2 - The Girls Enter the Chat
2
The Girls Enter the Chat
By the time they reached Hampstead Heath, which Archie deemed a suitable landmark for the official opening of Earls Trip 1821, he had recovered himself. On the way out of Town on an Earls Trip, he generally looked for a marker to signify that they were well and truly out of London, with its too-close buildings and too-close people. He liked to observe a ceremonial passing from Town to country, from responsibility to respite, and this year the marking of such felt particularly hard-won.
He cleared his throat. “If I may have your attention?”
“Oh, I’m meant to be the one doing this, aren’t I?” Effie said as he lowered his diary. It was true that they traded hosting duties among them, and that this was Effie’s year. In practice that meant that Effie had chosen the castle in Cumbria awaiting them on the other end of their journey and thought no further about anything.
“It’s quite all right,” Archie said. He enjoyed this part. The jesting formality of “the rules” always amused him, but this year in particular it was a welcome ritual, and he was glad to be the one performing it. He needed to feel useful. He uncorked a bottle of brandy, passed out glasses, and carefully splashed a bit of the ruby liquid into each, which was as much as he dared given the lumbering of the coach.
When he lifted his glass, the others followed suit.
“Gentlemen. Welcome to Earls Trip. Allow me to remind you of the rules. Perhaps this year you numbskulls will actually get them through your heads. Number one: every time Marsden says the word ‘Parliament,’ he must down a dram of whisky. Number two: Featherfinch is strictly prohibited from writing poems, unless they are naughty ones. And should you be harboring any concerns that I fancy myself above the law, we come round to number three: Harcourt is not permitted to shoot anything. Alas.”
Harcourt is not permitted to shoot anything that you know about, he amended silently, thinking fondly of the fowling piece he had hidden in his trunk.
“The rules established,” he continued, “I’m so very glad to—”
A surge of sentiment rose through Archie’s chest and lodged in his windpipe, preventing him from finishing his sentence. It ought to have been mortifying, but no one seemed to notice. Effie merely said, “I am, too,” and Simon said, “Likewise.”
They knew Archie’s true feelings without him needing to put them to words. He cleared his throat and in so doing dissolved the lump caught there. He raised his brandy. “And, finally, the most important rule of Earls Trip—”
The coach lurched to a stop, and though Archie had taken care not to overfill their glasses, all were upended. Effie cursed the sight of the ruby stain sullying his cravat, which was a snow-white beacon against his otherwise black attire, whereas Simon merely blotted a spot that was invisible against his dark brown coat.
Simon peered out the window. “What is it, I wonder?”
“Do you think it’s highwaymen?” Effie asked with entirely too much excitement in his tone, his cravat forgotten.
“’Tis a rider, my lord,” their driver called. “He’s hailing us.”
“Dear Lord, is it a highwayman?” Simon asked.
“I don’t believe highwaymen generally warn their marks ahead of time,” Archie said, opening the door and alighting. Sure enough, a rider approached. Archie had the sense he knew the man but couldn’t place him.
“My lord.” The man bowed his head. “I bear a message from Sir Albert Morgan.”
Ah, yes. Archie recognized the liveried messenger as a servant from the household of Sir Albert. The Morgans had a house in Chiddington near Mollybrook, Archie’s family’s estate in western Kent. These days the Morgans spent most of their time in London, so Archie, who spent most of his time at Mollybrook, never saw them anymore. But Sir Albert and Archie’s late father, the former earl, had been fast friends, and for many years when Archie was young, the two families had moved in the same circles in local society. Well, most of the Morgans had moved in those society circles. One of them had been too . . . untamed for that. He quirked a grin, remembering his old friend.
In fact, curiosity about her—in addition to embarrassment over the piss-poor job he’d done keeping up with what had once been his father’s closest friendship—had prompted Archie to call on Sir Albert that very morning, but the man had been out. To Archie’s discredit, he had not seen the Morgans in any meaningful fashion for years, and he had recently learned that Sir Albert was quite ill with the gout. Archie himself had never been particularly close to Sir Albert, or, to be honest, particularly fond of him, but that didn’t excuse his having let so much time go by without calling on him. They were geographically mismatched these days, but that was no excuse. Could he have not have called on them once when he was in town for a crucial vote in Lords?
“Is everything all right?” he asked, unable to imagine why Sir Albert would send a rider after him.
The rider handed him a letter. “Sir Albert bade me try to overtake you.”
With a rising tide of unease in his belly, Archie broke Sir Albert’s green wax seal.
My dear boy,
You can’t imagine the relief—the hope—that seized me when I returned home to find your note. That you should be not only in Town, but Cumbria-bound! It seemed positively providential.
I shall get straight to the point, for I know I can trust you to be discreet. Olive has run off with a man named Theodore Bull. Mr. Bull was recently betrothed to Clementine, and all of us, including Clementine, were shaken to our cores this morning to discover a note from Olive proclaiming that she and Mr. Bull were Scotland-bound.
Dear God. Archie had to look away from the parchment for a moment to gather himself, to give his stomach time to reintegrate into the rest of his corporeal form. Olive Morgan was like a sister to him. Clementine Morgan was . . . Clementine. He felt anew the chagrin of having let his connection with the family grow stale.
“What is it?” Effie asked urgently. He and Simon had disembarked the coach.
Archie waved a hand dismissively and returned to his letter.
Mr. Bull is a writer, a philosopher with what might charitably be called modern views. To put it less charitably, and more plainly, he is odious. Smug and self-impressed and in possession of extreme views he is determined to foist upon everyone else. After an initial vogue for the man among certain members of the Upper Ten Thousand, today he is hardly received. Clementine was entranced by his work and professed not to care when he fell out of fashion. When he asked for her hand, I swallowed my distaste and gave my assent. You will perhaps recall how despite one’s best attempts, Clementine will do what Clementine will do.
Archie chuckled despite the gravity of the situation. He certainly did recall that.
And not to put too fine a point on it, but I’d begun to give up hope of Clementine’s making a match. She does not possess any of the traits quality gentlemen seek in a wife.
Archie didn’t know that he’d go that far. Clementine Morgan had a true spirit of adventure and kindness in spades, at least she had when they were young. Though given what he knew of London society, he supposed such qualities may not be those sought by the average gentleman in want of a wife. Still, she had remarkably pretty hair.
He returned to the letter.
They announced their engagement, and I thought all was well. The banns were called, but the very same day, Clementine informed me of her desire to cry off the match. I put it down to a case of nerves. I assumed it would pass and was attempting to smooth things over, as the die had been cast.
Then we awakened this morning to the shocking note from Olive. Clementine aside, Mr. Bull is an ill match for my Olive. No, he is adisastrousmatch. You know Olive: she is changeable and easily flattered. I fear she is making the gravest mistake of her life. Clementine I can trust to make a rational decision, to know what she is giving up in exchange for what she is getting. Olive . . . well, once again, you know Olive. I know you have not seen either girl these recent years, but since their mother’s passing Olive has become even more . . . Olivelike.
Clementine and I found the note very early this morning, and I left the house to seek counsel from a trusted friend. When I returned, Clementine was gone. I fear she has run after them. What can the outcome be? She stops the marriage but the girls are stranded in Scotland? She doesnotstop the marriage? I fear the most likely result is one girl unhappily married, the other ruined.
On her deathbed, their dear departed mother made me promise I would see them both satisfactorily wed. I have made a complete hash of things. You have never known me to be overdramatic. Therefore know that when I say I am begging you to go after them, I am beseeching you with my whole heart. I’ve taken ill in recent months, and my girls are all I have left. I’d been about to take to my own carriage in pursuit of them, but travel is slow and painful on account of my condition. If you ever held your father in any esteem, I implore you to do this service for his dearest friend.
Please, Archibald: save my girls.
Archie had to take a step to right himself because for a moment there, he’d been overcome. He should have been a better friend to the Morgans, especially after the death of Mrs. Morgan. Yes, Mother’s situation made leaving Mollybrook difficult—as had just been so exquisitely illustrated, Archie’s being gone for the annual Earls Trip required a heroic effort by Miss Brown. And yes, beyond that, Archie despised Town.
And yes . . . Sir Albert was perhaps not Archie’s favorite person in the world. Even now, he could remember him chuckling with Father over some perceived shortcoming or other of Archie’s.
But none of that was the fault of Olive and Clementine, both of whom he liked very much. Could he not have made, say, one trip a year to check in on the family? His scalp prickled with shame.
“Whatever’s the matter, Harcourt?” Simon asked.
“You’ve gone altogether pale,” Effie said.
He handed over the letter, and after a minute, Effie said, “Well. I think this year’s Earls Trip is about to take a turn.”
It was indeed. Archie strode over to the servant. “Please advise Sir Albert that I will take care of this matter. Tell him not to worry and to stay where he is. It is all in hand, and I shall send word as soon as I am able.”
The rider departed in a cloud of dust, and Archie’s friends drew near, the three of them forming a tight circle in the September sun.
“Olive and Clementine Morgan are the daughters of Sir Albert, who has a country house near Mollybrook,” he said. “Clementine and I . . .” How to explain what Clementine was to him?
“Used to be fast friends,” Effie supplied. “Yes, we know.”
“You do?”
“You used to talk about her all the time at school. Afterward, too,” Simon said. “Though not so much in recent years.”
“You used to write to her,” Effie said. “I seem to remember you trying to pay me to answer her letters for you.”
“That’s right.” Archie had forgotten. “She used to write to me, and though I’d neither the patience nor the inclination for letter-writing, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore her correspondence.” He hadn’t wanted to, really. Archie had never been any good at writing—letters, essays, any of it—but the arrival of a newsy letter from Clementine Morgan, reporting on the local flora and fauna, had always lifted his spirits for days.
He shook his head. Now was not the time to be lollygagging about in memories of yesteryear. “I must go in search of them. I am sorry. We’ll have to detour to the nearest posting inn. I’ll hire a horse, and you two can continue on to Cumbria.” He sighed. “It seems fate is determined I shan’t make this year’s trip.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” Simon said. “If you believe we won’t be accompanying you, you’re completely daft.”
“Honestly.” Effie sniffed. “You think we’re simply going to abandon you? There’s a wrong that needs righting here, and of course we’re with you all the way.”
“Besides,” Simon said, “none of us has ever missed a trip. I say we institute a new rule whereby the trip bends to accommodate the travelers—all of the travelers. Perhaps next year we will holiday near Mollybrook so you may be close to your mother.”
“Thank you.” Archie was again overcome by his affection for his friends, for the unconditional, if unspoken, loyalty that bound them together. If only he had extended some of that same loyalty to the Morgans, perhaps they wouldn’t be in this mess.
“I know of Theodore Bull,” Simon said. “He’s the author of a tract entitled On the Moral Obligation of Not Eating Animals.”
“I beg your pardon?” Archie said.
“He’s part of a fringe movement that holds to the precept that men should abstain from eating animal flesh for moral reasons.”
“Fascinating.” Effie’s brow furrowed. “The dilemma, however, is that animal flesh tastes good.” The furrow deepened. “Do you think animals are aware of their own mortality? Do you think Sally knew she was going to die?”
“Mr. Bull was briefly popular in the drawing rooms of Mayfair,” Simon went on, ignoring Effie. “He made a splash among the sort of hostess who fancies herself an arbiter of taste. You know the type: séances today, turnip gratin tomorrow. I believe, as Sir Albert wrote, that Mr. Bull has fallen out of fashion of late.”
Archie was agog. He had never heard of this vegetable-championing bounder, though that wasn’t saying much as he made no effort to keep up with society doings. It was all so incomprehensible, though, both the man’s ideas and the fact that such a man had enchanted the fickle Olive Morgan in a way that she was ready to jump the anvil with him. And the self-contained, unflappable Clementine Morgan before that? The world had turned upside down.
He shook his head. Time for agog later; action was required at present. He conferred with his driver about the change in plans, and Simon and Effie climbed back into the coach. When he joined them, they’d repoured the brandy, and he was handed a glass.
“You weren’t done with your speech,” Simon said.
“Yes, you were just about to remind us of the most important rule of Earls Trip,” Effie said with a twinkle in his eye. “It suddenly seems all the more relevant this year.”
“Right.” Once again, Archie and his friends lifted their glasses. “No poems, no Parliament, no hunting, and, finally, the most important rule of Earls Trip . . .”
They spoke in unison. “What happens on Earls Trip stays on Earls Trip.”