Page 27 of Scandalous Nights With the Earl

‘Mrs Wilhelmina St Claire said much the same thing to me at the Wilsons’ ball the other night,’ Theodore Montague countered. ‘Not about travel so much but about life.’

Esther looked puzzled. ‘That does not sound like Mrs St Claire at all. She is usually far more…daring.’

‘Perhaps a woman who invites discourse and debate into her salons needs to relax into caution sometimes?’ Arabella Montague’s brother uttered this almost as a question, though Oliver interrupted him.

‘Since arriving in London Mrs St Claire has become a force in her own right, so I imagine she has little time for such excessive introspection.’

‘And yet Society prefers women to be…less forceful, does it not?’ There was censure in the words.

‘This is exactly what I am talking about, Theo. It is just so unfair and unreasonable.’ Arabella Montague sounded cross.

‘Rules are there as a protection, dear sister, especially for the fairer sex, as there are so many ways you can be hurt.’

Esther now took up the cause. ‘I am afraid, Theodore, that I have to agree with Arabella, which is why the actions of women such as Mrs St Claire are so valuable.’ Although his sister-in-law smiled, her words held an undercurrent of steel. ‘It’s a changing world and women are leading the charge.’

‘“…we know what we are, but know not what we may be.”’ Phillip’s voice was soft.

‘You read Shakespeare?’ Esther asked this with wonder.

‘Gretel did and often. I think she read me every play the Bard ever wrote and great parts of it I can recite at obscure times like this,’ he returned.

‘Which is quite a gift, I should imagine.’

Her unusual eyes twinkled as if she was laughing at him. But he could not take umbrage, for there was an energy about Esther that was catching. Arabella and her party, on the other hand, were watching them all as if they could barely understand a word said.

Like a play, each character caught by their own realities and experiences. He wished the wonder in his sister-in-law and the naive innocence of Arabella Montague were still there inside of him, but they were long gone.

Oliver probably felt the same. Glancing over, he saw his brother frowning. There had been a time when they knew what the other was thinking, when they’d cowered together under bedcovers in the night for fear that their mother might come to rail them with her constant anger. Aye, there had been a time when it was them against the world; the Moreland boys pittedagainst parents who were not coping with secrets that could never be allowed to escape.

Phillip remembered thinking as a boy that perhaps every family was damaged in ways that were opaque to outsiders, and that the pain lingering in his own was a normal occurrence. He had thought that until the boat trip on the lake, one grey afternoon at Elmsworth.

Then he’d known there were problems that neither he, nor his brother, nor his father could ever fix. Space was the only thing that had calmed his anxiety, the space to be away from the others, the space he gained at boarding school, tucked into the dormitory with forty other boys and safe from things at home.

When Oliver had joined him at Eton, Phillip had shunned him largely, not wanting the fear relived or the secrets rehashed. Oliver presumably had felt the same, and Gretel had cemented the distance between them, for, as an only child, she had felt no compunction to form alliances with what was left of his broken family.

And now…?

The bonds of adversity were after all not such easy things to cast away. Here Phillip knew that, despite their differences, the person who understood him the best was Oliver. He took in a deep breath as Miss Montague spoke again.

‘Mrs St Claire should take care with her opinions, though, for even a wealthy older widow can garner resentment for being so different.’

Her brother nodded, and for a second Phillip saw what he had not before: Wilhelmina St Claire was as much of an outsider here in Society as he felt, only she did not care. She hurried into her life to catch up on all that she had missed in a way that was completely original, and used joy as a shield. Lionel St Claire may have stolen ten years of her life but she was damned if anyone would steal the rest.

He remembered her words in the park, her humour and her irreverence. She was bound by no one and tempered only with freedom. That was her beauty and it was so much more forceful than the pallid prettiness of Arabella Montague.

When a servant appeared with a tray of tea and cakes Phillip was grateful. The fare had brought other, lighter topics to the fore. The inclement weather. The upcoming masquerade ball. The projected plans outlining the improvements to the grand entrance at Hyde Park Corner. Relaxing, he sat back to listen to the general conversation and debate, glad he was not pulled in to contribute to it.

After his brother and family departed the next morning Phillip spent the afternoon looking into the affairs of the Moreland investments. The portfolio he perused was a hefty and healthy one, for his father, although having many failings at the personal level, had always been an astute businessman.

It was almost five o’clock and the first shadows of the evening were beginning to strip the light from the room when a familiar voice echoed in the corridor outside his room and he stood.

His aunt Julia, complete with a large-brimmed hat, gloves and coat, was almost running towards him, a wide smile on her face.

‘Phillip. My goodness. I had heard that you were back in England but I could hardly believe it.’

She wrapped her arms around him, holding on tightly, the two servants in the passageway looking around in interest.

‘I might say the same of you. Oliver was sure you were in France until the end of summer, Julia.’