Amy Lake (3 page)

The last such night, untroubled and awash with drink, for a long time.

* * * *

Talfryn’s father, the old viscount, had demonstrated few interests outside of London.  He had left Pencarrow—the family estate in Cornwall—to the offices of Barnabas Kingsley, his steward, at the same time giving the man few funds with which to work.  Kingsley did his best with the limited resources at hand, but the results could have been foreseen.  And
should
have been. 

A stupid waste, thought Tal, feeling again the mingling of sadness and anger that was forever his response to thoughts of the late Lord Davies.  The small amounts of money saved by ignoring Pencarrow had been used up tenfold in making the repairs later required.  How were his crofters to live without a decent roof over their head, or adequate food?  And ’twas not as if the family needed to scrimp over outlays.  Cassandra had been correct to remark on the fortune of the viscounts of Cardingham; it was enormous.

Why? thought Talfryn, for the hundredth time.  Why ignore the land and the people for whom you are responsible, when there is more than enough money in your pockets?  It had never made sense. 

The late Lord Davies had spent most days at his club, reading the London newspapers and discussing politics.  Talfryn’s mother—the viscountess—had attended whatever society entertainments she wished, and the occasional ball gown was, it seemed, the price his lordship paid to be left to his own interests.  Even the birth of twin daughters had little effect on his habitual indifference to his family.

Lord Davies could recall only one piece of advice he had ever received from his father.

“Remember just one thing, my boy,” the viscount had said, “There’s very little in life that’s worth the trouble.” 

Talfryn had moved the family to Pencarrow following his father’s death, and they remained there for two years, despite his mother’s protests, with only the occasional foray into town.  Not that the viscount had planned to stay so long in the beginning.  Naively, he had thought that ’twould be only a matter of a few weeks to look over the estate.  He would review the books with Kingsley and make adjustments as needed.  The steward was competent, so if given the necessary funds, how difficult could it be?

Ha.

He had visited Pencarrow before, of course; even though his father did not leave London his mother could be occasionally persuaded to do so in the dust of a London summer, and he and his sisters all had fond memories of the enormous manor home, the endless fields of the estate scattered between the rocky outcroppings of Bodmin Moor.

But that had been a child’s view.  The situation when he returned as the new viscount was rather different, and at first he could barely grasp the extent of work needing to be done.

He remembered, in detail, Barnabas Kingsley’s first report.

Fifty new roofs for the crofters’ cottages, miles of hedgerows to be tended, repairs to the manor house itself—

He remembered as well the steward’s expression, the sour look of worry gradually replaced by disbelief—and then hope.

“Do everything that needs to be done,” Talfryn told him.

And when Kingsley, finally grasping that his lordship was serious, proposed that he send reports of progress and requests for funds to London, Talfryn shook his head.

“I’m staying here.”

And he did, leaving his bed at sunrise and riding the estate until he had a good idea of every acre of the land.  Lord Davies had found some few of his tenants hungry—hungry, in
Cornwall
—and at that point he had thought Kingsley at fault, but the man reminded him, fairly enough, that if seed was not saved for cropping the situation would only get worse.

    What a miserable kettle of figs that had been.  Lord Davies had thought to purchase extra seed at once, of course, but ’twas not as simple as all that; the weather had been horrible the previous year, and sufficient amounts harder than expected to come by.  And then there was the rising damp in the manor’s east wing.  Talfryn was truly aggravated with the discovery—Pencarrow was not some mushroom’s newly purchased attempt at high society but one of the finest homes in southern England.  He had overseen those repairs personally and for the first time heard himself raise his voice to one of the craftsmen.

Lord Davies smiled to himself.  His young sisters had words with him on that occasion, and Talfryn, sheepishly, promised to never let it happen again.

At any rate, between seed stock and roofs, the crofters and rising damp, the responsibility for an enormous estate sat heavily on the viscount’s shoulders for some time, and he found that he cared far more deeply for the land and its people than one might have expected of someone accustomed to town ways.  He’d left London for those two years in Cornwall as carefree as any young gentleman of means; he’d returned in a more thoughtful frame of mind, and had subsequently been heard to question the system in which a large number of poor individuals lived in service to the relatively few rich.  The system that supported them all.  His friends had been willing to listen, for a time, but not every night.

Tal, gods, we know ’tis unconscionably unfair.  Now be a chap and pour us a brandy—

Lord Davies sighed, thinking that he could hardly blame Lucien and Lord Peter.  He’d turned into a crusty old bore, and sometimes he wished he could forget about all of it himself.  This month was supposed to mark his return to society.  He had thought to look forward to the event.

“Woolgathering again,” said a voice.

“Tal.  Wake up, old man.”

Lord Davies’s attention was dragged back to his present surroundings by Lord Peter, who suggested that they visit the home of his lady love, Miss Alice Montvale, and serenade her à la
Romeo.

“Lud, no,” said Lucien, sparing Talfryn the trouble of quashing the idea himself.  “Do you remember what happened last time?”

The viscount certainly did.  Miss Montvale’s father had discharged a flintlock in the general direction of the singers, and it was purest luck that no-one had been injured.

Lord Peter was not so easily put off.  “Freddie says—”

“Freddie?” 

“The Earl of Aveline’s son, you know him—”

“Freddie Knowles?”

“The very one.  He says—”

“If you are truly taking advice from Wilfred Knowles,” said Cranfield,  “you are hopeless beyond rescue.  The man is a birdwit.”

He and Lord Peter entered into a brief discussion of whether a gentleman, as opposed to a lady, could truly be called a birdwit, with Lucien offering sufficient examples of Knowles’ lack of basic sense to eventually win the day.  Lord Davies found himself listening attentively.  The name seemed familiar, and with a small shock—the memory of an episode so stirring that he had pushed it to the back of his mind—he thought of the young woman with whom he had shared a waltz.

The Lincolnshire’s ball, now nearly a sennight past.  Her name was Regina Knowles, was it not?  She was the only young woman of his recent acquaintance that he could not imagine mistaking for any other.

Vivid green eyes, hair of a rich auburn that the viscount could remember wishing to touch, and he felt again the smooth touch of silk under his fingers.  She was beautiful.  Talfryn wondered what else his friends knew about the family.

But the conversation between Lucien and Lord Peter had already veered onto a different path, as they debated the merits of a high-perch phaeton for an amicable drive in Green Park, Wilmott complaining that young women were too nervous on such a contraption, but Cranfield maintaining that this was precisely the point.

“Take a corner at some speed,” he told Peter, “and you will find them nearly in your lap.”

Talfryn could not think of way to ask about Lady Regina without tipping his friend’s interest.  And he was far from ready for that.

Chapter 4:  Two Musicales and a Fete

The next time I saw the Viscount Cardingham was at a
musicale
given by Lady Edwina Bosville.

Such events are, as a rule, not my favorite entertainment, which one might not expect, since I adore music of every kind.  But the society
musicale
has been very popular during the past few seasons, with the result that the number given seems to have outrun the number of talented performers available.  One would not think that possible in London, but there it is.  Screeching sopranos and badly played piano—or heaven forefend, violin—is the order of the day.

Miss Barre had accompanied me.  She usually does not, as she can hardly tell a soprano from a tenor without help of the dress, and complains that I am never satisfied with what she finds all quite amusing.  On this occasion, however, Cassie had declared a sudden desire for music, was adamant that I attend as well, and insisted on lending me another gown, as the countess’ latest pronouncement was that I should always wear pink.

“Perhaps,” said Cassandra, “she cannot bear the thought of you marrying and leaving home.”

“One would not guess it otherwise.”

“True.  But I cannot think of another explanation for pink.” 

Thus I was dressed in a pale blue Indian muslin with cap sleeves and an embroidered hem, the bodice cut perhaps a half-inch lower than I was accustomed to wear.

My mother had shrugged when she saw me out.  “Edwina’s affairs are rather small, are they not?  ’Twill be a waste for
you
.”

We entered Lady Bosville’s salon early enough to find two comfortable seats near the back of the room.  People poured each other glasses of punch—’twas done of late, even in the finest households—and milled about.  We greeted Miss Hingham, who bounced and smiled on the arm of her recent admirer, a pleasant-looking young man with prominent ears and a grin.  He was, as we learned with the introductions, Lord Thomas Randolph, the youngest son of the Earl of Durbin.

“La, I never expected to see you this evening!” said Amelia.

“Reggie could not live another day without music,” said Cassie.

I rolled my eyes.

“Did you hear?” said Miss Hingham.  “Lady Helen says that Arabella Pruett is engaged to Lord Vale!”

This was news indeed.  Lord Vale was fifty years if he was a day, and everyone knew he had sworn never to marry.

“Is it for love or for money, do you suppose?” asked Cassie.

“Love, of course,” said the earl’s son, gamely.  “You young ladies are such scoffers!”

’Twas meant in fun, but I wondered if ’twas true—that we are scoffers, I mean.  The life of a female of the
ton
was constrained by the two trajectories open to us; marriage or spinsterhood.  The second was thought to be a poor choice by most.  Was cynicism forced upon us?

Lord Thomas and Miss Hingham left to find their own seats.

“I have a jest,” said Miss Barre.

“Gods.”  Cassandra’s taste ran to punning.

“What difference is there between a soprano and Lord Farweather’s dog?”

Lord Farweather’s dog was infamous in London society; an enormous animal of uncertain parentage, who howled loudly and piteously at any visitor to the door.

“I could not say,” I told her.

“Jewelry.”

I was sipping on a claret cup; I nearly choked.  Cassie laughed behind her hand.

“Look! she said after a moment.  “There’s the man himself.”

She meant, as I discovered, the newly affianced Lord Vale.  He was just entering the salon, with Miss Pruett attached to his arm.  I looked at his face carefully.

“He is in love!” I exclaimed.  I had danced with his lordship on several occasions, and observed him dancing on many others; never had I seen him with this expression.  Besotted, I thought.

“It certainly seems so.”

“And at fifty years of age!”  We were both amazed.

Cassie and I continued to chat and watch the crowd and then, a few minutes before the programme was to begin, someone sat down immediately to my left.  I turned to say my how-do’s and—

“Lord Davies!”

’Twas he.  The distance between Lady Bosville’s chairs suddenly seemed insufficient, and for a moment I could not draw breath.  His shoulders nearly touched mine.

“Lady Regina.”

My heart raced, but I found myself saying, with apparent calm, “I believe you know my friend, Miss Cassandra Barre?”

“I do.”

One does not pop up to curtsey in these circumstances, the gentleman having already sat down, although I suppose one would for the prince; at any rate Cassie nodded and smiled. 

“Hello, Lord Davies.  Shall we enjoy this first singer, do you think?  She is supposed to be quite fine.”

“I will own that I prefer the quartet.”

I felt a pleased surprise and gave a short cry of approval, despite the countess’ admonition that young ladies should never show too much enthusiasm.  The quartet was a personal favorite.  “I cannot understand why they are not more popular,” I said—they were not, in London, at least recently—“as the works by Haydn are wonderful beyond anything.”

He smiled.  “I quite agree.  I felt their lack in Cornwall.”

Lord Davies has a lovely voice, deep and rich, and I found myself tempted to shut my eyes and let it wash over me as we began a discussion of the Sun Quartets, which were Haydn’s twentieth opus.  We were still talking when the first singer stepped forward to begin.  She may have performed ill, or been superb for all I remember.  My thoughts were entirely taken up by the man sitting at my left side.  

* * * *

A week later Cassandra and Lady Helen suggested that we all attend a fete in honor of the new Duchess of Avon.  Fetes in those days were an odd combination; town extravagance pretending to be a country fair.  The Prince Regent’s fete for the French royal family was the exception, of course, but on less exalted occasions guests were expected to wear the
haut ton
’s idea of simple clothing.  Muslin instead of satins and silk, for example, with perhaps a ribbon in one’s hair.  The gentlemen dressed much as usual, although it was considered particularly fine to wear a cravat tied simply, with none of the elaborate folding so much in fashion. 

One sees the occasional straw basket or shepherd’s crook.  Lady Milliforte brought a lamb to the Tindale’s fete a year earlier, but the rather messy result was only to make animals proscribed, by common assent, at even the most rustic occasion.