Chapter 4 #2
While I didn’t know all the details, I was aware that George had been born with mental complications, including the falling sickness.
But contrary to most noble families, who sent relatives with such ailments to institutions, George had always been cared for at home.
Having intimate experience with the barbaric treatment of patients at some of these types of asylums, I felt myself disposed toward Melbourne and his late wife for protecting their son, no matter the other scandals that lay in their pasts.
As if intuiting my thoughts, Melbourne ruminated, “Children are precious creatures, are they not, my lady?”
“They are,” I agreed, recalling then that Melbourne and his wife had lost numerous children to miscarriage, stillbirth, and premature death. It was a heartbreaking reality for many. One I couldn’t help but fear facing someday myself.
I’d believed our conversation to be too low to be overheard, but I was wrong.
“Right you are,” Mrs. Birnam declared with a decisive nod of her head across the table. “Such a blessing, children are.”
“Aye, but if they’ve no’ the wages from the factories to fill their bellies, then how are we tae care for ’em,” Mr. Birnam interjected. “Many o’ their families rely on it tae help feed the younger ones.”
I frowned, both repelled by Birnam’s arguments and the exploitive system it laid bare, and exasperated by his refusal to be swayed from the topic.
His chief tactic seemed to be to wear down his opponents with pure obstinance.
In such instances, it seemed the only recourse was to meet rudeness with rudeness.
And fortunately, Gage’s cousin Alfie was up to the task.
“So dull,” he groused after heaving a loud sigh.
“We heard you both the first and fifth time. We’ve grown tired of that topic, old chap.
” He flashed a grin meant to disarm. “I would much rather hear the latest gossip from London,” he told Lady Lyndhurst and Lady Brougham, before turning to Lord Gage on his left.
“Or barring that, hear what our host has planned for us over the next few days.”
I could tell from the glint in my father-in-law’s eyes that, while he didn’t normally countenance Alfie’s irreverence, he’d rather enjoyed his setdown of Birnam. But that didn’t stop him from scowling at Jemmy on his other side when he tittered into his glass.
“Tomorrow, I thought we’d take a ride about the estate before doing a bit of fishing on the River Arrow,” Lord Gage proclaimed, and his gaze swept around the table before returning to me.
“Where, I believe, the ladies—and anyone who prefers to ride in the carriages—intend to join us for a picnic.” He peered at me almost in challenge, causing me to stumble over my response.
“Er, yes. Then, in the afternoon, some archery, for those inclined.”
Many at the table murmured their eagerness as the next course of pike in meunière sauce with lemon and parsley was laid before them. I was pleased our plans met with most of their approval.
“Weel, noo, that sounds like a fine activity for the ladies,” Mr. Birnam remarked as he lifted his fork and knife. “Though I warn ye. My Matilda is quite the keen shot.”
She blushed prettily at the compliment, and Trevor’s face brightened upon seeing her happiness.
“Though Miss Whitlock is also a dab hand.”
He seemed oblivious to the effect of this offhanded remark as he dove into his fish.
The table quieted in discomfort and Mrs. Birnam’s smile turned brittle.
Matilda’s expression grew taut, and her gaze dropped to her plate.
Trevor’s hand lifted as if to reach across the table toward where she sat at an angle from him, only to realize that such a move would be both impractical and indecorous.
However, Miss Whitlock’s response proved the most arresting, for she had suddenly stiffened as if turning into a block of ice.
I recognized this for what it was—an attempt to mask any and all of her emotions.
For there was no single correct response to her employer’s remark.
Each of the conceivable reactions she might exhibit would draw criticism from someone.
I perceived this because it was what I had so often attempted to do.
And what had so often earned me disapproval anyway because I’d failed to display proper feeling.
It certainly didn’t shield me from snide remarks, just as it didn’t shield Miss Whitlock.
“It seems Miss Whitlock is a ‘dab hand’ at many things,” Mr. Thorndike, Lord Gage’s secretary, quipped in a voice that wasn’t loud enough to carry to the ends of the table, but that Miss Whitlock two seats over undeniably heard.
Her shoulders tensed, but otherwise her gaze remained trained on her plate.
This gave everyone sitting near the center of the table ample time to scrutinize her and draw their own—possibly wrong—conclusions. Having been subjected to similar looks all of my life, I refused to allow it to last for long.
“Lord Milngavie,” I stated, leaping at the first person I saw to Miss Whitlock’s left.
This was said perhaps a trifle too loudly, for he startled at the pronouncement, though it did at least divert his narrow-eyed gaze from Miss Whitlock’s profile.
“I understand that both you and Lord Strathblane…” I nodded to the white-haired gentleman farther down the table “…boast estates north of Glasgow. Have you had occasion to make Mr. Birnam’s acquaintance before? ”
Mr. Birnam might have recently acquired Twizel Hall in the Borders, bringing him into contact with Trevor, but he also owned a lavish town house in Glasgow where many of his manufacturing businesses were located.
Cotton mills and linen mills, and factories which manufactured products useful to both, such as bleach and oil of vitriol used for dying. They were how he’d made his fortune.
“No. I can’t say I’ve had that pleasure,” Lord Milngavie answered with what could only be termed strained politeness, carefully enunciating each of his words as a proper British nobleman.
My brother-in-law, Philip, the Earl of Cromarty, also adopted a formal tongue, all but losing his Scottish Highland accent whenever he was among society.
But while Philip’s sounded natural, Milngavie’s seemed purposely attuned to point out the differences between him and Mr. Birnam.
“But the estate hasn’t been mine for long. ”
Lord Strathblane—perhaps because of his age—was less affected, merging his Scottish roots and proper British tones. “Aye, and we met…at the St. Enoch’s Church benefit, wasn’t it?”
“And the opening of the Royal Exchange,” Mrs. Birnam supplied helpfully.
Lord Strathblane nodded. “Aye.”
Mr. Birnam appeared on the verge of launching into another verbal attack on the upcoming legislation, so I hastened to continue the conversation. “What of Lady Bearsden?” The estimable lady was my dear friend Charlotte’s great-aunt, and an incorrigible delight. “You must be near neighbors.”
“Indeed,” Strathblane agreed after dabbing sauce from his lips. “An excellent woman,” he added with relish as he reached for his glass. “Such wit.”
“She’ll be joining us on Saturday.”
“Jolly good. Why, when I think of all the house parties we’ve both attended down the years…” He broke off, chuckling to himself. “Yes, her ladyship is always up for a spot of fun. Jolly good, indeed.”
I could only guess at the past fun he was alluding to, for I’d already heard stories aplenty about Lady Bearsden’s younger days. She possessed an impish streak, and it was nearly impossible to shock her.
I glanced at Lord Milngavie, but he didn’t seem to have anything to add to Strathblane’s remarks about their neighbor.
Perhaps he was not conversant with her. There was an age difference between him and her ladyship of about forty years, if I recalled correctly, and, as Milngavie had alluded to, he’d only recently ascended to his title.
It had been quite unexpected, at that. For he’d inherited from a distant cousin.
One of those sad instances when all the relatives closer to the line had passed without producing an heir.
Milngavie had sat rigidly through the earl’s and my exchange, rather like a schoolboy waiting to be dismissed.
Turning away, I released him from the conversation and watched out of the corner of my eye as he lifted his utensils to resume eating.
This, as much as anything, was an indication he’d not been raised amid the world of careless competence that noblemen inhabited.
He’d likely come from a less genteel background, probably the professional class of physicians and solicitors and such.
I wasn’t the only one taking note of him.
Miss Whitlock also appeared to be observing her neighbor peripherally, her brow puckered in speculation.
What concerned her, I couldn’t tell, unless she recognized in him a person of similar upbringing.
Lord Milngavie, undoubtedly, had expected to work most of his life for his keep.
I was curious what he’d been trained in, though I knew that to ask him outright would be considered impertinent.
No matter. Someone at this table would know.
As I considered who was most likely to possess such information, Miss Whitlock suddenly shifted her consideration to me.
I met her gaze openly, waiting for her to speak.
For there was something in her eyes, a hint of an emotion I struggled to name.
Uncertainty? Apprehension? But she merely offered me a reserved smile before turning back to her food.