“But not Lord Rothborough, I trust?”
“I very much doubt it,” said Giles.
Chapter Seventeen
“It was impossible not to ask him,” said Lambert, catching Giles for a moment of private conversation on the half landing coming down from the drawing room at the Treasurer’s House. The others were making their way into the dining room in a procession led by Sally and Lord Rothborough. “Sally has already burnt my ear over it, but my Lord is... well, you know what he is like. When he heard that Mrs Morgan was coming...” He shrugged. “He does even up the table, we can say that for it!”
“I shan’t burn your ear – but watch out for Carswell. He is feeling most protective of the lady,” said Giles, watching as Carswell stepped back from the door to let Mrs Morgan and Mrs Ridolfi go in.
“Oh, the poor fellow,” said Lambert. “Of course – he is just the age for a bad case. I had a tendre myself at the same age for Francesca Corti but of course, I never had to sit with her at dinner. This will be a great trial for him. Perhaps we should send him upstairs to supper with Celia. She’ll be glad to see him and I’d rather his heart was broken than hers.”
“She still intends to marry him?” said Giles. At the age of eleven, Celia had decided that Felix Carswell was her future husband.
“Yes, she’s determined on it. I should send her to talk to Lord Rothborough. She would put him in his place, if anyone can.” It was an entertaining thought. “Between you and me, Giles,” Lambert went on in a quieter tone, “you don’t think there is actually anything between Mrs Morgan and Lord Rothborough, do you?”
“I doubt it,” said Giles.
“I hope you are right. But I sense there is a campaign under way,” said Lambert.
“Success is not inevitable, even for Lord Rothborough.”
“He managed to get me to invite him to dinner against my will. What havoc might he unleash upon on a defenceless woman’s heart?”
“You are poetic tonight, but I don’t think Mrs Morgan is defenceless. She has us here to protect her. Not to mention Mr Carswell.”
Lambert smiled at that. “I understand her brother is her manager. Where is he then?”
“As curiously absent as her husband,” said Giles. “It’s rather unfortunate for her. She must wish them here in such circumstances.”
“According to Watkins the husband is a scoundrel,” said Lambert.
“Yes, he said that to me,” said Giles. “What else did he say to you about the state of the marriage?”
“He didn’t say it in so many words, but it is not reckoned to be happy.”
“So she may be here alone by choice?” Giles said. “You don’t happen to know if they have actually parted company, do you?”
“No. But then that’s hardly the sort of thing I would be privy to, is it?”
They were eight at dinner: Lambert and Sally, Lord Rothborough, Mrs Morgan, Giles, Mrs Ridolfi, Carswell and Watkins. As was usual in the Fforde household, the table was elegant and liberal, and if he was on campaign, Lord Rothborough gave no sign of it. He was faultlessly attentive to his hostess and managed to choose all Sally’s favourite conversational subjects. Giles wondered if his conscience was hurting him – having forced himself on them he was prepared to be the most agreeable and useful guest. He had opinions and information on everything – he was able to discuss the merits of German versus English organ-building with Mr Watkins and wild flowers with Mrs Ridolfi with perfect ease.
But for all that, it was still awkward. Mrs Ridolfi was pale and reticent, unable to hide the disapproval Giles knew she must feel. Mr Watkins also said very little out of turn, which suggested he was not at all at his ease, when Giles had previously observed him to be voluble, verging on the emotional. Carswell, he feared, was a muzzled, angry dog on too short a leash and Giles wondered if and when his patience would desert him.
As for Mrs Morgan – she was as smooth and polished as Lord Rothborough in her manner. She said nothing out of turn, only what was pleasing and apt. Giles saw the easy charm of it, but had no clear sense of the woman beneath. He knew she was talented actress – did that mean that performance was part of her character?
He wondered again whether she had parted from her husband. It would make a great deal of sense if she had, and it perhaps gave some clue as to the source of those unpleasant letters. Perhaps they had been sent by an aggrieved and malicious husband? If Morgan was a scoundrel and had made her so wretched that she felt forced to leave him, well, that was hardly something that a woman, anxious to preserve her reputation, would readily admit to on first acquaintance, even in the context of asking the police for assistance. But it if was the case, he wished she had managed to tell the truth that first afternoon. It left a rather disagreeable impression.
Then there was this business with Lord Rothborough. If she was susceptible to Rothborough, then she was playing with fire, and accepting carriage drives and the use of his house was not going to help her reputation a great deal. But perhaps her world, which Giles felt he did not fully understand, demanded different actions. After enduring a scoundrel of a husband and a miserable marriage, she was perhaps vulnerable. Rothborough was no rich booby. He was a compelling man in the prime of life, sophisticated and worldly, yes, but not without charm and a certain sensitivity. He was making Sally laugh at that very moment. What woman in a dangerous frame of mind would not be tempted?
***
The gentlemen had not spent long over their wine. Usually Canon Fforde would not let them upstairs again until they had sampled at least two interesting vintages and given their opinions on them. It could be a lengthy business, but not tonight. There was just one decanter of port, but it had Lord Rothborough fairly raving and even Major Vernon, who was never intemperate, took a second glass.
Felix, for his part, could not see what so remarkable about it, although it was easy to drink – perhaps too easy. He realised when they got up from that he had taken a little more than he should have. He felt flushed and disorderly – the wine had amplified his already feverish state. Dining with Mrs Morgan would had been both a pleasure and torture in ordinary circumstances, but the circumstances were not ordinary. Lord Rothborough’s intrusion had seen to that. Felix felt like a primed and loaded duelling pistol and he wondered how on earth he was going to to get through the rest of the evening without losing his temper.
He had gone to relieve himself in the closet next to the dining room, and emerged to find Lord Rothborough had not yet gone upstairs but was waiting for him in the hall.
“A word, my boy,” he said beckoning him over.
“We should go up,” said Felix, gesturing towards the stairs.
“All in good time,” said Lord Rothborough coming over. He gave Felix’s cravat a tweak, then straightened his lapels, at which Felix flinched. “I wish you would hold yourself better,” he said. “Even that young Watkins carries himself better.”
“Do you not want to be upstairs, sir?” he said, “with Mrs Morgan?”
“Mrs Morgan can wait,” Lord Rothborough said. “And I know what you are suggesting with that tone, and I request that you desist from it.”
“That may be difficult,” Felix said. “When you...”
“Desist sir,” said Rothborough calmly. “Now, listen, I have some important news for you. You know that our neighbour Sir Robert Arden has died?”
“No,” said Felix, particularly disliking that ‘our neighbour’. He had no wish to be encompassed into Rothborough’s household.
“He has no heir and debts aplenty. The estate will go to auction. The house itself is practically a ruin but is a considerable piece of land, with a good income on it, and it borders Holbroke to the north-east. Naturally, I am going to acquire it.”
“What of it?” Felix said, carelessly.
Rothborough tapped Felix on his lapel.
“Because, my lad, I intend to settle it on it on you. It is a nice income for you – and there may be considerable mineral rights th
ere, which we would be fools not to investigate. It is a good piece of property, entirely suitable for our purposes. You need some land, Felix. Without land you can and will be no-one.” Then, before Felix had a chance to say a word, he added, “Now, let us go upstairs. With luck Mrs Morgan will be persuaded to sing for us.”
There was some part of Felix that almost admired Lord Rothborough, or at least admired his guile, for choosing such a moment to impart this information, when there was no time to form an adequate rebuttal. Annoyed almost to the point of incoherence, he struggled to find some sort of retort. All he could manage to say was, “So, my Lord, what precisely are your intentions towards her?”
“My intentions towards Mrs Morgan? Dear God, Felix, must you be so provincial?” He shook his head. “Of course you admire her, but –” He exhaled. “Indeed I might ask you what your intentions are?” Felix could find no answer. It was a painful question. “Yes?” He sighed again as Felix remained silent. “What did I say to you about the dangers of love? Did you not listen to anything I said? You must guard your affections. Such a person can mean nothing to you. Of course, you could learn a great deal from her – a woman like that is a civilising influence on a man. It would do you good.” Rothborough then began to climb the stairs and then stopped, and turned back to Felix. “And talking of the social niceties, you were not as appreciative of Canon Fforde’s excellent port as you should have been, especially when you drank so much of it. You still have a most uncultivated palate. You should make more of a study of these things.”
Then, before Felix had a chance to answer, he strode up the rest of the staircase and disappeared into the drawing room.
Felix stood for a moment in the hall, trying to master himself. He knew he must follow. It would have been most discourteous to do anything else, but he felt dry-throated with rage, and entirely unsuitable for company.
Finally, he made his way upstairs, his hands clasped behind his back, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. He went over to Major Vernon, who was standing by the fire watching everything with his usual acute gaze. He gave Felix a slightly encouraging smile, as if he understood his condition, and Felix felt a little better for it.
The ladies were sitting around the tea table with their work in their hands, while Canon Fforde was opening the piano and arranging candles.
“Will you sing for us, ma’am?” Lord Rothborough was asking Mrs Ridolfi.
“Oh, I do not sing,” said Mrs Ridolfi.
“Mrs Ridolfi does sing,” said Watkins, “and most beautifully. She is another of my mother’s pupils.”
“Really?” said Canon Fforde.
“It was a long time ago,” she said, “and I do not sing any more.”
“That is a great shame,” said Watkins. “My mother always had the greatest regard for your talent.”
“It’s true – she did,” said Mrs Morgan. “And Paulina, I think your technique was better than mine – and you certainly studied harder.”
“That is such a pretty piece of work you are doing there, Mrs Fforde,” said Mrs Ridolfi. “Did you design the pattern yourself?” She was examining Mrs Fforde’s white work as if her life depended on it.
“Yes, that is a beautiful design,” said Mrs Morgan, pausing at her tent stitch. “I wish I could master white work, but I always prick my finger and bleed on it.”
“My interest is now thoroughly aroused, Mrs Ridolfi,” said Lord Rothborough. “Mrs Watkins was such a wonder in her day, and to find not one, but two of her pupils in the same drawing room, well, I can only wish that at least one of them might favour us with an air.”
He looked from one woman to the other.
“I will sing, if you will, my Lord,” said Mrs Morgan, returning to her sewing. She was working a vividly coloured parrot on canvas, and the intense colours of it glowed against the midnight blue of her gown.
“That is not an unreasonable demand,” said Lord Rothborough. “But of course you are only hoping to make your performance more memorable by forcing them to sit through my indifferent one. Yes, ma’am, is that it?”
“I must do anything I can to add lustre, yes, of course,” said Mrs Morgan, with a slight smile, snipping her thread.
“What shall it be then, Mrs Morgan?” Lord Rothborough said.
“‘Where ere you walk’, by Handel,” she said. “You have mastered that.”
Watkins was now sitting at the piano and began, as if on cue, to play the introduction.
“You will not play for me?” Rothborough asked her. She shook her head.
He went away to the piano.
“You had better start again, Mr Watkins,” he said. “And a trifle slower, if you please.”
Felix endured the song as best he could. It seemed to last an eternity. He managed to salvage some pleasure from looking at Mrs Morgan with her head bent over her work, her quick needle pulling a bright blue thread to and fro, but it was only a small pleasure. He was tormented by the familiarity the last exchange implied. Then, as the song reached its conclusion, she put down her work, rose and walked across to the piano, without a trace of self-consciousness. She was clearly comfortable with being admired, and the eyes of every person in the room were upon her, even Watkins who was still playing the piano.
She was preparing for her cue, Felix supposed.
“Nicely done, my Lord,” she said, tapping her fingertips together, and making a slight, but elegant inclination of her head, when the song was finished. It was a gesture of submission, surely, an acknowledgement of his authority over her. Rothborough had had her, there was no doubt about it, and Felix’s misery was complete.
She was talking to Watkins quietly, presumably about what to play, while Lord Rothborough, his side of the bargain concluded, took a chair and placed it in front of the piano, so as to get the best sight of her. It was for all the world as if no-one else was there.
“I need some air,” Felix muttered to Major Vernon. “I took too much port. It doesn’t agree with me.”
The Major nodded as if to give him permission to leave, and he crossed the room, just as Watkins had launched into a sequence of throbbing, lustrous chords, which in their beauty were a prelude to something yet more beautiful from Mrs Morgan.
He was right. As he went downstairs, her voice, like mercury, seemed to flow out from the drawing room, almost as if in pursuit of him. He was not allowed to escape.
He went to the front door, and out into the small courtyard that fronted the Treasurer’s House. There was only a low wall separating the courtyard from the road, and he was surprised to see a woman standing on the other side of the wall. She moved at the sight of him, and attempted, not very successfully, to conceal herself to one side of the arch that formed the entrance to the court. Anxious for a distraction, he went to see who it was, and in a moment found himself face to face with Miss Kate Pritchard. She shrank into the darker shadows under the archway.
He would have greeted her but she raised her finger to her lips, with such a look of appeal on her face that he could not possibly have refused her request. They stood in silence while the music continued, clearly audible through the open windows of the first floor drawing room.
Despite the semi-darkness he saw that Miss Pritchard was in the thrall of it: her chest was rising and falling, and her eyes were half-closed. He found himself staring at his hands, ashamed to see her in such a condition. It felt like prying. There was so much passion and and feeling in it, as she stood there, her back pressed against the wall.
The final note died, and she said softly, “Thank you.” He was not sure whether she was thanking him or Mrs Morgan. “That was so...”
“Have you been waiting here to hear her sing?” Felix said.
“You will not say anything to anyone, will you?” she said. “About finding me here?”
“No, of course not. But your parents – won’t you be missed at home?”
“I pretended to go to bed. You will think me wicked now, Mr Carswell, but I wanted to he
ar her so much.” She glanced up at the window. “I wonder if she will sing again. But what are you doing out here? I would not have left my seat in that room for anything.”
“I have a thick head,” he said. “The port –”
“Oh, I see. How unfortunate. I hope you feel better soon.”
“I feel better already,” he said, and meant it.
“Then you ought to go in case she decides to sing again.”
“I would rather keep you company, Miss Pritchard – as I did last night.”
“But I am sure that is a much more entertaining party,” she said. “Mrs Fforde’s parties always are. Tell me, who was the gentleman who sang before? That was not Canon Fforde – he is a baritone and –”
“That was Lord Rothborough.”
“Oh,” she said. “I did not know he was asked.”
“He asked himself. That is the sort of thing he excels at, and no-one ever dares quarrel with it.”
“It must be hard for you,” she said after a moment. “Sometimes you must not know where your duty lies.”
“That is exactly it,” said Felix, feeling both surprised and pleased at having someone understand his peculiar situation.
“Very hard,” she said again, with a nod. “Well, I suppose I ought to go home before I am discovered.”
“Let me take you back.”
“There is no need for that. And what if we were seen?”
“Let them see us!” Felix said with sudden defiance.
After all, what was he doing wasting his energy on an unattainable, impossible object like Mrs Morgan, when there was such a passionate, sympathetic creature so close at hand? A girl who was full of feeling and spirit. Mrs Morgan had told him to look for a wife and Miss Pritchard was exactly the sort of woman he might marry. Why should he not try and make love to her? Surely that was the best treatment?
“We might build on the beginning we made last night,” he added.
The Dead Songbird (The Northminster Mysteries) Page 10
