Chapter 14 Sunday Dinner
Georgie liked having her own apartment within Staineybank.
It was of a similar size to her cottage, and being situated on the attic floor, had rooms of a moderate size and ceilings of normal height, with some walls sloping under the eaves.
Even the motley collection of furniture, some of Jamie’s family items mixed with things scavenged from the attics, felt right, for she had avoided the vast and ornate ducal pieces and chosen elderly furniture discarded by the nursery or the housekeeper’s room.
Her previous bedroom, one of the richly decorated guest rooms, had made her feel small and inconsequential, wondering often just how she had come to be living in a duke’s household.
Now she had her own domain, more in keeping with her lowly rank, and it felt very comfortable.
Then there was Jamie. Ah, Jamie! Before they had married, she had told herself very firmly not to make comparisons between her two husbands.
Jamie could never be Henry, she could not expect it, and so she must simply accept him as he was, and be grateful that she had a husband at all after her stupidity with the brandy.
Yet now she found, to her surprise, that Jamie measured up very well.
He was different, of course, a quiet, gentle sort of man, nothing like her big, boisterous Henry.
He was shy, which Henry had never been, and even after a month of marriage, still dressed and undressed behind a screen, and blushed at the mention of intimate matters.
But he was steady, predictable in ways that Henry had never managed, and he was sweetly solicitous of her, bringing her little treats from Brinchester and praising her simple cooking, noticing when she dressed her hair in a new way and taking charge of the fires so that she never had to carry heavy scuttles of coal.
And he never, ever disappeared for the evening and came home drunk.
It was the oddest thing, for she had always told herself that the drinking was just Henry’s way and, after all, he was never aggressively drunk, merely a bit bosky and affectionate.
She had never resented it or felt herself ill-used.
But there was something wonderfully satisfying in a husband who was always sober.
He drank wine with his dinner, of course, for what man did not, if it was provided?
And he liked a glass of port afterwards.
But whether they dined at the duke’s table or their own, all the drink did was to relax him a little, so that he became less reticent.
They ended every evening sitting in matching chairs either side of the fire in the parlour, enjoying a final cup of tea and talking over the day before going to bed.
Georgie decided she liked that arrangement very much indeed, and would not have traded it for Henry in the slightest.
Nor did she miss the irony that the only reason for their marriage was because of that one night when they had got horribly drunk.
As she woke each morning to the delicious remembrance of the new life growing inside her, she blessed the day she had wept and Jamie had brought brandy to her room.
It was still too soon to announce her condition to the world, but the secret brought her a happiness such as she had not experienced for several years.
Every Sunday, Georgie cooked dinner in the apartment, and it became a habit to invite her father-in-law to join them.
He came to the Staineybank chapel for divine service and then spent the rest of the day with them.
Georgie took very little part in the conversations between father and son, which seemed to focus heavily on their work of analysing the duke’s diaries and compiling his memoirs, but then her father-in-law shocked her.
“The cottage was broken into last night,” he said, as calmly as if he were talking about the weather.
“Broken into?” Jamie said sharply. “Someone smashed a window and climbed in?”
“No, no, nothing so dramatic. Simply walked in through the kitchen door, stumbled about downstairs for a bit, then left the same way. The doors are never locked.”
“Was anything taken?” Jamie said.
“Not a thing,” he said cheerfully. “Some papers ruffled about, but that is all. I have nothing valuable in the house anyway, at least, nothing worth stealing. A little money, my pocket watch, a silver fob, your mother’s jewellery, such as it was, but all of that I keep in the bedroom and the fellow never ventured upstairs. ”
“And you did not venture downstairs, I hope,” Georgie said anxiously. “Why, you might have been killed!”
“I grabbed the poker in case he wandered up the stairs, but I am too old for heroics, my dear. Had I been more soundly asleep I would have known nothing about it, but after a dinner at the duke’s table, I never sleep well.
All that rich food, not to mention wine, port, brandy…
my stomach always protests and keeps me wakeful.
I much prefer your cooking. There is nothing like a leg of mutton, is there?
And we shall soon have spring lamb, my favourite.
Jamie, may I trouble you for another slice? ”
“But my dear sir, you cannot stay in the cottage if it may be entered by ruffians at any time!” Georgie cried.
“You must come and live with us here. There is plenty of room, and you can have your old room back. We will be a proper family then. I cannot like you living out there on your own. It is not safe.”
Mr Hammond only laughed and shook his head. “That is extraordinarily kind of you, but there is absolutely no cause for alarm. Someone entered, wandered around with a candle, took nothing and then left. No harm done at all.”
“How do you know he had a candle?” Jamie said. “Did you see the light?”
“No, but I found candle wax dripped onto the Wyatt chart, so he had a look at that. Had to pull it out from under the Litherholms.”
“How long was he there for?” Jamie said thoughtfully.
“Not long… perhaps a quarter of an hour, all told.”
“So let me see if I have got this right,” Jamie said. “Someone walks in through the kitchen door, lights a candle, wanders through the downstairs rooms, lingers over the Wyatt chart long enough to drip wax on it, and then leaves, taking nothing… is that it?”
“In a nutshell.”
“Then what is so interesting about the Wyatts? And who knows you have that chart?”
“You think—? Well! The Wyatts are a pretty rackety family, according to the notes Joe Ingleton sent. A great deal of squabbling and disinheritances and changes of wills. Several younger members have simply disappeared, but the duke’s diaries have no bearing on that, of course. My interest is decades ago.”
“One of them was something big in government, as I recall.”
“In the Treasury, yes. Very instrumental in— well, never mind. I am sure Georgie will not be interested in all that. But I cannot see the significance, Jamie. Someone wandered in, had a good look round, idly examined the charts that were left out, then went away again. I cannot see that it is anything to get excited about.”
“Who knew about the new charts, Father? Joe Ingleton, obviously, but that is hardly relevant. Who else? You talked about it at dinner last night, after the ladies had left.”
“So you think the duke came out in the middle of the night to poke around my cottage, do you? Richard Merrington? Godley or Pyott?”
Jamie smiled. “Of course not, but the servants were there tidying up and putting out the port for a while, so—”
“Oh, now it is Froggett, is it? Stop it, Jamie.” He shook his head at his son, with an affectionate smile.
“I know you love to chase round looking for connections, like a dog on a faint scent, but truly, there is nothing to see here. Besides, I know you will not want to alarm Georgie on my account, especially given her delicate condition.”
“What do you know of that?” Georgie said, blushing. “Jamie, we agreed not to tell anyone yet.”
“We did and I have not. Father is merely fishing for information, which you have just provided,” he said ruefully.
“Oh. That was…”
“Underhanded of me?” Mr Hammond said, smiling at her.
“I know, but given the speed with which Mrs Richard Merrington and Mrs Simon Payne became enceinte, it seemed a not unreasonable guess. But you need not fear that I shall tell the world about it. Your secret is safe with me. I am very good at keeping secrets. Let us talk of other matters. Jamie, how are you getting on with your Italian letter?”
“Slowly,” Jamie said. “There are a few words I cannot make out at all, and even when I am sure of the words themselves, there is an oddity to the phrasing that I struggle with.”
“Mr Chamberlain lived in Italy,” Georgie said. “He could help you translate it.”
The two men laughed. “But I cannot ask him, since the letter is about his valet, Pendleton.”
“Oh! Not something to do with the duke, then? This is not an old letter?” she said.
“This is your husband chasing after another of those faint scents, my dear,” Mr Hammond said. “I am afraid you will have to get used to his flights of fancy.”
“Your black sheep theory?” she said. “You think Pendleton might be the connection to Mr Goodenough?”
“It is a possibility,” Jamie said. “Since the Chamberlains are such a boringly respectable family, I thought to try the valet instead. After all, he is certainly of gentry stock, not the sort of person who would end up as a valet. However, my friend in Florence has nothing to offer me but speculation. The rumour at the fencing school, since Pendleton is so skilled in the art, was that he had killed a man in a duel and fled abroad, but my friend adds that that is said of every impoverished Englishman without an obvious reason to be travelling. So I am no further forward.” Then, with a slight frown, he added, “How old would you say Pendleton is, Georgie?”
“When he arrived, he told Froggett he was two and thirty.”