Chapter 12
The House of Lords
London
It had been years since Edward had stood in this room.
He should have been here before now, the seat once belonging to his father having passed on to him upon the former earl’s death, but he’d been in mourning. He’d also been so busy trying to save the estate that he hadn’t had time to worry about any sort of legislative acts or political maneuverings.
He stared at the bench, plush with rich embossed leather, where his father, as a Lord Temporal, had always sat, remembering the first time the former earl had brought him here.
Edward had been fifteen and had sat in the gallery to watch the proceedings.
His father was one of the few men who passionately engaged with the issues of the day.
Most held only halfhearted opinions, while some held no opinion at all.
“Steering the government in a direction that suits all people, not just the peerage, is a solemn part of our duty, Edward,” his father had told him on the carriage ride back to their London home once the session had adjourned.
“Just as you will be responsible for the people under your care when you take up the earldom, you are also responsible for doing your part to make England the best place to live for all people, regardless of social class. Otherwise, what is the point of the privilege you were born into, if not to use it for the good of others?”
Edward had taken in his father’s advice and, knowing how important it was, stored it deep in his heart, in a place that still affected him so acutely he was willing to marry without love just for the sake of those who relied on Whitefawn’s continued existence.
But he had also countered his father by saying he hoped it would be many years before he would have to worry about such things.
His father had chuckled at that. “As do I, my son. As do I.”
Little did they know he would be dead a mere five years later.
“Lord Hayward?” Calliope asked, her brows knit together over her crystalline eyes as if it were not the first time she’d said his name.
“I apologize,” he replied, blinking away the memories. “My mind was elsewhere.”
She walked forward, her skirt swishing across the floor as she surveyed the juncture at the hall’s south end, where the intricately carved wood-paneled walls met the golden facade that encompassed the raised pedestal holding the thrones of the King and Queen.
“I was asking if you’ll be sitting in on the meeting this afternoon? ”
He wrapped his knuckles on the clerk’s table in the center of the room. “No. I’m afraid I’m rather busy.”
She looked at him as if his answer were another mark against his character. If anyone else had looked at him in such a way, he was certain it would have been ill borne on his part, but when Calliope did it, he found he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
Why did he delight in teasing her so?
“May I ask what it is that keeps you so busy that you cannot find time to do your civic duty?” she asked.
“Caring for an estate such as Whitefawn is occupation enough.” Especially since, on the rare occasions he did make it into town, his time was spent meeting with the banks, asking them to give him more time to settle the death duties and the various other payments they owed, even though they had already given him more time than he’d expected.
He really needed to marry. And fast.
Calliope pursed her lips as she studied him.
It was clear she wanted to push the point but refrained, casting her attention instead on the immense golden candelabras standing at either side of the royal platform, then up to the chandeliers above and the three paintings that presided over the proceedings: to the left, Edward III appointed his son, the Black Prince, into the Order of the Garter; to the right, Henry IV’s son received his prison sentence for hitting his father; and in the center, the baptism of King Ethelbert.
Edward cleared his throat and gestured to the stained-glass windows above the gallery.
“The kings and queens of the past,” he explained, pointing at the figures in each frame.
She stared at each one, awestruck.
“So much history,” she murmured. “So many moments built upon one another, and if a single one were to be tampered with, if a single decision were to be changed even slightly, the entire fabric of our world would be different.”
“You mentioned loving the history of your city,” Edward said. “Am I to take it the subject fascinates you beyond its borders?”
Calliope’s lips tugged into a rare smile. “Unquestioningly.”
He tilted his head, intrigued by the brightness it brought to her countenance. “What do you love about it?”
“It is the story of humanity,” she relayed, her excitement increasing with every word. “There is so much we can learn from it, from the simple to the extraordinary. Perhaps it is judgmental of me, but I have a hard time being patient with those who don’t understand its importance.”
He smirked. “I am cut from the same cloth, I can assure you.”
Their gazes met. And held.
Clearing her throat, Calliope crossed to where Edward had been standing moments before.
“And this bench,” she said, nodding to where he had been staring. “Is this where your father sat?”
A lump formed in his throat at the reminder, so that he could do nothing but nod in response.
“Did he enjoy coming here?” she asked.
“Very much, although it was hard to tell when I was younger. He often came home vexed by those who thought their opinions should carry more weight because they had a higher title than himself, never mind that they had no idea what they were talking about. My father researched every issue backward and forward before deciding upon a matter, while many of his colleagues entered this chamber entirely unaware of the topics at hand.”
A laugh escaped Edward as a memory surfaced.
“I remember one time in particular, when I was a boy of just seven or eight. I was playing with a wooden train at my father’s feet while he wrote a letter to the Duke of Farthingworth.
He was so angry that he spoke out every word he wrote, which included not a few expletives.
I received a mouthful of soap when I repeated them to my mother, but I never told her where I learned them, worried she would forbid me from playing in his office in the future. ”
Calliope watched him, her eyes suddenly tender in a way he had not yet witnessed, the fire with which she usually stared at him softening to embers meant to warm and comfort.
“Do you miss him a great deal?” she asked, her words soft as snowfall in the echoing chamber.
“You know,” he began, his voice breaking slightly before regaining control, “everyone says it gets easier with time, and I suppose it does in some sense. But the pain is always there, and I find there are mornings when I awaken wanting his advice on some matter and have to remember all over again that he isn’t there for me to ask. ”
A moment of silence passed between them in which Edward tried desperately to think of a change of topic.
But then he was startled by a sudden pressure enveloping his hand as Calliope’s palm encircled his own.
It was a most improper gesture by any British standard, but in that moment, Edward was thankful for her American upbringing, where apparently it was natural to extend sympathy to someone so clearly in pain.
“I don’t know what I would do without my father,” she told him. “He’s been my everything for as long as I can remember.”
And then, for a split second, with her hand in his and her warmth seeping into the coldest pieces of his broken heart, providing the comfort he’d longed for since his father had died but had been unable to find, he wanted to ask if perhaps, someday, he could be her everything.
But that was a ludicrous question, not least of all because he could not give her everything—not when he was marrying her for money instead of love.
Still, perhaps they could develop a friendship over time that would allow each of them to view the other as a safe harbor from the world, so that when that dreadful day came when she would experience the same loss Edward had been grieving for the past two years, he could help her through it the same as she was doing for him now.
“Thank you,” he murmured, momentarily transfixed by her glacial eyes and the minuscule freckle just beneath her lower lashes.
She held his hand a moment longer before pulling away and moving down the benches, a prism of sunlight, shot through with color from the stained-glass windows, dancing over her like a painting; and he felt oddly as though he had to catch his breath before following.
“You know,” she said when he finally caught up. “I think your father would have wanted you to take over where he left off.”
Hands behind his back as he walked, Edward’s glance returned to the bench.
“You know,” he replied with a grin, “I think you’re right.”
An hour later he said goodbye to her on the steps of her Mayfair home with plans to meet again the following morning at the Tower of London. He watched the hem of her gown slip through the closing door and stared at the house for a few seconds longer before continuing on down the street.
Back to the House of Lords, where a meeting would soon convene.
Dear Calliope,
Readers are clamoring for your articles to continue.
They write in daily asking when the next installment will be.
Although I know it is not needed, tell your mother I’ll pay for your passage home myself if it means you can pick up where you left off, and find you a husband besides.
There must be someone suitable on this continent.
I’m sure I could rustle up an exiled duke somewhere if I tried. Montreal, perhaps?
Come home. You are greatly missed.
Your friend,
Charlie
(Postmarked June 8th, 1908)