The Earl and the Nightingale: Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Ella Edon

  “Ha’penny,” he said without looking up. Jonathan was alarmed. This beverage was utterly undrinkable, and yet he had requested it. He put a penny on the bar, and lifted the cup, drank it all down, and felt the effects suddenly. He wiped his mouth and went back out into the street, where he saw a carriage pull up to the church.

  Chapter Eight

  A Family Funeral

  As he watched a beautifully dressed woman get out of the carriage, Jonathan noted that she was not wearing crepe or anything to indicate that she was on her way to a funeral. She was also more than usually shapely, from a distance. He turned his step back to the church and noticed that several of the mourners had already arrived. In fact, his mother and Cecily were already there, as was Simon and Peter. At the front of the church, by the organ, the well-dressed lady was conversing with the organist.

  “Hello there, old sock. Rum day for a funeral,” said Simon. In fact, it was overcast but not raining, and so Jonathan felt that it was quite a pleasant January day for England.

  “Aye. Thank you ever so much for coming, Simon. Is Peter with you?”

  “He was, but I believe he is consoling your sister Cecily at the moment.”

  “I see.” Suspicion was raised at once for Jonathan, but his attention was diverted because the service was beginning. The organist was playing something of a wild blend of Handel and John Blow’s funeral music. The priest, Reverend Holley, stood and began to speak. Jonathan scampered up the aisle to the pew where his sister and mother were seated, looking ashen. And as predicted, Peter was consoling Cecily, his hand on the small of her back. When she saw Jonathan, she winked at him conspiratorially. Jonathan stifled a smile. It was not the right time for merriment.

  For what seemed like an eternity, the vicar droned on and on, speaking in platitudes about the nature of life and death, and Jonathan felt himself slipping in and out of awareness of his surroundings.

  “Dearly beloved,” said the parson in a monotone so flat that Jonathan could hear the organ pipes sigh in sympathy. “We are here to honor the life of our friend and comrade, Jonathan Anderson-Reese, the second Earl of Yarmouth. As we all know, Sir Jonathan was a man of great vigor and passion. He leaves his grieving widow, Margaret, who was devoted to him. I should note that these two made an exceedingly handsome couple. Their two surviving children are also here, grieving but strong. Sadly, due to a tragic hunting accident, Sir Jonathan is no longer with us. He has crossed the great divide from which none may return. But I am quite sure that were John Bunyan here today, he would look on the good deeds and Christian life of our friend, Sir Jonathan, and tell him what he would tell him ‘well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of the Lord!’”

  Cecily audibly tittered. Margaret, who was genuinely upset, nudged her and frowned. “Really, Cecily!” she said.

  “I’m sorry, mother,” said Cecily, and she genuinely seemed to note that her mother was upset, regardless of the ridiculousness of the Reverend’s words.

  “And now, I should like to call upon the son and heir, Jonathan Anderson-Reese, the heir to the Duchy of Yarmouth, to deliver his eulogy.”

  Jonathan rose and slowly made his way to the front. He opened the paper on which he had written his eulogy, only to notice that it seemed to have been replaced by a shorter text, in a different hand. As he stood on the dais, he opened it up, and saw written on the paper, in the handwriting of his friend Peter Nunn, “As Shakespeare said in his Pilgrim’s Progress, ‘a man’s a man for a’ that!” Jonathan was momentarily amused by this prank, and he looked up at the filled church, half of whom had been friends of his father in life, and the other half who seemed to be there because he owed them money.

  “I had prepared some remarks,” he said. “But they seem to have gone missing. So, let me say this about my father; he was a kind man when he wanted to be, and he was a man of many powerful appetites. He loved my mother very much and I believe he knew he had two children. My father was a man who did not understand this rapidly changing world in which he was thrust, but I do believe he felt things in many ways different from what we see. He was a very avid investor in difficult ventures, and thought of the family fortune as something that would regenerate itself if left to its own devices. Father was a man who wanted the best for his family, but I imagine he did not know how to get it for us. Of course, he was taken from us too soon by a shot that was intended for his quarry, but this loss, though tragic, is most fitting for the nobleman he was. I hope my father can rest easy knowing his legacy, his family name, will live on in his honor.”

  Jonathan looked up and was surprised that many people were weeping. He himself was unable to look around long and realized he had said enough. He bowed to the assembled multitudes and strode back to his seat. Had he been able to look around, he would have seen that Garance Monteux was also sitting on the dais.

  When Jonathan reached the family pew, he came back to full attention when he heard the opening ground bass that indicated someone was about to sing from Purcell’s opera Dido and Aeneas. And sure enough, a voice so beautiful that it seemed made of pure gold rang through the church, intoning:

  When I am laid, am laid in earth,

  May my wrongs create

  No trouble in thy breast;

  Remember me, but ah! forget my fate

  The words, of course must have seemed ironic, given the trouble Jonathan’s father had created, but the beauty of the singing voice, accompanied as it was by a very well-played organ, was utterly, bewilderingly beautiful. As he looked to the front of the church, he realized it was her - the Parisian Nightingale, Garance Monteux – who was singing. Unless he was seeing visions, there before him was a confluence of his greatest joy and his current greatest disappointment in one.

  Something about the slow slide up of the melody on “When I am” and the sigh downward on “laid”; the rise as she repeats “am” and then the sled ride of “laid” in which it falls five notes downward, was heartbreaking to him.

  All the irony that Jonathan felt at first about that beautiful song, sung by Dido before she steps onto a huge funeral pyre, and burns her living body rather than live another day with Aeneas, who doesn’t seem to care, broke his heart. The fact that it was Garance was the thing that confused him. How could this possibly happen? How could she know how true these words were? Could it be Cecily?

  Jonathan leaned over. “Did you ask her to sing?”

  “Sh!” said Cecily. “Of course not. Did you?”

  “Of course not,” he said. Then they looked at each other. “Then who did, and who on earth is paying for her? We have no money!”

  Jonathan desperately wanted to tell his sister that he had met The Parisian Nightingale that week, but found no easy way to relay that information, particularly as he knew the whole congregation was looking at him.

  As the music died away, he saw, in all her splendor, the figure of the woman he was falling in love with, standing on the dais and singing, apparently, just to him. He was amazed; confused and amazed.

  The priest spoke the benediction and his father’s casket was taken out to the graveyard by six elderly pallbearers. He himself had not been consulted on that issue, but he was grateful.

  As soon as the casket had left the church, he was deluged by well-wishers. He thanked them as well as he could, considering all he could see was Garance. She was there, coming toward him with a sad smile on her face.

  Suddenly, he was struck with terror. It was irrational, and it was sudden, but he was terror-stricken that she might be angry at him for his behavior the other night. He had been unable to pay for the meal, and he had given her a frightful bundle of dying roses. Perhaps, he thought, she was here to be paid. He had only had limited interaction with people who ever deal with money in its physical form, and this made him uncomfortable. Nevertheless, she was so beautiful that he almost couldn’t contain himself. The sight of her made him weak and incoherent.

  “Why didn’t you read the eulogy I popped in you
r pocket, old sock?” asked Peter Nunn innocently, smiling.

  “That was not a good jape, my friend,” said Jonathan, looking past him at the advancing form of Garance Monteux. She was being mobbed by well-wishers and the star struck, but her eyes were solidly fixed on Jonathan.

  “Jonathan,” said Cecily, who was standing beside him. “That singer is approaching. I did not invite her to sing, and I certainly hope you had the good sense not to spend that sort of money recklessly.”

  “I assure you I had nothing to do with this. I was entranced by her performance, but it was not I who invited her.” At that moment, she stopped in front of him, surrounded by many older men who sought to make her acquaintance.

  “Jonathan,” she said in a loud voice. “I want to offer you my deepest condolences and I hope my singing goes somewhere to consoling you for your loss.”

  “Of course,” said Jonathan, stumbling. “It was marvelous. My only fear is that I haven’t the funds to pay for your brilliant work.”

  “Pay me? I wouldn’t hear of it,” she said, smiling. There was a gasp from the crowd of roués who were trying to get her attention.

  “Really?” he said, and he seemed genuinely thunderstruck. “That is a very kind gesture, and a terribly generous one,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Margaret stepping forward. “It was the ideal song, and you performed it with the appropriate majesty.”

  “With majesty? You mean like the Prince Regent?” said a confused Garance.

  “I only mean, you perform like a person who invented the art of singing. It is fascinating to watch you and even more pleasant to listen to you.”

  “You are a very charming woman,” said Garance. “Are you the widow?”

  “I am.”

  “I am dreadfully sorry for your loss and I am very glad that I could do something for you.”

  “As am I, but I confess, I do not know how you knew about my husband,” said Margaret. She sounded a bit suspicious, as though Garance were about to tell her that she was her husband’s mistress.

  “You do not know?”

  “I am not entirely certain I want to know either,” she said, clearly feeling ill at ease in this company. She looked around, worried, watching the old men who were primping and trying to look as youthful as they could.

  Jonathan noticed layers of some sort of pancake make-up on their wrinkled skin. Garance clearly had an effect on older men, and she knew the widow would not want to learn about an indiscretion of this woman’s husband at his own funeral.

  “Dear lady, you do, I should hope,” said Garance. “You see, I met your son after my first performance at Covent Garden and he was good enough to take me for a late dinner. And do not worry, he did not pay. Nor do you owe me anything for today, for your son charmed me that evening, and I wanted to repay his kindness. The truth is, I have been yearning to see him again, and read about this funeral in The Times, which I believe you refer to as The Thunderer. The newspaper of Mr. Thomas Barnes….”

  “Cecily, did you do this?” cried Margaret, almost in a tizzy.

  “Do what, mother?” She was preoccupied with Peter Nunn and not paying attention.

  “Did you write an obituary in The Times about your father?”

  “I did. Why?”

  “No reason. I just find it interesting that a woman can write.”

  Jonathan laughed. “Good Lord, mother, you sound like Dr. Johnson.”

  “But, Lady Anderson-Reese,” continued Garance, “I learned of his funeral at this church and thought perhaps I would see Jonathan again. And so, I made my way here, on my own. And I would like to ask your son to relay me home if he is available.”

  “Of course, I am available,” said Jonathan.

  “In fact, my Lord,” said the Reverend Holley. “There are a few official documents that you must sign, as heir to the fortune.”

  Jonathan laughed wryly. “Fortune, indeed!” But then he thought better of staining the family escutcheon and followed the priest to his study, hoping Garance would stay.

  Chapter Nine

  Burying the Dead

  Within ten minutes, he had signed the official documents announcing to some bureaucracy that his father was indeed dead.

  “Thank you for your kind words,” said Jonathan to the young priest, who beamed widely, clearly honored by these words. “They were a great comfort.”

  “The honor is all mine. I simply spoke from the heart and told what I knew of a great man.”

  Jonathan stifled a smile. His father had been many things, but he was no great man. “I am deeply grateful, Reverend Holley,” said Jonathan. “I shall bid you adieu.”

  “Do come back any time and bring your singer. She is quite talented, don’t you think?”

  Again, Jonathan stifled a chuckle. She was only the most famous singer in Europe, but this poor vicar had never heard of her. He was intrigued, but also in a hurry to get back to her. He decided that if he said another word, he would be trapped there for an eternity. “Good day, Father,” he said, and bowed as he left the study.

  Back in the nave, he saw that Garance had maintained her gaggle of old men, most of whom had no doubt given her an offer of transport. He walked back to her, and she managed to extricate herself from the melee, to approach him again. “I do hope I can see you again, Jonathan,” she said. Jonathan was taken aback by her forwardness. This was behavior that would be considered scandalous if an English woman had said it, but he maintained his composure.

  “Why certainly,” he said.

  She moved closer to him and put her hand on his arm. “Jonathan, please take me away.”

  “Of course,” he said, leading her to the door. His mother and sister had already departed, and he looked out on the high street for a hack to return her to her quarters. It was his lucky day, for by dispensing farthings to two local urchins, he managed to secure transport, and he and Garance were soon seated in a covered, two-wheeled hackney, where they could be alone.

  “Where to, guv’nah?” asked the driver.

  “Keep going in the direction of St. Martin-in-the-fields,” said Jonathan. Then, turning to Garance, he smiled. “Alone at last.”

  “You are marvelous, you know,” she said to him.

  Jonathan, who had not felt at all marvelous all day, looked at her as though she had lost her mind. “Marvelous? Good Lord, there is the pot calling the kettle black!”

  “I do not understand,” she said, confused.

  “I simply mean that you are the one who is marvelous,” he said squeezing her hands under his own. It was only when they finally entered into this hackney that he realized it was frigid outside, and he took the time to warm Garance’s cold fingers. He pulled them to his lips, observing that they needed his ministrations, and kissed her delicate fingers. She cooed, laughing like the tinkling glass he remembered from the week before.

  “I say, Garance, have you a performance tonight?”

  “I do. It is at seven.”

  “Then I suppose we need to take you there, to Covent Garden.”

  “I suppose, but it is not for another two hours,” she protested.

  “Agreed. But let us spend this time together now,” he said, kissing her fingers again.

  She responded by reaching to him and kissing him on the lips. Jonathan, once again shocked by her breaking of the social expectations of his class, recoiled briefly until he realized that he very much enjoyed her lips on his. However, in true English style, he had to think of something to say. “I say, Garance, there is a ball next week at Peter Nunn’s parents’ home in Hampstead. Would you be my guest?”

  Jonathan felt vainglorious at that moment. While he desperately sought some way to be able to see Garance again, he knew too that she would likely feel very uncomfortable rubbing shoulders with the powerful and juvenile gentry that populated these balls. He knew as well as any of them that the main purpose of these events was meeting a potential mate. And, although he knew in his heart that he needed to find some wa
y to raise the family’s wealth, he also knew the idea of marrying for money repelled him. And so he sublimated his own feelings about this ball, and decided it would be his statement, by bringing Garance, against this practice.

  “A ball? What is a ball?” she asked.

  “It is an event at which young people meet and dance, while older people admire the steps these young people take to engage in the mating process.”

  Garance laughed again. “I think we have these events in France as well, but I have never been a part of the gentry. Do you think I would disrupt the efforts of these young people?”