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Chapter 18

A Dollar and a Dream

“T hank you all for coming,” Effie said as he stood by the fireplace in a drawing room in the London house and contemplated his closest friends—Archie and Simon, of course, but he had also invited Olive. “I have some news I wanted to share with you in person.”

“Does this news involve a certain Miss Evans?” Olive asked with a twinkle in her eye. The others snickered like school boys.

“It does not,” Effie said solemnly, and they fell silent.

He had made the right decision, he assured himself, in rebuffing Julianna’s invitation to go to the sea. It hadn’t merely been an invitation to go on holiday. It had been the introduction of a pattern. A template for what being together would be like, if one could even call it “being together.”

The rest, he wasn’t so sure about. Was he really just never going to see her again? Never write to her? It had felt like the right thing at the time. But could he live without her?

He had avoided thinking about it by putting his plan into action, because whatever else happened, he had set his mind on this. The living part.

“We are soon to be joined by Kenver Nancarrow,” he said by way of introduction, and also by way of distraction—he didn’t want to talk to them about Julianna. Not yet. The wound was too fresh.

“The Highworth steward?” Archie asked.

“Mm,” Effie murmured, for that was a correct if incomplete characterization of Kenver. “He wrote that he would be arriving tonight with some news, and I asked him to come at eight o’clock.”

“That is still an hour off,” Archie said.

“Yes. The news I have to tell you concerns him, so I wanted to speak to you before he arrives.”

“Well, let’s have it, then,” Simon said.

Effie took a sip of his wine to fortify himself, for he felt as if he’d sprinkled gunpowder around the room and was about to drop a lit match.

“Olive already knows this, but Kenver Nancarrow is my brother.”

The room went dead silent until, after a long beat, Simon said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, I suppose he is my half brother, if you want to get technical, which I do not. It seems my father dallied with his mother for quite a few years. He is six months older than I. Father put him through university and hired him as steward, and he has of late uncovered evidence that Father has arranged his affairs to make it look as if he had married Kenver’s mother before I was born—with the expectation that Kenver would then claim the title after Father passes.”

He paused for a breath—that had been an overly long sentence. Julianna would have told him to break it up.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you that Father will pass soon. He is by all accounts on his deathbed in Italy, too unwell to return home.”

He went on to explain the details of the plot Kenver had uncovered—the marriage lines, the probable bribe of the rector—and when he was done, he was met with another silence. It was shorter this time. After a heartbeat, the room erupted in exclamations.

“I am astounded that your father would do this,” Simon said when the cacophony died down.

“Are you, though?” Olive asked. “Are you really?”

Simon made a conciliatory gesture, and everyone turned their attention back to Effie.

“Better to have an illegitimate earl than a soft one,” Effie said. The truth didn’t hurt anymore. Not since the dream. “Kenver and I are aligned in our thoughts on the matter. He will not make a claim on the title. We have allowed Father to think he will, but he won’t.”

“How do you know you can trust him?” Simon asked.

Effie didn’t bother explaining about the surety Kenver had offered in the form of that pouch of coins, because that pouch of coins was immaterial. “I just am. You will be, too, when you meet him.”

“What says your mother of all this?” Archie asked. “Sarah?”

“I do not know. Mother writes to Mr. Nancarrow from Italy, but her letters are limited to the facts of the matter. ‘Father is declining rapidly. The weather is lovely. At least his final days shall be filled with the beautiful golden light of Campagna. Et cetera.’ I do not know if she knows about his plan, or if she knows the truth about Kenver. I doubt it, on both counts. I shall have to speak with her when she returns.

“None of this is the point, though. The point is that I have a brother. Huzzah!”

Everyone lifted their glasses and congratulated him and said how much they were looking forward to meeting Kenver.

“Well, that I have a brother is the precursor to the point. The true point is that having discovered a brother who is adept at estate management has worked rather in my favor.”

“I should think so,” Archie said. “But I should also think if he is as decent a man as you suggest, he will be willing to teach you.” He paused. “In perhaps a way your father was not.”

“I’m sure he would, but I have decided that the life of a peer isn’t what I want. It never was. I’d reconciled myself to it and therefore sought to learn about it, but now I am presented with someone who truly enjoys doing it. Kenver and I have therefore decided that he will carry out all the duties associated with the title.”

“That is not unheard of,” Archie said. “It is not unlike the arrangement I have with Mr. Hughes,” he said, naming his own steward. “We meet once a week when I am at Mollybrook, and I do my best to contribute, but I would be lost without him.”

“That is . . . not precisely what I am imagining.” Here was the point, the point Effie kept dancing around. He cleared his throat. “I am looking to make a rather large change.”

They were all regarding him with open, inquisitive expressions. Oh, how he loved them. He was blessed when it came to friends. Over-blessed.

“I am going to move out.”

“Of this house?” Archie asked. “Are you going back to Highworth?”

“No,” Olive said, eyeing him closely. She was getting it, even if she didn’t yet know precisely what “it” was.

“I have found rooms to let. On Grub Street. One for me to live in, one from which I shall operate my business.”

He had stunned them. Well, he had stunned the boys, whose mouths had dropped open in tandem. Olive merely regarded him with raised eyebrows.

“I plan to be a poet.”

“You are already a poet,” Simon said, “and is poetry a ‘business’? And what about Lords? Mr. Nancarrow cannot vote for you.”

“I want to publish my poems myself. In a chapbook, as you yourself have often suggested. A book with my name on it. My true name.” He took out his fan. “The idea is nearly enough to make a person swoon.”

“That’s wonderful,” Archie said, beaming like a proud papa.

“And I want to print them myself,” Effie added. Now they were finally at the crux of the matter. “I want to be in charge of every aspect of their creation and production.”

“I think I begin to understand,” Simon said. “You’re going to buy a press, aren’t you? This is why you’ve been pestering me about Stanhope. Here I’d thought you wanted the press for Miss Evans.”

“I did. But I’ve rethought matters. If I own a press, I can print whatever I like. My own poems, but also other people’s words. Other people’s paying words. To do that, I need money.”

“You have money,” Archie said.

“Not really. It isn’t mine. Not properly.”

“I begin to understand,” Simon said.

“I want to do this on my own,” Effie said. “I do have some money that’s mine. I never cashed any of the bank drafts Miss Evans has sent me over the years for my work for the magazine. I mean to do so now. That will get me started. But I need more money. I need investments .”

“Are not our gains as ill-gotten as yours, if we are to follow your logic?” Simon asked.

That gave Effie pause. “I . . . suppose they are.”

“You men and your logic,” Olive said dismissively. “I shall invest. I haven’t much, but I have been bleeding Father of pin money rather ruthlessly for years.”

“But you are saving that for—” Effie cut himself off. That was another bit of knowledge that wasn’t his to share.

“I am saving it for a lucrative investment opportunity,” Olive said firmly, “and I know one when I see it.”

“Of course we shall give you whatever you want,” Archie said. “I shall have to speak with Clementine, but I know she won’t object.”

“You can count on me, too,” Simon said, “though I notice you didn’t answer my question about Lords.”

“I don’t want you to give me money. I want you to invest . I used that word for a reason. I want you to be part owners, at least initially.” He turned to Olive. “And you, too, if you like.” Returning his attention to Simon, he said, “Yes, of course I’ll vote for your act. I’ll vote however you tell me to.”

“Oh, what a delicious scandal it shall be,” Olive said. “The poet-earl emerging from his Grub Street hovel to carry out his Parliamentary duty.”

“It’s not going to be a hovel , thank you very much.” Effie sniffed but shot Olive a wink.

They were off, then, discussing his plans. Everyone had an opinion, it seemed, which Effie supposed was what you got when you had investors. At least they were better than Mr. Glanvil.

“Are you sure this isn’t about Miss Evans?” Olive said when the conversation died down.

“Only in the sense that she inspired it. She inspired me as a poet. She introduced me to the technical side of magazine production, and printing. And more to the point, she opened my eyes to the dignity and satisfaction to be had in making one’s own way in the world, even in the face of obstacles.”

“So it has everything to do with Miss Evans,” Olive said wryly.

“I suppose you are right. But I’m not doing it for her, if that’s what you mean.” He paused. Perhaps he did need to tell them about his recent break with Julianna, in broad strokes, anyway. “She and I have parted ways.”

It took a moment for the room to absorb that bit of news. He had expected them to object, to launch an interrogation, but they merely stared, agog.

“Must you, though?” Olive finally said. “I can appreciate that you’re not doing it for her, but rather for yourself, but must that mean she has no involvement at all?”

Everyone was waiting in silence for Effie to answer Olive’s question. Drat. He was going to have to tell them more. “Miss Evans and I have differing opinions on what the nature of our relationship ought to be going forward.” He tried to think how to explain it in a way that wouldn’t require him to turn himself inside out, that wouldn’t land him back behind a pane of glass.

“There is a strait between us, you see, and it turns out not to be traversable. And so I have determined that it’s best to . . . stop staring at the water.” He almost laughed. What a heavy-handed metaphor. Would the boys recognize in it the tragic story of Leander and Hero?

Apparently not, for after another discomfiting silence, Simon said, “This plan of yours is truly extraordinary. You realize it is going to mean an abrupt lifestyle change?”

Effie was grateful to Simon for changing the subject. “I do.” He winked. “You lot shall have to subsidize me on future Earls Trips. That’s as far as I’m willing to take your money not in the form of an investment.”

“You aren’t going to be able to live in the style to which you have become accustomed,” Archie said. “What about your love of beautiful clothing?”

“You know what else is beautiful?”

Archie raised his eyebrows, and everyone regarded Effie inquisitively.

“Freedom.”

* * *

“This is Kenver Nancarrow, my brother,” Effie said a while later, positively bursting with joy at the coming together of his historically favorite people with his new favorite person.

Kenver tried to issue the “half brother” correction, but Effie protested loudly against the qualification. Olive herded Kenver to a chair and handed him a glass of wine while telling him to brace himself for the “delightful disarray” of keeping company with Effie. Archie began peppering Kenver with questions about his plans for the holidays.

It took Simon to cut through the chaos. “Effie,” he said loudly, “You’d better tell Mr. Nancarrow your theory of salt and strawberries.”

“Yes!” He ought to have done that ages ago. He turned to his brother—he turned to his brother!—and said, “Harcourt, Marsden, and I have a theory of family. It goes like this: Some people are salt, and some people are strawberries. Which you are is random, left to Lady Fate. So you might end up a cellar of salt in a family of strawberries, or a leg of lamb baked into a cake.”

“A leg of lamb baked into a cake!” Olive exclaimed while Archie made a retching noise. “That is a new one.”

Kenver looked confused, which was fair. “So what you’re meant to do,” Effie explained, “is find your people. If you’re a strawberry, you need to find a cake. If you’re salt, you need to find a leg of lamb, or something else that needs salting.”

Kenver did not appear enlightened. His brow furrowed. “And what am I?”

“I don’t know, but you’re something that goes with whatever I am.”

Kenver’s brow smoothed, and he looked bashful as he said, “All right, then. I’ve never cared for lamb, so I suppose that makes me cake.”

“Then I’m a strawberry,” Effie said triumphantly.

“You’re ridiculous, you know,” Simon said, though there was affection in his tone.

“That’s why we love him,” Olive said indulgently.

It was Effie’s turn to feel bashful. This was what he meant when he said he was over-blessed when it came to friends. If only his broken heart would mend. He had to trust that time and distance would continue to do their good work—he already felt more clearheaded than he had just after Brighton. Regardless, this conversation was becoming a little too sentimental, even for him. He turned to Kenver.

“You said you had an important matter to discuss? Shall we withdraw? If it matters, I’ve told my friends everything regarding my father’s illness, and his plot.”

“No need to withdraw. I’ve merely come to tell you I’ve had a letter from your mother. She reports that your father is bedridden and awake only a few hours a day. During these hours he apparently asks for you, and requests that you journey to his bedside.”

That was an unexpected development. “Ought I to go, do you think?”

No one spoke initially. After a few beats of silence, Kenver said, “That is a complicated question.”

“And here I thought it required only a yes or a no.”

Kenver narrowed his eyes at Effie. Effie adored that Kenver knew him so well that Kenver knew he was being glib when glibness was not called for.

Effie had indeed been glib, but only to distract from the swirling mass of sentiment that the summons from Father had stirred up. “You are right. It is a complicated question—which is why I asked it, I suppose. One hears tales of the dying repenting their sins, of estrangement giving way to acceptance and mutual forgiveness and understanding.”

“One does hear that,” Kenver said noncommittally.

“What do you all think?” Effie said, turning to the others.

“Is there anything he needs to forgive you for?” Simon asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You said mutual forgiveness.”

“Well, I certainly haven’t been the son he wanted.”

“So you need forgiveness for being who you are,” Simon said. On the surface of things, his tone was mild, but Effie, having known him since they were boys, could hear the affront in it.

“I think,” Kenver said quietly, “you ought to put aside questions of atonement and try to imagine how seeing your father might feel. Would it provide any sort of comfort to you ? A valuable sense of closing the door on a chapter of your life?”

Effie gave it some thought. It was hard to imagine being comforted by proximity to Father regardless of the circumstances, and what was he doing now, with the plan to change his life but providing his own sort of closing of the door on a chapter? “I don’t think so. But perhaps I ought to say goodbye nonetheless.”

“If you want to, by all means,” Archie said. “But I should like to remind you that your father never saw any need to say goodbye to you when he left you at school over the holidays. He never felt the need to say goodbye before leaving you locked in a wardrobe overnight.”

There was affront in Archie’s tone, too, and it was overt.

“But I am a better person than he.” Effie didn’t want to be boastful, so he added, “The bar, of course, being quite low.”

He’d been attempting a jest—more glibness—but no one laughed.

Olive said, “I hear you saying that a deathbed visit would not provide you any comfort, or sense of reconciliation. Which means you would be attending the death in order to bring your father comfort, or the sense of a satisfactory ending, or at least to offer him the opportunity for such.”

“It is also possible,” Kenver said, “that the summons isn’t about any of this. He could merely want you out of England to smooth the way for what he assumes will be my claim at the Committee for Privilege. In that sense, I agree with Miss Morgan: You ought to go only if so doing will serve you in some way.”

“I think,” Effie said slowly, “that I shan’t go.” He blew out a breath, feeling shaky but exhilarated.

“Well, then, that’s that,” Archie said. “Shall we have another round of drinks?”

Once glasses were refilled, Olive said, “Have you told your brother about your plan to move to Grub Street and start a printing company?”

Kenver chuckled. “I have yet to be enlightened as to details, but I suspected something akin to that was afoot. I’ve told him his own income can finance such an endeavor.”

“And I’ve told him ,” Effie said, “and the lot of you, that I want to make it on my own.”

“It’s both astonishing and maddening, isn’t it, Mr. Nancarrow?” Archie asked.

“I’m not sure I agree that it’s maddening, my lord,” Kenver said. “Astonishing, yes. Perhaps also admirable.”

Everyone murmured their agreement.

“May I offer a suggestion?” Kenver said.

“Of course,” Effie said.

“If you are going to completely upend everything, if you are going to effectively leave your life behind to become a poet and printer, why not also leave your life behind to marry your entirely unsuitable lady?”

The room erupted in good-natured jeering followed by a cascade of agreement.

“I’ve told you all this a thousand times. Because she won’t have me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Kenver asked.

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Have you told her about your new business venture?” Archie asked.

“Have you told her about your new rooms in Grub Street?” Simon asked.

“Have you told her you love her?” Olive asked.

Effie’s mind reeled as they pelted him with questions. All he could do was offer an answer to that last one.

“My macaw has told her I love her.”