It seemed that he was driven to goad her into a dispute whatever the topic of conversation and for some reason, however she willed, she could not resist.
“I daresay that there are enough English castles about the countryside where events of such horrific proportions took place that unquiet spirits could very well be walking the ramparts,” she retorted.
He smiled. The light in the library was a dimmer illumination than in other parts of the house and his eyes, although not so vivid here, were nonetheless marked by the intensity of his focus upon her. He was attired today in another suit which was a credit to his tailor and his own appearance; the fawn-coloured trousers, Hessian boots, and wide-sleeved muslin shirt were unencumbered by a coat, as he had apparently doffed it for his play.
“I have heard that the Earl of Chessington’s castle is haunted,” he remarked.
“How so?”
“Oh, some unhappy ancestress who went to her death because of her husband’s mistreatment,” he replied carelessly. “I’m uncertain as to the details.”
“The castles of England must be rife with such ghosts,” she replied.
“You must inquire of Lord Billingham, when next you see him, whether the tale is true.”
“I shall do that,” she told him. “We are invited to the Earl’s house for supper next week, and I shall certainly ask about the family ghost.”
“A pity that you will be dining in the Earl’s London home and not his ancestral castle, which is, I have heard, quite impressive and not just haunted. Perhaps you will move the Earl to give a ball and you would be able to meet the tragic lady if she chooses to mingle among the guests.”
“I shall suggest it,” she answered him, her chin lifted defiantly.
His eyes noticed her posture. “Miss Stanford,” he said as he turned to resume his position on the other side of the chessboard, “I think you will not long underplay your queen.”
It was a very cryptic remark which was lost in her uncle’s shout of triumph at having extricated himself from the Viscount’s trap. Phoebe hastily grabbed a book and left the library, unwilling to be embroiled into another aggravating conversation with the Viscount who, however dedicated to his pursuit of fashion, was no empty-headed man about town. He was, if truth were told, much more astute than Lord Billingham and she could not escape the impression that the Viscount was aware of her interest in the Earl and his role in the conversation that had taken place at the Duchess’ ball.
The Earl’s supper, which was attended by several of the gentlemen who had been part of the conversation at the ball, was an event for which she dressed with great care, intending to play the part of a young woman of fashion who was romantically interested in the Earl’s nephew.
She wore one of the new dresses which her uncle had insisted that she have made so that she could present herself well even if they accepted relatively few invitations by choice. The gown, a rich satin the colour of claret, was well suited to her pale golden hair. She wore an onyx and pearl necklace and had Fanny dress her hair not in ringlets, but in an upswept crown kept off her neck by silver combs. She was pleased with the results.
Her uncle surveyed her with gloom.
“Why, Uncle, whatever is the matter?” she asked when they were in the coach and the driver had urged the horses into movement. “You look quite dispirited and I thought you and the Earl were friends.”
“I expect that puppy will ask for your hand in marriage tonight, my dear,” Lord Glastonburg replied morosely. “You are so lovely that he will not be able to help himself. I warn you in advance, I intend to refuse him.”
Phoebe laughed and patted his hand. “Have no fear, Uncle. I do not expect that you will be afflicted with an offer for my hand, but if such a thing were to happen, I assure you that your refusal—gently given, I trust—will please me.”
Her uncle brightened. “Why then, if that is the case, I’m much more serene in mind. I shall tell him that you may not wed until you are one-and-twenty. Will that do?”
“Admirably; it provides me with two years of respite from needing to worry about suitors and I can concentrate on my reading.”
“Very good, then.”
“Who are we likely to meet tonight, Uncle? Will the Earl invite others of the gentlemen with whom you were engaged at the ball?”
“I’ve no idea. The Earl and I are not confidants. We engaged in discussion rather by chance, actually, at the ball. He said something about the state of the country now that the king had died and I responded in kind and there were others of the same opinion.”
“I wonder if it is safe to express such thoughts, Uncle.”
“What do you mean? We only spoke, as one does in conversation.”
“Oh, yes, I know, but there were many people passing by. What if someone heard and thought that the Earl entertained notions which are not conducive to the peace of the realm?”
“It’s England my dear, and a man cannot be hanged for his thoughts.”
“No,” she agreed, realising unhappily that her uncle, despite his broad knowledge of politics and history, was an idealist in many ways, particularly in his belief that a government would not act if it were faced with perceived threats. “I only wish to look out for your welfare.”
Lord Glastonburg laughed. “I am a man of fifty years, my dear, and I have been able to survive thus far with my obstinate opinions and my views. I fancy I shall survive to dance at your wedding. But let it not be to Lord Billingham or I fear I shall perish of apoplexy.”
She smiled, concealing her worry. It sounded absurd for a chit of nineteen to fret over the wisdom of a man of fifty who was thoughtful and well spoken, but undoubtedly more advanced—she would not say radical—in his views than most men of his station, but she was worried and she believed rightfully so. She had read in the newspapers that the government intended to act on any breaches of loyalty which it regarded as potentially injurious to the safety of the nation and was it not possible that the time was looming when a comment uttered spontaneously could serve as evidence in a court of law? Her uncle jested that he did not want to miss her wedding
because of an apoplectic shock at her choice of bridegroom, but she did not want him to be unable to attend because he had been executed for treason, merely because he had been foolish enough to voice his opinions.
When they arrived at the Earl’s home and were seated to dine, it was obvious that the supper had been arranged to allow Lord Billingham more time to pay court to Phoebe. The other guests were gentlemen of the Earl’s years, and Phoebe was the youngest female present among the wives of the male guests.
When it was time for the gentlemen to adjourn, Lord Billingham, who had been seated at Phoebe’s side and had whispered comments to her throughout the courses, looked dejected.
His aunt noticed his countenance. “I pray you, gentlemen, do not be long. We ladies shall miss your company.”
Lord Billingham smiled at his aunt and gave Phoebe a meaningful glance as he departed with his uncle.
He was the first to reappear when the gentlemen broke and returned to the drawing room, but Phoebe, who was politely clapping after one of the ladies finished playing a rather mechanical tune on the harp, observed that not all of the men returned.
“They’re still in the game room.” Lord Billingham answered his aunt’s unspoken question, “discussing some sort of dull matter about Caesar and Brutus, of all things, so the rest of us decided to leave them to their port and their assassins.”
“Assassins!” Phoebe exclaimed. “What a dismal topic.”
“Exactly what I said and I beg your forgiveness, Miss Stanford, but when your uncle began quoting Shakespeare, I decided that it was time to abandon them for fairer company.”
“Miss Stanford, will you entertain us?” The Countess smiled at her. “Do you play?”