Prologue
FINSBURY SQUARE, LONDON; JANUARY
The Honourable Simon Payne pulled his shawl more tightly round his shoulders and glared balefully at the fire burning fitfully in the grate. It was not the fire’s fault that it had so little power to heat the attic room. It was doing its best, he supposed, but there were limits to what could be expected of any fire against the freezing cold air trying to creep through even the smallest crack in the windows.
He sighed, remembering sorrowfully the brilliant blazes of his youth. There was no chill in any room at Edlesborough, no matter how frigid the outside air. But all that had changed fifteen years ago, when he had asked to be articled to an architect, and his father had stared at him as if he had two heads.
“Articled?To anarchitect?Nonsense! It is the army for you, my lad. That is the tradition for younger sons in the Payne family, since you are hardly suited to the church. John andMatthew are promising in that way, and will take up the two livings I have in my disposal, so you must go into the army. It will do you good — make a man of you, and none of this drawing nonsense. I can get you into the Guards, so you will not have to fight.”
“No, sir.”
“Good. That is settled. Next year, when you are sixteen, you will—”
“No, sir. I will not join the army.”
His father’s eyes had bulged like a frog’s. “You will do as you are told!”
“No. Juliet said she will take care of me.”
That brought on such an outpouring of rage that the physician had to be called, and Mama had brusquely packed Simon off to London to join Juliet at once.
And here he still was, still trying to become an architect, still failing miserably. Yet Juliet’s small annuity managed to keep him in paper and pencils, and so he still designed his great houses in the Greek style, although he toyed with Gothick designs sometimes, too. But no one wanted them. They were much admired, but the men of wealth who could afford them preferred the established names like Stewart, Holland or Wyatt. How was a man ever to become an established name if no one would engage him? Just one house would make his reputation, he knew it.
Mary Ann brought him his afternoon pot of tea. It was weak, of course, since the leaves had to be reused and by supper were barely colouring the water, but at least it was hot and would warm him inside. He sipped gratefully, moving closer to the fire. Another quarter of an hour and he could add some more coals to it. Then there would be his glass of wine at dinner to look forward to.
He had barely begun his first cup of tea when Juliet dashed in, unwinding a voluminous scarf, her nose red from the cold.
Simon frowned. “Thought you intended to be out all morning.”
“Indeed I was, but I called at the post office and there werethreeletters, which have been there for an age, the fellow said. Since Christmas, almost! Just imagine, and two are for you from your mama, so I brought them at once. Quick, quick, quick! How much is it?”
She tossed two small letters at him which he tried to catch but missed. Swiftly, Juliet bent down to pick them up. “Hurry up, Simon! The suspense is killing me.”
He ripped open the first letter. “A hundred!” he said, awed, holding up half of a bank note. Tearing open the other, he held the two halves side by side. “A hundred pounds, sister! We can have beef steak for Sunday dinner.”
“Or a turkey, perhaps,” she murmured. “Or what do you say to a bit of partridge? I am so fond of partridge. And a box of those wonderful bonbons that Haydocks have.”
“Let us not be too ambitious,” he said, laughing. “We cannot say how long this will have to last us. It is six months, two weeks and three days since the last note, and that was only twenty.”
“She must have had all the aunts and uncles at Edlesborough for Christmas,” Juliet said. “You know how she does it — feed them up, pour Papa’s best claret down their throats and then gently fleece them at the card table.”
“It was only fifty after last Christmas,” Simon said.
“So it was. She has had a successful time of it. I wish my mama were still alive, to send me little presents like this. Yours is very kind, and Papa knows nothing of it. The letters were not even franked, but I do not mind paying the postage when the contents are so rewarding.”
“Three letters, you said. What was the other? A bill? We can settle for the coal now… and the butcher.”
“Oh, yes. In all the excitement, I had forgotten.” She fished the third letter from her reticule. “I do not recognise the hand. It is not a bill, I think.” Breaking the seal, she unfolded it and read it silently, before looking up with a frown.
“What is it? Not bad news?”
“No… good news, I think, but… strange. Listen.‘To the Lady Juliet Payne, Finsbury Square, London. With humble greetings, my lady. You do not know me, but I am bidden to request you to bring Mr Simon Payne to Staineybank in Brinshire at your earliest convenience, in order to discuss the design for an orangery. Please reply directly to me to confirm your preferred date of travel, and I shall arrange private transportation and accommodation en route suitable to your station. Respectfully yours, A Goodenough (attorney at law), Castle Street, Brinchester’.What do you think of that?”
“An orangery? Nothing else?”
“It is progress, Simon. Nothing but stables and kennels so far, so an orangery is a step up. A gentleman client, at least.”
“But Mr Thwaite may yet settle on a design.”
