A Parade Of Virtue (A Poor Man At The Gate Series Book 9)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Hah! An old Grammar School, I doubt not! Not for Patrick, I believe, Judy.”

  “Kathleen is four and has a feeling for her letters, Bobby. Was we to take on a good governess for her then she could bring Patrick along for a year or two. Then, in good time, either a school for him – which I do not much want – or a tutor.”

  Robert agreed, it seemed the best solution for the immediate future.

  “What have you in mind for him when he grows up, Judy?”

  “The law – he is clever and could well make his way up to the heights, and lawyers, once they have made their start, climb by virtue more than by patronage, or so it seems to me.”

  “A barrister-at-law, not a mere attorney – it will not be difficult to find his, what do they call it, pupillage?”

  “So I read.”

  Kathleen came through from the nursery, fresh from her afternoon sleep, smiled a greeting from the protection of her mother’s skirts.

  “Prettier every time I see her, Judy, takes after her mama!”

  “Let us hope she has a happier start to her life, Bobby.”

  “She will!”

  “What of your brothers, Bobby? Is all well with them?”

  Robert sat and relaxed, able simply to be himself in Judy’s company, to put the lordship aside, to forget the cares of business and estate, to pretend that he was an ordinary, comfortably off family man. He chatted lightly, drank his tea, sat his daughter on his knee, took his ease…

  He left for London two days later, much refreshed and able to take up his burdens again, aware that he was lucky to have met with Judy, just a little resentful that the demands of his life had never permitted him to make her more than she was. It occurred to him that he should have shown more resolution as a younger man – he could have thrown all away for love of her. But would that love have lasted under such a strain? The question was unanswerable, and it was far too late to change anything now. He must live with the life he had created and do his best for all of his children, and his brothers, and the people on his estate, and the hands who worked for Roberts, and the shipyards, and in the banks. There was no end to his responsibilities, now that he considered the matter, and he could not avoid them.

  Book Nine: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Eight

  "Vienna, at last. I trust it is worth the effort it has taken to reach the city."

  Miss Masters felt it incumbent upon her to placate her brother; it had been a long journey and made, after all, at her insistence.

  "I am sure we shall both enjoy our stay, Frederick. And the scenery has been wonderful, so different to all we have known!"

  Frederick admitted that the mountains had been very unlike the flat countryside of Northamptonshire.

  They had taken the Rhine as far as was sensible, to Frankfurt, and then had been carried by a surprisingly comfortable coach from inn to inn: Wurzburg, Nuremberg, Prague - a northerly route avoiding Munich, as was apparently wise this year - all arranged for them by the banks, expected at every stop, the best rooms awaiting them. Ordinary travellers might face difficulties but the banking network looked after its own. Goldsmith cousins had appeared at various points, introducing themselves and taking them to dinner, always speaking perfect English to make them feel at home; they had learned some German in the schoolroom at their mother's insistence, but had far less fluency. The journey had been very civilised, but they were sufficiently intelligent to realise that it could have been very tedious for less-privileged travellers.

  Both were surprised at the insistence of coachmen and guards on using their titles; there was a far greater overt deference in the German-speaking lands, a tendency to grovel that was very alien to English courtesy.

  They pulled up in the courtyard of a very large townhouse, stone built on four storeys, a mansion that would have seemed ostentatious in London, a city of narrow buildings, but was one of many here. Footmen competed, it seemed, to open the carriage doors and bow them into the front of the house where their hosts met them after a formal introduction by a major-domo.

  "Lady Margaret Masters and Lord Frederick Masters!"

  They made their legs to the waiting couple.

  "Herr Isaac Goldsmith."

  Frau Goldsmith was not announced, but stepped forward at her husband's side.

  "Grand-Niece and Grand-Nephew, we are delighted to make your acquaintance."

  They made the appropriate greetings in return, offering the courtesies of their parents and grandparents as well.

  All was more formal than they would have expected in England, stiffer but not grudging - they knew they were welcome.

  They were taken up two pairs of stairs to their suites, discovering them to be far more than the large bedrooms they would have expected in an English house. The delay downstairs had enabled their own maid and manservant, aided by a platoon from the hosts, to bring their baggage to them. A quiet word from the servant assigned to each told their own people what they must wear, how to fit in immediately.

  "Dinner in the family tonight, Lady Margaret, Lord Frederick. You may well be tired from travelling. Tomorrow, if you wish, a little sight-seeing in the city and then to join us at dinner with close friends and relatives in the banking community. There will over the next few days and weeks be the opportunity to meet many of our literary and artistic world, and there will be large numbers wishing to meet English nobility. The Jewish community, of course, mixes little with the society of the well-born."

  The Goldsmiths were surprised to discover that the pair were used to rubbing shoulders with all of the English aristocracy and had been presented at Court.

  "Jews in Vienna rarely do so, though we are free from the persecution to be discovered so frequently elsewhere. But in court, Jew or Gentile, if you cannot show nobility for six generations then you are not welcome except on special occasions. Thus, you may well meet and speak with some of our aristocracy at concerts or in art galleries, but you will not receive invitations to dine with them."

  "That is not how things happen in London, sir. My brother, Lord Rothwell, will be seeking a bride this year, I believe, and will expect to be welcomed in every great family. There are no Princesses of an age, but his rank is such that he would not be censured for raising his eyes to one, if such existed."

  This was amazing, but they supposed that the morganatic marriage was not wholly unknown in the Empire - princes had married lesser noblewomen on occasion.

  "The concept does not exist in English law, sir. A marriage is a marriage and that is all of it, except that Royalty must be governed by their own particular Act. All lords are of equal validity in law, sir, though Society may curl a lip."

  They had heard that London was different, had not realised to how great an extent however.

  "Thus, Lord Mostyn is as much a lord as any nobleman born to the purple, you would say?"

  "Very much so, sir. He is married and has a son who will inherit, and who will in a very few years find himself a most welcome visitor in any household that has daughters, of any rank. Almost none of the English nobility are of old houses - of the four hundred or so of lords I believe that more than half are first or second generation creations, and there are no more than eight families dating back to the days of Queen Elizabeth in direct line. Our aristocracy is far more a political beast than yours, I understand!"

  "Very different indeed, it would seem. Perhaps that is why our artistic life is so much the stronger - a nobleman worthy of the name must encourage musicians and painters and poets. Not so to such an extent in London, one is told."

  "There are always a few outstanding performers to be heard, sir, and many make a good living, but far more in the theatres than as clients of the nobility. Mr Ignaz Moscheles, for example, is much prized in London as a virtuoso of the piano, and is long resident and very comfortably circumstanced. I have had the privilege of attending several of his recitals, but one would hardly expect to hear him at any social occasion in th
e mansions of the nobility. Just occasionally there will be a concert arranged, but generally one would attend at theatre or Opera House. One must not forget Mr Cramer and Mr Clementi, as well, and I am told that your Herr Hummel was very well received just a few years ago."

  "You will be able to meet him, Lady Margaret, this week, one trusts."

  Frederick took little part in the discussion of music, listening quietly, content for his sister to demonstrate her far greater knowledge. He did make one enquiry.

  "You mentioned poets, sir. What of writers of prose, of novelists?"

  There was a frown and a headshake - the written word was a different matter.

  "Since the revolution in France there has been a rigorous censorship of books, Lord Frederick. The novelist is not encouraged in the Empire, and the wise man makes little show of reading other than of the accepted classical authors, and in Latin or Greek."

  Frederick had been warned that sedition was very widely defined under the Vienna of Prince Metternich, and that he would be well advised to say nothing that might be assumed to have a political context. Lady Margaret need not control her tongue, being female.

  "Literature is not my field, sir - I shall cause no embarrassment."

  They rose from the table, entered the largest withdrawing room, big enough that a full grand pianoforte sat in one corner. They were told that Herr Mozart had once played upon it.

  "We are told that you play, Lady Margaret? Are you perhaps too tired from your travel, tonight?"

  She assured them that playing was a relaxation in itself, moved to the stool.

  "You will find a large selection of sheet music in the coffer to the side, Lady Margaret."

  She shook her head and, as a courtesy, entered upon a Mozart sonata before turning to her favourite Beethoven and then to a piece recently composed by Moscheles that she supposed might be new to them.

  Two hours passed before Herr Goldsmith called for refreshments.

  "You must be one of London's most favoured players, ma'am!"

  She shook her head, explained that it was not regarded as proper for a young lady of gentle birth to perform before an audience - she had never been permitted to do more than entertain after dinner.

  "A waste indeed, you would grace any trio or quartet, Lady Margaret."

  She noted, but did not comment upon the fact, that he did not suggest that a virtuosa solo career would have been possible.

  They dined with other families during the week and attended a private concert where Hummel was present and much honoured. Margaret was familiar with the vigorous galant style that Moscheles had made the norm in London; the rippling pearls of Hummel's playing was initially alien to her, but she quickly came to appreciate his feeling for music that existed solely for its own sake, that had no message to convey, was simply a thing of beauty. It was an idea that she would need to consider, she decided, being used to the concept that art must have moral value.

  As was normal, it seemed, amateurs amongst the guests sat at the keyboard after Hummel had performed, some with great skill, others merely with a love for music. Margaret was invited to take her turn, quite naturally played the Moscheles sonata, a novelty to the audience.

  Hummel himself listened attentively, begged to know what the piece was, asked her to play it again - a rare compliment.

  She obliged, was much applauded by the great mass of those present. Hummel spoke animatedly to the Goldsmiths.

  "Herr Hummel asks whether you have a copy of the score, Lady Margaret. He would much wish to add it to his own repertoire. He presumes it to be by Moscheles rather than by Clementi? He wishes to know whether you have any of John Field in your possession."

  Margaret had brought recent scores from London, expecting the newest pieces not to have reached Vienna yet and knowing that music-lovers would greatly appreciate them as a gift. Field’s nocturnes had only recently come into print and she had several copies with her, promised a set to the great man.

  Hummel made his thanks and added further comments.

  "Herr Hummel regrets that you could not have met him when you were eight or nine years of age. He believes that you could have been made into a truly great performer. As it is, you are perhaps the finest untutored amateur he has ever met, but you are, of course, too old, too fixed in your habits to be changed now. He does say that if ever you find yourself in need then you may make a career as an accompanist, or as a player in a chamber orchestra."

  She maintained her self-control - she had been trained since she was a very small child to behave 'properly' in company. One did not display emotion. She thanked Herr Hummel for his compliments, valued indeed from a gentleman of his standing.

  Hummel was not only a virtuoso of the piano, a pupil of Mozart and a composer who was regarded for many years as Beethoven's sole rival, he had also published textbooks which had established him as one of the greatest of tutors of the pianoforte. A word of praise from Hummel was to be valued, and his judgement could not be queried. In the space of a single evening Margaret was forced to accept that her hopes of a lifetime as a virtuosa were vain - she would not grace the halls and salons of Europe and Russia; she was not good enough.

  "So be it, Frederick! I am what I am, and that is a talented amateur and no more."

  There was nothing to say - he had reached the same conclusion for himself - he was a dabbler with a brush, would never aspire to greater heights.

  "What next, Margaret?"

  "A month in Vienna, enjoying the music and the society of the commercial classes, and then I must go back to London, in time for the Season, with luck. There, I think, I must satisfy Mama's hopes and find a husband. I cannot stay at home as a failure, a dried up and sour spinster sat in the corner; I must make another life for myself. What of you, Frederick?"

  "I may wish to remain here for a year or two, or longer, if you do not mind, Meg. We could send a request to England for a courier to meet you in Prague, or Frankfurt perhaps, myself escorting you so far. My great-uncle has suggested that I might wish to play a part in his business, on the merchanting side where he has to meet with Gentiles frequently and is often disadvantaged by being a Jew. Lord Frederick Masters, second son to the Marquis of Grafham, would be a very different person, it seems, one who would have a significant advantage in his dealings with the business community. There is a great deal of trade across the northern parts of Europe, in metals and particularly in made goods from England. A few years of experience and then I could perhaps establish myself in London, possibly as a merchant in my own right, more likely working with the bank, much as Lord St Helens was used to do."

  "Why this sudden change, Frederick? You seemed content to live in seclusion on the estate."

  "Growing up, perhaps? I cannot be an artist - wishing will not lend me the talent I lack, and I am not willing to go back to what now seems a sterile existence in the West Wing, producing second-rate water-colours to be very kindly hung up in House and Hall, and to pottering with farmers and yokels. You did me a great kindness, Meg, when you begged me to travel with you - and I am only sorry that you have gained so much less than you had hoped."

  The Goldsmiths sent an express message to Robert in London, a matter of five days using pigeons to the Rhine and fast boats to the coast and cross-Channel.

  "Captain Hood, would you be so kind as to solve this small problem for me? Lady Margaret Masters, my cousin, is in Vienna with her brother, as you may know."

  Captain Hood did not know, in fact, the peregrinations of the lesser members of the family being of little interest to him.

  "She went to visit with her Goldsmith kin, in company with her brother, Lord Frederick. He has been invited to remain, in a commercial position of some sort. I am much in favour, never knew he had it in him, believed him to be no more than some sort of dabbler and dauber in the arts - but I am sure that the Goldsmiths will have judged his use accurately. Lady Margaret will return to England, a long journey on which she must be escorted. Could you organise a
courier amongst your people to meet her at some point and take care of her so that her brother need not return all the way to London only to turn round again?"

  "I can go myself, my lord. I am not absolutely required in London for these next few weeks. What route are they to take?"

  "Avoiding Munich, it would seem, so northabout by way of Prague."

  "I had not heard of any uprising in Munich, my lord."

  "Jew-baiting."

  "The old order changeth little, it seems. I can be in Prague inside two weeks, my lord, will make my arrangements on that basis. I need a holiday, I feel, my lord, and this is an apposite time, when my whole way of life is to alter."

  Robert accepted Hood's offer, it was in keeping with the man's devotion to the interests of the family, in no way out of the ordinary, and he was much in favour of allowing him a period of relaxation before his life's habits were forced, or at minimum strongly encouraged, to change.

  Hood was in fact giving serious consideration to running - his existence in the shadows had been in many ways satisfying; the unseen master who ruled from afar was an attractive role. Many a villain regretted ever drawing Captain Hood's attention, even if they generally were unaware of his name or his very presence. Now he was to become one of many, a senior man admittedly, and quite probably well-off, but fundamentally ordinary. A few weeks on the road, into Central Europe and back again, a simple task involved, would give him time to think.

  There was always a place for freelance members of his trade; men, almost always, who had contacts across several countries and who could transmit information from one to another and make a rich living, provided they were careful. Independent intelligencers tended not to live to old age, admittedly, but their existence was an exciting one while it lasted, buying information and then dispensing it to the highest bidder, masters of the secrets of the great.