by Anna Willman
Lancelot walked over to stare out the windows. “My house and lands are mortgaged to the hilt and in a sad state of disrepair. I cannot afford to pay my servants. It is unseemly for the father of such a wealthy man as yourself to live like a pauper.” He turned to face his son and sighed. “Yes indeed, sir, I need money.”
“You shall have it,” Thomas said. His voice was hard. His eyes managed to convey both extreme heat and an icy frigidity. “I shall send my man of business to you tomorrow. I will not see you again. Good day.” He walked to the door and went out without looking behind him.
Lancelot locked the letter in the desk drawer and then crossed back to the windows to watch as his large son mounted a tall rangy bay gelding and galloped away.
“That was not so very bad,” he said, a little sadly, to Jarman, who had come into the room quietly after letting Mr. Digby out. “He is not pleased with me, but he will do as I ask.”
Jarman helped Lancelot settle into his tapestry chair and left him. He gave a long sigh and closed his eyes, murmuring to himself, “For all that, I believe I would rather have had his friendship.”
He would not be greedy, he thought. He would wait to see what this son had to offer before he approached any of the others.
CHAPTER EIGHT: In Which Mr. Digby Comes to a Decision
Thomas Digby rode back to town slowly after his initial burst of speed. Indeed his first impulse was to pay the scoundrel for his silence and to make haste to get as far away from him as he could. But when he turned onto the London Road, headed back to his life, back to a world that made sense, he suddenly realized that, with just a few words, Lord Carew had destroyed that life and that world. For Thomas was not the man he had always thought he was – the person the world thought he was. His whole life was based upon falsehoods of the most scandalous character. His identity a gross deception. His wealth based solely upon fraud.
Thomas felt a sudden revulsion, not merely of the man who was his mother’s self-proclaimed seducer, but of himself, the hapless outcome of that seduction.
He threw himself from his horse and, with a groan of despair, leaned over the ditch by the side of the road and parted with what dregs of Lord Carew’s ale remained in his stomach. After several more moments doubled over and gasping painfully without any more issue, he reached for his handkerchief and, with a shaky hand, wiped his mouth clean and daubed gingerly at a spot on his great coat.
He looked about him and felt absurdly relieved that there was no one on the road just then to witness his discomfort. Then he cursed himself for a fool. What could another’s opinion signify now that he had discovered there was no substance beneath his carefully maintained façade.
He climbed back onto his horse and proceeded down the highway at a slow walk. He struggled to calm himself, but his stomach continued to churn, and his emotions shifted constantly from fury to despair and back again.
His father – or the man he had always thought of as his father – had wanted but one thing in life. He had wanted his son to become a gentleman, accepted by the ton. Jonathan Digby had used his immense wealth to marry into the nobility for that sole purpose – to move his own bloodline into the highest circles of society.
It seemed that it had all been for naught.
Thomas’s mother had committed the grossest of deceptions. He was, in fact, the son of two vile schemers who had defrauded a trusting old man of his life’s dream.
He groaned aloud and thought for a moment that he was going to be sick again, but his stomach gradually settled and the slow forward movement of his horse steadied him a little. All his life he had studied moderation, and he instinctively struggled to find it now, to control the extremity of his reactions, to find a thought, a feeling that would bring him back to his accustomed state of comfort and calm rationality.
He wished he had never gone to call on Lord Carew. He would give almost anything to undo this day. But how could he in good conscience have ignored what seemed like a legitimate plea to right some wrong? A matter of business that must be addressed, the note had said, to prevent an injustice. And indeed a great wrong had been done, and he felt a moment of pure self-disgust to acknowledge that he would rather have remained in ignorance than face the dark truth that had been revealed to him.
He groaned again and this time realized that his cheeks were wet with tears, that the groan was a sob. He let go of all rational thought for a while then. Indeed it seemed to him that he thought not at all, but was all emotion cycling between outrage and a devastating sense of loss. But wild snippets of thought came with each feeling.
Lord Carew’s laughter rang in his ears, the facile speeches and poorly disguised greed. He thought of Carew’s great grandfather and let out a snort that was almost a chortle to think that surely that old man had ceased to smile, not as a young man, but rather the hour he first learned of the birth of this monstrous great-grandson. The laugh died before it could begin when he considered that he might himself follow the example of this unknown ancestor and never smile again. And then a reluctant grin of self-contempt spread across his face. He’d had no notion he had such a flair for the melodrama. He felt suddenly that he scarcely knew himself and the smile vanished. Was there anything about him that was true? Any part of him that remained unchanged by this dastardly revelation?
He thought of the old merchant who had raised him so carefully, lavished him with every possible luxury. He could almost hear the old man’s voice chiding him: “Best bridle that temper, boy. Nobody cares a fig for your tantrums.”
His mother’s face presented itself to his mind’s eye, anxious and tearful as she had been this past week, and his vision darkened.
He longed for his wife and wished for the comfort of her kind attentions. He imagined confiding all his despair to her, but then realized with a sharp sense of disappointment that he would not. How could he vilify his own mother? No matter that she was a villain, still he would not bare her secrets to the world.
He thought of himself – the cuckoo in the nest – and every fiber of his being reacted with revulsion.
And all the while, as these disparate thoughts and images flickered through his mind, he raged and wept inconsolably.
It is not to be supposed that the sight of such a very large and distinguished gentleman sobbing like a small child would attract no notice. Passers-by made a wide berth around hum and little children by the wayside stopped their games to stare. He scarcely noticed them and, for the first time in his life, took no care whatsoever for what others might think of him. If they thought him mad, what of it? He wished for madness. His grief was a kind of madness.
He rode thus for several miles, slowly and in extreme distress. Gradually the force of his rage eased and the gaps between bouts of tears lengthened. His mind steadied a little as he approached London, where he might expect to meet persons with whom he was acquainted, and his habitual sense of dignity reasserted itself. He brought out his handkerchief once more and found a clean corner with which to wipe his face and dry his eyes, so that when he finally entered town, he presented at least a semblance of the man who had ridden out that morning.
One idea above all others clung to him through his terrible anger – one thought wouldn’t let him go. He was the instrument of an unconscionable fraud. An imposter. Somehow he must set matters right.
When he arrived home, he handed his horse to the groom and, without stopping to greet his wife as was his custom, went directly to his private office. This was a plainly furnished little room situated at the back of the house and could be reached only by passing through the library, a long, narrow room that housed an extensive collection of classical works, mostly unread since the old merchant had purchased them in bulk at an auction many years before and had them assembled on floor to ceiling oak shelving marked out by elaborately carved pilasters. Thomas scarcely noticed the elegant accommodations of this room as he rushed through it to fall into the simple straight-backed chair that sat behind the fine old oak desk where
he, like his father before him, conducted the greater part of his business activities. The only other furnishings in the office were a well-worn arm chair – for the occasional visitor – and a small bookcase filled haphazardly with a few favorite books of essays, a small collection of poetry, and an assortment of account books and ledgers that summarized the essential elements of the multifarious Digby business enterprises. A small window high on the wall behind him let in a bright stream of late afternoon light.
He sat staring blankly at the bookcase for some time. Then he got up and pulled a large grey ledger from the bookshelf and returned with it to his desk. He opened it slowly and after a heavy pause of some minutes’ length, began to pour over the numbers, adding up the immensity of what he could only regard as ill-gotten wealth. At first he could scarcely focus on the rows and columns, but after a time, the figures began to make sense. The simple repetitive tasks of adding numbers, tallying lists, estimating expenses, and figuring rates of interest gradually calmed him, and he began to think a little more clearly.
He could do nothing to change the past, but he could alter the future. And he suddenly saw his way forward. He saw it in the numbers and lists spread out on the desk before him. He saw his way with a stunning clarity. And he knew he would do it, though it shook him to his core. For the way that he saw was definitely not the act of a man of moderation.
He pulled some paper and a pen from the desk drawer and returned to his calculations, this time with a definite purpose and was still carefully enumerating expenses an hour later when his wife looked in at the door.
“Oh here you are, Thomas. Why did you not let me know that you had returned? Your mother has come to call and I’ve invited her to dine. Won’t you come and sit with us for a little while before it’s time to change for dinner?”
A flash of rage almost blinded him, and it was with difficulty that he kept his voice level when he answered her. “You will convey my regrets to my mother. I am unable to join you now, or at dinner.”
She came into the room, filled with concern. “Why Thomas, what is wrong? Are you ill?”
“No,” he said. “That is, yes. I have the headache. I will take my dinner in here. Ask that new footman to bring me a tray.”
“Poor darling. Why don’t you leave those numbers to Henderson. That is what you pay him for. Leave them and come with me into the Drawing Room. It will do you good to spend a little quiet time with your mother. And how fortunate – she was just telling me the recipe for a most soothing tisane – we must try it immediately.”
“No!” The word came out almost as a shout. He paused to collect himself and then went on, speaking more softly, but his throat remained so tight that his voice came out almost as a hiss. “If you would do me good, then send my mother home. I do not wish to see her. And leave me to myself, if you please. I have business to attend to here.”
“But what shall I tell your mother?”
“Tell her I don’t wish to see her. Not now.” He hesitated, and then added, “Not ever.”
“Not ever? Thomas! I cannot say that to her. What is happening? What is wrong?”
Thomas looked up at her then, and felt a sudden upwelling of pity.
“I will tell you what I can later, Sarah. When we are alone.” He paused and then gestured towards the papers in front of him. “I have much to do right now. As for my mother, tell her whatever you want. Dine with her or not. I don’t care. But I will have nothing to do with her.”
Sarah looked as if she wanted to say something more, but after a brief pause, bowed her head and turned away.
Thomas stared at the doorway where she had stood. He wished he might spare Sarah, but could not see a way to do that. He fought off another surge of anger and went back to his numbers.
CHAPTER NINE: In Which Married Love is Sorely Tested
Thomas and Sarah were alone in her bedchamber. He took her hand and drew her to sit with him in a comfortable nook in the bay window that sat at one end of the room. It was their favorite spot for a private conversation – a place where they had discussed and solved many a family problem. Thomas hoped this would not be their last such conversation.
He kept her hand and started speaking, keeping his voice as steady as possible.
“You have been married to a very wealthy man for twenty-two years, my dear. You will shortly find yourself married to a poor one.”
Her blank look signified a complete lack of comprehension, so he repeated his words, adding, “I’m afraid our life is going to change significantly.”
This time she answered. “I don’t understand. Did we lose money in the funds? How much did we lose?”
“We’re losing everything. Almost everything.”
“How did this happen?” Her face had gone paper-white. She clutched his hand tightly in hers.
“It hasn’t happened yet. Or maybe I should say it happened long ago. Years ago, before I was born. But in any case, we will feel the effect very soon. I am going to sell everything and give it all away.”
“Give it away? Thomas, you are not making sense. I cannot understand you. Why would you give it away?”
“I cannot explain why, not without betraying someone else’s most personal secrets. You will have to trust me on this, my dear, and accept the fact that we have no right to this fortune of ours. I have no choice but to give it away.”
“Trust you?” She let go of his hand. There was a note of outrage under her confusion.
“I have no right to keep it,” he said. He felt a sense of overwhelming sadness and struggled to keep his voice level, steady.
“Whose is it, then?”
“Not mine. That is what is important.” He kept his eyes on her face, watching her begin to take in what he was saying.
“Is it a lawsuit? Is someone claiming your money? Can we not fight this somehow?”
“No, there is nothing to fight. By law, the money is mine. In honor, it is not.”
She stared at him, unbelieving. “You are saying it is legally ours, but that you are choosing to give it away?’
“Yes. That is what I’m saying.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“I cannot explain it to you. Can you not bring yourself to trust me in this?”
“Your father did something ignoble. He cheated someone and you are trying to make it right.”
“No. You must not say that, or even think it.” he spoke with increased urgency. “My fa…Jonathan Digby was a man of honor. He, at least, did nothing wrong.”
“One of his underlings then. Oh my darling, you cannot be held accountable for what others have done before you. Give up this plan.”
“In most cases I would agree with you. But this matter is quite different. I cannot explain it to you, and for that I am sorry.” He reached out to take both her hands in his and spoke with great urgency. “Indeed you must take my word for it that this is necessary.”
She shook her head and pulled her hands out of his.
He went on, desperate to find a way to make this real to her. “I have already instructed Henderson to sell this house as soon as may be possible. We will be removing from Mayfair to a much smaller house in a respectable neighborhood as soon as I can purchase one.”
“A respectable neighborhood?” Her incredulity was shrill, the outrage growing.
“If we live most frugally, I have determined that we might reside with some degree of comfort in a modest house in the vicinity of Hans Town, or Russell Square. Upper Wimpole Street perhaps.”
“Upper Wimpole Street? You cannot be serious!” She stood up and began pacing wildly.
He watched her sadly. “I know this is difficult for you, my dear. I’m afraid you have made a bad bargain in me. I am not the husband you thought you married. Nor the man I thought I was.”
He could not be sure that she heard or understood him. Her anger and distress were great. Well, he considered, he had had the greater part of the day to adjust to this new reality. It was all still very new
to her. He summoned his patience and waited without further speech while his wife struggled for control. Gradually she slowed her pacing and came to a stop before him.
“Won’t you please sit down?” he said. “I know this is distressing, and a great shock to you. Believe me, it is to me as well.”
She hesitated and then sat down, but at the far side of the nook. The stare she turned on him was cold and full of speculation.
“It is not reasonable in you to expect me to take such a change in our fortune on faith.” She said at last.
“It is not possible for me to do otherwise. It is not my story to tell.”
“Do you truly expect me to live in Upper Wimpole Street?”
“I hope that you will not forget that when we were wed you promised to cleave to me for better or for worse. We have had more than twenty very good years. Now we will have some lean ones.”
“And you promised to care for me.”
“I intend to keep that promise. I spent the afternoon doing sums. Though the fortune is not mine, and my preference would be to divest myself of it entirely, I have not forgotten my duty to you. In the end, I have determined that certain affairs that I have conducted over the years since my father’s death have increased the fortune to some degree. I believe it is not unreasonable for me to retain a certain proportion of that increase. A compensation for my stewardship, one might say. Unfortunately, although he made certain that I understood the workings of his business, my father did not encourage me to actively engage myself in it. He was determined that there should not be so much as a whiff of the shop about me. The result is that my stewardship has been slight. Still, I have dabbled enough that I can find my way to retaining a small portion to sustain us. Enough to assure that we will never be hungry, that we will have a modest home, and that we will never be completely without resources.”