by Ella Edon
“Well, Johnny,” she said, trying to put the best face on their misfortune. “You know your father was somewhat secretive about his affairs, and I must admit, I had no knowledge of any of this.”
“And these two so-called moneylenders? Who are they?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” said Margaret weakly.
Jonathan could see that the events of the last few days had taken their toll on his mother. Jonathan being a kind and sensitive soul, who loved his mother very much, decided to let it go for now.
“Very well,” said Jonathan, rising from the table. “I shall see to these two gentlemen.” He bowed to his mother and left the room, making for the drawing room.
“Good day, sirs,” said Jonathan affably, as he strode into the drawing room, dressed as he imagined a young earl might dress. It was winter and chilly, and every fireplace in the manor was going with all its might. He wore a topcoat of deep aquamarine, with a high collar, and tight-fitting trousers that accentuated his shapely legs. His shoes were brogues and he wore spats and carried a top hat under his arm. He was the picture of what he imagined would be his role.
The two men - and this term was used loosely by Cecily, it seemed to Jonathan - rose from their seats, and smiled in a way that made Jonathan think that they had lost the required muscles to master the smile. Both of them were somewhat ragged, greasy men, and hunched with avarice. There was a definite smell of something unhealthy that clung to their dress.
“Eh, my Lord Earl of Yarmouth, I presume,” said the first. “Allow me to introduce myself and my colleague. This is Mr. Alastair Kerr of Cheapside, and I am Mr. Josiah Braithwaite, also of Cheapside. We found that we had quite a lot in common, you see,” he continued.
Jonathan frowned in incomprehension. “And what is your custom with me?” he asked quizzically.
“Well, we are both what you gentlemen call ‘moneylenders’ you see,” said Alastair Kerr in a pronounced Scottish accent. “We wouldna bother you, but for the pressing nature of our business.”
“I see,” said Jonathan. “And what is this business of yours?”
“Well,” said Josiah Braithwaite, cutting in. “We heard about your father’s untimely demise in the papers almost a week ago and made our way here as soon as we could. We have been staying at The Merry Tax Collector for the last two days, awaiting your return. There’s the matter of the repayment of a rather substantialized loan we made to your father, the late Earl of Yarmouth.”
“I see. And how much is this ‘substantialized lend’?”
“It is in the amount of twenty-five thousand guineas,” said Mr. Kerr. “Ten thousand to Mr. Braithwaite, and fifteen thousand to my person.”
Jonathan was taken aback. “What on earth? That is an astronomical sum! Do you have some papers to attest to this? I was planning on looking into his papers today.”
“Aye, we do,” said Mr. Kerr, holding out a damp sheet of paper. Braithwaite, similarly, held out a crumpled piece of parchment and Jonathan could clearly see the scrawled signature of his father, and large sums of money on them.
“Please, give them here -” he began.
“I think not!” said Kerr. “You may peruse them to authenticate their authenticity,” he said, clearly getting confused by his own words. “But we shall be submitting these to the courts on the first of March if complete repayment is not made.”
“Well, I confess, I do not know the state of my father’s affairs, but I shouldn’t think that will be necessary.”
“If you’ll forgive me for being so bold,” said Braithwaite. “I’ve had dealings with gentlemen like yourself before, and I have found not a few times that the courts were the only place I could get satisfaction. You see, I’m not a rich man -” and it was true that from his dress he looked to be frightfully poor - “and I need my money, to conduct my commerce.”
“I sail aboard the self-same ship as my colleague Mr. Braithwaite,” said Mr. Kerr with a bow of his greasy head. “We shall sail now, My Lord, and will leave our calling cards should you find yourself in the city.”
“Thank you, sirs,” said Jonathan, maintaining his composure. “I shall be in touch forthwith. Good day to both of you.”
Both gentlemen slithered out of the room before he had a chance to call the butler, and Jonathan knew he had a problem on his hands. Cecily, who seemed to have known about all of this, had been correct, despite her unforgivable coarseness at breakfast.
Jonathan strode warily into his father’s study and began to rifle through his papers. The whole room was in disarray, and it appeared to have been neglected by the servants for months. There were bits of food and empty glasses with the dregs of port and brandy scattered here and there.
He opened a drawer of his father’s desk and saw the revolver his mother had mentioned. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hands. It was, as the box said, a Collier five-chamber flintlock revolver, manufactured in England. It was a magnificent weapon, with a beautiful burnished wood handle, inlaid with what appeared to be silver. Why his father had this thing was beyond Jonathan’s understanding.
He wrapped it in a silk handkerchief and put it in his coat pocket. Then he set to work to try and find some evidence that his father had spent any time at all on his finances.
After an exhaustive search, he found several crumpled papers in a wastebasket at the foot of the desk that contained notes about his debts. Jonathan smoothed the papers and began to add them up. After a few minutes, he realized that the debts were equal to the debts to Messrs. Braithwaite and Kerr.
What on earth was Father up to? wondered Jonathan. And why was he in such a state of mental agitation that he took his own life? I must investigate.
He resolved to travel to London to find a reputable estate lawyer who could help him untangle this mess.
There were hundreds of papers scattered hither and thither in the room that seemed to have some connection to the running of the manor, including notes of account to the servants, and many promissory notes indicating that most of them had not been paid in many months.
He rang for Ponsonby. Presently, the butler appeared at the door and popped his head in guiltily. “Shall I enter, My Lord?”
“Why of course, Ponsonby,” said Jonathan. “I rang for you.”
“Quite right, My Lord,” he said smiling tensely. “It’s only that His Lordship forbade anyone from entering this room.”
“Well, that explains the state of disarray,” said Jonathan. “But may I enquire, Ponsonby, the last time you, or any of the servants, were paid?”
“Well, My Lord, that is a rather tricky proposition,” he said looking askance.
“Come, come then,” said Jonathan. “I need to know, my good man.”
“Well,” said Ponsonby. “The fact of the matter is, we’ve lost three of our maids because they hadn’t been paid since September. And as for me, if you’ll forgive me, my Lord, I haven’t been paid since December.”
“That is most unacceptable. I shall make sure that you are paid forthwith.”
“That is very kind, My Lord,” said Ponsonby. “By your leave, I think you will find it a trifle difficult. You see, My Lord, your father had something of a penchant for Pharaoh, and it seems that his demise may in fact be attributable to this tendency.”
“Tendency?” said Jonathan. “What is Pharaoh?”
“Pharaoh is a card game. A betting game, you see,” said Ponsonby. “It is very popular in Cheapside.”
“Cheapside? That is where those moneylenders come from.”
“Quite,” said Ponsonby. “Those gentlemen were frequent visitors to Stafford Manor.”
“I see,” said Jonathan, realizing his father had left him in a bit of a spot. After furrowing his brows for several minutes, during which time Ponsonby stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, he looked up. “Please do ready the carriage, Ponsonby. I must go to London and I shall be staying at the house on Wimpole Street.”
“I shall make the appropri
ate arrangements, my Lord,” said Ponsonby as he backed out of the room with a bow.
Chapter Three
The Parisian Nightingale
Mademoiselle Garance Monteux, the raven-haired beauty and world-famous soprano, found herself in a cabin on a ship that had embarked from Calais en route to Dover, where she would be met by Mr. Salomon, the famed English impresario.
She had begun her career by singing in some of the finest salons in France, and just now, at a mere twenty years of age, she was on her way to England, where she would make her debut at the storied concert hall known as Covent Garden. She had received an invitation from Mr. Philip Salomon, and accepted with great pleasure.
She had, as her travelling companion, a lady’s maid named Camille, a plain and intelligent young woman who was adept at speaking English, albeit with a pronounced Parisian accent.
“My dear Camille,” said Garance speaking in French. “Would you be so good as to fetch me some brandy? I do not feel at all well.”
“Madame, you are suffering from mal de mer, and I do not think that brandy is the ideal treatment. I shall fetch you something better.” She pulled out a flask and poured out a small glass of water. She added a few spoonfuls of the reddish syrup from the flask in the glass of water and handed it to her mistress. “Try this,” she said with a crooked smile.
Garance took the cloudy thick liquid and swallowed it down, feeling instantly better. “Mon dieu!” she said, rising. “That is quite the panacea! I feel as nimble as a cat.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” said Camille. “This is the treatment recommended by your doctor.”
“And what is this magical concoction?”
“Why, it is called laudanum, madame,” said Camille. “It is a very useful little medicine, handy for any number of ailments.”
“The wonders of modern medicine!” said Garance, moving to the door. “I think I shall go above and enjoy the view.”
She opened the door and climbed to the deck, where the sun was shining on open seas. It was frightfully cold, of course, being January, but she felt no cold, having been steeled against any pain by that wonderful medicine. As she stood at the railing, she spied land.
“Land ho!” shouted a sailor near her.
Garance looked to see the white cliffs of Dover appearing through the fog latticed with sunlight. She smiled with joy at the sight.
“Ain’t it beautiful?” said a man who had approached her unseen.
“I am sorry,” said Garance in tortured English. Although Garance had studied English for years, she had never had to opportunity to speak it with an Englishman, and she found the mental energy required difficult at first.
“Them there’s the white cliffs of Dover they is,” he said.
The man was somewhat scruffily dressed, and there was a definite scent of fish emanating from his clothing. Nevertheless, he was a kindly Englishman, and she was glad to know him.
“You are English?” she asked.
“I am at that. Proud as punch to be it, too. And I suppose you’re a frog?”
Garance was somewhat confused by this sentence. In her limited English, despite her daily lessons with Camille, she had never heard the word “frog” before.
“I am French,” she said.
“That’s what I said, Miss,” he said, tipping his ragged hat.
“I see. You say ‘frog’ for French, do you?”
“Forgive me, Miss. I spoke in a familiar way. I can see that you’re French and I meant no disrespect. I do a lot of trade with you Frenchies and I likes your kind. Good folk.”
“What is your trade, monsieur?” she asked.
“I’m in tea and wine. I imports teas to France, and I exports wines to England. Fair is fair,” he said. “Good custom, too,” he added.
“I see. And who drinks your tea?”
“I dunno. Never thought of that. Tea’s my business, and I sells it to the Frenchies, and they provides me with their finest Bordeaux.”
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” said a sailor in a fine woolen uniform. “We shall be landing in a moment. Could I ask you to please return to your cabin?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. She turned to the staircase leading to her cabin, followed by the man. He took her arm and led her down the staircase. “I hope you’ll allow me to introduce myself,” he said, passing her his card. “I’m Joseph Tweedsmuir, importer and exporter.”
She took his card and smiled. “I am Garance Monteux, chanteuse.”
Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed. “Good Lord! You’re that songstress that’s coming to Covent Garden. I’ve ‘eard about you. You’re the Parisian Nightingale, ain’t you?”
Garance laughed. “Yes, that is what they call me.”
“Might I be permitted to call on you when you are there? Maybe I could take you for some real English tea?”
“Maybe,” she said hesitantly. Fortunately for Garance, she had reached her cabin and opened the door quickly, closing it in his face. She put her body against the closed door and rolled her eyes. “Camille! These English are very bold!” she said smiling.
“Yes, I should have warned you that they would throw themselves at you,” said Camille. “The English do not obey the common rules of propriety. Ils sont fous, ces anglais!”
Within the hour, Camille led her mistress off the ship and towards the waiting carriage of Mr. Philip Salomon.
Salomon smiled at Garance, seeming to be mesmerized by her beauty. In fact, he had difficulty taking his eyes off her and it took him a minute to speak.
“Mademoiselle Monteux, it is my great pleasure to welcome you to England. I can tell you that the entire country is on pins and needles to hear you sing.”
“Why would they do this?” said Garance whose English, although quite fluent, was still idiomatically constrained.
“Oh no,” he laughed. “I only meant that they are eager to hear you sing. The stories of your performances in France have travelled across the Channel far more often than your person.”
Garance was pleased and confused by this information. “I am a little bit tired, Mr. Salomon,” Garance said with a pleading look on her beautiful face. “Could we depart?”
At that moment, Joseph Tweedsmuir passed her by and approached, just as she was getting into the carriage. “I’ll see you in London then,” he said to Garance. “I look forward to hearing your nightingale.”
“You see?” said Salomon. “The English need to have you in their lives. Things are quite bleak at this time of year, and I am sure that you will be a wonderful diversion for the society folk.”
“Thank you very much, Mister Salomon,” said Garance, ignoring Mr. Tweedsmuir and taking her seat. She allowed Camille to pack her trunks, with the help of the coachman. “I am very eager to know about my accompanist. What can you tell me about him?”
“Mr. Cipriani Potter is one of our finest composers. He has already composed a number of works that have received universal acclaim and they believe he has been a student of the great Viennese composer, Beethoven.”
Garance laughed knowingly. “Is this not the deaf man who writes his noisy symphonies?”
“Well, uh, yes,” said Salomon realizing he had not impressed her.
“No matter,” said Garance seeing that she had hurt her benefactor’s feelings. “I am certain he is a very talented man. How old is he?”
“Under thirty,” said Salomon. “Moreover, he is a very talented pianist.”
“Does he play the clavecin as well? I am not the loudest singer, and this may strain my vocal cords if I must play with a forte player.”
“Well, yes, but you will be performing in very large halls, like the Royal Albert Hall and Covent Garden, you understand. Covent Garden alone has an auditorium that seats twenty-eight hundred people.”
“Mon Dieu!” said Garance. “This is a city!”
“Heh, heh. I assure you, Mademoiselle Monteux, that the acoustics are superior, and you will be heard. Nevertheless, I do recommen
d using a pianoforte.”
“I am tired,” said Garance, “and I cannot make any decisions at this time. Please forgive me if I sleep a little.”
“Yes of course,” said Salomon admiring her beauty as she closed her large, deep brown eyes, and allowed her eyelashes to shade her vision. As she slept, he watched Garance closely, as a father would admire a child. He noted her straight, small nose, her beautiful alabaster complexion, and her stunning raven-colored hair. She was an exquisite woman, and he saw only profit in her arresting beauty.
Salomon noted that they would be in London by nightfall since it was shortly after nine in the morning. He suggested to Camille, who seemed to be Garance’s business manager, that he had procured very comfortable accommodations for her in the fashionable apartment in St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
