An Unconventional Miss. Dorothy Elbury

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СКАЧАТЬ had it not been for the dedication of the small handful of staff who had stayed loyal to their rapidly declining young master, the once carefully husbanded and prosperous estate might well have run to seed. In addition to which, he revealed that Theodore had penned a list containing the names of his creditors, who were collectively owed an amount in excess of thirty thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand of which was in unpaid gambling debts!

      As the enormity of his beloved brother’s fall from grace had gradually began to force its way into Wyvern’s shocked sensibilities, the reasons for Theo finally having elected to put a period to his life had become all too clear to his reluctant successor.

      Nevertheless, as he now pointed out to Fitzallan, who had digested his friend’s halting narration in a frowning silence, the question still remained as to how the devil he might set about salvaging the situation?

      ‘If what your man says is correct,’ observed Fitzallan, carefully inching his way through the congestion of traffic on Grosvenor Street, ‘it would seem that you have very little option left but to sell up and take what you can get out of the deal.’

      ‘Oh, not you as well!’ exclaimed Wyvern, affronted at his friend’s casual dismissal of the estate that had been in the family’s possession for nigh on eight generations. ‘That was Humphreys’s advice too, but the whole idea is unthinkable! I would sooner die!’ But then, as the awful significance of these melodramatic words hit him, he let out a hollow laugh and added, ‘I trust it won’t come to that, of course!’

      ‘Steady on, Ben, old thing!’ protested Fitzallan. ‘We have not quite reached point-non-plus. If we all put our heads together, we may yet come up with a solution. You might even find that her ladyship has the odd idea or two up her sleeve—she always used to keep her ear pretty close to the ground, as I recall.’

      Wyvern attempted a grin. ‘From what Humphreys tells me, Grandmama would seem to be as mettlesome as ever—still haring around the countryside as though she were no more than twenty-five!’

      ‘Must be close to eighty now, I imagine?’

      ‘Admits to sixty, I believe,’ returned Wyvern, as Fitzallan’s curricle swung into Grosvenor Square. ‘You will come in and say “hello”, of course—she always had a soft spot for you.’

      Pulling out his timepiece, Fitzallan looked down and shook his head ruefully. ‘Some other time, if you will excuse me. Arranged to meet Holt at Brooks’s—half an hour late already. P’raps you’ll get the chance to look in on us later this evening?’

      Promising that he would see what he could do, Wyvern leapt down from his perch, saluted his friend and mounted the shallow steps up to the front door of the family’s Grosvenor Square residence, to which he shortly found himself admitted by his grandmother’s elderly retainer.

      ‘Good to see you back safely, your lordship,’ beamed Jesmond, as he ushered Wyvern into the hall and signalled to a waiting footman to relieve him of his outdoor garments. ‘Your luggage arrived this morning. Her ladyship has been expecting you hourly. You will find her in the red salon.’

      Still unable to prevent the recoil of distaste that he felt at hearing himself addressed by what had been, until a mere two months previously, his older brother Theodore’s title, the new earl strode across the hall to greet his grandmother, who was presently emerging from the doorway of the aforementioned salon.

      ‘Benedict! My dearest boy—you have arrived at last!’

      A tall, white-haired lady, now in her eighty-first year, Lady Lavinia Ashcroft, Dowager Countess of Wyvern, moved gracefully towards her grandson, exhibiting considerable agility for one of her advanced years. Unlike a good many of her peers, she disdained the prevailing fashion for the semi-transparent muslin afternoon dress and was elegantly clad in a simple but expertly cut round gown of black kerseymere, trimmed at the neck with a neat white ruff.

      After kissing Wyvern soundly on both cheeks, she held him at arm’s length, carefully scrutinising his ruggedly handsome face.

      ‘You look tired, my boy. I shall have Mrs Winters prepare you a bath—but first, you must join me in a glass of brandy. Jesmond!’

      Taking his arm, she allowed her grandson to escort her back into the red salon, so named because of the crimson silk wall hangings and curtains with which it had been furnished many years earlier. Smaller than any of the other reception rooms in the house, it was the Dowager Countess’s favourite place to sit in the afternoons, due mainly to the fact that its window overlooked the busy London square, providing her with not only ample advance warning of any impending visitor but, perhaps more significantly, enabling her to keep her eye on her neighbours’ comings and goings.

      ‘You have seen Humphreys?’ she enquired, as soon as Wyvern had taken his seat and Jesmond had left the room.

      Wyvern nodded. ‘I went to Brentford first thing, as soon as we docked. But it is just as you said in your letter—Theo does appear to have taken his own life.’

      ‘Humphreys gave me to understand that your brother had left a letter for you. I trust that it contains some sort of explanation for his extraordinary behaviour of late?’

      Extracting his brother’s missive from his pocket, Wyvern passed it to her. ‘Nothing of any consequence, I fear—apart from his apology. He was clearly very confused when he wrote it.’

      Leaning back wearily, he ran his fingers through his crisp dark hair, mentally reviewing the singularly odd tenor of his brother’s last words.

      Ben, old chap, the note read, Can’t go on—got myself into an unholy mess—can’t seem to sort it out—mine is yours now—too late for me. Save the Grange, I beg you—relying on you—remember where we used to play when we were lads—forgive me, Theo.

      His forehead puckered in a frown. ‘I am still finding the whole affair almost impossible to comprehend. I was aware that Theo was pretty cut up after losing Sophia and young Edwin, of course, but I had no idea that he was in such a bad case. A fellow officer did hear a rumour that he was drinking heavily, but to learn that he has frittered away the entire family fortune on gambling and profligate living is unbelievable—especially when you consider that he was the one Father was wont to call “old sobersides”!’

      Save for the sonorous ticking of the long-case clock in one corner, the red salon was silent until, suddenly conscious that his grandmother was waiting for him to continue, Wyvern, striving to keep his innermost feelings under control, took a deep breath.

      ‘Nevertheless,’ he managed eventually, ‘it is to his credit that Theo seems to have stopped drinking long enough to recover his senses. But he was clearly not himself when he wrote that note—if everything is as bad as Humphreys has given me to understand, how could Theo possibly have expected me to put it all right?’

      ‘I trust that you do not intend to fall into an emotional stew over this, my boy!’ retorted the countess, eyeing her grandson sharply. ‘Your brother proved himself to be a weakling and, in the end, it appears that he took the coward’s way out, so let us have no more repining over the matter!’

      ‘Hold hard, Grandmama!’ protested Wyvern, altogether taken aback at the countess’s apparent lack of sympathy towards his late brother. ‘You can hardly expect me to agree with your view that Theo was a weakling. Any man might turn to drink after such a tragedy, especially if he holds himself responsible for the death of his family, as Theo clearly must have done—he was driving the carriage, after all! His suffering must have been very great—’

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