Authors: Of Paupersand Peers
It was precisely what she had intended, and yet she was suddenly and perversely reluctant to see him go. “I—I would not wish to appear ungrateful for everything you have done for us,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “I am sure Philip and—and indeed all of us—will—will miss you very much.”
Much to her chagrin, he took her hand and, raising it to his lips, pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. Of their own volition, her fingers curled to cup his cheek.
“And so shall I miss all of you. Goodbye, Miss Darrington. Please accept my sincerest wishes for your every happiness.”
* * * *
A more public leave-taking occurred later that morning, after James’s bags were packed and loaded onto the trap which would soon convey him to the Pig and Whistle. He made a very pretty farewell speech thanking them all for binding his wounds and taking him to their collective bosom. All the while, Aunt Hattie wept silently into her handkerchief and the younger Darringtons cast faintly accusing glances in Margaret’s direction, as if they were certain that there was more to Mr. Fanshawe’s abrupt departure than Philip’s education. James then wished Amanda joy in her marriage, admonished Philip to mind his studies, kissed Aunt Hattie’s damp cheek, and finally turned to Margaret. Her breath caught in her throat when he took her hand, and when he merely held it for a moment in a firm clasp, she hardly knew whether to be sorry or glad.
“Goodbye, Miss Darrington,” he said. “Thank you again for all you have done for me.”
He climbed aboard the trap, and Philip snapped the reins. The vehicle lurched into motion, and the Darrington ladies gradually dispersed to their usual activities—except for Margaret, who stood on the front stoop watching until the trap and its passengers disappeared over the hill.
* * * *
Having nowhere else to go, James took the first stage to London, where he called upon his (or rather the duke of Montford’s) solicitor. His reappearance rivaled that of the Prodigal.
“Your Grace!” exclaimed Mr. Mayhew, emerging from behind his massive desk to clasp James’s hand in both of his own and pump it with enthusiasm. “May I say, sir, how good it is to see your Grace looking so very well? When you never arrived at Montford Park, I confess to fearing the worst.”
“Your fears were very nearly realized, Mr. Mayhew,” confessed James, submitting with a good grace to the solicitor’s assault on his person. “In fact, I was set upon by footpads and temporarily deprived of my memory—ironically enough, not more than a couple of miles from the ducal lands. To make a long story short, I have spent the last few months teaching Latin to one of the local lads, scion of a family by the name of Darrington.”
Mr. Mayhew pondered the name. “Darrington, Darrington—ah, yes! The Darrington property borders your own. An old and respected County family, but no money there, more’s the pity. Won’t they stare when they make their bows to their exalted neighbor, only to discover that the duke and the Latin tutor are one and the same?”
James’s expression grew wooden. “I have no plans to meet any of the local gentry anytime soon. I expect to remain fixed in Town for most of the year.”
“Your Grace was displeased with the house?” Mr. Mayhew asked in some consternation, as if he was personally responsible for its failure to delight.
“No, no, how could anyone be displeased with it? Suffice it to say the district holds—unpleasant associations.”
Mr. Mayhew nodded in sympathy. “Indeed, one can see how it might.” The solicitor was obviously thinking of the attack, and James saw no need to disabuse him of the notion. “No doubt these unhappy memories will fade with time. But until then, sir, the estate—”
“I shall employ a bailiff to administer the estate.”
“Very good, your Grace. I shall request an employment agency to send ‘round a list of qualified candidates. In the meantime, I have taken the liberty of staffing the town house against your Grace’s arrival. Not a large staff, mind you, only a butler, a cook, a groom, two footmen, and two chambermaids. Your Grace will naturally wish to choose his own valet.”
James thought this an appalling waste, and said so. “I have been dressing myself for twenty-seven years,” he observed. “It is unlikely I shall forget how at this late date.”
Mr. Mayhew did not argue the point, but he flicked a pained glance at James’s shabby clothing. “On a related subject, your Grace, I am charged with messages from the earl of Torrington, begging that you will call upon him as soon as possible after your arrival in Town.”
At any other time, James might have inquired as to this seeming
non sequitur,
but the mention of his friend from University days drove such irrelevancies from his mind. “Torrington? To be sure I will! I haven’t seen old Torry since we were at school together.”
Armed with Lord Torrington’s direction, James set out for his friend’s rooms in the Albany. He found the earl, a lithe young man with a head of chestnut curls arranged in careful disarray, studying his reflection in the pier glass as he put the finishing touches to a cravat of magnificent design. Upon observing James’s entrance through the glass, his sartorial efforts were forgotten, and he whirled around to greet his visitor.
“James, is it you at last? Are you aware that your disappearance has been the talk of London for the last two months and more?”
James, advancing into the room, submitted to being pounded heartily upon the back. “Disappearance? Nonsense, Torry! I’ve known where I was all along. Well, almost all along,” he amended hastily, treating Torrington to an expurgated version of his adventures in which Miss Darrington’s name figured not at all. “But look at you! What a dandy you’ve become! What do call those absurd breeches?”
“Trousers, my boy. Petersham trousers,” Torrington corrected him, stepping back so that his friend might enjoy an unobstructed view of striped leggings cut full from hip to ankle, where they were gathered into a flounce. “The very last word, I assure you!”
“Good Lord, let us hope so!” said James fervently, his dimpled grin robbing the words of any insult.
“You should be the last person to criticize anyone else’s wardrobe,” the maligned dandy retorted without heat. “Whoever heard of a duke going about in rags? I must introduce you to my tailor.”
“And be turned out in—what did you call them?—Petersham trousers? No, I thank you!”
“No indeed—haven’t the figure for it, my lad. Too long and spindly by half!”
“Well, thank God for that,” said James, unoffended.
Over the days that followed, the duke and the earl were forever in one another’s company, the latter being determined to initiate the former into the pleasures of the aristocratic life. Under Torrington’s auspices, James was measured and fitted for a new wardrobe by Weston and beaten (he said) to a bloody pulp by the famed pugilist Gentleman Jackson. He played cards at White’s, bid on horseflesh at Tattersall’s, and tested his marksmanship at Manton’s shooting gallery. He dined at the Pulteney, strolled in Hyde Park, and attended the theater at both Covent Garden and Drury Lane. Through it all, however, there remained an ache in his heart and an emptiness in his soul that no diversion could entirely banish.
And then, three weeks after his arrival in London, he was formally presented to the House of Lords, to whom he delivered his maiden speech.
It could not be said that this oratorical exercise was an unqualified success. As curate of Fairford parish, James had often had reason to deplore his tendency to stammer out his sermons and, faced with so august an audience as the assembled Lords, he was not surprised when this tendency reasserted itself with a vengeance. Moreover, his topic— education for the masses—was still several years ahead of its time. Still, the romantic story of his disappearance already inclined most people in his favor, and to this were added the not inconsiderable charms of a modest demeanor and a self-deprecating wit. When, in the middle of his speech, the Dowager Marchioness of Worthington—as high a stickler as had ever adorned the Visitor’s Gallery—demanded in quite an audible whisper, “Who
is
that charming boy?” James’s success was assured. By nightfall, the new duke of Montford was the darling of London.
If further evidence of his triumph were required, it arrived the next morning. James was enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of lingering over breakfast when his new butler entered the room bearing a silver tray piled high with letters.
“What’s all this?” James asked, setting down his coffee cup.
“The morning post, your Grace,” the butler intoned, laying his burden on the table at James’s elbow.
“Thank you—Reese, is it?”
“Reeves, your Grace.”
“I beg your pardon,” said James with a singularly sweet smile. “I assure you, I shall learn it eventually.”
“I am sure your Grace has more important matters to occupy his mind,” the butler replied in a tone so damping that James felt he was somehow at fault for deeming his servants worthy of being called by their proper names. He caught himself up before he could beg the butler’s pardon again, and turned his attention to opening and reading the morning’s mail.
He was still engaged in this task when Lord Torrington burst upon him, dressed for riding in form-fitting buckskins and top-boots. “Saddle up that pretty little hack you purchased at Tatt’s, and let us away to the park. Your public awaits! Hallo, what’s all this?”
“Invitations,” said James, looking up at him with an expression of comic dismay. “Invitations from people I don’t know, to functions I can’t identify. What, pray, is a rout-party, and do I want to go to one?”
“Rather depends on who’s giving it. Here, let me see.” Torrington twitched the letter from James’s hand and studied the spidery script. “Rigsby woman. Run, dear boy, run! Four unmarried daughters, each one homelier than the one before. What else do you have there?”
One by one, Torrington worked his way through the heap of correspondence. “Card party at the lodgings of Mr. Richard Brantley-Hughes? Bad
ton,
my lad! Probably hoping to put the touch on you for money. By all means, stay away! Soiree given by Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Beamish? Mushrooms, both of ‘em. Avoid like the plague.”
“But Torry, who are all these people, and why are the writing to me?”
“Toad-eaters one and all, hoping to bask in your reflected glory.”
“My—
what
glory? Good Lord, I haven’t any!”
“You may not have had yesterday, but since your appearance before the House of Lords, you are the Toast of London. All Mayfair is clamoring for a glimpse of you.”
James grimaced. “No doubt they are curious to see a stammering yokel in the flesh.”
“Balderdash! Society, in its infinite wisdom, has pronounced you delightfully unaffected, therefore delightfully unaffected you are—at least until Society decrees otherwise. Enjoy it while you may—notoriously fickle, Society.”
James opened his mouth to protest, but found no words in English or any of the classical tongues that adequately expressed his astonishment.
Lord Torrington, oblivious to his friend’s struggle, returned his attention to the stack of invitations. “Let us see, whom shall you honor with your presence tonight? Ah! Lord and Lady Holbrook are giving a ball. Excellent
ton,
you know, and the diamond of the Season is very likely to be in attendance. Want to dip your oar in before someone else snaps her up—although, unless rumor lies, she’s already rebuffed three barons, two baronets, five mere ‘misters,’ and a viscount.”
James’s expression grew wooden. “I don’t think of matrimony, Torry.”
“My dear boy, whoever said you must? Believe me, every marriageable female in England will have more than enough opinion on the subject for you both.”
* * * *
Prior to the Holbrook ball, all James’s public appearances had been limited to the daylight hours, since his new evening wear had not yet been delivered. As for the garments he had worn to Lady Palmer’s entertainment in Montford, Lord Torrington had taken one look at them and promptly consigned them to the fire. As James had watched the flames leaping and dancing over them, he could not help feeling somehow that those magical moments in which he had held Miss Darrington in his arms were somehow being consumed as well.
In any case, he had put those memories resolutely behind him, and placed himself in the hands of his new valet, a capable man by the name of Doggett, who possessed the curious habit of referring to himself and his master as if they were a single unit. This individual buzzed about James like a particularly energetic bumblebee, now coaxing stiff folds of starched cambric into a
cravate Sentimentale,
now easing the form-fitting coat over James’s shoulders.
“There!” he pronounced at last. “We are finished!” With these words, he stepped aside so that James might admire his handiwork.
James turned to his looking glass, and found himself staring into the gaze of a stranger. His guinea-gold curls had been stylishly cropped and brushed until they shone, one lock falling artlessly over his high forehead. His dark-blue evening coat (unlike the one so ruthlessly burned by the earl) possessed sleeves long enough to cover his wrists, while the discreet use of buckram wadding in the shoulders rendered his physique less lanky. His narrow waist, encompassed about by a waistcoat of ivory-colored brocade, needed no lacing to achieve the fashionably wasp-waisted silhouette, while his black stockinette pantaloons clung to his legs like a second skin.
“Good Lord!” said James with a shaky laugh. “I look a regular popinjay!”
“If we may be forgiven for saying so,” put in the valet, “we find ourselves to look particularly distinguished.”
“Yes, you’ve done very well, considering what you have been given to work with. Thank you, Doggett. That will be all.”
The valet began to gather up the tools of his trade, then turned back to his master. “There is one other thing, if we may be so bold. Mr. Mayhew requested that we give this to your Grace. It has been worn by the dukes of Montford for generations.”
He opened his outstretched hand to reveal a large sapphire set in a gold mount. James slid the ring onto his finger, and for the first time felt a sense of connection to his unknown forebears.