Taking Liberties. Diana Norman

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СКАЧАТЬ ee to come,’ the Mayor said. ‘It do encourage us all to see a Pomeroy back in Deb’n.’

      ‘Will you be thinking of settling down yere, your ladyship?’ said the Mayor’s wife, a lady who made up for shortness of stature by a towering wig.

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘Where? T’Gallants? I heard the lease was up but they reckoned as it was to be sold.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘So I heard. Course, ’tis your family home, I know …’

      They were not put off by her unwillingness to be pinned down; property was interesting. ‘Ah reckon as ee’d be better off in something modern – my brother-in-law do know of a place in Newton Ferrers, very nice that is. Hear that, chaps? Her ladyship’s a-thinkin’ of taking over T’Gallants at Babbs Cove. Fallin’ down I reckon it is by now. I’ve said to her as my brother-in-law …’

      ‘We shall see,’ she said and turned away.

      The music began again and, as her semi-mourning excused her at least from dancing, she was able to retire to an empty table at the far end of the room. It was the first time in many months that she had attended a social event and now she was wishing she had not; she found burdensome the noise, the heat from bouncing bodies, the requirement of constant conversation.

      She had intended to slip quietly into this countryside for relief from the last twenty-two years in quiet and solitude. It had been unexpected and somewhat distressing to discover that the arrival of a Pomeroy would cause such interest.

      ‘Countess? Lady Stacpoole? Oh, let me sit with you, Ah’m overcome that you’m gracing our poor liddle Long Room.’ It was a woman with a headdress of feathers and a large bosom, all quivering.

      Without warmth, the Dowager indicated a chair and the woman fell onto it. ‘You don’t know who I am, do ee?’ she said, roguishly. ‘I’m Mrs Nicholls, Fanny Nicholls.’ She paused, as if waiting for the surprise to sink in.

      ‘How do you do.’ A minor official’s wife. To be discouraged as soon as possible. Feathers and bosom displayed on public occasions. The lace on the purple dress slightly careworn and with a suspicion of grubbiness. She had the most peculiar eyes, very still, their gaze attaching onto one’s own like grappling irons. Above a constantly moving mouth, the effect was disturbing.

      ‘We’m related, you know,’ Mrs Nicholls said. ‘My maiden name was Pomeroy.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘Oh ye-es. Your ladyship’s great-grandaddy and mine were brothers. Jerome Pomeroy was my great-grandaddy.’

      ‘Indeed.’ The Dowager appeared unmoved but she was caught. Great-great-uncle Pomeroy, well, well. One of those unfortunate scandals occurring in even the best-regulated families.

      ‘Your great-grandad’s elder brother, he was. You’ve heard of him, surely.’

      Diana was spared a reply because Mrs Nicholls, in manic chatter, expanded on the story at length while the Dowager dwelt on a more edited version among her own mental archives.

      Jerome Pomeroy. The only one of her ancestors for whom Aymer had shown any admiration, one of the rakes whose debauchery had flourished with the encouragement of Charles II, libertine and poet, a member of the Earl of Rochester’s set until, like Rochester’s – and Aymer, come to think of it – venereal disease had sent him frantic for his soul’s salvation, to which end he had joined a sect of self-professed monks in East Anglia and died, raving.

      At that point a certain Polly James, actress, had entered the scene, claiming the Pomeroy barony for her infant son on the grounds that Jerome had married her three years before. The hearing in the Court of Arches had proved that, if there had indeed been a marriage, it was of the jump-over-broomstick type of ceremony and, in any case, could not be proved.

      Polly and her son were subsequently provided for, sent into oblivion and the title had passed to Jerome’s younger brother, Diana’s great-grandfather.

      ‘… there, ’tis wunnerful strange, your ladyship. You and me sitting here so friendly. Both of us Pomeroys. Just think, now, if it had gone the other way, I’d be the ladyship, wouldn’t I? And my son over there, he’d be Baron Pomeroy.’ She waved a waggish finger. ‘I do hope as we’re not going to fall out over it.’

      ‘I doubt it.’

      The woman’s account of their kinship might or might not be true – it very well could be. In either case, it hardly mattered now; since she herself had been an only child, the title had passed to a distant cousin in Surrey and a claim to it could not be resurrected at this late stage.

      ‘Very interesting, Mrs Nicholls. Now, if you will excuse me …’ She rose to get away from the eyes that were so at odds with the woman’s over-jovial manner.

      ‘Oh, but you got to meet my son.’ Mrs Nicholls gestured frantically at a man over the other side of the room, watching the dancing.

      Diana had already noticed him. Amidst all the gaudiness and glitter, the plainness of his uniform stood out, though it was undoubtedly a uniform – like a naval officer’s dress coat but lacking its ornamentation. Without the epaulettes, braiding and the silver binding to the buttonholes, its dark blue cloth seemed to take in light and give none back.

      So did the man, which was why the Dowager had noticed him. He was thirtyish, regular-featured, not unhandsome, yet there was an extraordinary non-reflectiveness to him, as if the chatter of the people around him and the music were being sucked into a well. He was alone, even in a crowd.

      At his mother’s signal, he came towards them without changing his expression.

      ‘Yere, ma dear,’ Mrs Nicholls said. ‘This is the Countess of Stacpoole – you know who she is, don’t ee? Your ladyship, this yere’s my son, Captain Walter Nicholls. We gave ’un Walter in memory of Sir Walter Pomeroy, him bein’ a descendant.’

      Captain Nicholls’s response to knowledge of who she was puzzled the Dowager. It might have been that of a hunter who had waited all his life for the sight of one particular quarry – yet there was no excitement in it, merely an added, almost relaxing, quietness. Had he been a master of hounds, his so-ho would have been uttered in a whisper, but both dogs and fox would have known it was doomed.

      Most disturbing. Did he resent her? No, it wasn’t resentment, it was … she didn’t know what it was and would spend no further time on it.

      ‘Your ladyship.’

      ‘Captain Nicholls.’

      The mother prattled on regardless. ‘And a fine son, tew, your ladyship, though it’s me as says it as shouldn’t. Educated and on his way up, aren’t ee, Walter? Board of Customs Comptroller for this area, goin’ to root out all the dirty smugglers along the coast. And if he dew, the Lord Lieutenant’s promised as King George’ll give him a knighthood, idden that right, Walter? So us’ll soon be back to greatness, won’t us, Walter?’

      ‘Mother,’ Captain Nicholls said, flatly.

      Mrs Nicholls clapped her hands over her mouth, but over them her eyes remained fixed on Diana’s. ‘An’ you’ll never guess, Walter, but what her ladyship’s thinkin’ СКАЧАТЬ