by Anna Willman
He turned to the bottom of the pile and began to read.
An hour later, he was penning a carefully worded letter to one of his daughters. She was not perhaps the wealthiest of his offspring, but she was more than comfortably established and her lineage was impeccable, her reputation unblemished. He had heard that she was engaged to be married, which meant she would be more likely to accede to his wishes to avoid any embarrassing exposure at this crucial juncture in her life. He believed – he hoped – that she would prove to be kind.
Guinevere would know. He grumbled again about disloyal friends, but continued to write. It was not so easy to say what you wanted to say while seeming to say something quite different, and do it all in a way that the true message would be received with brilliant clarity.
He could not ask a member of the female sex to call upon him alone in the country. Only Guinevere had the steel to do that without compunction. He felt a sudden sense of loss, but brushed it aside with a small sneer of self-contempt. He would have to go to town to call on his daughter. And then if he could not speak with her alone at her home, he would arrange to meet her discreetly in some respectable public place. Out walking on Rotten Row, perhaps, or maybe in the public rooms of Hookham’s Lending Library.
He put the letter aside for a moment. He would have to drive into Town and find a place to stay. He could no longer afford to stay at The Clarendon or Grillon’s as was his usual custom. Nor could he bear to think of putting up at one of the cheaper inns that crowded the less fashionable parts of London.
If he had not quarreled with Gwen, he could stop at her charming townhouse. It would have been a pleasure to spend the evening playing chess with Charles. He considered briefly mending fences with Guinevere long enough to make use of her hospitality. It would serve her right, but he quickly thought better of it. She might use him shabbily, but he would never play her false. To stay at her home while conducting the very business to which she had expressed such an adamant objection would be too grave a betrayal – even for him.
That little sneer once again flitted across his face. He would not do what he knew too well could only prove the justice of her accusations – that he was selfish and lacked integrity. No, he would take pains to deal fairly with Guinevere and show her how a true friend behaved.
After a time, he thought of a connection he felt sure could be persuaded to offer him a bed for a night or two. An old bachelor who lived mostly in seclusion, Sir Humboldt would not suffer if the ton took offense. It seemed improbable that he’d even notice their disapprobation.
Satisfied, he returned to his letter and when he had signed with a flourish and sealed it, he called for William and asked him to do what he could to make sure that he had adequate clothing for a trip to London lasting several days. He would call on his daughter and deliver the letter in person, once he had taken her full measure. Hamstrung by Guinevere’s refusal to assist him, he would proceed cautiously, both for the benefit of his offspring and for the success of his venture.
Content that no rational person could now accuse him of callousness, Lancelot went upstairs to change for dinner. By the week’s end he would be safely ensconced in Sir Humboldt’s comfortable home. And the day after that he would call upon his daughter.
He felt a surge of optimism. Guinevere would have him marry, but daughters were much better than wives. They had fewer expectations. And it was, after all, rather preposterous for a steadfast bachelor to contemplate entering into marriage for the first time at this stage of his life. And while he had never cared much for the opinions and restrictions of society, he had no wish to appear ridiculous.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN : In Which Lady Guinevere’s Life is Overset
Guinevere was tired and worried when she arrived home that evening. Charles was waiting for her in the library with an open book in his lap. He lifted his eyes as she came in and looked at her with his eyebrows raised in inquiry.
“Oh, Charles, we were not able to call on Mrs. Westlake after all. Louisa is ill again. We have put the whole thing off until she is well enough to go with me.” She pulled off her gloves and hat and sat down across from him.
“So the quest for truth is delayed,” he said with a slight smile. “No real harm done, my dear. Edmund does not plan to marry until the spring.”
“I know, but it cannot be good for poor Louisa to be living in suspense. I wish I had never told her. She says it is not so, but I am afraid that the stress of this situation may be the cause of her illness. She is pale and so tired, and a bit muddled.”
“And when has Louisa not been muddled in her thinking, I’d like to know.” He closed his book and held it lightly in his hands, giving Guinevere his full attention. “Really, Gwen, you know how she is.”
“Well, I do, and this is not how she is. In some ways she was thinking quite clearly, only she seemed not to have full control over her emotions. Usually it is the other way around, with her thinking a bit confused, but her manners always immaculate. No, this was different. She seemed to be talking through a thick fog. She told me she has not been taking any of that awful doctor’s remedies, but only tisanes and possets concocted by Miss Manning. Perfectly safe home recipes, however ineffectual. Poor Louisa.”
“Unfortunate indeed. I am sorry to see you so distressed.”
“I would have left her to her rest, but she insisted I stay with her and watch while she slept.”
“I should think Miss Manning quite capable of watching over her.”
“So did I, but indeed, Charles, that is part of my worry, for Miss Manning was behaving most oddly, wringing her hands and constantly fussing at Louisa, when in the past she has always been a calm and steady presence. Really she was most uncharacteristically distressed. I could make no sense of it, but whatever the reason, her nervous behavior was driving poor Louisa to distraction so that she almost snapped at the poor woman when she sent her away from us. How could I leave, when I knew my departure would bring Miss Manning back to the sick room to plague Louisa?”
Charles shook his head. “It seems that neither of them was herself, today.”
“No, they were not,” Guinevere said. “Do you suppose I should go and call upon Mrs. Westlake tomorrow without Louisa? Then it would be settled, and one way or another, Louisa would at least be relieved of her uncertainty.”
“I suppose no such thing,” Charles said firmly.
“You do not think the stress of not knowing is the cause of her illness?”
“It may be. I cannot say. But what I am sure of is that you must not go off on Louisa’s business without her approval. Now that she has expressed her wish to accompany you, it would be wrong of you to go on your own.”
Guinevere slumped in her chair. “You are right, of course. It would not do.” She sat, disconsolate and restless. Charles watched her struggle with herself with a rueful smile upon his face. Finally she spoke again.
“What shall I do with myself? I have promised Louisa that I will come to her tomorrow morning, just for an hour or two, so that she might be free from Miss Manning’s attentions, but then what shall I do with the rest of my day? I’d call on Marianne Digby, poor soul, but I’m afraid I am the very last person she would like to see just now. I am at a standstill. My children don’t need me. All my friends have deserted me. I have deserted Lancelot. Oh Charles, life will be so dull without him!”
Charles shook his head slightly and spoke so quietly that she almost missed his words. “I wonder, my dear, when it was that my company first began to bore you.”
Guinevere stared at him in consternation. He returned her look with a grave expression that was beyond sadness. The room was silent except for the crackling of the fire.
When at last Guinevere answered him, her voice was scarcely above a whisper.
“Never,” she said. “I have never once been bored by you, my darling. How can you say such a terrible thing?”
He nodded. “It is terrible, is it not? And yet saying it is not nearly so terrible a
s feeling it. It seems a very long time since I felt I could hold your interest.”
Guinevere felt a shiver of fear creeping up her back. “But it is not true! Have I not always said that you are my dearest, my truest friend? Charles, you are my dear husband and I love you. I do!”
He shook his head. “Yes, that is what you always say. But it is not easy to perceive that love in your actions. You put all your energies into Lancelot and Louisa, and until this latest scandal about Lancelot’s memoirs, your other friends.”
“But this is ridiculous! You do not wish me to have friends?”
“Of course you must have friends. I simply wish you did not prefer their company to mine. I know it is not considered the thing for husband and wife to live in one another’s pockets, but you were not used to be so fashionable.” His lips smiled, but his eyes remained sad.
She could hardly breathe. His smile was breaking her heart. She tried to say something, but no words came.
He waited a moment and then said, “How long has it been, my dear, since we spent an evening at home just talking or reading together as we used to?”
She spoke then, stumbling over the words. “We were home together just the other night.”
“Talking the whole time about Louisa and Edmund. Lamenting Lancelot’s disgraceful behavior.”
“I confide in you. I share my worries with you.” Words were coming now, but Guinevere remained almost rigid. How could she have missed this? How could she make him see that he was wrong?
He nodded again. “Yes. These matters are of great concern to you. They interest you, as I no longer do.”
“They concern me, because my friends are in trouble. I do not worry about you, but rather depend upon you. You are my rock.”
“And what does one do with a rock, but pick it up and throw it away?” His voice was both calm and deeply sad.
Guinevere remembered her passing thought a few days ago, of taking a lover, and blushed with shame. She got to her feet and went to stand by the fire, warming her hands, no – wringing them as poor Miss Manning had done earlier in the day. She stepped back from the fire and clasped her hands behind her back as if to hide the message they were conveying. This was all wrong. This was madness. Her Charles could not be saying these things to her.
She struggled to find words, to say anything that might break this ghastly spell, but he forestalled her. “No, don’t answer me, dearest. It was wrong in me to speak as I have. It is not your fault that you have tired of me. Indeed I am deeply sorry that you are tied to such a dull old dog.”
He waited a moment, watching her horrified face, and then stood up. “It is time, is it not, for us to go and change for dinner?” He set his book gently down on the desk and left her standing by the fire.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: In Which Mr. and Mrs. Digby Persist in Opposition
It is not so easy to give away a fortune as one might suppose. Henderson’s researches had failed to discover any living Digby relatives. To be sure, it was a common enough name, but Jonathan Digby had been the only child of parents neither of whom had any siblings. The only information on previous generations had been recorded in an old family Bible, and that had been destroyed in a fire while Jonathan was still a young man.
A trip to Somerset House had resulted in a long list of possibilities, but after following several leads to no avail, Mr. Henderson told Thomas that the case was nearly hopeless. There were Digbys in every township and county, engaged in any manner of trade. Doubtless there were a number of very remote cousins somewhere in England, or possibly America, but how to determine which Digbys were relations and which were not, was a puzzle.
Nor was Henderson aware of any charities favored by Jonathan Digby. The old merchant’s energies had all been directed to assure the proper education and social triumph of his son.
In other matters, Henderson felt more confident. He undertook to find a cook and a second housemaid as well as a house in a suitable neighborhood. Unfortunately it took him a while to understand what Thomas meant by “modest”, so the entire first week was wasted as he presented his employer with house after house that was far too grand in proportion and cost.
While Henderson was thus engaged, Thomas turned to Sarah to see if she had any preference in good works, but Sarah, just returned from a visit with her distraught mama-in-law, was in no mood for philanthropy, and said, with a flash of wit, that they might do well to consider the adage that charity should begin at home. Thomas, relieved to find her able to jest, however bitter the tone of her remark, rewarded her with a kiss and returned to his office to ponder his alternatives.
Sarah shook her head as he left her, wondering at herself a little, for she had not even been thinking of the money, but of his mother, repining the loss of the affection of her only child. Indeed Sarah’s life this week had become a round of wearisome visits and countless cups of tea. When she was not occupied comforting her husband’s mother, she was preparing the ground for her daughters and various members of her own extensive family, hinting at unfavorable investments, smoothing the way for Thomas.
Not that she had given up all hope, but try as she might, she could find no argument, no stratagem that would change his mind. Once she had admired his rock hard principles. Now she could only regret them. And yet, she could not quite shake the notion that there was indeed something magnificent, even heroic, about her husband’s resolve.
“What will you do with yourself?” she had asked him. “If you give up your clubs, your sports, your horses, how will you spend your days?”
He had turned to her in surprise. “I did not think to hear you lament my ending my visits to Jackson’s Boxing Saloon.”
“I have never been able to understand what pleasure grown men find in pummeling one another like a bunch of ill-tempered boys, but neither have I begrudged you your sporting pastimes. Indeed, my dear, I cannot think how you will manage without an occasional curricle race, a day at the hunt, or an opportunity to exchange blows with your cronies.”
He had sighed. “I am no Corinthian, but it is true that I will miss those things, as you will miss your card parties and dances and trips to the opera. We will have to find other occupations. “
“I cannot imagine what we will do,” she said. She looked around her as if to find some work with which to occupy herself, some activity to engage him, then shrugged her shoulders and gave her head a small puzzled shake that touched his heart.
“I imagine that we will spend more time in each other’s company in our new home. And if you find me too much in the way, I will take walks. Perhaps there will be a park nearby where I can sit and enjoy the gardens.”
She laughed, as he’d intended, to think of her Thomas sitting and looking at flowers. But she did not drop the subject as he had hoped.
“Thomas, you must consider this seriously. What will you do?”
He shook his head. “I have thought about this, Sarah, and so far I have no clear answer. I have considered that, since we will be short of money, I might seek employment. Unfortunately my education as a gentleman has fit me for very little that is useful in that regard. I might be able to find a post as some gentleman’s secretary, but I’m afraid it would be embarrassing for any of our acquaintance here in London to employ me. I could seek a position in some other city, but I am reluctant to take you so far away from our children.”
“No, indeed, for we will not have the means to make frequent visits.”
“Fortunately my father could not prevent my acquiring some little knowledge about the conduct of business, so perhaps I might look for a position as a shopkeeper in some genteel establishment – a stationery store perhaps.”
Sarah shook her head. She could not envision her large husband behind a shopkeeper’s counter. “Perhaps it is I who should seek employment,” she said.
“Absolutely not!” Thomas was adamant, genuinely horrified by this suggestion. He took her hand and spoke with great earnestness. “Promise me, my dearest, that you will no
t consider such a thing. I have told you we shall have enough to live on. If I do work, it will be so that we may enjoy just a few elegancies of life. And so that I may occupy myself with something, lest I go mad with idleness.”
They abandoned the topic then, but it continued to weigh upon her. His wretched despondency had lifted somewhat since that day when she had held him weeping in her arms, but she fully expected it to descend upon him again once the business of divesting himself of his fortune was completed.
Sarah pondered enlisting Henderson’s support in oversetting her husband’s plans, but decided finally against that, considering their man of business too loyal to deliberately cross his employer’s wishes. She would hold that card in reserve. In the meantime, Henderson’s difficulty in fully grasping Thomas’s intent was in fact, a blessing, for it kept her husband busy, and, she hoped, gave her time to devise a scheme that might prevent this disaster.
For now, she found herself preoccupied with doing what she could to effect a reconciliation between her husband and his mother. She could not help but feel that a softening in that direction might be just the key to easing his magnificent but surely misguided resolve to impoverish himself.
So it was, that when they sat down to dinner that night, she told him about her visit with his mother. Unwilling to chastise her in front of the servants, Thomas made several efforts to turn the conversation, and when she persisted, lapsed into a grim silence.
“Your mother looks very ill, dearest,” Sarah said. “She has scarcely slept this past week and keeps to her bed most of the day.”
After helping herself to a serving of trout and a side of haricot beans garnished with almonds, she added, “Whatever fault one might find with some of her decisions, you will have to agree, will you not, that all she has done has been done from love? Her affection for you and for her late husband cannot be questioned.”
