Lord Augustus

by Mary Kingswood

  An instrument! Oh, the joy of being able to play again, of losing herself in the music, of forgetting, just for a while, all her grief. If only she could! If only she dared!

  “I beg your pardon, I have offended you. Pray forget that I spoke.”

  “Oh, no, no! I am not in the least offended. Who could be, at such a kind… such a thoughtful suggestion?” Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude. “It is only that I do not see how it might be contrived without raising comment or affecting your reputation. People would wonder greatly at it.”

  “It is your reputation which concerns me,” he said gently.

  “Oh, I have no reputation to lose. But I do not see how it may be done. If you give instructions at the shop to have it delivered to me, well…”

  “Quite. But the castle servants know about you, I take it? You must have dealings there. So I shall have the instrument delivered to myself, at the castle, and then I will instruct the butler to have it delivered here. Would that do?”

  “Oh, yes! That would do it! You are too good, my lord, and I know I should protest that I cannot accept such a gift and I should worry that you might overspend yourself, but I cannot. I am too happy! So thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you!”

  He bowed, and murmured some reply but she was too delirious with joy to know what he said. She hardly knew what she said herself. It was only as he stood on the doorstep, she offered him her hand, and he raised it to his lips with a look of such warmth that she was shocked at herself. To accept such a gift from a man! And now he would expect more from her, he would visit more often and she could not now send him away. How stupid of her.

  But then he said, “I shall be going away for a few days on family business, and by the time I return here I expect to have instructions to return to London. Most likely we shall not meet again. I wish you the greatest joy of your pianoforte, Mrs Walsh. I shall always look back on our acquaintance with the fondest of memories.”

  She hardly knew what she said, but as she watched him walk away down the path, her feelings were more confused than she could ever remember.

  8: Galthwaite

  The pianoforte was bought and paid for, the butler given his instructions, and Gus rode off the next morning confident that Mrs Walsh would from now on have a somewhat happier life on account of it. Yet his heart ached for her. She had talked so artlessly of her home and her father, and said little of her mother, and her older brother and sister, dead of a fever, and was there an aunt who had died as well? And her husband, the most recent grief, was not mentioned at all, as if the sorrow were still too heavy for him to be a matter for idle conversation. He had so longed to know more about him, and whether he had Ned’s nose or chin, so unlike his mother’s, but he dared not ask. Such a sad, solitary life she lived.

  Gus’s thoughts ran in this gloomy vein for some time as they passed through High Morton and on southwards, and then west on a smaller road that ran across moorland as wild and bleak as any he had yet seen. The wind, a light drizzle and the lowering clouds were all of a piece with his mood. But by degrees, as they rode at an easy pace away from High Morton and its difficulties and towards a new adventure, his spirits lifted. For a few days at least, he would have his hours and his mind filled with other matters entirely, and he could perhaps begin to put Mrs Walsh into the past. And he tried not to think of Edgerton, left behind and perhaps even at that moment paying court to the lady.

  By the time they stopped at midday to rest the horses and eat a bowl of indifferent broth, Gus was feeling much better.

  “Did they tell you anything of this Galthwaite in the stables?” Gus asked his groom as they ate.

  “Lots o’ mills and such like,” Fred said.

  “That sounds dismal,” Gus said. “Did you get the name of an inn?”

  “Aye, the Running Boar. It’s on the main street, apparently. Used to the quality.” He grinned.

  “That just means it will be expensive,” Gus said with a frown. “I shall not leave Jupiter there unless I am quite satisfied that the stables are well-managed.”

  The groom shrugged. “Just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  By the middle of the afternoon, they had come to a major route between north and south, with carriages and wagons visible in both directions. When they turned south, they found themselves constantly moving aside to allow passage to coaches with four or even six horses, pelting along at a great rate. But before long they saw the haze of smoke ahead, then one or two tall chimneys belching black clouds, and gradually the roofs and buildings came into view. Galthwaite was indeed a town of mills and manufactories, but the high buildings, the gleaming paintwork and the well-paved streets suggested that there was a great deal of money to made from such trade.

  The Running Boar was indeed expensive, but an inspection of the stables reassured Gus that the inn was a worthy recipient of his custom. He saw Jupiter settled and then bespoke himself rooms and dinner before enquiring of the landlord regarding the properties he was to visit.

  “Hexlowe Hall? Oh, that’ll be Sir Roger de Ferrers, milord. About ten mile or so from here, bit less across the fields, but the road is good, and the weaving mill will be there too. Hexlowe’s not a big place, milord, you’ll find it quick enough, I’ll warrant. Gillingham House? No, don’t recognise the name, but Church Road is just a little way along the London road, milord. Maybe ten minutes to walk it. Fifteen, at a push.”

  Suspecting that ‘fifteen, at a push’ was more than likely twenty or more, which would not leave him time to talk to the inhabitants and return before his dinner was cold on the table, he decided not to attempt it until he had fortified himself with the best comestibles the Running Boar could offer. The inn was indeed superior in that regard, and even Captain Edgerton could have found no fault, had he been there.

  But after dinner, the skies had cleared and the evening was set to be a fair one, so Gus set out to walk off the landlord’s best mutton, and find Gillingham House. Surprisingly, it was indeed no more than a ten minute walk. Church Road was wide, and lined with some fine old buildings on one side, all jutting eaves and red brick, and on the other a line of more recent houses, with the clean stone and simple lines of some eight decades ago.

  It was in the midst of the newer houses that Gillingham House was to be found, a large detached house of some four storeys, not counting the basement and attics. It was a distinguished house — or it would have been, were it not for the peeling paint and overgrown garden. Gus would have thought the place uninhabited, but for the three small children tearing round the garden, pausing every now and again to throw lumps of earth at each other. Amongst its neighbours, exuding wealthy gentility, Gillingham House was a dramatic exception.

  As Gus stood, wondering how best to proceed, a woman with untidy hair emerged from the front door of Gillingham House, yelling at the top of her lungs.

  “’ere, you mis’rable lot! Inside, ri’ now or I’ll wallop you so ’ard, you’ll not sit down for a month!”

  The children, with one final flurry of earth, ran inside on bare feet, and the door slammed shut behind them.

  Directly opposite, in the midst of the older houses, was the church that gave the road its name, a fine medieval building promising the peace and quiet to ponder this interesting situation. Inside, his footsteps echoed hollowly around the high roof. Dust motes spun in shafts of evening sun from high windows. Gus found himself a pew, and settled there, puzzled.

  Gillingham House was a property owned by Carrbridge, and presumably managed by Sharp, as agent for the marquess. So why was it seemingly so uncared-for and occupied by a family quite out of character with their neighbours? Apart from the hair, the woman looked otherwise respectable, for her gown was unremarkable, but the accent could not be disguised, and the children looked like urchins. If he had seen them at a rough farm labourer’s cottage, he would not have spared them a second glance, but here in this sedate neighbourhood, they were a mystery.

  Footsteps down th
e aisle brought a man of about forty, wearing the sober black of a clergyman, to his side.

  “May I offer you any assistance, sir? Naturally, if you are here for private prayer—”

  “Oh, nothing of the sort, sir. Thank you for your kindness, but—” He was about to dismiss the man, but it occurred to him that the family from Gillingham House must naturally attend church here. “Actually, perhaps you can help me. The house across the road, Gillingham House—”

  “Ah, the Carters,” the parson said with a heavy sigh. “Rather a thorn in our side, I fear. You will forgive my frankness, I am sure, for you cannot possibly have any connection to such a family.”

  Gus laughed. “Only in the most distant manner possible — my brother owns the property, but I assure you, he would be as horrified as I am to see it in such a state.”

  “Then how is it that it comes to be in such a state?” the parson said gently. “Does your brother not tend to property in his care?”

  “He has an agent, but… you know how it is sometimes with agents.”

  “Indeed, indeed. They are not always as diligent as one might wish. And so your brother sends you to inspect the property?”

  “To track down the agent, if I can. Do you think these Carters would have any information?”

  “If they have, they will not reveal it. A more obstructive set of people I have yet to meet. I rather fear that your journey has been wasted. Have you come far?”

  “I was in the county already on business for the Duke of Dunmorton—”

  “Oh!” said the parson, visibly adjusting his view of Gus’s position on the social ladder.

  “—so it was a good opportunity to see the place. Several places, in fact, which came into the family at different times.”

  “Oh,” the parson said again, clearly readjusting again. “Your family is not from Northumberland, I collect?”

  “From Yorkshire. I beg your pardon, perhaps I should have said — my brother is the Marquess of Carrbridge, and I am Lord Augustus Marford.”

  “Oh!” Another, even larger, readjustment. “Then he still owns it?”

  “Still?” Gus said, confused.

  “We assumed Lord Carrbridge must have sold the house. Perhaps I should also introduce myself, my lord. I am Terence Grayson, and my older brother is Viscount Grayson, who lost Gillingham House to your father in a wager sixteen years ago. I believe he would very much like to meet you. He is at my house even now.”

  Gus agreed to it, for to meet the original owner of the property was more than he could have hoped for. The parson’s house was modest, tucked unobtrusively into a quiet side street, but, he explained, it suited him well since he had never married. The viscount and viscountess were staying with him at present so that Lady Grayson might receive treatment from her physician.

  Viscount Grayson was a taller, bluffer version of his brother, although not much older than him.

  “You must understand, Marford,” he said when they were settled in the parson’s comfortable book room with Madeira to hand, “that I came into my honours most unexpectedly. One year I was just an unnoticed cousin, the next a peer of the realm. It goes to a man’s head, rather. At least, it went to mine. I became rather wild for a time, and tried to run with the London crowd. I drank, I gambled, I… well, I did a great many things of which I am now heartily ashamed. Not surprisingly, I lost a great deal of money, and when my funds ran low, your father suggested I should wager a property or two. He himself did so, and I saw him lose several. I even won an estate from him one evening, although he won it back the following night. Such a charming man, Charles Marford! So much fun, you cannot imagine. For a man like me, unused to high living, it was enchanting and a great privilege. But then he persuaded me to wager Gillingham House, and when it was lost—”

  He paused, and for a moment the room was quiet, the only sound the low crackle of flames in the hearth.

  “I realised at once that I must stop, before the madness consumed me entirely. That house was intended for my brother, Marford. The living was to be his, in time, and the house with it. Yet it was gone, and I have never forgiven myself.”

  “It was never of the least consequence to me,” the parson said. “Having no wife or family, my needs are modest.”

  “But it was of consequence to me,” his brother said. “However, there was nothing to be done about it, for I was in very deep water by then. I was very fortunate in my wife, however, whose good sense and faith in me brought me through a dreadful time of remorse. My father-in-law advised me, and there were some lucky investments, and within three years or so I had come about. I wrote then to your father, but received no reply. When he died, I wrote to your brother, but again was not honoured with a reply.”

  “I can say with some confidence that your letters never reached the intended recipients,” Gus said. “I should imagine the agent, Mr Sharp, intercepted them both. But he has vanished, and my brother now has an excellent secretary, so I venture to suggest that an approach now would receive the attention it deserves. Indeed, my brother may be very pleased to sell, under his present circumstances.”

  “This agent, then… he has been lining his pockets?” the parson said.

  “We cannot at all tell what he has been doing, except that there is less money than there ought to be, and a great confusion about where it has gone to. The marquess did not even know of Gillingham House or Hexlowe Hall or the weaving mill until recently, still less that he owned them.”

  “Hexlowe Hall? Sir Roger de Ferrers?” the viscount said, in surprise. “I am sure you must be mistaken about that, for the Hall has been in the de Ferrers family for generations. He is an old friend of mine. If you mean to visit him, I should be happy to accompany you. He, at least, is an honest man and will not fob you off as these Carters will do. If indeed the Hall is owned by your brother, he will say so.”

  Gus thanked him with sincerity, and a time was fixed for the following morning when they would ride to Hexlowe Hall.

  Having seen Gillingham House, Gus was unprepared for the splendour of Hexlowe Hall. A sweeping drive past woodlands and lakes led by degrees to a fine house in the classical style of a hundred years earlier, with a massive pillared portico and a roof edged with statuary. A butler and two footmen emerged from the house to greet them, and grooms appeared from nowhere to tend the horses. Gus had brought his own groom, naturally, to take care of Jupiter, but he noted the smart uniforms and efficiency of the resident grooms and was impressed.

  Inside, the butler led them in stately procession across a tiled entrance hall, lined with busts in the Roman style, and into a large book room, or perhaps a small library. There Sir Roger de Ferrers and his wife waited to greet them. He was a man of perhaps seventy, physically robust but with eyes that turned unseeingly towards them. Lady de Ferrers was no more than forty, and a beauty still. How dreadful to be married to such loveliness and yet be unable to see it! But then she would live on in his mind just as she was in her prime, unspoilt by the years. Gus could not decide whether that would be any compensation or not. If he were to have the inestimable good fortune to be married to Mrs Walsh, he would—

  But that was a fruitless line of thought.

  The courtesies were exchanged, refreshments were brought and as he sipped Madeira and nibbled macaroons, Gus wondered why it was that polite society insisted that two or three people could not meet together for rational conversation without there be food and drink presented.

  Eventually, Lord Grayson came to the point, and Gus told again his reasons for visiting, and Lord Grayson related his own story, which clearly his friend of many years’ standing had not heard before. What had they talked about, over all their long acquaintance?

  Sir Roger listened quietly, asking only an occasional question, but eventually all was told. Still he was silent. Even his wife expected some response from him, for she said, “Roger?” in a puzzled voice.

  He sighed, but still said nothing. Eventually, it was Lady de Ferrers who sai
d, “You are correct that the Hall — indeed the whole estate — is owned by Lord Carrbridge, and we must pay rent to live in our own home. Roger never speaks of it, but he lost it in a bet many years ago. I do not know what the bet was—”

  Sir Roger coughed, and for a moment his wife was distracted by the need to attend to him.

  “No one knows of it but us,” she went on. “Even our son does not know, and will not, until he decides to look for a wife. Then he must be told that our fortunes depend on him marrying well.”

  “It has not been easy,” Sir Roger said. “With the loss of the estate, we live on my small investments and my wife’s dowry. It is difficult to maintain the appearance of wealth when one is not at all wealthy, but we must, of course.”

  “Must you?” Gus said at once. “Why not move somewhere smaller?”

  “Because the de Ferrers have lived at Hexlowe Hall for two hundred and fifty years,” Sir Roger said, in ringing tones. “First in the medieval manor house, and then this one. This land is where the de Ferrers live, Lord Augustus, it is our place in the world. Would your brother give up Drummoor, hmm?”

  “I beg your pardon, I meant no offence.”

  The old man chuckled. “None taken. Are you like your father, young man? Do you take after him in ways or looks?”

  “In looks, perhaps, but in ways, not a great deal,” Gus said, smiling. “I have had my wild moments, it is true, but Father was positively ramshackle, if even half the rumours be true.”

  Sir Roger guffawed. “Aye, that he was, but such a charming man. Feckless, of course, as they often are when they have seemingly limitless riches at their command. Wagered huge sums on trivial matters — whether a log would shift on the fire before the clock struck, for instance, or whether a servant would enter through one door or another. Beetle racing — that was one of his inventions. You would not believe the guineas that changed hands over beetles. And he wagered property as well. Everyone in his set did, and some of those places went round and round. One of Camberley’s changed hands about twenty times one year. It was Dunmorton’s originally, but he dowered it to Camberley to get rid of one of his daughters. Camberley never liked the place above half — trade, you see. Some mill town or other. So he wagered it, and it became a game, anyone who won striving to lose it as soon as possible. Carrbridge held it three or four times, as I recall. I had it once, but lost it again. Ah, but that was such a long time ago — more than thirty years, it must be. But as to the matter in hand, I shall give you the name of the attorney who collects the rent from me and—”