Chapter 6
James
The arrival at the theatre was tedious, as always. His godmother, a devoted patron of the arts, was greeted left and right by gentlemen and ladies who were pleased to see her. Or at least pretended to be.
James nodded in acknowledgment to a group of well-wishers, though the young lady beside him, who had seemed unwilling to so much as concede a single point in their earlier debate, had grown surprisingly quiet.
She looked around, her eyes wide as she took in the grand foyer with its glittering chandeliers and elegant crowd.
It has to be impressive for one who has never been in such an establishment.
The exterior of the theatre had been magnificent enough, with its imposing Ionic columns and classical facade, but the interior was truly spectacular. The entrance hall soared above them, all gilded plasterwork and rich crimson drapery.
James settled beside her and smiled. “A little grander than the theatre in Bedford, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” she replied hesitantly, as if she didn’t want to give in. “It remains to be seen if the players are as skilled.”
He had to laugh. “I can assure you that the play will be of far better quality. We have the best actors, stage productions, and musicians in the whole world.”
“The whole world?” she said dryly, turning to look at him. “So you have visited the whole world? You visited the theatres in France? And India?”
“I am uncertain if they even have theatres in India,” he admitted. “As for the ones in France, I’m sure they were magnificent before the war. Now? I cannot vouch for them, as I have not been to France of late.”
She pressed her lips together, then tilted her head to the side. “Didn’t you serve in the military?”
“I served in the Somerset militia,” he said, feeling an unexpected prick of discomfort. “I considered enlisting in His Majesty’s Royal Army before…”
“Before you became a duke?” she prompted.
He nodded. “Indeed, but I remained with the militia in the end. It was more to my taste.”
“Fortunate for you,” she said. “Serving in the militia is far less detrimental to one’s health, after all.”
He wanted to make a sharp remark, a biting comeback, but he didn’t, because the truth was, she wasn’t wrong.
He hadn’t wanted to serve in the army and had chosen the militia specifically to vex his father, who had wanted him to serve under the great Lord Wellington, bringing glory to England.
It was in part because his father desired it that he had chosen not to serve, but he didn’t tell Miss Langley that.
He wasn’t keen to share too much about himself with her. There was something about her he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something almost alarming.
She was so genuine. She wasn’t affected or vapid or driven by a desire to make the best impression, the way so many young ladies were. She spoke her mind.
She was, in a way, uncorrupted by Society. There was an appeal to that. And he wondered if maybe, just maybe—
“Come now, the bell has already rung!” his godmother called, and they turned.
Frances walked directly toward the main entrance leading to the pit, but Aunt Eugenia took her by the arm, chuckling. “Not there, silly! We have a box.”
“Oh,” Frances said, her cheeks coloring slightly. “Of course.”
Back home, James thought, she probably always sat with the common folks in the pit, where it was hot and crammed and undoubtedly uncomfortable.
Yet she looked almost dismayed when she saw the large, elegantly appointed box they entered.
That expression only lasted for a moment, though, before they were greeted by his godmother’s nieces.
The three young ladies—the Duchess of Sinclair, the Marchioness of Ravenscar, and the Countess of Wexford—surrounded Frances like a gaggle of excited geese.
For a moment, James caught a glimpse of her face. She was looking back at him, almost as if pleading for help. If he had been more of a gentleman, he would’ve helped her, but as things were, he decided to keep to himself. He took a seat next to his godmother at the front of the box.
The three young ladies took the three seats behind, and Frances was eventually guided to the front seat next to him.
This was a new arrangement, of course. Usually, one of them would have sat at the front beside him and his godmother, but he supposed they were all trying to be kind to the new arrival.
“Your Grace,” the Marchioness said, and he looked back at her.
She was young, perhaps the same age as Frances, with dark curls and an eager expression.
“Please, do call me James. We have always used Christian names. I doubt Miss Langley will mind.”
“I do not,” Frances confirmed.
“Very well then, Charlotte, what was the question?”
“The fire at your house, how severe was it?”
He cringed inwardly. “Severe enough. Severe enough that I must continue bothering your dear aunt for shelter for another few days. Perhaps a couple more weeks.”
Frances shifted beside him, and he could have sworn she looked pained at the prospect of his extended stay.
“I see. And how did it start? Was it one of the rioters?”
He blinked, then understood. “No. Fortunately, I have not been targeted by that mob.”
“Are they so wrong, though?” Charlotte asked from behind. “After all, it is they who have suffered the most.”
James’s jaw tightened. For several weeks, riots had broken out in London with alarming regularity over the Corn Laws. That wretched legislation had been making his life a misery for the last three years, and not only his.
“Are they wrong about what?” Frances asked, turning in her seat.
“I am surprised you do not know about it, given how you pride yourself on your… humble origins,” he said, more sharply than he had intended.
She frowned, two slight lines appearing between her brows. “I beg your pardon?”
“There have been riots for the last few weeks,” Marianne explained. “Working people upset over the Corn Laws. Parliament passed legislation preventing foreign wheat from being imported until domestic wheat reaches eighty shillings per quarter.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Frances said, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s been a disaster for the working class. There are many people in our neighborhood who cannot afford bread at all. As usual, highborns make decisions that benefit themselves while harming those who already have nothing.”
“But your father is a farmer,” James pointed out, not willing to let this slide. “Surely he has benefited?”
“He has,” she acknowledged. “But there are many who live in our parish who have not. People are angry, and rightfully so.”
“Well, they have been taking their anger to Parliament,” Charlotte piped up. “Protesting and sometimes rioting. Many have been arrested. And some, after being dispersed, have gone to the homes of those who voted for the Corn Bill and attacked their property.”
“I am sure Miss Langley isn’t supportive of that as well,” James remarked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
“I do not condone people hurting others or destroying property,” Frances said carefully. “That will not advance us as a society. However, it would be beneficial if the Lords actually listened to the poor.”
An awkward silence fell over their group. The orchestra was tuning below, discordant notes rising to their box.
“Speaking of listening,” Aunt Eugenia said brightly, “perhaps we should all be quiet and prepare to listen to the performance. The curtain will rise shortly.”
The young ladies murmured their agreement and settled back in their seats. James felt Frances shift beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The gas lamps along the stage began to dim, and the audience quieted in anticipation.
But James found he couldn’t simply let the matter rest. He leaned slightly toward her, keeping his voice low enough so that only she could hear.
“You speak as though you’ve given this considerable thought.”
She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the stage curtain. “I’m from Bedfordshire, Your Grace. One can hardly avoid giving it thought when one watches one’s neighbors struggle.”
“So you’d have us throw open the floodgates? Allow cheap grain to pour in and bankrupt every farmer in England?”
Now she did turn to face him, her expression serious. “I’d have you consider that a loaf of bread is not a luxury for most of England, but a necessity. And that protecting profits for landowners by effectively starving the poor is perhaps… morally questionable.”
“How refreshingly radical,” he murmured, though he found himself more intrigued than offended. “Next, you’ll be quoting William Cobbett to me.”
“I was actually thinking of Adam Smith,” she replied, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “But I can quote Mr. Cobbett if you prefer.”
He stared at her. “You’ve read The Wealth of Nations?”
“My father keeps a surprisingly robust library for a country gentleman. One has to pass the winter months somehow.”
“And here I thought all country misses did was practice scales and paint watercolors.”
“And you would be quite wrong,” she said, but there was an edge to her voice now.
James would have continued the debate, but then the curtains rose, and the overture began, cutting him off. He glanced at her as she watched the stage come to life, her expression innocent and serene.