Chapter Fourteen
Trentham generally woke early, a habit ingrained in Canada in his Queen’s shilling days, where he’d been a lowly non-commissioned officer whose duties were more clerical than military.
He was up at sunrise even when he’d spent the better part of the night in a bottle, something he rarely did anymore.
But although he’d gone to bed last night dead sober, he found it difficult to rise and greet the morning.
It was time he should pay another call at the Barringtons’.
Never mind that he’d rather spend the day hiding under his bedclothes.
Once he arose, the only paths open to him were those leading to self-loathing.
But he’d committed to a path. Now, on with it.
He got up, slipped on his banyan, and trudged down the stairs. He grew aware of noise coming from the music room. Not noise. Eli never produced noise. But it was something funereal. He changed course and stomped toward the sound.
“For God’s sake, Eli, stop that racket. Do you imagine I like waking to a dirge?”
Without pause, Eli switched to a lighthearted sonata. But after a few measures, he stopped. And quietly swore.
“What is wrong?” Trentham asked.
“I’ve heard from the ambassador.” He drew the words out. Mournfully. “He has found a Prussian music master to replace me.”
That was not unanticipated. Eli was supposed to have reported for duty a month ago.
“I’d take that as good news. You didn’t want to go to Prussia.”
“No, but nor do I want to live on your charity.” His voice climbed an octave. “I need to work, Robin.”
“You need to not call me Robin.” Not a jest, though he expected Eli to treat it as one.
But the fellow didn’t respond at all, which was disturbing.
As was the fact that Eli had neglected his hair wax, and the usual poof of his Brutus was now a flattened clump on the top of his head.
“And don’t be ridiculous. You are not a charity case. You are a friend and a guest.”
“So I tell myself, while allowing you to house me and feed me for weeks on end. I daresay you would even clothe me if my jacket was threadbare.”
Trentham took note of Eli’s tone. Not melodramatic. Devoid of all the usual artist’s affectations. Eli was upset. Truly upset.
“If I did, it would not incommode me in the least. Eli, you know I have more money than Croesus. I have this palatial townhouse that echoes like a tomb when I am alone, which is always, now that Foster is at school oftener than he is at home. You are more than welcome to stay. To take up residence here if you wish it.” He paused, remembering Miss Delancey pointing out that he still looked after his old Harrow friend.
But he had good reason. Eli had stood by him when his world had fallen apart. Eli and Lynch. Without them…
“For my own self-respect, Trentham, I should go. It may cost you little to support me, but it costs me to let you.” Eli rose from the piano bench and began to pace. “To stay is an admission that I have failed.”
“Failed? You are renowned—”
“Was. I was renowned. But people are fickle. And my star is falling. You see it. Not so long ago, I filled concert halls. Now, I am easily replaced as a music tutor to two snot-nosed children.”
“Ah.” He searched for something reassuring to say. “You’re a brilliant pianist. That has not changed. Your star will rise again. And until then, London is filled with snot-nosed children whose mothers will leap at the chance to have you tutor them.”
“Yes.” Eli sighed. “But I weary of flattering mothers. And declining invitations to cuckold their hus—” He flushed. “Sorry.”
Trentham flicked his hand. “You’ll play at my wedding. And no doubt find yourself once again all the rage.”
Eli didn’t answer at once. Rather, he gave Trentham so long a look it nearly inspired a shudder. Then he said, “If it is a wedding to the Barrington child, I’ll play the dirge.”
He didn’t want to waste breath on a protest. Or to scold. Or to defend his choices to Eli. He was tired of defending them to himself. So he turned about and made for the door, muttering over his shoulder, “Do that. And you’ll never work again.” Not a threat. It was the truth.
*
A note awaited him at breakfast. Henson must have laid it beside his plate. From his sister. I’ve been detained in town again, so I’ve sent for Julia. It will be days before she arrives, so you needn’t come around until she does. She’ll be very pleased to see you. –Felicity
That might just be the oddest invitation he’d ever received. Come visit, but don’t come anytime soon.
It had been a week, perhaps a bit more, since he’d been to see her.
They’d talked mainly about his niece and nephews.
And Foster. Trentham had asked Felicity why she was still in London.
What kept detaining her. She’d merely shrugged and said, “George,” but offered nothing more, shaking her head when he’d asked if there was a new problem.
Gad! Trentham rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and took a gulp of tepid coffee.
They were all sunk in melancholy. Eli believed his days of glory had passed.
Felicity appeared to be imprisoned in a city she hated by a husband she despised.
Even Foster’s letters were sulky. His horse and pony were not getting along.
Trentham felt the boy blamed him for that.
Foster hadn’t been as thrilled as he should have been with the gift of a horse.
Then there was Lynch. His bill was going nowhere. Men tired of his haranguing were beginning to avoid him at White’s.
Of course, Dessie did not know the meaning of the word, melancholy.
So there was one who was not. And Miss Delancey?
None of his concern; except, if she was, had he made her so?
Not his concern. Lady Elizabeth? Hard to tell.
He didn’t know if she was morose in general, or only when he was in her drawing room.
As for himself?
He groaned aloud. It was difficult to be anything but melancholy. Not when he was in the process of making the second worst mistake of his life. And saw no way out.
*
Trentham did not pay a call at the Barringtons’.
He’d riffled through his brain and could come up with nothing new to say to the chit.
She didn’t banter. She was reputed to be intelligent, and he believed it, but when he tried speaking seriously to her, he sounded like a schoolmaster.
She didn’t want him wooing her. That was obvious.
He hoped it was not as obvious to her that he wished he wasn’t.
At any rate, he’d decided not to go courting today.
He had considered riding in Hyde Park, but it had rained during the night and more rain threatened.
So instead, he’d called for his curricle, avoiding all the fuss of his coach and driver and associated footmen, and went to Bond Street.
There was a music shop he favored—it was where he’d purchased Miss Delancey’s harp.
He thought he might buy some sheet music for Eli, if there was anything new, something to distract him from his anxiousness.
It wasn’t being kind. It was selfish. Eli in a grand pet was miserable to be around, and Trentham was wretched enough.
He maneuvered the curricle through the congested, muddy street, and squeezed into an empty place as near as possible to the music shop, then disembarked.
He handed the ribbons to the boy who rode at the back of the vehicle, his “tiger,” Will, who was both groom for the horses and ballast for the lightweight carriage. “I won’t be long.”
Will nodded, his face exaggeratedly straight, as though mimicking a butler. The lad tried so hard it was heart-touching.
Trentham’s gaze traveled the road. Bond Street.
Even now, he heard the echo of blood pounding in his ears, pounding from deadly mortification.
When he’d first returned to London, four years ago, he’d come here post-haste—his father, from his sickbed, had ordered him to reacquaint himself with a decent British tailor.
He’d walked along this very street only to find himself cut by everyone.
Ladies averted their eyes. Men he’d known, men whom he had once considered friends, walked past him with no acknowledgment, or turned their backs.
He’d been gone six years! He was home because his father was dying.
Yet, as if he were the only young idiot ever to commit a peccadillo, the ton could not grant him a soupcon of grace.
Except for Lynch. Lynch had made a point of inviting him to his home.
To his father’s home, rather, as it had been then.
To give the old earl his due, he’d never been unwelcoming.
But it was Lynch who had accompanied his outcast friend riding, insisted he join him in his box at the theater, even convinced him to come to White’s as his guest, time and again, and sat with him throughout the long evenings, issuing the unspoken challenge to their peers: Love me love my dog.
And Eli. He had been on tour on the Continent, but dropped everything to come to London and welcome the exile home.
Gilliam had led the opposition. That friendship was unsalvageable. The man was in India now. His sister Fanny, too, the last Trentham had heard. And Lord Stanley, her husband, was dead, of course.
With a forced inward shrug—the past could not be changed—he started toward the shop. Society had found it more difficult to snub him once he’d inherited the title. Plus, he had groveled. He was still groveling to the faction eagerly awaiting his next wrong move.