Authors: Compromised
Romilla was in place to greet him immediately.
“Lord Fontaine, welcome.” She was striking in a deep plum gown with black jet beadwork. The feathers pluming out of her coiffure matched the gown exactly, the diamonds at her throat glittered discreetly. She was the epitome of a politician’s wife, the first line of defense. Poised and confident, no one would guess if her heart was beating twice as fast as normal.
She welcomed him into the drawing room, where he had spent many a morning recently, but now it was cast in candlelight and peopled by a dozen formally dressed ladies and gentlemen. He was introduced to Mr. Fortings, who sat in the House of Commons, a “friend of the family,” Lady Alton had said. As representative of a very powerful borough, he held several proxies and could sway just about any vote. Lady Jersey took Max’s arm, as Romilla turned to greet newly arrived guests, and introduced him to the Duke of Wellington, who was somehow shorter than Max had always imagined him to be. Not nearly as short as Napoleon, mind, but the legend, it seemed, had a way of dwarfing the reality.
Lord Bambridge was an acquaintance of his father, the Earl; Lord Draye and Lord Pomfrey seemed to be the best of friends, as did their wives. A formidable alliance in the House of Lords—and they seemed to gaze with rapture upon Sir Geoffrey, who was leading them in conversation.
“Ah! Lord Fontaine!” Sir Geoffrey called out, beckoning Max over. They made bows and introductions. “I’m pleased you could attend.”
“Indeed, sir,” Max replied. “I doubt I could ever resist an invitation to your home.”
“Of course. You are always game for a social call, aren’t you?” Sir Geoffrey said, a silver glint in his eye.
Max sucked in his cheeks, determined not to rise to the bait. Sir Geoffrey’s comment had the tone of disapproval, as if Max did nothing in life but attend parties. The others in their small circle were regarding him closely, eager to see what would occur next. But before he could say anything, gracious or otherwise, two arrivals happened in quick succession. First Evangeline and Gail Alton walked into the drawing room, capturing Max’s attention. Evangeline looked her usual resplendent self in ivory silk. Gail, however, looked entrancing in a burnt gold, he thought, somewhat against his will. The glow of candlelight made her seem touched by Midas, his eyes followed her form automatically. And when she caught his gaze, the flush that spread up her cheeks made her glow all the more.
But then, on the heels of the girls, Romilla ushered in Count Roffstaam, ambassador from Barivia, the honored guest of the party, and his wife. Sir Geoffrey made his excuses to the group around him and headed over with warm greetings for the Count. Max left to seek the side of Evangeline Alton, but kept his eyes on the newest arrival. So this was the man who could open trade relations with England for his country. Again, Max had thought he would be taller.
The Count was a short man, but with a back so rigid, so very Prussian, he made full use of his whole five feet one inches. His dress was sober and impeccable, his nose high in the air, his sparse hair swept back in a surprising pink ribbon that matched his waistcoat. Indeed, it also matched his wife’s dress. Pink, it seemed, was the official color of Barivia. The Countess of Roffstaam stood beside him with her nose just as high in the air. She was rather extravagantly dressed and making the same good use of her bony frame and full six feet. If they weren’t so very authoritarian, Max thought, they would be funny.
No sooner had the honored guests murmured greetings than the bell rang for dinner. Sir Geoffrey took Romilla’s arm, followed by the Count and Countess, the Duke of Wellington, and all the other assembled guests. Max gave his arm to Evangeline, but Gail was left unescorted. Max looked about the room for a second before realizing his friend Holt was not there, as he had not been invited. Was there no one to match the second sister? What kind of hostess would allow for a dinner party with an uneven number of males and females?
Max opened his mouth to offer his other arm to Gail, just out of politeness, of course, when suddenly, Mr. Fortings came from behind and took her arm. She curtsied and smiled at this old man, while Max watched. She looked wry. She looked in good humor. She blushed and nodded, as Fortings spoke something in her ear.
“Lord Fontaine?” A gentle voice at his side broke into Max’s thoughts. He brought his head around and blinked his way back to Evangeline’s enquiring face.
“Should we not follow the other guests?”
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, of course.” He did not turn around to look at Gail one last time. Instead, he looked down into Evangeline’s face, saw its gentle concern, and with a breath, smiled.
DINNER
parties were, in Gail’s experience, mundane affairs. The most anyone had to say was a politeness about the food or the decor, or the pleasurable activities in which they spent their days. Conversation was held with those to the left or right of you, never above a murmur. Mostly, Gail would converse minimally but politely with the matron on her left and comment on the forecasted weather for the shooting season to the gentleman on the right. If that gentleman were red-faced and portly, and the matron wore a jeweled turban and showed far too much cleavage, Gail would consider her night complete.
But tonight, the conversation was loud, intelligent, stubborn, and important.
“Why should we repeal the Corn Laws?” Lord Draye said boisterously. (He sported that red face and belly that lent itself to the boisterous.) “We must keep the price of corn stabilized in England. The introduction of the sliding scale last year is going to be an immense help.”
“Ah yes, Corn is King,” said Mr. Fortings from Gail’s left, quoting a satirical article in the
Times.
“Too bad it leaves the man who works the factory starving and the man who owns the land wealthy.”
“Mr. Fortings, you own land. Indeed, I’ve been to your estate.” This from Lord Pomfrey. “Are you saying you have more money to give the government?”
“Landowners are taxed, too, and quite well,” piped in Lord Draye.
“I am well aware,” defended Mr. Fortings, “but by keeping the price of corn artificially high, we are only doing damage to the economy and the families of factory workers.”
“Bah! This is still an agricultural country! Parliament is not done over with industry folk quite yet!” Lord Draye said, banging his fist on the table.
“That Parliament does not represent them, doesn’t mean they don’t exist…” and such the argument would chance to go for hours.
At the other end of the table, Prime Minister Lord Wellington was amusing the countess with a wartime tale. “Oh yes, but when the troops had reformed the line at the field, we found the enemy had fallen back…” It was a tale oft told, but not by the general himself. Sir Geoffrey chuckled along with the countess, no doubt remembering his own part in the Napoleonic trials.
Gail didn’t know which way to turn her head. Max was directly across from her, listening to Mr. Fortings debate with the House of Lords. Evangeline sat on his right and was making some comment about the beef course and how unfortunate it was Mr. Holt could not attend. (The girls had been quite disappointed when Romilla informed them Mr. Holt was not invited. He was in
trade
, after all.) Gail’s attention eventually drifted to the Count, who was speaking in broken English to Romilla.
“Yes, my country is ze most beautiful. Farm and such pretty mountain, and ze field and ze coast. I cannot imagine my country ever being anything but…ah…ze word…nice.
Friedlich.
”
The gentlemen involved in political debate had (quite loudly) moved on from the Corn Laws to the relatively young government in America, and were not listening to the count’s description of Barivia’s pastoral beauty. The other end of the table had not broken their conversation either. Gail looked up and met Max’s eyes. A small inclination of his head in the direction of the Count told her that Max had been listening, too. Indeed, besides Romilla, they seemed to be the only people attending to the Barivian emissary’s words. Gail lifted an eyebrow as the count described his family farm, the beautiful castle nestled next to the hills, and the disappointment of only having second-rate chocolates. Gail noted Max’s mouth quirked up at the sides, and Gail had to admit, hers did, too.
And then Mr. Fortings leaned over and asked a question about the empirical rights of Britain abroad, drawing her attention away from Max and the Count.
WHEN
the ten courses were served, exclaimed over, and consumed, and every war story that the duke could reasonably tell was told, Romilla rose and lead the ladies away. What ladies did after dinner was one of the great mysteries to men—though not great enough to abandon their port and cigars and find out. Besides, this was the time for Sir Geoffrey and the Count to open the floor to negotiations. They needed to come to an agreement, and tonight was the first step.
The Count and Sir Geoffrey settled next to each other and began to talk. Pleasantries exchanged (I’m so pleased you came to London, and so on.), they started to discuss the iron ore.
“Yes. Ve are pleased vith the find. But ve are vary, as vell.”
Really, the man should avoid
W
s at all costs.
“Yes, of course, and I assure you, if you were to sell it to us, we would be extremely generous to Barivia financially.”
The Count nodded, but in a manner that said he expected Sir Geoffrey to keep going.
“Ah,” gruffed Sir Geoffrey, “we would, of course, help you set up the mining practices and the railway to run it to Hamburg for shipping—”
But the Count cut him off with a wave of his hand, much to the surprise of all the gentlemen. He then stuck a cigar into his mouth, puffed quietly, and refused to speak, no matter how anyone tried to engage him in conversation. After about ten minutes, Sir Geoffrey was getting quite worried, not that he would let it show. He moved away from the group of men’s chatter, and went to the window, and stared out. In his diplomatic endeavors, Sir Geoffrey was used to difficult relations, although generally people did not simply stop talking altogether. This was just the first step. In times such as these, all he had to do was step away and think for a few minutes, and the answer would come to him.
“Ahem.” A throat cleared to attract his attention.
Generally, of course, he did not have to contend with his daughter’s suitors when doing his thinking.
“Lord Fontaine,” Sir Geoffrey said, trying to maintain amiability, but failing miserably. “Are you enjoying your evening?”
Lord Fontaine decided to skip over the niceties. “I think I have a solution for you.”
Sir Geoffrey took a puff of his cigar. He was thankful Romilla could not stop him from smoking here. It would be too stressful to go without tonight.
“Do you?” he inquired, and Lord Fontaine nodded. “You, who have so much experience in diplomacy, in foreign trade, in Barivian customs and concerns, have a solution that would allow England access to the purest source of iron ore on the continent?” When Max simply nodded again, Sir Geoffrey took another puff of his cigar. “Go to it.”
“The Count, at dinner, was describing how pretty his country was,” Max began.
“Yes, I know, and probably boring my wife to pieces with it.”
“He was saying,” the young man continued, “that he could not imagine it looking any other way. That it was
friedlich
—peaceful. I’m not the only one who noticed, Miss Gail heard it as well.”
“So?” Sir Geoffrey questioned.
“You offered to build a railway to take the iron to Hamburg to be shipped here. If they wanted to build a railway to Hamburg, they would have sold the rights to the ore to Hanover already. But they don’t. They absolutely do not want a railway cutting through their farms and ruining the countryside. They desperately want to hold on to, to protect, their traditional ways of life.”
“What do you suggest?” Sir Geoffrey asked, now suitably intrigued.
“The ore was discovered in a rock face not half a mile from the shore, correct? Set up a small shipping port there—bypassing the rest of the country, leaving it be in all its pastoral beauty. It will be a shipping stop solely for use by the mine to run back to England.”
“Interesting,” Sir Geoffrey said, after a minute. “Very interesting idea. I was afraid for a moment you were going to tell me to offer him more money.”
“Oh, he doesn’t want your money,” Max said, receiving a wry look from Sir Geoffrey. “Actually he does want your money, but he wants his country as well.”
Sir Geoffrey grinned, taking another puff. “But where would we get a ship to run this route? A Royal Navy ship cannot be sent, it would raise the ire of the Hanoverians, and they would attempt to conquer Barivia if they think we are invading.”
“A private line can be established.”
“And at what cost? It would have to be small ships willing to take heavy cargo in smaller amounts. And only one product? Unheard of. Most of the companies I know have all their interests in the south seas and none in a piddly little country no one’s ever heard of.”
Max smiled. “I know of one that might be willing to take the job.”
THREE
days later, it was all arranged. After the dinner party, Max had run directly to Will’s bachelor lodgings and pounded on the door until his friend was roused from bed.