was cogent enough when you got to it, but his manner was ponderous, with an occasional stammer. Some big men are quick and agile; he was not. Lady Franklin smiled and said her boots were stout, her bonnet indestructible. But she would remove the bonnet if Captain Booth thought it advisable, if the coal galleries were low. Her clever face was eager. She stayed down the mine all the time of the inspection but later admitted she felt oppressed by the narrow passages and the surprising degree of heat underground. She made no complaint, however. Did not sigh, faint, or appear to think any special attention due to her, but was clearly relieved to reach the surface again.
The Colonial Secretary, Mr John Montagu, next in seniority to the Governor in the colony, had murmured, ‘My dear lady!’ when Lady Franklin spoke of going into the mine. Now, as they returned, he said to her, ‘Did you find the Dark Pit illuminating, ma’am? Did the Nether Regions answer your expectations?’
Was it meant sarcastically? She gave him a long look before saying, ‘Some experiences can only be got at first hand, do you not think? All their strange force expires in the retelling.’
It was difficult to imagine Montagu desiring any such experience, Booth thought, eyeing his immaculate black frock coat, tall black hat, urbane smile. Former Army, he had fought at Waterloo when he was seventeen and had been mentioned in despatches; yet that was hard to believe now. Paperwork—columns of figures, lists, private notes—rather than anything adventurous came to mind when you looked at him.
Montagu had come to the island in ’23 as Governor Arthur’s private secretary—through a family favour, people said. Montagu had recently married Arthur’s niece, Jessie. ‘Warming-Pan’ Montagu, the newsapers called him. Not so much for his dislike of the cold, although that waswell known, but because of his temporary stays in increasingly senior positions, keeping them warm for friends and relatives.
Un frisieux , said Lempriere. Cold-blooded? A cold fish? And was this merely descriptive, or was some moral judgement implied? At any rate, Montagu had made himself indispensable to Arthur in a number of barely legal dealings—or so the Colonial Times said. Arthur and Montagu had certainly planned the downfall of their friend Mr Burnett, the ill, inefficient, former Colonial Secretary, and as soon as he was ousted, Montagu had been given the position. He had expected to move up again when Arthur departed, some said: to be appointed Lieutenant Governor himself. If that was true, there was no disappointment on show now. He was paying court to the Franklins like any contented subordinate.
Mr Matthew Forster, Chief Police Magistrate, had also declined to go down the mine. In his case it was from complete lack of interest, Booth thought. Forster, another prominent ‘Arthurite’, was a ‘sporting gentleman’, which meant gambling—cards, horse racing, dog fighting, anything that offered itself. He had been a Brigade Major for years in Ireland, and retained a hearty, half-belligerent barracks manner, but looked now like a pugilist gone to seed. His black frock coat fitted too tightly across his wide shoulders and barrel chest; a great belly was pushed up above a low narrow waist—by a corset, surely—so that he resembled a pouter pigeon.
Even so, Forster was not unlikeable, to other men at least. Lizzie Eagle said he gave her the shudders. Certainly his head was overlarge, misshapen. His eyes bulged and his sight was poor, which explained the lorgnette always on a black silk ribbon around his neck. Forster was famously vain in spite of his disadvantages, or perhaps because of them. He wore a dandified cravat today, with a gold pin, and a double heavy gold watch chain. He was married to Jessie Montagu’s sister, Helena, which made him brother-in-law to Montagu.
The party re-boarded the Eliza and sailed further up the bay into the inlet leading to
The Colonial Secretary, Mr John Montagu, next in seniority to the Governor in the colony, had murmured, ‘My dear lady!’ when Lady Franklin spoke of going into the mine. Now, as they returned, he said to her, ‘Did you find the Dark Pit illuminating, ma’am? Did the Nether Regions answer your expectations?’
Was it meant sarcastically? She gave him a long look before saying, ‘Some experiences can only be got at first hand, do you not think? All their strange force expires in the retelling.’
It was difficult to imagine Montagu desiring any such experience, Booth thought, eyeing his immaculate black frock coat, tall black hat, urbane smile. Former Army, he had fought at Waterloo when he was seventeen and had been mentioned in despatches; yet that was hard to believe now. Paperwork—columns of figures, lists, private notes—rather than anything adventurous came to mind when you looked at him.
Montagu had come to the island in ’23 as Governor Arthur’s private secretary—through a family favour, people said. Montagu had recently married Arthur’s niece, Jessie. ‘Warming-Pan’ Montagu, the newsapers called him. Not so much for his dislike of the cold, although that waswell known, but because of his temporary stays in increasingly senior positions, keeping them warm for friends and relatives.
Un frisieux , said Lempriere. Cold-blooded? A cold fish? And was this merely descriptive, or was some moral judgement implied? At any rate, Montagu had made himself indispensable to Arthur in a number of barely legal dealings—or so the Colonial Times said. Arthur and Montagu had certainly planned the downfall of their friend Mr Burnett, the ill, inefficient, former Colonial Secretary, and as soon as he was ousted, Montagu had been given the position. He had expected to move up again when Arthur departed, some said: to be appointed Lieutenant Governor himself. If that was true, there was no disappointment on show now. He was paying court to the Franklins like any contented subordinate.
Mr Matthew Forster, Chief Police Magistrate, had also declined to go down the mine. In his case it was from complete lack of interest, Booth thought. Forster, another prominent ‘Arthurite’, was a ‘sporting gentleman’, which meant gambling—cards, horse racing, dog fighting, anything that offered itself. He had been a Brigade Major for years in Ireland, and retained a hearty, half-belligerent barracks manner, but looked now like a pugilist gone to seed. His black frock coat fitted too tightly across his wide shoulders and barrel chest; a great belly was pushed up above a low narrow waist—by a corset, surely—so that he resembled a pouter pigeon.
Even so, Forster was not unlikeable, to other men at least. Lizzie Eagle said he gave her the shudders. Certainly his head was overlarge, misshapen. His eyes bulged and his sight was poor, which explained the lorgnette always on a black silk ribbon around his neck. Forster was famously vain in spite of his disadvantages, or perhaps because of them. He wore a dandified cravat today, with a gold pin, and a double heavy gold watch chain. He was married to Jessie Montagu’s sister, Helena, which made him brother-in-law to Montagu.
The party re-boarded the Eliza and sailed further up the bay into the inlet leading to
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