by Karen Joyce
XVIII
Only two weeks before, he could never have imagined that his life would have led him here again without Lady Delphinia by his side. When he had pictured returning, he believed it would have been very different and very much unlike these auspicious circumstances that he now found himself. That as he made his way to the porch and the door opened before him, he would be met with hostility instead of being welcomed with open arms into the folds of an eager reception. Before entering the doorway of this other life unfolding before him, he turned to look out across the avenue toward the river where she had stood the last time he saw her. It were as if he were standing before her grave, for she was now dead to him and the bank of the River Thames had become her final resting place. As he looked out upon the streets that were empty and covered in darkness, for a moment he imagined he heard a small moan or a faint cry and he strained his eyes to see further into the night. Beyond the light of the lamp posts that cast a faint glow through the mist and for just a single moment he almost believed she was still there waiting for him. He felt a strong impulse within that made him want to run from this place and into her arms, but he knew it would be in vain and there would be nothing there for him but the emptiness that lay in the absence of her. An emptiness that he carried with him no matter where he had roamed since within this world and he didn’t have the strength to see with his own eyes what he already knew to be true. For there were still a part of him that wanted to believe that if he were to go to her, he would still see her there by the river, still waiting for him; and he couldn’t destroy that hope that still festered within him. Like a cross to bear, he would carry the weight of that image with him for all his days until the very last. For it was this picture that he held within his mind that would keep him going and keep his heart beating within his chest. If he couldn’t be with her in this life then god damn it he would hold on to the expectation of her and it would be enough. Within his mind the past had been rewritten and everything else that came after had begun to fade, until there was nothing left but her waiting by the river and the sweetness of what would never come; always lingering there, always waiting. For it is those moments before. The anticipation of what will come that are most alluring. In those moments where anything is possible and everything that we ever dared to dream is almost within reach. Reliving that moment he raised his hand unconsciously toward the night, reaching out to finally touch what he had always strived to hold within the palm of his hand. Lost to that excruciating moment that would lead at long last to her… Suddenly he heard the door open and it pulled Lincoln from his deep reverie. Quickly he lowered his hand and turned to find Lady Madeline standing before him. She was looking as lovely as ever and he was for a moment charmed by her, as he had never allowed himself to be before. Though the Montague’s had managed to keep the sordid revelations of the Duke’s death from being known, Lincoln could see the grief in the traditional attire of her black gothic bombazine and crepe mourning gown with full, friar sleeves fringed with black lace; and a heavy train falling from the back of her gathered bustle.
“Lincoln,” she said, as she stood by the open door like a sparkling, golden stone encased in the melancholy of death.
“Lady Madeline, how have you been faring these past few weeks. I do hope you are feeling well this evening?” he asked, as he stepped off the porch and into the foyer of another time long past.
“I appreciate your concern. It has been a difficult time for me bear, but I have found strength in the word of the Lord.” As Lincoln looked upon her face, time was suspended as he was taken back to that moment he had first laid his eyes upon her since all those years had passed from the early days of their youth, plunging him into the timeless descent of the sorrow that lay within the murky, ashen-grey depths of her eyes drawing him to her. He found it caused within him forgiveness for the hand she had played in their planned engagement and this coloured their reunion; and perhaps it was the cruelty of what she had endured in the past, but he welcomed the sight of her. Her inner strength and purity of mind, the touch of pride within her demeanour; and the effortless grace of her swift movements, as she moved behind him to take his coat and top hat and hung them upon the racks. Taking him by the arm, she led down the hall of their London home to the dining room. He welcomed the richness of these surroundings. No longer seeing the wealth of self-indulgence, but instead, the accumulation of the fruits of their labours. There was no longer an underlying offence in their wealth. His heart was softening to the environment that he understood he now belonged, whether he wanted to or not and it was true, though he didn’t admit this fact to himself, he was tired. Tired of the suspicion, the resentment and the bitterness. He was exhausted from trying to rebel against them. His broken heart just couldn’t take it anymore. He saw now there would be no harm in taking his place among them, for they were all connected through blood and his childhood. They were all a part of him, as much as anything else and he must embrace all that he was. It wouldn’t deter him from his path; more than ever he would continue to speak for those that didn’t have a voice and fight for their cause, sacrificing whatever he could in their name. But what good would it serve to turn his back on his family and his ties to this world? His fight was the fight of every man, and he had nothing left for himself but them. So he would succumb to them and as long as it didn’t jeopardise his efforts to help the people then he would take his rightful place within his family and the world: as a son, a nephew, a cousin and a friend.
“I do pray you were not waiting long. The first course has just begun and our servants were occupied, so I made haste to receive you, lest you should disappear into the night.”
“It’s a tempting thought to disappear into the night.”
“Imagine what frightening demons must be lurking out there on a night such as this.”
“I’m more afraid of the demons that are lurking within my own mind.”
“Lincoln, you are much too morbid for my liking. You must promise me you will put on a brave face for my mother. She doesn’t care for these sudden outbursts of melancholy.”
“I shall be on my best behaviour, though I do not mind suffering these thoughts when it colours the pallor upon your face so.”
“I must admit, you never fail to lighten my mood. But, I must confess, I was overly concerned you wouldn’t be joining us this evening after all and…” she stopped, and paused, turning to face him. “I am overcome with joy that you have arrived at last.” The boldness upon her face quickly disappeared as she now felt somewhat hesitant about the frankness of her speech. “I must apologise for speaking out of turn.” Lincoln was moved by her honesty and the depth of her affection for him. He reached out his hand and ever so gently held her small chin and turned her face up toward him. They looked into each other’s eyes not saying a word.
“Please, do not apologise. I am touched by your words. It’s only that…” but he didn’t finish. There she was again, as she had been on that day in the gazebo at Montague Manor, looking up at him with the innocence of a child. He could not finish…It’s only that I do not return your affections…As he heard these words spoken within his mind, he realised that it wasn’t entirely true. Though he had always cared for Lady Madeline, he suddenly discovered that his affections for her had grown. He understood now his affections were always founded upon the nostalgia he felt for his childhood and the part that she had played in his past, but as he had come to know her as a woman, he saw her now as he had not allowed himself to see her before. She was so much more than he’d ever realised. It was true that she possessed an evident beauty that bewitched the eye that beheld her, but she was in her own way, lovely and tender, and though her disposition somewhat taciturn, whenever he caught a glimpse of the person she kept locked away, she flowered with the brilliant colours of spring. She was lovelier than he could have ever known. Without him being aware, she had all this time, little by little, crept into his heart and being in the warmth of her presence he was surprised to find that th
ere was the faintest flicker of life moving within him again.
“Your mother and her guests will be wondering what has become of us,” he said, as he lowered his hand and held out his elbow to her. Lady Madeline lowered her head and placed her arm through his.
“Yes, of course, you are quite right and I wouldn’t want you to miss any of the evening’s discussions,” she said, with a light mocking smile. “Why, just before I left the room, I heard my uncle discussing his recent fern hunting expedition to Asia and if we hurry we’ll have the good fortune of learning all about the new species of wild fern he has discovered.”
“I must admit, I’ve always found weeds to be an exciting topic of conversation,” he smiled in jest, as he opened the door for her to the dining room.
“Lincoln,” said Duchess Montague, “You have decided to finally deign us with your presence. I know your mother raised you with all the decorum and civility of a gentleman, so I am most perturbed at your tardiness. Why, if your head wasn’t fastened upon your body, I believe it would roll right off your body and across the floor.”
“Now, Duchess Montague, you speak as if I have offended you and hearing your words, I am most grateful, you are my host and not the Queen of England or I fear my head would soon be placed upon a spike and displayed in the town square, but as a Duchess, I can’t be too careful and do beg your pardon most earnestly,” replied Lincoln, as he approached her sitting at the foot of the table and bowed down to her.
“Not at all, my dear,” she said. “I understand you are an important man of Parliament who is highly sought after nowadays.” she replied, before commanding her butler to show Lincoln to his seat. Lincoln walked toward his place at the dinner table opposite Lady Madeline who had now seated herself and saw now that Duchess Montague’s guests included his mother, Lady Olivia Rinehart, his aunt and uncle, Lady Elizabeth and Sir Montgomery Winchester and his cousins Felicity and little Billy.
“Mother, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, as he stood behind her and laid a comforting hand upon her shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you would be dining with the Montague’s this evening.”
“To be honest, Lincoln, it came as quite a surprise to us as well. You see, I only received my invitation this morning.” Lincoln took a seat beside her and greeted the other members of his family with a smile, as he placed a napkin upon his lap. Looking around he now saw the other guests seated at the table, which included Lady Madeline’s relations, Baron Charles and Baroness Catherine Willoughby and their only child, Lord Fortescue Willoughby; Sir Ethan and Lady Adelaide Carrington and their young children, Constance and Cornelius; and sitting at the other end of the table, Lord Alexander Ashwood and his wife, Lady Harriet Ashwood. It was as though they had all come full circle, sitting here as he was amongst these all too familiar dinner guests whom he had dined with those months before. Lincoln observed that he had arrived just as the dinner party were enjoying their entrée course of oysters served in footed sherbet dishes placed alongside an assortment of crystal glasses filled with the beverages suited to their purpose: water, wine, sherry, claret and champagne.
“Lincoln,” said Duchess Montague, “my brother-in-law, Baron Willoughby was just now regaling us with the news of his fascinating expedition to Asia.” Baron Willoughby patted the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief and cleared his throat in preparation of repeating the speech he had just given.
“The journey alone took not more than 100 days by ship. The expedition itself was plagued with rough terrain, but our small Fern Hunting party was quite successful.”
“Fern hunting, you say. My, how very interesting,” said Lincoln, as he spooned an oyster from his dish and smiled at Lady Madeline who was holding her hand to her mouth to restrain her laughter.
“The Pteridophyte, as it is known in Latin, is absolutely remarkable in that part of the world.”
“Where exactly in Asia did you travel?” asked Lincoln.
“Most of our journey was spent travelling through the northern parts of China. Principally the municipality of Beijing. The fronds of the Asiatic ferns there grow to such an enormous size and the striking colours, you cannot imagine. Green, yellow-green, forest-green, mauve, even grey. Why, it is absolutely astounding!” As Baron Willoughby continued excitedly with the discoveries of his expedition, Lincoln’s attentions were distracted by Felicity and Fortescue who were glancing at one another in silent communication. He observed that her countenance was much improved since last he called upon his aunt and uncle and had heard the news of their broken engagement.
“Did you know they are asexual, having neither seeds nor flowers and in actual fact reproduce via spores,” finished Baron Willoughby, as he took a sip of wine from his glass.
“Tell me, Baron Willoughby. Is it true what the newspapers have been reporting about China?” asked Lincoln, his tone edging on aggression.
“Truth be told, my boy, I could never understand what China hoped to achieve by suppressing Britain’s opium trade.”
“Are you denying the negative qualities of its use?” asked Madeline, surprising Lincoln with her educated view.
“There is no better drug on the market. Why, it’s a cure-all for any type of ailment from the mildest to the most serious,” replied Baron Willoughby, as he smoothed down his long moustache by pulling at the ends. Lincoln shook his head at Baron Willoughby’s ignorance. Since the East India Company had been trading Opium with China, over ninety per cent of the population had become addicted to the drug and the effects upon the country had been devastating, but he had been referring to their current economic climate.
“I cannot begin to tell you how my migraines have been aided by its healing qualities,” said Lord Ashwood’s wife, Madame Harriet, as she held a hand to her head and massaged her right temple.
“Well, Baron Willoughby, I was actually referring to the widespread famine and impoverishment of the Chinese people,” said Lincoln, as he rested his spoon in his dish and levelled his gaze upon him.
“I think we have heard enough about the Orient for one evening,” interrupted Duchess Montague, as she signalled to the butler to present the second course: cream of asparagus soup with a side of pickled smelt cooked with spices, honey and white onions, which she declined upon viewing the greenish shade of its creamy liquid. And so, this is how the night unfolded, one mouth-watering course after another. Their words never reaching beyond the superficialities of their world. The pain and misfortune of so many millions of people swept under the carpet as if they didn’t exist. Perhaps they thought it was easier this way. That it was futile to talk about it. Maybe they felt helpless and believed there was nothing they could do to help them even if they wanted to. No, Lincoln told himself, even you are not that blind. Even your idealism must have a limit. He knew they were well aware of what they were doing. Either they didn’t care about the rest of the world or they were afraid of what they would have to sacrifice if they did. Was his own mother this way? This good, kind Christian person that had reared him from infancy. He supposed, when he gave it enough thought, that she had her own philosophy on life and in her own small way she believed it was enough. If everyone does their part to help their neighbour and their community then the world will work itself out as God intended it to be. It was a sound philosophy but it had one major flaw: The other ninety per cent of the population’s rights were being violated in one way or another by their governments, by the aristocracy and as a result, they lacked the means to help their neighbours or their communities, let alone themselves. She believed it was a perfect system but couldn’t she see that system was operating within an imperfect world. It wasn’t enough. More had to be done. After the final dessert course for the evening had been served: cornucopia’s filled with fresh cream, plum pudding, little quinomie cakes, apple snow balls, treacle tart and ginger cake, all the guests rose from their seats to join their host in the drawing room for some entertainment and light refreshments. As Lincoln followed them, he was pulled aside by Sir W
inchester.
“Lincoln, we have been invited to join the men in the smoking parlour. What do you say?” he asked, as he reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch. It didn’t matter to him whether he continued the evening in the drawing room, the parlour room or even in the servant’s quarters, the night would pass in the same way. He only hoped it would be sooner rather than later. Following his uncle into the smoking parlour, Lincoln saw Sir Carrington and Baron Willoughby seated by the fireplace, smoking their cigars. Lord Ashwood was standing by the carafes tray pouring himself a nip of port, as Fortescue stood nervously by the fireplace, fidgeting with the silver chain of a pocket watch nestled within his vest pocket. As Sir Winchester joined Lord Ashwood by the carafes tray and poured two glasses of whiskey, Lincoln joined the gentleman sitting by the fireplace.
“We were just discussing Thompson’s petition,” said Baron Willoughby, as he leant back in his seat and raised his elbows to lean upon the head of the lounge cushions.
“What do you make of the man? I hear he is an expert orator and his speeches are quite compelling,” said Sir Carrington, as he leant forward and looked up at Lincoln.
“Thompson is a remarkable man. I do believe he will in time, given his new appointment as the representative of Tower Hamlets, make some considerable achievement toward his cause,” replied Lincoln, as Sir Winchester handed him a glass of whiskey.