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Chapter Seven
Five Years Later, 1847
Despite his loathing for tennis, William readily set off for the Primrose Hill Tennis Club, located in a part of London formerly known for its trees, wolves, and in centuries past, its suitability for duels. Until recently, the land had belonged to the Crown, though it was quickly becoming an area of burgeoning development. The city’s first underground rail tunnel ran through the hill itself, and William had supported the recent Parliamentary Act setting aside the grounds above as an open space for the public.
Clara’s brother, David Chadbourne, the Earl of Anterleigh, frequented the new tennis club in Primrose Hill and had doggedly pursued him to join him there. On this December day, William had acquiesced. In addition to his personal and political motivations to meet with the Earl, he enthusiastically sought any duty outside his household. His mother, the Dowager Marchioness, was well into her annual Christmas stay.
She had not yet risen for the day when he made his escape. Beatrice was up and dressed to go out of doors, ready to accompany the children and their nursemaid to Hyde Park before the social hours began. Their son, two-year-old Edmund, became a terror unless given ample time at the park, where he loved to chase five-year-old Miriam.
“I wish I could go with you today,” William said with genuine regret, kissing Beatrice’s forehead. She was fetching in her lavender walking gown, and now that Edmund was weaned, their relations had returned to the closeness he longed for.
“I wishIcould go withyoutoday,” she said with uncharacteristic grumpiness.
“I don’t blame you.” A few years back, seeking to mend the fence between him and his mother, Bea had facilitated a Christmas visit. Otherwise, they saw the Dowager Marchioness only sporadically, between her time on the Continent or whatever playgrounds in London she frequented discreetly. She had kept her comments and behavior in check enough for the visits to be tolerable, mostly, but he wouldn’t put it past her to take advantage as time went on. “Have matters gotten out of hand?”
“They’re…stable. I’m probably smarting after what she said to Miriam yesterday.” During the Dowager Marchioness’s daily five-minute visit to the nursery, Edmund had thrown Miriam’s doll. Her grandmother had roundly scolded her for her upset, reminding her that Edmund was the future Marquess and should be allowed his prerogatives.
“I know this isn’t easy for you, and I thank you for it. I’ll return before supper and make it known that this evening, you and I have an engagement to play cards—just the two of us.”
“Yes,please. She clearly hates playing. I don’t know why she insists on joining. I shall look forward to our time together. Meanwhile, I wish you luck with the Earl. I know it’s not leisure that takes you to the club today.”
“It’s not,” he conceded. Not only would he prefer losing to the Earl of Anterleigh on the tennis court over spending the day fending off his mother’s machinations, the financial viability of the marquessate was in the earl’s hands. He couldn’t put off his invitation forever.
Wiliam arrived at the club punctually, knowing Lord Anterleigh would, too. As different as the two men were in temperament, they shared many traits. From afar—and before the first serve of the white cork-cored ball—observers on the court would guess they were two-well matched competitors of similar age and athleticism. Dark-haired and taller than William, the earl cut an imposing figure, aided by his chilly airs.
After greeting him, the Earl pointed with his racquet toward William’s. “For pride’s sake, I look forward to you wielding one of these and not a blade, Candleton. But next time, I promise to meet at thesalles d’armes. That’s your territory, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say no to a good round of sparring.” William laughed. “I’ll need some victories with my foil after the bruising you’re sure to deliver in this devilish game.”
Lord Anterleigh had extolled the virtues of this new locale, gratified that royal tennis was regaining popularity after a few centuries of decline. Most of London’s former tennis clubs had been converted into theaters, owing to their long, rectangular shape and lofty ceilings.
Many sports clubs frequented by gentlemen and peers were little more than excuses for drink, gambling, and idle blather, none of which interested Lord Anterleigh. William’s own fencing hall was an exception, which is why the Earl belonged to it, as well.
Lord Anterleigh was a man who did not participate in much, but when he did, it was to the fullest, and he was in his element on the court. His serves were pounding, his reaction time swift, and his ability to predict the movement of the ball uncanny. Three of the walls enclosing the court had sloped roofs, known as penthouses. A proper serve required the ball to strike the side penthouse and land on the floor in a specific zone.
The Earl was a respectable fencer; here, however, he was unstoppable. In sustained bursts, the two men raced across their ends of the court. Even knowing the odds were against him, William gave his all, trying to lose as graciously as the Earl won. Ultimately, he was glad to be the victor in two games out of six.
The intricate scoring rules were enough to deter the laziest from tennis, and by the end of the set, William left the club with the sense that both his mind and body had been challenged. Lord Anterleigh seemed rejuvenated rather than fatigued by the exertion, and they continued with their plan to seek refreshment at the Sportsman Club on Pall Mall, a few miles away.
In view of William’s superior rank, they rode in his carriage, where he not only indulged the Earl’s insightful questions about this year’s extraordinary political developments, he welcomed them.All signs I may achieve my goals with him, after all. The Earl was a good but peculiar man.
They spent the carriage ride discussing the repeal of the Corn Laws, for which they’d both voted in the House of Lords. For thirty years, those laws had maintained the high price of local grain and blocked the importation of foreign varieties. That made staple food items, like bread, costly. What the poor could afford diminished, but landowning peers—whose estates produced grain crops—benefited.
“It was high time,” Lord Anterleigh opined. “A shame it took as long as it did—and that it required a famine to spur the change.” Starvation and disease were spreading in Ireland and across Europe after a potato blight. After poor harvests, food scarcity was a growing problem, even in Britain. In the areas with enough food, high prices made it inaccessible to the hungry masses.
Looking out the window with a deceptively relaxed air, William trusted his judgment of the Earl by voicing a controversial question. “It was the famine that spurred change, was it?”
Despite his height and fit form, the Earl’s bearing off the tennis court was appropriate to his station—aloof and refined. After an indolent flick of his hand, he drawled, “Hardly.”
“I appreciated your support of the repeal, Anterleigh.”
The Earl’s sharp-eyed gaze assessed him, drawing in everything while giving nothing away. “It was the right thing to do.”
“For whom?” William asked so quietly his voice was barely audible above the noise of the carriage’s iron-rimmed wheels on the road.
Lord Anterleigh scoffed. “Depends whom you ask, as you well know. You hosted several dinner parties as part of your efforts to exert influence on the vote. Each undoubtedly with a distinct approach. I’m not ignorant of your appraisal of me. It was evident in the company you had me keep and the arguments you employed—a mixture of economics and morals.”
It wasn’t surprising the Earl had discerned all that. He was right. But William only raised a blond eyebrow, borrowing a mannerism from the man across from him. “Oh?”
