The Lies of Lord John

by Fiona Monroe

  Lord John fished in his pocket, removed two of his few remaining copper pennies, and tossed them into the cap. The beggar squinted at the donation and though he touched an imaginary brim on his bare head and muttered an obsequious platitude, he did not look overwhelmed by the immaculately-dressed gentleman's generosity.

  Ah, thought John, if only you knew that I am the poor widow who drops her two last sheckles into the temple urn, or however it was the story went. He had donated a considerable percentage of his remaining worldly wealth to the indigent husband and father of five, and he had done it as a kind of talisman. These streets looked hard and cold, when he reflected that he had only temporary leave to lodge behind one set of all these rows of bright, wide, fashionable windows. The Dunwoodie town house was in Charlotte Square, but he knew that he was not welcome there. The housekeeper, Mrs. Leslie, would have, by this time, received orders not to admit him. How easy it would be, despite his birth and education, to end up begging on a street corner after all, when he had no resources at all to command. He did not want to stoop to borrowing money from Sir Duncan, and he did not see how that would solve his problems anyway. He needed an income, not a handout. He needed a plan.

  He was just heading away from St. Andrew's Square toward Queen Street, to see whether he was still admitted to Sir Duncan's house at least and whether there was anything left in the way of breakfast, when something caught his eye. It was a flash of silver, on the other side of the wide square. Lord John halted and knelt down to pretend to adjust the laces on his shoe. He tried to observe the person who was near the railings that surrounded the private gardens in the centre of the square, but without making his scrutiny conspicuous, he could only gather that it was a gentleman of decidedly foreign appearance, wearing clothing that did not quite look Scottish or English in origin. And he was almost sure that the person had removed something gleaming from his pocket, something that might have been a knife.

  John made his decision and stood up, deliberately drawing himself to his full height, and looked openly across the street at the foreign-appearing gentleman. He even tried to catch his eye, although they were rather too far apart to allow for that. The man turned his head in another direction, folded his arms, and continued to loll against the railings in an attitude of what looked to Lord John like assumed idleness.

  John set his shoulders and hastened his pace toward his friend's house.

  By the time he reached 15 Queen Street, he had convinced himself that agents of the Contarini's would not be stalking him in open daylight in Edinburgh New Town. The notion was fantastical, absurd. Nonetheless, he was relieved to be within doors, behind a protective guard of footmen and butlers. He found that the sausages and kippers had not yet been taken down to the kitchen, though the breakfast parlour was empty and the food somewhat cold. He rang for hot coffee, and when the dark-eyed kitchen maid was the one sent to serve him, he barely looked at her as he gave his orders. He would abide by his promise to Lady Buccleuch.

  He could not help noticing that Effie, as he recalled her name to be, blushed deeply when she saw him and said, "Yes, my lord," with a quavering tone. But he kept his eyes on Sir Duncan's discarded newspaper until she had left the room.

  The name of a certain small German kingdom caught his eye in the title of a tiny article in the foreign news pages, and he read with keen interest that King Ferdinand the Third of Swabia was reported to be dangerously ill.

  As soon as he was alone again, he darted quickly to the window and surveyed the street. There was no sign of lurking foreigners, merely a milk cart and horse plodding its way back to the depot and a gardener pushing a barrow toward the garden-works. Would Count Contarini have the wit to disguise his agents as honest Scottish workmen?

  "So, my wife has read you the riot act."

  John started and turned guiltily as Sir Duncan came in with his hound snuffling around his heels.

  "I'm sorry if I'm disrupting your domestic bliss, Buccleuch."

  "If you want the company of the fairer sex, why not seek out a sympathetic female of a better class? I could get you a couple of introductions."

  "You know I have no money for that kind of thing. Besides, I don't like it."

  "Like what, precisely?"

  "Paying for it. Going where so many have gone before. Listening to fake flattery from some woman who is calculating the weight of my pocketbook. I want… something real."

  Sir Duncan barked a laugh. "You think that you're getting something real from a kitchen maid?"

  He had never tried to put it into words before, and he was ruffled by Buccleuch's mockery. "Yes, more than from a courtesan, for certain."

  "Your transaction with a courtesan is an honest one. Pay her money, offer her respect, she'll reward you with a good time. You are equals."

  "Equals?"

  "Yes, and what happens if you seduce some wretched little housemaid? Of course, you charm her with your devilish good looks and the fact that you are Lord John, whether she belongs to your household or not. Even if her position doesn't depend on your favour, she's hardly going to withstand your allure. That allure you get just from knowing how to wear a good set of clothes and speak the king's English like they teach you at school, and being the son of a Marquess. How is a girl fresh from a croft or born at the bottom of a close in Old Town, going to stand out against that? Her delight in your attentions might be real, but it's not honestly obtained."

  For all that James and others had often lectured him about his profligacy and his lack of charity in taking advantage of his inferiors, nobody had ever put it in quite those terms before. It was a new perspective, and John was silent. His defence hitherto had always been that the girls, themselves, seemed to enjoy it, seemed positively overawed by his attentions.

  "And does it ever last?" Sir Duncan pressed. "You cannot marry a servant wench, so it goes nowhere. If you want something real, as you put it, then look for love with a woman of your own class."

  "You know I cannot afford to marry."

  "I was serious in what I said the other day, you know. Marry for money! Men do it all the time! Find a willing widow or some such! Then you can pick and choose a mistress, if you have any energy or inclination left over."

  Lord John laughed without much mirth. "Find me a willing widow then, Buccleuch, for I have no idea where to look for one."

  "I shall get to it immediately," said Sir Duncan, and he slapped his thigh to signal the dog to follow him out of the room.

  Chapter 9

  Margaret's apprehension about meeting the Carlukes mounted higher as the next two days progressed. She responded meekly to her aunt's announcement of the visit, which was made over dinner without any reference to the young gentlemen being potential suitors.

  "Mr. Carluke, the brother-in-law of one of my oldest friends, is on a visit to town of some weeks," Mrs. Cochrane said as the servant ladled out cockaleekie soup. "He will be having dinner with us tomorrow, in company with his two sons, both fine and respectable young gentlemen."

  The atmosphere in the house had been subdued all day. Margaret had made the decision to apologise again to her uncle first, and then to her aunt, curtsying to them both at the breakfast table and holding her tongue thereafter. Her uncle had responded with a kindly smile and a pat on her arm, but her aunt was cool. Margaret had the feeling she was still on probation.

  So, she found herself sitting quietly in company, hardly daring to open her mouth when she was accustomed to expressing herself freely, and she, therefore, had plenty of time to ponder her situation. It did not seem to her that Charity's lotion had done much to relieve the after-effects of the previous night's chastisement, for she could distinctly feel an ache in her backside as she sat in the parlour that morning. She made an effort not to betray her discomfort, but she felt that her aunt was looking at her anyway as she shifted now and then on her chair.

  And still, at dinner, she could feel it. When her aunt spoke of the visit of the Carlukes, she exchanged a glance with Ch
arity then quickly dropped her gaze to her soup bowl. Charity was smiling softly, as if the prospect pleased her.

  In the morning of the day of the Carlukes' visit, it rained very heavily, and so there was no prospect of amusement from walking out. Again, Margaret found herself confined to a long day indoors. The tenderness in her nether regions had faded along with the bruises, and she was feeling less subdued and more as if she could not tolerate this confinement and dullness a day or a week longer. She was turning into Charity, she thought mournfully.

  Perhaps, if the elder Mr. Carluke should not be absolutely ugly, she would consider his proposal. Assuming, indeed, he was truly intended to make one. She stood before the mirror in her bedroom as Anderson, the parlour maid who served as her own maid when required, fashioned her hair.

  Charity came in before she was finished, looking clean and neat and nothing else. She was in a plain white gown, with no ornament save a jet choker at her throat, and her hair was pulled severely back from her forehead. She looked ready to attend a prayer meeting, not a dinner party.

  "You should not have those curls," she said.

  The curls in question were a very few, artfully arranged around her forehead. "Are they not becoming?" Margaret asked, stung.

  "They are not modest."

  "How can curls be immodest? My hair curls; I cannot prevent it. I used no art to get it like this."

  "You should not encourage it. Mr. Carluke may think it frivolous."

  "Charity, if Mr. Carluke is the kind of gentleman to base his opinion of me on the curl or otherwise of my hair, then I will have very little interest in pursuing the acquaintance."

  Charity looked a little hurt and said, "I think we both ought to do our very best to present ourselves as modest, respectable young ladies, to reflect well on our parents if nothing else. My mother does not approve of fancy hair ornamentation."

  "A few curls at my temple are not fancy hair ornamentation! I am not wearing a turban adorned with ostrich feathers!"

  "And I should not wear that cross. Mr. Carluke and his family are good Presbyterians. They might consider it Papist."

  "Papist?" Margaret lifted the very plain, small silver cross that she wore on a chain around her neck. "This was my mother's!"

  "I am only giving you advice," said Charity. "I am anxious that we should make the best impression possible."

  Margaret said nothing more but glared at her step-cousin in the mirror until she left the room with a sigh and a swish of her skirts. Then Margaret pulled a few more curls out from around her temples.

  She saw Anderson smile to herself.

  In the distant depths of the house, she heard the rap of the front door. She went to the window and looked down to see the top of a carriage stopped in the street outside and some gentlemen climbing down from it. In a few moments, she would be summoned to greet the visitors.

  "Miss Bell."

  Margaret turned in surprise. Anderson had presumed to address her, which was a most extraordinary thing. "What is it, Anderson?"

  The girl looked uneasy. She shot a glance at the door, through which Charity had so recently departed, and said in a lower voice, "I've this for you, madam. Excuse me if it's not right, but I promised I would hand it to you privately." And she produced a small package—an envelope—from the depths of her skirt.

  With a thrill of excitement, though she scarcely knew why it should provoke this reaction, Margaret took the envelope from her. Her first thought was, bizarrely, that the clandestine note might be from Lord John Dunwoodie.

  A glance at her name on the front gave immediate lie to this fanciful notion. She recognised at once the hand of Emmeline Douglas, and the sight gave her a pang of mixed dread and delight.

  Her confusion must have been visible on her face, because Anderson said anxiously, "I'm sorry if I've done wrong, madam."

  "How did you get this, Anderson?"

  "I was out on messages this morning when Mrs. Douglas, herself, stopped me, by the corner of Princes Street, and asked if I wasn't a maid from Mr. Cochrane's house in Charlotte Square. I knew Mrs. Douglas very well, madam, from when she lived here. When I said that I was, she asked me if I would give this letter to you, when there was nobody else by. I wasn't sure it was right, madame, but I thought—"

  "Yes, Anderson, thank you. Don't worry." Margaret started to pick at the edge of the seal on the envelope then changed her mind and thrust the letter into her bosom. She could hear voices and steps on the staircase; she would read it later, by candlelight, in the privacy of her bed.

  It was time to go meet her future husband, if she could nerve herself to the decision.

  Margaret and Charity met again on the upper landing, and they entered the drawing room together. Margaret felt Charity's eyes sweep her even curlier hair and the continued presence of the Papist ornament at her throat. She wondered what her step-cousin would think, if she knew that she was concealing a missive from a fallen woman against her breast.

  The drawing room of the town house was used only when they had company, which was relatively seldom. It was therefore a little musty and chilled as only a large room infrequently heated could be in an Edinburgh winter. Uncle Cochrane, teased into his unaccustomed best dinner suit and looking stiff and unlike himself, was with his wife and three gentlemen, all of whom rose as the ladies entered.

  "Ah, my niece and my step-daughter," said Uncle Cochrane. "Gentlemen, let me introduce Miss Bell and Miss Rankine. My dears, these are Mr. Carluke, Mr. Eliphaz Carluke and Mr. Obidiah Carluke."

  Margaret made the requisite curtsy, and she took the three visitors in at a glance.

  Mr. Carluke senior was a severe-looking man in his fifties or thereabouts, with a deeply lined face, little hair and a disapproving air. He was noticeably short, no taller than Margaret, herself, and certainly shorter than Charity, who was rather tall for a woman. But she was not much concerned about the father, except insofar as he reflected the son.

  Mr. Eliphaz Carluke, the older boy, she assumed, as he had been introduced first, was a duplicate of his father. He had the same bony, sallow countenance, the same thinning dark hair, and the same rather close-set, disagreeable eyes. He was of a height with his father. He made his bow with a perfunctory step and then surveyed her frankly.

  Margaret stared back for a moment, too curious to remember at once that she ought to drop her gaze and appear modest. This was the bridegroom her aunt and, if Charity were to be believed, her uncle were preparing for her consideration. First impressions were very far from favourable. He was short, looked ill-tempered, and he was already losing his hair.

  She was aware that she could not entirely pin her marital happiness on her husband's outward appearance, and that taste and temperament and character would be important, but she had a strong idea that she ought not to feel revulsion from the first.

  "Miss Bell," said Mr. Eliphaz, and even his voice had a grating quality that repulsed her.

  If her own prospective suitor made her heart sink a little, she had pity—and some inevitable amusement—left to spare for her cousin. The younger Mr. Carluke, Mr. Obidiah, was nothing like his father and older brother. While they were both short but stocky in frame, Obidiah was easily as tall as the Hamiltons' footman and so thin that he looked as if he might topple and snap. His legs were too long for his body, and his arms were all over the place. He scarcely fit into his suit, which looked as if it might have been made for his older brother and handed down to him. Added to his ungainliness was the extreme plainness of his countenance, with the same sallow complexion as his father and brother, but with the unfortunate addition of a long and ugly nose and a wide and ugly mouth. He did himself no favour by grinning widely with that mouth, revealing a set of prominent and uneven front teeth, when he set eyes on Miss Rankine.

  Margaret could not quite suppress a small smile of her own as they all sat on the little-used sofas around the smoking fireplace. This was a test indeed for Charity's fine resolutions, and she imagined that her
cousin must now be regretting all her sermonising of the morning before.

  The conversation, while they waited for the dinner-bell to sound, was surpassingly dull. The senior Mr. Carluke dominated it, with tales of his philanthropic work on and around the Rosslyn estate. Mr. Eliphaz Carluke interjected occasionally with observations about the sport to be had there and the improvements he wanted his father to make. Mr. Obidiah Carluke said almost nothing but gazed and grinned at Charity.

  At table, Margaret found that she and her cousin had been seated next to their proposed suitors. She had been accustomed to sitting at the bottom of the table, opposite her uncle, but had been demoted from that position upon his marriage; now, she found herself sandwiched between her aunt, who had taken her place, and Mr. Eliphaz Carluke. His brother and Charity were seated on the opposite site of the table.

  Uncle Cochrane invited Mr. Carluke to say Grace.

  "My son, Obidiah, will say Grace for us," said the older Mr. Carluke.

  Naturally, Margaret looked across at the young gentleman as he was named, and therefore, she saw Obidiah go beetroot red.

  She was also conscious that his brother, seated beside her, gave the first real smile she had seen from him.

  "P-pray excuse me," said the younger brother. It was the first time she had heard him utter a word. His voice was high, and he seemed to stutter.

  "This will be good sport," said Mr. Eliphaz, almost in an undertone, but Margaret thought she was meant to hear.

  "Obidiah!" The father's voice was not loud, but its insistence and authority were sharp and clear. "You are scarce a month away from being received into Holy Orders. You will honour our hosts and praise the Lord by saying Grace."