Chapter 11 #2
“Is Dantry timely with maintenance on his tenanted properties?” I asked. Sheldon’s little dispatch of doom had included at least three letters from irate tenants, though they might have been tenants on properties in other counties.
“Timely? Quite. We have a list that goes out for years. If a roof is thatched with reeds, we expect to replace it every twenty-five years. Straw, we do not expect to last much beyond twenty. Of course, a house sitting under trees will require more frequent attention, and a span of wet years will also affect our schedule. That one,”—he gestured with his pipe—“is on the schedule for this spring.”
The dwelling he indicated was appealing to the eye as farmhouses went, set back from the lane a good thirty yards and made entirely of mellow gray fieldstone.
The facade was approached by a curving flagstone walkway free of snow.
The shutters were cheery red, and pale curtains, tied back in symmetrical curves, showed behind the window glasses.
No gold leaf on the windowsills, but rather, a sense of welcome and repose. “Prosperous,” I said.
“That one? Oh, very. Four strapping sons, two daughters, and the young ladies are quite lively. If we take that path, we shall cut through the home wood.”
My mood improved for having moved about in the fresh air, but I had yet to question Fontaine regarding the fate of the late countess of Dantry.
Best be about it. “My mother shared a bit of old news regarding Dantry’s antecedents,” I said, trooping along beside Fontaine on a bridle path that would be muddy were the temperature even slightly warmer.
Here under the trees, the ground was still firm, though the last of the afternoon light was less in evidence.
“You refer to the earl’s mama. A sad situation.”
“Her Grace was vague on particulars. The lady took a notion to visit Scotland or something, and her health declined shortly after that?”
Fontaine paused to light his pipe for the third time. “The old earl was heartbroken. He doted on her, in his way. He sent her to the seaside in hopes of a recovery, but the good God did not oblige. His lordship observed his mourning properly and then took another bride, as was his duty.”
Right. Heir and spare, or spares, being the titleholder’s duty, though his lady wife literally bore the burden of that duty.
“When did the countess die?” I asked as we resumed tramping along the path.
“Oh, ages ago. Did you know, my lord, that my little cottage predates the Dovecote? The manor house originated as a round tower, we think, but one has no proof of that. My cottage, though, has the year 1463 etched on its cornerstone. The foundation for the present manor, by contrast, dates from 1511.”
He maundered on in his pleasant, Parisienne French about the original barony, some of the livelier earls, and the particular history of some of the Dantry family jewels. No Englishman born and bred could have given a more convincing litany of the earldom’s past.
I was honestly puzzled by what I’d learned.
Fontaine painted a picture of Dantry as conscientious toward his estate, as a senior officer might be conscientious in his command. He did not fraternize with the rank and file, though he cared for their welfare, and he relied on competent underlings to carry out the work of managing the troops.
Sheldon viewed his brother’s estate management, and Fontaine personally, in a less charitable light.
Were these the normal, contentious posturings of a landed family and a senior retainer, or was something more complicated afoot?
I pondered that question as I took my leave of Fontaine and followed the carriageway up to the Dovecote’s front door. Fontaine remained politely standing on his front stoop, pipe in hand, watching my progress. A bend in the road took him from my view, and I was left to contemplate another puzzle.
I’d spoken French for the past hour or so. I’d learned French in the nursery, courtesy of a grandmother who had insisted on French nurserymaids as the best teachers of the loveliest language on earth.
Since returning from the war, I had avoided even the sound and sight of French, which was hardly rational on my part.
French verbs had not taken me prisoner. French prose had not chained me in a veritable oubliette nor hauled me from its depths only when some new torment was to be tried upon my person.
If I could once again exercise my abilities with the French language and suffer no ill effects, perhaps the day approached when my nightmares might leave me in peace, at least occasionally.
“You aren’t sleeping well, are you?” Hyperia asked as I escorted her down to supper.
“I slept quite well last night.”
“You are loquacious in slumber, my lord. French, Spanish, and last night, I am sure you ordered two beers in German.”
Zwei Bier, bitte. “Hessian mercenaries meant Wellington’s officers needed some command of German. I do know enough to order a pint or two. What do you make of the Dovecote?”
Hyperia paused on the landing and smoothed a hand over my lapel. “Lovely. Exactly the sort of edifice you’d expect Charles II to arrange for a lady with whom he was enamored.”
Charles II had been frequently enamored, and the objects of his affections had often been married, as Charles himself had been.
If the lady chanced to conceive a royal bastard, her husband would usually find himself blessed with a title, and thus the royal offspring would find peerage and consequence among the family assets.
Nobility could obligate in strange ways.
“Hyperia, how do you reconcile all those dunning notices and importuning shopkeepers with”—I waved a hand at the curving marble staircase, frescoed ceiling, and majestic portraiture—“this?”
We resumed our progress down the steps.
“Many a titled family has huge debts and a fine home, Jules.”
Peers could not be jailed for debt, unlike the rest of society. Provided the possessions in the fine home belonged to the titleholder, they were usually safe from creditors as well.
“But huge debts generally result from expenses exceeding income,” I said. “Dantry’s acres appear to prosper.”
“You can make that assessment in winter?”
“Yes, to some extent. The sheep and cattle are wintering well, which means last year’s hay crop was sufficient. If the hay did well, the corn likely saw a good harvest too. This late in the season, even the livestock at the Hall can be weedy in lean years.”
We turned right at the bottom of the staircase and crossed a chilly, if impressive, white marble atrium to the carpeted corridor leading to the formal parlor.
The duchess did not set great store by ceremony.
The meal would be informal at her insistence, but her station would be acknowledged in other regards.
“The estate could be doing well,” Hyperia said, “but expenses can still run ahead of income. If Dantry donates lavishly to charities, if he has an army of poor relations and pensioners, if he gambles excessively, he could still be facing ruin.”
“I saw no evidence that he donates to charities at all.” Not a single letter of appreciation, quarterly report, committee agenda, much less an invitation to tour this orphanage or that old soldiers’ home.
An odd gap in Dantry’s otherwise voluminous correspondence.
Perhaps he, like my brother Arthur, gave anonymously.
Hyperia glanced around at good art, fine workmanship, and pretty appointments. “You’re suggesting his lordship is skint, despite all the gilt and grandeur?”
“All too possible.” But at variance with the observed details. The gold leaf on the windowsills alone would fetch a tidy sum.
I bowed Hyperia through the parlor door, and we were enveloped in warmth. A footman stood by the sideboard, the Tamworth cast stamped on his features, though he was younger than the pair I’d met on my previous visit.
“Would my lord and my lady care for refreshment?”
I could feel Hyperia’s consternation, for she was not my lady—yet.
She would soon be Lady Julian, though. Seven years after Harry’s death, she might become a courtesy marchioness. Later in life, she could easily be Her Grace of Waltham, given Arthur’s unwillingness to marry.
“Would the offerings include amontillado?” I asked.
“They do, my lord. And for the lady?”
Hyperia studied the decanters lined up on the sideboard. “Spirits don’t appeal at the moment. Might you have champagne?”
“We certainly do. Mr. Sheldon is quite fond of champagne.” He poured the requested libation, served us from a gleaming silver tray, smiled, and returned to the hands-behind-his-back, eyes-front posture of an automaton whose springs had wound down.
Hyperia wandered along a row of tall windows whose drapery had yet to be closed. Night had just fallen, and an enormous golden moon hung just over the eastern horizon.
I accompanied Hyperia in her perambulations, well aware that she was putting distance between us and the footman.
Two capacious hearths generated abundant heat, despite the fifteen-foot ceilings, and some excellent landscapes adorned sky-blue walls.
The spotless carpet was Aubusson at its gold and pink floral finest, and a collection of Sèvres porcelain occupied a glass cabinet, every piece exhibiting shades of blue and gilt.
“What else did you learn on your ramble with Monsieur Fontaine?” Hyperia asked.
“Not much. He’s an émigré. He is happy with his job. He respects the family who employs him. He reports that the estate prospers, and Dantry is a conscientious landowner.”
“What of Dantry’s mother?” Hyperia murmured, ambling over to the hearth farthest from the sideboard. She held out her hands to the fire, thus turning her back on the footman.
“I got nowhere with that inquiry, or rather, Fontaine merely shook his head sadly and changed the subject.”
Sheldon was burning wood in this cavernous chamber, an extravagance likely meant to honor Her Grace. Was that an ill-afforded display in the face of looming penury, or the sort of casual gesture a very wealthy family could make for a lofty guest?
“You look as if your favorite watch is refusing to keep good time,” Hyperia said, still speaking very quietly.
An apt analogy. “Monsieur Fontaine knows to the acre how much land is entailed and how much is held in fee simple absolute. He knows when every roof was thatched and whether it was thatched with reeds or straw. He knows when the cornerstone was laid for the present incarnation of the Dovecote and when his own little cottage was built, but he avoided telling me in what year the countess died.”
“Avoided?”
“Changed the subject. Said her death was ‘ages ago,’ though Fontaine recalled meeting my father nearly as long ago and said I resembled His Grace. His recollections are sound and detailed except with regard to the one topic that truly interested me.”
Hyperia drew her shawl more closely over her arms, though the room was almost toasty. “Monsieur was unwilling to state the year, rather than unable. What does that tell us?”
The door opened, and Her Grace entered the parlor on Sir Clive’s arm.
“It tells us to keep digging, Perry, and that Dantry’s disappearance may have its roots in old and unfortunate family history.”