A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  Will nearly choked. Fergus, who greeted most visitors with enthusiasm, had not bothered to do more than raise his head from his paws for Long.

  Long’s mouth thinned. ‘No doubt.’

  Polite conversation ensued: the weather—so nice that spring had finally arrived; the probability of rain being thoroughly explored; good wishes extended on the recent marriage of Long’s daughter; a passing mention of the Parliamentary session in which any mention of politics was conspicuous by its absence. Not by so much as a word did either man betray their mutual dislike.

  Huntercombe finally said. ‘Long, perhaps you will excuse me? I am leaving town this afternoon, so I must alert my valet, and before I leave I had best take my dog for a walk.’

  Will stared. After Lady Huntercombe’s letter it was hardly a surprise that the Marquess was leaving London, but... ‘Sir, I will be packed as soon as may be.’

  Huntercombe shook his head. ‘No need. You are on leave. At least, you are after you have seen Bickby. Either solution is more than acceptable to me. He may make his choice or negotiate a variation with you.’

  Will blinked. ‘What if you don’t like our variation?’

  Huntercombe smiled. ‘Apparently I’ve more confidence in your abilities than you do yourself. I trust your judgement without reserve, Will.’

  ‘Very well, sir. Please give my best to Harry and Georgie, and say...’ he grinned ‘...all that is proper to Lady Huntercombe.’

  Huntercombe’s eyes twinkled faintly. ‘Of course, Will. I shall use my best judgement.’

  Will choked back a laugh. ‘Au revoir, sir.’

  ‘And to you.’ Huntercombe turned to Long. ‘Good day to you, Long. I hope you will not scold Will too harshly over his injury. While I quite understand Mrs Barclay’s concern, and, of course, your own, I consider Will’s act in shielding a young lady from harm to be admirable.’

  He strolled from the room, Fergus at his heels.

  The door had barely closed when it opened again. Huntercombe stuck his head in. ‘Here is Mark with the coffee, gentlemen.’

  The footman came in, bearing a tray laden with coffee and biscuits.

  ‘I’ll be gone for a week, Will. And I neglected to say that you may remain here or come and go as you please. With my blessing.’ And the door shut.

  Mark set the tray down on the desk as usual and turned to Will. ‘Should you prefer it on the tea table by the fire, Mr Will, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Mark.’

  The tea table was duly moved and the tray set upon it. Mark placed two chairs and bowed as Will and Long seated themselves.

  ‘Thank you, Mark. That will be all.’

  The footman smiled, and bowed again.

  Long drew a deep breath as the door closed. ‘Huntercombe’s confidence in you is most flattering, my dear Will. But I was always sure you would do well.’

  ‘He has been very good to me, sir.’

  Long sighed. ‘I do not doubt it. Even though I must deplore his stand in certain areas.’

  Will inclined his head, reaching for control. ‘His lordship makes no secret of his opinion on the rightness of Mr Wilberforce’s Abolition Bill. Coffee, sir?’

  ‘Thank you.’ The words sounded as though they’d been ground with a load of sand.

  Will poured the coffee. ‘Sugar?’

  Long raised his brows. ‘Dutch East India sugar, I presume?’

  Will clung to his temper. ‘It is. And the coffee.’ Long had considerable interests in Jamaica and slave-produced sugar and coffee.

  Long took the offered cup. ‘I should not have brought it up. Most improper in his own house. And yet it leads me into what I wished to say to you, Will. A delicate subject, one which your dear mother raised with some embarrassment.’

  ‘My mother?’

  Long smiled. ‘I dare say it is nonsense, but she is most concerned for your safety.’

  ‘As you may see, I am perfectly recovered,’ Will said steadily. ‘My injury—’

  ‘And there is something very odd about that tale,’ Long said. ‘As I understand it, Carshalton is convinced of your complicity in the abduction of his daughter!’

  Will took a fortifying sip of his coffee. ‘Really? My understanding was that his daughter abducted herself to avoid an unwelcome marriage.’

  That much was now common gossip, so safe enough to repeat.

  ‘A disgraceful affair!’ Long pronounced. ‘A pretty pass we are come to when a young woman decides for herself whom she will or will not marry! I fear Selbourne will see a sad falling off in his business when it becomes generally known the part he has played. And as for Huntercombe—that he should have entangled you in such a tawdry scandal—’

  ‘You’re drinking his coffee, sir.’ Will kept his voice mild. Just. ‘And I make my own decisions about what I will, or will not be, involved in.’

  Long set the cup and saucer down sharply. Words appeared to fail him and his lips set in a hard line. Then he recovered. ‘But that is by the by. No, Will, your dear mother is far more concerned about your involvement with—’ He cleared his throat, shifted uncomfortably. ‘Staverton’s...er...that is...the young person known as Miss Winthrop-Abeni.’

  ‘My mother has no reason to concern herself.’ Will set his coffee cup back in its saucer with extreme care.

  ‘Of course not.’ To his absolute horror, Long winked. ‘Young men, eh? I did hint as much to dear Helena. Naturally I was reluctant to do so—ladies do not understand these things and God forbid that they should! She was much concerned that your interest in this, well, that your interest was far more serious.’

  The very excellent coffee was bitter in Will’s mouth as he saw himself clearly for the first time.

  Long continued. ‘I’m sure the cr—she is very alluring. They can be, you know, the women of her race. And she has, no doubt, traded upon that allure to her best advantage.’ He smiled understandingly. ‘In that she is no different from any white woman of a certain—’

  ‘You misunderstand me, sir.’ Will bit each word off with great precision. ‘I meant that there was no need to be concerned that I might be harbouring dishonourable intentions towards Miss Winthrop-Abeni. Quite the opposite, in fact.’

  He wanted to slam his fist in Long’s face, but in a strange way hearing those foul assumptions and prejudices applied to Psyché, had been necessary. No less than the bullet, they had ripped a hole straight through him. He’d thought himself a good man, a just man, perhaps even a little bit of a hero in defying his family’s views and espousing the cause of abolition.

  He was no such thing.

  Never before had the dreadful reality of the beliefs underpinning those proponents of slavery been driven home to him. For him it had been political, about lofty principles of justice. Never before had it been personal and about the day-to-day reality of facing people who thought you somewhere below the status of a favoured dog.

  As it was for Psyché every day of her life.

  Long stared at him, horror clear on his face. A shocked silence hung between them, in which the bridges Will had finally set alight burned and crumbled. After a moment he rose, his face sorrowful. ‘Then we have reached a parting of the ways, Will. I am sorry for it, for I feel that I have failed your father very badly. Goodbye, my boy. I will continue to pray for you.’

  Will gritted his teeth as he rose. ‘I beg that you will not, sir. Such a plethora of contradictory prayers would confuse even the Almighty. Goodbye.’

  He watched as Long walked from the room, his head and shoulders bowed. Relief and pain warred within him. Relief at the breaking of a weight of chains he had never quite realised and pain that he could not doubt Long’s sincerity. The old man, for all his hideous views, had in truth always had what he perceived to be Will’s best interests at heart and even now would forgive the prodigal and welcome him back with open
arms. Yet he could feel no shame at having dealt such a painful blow.

  Will sank back into his chair, staring at his godfather’s barely touched coffee. Blindly, he reached out to pick up his own and drained it. He pulled out his watch. If he saw Bickby today, then tomorrow he could leave early on horseback. That would give him plenty of time to make the call he had to make and still reach Psyché by late afternoon.

  Chapter Twenty

  Will left Mayfair straight after breakfast, enough clothing in his saddle bags to last several days. He clattered out along the Edgware Road, climbing steadily out of the Thames Valley, eventually turning off on to Hampstead Heath itself. On the Heath and in the ditches daffodils trumpeted the arrival of spring in golden rivers and lakes. London was far behind and the higher Will rode up the Heath in the crisp, bright air, the deeper his stomach sank into his boots.

  What was he thinking, calling on Viscount Staverton in this way? The man would kick him out with the proverbial flea in his ear for his presumption.

  And thinking that was in itself presumptuous. Far more likely he’d be told Staverton was not at home. Which was a handy way of informing someone that he didn’t even rate the flea.

  Ahead of him, through the budding branches, the tender green haze of spring, he caught glimpses of the great house where Psyché had grown up. Highwood House perched in its park and gardens at the very top of the Heath, far above London and the village of Hampstead itself.

  When he stopped to give Circe a breather from the steep climb, he looked back to see London below sprawled along the river. At this distance it looked serene, ineffable, all the smoke and grime, bustle and noise, muted by distance. Riding triumphant above it all, St Paul’s great dome watched and guarded the city and her people. A city that teemed with life, humans of all races, creeds and colours. A city that over the past seven years had become his home and dear to him.

  He understood that every change came at a cost. Accepting the post with Huntercombe and moving to London—and wherever else the Marquess happened to be—had meant moving away from his family and not only geographically. This change, this choice, would open a rift within his family that might never be bridged. In addition, he would need to find new employment that did not entail him spending so much time away from London.

  Circe shifted restlessly and Will patted her. ‘Very well. Can’t have you getting cold.’ He nudged her on with his heels and an encouraging word.

  * * *

  The young liveried footman looked uncertain. ‘The master is not receiving visitors, Mr—what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Barclay. William Barclay.’ He stood on the doorstep, still holding Circe’s reins. Only someone very close to the family would simply ride around to the stables.

  The footman frowned. ‘A moment, sir.’

  He hurried off and returned shortly with another servant.

  This second servant, an elderly man whose bearing and plain suit screamed gentleman’s gentleman, approached followed by the younger man. ‘Mr Barclay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Peter will take your horse around to the stables. If you would follow me, sir?’

  He was led to the back of the house. The servant opened a door and ushered him in. ‘If you would wait here, sir?’

  It was a large library very different from the book-lined, somewhat untidy libraries in Huntercombe’s various houses. Those were intimate with dark wood, bristling with books and papers.

  This was full of light, a gilded poem in palest blue and shell pink, the barrel ceiling rioting with cupids and other mythological beings. Huntercombe’s libraries were all about the books. This was about the room itself—a space designed and decorated to impress. Chilly, too, although a fire was lit. There was a painfully tidy desk and Will smiled, trying to imagine Huntercombe working in this room, although—he noted as he strolled along the shelves—there were some fine old editions and—

  ‘Sir?’

  He turned.

  ‘The master will see you.’

  He was shown to another door across the hall and ushered in.

  ‘Mr Barclay, my lord.’

  And now Will understood. The room across the hall was only to impress and overawe. This was where the real work was done.

  It was much smaller and far warmer. Books, higgledy-piggledy, lined three walls completely and the desk held a scramble of papers and open books, as well as a battered-looking inkwell and pen stand.

  Staverton—Will assumed it must be he—sat by the fire, his slippered feet propped on a footstool. There was a second chair and a tea table between them laden with books.

  ‘Come in, Barclay. Marney!’ This to the servant. ‘Coffee, if you please. I dare say Mr Barclay needs something to warm him after riding all that way.’

  The servant gave him a severe look. ‘My lord. Please. The doctor insists that coffee is bad for your heart.’

  ‘Oh, pish!’ The old man waved that away. ‘At my age doctors’ warnings are wasted breath. Bring the coffee and be blowed to all this mollycoddling!’

  He beckoned Will forward. ‘Sit down, lad. Sit down. Can’t be peering up at you.’

  Will sat. ‘My lord, I realise my visit is unexpected and—’

  A rusty chuckle escaped the old man. ‘Not entirely. I was told to expect you by tomorrow, but—’

  ‘You were?’

  Staverton laughed again. ‘Oh, yes. And I took leave to doubt it, I might as well admit!’ He brooded for a moment, scowling into the fire. ‘I should have just given him that tenner as it turns out.’ He twinkled at Will. ‘Still, I don’t think he expected you to be here quite this soon. You’ve only missed him by an hour or so.’

  ‘Missed who?’

  But the question was rhetorical. Will knew who Staverton’s other visitor had been.

  ‘Hunt, of course. Called yesterday on his way to Isleworth.’ Staverton snorted. ‘First I knew that Hampstead was on the way to Isleworth from Mayfair. Anyway, he stayed to sup with me and set off after breakfast.’ He smiled at Will. ‘Always was a knowing one, that boy.’

  Will had to agree, despite the jolt of hearing the Marquess described as a boy. How had Huntercombe known he’d call on Staverton before he’d known it himself?

  Then he remembered... ‘One day I hope I’ll be congratulating you.’

  Huntercombe had known exactly what he was saying.

  Staverton continued chatting generally until the door opened to admit Marney again.

  The older man looked up, scowling. ‘There’d better be two cups on that tray!’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Marney set the tray on the tea table closest to Will who pushed a couple of books aside to accommodate it. ‘Thank you, sir. If I could prevail upon you to pour?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. Dare say you think I’ll drop my lady’s Sèvres on the floor!’

  ‘Yes, my lord. Her ladyship was very fond of this service.’ Using his body to block Staverton’s view, Marney placed a thin forefinger on one of the cups.

  With a spurt of amused liking, Will saw that the cup was already half full of steaming water. He smiled at Marney. ‘Of course. I shall take the greatest care.’

  Marney winked and removed himself.

  Will poured the coffee and handed Staverton the diluted brew.

  The old man took one sip and grimaced. ‘Wishy-washy stuff these days. Hardly worth drinking. Nothing tastes the same any more. The fact is, I’m dying, Barclay. But I look back on a happy life and I like to believe I’ve done some good. And there’s one thing I did that was right and good when it might have been easier not to have done it.’ He sipped the coffee again, apparently resigned to the taste. ‘I think you must know what I’m talking about.’

  Will took a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir. Your great-niece.’

  Staverton leaned forward. ‘Have you come to ask my
permission to pay your addresses, as Hunt said you would?’

  Will was fiercely aware of the shrewd old eyes boring into him. ‘Not quite, sir,’ he admitted. ‘Rather, I am asking your blessing.’

  The old man sat back and stared at him silently, eyes narrowed. After a moment he tugged out a large, rose-embroidered handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘That’s the right answer for Psyché.’ Staverton gazed into the fire for a moment. ‘She set her face against marriage seven years ago when Hetty married young Harbury.

  ‘Said marriage gave all the power to the man, and she’d have none of it.’ He let out a breath. ‘After my lady died, she begged me, rather than dowering her as I intended, to set her up in her own business. I didn’t agree at first. Thought she’d got a bee in her bonnet and she’d see sense and change her mind.’

  Staverton’s laugh held a touch of bitterness. ‘She’d seen sense better than I had. There were one or two men who would have taken her to wife, but they baulked when they realised her money was tied up tighter than usual.’ He glanced at Will. ‘That was to protect her as far as I was able. Finally I came to see that beyond that the best way to protect her was not to protect her in the usual sense, but accept that she had to manage for herself.’

  He sighed. ‘It’s not what you want or expect for your daughter.’

  It took a moment for that to sink in fully. ‘Sir?’

  Staverton looked straight at him and tears stood in the rheumy old eyes. ‘Since I gave her her very first rose here in this house.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Dashed fire’s smoking. My blessing? You have it.’

  Will nearly choked on his coffee. ‘Just like that?’

  Staverton laughed. ‘Hunt vouched for you. What more could I ask for my girl?’

  ‘I’m Edward Long’s godson,’ he confessed.

  Staverton nodded. ‘Hunt mentioned that. Well, you can’t choose your relatives, although there might be one or two you don’t acknowledge, and even your godparents are chosen for you.’