Tonight, however, was not to be one of those occasions.
“Remember, you must speak with Kendall,” Uncle Leith whispered in Ethan’s ear. “I am counting on you to help secure a contract to ship saltpeter from the Salzi Mine in Austria.”
As if Ethan could forget.
His own acquaintance with the Duke of Kendall was loose at best but more than Uncle Leith could claim. George Leith, Scottish minor gentry and distant relative of Lord Aberdeen, was not lofty enough to rub elbows with the likes of Kendall. But Ethan, in his fame,was.
More to the point, three years ago, Kendall had attempted to use Ethan’s popularity to garner public support for some proposed legislation. Because of this, Kendall might be willing to entertain Ethan’s request for the shipping contract—an opening that Uncle Leith intended to exploit with single-minded determination.
Lord Aberdeen finished his introduction to thunderous applause.
Ethan rose from his chair, the pleats of his kilt swaying. As usual, he wore the tartan of the Leith clan—a red-maroon background shot through with soft green and gold.
Nodding his thanks to Lord Aberdeen, Ethan took his place on the dais, the weight of over a hundred eyes pressing into him. Lord Aberdeen’s London residence, Argyll House, was not located in fashionable Mayfair but rather sat on the outskirts of Westminster. Consequently, his lordship had yet to invest in gas lighting for his home, leaving the ballroom rather dim. His staff had perhaps overcompensated for this defect by placing a staggering number of candelabras between the stage where Ethan stood and his audience—turning the gathered aristocrats into murky shapes.
Ethan was glad of it. The vague shadows beyond the dais made it easier to perform, to sink into the persona of the Highland Poet.
Standing nonchalantly, he placed his left arm behind his back and moved his right foot forward, knowing the pose made his shoulders appear broader in his tightly-cut evening coat.
He might be a poet, but Ethan had long ago intuited a simple fact—the force of his persona could enhance the power of his verse.
It was the oddest thing . . . fame. He craved and loathed it in equal measure.
“Thank ye all for coming tonight,” he began, loosening his Scottish brogue. If it was a wee bit thicker than usual, well, that was all part of his Highland Poet role. “It is a privilege tae find myself amongst so many illustrious ladies and gentlemen.”
Ethan rattled on for a moment and then recited several poems from his latest publication. The crowd listened attentively, save for an elderly lord in the front row who kept coughing. Ethan would pause and allow the coughing to subside before continuing.
As usual, he saved his most popular poem for last.
“I ken that I can’t leave tonight without reciting my most successful work tae date, ‘Auld MacDougall in His Cups Reminisces; or One Kiss Alone.’”
A wave went through the crowd at his words. A female voice let out a high plaintive sigh, causing a ripple of soft laughter. The elderly lord coughed again. Three young bucks came rushing through the door, perhaps having been alerted that the highpoint of the evening’s entertainment had arrived. Air swept in behind, blowing out several candles at the front of the stage, affording Ethan a clearer glimpse of the audience.
Of course, his gaze collided instantly with that of Uncle Leith, impatiently tapping his foot beside Ethan’s empty seat on the front row. His uncle fixed him with a stern frown.
Right. Getting on with it then.
“As ye may already know,” Ethan continued, “this work is a dramatic monologue, a poetic form popularized by Mr. Tennyson with the publication of his poem, ‘Ulysses,’ some years past. Permit me tae set the scene for my own poem. Imagine ye are sitting in the Lion Arms, an inn and public house in Fettermill, Scotland. Ye have just ordered a steak and ale pie, and as ye wait for your food tae arrive, ye can’t help but overhear two men blethering at the table behind your own.Auld MacDougall is at it again, ye think,telling his tales. Ye lean in, curious tae hear what Auld MacDougall is saying:
Nae, let us not leave yet. I would sit awhile
Longer and enjoy MacKay’s fine whisky.
I am in earnest, my good man. Ye doubt
My account and yet—What is that? Ye say
I am one for tall tales? Bah! Perhaps.
But in this, I swear the truth . . .”
Ethan continued reciting the long poem from memory, Auld MacDougall describing his encounter with bandits in Italy.
As he spoke, Ethan’s eyes roamed the room, the occasional familiar face emerging from the shadows now that several of the candles were extinguished.
Ah, there was His Grace, the Duke of Kendall, sitting three rows back. The shock of light gray hair atop his tall head shimmered even in the dim light. The fact that the man was at least three years Ethan’s junior rendered his aged coloring all the more striking. Ethan noted Kendall’s position, knowing he would need to approach the duke before the evening ended.
Words tumbled from Ethan’s mouth, even as he squinted to see other acquaintances and marked the audience’s reaction to his poetry.
