Again, he shrugged. "I prefer it that way. I have got a laboratory in Jermyn Street where I work. And I sell my perfume to the chemists and perfumers of London. Few know they are dealing with Lord Tewkbury." He stared absently into the air. "My father would have had an apoplexy if he'd known that his son dirtied his fingers doing a tradesman's work."
Ellen leaned forward. "What happened to put you at such odds with your father and brother?" He would probably withdraw again, chiding her for meddling in a business that was not her own.
But he sat in silence, thinking. Then he spoke.
His father never got over the disappointment that he not only stuttered but also had learning difficulties and couldn't read. When they resorted to punishment, it got worse. He was sent home from Harrow in disgrace after only a few weeks. His brother Edward, however, had always learned easily. By the age of five, he was reading fluently and doing sums in his head.
His father had ranted, "How can my eldest son and heir inherit my property and fortune if he is too dim-witted to read letters, sign documents and check the ledgers to see if the sums add up? All and sundry will try to outwit you and trick you with their crafty miscalculations, draining our fortune over the course of time. It will be our ruin!"
"I could do the ledgers," Edward had piped up. He was only eight.
Lord Tewkbury's face had softened. "I know you could, clever boy."
And so it had been Edward he'd invited into his office to show him the ledgers and other important documents. It had been Edward who'd learned how to run the estate. It had been Edward whom his father had wished to be heir to his title and estate, and not him.
Edmund had been left to roam the woods with Dunstan, now Lord Dobberham, gathering flowers and attempting his first distillation of violets. His father had thought that an effeminate pastime and forbidden it. When his father caught him sorting his mother's shawls to admire the fabric, he'd been grounded for a week.
Then, when he and Edward both turned sixteen, it was Edward whom his father took to London to meet the bankers and lawyers.
Edmund had stayed at home, hurt and resentful. What he wouldn't have given to go to London! He'd been burning to get to know the city and its fashions. But here he was, kicking his boots in the country.
The butler had brought him a letter that needed answering urgently.
Edmund had taken the letter into his father's office, placed it on the desk, sat down in the chair behind it and stared at it for a good half hour before deciding to open it.
It had taken him another painstaking half an hour to decipher that it was from one of the tenants, asking for an extension on the rent.
This was his chance, Edmund thought, to prove to his father that he was as capable of running the estate as much as Edward. If he could read and reply to this letter in legible handwriting, if he could settle this business before his father and brother returned from London, then he would prove that he was indeed a worthy son and heir.
Perhaps his father would be proud of him for a change. And he would have shown that he wasn't the fool he was thought to be.
No sooner said than done, Edmund dipped the quill into the inkwell and drew letters on the paper. Dear Mr Matkin…
He'd gone through ten sheets of paper before he produced a letter that was free of mistakes and stains. He then folded the letter, wrote the name of the addressee on it and instructed a footman to deliver it to Mr Matkin immediately.
Edmund was pleased with himself and so proud that he'd been able to do this on his own and without a tutor tapping his knuckles with a ruler.
His father and brother returned after a few days, with Edward wearing a set of brand-new clothes that made Edmund jealous.
"How was it?" he'd asked his brother, who'd shrugged.
"I dare say city life is not for you," Edward said breezily. "Too noisy and smelly."
How Edmund would have loved to see London, even with all the noise and smells!
When his father called him into his study, he wondered how he could tell his father that he, too, would like to visit London one day.
His father was standing in the middle of the study, red as a beetroot. In front of him stood a farmer, turning his battered hat in his hand and thanking him profusely.
"I shall be forever grateful," he said, shaking his hand heartily and leaving.
"What is the meaning of this?" his father had shouted, waving the letter Edmund had written.
Edmund swallowed. "It was an urgent letter from Mr Matkin. I had the matter settled to your satisfaction."
"Mr Matkin? MrMatkin?" His father's eyes almost popped out of his head. "Where, in all that is good and holy, does it say Mr Matkin?"
A sick feeling settled in Edmund's stomach. He did not reply.
