“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Good, then make sure he has quarters and bring him and the driver a cup of tea while he waits. Being Indian, he does love the stuff.” Stirling chuckled as he followed the consternated butler into the house.
After the six steps and the thick door, they walked into a vast hall that had a chequered black and white marble floor. Wood panelling lined the walls; the ceiling had a beautifully carved motif made of the same material. In the far reaches, there was an ornate staircase leading up to the many bedrooms up above. By now, the footmen had followed them inside and dispersed to do their various tasks.
“The duke awaits you with your brothers in the dining room for luncheon, My Lord. Please follow me.”
Stirling had to stifle a chuckle. It was always the same. Despite knowing the place inside out, he was always treated like a stranger that had never roamed the halls of High Weald.
Walking down a hallway lined with ancestral portraits, his leather shoes made light tapping sounds on the marble flooring. In contrast, the butler’s did not. It was a sign of Faversham’s unrivalled professionalism. To hear a butler approach by the tapping of his shoes on the parquetry or stone flooring was extremely bad form.
Reaching a double door that the butler opened, they entered. The dining room was an elaborate affair. From the windows, he could see out onto the lush parklands beyond. The advent of spring had left the verdure in full blossom; the huge eighteenth-century Lebanese cedars stood like mighty coned pillars and off-and-on there was a sycamore tree splendid in the mantle of her first leaves that would soon develop into a thick dark green foliage.
Studying the dining room more closely, Stirling saw the enormous Rubens painting he remembered so well. It depicted farmers going about their work under a meticulously portrayed rainbow that boasted splendiferous and myriad colours.
“Son, if you please,” said the duke in a croaky voice.
Stirling looked up at his father who still sat at the head of the long mahogany table that could seat at least thirty. He had aged a little. The increasing greying of his temples and the sides of his head only made him all the more intimidating. His head was that of a lion – big and shaggy with curls of hair. His eyes were a dark brown that almost bordered on the black. He had a strong jaw that was hidden by a bush of thick whiskers.
On the seats to his father’s right and left sat William and Edward, Stirling’s brothers. William, the eldest, had matured a lot in the way that a wealthy merchantman would. His midriff was full and displayed the leisurely manner in which he lived. His face showed shrewdness and the eye for profit. It was William who ran all of the family’s businesses that ranged from railroad investments to vast property holdings in Britain and around the empire. They even had a few in the rookery of St. Giles. This was considered a prime investment in terms of return.
Stirling’s other brother resembled a sparrow. Unlike William, he was thin. From the letters he had received, of which there had been few, he knew that he worked at one of the most reputed law firms in the city of London. Everything had been planned, as the duke would want it. All that there was missing was somebody in a bank or the church.
Stirling walked up. He stretched out his hand to his father. “Hello, Father, it is good to see you after such a long time,” he lied. In truth, he wanted nothing less than to be at his onetime home.
The duke nodded. He shook his son’s hand without getting up. “Sit down, Stirling. We have much to discuss.”
With a curt nod of the butler’s head, one of the footmen stepped forward and pulled a chair back. He did not say anything as he waited for the youngest son to sit.
Stirling nodded at his brothers who scowled at him imperiously. He took his seat next to William. He spent a moment studying his family. There was no love or anything that resembled anything like sentiment or warmth. Before him sat arrayed some of the most arrogant men he had ever encountered. In some ways, they were even worse than Lord Cardigan.
The duke grunted and promptly, the first of six courses was produced from the kitchens. Beverages in the form of white wine with the fish, red wine with the meat and sweet sherry with dessert accompanied each exquisitely presented dish.
Totally void of appetite, Stirling stared at his main course of river trout, new potatoes, and beans as if it were a vile enemy. His heart burned as if he had molten iron in his chest. Never before had he felt such distaste for his fellow diners.
Throughout luncheon, his brothers and father had discussed matters of which he was not privy to. He had picked up on some interesting facts concerning British companies building railroads on continental Europe and the Americas. Also, William had started investing in the White Star Line. It was on one of their ships that Stirling had returned back to England. They ran a fleet of clippers that predominantly ran between Liverpool and Australia. According to his brother, they were the future and would soon overtake Cunard in transatlantic travel.
“So, Stirling, how was your time with the wogs in India?” asked the duke when he had finished his trout. His dark eyes bored into his son’s.
Startled, Stirling blurted, “Wogs, sir?”
The duke sneered. “The man’s been living with a bunch of darkies for the past years and he doesn’t know what the correct terminology for them is. Very bad form if you ask me.”
Both William and Edward chuckled. “You’ve been to India, young man. You know the ins-and-outs of empire. What’s your view on this Napoleon chap’s project of constructing a canal connecting the Red Sea with the Mediterranean?” he said, referring to Napoleon the Third, Emperor of the French and nephew of the infamous Napoleon Bonaparte.
“Yes, I think it is a fantastic idea. It will halve the travel time to our possessions in the east. As far as I know, Ferdinand de Lesseps, in the name of his emperor, has already obtained a concession from the Khedive of Egypt and the Sudan to lease the area required for the canal. It is only a matter of time until work starts.”
Edward sniggered. “You actually think this is a good idea? The British government vehemently opposes it.”
“As they should. If such a thing were ever built and it was in the hands of the French, control of trade to India would be in jeopardy,” said William, coming to his brother’s aid like he always did.
“Firstly, the French are our allies. The emperor resided in London for many years. He is an anglophile through and through. Secondly, they will be in need of finance, and Great Britain has the money to buy up considerable shareholdings in such a venture.” Stirling sipped his wine in thought. “One day, England will have to expand its sphere of influence to the region if we want to maintain control of India.”
“Balderdash! We have the Cape. That is enough. Building a canal will require sluices because the elevation between the two seas is different,” said the duke.
Stirling smiled. “That is not correct, father. Napoleon Bonaparte, when he was in Egypt, didn’t follow through with the project for exactly that reason. However, he was misinformed. De Lesseps has discovered that all that has to be done is to dig it. No locks are required. In fact, the ancient Egyptians had man-made canals connecting the Nile with the Red sea as far back as 1850 BC. It is possible.”
The duke grunted. Stirling’s brothers looked at him warily. Stirling had become a man they no longer recognized as the green cadet that left all of those years ago. Before them was somebody who had made his own way in life. As the brothers eyed each other like a trio of truculent lions, the next course of cheese and port was served.
“Talk of canals will have to wait. We are at war with Russia, gentlemen. A large expeditionary force is being assembled. There are hints in parliament that it will be sent to the Crimea to thwart the Russian’s attempt in acquiring a place in the warmth. We must stop them from gaining access to the Mediterranean Sea.”
“Yes, it’s all rather exciting. I have joined the 11th Hussars under the command of an acquaintance of yours, Father - the Earl of Cardigan,” said Stirl
ing, tucking into a nicely aged piece of Stilton cheese. Finally having his father listen to him had spurred his appetite.
“Yes, I know the arrogant fool. I hope they are not placing him in charge of the cavalry. We might as well stay here and leave the Russians to their own devises than dispatch such a man.” The duke shook his head, making his jowls and whiskers shudder.
“Yes, he is a rather imperious type. But, he keeps his men in fine shape. We have the finest horses, equipment and clothing, Father. However, I would need you to write him a letter recommending me for a captaincy in his regiment. I had a bit of an altercation with one of his men. Poor chap got thrown off a horse…”
“And you didn’t, I presume, Stirling.” The youngest son nodded at his father, making him hoot laughter. “Then why do you need a recommendation from me? It appears that you have everything very well under control.”
“Well, I am considered an Indian reg in the earl’s view and not worthy of a place in his regiment.”
“We will see whether that inflated old windbag has the guts to refuse a Whitt Whittaker. The arrogance of that man.” The duke lifted his bulk to his feet. Behind him, the footman and the butler hastened forward to help him up. “Fetch my secretary, I will write to this Cardigan fellow this very instant,” growled the duke.”
“But, Father. What about that other matter?” interrupted William.
The duke grunted as he sat back down again. “Yes, I almost forgot.” He turned his shaggy head to his youngest son. “I am afraid that you can no longer serve in the army. You are needed in London. You have had your fun and games galloping around the world. It is time you served the family, boy.”
Stirling’s shoulders slumped. He did not notice his brothers exchange knowing and happy glances. “What would you have me do, Father?”
“We have a lawyer in Edward and William represents the family’s commercial holdings. You will add your worth to this family by becoming a merchant banker. I have already spoken to Lord Wimple, the chairman of Wimple & Stokes Merchant Banking, and they are willing to make you a director in their fine institution. You shall of course have access to my Mayfair residence and all of the prestige and trimmings that entails. You leave on the morrow.”
Chapter 6
“Ugh, god what the hell happened last night,” grunted Stirling in agony.
He winced when he tried to move. His head hurt, and it felt like someone was hammering their fist on the top of it in a staccato beat. He still had his eyes closed because he could feel the warmth of the spring sunshine stab through the slits of the untidily drawn curtains.
“Where in God’s name am I?” he grunted not remembering anything.
In pain, he decided not to move a muscle. He remained glued to his straw filled mattress as if it was the most pleasant place in the world. All the drinking he had done the night before had knocked his senses out. He neither smelt the foul acrid stench of his accommodation nor did he hear the ticking sound of the rats’ clawed feet as they scurried across the wooden flooring.
For weeks since leaving his father’s home, he had succumbed to a bout of depression. When he had resigned his commission in the army at his father’s behest, things had started to fall apart. As Britain was in a state of war, this was considered an act of cowardice that many of his colleagues and others had acted upon.
He had tried to explain that it was no fault of his. When he had started work for Lord Wimple, he was told to leave the premises on those grounds. When he had written to his father in an attempt to explain, he had evicted him from the family’s London residence and disowned him as his son.
There was a loud knock on the door. Stirling groaned and pulled on the coarse woollen blanket that would’ve been more suitable for transporting potatoes. He tried to cover his head, but he didn’t have the strength to free it from the weight of his body and so he gave up and remained still.
The knocking on the door became more insistent. This time, the hammering lasted for far longer and did not cease. “Is Lord Whitt Whittaker in there?” shouted an authoritative voice.
Stirling just groaned. He recognized the voice’s owner. Instinctively, he dreaded the prospect of having to confront the man. Wishing the man away, he remained totally still. He even stopped breathing for a few heartbeats until he nearly vomited again.
“Stirling, I know you’re in there. Open the door this very instant,” said the man again. And then the hammering on the door continued.
“No one by that name resides here,” snorted Stirling.
“Stop acting the fool, my friend. You still go by that name and nothing will change that. I have important news for you.”
Stirling knew that he had to get up and face the reality that was standing in front of his door. He slowly moved. He groaned as his head complained with bouts of stabbing pain that seemed to shoot from his head and down his spine. Finally on his feet, he stumbled around his scanty room in search of his brown breeches. Finding them, he pulled them on and hastily tucked in his shirt that he had also slept in.
Stirling walked over to the door and fumbled with the crude metal latch. With a grunt, he pulled on the door until it opened with an unpleasant creaking sound. Royce stood in front of the doorframe. He was dressed in the full uniform of the 11th Hussars.
“May I come in?” he asked with a mask of concern written on his face.
Stirling nodded weakly and stood to one side.
“How revolting,” said Royce, as he brushed past his friend, entering his meagre accommodation. Stirling closed the door after him with a sigh.
“So, this is where the finest horseman in the whole of the kingdom resides?” Royce paused a moment while he sought somewhere to sit down. Finally deciding that there was nowhere salubrious to place his posterior, he chose to remain standing. “Stirling, I’m going to make this quick,” he said icily. “First of all, let’s start with this,” he said removing a small package from his coat pocket and handing it to Stirling.
Stirling took it with trembling fingers. “What is it?”
Royce arched his eyebrows.
“Open it, you fool,” he ordered.
Under the gaze of Royce’s angry brown eyes, Stirling swallowed nervously. They bored into him like daggers forcing him to flinch. Stirling would’ve loved to punch his old friend in the face for seeing him in the state he was in.
Stirling nonchalantly chucked the package onto the sweat-stained mattress of his bed and stared at Royce belligerently. He was burning with curiosity for what it might contain, but he wasn’t going to give his friend the pleasure of seeing that.
“As you wish,” said Royce casually. For a while, they just stood facing each other in silence.
Getting nervous, Stirling decided to speak first. “How’s that lovely new wife of yours. I am sorry I haven’t written, but I have been rather busy as of late.”
“I can see that. Busy frequenting the alehouses in St. Giles I presume. I just hope that you haven’t been anywhere more unsavoury. Get ready, Stirling and let me get you out of this pit and find you some accommodation befitting a man of your standing and ability.” Royce moved forward to take his friend’s arm.
Stirling pulled away. “This is where a coward belongs. I have nothing left. I will die here among the dregs of society.”
“As you wish. But, I just want you to know that I have put in a good word for you. Read the letter I added to the package and I hope to see you tomorrow.”
He didn’t say any more. Time seemed to stand still. The atmosphere in the small tenement was even more unpleasant than usual. And as if he had made up his mind that there was nothing more to say, Royce turned to the door and opened it. Stepping out and standing in the doorframe, he turned around and smiled ruefully.
“Stirling, you’re in a frightful state. You’re still young and a captain in her majesty’s army. You have your whole life ahead of you and many things to accomplish. Get yourself cleaned up and find me at the new Horse Guards Building on the Mall. Y
ou will know what I mean shortly. I have added all the information you need to know to the package.”
Royce furrowed his brow. He had more to say. “When you open that package, don’t see its contents as something bad or as an impediment of finality, but rather see them as a gift and an omen…a symbol, if you will, spurring you to action rather than slovenliness and idleness – make it count, Stirling” He cleared his throat and added, “Accept whatever comes to you woven in the pattern of your destiny, for what could more aptly fit your needs? You will put this right. I know so.”
With that, Royce was gone. Stirling stood alone in the room. He felt sicker than before. Turning, he saw his reflection in the murky mirror on the wall. His friend was right he did look terrible. His dark hair was too long and hung in a dishevelled tuft on his head. He sported a long beard that still had the remains of last night’s vomit stuck to it. There were deep purple sacks under his brown eyes that exuded defeat instead of determination.
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 36