‘It will probably be in Aunty Dorothy’s hand,’ said Derwent. ‘She does most of the copying for him.’
‘Or Aunty Mary,’ added Hartley, not to be outdone.
‘Then I have clearly found the most qualified investigators in the area as I do not know how to distinguish who has written what. Will you do that for us? It might be worth at least another bag of buns.’
‘If you find it, I think I will owe you a lifetime supply!’ added Barton.
The boys, however, did not jump at the offer. ‘If someone has been stealing Uncle William’s poetry, then we must stop them,’ said Hartley fiercely. ‘We won’t do it for buns but because it is the right thing to do.’
‘But we do like buns,’ added Derwent plaintively. ‘All the same.’
ChapterEight
Levens
As Viscount Sandys had died in the country, the family did not attempt to organise a grand funeral, but kept the invitations limited to those locals who could reach the estate in time for the burial service. Summer was not a good time to delay, even with a cool church for the lying in state. Arthur had already announced, in his first decision that Jacob fully agreed with, a memorial service in Westminster Abbey early in the autumn. Such an event would allow the late viscount’s political allies and society friends to honour his memory without a scramble to the other end of England.
That suited Jacob. The funeral was not overshadowed by the attendance of the Prince Regent or Prime Minister as would happen in London. It also meant that he had been handed the chance to question the local gentry about Sir Richard Leyburn– indeed Leyburn would’ve been one of the people who would have likely attended had he not been killed. Jacob could not have engineered a better opportunity if he tried.
Taking a glass of wine out onto the terrace, he circulated among the guests, accepting condolences and fielding pointed questions about his recent activities. One of his mother’s friends, a widow enjoying her freedom a little too much, was interested in his ties to the Hellfire Club. To his relief, he spotted his godfather, a magistrate in Kendal, standing looking out over the gardens, past the treetops to the glittering sands. Sir Barnabas Satterthwaite was a small man, his chest barely reaching the top of the wall, but he was tough– like one of the hawthorn trees you encounter standing alone on the fells, defying the elements. His wrinkled face added extra lines as he smiled sadly at Jacob.
‘The Grim Reaper comes for us all, does he not?’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I’m going to miss your father. I was just thinking how we’ve been friends ever since we went down from Cambridge, back when Methuselah was a young man.’
‘You’re not so old, sir.’
‘The years before the French Revolution do feel like another era. The continent wasn’t so divided, and a man could travel freely. Your father took me on his grand tour– I would never have been able to afford one myself, did you know that?’
‘You might’ve mentioned it before.’
Barnabas chuckled. ‘That’s the problem with getting old. You keep chiming out the same notes, regardless of who’s listening.’
‘Better than running down and falling silent.’
‘I’ll try and do better– come up with a few new stories about him for you. Let’s sit for a moment.’ He gestured for Jacob to follow him to a seat in a turret at the end of the castellated walkway. They took places either side of the table on the stone benches, looking back at the gathering on the terrace– a soberly dressed congregation contrasting with the joyful colours of the roses in the flower beds.
‘How are you doing, my boy?’ asked Barnabas. ‘Arthur giving you any trouble?’
‘You know us so well.’ Jacob allowed his shoulders to droop. He trusted his godfather and did not have to pretend around him.
‘Lord Sandys– I mean your late father, not your brother– always said his sons were destined to pull in opposite directions. We decided that young Arthur was the horse roped to the Sandys plough, determinedly plodding along the same furrow; William was the favourite mount, a wonderful companion on the hunt; whereas you…’ Barnabas smiled.
‘I dread to hear what you both made of me. Horse bolting from the traces and causing a carriage accident?’
‘Not at all!’ Barnabas tapped Jacob’s hand in reprimand. ‘He rather thought of you as the racehorse– brilliant, spirited, not entirely reliable. But he said he’d always back you in any race.’
‘Even if I came in last?’
‘Especially then. That’s the job of the father.’
Not a bad philosophy. Had his father lived it out? ‘I wonder why he never said any of this to me– to us– directly?’
‘Did he not?’ Barnabas steepled his fingers in thought. ‘Then maybe he showed it by his actions rather than his words?’
That was something worth thinking about. Jacob had never wanted for any material comfort, his education had been the best money and influence could buy, he had been encouraged in his interest in art– that had all been his father’s doing. The viscount could’ve put a stop to it if he had so wished. Would it not be better to gather all the good memories of his father and put them in the place of the words of disappointment that had so haunted him these last days? That was another conversation he would like to have with Dora.
