Chapter 3 Staineybank #2
The Miss Merringtons had lately taken to wearing coloured ribbons as a way of distinguishing themselves, for although they were not identical, there was enough similarity of form and feature to confuse the unwary.
Charlotte, the eldest, wore blue, Augusta pink and Maria white.
The absent youngest sister, Sophia, had been assigned yellow ribbons, although how much difference it made was more than Georgie could tell.
She stayed in her corner with her embroidery.
She would be the last to be introduced, that she understood.
Now Cousin Hester had arrived to meet Mr Chamberlain, apologising for being too preoccupied with the jam making to see him earlier.
Hester’s cousinship was of a complicated variety, and as the poor relation, now slipping into her middle years, she managed the household for the duke.
Mr Chamberlain looked bemused, trying, no doubt, to work out just how she was related to the duke.
Fortunately, the duke came in just then, relieving him of the struggle.
“Chamberlain!” the duke boomed, effectively silencing the room. “Knew a Chamberlain once… from Surrey. Baronet. Any relation?”
“My father is Sir Bradley Chamberlain, your grace. He lives near Ewell in Surrey.”
“Ah!” His craggy face lit up with a smile. “Then your mother is Gwendoline. She was a lovely lady.”
“She still is, sir, in my opinion.”
“Then she is still in the world? Excellent. Keeps well, does she?”
“Perfectly well, apart from the usual minor inconveniences of age.”
The duke laughed. “Minor, eh? See how minor you think them when you are my age, boy. But give her my best regards when next you write to her, will you? Not seen her for years, but I have fond memories of her.”
“I will, sir.”
Mr Chamberlain moved off with the duke to the far side of the room, where the male trio of secretary, comptroller and chaplain were gathered.
Charlotte, Maria and Augusta fluttered across to Georgie and sat around her.
“Is he not a wonderful addition to our gathering?” Charlotte said.
“And single!” hissed Augusta.
“Is it not fortunate?” said Maria.
“I should not raise your hopes too high, if I were you,” Georgie said. “He may not stay long.”
“Oh, but the duke is sure to invite him to stay on,” Charlotte said.
“He is to paint Rowena, and who could deny that she will make a glorious subject?” Augusta said.
“Besides — Mr Goodenough sent him,” Maria said triumphantly.
They all turned to stare at her.
“Do you not see it?” she went on. “First he sent Rowena, and the duke saw the likeness to his first wife and allowed her to stay, and of course she married our dear Richard. And then he sent Mr Payne to design the orangery, and the duke liked his design and—”
“He married Sophia,” Georgie finished for her.
They all giggled.
“So he is bound to stay on—”
“—and paint Rowena, and then—”
“—marry one of us,” they finished in unison, with a burst of happy giggles.
“Well, I sincerely hope it may be so,” Georgie said.
“Perhaps he will like you the best,” Charlotte said. “Some men particularly like hair like yours.”
“Red, you mean?”
“Auburn!” the sisters said in unison.
“Your hair is so pretty,” Maria said, with a heavy sigh.
Georgie was struck by the sudden memory of Henry running his hands through her tresses, smiling at her fondly. “Such beautiful hair to drive a man wild,” he had always said, and then he would scoop her into his arms and press kisses onto her lips, her cheeks, her neck…
“Dinner is served, your grace,” Froggett intoned.
Georgie shivered as she tidied her embroidery into her work bag and followed the others into the dining room.
These memories of Henry usually only haunted her at night, but sometimes a chance remark would cause one to sweep across her with nerve-shattering intensity.
If only he had not been taken from her so soon!
She was so disorientated that she crept into the first seat she saw without thinking.
Usually, her position as the lowest of those present ensured her a humble seat in the middle of the table, but owing to their diminished numbers and the duke having summoned both Augusta and Maria to be his dining companions, there was a free seat very close to the duchess.
From there, Georgie had a clear view of Mr Chamberlain.
The duchess had his attention first, but then Charlotte, who was on his other side, leaned eagerly towards him for her turn.
Georgie could understand the enthusiasm, for Charlotte was thirty-two now and eligible bachelors were becoming thin on the ground.
She was fast heading into the territory of widowers and crusty retired colonels and the like.
Mr Chamberlain, with a lithe body, cat-like green eyes and, she now noticed, a roguish smile on his lips, was a most attractive man.
He was expensively dressed, too, which put him firmly into the eligible category.
Charlotte started by asking about his family.
“I have three brothers and three sisters,” he said, with a ready smile. “They are all older than me, by quite a margin.”
“And are they all married?” Charlotte said sweetly.
“They are indeed.”
Which begged the question. “But… you are not?”
“Not yet.” There was a long pause, and perhaps Charlotte held her breath. “I have the great good fortune to be recently betrothed to the Lady Patience Torbuck,” he said, and the pride in his voice was palpable.
Charlotte exhaled slowly, then said, “Torbuck? We know Lord Daniel Torbuck. He wanted to marry Sophia, but she turned him down.”
“Indeed?” he said without interest. “Lady Patience has several brothers.”
That seemed to dispose neatly of Lord Daniel.
Charlotte asked with equal lack of enthusiasm about Lady Patience, allowing him the opportunity to describe her perfections at dispiriting length.
Charlotte wilted visibly under this catalogue of beauty, wealth and endless accomplishments.
The lady played three instruments and spoke four languages, sang like an angel, naturally, and as for her skills with pen or needle, they had to be seen to be believed.
At the end of this recitation, Charlotte was glad to turn back to her plate and leave the visitor to the duchess.
“I have not yet heard,” the duchess began, “what pretext Mr Goodenough gave for bringing you here.”
“I was invited to paint a portrait of Mrs Richard Merrington,” he said, “which would be no great hardship,” he added, looking across the table to where Rowena sat.
“Indeed, she is the very image of her great-aunt, his grace’s first wife.
Her portrait hangs in the library, so you will be able to see the likeness.
Have you painted many—? Oh!” She gave a great squeak that silenced the entire table, all eyes turned in her direction.
“You are Lance Chamberlain! You painted the Princess Amelia! I should have guessed.”
“I did indeed have that privilege,” he said.
“Oh, my goodness, but you are famous for your portraits. I was about to ask, you see, whether you had ever painted one before when I realised. How very foolish of me.”
From the far end of the table, the duke boomed, “Lance? Is that short for Lancelyn?”
“Lancelot, your grace. As in the Arthurian hero.”
“Lancelot,” the duke chuckled. “What a charming name. Your mother was ever a romantic.”
He continued to chuckle, with occasional amused glances at Mr Chamberlain, until the duchess rose to lead the ladies from the room.
***
Lance was glad to see the ladies withdraw.
It had been a long, tedious day, starting at a posting house, which was better than the usual examples of the type, but was still less an uncomfortable place to pass the night, and ending with the discovery of Goodenough’s mischief.
And however pleasant the company this evening, if he was to be on his way again tomorrow there was no point getting too involved.
Better to keep his distance, however tempting the ladies were.
He had thought that the subject of Goodenough was thoroughly exhausted by now, but he was wrong. The duke’s secretary, the young man who had raced past him in pursuit of Goodenough that afternoon, was determined to continue following the trail.
“You have spent several days travelling with this Goodenough fellow, Mr Chamberlain,” the secretary said. “What was he like? A gentleman?”
Lance shrugged. “He looked like an attorney, not a gentleman.”
“Tall? Short? Colour of hair?”
He pondered that. “Taller than I am. Thin. Hair… he wore a wig, and a thick scarf that covered half his face. If I had taken more notice of him, I might be able to draw him for you, but he did nothing to draw my attention on the few occasions I saw him.”
“Few occasions? But you travelled together!”
“He travelled on the box, not inside the carriage, and at the post houses, he ate in the common room, while I had a private parlour. I saw very little of him, and I doubt I would know him again if I saw him.”
“Hmm.” The secretary twirled his port glass thoughtfully. “If we do not know who is doing this, we may still speculate on why, and I have a modest theory.”
What was his name? Hancock? Haddock? Ham… something. Hammond, that was it. Lance nodded encouragingly.
“We have discovered that Mrs Richard’s grandmother and Mr Payne’s mother…
no, not his mother, his sister’s mother…
Is that right? Yes, Mrs Richard’s grandmother and Lady Juliet’s mother both…
erm, stepped outside the bounds of polite society, so to speak.
So they were… black sheep, if I may phrase it that way.
I wondered if… perhaps… it may be that…” His words dribbled into nothing, as he perhaps realised the insult implied.
Lance had never been the hot-tempered sort, to rush to be offended by the slightest chance remark.
After all, it was a most peculiar occurrence, to have complete strangers turn up on the doorstep at the behest of some fake attorney.
He could hardly blame the fellow for trying to make sense of it. So now he merely smiled a little.
“I am very sorry to disappoint you, sir, but none of my ancestors, going back for the several generations of which I have firm knowledge, has ever stepped outside the bounds of polite society. In fact, I would go so far as to say they have none of them ever done anything remotely interesting.”
Hammond held up his hands in mock surrender. “Then I apologise for asking.”
“No need. It is a reasonable question, but I am sure if you look up my family in the Baronetage, you will see that all my antecedents have lived blameless lives.”
The secretary reddened. “I did indeed look up your family, sir, and found nothing to contradict you.”
“No black sheep, then? A pity, it would have made us more interesting. The heads of the family tend to be conscientious landowners, stern magistrates and pious Christians. The ladies diligently provide aid to the poor. Sons tend to be ordained, and daughters marry clergymen. One of my sisters married an attorney, which was regarded at the time as being dangerously eccentric, but happily he has turned out to be as conventional as the rest. I regret to say this, but there is not a single member of my family who would qualify as even a slightly off-white sheep. They are all excessively normal.”
“Except for you, eh, boy?” the duke said, eyes gleaming with merriment. “Setting yourself up as a portraitist — that is not in the least normal.”
Lance laughed easily. Such jibes, even when spoken with more venom, no longer had the power to wound him.
He had chosen his path and found success, and he had Patience to prove that he had been accepted in the upper echelons of society to which he had always aspired.
So he simply said, “Indeed, it is not, and everyone was astonished that a Chamberlain of Greencroft House should take so radical a course. However, being the youngest by quite a margin, and moreover one named for a romantic hero, I was, I dare say, somewhat over indulged as a boy. My interest in art was encouraged rather than otherwise, even to the extent of funding a stay in Italy to improve my skills. For which I am very grateful.”
“The youngest, yes,” the duke said thoughtfully. “When I last saw your mother, she was getting past the age when another child might be expected. You must have taken your parents quite by surprise.”
“I believe it was so, sir, but I was never made to feel unwelcome.”
“And you are equally welcome here,” the duke said. “Tomorrow we can talk about what you will need — sittings with Mrs Richard, materials, a room to paint in and so forth.”
“I am to stay?” he said, startled.
“Of course. This Goodenough fellow, whoever he is, has not led us astray yet. Let us see what you can do, eh? You can stay here for as long as you need to, and if I like what you produce, maybe I shall ask you to paint the other ladies of the household.”
Lance’s eyebrows rose, but he said only, “Then, if I am to stay, might I request a suitable space to practice my fencing? My man and I like to maintain such skill as we have.”
“Fencing, eh?” the duke said, with a little smile. “Marble Hall, tomorrow, two o’clock sharp, so I can watch you. Not seen a fencing match for years, so I hope you will keep me entertained. Two o’clock, remember, not a minute after. I cannot abide lateness.”
“We shall be there, your grace.”