Page 59 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)

FINSBURY SQUARE, LONDON; JANUARY

T he Honourable Simon Payne pulled his shawl more tightly round his shoulders and glared balefully at the fire burning fitfully in the grate.

It was not the fire’s fault that it had so little power to heat the attic room.

It was doing its best, he supposed, but there were limits to what could be expected of any fire against the freezing cold air trying to creep through even the smallest crack in the windows.

He sighed, remembering sorrowfully the brilliant blazes of his youth.

There was no chill in any room at Edlesborough, no matter how frigid the outside air.

But all that had changed fifteen years ago, when he had asked to be articled to an architect, and his father had stared at him as if he had two heads.

“Articled? To an architect? Nonsense! It is the army for you, my lad. That is the tradition for younger sons in the Payne family, since you are hardly suited to the church. John and Matthew are promising in that way, and will take up the two livings I have in my disposal, so you must go into the army. It will do you good — make a man of you, and none of this drawing nonsense. I can get you into the Guards, so you will not have to fight.”

“No, sir.”

“Good. That is settled. Next year, when you are sixteen, you will—”

“No, sir. I will not join the army.”

His father’s eyes had bulged like a frog’s. “You will do as you are told!”

“No. Chloe said she will take care of me.”

That brought on such an outpouring of rage that the physician had to be called, and Mama had brusquely packed Simon off to London to join Chloe at once.

And here he still was, still trying to become an architect, still failing miserably.

Yet Chloe’s small annuity managed to keep him in paper and pencils, and so he still designed his great houses in the Greek style, although he toyed with Gothick designs sometimes, too.

But no one wanted them. They were much admired, but the men of wealth who could afford them preferred the established names like Stewart, Holland or Wyatt.

How was a man ever to become an established name if no one would engage him?

Just one house would make his reputation, he knew it.

Mary Ann brought him his afternoon pot of tea.

It was weak, of course, since the leaves had to be reused and by supper were barely colouring the water, but at least it was hot and would warm him inside.

He sipped gratefully, moving closer to the fire.

Another quarter of an hour and he could add some more coals to it.

Then there would be his glass of wine at dinner to look forward to.

He had barely begun his first cup of tea when Chloe dashed in, unwinding a voluminous scarf, her nose red from the cold.

Simon frowned. “Thought you intended to be out all day.”

“Indeed I was, but I called at the post office and there were three letters, which have been there for an age, the fellow said. Since Christmas, almost! Just imagine, and two are for you from your mama, so I brought them at once. Quick, quick, quick! How much is it?”

She tossed two small letters at him which he tried to catch but missed. Swiftly, she bent down to pick them up. “Hurry up, Simon! The suspense is killing me.”

He ripped open the first letter. “A hundred!” he said, awed, holding up half of a bank note. Tearing open the other, he held the two halves side by side. “A hundred pounds, sister! We can have beef steak for Sunday dinner.”

“Or a turkey, perhaps,” she murmured. “Or what do you say to a bit of partridge? I am so fond of partridge.”

“Let us not be too ambitious,” he said, laughing. “We cannot say how long this will have to last us. It is six months, two weeks and three days since the last note, and that was only twenty.”

“She must have had all the aunts and uncles at Edlesborough for Christmas,” Chloe said. “You know how she does it — feed them up, pour Papa’s best claret down their throats and then gently fleece them at the card table.”

“It was only fifty after last Christmas,” Simon said.

“So it was. She has had a successful time of it. I wish my mama were still alive, to send me little presents like this. Yours is very kind, and Papa knows nothing of it. The letters were not even franked, but I do not mind paying the postage when the contents are so rewarding.”

“Three letters, you said. What was the other? A bill? We can settle for the coal now… and the butcher.”

“Oh, yes. In all the excitement, I had forgotten.” She fished the third letter from her reticule. “I do not recognise the hand. It is not a bill, I think.” Breaking the seal, she unfolded it and read it silently, before looking up with a frown.

“What is it? Not bad news?”

“No… good news, I think, but… strange. Listen. ‘To the Lady Chloe Payne, Finsbury Square, London. With humble greetings, my lady. You do not know me, but I am bidden to request you to bring Mr Simon Payne to Staineybank in Brinshire at your earliest convenience, in order to discuss the design for an orangery. Please reply directly to me to confirm your preferred date of travel, and I shall arrange private transportation and accommodation en route suitable to your station. Respectfully yours, A Goodenough (attorney at law), Castle Street, Brinchester’. What do you think of that?”

“An orangery? Nothing else?”

“It is progress, Simon. Nothing but stables and kennels so far, so an orangery is a step up. A gentleman client, at least.”

“But Mr Thwaite may yet settle on a design.”

“Two years you have been working on designs for Mr Thwaite, and for all his great fortune, we have seen not a penny piece from it, nor has he actually commissioned any of your designs. But this… transport provided… a private carriage, Simon, just think! And suitable accommodation on the way. Oh, to be eating at someone else’s expense!

And when we arrive, we might even be invited to stay at the house itself. Staineybank… I have never heard of it.”

“Campbell,” Simon said. “English Palladian style. Built 1722.”

She chuckled. “Yes, but who lives there?”

“Duke of Brinshire.”

Her eyes widened. “A duke! Oh, Simon, we must go! Even if nothing comes of it, we must go.”

“Yes,” he said. “Campbell’s houses are always worth seeing, and I have never seen that one. Of course we must go.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You are incorrigible, brother. Very well, I shall write to this… what is his name? Mr Goodenough, attorney at law, and make arrangements, and you will be able to see Staineybank. And I… I shall endeavour to take as long as humanly possible to discuss this orangery in the hope that the duke will feed and house us both in the meantime. A fortnight, at least, surely, or even a whole month. And if he likes your designs, and who could not…” She shivered in anticipation.

“Just think, Simon — we might see out the whole winter in comfort.”

“And warmth,” he said with feeling. “I hope Staineybank is warm.”

***

S TAINEYBANK, brINSHIRE; JANUARY

Miss Sophia Merrington gazed at the image on the page before her and sighed.

Such elegance! Such exquisite details! And, sadly, such extravagance.

‘A light blue, or grey chemise robe, of gossamer net, imperial crape, or Spanish gauze, worn over white pealing satin, ornamented up the front with French bows and knots of silver’, quoth the journal.

White satin? Six shillings a yard at the very least, and possibly twice as much.

The gauze would be a little less, and the bows and knots… she could make them quite small.

Then she read the next lines and despaired.

‘ A full melon sleeve, formed of the same material as the dress, and alternate stripes of white satin; finished with bows and knots of silver. A double roll of white satin round the neck of the robe, by way of tucker’.

Full sleeves in stripes of two materials?

A white satin tucker? And then the journal went on to describe the diamond comb in the hair, and diamonds for necklace, armlets and ear-rings.

She sighed even more heavily.

The slumbering figure on the sofa stirred. “Georgie? Oh, it is you, Sophia. Have I slept for a long time?”

“An hour or so, no more. Georgie went to see about the jellies. The duke came in to look at you, but I chased him away.”

“He fusses so, but I am perfectly well. Just… tired. And enormous.”

“Not much longer to wait now, Rowena,” Sophia said briskly.

She was very fond of her sister-in-law, and was delighted that Richard had married such a pleasant, unassuming woman, but the whole household revolved around her.

If she should happen to fancy a certain dish at dinner, an army of gamekeepers and poultry maids and gardeners and still room maids would be mobilised to provide the ingredients.

If she sneezed, the servants were thrown into a frenzy of possets and tisanes and tinctures, followed by a stream of midwives and apothecaries and physicians, who all recommended different remedies and stood in the hall roundly disparaging each other.

And the duke was the greatest worrier of them all.

Since Richard was his official heir, the child Rowena carried would be the next in line, and oh, the hopes and expectations that rested on her to produce a son.

Sophia could only hope for that, too, for then perhaps the trembling excitation that infected Staineybank would dissipate and they could all settle back into their usual activities.

Not that there was much to look forward to in January, with the Christmas festivities past and not so much as an evening party on the horizon for months. It was dispiriting.

She sighed again.