by May Burnett
“He is your heir, then?”
“Unless my middle brother William should still be alive, or have left a legitimate son,” Sir Mortimer said. “That is most unlikely, as he ran away as a young lad, these forty years ago. I have not the least idea where in the world to look for him.”
“That sounds like one of those situations which a good lawyer can spin out for years, certainly until Miss Conway comes of age,” Alphonse said. “I suggest putting Beecham in charge of the search for your missing brother or his heirs. Give him any documents relating to the search; he could use them to prevent your nephew from taking possession if the necessity arises. Frankly, I would be surprised – you look far younger than sixty, and you helped carry a very big man only this morning, and seem none the worse for the experience.”
“It left me out of breath, I can tell you. Maybe I’m not yet a doddering ruin, but at my age, the end can come suddenly. I have seen it often enough in my friends.”
“At any age,” Alphonse said in a low voice, remembering Louise-Henriette and little Monique. Any day now he should hear from his mother, likely some long explanation why it was impossible for the child to travel. And how was his daughter going on in his absence? He shifted uneasily in his chair.
Forcing his attention back to Sir Mortimer, he said, “I agree that Miss Conway should be encouraged to move in more varied social circles, and meet more eligible young men, than the few in your own village and surroundings. But she strikes me as a young lady with a mind of her own, who may not fix on the candidate you think most suitable. The best thing would be for Lady Amberley – the younger one, not the dowager countess – to introduce Miss Conway in the next season. If she is in town I have no doubt James and I could prevail on her to do it; she is good-hearted and very sociable.”
Seeing Sir Mortimer’s countenance brightening, he added quickly, “Unfortunately she and the earl are at this present moment stranded on a Greek Isle, from whence the Turkish authorities are reluctant to let their yacht depart, and with the war going on there, we cannot be certain when they will be back. So I cannot promise anything definite. And have you considered that Miss Conway’s presence during the season, with the society columns reporting daily on the richest and prettiest debutantes, could expose her to her father’s machinations?”
“But there are so many debutantes. Why would they write about Celia?”
“Just how large is her dowry?” Alphonse asked back.
“She has about one hundred and sixty thousand in the funds, and some landed property, like the house in which her grandmother still lives; but the bulk of her fortune is the company her grandfather built up, comprising some sixteen breweries at last count. They are well managed and provide a steady income over and above the interest from the funds. She also has some additional expectations from her grandmother and me.”
“And you think that an heiress with such a fortune will not be of interest to the gossip sheets? The Brewery Heiress, they will probably call her. The impecunious young men of the nobility will be swarming all around her, hoping to get their hands on that fortune, and be set for life.”
“I don’t want Celia to marry a fortune hunter,” Sir Mortimer said with a frown. “But she is too clever to fall into that trap.”
“No young girl is completely proof against falling in love with a scoundrel,” Alphonse brutally contradicted the older man’s optimism. “You have no idea of the deviousness and lack of scruples to be found amongst the British aristocracy.”
Chapter 10
Rook gradually regained consciousness, but prudently kept his eyes closed. His head was pounding mercilessly, far more painfully than during the worst hangovers of his student days, though the queasy feeling in his bowels was all too familiar. There had not been any such episodes since then – but was this merely a hangover? And where was he, how had he come here to this bed? The difference in the mattress and the lack of city noise told him he was not in his familiar room in the London house. He felt as though he had been dragged through a hedge. No woman on earth was worth this kind of misery.
People were moving about the room. The door opened and closed again. He strained his ears.
“He looks better already, not nearly so pale,” an unfamiliar young female voice said. “Within days he should be up and about, I think. What did the physician say?”
“He was busy with a birth, but should be here any moment,” another female replied. This was a voice he had heard before, but could not place just now.
“And who is Mr. Rook, exactly? A neighbour, since all of you seem to know him?” The first voice resumed.
There was a laugh he knew well – Minerva, the jade. Good heavens, she was here, while he lay helpless on a bed? Rook felt cold sweat break out on his back and gritted his teeth.
“Not plain Mr. Rook, dear Miss Conway,” Minerva said. “The man you rescued is Lord Molyneux, a marquis, no less, and heir to the duke of Ottway. Rook is merely his nickname, used by all his family and old Etonian schoolmates.”
“Oh.” Miss Conway did not seem particularly impressed. “And here I thought that ‘drunk as a lord’ was merely an expression.”
“As far as I know,” Minerva said, “Rook does not make a common practice of over-indulgence. Something must have really upset him.” She giggled. Rook had never heard her do so before, and he did not like the sound now.
“For shame!” the third voice admonished. He realized that it had to belong to Mrs. Ellsworthy, Minerva’s sister-in-law. “What if he should wake and hear you? Did nobody strive to inculcate any delicacy of manners in you?”
“Delicacy would be wasted on Rook.” Minerva sounded unconcerned. “I can see he will soon be right as rain. Was he really drunk when he fell from the horse, Miss Conway, are you sure? It is most unlike him. Rook, whatever his faults, is a brilliant rider who does not fall from horses.”
“Well, I did not see him fall, but that was my uncle’s theory,” Miss Conway asserted. “He is very lucky he has such a hard head, and that there was water and grass in the ditch, to soften the fall at least somewhat. The bruise is still a bad one.”
“Yes, he could still have a swelling of the brain and die.” Mrs. Ellsworthy was the only one of the three to show any proper concern, but her words were hardly a comfort to the sufferer on the bed. “I think I hear the physician’s gig outside.” She left the room. Rook kept his eyes closed. This had to be purgatory, if not hell: to lie on a bed, with his head and whole body hurting, and his stomach about to turn over, being mocked by a young lady who had rejected his hand and title as though they were so much chaff.
He had clearly underestimated the cruelty and unpredictability of the female of the species. When they were not lounging around in soulful poses calculated to make any red-blooded man hot under the collar, they were heartless termagants. At least Minerva and this unknown girl, Miss Conway. And had Minerva just said that the other girl had rescued him? How could a girl do that? It made no sense. That he might be obliged to feel gratitude towards this rude female sat very ill on him.
The headache intensified further when the heavy tread of a middle-aged man approached the bed. Rook submitted in silence to being palpated. When the man tried to flip his eyelid up, however, he gave up the pretence of unconsciousness and frowned ferociously at the physician.
“Ah, you are awake, milord, excellent,” was all the man said, ignoring his patient’s bad temper with infuriating cheerfulness.
“What is your conclusion, Mr. Romney?” Mrs. Ellsworthy asked anxiously from behind the man’s shoulders. The younger ladies had mercifully left the sickroom at the beginning of the examination.
“We need to get him out of his clothes and boots, to make sure no other bones were broken or bruised,” was the brisk reply. “But from what I can see now, he mainly has a bad concussion. Bed rest and quiet for at least a week are essential. Today and tonight, he should not be allowed to sleep for very long. There have been cases where patients who suffered a blow
to the head seemed about to recover at first, but then did not wake up again. Any trauma to the head is a serious matter.”
“We’ll do our best so he does not slip into a permanent sleep,” Mrs. Ellsworthy promised.
The doctor went on, “Some patients lose their memory, partially or completely, and even forget their own name. Others have gone blind from injury to the back of the cranium. Do you know who you are, Sir?”
“Of course,” Rook growled. “Marcus Dominic Breton, Lord Molyneux.”
“Very good,” the physician praised him, as though he were a young child drawing his first letters. “Can you see properly? Move all your fingers and toes?”
As the examination continued Mrs. Ellsworthy left, sending back in her stead a sturdy footman to help undress Rook. To his utter disgust, it emerged that he had a twisted ankle as well as the concussion, and a multitude of bruises, gradually turning purple on his fair skin.
“On the whole, you are exceedingly lucky, my lord,” Mr. Romney finally pronounced. “If there are no complications within the next two days, I expect a complete recovery.”
“Do you remember where the horse may have run to, Sir, and where your luggage is?” the footman diffidently asked. “If you were staying with someone, they must be very worried about you.”
“Somewhere south – about six miles – Minnover –,” Rook managed to remember.
“I know the place,” the physician said. “Mrs. Ellsworthy can send a groom for your things, and your own valet.”
Rook was unable to reply, as the remains of whatever he had eaten and drunk the previous night shot up his throat with nauseating force. The physician nimbly got out of the way, but the bed linens were soiled.
“Only natural, after a concussion, and – err – alcoholic intoxication,” the physician mildly observed. “Make sure he drinks plenty of barley water,” he told the footman and took his leave.
Rook closed his eyes again, though the acrid smell could not be so easily banished. At least the girls had not witnessed this humiliating scene; but he could not think of any other positive aspect to his recent experiences.
And the worst of it was, he had only himself to blame.
+++
Alphonse could understand Sir Mortimer’s desire for Celia Conway to marry well, though his own recent experiences had taught him that in a spouse, compatibility and affection were more important than social standing. She was a pretty girl, in a style rarely found among the French: very fair, unblemished skin, large blue-grey eyes, and luminously red hair. It must come down at least to her shoulder blades. Slightly under middle height, the girl had curves in all the right places, and a narrow waist. He caught himself picturing Celia with her hair down, wearing only a thin shift, and sternly called his unruly mind to order. Was the long celibacy of his mourning year betraying him into this mental impropriety? Surely not; he had never entertained any lewd fantasies about Minerva.
It amused him how quickly Minerva had shed her reservations about the Conways, and seemed to be well on the way of becoming Celia’s bosom bow. Away from her mother’s influence, her own good nature was reasserting itself. But what was Miss Conway’s nature? Trying to arrive at a better understanding of her, Alphonse found himself mentally repeating their short conversation.
Was it just coincidence that he crossed Celia’s path in the rose garden shortly afterwards, or had his thoughts drawn him insensibly towards their subject? She was studying the flowers with the eye of a gardener. A simple straw hat protected her milky complexion. The dress also was simple, and probably country-made, but she wore it with style. What would Miss Conway look like in the creations of a first-rate Paris modiste?
“This rose is called Aphrodite’s Gift”, he told her, as she was studying a golden-yellow bloom. “I planted some bushes of it in my own garden in France.”
She looked up at him with a slight smile. Had he thought her merely pretty? In the sunlit garden, with the straw hat framing her face, she was enchanting.
“Are you an expert on roses? I particularly like this deep red one over there.”
“It is stunning,” he agreed. “No, I only know some of my favourites. We will have to ask Charlotte what this one is called. Let me show you my favourite parts of the gardens,” he offered, extending his arm, and she took it without hesitation. Slowly they made their way through the rose garden, pausing to admire several blooms, to the folly, and through the orchard towards the meadow with the bubbling brook, a tributary of the bigger one where James and he had been fishing with so little success.
“Whenever I want to complain about too much rain in our climate, I remind myself that our lovely gardens could not prosper otherwise,” Celia said. “How different is the climate in your own home?”
“In my place in France, you mean? It still does not truly feel like home, since my family only got it back six years ago. Most of my life I have lived in England. I was born here after my parents narrowly escaped from the Revolution.”
“So that is why you don’t have even the trace of an accent. I had wondered.”
“Indeed. It was a big change, from a nearly penniless refugee to landowner, in a country I had not set foot in for my first twenty-two years.”
“A huge responsibility, I would have thought. Was your castle in good condition when it was returned?”
“We have been working hard to restore it to its pre-revolutionary glory, but it will take years more. Apart from the castle, about a day’s distance from Nantes, there is also a big and rather shabby House in Paris.”
To his amazement, Miss Conway intuitively seemed to grasp the problems facing him, issues that Louise-Henriette had never even deigned to acknowledge. He found himself telling her about his vineyards, the challenge of dealing with experienced buyers who could spot an inexperienced trader at a mile, and his suspicion that some of his own retainers had been among the enthusiastic supporters of the revolution. She had intelligent comments, suggestions and questions on subjects he would not have dreamed of discussing with any other young lady of his acquaintance.
Looking sideways at Celia’s profile, and her sweetly concerned expression, he thought back to the conversation with Sir Mortimer. He now understood the old man better; her uncle was completely right, Miss Conway deserved the very best. A marriage to any man who could not appreciate her, or tried to stifle that bright spirit, would be nothing short of a tragedy.
When they returned to the house, in time for the late informal lunch, it cost him a slight pang to relinquish her arm. He stood there, watching her go - every movement energetic, precise, and graceful.
More slowly, he went to join the others at lunch.
Chapter 11
Charlotte and James had been spending a lively hour with their children, but presently found themselves in their rooms, changing for lunch.
“Have you made up your mind yet, whether you want to become an M.P.?” Charlotte asked with apparent casualness. James knew her too well to be fooled by her tone.
“I know you do not like the idea,” he said, “though you have never explained exactly why. The last time I refused because it was an inconvenient time. But with this new opportunity, I am torn. There is a lot of tedious work involved, and yet, it often seems to me that I am not contributing enough to our society; that the life of a happy gentleman of leisure, administering two smallish estates, is not enough to accomplish in my life. Many others would like to obtain the position, but at least if I take it myself, I can be certain that I would fulfil the duties it brings with whatever intelligence and integrity I possess. Is it vain in me to think I can do this at least as well or better, than most of the M.P.s and peers of our acquaintance?”
Charlotte sighed. “I thought that was how you regarded the matter,” she said, “and you are quite right, I cannot like the idea, though my objections will sound vague and unconvincing.”
“Try me.”
“Have you noticed,” she began obliquely, “how people are gradually change
d by the experiences they live though, the work they do? We think we remain the same, but even you and I are not the same people we were when we first met, before we had the twins.”
“That is inevitable. Fortunately I love the current Charlotte even more than that earlier version.”
“And I feel the same, but we have been lucky.” Charlotte added a mother-of-pearl comb to hold her heavy tresses up more securely, watching James in the large mirror before turning back towards him. “From my observation, politicians are constantly faced with difficult compromises, especially if they are members of a party. They have to vote on matters where there might not be a good alternative, from a moral point of view, and support policies that bring great evil to unknown people in far-off countries. My fear is that such work could gradually tarnish your idealism and even your character. Such changes can creep upon us so gradually and imperceptibly, that the person undergoing them might remain unaware for a long time.” She added, a little uncertainly “I told you it would sound unconvincing. Still, I cannot help fearing that this work could imperil your soul, somehow, as melodramatic as that sounds.”
He stared at her. This was not at all what James had expected to hear. He had believed that her objections were to staying in town for so many months of the year, and the distance to her beloved Cornwall estate. “You fear that if I go into politics, I will not remain the man you respect and love? Do you have so little confidence in me?”
“No, James, I will always love you. I fear that you may become a man you cannot respect as much, that after some years in parliament, you will not like yourself as much as you do now. It could happen without any fault on your own part, and despite your best efforts. Nor am I convinced that you would enjoy the work, after the first few months.”
