Chapter 6 Questions
Jamie noticed at once that Mr Chamberlain’s valet was one of the footmen attending at dinner that evening.
It was quite usual for visiting valets to help out in the dining room, if asked, and although some were too full of their dignity to oblige, clearly Pendleton was not of that ilk.
He had been found a set of the duke’s livery, and there was no doubt he looked the part.
He was tall and well-formed, and were he to be clothed in his master’s garments, would look every inch the gentleman.
His manner was deft and unobtrusive, however, the perfect footman, and if Jamie had not had some interest in him, he would barely have noticed him at all.
But he was intrigued by a manservant who was also an expert fencer.
Fencing was the province of gentlemen, in the main, and although it was not impossible for a man from the lower orders to pick up some aptitude with a blade, this man was greatly skilled.
So when the ladies had withdrawn, the port had been set out and the door closed behind the servants, Jamie found a seat beside Mr Chamberlain.
“I enjoyed your fencing bout yesterday,” he began. “I am no expert, but even my inexperienced eyes could appreciate the skill exhibited in the Marble Hall.”
“Thank you, sir,” Chamberlain said, in his pleasant manner. He was relaxed, one arm over the back of his chair, the other twirling his port glass.
“Your valet is equally skilled, and I confess, it is unusual to see a manservant exhibit such prowess in what is generally regarded as a gentleman’s sport. Where did he learn such expertise?”
“I have no idea,” Mr Chamberlain said, but there was a tautness in his manner now, a narrowing of the eyes, that Jamie found interesting.
“How did you come across him?” Jamie said with studied casualness. “I cannot imagine that you picked him up from an agency. ‘Valet wanted, good references required, must be adept at polishing top boots and starching neckcloths, and also an expert fencer.’”
Chamberlain laughed, raising one hand to acknowledge the point.
“No agency was involved, it is true. I found him in Tuscany, at a fencing school in Florence, where he was earning a modest wage by teaching the less adept. I found him a useful sparring partner, and, upon learning that he had some training as a valet, immediately engaged him.”
“Yet he is English. I wonder how he came to be in Tuscany,” Jamie ventured.
“I have never asked him,” Chamberlain said, with the slightest shrug of one shoulder. “Englishmen end up in other parts of the world for a thousand and one reasons, Hammond, none of them very interesting.”
“How long were you in Tuscany?” Jamie said, feeling that he could not pursue the question of the valet any longer.
“Two years,” he said, leaning forward with sudden eagerness.
“I never wished to go up to Oxford, so my parents agreed that I might go abroad instead, if circumstances permitted travel, so that I might improve my knowledge of art, and it was the most glorious experience. Rome, Florence, Venice… I visited them all, but settled in Florence for a full year. Have you ever been there, Hammond? No? Ah, I pity you, for it is an experience I feel every Englishman should enjoy at least once. The churches, the piazzas, the frescoes, the light…”
After that, there was no getting him away from the subject, so Jamie smiled and nodded and let him talk as he would, until the duke rose to join the ladies.
That night, Jamie lit extra candles in his bedroom and sat down at the small table in the corner to write a letter.
‘To Dr J Ingleton, St Mark’s, Lingwood Green, Norfolk.
Sir, I trust you are well and not working too hard on my father’s family trees.
I have another little investigation for you, if you have time.
As you may have heard, we have received another gift from the mysterious Mr Goodenough, one Lance Chamberlain, a portrait painter of some renown.
His father, Sir Bradley Chamberlain, lives at Ewell, in Surrey, and according to his son, the family has suffered no scandal in its history, but perhaps you have information to the contrary.
I am also interested in C’s manservant, one Denzil Pendleton, who appears to be a competent valet but is also an expert fencer, an unusual combination, as I am sure you will agree.
I should very much like to know more about both these men, for I am convinced that something in the history of one or other of them attracted the notice of Mr Goodenough, and that is a mystery I should very much like to solve.
I remain, sir, your respectful servant, James Hammond. ’
Satisfied, he folded and sealed the letter, blew out all but one candle, and climbed into bed to read a verse or two of the Bible before sleep overtook him.
***
Mr and Mrs Simon Payne returned to Staineybank on a day of sleety rain, a harbinger of the winter to come.
With them was Mr Payne’s half-sister, Lady Juliet Payne, a spinster ten years his senior, who seemed content to follow the newly married pair wherever they went, just as she had followed her brother when he was a single man.
Georgie was glad to see them safely returned from Hertfordshire, where Mr Payne was constructing a new house for a wealthy cit, a man of trade, not landed estates.
The entire household gathered in the Marble Hall to greet them, even including Mr Chamberlain, who was known to Mr Payne, at least by reputation.
“I saw your painting of the Princess Amelia at the Royal Academy Exhibition,” Mr Payne said. “A charming work. I have never met her, but I heard comments that it was somewhat flattering.”
“A portraitist sees the beauty beneath the surface as well as the more obvious qualities,” Mr Chamberlain said smoothly.
It was a clever answer, but Georgie remembered Charlotte’s words, about pleasing the person paying the painter for his work.
One would not wish to anger a royal patron by too realistic a portrayal of the subject, she supposed.
Still, it was an odd sort of profession which made every woman look like a raging beauty, and every man, presumably, like a fount of power and wealth.
As the new arrivals greeted everyone, Georgie eyed Sophia carefully.
Five months married and she looked well.
Yes, definitely in high bloom, but that might merely be the effect of unalloyed happiness.
Approaching thirty, she must surely have surrendered hope of a match founded on romantic love, yet along had come Mr Payne and swept her into matrimony, inspiring her three older sisters to continue their own search for a suitable husband.
Any feelings of envy Georgie tamped down very promptly.
It was natural to be reminded of her own sweet love, but she was sincerely happy for Sophia, just as she was for Rowena.
She wished every woman the joy of an affectionate husband, and the promise for the future that children brought, and she would not be downhearted about her own emptiness.
The evening found Georgie somewhat out of the main currents of the conversation.
Amongst the men, the talk was all of art — of Mr Payne’s designs for the orangery and the house in Hertfordshire, and Mr Chamberlain’s initial sketches of Rowena for the portrait.
He had spent the morning in the nursery, watching and sketching as Rowena played with her infant daughter, and the drawings he had made were quite delightful.
The ladies all gathered around Sophia, asking a thousand questions about the Hertfordshire trip, and relating all the latest domestic dramas from Staineybank.
Georgie could not summon the enthusiasm to join either group, so she worked industriously on her embroidery, until Mr Hammond very kindly offered to play cribbage with her.
They had a comfortable chat over the cards about nothing in particular, and she went to her bed that evening feeling a great deal less downcast.
And at least there was no announcement from Sophia.
***
The long-awaited letter from Patience was not exactly what Lance had hoped for.
‘To Mr Chamberlain, Staineybank, Brinshire. Mr C, Thank you for your letter. I am pleased to hear of your new position and hope it may be successful. We are enjoying fine weather here and have been able to take the air every day. The gardens at the Abbey are very fine. There is much celebration here with some new event every day keeping us busy. I do not know when I shall have time to write again. Patience.’
Mr C? Could she not have called him Lance? And no hint of affection, or of missing him. It was all very unsatisfactory. When next he met Denny in the middle attic, his friend was obliged to remonstrate with him.
“What on earth has got into you, Lance?” he said, picking himself off the floor for the third time. “This is supposed to be an exhibition of controlled skill, not unrestrained violence.”
“I had a letter from Patience.”
“Ah. Not the affectionate missive you might have expected then?”
“You may read it for yourself,” Lance said, retrieving it from his waistcoat pocket. “There is nothing in there that could not be shown to the most censorious of great-aunts.”
“Good heavens! ‘We are enjoying fine weather…’ This is a schoolroom letter, my credulous friend. One can imagine the governess standing over her.” He assumed a high, female voice.
“‘Watch those upright strokes, Lady Patience, and be careful not to leave a blot, or you will have to begin over again.’” He chuckled.
“And not even a mention that she misses you. Remind me why you want to marry her.”
That made Lance even more annoyed. “It is the first letter she has ever written to a man who is not a relation. Naturally it is a little… stiff. She does not yet know how to express her feelings.”