Meanwhile, Freddie chose to stay at Oatlands with more loyal companions, even if they were animals rather than people.
Such pointless, depressing musings carried me through the evening with my only conclusion being the one I have known all along: sometimes being the leader of Society and the arbiter of fashion does not bestow one with the rewards one wishes for most.
The candles burned low when Robinson came downstairs clucking like a mother hen and ushered me up to my bedchamber.
I slept the next morning away like most members of the
Beau Monde
, only rising when the sounds of peddlers calling their wares on the street below penetrated my muddled brain.
Robinson pulled back the curtains of my bed and handed me my morning chocolate. Unlike some fellows, a night of drinking rarely puts me off my breakfast. Robinson’s news that Andre was bustling about the kitchen preparing his special toast almost made me hurry through the Dressing Hour. Almost. My stomach does not take priority over faultless grooming.
Once properly dressed in a simple costume of buff-colored pantaloons, white waistcoat, Spanish blue coat and Hessian boots polished to a shine that could lead ships ashore, I made my way to the dining room and thoroughly enjoyed my repast.
Andre has a way of making a French-style of toast. Cut slices of bread are dipped in a mixture of cream, sugar and nutmeg. This concoction is then fried in butter and served with a wine sauce that is delicious. Back in my school days, I was considered top of the class in Cheese Toasting, so I tip my hat to anyone skilled in the realm of the toasting arts.
I felt invigorated after two cups of coffee and settled in with the
Morning Post
to consume my third. Unlike the
Times
which restrains itself from reporting rumors, the
Morning Post
feels no need to restrict itself to facts. The following was listed under the “Deceased” section.
Hester Billings, the Countess of Wrayburn, has been consigned to her tomb under the most shocking of circumstances. According to confidential information obtained from the Bow Street Police Office, and other most reliable sources, her ladyship was transported to the hereafter following the consumption of a glass of poisoned milk given to her by a member of her very own household staff. The
Morning Post
has learned the evil staff member in question—a young woman—was recommended to Lady Wrayburn as trustworthy by the reclusive F——, a lady of the Blood Royal. An arrest is said to be forthcoming in this scandalous crime.
I threw the newspaper to the floor in a fit of fury.
How dare they?
My every feeling revolted at this luridly scandalous account of the crime. Evil staff member? Reclusive lady of the Blood Royal? That they had presumed to make reference to Freddie was the outside of enough. Burning down the
Morning
Post’s
building would not be too severe a punishment in my view. That way they could not put out any more of their filthy papers.
I reached for my coffee and took a swallow, my heart pounding in my chest. In an effort to calm down, I told myself that burning the building to the ground would most likely result in soot and ash ruining my clothes. The publishers were not worth it.
No, I decided, feeling my heart rate return to normal, the answer was to prove Miss Ashton’s accusers wrong, and that I was determined to do. I wondered if she had seen the article.
This afternoon I would fulfill my promise to call on her. The girl was having a wretched time of it and for no reason. Assuming, of course, that as Freddie said and I was inclined to believe, Miss Ashton was innocent.
Thoughts of Freddie reminded me that even though she was in the country at Oatlands, she still received the newspapers. I needed to write her a letter, assuring her I was her humble servant and would help in any way I could. I knew her utmost concern was for Miss Ashton, but I wanted to let her know I would not allow her own name to be bandied about by blabber-lipped newsmongers eager to sell their tainted papers.
I exited the dining room, once more in control, and returned to my bedchamber.
In addition to my desk in the bookroom, I keep a rosewood and mahogany portable writing desk in my bedchamber. It is especially useful when traveling, but many times I use it to write letters late at night when I do not wish to traverse the stairs to the bookroom. It has a collapsible nest of drawers, a writing surface and a secret drawer. No, I do not wish to disclose what is in the latter. That is why it is called “secret.”
My pen moved across the paper steadily for a time before Robinson entered as I was folding the missive.
“Sir, Mr. Griffin has called. He and your new sedan-chair await you downstairs in the hall.”
These glad tidings served as a temporary diversion from Lady Wrayburn’s murder and, in fact, catapulted me from my chair. Excitement at finally obtaining my new mode of transport and a strong need to shout “What the devil took so long?” warred within me.
But as I descended the stairs at a decorous pace and entered the hall, another emotion took hold when I observed the sedan-chair. I found myself calling on every ounce of my famous control not to wrap my hands around the diminutive merchant’s throat and throttle him.
W. Griffin, dressed in a coat of an inferior black material topped by a spotted neckcloth, nervously cleared the very throat he was unaware was in danger. “Mr. Brummell, I apologize for the delay in the making of your sedan-chair. As much as I tried, sir, I could not construct the conveyance to the exact specifications you gave me.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That is apparent to anyone with the slightest degree of intelligence.”
Robinson coughed.
Mr. Griffin swallowed painfully. He raised his hand and motioned to the sedan-chair with a sweeping gesture. “Sir, I could not in good conscience use the wood you requested. Sandalwood, while a very handsome wood and one that possesses a pleasing fragrance, I fully agree, is not strong enough for the purpose and is likely to break.
“Not,” he rushed on at my frown, “that I am in any way saying that your trim figure, sir, could be a hazard to the construction. It is more a question of sandalwood holding up under the weather and the test of time.”
“Is that so?” I had remained standing at the bottom of the stairs during this exchange, but now moved slowly forward to examine the sedan-chair. Two of Mr. Griffin’s lackeys held it a few inches off the ground by a pair of removable wooden poles attached to the sedan-chair’s sides. These poles extended about three feet in front and to the back of the equipage. The men positioned themselves between the poles, one fore and one aft.
In such a vehicle, I could be carried about town without ever setting foot in London’s muddy streets. The sedan-chair could be brought into the hall of my house, convey me to White’s Club, or Almack’s Assembly Rooms, or any other destination, and ferry me to the front door without the risk of marring my boots or evening shoes. As a further benefit, I would not be subjected to the rain that so often lingers in London, nor to windy days which have the cruel effect of ruffling my cravat. What could be worse, I ask you, than the hand of nature wrecking what human hands have worked so hard to achieve?
A sedan-chair was perfect for my needs for yet another reason. It did not require horses. I prefer not to keep horses. They are a drain on one’s pocketbook when one could better put one’s funds to use buying Sèvres porcelain, fine wines, or new clothing.
Furthermore, there is a tavern nearby called The Porter & Pole which I hear can be depended upon to provide me with men to carry the sedan-chair at my summons. The sobriety of the men might be in question but then oftentimes so was mine.
I stood by the vehicle and ran my hand along the wood
Mr. Griffin had used.
“This is a rather unknown wood called calamander,
Mr. Brummell. I had it specially sent from India.”
“Hmmm. It seems strong.”
Mr. Griffin nodded his agreement. “Yes, sir. A heart wood, it is both dense and heavy.”
The wood was dark and subtly striped. It had been varnished to a high gloss. Admittedly, the craftsmanship was superb.
“Sir,” Mr. Griffin said, “calamander was well known to the Greeks and Romans. Today, it is ... ahem, costly to be sure. I thought it might be in keeping with your fine taste.”
Robinson had been standing mute while I examined the wood, but now gave voice to his opinion. “If calamander wood is as rare as Mr. Griffin explains, sir, perhaps you will set a new fashion.”
Now there was a pleasing idea.
My face must have reflected my interest as Mr. Griffin seized on the comment. “That’s true, Mr. Brummell. Everyone follows your lead.”
He swung open the door of the sedan-chair’s box-like structure, showing off the construction of the portal. “I consider myself an artist, if I may be so bold to say so, and I am proud of this chair. I have long wanted to work with calamander wood. Will you not view the inside?”
I remained stubbornly doubtful, but complied with his request to inspect the interior of the vehicle. Ah, here I must report that everything was what I had hoped for. The perfection moved me to cry out, “Robinson! Come and see the white satin lining. Is it not everything I envisioned?”
Robinson came to stand beside me. “Yes, indeed, sir.” He reached inside and touched the seat. “Down-filled?”
I nodded. “And feel this rug. White sheepskin can only be the height of elegance in sedan-chair floor coverings.”
Mr. Griffin entered an enthusiastic voice to the praise of the interior of the chair.
The three of us were so absorbed that a knock on the front door barely registered a response. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that one of Mr. Griffin’s lackeys took it upon himself to open the door to a servant delivering some sort of parcel.
But I did not give the matter my immediate attention. Instead, I straightened from my examination of the inside of the chair. “Mr. Griffin, as pleased as I am with the interior, I cannot help but feel dubious about the wood used to construct the frame.”
“I see, sir,” the merchant acknowledged. “But perhaps you might live with it for a week and delay a final judgment? It is my hope that the calamander wood will reveal to you its silent strength, its regal beauty, and its practical worth. Will you not agree to keep the chair for a week with my compliments?”
With his compliments? Well, I could hardly be rude enough to say no to this, could I?
As if in answer, an eardrum-piercing, angry shriek rent the air. Startled, everyone looked to see the source.
“ ‘Tis the very devil!” Mr. Griffin’s lackey shouted, jumping back from the parcel he held, allowing it to drop to the floor.
No one moved.
Then, out of the parcel, which I now saw to be a lidded wicker basket, an animal emerged. The creature sprang to the black and white tiled floor with the agility of one of Freddie’s monkeys.
However it was not a monkey. It was the most singular feline I had ever seen in my life.
The cat’s face, ears, paws and tail gleamed a rich, dark brown. The rest of his body was a pale fawn color which was slightly more deeply shaded on his back. He was smaller and more compactly built than the felines of my experience, with exceptionally elegant long legs. His body appeared lean and muscular.
But his large eyes were his most startling feature. A brilliant blue, they brimmed with intelligence. He stood proudly, lashing his whip-like tail and looking down his white whiskers at the company in haughty disdain.
“Reeoow!” he pronounced in a loud, commanding tone.
Robinson fainted.
Chapter Seven
Chaos reigned in the hall. Mr. Griffin stood in front of the sedan-chair, arms spread wide as if to protect his creation from an onslaught of Napoleon’s army.
His lackey swooped down in an attempt to capture the cat. In a lightning fast move, and with seemingly little effort, the feline avoided his grasp. Instead the cat reached out a paw and drew a red line across the man’s hand.
The servant howled, clutching the back of his hand. “The thing ain’t natural, I tell you! ‘Tis some demon from hell!”
Fangs bared, the cat hissed at him. I would too if someone called me a demon from hell.
Not wishing to look anything less than in full command of my household, I said, “Mr. Griffin, have your men carry Robinson into the bookroom. There is a sofa in there upon which you can rest him. I am certain he will recover presently. He has fainted before on occasion.” Once when I had a sky-blue coat and matching sky-blue breeches made, Robinson had swooned at the sight.
At a nod from Mr. Griffin, the two men gave the cat a wide berth and lifted the unconscious valet. I led the way into the bookroom. I spared a backward glance for the feline, who was calmly licking the paw he had used to scratch the servant, as if the act of touching such an ill-bred fellow disgusted him.
Inside the bookroom, Robinson moaned when placed on the long sofa across from the desk. I walked to a side table and poured him a glass of brandy.
Once the valet was sufficiently revived and could hold the glass and partake of the contents, I turned to Mr. Griffin, who stood anxiously in the doorway. “I have the situation under control. You may leave the sedan-chair with me. I shall let you know my decision regarding it in a week’s time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brummell. Are you certain I cannot assist you where the, er, animal is concerned?”
“No, thank you. I can handle him. One of my friends’ idea of a joke, no doubt.”
They departed, being careful to walk far around the cat, who had now progressed to cleaning his face with a well-licked paw.
I stood over Robinson. His supine form rested on my carved and gilt-wood sofa. It is adorned with lion’s head uprights and lion’s paw feet, and is cushioned with handsome gold brocade. At almost seven feet, the sofa more than accommodated Robinson, whom I could see was revitalized by the brandy. “Are you all right?” I inquired.
His pale countenance told me he was shaken. “Sir, a—a feline in your house! We must be rid of it at once,” he gasped.