The American Earl

by Joan Wolf

  “I would like that too,” he said, pleased to hear that his voice sounded normal.

  “You’ll like Astley’s too,” she promised.

  He waved his hand at a chair placed at a safe distance. “Sit for a minute.”

  She sat.

  He said, “I’m sick to death of Aunt Barbara pestering me about escorting you girls to dances! Do you think you can convince her to just send for her husband and leave me alone?”

  “I hate dances and I have to go. Why shouldn’t you?”

  “You’ve never been to a dance. How do you know you’ll hate it?”

  “It’s not the dancing. It’s because I don’t like talking a lot of nonsense to people I don’t know. Why don’t you want to go?”

  “Because I don’t like the English aristocracy. When we signed our declaration of independence from Britain, do you know what we declared to be the foundation on which the United States was to be built?”

  “No. Nor do I care.”

  He ignored the latter part of her comment. “This is what Mr. Jefferson wrote, and what all thirteen colonies signed: We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. “

  He looked into her eyes. “That is what my country is about, Julia. We do not have, nor will we ever have, an hereditary aristocracy. In America all men are equal.”

  “It sounds noble,” she said. “But so did the French sound noble when they started their revolution, and look how that ended. Do you really think you can do it?”

  “We are doing it. We’re new and we’re learning, but we have vast tracts of land open in our west and opportunities for every person who wants to take advantage of them. Look at my father. He didn’t make his money because he was a Marshall. He made his money because he was smart enough to create his own business and do a damn good job of running it.”

  She shook her head and a strand of silky black hair came loose from its tie and fell across her cheek. “But don’t you see? One of the reasons he was such an extraordinary man was because Marshall blood ran in his veins. I think you should come to some social events in London. It would be good for you learn to appreciate your English heritage. You may be an American, but in your blood and your bones you are a Marshall. Your ancestors are inextricably bound up with the history of this country.”

  She leaned toward him in her eagerness to make him understand. “Marshall blood has bled for England in every war she ever fought. One Marshall was even a Prime Minister. You may not choose to embrace England as your home, but you should know these things, Evan. In my father you have seen the worst of the family. Get to know the best.”

  He leaned away from her. “I have never belittled the importance of family. I was very close to my parents; I am still very close to my sister. But that’s where my family is, Julia, in America. Not here.”

  “Your family is in both places,” she replied.

  He changed the subject by regarding her worn riding skirt. “I’m looking forward to seeing you in a pretty dress for a change.”

  “Aunt Barbara didn’t seem to think much of your wardrobe either,” she retorted.

  He looked gloomy. “No. She didn’t.”

  Her voice, usually so crisp and definite, took on a coaxing note. “Evan, if we face the ordeal of this season together, it might make it more bearable.”

  “For who?” he asked.

  “For both of us. You can’t skulk around London while we’re trailing around to balls and breakfasts and musical evenings and whatever other horror Aunt Barbara has planned. It would look strange. Besides,” her voice grew serious, “don’t you think it’s your duty to do what you can to smooth out the relations between our two countries?”

  This from the girl who had told him she hated everything about America.

  He said, “We have a Minister in London whose job it is to do just that. John Quincy Adams, the son of our second president. He’s a brilliant man and will do just fine.”

  Evan said this with confidence, but in his heart he was not so sure about the powers of John Quincy Adams to deal with the British. The Minister was brilliant; no one would question that. But he was also an extremely difficult man, overbearing, dogmatic, rude, and strictly puritan in his moral code. Evan had met with the Minister several times when he first arrived in London and had been impressed by his intellect and appalled by his manners.

  Julia said, “You are perfectly positioned to help Mr. Adams. You said you don’t like the English. Well the English are not much in love with Americans either, Evan. That battle in New Orleans, which was fought after the treaty was signed, has made you a lot of enemies.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Sir Matthew Clarkson, our local squire, told me about it. He gets the papers from London.”

  “I don’t think I’ve met him.”

  “He’s the local Master of Fox Hounds. I hunt with his pack. He’s a great friend of mine.”

  This must be the man Lady Barbara had so deplored.

  Julia said, “I must remember to see if I can find some medicine for his lumbago while I’m in London. He almost had to miss the last two hunts because his back was acting up so badly.”

  Evan said, “It’s probably not a bad idea for me to keep an eye on your prospective suitors.” He owed it to Julia to make sure she married a decent man, he told himself. She had no one else to look out for her interests. She had tilted her head in a way that showed off her long lovely neck. He looked away hastily and said, “I don’t want you to fall in love with one of the riders at Astley’s equestrian circus.”

  “That will never happen. I might fall in love with his horse, though.”

  She laughed at the expression on his face and, after a moment, he began to laugh too.

  Chapter Twelve

  We left for London on a windy morning in late March. Maria, Flora and I rode in my father’s coach, which was pulled by our four old carriage horses. Although London wasn’t a great distance from Stoverton, I insisted that our driver, who was Toby’s nephew, stop several times along the way to rest the poor animals. They hadn’t had this much exercise in years.

  Althorpe House had been the family’s London residence for a hundred years and I was curious to see it. I had read about it in one of the books in our library and learned it was quite famous. It had been designed by the famous architect Colen Campbell and decorated by the Venetian artists Giacomo Pellerini and Sebastiano Ricci. It was supposed to be one of the grandest houses in London, which was why my mother had spent so much of her time there, reigning over the ton.

  When the carriage swung through the elaborate iron gate and into the courtyard, I popped my head out one window and Maria popped hers out the other. My mouth dropped open as I looked around. The courtyard was framed on either side by two graceful, colonnaded buildings. In the center of these buildings was a large Palladian style house, with eleven bays, projecting slightly at either end and in the center. I had seen pictures of typical London town houses; this was not remotely like the narrow, closely crowded buildings where most of the ton lived while they were in London.

  While Maria and I were still gaping, a footman came running down the front stairs followed more slowly by Evan, who had ridden Baron and so arrived before us. He came to open the coach door and, before the footman could set the steps, he reached up, put his hands around my waist and lifted me down. Then he did the same thing for Maria.

  His big hands had almost fit around my waist; for some reason this made me feel peculiar. I blinked twice, shook my head, and turned to stare at the house.

  “My goodness,” Maria said. “It’s big.”

  “It’s a bloody palace,” Evan growled.

  I knew what he was thinking. It was going to cost him a fortune to run this place.

  Maria said tentatively, “Don’t let Aunt Barbara hear you say that word, Evan. She’ll ye
ll at you.”

  Evan looked penitent. “I’m sorry, Maria. I shouldn’t swear in front of you.”

  “Oh it doesn’t bother me. Julia swears all the time,” Maria assured him blithely. “But Aunt Barbara won’t like it.”

  The butler, whom my aunt had sent on ahead, was waiting for us in the doorway. We went inside and found Aunt Barbara standing in the hall.

  “What took you so long?” she demanded. “We’ve been here for almost an hour.”

  “We stopped a few times to rest the horses. They’re old and haven’t made a journey like this in years.”

  “I have been waiting for you to arrive to give Evan a tour of the house. Had I known it would take you so long I would not have been so thoughtful.”

  I really wanted to see the house so I gave her an apologetic smile and said I was sorry we had kept her waiting.

  “Oh good, you’re here.” It was Lizzie, coming down the hall. “Isn’t this place amazing?”

  “It certainly is.” Evan’s voice was carefully neutral. I shot him a look. He was the one who had dragged me here, I thought, and if it cost him a small fortune, it wasn’t my fault.

  We were standing in the entrance hall, which was a grand affair with columns that reminded me of a Greek temple. The floor was paved in marble. My aunt gathered us up and ushered us into the first room off the hall, which was a small drawing room, used I supposed, for callers to wait to see if they would be admitted by the occupants. It had several wonderful landscape paintings on its walls.

  After we looked at the drawing room, Aunt Barbara ushered us back into the hallway, which was paved with the same marble as the entrance hall. It was also lined with busts of Roman and Greek gods and heroes displayed on marble pedestals. All of the main rooms opened off this hallway and Aunt Barbara took us into each one of them.

  We saw a music room, which held a harpsichord, a harp and a piano. I was thrilled to see the piano for Maria’s sake. We saw a huge drawing room, with a beautifully sculptured ceiling and frescos painted on the walls. The dining room could easily seat forty people and had an enormous crystal chandelier that sparkled with cleanliness. The library was a vast room, with floor to ceiling windows. The shelves that lined the room were all enclosed in glass and the carpet was from Turkey and must have cost a fortune. The remaining rooms on this floor were the earl and countess’s sleeping quarters and dressing rooms, which we didn’t go into.

  Two gracefully curved staircases rose to the next floor, at the top of which was an immense ballroom. Lady Barbara pointed this out with great satisfaction. “This is where we will have Lizzie’s … and Julia’s … come-out ball. It is the finest ballroom in London.”

  As we followed my aunt through the house, the thing that most excited me wasn’t the size of the rooms or the splendor of the furnishings; it was the paintings. I had known my grandfather was a great collector of art, but I had always thought all of the valuable pieces were at Stoverton. Not so.

  Hanging on the walls of Althorpe House were two Veroneses, a Giordano, several Tintorettos and Titians, a Vermeer and two lush portraits by Rubens. There were also several landscapes by Constable, an artist Aunt Barbara told us her father had liked very much.

  Evan’s comment was typical. “I suppose these pictures are valuable.”

  “Very valuable,” Aunt Barbara returned. “This house is included in the entail or my brother would surely have sold them all.”

  Evan was looking thoughtful. “This house is a more recent acquisition than Stoverton, right? I mean, it doesn’t have the same historical value.”

  “No. But it cost a fortune to build and furnish,” Aunt Barbara said.

  “Can entails ever be changed?” Evan asked next.

  Aha, I thought. He’s thinking he might be able to sell this house.

  “I don’t think so,” Aunt Barbara replied. “What are you thinking of doing? Selling it to some rich cit?” She looked as if she had just smelled some noxious odor.

  “Cit?” Evan said. “What’s a cit?”

  “A cit is a person of the middle-class who has made his money in manufacture or some other such sordid endeavor.”

  Evan said mildly, “Well, I guess that makes me a cit, then.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Your father was the son of an earl. Of course you’re not a cit!”

  “My mother was the daughter of a housekeeper,” Evan returned, still speaking mildly.

  “No one will hold that against you,” Lady Barbara assured him. “One has only to look at you to know you’re a Marshall. And you hold one of the oldest titles in the country.” She patted his arm. “Don’t worry. You will be embraced by polite society.”

  I didn’t think Evan had been at all worried about what English polite society thought of him. He saw me looking at him and winked. I had to look down to smother a smile.

  The other public rooms on the ballroom floor were less formal than the rest of the house. The furniture looked more comfortable and in one there was a table by the window with a chess set laid out upon it. A picture of Stoverton hung over the mantle and in the far corner of the room, next to a curio cabinet, was a suit of medieval armor.

  Evan strode over to the armor and began to examine it curiously. I went to join him.

  “How could those fellows bear to enclose themselves in this contraption?” he asked as he lifted the facemask. “It doesn’t seem as if one would be able to move at all. Or breathe.”

  “It certainly doesn’t look very comfortable,” I agreed. I turned my head. “Did this armor belong to someone in the family, Aunt Barbara?”

  My aunt crossed the floor to stand beside us. “Yes. It is supposed to have belonged to the first Philip Marshall; he wore it at Crecy.” She swiped her finger along the mailed glove and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I don’t believe this has been dusted since Helen died. I shall tell Grantly to get one of the maids to clean it up. We cannot have this kind of slovenliness if we are to reside here.”

  Evan was still looking at the armor. “This fellow appeared to be pretty tall. I thought men in those days were short.”

  “Marshalls have always been tall.” Aunt Barbara informed him.

  “Except for Julia,” Lizzie said cheerfully, coming up to join us. “She’s so small and delicate looking. I feel like a great gawky creature with too many hands and feet when I stand next to her.”

  Delicate? I stared at her in outrage. One thing I am not is delicate. I opened my mouth to snap at Lizzie and felt a hand close around my forearm.

  It was Evan. He squeezed, then let me go. I closed my mouth and swallowed my words. “I look like my mother’s side of the family,” I muttered.

  I caught Aunt Barbara looking at me with a strange expression in her eyes, but before I could ask her what she was thinking, the housekeeper joined us.

  She curtseyed to Evan. “How do you do, my lord. I am Margaret Sales, your housekeeper. I am so sorry that I was not here to greet you. I was in the kitchen discussing menus with the cook.”

  I watched Evan give her his irresistible smile. “How do you do, Mrs. Sales. It’s nice of you to help us out. I hope you have been made comfortable yourself.”

  The housekeeper looked a little surprised, but replied, “I am very comfortable, my lord, thank you.”

  “What rooms have you had made up?” Aunt Barbara said.

  “The earl’s chamber is ready for his lordship. And I have had the blue, yellow, rose and gold bedrooms made up for you and the young ladies,” Mrs. Sales returned.

  “We will have tea in here and give the servants a chance to bring up the luggage,” Lady Barbara decreed.

  Evan said, “Instead of tea, Mrs. Sales, I’ll have a glass of ale if you have it.”

  “I’ll have someone bring it to you, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” Evan gestured to the sofas that were placed before the carved wood fireplace. “This is what I call a comfortable room. “Let’s all sit down and Aunt Barbara can tell us what she has planned for
us to do tomorrow.”

  Obediently we trooped to the sofas and made ourselves at home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following morning, Lady Barbara hustled Lizzie, Julia and Maria into her carriage to go shopping. Evan watched them go with amusement. Lizzie and Maria looked excited; Julia looked resigned.

  After the ladies had left, he went into the library, sat behind the big mahogany desk, leaned back in the comfortable chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

  This little excursion to London was going to cost him a fortune. The house was huge and everywhere he looked he saw a servant. He had managed to stop his aunt before she left on her shopping expedition to tell her that he would pay for Maria and Julia’s clothes, but he was not treating Lizzie to a new wardrobe too.

  Lady Barbara had gotten quite huffy. Of course Lizzie’s father would pay for her clothing!

  Evan had apologized if he had offended her, but he was a canny Yankee and he wouldn’t have put it past his aunt to put Lizzie’s clothes on his bill. He could tell she was already aiming to make him pay for this big fancy come-out party she kept going on about. He would have to disabuse her of that notion too. He was willing to go half with her, and to let her use his house, but he thought he was already shouldering more than his fair share of the burden of this damned season. She had hired a ton of servants and he was going to have to work like a Trojan to remember so many new names. Not to mention the fact that he was the one who had to pay their salaries.

  He came back into an upright position and his eyes fell on the collection of small bible scenes that his aunt had said were done by a fellow named Rubens. He got up and went over to look at them closely.

  They were very nice, he thought. He liked them. They suited this wood-paneled, book-lined room. But then, he had liked a number of the pictures that his aunt and Julia had dismissed as being ‘worth nothing.’ What made one landscape of trees and cows and a stream more ‘valuable’ than another?

  I wish I knew more about art, he thought, as he returned to his chair. His father had grown up in this world, but he had never attempted to pass along to his children any of his cultural knowledge. They had had some pretty landscapes in the house on Chestnut Street, landscapes like the ones Julia had turned her nose up at. His father had always seemed to be perfectly happy with them.