B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  Although he had selected her for her urbanity, Howgrave held out hope that she would be able to gratify his passion in the customary fashion. Initially, she did. Regrettably, the many burdens of his office (infested as it was with ungrateful rioters and cunning compatriots) had coalesced into a teeming mass of agitation, depriving him of the ability to obtain amatory consolation unless aroused in some perverse fashion. Hence, it had been necessary for Lady Howgrave to employ evermore elaborate manoeuvrings and manipulations to bring him to achievement. Only when she did not succeed in those ministrations was he forced to take the whip to her. He did not take delight in it. He was left with no other choice.

  He must have a child—a son to carry on the family name (such as it was).

  However, he vowed not do as his father had done. He would not take a child from some low mistress. His son would not bear the disgrace of bastardy. He would be suckled at the breast of a proper wet-nurse not consigned to the scullery with the likes of Bess Dumpstitch.

  Dear Bess was his mother and a lowly maid in the service of Howgrave Manor. He was called Frederick, but was not allowed to take his father’s surname. The master of the manor had a wife and, as mistress of the manor, she looked upon his bastard son with disapproval. Hence, poor Bess received no compensation for giving birth to the master’s child. It was enough that she was allowed to keep her position (and was happy that she was not struck from the house due to her disgrace).

  Until he was ten, Freddy slept in the same bed as his mother at night and helped in the kitchen by day. He had to sit outside upon the steps to partake his meals and was beaten for every dish he dropped. Called Fictional Freddy by the other servants, he grew up altogether baffled as to why he had to suffer the envy of others for a position that netted him absolutely nothing.

  No education—letters or numbers—had been squandered upon him until the day he was sent off to school. His classmates abused him mercilessly. This came to pass as much for his lack of learning as his dirty fingernails. He received no quarter from the schoolmaster either. If given an incorrect answer, he laid the rod across every boy’s knuckles. (Hence, Freddy’s were perpetually swollen.) Two hours a day were dedicated in prayer and introspection. Each week, they bared their buttocks to accept a switching just on general principle.

  If Freddy was not a particularly astute student, he was a magnificent learner. He hastily uncovered the most important lessons the school had to offer—and he did not have to attend a single class to learn them. By undertaking distasteful chores, befriending stupid boys with wealthy families, and falling prostrate with reverence in the presence of the most despised schoolmasters, he ingratiated himself to those who mattered. One did not have to be good; just have the appearance of it.

  Upon his final year he had grown fat but not tall, yet his adiposity was no longer the target of unkind pranks. For the first time in his life, he felt approval. He arrived at school a shunned dunce and would leave a clever young man, having gained an extraordinary education in finagling, connivance, and collusion.

  Just when all seemed right with his world, word came of his mother’s death. Freddy did not sally forth to Howgrave Manor to watch her being tossed into the cold, dark patch of dirt set aside for the servants’ graveyard. He remained at school and was believed to be bereft. He was not. His pitiable mother and the inhospitable place he had called home was nothing to him but a reminder that he was ignored by his rightful father.

  After taking his degree, Freddy Dumpstitch was anxious to escape to London. There he could put his many new skills to work. His visit to Howgrave Manor was perfunctory, born of the faint hope that his success in school might earn him some sort of financial consideration. It was a fortuitous decision.

  Unbeknownst to Freddy, he had been cast in a drama not of his making—but one in which he was quite happy to have a part.

  As it happened, the Howgrave estate was to be entailed to the male line. Due to past misdeeds, Freddy’s father had been removed from the line of succession. If a male progeny was not produced ere the eldest Howgrave died, Howgrave Manor would go to a cousin in Aberdeen. Mr. and Mrs. Howgrave would then be tossed out on their tuffet. Freddy had been sent off to school as a precautionary measure. He had been held in escrow—a spare heir—should plump (and seemingly fertile) Mrs. Howgrave not produce a legitimate one. It eventually fell apparent that her womb was as inhospitable as her heart.

  Post-haste, the matter of a child born of his housekeeper was suddenly not the indignity that it had once seemed. Mrs. Howgrave still despised Freddy, but she liked her situation well enough to overlook the personification of her husband’s adultery. Freddy, being the sole natural son of the Master of Howgrave Manor was suddenly in a most happy position. He owned an adoring father, a boatload of servants, and with little fanfare, an admirable new surname (Dumpstitch not being a particularly melodious appellation to adorn his future campaign signs). No longer was he the bastard child of a scullery maid. He was a gentleman.

  Young Henry Howgrave was presented thusly to society.

  Regrettably, to society he was still the Son of the Left Hand.

  He wanted more—much more.

  Refusing to be turned away, young Howgrave polished his manners and attended every party, fête, and bull-bating to which he was admitted. Having been slighted all his life, his rise was not with undue humility. (Granted, his ascent was not with any more sense of entitlement than other young bucks in the county.) He refused to be satisfied with what society deemed within his grasp. A modest country estate and marriage to the daughter of a hapless squire would not suit him.

  His ambition was keen, so much so that he overstepped all sensible boundaries. Making a bid for the hand of Miss Darcy was societal (and very nearly literal) auto-da-fé. With what Freddy saw as unnecessary peremptoriness, Darcy rebuffed his overtures to Georgiana. Freddy was humiliated, causing him to believe that Miss Darcy may have fifty thousand, but she was a mouse. He sniffed derisively, vowing to find a wife worthy of his ambitions.

  Deep within his breast, however, Freddy was cut, not just publicly, but to the core. His dislike of Darcy was not because of his haughtiness and station. It was for the same reason the schoolmaster administered the whippings—on general principal.

  It was just as well, Henry told himself then and ever after. When opportunity struck, he took advantage of the war. It was a gamble that paid off magnificently through a knighthood and wild acclaim. When he did finally marry, he secured the most desirable woman in England.

  Yes, one day the Prime Ministership would be his.

  He vowed that his son would not have to bear squalid surroundings and the sniggering degradation of his lessers.

  Fictional Freddy was no more.

  Chapter 13

  At Your Service

  Lord Humphrey Orloff was quite a man of town.

  He had foul breath, inelegant habits, and a protruding tooth. He had also obtained a fortune (and an indelicate disease) whilst settling his father’s affairs in the West Indies. Now a widower with a wandering eye, he enjoyed entertaining in his house in Pall Mall. It was an exquisite place, one he had inherited upon his wife’s death. Despite the persistent rumours that his wife died in consequence of his faithlessness, he was still considered a man worth knowing by those who held sway over such judgements.

  As a young man, Orloff was known to cut quite a swell in the iniquitous pathways of nocturnal trampers and brothel tourists. It was no surprise that when his bad blood left his doodads a tad ineffectual, he became enthralled by the backroom antics of Parliamentary politics. The Napoleonic wars had kept a tumultuous hold upon gentlemen for a decade. Those least likely to see battle were always the most eagre debaters. Forgather three men in a room and fill their glasses, they would argue over the battle strategy for days.

  Orloff delighted in inviting the opinion of the working class. They had odd thoughts about taxes and levies. One must be kept abreast of common notions regardless of its absurdity. Whi
lst having measurements taken for a new pair of boots however, he asked his boot-maker, “Edmund, what say you of Wellington—good man or fool?”

  Edmund O’Reilly kept his head down, clearly disinclined to debate him.

  Orloff harrumphed and turned to a well-shod gentleman having his boots polished for an answer.

  “What say you, sir? Do you believe the cabinet seat Liverpool gave Wellington will propel him on to even greater political rewards?”

  The man took a breath before answering giving Orloff to understand his response was well considered.

  He said, “Wellington speaks his mind untroubled by who might take offence. For a soldier, that is an admirable quality. For a politician, however, compromise is essential. It is unlikely that Wellington’s sympathy for Catholic emancipation shall endear him to his other Tory cabinet ministers.”

  Orloff raised an eyebrow. Then he spoke to Edmund.

  “Listen to this man, Edmund. He knows whereof he speaks.”

  The man added, “I suspect that our friend, Edmund O’Reilly had an opinion on that issue, he merely chose not to speak it.”

  As he worked, Edmund smiled. Orloff was too pleased with himself to notice the point the gentleman made. However, they did introduce themselves. Curious, Orloff inquired if he had special knowledge of Wellington.

  Alistair R. Thomas replied, “I was Wellington’s political attaché during the Napoleonic hostilities. I served my country in several campaigns and have now sold my commission to enjoy the peace at my leisure.”

  Orloff gasped at such fascinating information. Alistair was reluctant to speak of the specific conflicts, but loquacious Lord Orloff was bored and begged to hear more.

  “Waterloo? You must tell me of Waterloo! You were there?”

  Alistair nodded. Orloff, ever the raconteur, loved to learn anecdotes he could then pass on as his own. He begged Alistair to tell of battles and intrigue. Alistair reluctantly admitted to having been wounded.

  Alistair insisted, “Mine was nothing but a scratch.”

  Just then, Alistair attempted to stand, but wobbled as he tried to put his walking stick to use. Orloff leapt to help Alistair to his feet. Alistair suppressed a groan as he stood and put his weight on one foot.

  “Your country owes you a great deal!” Orloff gushed.

  Alistair demurred, saying, “I am but a slave for my country, happy to have given what I have for its honour.”

  “I stand in awe,” said Orloff.

  Only admitting to being a middling officer before Waterloo, Alistair did say he came out of that engagement with a chest full of medals. Although Orloff was much in want of seeing them, Alistair declined.

  “Put away,” he insisted. “Like my uniform, I shall not look upon them again.”

  Such impeccable credentials meant Alistair was welcome into the best company and the finest clubs. Ladies were always in want of a charming gentleman to make a fourth at cards and fill out their table at suppers. His white hair and well-tanned countenance made Alistair a most distinguished-looking man. As it happened, Orloff knew how to fill a table. Twenty ladies and gentlemen joined him that evening. Some of them were witty; all of them were rich.

  Orloff announced, “I must have you come round tonight.”

  Alistair’s suspiration was deep, but he seemed agreeable, “Although my Brothers of the Blade have my compleat devotion, I must admit I am much in want of other society.”

  Orloff pressed his card into Alistair’s hand.

  “Do come round. There will be gentlemen there who would be much in want of hearing what you have to say.”

  Although he did not promise, Orloff was pleased when Alistair appeared at his door. His coming was a great coup. Orloff liked to sprinkle his soirées with gentlemen of different stripes. A self-deprecating gentleman with a noble countenance and decent wit was difficult to find. As they talked, Orloff learnt that he was correct about Mr. Thomas. His greatest assets lay beyond the card table. They shared an eagre interest and keen understanding of the political climate.

  When the gentlemen retired from the ladies and their interminable rounds of Whist, they escaped to Orloff’s handsomely appointed smoking-room for cigars, serious drinking, and brash talk. Affairs of the state were the preferred topic. Orloff was backing a coming man for Parliament and was in active pursuit of good heads to join him. To gain everyone’s attention, he was not above agitation.

  He announced, “The rioters taken to streets after the Westminster elections were equal to what was seen in Paris.”

  As no one else had a comment, Alistair replied, “It was said had they been well armed and well-drilled, the mobs might have done real damage.”

  His remark was greeted by a scattering of laughter, no one quite certain if he spoke in jest.

  Now that a common enemy was left to die old and alone at St. Helena, another ogre had to take his place. The emerging Labour movement gave the defenders of the probity good reason to panic. Any call for change in the existing order was viewed as a wedge opening the door for a French-like atrocity. Any alteration in social rectitude was tantamount to erecting a guillotine in Hyde Park.

  If the French had taught them anything at all, it was that change—of any sort—was to be fought at all costs.

  Therefore every gentleman hushed when another man reported, “Lady Hatton had forty windows smashed by a collection of rock-wielding children. My wife says we must board up our house at Brighton lest it be torn to bits.”

  Alistair spoke again, soothing, “Tell your dear wife that Dragoons have been stationed in every town from Coventry to Bristol. I am certain we are all safe”

  Despite alleging a great distaste for politics, Alistair had an eagre opinion on each point—including Wellington. He stood solidly behind him.

  He explained, “I owe the man a great deal. Had he not learnt that I attended Eton, my epaulettes would have been scorched off my shoulders in the Peninsular War.” He furthered his point by saying, “A classical education is a necessity for all officers.”

  There were murmuring nods of approval from all. Lord Orloff, however, saw Wellington as remiss.

  “Why have you not been given a knighthood, sir? They have handed them out like flower petals to men of far less standing. I shall speak to Wellington on your behalf.”

  As everyone knew, Wellington’s success in Spain won him many honours and, more importantly, large estates and cash awards. He was the man of the hour.

  Alistair insisted, “I fear that in the peninsular conflict I was merely a scribe of Wellington’s greatest achievements, not the author. Indeed, with the resumption of hostilities I spent more time interpreting his missives to Blücher than upon the field of battle.”

  “Still...” said Orloff.

  “If you please,” insisted Alistair. “I beg you do not speak upon my behalf.”

  Orloff was keenly pleased. Alistair was well-educated, well-spoken, and well-dressed—a gentleman of the first order. He did not give up Alistair’s part when it came to Wellington either.

  “The Duke was fortunate at Waterloo,” Orloff insisted. “The French cavalry showed up quite well during that great battle.”

  “Yes, and they went down very well too,” rebutted Alistair.

  The laughter was infectious. It was only natural that when Sir Henry Howgrave arrived, he was immediately introduced to Alistair Thomas. They were each given a brief history of the other and understood instinctively that they were similar animals.

  Howgrave asked Alistair, “Did you happen to attend Wellington’s welcoming festivities after his triumphant return from France? I do not recall seeing you there.”

  “I saw it only in passing,” Alistair replied.

  Howgrave was aghast (or seemingly so), “I am astonished that the duke forgets his loyalties with such haste.”

  “With cashiered soldiers filling the streets with their disgruntlement, the Duke has far greater concerns than one poor gentleman,” said Alistair.

  Wit
h a sly, sideward look, Howgrave bid Alistair, “Come with us tonight, Thomas. After Almack’s closes, we like to finish the evening in the East End with good, plebeian company—low men and loose women.”

  A smattering of snickers were heard at his remark.

  Alistair R. Thomas was quite conscious of the young blood’s penchant for rubbing elbows with the motley lowborn on Nightingale Lane. He also knew that Howgrave was born of a left-handed union and his wife was once a courtesan. A voucher to Almack’s was a dearly held commodity and the ladies who extended them thought far too highly of themselves to sell their company that cheaply. One could be assured that Sir Henry Howgrave was not invited to Almack’s. Yet, he implied he was. If Alistair’s nose sniffed the winds of speculation, it went unremarked.