1 (Part I)
26 April, 1926—
It is with a great hesitation that I put this down in writing. How is it that I, Albert Louis Charles Altham, Captain of the London Royal Fusiliers, seventh Marquess of Canterbury, suddenly find myself running out of money? And in the aftermath of a war, of all times? My obligatory two-and-a-half year tenure in the war wreaked apparent havoc on my estate. I returned home to find my staff all made redundant, my grounds growing wild, and my manor falling to pieces. I have been in the debt of many people for eight years now, and there is no apparent way to fix it. I was raised an aristocrat. My practical skills are few as well as lacking.
This is the manner I find myself in when my butler, Mitchell, knocks on my library door and looks in, his rheumy eyes blinking slowly. He is one of the few staff that stayed, possibly out of loyalty and nothing else.
“Milord, Lord Russell Margate is here to see you.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and stop my pacing. “Show him in, Mitchell.”
“Very good, milord.”
He goes out, the door creaking on its hinges, and at the sound of two sets of approaching footsteps I drop my hand to my side. Lord Margate – Russ – a fellow officer in the Fusiliers and the inheritor of a considerable family fortune, has only become more valuable to me as the years progressed away from the war.
“Thank you, Mr Mitchell, I believe I can take it from here,” he says from outside, and then enters alone. He has changed much since our years in the service, his flax-coloured hair once again in curls that fall over his forehead and his ears. I once likened him to Prince Albert, and to this day I couldn’t tell if he considered that a compliment or an insult.
“Hello, Russ,” I say as I wave him in.
“Looking as sullen as ever, Bertie,” he says in reply. “I wish you wouldn’t look so down all the time. I was going to invite you to the ball I'm hosting…ushering in the Season and that."
“You know I don’t do the Season, Russ,” I tell him frankly. “Theresa Olson ruined it for me.”
Russ claps my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I know she broke your heart, and it's truly terrible what she did to you. But there are new debs every year that have no idea. You must at least make an appearance. I can’t bear the thought of you you wasting away in this big empty house.”
“I’m not wasting away,” I say, noting my defensive tone. “But it seems I may soon be Marquess of Canterbury in name only.”
“We’ll figure something out soon, old boy, don’t fret.” Russ gives me a wink. “Together, like we’ve always been. And perhaps the Dowager Westcott will attend. Her granddaughter, Lady Daphne, is looking for a suitor. She has a considerable fortune, so the rumour goes.”
“You want me there?” I raise an eyebrow. “Won’t I be ‘sullen as ever’?”
“Come now, it’s all right. I was only teasing. Perhaps it will cheer you up.”
***
27 April—
I set off for Russ’s estate early. The invitation to his ball arrived with the evening post, the four days leading up to May Day — the official start of the Season — filled with shooting parties, social calls, and special luncheons. It all seems ridiculously dull and frivolous – not to mention tedious – after the war’s devastations, but perhaps it it will prove an effective distraction. Or I will see it as a blessing in disguise.
From my property to his, by car, it takes about an hour and forty-five minutes. In the days of horse-and-carriage, when my parents were alive, it would have taken nearly twice that. And even if Mother did not outlast the war, and the Spanish Flu took Father, I still would have landed in the same situation. They were probably rolling over in their graves by now, to see their once-great estate turned into a charity case.
Russ’s staff bids me a warm welcome. I know them almost as well as my own, and although we only saw each other for a woefully short eight months' time, I still feel a tug of longing for his head housemaid Imogen. In fact, I see her standing on the top step as Russ’s butler, Mr Nichols, greets me and gestures for the two footmen to fetch my cases.
“A pleasure as always, milord,” he says with a bow. “You will be staying in the Baroque Room again, I presume?”
“How did you guess, Nichols?” I give him one of my most friendly smiles.
“It was always your favourite, milord,” he says, nodding curtly. “Imogen spent all morning preparing it for you.”
“Tell her I owe her thanks.” As I enter I give him my coat and hat. I know exactly where to find Russ, and as soon as Nichols is gone, I start in the direction of the large drawing room off the foyer.
“Milord?” says a familiar woman’s voice as I pass the stairs, making me turn instantly on my heel. Imogen is there, her dark hair coiled back into a bun under her cap, and her blue eyes bright. Her lips, pink and shaped like a rosebud, are slightly parted. Unwillingly I remember how they feel against mine. She was perhaps my only indulgence after the war – forbidden and inviting. Briefly I entertain the idea of stealing her away tonight, to rekindle old feelings.
“Hello, Imogen,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral. “How is Russ–I mean...Lord Margate this morning?”
“Doing well, sir. Expecting you any minute.” Her cheeks flush, and her manner turns breathless.
“Very good.” I straighten my posture. “Splendid. I will go find him.”
“I can take you, milord, if you'd prefer.”
I want to let her. Anyone who meets her would say she is a bit overqualified for a housemaid position – she has the beauty, the manners, and the intelligence of someone far above her station. Had it been accepted by society, I would have asked her to be my wife in a heartbeat, and I have no doubt of what her answer would have been.
“I believe I can find him,” I say, although the disappointment and hurt that flits across her face makes guilt stab through me. “Thank you for the offer, Imogen.”
“Milord,” she says, bobbing her knees and averting her eyes.
I feel her watching me all the way down the corridor, and the urge to turn around and look at her, even fly back to her arms and steal a kiss, is almost overwhelming. I nearly do when I reach the drawing room doors, heavily carved and gilded things that must take two men to pull open. But instead I force it down and knock smartly three times. Russ would have a conniption if he knew of the feelings Imogen and I still harboured for one another. Although if I know him and his romantic tendencies, he would come around quickly and find excuses to leave the two of us alone together.
“Come in!” shouts his voice from inside, and at that I heave the door open, just a crack wide enough for me to slide through. He turns around from his place at the window, face cracking into a grin, his cigar smoke swirling around his hand as he waves me in. “Bertie! I thought I recognised your voice outside.”
“I'm glad it's so obvious,” I reply, although sometimes I wish it weren't. Things with Imogen might not have ended so abruptly that way.
“And I'm glad you made it so early. You're the first to arrive, which means we have some time to ourselves.”
“Were you planning something devious?” I say, surprised. I’d noticed the mischievous glint in his eye as he’d said that.
“No, but Lady Westcott eats like a horse, and Lords Ashford and Sittingbourne seem to think everything here is for their taking.” Russ curls his lip. “At least they are not coming until tomorrow.”
“I gather you refer to breakfast?” It seems a valid guess, considering Russ puts more thought into his food than anything else.
He smiles, one corner of his moustache curling up. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Call it a lucky first guess."
***
29 April—
Russ stays true to his word. I met Lady Westcott and her granddaughter, Lady Daphne, yesterday and it was difficult to believe they were related. The dowager was as old and wrinkled as a dried fig, her small beady eyes blinking at me and her lips pinched in so tight it appeared she was perpetually sucking on a lemon. The granddaughter, by contrast, was young and beautiful, sandy blonde hair in impeccable finger-waves and her brown eyes bright, expressive, and intelligent.
And to make things a bit more interesting, Russ does exactly what I expected him to and leaves the two of us alone at every opportunity. He takes her grandmother for long walks in the gardens, or helps her creaky joints up the stairs to her bedroom suite. And just now, a tour of the house. I can hear him droning on about his ancestor, the first Earl Margate, who was able to design and build this mansion with funds from the royal family themselves.
“So your friend,” says Lady Daphne as we walk down the path towards Russ’s expansive gardens, her hand in the crook of my elbow. “He seems eager to push us together."
“He believes I should get out in public more. Seek a wife."
“Funny you should mention that. Grandmama’s been nagging me about that same thing for months.”
I stop in my tracks to face her. “How important is it to her?”
Lady Daphne raises one eyebrow. “So important she mentions it to me every chance she gets. Why do you ask?”
“I was only noticing how similar Ru–Lord Margate is to your grandmother that way.” I kick at the gravel in the path.
She laughs. “Oh, Lord Canterbury, you’re a funny man. If they weren’t a generation apart, then perhaps you’d be right.”
“Now it seems we both know the real reason for our meeting, what do we do?” I wonder briefly how I would ever get along with anyone, especially because Margate’s assumption was that I would snatch up someone right away.
She blushes, leaning her head against my arm. “I know as much about it as you. Only...do you know the reason for my circumstances? It has frightened off many a suitor.”
“It seems I don’t, milady. I know very little about you, come to think of it.”
“Both my parents died in a car wreck when I was a babe. I don’t remember either of them. Grandmama has raised me ever since. She encourages me to do the Season rounds every year, even though I am six years past that point.” She sighs, and her brow furrows. “She believes I may never find a husband. Yet she doesn't seem to think that a reason for giving up."
“Well, perhaps you'll not have to look much further,” I say, with just the right amount of interest. Her story was certainly tragic, growing up a solitary orphan in a manor far too large. The old dowager couldn’t have been much company, silent and immobile as she is.
“Perhaps not,” she says, with a note of hope.
I wish I could break the old tradition of marrying someone to avoid financial ruin or social exile. Lady Daphne has everything desirable in a young lady of her standing. But I know, as many other men of the peerage do, that the Westcott fortune is substantial. The late Earl of Westcott had considerable investments in a successful shipping company and a large London-based bank. Of course, Lady Daphne was far too young to inherit anything when he died, and it passed to his mother. And it's clear she rules it with an iron fist.
***
1 May—
The morning of the ball is a hectic one. Russ has requested that his grand ballroom be prepared, and it took the servants the duration of our stay to do it. And yet, even with the arrival of more members of the peerage, I find myself not only wanting to spend time with Lady Daphne, but actively seeking her out. She is the only one I can stand at the moment.
“May I assume you do not have much tolerance for those people?” she asks me when I find her, sitting under a tree with a book – The Time Machine, H. G. Wells.
“If by that you mean I cannot spend more than twenty minutes in their company, then yes.”
“Twenty minutes?” She raises the same eyebrow. “That's very specific.”
“That's about the amount of time before I begin to think of excuses to get away.” The shooting party yesterday was a prime example — Lord Ashford fancied himself a dandy, and therefore went on a long rant about the mud on his boots, directed mostly at Russ. For his part, Russ took it all in stride, but I had no trouble in guessing exactly what he was thinking: During the war, men like us spent weeks covered with the stuff. And it wasn’t just on our boots, but on our clothes, in our hair, on our faces, even in our ears.
“I see.” She closes her book. “Good to see that you think me a better alternative.”
“I wanted to ask, milady, if you'd accompany me to the ball. I should think it would be fairly dull if we went by ourselves.”
A smile tugs at her lips. “I'd like that, yes.”
I take her hand, gently kissing her knuckles. “Then we shall see each other tonight.”
