“What?”
Jack’s mild enquiry worked, and broke Henri-Antoine’s preoccupation, and it was only then that he realized he was up out of his chair and had his gold pocket watch in his hand and was looking at its pearl face. He had no idea of the time.
“You’re going out?” Jack asked again.
“I have a prior engagement at the Opera. Mrs. Markham has something I want—”
“I wish you’d find another preoccupation, and so does Seb,” Jack complained.
“Allow me to finish… Mrs. Markham has something I want returned to me. My Portland catalog somehow ended up in her possession—”
“I can think of how that happened,” Jack murmured, unimpressed.
“—and she will only return it if I take a box at the Opera. If it will make you sleep better tonight, know that this will be the last occasion I intend to be seen in her company, in public or private. Seb’s clownish antics the other night were enough for me to realize that regardless of my efforts for him to face facts, he does care for her.”
“Of course he cares for Peggy Markham. I’ve told you on numerous occasions. He’s in love with her.”
“More fool him. But I do see that now—”
“Do you also see why he reacted the way he did to your goading?” Jack stuck in.
Henri-Antoine stared at him.
“Spare me the moral outrage. You know me well enough that I would never come between a couple in love. Seb may be in love with Peggy. But she is not in love with him. Removing myself from her orbit won’t change that. But Seb, for all his bitter envy, is still a friend, and I do not wish to hurt him. She’ll do that on her own.”
There was a knock on the door and at Henri-Antoine’s nod, the footman opened it to admit one of his lads—his shadows—who followed him everywhere whenever he stepped outside his house.
“The carriage is ready, my lord.”
“Two minutes.” Henri-Antoine looked to Jack who was still sprawled out in the chair by the fire. “I return in the morning. Possibly after breakfast. Don’t panic. Michel knows where to find me, and I’ll be home in time for Kyte to dress me for the visit to Gerrard Street.”
“Michel not going with you?”
“Not tonight. No one below a baronet is permitted through the doors of this particular bagnio.”
Jack’s brows lifted in surprise. He knew to which Turkish bath Henri-Antoine alluded. It was the most exclusive in London, and the most expensive. But blue blood wasn’t enough to gain a gentleman admittance. He had to be a direct descendant of a nobleman, possess a line of credit worthy of a sultan, and, it was rumored, his member had to be just as impressive.
“You’re off to Burke’s.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
“And the lads? How are they to keep an eye on you there?”
“Not an eye. Never an eye, Jack.”
“You know what I mean.”
Henri-Antoine sighed wearily. “You worry too much about the mundane, dear fellow.”
“But if you need them?”
“They’ll be around—”
“—lurking in passageways, an ear to the thin walls?” Jack huffed. “Needs must, I suppose.”
Henri-Antoine remained passive, though the facial tick resurfaced. “A pity you wouldn’t allow me to sponsor you. Then you’d know there are no internal walls at Burke’s. Colonnades. Hot and cold plunge pools. Assignation alcoves aplenty.” He teased his friend. “You’re welcome to come along… For old time’s sake…?”
“Lord no! I’ve got nothing to hide, but I don’t possess enough arrogance to strut about in a place with more town bulls than Smithfield markets. But you do. Though I doubt you’ll find what you’re looking for in a place like Burke’s.”
Henri-Antoine turned in the doorway, frowning. “Meaning?”
Jack shrugged.
“To be perfectly frank, I’m not sure. But I wish I could find it for you.”
“There are times, Jack Cavendish, when I find you unfathomable. Bonne nuit, mon cher ami.”
Jack followed him to the first landing and there remained, while downstairs in the wide entrance hall his best friend was buckled into his sword and sash, tugged on his soft leather gloves, and was handed his diamond-topped walking stick. Watching him with a sentimental smile, Jack was reminded of the old Duke of Roxton, Henri-Antoine’s father, and whom he resembled greatly. In profile he was indeed the image of the ancient aristocrat. The portraits, the marble busts, and the impressive funerary statue in the Roxton mausoleum of M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton all attested to it. So did Jack’s memory of the old Duke. As boys they would peer down between the railings as the Duke and Duchess prepared to leave for the theater or the opera, or for some ball or other. The Duke always austere and commanding, the Duchess a whirlwind of sparkles and light.
He wondered if being the living embodiment of such an aloof and powerful aristocrat, not only in form but in manner, had placed an unnecessary onus on his best friend, made all the more burdensome because he suffered from the falling sickness. And while he was eagerly anticipating this next stage in his life to be shared with Teddy, there was no denying he would miss Henri-Antoine’s company dreadfully. They had been inseparable for sixteen years, which was more than half their lives. And they had always been there for each other. He hardly remembered a time before Henri-Antoine, and he found it difficult to imagine life without him.
But with Teddy, and with the family they would eventually have, he would forge a new chapter in his life, and be content. Henri-Antoine had yet to find his soul mate, and it worried Jack that he might never do so. Or perhaps, like the old Duke, he would find her too late in life, and then die before his time, before his family were ready to let him go. M’sieur le Duc’s death had a profound effect on everyone, and Henri-Antoine never fully recovered from the loss of his father, of that Jack was convinced.
Jack did not want his best friend to live his life alone, to battle his affliction without the love and support of a family, or spend his time in the emotional wasteland of places such as Burke’s. Henri-Antoine had a right to follow his own path, but it was where that path was leading him that greatly worried Jack.
He watched Henri-Antoine go out onto the street without looking back, step up into his carriage, the lads, as habitual and as unseen as his shadow, hopping up in beside him and closing the door. And he stayed leaning on the balustrade, staring down in the void for a long time after the porter had come back into the vestibule and the butler had disappeared into the bowels of the servant wing. He then went off to his apartment with the silent prayer that the life path Henri-Antoine was presently treading would lead him to the edge of a cliff, and there, on the precipice, he would meet a girl, and they would take a leap off that cliff together.
TEN
THE WARNER HOUSEHOLD had been in turmoil since the arrival of a letter from the Fournier Foundation informing Dr. Warner that the trustees wished to schedule a visit to his dispensary and anatomy school before the end of the week. The director, Dr. Bailey, wrote it was an unusual step and short notice, but if Dr. Warner hoped to be considered in the present funding cycle, then the visit needed to be conducted almost at once. No special arrangements were necessary. The only stipulation was that the visit be conducted on a day the dispensary was closed to the sick poor, and this was deliberate. Without patients, the trustees would have the ease of movement required to inspect the facilities, and uninterrupted time to conduct interviews with Dr. Warner and his staff.
Dr. Warner sent a reply within the hour, agreeing to all the terms stipulated. He voiced his regret to his wife that the trustees would not have the opportunity to see how efficiently the dispensary was managed, but conceded that without patients, the consulting rooms could be scrubbed of noxious odors and perfumed, thus reducing the likelihood of the trustees breathing the odorous air of the sick poor, and becoming ill themselves. His wife agreed, adding that it was surely a good sign the trustees wanted the ti
me to interview the dear doctor, for he could not fail to impress them with his knowledge, and plans for the future; providing them with a leisurely dinner could only help.
And so the maids were set to dusting, scrubbing, polishing, and perfuming every surface in both the dispensary and the living quarters, from floorboards to the silver soup tureen, while Mrs. Warner and the housekeeper devised a menu of several courses fit for such distinguished guests. Cook sent her subordinates out to market at dawn to procure the freshest produce, and on the night before the visit there was a great deal of baking, basting, and roasting.
As these domestic arrangements continued apace, the physician and his medical staff set to organizing the anatomy theater and the preparation rooms. Various specimens, medical instruments, and scientific apparatus used in his student lectures were set out for display. Also a number of his research log books and patient case studies were opened and ready for the trustees’ perusal. All of this Dr. Warner hoped would provide enough material to impress the visitors.
The good doctor and his wife were also keenly aware of making a favorable impression at dinner, and to this end, the couple were fastidious in dressing for the occasion.
“I’m still at a loss to know how I am to address these other gentlemen, Robert,” Minette Walker complained as she took one last critical look at herself in the looking glass. She plucked at the lace at her elbows to even out the folds. “The director Dr. Bailey and two of the trustees are medical men, and you say they are identified in the letter…?”
“They are indeed. Dr. Willan is a physician at the Fever Hospital, and Dr. Blizard is a consultant surgeon at the London Hospital. Both are not known to me personally, being a decade behind me in their careers, but I am well acquainted with Willan’s work at the Carey Street Dispensary.”
“But the other gentlemen, the ones who are not medical men. Dr. Bailey’s letter says the identities of the three remaining trustees shall remain anonymous for the duration of their visit, even when they sit down to dine with us. But how then am I to address them, Robert? It is most irregular and unsettling not to know the social standing of the men at my own table.”
“Most irregular, dear heart,” Dr. Warner agreed. “But if I wish their consideration we must abide by their rules of inspection. Dr. Bailey included these regulations with his brief note.” From his frock coat pocket he produced the letter and unfolded it. “We are to address those trustees who remain nameless to us as ‘sir’ with no further appellation required. Nor are we to enquire into their names, their occupations, or their station in life. They are here first and foremost to inspect and assess the medical merit of my work. That Dr. Bailey and the trustees have agreed to remain to dinner is an honor indeed. Though I’m afraid that dinner will be a dull affair for you, my dear,” he added with what he hoped was a look of disappointment. “There will be little or no opportunity to take the conversation in any direction other than the one they wish to take it in. I must follow their lead. I would not blame you if you did not wish to join us—”
“Not join you?” Minette Walker was affronted. “But—Robert… When have I not presided over a dinner at my own table? When have I not supported you in all your endeavors—”
“Dear heart, I know that, and you are a wonderful helpmate to me. It’s just that upon this occasion the diners are not known to us, and they may not be the most convivial company. Indeed I find myself rather nervous at the prospect of entertaining gentlemen whose names and reputations remain a closely-guarded secret. But I at least can talk with them on a medical level—”
“You cannot know that for certain, Robert. Are these nameless gentlemen medical men? If they are, surely they would’ve revealed themselves, in the same way as Drs. Willan and Blizard?”
She turned from her looking glass reflection with a self-satisfied smile that she had done all she could to be at her fashionable best. Her sunflower-yellow silk gown a la polonaise was in the latest style, and lavishly trimmed at bodice and elbow with small cornflower-blue bows. The silk ribbons threaded through her upswept hair, and her cornflower-blue silk shoes complemented the outfit perfectly. Such was her confidence in her preparations and her outfit that she was convinced that any gentleman seated at her table would be beguiled, and perhaps the conversation might stray from the medical to allow her to contribute.
“I suspect the anonymous gentlemen are not medical men at all,” Minette Walker said, stating her wishful thinking aloud as she collected her fan from the dressing table. “Which is more reason for me to take my usual place at our table, to do my very best to appear most interested in anything they say—for you, dear Robert.”
Dr. Warner quickly folded the letter, smiled away any misgivings he had that his young wife would find the run of conversation unfathomable, and kissed her temple. “Thank you, dear heart. That is all I can ask of you.”
The couple went downstairs to await their guests in the comfort of the drawing room, nervous, but confident in their own minds they were as prepared as they would ever be for the visit of the trustees of the Fournier Foundation. And while the household continued to be busy around them, from the kitchen to the nursery, the only person not tasked to provide assistance in any capacity was Lisa. She had been ordered by her cousin to remain in her room for the duration, and not to come out until told to do so, or unless the house was burning down around her ears. So it came as a shock to the couple, and most particularly to Mrs. Warner, when upon their arrival, and just after introductions were made, one of the trustees asked the whereabouts of Miss Crisp.
~ ~ ~
LISA TOOK HER cousin’s directive as she did everything else within the Warner household, placidly and with good grace. Besides, there was no reason for her to be present; what could she offer the trustees? And Becky Bannister was making minor adjustments to the length, fit, and fall of the gowns, petticoats, corsets, and jackets she was taking with her on her visit into Hampshire. These clothes would then be packed in the traveling trunk which lay open against the wall. It would then to be taken downstairs to the hall after the visitors had left, in readiness for the journey. Becky’s small trunk was already stowed in a corner of the scullery, along with her coat and hat, as she was spending the night on a cot in Lisa’s room.
Both girls were to be woken in the small hours of the night and taken by hackney to the bustling Bell Savage Inn in Ludgate Hill. Here stagecoaches, wagons, and diligences departed for the southern counties at all hours of the day and night, and every day of the week except Sundays. Lisa and Becky were taking the stagecoach that departed for Alston in Hampshire at four in the morning. Traveling the London to Portsmouth road, with plenty of stops along the way to set down and pick up passengers making their way to Southampton on the coast, there would be a change of horses and time for refreshment at Guildford, and then the stagecoach would head towards Winchester.
Lisa and Becky would be set down at the Swan Inn in the town of Alston’s High Street. Here they would be taken up by a privately-hired carriage, which should be awaiting them upon their arrival, for the final five-mile journey cross country to the ducal estate of Treat. All in all, a journey of almost forty miles. They were not likely to reach their final destination until late afternoon, having spent the better part of thirteen hours traveling.
Becky’s enthusiasm was not diminished at the prospect of being shut up in a stagecoach with a bunch of strangers, to be bumped along for hours on end. Never in her wildest imaginings had she ever thought she would venture into the country, and so to travel a distance of forty miles from London was to her the greatest adventure of her young life. She had spent her twenty years in and around Gerrard Street, and the closest she had ever been to persons of rank was her visit to Lord Westby’s townhouse to wait on the nobleman’s mistress. To think she was accompanying Lisa as her personal maid to the wedding of a duke’s niece was the stuff of dreams.
Lisa was happy to have Becky’s company. For although she knew she was to see Teddy at the end of th
e journey, having someone she knew to travel with, and to be with her at Treat, in surroundings that were as foreign to her as they were to Becky, was comforting. And far better than had her cousin hired a stranger to act as her maid. Not only was Becky a happy soul, she was no-nonsense, and an expert seamstress. It was Becky, her great-aunt, and two seamstresses employed by Widow Humphreys who had done wonders with refashioning the four cast-off gowns given to Lisa by her cousins. They not only managed to create outfits that complemented Lisa’s slender frame, but with the excess material made her matching mitts, and had the cordwainer cover two pairs of shoes.
The fabric supplied by her aunt and uncle remained untouched. This pleased Lisa because she considered the brocade silk too heavy a weight for the summer, and the silver thread embroidery far too grand for her. Saving this costly fabric pleased Minette Walker so much that she agreed to advance Becky half her salary, the other half to be paid upon return from Hampshire. From this coin Becky was able to repay her great aunt for the loss of the ribbons and garters stolen by Mrs. Markham. Which put Widow Humphreys in a better mood at bearing the loss of Becky’s services for the fortnight she was absent from the shop.
“I’ve not seen you look prettier, Miss,” Becky announced proudly as she got up off her knees and stepped back to inspect the line of the hem of Lisa’s newly-fashioned Indienne cotton robe à l'anglaise. She had pinned and then sewn a small section of hem that had been missed in the rush to get Lisa’s gowns ready in time. “A proper fittin’ dress is what you needed, and in a pretty floral pattern, and now I reckon you’d turn the head of a duke, make no mistake.”
Lisa blushed and bobbed a curtsy. “Why, thank you. All credit to your expert needle, Becky. I would not have thought it possible to salvage enough fabric from such worn gowns, and then turn them into something that would fit me, least of all look à la mode.”
Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5) Page 13