Chapter 4
Four
“… And now that we have come to as close to an agreement as we are ever likely to achieve on the matter, I shall turn my pen to some of the more personal issues that your last letter raised.
Be assured, my friend, that I am both honored and pleased that you feel you may unburden yourself of some of your most private hopes and fears without fear of censure or ridicule.
I think I have come to know you well enough these past few weeks to understand the certain restlessness of spirit beneath your keen intellect.
Perhaps it is because those of us who question the nature of things around them are dismayed at finding there are few absolute answers.
But I urge you not to become disheartened by the enormity of what you cannot affect.
It grieves me to read your admission that sometimes the morning seems too bleak to bother rising for, and that you feel too keenly all the ills in the world, including yourself.
I know that is not so! You have a sharp mind and more of a sense of right and wrong than you care to admit.
Instead of feeling angry at yourself for lost opportunity, find something that heats your blood, and I daresay you will discover it is boredom, not lack of ability, that has you feeling blue-deviled.
You should know that you are not alone in your thoughts. I, too, find myself confused at times, unable to sift through the chaff of my own doubts and fears to find the kernels of real substance. Why, just the other evening, as I was returning home from a certain festivity ….”
Marcus poured himself another brandy and returned to his comfortable leather chair by the fire.
Light winked off the facet of the cut crystal glass like the bright sparks from the crackling logs.
His spirits felt equally ignited. He had been right to trust his instincts and confide in his anonymous friend.
It was truly amazing what a few wise words of encouragement from a kindred spirit could do.
His eyes strayed to the sheaf of papers spread over his desk.
He now had the courage to put the finishing touches on what he had been working on for the past two weeks.
It had been a strange sensation at first, devoting his energies to books and pamphlets rather than the mindless amusements he was used to.
But now, the idea of spending an evening in the heady company of philosophers and reformers instead of with his usual cronies—whose idea of a thought-provoking discussion would be debating whether a good claret was preferable to champagne—had become as intoxicating as the copious amounts of spirits he had been in the habit of imbibing.
A wry smile pulled at his lips. No doubt most of his friends would think him dicked in the nob for what he was about to embark on.
Not that he cared. He found he had truly become interested in the plight of children forced into labor, especially in the coal mines in the north.
Sparked by Firebrand’s first essay, he had sought to learn more, and what he had discovered had shocked and then outraged him.
How could a civilized society tolerate such abuses, he wondered, though he knew full well the answer.
The people who could effect a change—people like himself—preferred to remain stubbornly blind to such ills.
And they would hardly thank him for seeking to open their eyes, of that he had little illusion.
While that mattered very little, he did find himself wondering what his newfound friend would think.
He was almost tempted to reveal his plan, even though that would mean giving away his true identity, for he wished the fellow’s frank opinion of his actions.
Actually, if truth be told, he wished his friend’s approval, and even admiration.
Like many of the feelings he had been experiencing lately, that was a novel one as well.
Approval and admiration had always rained down upon him so easily that he had never consciously sought them.
Yet they had come for all the wrong reasons.
Now, for once, he wished to be truly deserving of such sentiments.
The amber spirits spun in a slow vortex as Marcus swirled his glass before the light.
The look of bemusement on his features only deepened on thinking more of the budding friendship that was beginning to take root between the two correspondents.
Not only had Firebrand given him encouragement, but the fellow had also begun to share his own doubts and fears.
It seemed both of them had developed enough of a trust to reveal their most intimate feelings.
With a start, he realized how much the rather odd relationship had come to mean to him.
And yet it was ironic, really. They were probably acquainted with each other, and had even conversed on occasion at one of the frivolous entertainments they no doubt both attended.
His friend claimed that only family obligations forced him to go out, and even then, he avoided most conversation and remained aloof from the usual inanities.
But they were sure to have met at some point.
Why, his new friend could be Heppleworth, the gouty old Baron who hobbled about with the aid of a silver-tipped walking stick, or Symington, the quiet gentleman from the north who was said to collect butterflies and beetles.
Indeed, it could be anyone!
He shook his head. It was doubtful he was the only one who took care to disguise his true views behind the mask of rigid manners and studied indifference that the ton all but demanded of its members.
No wonder that society seemed so shallow.
After a sip or two, the earl found himself moved to put down his glass and take up his pen to put such thoughts to paper.
The next morning, he rose early and spent the morning in his library, putting the finishing touches on his work, all the while fighting down a fluttering of nervous anticipation, as if he were a callow schoolboy about to embrace a woman for the first time.
His carriage was brought around. He took one last look in the mirror to straighten the already perfect folds of his cravat and brush the imaginary wrinkles from his coat, then took up his hat and a slim Moroccan leather portfolio and descended the marble steps of his townhouse.
It proved not quite so difficult as he imagined.
Though he found his mouth dry as cotton and his throat so constricted that it seemed no words could possibly squeeze out, he managed to rasp out a hesitant beginning.
As confidence took wing, his voice steadied and rose, his sentences soaring through the vaulted chamber.
The faces before him betrayed a gamut of emotions, from total shock to wary speculation to outright amusement.
When he was done, a smattering of applause was overwhelmed by simple silence.
No one was quite sure how to interpret the true meaning of his carefully chosen words.
He could hardly blame them if they were all wondering what the deuce the Earl of Dunham was about, giving a speech in the House of Lords.
No doubt they found the notion a bit absurd, but perhaps that would soon change.
“I say, Dun, tell me what blunt you managed to wrest out of Copley’s pocket by pulling such a stunt!
” cried Lord Becton as the earl handed his walking stick and hat to the porter at White’s.
“By God, I nearly wept with laughter at hearing of it. Wish you’d let me place a wager of my own, for no matter how daunting the challenge, I know you always find a way to win in the end. ”
“Aye,” chimed in another of his friends. “Always knew you were the cleverest of us all, but how even you managed to pull off such a feat has me in awe.” He raised a glass in salute. “I vow, it’s the best joke yet this Season.”
A chorus of laughter rang out, followed by more friendly gibes. “Whoever did you find to write the bloody speech? Haddington says it actually made some sort of sense—that is, if you’re some prosy bore with radical ideas.”
Marcus walked slowly to a chair near the crackling fire and sat down, Motioning for a newspaper to be brought over, he opened its ironed pages with a decided snap. “It was no joke,” he answered from behind the printed sheet.
A few more chuckles sounded, though this time they sounded more tentative.
“Oh come now, Dun, you’ve no need to play the charade any longer,” said Becton, a broad grin stretched out across his pudgy face. He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Tell us who you have roasted ,so we may go stick a fork in him.”
The earl lowered the newsprint. “Perhaps I’ve become a prosy bore with radical ideas.”
The smiles faded, replaced by expressions of uncertainty.
“You can’t be serious!” exclaimed Viscount Grenwald. “You have too much sense to … to become a sensible fellow on us, Dun.”
“Come to think of it, he ain’t been around much these past few weeks,” groused Becton. “The devil take it, next thing you’ll tell us is you’re contemplating getting leg-shackled.”
There were groans all around.
“I’ve not sunk quite that far into lunacy,” replied the earl dryly.
Grenwald shook his head mournfully. “Far enough, though. I was about to propose a toast, but perhaps it had better be a eulogy to the hearty fellow we once knew.”
“I’m hardly dead, Fitz. It’s more like I’ve just woken up to certain things.”
His friends looked at him with something akin to bewilderment. “Dash it all, I need a glass of claret to help swallow all this,” grumbled Becton. The others quickly voiced their agreement. “Coming, Dun?” he added as they all got to their feet.
“I’ll join you in a bit, as soon as I finish reading this article.”
Becton turned away, muttering darkly under his breath.