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Another flunky opened a door, and then Will was properly inside. His eyes slid of their own volition towards the famous bow window, but no sombrely dressed figure sat there.
“It is a trifle early for Brummell,” Somerwell said, seeing the direction of his gaze. “Now then, sit here, Fletcher and tell me what you will have — brandy? Port? Wine? We have a tolerable claret at the moment.”
“Thank you, claret would be acceptable.”
A nod to the flunky, they sat, and then, with no preamble, Somerwell said, “Now, Fletcher, tell me about your sister. Tell meeverything.”
~~~~~
Will made his way home rather bemused. He went straight into his father’s office, to find him busily engaged with pen and paper at his desk.
“Ah, Will, back already,” Pa said, wiping his pen and setting down carefully. “How was Somerwell?”
“Very affable. Very uninformative. He only wanted to talk about Rosie. The fellow is obsessed with her. Every time I asked any question ofhim, he turned it aside. If I remarked on his fine horse, he wanted to know if Rosie rode. If I asked about his house, he told me how he longs to see her wafting down the gallery, wearing… how did he describe it?‘Clad in ethereal white, like the angel she is,’and a great deal more in the same vein. He can tell Rosie such nonsense if he pleases, because ladies like those high flown compliments, but not to me.”
He did not mention it, for it was a more personal irritation, but Somerwell had not introduced him to a single soul, despite several people passing by and greeting him. One even stopped to enquire if he would be attending some event that evening, yet no introduction was made. There was no need for it, and perhaps it was some man of high rank who would not expect it, but still, it rankled.
“That sounds very tedious,” Pa said, amused, “but Rosie has that effect on men, always has. There’s nothing to be done about it. What we need to know and can’t find out, seemingly, is what sort of man this Somerwell is. Back home, I knew all the men who came to my door wanting one or other of the girls. Some of them I’d watched grow from babes in their mothers’ arms, and I’d shaken hands with their fathers and dined at their table, and they at ours. Even the odd one or two who came from outside Yorkshire were related to people we knew. But now we live amongst strangers, and how are we to find out whether Somerwell’s a man we want to invite into the family or not? It sounds like he’s well set up, with his own house with a gallery, if you please, but has he any money?”
“Of one thing we may be absolutely certain,” Will said thoughtfully. “Somerwell is no fortune hunter. He saw Rosie the very first time I took her to the park in my curricle, and followed her home, for I remember his horse. Rather a fine specimen. So he set out to meet her without knowing a thing about her, except for her beauty. But as to whether he has a great deal of money or very little, I have no idea. A man may live relatively cheaply in town, if he chooses, so it is hard to tell. They all look very plump in the pocket, but there are few men in England who can boast of wealth like yours, Pa.”
“Ha! Perhaps. But you must have some idea what he’s worth. A man can usually tell, and you’ve mixed with his sort before, at Cambridge.”
“If I had to guess,” Will said slowly, “I would say he is well set up. His horse is a fine one, and I know the cost of quality horseflesh. His clothes are expensive, too, and unless I miss my mark entirely, from the very best tailors and boot makers and hatters. Even his gloves…”
“Hmm. And who’s to say he settles his bills with all these fine people, eh? The aristocracy are the worst for paying what they owe, so he may be riddled with debt and still dress very fine. Money difficulties I could deal with, but where does he come from? What’s his character? Is he a man I’d want to do business with? And most of all, will he take care of my little girl, for Rosie’s not a one to stand up for herself. She needs a husband who’ll shelter her from life’s storms. It’s a dilemma, Will.”
“It is, but if he plans to court Rosie in good earnest, we shall get to know him rather better. Rosie knows her own mind, for she’s turned down innumerable offers. Has she ever hesitated or dithered?”
“No, that’s true. Whenever I tell her that this one or that one has been to see me about courting her, she’ll say at once that she isn’t interested. She neverisinterested, yet she wants to marry. She’s open to the idea, but no one has caught her eye yet. What’s she looking for, do you think? The cream of Yorkshire manhood has knelt at her feet, literally sometimes, and she’ll have none of them. Do you think these London men are more to her taste?”
“I have no idea,” Will said. “I cannot say that I have ever wasted time trying to divine what might be in the girls’ heads. Women are impenetrable creatures, Pa. I do not understand them in the least.”
“No more do I, but then we don’t have to. Love them and cherish them, that’s all we need to do, and that’s not at all hard, is it? My girls are lovely, all of them, and my dear Lizzie more than any.”
“You are a sentimental man, Pa,” Will said. “Do you want a game of backgammon?”
They had barely set out the board when Keeble came in with a card on a silver salver. “Sir…” he began, his tone portentous. “Sir, there is a lord to see Mr Will. Aviscount,”he added in a dramatic whisper.
Will took the card from the salver.‘Viscount Albury, Chaseley Court, Huntingdonshire and Brook Street, London’
“I have never heard of him. It must be a mistake.”
“He asked for you by name, sir,” Keeble said.
“Well, let me go and talk to him,” Will said.
“Aye, do that, and invite him in for a bumper of porter, why don’t you? And if he plays a decent game of backgammon, he can stay for dinner,” Pa said, chuckling. “Lizzie would like to have a viscount for dinner.”
The visitor was standing in the hall, gazing intently at a rather bad watercolour of the Sagborough canal, complete with its wharves and line of warehouses, painted by Angie in a fit of rebellion against the fashion for romanticism. The viscount was half a head shorter than Will, slender and rather plainly dressed, with hair of an indeterminate colour, but nevertheless he exuded authority. Will might have the assurance that arose from wealth and education and youthful energy, but this man’s roots lay in centuries of existence as lords of the manor. The world no longer divided itself neatly into lords and peasants, but Will felt oddly rustic in the face of such aristocratic confidence.
“Lord Albury?” he said, pronouncing the name as it was spelt.
“Ah… we say it‘Awbry’, for some unfathomable reason,” Lord Albury said, his voice pleasantly well-modulated. “No doubt some mischievous ancestor thought it an amusing jest to trip up generations of unwary acquaintances, but I find it a perishing nuisance, frankly.”
Will could not help laughing. “We have our share of oddly pronounced names in Yorkshire, too. But I do not believe we are acquainted, sir, and I am quite sure I have never been to Huntingdonshire.”
“You have been near to it, however. Chaseley Court is barely twelve miles from Cambridge, where both our brothers reside. Perhaps your brother has mentioned mine — Anthony Landers?”
