Without a Summer (20 page)
He was a tolerable conversationist, although staid in his choice of subject. They spoke at first of the weather, which both agreed was frightful. Finding common ground in that, they moved on to the more detailed question of the rain and whether it would cease, followed by astonishment that snow was still upon the hills, and finally winding up with the question of the harvest and if it would be late that year.
Jane was almost relieved when the table turned and she was faced with her new dinner partner, Lord Verbury. He gestured to the dishes close at hand. “Would you care for ragout or the turbot?”
“The ragout, please.” Jane waited as he served her. She decided that since the weather had seen her safely through the first course, that she would employ it in the second. “Have the rains given your estates much trouble?”
“Yes.” He poured a spoon of the vibrant red ragout on her plate.
“My father is struggling with the same issues. He had to replant after the late snow.”
“Indeed.” Lord Verbury set her plate down and helped himself to a slice of lamb.
“Did you have to replant as well?”
He reached for the peas and carrots. “Yes.”
While Jane had been content to have a civil conversation, she was less willing to try when Lord Verbury made his contempt clear by uttering not a word beyond a monosyllable. Why had he taken a seat by her if he intended to slight her all evening?
Jane answered her own question. He took this seat precisely
because
of the opportunity to slight her all evening. Taking up her fork and knife, she cut a piece of beef in the ragout to size. Well then, she would present him with a question that could not be answered by a yes or a no. “What sort of trouble have the coldmongers been giving? At your estate, I mean.”
He hesitated with his spoon suspended over the gravy. “I have no coldmongers on staff.”
“Ah…” Jane took a bite of the beef, which was quite well prepared, and swallowed before continuing. “It must confound you, then, as to why the cold weather continues on your estate if there are no coldmongers present. Or did I misunderstand your conversation with Lord Eldon?”
Across the table Lord Garland chuckled. “Oh, Father has been trying to displace Lord Eldon these past two years.”
With a smile at his eldest son, Lord Verbury calmly pushed some peas onto the back of his fork. “If he did his job as Lord Chancellor, I should not have any complaint with him.”
“No?” Jane sampled a slice of roast onion. “I thought his parentage was an issue.”
“Father has yet to see anyone complete a job without wishing it done better,” Garland said. “How is your meal, sir? Fancy a turn in the kitchen?”
“It is rare that anyone attains perfection. Few even see worth in the attempt.” Lord Verbury tucked his chin into his cravat in a movement so like Vincent—even to the desire to strive for perfection—that Jane had to suppress a shudder. “It would be a great deal easier to replace Lord Eldon if I had the ear of the Prince Regent.” At that, he shot a look down to the end of the table, where Vincent sat by Lady Penelope.
His son met his gaze, then turned to his sister and resumed talking as if his father had not spoken.
“What is it about Lord Eldon’s policies that you object to?” Jane lifted her glass and sipped some of the excellent claret.
Lord Verbury smiled at her, leniently, and returned his attention to his plate. “How do you find the ragout?”
“Beautifully prepared. I must give my compliments to your daughter’s cook.”
“It is over-spiced.” He lifted his glass and sniffed the wine. “And pairs poorly with the claret.”
On Jane’s other side, Sir Waldo paused in his speech to Melody, but did not turn to engage the Earl. Jane lifted a potato from the ragout. “I suppose it depends on whether one enjoys spice. I do.”
They proceeded in silence for some minutes more before Jane attempted to engage him in conversation again. “I would have thought that Lord Eldon’s bill to help the working poor was a necessary thing given the climate and the shortness of food that follows.”
Melody turned briefly from Sir Waldo to join their conversation. “I was just having the same conversation with our host. After reading the bill, it seems to me to provide temporary relief to the displaced workers, such as the coldmongers, without causing them to become burdens.”
Along with everyone else, Jane gaped at Melody, though on her side it was at least a little out of wonder that she had induced Sir Waldo to discuss anything but the weather.
Lord Verbury did not answer her, being concentrated on removing a trifle of fat from his lamb.
Sir Waldo nodded at Melody. “I have not read it yet, but it does seem in line with all that the church teaches us about the worth of charity.” If he sympathized with the coldmongers, then that might account for his having sent a footman to Mr. O’Brien. Could he, though, be said to sympathize if he were ignorant of the bill?
“I wish I had your confidence. I would never feel comfortable conversing about a bill I had not read.” Lord Verbury speared a slice of lamb with his fork. “But I assure you, after having read it and having argued against it in Parliament for hours, that this sort of bill will create a precedence that will cripple the drive of the English for self-sufficiency—a drive that allowed us to defeat Napoleon in war. It will create a public millstone to hang about all of our necks, and cause every one of us—every one of us at this table—to suffer.”
“But not the poor.” Jane laid down her fork and knife, having lost her appetite. She watched Sir Waldo to see his further opinions on the topic. “They suffer
now
.”
“Exactly so,” Lord Garland said. He leaned forward and looked down the table at Vincent. “I say, Vincent. Your wife appears to be uncommonly clever.”
“She is very much so.” Vincent nodded and gazed at Jane as though they were the only two in the room.
For a moment, she could not breathe with the longing to stand and walk to where he sat and take him out of this place. Her breath, when it came, caught in her throat. Jane lifted her glass of wine and took a sip to fortify herself. “I wonder, Lord Verbury, what method you might propose to deal with the unrest, if not to provide relief.”
“Would you care for some trifle? I must recommend it. My daughter’s cook excels in trifles.”
If she had been vexed before by the inability to engage the Earl in conversation, Jane now shook with anger. The man was refusing to take notice of her—had been, in fact, since the second course began. This time, however, his actions were conspicuous enough that Vincent stepped in. “Yes, tell us what your methods would be.”
Without lifting his gaze from his plate, Lord Verbury said, “I would call up the guard and put the revolt down. It has had a significant impact on the Luddites, and I see no reason that it should not be effective on coldmongers or any other group whose sense of rights and consequence exceeds their sense of place.”
Major Curry’s statements about action in the north of England played heavily in Jane’s mind. “Would you fire upon your own countrymen?”
“Vincent, do you and your wife always discuss politics at the table?”
Though it was not her habit to call Vincent by his style when speaking to him, she found herself wanting to make clear the distinction that he no longer belonged to this man. “Sir David and I often discuss art or what we have been reading, and sometimes how our day has been. Politics, of course, will come up.”
Lord Verbury looked back to her and called a footman. “Let me get you some fresh water. Your face looks a little red—perhaps the ragout?” In his tone, he was perfect concern. Nothing in his words or manner could be pointed to as an attack, yet Jane felt it all the same. “Over-spiced, you know.”
“Your concern flatters me.” She watched the footman pour the water, but kept her hands in her lap so that they did not betray her anger any further by their trembling.
“Sir. You have not answered my wife’s question.” Never had Jane heard Vincent’s voice so cold and level.
“You must think of the populace as a small child, who has ideas and schemes that are not good for him, but he is incapable of reason. He throws a fit. He must be beaten.” Lord Verbury picked up his glass of wine and saluted his son. “I have no reason to think that this ‘unrest’ is any different from a tantrum. Of course … some children never learn better than to cross their elders.”
When the ladies removed to the drawing room, Jane was only too happy to escape the stifling atmosphere of the dinner table. Seated as she was at the opposite end of the table, Jane could do little to support Vincent. Had it been only his father present, she would have been willing to provoke more of a scene, but with the husbands of Vincent’s sisters present, the wiser course was to let Lord Verbury’s conduct speak for itself. She suspected that he was trying to spur her into exposing herself though irrational response, so she had endeavoured to meet his studied civility with her own.
The drawing room, on the other hand, offered a welcome opportunity to learn something of Vincent’s mother, with whom she had thus far exchanged only a few words. As the ladies settled themselves around the room, Melody joined Lady Garland, the only other woman from outside the family. The pale woman seemed almost surprised to be addressed by anyone at all.
Jane sat on the sofa by Lady Verbury. She must have been a great beauty in her day, because her refined features still had more elegance than most younger women ever attained. She carried herself with an innate grace, turning to smile with welcome at Jane. “Now, my dear, we shall be able to have a little tête-à-tête.”
“I am glad, as well, to have to opportunity to talk with you.” Jane glanced at the other ladies and used that subject for her opening. “Your daughters are lovely.”
“Thank you. One might call them a blessing, as all daughters must be considered.”
“Are they very accomplished?”
“Their father felt it was important.” Which did not answer Jane’s question about whether or not they had achieved any accomplishments. “I understand you have some skill with glamour?”
Blushing, Jane smoothed her dress. “I have been fortunate to have good teachers, such as your son.”
She sighed. “His interest was such a disappointment to his father.”
“I—I have heard some stories … but do not wish to pry.”
“Hm…” Lady Verbury placed a confiding hand on Jane’s arm. “Then perhaps we should discuss the weather. I always find that a safe topic. Or Penelope’s son. Such a charming boy, but then it is to be expected that I should dote on my grandson, and so I do.”
Jane tilted her head, frowning. “Have you only the one grandson?”
“Oh, no. Caroline has three young sons and a daughter. Alas, neither Richard nor Philip have produced an heir. It frets the Earl dreadfully.” She glanced at the piano. “Do you play, my dear? I believe I heard that you do.”
“Yes, it is a favourite diversion when we are not working.”
“Would you do me the favour, then, of playing?” Lady Verbury, too, eluded topics—not as though she were neglecting Jane, but more as if she were unwilling to let any hint of her actual opinions pierce her beautiful countenance.
“But of course.” Jane had no interest in playing, but she did not wish to decline a request from Vincent’s mother. She would like to be on good terms with at least one member of his family. After the trick that Lady Penelope had played on them, Jane had rather little trust for Vincent’s sister.
Lady Verbury followed her to the pianoforte and leaned against the instrument with her back to the rest of the room. Jane turned through the music, settling on the Marche triomphale for piano in E Flat major, by Field, as having a pleasant air. It was a simple enough tune that it did not require her full attention, and the few strands of glamour that the score suggested to supplement the music allowed her to consider what an Essex footman might have been doing with Mr. O’Brien. Her attention had been so absorbed since their arrival that she had thought of no way to ask about it.
If he had worn his wig—or if she had not overheard those pieces of conversations—then she might believe that he had been to Stratton House on a commonplace errand. It was puzzling in the extreme.
Lady Verbury leaned forward to look at the music, and turned the page for Jane. As she bent over Jane’s shoulder, she whispered, “My lord is very jealous. Vincent was right to get out. Tell him that I love him and miss him.”
Then the page was turned, and Lady Verbury was back in her place with the same placid smile as before. She stood so that if Jane had happened to look at her with astonishment—which she did not do—her expression would have been masked by the Countess’s figure. It took all of Jane’s will to continue to play without cessation.
The insipid chatter and smooth opinions that Lady Verbury expressed were a shield. If she felt the need to conceal, even from her daughters, this single expression of concern for Vincent, what must it say about how she lived her life? Vincent’s stories of how his father treated him and his brothers came back to Jane. Lady Verbury must live her life in constant fear of saying the wrong thing or showing the wrong look.
The song, sadly, had only the one page turn. If Jane had realized the opportunity it offered, she might have chosen a piece that was rather longer. As it was, she was eager to select another and continue to play, but the gentlemen entered before she could move on. Lady Verbury turned from the piano with an expression of welcome on her face. Beckoning to Lady Penelope, she said, “My dear, would you favour us with a tune so that Lady Vincent might have the opportunity to become better acquainted with our family?”
That lady was only too glad to oblige, standing with readiness to assume her place at the pianoforte. Jane relinquished her seat with some reluctance, but only because she had hoped to engage Lady Verbury in further conversation, so seeing Vincent’s mother glide across the room to meet her husband made giving up the instrument that much easier. Jane moved to Vincent. Only by his compressed lips did he signal that he was at all uneasy.
