Will reached out and gave the cat an experimental pat on the head. “Why Henry Clay?” he asked. “Seems like an odd name for a cat.”
“It’s the name,” Fanny said, “of my favorite American.”
“You have a favorite American?” Will said, laughing.
Even though it might be possible that he was laughing at her expense, Fanny was grateful to have been the cause of that laughter, given what Will had been through. Fanny knew what it was like to lose a beloved family member, knew it all too many times over. As far as family went, Fanny was alone in the world.
“What’s so surprising about that?” she asked. “I have favorites when it comes to lots of things. Henry Clay—the man, not the cat—was a great orator and lawyer and politician. They called him ‘The Great Compromiser.’ So often, people have to find ways to compromise, don’t you think? Anyway, he lived a long time ago and he had slaves, but he freed them in his will, so at least that’s something. I like to think that people can change, don’t you?”
“Well.” Will appeared to be at a loss as to what to say to all that. “At least this Henry Clay seems friendlier than those two fluff balls I see roaming around the grounds sometimes.”
“You mean Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” Fanny guessed.
“Rosen…what?”
“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.” She jutted her chin toward the ceiling as though indicating the people of Porthampton Abbey who lived upstairs. “They come up with all kinds of crazy names, not like Henry Clay. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are two characters from Mr. William Shakespeare’s plays.”
“You’re not going to tell me you’ve read Shakespeare.”
“No, I haven’t.” Fanny sighed, then brightened. “But I mean to. At least I’ve looked at the names on all the cast lists.”
“How do you know all this?” Will said, clearly astounded.
“Because I read, don’t I?” Fanny said. “Every day, whenever I’m supposed to be dusting the library, I take some time to look through the books. Might as well read as dust.” She shrugged. “Besides, I don’t think anyone else here reads the things, except maybe that oldest daughter. Sometimes I even smuggle books up to my room.” She grew excited. “Say! Would you like me to smuggle some for you?”
Fanny regretted mentioning “that oldest daughter,” because almost immediately, Will got a preoccupied look on his face and she even had to repeat herself, prodding him about her offer to smuggle books for him.
“I’ll, um, I’ll think about it,” he said.
“Let me know.” She sighed. “Those people,” she said again, this time shaking her head at the foolishness of it all. “It’s just like the Titanic all over again.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“The Titanic! It was this great big ocean vessel, biggest ever built, and even though everyone thought it could never—”
“Yes, I know about all that. But what I don’t know is how that relates to any of this.”
The Titanic had bothered Fanny for years—eight years, to be exact. Even though she’d only been nine herself when it sank, it still bothered her: the idea of all those people dying, in third class, in steerage, with no chance of survival simply because they hadn’t been able to afford a better fare.
Fanny sought to explain all this, adding, “This is like that all over again. The poor, like your uncle, at risk for something, while the wealthy think they can get off scot-free because of their wealth. But even on the Titanic, even though almost all the poor died, not all the wealthy got away. Some of them died, too. Even some of the richest in the world, like that John Jacob Astor! So they were fools to think they could just go about their daily business and—”
“Where are they going on their hunt?” Will said, cutting her off with a chin jut toward the upstairs similar to the one she’d used earlier. If Will had seemed to grow preoccupied before, he appeared fully alert now, following her description of the wealthy thinking they were protected by that wealth but then dying anyway.
“How should I know?” Fanny shrugged. “But they’re not taking horses and they are having a barn luncheon in the fancy barn, so it can’t be too far from there.”
Will tossed back the contents of his teacup, now likely grown cold, as he rose to his feet and headed toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Fanny asked.
“They may be fools,” Will said, “but someone has to protect them.”
Chapter
Twelve
“And this is Fred,” Grace announced, placing a fond hand on a metallic silver arm.
“You have a name for your suit of armor?” Meriwether Young asked, regarding the object that stood sentry near the interior front doors to Porthampton Abbey.
“Oh yes!” Grace said gaily with a laugh. “Fred has been with the family for hundreds of years. Why, no tour of the abbey would be complete without him!”
Then she told him a story about how when she and her sisters were small, Grandmama had used Fred to instruct them in the fine art of making polite conversation, ending the story with another laugh.
“You know, Lady Grace, you are quite pretty when you laugh. You are pretty when you don’t, of course, but when you do…”
Grace touched the tortoiseshell comb in her hair with one hand while fiddling with the loose waistline of her calf-length peridot-colored Lanvin dress with the other.
When a good part of their party had retired to change for the hunt, Grace had retired briefly as well. Only in her case, it was to change out of her breakfast clothes into what she wore now. There were days when Grace lamented the need to change costumes so often—such a frivolous waste of one’s time! Still, it was nice to receive a compliment, even if only from Mr. Young, whose paucity of hair looked as though it had been freshly slicked over to the left. Grace had stayed behind because she disliked hunting—anything to do with guns, really—and had been dismayed when he’d said he would stay behind, too. But then she had gamely offered to show him around. After all, wasn’t that her duty? And now that they were in it, it wasn’t turning out to be too bad of an experience.
“Thank you, Mr. Young,” she said.
“Meriwether, please. Or better yet, Merry.”
“All right, I’ll try…Merry.” She could feel the blush in her own cheeks as she spoke that last word. She wasn’t used to men paying her compliments, not even from her parents so much—those were typically reserved for Kate.
“Yes, well,” she said, hoping to brush off the awkwardness she was feeling, “let me show you some more of the place.”
She led him from the doorway to the central grand foyer, so big it was like an interior courtyard with its tapestries on the walls, indoor palm plants, paintings, and sculptures. The grand staircase lay in front of them while the ceiling soared several stories overhead.
“If you look up,” she said, “you can see the gallery lining the next level on all four sides.”
“Oh yes, my bedroom is up there,” he said, “so I saw a bit of it last night.”
“But if you look up from down here,” she said, craning her neck, “it’s such an impressive sight, one of my favorites, what with the different levels. All the way at the top, in the attic, are the servants’ bedrooms, although you can’t see that level from here. Still, a truly impressive sight. Don’t you agree?”
He glanced up, but only briefly, before casting his gaze downward with a shudder.
“I’m afraid I don’t care for heights,” he said. “Whether looking down from them or looking up at them, it is all the same to me. Whenever I do all I can think is what a terrible length that would be for a person to fall.”
“Oh, dear!” Grace said, not unkindly. She could see that he was genuinely scared and, having no short supply of fears herself, she could empathize.
“Let’s get out of here, then,” she said, quickly ushering him to one of the many side rooms shooting off through the pillars of arched open doorways from the main courtyard.<
br />
But as she looked about the room she’d chosen at random, she wondered what she could really show him there that would be of note. Buttoned chairs, fringed lamps, plants, draperies, flowers in vases, centerpieces, carriage clocks, wood, marble, brass, a Lalique vase—would he really be interested in any of these items? She supposed the family coat of arms and the John Singer Sargent portrait of her mother that her father had commissioned from the American artist might be of some small interest, but only just barely. Maybe he’d like to see the music room? The smoking room, perhaps?
“I’m afraid,” Grace said, laughing, “that when I volunteered to be your tour guide, I didn’t take into account what a boring one I would be or how stodgy the place has become! Why, except for the gramophone, I don’t believe a new piece of furniture has been brought here since 1890—perhaps even as far back as 1880!”
“That’s quite all right,” he assured her. “It’s all fascinating enough to me. But perhaps you could tell me more about how the estate is run? I’m afraid I’ve spent most of my life tending to my businesses in London. As a result, I know precious little about the great country houses.”
“Oh!” Grace said, mildly surprised at this request. “Let’s see… Porthampton Abbey has well over a thousand acres.”
“As much as all that?”
“Oh yes. And we are quite a self-sustaining entity. There’s an estate manager who oversees the farms and tenant cottages and a gamekeeper who’s in charge of the woodlands and the shooting. The farmers grow all our grains and such, and the home farm produces all our meats, vegetables, and herbs, and of course we have our own dairy. We have sheep, pheasants, partridges, geese, venison, rabbits, pike, and trout. As you can see, there’s hardly any reason for us to leave the abbey at all, unless required to do so in order to preside over a village fair or some such. We even have our own small church on the grounds for those occasions, like this one, when we have weekend guests and so prefer not to go into the larger church in the village. After he’s done with his service in the village, the vicar will come to us. You’ll see that tomorrow—our smaller church, that is.”
“It does sound impressive,” he said, “particularly the wide assortment of livestock.”
“I suppose it is,” she conceded. Then she added with a laugh, “Would you care to inspect the pigs?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, joining in her laughter before ending on a sigh.
“What’s wrong?” she said, always sensitive to the feelings of others.
“Only that I came here with such high hopes.”
“How do you mean?” she said.
“May I be frank, Lady Grace?”
“I wish you would, Mr. …Merry.”
“I’ve been fortunate enough to be successful in life when it comes to my businesses. But sadly, I have been less successful in other things. Then, when your father’s invitation arrived, and knowing your family’s circumstances, I thought—maybe there’s still hope yet for an old bachelor like me. Maybe there is still a chance for some love in this life of ours.”
“Oh,” Grace said. “Oh! You mean you and Kate.”
“Yes, but then of course, no sooner do I arrive than I see another suitor has been invited—a duke, no less!—and then a long-lost cousin shows up, and a handsome male cousin at that. So I fear that any services I might have been able to provide to your family…” He let the idea trail off.
The entail. That was what he was talking about. In the absence of a son, the entire Porthampton Abbey estate would go to the nearest male relation. Mr. Young had clearly hoped to resolve that problem by marrying Kate and then, hopefully, providing a male heir through their union.
“You mustn’t despair,” Grace said.
“But now that Benedict Clarke has shown up…” Again, he let the idea trail off.
Yes, now that she thought about it, she had to agree with his assessment of the thing. Her father would want Kate to marry Benedict, thereby securing the estate for the foreseeable future, one way or another.
Of course, Martin Clarke would need to die first for any of this to become an issue, a prospect she shuddered at and hoped lay long in the future, but she did understand why it occupied her father’s planning of what would happen to his estate.
“You know,” Meriwether Young said when she failed to fill the silence, “I was not hunting a fortune. I have enough of one of my own, even if nothing like this.” He gestured at the opulence around them. “But I had perhaps been hoping to find something resembling love.”
“You mustn’t despair,” she said again, this time more fervently. “Who knows how a thing will turn out before everything is said and done?”
“Perhaps you are right.” Then light shone in his eyes. “Perhaps, not finding love with one daughter, I shall find it with another?”
Grace blushed at this, while thinking, What an absurd idea! “Why don’t we go to the drawing room?” she suggested. “I’m sure Mother and Grandmama are there, and that there will be some tea laid out for us.”
As they neared the drawing room, Grace could smell her grandmother before she saw her, what with her signature scent of Indian flowers.
Entering the room, she spotted her mother and grandmother in their typical midmorning occupation: one perusing the Sketch while the other consumed the Tatler. Soon, Grace knew, they would switch.
“Mr. Young!” her grandmother said, spotting them. “Why don’t you come sit by me and tell me all the wretched things that are going on in London. As you can see”—here she waved her paper at him—“I do love a good nasty gossip.”
“I’m not sure I know anything nasty,” he said, taking the offered seat before adding gamely, “but if it suits you, I can certainly try.”
As Grace observed Mr. Young kindly trying to accommodate her grandmother’s request, she thought of what her elder female relatives’ days typically consisted of: reading the gossip sheets, of course; a crossword; some oil painting; perhaps a walk around the gardens; endless changes of clothing. She could only conclude, as she always did: how boring.
Then she thought about what Mr. Young—Merry—had alluded to just a few moments ago. As the daughter of an earl, Grace knew she was expected to marry a man of equal or senior rank to her father. But there weren’t many dukes around—although there was Raymond Allen, but then, he’d come for Kate as almost everyone did—and the king, well, he was already taken. Come to think of it, the earls she’d met were all taken as well.
But what of this Merry? She speculated. For a second daughter like her, no one would mind so much if she didn’t marry a title when there were so few to be had anyway. He was kind. Why, look at the attentions he was paying her mother and grandmother. He was lonely, in need of a wife. Plus, young as she was, if she married him before Kate wed Benedict and if she—Grace—were to somehow bear the first male grandchild…
But of course, that would depend on her father dying first, and that was something, a fact she kept leaving out of the equation, no doubt because she hated to think of a world without him in it.
Something else she kept leaving out of the equation? The question of love.
She knew many married without it. Did her parents even love each other? She couldn’t even say that with certainty, although she hoped so.
As Merry shot a hopeful smile in her direction, Grace let the notion of a different life—one in which she might live part time in London with an older successful husband, while possibly presiding over Porthampton Abbey the rest of the time—slip away.
Already she liked Merry well enough, and she did pity him his loneliness; she’d known loneliness herself. But let others, let Kate, marry for convenience or financial gain.
She, Grace, would hold out and marry for love.
Chapter
Thirteen
Fanny carried Henry Clay into the library. The kitchen cat normally never got out of the kitchen, unless it was so early in the morning that the rest of the house except Fa
nny was still asleep, and Fanny imagined he relished the opportunity, no matter how undignified the manner of conveyance.
“Some are out hunting, while the others are having a late-morning tea,” Fanny whispered to the cat as she set him down, “so I think you’ll be safe with me. Only, if anyone comes in, you hide under the sofa and I’ll pretend to be dusting.”
Henry Clay blinked at her.
“I knew you’d understand,” Fanny said.
Fanny figured Henry Clay liked her as much as he liked any human—more, even, since she was the only one who paid attention to him, who didn’t just kick him out of the way whenever it was busy in the kitchen, which was pretty much always.
The kitchen maid regarded the kitchen cat as he sat on his haunches on the Persian rug, blinking at the sofas facing each other perpendicular to the fireplace. She hoped he didn’t scratch them, since she figured if she were a cat, they’d be perfect for scratching the hell out of. But no. Henry Clay merely blinked around the cozy room with its writing desk by the window and its thousands of books.
“I agree,” Fanny whispered. “Much nicer than the kitchen in here, isn’t it? A person could get used to this.” She paused. “Why do you think Will ran out so quickly like that?” She didn’t wait for the cat to answer. “I’ll tell you why. He likes Lady Kate. And I like him. Which one of us will get what we want? I’ll tell you the answer to that one, too: neither. That’s who. Because that’s how the world works. But never mind all that now. This is not the time for love, Henry Clay.”
Fanny turned away, fingering volume after volume on the shelves. “You can find answers to anything in books. What do you think, Henry Clay? They say Will’s uncle didn’t turn into a vampire, so that’s not it. Perhaps a monster as in Mrs. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein?” She sighed. “No, Will’s uncle wasn’t pieced together with bits of other dead people, so that’s not it, either.” Then she got so excited about something, she stopped speaking softly. “Maybe I could glance through some medical books! I might get ideas there!” She pulled out a few volumes on medical diagnosis—really, there were so many books here and yet no one else ever read any—and waved them at the cat. “Shall we sneak these out with us?”
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