him to a firm belief that she had been coached as to how to go on when speaking with a gentleman. At last he felt only desperation. That he would find contemplating Mary Fanley’s pig washing incident a refuge from the tenth telling of what the parson said about poor Miss Somebody’s terrible limp, severely aggravated him.
“Tell me, Miss Bromley, what think you of pig sties?”
Her amber coloured eyes showed terror, for it was apparent she could not think anything that she had not been told to think. “Oh,” she managed, “they are so…common?”
“Indeed, that they are, here in Somersetshire,” he replied in a spiritless voice, “but the pigs in Greenly Village are uncommonly well-kept, or so I have noticed.”
Chapter Fourteen
At his family home in London, Lord Eversham spared no thought for his nephew. He had many responsibilities — most self-inflicted, but heavy nonetheless. Having assumed control of such a vast wreck of noble heritage, Lord Eversham thought of Denley mostly in terms of a cost to be relegated or remediated.
By the second week after leaving Somersetshire, Eversham received news of Denley via a rare note from him, franked from Margill Estate.
Uncle,
Miss Bromley, though initially promising, has proven to possess such a want of intelligence that I can claim acquaintance with cattle of more understanding! However, the younger sister Catherine is a most agreeable young lady, and I mean to get acquainted with her before your planned return.
This short missive was closed with a firm assertion he would see through his stay at Margill as planned.
The note, although burned immediately upon being read, caused Eversham to suffer a rare qualm. He had seen enough of Margill to feel his decision to place Denley in the midst of such a family had been well-calculated. Yet, at seventeen, Miss Catherine could hardly prove suitable — particularly with regard to stabilizing the profligacy of a young Marquis hell-bent on self-destruction. However, at the end of his ruminations on this turn of events, he reminded himself that whether Denley were married to a model of bourgeoisie pretension or rotting in Marshalsea, at least the expense of his dissipation would be at an end. So he took a small glass of fine claret and thought no more about it.
That is to say, he thought no more about it until six days later, when, at a late morning breakfast, while reading the business notices of the newspaper, the butler announced a visitor. Looking over his quizzing glass with a distinct frown, Eversham said, “Pray admit him, Quinley.” That grave person returned in a moment’s time with a large, rough man, clad in a burlap coat with his grey hat in hand.
“Explain what you are doing in London when you are being paid to mind my nephew?” Lord Eversham barked.
Brinkley, one of two stalwarts whose mission was to assure that the young Marquis did not bolt off to a gaming hell or out of the Sovereignty, stammered and coughed. “Beggin’ your Lordship’s pardon, sir, but I’m ’ere only on account of mindin’ the young lord.”
Eversham’s ever-dark face grew a shade darker as his eyebrows lifted. “Explain yourself then, if you please, Mr. Brinkley. What has Denley done?”
“It’s that he petitioned us to bring him here safe like, on account of some scrape he was got in, and he won’t be coming up to see your Lordship lest you give him leave like, sir,” came the halting reply.
“A scrape,” came the very frigid voice.
“Yes, sir, so he said.”
“And where is he at this moment?” came the next question, in even icier tones.
“He’s in the kitchen with Mr. Drake, your Lordship,” coughed Brinkley, “awaiting your leave to come up.”
Lord Eversham took in this information with an unnatural calm which caused Mr. Brinkley to fear for his employment. But rather than vent fury on the hired man he rang crisply for the butler. “Mr. Quinley,” he said evenly, “pray escort Mr. Brinkley to
“Tell me, Miss Bromley, what think you of pig sties?”
Her amber coloured eyes showed terror, for it was apparent she could not think anything that she had not been told to think. “Oh,” she managed, “they are so…common?”
“Indeed, that they are, here in Somersetshire,” he replied in a spiritless voice, “but the pigs in Greenly Village are uncommonly well-kept, or so I have noticed.”
Chapter Fourteen
At his family home in London, Lord Eversham spared no thought for his nephew. He had many responsibilities — most self-inflicted, but heavy nonetheless. Having assumed control of such a vast wreck of noble heritage, Lord Eversham thought of Denley mostly in terms of a cost to be relegated or remediated.
By the second week after leaving Somersetshire, Eversham received news of Denley via a rare note from him, franked from Margill Estate.
Uncle,
Miss Bromley, though initially promising, has proven to possess such a want of intelligence that I can claim acquaintance with cattle of more understanding! However, the younger sister Catherine is a most agreeable young lady, and I mean to get acquainted with her before your planned return.
This short missive was closed with a firm assertion he would see through his stay at Margill as planned.
The note, although burned immediately upon being read, caused Eversham to suffer a rare qualm. He had seen enough of Margill to feel his decision to place Denley in the midst of such a family had been well-calculated. Yet, at seventeen, Miss Catherine could hardly prove suitable — particularly with regard to stabilizing the profligacy of a young Marquis hell-bent on self-destruction. However, at the end of his ruminations on this turn of events, he reminded himself that whether Denley were married to a model of bourgeoisie pretension or rotting in Marshalsea, at least the expense of his dissipation would be at an end. So he took a small glass of fine claret and thought no more about it.
That is to say, he thought no more about it until six days later, when, at a late morning breakfast, while reading the business notices of the newspaper, the butler announced a visitor. Looking over his quizzing glass with a distinct frown, Eversham said, “Pray admit him, Quinley.” That grave person returned in a moment’s time with a large, rough man, clad in a burlap coat with his grey hat in hand.
“Explain what you are doing in London when you are being paid to mind my nephew?” Lord Eversham barked.
Brinkley, one of two stalwarts whose mission was to assure that the young Marquis did not bolt off to a gaming hell or out of the Sovereignty, stammered and coughed. “Beggin’ your Lordship’s pardon, sir, but I’m ’ere only on account of mindin’ the young lord.”
Eversham’s ever-dark face grew a shade darker as his eyebrows lifted. “Explain yourself then, if you please, Mr. Brinkley. What has Denley done?”
“It’s that he petitioned us to bring him here safe like, on account of some scrape he was got in, and he won’t be coming up to see your Lordship lest you give him leave like, sir,” came the halting reply.
“A scrape,” came the very frigid voice.
“Yes, sir, so he said.”
“And where is he at this moment?” came the next question, in even icier tones.
“He’s in the kitchen with Mr. Drake, your Lordship,” coughed Brinkley, “awaiting your leave to come up.”
Lord Eversham took in this information with an unnatural calm which caused Mr. Brinkley to fear for his employment. But rather than vent fury on the hired man he rang crisply for the butler. “Mr. Quinley,” he said evenly, “pray escort Mr. Brinkley to
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