Page 9 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
The creeping sense of anxiety and melancholy that had been dogging me at the Hall receded, and my interest in MacNamara’s problem caught hold.
We had a motive, or a possible motive. An ancient treasure added possibilities both intriguing and alarming to the options before us.
Hyperia and I mapped out a busy plan for the coming day—call upon the Caldicott solicitors and call upon the parish authorities who’d been responsible for Atticus and his brother. Call upon Lady Ophelia, who was in Town apparently, rather than ruralizing.
I resented the entire agenda, but for the fact that Hyperia would attend to it with me. Perhaps the malaise creeping over me at the Hall had been nothing more than a symptom of separation from Hyperia, and that at least was easily remedied.
“These matters are always shrouded in innuendo and indirection, my lord, but our figures tend to be reliable.” Mr. Postlethwaite passed a tidily written list of names across the polished mahogany table.
Down the left margin marched all the diamonds and heiresses, infantry in full evening parade dress.
Lady Julianna Pottinger (￡3,700 per annum, 2,500 acres, Gloucestershire) – Daughter to Earl Pevensy, mat. grandsire Marquess of Owings. Comely, accomplished in all the domestic arts, said to favor hill walking and is partial to irises. Fond of reading novels.
Lady Sophia Hillmont (￡6,000 per annum, 4,200 acres, incl. two islands, Kirkcudbright) – Daughter of the Marquess of Colminster, pat. grandsire Earl of Percyfield. Polyglot, handsome, and a fine archer. Quite robust.
Miss Evangeline Ratcliffe (￡15,000 per annum, an additional ￡200,000 in trust upon marriage. Dower estate Montemaison, Berks, 8,000 acres). Daughter of the Honorable Thomas Fortescue (heir to Earl Dingford), mother born in Philadelphia but of acceptable British heritage. Further details on file.
“The, um, prospects closer to Caldicott Hall are on the next page, my lord.”
Postlethwaite carefully avoided Hyperia’s eye. He was every inch the genial, prosperous solicitor. Immaculately groomed, a full head of white hair worn swept back into an old-fashioned queue. His twinkling blue eyes were nonetheless watchful.
“It’s three islands,” Hyperia said, reading beside me. “In addition to her Scottish properties, Lady Sophia also claims a small island off the Irish coast, courtesy of her late aunt. Good for goats, I’m told.”
Bushy white eyebrows rose and subsided as Postlethwaite scribbled a few words on the sheet of foolscap before him.
“I will make a note of that, Miss West. One can fairly easily determine what sums have been set aside for a young lady. The real estate involved in her settlements can be harder to discern. Those assets can be tied up in bequests, covenants running with the land, and personal trusts.”
If Postlethwaite thought it odd that Hyperia had accompanied me, he was too good at his profession to show it.
So much wealth riding on the perfect dynastic matches.
I turned the page. “You have an asterisk beside Miss Stadler’s name.
” The lady was thought to bring a mere ￡500 to the union, along with Irish “acreages” and “assorted domestic commodities.” Her trousseau, likely comprised of linens, porcelain, silver, a wardrobe, possibly a riding horse and a small conveyance for her personal use.
The Irish acreages were probably a couple of modest tenant farms.
Not much, but then, the family’s wealth had to be spread over four daughters, with enough left over to keep Pleasant View in trim and Strother in cravat pins and new boots.
“’Sensible,’” Hyperia murmured, reading the few words allotted to Miss Stadler’s finer qualities. “’Given to direct speech, though well-liked in the parish. Would run a household with efficiency.’ Why the asterisk?”
“That indicates a possible match for the lady in the offing, though perhaps we were too hasty in reaching that conclusion.” Postlethwaite jotted another note to himself.
“A little less than two years ago, just after the great victory over the Corsican, we heard that Miss Stadler had caught the eye of the Honorable Sylvester Downing. He’s heir to Viscount Muldoon.
Irish, but still… a viscount is a viscount, if you will pardon a pragmatic observation.
“She apparently dropped him flat,” Postlethwaite went on, “sometime last year. Not a broken engagement, but a decision that they would not suit before matters progressed. Downing went back to Ireland with less than gentlemanly grace.”
“I heard something about this.” Hyperia’s gaze went to the law books in row upon row on the library’s bookshelves.
The whole small chamber smelled of books and silence, a soothing scent.
“Wasn’t there a rumor that Downing was honestly smitten with Miss Stadler?
He went down to Pleasant View on a repairing lease with Strother Stadler and fell top over tail for Strother’s sister. ”
“Miss West, you are indeed well informed. I heard something to the same effect, but the source was less than reliable given the late hour and empty decanter. Downing has since returned to Town, last I heard, though I am not au courant with the lesser lights of the Mayfair whirl. The Irish have such charm, don’t they? ”
“Downing can be charming,” Hyperia said, and she was not offering the man a compliment. “He’s generally regarded as a decent catch.”
“Not a fortune hunter?” I suggested the translation, but that begged the question: Why would a viscount’s heir pursue plain, sensible , Hannah Stadler at all?
“Not a fortune hunter,” Hyperia said, “but prone to drink and wagers and the usual vices.”
I did not parse that euphemism in present company. Hyperia indicated that Downing was a womanizer, and if he was enjoying his bachelorhood that enthusiastically, why marry at all?
“Does he have brothers?” I asked.
The solicitor remained silent.
“Three,” Hyperia said. “All in good health, and three younger sisters, who are pretty and pleasant, though the youngest made her come out only this year. The youngest son is said to have left for America.”
Like my mother and like Lady Ophelia, Hyperia was a walking appendix to Debrett’s Peerage , though I hadn’t realized quite how much detail her knowledge encompassed.
“If my lord would like to take the list with him, we have copies,” Postlethwaite said. “This time of year, the asterisks appear with great frequency, and new names must be added as young ladies leave the schoolroom and prepare for next year’s festivities.”
Another Season was winding down, in other words. New matches were made, new faces graced the dance floor at Almack’s, and perennial bachelors fell to Cupid’s arrows—or to the necessity of paying the trades.
“You might be interested to know that Miss Stadler’s asterisk could still apply,” I said. “She and Captain James MacNamara have grown quite cordial.”
“Captain MacNamara of the Royal Artillery?” Postlethwaite asked.
“The very one.”
“She’s a lucky young lady, then. General Dickson himself speaks highly of the captain. Highly indeed, and well he should. MacNamara’s antecedents are well above reproach, and like many a younger son, the war advanced his prospects. He served in Dickson’s very battalion, you know.”
General Andrew Dickson had been Wellington’s choice to manage the entire Peninsular Army’s artillery resources, and he’d been pressed into service again at Waterloo. A fine soldier and a shrewd tactician, though I doubted he would recall me, or acknowledge me, if our paths crossed.
“I had some idea that MacNamara served with distinction,” I said, “but wasn’t aware of Dickson’s praise. Quite an honor. You’ve given me and Miss West much to think about, and we thank you for your time.”
“Delighted to be of service, my lord, Miss West.” Postlethwaite ushered us out into the sunny morning, though I did find a moment to pull him aside and offer some pointed instructions on a topic dear to my heart.
I handed Hyperia up into the Town coach, grateful for its shadowed interior. A tap on the roof with my walking stick had John Coachman giving the horses leave to walk on.
“Interesting,” Hyperia said. “First, we realize the Stadler family does have some wealth, now we learn of Downing, a rejected suitor who might bear a grudge against Miss Stadler.”
“If so, he’s waited some time to play the scorned lover.”
“The sequence of events suggests Hannah threw Downing over for the captain, Jules. She could be in Dublin by now if Downing is our man.”
This kind of conversation—matching conjectures to facts and theories—was usually among my favorites, and Hyperia my favorite partner in them. My usual enthusiasm eluded me, probably because the questions were multiplying apace.
“Why would Downing pursue a woman of such limited means, Hyperia? He’s in line for a title, a bachelor with no need to settle down as yet—or ever if his brothers are dutiful.”
Hyperia turned her head as if to gaze out the window, and because she was properly bonneted, her face was completely obscured.
“I am a woman of limited means, Julian. What motive do you suppose people attribute to you for our engagement?”
“Utter besottedness explains the whole business—at least on my end. What’s your excuse for taking up with a forgetful fellow who is no longer received in the best homes and dependent on his collection of blue spectacles on days as bright as this one?”
The question was meant to invite flirtation, but my intended merely sighed.
“I don’t like the facts we have in hand, Julian.
I want to believe that Hannah Stadler dodged off with an auntie to get a break from the stultifying existence of a rural spinster.
Perhaps the auntie insisted, though to the best of my knowledge, Miss Stadler hasn’t any aunties. ”
“She has a worthy suitor in MacNamara, worthier than I knew and perhaps worthier than he himself understands.”
The coach swayed around a corner, which should have sent Hyperia’s weight more snugly against my hip. She grabbed the strap hanging by the window and resumed watching the street.
“He’s in line to inherit a lordship,” she said. “The next brother up fell in some battle or other. The oldest has consumption. The heir bides in Scotland rather than jaunting about London, which suggests the disease is progressing.”
I wanted to take her hand, ask what besides the investigation was preoccupying her. “How do you know these things, Perry? If I pointed to a passing Town swell, you’d likely know his particulars at a glance. I am in awe.”
She spared me another half glance. “How well would you know the mountains of Spain if you’d grown up there and spent your whole life navigating the valleys and heights?
The glorified gentry such as myself spend most of the social Season chatting, and we chat about other people.
It’s not even gossip so much as it’s comparing maps and assessing terrain.
A rockslide here, a flood there, a great crop of hops on the way over in that direction.
” She rubbed her temple with gloved fingers.
“You are right. The heat is becoming a bit much.”
The heat and the pervasive stink of London in summer, especially close to that increasingly ineffective open sewer referred to as the River Thames.
“Are you up to a call on the poorhouse, Hyperia? I can manage that sortie by myself if you’d rather I take you home.”
I did not want to set foot in that establishment on my own, but I would if I must.
“I’ll come with you, and we can share lunch in the garden when we’re through. A note to Lady Ophelia is in order, isn’t it?”
A fine suggestion, though the prospect of lunch in the garden earned my heartier approval.
“I did not like that list,” I said, taking Hyperia’s hand.
“I didn’t care for it at all.” The tidy assessment of young women, their wealth, their personal preferences…
I loathed the whole notion, though conscientious solicitors all over Town were likely keeping similar lists of bachelors for the consideration of the heiresses.
Hyperia squeezed my fingers. “Neither did I, and my name wasn’t even on it.”
We remained like that, holding hands, sharing a vaguely unhappy mood, and, at the same time, separated by a silence neither of us was inclined to break.