“And Mr. Grey?” Lizzy persisted. “How did he appear?”

Neddie eased himself onto one of the drawing-room's uncomfortable gilt chairs with a grimace. “We were denied the pleasure of meeting Mr. Grey, my dear.”

“You have no pity on my poor nerves,” Lizzy scolded him crossly. “Jane and I have exhausted nearly every occupation open to a woman this morning — needlework, novel-reading, and the sketching of a quantity of children”—in this, she exaggerated a little, given the indolence of our employment in the temple—“in feverish expectation of your return. I am sure that Jane wore out her pen entirely in her repeated efforts to sharpen it; and yet she cannot have composed more than two sentences together, in the entire course of the morning! You are unspeakably cruel to serve us out in this manner. Mr. Grey, fail to attend his wife's funeral! Impossible, Neddie! Impossible!”

“Improbable, perhaps — unpardonable, even; but impossible? Not at all. The Larches' housekeeper — an excellent woman, one Mrs. Bastable, and a deft hand at blood pudding, as Henry may attest — informed us directly we arrived that the master was called to Town in the early hours of morning. He is expected at home this evening, however — so your visit of condolence cannot be put off.”

“How extraordinary!” Lizzy exclaimed. Her countenance was less composed than I had ever had occasion to remark it. “To ride into Town, when one's wife is as yet unburied, and without the slightest regard for public opinion!”

“We can know nothing of Mr. Grey's regard for public opinion,” Neddie objected. “It might be quite strenuously excited by his demonstration of poor taste. Indeed, his concern for the feelings of his neighbours on this point might even deprive him of sleep. You should not judge harshly, Lizzy, without a full knowledge of the particulars.”

“Excuse me, my dear, but I know exactly how I may judge,” Lizzy rejoined tardy. “Such nice distinctions between intention and action, belong solely to the province of the Justice, who must stand above reproach. His wife may indulge all the force of prejudice, and declare Mr. Grey an unfeeling brute.”

“Did his housekeeper confide the reason for this sudden journey?” I enquired.

“According to Mrs. Bastable, the master received an express from Town just before dawn, presumably on a matter of business. His journey necessarily resulted from it. To suppose more than this, would be sheer conjecture.”

“A pressing matter of business, then, to prevent his attending his wife's funeral. I should imagine it the sort of summons that might not be denied — from a person whose powers must command even Grey.”

“There can be very few of those,” Henry remarked. “A summons from Prime Minister Pitt himself, perhaps? — Who requires another loan to fund the ambitions of Lord Nelson and our brother?”

“Perhaps we should peruse the London papers,” I suggested with a smile, “and find in their subtle hints the reason for so much haste. The Comte, I suppose, was in evidence?”

“He might have been the bereaved husband himself, for all his display of anguish,” Neddie replied.

“You thought him insincere?”

“No, Jane — merely less restrained than an Englishman might be. His grief bore every appearance of arising from the deepest sense of loss. He accepted the sympathies of the assembled mourners with becoming grace, and begged us all to take some refreshment in the house, when once the service was over.”

“He took nothing himself, however,” Henry supplied, “and said even less.”

“Did you press him, Neddie, on the subject of Mr. Grey's flight?”

“I did not,” my brother replied, “but the Comte suggested freely that he thought Grey's absence arose not from a matter of business, but from a persistent disregard for what was due to his wife — a distaste for the scandal her death had caused — and a general desire to place events behind him.”

“The Comte will return very soon to France, I suppose.”

“If Grey's wishes are consulted, I am sure the fellow would presently be at the ends of the earth! Not even Grey, however, may entirely control the disposition of forces. A fleet action in the Channel may forestall the departure of his unwelcome guest; and then we may observe how the two chessmen play.”

“Provided the one does not place the other in check,” I observed — and ran away to dress.

Chapter 13

Talking Politics to a Lady

Friday, 23 August 1805,

very late in the evening

WE ARE ONLY JUST RETURNED FROM OUR VISIT TO Eastwell Park, and tho' it is nearly midnight now, my head is so filled with all that I have seen and heard, that I cannot sleep without setting down a few words in my little book. A roving owl calls spectrally through the darkness while the rest of the great house falls silent; monstrous shapes, born of my candle-flame, dance against the yellow walls. The maid, stifling a gape, has undone my best dinner gown and brushed out my hair. She is gone thankfully now to her bed under the airless rafters, while I sit at the dressing table in only my shift, desperate for a breeze that never comes. Another midnight I should be overwhelmed with loneliness, and dwell upon the follies of my past. But a circle of faces presently whirls before my eyes, caught in a shaft of memory; best to capture something of their outline, before it is dulled with sleep.

It was a large and stimulating party — for in addition to Mr. Finch-Hatton, Lady Elizabeth, and their five children (two of them very engaging little boys), we were treated to all the Finch-Hatton relations. This included the Miss Finches, Anne and Mary, both unmarried and as voluble as Lady Elizabeth is silent; Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton, the younger brother; and Harriet, Lady Gordon, the one Finch sister so fortunate as to achieve the wedded state.[35] Her husband, Sir Janison, I liked too little to cultivate; his manner was haughty, as befits a baronet, and he gave way to the temptation to sneer at the foolishness of the Miss Finches more than once. I cannot love a man who despises a spinster.

Of Mr. Emilious Finch-Hatton, however, I formed a better opinion. I was so fortunate as to be seated next to him at dinner, and found him a stimulating companion — but more on that point later.[36]

In addition to our two families, there remained a pair of bachelors: Mr. Thomas Brett, an attorney with expectations of a prettyish estate near Wye, called Spring Grove, whom I believe to be sadly in the thrall of Miss Louisa Finch-Hatton; and the remarkable Mr. Julian Sothey.

Tho' we had journeyed the four miles towards Ash-ford in expectation of a meeting with the Gendeman Improver, it was in fact several hours before he was introduced to the ladies' attention. Upon our arrival at Eastwell just after two o'clock, Lizzy and I were immediately conveyed to a pleasantly airy saloon, with French windows surmounted by an Egyptian frieze, done in quite an extraordinary plasterwork — as tho' Robert Adam had witnessed the excesses of Napoleon's campaign, and thought to reproduce all of Alexandria in a single room. The saloon's prospect gave out onto the garden, which my brothers were rapidly traversing in company with the male Finch-Hattons. They were bound for the stables and a pony-trap, in which they intended to tour the park.

Lady Elizabeth and her eldest daughter were reclining indolently on a pair of sofas, apparently overcome by the oppressive weather and the vexation of dressing for dinner; it was not in their power to rise at our entrance. The Miss Finches, in their neat, spare fashion, were industriously at work upon an extensive fringe, apparently divided between them; little George and Daniel were engaged in playing at spillikins, while Lady Gordon read aloud from a novel. (It was, alas, The Sorrows of Young Werther; and perhaps my countenance fell upon perceiving it, for the excellent woman set aside the volume directly we were announced.)