by Joan Wolf
Evan looked down at the desk, which had several drawers. He went through them methodically. Most of them contained dunning letters from merchants who had not been paid. Mr. Shields had said he would put the word out amongst all of his uncle’s creditors that the new earl was intending to pay the overdue bills in full as soon as he could make proper arrangements with a bank. “That should give you at least a month before they start sending bailiffs to invade your house,” the attorney had assured him.
Evan had stared with horror at Shields. “Invade my house?”
“Oh, yes. They’ll move right in with you if you get too far behind. It’s embarrassing.”
“I should think so!” Evan had returned.
As he sat there frowning at the bills in front of him, a footman came in to tell him that he had a visitor. “Mr. Roger Spenser, my lord.”
Evan smiled. “Thank you,” he said to the young man who had delivered this message. “What is your name? There are so many new people for me to get to know that you will have to excuse me if I am a little slow to remember who everyone is.”
The footman, a tall, dark-haired boy with a narrow chin, looked surprised by this statement. “I’m Sidney, my lord.”
“Sidney. Good. Well, thank you Sidney. You may bring Mr. Spenser to me here in the library.”
As soon as a stocky gray-haired man dressed correctly in a blue morning coat and beige pantaloons came in the door, Evan jumped to his feet and went to greet him.
“Mr. Spenser! It is so kind of you to call. I was hoping to see you.”
“My lord, how wonderful it is to meet your father’s son.” The older man squeezed Evan’s hand hard. “You look very like him.”
“I appear to look like a great many previous Marshalls,” Evan said wryly. “But, please, don’t call me ‘my lord.’ I am a good American and it grates on my republican sensibilities. Call me Evan.” He gestured to the upholstered chairs that were placed before the fireplace where glowing coals were heating the room nicely. “Won’t you come and sit down?”
The two men took seats facing each other. “May I offer you some refreshment?” Evan asked.
“Thank you, my boy, but no. What you can do is tell me how I may be of service to you. I know you have walked into a hornet’s nest of debt. Everyone in London knows that, I am sorry to say. And you are a stranger here. If I can be of any help at all, please call on me.”
“Thank you,” Evan said, and brought up what had been on his mind ever since he first set foot in Althorpe House. “To be honest, Mr. Spenser, what I need more than anything else is an attorney who can break the entail on this house. Would you perhaps know of such a person?”
Spenser narrowed his eyes in thought. Then he said slowly, “I’ll tell you what, my boy, go and see Joshua Rothschild. He’s a relative of the Rothschilds and the cleverest cove I know. If there’s any way to break that entail, he’ll find it. He has his offices in the city – I’ll write down the address for you before I leave.
Evan smiled gratefully. “Thank you, sir. Mr. Shields is a competent man, but I need someone who is more than just competent for this task.”
“Go to see Rothschild.”
“I will. Shall I give him your name as a reference?”
Spenser laughed. “Your reference is your title, Evan. No one will refuse to see the Earl of Althorpe, believe me.”
Evan, who wholeheartedly disapproved of titles, was relieved to hear this Rothschild genius would see him because he had one. He was determined to at least break the part of the entail that related to the fortune in art that hung in this benighted house.
“I was so sorry to hear about the death of your father,” Spenser said. “And at such a young age.”
“I know.” An old pain stabbed, sudden and sharp, in Evan’s heart. I wonder if I’ll ever get over missing them, he thought.
He said to his father’s old friend, “Do you know my father never once told me that he was the son of an earl?”
Spenser gave a dry, raspy laugh. “How like Tommy. What did you think of Stoverton when you saw it?”
“I was stunned. And this house also - the both of them - they’re huge.”
“They are that,” Spenser agreed. “I spent several school holidays at Stoverton with your father so I have seen the place. It was a wonderful spot for boys to play.”
Evan leaned forward. “If you wouldn’t mind, I would love to hear more about my father’s boyhood.”
“I’m not surprised that Tommy didn’t dwell on his past very much. He was always a boy capable of tremendous focus. If he wanted something, he went after it with single-minded determination. He did that when he decided to marry your mother, and it appears he did it again when he decided to adopt America as his country.”
“Yes,” Evan agreed. “My father did have enormous focus. But I could wish that he had shared more about England with me. I feel very much like a fish out of water, I’m afraid.”
Spenser returned reassuringly, “You’ll do fine, my boy. And if you want to hear tales of your father’s youth, you’ve come to the right place.” Spenser settled back in his chair and folded his hands on his comfortable stomach. “Tommy and I met on the first day we both came to Eton …”
When Mr. Spenser had finished his stories, Evan asked him, “What do you think about Napoleon’s leaving Elba and making it back to France? Will he be able to gather enough troops to force another battle?”
“We have to assume he will,” Spenser replied. “Wellington is in Brussels now gathering our own troops, and the allies are doing the same. We have to be prepared if Napoleon comes after us.”
Evan said ironically, “I find myself in a bit of a quandary. France has always been America’s ally, you know. Her help was crucial in winning our independence. If the people of France prefer Napoleon to the return of that musty old Bourbon king you foisted upon them, I rather think they should be allowed to make that choice.”
Spenser pulled thoughtfully on his chin. “Napoleon isn’t another Washington, Evan,” he said. “Don’t forget, Napoleon made himself an emperor, not a president. He tried to enslave all of Europe. For the sake of world peace, he must be defeated.”
Evan decided that this was not a topic they could explore with any semblance of detachment, so he once again changed the subject. “I do have one other favor to beg of you, Mr. Spenser.”
“Certainly.”
“My aunt informs me that she will not be seen with me in public unless I spruce up my wardrobe. Would you mind giving me your company to make sure I get rigged out with all the right stuff?”
Spenser laughed. “I would be happy to, my boy. I know just the tailor you should see.”
“Thank you,” Evan replied sincerely. “Now, won’t you please have a glass of wine with me?”
Mr. Spenser smiled. “Well, perhaps I will. Perhaps I will.”
Evan smiled back.
Chapter Fourteen
A day’s shopping with Aunt Barbara was more exhausting than an all-day hunt. By early afternoon I thought I’d collapse if one more person pinned a dress around me. Aunt Barbara ordered carriage dresses, dinner dresses, evening dresses, morning dresses, promenade dresses, riding dresses, theatre dresses and walking dresses. I resolutely squashed my flare of sympathy for Evan, who would be stuck paying for all of this. After all, it was he who had insisted that I come to London.
The one thing that kept me going all day with a semblance of good grace was the evident delight Maria felt as she watched me trying on dress after dress.
“You look beautiful, Julia,” she said, over and over again. It made me feel good to see her so happy.
Lizzie was surprisingly good company. She was so genuinely nice that it was impossible to dislike her. Disliking Lizzie would be like disliking a good-natured dog.
“I’m ravenous,” Lizzie declared as the carriage finally pulled up before the front of Althorpe House.
I was too. I said to Lizzie, “Let’s check the kitchen to see wha
t we can scavenge.”
Aunt Barbara frowned direfully. “A lady does not go to the kitchen, Julia. The proper etiquette is to ring for what you desire.”
I bit my tongue and said nothing. When Aunt Barbara had gone upstairs the three of us left standing in the hall looked at each other. Lizzie said, “I’m sure no one will mind if we go to the kitchen.” She smiled entrancingly. “Perhaps Cook will have some of that cake we had last night left.”
Maria said, “Yum.”
I grinned at my sister, then turned to Lizzie. “Let’s do it.”
Without another word the three of us trooped off to the kitchen.
* * * *
After dinner, when we had retired to the upstairs drawing room, Aunt Barbara brought up the subject of dancing. “What sort of dances do you do in America?” she asked Evan.
He was leaning his shoulders up against the chestnut mantelpiece, looking so like the first earl’s portrait that hung over the fireplace at home that he almost took my breath away.
This happened to me occasionally. I would look at him and get this strange feeling in my stomach, as if I had been wafted back in time and my Philip was standing right there in the room with me. I knew that Evan wasn’t Philip, of course, but there was something about his presence that caused this peculiar flutter in my stomach.
When I brought my attention back to the conversation, Aunt Barbara was saying to him, “Country dances and cotillions are all very well, but do you know the quadrille and the waltz?”
“No,” Evan said.
“So I thought.” Aunt Barbara next turned to me. “What dances do you know, Julia?”
I knew the same country-dances as Evan; dances I had learned as a child. I had liked to dance when I was young. It was fun swishing around in time to the music.
“I don’t know the quadrille or the waltz either,” I said.
Lizzie said breathlessly, “Oh, Mama, are we really going to be allowed to waltz?”
“The waltz is going to be danced at Almack’s this year, Lizzie.
“Is there something special about the waltz?” I asked.
“It was considered very risqué when it was first introduced here from Vienna, but the patronesses of Almack’s have declared it acceptable this year so you and Lizzie must learn it,” my aunt informed me.
Lizzie clapped her hands in delight.
“Why is this Almack’s approval so important?” Evan asked.
I knew about Almack’s because my mother had been one of the patronesses. I wasn’t quite sure what kind of place it was, but I knew if my mother patronized it, it was important.
Lizzie answered Evan’s question with a laugh. “It’s called the ‘marriage mart,’ Evan.
“It’s where a girl goes to find a husband.”
“Elizabeth, you sound like a cit,” Aunt Barbara said disapprovingly. She turned to Evan. “It is a respectable assembly room where girls of good birth go to meet eligible men.”
“I see,” Evan said. I could see him trying not to smile.
“Only the very best of the ton are admitted,” Aunt Barbara went on. “One must have a voucher from one of the patronesses. Fortunately I number Lady Sefton among my acquaintances. She will give me vouchers for Lizzie and Julia.”
I said in my haughtiest voice, “My mother was a patroness. Of course we will get vouchers.”
Aunt Barbara turned a gimlet gaze on me. “Just make certain you don’t do anything that might cast a stain upon the family name, Julia.”
I narrowed my eyes but before I could reply Evan said, “If my uncle’s behavior couldn’t stain the holy name of Marshall, then I hardly think anything Julia might do could place it in jeopardy, Aunt.”
That wasn’t what I was going to say, but it was satisfactory and I gave him an approving nod.
* * * *
The next day Aunt Barbara informed us that she had hired a dancing master to teach Lizzie, Evan and me the quadrille and the waltz. Evan tried to get out of it by declaring he had no intention of dancing at any of the affairs he was being dragged to. He would watch, he said.
I thought this was distinctly unfair and told him that it would look ridiculous if he accompanied us to dances and didn’t dance himself. “You don’t want people thinking Americans are so barbarian that they don’t even know how to dance, do you?”
My arrow hit home and he reluctantly agreed to submit to the instruction of Mr. Martelli along with Lizzie and me.
Two days later the dancing master arrived. Grantly escorted him to the ballroom, with its wide expanse of empty bare wooden floor, where we waited with Aunt Barbara. There was a piano in one corner of the ballroom and she took a seat, indicating she was ready to play. Maria sat on a chair in the corner, prepared to be entertained.
Mr. Martelli was a slender man, with very black hair and very white teeth. He flashed the teeth at us in a smile and said, with a distinct foreign accent, “I am so happy to make your acquaintance. It is an honor for me to be the instructor of such noble and lovely people.”
Evan and I looked at each other.
Mr. Martelli fixed his slightly protruding dark eyes upon Evan. “My lord, since you are new to England I suggest we begin with the approach of the gentleman to the lady, and his address to her. The address is like the dance itself – it must be done with grace and élan. You understand?”
“I’m not sure,” Evan said cautiously.
“You watch me,” Mr. Martelli said to Evan. “I show how to do.” He began to approach Lizzie walking on the balls of his feet, his smile still affixed to his face. He stopped in front of her and said to Evan, “When a gentleman requests of a young lady the favor of dancing with her, he should, at the time of addressing her, make his bow, and also request the approbation of the elderly person who may have the charge of her. The bow, it is so.” He pointed to his feet. “Watch. One foot takes the second position, the other the third,” he arranged his feet with balletic precision, “then the body gently falls forward, keeping the head in a direct line with the body.” Mr. Martelli’s body tilted toward Lizzie. “As you see, the bend is made by a motion at the union of the inferior limbs with the body.”
Evan’s face was perfectly grave as he asked, “The ‘inferior limbs?’ Do you mean the legs?”
Mr. Martelli straightened up. He gave Evan a puzzled look, then his smile appeared again. “Ah, you jest. Americans like the jest, eh?”
Aunt Barbara called from the piano, “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Martelli, let us get to the dancing!”
“Of course, of course,” said the ever-amiable dancing master. “We shall begin then, eh? Will all of the noble pupils come out on the floor?”
The lesson in the quadrille proceeded fairly smoothly as all of the noble pupils were well coordinated and had an ear for music. I actually found myself having fun. The quadrille needed four couples to make up a set, and we only had two, but after a half an hour we all felt we could participate in a quadrille without disgracing ourselves.
Next, it was time to learn the waltz. “First,” said Mr. Martelli, “I will demonstrate by myself.” He nodded to Aunt Barbara at the piano and, as the music swept through the room, the dancing master elevated his arms, as if he was clasping a partner, and began to swoop around the floor. “See,” he said, “you must count your steps, turning one half a revolution every three counts.” He whirled around and around chanting, “One – two –three; one-two –three.”
I wondered how he kept from being dizzy. Finally he stopped. “Now, I try it with one of the young ladies.” He looked hopefully at Lizzie.
“I’ll go first,” she obligingly said.
The two faced each other, hands clasped, Mr. Martelli’s other hand on Lizzie’s waist, Lizzie’s other hand on his shoulder. This certainly was different, I thought. In no other dance did one stand in such close proximity to one’s partner.
It didn’t take Lizzie long to catch on and she and Mr. Martelli were soon twirling around the room in time to the music. It loo
ked like fun.
“Good going, Lizzie,” Evan cheered her from the sidelines. His face, as he watched her, was alight with warmth and amusement. My eyes went back to my dancing cousin. Lizzie was really quite amazingly beautiful, I thought.
Then it was my turn to twirl around with Mr. Martelli. It felt very odd being held so close to a man, and I stepped on his toes once or twice.
He kept on smiling gamely. “Not to worry. Not to worry. It happens all the time when one is starting out.”
I finally relaxed and let him lead me and soon we were flying around the ballroom in decent harmony. It really was fun.
Then it was Evan’s turn. “Are we going to dance together?” he asked Mr. Martelli. His mouth was sober but his blue eyes gleamed with humor.
“Yes, yes, that is how we will start out. Then you can try it with one of the ladies.”
With a straight face Evan clasped Mr. Martelli’s hand and put his other hand around the dancing master’s slender waist. “So,” said Mr. Martelli, “we start.”
At the sight of the tall Viking that was Evan spinning around with the slender dancing master, I lost my gravity. I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Lizzie joined in, and Maria starting giggling too.
“How am I doing?” Evan called to us as he swooped around with Mr. Martelli.
“Wonderful,” Lizzie called back.
“Woops,” said Evan. “Sorry.”
He had stepped on Mr. Martelli’s toe.
“Not to worry,” the dancing master said gamely, trying not to wince.
Aunt Barbara stopped playing and the two men came to a halt. “Now you try with the ladies,” Mr. Martelli said.
Evan made a face. “I hope I don’t step on their toes.”
“I’ll chance it,” Lizzie said with a smile, stepping forward. Aunt Barbara hit the keys and Evan and Lizzie began to circle around the room in time to the music. They made a stunning couple, I thought, both so tall and blond and beautiful. Mr. Martelli counted out loud for them as they waltzed – “One two three, one two three…”