Love & Folly (25 page)

Johnny whirled Jean round and they, too, slid to the end of the set. As she bobbed along, she gave
Maggie a quick grin and her twin's eyes sparkled. Maggie was clearly at ease. That was a little surprising.
Maggie was shy of strangers and the hail was filled with the worst kind--haughty matrons and gentlemen
with quizzing glasses primed to censure one's least slip.

The twins had been well coached. They knew the rules. They might not waltz until the
Patronesses approved their Ton. They mustn't dance with the same partner more than once. And so on.
Hedged about by rules. It occurred to Jean that knowing the rules--and knowing she knew them--had given
Maggie confidence.

Jean tried to tell herself that she found the strictures stifling, but the musick was gay and the
gowns brilliant and, if none of the gentlemen could hold a candle to Owen, their interest was flattering.
Presently Jean gave herself up to enjoyment of what Owen must surely consider mere tribal ritual.

Later, as the orchestra began a waltz and she and Maggie watched Clanross lead Elizabeth onto the
floor, Jean had leisure for reflection. She had promised Maggie she would enjoy their come-out. Maggie's
loyalty deserved no less. Compared to the ordeal of presentation, Almack's was tolerable. At least in the
Assembly Rooms one wasn't required to kiss the hand of the oppressor.

A plump gentleman who would be needing Colonel Falk's macassar oil in a few years brought her
lemonade. She smiled and thanked him politely. She had forgot his name. She dropped her fan. Another
gentleman leaped to retrieve it. She thanked him. Maggie was listening to a dandy in blue superfine and
starched shirt-points who was deprecating the quality of the work hung at this year's Royal Academy
exhibition. On the floor Clanross and Elizabeth dipped and whirled.

Vanity, of course. It was all vanity and would be swept away like spindrift in the coming gale.
Jean allowed a pitying smile to play upon her lips.

"Permit me to commend Mr. Holtby to you."

Jean bobbed a hasty curtsey to Lady Jersey. "Silence" rattled on. Jean and Maggie were to be
allowed to waltz, it seemed. Mr. Holtby was a bored-looking Corinthian who had been pointed out to Jean
as a notable exponent of the waltz. He was reputed to spend most of his time in the gaming rooms. Jean
supposed she ought to be flattered he had sought her out.

She said what was correct and allowed herself to be led onto the floor. Presently Maggie whirled
past in the embrace of the connoisseur of paintings. Was he Lady Jersey's son? Jean did not remember.
When she caught sight of her sister Anne among the chaperons, Anne smiled at her. They had been
approved.

Fresh from a walk in the park, Tom entered the bookroom to find his friend sprawled in a
wing-backed chair by the long table. He eyed Richard, surprised to find him back from the City so early. "Have
they settled with your lawyers?"

Richard nodded. "Settled and signed."

Tom sat down. "Did you give it all away?"

"Don't be daft. I tossed a few bones to the hounds, that's all."

"Hounds? Jackals, more like."

"Very well, jackals.".

"Tell me about it."

As Richard described the dispersal of the Duchess of Newsham's estate, Tom felt his indignation
swell. When his friend wound down, he said as calmly as he could, "You needn't have been so
generous."

Richard rose and walked to the window. "I kept more than half."

"Prudent of you. Does it occur to you, Richard, that you've contravened your mother's express
wishes? If she had meant to divide her properties among your brothers and sisters she would have done
so."

Richard turned. Back-lit by the brilliant midday sun, his face was a dark blur. "I declined to play
her game."

"Game?"

"I couldn't decide, you see, whether she meant to reward me or to punish them."

Tom drew a breath.

"They are my brothers and sisters, and they were her children. Apart from Sarah, I've no feeling
for them and no desire to know them. The thing is, I found I was taking too much pleasure watching them
squirm. So I decided not to play the role her grace cast me in."

"Avenging Angel?"

"Her Fool, more likely." Richard returned to his chair. "I never understood her motives. So I had
to consider my own."

"What of Newsham?" Tom burst out. Newsham, the eldest half brother, had persecuted
Richard.

Richard's lip curled. "The duke bribes easily. I settled a house in Bath on his daughters."

"Bath!" Tom spluttered.

"I can't imagine
my
daughters wallowing among valetudinarians, so I thought his might
as well. Sarah says the duchess was fond of Newsham's girls."

"Newsham is Newsham."

"Long may he rot," Richard agreed amiably. "Let it be, Tom. I'm satisfied."

"You may be, but what of Emily?"

"I shall purchase an estate for Emily where she may keep me in my accustomed style."

"You're moon-mad."

"I never felt saner."

"A common delusion of lunatics." There was no point in further protest. "Where do you mean to
take your family until the will is proved?"

"After our stay at Brecon?" Richard shrugged. "A larger house in Winchester perhaps. I go down
to Mayne Hall in the morning."

"Desertion! Elizabeth and the girls leave for Brecon tomorrow, too."

Richard smiled. "Not Dyott?"

"He'll ride with them as far as Lincoln. I believe his father has summoned him."

"Ah, the good dean. Probably doesn't want Johnny hanging about in a den of Radicals."

Tom cocked a snook at him. "Too late. I've already corrupted the boy's principles."

"Are your matched pair pleased with their social adventures?"

"Maggie is. I can't tell what Jean thinks these days. She affects boredom."

"Affects." Richard tasted the word. He was apt to side with the twins when Tom described their
peccadilloes.

"It's certainly possible to find Almack's dull--not my idea of amusement--but I'd swear Jean was
pleased with herself last evening. When she remembered to, she looked haughty but it was an unconvincing
performance.
Maggie
sparkled." Tom rose. "We're for the theatre tonight. Do you care to join
us?"

Richard shook his head. "The mail coach leaves at two."

"Morning dawns early these days."

"It's nearly midsummer night." He regarded the toes of his outstretched boots solemnly. "And I
can't decide whether I'm Theseus or Puck."

"Or Bottom the Ass?" Tom rejoined.

Richard laughed. "Very likely."

"Sir!"

Tom started.

Johnny Dyott stood in the doorway. "The queen's business has been deferred!"

Tom said slowly, "Has it, indeed?"

"I beg your pardon for bursting in on you, but I thought you might want to make
arrangements."

"For how long?"

"Perhaps forever!" Johnny blushed at the verbal extravagance. "A fortnight, at least. Wilberforce
means to negotiate a compromise. A handsome allowance if the queen will agree to the omission of her
name from the liturgy. They mean her to live retired. The House have voted not to open the bag."

The "bag" was a green diplomatic pouch containing evidence of the queen's misconduct a
commission of enquiry had gathered in 1817. Tom frowned. "If she's innocent, she'd be a fool to
agree."

"Still..."

"Still, I shall be able to go to Brecon, too. I'm obliged to you, Johnny. I feel like a schoolboy let
out on an unexpected holiday. Will you come on to us when you've seen your father?"

"If I may."

"Certainly. I'll work you like a dog."

Johnny grinned.

Tom turned to Richard, who had watched the interchange with lazy attention. "I'll see you off
tonight, Richard."

"After the theatre?"

"To be sure. I'll direct my coachman to keep the carriage poled up, so don't bother to summon a
hack. What inn? The Angel?"

Richard nodded.

"I'll share a noggin with you there before you go." Torn did not approve the settlement Richard
had agreed to, but he could see his friend was relieved. Time for a small celebration.

* * * *

"Thank you, I'll take it now." Johnny paid the porter he had hired to carry his traps up the steep
hill. Lincoln cathedral, its close tucked behind it, loomed over the bustling market town like a fortress, a
besieged bastion of the church militant. Johnny sometimes thought the clerical inhabitants had taken on a
siege mentality.

He drew a deep breath, gripped the handles of his valise, and walked toward the familiar close.
Apart from the bishop's palace, his father's house was the most imposing residence in the precinct, as his
father was the most imposing personage. Johnny hoped the dean would not reduce him to stammering
incoherence. That was what usually happened.

His mother's greeting was sufficiently subdued to tell him he was for it. Mrs. Dyott submitted to
her husband's judgement in all things as a matter of principle. She was a woman of principle and not
subdued by nature.

Johnny washed the dirt of the journey from his person and dressed in garments suitable to
bearding deans in their dens. His father meant to grant him an audience before dinner, and Johnny had no
desire to be cut down for slovenliness. He intended to enter the study well armoured.

By the appointed hour, his palms were sweating and his throat clogged. The butler announced
him and held the door open.

When the ceremony of greeting was over and the dean had permitted his son to sit, he took out a
paper and tapped it. Johnny recognised his own handwriting. "I should like an explanation of the meaning
of this...this outrageous defiance."

Johnny cleared his throat. Ha-hmmm. "Sir, it wasn't intended as defiance. Indeed, I'm grateful for
your, er, attention to my future."

The dean tugged at his hands and settled in behind his wide mahogany desk. "You have an odd
idea of gratitude."

"I cannot take Holy Orders, sir. As I writ in my letter, I have doubts and scruples a clergyman
ought not entertain."

The dean's lips pursed. "You subscribed to the Thirty-nine Articles when you went up to
Oxford."

"I didn't question them." Johnny had no wish to be trapped in a theological debate. His father was
a leading defender of dogma, impossible to best. "Merely I cannot see myself as incumbent of a parish. I
haven't the pastoral temperament."

"Temperament!" If so dignified a person could be said to snort, the dean snorted. "I have no
patience with such notions. You were bred for the church, sir, and we have already indulged your quirks of
'temperament.'"

That was an allusion to the ill-fated army commission. Johnny gritted his teeth.

"When you went up to Oxford, you meant to take your degree and enter the church. It was a
settled thing. I cannot ask Sir Edward Hollins to hold the living for you indefinitely. You will take orders,
settle into your parish, and do your duty."

Johnny steeled himself. He thought of Maggie and the article he had sent off to the
Quarterly
Review
. "No, sir, I will not. With all due respect."

"Respect!" The dean's rather red face darkened to purple. He launched into a denunciation that
took into account all of Johnny's shortcomings from the moment of his first word--"pudding"--to the latest
evidence of insubordination. The speech was laced with general comments on the depravity of the present
generation, and the likelihood of Judgement, both personal and global, sitting not far off.

The dean's words had a curious rehearsed quality. Perhaps he writ them out, Johnny reflected, as
he writ out his sermons. Johnny was surprised by his own detachment. It was as if the dean were describing
some other miscreant.

"Well, sir? Well? I am waiting on your word."

"I mean to pursue a political career," Johnny said politely.

The dean stared at him, goggle-eyed. "Then I wash my hands of you."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir."

"If you were sorry," the dean said majestically, "you would not persist in your ingratitude. Leave
me. I am not well."

Johnny went. He was trembling as he reached his room. He was not so innocent as to take the
dean literally and went down to dinner at the usual hour. It was an unpleasant meal. Prudence and Egeria,
his unmarried sisters, reproached him with their eyes. His mother uttered careful commonplaces. His father
ate in silence and retired to his study as soon as the covers were cleared, taking the port with him.

Johnny caught the coach to Earl's Brecon next morning. He had astonished himself by sleeping the
sleep of the just.

* * * *

"I cannot delay showing you this, Lady Jean;" Owen thrust a printed sheet into Jean's hands.
Maggie peered, too. They had been walking by the lake and now stood on the ornamental bridge.

"Anthem for the Ploughmen of England." Jean read the title aloud. "Oh, Owen, how splendid!
It's in print!"

Owen's mouth twisted. "Without my name." The poem was signed "A Patriot."

Jean was a little disappointed at that, though it was probably a wise precaution. Also, the
broadside printing did not please her. Owen's poem ought to have been bound in a tasteful pamphlet.

"It must be gratifying to see it in print, all the same," Maggie offered. "My
congratulations."

"Thank you. Lady Jean--"

Jean cocked her head.

"I've had a letter from Carrington."

Her stomach knotted. "I thought he said you couldn't trust the mail."

"It was delivered by messenger to my parents' house." A breeze lifted Owen's fair hair from his
brow. His eyes were intensely green. "He says he did not see you, that you gave the manuscript over to his
landlady."

Jean swallowed. "Well, yes. He was off with the rioters, and we had no time to wait."

Owen's eyes went dark with reproach. "You should not have shown it to anyone but
Carrington."

Jean bit her lip. "But I told you we were hard put to get away long enough to deliver it. If I hadn't
given the manuscript to that woman, it wouldn't have seen print at all. After the riot we were too narrowly
watched. And Maggie's head--"