Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (22 page)

“I had the impression you didn't like him much.”

“I don't have to like him. This is about politics not friendship.”

That was an attitude she could understand. “What are his views of the issues? Where does he come down on the details of reform?”

“Gideon thinks he's deserves it. Let's not talk about this now.”

“I'm coming round to Gideon, but I don't think he's always correct in his judgment,” she said.

He pulled her down and started kissing the junction of her neck and shoulder. “Gideon isn't a patch on you, Minnie. In so many ways.”

As it happened, this was a particularly sensitive spot, which was some consolation. Still, it was intensely frustrating to be so close to a center of power and have so little part in it.

Chapter 22

A
few days later, in the middle of the afternoon, Minerva found herself at loose ends. The duchess was closeted with her daughters; Anne and her husband were leaving for Scotland in a few days and Minerva rather hoped Lady Amanda would go with them. She, Blake, and his mother would travel to Shropshire for the summer.

She wandered down to the duke's study to see if she could pick up any political gossip. Or, if her husband didn't want her help with his work, he might be up for a spot of Walter Scott. She wasn't sure she ever was going to be able to think of the novelist in the same way.

The room was empty but she wasn't disappointed. The eternal presence of servants grated on her and sometimes made life at Vanderlin House unbearable. She felt herself continually on display. Alone there for the first time, she looked around and imagined the statesmen who must have sat in those chairs over the past century, making history. A cabinet contained a collection of Dutch porcelain, perhaps brought from Holland by the first duke. She didn't know enough to judge the date of the pieces. The pictures were mostly portraits from different eras, but not formal ones: family groups in oil or watercolor added a personal touch and softened the grandeur of the room. One day perhaps, a depiction of Blake, her, and their children might take their place in the historical pageant. The late duke's interest in the classics was represented by a glass-fronted bookcase filled with the works of Greek and Roman authors. Though splendidly bound they looked well used.

It struck her that Blake had yet to make his mark. Paintings of horses and sporting books, she thought with amusement, would be likely additions. Not that she had ever seen Blake with a book in his hands, a fact she still found odd. She couldn't imagine a life without reading.

Feeling a little guilty, she tiptoed over to the desk where the usual neat piles of paper lay. He had a system, she observed. Each report had a brief précis attached with a pin. Not in Blake's scrawl but obviously written by one of the secretaries. A few others had notes in capitals, in a hand she recognized. The same letters she'd seen on a paper hidden in a Paris drawer. Amanda's, she guessed, glad to know that the letter her husband treasured had come from his sister, not another woman.

Reading a report from a Member of Parliament, holder of one of the Vanderlin seats, she saw that the secretary had done a fair job of summarizing the contents, but Minerva had her doubts about the method. It might be efficient with regards to Blake's time, but she couldn't help wondering what subtleties he missed by not reading them himself.

“Your Grace?”

She jumped at Mr. Hetherington's greeting and hastily replaced the papers on the desk. “I was looking for the duke,” she said.

Mr. Hetherington informed her that His Grace was in the ballroom, which seemed an odd place for a summer afternoon. The sound of clashing blades told her that Blake, deprived by the state of mourning from sessions at the boxing or fencing saloons, had imported a swordsman. Instead of going in, she took the stairs to the gallery for a better view.

With a tight padded jacket and close-fitting pantaloons Blake's figure showed to great advantage in his wife's opinion. She enjoyed watching the bout as much for the view of his body as for the demonstration of grace and skill by a pair of evenly matched fighters. With only a rudimentary knowledge of the art, she could tell Blake was a superb fencer, combining speed, agility, and strength. Each flash and clash of the swords, so fast as to be almost invisible, was accompanied by shouts and grunts. The combatants wiped the sweat from their foreheads after every violent exchange and Blake's blond hair clung to his skull in darkened hunks.

Minerva hung over the railing in shameless admiration. In years past she'd seen Blake compete in a horse race and knew him to be a rider of unparalleled skill. She wouldn't mind seeing him box too. It was always a pleasure to watch an expert at work, no matter what the avocation.

Her entertainment was interrupted by a cough. “Duchess?”

She dragged her eyes from the spectacle and turned to face Sir Gideon Louther.

“Sir Gideon,” she said. “Since we are brother and sister, do you think you could bring yourself to call me Minerva?”

“I would be honored.” He inclined his head and looked pleased. Sir Gideon was over twenty years older than her, a distinguished Member of Parliament for most of her lifetime. His subtle deference was a reminder of the level of importance she had attained for no good reason. Minerva had always wanted to exert influence, but she had imagined she would have to earn respect over time, not muddle into it by falling asleep in a library. Nevertheless, she wasn't foolish enough to disdain the opportunity fate had presented. And she knew Louther had spent a good deal of time in the duke's office over the past days. Perhaps he would be a source of information her husband refused to share with her.

“What can I do for you, Gideon? Or did you come to watch the fencing?”

“I need to speak to Hampton about something urgent. But it concerns you too. I hope you will see things my way.”

How interesting.

“It's the party. As I'm sure you know, Minerva, perspicacious as you are, there is more than one opinion about the form parliamentary reform should take.” He was certainly buttering her up, preferable to having him explain things as though she were an ignorant fool.

“As many plans as there are reformers. Perhaps more.”

“Precisely. The most radical of our number will not get their way, and it's to be hoped we won't have to settle for a façade of reform that improves nothing. As one of the party's leaders in the Commons, it's my job to help forge a consensus, especially with the General Election imminent.”

“Let me offer my commiserations. Is it going well?”

Having had ample opportunity to observe her brother-in-law since her return from Paris, Minerva suspected not. Gideon was an intelligent and shrewd man but she didn't see him as a natural leader of men, unlike their late father-in-law the duke, who had that quality in abundance.

“I'm concerned that we may fall into disarray before we even get to the election.”

“You said you wanted my help. What can I do?”

“Every summer the late duke invited a large party to Mandeville. It was one of his tools to forge alliances and cement loyalty.”

“I am well aware of the scope of Mandeville entertainments. Remember I lived most of my life just outside the park. With the family in mourning it will be quiet this year.”

“I've come to beg Hampton—and you—to set aside your scruples and invite the usual guests to Mandeville this summer. I'm not exaggerating when I say the future of the country depends on it.”

“I
'm spent.” Blake gasped, bent almost double and dripping sweat. His opponent, one of the best fencing masters in London, panted just as hard. Blake was proud to fight him to a draw. “Thank you,” he said, mopping his face then cleaning off the damp haft of his foil. “That was excellent. Can you come back on Thursday? I leave for the country the day after but I'd like to get in one more session. I was rusty at the beginning today.”

As he regained his breath and hilted his weapon, he became aware of a buzz of voices from the gallery. Minerva in a blue gown was a sight to gladden his racing heart. What a splendid ending to the afternoon it would be to find her in bed. He'd give her a hint, a suggestion she favor him with a chapter or two of Scott. He wondered when she'd arrived. He'd performed well and it pleased him to think of her watching.

Instead of paying him the least attention, she was speaking to Gideon with great energy. Whatever those two were hatching, Blake would probably dislike. The sooner he got her out of London the better.

The pair of them concluded their exchange with conspiratorial nods. “Hampton,” Louther called. “Wait there. We're coming down.”

His wife said nothing. She looked her most animated and handsome, no doubt as a result of a fascinating chat with Gideon. Then she engaged his eye and pursed her lips in a quick but unmistakable kiss. His interest in a bedroom meeting burgeoned.

Ten minutes later the day was ruined, and so was the summer. He'd always loathed the mass invasion of politicians at Mandeville. Last summer the thought of what he was avoiding had sharpened his enjoyment of the season in Devon. And now, instead of using his state of mourning as an excuse to pass July and August riding around his estate, visiting congenial and undemanding country neighbors, and spending a great deal of time in bed with his wife, he would have to endure tedious meals in the state dining room and listen to endless political jockeying.

“What about my mother?” he asked desperately. “We cannot expect her to tolerate a full house at Mandeville so soon after my father's death.”

But the duchess, appealed to later, was no help. “I've decided to go to Scotland with Anne and Amanda. I've put up with politics all these years for your father's sake. Now I'd like to spend some time with my daughters and grandchildren. Minerva is quite capable of taking my place and it will be better for her to do so without me looking over her shoulder.”

He could dig in his heels and refuse. He was, after all, the duke. He could tell the party and every squabbling member of it to go to hell and leave him and his family alone. But he discovered an inkling of attachment to the Vanderlin tradition, just enough to give him pause.

One member of his family, one he was anxious to please, glowed with ill-concealed excitement at the prospect of acting as hostess.

“Thank you for your confidence in me, Duchess. It's up to the duke to decide.” Minerva turned to Blake. “If you don't wish to entertain so soon after your father's death then we shall abide by your decision. I know you are looking forward to a quiet summer.” He gave her credit for effort. She was trying to be understanding and compliant while dying to beat him about the head and
demand
he say yes. “Gideon has convinced me it's essential, but no one could fault you for refusing.”

Except her. He feared he'd never hear the last of it if he said no.

“Very well. They can come. But only for a week. Ten days at the most. Any longer would show disrespect for my father's memory.”

She looked as though she wanted to embrace him, which would have been satisfactory. She also began to chatter on about who should be asked, how many guests the house could hold, and who could be safely snubbed. It dawned on him that having said yes, he still wasn't going to hear the last of it.

He escaped to the garden, taking Amanda with him.

“What did our mother mean, that she was going to Scotland with you and Anne? Surely you're coming to Mandeville for the summer.”

“It's time to get back.”

Something akin to panic gripped him when he realized Amanda was deserting him, when he needed her more than he had in years. As children the duke's daughters had a separate schoolroom and a governess. Five-year-old Amanda had come to him, begged her older brother to help her with the alphabet, using a set of letters printed on pasteboard squares. Though accustomed to treating his younger sister with lordly scorn, he'd agreed in the desperate hope that by teaching her, the symbols would begin to make sense to him. It worked, up to a point. He still got some of them confused but as she learned he imitated her. The trouble was that she quickly outstripped him in skill. He didn't know if she realized it, or whether her worship of her brother blinded her to his inability. One day he'd asked her if she could keep a big and terrible secret. She'd nodded, with serious eyes, and she'd been his faithful ally ever since.

“Please don't go. I need you here,” he said.

“There's a reason—someone—I wish to get back.”

“Amanda! Do you have a suitor?” She nodded, self-conscious and pleased. Despite inheriting the Vanderlin looks—and a Vanderlin fortune—the youngest daughter had a reserve that kept others at a distance.

He wanted his favorite sister to be happy, though he was sorry she might end up far away in Scotland. “It says much for your powers of resistance that you reached the age of twenty-seven unwed. I'd have thought our parents would have pushed you into a match, as they did for our older sisters. I know our mother presented you to many prospects.”

She grinned. “Many, many prospects. But the choice was always mine, as long as a candidate was eligible, of course. The same for Maria and Anne. Both of them were pleased with their husbands and are happy in their marriages.”

Having always assumed Maria had made a political alliance arranged by the duke, he considered the Louthers in a new light. Over the years, whenever he ran into him, Gideon had given him news of Maria and their four children. He enjoyed hearing about the escapades of his nephews and nieces, but he thought Gideon only spoke of them because Blake wasn't interested in politics. He now found it believable to think of Louther as an affectionate family man, his reports the testimony of a proud father.

By long ingrained habit, the notion of a proud father generated an inner tension and disquiet. But then he recalled that last conversation with the duke. That, and Amanda's words, helped explain why his father had never insisted on negotiating a marriage for him.

“I like your wife,” Amanda said. “She's very clever. I think you should take her into your confidence. She can help you far better than I.”

“I will, one day. But not yet.”

He looked around the garden, a well-tended haven in the center of London. Even the high walls couldn't entirely dampen the noise of traffic, or exclude the dust that floated in and marred the green of the plantings. “I can't wait to get to Mandeville. We'll have a little time there before the guests descend. Perhaps the right moment will arise to tell Minerva.”

Amanda squeezed his arm. “I believe you should. But even without her help or mine, you'll manage.”