“Poor man,” responded Lyndon with all the empathy of a footman wielding a fly swat.
“My grandfather always found oil of lavender rather effective,” Duchamps-Avery piped up.“Used to rub it all over.Liberally.I’ve even tried it myself, once or twice.It can’t be beat, massaged in deep after an overenthusiastic, hard ride.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” Lyndon drawled and, for good measure, scowled.
Ignoring him, Duchamps-Avery showed all of his excellent teeth again.One of the daughters fanned herself rapidly.“Pass on the message to the vicar that if it’s too difficult to procure in these parts, then I can ask my brother, Willoughby, to send some.It would be no trouble at all, isn’t that right, Lord Lyndon?One must do one’s best for the clergy, must we not?”
“Ugh.”
A lengthy discourse on calfskin versus kidskin gloves followed, a topic dull enough to bore Lyndon’s breeches off.As his numerous and uninvited guests conversed amongst themselves, or rather, spoke over one another, he made himself terribly busy with Cook’s moist seed cake.
“How fares Will Elliot?”enquired Mr Simpson in a hushed tone.Naturally, within half a second, the room fell quiet enough to hear a bumblebee belch.“Is he…” The man paused, no doubt suddenly aware of the tension ratcheting up in his host’s jaw.His daughters schooled their features into appropriately sympathetic expressions, whilst bloody Duchamps-Avery cocked his head like an inquisitive magpie.
“He’s fine,” Lyndon declared stoutly, and Mr Simpson and his daughters audibly exhaled.“Absolutely fine.Coping admirably as usual.Nothing to report, as ever, nothing at all.”
“Who is William Elliot, may I ask?”enquired Duchamps-Avery.
“A friend,” said Lyndon shortly, in a tone not far from murderous.His personal relationship with Will Elliot was not for public consumption.The fact that the man scarcely left his home for fear of being scorned by the local ignoramuses was nobody’s business but Will’s.Whilst the Simpsons didn’t fall into that category, their polite interest remained unwelcome.
“You’ve made an excellent job of his vegetable patch, my lord, if I may be so bold,” chirruped one of the daughters.Nanette?Nancy?Noni?Something uninspiring beginning withN.“We rode past only yesterday and halted to admire it.It is a credit to you that you roll up your sleeves, where lesser and less important men would—”
“It’s nothing,” Lyndon lied, as if he hadn’t nigh on broken his back hoeing the half acre of stony ground before planting more potatoes, carrots, and turnips.Although he’d snap his spine in two before rubbing it with oil of bleeding lavender.With a bit of luck, they’d change the subject.The pup was far too attentive.“Trifling work of minutes, nothing to it, nothing at all.”
From the eager lean of his body, Duchamps-Avery was building up to probe further.Fortunately, Simpson got there first with a change of subject.
“I wish to take advantage of this luncheon,” he said, “by bringing you up to date on the progress of our charitable works, my lord.”
Lyndon scowled.Any subject except that.“Really?”he said through gritted teeth.If Duchamps-Avery listened any harder, cocking his head like that, he’d have his own back problems.“Are financial forecasts a suitable topic for young ladies?”
“My daughters are fully versed in all of my charitable and business endeavours, my lord,” answered Simpson, gazing proudly at his offspring.“So that they may use my money to continue to expand them further, independent of their husbands’ wishes, when I fall from my mortal coil.And whether, at that point, my girls are married or not.”
“My papa would be thrilled to hear you say that, Mr Simpson,” chipped in the pup.“He is well-versed in the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft and is a firm supporter of the advancement of the rights of women.”Duchamps-Avery clasped his delicate little hands together as if he’d just anointed the entire Simpson clan with holy water.“But pray, Mr Simpson, do tell me more about your charitable venture.And you say Lord Lyndon is involved?”
Lyndon had never seen Simpson’s drab features so animated.
“His lordship has campaigned tirelessly,” Simpson said.“Without his backing, the whole project would never have got off the ground!”
“Nonsense,” Lyndon cut in.“My small involvement in the whole thing barely warrants mentioning.I was simply fulfilling my Christian and civic duty.Anyone in my position would have done the same.”
“But with respect, my lord,” countered Simpson, “no one did, did they?For five years, I sought permission to build this institution, cap in hand to every councilman, clergyman, and squire this side of Ely.None came forward until you.Your modesty is an example to us all.”
Lyndon’s attempt at a self-deprecating laugh sounded more like a snarl.Not that any of his guests noticed.
“I’m hanging on the edge of my seat, Mr Simpson,” simpered an agog Duchamps-Avery.“Pray, what is it that my humble host has done to warrant such fulsome praise so that I, too, may congratulate him?”
“Ugh.”Lyndon drank deeply from his wine.
“You are no doubt unacquainted with the ways of rural Norfolk, Mr Duchamps-Avery,” began Simpson.“But the folks around these parts are very set in their ways.Most still believe that to be permanently debilitated or lose one’s abilities to reason are afflictions from God.”
This pronouncement received a round of despairing head shakes from his daughters.
“Punishment, as it were!”Simpson continued.“And the Church isn’t much help in promoting the truth.Only a man as locally respected as Lord Lyndon could persuade the council and clergy that these poor creatures haven’t been sent a divine message or some such nonsense but are deserving of our charity.Thanks to his immeasurable aid, my mission has now dug the foundations and put up the outer walls on a property at the edge of Norwich town.We will be able to house twenty-five of the poor and afflicted with the proper care they require.”
Duchamps-Avery’s pretty little mouth hung open, his eyes out on stalks.His infernal papa and Benedict would have wind of it by the morrow evening at the latest.As he probed Simpson for more details, and Simpson readily obliged, Lyndon miserably picked at the crumbs on his plate.The last thing he wanted—deserved—from his brother was praise.Not after everything he’d done; Lyndon could build fifty such buildings with his own bare hands, and it wouldn’t be enough.
Give him a conversation about hat ribbons and calfskin gloves any day.
Thank heavens Mr Simpson made no further mention of William, the spur for the whole damned thing.And thank heavens for seed cake.
