“Well?” Denny said, as soon as they were out of sight of the house. “It went as expected, I take it?”
Briefly, Lance outlined both the success and the disappointments of the morning.
“Not even invited for Christmas?” Denny said, disbelievingly. “What sort of betrothal is it, when a man is forbidden from seeing his lady?”
“Not forbidden,” Lance said uneasily. “Just… no room.”
“As if they could not squeeze in an extra man,” Denny said. “Ladies are a different matter, but a man can sleep anywhere. Ridiculous. And as for not marrying until the spring— Well, it is your own affair, Lance, but I would not put up with it. I wonderif there is an inn near Pentavon Castle where a man who wished to see his lady love could put up for a week or two, eh? What do you think?”
“You are a devious scoundrel, Denny. Let it be for now. She is going to write to me, so if she expresses any wish for my presence, I shall consider it.”
At Mount Street, Lance was obliged to go through the same conversation with his family.
“Well, what a disappointment!” his mother said. “We had so looked forward to meeting Lady Patience, and Lord and Lady Pentavon, if they should deign to grace our humble dwelling with their presence. However, we shall meet them in the spring, I dare say. Will they want you to be married by licence, do you think? At Grosvenor Square — that would be something, would it not? Such a pity they have to go out of town so soon.”
The lamentations went on, but Lance noticed several letters addressed to him sitting on the hall table. Most he recognised, but there was one he did not know. Ripping it open, he read the neat script within.
‘To Mr Lancelot Chamberlain, Mount Street, London. Sir, Your reputation being known throughout England, I have been instructed to write to you to invite you to attend the Duke of Brinshire at Staineybank, Brinshire, in order that you might paint a life sized portrait of the wife of the duke’s heir suitable for hanging in the library there. Please reply directly to me to confirm your preferred date of travel, and I shall arrange private transportation and accommodation en route. Respectfully yours, A Goodenough (attorney at law), Castle Street, Brinchester’
A ducal commission! And a life-sized portrait, too. That was something like, and more than compensated for the modest setback he had encountered at Grosvenor Square. He could wait to marry Patience if it meant a project of this magnitude. ThePentavons were not the only people who could mingle with dukes.
“Well! Mama, you keep up with the society gossip. What do you know of the Duke of Brinshire?”
“The Duke of Brinshire? Well! He must be above seventy now, but he was a fine looking man when he was younger. I remember him well. There was some tragedy last year... now what was it? His young son died, that was it, and he was obliged to send for a cousin, who is his heir. I believe the heir’s wife had a daughter not long ago.”
“I have a commission to paint the heir’s wife,” Lance said smugly. “Since I am not expected to dance attendance on my betrothed, there is no reason for me not to write to this… this Mr Goodenough, and accept. To Brinshire I shall go, then. Where is Brinshire? Does anyone know?”
But no one did, and there was an unseemly rush to find an atlas and pass round the sherry and toast the future of the youngest and most successful member of the family.
2: The Widow
STAINEYBANK, BRINSHIRE: NOVEMBER
Georgie Hastings started every day with a chat to her husband. She sat up in bed holding his dear face in her hands and told him everything. Not that there was much to talk about, but she told him all that she planned to do that day, and how her friend Rowena’s baby was going on, and how the wind had got up in the night and probably brought great deluges of leaves from the trees for the patient gardeners to sweep up before the next leaf fall.
He never spoke a word back to her, but then he had never been much of a conversationalist, even when he was alive. Poor Henry! This was all she had left of him now, this delicate and not even very accurate cameo of his silhouette. Even the baby he had given her had been lost in that initial outpouring of grief, and she had never much felt the loss in the far greater tragedy of losing Henry.
It was only now that Rowena had married the Duke of Brinshire’s heir and brought a tiny daughter into the world that Georgie had begun to feel that sorrow for her own child. Would it have been a boy or a girl? A quiet little mite, like Rowena’s, or a bawling, lusty son, waving pudgy arms as if shaking its tiny fists against the unkind world?
For itwasan unkind world, of that she had no doubt. A kind world would have spared her Henry, so full of life that she had simply not believed he could be dead until she had seen his crumpled body for herself. A kind world would not have given her so much joy, and then extinguished it so quickly. The ache for Henry never lessened, and now she ached for the child who had never been born, too.
Nevertheless, she did not repine, because what was the point? Once she had had her little talk to Henry, she gave thanks to God for the good things she had been given after Henry had left the world. So many blessings. Her little cottage in Oxford and the tiny income her dowry had brought, thanks to her uncle’s careful arrangements. Good neighbours and friends, not least of them Rowena. And now, a new home under the Duke of Brinshire’s patronage as companion to Rowena, with not just a roof over her head, but unlimited food, coals and candles, a soft bed and the use of a maid whenever she needed one.
She did not like to presume on such services, so she allowed the fire, rebuilt by some silent servant in the pre-dawn darkness, to die down, washed in last night’s chilly water and dressed herself with swift familiarity. Then it was off to the nursery to admire the infant. Rowena was there already, of course. Georgie had never yet managed to arrive before the doting mother. The doting father was there today, too, still in his nightcap and a fashionable banyan, creating with his wife and a smiling semi-circle of maids an adoring audience for the gurgling child, merrily displaying her modest array of teeth.
“Look, Georgie, she can walk!” Rowena cried, as soon as Georgie entered the room. And indeed, with Richard’s hands holding her up and her own kicking feet pushing forwards, the child did appear to be walking. She was nine months old now, and every day brought some new milestone to be admired.
Georgie made the appropriate remarks, and gratefully accepted a cup of chocolate from the nursery maid. She would never dream of asking for such luxuries, but it would be foolish beyond permission to refuse when offered.
When Richard had taken the infant away to the window to admire the view, Georgie took the opportunity to speak to Rowena on matters less baby related.
“Do you have need of me today, Rowena? Is there anything particular you wish me to do?”
“Not unless we have callers, which does not seem likely, but in any event, I would not wish you to be waiting on me if you have a more interesting occupation in mind.”
“No, no, but if there’s nothing more pressing, I thought to offer my services to Mr Hammond again.”
“Of course, dear. I think he needs all the help he can get transcribing the duke’s diaries into a memoir.”
