Chapter 9 #3
His mother always stayed in the countess’s bedchamber.
He hadn’t previously given the matter much thought.
After all, she was accustomed to her role as mistress of his house.
Besides, the two rooms were separated by a small connecting space that served as a sort of wardrobe or washroom, and each room could be locked with a key.
For the first time since inheriting the earldom, however, it was driven home to him that she was occupying the room intended for whichever wife he chose—if he should take that irreversible step.
If he married, his mother would have to take the next-best room, and on a different floor.
That was an advantage worth thinking about.
But then, one couldn’t get riveted just to force one’s mother to occupy a room on a different floor of the house.
He penned a quick reply, franked it, and called for a servant to put it with the outgoing post. Then he cast about for what he might do that evening and settled on White’s. He had boxed yesterday and had ridden that morning in Hyde Park. An afternoon at the club wouldn’t go amiss.
When he arrived, there was no one he knew well enough to invite himself to their table. He was about to take a table by himself, but Thomas Crosby sat alone and glanced up, then gestured to the chair beside him.
“Pembroke. If you are not meeting anyone, why not join me? We might get up a rubber of piquet.”
“Very well.” Rowe could not help but think that this might be his chance to gain a more intimate glimpse into the life of an inveterate bachelor.
“I’ve come without any particular purpose in mind, so that suits me.
” He sat and looked about the comfortable room, wishing he could shake whatever this feeling of dissatisfaction was that had taken hold of him.
Crosby was in his late fifties and still in excellent shape, not shying away from any sporting endeavor despite his age.
He was also charming, as evidenced by the constant stream of inamoratas on his arm at social events.
His income exceeded eight thousand a year, it was said, and as he was not addicted to gambling, he more than lived within his means.
What was more to the point was that Crosby had succeeded in holding out against the pressure to give up his freedom and take a wife.
He called the servant over for a deck of piquet cards and counters, and Rowe ordered a glass of Burgundy.
“Not at Westminster today, I take it?” Crosby said as he shuffled the cards and dealt.
“No. I intend to follow the committee on turnpike roads out of Warwick as soon as they are formed. There is little else that interests me at present.”
“I held a seat for a year or two in my youth.”
Rowe looked at him curiously. It was hard to imagine Crosby exerting himself in such a way.
“Oh yes, you stare.” Crosby gave a careless grin and laid the talon of eight cards face down on the table. “Surprised are you?”
“I will not deny it.” Rowe looked down at his hand, thinking through the cards he would exchange. “I am more easily able to picture you at the club or races than Parliament.”
“I was young enough once to have all manner of ambition. It did not take me long to give it up, however, for it is a tiresome thing to exert oneself. All that toiling just to hand over one’s estate to someone else.” He swapped five of his cards, adding, “Now I live for my own pleasure.”
“And how do you find the lifestyle?” he asked, his eyes on the older man as he swapped his own cards from the talon. That was precisely what he wished to learn.
“I would not change it for the world.”
Rowe pretended to study his cards, but he was more interested in Crosby’s answer. “And your estate? Do you run it or leave it in the hands of your steward?”
Crosby laid down two tricks, taking his time to answer.
“I only get involved if I cannot avoid it. I consider myself fortunate in my choice of steward, for he has shown himself to be an honest and capable man. Truly,” he drawled, “I should only be getting in the way should I attempt to shove my nose in the estate’s affairs now. ”
“I see.” Rowe’s attention was only partially on the game.
He couldn’t imagine giving his steward complete control over his estate.
As much as he enjoyed the freedom that came from having an independent source of wealth and the time to enjoy it, he suspected he wouldn’t truly be happy if he didn’t put his hand to anything.
A man might give himself over to a life of pleasure fearing that the alternative was to toil fruitlessly, only to leave it for others to enjoy.
But the alternative was to live an empty existence and make no mark in the world—bring about no improvement.
So strong was his aversion to the notion, he actually shook his head as he lay down a card.
“Your trick, I believe,” Crosby said gently.
“Ah. So it is.” Rowe reached over to pull the trick toward him and force his mind back to the game.
But he could not stay wholly absorbed in it.
It was being borne upon him that his life, such as it was, was hollow.
At least to a degree. When he dared to examine the pleasure he felt while spending time with Miles’s family and the Rowlandsons, he was forced to conclude that a life of home and hearth had more appeal than he had always led himself to believe.