"I don't follow you."
"A genteel sum was settled on her when she married Newsham and she also had a small inheritance from her mother. She invested it all."
"I see," Tom said slowly.
"I don't think you do. I've had it explained to me by her man of business. Four hours it took him and that was after he read the will." Richard took a gulp of air.
"After the duke's death, the dowager lived retired. Her expenses were modest. She inherited a manor in Yorkshire from her mother, and she sat there, when she wasn't travelling to Harrowgate or Bath or Scarborough or Cheltenham, and accumulated properties. Her man of affairs said she made a game of it."
"Good God."
"My mother," said Richard with dangerous calm, "was a genius at what I believe Yorkshiremen call 'addling her brass.' She owned villas in St. John's Wood, and crescents and terraces in nearly every spa she visited--and in several she didn't, notably Worthing. None of it is slum property, none of it is rural, none of it touches on a manor belonging to the Ffouke estate. Where she couldn't purchase a free-hold outright she took a ninety-year lease. She transformed her dower into an empire."
That was too much for Tom. He buried his head in his hands and laughed. When he composed himself, he found Richard scowling at him. "My dear idiot, it's perfectly clear she was playing a vast joke on Newsham. I'll lay odds she left your half brother the original sum his father settled on her."
"To the farthing."
"And some respectable token to each of her other children."
"She left her jewellery to Sarah. The dowager's admirers seem to have expressed their devotion in diamonds. And she left fifty pounds apiece to the others. 'For mourning rings.'" Richard's mouth twitched at the corners.
"She must have enjoyed herself," Tom murmured, eyeing him.
To his relief, Richard grinned. It was a reluctant grin but quite genuine. "All right, so it's comical."
"Do you grudge her her joke?"
"I mightn't if I didn't feel I was the butt of it."
Tom said cautiously, "I'd lay odds the duchess had an eye on young Amy."
Richard frowned. Amy was his daughter by his first marriage. What was she now, ten? It hardly seemed possible.
"The fact is," Tom went on, "you were the only one of her grace's children the patriarchy didn't provide for. So she left you property with no traditional ties. Free property. Property that wasn't bound to parental descent. She was a genius. What's more she was a wit. I wish I'd known her."
Richard shut his eyes. "So do I."
Tom said in the silence his clumsiness had created, "I daresay no one knew her, Richard, but I begin to understand your feelings." He fingered the silver knife. "She couldn't give you what you needed, so she gave you what she could give. Wealth. It's a poor substitute for affection."
"It's a dangerous substitute," Richard said without opening his eyes.
Before Tom could ask him to explain himself, Sims barged in with the brandy decanter. Sims regarded Richard as a type of bandito and was apt to indulge in barely veiled criticisms, so Torn was relieved when his man left the room.
He poured two substantial dollops of brandy, handed one glass to Richard, and raised his own. "To the Dowager Duchess of Newsham."
"No," said Richard. "To Barbara Tyrell. Whoever she was."
* * * *
"Elizabeth! Johnny is come home!" Maggie burst into the nursery as Lord Brecon emerged from his bath.
"Waw woo," said her nephew, who was growing more eloquent by the day. "Mama."
Elizabeth took his linen-swaddled lordship, still wet and wriggling like a trout, from Nurse, and sat on the nursery rocker. "Is he really, Maggie? His leg must be very much improved." She began patting Brecon dry.
Maggie danced across the room. "Yes, he's using a stick already and says he'll be able to ride again within the month. And only fancy!" She perched on a hassock by the screen Nurse had erected to cut draughts and beamed at Elizabeth.
"Only fancy what?" Elizabeth smiled at her. Brecon squirmed. Dickon splashed in the copper bath by the fire whilst Nurse hovered.
"He's wearing trousers!"
"Ah... Splendid," said Elizabeth cautiously. Brecon had twined his pink fingers into the lace that edged her sleeve. "No, Ba. Don't eat. Trousers. Er, has Johnny taken to open collars and spotted neckerchiefs as well?"
Maggie grinned. "No, he looks very dashing, though. He brought you a letter from Clanross."
"Good." Elizabeth would have preferred Clanross himself to any number of letters but she supposed he would come within the week. She gave her son a small jounce. He gurgled happily. "Has Mrs. Smollet seen to Johnny's room?"
"I gave her her orders." Maggie blushed. She was an unassuming girl. "I hope you don't think me encroaching."
"Nonsense, darling, it's good practice for you. You will be running your own house one of these days, after all. Bring me the baby's napkin and gown, will you?"
Maggie complied, her thoughts clearly still on Johnny. She folded and fastened the soft diapered cloth in place whilst Elizabeth held Brecon for her. He submitted to the tiny vest and petticoats with fair grace.
Dickon, still in the bath, crowed and splashed harder. Nurse clucked over him: Maggie took Brecon from her sister.
Elizabeth rose. "I daresay Jean and Owen are still in the bookroom."
"Oh, yes, but they'll come out for tea. Johnny brought me...us a book, Colonel Falk's novel. Have you read it?"
"Heavens, no." Elizabeth drifted to Nurse's side and touched Dickon's damp brown curls. He gave her a wide grin that revealed his pearly, but still sparse milk teeth.
"Barf."
"Yes, darling. Very wet, too."
Dickon splashed hugely.
"Adone do," nurse scolded. "Lookee now, Master Dickon, if you've not splashed her ladyship's gown."
"Hush, it will dry." Elizabeth plucked her dripping son from the water and thrust him into the soft towel Nurse held out to her. Dickon let out a startled wail. His attitude toward baths was Roman. He would have preferred to stay in his calidarium forever.
"Johnny says it's a very amusing satire, but perhaps not quite delicate."
Elizabeth took Dickon and towel in her arms and resumed her station at the rocker. "There, there, darling, all good things must come to an end. Well, Maggie, you've grown up now. You be the judge. If the book makes you blush you needn't finish it. Will Johnny come to the withdrawing room or take his tea in his own room?"
"He'll join us. He really ought to rest his leg, though." Maggie hid her pink face in Brecon's hair.
She does have a tendre for Johnny, Elizabeth thought, resigned. Ah, well. She towelled Dickon thoroughly, tickling him when he showed a disposition to grizzle.
Presently Nurse and her aide-de-camp, a wide-eyed young girl from the village, removed the babies with a promise to display them in the withdrawing room when they had been fed, and Elizabeth and Maggie left the warm nursery for the draughty second floor corridor.
"Did Johnny keep Tom's letter by him?"
"He gave it to Fisher. Elizabeth..."
"What is it, my dear?" Elizabeth lifted her skirt and grasped the bannister.
Maggie slipped down the stair ahead of her. "I'm glad Johnny's back. Now we shall go on very comfortably." And she danced off, leaving Elizabeth to descend to the first floor hall in a thoughtful mood.
Had Maggie been feeling uncomfortable for some reason? For the obvious reason? Owen Davies. I ought to put a stop to those long sessions in the book room, Elizabeth reflected, uneasy. But how? I cannot change my tune for no reason. So far Owen has not shown any obvious partiality for one twin over the other nor is his manner--at least in my presence--unduly warm. Still . She resolved to have a private talk with Johnny Dyott.
* * * *
By the time he had drunk tea with the Brecon house party, it was clear to Johnny that Jean was in love with Owen Davies. There could be no doubt, though neither Jean nor Owen said or did anything a less acute
observer would notice. Johnny, however, was unhappily aware of every breath Lady Jean respired. Her sighs--and her glowing glances--were directed at the poet. At least Maggie seemed unaffected.
As usual, Lady Clanross was gracious to Johnny, singling him out, and questioning him with every appearance of interest about his health and his stay with the Falks. He thought he made a fair show of answering the kindly questions. He had no desire to make his jealousy a subject for talk, so he spoke with more animation than he felt and even, under Maggie's bright gaze, enlivened his account with anecdotes of the Falk children, whom he was beginning to miss. He also missed Emily. He had been able to confide in Emily.
After the tea things had been cleared away, Nurse brought in the babies and Davis excused himself. Johnny watched the poet's graceful exit with resentment. Davies did everything gracefully. Johnny's stiff leg and the embarrassing loose trousers made him feel like a Mohawk.
He admired the Heir and Dickon, who had sprouted new teeth since the New Year, and watched glumly as Jean and Maggie romped with their nephews. Nymphs and cupids. It was a charming scene spoilt only by Johnny's sense of being left out. Why had he not made a push to attach Lady Jean's interest before he left?
He knew why not. She was too young. He was her equal on paper, perhaps, being respectably descended, but in fact her birth and fortune placed her well above his touch. And she was his employer's ward and sister. Clanross would surely feel resentment if Johnny took advantage of the association with Jean and Maggie his work had made possible. They were the daughters of an earl and could look higher than the younger son of a dean. Now if the government were to make his father a bishop...
"An amusing thought? Penny for it," Lady Clanross said amiably.
Johnny felt himself flush. "I was watching Dickon," he lied. "Have you been able to use your telescope, ma'am?"
"No, it's been too cold for my blood. However, the thaw has set in. Perhaps I'll have time for an evening or two of stargazing before we go to town. I was used to begin my systematic observations in March. Johnny, I wonder if I may have a word with you before dinner. Come to my dressing room."
"Certainly, my lady." He eyed her curiously but she had returned her attention to her sons who were performing a sort of pas de deux on the withdrawing room carpet.
* * * *
A starched-up abigail showed Johnny into Lady Clanross's dressing room half an hour before they ought to have descended for dinner. Though great ladies had been receiving gentlemen in their private suites for ages, Johnny felt some discomfort at his intrusion.
Lady Clanross wore a gown of wine-coloured velvet, cut rather high, with vandyked sleeves that showed a froth of Belgian lace at the wrist. Her maid was dressing her hair. "Thank you, Dobbins." Her ladyship untied the strings of the short muslin cape that had protected her gown whilst her hair was being done.
The abigail gave the glossy chestnut curls a final, critical touch with the comb and twitched the muslin off. "Your jewellery, madam."
"Ah, what does it matter? The garnet set." Lady Clanross gave an impatient wave of her hand. "Johnny, I am glad you've come, and I daresay I don't have to point out why."
"Er..."
The maid placed a rather old-fashioned garnet necklace about her mistress's neck and gave a sniff.
"Yes, thank you, Dobbins. You may go."
The abigail whisked from the room, every muscle alert with disdain.
Lady Clanross sighed. "She keeps trying to turn me into a fashionable lady. I sympathise with her, but what can I do? The leopard cannot change her spots. For heaven's sake, sit down, Johnny. I don't want you to damage your leg out of mere politeness."
Johnny, who by then felt exceedingly uncomfortable, sat on the nearest chair.
"Jean has taken a fancy to Owen Davies. I have no objection to that so long as she doesn't throw her cap over the windmill and do something foolish."
Johnny had every objection to Lady Jean's tendre, but he couldn't very well say so.
Lady Clanross watched him in her pier glass. "She is very young."
He cleared his throat. "Yes."
"I'd like you to keep an eye on her."
Johnny felt his discomfort turn to righteous wrath. "It is no part of my work to be spying on Lady Jean, ma'am."
Lady Clanross turned to face him, her eyes narrowed. After a moment, she said slowly, "I beg your pardon, Johnny. I expressed myself incautiously."
"But that's what you want me to do."
She frowned. "I wish I could deny it absolutely. I'm responsible for Jean's conduct--and Maggie's, of course. They are young and necessarily naive. Your friend, Davies..."
"Owen Davies and I were up at Oxford together," Johnny said precisely. "We did not sit in one another's pockets."
"Yes, I see."
He wondered what she saw.
Finally, she went on, "Well, I've no desire to turn you into an informer. Nevertheless, Jean is vulnerable because she's seventeen and gently reared. Her disposition is adventurous. I sympathise with that. My own temperament is neither tame nor conventional. Still, you will allow that a young lady must stay within very strict bounds or she's made to pay--as a young man would not be--for quite natural excesses of high spirits."
"Well, yes, but--"
"Do you suppose young ladies find the constrictions they live under agreeable?"
Johnny felt his anger leak away. "No, but Lady Jean--"
"Jean," said her sister dispassionately, "would have rowed Bonnie Prince Charlie across the Irish Sea in an open boat if she had been born a hundred years ago. That is her natural inclination, and not for the sake of his bonny blue eyes. For the sake of sheer adventure."
"But Owen is not Charles Stewart."
"And Jean is not a fool. I know. But she is looking for a hero, and I rather think she has found one. I'd be criminally negligent if I didn't take precautions."
Johnny let out a breath that was compounded of pure frustration. "Owen isn't a bounder."
"If he had been he would have departed weeks ago, Clanross or no Clanross. Owen is an idealist, and like most idealists he's willing to sacrifice himself and everyone about him to his goals. I don't think Jean should be his burnt offering."
"If you put it that way," Johnny said sullenly.
"If I put it that way it's because I'm thinking of Jean's future, not his. I don't know what her future may be, but it shouldn't include social ostracism at seventeen."
"You have all the heavy guns, Lady Clanross."
A smile touched her mouth. "Do you see me as a division of artillery?"
Thrown into confusion, Johnny could only stare.
She turned back to her looking glass, patted her coiffure, and rose. "I don't want to turn you into a spy, Johnny. Tom gave you lashings of work, I daresay--"
"I have a great deal of correspondence to catch up on."
"Splendid. I thought you might take your work to the book room. You needn't report to me or betray confidences. I am counting on your mere presence to moderate Jean's transports."
That was a lowering thought. "You want a chaperon."
"If that is a more acceptable term than spy, so be it."
Their eyes locked.
"Very well," Johnny said heavily. "I'll take my letters to the book room, ma'am. I understand your apprehension."
"I'm sorry, Johnny, and I thank you."
He struggled to his feet. "There's not much Owen can do here in a political way. London's the centre of conspiracies these days." He cleared his throat. "Ma'am."
"What is it?"
He said stiffly, feeling as if he had descended to a very low level of discourse but compelled to speak, nevertheless, by his upbringing, "I must apologise for my informal costume."
She regarded his loose trousers gravely. "I think you may take your forgiveness for granted."
"I should not like to appear slack."
She smoothed the flounces on her sleeves, avoiding his eyes. "My stepmother was a very high stickler.
She always refused to admit men in pantaloons to her salon. Knee breeches, preferably black silk--that was her style--and she desired her guests to powder their hair. I am far less nice in my tastes. I think you look very well in trousers."
"It's the contraption the surgeon rigged in place of the splint. If I wear knee breeches or pantaloons I look as if I have gout."
She gave him a gamine grin that reminded him of Lady Jean. "No one could possibly accuse you of being goutish, Johnny. Maggie said you looked dashing."
He blushed but he was not entirely displeased.
8
By the time she received a letter from her husband informing her that he was coming back to Winchester at last, Emily was in the high fidgets.
Richard writ that there was a legacy. She had expected no less. Something to put by for the children's education. Very thoughtful of her grace. Perhaps Richard would now think better of his mother. How Richard was thinking of his mother was the crux of Emily's suspense, next to which learning the details of the legacy paled to insignificance.
Since she had first heard of Richard's unhappy childhood, Emily had felt his ambivalence. Richard's father, Lord Powys, had been killed by his mother's husband, the Duke of Newsham, in a duel that took place three months before Richard was born. Powys's family had made no move to acknowledge the boy. He had grown up belonging nowhere. It was a wonder he had made himself into so definite a personality.
It was not surprising that Richard wanted to live apart from his family. He kept even his sister Sarah, who was fond of him, at arm's length. As far as Emily could tell, he had tried to avoid thinking of the duchess at all. Emily fancied he could not be entirely indifferent, and she hoped he had not tried to fool himself about so primal a feeling as that of a son for a mother.
She heard the coachman's rap and Phillida's quick scuffle as the maid answered the door. Impatient as she had been, Emily sat frozen in her place. She was not sure she knew what to say now Richard was come. She set her teacup down and gave herself a shake. Foolishness. He was her husband, and she loved him. She would say what was right.
By the time she reached the foyer, he had dispatched Sir Robert's servants and was asking Phillida about the children.
Love & Folly Page 8
