Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“Tell me about my cousins,” Bernard said, sipping a piping hot, rich China black from a plain blue porcelain cup. The drinking vessel was neither a mug nor a delicate little work of porcelain art.
Good workmanship, graceful lines, durable, if a bit plain.
Middling households would prefer a service like this for everyday use, so what was Lady Barclay doing with it?
Unicorns and dragons for her kites, but plain blue pottery on her tea trays?
Did she mean to insult him, or was she simply not given to lavish displays of hospitality?
“I am from a large family,” she said, offering Bernard a plate of cinnamon biscuits. “Compared to my own siblings, Jordan and Bridget seem sedate, but then, Jordan has no brothers, Bridget no sisters. Perhaps they have been a civilizing influence on each other.”
“What about cousins?” Bernard set two still-warm biscuits on his saucer. The scent alone was luscious. “I understand that my late father was one of four brothers, and aristocrats generally preoccupy themselves with producing legitimate offspring.”
Her ladyship took a moment too long choosing her own sweet. Perhaps one did not allude even indirectly to one’s own bastardy.
“Jordy and Bridget have no male paternal cousins. I’m surprised you haven’t memorized the family tree.
Chanderton, the eldest, of course held the courtesy title until the old duke died.
The given name of the present duke is Venable Hughes Marquette Christian Dolforth.
The spare was Lord Cecil, who perished in the American wilderness as a young man.
He left behind a daughter, Coraline, who married an earl’s spare, the Honorable Tallister Greer.
The extra spare was your late father, Lord Jerome.
A hiatus followed the demise of the first duchess.
We have the late second duchess to thank for Lord Barclay. ”
Familiarity with biblical-begats and son-ofs meant Bernard followed that recitation. “Lord Barclay was considerably your senior.”
Her ladyship munched her biscuit. “He was. I was his second wife. Jordan takes after my side of the family, as does Bridget. They are both tall for their ages, and both have been blessedly healthy.”
“Are your offspring happy, madam?” Lady Barclay struck Bernard as unhappy. Restless, discontent, and easily agitated, despite occupying a large, elegant town house in the increasingly fashionable neighborhood between Knightsbridge and Buckingham Palace.
The appointments in her sitting room were neither fussy nor plain, but rather, in slightly outdated good taste.
Pale bleu de France walls, white molding, touches of gilt on the pier glasses and windowsills, a bowl of pink tulips on the inlaid sideboard, and more pink, cream, and blue woven into the pattern of the Axminster carpet.
Tasteful. No faddish chinoiserie, Etruscan artifacts or fussy little japanned boxes.
Not a unicorn or a bold color in sight either.
No romantically symbolic bouquets.
“I hope my children are happy,” she said. “Losing their father was hard on them, though Bridget barely recalls her papa. She misses the idea of him. Lord Barclay was fond of his children, regularly visited the nursery, and was genuinely interested in their welfare.”
Lord Barclay, by Bernard’s reckoning, had been gone for several years. The widow had apparently recovered from her loss, though appearances could be deceptive. Perhaps she’d doted on the old boy.
“Do you ever consider remarrying?”
Her ladyship paused mid-reach for the teapot. “What relevance has that question to the present topic?”
“If you were to remarry, your husband would be the logical resource to take on the guardianship of your children.” The most logical resource was Chanderton, though His Grace was admittedly a busy man and getting on in years.
The only other male mentioned thus far was Tallister Greer, who would be a cousin-by-marriage to the children.
“The notion of remarriage has not crossed my mind. What of you? Any matrimonial plans?”
Bernard demolished a biscuit that should have been slowly savored. “You will not tattle to the matchmakers?”
“I don’t move much in Society, Mr. Huxley, and if I did, I would eschew the company of the gossips.”
He believed her. Perhaps Lady Barclay hadn’t declared herself the sworn foe of those gossips, but they would tread lightly in her presence.
“I would like to be married,” Bernard said.
“An unmarried vicar is a rarity, but until last year, I shared my dwelling with my mother, Lady Josephine Huxley. She has removed to foreign shores, where she will remain for all the rest of her days. She was an impediment to any union I might have contemplated.”
Also an impediment to any joy Bernard might have contemplated, any peace, any real companionship. No point dwelling on the past.
“You aren’t a vicar any longer, Mr. Huxley. I hope my children never consider me an impediment to their dreams. Shall we make our way to the nursery?”
“Might I finish my tea? It’s quite good.”
“You must buy direct from Twinings,” she said. “Whoever makes your household purchases is likely budgeting for Twinings, but purchasing from the lesser shops that will mix anything with their tea to extend the product. Adulterated tea is an abomination against decency.”
If rolled r’s and crisp t’s were any indication, Lady Barclay felt very strongly about her tea.
Bernard finished his serving and took his time with his second biscuit.
“Are you nervous about meeting the children?” Lady Barclay asked.
“A bit. One wants to make a good first impression, but without conveying any insecurity about one’s status or welcome. If one cannot strike the right balance between authority and amiability, everything from choir rehearsals to pastoral committee meetings becomes so many pitched battles.”
Her ladyship dusted her hands over the tea tray and rose. “Is this how you approach supervising your clerks? A combination of authority and amiability?”
“For the most part, yes.” Bernard got to his feet, half of his second biscuit unfinished on his plate. “You disapprove?”
“I approve, though I hadn’t put those terms to the strategy. No wonder your businesses prosper.” She waited by the door until Bernard joined her.
“You will introduce me as Cousin Bernard, please.”
“If that’s your wish. Jordy isn’t eligible for the courtesy title. He’s not in the direct line.”
As Bernard followed his hostess down the sunny, lemon-scented corridor and up the polished stairway, he translated her meaning.
Jordan was not a son, grandson, or great-grandson of the present titleholder.
The duke also claimed lesser titles, probably a marquessate or an earldom along with a viscounty and a barony or two.
By convention, only an heir in the direct line used the courtesy title.
The age at which he adopted that title and the one he took were matters of family preference.
Title or no title, though, little Jordan Dolforth was likely to become the next Duke of Chanderton, and Bernard had been tasked with supervising the boy safely into manhood.
Not an easy job for any man. No wonder Lady Barclay was a bit prickly about the whole matter.
“Lessons are done for the day,” Lady Barclay said, rounding the first-floor landing. “The children can be rambunctious when their studies are completed. We’d normally go to the park on such a fine day.”
“My apologies for disturbing the routine. Shall we take them to the park, then?”
Her ladyship flicked a fulminating glance at Bernard as she continued her ascent. “Best not. I’ve told them you are coming to call when we’d normally have our outing. They do best if plans are kept to the greatest degree possible and last-minute disruptions are minimized.”
“As do I.”
Another fleeting inspection, this one a little annoyed. “One can have a surfeit of routine, Mr. Huxley. The mind grows dull when only the expected comes our way.”
“I would have argued that point when I was vicaring in Yorkshire.” Argued it at length.
“Given the vicissitudes of rural life, I viewed a sedate progression of seasons, the liturgical calendar walking hand in hand with the agricultural year, as a refuge. I became part of that settled sameness for my congregation, and they appreciated me for it.”
Another flight and another landing. “You weren’t bored?”
“I did not know I was bored, but I did sense that the same families and feuds over and over, the same committees and even the same menus at the same Sunday suppers… What started off as a comfort took on some qualities of a penance.”
Not something Bernard had admitted to even his own cousin. Why burden her ladyship with that realization? Perhaps because she knew a bit about gilded cages and duty becoming a burden?
They reached the uppermost story, which enjoyed good light from abundant windows at either end of the corridor as well as from several alcoves. Light made learning possible.
“Did you become something of a penance for your parish?” Lady Barclay lobbed the question at him as they reached a plain, solid oak door. “Sermonizing on the bowling green, blessing every pint and pie, toting your Book of Common Prayer over hill and dale?”
Bernard was about to reply that the village had had no bowling green when it occurred to him that he was missing the point.
“Lady Barclay, are you teasing me?”
Her expression became saintly solemn. “You insult me, sir. I would never, on pain of my immortal soul, tease a former vicar.”
Her expression was serious, but her eyes, the azure of a Scottish summer sky, danced.
“You are teasing me. Interesting. You likely excel at the sport because of all those siblings you mentioned. My clerks are similarly well versed in the art. They have fiendish talent with nicknames too.”
She had her hand on the latch. “What nickname would you give me?”