Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
“The children fell ill,” Chanderton said, pouring out two cups. “Tummy troubles. One is inclined to blame the company at the Greer table, but then one would sound churlish. Brandy, my dear?”
“Please, and two chocolate drops.” They were Lilly’s guilty pleasure—one of her several guilty pleasures. “Have the children recovered?”
“Apparently so. Gilchrist reports no cause for alarm.” His Grace poured two servings at the sideboard, brought them over to the hearth, and returned with a plate of chocolate drops. “One hopes Coraline hasn’t been reduced to hiring an incompetent cook.”
He took his chair heavily, in the manner of an older man feeling the weight of another long week in the offing after a series of long weeks. Why Parliament had to sit during the busiest social season of the year was a mystery no Mayfair hostess had solved.
“Coraline’s cook is no more French than I am,” Lilly said, “but she’s been on the job for at least five years and never a whisper about her capabilities. Young children do not handle rich fare easily, I’m told.”
Chanderton passed her the brandy glass. “To your health, Madam Duchess.”
“And yours, Your Grace.” She nosed her drink as Chanderton had taught her to. Apples, nutmeg, honey, perhaps. A cidery, autumnal combination, but suitable for a spring evening going chilly.
“What is your impression of Mr. Huxley, Duchess?”
A complicated matter, like the fragrance of the brandy. “He is nobody’s fool. One suspects that he’s somehow already capable of handling Mayfair ballrooms, though his education to date has been exclusively in Yorkshire churchyards.”
“And Oxford, where he took firsts.” Chanderton sipped. “Not afraid to apply his mind.”
Lilly would have bet her workbasket that His Grace was refraining from one of his most heartfelt laments. Young men today. Lazy, pleasure-seeking, overindulged dimwits, the lot of them, interested only in vice and wagering.
That most of the young men Chandy knew had come from long lines of lazy, pleasure-seeking dimwits was Lilly’s usual retort.
“Do you like Mr. Huxley?” Chanderton asked, holding up the plate of chocolate drops.
Lilly took one. “I can’t say I like him, precisely. He’s like a handsome racing colt. Delightful to watch when exerting himself in pursuit of victory, a testament to the Creator’s skill and all that, but the other jockeys will resent him, and then speed alone won’t save him.”
“Right. He’ll need guile and guts. Lorne has both, and Lorne loves those businesses like a cat with one kitten loves her offspring. Camden Huxley would not have entrusted his mercantile kittens to a fool.”
The chocolate was just right. Smooth, rich, sweet, and ever so slightly abrasive. “But what sort of vicar steps into busy commercial concerns like that and acquits himself knowledgeably?”
“One who pays attention, asks questions, and relies on old Kessler to steer him straight. Where did we get this brandy?”
“Huxley sent it over on Friday, a thank-you for my hospitality. I like it. He also made inquiries regarding the chocolate drops and asked that I treat his messengers to one sample each.”
Chanderton popped a sweet into his mouth. “Odd behavior. Messengers, plural?”
“According to Martin, two skinny, albeit clean, boys. They ate everything Cook put in front of them, down to the last crumb.”
“Keeping up the Huxley tradition, then.” Chanderton chased his treat with a sip of brandy. “Do you trust Huxley, Lillian?”
Chanderton so rarely used her name. My dear, Duchess, darling wife… The question was serious.
“I do. He plays the handsome-bachelor part, but he can sort motives and tactics all while bowing over a lady’s hand.
He is currying favor with the Greers, and they with him, but he’s keeping Sorcha at his side to ensure the whole business remains on family footing.
Sorcha, who does not suffer fools or the near occasion thereof, is abetting him. ”
“Ye devils in training. Has Annette set her cap for Huxley already? I heard about that business in the park with her mare.”
“Better to ask if Coraline or Tally have set Annette’s cap for him. Annette is growing into exactly the sort of young lady I dread.”
Chanderton rose to toss another square of peat on the fire.
If Lilly loved anything about him—and she loved much about her husband—it was his lack of pretension.
Chanderton could play the duke and even enjoyed playing the duke on public occasions, but he was at heart just a man trying to safeguard a family legacy, and do his bit to safeguard Merry Olde, while being a friend to his wife and mankind.
His sorrows were private, his dignity never allowed to lapse into arrogance. He was considered old-fashioned rather than stodgy. Respected, pragmatic, and even genial within the limits of his station.
“Please, dear duchess, do not tell me Annette is planning to become an original? Even for Coraline, that would be ambitious.”
Lilly thought back to Thursday, to Annette giggling at Count von Hauptman, simpering before Lord Peaskip, and listening with a rapturous gaze to Lady Daunton’s description of a new bonnet.
“Annette is a spoiled little schemer,” Lillian said at length. “She comes by her traits honestly on both sides. If that’s the worst charge I can lay at her feet, she’ll manage splendidly next spring. How is your hip?”
“My hip protests the idiot benches in Parliament, but I will be damned if I will bring myself extra cushions while old Moreland sits in the next row up as spry as an organ grinder’s monkey.”
Lilly lifted her glass in her husband’s direction. “The honor of the house and all that.”
The pride of the Dolforths, rather. His Grace of Moreland was not only of an age with Chanderton, and possessed of an older title, he had also sired ten children.
Eight were extant, three of them strapping sons, albeit one on the wrong side of the blanket.
The succession was in better repair by the year, and Esther, Her Grace of Moreland, was said to wield more influence in Society than her husband did in any realm.
“Shall I suggest that Moreland’s duchess include Bernard on a guest list or two?” Lilly asked.
“I like that idea. If he’s to be Jordy’s guardian, then we mustn’t spare the horses.”
Why? What was so imperative about putting Bernard Huxley in charge of two small children?
“Chanderton, is there something you haven’t told me that you should tell me?” Something relating to chest pains or worsening megrims or relentless indigestion? The Dolforth men were not particularly long-lived.
He patted her hand. “You mustn’t worry. My perspective always grows jaundiced when Almack’s opens its doors. Will you have another chocolate?”
He was changing the subject and not even bothering to be subtle about it. “You don’t care for Tally, do you?”
“Never have, and that’s no secret. He’s Scottish by birth and trying to pass for English.
Why do that? The Scots have a long, proud heritage, and plaid is becoming all the rage.
Tally is lazy, charming, and awash in daughters he cannot properly dower.
His solution to this problem so far has been to allow Coraline to bankrupt him while trying to launch Annette in hopes she will marry money. ”
Well, yes, but what else was Tally to do? “He puts on Englishness because Coraline expects it of him. She doesn’t want Annette marrying some bumpkin lord of Parliament down from the Western Isles.” Lilly took a second chocolate from the proffered plate. “What do we hear from Richard?”
“Kicking his heels out in Hampshire, dodging matchmakers, no doubt. Better than dodging creditors or angry papas, I suppose. Hard to believe he and Huxley are half-brothers.”
“They bear a resemblance, though. A family resemblance. You should alert Richard to Huxley’s arrival in Town.”
Chanderton sighed and leaned his head back against the upholstery. “Suppose I ought. A courtesy. Does Huxley know he has a half-brother?”
“You should ask him. He hacks out on fine mornings and prefers Hyde Park’s more obscure bridle paths.”
Chanderton fetched the decanter and refreshed his drink. He wasn’t moving with any particular stiffness yet, but by June, he’d be nearly hobbling.
“You write to Richard,” he said. “Remind him that Duchess’s Day is in the offing.
I will contrive to meet Bernard at an ungodly hour to exchange pleasantries out of earshot of the gossips.
Gilchrist said Mr. Huxley was the soul of assistance when the children were ailing earlier today.
Upset tummies are not for the faint of heart. ”
“Vicars spend endless hours in sickrooms. One would not have thought that a useful skill for a Mayfair merchant. Shall I leave you to your newspapers?”
“If you must. You’ll write to Richard soon?”
Chanderton was worried about something having to do with Lord Jerome’s offspring, Sorcha’s children, or Tally’s finances. Uneasy lies the head…
“I will write to Richard before I retire and leave the note on your blotter in case you want to add the ducal imprimatur. I will invite both Richard and Bernard to Duchess’s Day and see that they cross paths on friendly terrain.”
“Doubtless a sound notion, lest the gossips get their oars in first. I do adore you, Duchess.”
Lilly rose, kissed her husband’s cheek, and smoothed a hand over his shoulder. “The feeling is mutual. The best day of my life was the day I accepted your suit.” Also the saddest day, which ripped at her still.
“You are too kind. Sweet dreams, my dear. I will give your regards to Huxley when next he and I meet, no matter how ridiculously early the hour.”
Lilly took her leave of His Grace, knowing he would be awake until the small hours with newspapers, draft bills, and correspondence. A few short hours of sleep, and he’d be in the park, pretending that time on horseback had no impact on a dodgy hip.
Men, and dukes in particular, were a vexatious lot on a good day.
A vicar learned to live with fatigue.