The Young Pretender

by Sheila Simonson

  "Wait," Waring said. "Wait, I have it. 'Ran' and 'trait,' is it not?" He burst into song, basso profundo. "'The wren, the wren, the king of all birds On Stephen's day was caught in the furze. Although he was little his honour was great. Jump up, me lads, and give us a treat.'"

  "True for you," said Sholto and let his voice go raucous like a naughty boy's. "'It's oop wi' t'kettle and doon wi' t'pan And gie us a penny tae bury the ran.'" He gave Mr. Fremont a complacent nod as if to say "Your turn."

  Hugh Fremont grinned. "'I have a little box under me arm,'" he warbled in his light tenor.

  "'Under me arm, under me arm,'" the other two echoed.

  "'I have a little box under me arm. A penny or tuppence would do it no harm.'" He contrived to sound plaintive, like an orphan child. He winked at Jean. She tried to imagine him in that role at a ton gathering.

  This time all the men joined the chorus, including Mr. Tidmarsh. Mr. Thorpe listened with wide eyes.

  At that they were off, chronicling the rather gruesome hunt for the bird-king, who was cornered in "'The tree, the tree, the holly tree Where all the boys do follow me.'" Strange how holly recurred. Strange how these men were sharing an experience so much at odds with their gentility. They ended with a repeat of the chorus and a mock shout, laughing like boys.

  Mrs. Waring, who had had a Welsh nanny, sang the verse of a Welsh carol and asked whether anyone recognized it. She said it had something to do with bringing branches of holly into the house, and that the chorus consisted of "Fa la la la la La la la la." No one recognized the tune.

  Other than "The Wassail Song," which everyone knew, the company could come up with no more airs that were dangerously pagan, so Mrs. Robert played a well-received nocturne, and they sang respectable rounds and catches until someone noticed it was snowing.

  * * * *

  "A pleasant evening." Miss Bluestone peered out at the drifting flakes. They melted as they landed on the muddy road. The barouche progressed slowly because the moon was hidden by clouds. Mr. Sholto had declined to ride with them as far as the bridge. He said he wanted to walk.

  "I daresay young Mr. Thorpe was shocked by our singing," Miss Bluestone said. "He comes of a Puritan family."

  Georgy sat facing them. She giggled. She was in high spirits. "Puritan! The Puritans are dead."

  "Or gone to North America," Jean interjected.

  Miss Bluestone clucked her tongue. "Their ideas are by no means dead, and some of them were good." She sighed. "But not regicide. And not banning music and other harmless pleasures. 'Make a joyful noise unto the Lord.'"

  That brought a brief halt to conversation. However, there was no need to fear a sermon. Miss Bluestone was not sententious.

  Jean considered the transformation of Mr. Robert and Hugh Fremont and wondered if music was not more than a harmless pleasure, perhaps a great deal more.

  They reached Brecon well before midnight and went off to their bedchambers. Jean knew she would not sleep. During the Seasons she had spent in London, she had been used to revels that lasted until the small hours of the morning. Perhaps her body remembered that.

  When she had changed into nightclothes and sent the abigail off, she sat at the secretaire in her bedchamber. Without thinking, she took up her journal and began to write down a lively account of the evening. She was well into it before she noticed that something had taken her past her mental block. It might have been her earlier conversations with Miss Bluestone, perhaps even Miss Bluestone's adjuration to remember her feeling of relief when Fanny finally died. Or perhaps it was the simple pleasure of a social evening. Whatever the cause, something had freed her to write.

  By the time she finished her record of the Steward's House dinner, the candle had almost burnt down. She lit another and began to write of Fanny's death. She never after remembered at what hour she went to bed, but the birds still resident in Lincolnshire that December had begun to twitter. She slept until noon. Redens laudet domino.

  * * * *

  When Jean went down for the nuncheon a little after one she found that Hugh Fremont had called before she woke. Miss Bluestone and the girls had received him. It sounded like a pro forma morning call--he stayed less than half an hour--but the girls were in a teasing mood. They claimed he was courting Jean.

  "No, no, he's courting Georgy."

  Georgina spluttered with laughter, Caro sniffed, and Alice stared. Alice had very little sense of the ridiculous.

  Miss Bluestone made a reproving noise. Enough of that. "Mr. Sholto is sending two men to move our belongings this afternoon." By "belongings" she meant items of furniture, cookware, rugs, and odds and ends from the Brecon box rooms. Elizabeth had writ Mrs. Smollet. They were to take whatever they needed in order to repair the flood losses. "I think we should all join the servants at the dower house this afternoon and help them set things to rights."

  "Go through the snow?" Caro shivered. She was a conservatory flower.

  "Certainly. It's no more than two inches. There are no drifts."

  "D'ye mean we have to walk?"

  They walked.

  * * * *

  When Jean entered the dower house, memory of their "rescue" returned. Not unpleasantly, except for the cold and the mourning wreath, now correctly in place as another was at Brecon. For the past ten days, the servants had kept the ground floor of the dower house as warm as they could, with fires in the kitchen stove and on the hearths, in order to dry everything out--and at the last to dry the fresh wall paper and paint. Today the house was cold, and the hearths had been swept bare. As much as anything, it was the cold that made Jean's memory vivid.

  The rescue had been cold and dangerous, of course, but-- She groped for the right adjective. Exciting? Stimulating? Distracting, to be sure.

  Now the dower house itself was the distraction. The servants had done a great deal of work, and Mr. Sholto had asked the estate carpenter to render assistance too. It was Chips who had painted the woodwork and hung the wall-paper, spare rolls of which survived from periodic refurbishments of Brecon.

  Jean thanked the gods of domestic life none of the crimson-flocked paper that now marred the grand salon at Brecon intruded in the dower house. Elizabeth had had the tag-ends of those rolls burnt. The crimson had been her attempt to give Brecon a modern touch, but Brecon was not modern, nor was the dower house. The carpenter had used wall-paper leftover from Jean's father's era and had enlivened a neutral, striped paper by using white paint on the moulding, so the whole ground floor looked bright and old-fashioned once more.

  Jean watched Mr. Chips--whose real surname was Champion--hang a tranquil watercolour in the foyer. For no reason, her mind jumped sidewise. Hugh Fremont had called on her. What if he did intend to court her?

  Jean was not set against marriage. She was alive to the advantages of a comfortable establishment and to the promise of a kind of independence in the right marriage. She was not wealthy, but her father had dowered her generously, as he had all his daughters, and a great-aunt had left a modest inheritance. The wrong husband could seize those funds. No law protected a married woman's property. The right husband--or the right solicitor--might leave Jean a degree of control. She thought of Mr. Robert.

  What of Hugh? He stood to inherit a manor house in a flat, fertile landscape with hills in the dim distance. With her resources added to his, they could hire a London house for the Season.

  At that thought her mind rebelled. She could not sustain an interest in Society, but Hugh's tastes leant in that direction. And he would surely maintain his membership in the social and political clubs to which his rank gave him the entrée. Whilst she kept busy in her nursery, or flitted from concert to lecture to theatre, he would bury himself in the leathery importance of Brooks.

  What were the alternatives to this dull but not dreadful prospect? If she did not marry, Jean could buy a house. Not a cottage. She cringed at the thought of living in anything that small. The great-aunt's estate had been split between Jean and Margaret, so the twins
were rather better off than Caro and Georgy. Jean could purchase a house in a spa town, perhaps. Cheltenham? Bath? She could invite Miss Bluestone to join her in a life of good works. There were worse fates.

  She wished, not for the first time, that she had a talent--like Georgy's music--that could be cultivated until it became a passion. Some of the happiest women she knew were spinsters or widows absorbed in making music or painting or gardening. The closest Jean came to talent was her writing. Her journal pleased her. She could not imagine herself writing poetry, however, or three volume novels. And the idea of anyone reading her journal made her hair stand on end.

  I could travel, she reflected, turning over her life-options. Like Lady Hester Stanhope. Jean had been to France and Switzerland, always with Tom and Elizabeth, once with Fanny too, and the experience had been like being at home but without the comfort. Liz had loved southern Europe because she could look at the stars every night. Jean had never had an urge to do that. Or, she thought ruefully, the ability to understand what she was seeing when she did look. And she could not grasp the appeal of dwelling in Bedouin tents like Lady Hester.

  Caro slipped upstairs, out of the way of work. Clever chit. A wail from the direction of the sitting room indicated that Georgina was missing her spinet. It had been ruined by the flood, as had the upholstered furniture. Chips had sent off the rest to be refinished.

  The men Sholto assigned to help had already brought in chairs, a sopha, settees, rugs, a dining table with chairs, and small occasional tables, all borrowed from Brecon. They were now engaged in trundling boxes of china and glassware to the pantry to replace what the flood debris had smashed. Miss Bluestone rearranged the new furniture with Jem and Agnew doing the heavy lifting. Mr. Chips and Jean joined them.

  By five the ladies were as cold as Greenlanders, but it looked as if they could move back into the dower house the next day. The hired men and Jem left first. Miss Bluestone and the girls walked back to Brecon, accompanied by the maids and deep in animated discussion with Agnew and the carpenter. Georgy wanted to "borrow" the harpsichord from the Brecon music room. Miss Bluestone thought the harpsichord belonged where it was, and Mr. Chips wasn't sure how best to move it.

  They left in a clump, but Jean stayed, all by herself. She had something on her mind.

  * * * *

  Fire. It was chilly in the sitting room, the fireplace cold and swept bare. There was a grate for wood or coal to rest on, and someone had salvaged the poker and tongs. She stared at the gaping stone mouth of the hearth and passed her hand under the hood. She brushed a lever, pushed it, and felt no wiser. The room was draughty, but moving the lever had made it no draughtier.

  She picked up the empty scuttle. Candle in hand, she carried it to the basement and wandered until she found the cavern where fuel was kept. Coal and a load of dry wood had been brought in after the flood. She found tinder and kindling in the kitchen--and a flint she thought she recognized.

  Half an hour later, smudged and reeking of smoke, she sat on the rug before the hearth to admire her triumph. Three small logs smouldered on the grate, and she had not even had to sacrifice a handkerchief.

  "What on earth are you doing?"

  Jean started.

  The intruder was Mr. Sholto. He stood in the arch that led to the foyer, hat in hand and mouth agape. He was dressed for snow.

  Jean beamed at him. "Building a wood fire. The day you came to rescue us, whilst we were alone here without the servants, I realized I had never done that. Look!" Entranced, she turned back to watch the flames flicker.

  Sholto did not speak.

  "And I didn't cheat and start my fire with the candle either. Flint and tinder, pure and simple!" She straggled to her feet. "I ought to have used sea-coal from the cellar, but I cheated and used wood. I thought it would be easier to start." She brushed at her skirt.

  "My felicitations." He preserved his gravity, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "You are to be commended." Then he sat on the new sopha, put his head into his hands, and laughed until he choked.

  Jean strode to the hallway to retrieve her bonnet and pelisse. By the time he joined her, she had her indignation under control. "I'm happy to provide you with innocent amusement, sir."

  "D'ye mean to abandon your pyromaniacal effort?"

  She stared.

  His eyes were still bright with laughter. "Your fire, my lady."

  "But surely--"

  "It may die without setting the new rug ablaze, but should you not check it to be sure?"

  Jean considered. There was far more involved in making a decent fire than striking a spark. That much was clear. She supposed it must be true of many mundane chores. Making bread, for instance. She wondered whether Cook would teach her to bake bread.

  She turned back to the sitting room where her fire now burnt briskly. It was plain she would have to do something. Yet unattended fires were left to burn on household hearths all the time.

  She could place the screen across the fireplace and leave the fire to burn itself out, but would that not waste fuel? As she watched, one of the sticks of kindling she had used to prop the smallest log burnt through. The small log dropped, and one of the two larger ones fell forward. It touched the edge of the grate in a flare of sparks. She reached for the poker, bethought herself, and took the tongs instead.

  Very carefully she removed the small log and set it on a bare spot beside the grate. She nudged the larger log back and settled it. When she was sure it would not roll, she used the tongs to brush the fragments of flaming kindling away from all the wood on the grate. Then she stood and watched her fire die. She supposed Agnew or the parlour maid could salvage the logs and use them again.

  She sighed and pulled the firescreen into place. "It was a good fire."

  Sholto cleared his throat. "I've seldom seen better."

  * * * *

  It was snowing again in a dreamy way and dark and cold outside. As Jean and Mr. Sholto walked along the drive, their breath steamed on the calm air. He whistled absently, a tune she didn't quite recognize.

  Jean wished she'd brought a muff when she came north. She tucked her gloved hands into her pockets. "Have you appointed yourself my watchdog?"

  "I was on my way to Brecon. I saw a light and assumed Agnew was still at work. I wanted a word with him, so I came in when I found the door unlocked."

  She hadn't thought of locking the door. She stood stock still. "Unlocked? Oh dear. Must we go back?"

  He held up a key. "'Twas on the hall table."

  Further humiliation.

  When she said nothing, he cleared his throat again. "I'm sorry I laughed at you, my lady. It was just that you looked surprised."

  "I was surprised to see you."

  "I meant you looked surprised that you'd lit the fire."

  At that her sense of humour returned, and she laughed too. She did not cackle as he had, but she was genuinely amused. "I was surprised. No, dumbfounded. I am without any of the accomplishments a woman of sense ought to have. What's worse, I was unaware of my ignorance until we reached the dower house the day of the flood and discovered there were no servants. I even had difficulty lighting a candle."

  She made a good story of the burnt handkerchief. He chuckled but showed no further disposition to laugh like a loon. The coldness that she had felt between them since their encounter in the bookroom seemed to have eased with the fire. She was glad.

  He asked if she'd enjoyed her evening at the Moores' and said something pleasant about Georgy's playing.

  She complimented him on his harmonizing and asked if Mrs. Moore's assumption that he had been unable to speak English rankled.

  "It did at first," he admitted. "Now it's a joke between us. I had a great deal to learn, but she was kind to me. She smoothed my way with the old man."

  "Mr. Moore? He was difficult. Is she why you let Robert Moore have your house?"

  "My house?" At that he did laugh. "It belongs to the estate, and I had no intention of leasing it my
self."

  "But Mr. Moore--"

  "I daresay your father made an arrangement with him. Before that, it was occupied by Conway relatives or dependents."

  "Like the dower house?"

  "Yes. His lordship--that is the present earl, not your father--asked me to look at the records."

  "Perhaps he meant to offer it to you."

  "He did offer me it. I declined. What should I do with a house that size? Plant a colony of Scots?"

  She had to laugh. "Do you not sometimes feel homesick for Scotland?"

  He didn't answer immediately. At last he said, "I miss seeing my sisters and my brother Angus. But my eldest brother and I are happier with the border and several large shires between us." After a moment he added, "I miss the sea. I'd a fine view of the water growing up."

  Jean said, "It's beautiful country. I'd visit Scotland if I liked my sister Kinnaird. My younger sisters, and my twin and I, lived with her near Edinburgh, you know, after my father died. We are…were much happier here."

  "With Miss Bluestone."

  "Yes, indeed, though I shall have to tell her of my self-taught lesson in fire making."

  "Clearly your education was deficient."

  "In that instance, yes." They were approaching Brecon.

  He turned and made as if to use a side entrance. It led, among other places, to the estate office.

  "You ought to enter by the main door, Mr. Sholto."

  "Not if I hope to evade Mrs. Smollet and return to my mud hovel at a reasonable hour."

  "Do you dislike her?"

  "Not at all, but she force-feeds me like a French gander. She believes my housekeeper starves me."

  Jean was relieved to hear he had a housekeeper. Otherwise she would have had to imagine him omni-competent, stirring porridge over his own fire. "Are you not going to escort me to the front door?"

  "I think you have a fair chance of arriving unmolested, Lady Jean."

  She held out her hand. "Good night. I shan't burn Brecon to the ground."

  He gave her hand a slight squeeze. "Is that a promise?"

  As she went on to the front door she thought she heard him whistling again, the same tune. It wasn't a Christmas carol, sacred or pagan.