by May Burnett
“To be a vicar’s wife is not the life I wanted for you, Anthea,” her mother said plaintively. “And it may be a problem if Winstanton should spread rumours of your closeness – whether true or not.”
“Charles has given up the plan to take orders. He will buy a country estate instead.” It did not seem the time to announce that he would devote half his income to philanthropy.
“The Denhams are very well-off,” her father said pensively. “It may not be a brilliant match, but quite respectable. There were Denhams in the Crusades, I understand.”
It would be all right. Anthea breathed out in overwhelming relief.
Now she only needed to find Charles and tell him all was well. Would he kiss her again? She would make sure of it. The more they practiced during the betrothal, the more smoothly things should go once they were allowed to marry.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the cream-pot,” Cherry said to her with a smile. “But no wonder, if you are in love.”
Anthea smiled back, not bothering to deny it. It felt wonderful to be in love and know her feelings were returned in full measure. No more compromises for her, she would no longer settle for being short-changed. With Charles at her side, there was no danger of that ever happening.
She was the luckiest girl in all of Kent, no, in the whole British Isles …
THE END
The Perils of Lord Pell
The Amberley Chronicles
May Burnett
Chapter 1
Travel broadens the mind, but empties the purse.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)
Anthony had tired of watching the Italian landscape pass outside the small coach window. It was raining, and a sullen wind invaded the carriage as a persistent draft. The summer was over; his tan would soon be turning back to the pale North European norm, and the epic journey behind him would recede into memory. He should be enjoying these last weeks of his travels, but already he was seized with a tinge of melancholia when he contemplated the dull routine expecting him in England. The Season – choosing a wife from the year’s hopeful debutantes, - votes in the House of Lords, dinner parties, his Club… one would expect that after more than two years’ absence he would be eager to take up his comfortable life again, but that was far from the case.
For Tsien, who had accompanied him from Macau, England would be as exotic and foreign as Southern China had been to Anthony. The young man was catnapping in the corner, wrapped in a woollen blanket. How cold would he feel when winter arrived?
Sir Conrad Bolland, his other travelling companion, held a French novel in his lap but had not turned a page for several minutes.
“Exactly how are you related to these ladies we are to call upon in Verona?” Anthony asked him.
“Mrs Bellairs is my aunt, my late father’s younger sister,” Conrad explained. “She married Rupert Bellairs against my father’s advice, provoking a permanent estrangement. She would have done better to listen to her relatives, for Bellairs gambled away her fortune as well as his own and died destitute some two years ago. I was already in India, but my great-aunt’s letters were full of the scandalous story. My aunt and her two daughters were left penniless, apart from a pittance left by my late grandmother. Not nearly enough to survive in London; I suppose it stretches further on the continent.”
Anthony raised his brows at this tale of woe. “Your father was still alive two years ago. Did he not offer to help his sister and nieces?”
“He was not a man to forgive any slight. Once my aunt Miriam had defied him, she had burnt her bridges as far as he was concerned.”
“And your aunt and cousins settled in Verona, to make their income go further? Why there, of all places?” Most penurious Englishmen only moved as far as Belgium or northern France.
Lightning briefly illuminated the interior of the carriage, followed by thunder after several long seconds. Tsien blinked and closed his eyes again. Rainwater was running down the carriage windows in erratic rivulets. Their hired coachman would be soaked despite his sturdy felt coat and hat.
“The girls’ grandmother had moved to Verona decades ago, - that would be Rupert’s mother. She married an Italian Count after she was widowed, when her son was still an infant. Some say that is why Rupert Bellairs turned out so wild, brought up by an indifferent guardian from the age of two.”
“She left her young child behind in England?”
“I don’t suppose she would have been allowed to take Rupert out of the country. At the time the Bellairs family was still rich and owned a handsome estate in Derbyshire. Rupert’s mother had a second family in Italy, two sons I believe, who must be middle-aged by now. Remember that there was war on the continent for much of her lifetime. Perhaps that is why the old lady never came back to visit England; nor did Rupert seek her out when he grew up.”
“Hm.”
“I daresay my aunt and cousins wanted to live in the one place outside England where they had family connections. If you were in their place, would you not do the same?”
“I suppose so – though I don’t have any family outside England, at least not as close as a grandmother. There were some cousins in France who perished in the Revolution, well before my generation.” Anthony tried to put himself in the Bellairs ladies’ situation, but failed. “As a man, in such an emergency I would rather try to recover my fortunes through trade and work.” That scenario was so unlikely as to sound downright bizarre, given his circumstances. Yet Anthony liked to think that he could do it, were it ever necessary. “You said earlier that you have never met your cousins?”
“No, the girls were not out yet when I left for India. I did call on my aunt once, when I was barely eighteen, to show I did not share my father’s animosity. The eldest girl, Margaret, is some three years younger than I – she must be twenty-one now, and Emily two years behind her.”
“And what is your plan with regard to them?”
Sir Conrad shrugged. “To make their acquaintance, pay my respects, and ensure that they are comfortably situated. It is my duty, now that I am the head of the family. If they are unhappy in Verona, I may support their return to England. It sits ill with me that any of my relatives should suffer indigence and want.”
“I see.” Anthony smiled. His friend’s principles sounded well enough, but should these poor relations turn out to be less than charming and grateful, he would likely reconsider his vague benevolent plans. If these impoverished girls had any brains, they would immediately try to attach their rich cousin. What could be more providential in their situation than the arrival of an unmarried, good-looking and titled young relative?
Anthony, three years older and wiser than his travelling companion, would not be so easily caught. He had learned his lesson years ago, when he had only escaped the snare of a debutante determined to be ‘compromised’ through the help of good friends. Even before that incident, he had often wondered to what extent young ladies were interested in him, rather than his rank and wealth. On this journey, to avoid unwanted entanglements and constant overcharging, Anthony had happily left his title behind. Even Sir Conrad only knew him as plain Mr. Wetherby.
Conrad cast a discontented look out of the window at the lowering clouds and rain. “Are you positive your family will not mind this delay, Wetherby? You have been absent two years already, and must be impatient to see your home again.”
Anthony knew he should be. “A few extra weeks will make little difference. I left my affairs in good hands, and my only close relative, my older sister, is happily married. When should one see the world if not before thirty? I am not returning the same man I was when I set out, at a mere twenty-five. Now that I have travelled as far as Macau and India, that I have climbed the Pyramids and haggled with pirates, I expect to see England with quite different eyes.”
“Were you not homesick?”
“Only on fleeting occasions. I always wanted to see something of the world; it would make little sense to hanker fo
r my home when I finally got around to doing so.” But he had not really seen the world yet, had he? “Of course there is still the larger part of Africa, and the New World that I have not visited. Who knows if I shall ever have the chance?”
“Those are far less civilised and safe than the East.” Conrad shook his head at the very suggestion. “I am done with travelling, myself. England’s green hills are calling to me, and I shall appreciate them all the more after surviving Ceylon. I shall get married, raise a family, and stick close to the hearth.”
“You are only twenty-four. Can you be that positive you won’t leave again?”
“Indeed I can. Besides, I have a large estate to administer. I only hope that I find everything in order. Over a year has passed since my father’s death.”
“If not, you can soon set it to rights again. Unless your solicitor or trustees have absconded with your funds. Even in that case the house and grounds will still be there.”
“I am not truly worried; otherwise I would not have suggested this detour. Florence and Rome are places any traveller with pretensions to culture must visit, but not nearly so many travellers go on to Verona.”
“Yet the city has Shakespearean associations,” Anthony pointed out. “Romeo and Juliet; also The Two Gentlemen of Verona, a play I never liked. From the guidebook I gather that a well-preserved Roman amphitheatre awaits us, besides any number of other antiquities.”
“Yes, but then you care more about art and architecture and music. Talking of which, what are you going to do with all the Chinese and Indian artefacts you were shipping home? They filled half the hold. Your house must be large indeed to accommodate all of them. And as though that were not enough, you bought those big canvases and statues in Florence. The shipping alone must have cost a small fortune.”
“I daresay I shall find space for everything,” Anthony said lightly, “if not, I can give some of my trophies to my sister; her place in the Lake region is large enough.” Better change the subject before he sounded boastful. “Is your aunt Mrs Bellairs an amiable woman?”
“Remember that I only saw her that once, six years ago. She was friendly enough, perfectly genteel, – well, of course she would be; she was born a Bolland, and the Bellairs were an old county family in their day. I hope that these two years since she was widowed have not embittered her.”
“I am still glad we bespoke rooms at an inn, rather than try to seek hospitality from Mrs Bellairs’ Italian in-laws.”
“Yes, always wiser to keep some distance and independence. Besides, Count Mardiglio is not related to me in any way, and does not owe us hospitality. I am only the first cousin of his step-granddaughters.”
The rain had subsided into a drizzle, and though there still was far-off lightning, no more thunder could be heard. The horses’ pace picked up. No doubt the coachman was impatient to reach their destination, and dry off.
“It cannot have been easy for your cousins to move to a strange country and learn a new language, at the age when they were supposed to come out in society,” Anthony mused. “At least Italian is comparatively easy.”
“Speak for yourself. I don’t understand how you acquire languages so effortlessly, although Italian does have all those words we know from Latin.”
“Some languages are much harder. I still struggle with Cantonese,” Anthony reminded Conrad. “If I did not have Tsien to practice, I might already have forgotten what I learned.”
“Why persist? You are unlikely to need it ever again in your life.”
“True, but I hate to leave something half done. And I like to attempt something difficult now and then.”
Conrad looked unconvinced, but merely said, “Well, it takes all kinds, as they say. Are you really bringing your Chinese valet all the way to England?”
“Tsien is only half Chinese; his father was a Portuguese trader. And that is indeed my intention.”
“What good can a valet be, who does not know English or the local fashions? Besides, he is so familiar, and looks so young and slender, that travelling with him could give rise to unwanted speculation.”
Anthony haughtily raised his brow. “Indeed?”
“Not from me,” Conrad hastened to add, “but in Rome I heard one or two people wonder about your relationship. You must admit that he does not look or dress like a respectable valet, and is rather too young for the position.”
“The valet I originally brought with me died of typhus in Macau. I shall never forgive myself for taking him so far from England and having to bury him in Chinese ground. Tsien will learn English, and whatever else he needs, quickly enough.” They had already begun to practice the language in recent weeks, and the young man was making rapid progress. Anthony strongly suspected that Tsien was able to follow the conversation, for all his feigning sleep.
“Well, I just wanted to give you a hint, as a friend, to prevent any misunderstandings -,”
“Let me worry about my retainers,” Anthony said in a voice that made it clear he was not willing to discuss the subject further. He was not annoyed with Sir Conrad; it was a useful warning, that people might get the wrong idea about Tsien and him. Anthony had only had a single unpleasant experience with the kind of relationship that could exist between boys or men, during his school days, and had never felt the slightest desire towards his own sex. The same was almost certainly true of Tsien. The valet’s slight stature and smooth face were inherited characteristics; his preference for flamboyant clothing was part of his cultural background. Europeans could be so appallingly narrow-minded and prurient.
For some minutes there was silence in the carriage.
“Is Mrs Bellairs aware that you are coming to Verona?”
“Uh, no, somehow I never got around to writing to my aunt. Since we are staying at an inn, there seemed to be no great need to apprise her of my visit beforehand.”
So Sir Conrad’s call would be a surprise to his relations. Almost certainly a pleasant one, for the exiled and poor were not often sought out and recognized by their more fortunate connections.
“I shall explore the city’s antiquities while you spend time with them.”
Conrad looked unhappy at this plan. “Please come with me, at least the first time. If it were just my aunt and cousins – but there is also the Contessa and her husband, who must be in his seventies, and probably a gaggle of other family members, who only speak Italian or perhaps French and German. I cannot face that all alone, and you know your languages better than I do.”
“Very well,” Anthony acquiesced. “They will hardly be ogres, Conrad. Do not worry, even if they are, I shall watch your back. Within a few days we can shake the dust of this ancient city from our heels and go on towards England.”
“Yes,” Sir Conrad brightened at the thought. “That return home cannot come soon enough for me.”
Chapter 2
Even worse than cold porridge, tastes cold charity.
Maxims for Young Gentlewomen, Vol. 2, by a Lady (1824)
Emily Bellairs lingered in the marketplace at the Piazza delle Erbe, enjoying the colourful displays of fruit, cheese, hams, vegetables and mushrooms with their peculiar earthy smell. These last would not be on offer for much longer, as the mild, wet September weather was about to give way to cooler temperatures in October. She did not repine; autumn had always been her favourite season.
She also dawdled, if truth be told, because she was not eager to return to the Casa Mardiglio. Since her two uncles had returned from a lengthy sojourn in Vienna, she found her current home much less congenial. Armando was merely gruff and rude, but Guiseppe made her inexplicably uneasy, even though he was consecrated as a priest. The cold way he looked at his nieces was hardly very Christian, at least as Emily – a stout Protestant – understood it.
The Count, her grandmother’s husband, had initially been indifferent to the three English ladies in his large house, but lately he too was less friendly. It was hard living in a household where you felt unwelcome.
“Apples – only two groats for ten!” a strident voice interrupted her musing. Recalled to duty, she scrutinized the apples, red and plump and recently harvested. They would serve for cook’s delicious apple cake. She bought twenty, and then had to turn back willy-nilly, because her two baskets were quite full and heavy. In England she had not done shopping like this – or only in the last few months, while her father was on his deathbed, and the disastrous financial situation became appallingly clear.
Her arms ached by the time she delivered her purchases to the cook. The small number of leftover coins must be handed back to the housekeeper. On the way she passed her sister Margaret, sketching the ancient tree in the courtyard of the house, and had to suppress a momentary stab of resentment that Margaret was never expected to carry heavy loads, or do anything unbefitting a lady, like shopping. But then she only had herself to blame. Emily had volunteered initially, out of sheer boredom, but within days her willingness to do chores was taken for granted, and far from being appreciated, lowered her standing in the eyes of family and staff.
“Oh, are you returned from the market already? Did you see or hear anything interesting?” Margaret asked as she languidly added foliage to her drawing.
“Nothing particular, but there was a larger than usual number of Austrian uniforms on the street.”
“The Seventh Hussar Regiment,” Margaret said, “they were just stationed here, you had not heard?”
“No.” Officers in their colourful uniforms were of little interest to Emily. She longed for stability, a household of her own, no matter how modest. A soldier who might be posted elsewhere for years on end or even fall in battle, was not for her. Besides, officers were notoriously callous heartbreakers, far more likely to ruin a girl than to marry her. A prudent woman kept well away from them.
“Grandmother has given permission for us to attend the Bianchis’ ball next week,” Margaret said, “then you can dance with some of these Hussars. The uniforms are splendid indeed; they will quite outshine us ladies.”