Chapter Eleven #2
Lord Ledderbey nodded. “I must admit, for many years I knew nothing about it. I like to retire very early, you see, unless there is a particular reason to stay awake. The boy began the project when he was but sixteen. Had I known it then, I might have put a stop to it. However, by the time I found it out he was already a man making his own decisions.”
“Sixteen?” Valor said, though it really came out as a whisper.
Lord Ledderbey nodded. “I must say, I was very cross with his valet. That fellow should have told me, not gone with him and encouraged the business. But then, Stockton was a navy man and those two are as thick as thieves.”
“It’s such a risk,” Valor said quietly. “I really do think that if a person takes a risk over and over again, then eventually…”
“Eventually they will run out of luck and it will end in disaster,” Lord Ledderbey said. “I think the very same and I believe that idea has begun to occur to him. I hold every hope that he will give it up.”
Valor felt her spirits soar. Lord Ledderbey thought Lord Tramondeley might give it up. Could it be true? Was it possible?
Lord Tramondeley returned with her glass. “I apologize for the delay. The duke was insistent on introducing me to Lord Gentian, as he witnessed the setting fire of Lady Jellerbey’s curtains some years ago.”
“Lady Valor!”
She turned to find the count approaching.
Just now, she did not really wish to see him.
Lord Ledderbey hoped that Lord Tramondeley would give up his nighttime sails.
That idea somehow made the count seem far less important than he had been.
Then her father’s idea of her being dragged off to Sardinia threw even more cold water on the idea of him.
“Count,” she said.
“Lord Ledderbey, Lord Tramondeley,” the count said, “Lady Tallifer and I were delighted to receive your invitation to a Cornwall party. Neither of us have ever attended one.”
“Have you ever been to Cornwall, though?” Lord Tramondeley asked.
It was such a usual question but for some reason it appeared to startle the count. He said, “Cornwall? No, indeed, my estate is in Hertfordshire.”
“Yes, so you have said,” Lord Tramondeley said. “But then, people do travel to other places beyond their estate. People often travel to Cornwall. They like the coast. I just wondered if you had yourself done so.”
The count’s looks darkened and Valor saw a flash of something she’d not seen before. Was he angry over the question? Why would he be angry over it?
“I have not, Lord Tramondeley,” he said. “May I ask why people travel there? What do people do on this interesting coast? I suppose they sail quite a bit?”
Another very usual question and now Lord Tramondeley’s looks darkened. “Some do and some do not,” he said.
What on earth was happening between these two gentlemen?
“Do you?” the count asked.
He sounded as if he were challenging Lord Tramondeley to answer the question. Why? He already knew that the lord sailed. Valor had mentioned it herself when they’d sat down for the light supper at Almack’s.
“Anybody worth their salt can sail a boat if they live on the coast,” Lord Tramondeley said.
“I see,” the count said. “What sort of boat do you sail?”
“I can sail any kind of boat,” Lord Tramondeley said.
Valor looked back and forth between them. They were positively glaring at each other. Why? If they disliked one another, why had Lord Tramondeley invited the count to his Cornwall party?
“There they are!” a shrieking voice said from the gloom. Lady Letitia soon appeared, though nobody could have been in doubt as to who that voice belonged to. She really did speak exceedingly loudly.
The lady was trailed by Lady Monroe and both were soon in their midst.
After greetings all round, in which Valor worked very hard to appear delighted to see them, Lady Letitia smacked her fan on Lord Tramondeley’s arm. “We received our invitation, my lord, and let me tell you we were ecstatic.”
“A Cornwall party!” Lady Monroe said. “Who ever heard of it?”
“Cornwall people,” Lord Tramondeley said.
Valor stifled a laugh. He really could be amusing.
The duke returned to the party with his glass of claret. Before he could say a word, Lady Letitia said, “I am certain His Grace is wild over the idea of a Cornwall party.”
“Lady Letitia,” the duke said, “I have been on this earth long enough to avoid going wild over anything. I presume you hint, though, that you will attend Tramondeley’s party.”
“We would not miss it for the world,” Lady Monroe said.
“We simply long for it,” Lady Letitia said.
The duke did not perhaps look as delighted by the news of their attendance as he might have.
Valor was not very delighted either. She’d not imagined that Lady Letitia would be on the guest list. Lord Tramondeley had clearly indicated that he did not care for the lady. Had it been Lord Ledderbey’s idea? And then, why was the lady forever longing for things? It felt extreme.
“Count,” Lady Letitia said, “do tell us we will see you there too. We would be devastated if we did not.”
The count nodded. “I will most certainly be there.”
Now the count seemed much more himself. He seemed more the calm and regulated individual Valor had become acquainted with than he had moments ago. She could not understand the exchange between him and Lord Tramondeley about Cornwall.
Valor felt there was something going on behind the scenes. There had been a feeling of real anger between the two gentlemen. She could not work out what it was, but it felt uncomfortable. It was like a tension waiting to break free.
Sometimes at their lake at home the surface would be absolutely still and then a sudden violent splash would occur, sending ripples in all directions.
Something had gone on under the water that she could not perceive, and then the splash was the result of it.
The something between Lord Tramondeley and the count felt like that.
But then, her mind drifted back to more pleasant thoughts. Lord Ledderbey hoped Lord Tramondeley might give up his nighttime sails.
What an idea. What if he would? Lord Ledderbey knew him better than anybody. If he thought Lord Tramondeley might give it up…
She gazed at him. He was so very handsome and had such a nice manner. He was a real gentleman in every respect. If he would only give it up…
He noticed her staring and smiled at her. It made her feel a bit wobbly on her feet.
If only he would give it up.
*
Mrs. Right was well and truly stumped by Mr. Huberville.
He was absolutely incompetent and it was easy enough to see how he’d been dismissed twice.
She assumed he’d left both of his prior places without a reference because his employers were enraged over losing so many belongings to a crash on the floor.
Or perhaps it was just his all-round incompetence.
Or perhaps it was both those things together that had finally driven those families over the edges of sanity.
The man could manage to fail at the simplest tasks!
Who told him to polish the silver with bacon leavings?
He’d had some idea that he’d heard somewhere that it made silver extra shiny.
Which it did, but it also made it extra slippery and greasy.
The kitchen maids had a time of it scrubbing it all off.
They gave very dark looks to the butler while he apologized profusely.
It had become apparent that oftentimes Mr. Huberville’s mind knew what to do, at least when he was not imagining some new way to polish silver. But then that mind became so discombobulated with nerves that he did something else. That something else often included dropping something.
Just now, Valor and the duke were out at that ludicrous candlelight party Lady Jellerbey held every year. The servants had gathered in their hall for a glass of whatever struck their fancy from the below stairs’ supplies.
Mrs. Right sipped her sherry as Mr. Huberville raised his glass of brandy and then set it down again. Then he raised it and set it down. He’d been doing so for the past five minutes and it eventually occurred to her that he was practicing raising a glass and setting it down without breaking it.
“There,” he whispered, “I can do it if I just stay calm.”
Charlie cleared his throat. “Mr. Huberville,” he said kindly, “this stress seems very hard on you.”
“Very, very hard,” Mr. Huberville said sadly.
“Have you always been so nervous?” Thomas asked.
Mr. Huberville raised his glass again and this time he drank it down. With a long sigh, he said, “Born with it, I’m afraid. My mother always said I was a fretful baby, forever looking wildly around like I was terrified to be in the world. I don’t remember that, of course.”
“Have you thought of doing something in the Church, Mr. Huberville?” Thomas asked. “It’s quiet in the Church.”
For some reason, Mr. Huberville took that suggestion rather hard. Then he cried, “That’s where I started!”
The footmen stared at him. Thomas said, “But then, why are you not still in the Church? It was my understanding that it’s a lifelong sort of employment.”
Mr. Huberville chewed on his lip. “My mother somehow managed to get me a small living. Very small, in a lonely corner of Dorset. It was attached to an elderly baron and had only a handful of parishioners. It should have been perfect for me!”
Mrs. Right could not imagine how it had not been perfect, but from the butler’s expression it seemed it had gone wrong somewhere.
“What happened?” Charlie asked, leaning forward.
Mr. Huberville stared over Charlie’s head as if he were taking a stroll down a memory lane littered with tragedies.
He downed the rest of his brandy and said, “I suppose it was a whole series of things. It began when I fell on elderly Mrs. Culpeper and broke her arm. That was not very well received, I can tell you. Then I thought I might smooth things over so I went to her house and brought a jug of apple cider but it had apparently fermented, caused the lady to become drunk that night. She fell on her other arm. Old people—their bones are so brittle!”
The servants round the table looked aghast.
“But in the end,” he said, sadly shaking his head, “it was probably the fire that really sounded the death knell for me.”
“Mr. Huberville,” Thomas said wide-eyed, “you did not burn down Mrs. Culpeper’s house?”
“No, no, just the church. But in my defense, there are a lot of candles that could be knocked over and a lot of old wood that could catch fire! An accident waiting to happen, to my mind.”
“But Mr. Huberville,” Mrs. Right said, rather bowled over by the havoc he’d managed to cause in such a peaceful setting, “it is my understanding that a lord cannot simply take away a living that’s been given over.
Even if they want to, they can’t do it. The duke threatens our vicar with it all the time, but the fellow is never worried that it will come to pass. ”
“They can get rid of you if they get the bishop involved!” Mr. Huberville wiped his eyes. “As you might imagine, once it was explained that I was responsible for breaking both the arms of an elderly parishioner and then I burned down the church, it was ‘pack your bags, Huberville!’”
Mrs. Right stared at him. What on earth was she to do with this person?