by May Woodward
‘I don’t suppose you are here for the races, being in mourning, Your Grace?’ Clemence asked at last.
‘Philo, please! We’re kinfolk by marriage, you and I.’ He pushed back his hat, beaming down at her. ‘And I’m here to enjoy the fine day and charming company, as are all. Jolly warm weather, what?’ He took out a bright red fogle and wiped his brow.
She turned her eyes back to the ambling water-traffic. A young man in a straw hat poled along a skiff, and sang to the object of his fancy who was sitting opposite:
With sorrow, deep sorrow, my bosom is laden,
All day I go mourning in search of my love;
Ye echoes, oh, tell me, where is the sweet maiden?
“She sleeps, ‘neath the green turf down by the ash grove.”
The girl in the pretty craft looked about four years Clemence’s junior. She felt her age. The years were speeding by and old-maidenhood looming.
‘Do you hunt, Miss Somerlee?’ the Duke of Ardenne asked. ‘Shall we see you at the Quorn?’
‘No, I don’t hunt, Philo. I don’t care for chasing and killing God’s creatures.’
The duke fondled his chestnut’s ears.
‘Hear that, Miniver? You’re one of God’s creatures! But you love the chase, don’t you, my boy? Quite grumpy, aren’t you, through the tedious summer months?
‘Gosh, the hunt can be a riot, you know, Miss Somerlee,’ he went on. ‘You know those pigs’ bladders you can get which make a rude noise when you sit on them? Bluebely Baxter and I took one to the Duke of Beaufort’s last year. We sneaked it onto quite a few saddles, including the Countess of Bedingfield’s. And Lord Palmerston’s! Actually, Bluebely and I haven’t been invited to Badminton this year.’
‘I’m sure I cannot imagine why, Your Grace… Philo.’ Clemence found herself returning his smile. He was trying to cheer her up, bless him. It was more than Dickon and Mathy had managed.
Philoctetes was not really handsome – cheeks a little florid, eyes rather small, more flesh on him than was good in a young man; but his eyes were a lighter grey than his sister’s, and his hair a sunnier blond. His dukedom and unmarried status, of course, would hide the grossest of disfigurements and basest of vices. The world must look lit with rainbows from on board Miniver.
‘Lady Quarmby’s giving a kettledrum next Tuesday,’ the duke said. ‘It sounds tedious – a few écarté and poker tables, and some German lady singing to the Quarmby girls’ mediocre accompaniment. But I should grace the occasion if you were present, cousin Clemence. Why – I could take pleasure in a trip to the dentist in your company, dear lady!’
Clemence eyed the young aristocrat – claiming the right of family connection to call her cousin; and likely not just hunting the furry-eared fellows of the field. She could almost hear him swaggering to his cronies in the Travellers: I’ve had m’ leg over that frigid Somerlee bitch, my bucks; can anyone better that, hey? But he was at least smiling with her. His were the friendliest features here.
Clemence stroked his handsome animal’s nose. Miniver nodded and stretched his head towards her, blowing into her ear.
‘I take it you ride even if you don’t hunt?’ the duke asked.
‘Oh, yes, I’m very fond of horses. They are such good listeners. Understand me the way men never do.’
The duke smiled, teasingly.
‘I don’t let many other than meself astride Minnie. Worth the stars to me, he is. But for you, Miss Somerlee, if you’d care to take him out…’
‘Thank you, Philo! I would like this.’
‘Then Minnie shall be yours. I’ll fetch my groom and have Minnie fitted with a ladies’ saddle.’
Miniver dipped his head to the slush-pool hard by the jetty, sniffed, snorted and blew more slime over her dress. Even the creatures of the field were laughing at her. But she found herself laughing too.
‘Minnie likes you,’ the young duke said. ‘I expect all animals do. You have a way with them, I can tell.’
‘I often find them better company, I must admit,’ Clemence said. ‘I look after my lost brother’s warhorse, you know. Sparkle. He’s retired to our stables.’
‘I see. You have had a difficult few years, haven’t you? Not knowing what happened to your brother – oh, that must be tragic for you, Miss Somerlee! Or may I call you Clemence? Such a lovely name, which so suits you.’
‘Clemmie, if you like, Philo.’ She gave Miniver’s neck a stroke. ‘I was named after my grandmother, who almost died on the guillotine. She got a stay of execution with a few hours to spare.’
‘Courageous lady! I’ve no doubt you take after her.’
‘I wish I did. But I’m not sure I do,’ she replied. ‘I was thinking about Aubrey just before you joined me a moment ago. I keep thinking I see him, you see…’
‘Oh, that’s part of the normal grieving process, my dear!’
‘Is it?’ Miniver blew into her ear. She nuzzled his nose with hers. ‘Will you be joining us for the picnic, Philo?’ she asked shyly. ‘As long as you are not too partial to mushroom vol-aux-vents, because my little brother and sister will have all but finished them off by now.’
‘I don’t much care for the company of my trying sister, truth be told, Clemmie,’ he smiled. ‘I don’t envy you, living with Mathy. Surely you don’t intend to remain at Eardingstowe for ever? Such a waste! You’re a beautiful young woman with your whole life ahead of you.’
‘At the moment I can’t afford to leave!’ she said.
She’d once had fantasies of never marrying, running a school perhaps, for similar-minded young girls, leading a single woman’s war against mankind. That dream had gone plop, as dreams like that usually did. The allowance her father had left her, she’d learned, would barely keep her in stockings.
As for her noble vision of a convalescent home… well, let’s just say she had rather underestimated how much capital it would involve. A girl’s governess was somewhat neglectful in teaching her about such things as financial management; although she could press flowers very nicely.
‘Why don’t you borrow against your expectations?’ Amathia had suggested.
Yes, she supposed she could. But, oh, that seemed so like taking advantage of Aunt Lizzy. She’d wanted to achieve something for herself for once in her life.
Anyway, much as she and her sister-in-law didn’t get on too well, Eardingstowe was Clemmie’s home, which she loved more than anyone did, even Richard probably. And she loved her little sister and brother, Margaret and John. And the only motherly attention baby Caroline received was from her Aunt Clemence.
‘Well… I promised you a ride, Clemence.’ The duke nodded towards the closest trees. ‘There’s quite a good run on the other side of that small wood. Half an hour should show you just what Minnie can do.’ He removed his hat and inclined towards her. ‘After that – would you join me on the bridge to watch the next race?’
She looked at him, really seeing him for the first time. A bounder who was trying to take advantage of a vulnerable young woman. Maybe even after marrying her because he knew the countess intended to leave her money to her. Stranger things had happened. A smile pricked the corners of her lips. He could hardly make her opinion of men lower than it already was whatever he did. And she might, just might, have some fun through it herself…
FIFTEEN
Richard turned around on the spot, gazing up into the rafters of Eardingstowe’s old wing. Sunbeams slinked through gaps in the shutters. The roof timbers had grown dark with the smoke from thousands of fires over many centuries.
This, the oldest part of the house, was not much used these days apart from storage and servant accommodation. At one end of the great hall, the floor rose into a dais where once had stood the high table. In the opposite wall gaped three arches which led to the buttery and kitchen. The newel stair wound into darkness in the south-western corner.
On the floor above were the great chamber, where the medieval lord had slept, the closet where he’d prayed, and a solar where his lady retreated. Here too was found one of Eardingstowe’s treasures – the stained-glass oriel window. And finally – the long gallery where the ghost of Clovis Somerlee was said to walk; Richard had heard the strange footfall himself and felt the cold spots. The boards yet bore the stain of Clovis’s blood – spilled when he was suspected of turning traitor to his fellow Gunpowder Plotters.
At least three monarchs had dined here – the family still owned a chalice Elizabeth had given as a gift, and a gold filigree brooch set with an amethyst which Queen Philippa of Hainault had bestowed upon her Somerlee hosts.
This present structure dated from Saxon times. But as a dwelling-place Eardingstowe went back, back into the miasma of pre-recorded history. Roman mosaics had been found beneath the newel stair. When Richard closed his eyes, and shut his ears to the cooing of pigeons, flutter of bats’ wings and scratching of rodents’ claws, he could almost hear the laughter of the housecarls at the dining boards before they’d ridden to face the Norman invader.
Why had the old hall fallen into neglect? It was a breathtaking place.
Richard’s wife didn’t care for it much. That was one reason, he supposed. Just as well Amathia kept away – she’d give Clovis and the other spectres the fright of their deaths.
Stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well, into the jaws of Death…
Richard struck his fist on the stone arch framing the entrance to the newel stair. Somewhere in the vaulting, a startled pigeon’s wings fanned.
How many among the jealous nobility and gentry married for love? No, you entered the sacred bonds of matrimony for wide acres and sparkling coronets, or just a father-in-law who might advance your career. Remember Richard’s old pater who’d wed Richard’s mother for a cotton empire? Dickon, Clemmie, Aubrey and all owed the breath in their lungs to Joshua Carswell’s mucky mill.
His finger traced the chain of worn quatrefoils cut into the stone.
Still, Richard’s parents had been together for over twenty years with no major upsets; if Somerlee had been unfaithful to her, it was his secret. Perhaps that was a kind of love.
But Richard – he was bound to a woman he was growing to hate, and all for nothing.
His glacial bedchamber couplings with the Handmaiden of Boreas, God of the Cold North Wind had yielded only one girl so far – sweet enough little thing, bless her, but useless for a title and estate which needed an heir. If he failed to produce a male heir, the estate should pass to one of his younger brothers. But Ivo was interested in nothing except his career in the church. Aubrey was gone, of course. Which still left young Carswell and little John. Even so, the uncertainty made Richard uneasy. He’d breathe sounder if he had sons of his own.
Naturally, any bride might have had the misfortune to be barren. Couldn’t hold that against Mathy Consett. That was just good or ill luck.
But her family turning out to be all but broke; and not having the clout he’d thought they did was not. The duke had deceived him. Mathy had. That was a god-damned wrong he had been done. ‘No-one ever told you the Consetts were rich…’ Maybe not, but they’d let him assume it. Yes, they had.
Richard strode under the central arch at the lower end of the hall, passed the old buttery and kitchen passage, and through the ancient doorway which led into what was now Eardingstowe’s new wing – in days of yore it had been a courtyard egress.
He stalked the entrance-hall, dumped his outdoor Norfolk jacket on the pier table, and paused beside the grand staircase. He looked up at the life-sized, gilt-framed portrait which hung there. The first baronet, Sir Alois Somerlee, in early Georgian dress, was frowning down at him as if to say ‘what are you doing with my inheritance, you young shaver?’
In his study, Richard kicked off his bluchers, poured a brandy, plumped down in the chair behind the desk, and stuck up his feet.
This was his place more than any other. A masculine preserve like the gunroom. Atmosphere of cigar fumes. Nothing floral or delicate. Hunting scene in the painting above the fireplace. The baronet’s old pointer slumbering by the flames. It was the master’s hideaway where he could retreat after a hearty repast, undo tight buttons and belch without fear of female frowns.
Down by his side was a chiffonier. In a cache he kept his supply of narcotics. Just for medicinal reasons – if he came home from Westminster, say, with a bellyache whose aetiology was Whig. There was no harm in laudanum. Nanny Jude used to prescribe it for a tickly cough or sore thumb.
But the more and more you took of the stuff, the otherwise black and white world became a fantastical phantasmagoria. You felt as if the glorious final movement of a symphony was playing in your skull. You could stand in the House and blast Palmerston into a supernova. Shrivel Whigs into nothingness in the blackness of space.
It was several hours before Richard went to the sitting-room. There, from the ottoman, his wife was directing operations for that evening’s dinner-party. As he walked in, the housekeeper was facing a tongue-lashing.
‘I won’t listen to your excuses, Mrs Kirkbride. Don’t you realise the Earl of Derby is to be a guest? Sir Richard’s career is at stake. We must have the Sèvres porcelain! If one piece is missing from the set, then you must send to Taunton for a replacement before tonight.’
The minion went away on her forlorn hope mission.
Richard poured a brandy. Oh dear, it would be his third of the day, and it was only mid-afternoon.
‘I take it, earthenware excepted, you have everything under control for this evening?’
‘Absolutely!’ said Amathia. ‘The menu will be Potage Printanier followed by Herring Roes à la Varsovie, and Veal à la Bourgeoise.’
‘Well, we’ll not poison the Prime Minister.’
‘I’m determined this evening is to be a success,’ said Amathia. ‘It is a pity we are so in the wilds here, so remote from civilisation.’ An expression of distaste crossed her face as she looked from the window towards the hills. ‘Well, we might not be able to change Eardingstowe’s unfortunate provincial setting, but we can make it tolerably fashionable. I mean to see all of high society at our kettledrums in the years to come. And as your star rises, darling, we can afford to build a new country seat in a more apposite spot.’
‘Indeed, my dear. I already hear you talked of as one of the most gracious of society hostesses.’
‘One does one’s best with limited resources, considering Eardingstowe is so backward and, well… please don’t be hurt, dearest, but… shabby.’
‘Ah, well, it has taken a battering in two millennia of history.’
He stood behind her, looking down at her floral décolletage, chemisette, and morning cap with its long lace lappets over the ears. Caroline’s birth had taken its toll on her looks. He could see for himself, with his inexpert male eye, what exertions her maid must be undergoing to lace her corset. She’d need an Iron-Maiden let alone corsets before she was forty. Gratifying thought. Serve her right for her rudeness about Eardingstowe.
‘While we are on the subject of my star rising,’ he told her, ‘I’ve been in discussions with Mr Boscawen, my man-of-business. There really seems little chance my brother Aubrey will be found alive. Boscawen’s going to start proceedings to have him declared legally dead. Then Uncle George’s legacy will come to us.’
‘Hmm… now that would be useful extra income,’ Amathia said. ‘Eardingstowe has inadequate guest accommodation. We could build a new wing… have the old hall demolished. Oh, Dickon, I have such plans!’
Richard flapped out his coat-tail and sat beside her.
‘There’s something else I want to talk to you about, Amathia. Your brother intends to speak to me this evening before dinner, I understand,’ he said. ‘He wants permission to court Clemence. But I’m not sur
e it’s a good idea.’
Amathia gave a light laugh.
‘Clemence is twenty-one! She can decide for herself. Even if she was still your responsibility, she defied you once before. Became engaged to Swynton just because you wanted Fanny Fanshawe.’
‘She’s older and wiser now.’
‘She’s feeble-minded! Wandering in her wits. You needn’t take my word for that. No less an authority than Florence Nightingale believes it.’
‘Well, if you are right,’ he said with an acidic smile, ‘then she will be malleable. She’ll do as I say as she did not when she had her wits about her.’
Her eyes turned to him.
‘Why would you wish to withhold your consent, anyway? You spent all that money presenting your sisters at court in the hope that one of them would marry into the aristocracy!’
‘I happen to think your brother’s a nincompoop.’
‘As a matter of fact, so do I. But why should that stop you, or Clemence?’ Amathia raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d have thought you’d welcome the prospect of a blue-blooded in-law you imagine you can get the better of!’
‘Am I really so mercenary as to wish my gentle sister on the likes of him? I do have a heart, God-damn-it, a soul! And you know damned well there’s no money with that god-damned title. She’d be a duchess who had to launder her own gowns! And no, I’m not going to apologise for my language.’
In the dangerous silence which followed, the clock ticked on, sounding unbearably loud. Out on the bank of the mere, a peacock called; a hen answered from a distance. Amathia turned her head as the sound of a woman’s skirt rustled in the doorway.
‘If you please, madam, the dining table is now prepared, and awaiting your inspection.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Kirkbride. I shall be along shortly.’
Richard’s second statement from the Smoky Mountain Company was a blur of strange figures which he could make nothing of. He showed it to Mr Boscawen. The notary stared in astonishment.