Henry smiled at his son-in-law. “Good morning, Jeremy.”
“Morning,” Jeremy returned. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” Henry lied, as he made his way to the sideboard, where he filled a plate before returning to the table where Marianne was pouring his tea. He watched as she added the precisely correct amount of milk and passed the cup and saucer to him.
She was the only one who ever got it just right. It was a thought that made him happy and sad at once.
He smiled brightly at her. “So,” he said. “Do you have any plans for the day?”
“Two morning calls,” Marianne said. “A duty one to Aunt Tilly”—she pulled a face, making Henry smile. His older sister, Mathilda, was something of a trial to say the least—“and one to see Becky Sanderton—do you recall Becky? We came out the same season and got on famously. She’s marrying Auberon Smyth in the autumn. He hasn’t got two feathers to fly with, but she tells me it’s love.” She rolled her eyes. “Then I’m going into town to get some lace and ribbons to trim some of my old gowns with—the dressmaker is letting them out.” She sighed. “Clothes are such a tedious business when one is in an interesting condition.”
Jeremy looked mortified, a faint flush across his cheeks. Henry had to check a smile. Poor Jeremy always got so embarrassed when Marianne made even subtle references to pregnancy or married life in front of Henry.
“Well,” Henry said, “how about I relieve some of the tedium by taking you to Gunters for an ice after?”
Marianne brightened. “That would be lovely! Though I’d rather go to Mercier’s on the Strand. They make the most wonderful pastries and confections there.” She smiled happily. “And it’s close to the haberdashery I’m going to.”
“Excellent,” Henry said. “I’ll come and meet you there then. What time?”
She thought about that. “Two o’clock? I shouldn’t keep you waiting much beyond that and if I’m delayed at the haberdashers, the carriage will be outside for you to wait in.”
“I’m not so old that I can’t stand outside a shop for a few minutes!” Henry protested, only half-pretending to be offended.
She laughed. “I’m only judging you by my own standards, Papa. These days I get very cross when I have to stand around.”
“Hmmm,” Henry said. “Well, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time—and look forward to our visit to Mercier’s.” In truth, he was very much looking forward to getting her to himself for a little while.
Just then, the door opened and Freddy entered the breakfast room. He gave a sort of grunt which Henry supposed was intended as a greeting and went straight to the sideboard.
“Good morning, Frederick,” Henry said pointedly when Freddy joined them at the table. “Did you sleep well?”
Freddy nodded, but his expression was pained and he looked distinctly green about the gills. Plainly, he was suffering from the effects of the previous evening. He looked down at the plate he had just filled and paled.
“Perhaps,” Henry said, “You should have stayed in bed a while. You do not seem quite ready for breakfast.”
“I’m meeting Percy at ten,” Freddy mumbled. “We’re going to Tattersalls.”
“Who is Percy?” Henry asked.
Marianne made a face. “Percy Bartlett. He and Freddy have become bosom friends.”
“Sir Algernon Bartlett’s son?” Henry asked, frowning. Algie Bartlett had been two years above Henry at school and a perfectly nasty piece of work.
“That’s him,” Freddy said. “He’s a jolly good fellow, actually. Been showing me around town.”
“Been showing you around all the gambling hells, you mean,” Marianne muttered disgustedly.
“Will you stop being so bloody interfering?” Freddy snapped. “It’s no business of yours what I do.”
“Freddy!” Henry said sharply.
Freddy’s gaze swivelled to him. “Well, she started it!”
“And you’re the one who’s being insulting,” Henry said. “Apologise for your rude behaviour.”
Freddy had been worrying him for a while. He’d shown no interest in university and in the last year or so had been getting through his quarterly allowance within a fortnight of receiving it. Henry suspected he was gambling—so many young men did, falling into towering debt and ruining themselves. Two months ago, Henry had given Freddy a stern lecture about the need to live within his means, but the young man had only sat in sullen silence, saying nothing.
Just as he was doing now.
Henry opened his mouth to speak again, but Marianne beat him to it.
“Do you know, Freddy,” she said. “Ever since you became friends with Percy Bartlett, all you do is talk about how gentlemen ought to behave, thinking yourself so wise. Well if this how a gentleman behaves, I should rather invite a pig to my table!”
Freddy glared at her. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion on my conduct.”
Marianne’s eyes flashed with temper. “And I don’t recall asking for your permission to give my opinion in my own house.”
Freddy stood up so abruptly his chair rocked. “Christ almighty, Mari! For once in your life, can you just stay out of my business?”
“Watch you drink and gamble yourself to ruin, you mean?” Marianne snapped. “Because that’s all you seem to do these days!”
“God in heaven, do you ever shut up, you harridan—”
Henry slammed his fist on the table and roared, “Freddy!”
Freddy startled and turned to face Henry, a flash of remorse touching his angry expression before he rallied and cried, “Well, she called me a pig, and a wastrel!”
“I did not,” Marianne protested. “I merely said that I should prefer to invite a pig to my table, and pointed out that you’ve been drinking and gambling incessantly. Both of which are perfectly true!”
Freddy spluttered.
“And you might care to consider,” Marianne continued implacably, “that I am your elder sister. A gentleman should treat both his elders and his sisters with the utmost respect, don’t you agree, Jeremy?”
Marianne’s husband, who had continued eating his breakfast with perfect equanimity throughout the spat, looked up and smiled at his wife. “Quite so, dearest.”
“Well of course Jeremy agrees with you!” Freddy howled.
“Not so,” Jeremy protested. “I only agree with Marianne when she’s right. It’s just that she’s generally right about everything.” He glanced Henry. “Vastly sensible woman, your daughter,” he said in the manner of one bestowing a compliment.
Henry smiled at Jeremy, grateful to him for at least trying to take some of the heat out of the argument. Marianne and Freddy had always clashed.
Freddy stood abruptly. “I’m not hungry,” he announced. “I’ll get something to eat when I’m out.”
“Before you go,” Henry said. “Apologise to your sister, please.” His tone was quiet but unmistakably firm.
“But—”
“And Marianne,” Henry added, turning to his daughter. “You too. You are not blameless here.”
Marianne’s cheeks pinkened.
Henry merely waited, his gaze moving between them.
Freddy’s nostrils flared with temper, but at length he turned to Marianne and said stiffly, “I apologise.”
Marianne nodded, not meeting his eyes. “I do too.”
“Thank you,” Henry said. “Freddy, you may go now, but I wish to speak with you later, before dinner. Is that understood?”
Freddy nodded stiffly and strode out, closing the breakfast room door behind him sharply.
Into the silence, Marianne said, “He’s becoming quite impossible, Papa.”
Henry sighed. “It doesn’t help when you scold him, you know. You’re only a year and a half older. Of course he resents it.”
Marianne flushed. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly, “But I don’t want him to turn into a wastrel like that awful Percy Bartlett who—by the way, Papa—is
at least five years older than Freddy.”
“He needs occupation,” Jeremy said quietly.
“I know,” Henry said wearily. He’d looked into a career in the church for Freddy—a well-trodden path for second sons—but Freddy had rejected the idea out of hand when he’d raised it.
“Perhaps,” Marianne said slowly, “you should consider buying him a commission.”
Henry’s gaze snapped to her and he said shortly, “What an absurd idea!”
Marianne met his look with a steady one of her own. “Papa, you know that’s all he’s ever wanted. His only ambition since he was a boy has been to have a military career.”
“It’s out of the question,” Henry said flatly.
“But Papa—”
“No, Marianne,” he said firmly. “My mind is made up.”
She pressed her lips together, shaking her head irritably. “You should unmake it, then,” she said. “At least give it some proper thought.”
But he had given it proper thought—far too much thought arguably. He’d lost a brother to the war, when Freddy was just a little boy. Philip had died in Portugal charging the French guns. A hero’s death, they’d said.
When Henry thought of Freddy in a cavalry officer’s uniform, his chest seized up with sheer terror.
“I’ll speak with him,” he said firmly. “And we will agree a way forward. I am sure.”
To his surprise, Marianne’s eyes filled with tears.
“Marianne!” he said, dismayed. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry I snapped at Freddy,” she said. “This baby has made me a harridan, just like Freddy said.”
Jeremy leaned forward and patted her arm. “Never a harridan,” he said loyally.
Marianne made a strangled noise that was part laugh, part cry. “A watering pot then. And a whale, probably, by the time the baby arrives, given how many sweet things I keep eating.”
Jeremy laughed softly. “Then you shall be the most beautiful whale in all England.”
She snorted through her tears. “You wretch!”
Henry smiled to see their affection. The lot of a parent was to worry, and he did so daily: over the prospect of Marianne giving birth, and Freddy’s nonsense, and George’s quiet melancholy. But this at least, this marriage, brought him comfort. He’d been acutely aware that his daughter’s happiness would depend on the character of her husband, and acutely relieved when she had selected Jeremy Fenwick. To see his daughter settled with a man who so obviously adored her was a blessing indeed.
Henry stood and walked round the table to where she sat, bending down to drop another kiss on top of her head, relishing the tiny gesture of affection even as he suppressed a pang of sadness at the knowledge she was growing further from him with each passing year.
“Don’t worry about Freddy,” he said gently.
She looked up at him then, her blue eyes very trusting, and he was reminded of when she was small and motherless and utterly dependent upon him.
A wave of love washed over him.
“Everything will be all right,” he said.
He hoped it was true.
Mercier’s was a pretty little place. When Henry and Marianne arrived, it was already bustling with custom.
A young woman in a black gown with a crisp white apron approached them, her hands folded at her waist.
“Good afternoon,” Henry said. “Do you have a table free?”
“We have one left,” the young woman replied, smiling. “If you don’t mind sitting in the corner?”
“Not at all,” Henry said. “Lead the way.”
She led them to a table out of sight of the main door. Henry fussed over Marianne, getting her settled before taking his own chair.
They ordered tea and a plate of assorted cakes and pastries. Despite how busy the place was, everything arrived quite promptly, and Henry watched in amazement as Marianne worked her way through a canelé, a conversation, and a Charlotte russe.
“You didn’t used to even like sweet things,” he said in amazement.
“I know!” she exclaimed, blue eyes wide. “But ever since the sickness wore off, I’ve been gorging on them.” She sighed and took another spoonful of thick Bavarian cream, before adding, “Can we get some more tea?”
“Of course,” Henry said, swivelling in his chair. He looked for the young woman who had seated them earlier, but instead an older man, scanning the tables with the air of a proprietor checking on his customers, caught his eye.
Henry’s immediate impression was of a tidy, alert fellow with a pleasant expression. His next thought was that the man was oddly familiar. And then, as the man began to move towards their table, a polite smile on his face, Henry thought…
…That’s Jean-Jacques.
Years before, this man had been a beautiful, lissom boy, all black hair and gleaming eyes and pouting lips—very popular at the Golden Lily, the brothel where Henry had met Christopher. Henry had been Christopher’s protector then, and Jean-Jacques had been Christopher’s closest friend.
Now Jean-Jacques must be around forty years old. He was still handsome, but the extravagant beauty of his youth had faded to something less eye-catching. Now he was a nice-looking, respectable sort of gentleman. Was he the proprietor of Mercier’s, or the manager perhaps?
Actually… Mercier. Was that not Jean-Jacques’s name? Jean-Jacques Mercier?
Henry saw the moment that Jean-Jacques recognised him in return, a brief flicker of shock, quickly veiled. The smoothing of his expression to blankness.
“Monsieur?” he said smoothly when he reached the table. “How may I help you?” Astonishingly, his accent was as thick as ever.
Somehow Henry managed to ask for more tea, and amazingly, the voice that came out of his mouth was calm and certain. But even as he placed the order, his mind was racing. Was Jean-Jacques still friends with Christopher, he wondered? Might he have news of him?
Would Henry even want to know if he did?
Jean-Jacques glided away, and Henry watched him go, his heart thudding hard.
News of Christopher Redford was something that Henry had never permitted himself to seek out. Not on any of his rare visits to town, not by discreet inquiry, not by asking any former acquaintances who might happen to know.
After all, Christopher had signalled quite clearly his lack of interest in Henry.
Nevertheless, Henry had always wondered. And now, seeing Jean-Jacques here—well, it was tempting to take the opportunity to find out the answers to all the questions that had plagued Henry for so long. How had Christopher’s life proceeded after Henry left? Was he well? Happy? Had he retired from his old profession, as Jean-Jacques appeared to have done?
Christopher would be forty—no, one-and-forty—now. So many years had passed that it was entirely possible Henry would walk past Christopher in the street without knowing him.
Perhaps he already had.
Yet he had known Jean-Jacques. Known him in an instant.
“Papa?”
Henry started at Marianne’s voice. “Sorry,” he said, dredging up a smile from somewhere. “I was miles away. What were you saying?”
She began talking again, imparting some family news from Mathilda that Henry nodded along to without quite taking it in. As hard as he tried to listen, his attention was fractured.
The tea, when it arrived, was brought by the same young woman who had shown them to their table before, and when Henry discreetly glanced around, he saw no sign of Jean-Jacques.
Eventually Marianne set her cup down on the saucer. “As much as I should love to eat that last canelé, I shall resist. I am fit to burst.” She sent him an accusing look. “You hardly ate a thing.”
Henry glanced down at the barely touched choux pastry on his plate. “I wasn’t very hungry.”
Marianne sighed. “I see that.”
Henry turned his head and caught the young woman’s eye, signalling that they were finished. She nodded and turned away, then returned to their
table with a neatly written receipt on a small silver tray. Henry paid their bill, adding an extra coin for the young woman, who smiled brightly in thanks.
“Everything was delicious,” Marianne said. “Please do pass on my compliments to the kitchen—is the pastry cook French?”
“My mother is the pastry cook, ma’am,” the young woman said, bobbing a small curtsey. “She and my father own Mercier’s, and yes, they are both French, though they have lived in England many years now.”
Henry glanced at her, noticing for the first time that she had the same dark hair and eyes as Jean-Jacques. The same fine features.
“Your father is the gentleman who was on the floor earlier?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Monsieur Mercier himself,” she replied, smiling. She lifted the silver tray. “Thank you for your custom.”
They rose from their chairs and wove their way through the maze of tables to the front door. There was no sign at all of Jean-Jacques, and Henry’s stomach knotted as he wondered if the man was avoiding him.
Perhaps Jean-Jacques was simply being discreet. That would be the sensible thing to do, after all.
Once outside, they made their way to the waiting carriage.
“The conversations were delicious,” Marianne said wistfully. “I swear I could eat a half dozen for breakfast every day.”
Henry chuckled. “Shall I buy you some more to take home?”
“Oh, yes,” Marianne said, perking up. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Henry’s heart began to race a little.
“Let’s get you settled in the carriage,” he said. “Then I’ll go back and fetch some.”
Marianne beamed at him. “Thank you, Papa.”
In short order, Henry was entering the tea room again. The same young woman greeted him, and he placed the order with her, assuring her he was happy to wait a few minutes.
Restored (Enlightenment Book 5) Page 5
