Chapter 10 #2
“I am nearing the end of my mourning period. A few quiet calls would be a welcome change. Good day, gentlemen.” Mamma turned, leaving only time enough for Isabel to bob a quick curtsy before following her mother.
Thankfully, Mamma secured the invitation that Isabel had not, and solved the problem of Lord Barlow.
Isabel could only hope to be half the lady her mother was when she reached that age.
Oh, to have the wisdom and the respect to handle such things easily.
Following his standard Sunday afternoon meal of cold chicken and fruit, Victor retired to his study to catch up on the foreign newspapers he had received that week.
He started with a newspaper from Edinburgh.
While not technically foreign, the news differed enough from London papers for him to keep a subscription.
Victor reread the headline. An earthquake in Scotland?
Inverness? There were no reports of deaths and only a few fallen stones from towers.
If he remembered correctly, Loch Ness lay south of the city.
Perhaps the legendary monster had grown restless.
Earthquakes in the British Isles were rare.
There surely could not be any merit in the idea that the world was ending, as the preacher in the Boston newspaper had claimed a few weeks ago.
Barlow wandered into the study and sat across from Victor. A sign his friend was in want of entertainment. “Anything of interest?”
“I have not read the society pages.”
“I did not think you had, but something has you scowling at that paper.”
“There was an earthquake in Inverness.”
“That cannot be true,” scoffed Barlow.
“I have little reason to doubt it. It is in two different papers, and both accounts agree on the time, four minutes before eleven o’clock.
Buildings collapsing, pandemonium in the streets.
No deaths or major injuries, thankfully.
I cannot imagine London making it through such an event so unscathed.
” How would their part of the country manage?
Most dwellings consisted of only a single story and an attic.
Would the ruins still stand? Likely not if a church tower had fallen in Inverness.
Barlow picked up a paper and read, his brows raised. “This one says women ran naked into the street. And here I am in the middle of England with not a tremor to be felt.”
Victor was not in the mood for Barlow’s childishness. “If things are too dull for you, you may leave. I am not holding you here.”
“I was not complaining. I forgot how refreshing it is to not have to show myself to an advantage all the time. All of those women and girls pressing on us after church were exhausting. Does that happen every week?”
“To me? No, I have neither the title nor visage to attract notice. Sir Lightwood pushed his daughters in my direction, but that has resolved itself.”
“I often wonder how such an odious man has such lovely daughters.” Barlow shook his head with a sigh.
“I understand they take after their late mother.” Victor opened the German paper. “The Earl of Whitstone has been fairly open in warning other fathers of his mistake of only considering the pedigree and not the man.”
Barlow grunted. “I have heard him say as much at White’s. It will be men like him that keep me from a suitable match.”
“You could work on changing your reputation,” said Victor dryly.
“It matters little that it has been some time since I did anything deserving of that reputation. The only way for a rake to lose his reputation is to settle into a monogamous marriage. I have yet to find someone with whom I share common interests. Most women, like your Miss Godderidge, have been warned away from me, and I am left with the Miss Eliza Simessons of the world.”
“Which is worse, the Sir Lightwoods, who want your fortune, or the Miss Simessons, who wish for your title?”
Barlow pulled out his snuffbox. “Honestly, there is little difference in what they are interested in as much as who is interested. The parents of reluctant daughters are much more difficult, as the young woman is more likely to be fragile and sheltered. I have no wish to be the man who breaks a girl’s heart or makes her a wallflower for life.
Turning her head to another is often the best I can do. ”
Victor set aside the paper he had been perusing as they spoke. “Are you playing matchmaker then?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“The society pages have alluded to a secret matchmaker whose pairings, and I quote, ‘stick better than those of a meddling mama’. Is it you?”
The sniff of snuff Barlow took must have hit wrong as he coughed. “Far be it for me to be a matchmaker. How would I even broker such a thing?”
Victor scoffed. There was no point in answering.
He’d seen Barlow manipulate things his way for years.
Was dropping the idea in some man’s head that Miss Smith would make a suitable wife any different from convincing a classmate to suggest class outdoors on a spring day?
Wait. Was this Barlow’s design with Miss Godderidge?
The laugh would be at Barlow’s expense. Victor had two years to observe the woman from afar, and that is where she would stay.
Victor picked up another paper. “The rain in Spain is flooding the plain.”
“And in Inverness, Edinburgh, and Elgin, earthquakes hardly ever happen. Is there any good news in all these papers?”
Victor picked up a London paper and pretended to open to a society page. “Oh my. A rake of no small repute has disappeared from society. However, all the women at the house party he attended were accounted for, and it is unlikely anyone will find him in Gretna Green.”
“You made that up. Well done, my friend.” Barlow laughed. “I shall leave you in peace. Enjoy your papers.”
As soon as his friend left, Victor picked up the Scottish paper again.
Barlow may tease him about doom and gloom, but something was very wrong with the world.
Did anyone else see it? An earthquake in the British Isles?
If the paper was to be believed a man could live a hundred years and never feel one.
If it had been here? Victor pictured a pile of rubble where the ruins stood.
The scene in his mind gave way to another pile in a crowded London street, smoke rising.
He closed his eyes to banish the latter to his imagination.
A footman entered the room and waited for Victor’s acknowledgment.
Once given, he spoke. “You asked to be notified of any incident at the ruins. The butcher’s seven-year-old son has broken his arm while playing with his brothers.”
“Thank you. Please let me know if there are changes in the boy’s condition.”
A third injury in two years, beyond scrapes and bruises… At least it wasn’t a head wound. The ruins were dangerous. Where did his responsibility to the community lie? He could not protect them from famine because of failed crops, but he could protect them from injury at the ruins.