1: News From Corland
STONYWELL, NOTTINGHAMSHIRE: JUNE
Ian, Viscount Farramont, woke at his usual time. He invariably woke at his usual time, wherever he was, whatever the season. He rose and dressed himself in his old clothes and went for his walk. At least at Stonywell, he could take the dogs with him. Their boundless energy and endless enthusiasm for yet another pile of leaf litter, indistinguishable from every other such pile, always lifted his spirits.
Not that he was truly downcast. How could he be, married to Izzy? But today she would leave him again for a visit to friends. So many friends, so many visits. Ian supposed he could go too, if he wanted, but Izzy never suggested it and he knew these gatherings were often overcrowded. They might have to share a room, and he hated to encroach.
The exercise in the cool early morning air did him good. He disliked being in town, when he was forced to walk the streets.The Brook Street house was too far from any of the parks for easy access, and there was nothing uplifting about London’s filthy streets.
Discarding his muddy coat and donning indoor shoes, he made his way to the one room in the upper part of the house where he could find lively company at this hour. Peeking his head round the nursery door, he was greeted with squeals of glee from his two daughters. Helena, the elder at four, was all Izzy — the same wiry form and vivid green eyes. Aurelia, just three, had Ian’s more solid frame, his washed-out blue eyes and a touch of his red hair. Fortunately, there was enough of Izzy’s dark locks to render it auburn.
Sweeping Aurelia into his arms, he said, “Now, what are you two mischiefs up to, eh? Or are you behaving yourselves today?”
“They’re good as gold, milord,” the maid said bobbing a curtsy. “No trouble at all. They never are.”
At least they did not take after their mother in that respect.
“Will you read to us, Papa?” Aurelia said.
“No, play a game with us,” Helena said. “I can play cup and ball for ages now.”
“What is your record?”
“Twelve,” she said proudly.
“Well, let me see if I can best you. I used to be a champion with cup and ball when I was… well, perhaps a little bigger than you are.”
The toy was found, and Ian soon discovered that skills enjoyed at the age of seven or eight could not be depended upon at the age of five and thirty. It amused the girls to see him struggle, however, and he never minded being a source of amusement to them.
“I can see I shall have to practise. Where did this come from? It looks just like the one I used to play with.”
“It might be, at that, milord,” the maid said. “Milady took the girls into the attics yesterday and found boxes of toys.”
“Mostly wooden soldiers,” Aurelia said in disgust.
“And there were spiders. And dust everywhere,” Helena said. “We had to change all our clothesandhave our hair washed.”
“Still, it was kind of Mama to find some new toys for you.”
“It was because Madame Marie broke her head,” Helena said sadly.
“Madame Marie? One of your dolls?”
“The one with the strange gown that sticks out. Mama said she was French because of her gown, but yesterday I dropped her and she broke her head. Mama said she’d buy me a new doll next time she’s in London, but she doesn’t know when that will be, so we went to the attics to find another doll. But there weren’t any.”
“I have to attend Parliament next month, so I can buy one for you then,” Ian said. “At least you have something new to play with while you wait.”
After the nursery, it was time to submit to Wycliffe’s ministrations and turn himself from his rather scruffy and dishevelled early morning appearance into a gentleman. Wycliffe had only one mission in life, and that was to transform Ian into a sprig of fashion, so that when he walked down St James’s Street or danced at Almack’s, heads would turn and everyone would be so dazzled by his sartorial elegance that they would all want to know the name of his valet. In this regard, Ian was a sad disappointment to him. Wycliffe had assumed that a viscount would want to strut a little, but Ian had never had the least ambition to strut, and if asked, would not even be able to describe what such an activity entailed.
He was very glad to be properly and soberly dressed, however, as befitted a gentleman, wearing dark colours, clean linen and no jewellery beyond a signet ring and a single fob.Such a style had graced his father and his grandfather before him, and Ian could not, for the life of him, see why he should consider changing it.
“There, sir,” Wycliffe said at last, brushing a final speck from Ian’s coat and stepping back to admire his handiwork.
“Thank you, Wycliffe,” Ian said gravely. “You look after me very well.”
“It’s a pleasure to dress a gentleman soimposingas your lordship,” Wycliffe said with a bow.
Imposing. That meant tall with bright red hair, he supposed. Ian could never lose himself in a crowd.
