It was a fine October evening, which was just as well, for Nan had stormed out of the house in too much of a temper to wait for the carriage, although she’d snatched up her muff and crammed her bonnet on her head, before she slammed the door. She strode through Bedford Square, scowling with fury, her russet coat as bright as the plane leaves in the gardens, her black button-boots swishing against each other like scythes.
Above the shadowy shops of Holborn, the sky pulsed with colour, blood red, russet, orange and purple, smudged and veiled by the grey-brown smoke from the city’s busy chimneys, but the streets below were dark and as yet unlit. She pushed through the crowds and crossed into Chancery Lane, walking more steadily now, eased by her exertions. And presently she came to the entrance to Lincoln’s Inn, a great, competent, reassuring, red-brick gateway, built like a fortress with an impressive coat of arms carved above the cornerstone and twin towers on either side of the arch, judicially balanced the one against the other. The gas lights on either side of the arch were already lit, pale gold blooms against the sombre red brick, and the oak doors still stood open, but the archway to justice was as black as a coalmine.
She ran through it quickly into the garden. It was a beautifully kept garden and well laid out, with plenty of thick shrubbery, neat gravel paths, a long avenue of black poplars, and overlooking Lincoln’s Inn Fields, an elevated terrace walk, dark and shadowy now but still peaceful and decidedly rural. A sweet, green, country place right in the middle of the city. It restored her to good humour just to look at it.
The court itself was surrounded on three sides by tessellated towers and ancient Gothic windows, and it was lighter here than it had been in Chancery Lane, for lamps were lit both inside and outside the buildings. She could see the pale face of a clerk who was busily writing beside one of the windows immediately above her, and the brass plates were glowingly legible beside the entrances. She drew her hand out of her muff and ran her fingers down the brazen lists until she found the name she wanted: ‘Appleby, Brougham & Furnival’. Yes, she had done the right thing to come here.
Mr Frederick Brougham had just returned from court and was still wigged, gowned and weary when his servant came quietly into the room to announce that ‘a Mrs Nan Easter has arrived to see you sir, without appointment, sir’.
‘This is a lady who could never be constrained by appointments, Brandyman,’ he said, smiling happily. ‘Show her up at once.’
She walked into his chambers like the leader of an invading army, disturbing the smell of ancient dust and old leather with a pungent combination of newsprint, horse-sweat and new warm wool. ‘My dear,’ he said, holding out his hands in greeting. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘My family’s gone lunatic,’ she said, beaming at him, brown eyes glistening with mischief, dark eyebrows arching like wings in flight, dark curls springing about her forehead as though they were growing before his eyes.
What vitality she has, he thought, removing his wig. ‘Well now, I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘How may I be of service?’
‘You may feed me. I’ve left home in a temper and not eaten.’
‘It shall be done at once, if you will allow me to send Brandyman out on a few errands.’ He’d been invited to dine with one of his colleagues that evening, so he would have to send excuses. ‘Would pigeon pie and porter serve?’
‘’Twould be capital.’
And so it was, tasty and peaceful, sitting at his little round table beside the window, among his learned tomes and his neat papers, as the dusk rolled in from the gardens and somebody below them swept the courtyard, swish, swish, swish.
When the meal was done and Brandyman had removed the dishes and made up the fire, they sat one on each side of the hearth and talked, like an old country couple.
He said he was glad to see her in better humour.
‘Aye,’ she agreed, ‘so I am. That’s the difference food makes.’
‘And company too, I trust?’ he teased.
‘It could be said. I’ve a deal too much company at home and that’s a fact. A deal too much company and a deal too many troubles.’
‘A trouble shared?’ he suggested, taking a taper from its pot on the mantelpiece and leaning forward to light it at the fire.
It was a new experience for Nan Easter to be offered help and advice. She was usually the one who gave both, being the undoubted head of family and business. She looked at him thoughtfully, weighing the situation. If he gave advice ’twas like to be sound, and he would put no pressure on her to accept it. ‘My sons fight like Kilkenny cats,’ she said, deciding to confide in him, ‘my daughter is afraid her husband will be arrested for supporting rioters, if you ever heard of anything so ridiculous, and my cousins are like to be homeless in a month or two, if what they say is to be believed. And if that en’t enough, trade is down for the fourth month in succession.’
‘Trouble enough in all conscience,’ he said, lighting his pipe. ‘Which’ – puff – ‘is the most serious’ – puff – ‘would ’ee say?’
She lifted her muff from the back of the chair where she’d flung it when she first came in, and took Annie’s letter out of the pocket. ‘If my son-in-law is like to be arrested then this is the matter of most urgency,’ she said, handing it across to him. ‘’Tis from my daughter, Annie. Pray read it. She says there is a Hampden Club meets at the rectory every Thursday, and now some of ’em mean to fire a barn, and James, her husband, knows of it and cannot dissuade ’em.’
He read attentively. ‘Write back and advise her that giving house-room to such meetings is perfectly legal. It may not remain so should the present administration alter the statutes, but for the present there is no harm in it. Howsomever the matter of firing barns would be construed as riot, and your daughter and her husband would both be well advised to have no cognisance of it, however much they might sympathize with the perpetrators.’
‘The papers are full of riots,’ Nan said. ‘Scarce a day goes by without a machine being broke or a rick fired or somesuch. But ’tis no wonder they break the law when ’tis the law keeps the price of corn so high. What else is there for them to do?’
‘We shall have that particular law repealed eventually,’ he promised, ‘when my cousin and his colleagues prevail. Meantime I would strongly advise you to write some sort of warning to your daughter.’
‘’Twill be done,’ she said. ‘’Tis sound advice.’
He nodded, puffing his pipe. ‘There are other problems which concern you, are there not?’
But sitting there in his comfortable armchair with good food to sustain her and a good fire to warm her, she had been quietly solving some of those for herself. ‘I know what is to be done about the homeless relations,’ she said.
‘And your warring sons?’
‘As to them,’ she said, ‘they will have cooled by now.’
‘Why do they fight?’ he asked mildly.
‘Because they are in love and not married, I daresay.’
‘So ’twill amend with time and opportunity.’
How worldly wise he is, she thought. ‘Aye,’ she smiled.
‘I would the same might be said of my own case.’
‘How so?’ she asked, noticing the affection of his smile and wondering.
‘You are an uncommon difficult lady to pay court to, my dear. I might almost say impossible.’
‘How so?’ she asked again, pleased by the turn their conversation had taken. ‘I do not discourage you, I think.’
He puffed at his pipe for a few seconds before he answered, drawing in smoke and thoughts together. ‘’Tis your situation which presents the difficulty,’ he confessed. ‘Were you not who you are, I could court you, if not with any particular hope of success, then at least without fear of misinterpretation. But since you are a woman of power and wealth, and renowned power and wealth I may say, then I fear there are many who would condemn me as a fortune hunter were I to advance but one step in your direction.’
‘Aye so ’twas,’ he said, rather ruefully, ‘howsomever if I were to propose marriage to a lady in your position …’
‘Or even to me,’ she laughed, ‘or en’t that within the realms of supposition?’
‘Or even to you, my dear,’ he agreed. ‘Well then, what follows? Should you return my affection and agree to marry me, which would be a great happiness to me, I need hardly tell ’ee, I should then become the legal custodian of all your wealth and influence, and on the very day, what’s more, when I should be bestowing all my worldly goods on you. And that, I need hardly tell ’ee, would be a very considerable unhappiness to me, for ’twould not be any part of my intention.’
She understood this situation very well, for hadn’t her sons warned her about it when she was wondering whether or not to marry Calverley Leigh? ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘So, like your sons, for whom I have considerable fellow feeling, I may say, I too love and do not marry.’
‘There are those,’ she said, smiling encouragement at him, ‘who would find another way. ’Tis not one I would recommend to my children, you understand …’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That solution had suggested itself to me, I must confess, but since it is less honourable than the first, I have hesitated to suggest it until now, for fear of total and deserved rebuff.’
She looked at him for a very long time, while he sucked his pipe and smiled at her. ‘I will consider it,’ she said eventually, and smiled at him, thinking, that’s your cue to kiss me, Frederick Brougham.
But he made no move towards her at all, and his face was far too calm. ‘If I do accept you,’ she warned, disappointed by his lack of response, ‘’twill be on my terms.’
‘Agreed,’ he said, watching her quietly in the flickering light of the fire.
‘Whatever they are?’
‘Since they are your terms, they are like to be sound and sensible, and that being so, acceptable.’
‘I should continue to maintain my own home,’ she said. ‘I should not live with ’ee.’
‘Agreed,’ he said, ‘with one proviso.’
‘Name it,’ she said, and it occurred to her that they were discussing this matter as though they were arguing over business terms, and she wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or annoyed by the knowledge.
‘That you will host my dinner parties, and use my home as though it were your own, which it would be, were things other than they are.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Then perhaps I may hope for an early reply?’
‘If you seal our bargain with a kiss,’ she said lightly, ‘you may have your answer now.’
‘Do you tease for kisses, Mrs Easter?’
‘No, nor beg for ’em neither.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ he said, ‘since this is not a matter to be rushed or entered upon lightly. I think too highly of you for that.’
‘You play the lawyer even in this, I see,’ she teased.
‘Particularly in this,’ he said seriously, ‘since it is a matter of greatest import to us both.’
His extreme care touched her, despite her irritation at his lack of response. ‘It grows late,’ she said, ‘so you may have your answer now. ’Tis time for you to escort me home, I think, and as I don’t intend to go back to John and Billy and their squit, you’d best escort me to Bedford Row, had you not? And if we are both still of the same mind by tomorrow morning you shall take me to the play at Drury Lane, a’ Thursday. Sophie tells me ’tis an excellent comedy.’
‘I should warn you,’ he said, ‘I have to travel to Lewes tomorrow afternoon for the quarter sessions. We shall have very little time together.’
‘Then we’d best not waste a minute,’ she grinned at him.
‘I am yours to command,’ he said and he put down his pipe and kissed her at last.
And very pleasant it was, being soft and leisurely and with just the right amount of ardour. And he apologized for it. ‘I am out of practice, I fear.’
‘I’m uncommon glad to hear it,’ she said, ‘for I would not welcome competition.’
‘My peerless Nan,’ he said, holding her handsome face between his hands. ‘Then perhaps you will allow me to put the old adage to the proof.’
‘Which old adage, pray?’
‘That practice makes perfect.’
John was up and out of the house the next morning long before Frederick drove her home, and the place was blessedly quiet. She was in such an excellent humour that the previous evening’s squabble seemed petty and ridiculous. To be loved again, and loved so skilfully was not only unexpected but uncommon rewarding. He was a man of surprising talents, this third love of hers. Who would have thought there would be so much passion hidden under such apparent reserve?
Billy came down to join her at breakfast with an obvious hangover. He was bleary eyed and unshaven and humbly apologetic for the scene he had made.
‘You’re a blamed fool,’ she told him cheerfully.
‘’Tis Tilda,’ he confessed. ‘She says she won’t marry me if Johnnie marries Miss Sowerby.’
‘Young girls say such things,’ she said calmly. ‘They don’t mean it. You’ll see.’
He was comforted but doubtful. ‘She’s uncommon angry. She said Miss Sowerby was a servant.’
‘Then you tell her she en’t.’
‘I did,’ he said, sighing heavily. ‘’Tweren’t a bit of use.’
‘We will give a grand party and invite her to it and see if we can change her mind.’
That sounded possible, for there was nothing Tilda enjoyed so much as a grand party. ‘If they meet and talk at a party that might … Yes. Oh yes. ’Tis a fine idea. Thank ’ee, Mama.’
‘Think yourself lucky I’m such a good mother to ’ee,’ she said.
And he agreed that she was and went off to work forgiven if not restored.
But it was John she really wanted to see, and John was keeping out of everybody’s way. He contrived to be visiting shops in Essex all through the day and he dined out that evening, and was gone in the morning before she was awake. She didn’t see him until Thursday evening when she was waiting for Mr Brougham to collect her in his carriage, and then they met by accident.
She was in the study checking the day’s figures when he suddenly opened the door.
‘Ah!’ he said, embarrassed to have found her there. ‘I –um – I …’
‘You were absolutely right about that wretch Sir Osmond,’ she said, closing her account book at once and plunging straight into the conversation. ‘’Tis a cruel crittur as you knew, did ’ee not?’
She could see he was pleased although he was keeping his expression well under control. ‘I did, Mama.’
‘He means to marry again, as we suspected,’ Nan said, ‘and, what’s a deal worse, he means to throw his two poor old cousins out into the street, just to make room for his new in-laws, if you ever heard of anything so scandalous.’
‘I told you so,’ he said, with considerable satisfaction, and then, since she was watching him and obviously expected him to say something else, ‘What will become of ’em?’ It was possible to feel a flicker of compassion for the poor old things, for they were harmless enough in all conscience, even if they were Easters.
‘I shall see to it that he gives ’em an adequate annuity and then I shall advise ’em how to set up in business, so I shall.’
That made him smile. ‘What possible business could it be, Mama? Two timid old ladies like that. They ain’t Nan Easters, neither one of ’em.’
‘They can take in lodgers,’ she said.
‘Will they want to?’ he asked, amused at her determination.
‘I don’t see why not,’ she said. ‘With a good cook and sufficient maids, what could be simpler? Ah, there’s Mr Brougham.’ For she could hear the carriage drawing up outs
ide.
‘I am sorry I was so churlish,’ John said. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’
‘All is forgiven,’ she told him, picking up her gloves. ‘I’ve a mind to ask the two ladies to visit here for a day or two, as Sir Osmond treats them so unkindly. They might care to see how another, kinder branch of the Easter family can behave. We could give a party and your Harriet could come. How would that be, think ’ee?’
‘It might well be a good idea,’ he said, cautiously. As they were victims, just as his mother had been, it might be possible to accept them, Easters or no. And if their visit proved difficult, he could always go to Rattlesden and see Harriet.
‘I will write tomorrow,’ she said, dusting her gloved hands against each other, swish, swish. And she went happily off to meet her lover.
Five days later, Mr and Mrs Honeywood arrived at Bedford Square to call upon Mrs Easter. They were considerably agitated, for their dear daughter Matilda had hinted that there might not be a wedding after all.
‘A lovers’ tiff,’ Nan said practically, when she’d served them tea. ‘My Annie was just the same. She will come round to a different view in a day or two, depend upon ’t.’
‘She ain’t changed her tune for more than a week, Mrs Easter,’ Mr Honeywood said, shaking his jowls. ‘There’s no sense in the girl. She’ll snap off your head as soon as look at you.’
‘’Tis hard to know what is to be done for the best,’ Mrs Honeywood worried. ‘Is William of the same mind, think ’ee?’
‘William would marry tomorrow,’ Nan assured them. ‘I never saw a young man so enamoured. You need have no fear from that quarter.’
‘Then what should we do?’ Mrs Honeywood said. ‘Is a wedding to be arranged or ain’t it? That’s what I need to know.’
‘I’ve a mind to hold a party in November, a rout on Guy Fawkes’ Day, with fireworks and such,’ Nan said. ‘’Twould be principally for my sons and their friends, you understand, howsomever two of Sir Osmond’s cousins are coming to London to stay with us, and Mr Frederick Brougham is to attend. He is cousin to Lord Brougham, as I daresay you know, and a most cultivated gentleman. I do hope you will be able to bring Matilda to it. ’Twould be a chance for her to meet the Easter cousins and others of our friends, and she would doubtless enjoy the rout.’
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