The Quiet Gentleman (3 page)

Family prayers succeeded tea, after which the Dowager withdrew with Miss Morville, charging Theo to conduct St Erth to his bedchamber. ‘Not,’ she said magnanimously, ‘that I wish to dictate to you when you should go to bed, for I am sure you may do precisely as you wish, but no doubt you are tired after your journey.’

It did not seem probable that a journey of fifty miles (for the Earl had travelled to Stanyon only from Penistone Hall), in a luxurious chaise, could exhaust a man inured to the rigours of an arduous campaign, but Gervase agreed to it with his usual amiability, bade his stepmother good-night, and tucked a hand in Theo’s arm, saying: ‘Well, lead me to bed! Where have they put me?’

‘In your father’s room, of course.’

‘Oh dear!
Must
I?’

Theo smiled. ‘Do my aunt the justice to own that to have allotted any other room to you would have been quite improper!’

The Earl’s bedchamber, which lay in the main, or Tudor, part of the Castle, was a vast apartment, rendered sombre by dark panelling, and crimson draperies. However, several branches of candles had been carried into the room, and a bright fire was burning in the stone hearth. A neat individual, bearing on his person the unmistakable stamp of the gentleman’s gentleman, was awaiting his master there, and had already laid out his night-gear.

‘Sit down, Theo!’ said St Erth. ‘Turvey, tell someone to send up the brandy, and glasses!’

The valet bowed, but said: ‘Anticipating that your lordship would wish it, I have already procured it from the butler. Allow me, my lord, to pull off your boots!’

The Earl seated himself, and stretched out one leg. His valet, on one knee before him, drew off the Hessian, handling it with loving care, and casting an anxious eye over its shining black surface to detect a possible scratch. He could find none, and, with a sigh of relief, drew off the second boot, and set both down delicately side by side. He then assisted the Earl to take off his close-fitting coat, and held up for him to put on a frogged and padded dressing-gown of brocaded silk. The Earl ripped the intricately tied cravat from about his throat, tossed it aside, and nodded dismissal. ‘Thank you! I will ring when I am ready for you to come back to me.’

The valet bowed, and withdrew, bearing with him the cherished boots. St Erth poured out two glasses of brandy, gave one to his cousin, and sank into a deep chair on the other side of the fire. Theo, who had blinked at the magnificence of the dressing-gown, openly laughed at him, and said: ‘I think you must have joined the dandy-set, Gervase!’

‘Yes, so Martin seemed to think also,’ agreed Gervase, rolling the brandy round his glass.

‘Oh – ! You heard that, then?’

‘Was I not meant to hear it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Theo was silent for a moment, looking into the fire, but presently he raised his eyes to his cousin’s face, and said abruptly: ‘He resents you, Gervase.’

‘That has been made plain to me – but not why.’

‘Is the reason so hard to seek? You stand between him and the Earldom.’

‘But, my dear Theo, so I have always done! I am not a lost heir, returning to oust him from a position he thought his own!’

‘Not lost, but I fancy he did think the position might well be his,’ Theo replied.

‘He seems to me an excessively foolish young man, but he cannot be such a saphead as that!’ expostulated Gervase. ‘Only I could succeed to my father’s room!’

‘Very true, but dead men do not succeed,’ said Theo dryly.

‘Dead men!’ Gervase exclaimed, startled and amused.

‘My dear Gervase, you have taken part in more than one engagement, and you will own that it could not have been thought surprising had you met your end upon a battlefield. It was, in fact, considered to be a likely contingency.’

‘And one that was hoped for?’

‘Yes, one that was hoped for.’

The Earl’s face was inscrutable; after a moment, Theo said: ‘I have shocked you, but it is better to be plain with you, I think. You cannot have supposed that they loved you!’

‘Not Lady St Erth, no! But Martin – !’

‘Why should he? He has heard no good of you from my uncle, or from his mother; he has been treated in all things as though he had been the heir; so much indulged and petted – well, talking pays no toll, or there is much I could say to you! To him, you are a usurper.’

Gervase finished his brandy, and set down the glass. ‘I see. It is melancholy indeed! Something tells me that I shall not be at Stanyon for very long.’

‘What do you mean?’ Theo said sharply.

Gervase looked at him, a little bewildered. ‘Why, what should I mean?’

‘Martin is rash – his temper is uncontrollable, but he would not murder you, Gervase!’

‘Murder me! Good God, I should hope he would not!’ exclaimed the Earl, laughing. ‘No, no, I only meant that I think I should prefer to live at Maplefield, or Studham – ah, no! Studham was not entailed, was it? It belongs to Martin!’

‘Yes, it belongs to Martin, along with the Jamaican property,’ said Theo grimly. ‘And your mother-in-law has the London house and the Dower House for the term of her life!’

‘I grudge her neither,’ replied the Earl lightly.

‘When I can bring you to pay a little heed to the way in which things are left, you may well grudge the pair of them a great deal of what they now stand possessed!’ retorted Theo. ‘I have sometimes thought that my uncle had taken leave of his senses! You have me to thank for it that the estate is not cut up even more!’

‘I think I have you to thank for more than you would have me guess,’ St Erth said, smiling across at him. ‘You have been a good friend to me, Theo, and I thank you for it.’

‘Well, I have done what lay in my power to keep the property intact,’ Theo said gruffly. ‘But I am determined you shall be made to attend to your affairs, and so I warn you!’

‘What a fierce fellow you are, to be sure! But you wrong me, you know! I did read my father’s will, and I fancy I know pretty well how things stand.’

‘Then I wonder that you will be so expensive, Gervase!’ said Theo forthrightly. ‘The charges you have made upon the estate this past twelvemonth – !’

‘Oh, won’t it bear them? I shall be obliged to marry an heiress!’

‘I wish you will be serious! Things have not come to such a pass as that, but you will do well to be a little more careful. When I have shown you how matters stand, I hope you may be persuaded to take up your residence here. It will not do to leave Stanyon masterless, you know.’

‘Stanyon has a very good master in you, I fancy.’

‘Nonsense! I am nothing but your agent.’

‘But I should find it a dead bore!’ objected Gervase. ‘Only consider the dreadful evening I have spent already! I have not the remotest guess where Martin went to, but I am sure he was not to be blamed for his flight. I wish I had had the courage to follow his example! And who, pray, is that little squab of a female? Was she invited for my entertainment? Don’t tell me she is an heiress! I could not – no, I really
could
not be expected to pay my addresses to anyone with so little countenance or conversation!’

‘Drusilla! No, no, nothing of that sort!’ smiled Theo. ‘I fancy my aunt thinks she would make a very suitable wife for me!’

‘My poor Theo!’

‘Oh, she is a very good sort of a girl, after all! But my tastes do not run in that direction. She is a guest at Stanyon merely while her parents are visiting in the north. They live at Gilbourne: in fact, they are your tenants. Her ladyship has a kindness for Drusilla, which is not wonderful, for she is always very obliging, and her lack of countenance, as you have it, makes it in the highest degree unlikely that she will ever be a danger to Lady St Erth’s schemes for Martin.’ He rose from his chair, and added, glancing down at the Earl: ‘We can offer you better entertainment, I hope! There is the hunting, remember, and your coverts should afford you excellent sport.’

‘My dear Theo, I may have been abroad for a few years, but I
was
reared in England, you know!’ expostulated Gervase. ‘If you will tell me
what
I am to hunt, or shoot, at this moment – !’

Theo laughed. ‘Wood-pigeons!’

‘Yes, and rabbits. I thank you!’

‘Well, you will go to London for the Season, I daresay.’

‘You may say so with the fullest confidence.’

‘I see it is useless for me to waste my eloquence upon you. Only remain at Stanyon for long enough to understand in what case you stand, and I must be satisfied! Tomorrow, I give you warning, I shall make you attend to business. I won’t tease you any more tonight, however. Sleep sound!’

‘I hope I may, but I fear my surroundings may give me a nightmare. Where are you quartered, Theo?’

‘Oh, in the Tower! It has come to be considered my particular domain. My bedchamber is above the muniment room, you know.’

‘A day’s march to reach you! It must be devilish uncomfortable!’

‘On the contrary, it suits me very well. I am able to fancy myself in a house of my own, and can enter the Tower by the door into the Chapel Court, if I choose, and so escape being commanded to furnish my aunt with the details of where I have been, or where I am going!’

‘Good God! Will it be my fate to endure such examinations?’

‘My aunt,’ said Theo, with a lurking twinkle, ‘likes to know all that one does, and why one does it.’

‘You terrify me! I shall certainly not remain at Stanyon above a week!’

But his cousin only smiled, and shook his head, and left him to ring for his valet.

When the man came, he brought with him a can of hot water, and a warming-pan. The Earl, staring at this, said: ‘Now, what in thunder are you about?’

‘It appears, my lord,’ responded Turvey, in a voice carefully devoid of expression, ‘that extremely early hours are kept in this house – or, as I apprehend I should say, Castle. The servants have already gone to bed, and your lordship would hardly desire to get between cold sheets.’

‘Thank you, my constitution is really not so sickly as you must think it! Next you will bring me laudanum, as a composer! Set the thing down in the hearth, and don’t be so foolish again, if you please! Have they housed you comfortably?’

‘I make no complaint, my lord. I collect that the Castle is of considerable antiquity.’

‘Yes, parts of it date back to the fourteenth century,’ said the Earl, stripping off his shirt. ‘It was moated once, but the lake is now all that remains of the moat.’

‘That, my lord,’ said Turvey, relieving him of his shirt, ‘would no doubt account for the prevailing atmosphere of damp.’

‘Very likely!’ retorted Gervase. ‘I infer that Stanyon does not meet with your approval!’

‘I am sure, a most interesting pile, my lord. Possibly one becomes inured to the inconvenience of being obliged to pass through three galleries and seven doors on one’s way to your lordship’s room.’

‘Oh!’ said the Earl, a trifle disconcerted. ‘It would certainly be better that you should be quartered rather nearer to me.’

‘I was alluding, my lord, to the position of the Servants’ Hall. To reach your lordship’s room from my own, it will be necessary for me to descend two separate stairways, to pass down three corridors; through a door permitting access to one of the galleries with which the Castle appears to be – if I may say so! – somewhat profusely provided; and, by way of an antechamber, or vestibule, reach the court round which this portion of the Castle was erected.’ He waited for these measured words to sink into his master’s brain, and then added, in soothing accents: ‘Your lordship need have no fear, however, that I shall fail to bring your shaving-water in the morning. I have desired one of the under-footmen – a very obliging lad – to act as my guide until I am rather more conversant with my surroundings.’ He paused. ‘Or, perhaps I should say, until your lordship decides to return to London!’

Neither the Dowager nor Miss Morville appeared at the breakfast-table next morning; and although a place was laid for the Chaplain, he had not emerged from his bedchamber when Gervase joined his brother and his cousin in the sunny parlour. His entrance disconcerted Martin, who was fairly embarked on a scathing condemnation of the clothing which he apparently considered suitable for country-wear. Since Gervase was impeccably attired in riding-breeches, top-boots, and a serviceable, if unusually well-cut, frock-coat, Martin’s scornful animadversions became, even in his own ears, singularly inapposite. Theo, who had listened to him in unencouraging silence, smiled slightly at sight of the Earl, and said to his younger cousin: ‘You were saying?’

‘It don’t signify!’ snapped Martin, glowering at him.

‘Good-morning!’ said Gervase. ‘Oh, don’t ring the bell, Theo! Abney knows I am here.’

‘I trust no nightmares, Gervase?’ Theo said quizzically.

‘Not the least in the world. Do either of you know if my horses have yet arrived?’

‘Yes, I understand they came in early this morning, your groom having stayed at Grantham overnight. An old soldier, is he?’

‘Yes, an excellent fellow, from my own Troop,’ replied Gervase, walking over to the side-table, and beginning to carve a large ham there.

‘I say, Gervase, where did you come by that gray?’ demanded Martin.

The Earl glanced over his shoulder. ‘In Ireland. Do you like him?’

‘Prime bit of blood! I suppose you mean to take the shine out of us Melton men with him?’

‘I haven’t hunted him yet. We shall see how he does. I brought him down to try his paces a little.’

‘You won’t hack him during the summer!’

‘No, I shan’t do that,’ said the Earl gravely.

‘My dear Martin, do you imagine that Gervase does not know a great deal more about horses than you?’ said Theo.

‘Oh, well, I daresay he may, but troopers are a different matter!’

That made Gervase laugh. ‘Very true! – as I know to my cost! But I have been more fortunate than many: I have only once been obliged to ride one.’

‘When was that?’ enquired Theo.

‘At Orthes. I had three horses shot under me that day, and very inconvenient I found it.’

‘You bear a charmed life, Gervase.’

‘I do, don’t I?’ agreed the Earl, seating himself at the table.

‘Were you never even wounded?’ asked Martin curiously.

‘Nothing but a sabre-cut or two, and a graze from a spent ball. Tell me what cattle you have in the stables here!’

No question could have been put to Martin that would more instantly have made him sink his hostility. He plunged, without further encouragement, into a technical and detailed description of all the proper high-bred ’uns, beautiful steppers, and gingers to be found in the Stanyon stables at that moment. Animation lightened the darkness of his eyes, and dispelled the sullen expression from about his mouth. The Earl, listening to him with a half-smile hovering on his lips, slipped in a leading question about the state of his coverts, and finished his breakfast to the accompaniment of an exposition of the advantages of close shot over one that scattered, the superiority of the guns supplied by Manton’s, and the superlative merits of percussion caps.

‘To tell you the truth,’ confessed Martin, ‘I am a good deal addicted to sport!’

The Earl preserved his countenance. ‘I perceive it. What do you find to do in the spring and the summer-time, Martin?’

‘Oh, well! Of course, there is nothing much to do,’ acknowledged Martin. ‘But one can always get a rabbit, or a brace of wood-pigeon!’

‘If you can get a wood-pigeon, you are a good shot,’ observed Gervase.

This remark could scarcely have failed to please. ‘Well, I can, and it
is
true, isn’t it, that a wood-pigeon is a testing shot?’ said Martin. ‘My father would always pooh-pooh it, but Glossop says – you remember Glossop, the head-keeper? – that your pigeon will afford you as good sport as any game-bird of them all!’

The Earl agreed to it; and Martin continued to talk very happily of all his sporting experiences, until an unlucky remark of Theo’s put him in mind of his grievances, when he relapsed into a fit of monosyllabic sulks, which lasted for the rest of the meal.

‘Really, Theo, that was not adroit!’ said the Earl, afterwards.

‘No: bacon-brained!’ owned Theo ruefully. ‘But if we are to guard our tongues every minute of every day – !’

‘Nonsense! The boy is merely spoilt. Is that my mother-in-law’s voice? I shall go down to the stables!’

Here he was received with much respect and curiosity, nearly every groom and stableboy finding an occasion to come into the yard, and to steal a look at him, where he stood chatting to the old coachman. On the whole, he was approved. He was plainly not a neck-or-nothing young blood of the Fancy, like his half-brother; he was a quiet gentleman, like his cousin, who was a very good rider to hounds; and if the team of lengthy, short-legged bits of blood-and-bone he had brought to Stanyon had been of his own choosing, he knew one end of a horse from another. He might take a rattling toss or two at the bullfinches of Ashby Pastures, but it seemed likely that he would turn out in prime style, and possible that he would prove himself to be a true cut of Leicestershire.

He found his head-groom, Sam Chard, late of the 7th Hussars, brushing the dried mud from the legs of his horse, Cloud. Chard straightened himself, and grinned at him, sketching a salute. ‘’Morning, me lord!’

‘You found your way here safely,’ commented the Earl, passing a hand down Cloud’s neck.

‘All right and tight, me lord. Racked up for the night at Grantham, according to orders.’

‘No trouble here?’

‘Not to say trouble, me lord, barring a bit of an
escaramuza
with the Honourable Martin’s man, him not seeming to understand his position, and passing a remark about redcoats, which I daresay he done by way of ignorance.
Red-coats!
The Saucy Seventh! But no bones broken, me lord, and I will say he didn’t display so bad.’

‘Chard, I will have no fighting here!’

‘
Fighting
, me lord?’ said his henchman, shocked. ‘Lor’, no. Nothing but a bit of cross-and-jostle work, with a muzzler to finish it! Everything very nice and
abrigado
now, me lord. You’re looking at that bay: a rum ’un to look at, but I daresay he’s the devil to go. One of this Honourable Martin’s, and by what they tell me he’s a regular dash: quite the out-and-outer! Would he be a relation of your lordship’s?’

‘My half-brother – and see that you are civil to him!’

‘Civil as a nun’s hen, me lord!’ Chard responded promptly. ‘They do think a lot of him here, seemingly.’ He applied himself to one of the gray’s forelegs. ‘Call him the young master.’ He shot a look up at the Earl. ‘Very natural, I’m sure – the way things have been.’ Before the Earl could speak, he continued cheerfully: ‘Now, that well-mixed roan, in the third stall, me lord, he belongs to Mr Theo, which I understand is another of your lordship’s family. A niceish hack, ain’t he? And a very nice gentleman, too, according to what I hear. Yes, me lord,
on
the whole, and naming no exceptions, I think we can say that the natives are
bien dispuesto
!’

The Earl thought it prudent to return an indifferent answer. It was apparent to him that his groom was already, after only a few hours spent at Stanyon, fully conversant with the state of affairs there. He reflected that Martin’s feelings must be bitter indeed to have communicated themselves to the servants; and it was in a mood of slight pensiveness that he strolled back to the Castle.

Here he was met by Miss Morville, who said, rather surprisingly, that she had been trying to find him.

‘Indeed!’ Gervase said, raising his brows. ‘May I know in what way I can serve you, Miss Morville?’

She coloured, for his tone was not cordial, but her disconcertingly candid gaze did not waver from his face. ‘I shouldn’t think you could serve me at all, sir,’ she said. ‘
I
am only desirous of serving Lady St Erth, which, perhaps, I should have made plain to you at the outset, for I can see that you think I have been guilty of presumption!’

It was now his turn to redden. He said: ‘I assure you, ma’am, you are mistaken!’

‘Well, I don’t suppose that I am, for I expect you are used to be toad-eaten, on account of your high rank,’ replied Drusilla frankly. ‘I should have explained to you that I have no very great opinion of Earls.’

Rising nobly to the occasion, he replied with scarcely a moment’s hesitation: ‘Yes, I think you should have explained
that
!’

‘You see, I am the daughter of Hervey Morville,’ disclosed Drusilla. She added, with all the air of one throwing in a doubler: ‘
And
of Cordelia Consett!’

The Earl could think of nothing better to say than that he was a little acquainted with a Sir
James
Morville, who was a member of White’s Club.

‘My uncle,’ acknowledged Drusilla. ‘He is a very worthy man, but not, of course, the equal of my Papa!’

‘Of course not!’ agreed Gervase.

‘I daresay,’ said Drusilla kindly, ‘that, from the circumstance of your military occupation, you have not had the leisure to read any of Papa’s works, so I should tell you that he is a Philosophical Historian. He is at the moment engaged in writing a History of the French Revolution.’

‘From a Republican point-of-view, I collect?’

‘Yes, certainly, which makes it sometimes a great labour, for it would be foolish to suppose that his opinions have undergone no change since he first commenced author. That,’ said Drusilla, ‘was before I was born.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Gervase politely.

‘In those days, you may say that he was as ardent a disciple of Priestley as poor Mr Coleridge, whom he knew intimately when a very young man. In fact, Papa was a Pantisocrat.’

‘A – ?’

She obligingly repeated it. ‘They were a society of whom the most prominent members were Mr Coleridge, and Mr Southey, and my Papa. They formed the intention of emigrating to the banks of the Susquehanna, but, fortunately, neither Mrs Southey nor Mama considered the scheme practicable, so it was abandoned. I daresay you may have noticed that persons of large intellect have not the least common-sense. In this instance, it was intended that there should be no servants, but everyone should devote himself – or herself, as the case might be – for two hours each day to the performance of the necessary domestic duties, after which the rest of the day was to have been occupied in literary pursuits. But, of course, Mama and Mrs Southey readily perceived that although the gentlemen might adhere to the two-hour-rule, it would be quite impossible for the ladies to do so. In fact, Mama was of the opinion that although the gentlemen might be induced, if strongly adjured, to draw water, and to chop the necessary wood, they would certainly have done no more. And no one,’ continued Miss Morville, with considerable acumen, ‘could have placed the least reliance on their
continued
performance of such household tasks, for, you know, if they had been engaged in philosophical discussion they would have forgotten all about them.’

‘I conclude,’ said Gervase, a good deal amused, ‘that your Mama is of a practical disposition?’

‘Oh, no!’ replied Miss Morville serenely. ‘That is why she did not wish to form one of the colony. She has no turn for domestic duties: Mama is an Authoress. She has written several novels, and numerous articles and treatises. She was used to be a friend of Mrs Godwin’s – the
first
Mrs Godwin, I should explain – and she holds views, which are thought to be very advanced, on Female Education.’

‘And have you been reared according to these views?’ enquired Gervase, in some misgiving.

‘No, for Mama has been so fully occupied in prescribing for the education of females in general that naturally she has had little time to spare for her own children. Moreover, she is a person of excellent sense, and, mortifying though it has been to her, she has not hesitated to acknowledge that neither I nor my elder brother is in the least bookish.’

‘A blow!’ commented the Earl.

‘Yes, but she has sustained it with fortitude, and we have great hopes that my younger brother, who is now at Cambridge, will become distinguished. And, after all, there must be someone in a household who does not dislike domestic management.’

‘Is that your fate, Miss Morville?’ the Earl asked, rather touched. ‘Is your life spent in these rural fastnesses, performing a housekeeper’s duties? I pity you!’

‘Well, you need not,’ returned Miss Morville unromantically. ‘We are only to be found in Lincolnshire when Papa requires quiet for the performance of his labours. In general, we reside in London, so that Mama may enjoy the benefits of literary society.’

‘Forgive me, ma’am, if I say that it sounds to me like a dead bore!’

‘Oh, yes, to those who are not bookish, it is!’ agreed Miss Morville. ‘When in London, I spend much of my time in the company of my aunt, Lady Morville, and my cousins. Parties, and theatres, you know, for they are always very gay, and most good-natured in including me in their schemes. My aunt even undertook my Presentation last year, which, when you consider that she had three daughters of her own to bring out, you must allow was very handsome in her. Particularly when Mama had declared herself ready to sink her scruples, and to perform the duty herself. Neither Mama nor Papa approves of Royalty, of course. But neither, I assure you, is an advocate of the more violent forms of Jacobinism.’

‘I am relieved. They would not, you think, wish to see such heads as mine fall under the knife of the guillotine?’

‘I shouldn’t think they would wish to see any head do so.’ While they had been talking, they had mounted the Grand Stairway, crossed the hall at the head of it, and now entered the Long Drawing-room. The Earl enquired: ‘Where are you taking me, Miss Morville?’

‘To the Small Dining-room, if you please. I wish you to inform me whether you approve of what I have done with the epergne, or whether you would prefer some other arrangement.’