“We shall be there, your grace.”
4: Fencing
“What do you make of him?” Jamie said to Mrs Hastings the following morning when she arrived in the study to help with the duke’s memoirs.
“Mr Chamberlain? He seems a pleasant sort of man on the surface, but dangerous.”
“Dangerous? In what way?”
“It is hard to describe, but it is the way he moves — like a cat, somehow, very light on his feet. And his eyes…”
“Ah, those eyes! Yes, they are a little feline, I confess. Such a striking colour.” Jamie chewed the feather end of his pen thoughtfully. “I was so sure that I had found the common factor with Mr Goodenough’s arrivals, yet the Chamberlain family is disappointingly respectable. But perhaps there is more to Mr Lance Chamberlain than meets the eye. Perhaps he himself is the black sheep, after all.”
“What precisely is a black sheep?” she said, settling down at her usual seat with a knife and beginning work on sharpening a small mountain of pens.
“Someone disreputable… rejected by his family for some misdemeanour, large or small. A man who flees the country after a duel, for instance. A son who runs up huge debts and is sent out to India in penance.”
“A woman who has a child outside wedlock,” she said. “Like Rowena’s grandmother.”
“Or a child not her husband’s, like Lady Juliet’s mother,” he added. “She was divorced — a black sheep indeed! But these things tend to be covered up. Why did Mr Chamberlain not become a clergyman like his brothers and uncles? Perhaps there was a misdemeanour of sorts, then he was shipped off to Italy for a year or two until he settled down or the scandal dissipated. Yes, I need to delve a little deeper, I think.”
“Poor man!” Mrs Hastings said, shaking head a little at Jamie. “His entire history dredged up to prove — or disprove — your theory. There! I have enough pens to last us both for a while. Do you need more ink?”
“Thank you, I have enough for now.”
“Then do you have some pages for me to work on?”
He had already set aside one of the duke’s diaries that contained many pages of the political discussions that he felt suitable for a lady to transcribe. The duke was very opinionated, and he occasionally described the Prime Minister or senior members of the government in colourful terms, but these sections rarely strayed into areas to which no lady should be exposed. His grace had always had an eye for the ladies, and many of them had had an eye for him, too, leading to innumerable private encounters which the duke described at great length, and in graphic detail. Jamie was no prude, but he was happy to leave those sections to his father, who seemed to enjoy them.
His father himself arrived sometime later. “What is going on in the Marble Hall?” were his first words after greeting Mrs Hastings. “There is a great clearing out of extraneous items.”
“Have you heard that Mr Goodenough has sent us another visitor? Mr Chamberlain is a fencer, it transpires, and is to perform for the duke in the Marble Hall.”
“With whom? He has an opponent, I trust?”
“His valet.”
“Hisvalet?His valet is a fencer? That is intriguing.”
“It is indeed,” Jamie said, much struck. “I wonder if the valet has some deep, dark secret?”
Mrs Hastings looked up from her work, and clucked gently at him. “Mr Hammond, has it occurred to you that you may be making too much of this? Perhaps Mr Goodenough simply sees a need and supplies a person to fill it. Rowena was sent here because she is the very image of the duke’s first wife — that is understandable, is it not? Mr Payne was sent here because Rowena wanted an orangery. And perhaps now it is anticipated that a portrait will be wanted of the next Duchess of Brinshire. There may be nothing more to it than simple helpfulness.”
“Oh yes, but having a mystery to unravel is far more exciting, do you not think? And I should still like to know who Mr Goodenough is.”
“You thought at one time that it must be someone at Staineybank, did you not?” she said. “Do you still think that?”
“Someone connected with it, yes,” he said, “but not necessarily anyone living here. Anyone could have known that there was to be an orangery built, and that a portrait might be wanted. It is Mrs Richard who is the problem, for she was living with you in Oxford, and could only have been spotted by someone in that city.”
“Speaking of which,” said his father, “if you can tear yourself away from the doings of Mr Goodenough for five minutes, I havehad a letter from Dr Ingleton. He is to be in Oxford next month, and has some more charts for us, if you would be so good as to collect them from him. If not, he can leave them with the Brannons until you can get away.”
“I can make time to go. You will want them as soon as possible, I imagine.”
“They are very helpful,” his father said. To Mrs Hastings, he went on, “Have you seen the ancestor charts that Dr Ingleton has drawn up for us? The duke’s diaries are full of Lord C and Lady P, and are impossible to interpret without help. Dr Ingleton is an expert in the connections between the noble families.”
“I have heard Richard talk about a Joe Ingleton, who used to tutor him in Norfolk.”
“The very same,” Jamie’s father said, beaming. “Mr Richard told us about him, and he has been the most tremendous help in interpreting these references. He makes regular trips to Oxford, for he is still a Fellow there, and that saves us going all the way out to Norfolk, for these charts are too precious to entrust to the mail. He will settle the precise dates soon, Jamie, and you can plan your trip.”
