by Ella Edon
Never mind the fact that things were known, he reasoned, as long as there was the possibility of great profit. To Jonathan, this seemed a fitting comparison to the many gambling dens in London, which offered the possibility of great wealth. There was something very alluring about the hope of great wealth.
He had also studied the fascinating book by Adam Smith entitled The Wealth of Nations, in which he discussed the reasons why nations become wealthy and, of course, why others do not. Smith had written that there was an invisible hand controlling the trade between nations, and that hoarding wealth was not the way to prosperity.
Jonathan felt, all of a sudden, that he understood this principle, and that losing a certain amount in a gambling evening was, in fact, the “invisible hand” at work. In the case of his gambling efforts, there were things that would aid this hand in passing off huge amounts to him. The first was the demeanor of the people in the room. That is, if they saw that he won all the time, they would suspect that he had an advantage, and would move to cut him off, as the French government and the city of Paris had done to one gambler who had won so consistently. Apparently because of his great skill, he was banned from the country. Jonathan needed to avoid this.
However, he also needed to plan carefully for this gambit. He needed Garance, both for her wise counsel and for her ability to create a diversion. Consequently, he descended the grand staircase of the London home on Wimpole Street, and was greeted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Porter.
“Good morning, My Lord,” said Mrs. Porter as she hurried to make some tea. “What would you have for breakfast?”
“I should very much like a good English breakfast, by your leave, Mrs. Porter. But I also wanted to be sure that your wages are up to date, as I very much suspect they are sadly in arrears. Would I be correct in this assumption?”
“Oh, my goodness, My Lord. That should not be your concern.”
“Then whose concern is it?” He looked at her and she looked back at him in a distinctly supercilious manner.
“Why mine, of course,” she said.
“I see,” said Jonathan. “And have you paid the servants lately?”
“Well,” she said giggling nervously. “In point of fact, you might have noticed that Nathan, our driver, has flown the coop.”
“Indeed, I had,” said Jonathan.
“It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be any funds to pay them. Now I understand that your Lordship has more important things to do, and that your father, rest his soul, rarely found time to keep that money jar filled neither.”
“Mrs. Porter, I am doing my very best to make sure all my debts, be they mine or my father’s, are up to date. Now, can you find Nathan and tell him that I shall pay him his wages and would like his services in the future?”
“I know where his wife lives, so I reckon I can find him, My Lord.”
“Very well. And how much money do you need to make sure that all the servants, yourself included, are paid?”
“Well, My Lord, I should have to look at the ledger, but I believe it is somewhere around ten guineas.”
“Is that all?” he said.
“It’s just that it goes back a few weeks. If you’ll forgive me for saying, sir, my wages was eight shillings a week, and they have not been paid since before Christmas. And Nathan left because he has a family to support, and he needed ready money.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He took out twelve sovereigns, and put them in Mrs. Porter’s hand. “Do see that everyone is paid their back wages, and one week in advance.”
Mrs. Porter began giggling nervously. “Oh, My Lord! That is very generous of you, but I thank you. And the servants will all be very grateful.”
“Will that be enough?” he asked.
“Why yes, My Lord, that will be fine.” She skipped out of the room and could be heard singing in the kitchen. Jonathan was embarrassed to ask her, because he actually had no idea how many servants they had. He knew, at some level, that there was a valet who had helped him, and several housemaids, one of whom was named Tilly, a housekeeper, Mrs. Porter, a cook, and a driver, Nathan, but he had no idea if there were others, or what their names were.
Mrs. Porter returned in a few minutes, allowing Jonathan to read the morning paper, with a plate brimming with eggs, ham, toast, and sausage, with one squashed tomato. On her tray, too, she had a pot of tea.
“Here we are, My Lord,” she said, still smiling from ear to ear. “And may I say that we are all very glad to be paid for our hard work.”
“I am more than happy to recompense you for your work and your allegiance,” he said. “Now, I shall be going out today to visit a friend, but I expect to be here for dinner. If my sister Cecily is about, I should request her attendance as well.”
“I’m right here, brother,” said Cecily, bursting through the door to the dining room. “And I should be glad to accompany you to dinner.”
“I’ll dine here at seven, Cecily, if you would join me.”
“I shall. And what are you up to today?”
“Cecily,” Jonathan whispered. “I went gambling last night!”
“Dear God, Jonathan! Are the sins of the father already being visited on you?”
“You don’t understand. I went to Cheapside to try my hand at Pharaoh.”
“And? Did you win? Wait a minute; how did you have any money with which to bet?”
“Garance lent it to me,” he said. “And yes, I did win, as a matter of fact.”
“You are aware that it is a game of chance are you not?”
“Largely, yes. This was the game that father played, Cecily. But I won. I won, in fact, more than a hundred sovereigns. I have already paid the servants, and I expect that I will go back and redouble my efforts.”
“It’s a game of chance, Johnny. Don’t be a fool; stop while you’re ahead.”
“I realize all that you say, my dear, but I was frightfully good at it. You remember how good I’ve always been at games of chance when I was young. And I have a remarkable ability with numbers, both in recalling and understanding their purpose.”
“I’m sure you do. Well, but it is a game of chance, but I hope you are right about being good at it. It is, after all, entirely random.”
“I know,” he said, standing up. “But you shall see. In the meantime, I am off to the home of the Parisian Nightingale.”
“I see,” said Cecily. “Just be careful of her. I hear she is a heartbreaker. Thousands have thrown themselves at her.”
“But she only throws herself at one: me,” he said.
Having found a hansom to take him to St. Martin-in-the-fields, he arrived at the home of Mademoiselle Garance Monteux at three o’clock sharp. He was shown in by the same mad butler that had inquired about his name several days ago.
“I am here to see Miss Monteux,” said Jonathan.
“You too, eh?” said the butler.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” said Jonathan.
“Of course, you don’t. Well, you can bleedin’ well show yourself in. I’ve ‘ad it with all this comin’ and goin’. Sorry, your Lord, but I can only walk so many staircases in one day. I’ve ‘ad it.”
“I understand,” said Jonathan, although he actually did not know what was happening. However, the butler’s consternation was explained once he reached Mademoiselle Monteux’s flat.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a scene of utter pandemonium. Even before he opened the door to her drawing room, he could hear the melee. It had the air of a large dinner party, with the sounds of teacups and saucers, spoons clinking, and male conversation at high volume.
When he opened the door, there must have been ten or twelve boisterous young men, none of them known to Jonathan, paying tribute to Garance, who sat in the middle of the room, coquettishly batting her eyelashes. Or so it seemed to Jonathan. In fact, she was sitting on a chaise lounge, her beautiful pale green and gold gown draped over her legs, and a glass of port in
her hand. She looked beautiful, Jonathan noted. But he also noted that there was a young man on one knee before her, her hand in his, his lips on her hand.
Jonathan was shocked by this scene. Garance was involved in an intimate conversation with this young man and did not notice that he had entered the room. Devastated, he stood, transfixed, and heart-broken. He decided that he had been a fool all this time, loving a woman who was loved by the whole world, and who, no doubt, reciprocated this love. She was, after all, The Parisian Nightingale.
She was beautiful, she was desirable, and England was a land in which this sort of magic was rare. Her appeal was evident to all who attended her concerts. While Jonathan felt no particular worry about the old men and roués who showered her with flowers and gifts each night, the presence of so many young and desirable gentlemen wooing her in her own apartment, and by the sound of the butler’s frustration, this had been going on for quite a while devastated him.
He backed out of the room and let himself out the front door. He had to seek out a hansom cab in this neighborhood, and when not finding one anywhere nearby, decided to walk the rest of the way home to Wimpole Street.
When he had reached home, he climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, having composed a letter on the way home in his heart. He sat at his desk and pulled out a scented sheet of rather expensive and beautiful lavender paper.
Dear Garance,
I came to visit this afternoon, as I promised, and found myself in the middle of a very uncomfortable situation. Naturally, I was shocked by the display that confronted me. I was under the misapprehension that you and I were to be engaged, but when I saw the many young and attractive men who were clearly vying for your affections, I found myself bereft.
Being a gentleman, I felt it my duty to depart forthwith, and not return. And yet, being in love with you as I am, I felt it equally important to write to you and explain my actions. I shall be leaving London tomorrow as early as possible to save us both the embarrassment of an encounter.
I wish the very best luck in this country, and I am quite sure that you will continue to impress all and sundry with your remarkable and stunning gifts. I feel like a fool not to have been able to see that your heart is in your art. Do forgive my foolishness and naivete. I leave with a heavy heart.
I remain yours, forever,
Jonathan Anderson-Reese, Earl of Yarmouth
Jonathan sealed the letter with a drop of wax, pressing his seal into it, so that it was pressed flat. The letter, sadly, had been smudged by his haste and his heartfelt tears. He was a fool, he realized, and he had other things that demanded his attention. He pondered writing to Miss Cordelia de Montmorency and requesting an audience, but similarly decided that it was better for him to leave and settle things in Lincolnshire with the money he had. He rang for Mrs. Porter who arrived forthwith.
“Mrs. Porter, would you be good enough to send a messenger to the apartments in St. Martin-in-the-fields, to Mademoiselle Garance Monteux?”
“Were you writing a letter of admiration for the Parisian Nightingale, my Lord?” she said, with a wink. “I heard she is a beauty. There are ever so many young men after her, but I’m quite sure you will win her heart. Just remember that you must marry well. But I know you gentlemen and your wild oats.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Porter. That will be all,” he said, turning away from her to hide the tear that was sliding down his cheek.
Chapter Eighteen
Debts
Jonathan slept fitfully, tossing and turning all night. He was beset by nightmares, mocking his foolishness. When dawn came, he rose, aching in every bone of his body, and rang for Mrs. Porter to draw a bath for him.
“But, it’s January, My Lord,” she said.
“I am afraid I do not understand.”
“You’ll catch your death my Lord,” she said.
“Never mind that, Mrs. Porter. It would be a welcome release should I catch a chill and die.”
“Oh, really My Lord, you mustn’t think like that. Come now. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”
“Really, I should prefer a bath.”
“Suit yourself, My Lord,” she said, backing out of the room, looking as though he had taken leave of his senses.
He took his bath, during which time he pondered many things, including the best way to regain the family fortune. Cecily had been correct, of course, Pharaoh was by no means the right game to play if he were to do that. On the other hand, there were no gambling dens in Lincolnshire. But he had to leave for his own sanity. Even after he scrubbed himself clean in the bath and chilled in the cool air of the winter home, he fretted about what to do. He had promised Garance that he would leave and never return, to preserve her honor, and to make sure that he himself would maintain his dignity after having humiliated himself in front of none other than the Prince Regent himself.
As he dressed and came down for breakfast with Cecily, he found himself in a frightful situation.
“Jonathan, look at the newspaper!” said Cecily as he came into the dining.
“Whatever for?” he said, looking for all the world as though he were in the depths of misery.
“Listen here! This is no time for dilly-dally! The King is dead. Long live the King!”
“Not again? How many times must you kill the poor madman?” said Jonathan.
“Now you listen here, my good man. This is true. I admit I was wrong about the King having died before, but by Jove, he is dead as a doornail at this moment. That means that a coronation will take place, and you must stay in London. I heard that you were about to return to mother with your tail between your legs because you were hurt by the flibbertigibbet. Well now, My Lord, you have a duty. You will be at the coronation, and you must show up. And you must bring me.”
“When will the coronation happen?”
“It should happen within days of the assumption of the reign, I should think.”
“Really? I must say that I am a little shocked. I am not totally sure that I want to be there but…”
“Nobody cares if you want to be there or not. You have a duty to the realm.” Cecily said sternly
“Very well.” Jonathan sighed. “Then I will not stand in the way of duty. I shall stay.”
At that moment, Mrs. Porter entered. “I beg your pardon, My Lord and My Lady, but there are two gentlemen to see you.”
“Were you expecting a guest?” asked Jonathan to Cecily.
“Certainly not. It is Sunday.”
“Wait a minute. It is Sunday? How long have I been asleep?”
“In truth, you slept through several days. I assumed you knew that.”
“No, Cecily I did not. And now we have visitors? Am I in any shape to see Peter and Simon?”
“We shall see what we shall see,” she said cryptically.
The two of them walked into the drawing room, expecting to see Peter Nunn and Simon Northridge, ready to fill them in on the latest japes that had caught the attention of the Oxford campus. Both of them were shocked out of their wits to see the lugubrious forms of Josiah Braithwaite and Alastair Kerr seated, looking out the window at the rainy and windy Sunday morning.
“I say, gentlemen. What a surprise!”
“Good day My Lord,” said Alastair Kerr, solemnly. “The King is dead. Long live the King.”
“Indeed,” said Jonathan, although he felt as though he were walking through a dream. “And pray tell, what can I do for you?”
“We come bearing some solemn news, you see, My Lord,” said Josiah Braithwaite. “The fact of the matter is that we have a rather serious matter on our hands.”
“I see,” said Jonathan.
“We know that you want repayment. That is clear,” said Cecily.
“Dear lady,” said the slithering eel of a man called Alastair Kerr. “You do us an injustice. We require repayment, but we are reasonable men.”
“You are not moneylenders to inveterate gamblers and spendthrifts?”
“I do not think of my
self as that sort of person.”
“How do you think of yourself, Mr. Kerr?”
“I am a solid and safe businessman. I have my needs of course, as one has to keep one’s accounts in order. You understand.”
“Of course, I do not. Usury is not a noble pursuit, my dear sir.”
