Love & Folly

by Sheila Simonson

  "I'll give Mrs. Harry my orders and await you upstairs." When she went to their bedchamber, she donned her nightclothes and sat for a time at her vanity, brushing her short curls and trying not to think the worst.

  The Dowager Duchess of Newsham had suffered grave illness twice since Emily married Richard. Both times Richard's half sister, Lady Sarah, had tried to effect a reconciliation between her mother and Richard, who was the fruit of the dowager's affair with Lord Powys. Both times Richard had refused to visit the ailing woman. His obduracy puzzled Emily as much as it appalled her, for he was not a spiteful man. Although his half brother, the present Duke of Newsham, had done Richard great harm, Richard had taken no steps to avenge himself, even when an opportunity presented. Why he should rebuff the dowager so coldly, when he treated the duke with forebearance, Emily could not imagine.

  Emily had thought her grace charming, and she knew the duchess felt some interest in Richard's well being and considerable concern for her grandchildren. After Harry's christening three years earlier, Emily had writ her unacknowledged mother-in-law a note describing the child, who was named for her own father. She sent it off without considering Richard's reaction. When she told him what she had done he was furious.

  "Don't you see how your letter could be construed?" he'd demanded.

  Emily began to lose her temper. "Enlighten me."

  "The duchess comes of a powerful family--the Tyrells, I mean, not the Ffoukes. Your little note will look as if you are currying favour for your son."

  Emily gaped. "Your mind is poisoned."

  "That may be, but I've good reason to know how that order of society conducts itself to importunate outsiders. Harry does not need the duchess's patronage."

  "I see." She drew a breath. "If that's how you feel, I'm sorry, Richard. I meant no such thing."

  "I know you didn't," he said gruffly.

  They did not discuss the matter again, but though Emily could see a certain warped logic in his viewpoint, she was unconvinced. The Dowager Duchess of Newsham, however exalted her rank, had a grandparent's interest in grandchildren. Emily's own father doated on his grandchildren, including his infant namesake, and she did not see why the dowager should be immune to the universal fascination with the future.

  Now sitting at her dressing table, Emily brooded over the puzzle of unmotherly mothers and unfilial sons. When the chill in the air penetrated her thick robe, she added a reckless shovel of seacoal to the fire instead of climbing into bed. She had no intention of retiring until Richard chose to explain the letter.

  She fetched a volume of poetry from her nightstand and composed herself to read, but the words floated on the page and the candle flame flickered in the draughts. Finally, when she had reread Mr. Coleridge's apostrophe to Mont Blanc for the fifth time she heard her husband's footsteps in the hail.

  She turned as he entered. "What is it, Richard?"

  "Another summons."

  "Then she's alive." Relief surged through her.

  "Yes. Or was when Sarah writ."

  "I'm glad."

  "Will you advise me? I don't know what's right." He made a clumsy gesture.

  She turned back to the mirror, puzzled, trying to think what she might say. She toyed with her brush. "Right in general or right for you, Richard?"

  "I don't know." He drew a ragged breath. "Sarah is a sentimentalist. I assume..."

  Light dawned. Emily sat up straight, her eyes on his reflected face. "You assume Sarah has badgered your mother into sending for you."

  He rubbed his forehead. "I may be wrong but I've no reason to think otherwise." His eyes were dark with very old pain.

  She drew a deep breath. "You should go to her, Richard."

  "Very well. Robert's carriage is waiting at the Mitre." He looked up at her and spoke more naturally. "He sent from London. The duchess is at his town house, it seems. I'll leave at noon. I might as well take Dyott with me."

  "What of the copying?"

  "Dyott wants to leave us. The election, I daresay."

  "Oh Richard, not the election. He is brooding over the younger ladies at Brecon and their resident Poet. He has forgot the election." She was relieved when Richard's mouth quirked in a smile.

  He came to her and touched her nape, rubbing the warm skin. "I'm glad you see these things, Emily. I don't." He kissed her cheek. "Come to bed. It's very late."

  * * * *

  The carriage jounced over a frozen rut and Johnny's death grip on the strap tightened.

  "Hurt?" Colonel Falk leaned forward and flipped the travelling rug back over Johnny's outstretched legs.

  "It's bearable." Johnny's breath came in a gasp of steam. The air was icy. He was sitting sidewise on the well-padded seat with both legs across it. Though the position was more comfortable than facing forward with bent knees, it rendered every jolt perilous. He felt he might roll off onto the floor at any moment, his leg hurt abominably, and his arm ached from gripping the strap. The motion of the carriage was beginning to make him queasy.

  "Shall I direct the coachman to drive slower?"

  "No, thank you, sir." Johnny swiped at his damp brow with his free hand.

  Colonel Falk leaned back against the squabs and resumed his frowning contemplation of the frigid landscape. He had been silent for the most part since their journey began, and if his mother were ill it was no wonder.

  Nevertheless Johnny felt impelled to apologise. "I'm sorry to leave you with so much copying undone, sir."

  Falk shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

  "Shall you include a map of the action before Maastricht?" The carriage heaved. Johnny grabbed for the strap.

  "I may chuck the whole thing."

  Johnny stared but Colonel Falk was still looking out the window. "After all that work?"

  Falk turned with apparent reluctance. "No amount of labour is going to redeem the book, Dyott. It's rubbish."

  "You keep saying that. I don't see it. I've read far worse."

  Perversely, the direct contradiction seemed to cheer Falk. "That's hardly a commendation. You're right, though. I exaggerate. It's a clear enough account with no particular merit other than clarity. I've come close to publishing work I was ashamed of before, but this is the first time I've hated what I was writing whilst I was writing it." He pulled the flaps of his greatcoat over his knees and regarded Johnny with quizzical hazel eyes. "Tom said you were with his company."

  The change of subject startled Johnny. "Er, only for a sixmonth. I kept falling ill." In the Peninsula, Johnny had succumbed to ague, dysentery, boils, ague, pleurisy, and ague, in that order. He had passed the Vittoria campaign groaning in the baggage train.

  "You must have joined after Tom exchanged from the Rifles or I'd remember you."

  "It was 1813."

  "If you were in the field half a year you know how to value military glory."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It's a load of misery and a pack of lies," Falk said with the air of a dominie who has a slow scholar on his hands. "History compounds the lies."

  Johnny felt as if he were being tossed in a blanket. Surely Falk understood glory? He was a hero of Waterloo.

  "Historians are liars?"

  Falk smiled. "All writers are liars. Historians just don't admit it."

  Johnny brooded. The coach swayed. When Colonel Falk continued to regard him quizzically, Johnny muttered, "I don't agree. The truth exists and a writer should at least try to find it."

  "You may be right, but how?"

  "I don't know! I'm not a writer. And where is the profit in bootless philosophizing?" Johnny burst out, goaded beyond his usual deference to his elders.

  Falk cocked an eyebrow. "For five minutes at least you forgot the pain in your leg, so it can't have been a dead loss."

  Johnny stared. "That's true, sir, but I now have a pain in my head as well."

  Colonel Falk laughed. "I beg your pardon, Dyott. I'm a vile physician, am I not? I daresay I shall finish my three-volume lie. My ov
erdraught admits of no other solution. Your labour will not go for nothing. Do you mean to canvas for Tom's candidates? Emily tells me you've an interest in Reform."

  Relieved, Johnny spoke of the election and his desire to enter the world of Whig politicks. Falk refrained from further Berkeleyan questioning and Johnny forgot his resentment.

  At Clapham they changed horses. It was dark and snowing again when the carriage pulled into Grosvenor Square and halted before the Conway house. From the number of windows alight with candles, Johnny supposed Clanross had returned from Brecon. The butler answered the coachman's imperious knocking. When Johnny had winced his way out of the carriage, he entered once more into the light of common sense. He made his farewells with more haste than courtesy and stumped upstairs on his crutches.

  He went to bed at eight after tucking into a snug dinner. Clanross and Barney Greene had gone off to separate political dinners and neither was expected until late, so Johnny retired with a clear conscience. He slept for several hours, then drowsed as the ache in his leg dictated. The bell clock on the mantel had chimed eleven when he heard a soft knock at his door.

  "Come in," he called sleepily.

  Clanross entered, shielding a candle. "I thought you might be wakeful. Waite says you appeared at the door this afternoon in a private carriage. Why the devil did you risk crocking your leg up? There's nothing urgent for you here."

  Johnny rose on one elbow, nightcap awry. "Colonel Falk had the use of a carriage--someone named Wilson sent it--so he thought I might as well come to town with him."

  "Wilson..."

  "I believe Colonel Falk's mother is ill."

  Clanross set the candle on the mantel and sank into the chair beside the hearth. "The duchess died this morning."

  Johnny's jaw dropped. "Duchess?"

  "The Dowager Duchess of Newsham," Clanross said precisely. "Richard's mother. If she sent for him he arrived too late."

  "But..." Johnny's head whirled.

  "I daresay you. know nothing of that ancient scandal--why should you? Richard would not speak of it." He stared at the toes of his pumps--he was still rigged out for a formal dinner. "Blast! Sir Robert Wilson's carriage. Then Richard is probably stopping with his sister in Cavendish Square. I'll call on him in the morning." He rose and stood looking down at Johnny. "What am I going to do with you?"

  Johnny swallowed his confusion. "Lady Clanross said I might convalesce at Brecon. If you don't dislike it, my lord."

  Clanross's eyes narrowed. "Brecon? Excellent." A smile tugged at his mouth. "You can keep a weather eye on the seditious librarian."

  "But the election..."

  "Anyone may go about polling freeholders. You, my man, can keep Lady Jean and Lady Margaret in check, a far more difficult task."

  "But..."

  "Prevent them from setting up a liberty pole on the village green, Dyott, or building bombs in the wine cellar, that sort of thing. On no account is Lady Clanross's telescope platform to be used as a rallying point for rickburners."

  "I shall do my possible." Johnny's spirits rose.

  Clanross took the candle. "Good night. Rest the leg for a few days, and I'll send you to Brecon in the carriage."

  7

  'When his town carriage pulled up before Sir Robert Wilson's portico next morning, Tom saw that the hatchments were already in place. A black crepe bow hung on the door. He directed his man to take a turn of the Square. When he knocked, Wilson's butler answered at once.

  Tom handed the man his card. "Pray convey my condolences to Lady Wilson and your master. I'd like a word with Colonel Falk, if he's up." It was half past nine, too early for such a call.

  "I believe Colonel Falk is at work in the library." The man took Tom's hat and greatcoat. "If you will be so kind as to wait in the blue salon, my lord--"

  "Show me to the book room," Tom interrupted. "Richard won't stand on ceremony."

  The butler looked doubtful but led Tom up an elegant flight of stairs and down a long darkened corridor. In the distance a housemaid scurried from sight. The man entered a half-open door. "Lord Clanross to see you; sir." Tom was at the butler's heels.

  Richard stood at a sort of prie dieu. He had apparently been writing or copying. He abandoned his pen and held out his good hand. "I thought you were snowbound in Lincolnshire. Mind the ink."

  Tom clasped his friend's hand with both his own. "I came...that is, I'm sorry, Richard."

  "Thank you," Richard said without expression.

  The butler made a discreet noise. Both men had forgot his presence. "Do you desire me to bring coffee or tea, sir?"

  "Coffee." Richard nodded his dismissal. "Thank you."

  When the door closed, Richard gestured to an armchair and pulled another for himself. Both men sat.

  "I fear you must have come too late," Tom ventured.

  "We were both too late." Richard rubbed the chair arm. "The duchess and I."

  Tom searched his friend's face. It was haggard but composed, the eyes veiled. "I wish you will come to me."

  "I ought to make myself available to Sarah," Richard said quietly. "She's cut up--low from nursing my mother through the last illness. Robert and I go on comfortably, you know."

  Tom expelled a sigh of relief. So Richard was on speaking terms with at least one of his kin. "I hope your children are well."

  "They were when I left."

  "And Emily?"

  Richard's mouth relaxed. "Emily is herself, thank God, though she dislikes living in town."

  "She's still homesick?"

  "She doesn't complain, but I fancy she's bored."

  The previous summer they had raked over Richard's reasons for removing from his stepson's estate, and Tom had been unable to fault his friend's logic. Richard could not afford to let another estate, nor even another country house. Though neither Emily nor Richard regarded the move with enthusiasm, it seemed the only answer. As Matt was enrolled for Winchester College, Winchester was the obvious place in which to take a house.

  "Are you back in young Matthew's graces yet?" Tom asked.

  Richard grimaced. "Intermittently. He's a stiff-rumped young devil but he doesn't want for sense. Amy likes her school."

  "I wish I might see young Amy. Pretty as she can stare, I daresay."

  A shadow crossed Richard's face. "I'm told she favours the duchess."

  Tom cleared his throat. "And my godson?"

  "Tommy is reading well."

  "But his hearing is gone."

  Richard nodded.

  "I'm sorry," Tom said again.

  "I daresay your boys have reached the waddling stage," Richard said tactfully.

  Relieved, Tom gave him an account of Lord Brecon and the Honourable Richard Conway. Presently his mind turned to Johnny Dyott. "I thought he still had work to do for you, Richard. He hasn't copied the whole manuscript yet, has he?"

  "He can't copy what isn't finished. Let be, Tom. Emily thinks he's taken with one of your sisters-in-law."

  "Lord, so he scents a rival." Tom started to laugh aloud, then broke off guiltily. "I beg you pardon. They're minxes, you know, and clever as paint. I thought Johnny had taken their measure at Christmas but he is at the susceptible age, after all. Did Emily say which twin he fancies?"

  A gleam of humour lit Richard's eyes. "Perhaps he's in love with both."

  Tom chuckled. "I ought to commission you to write it all up."

  At that point the butler entered with coffee. He was followed almost at once by Sir Robert Wilson, who seemed flustered to find an earl in his bookroom at the breakfast hour.

  When Tom took his leave, he thought Richard looked less drawn. He extracted his friend's promise to dine later in the week. He was troubled for Richard and concerned about the Duke of Newsham's response when that nobleman discovered his half brother in Sir Robert's house. Newsham hated Richard.

  The following Wednesday, as Tom was rigging himself out for yet another interminable political dinner, Richard appeared in his dressing room. That
is, the butler scratched at the door, Sims went to confer, there was much muttering, which Tom tried to ignore, and Sims admitted Richard to the presence. Sometimes Tom yearned for the bad old days when life was simpler and a friend might poke his head through the tent flap without ceremony.

  When Richard entered, Tom rose, abandoning the silver knife with which he had been paring his nails. "Good God, is something amiss?"

  Richard looked dazed. He gave his head a shake. "I need your advice."

  Tom caught Sims's eye. Brandy, he mouthed, and for once Sims slid from the room without comment.

  "What is it? Sit down, man. You look as if you've been overrun by a troop of cuirassiers."

  Richard gave a short laugh. "I feel it." He groped for the nearest chair and sat. "It seems the dowager left me a fortune."

  Richard's tone of voice was so much at odds with the tenor of his message that Tom did not immediately grasp what he had said. When he did, he stared. "I'm glad she showed so much good sense. My felicitations, Richard, and why the devil are you sunk in gloom?"

  Richard said through his teeth, "When your predecessor died and you came into the earldom did you rejoice?"

  When Tom succeeded to the earldom of Clanross he was under a death sentence. A chunk of metal was pressing against his spine. There had been no cause for rejoicing. That had come later, much later. Apart from his right arm, Richard was in the pink of good health. Tom didn't see a parallel and said so.

  Richard ran his trembling hand over his face. "I don't know whether to accept the legacy and risk a suit in chancery, or refuse it. I don't even know if I can refuse it."

  "Probably not. And you shouldn't. You have Tommy's future to think of. A deaf child does not have easy prospects," Tom said bluntly. "You know that. It's driven you to write what you despise and to move your family to uncomfortably tight quarters. I daresay you'd have contrived something for Tommy eventually, Richard, but at what cost to Emily and your other children? You've every right to your mother's bequest, and, if the duchess's lawyers advised her properly, Newsham will have no grounds for a suit. Use her gift to secure Tommy's future."

  "Gift? I'm not talking of a few thousand pounds," Richard said with something like despair. "It seems her grace collected terraces."