Page 5 of The Viscount's Pearl
“Ah! On the marriage mart at last!” exclaimed Lord Ludlow. “I shall be sure to let the gossip-mongers know, they’ll have your name around town in a moment. You’ll have a queue of mamas standing outside Albany with their daughters in tow ready to make you fall in love.”
Laurence waved them away. “No need for any of that romantic nonsense. All I need is a sensible woman who knows how to run a household and is fond of children.”
“Romantic nonsense? Are you dead set against a love match then?”
“I don’t see the value of them,” said Laurence as they beganwalking back across the fields towards Lord Ludlow’s shooting lodge. “Falling in love with someone doesn’t mean they’re suited to you, it just means you think they’re a pretty face.”
Lord Beauchamp grimaced. “I don’t think you’ve ever been in love, Mowatt,” he said. “You wouldn’t dismiss it so easily if you had.”
Laurence shrugged. “Maybe not,” he said. “But why wait about for love? The woman I marry will have to run the households of two large estates and keep our family line going more abundantly than my parents. One son doesn’t really secure the family line, now, does it? Look at my uncle. Never married, no children. When he dies everything will go to me, his sister’s only son. And it’s only because he’s titled that his name will keep going. There’s a lot to be said for a practical approach to marriage.”
“And a lot to be said for married ladies who are disappointed with their practical husbands and enjoy sporting with a young rake, eh?” said Lord Ludlow. “Come on, I’m famished.”
A week later, the hunting season completed and the first days of September now upon him, Laurence returned to London and his set in Albany. The imposing building contained sixty-nine apartments for young, rich, well-connected gentlemen who did not choose to reside with their families, preferring the conveniences of being close to the clubs and shops of St James. They were also, should they be required to attend Parliament, not far away from that hallowed building. It was rumoured that Lord Byron himself was about to take an Albany lease, no doubt making the address even more desirable to the young men who wished to be seen as stylish rakes about town. Women and children were absolutely forbidden from residing, and no ladyof quality, married or unmarried, would have risked visiting, in case rumours should spread about her.
Making his way down Rope Walk, up the stairs to his set and opening the door, Laurence looked about in satisfaction at the ample hallway. At the front of the building were a comfortably large dining room and drawing room for entertaining, while the three rooms behind were made up of his bedroom, a study and a small kitchen-pantry where his manservant Roberts could rustle up simple repasts, from cakes and coffee in the morning to carved ham, a tasty pickle and fresh bread at midday. Laurence was rarely at home in the evenings, but when he was Roberts would arrange for anything from an amply filled pie to a more elaborate repast should Laurence have friends to dine. A soup, oysters, roast pheasant with boiled potatoes and fried artichokes sent up by the nearest cookhouse, followed by a damson tart and a plate of sweet oranges and macaroons from the pastrymakers, all accompanied by fine wines and an enjoyable port, was all that was needed. Roberts was a good fellow, who kept the wine and coal cellars well stocked and arranged for cleaning and laundry to be done. His sleeping quarters were in the attics, where all the servants for the sets had rooms provided as part of the lease. He could be relied on for discretion when the occasional outraged husband appeared demanding to know Laurence’s whereabouts. Roberts’ look of injured innocence on behalf of his master had spared Laurence at least one threatened duel.
The set was comfortable and well appointed, although Laurence did occasionally smile to himself when he drove through Grosvenor Square and saw the house that would one day be his. Lord Barrington’s wealth was considerable and he was known for his appreciation of fine things, from houses to the statues and art collected within them. There was not only the Grosvenor Square townhouse but the main estate, AshlandManor, in Surrey, not to mention Northdown House in Margate, which itself would not have disgraced any peer as their home.
“Welcome home, Sir,” said Roberts. “I hope the shooting party was pleasant.”
Usually Roberts travelled with him, but on this brief trip Laurence had simply made use of Ludlow’s extensive staff to valet him.
“Hello Roberts,” replied Laurence. “We had excellent sport at Ludlow’s, but it’s always pleasant to be back in town.”
“Will you be dining in, Sir?”
“Yes, I shall need some decent sleep after the journey here. You can bring a drink and the post to my study and then I’ll dine early.”
“Very good, Sir.”
The tray with his post on was piled high. He selected the first letter from the top of the pile and opened it, casting an eye over the contents, then dropping it onto another tray, a reminder to himself to answer in the affirmative to an invitation to the Halesworth ball. As he slowly opened one missive after another, so his social commitments piled up. Despite the Little Season having barely started, with many families still arriving in London from their country estates, Laurence found he was already in demand. There were the first balls of the season, new plays and operas opening, a few dinners and, making the best of the still-clement weather, picnics and walks in Vauxhall’s Pleasure Gardens all being offered up for his delectation. Most of the invitations came from respectable sources; the mamas of thetonpreparing their strategies for the battlefield ahead. These were obvious because of the additional notes added to the invitation cards, oh-so-subtly mentioning that their dear Caroline… Anne… Beatrice… Lydia was coming out this season and therefore they were delighted to invite him to a ball or dinner in her honour. The mamas whose daughters had not beenso fortunate as to snare a proposal in their very first season were more circumspect, only mentioning that they would be pleased to see him at whatever social occasion they were hosting. A few were familiar to him from last season or even (horror) the one before. He could recall their daughters and what it was about them that had been off-putting: too noisy, an irritating laugh, too tall, lacking any real accomplishments yet determined to show them off anyway… the list went on. Their mamas would have regrouped, found new milliners and singing or dancing instructors, ready for the fray of a new season. Good luck to them.
The invitations that drew his interest were different. These consisted of a calling card, often scented with a memorable perfume, and a brief note to the effect that Lady so-and-so was very much looking forward to visiting the theatre or opera, or perhaps a new art gallery or concert and that she would ‘value his company’. One from Lady Kingsman brought a smile to his lips, while another from Lady Selkirk occasioned a raised eyebrow.
Married women were Laurence’s pastime, for they had many advantages over escorting the young women on the marriage mart. To begin with, they were respectable. Married to boring men who paid them little attention, often having already produced an heir and a few spares, they were now free to conduct themselves as they wished, so long as they were able to maintain a veneer of propriety. They were often more interesting, for they had lived longer and experienced some of the ways of the world, and therefore were better conversationalists and generally better social company than the wide-eyed simpering girls thrust in his face every season. Aged seventeen or eighteen, these girls were still excited by the very idea of a ball, no matter how poorly hosted and had barely any conversation to offer other than to nod earnestly at anything hemight say, no matter how ridiculous, and to mention whenever possible their supposed accomplishments. A kiss on the hand left them blushing and certain of an imminent proposal. Whereas the married ladies, ah, they were a very different matter. They had experienced enough boredom in the bedroom with their husbands to be open to anything and everything that Laurence might care to suggest trying between or even out of the sheets, were more ladylike and cleaner than the so-called ladies of even the finest brothels London could offer and, above all, were extremely discreet. An affair with such a lady could last for anything from one delightful night to several pleasurable months, then be terminated with very little fuss or resentment, both parties wishing the other well. Indeed, quite a few of Laurence’s latest amusements had apparently been ‘advised’ by their friends that Laurence was well worth their time and attention.
But Laurence would soon need a wife to run his households and raise their children who would be the sons and daughters of a viscount and viscountess. He had a possible candidate in mind, perhaps he should have a word with her this season, just to sound her out and see if she might be agreeable to the notion. Lady Honora Fortescue was an heiress in her own right and a practical, cheerful sort of young woman, one who would fully understand what was expected of her. He did not personally find her particularly attractive, but she was handsome enough and after all, he was not looking for love, but for a wife. Love was one of those irrational emotions that foolish young girls and the lower orders aspired to, the stuff of plays and songs as well as the tediously sentimental poetry which young women were forever quoting with hopeful glances in his direction. No, what was wanted was affection and respect, which would enhance any appropriate marriage, and he felt both of these for Lady Honora. He respected her practical nature and excellent breeding andhad warmed to her ever since she had once stopped a hack driver who was passing and pointed out to him that his horse was limping, probably from a stone lodged in its foot. The man, who clearly had little care for his horse, had shrugged and said he would see to it when he had finished work, whereupon Lady Honora had produced a hoof pick from her reticule, lifted up the horse’s foot and seen to the matter herself before she would allow him to drive any further. The combination of a kind heart, a commanding air and a practical solution had greatly endeared her to Laurence, and she had, ever since, been at the top of his list of possible future brides. From passing comments she had made at various events he was fairly certain that she was not one of these girls who pined for a love match, rather she was sensible enough to weigh up her options carefully and then choose someone suitable. And he, Laurence, was eminently suitable. He was not yet titled, but he would be one day and therefore Lady Honora, daughter of a marquis, would not be marrying down too much to make the match unlikely, and would anyway enjoy the same level of wealth she had been raised with, for the wealth of the Mowatts, once combined with the Barrington estate, would be considerable. Yes, he should speak to her this season, he resolved. He could tell Uncle Barrington about it beforehand, he would probably be pleased to hear that his heir was thinking of settling down. Perhaps, he mused, they might even get married next spring, there was no reason why not and then a child or two could be born before the old man died, giving him some pleasure in his later years and the knowledge that his name and legacy would live on. Laurence had already planned to change his name to Barrington when the time came, to honour his benefactor. And speak of the devil, here was a letter in his uncle’s distinctive writing, all flourishes and loops.
My dear Laurence,
The last warm weeks of the year find me in my beloved Margate, enjoying the sea air and bathing, both of which have always cheered my spirits and improved my ailing health. My days pass well enough here, but my evenings find me sadly at a loss for good conversation and companionship, for the Assembly Rooms and the society here have never been much to my liking, in part owing to my infirmity. Will you do me the kindness of joining me at Northdown House for a few weeks? It has been too long since your dear mama’s passing, and I still miss her greatly. It would bring me pleasure to see her again reflected in your visage, for you were always extraordinarily like her to look upon. And as Northdown House will one day be yours, I should like my loyal staff here to look upon you as much the master of the house as I am and grow to know your ways such that they might serve you well when I am gone, which cannot be long now. London will be keeping you busy, I know, but as the great philosopher Socrates warned us, we must beware the barrenness of a busy life.
Believe me, your affectionate Uncle,
Barrington
It was just like Uncle Barrington, thought Laurence with a wry smile, to pull upon the heartstrings, both in reminding him of the closeness he and his mother had shared, as well as the fact that he was Uncle Barrington’s heir and therefore duty bound to behave to him as a son might to his father. He had written plenty of letters to Laurence since his mother’s passing, always with the reminder that he was welcome to visit him at any time, but he had never requested his presence so forcefully and so Laurence had neglected the old man, even though he was fond of him. It was just that…
Laurence took a gulp of his drink. His mother had died over three years ago now, but the thought of her absence still brought a leaden feeling to his stomach. In the past there had been many merry visits with her to visit Uncle Barrington but now, without her, he dreaded a visit which would only remind him again of her absence. During her lifetime he had eschewed the lure of London, preferring time on his family’s estate, enjoying the warm embrace of his family and their small but intimate social circle, all of whom he had known since he was a boy. Oh, he had gone to London, of course, and enjoyed the balls and dinners and the young ladies, but he had also been happy hunting with his father, escorting his younger sisters about the countryside to their various social engagements and his mother on regular visits to Uncle Barrington, her favourite brother, either in Surrey or Margate. But since his mother had gone, he had found their family home too quiet and empty without her vital presence, and had eventually taken out a lease on his set in Albany, spending more and more time with his friends, at his club or out and about. The married women had given him an education in the bedchamber and then become both a safe outlet for any desires and an always agreeable way to pass the time without much required of him in return.
Still, he must steel himself to visit, even though it would remind him of his loss. He owed the old fellow a visit, indeed he had neglected his duty to him somewhat. A visit to Margate for a couple of weeks would put that right and cheer the old man’s spirits. It was the least he could do. He would spend an evening with Lady Kingsman, an old favourite, and then make his way to Margate by carriage. He had never been fond of the option of a sea voyage there from London, for although the captains promised every comfort and smooth waters, his experience had been that plenty of people grew nauseous on board and both the sound and the smell of the afflicted passengers made the journeyunpleasant. No, he would travel post and bear the tedious eight hours or so, after all, based on previous experience he might need some sleep after a night with Lady Kingsman. At least once in Margate his uncle kept both a carriage as well as a fine riding horse named Hippomenes whom Laurence enjoyed riding. Roberts would accompany him, and the dutiful visit would pass soon enough.
“Roberts!”
“Sir?”
“Tomorrow I will make a few calls and take Lady Kingsman to the theatre in the evening. The next day we travel to Margate to visit Lord Barrington. We will probably be gone for a couple of weeks. Pack accordingly and make all necessary arrangements.”
