Hugh Kenrick (23 page)

Sir Henoch was in a buoyant mood; he had never imagined that the Earl would thank him in this manner. He had even cleaned his teeth for a second time this day, and doused himself with rose water for the occasion, as he had for his interview with the king many years ago.

After a spate of small talk, and when the party had nearly finished the main course, the Earl addressed the member for Canovan. “Mr. Hillier informs me that the Speaker allowed you to speak at length on an irrelevant subject the other day. Is this true?”

“It is, your lordship,” replied Sir Henoch, almost shrugging. “I believe that Mr. Onslow had had some extra helpings from his chocolate pot that morning, and so was in a sweeter mood to accommodate me. I don’t say much in the House, your lordship, but when I speak, I tend to speak in volumes.” He paused, sensing that the Earl’s question was merely an overture to another matter, which he could not guess at. “He did, afterward, take me aside to remind me to limit my remarks in future to the day’s business, and not again tumble a slumbering House from the wrong side of the bed.”

“I would agree with him on that matter, Sir Henoch.”

“Your lordship?”

“The colonies are an important appendage to this nation. It would not do to antagonize them at this particular moment.”

“The business of the day,” said Hillier, “indeed, of the war, is not yet the arrogance of the colonies, Sir Henoch, nor their miseries, concerns, or feelings of neglect.”

Sir Henoch seemed to realize then the reason he was here. For a moment, he said nothing. He was, however, wise enough to concede the Earl’s point, yet practical enough not to appear too conciliatory. “True enough,” he said. “But I am sure that treacly oration will not do the trick, nor will the malady of colonial discontent be corrected by a dose of extract of peppermint. I fully expect the matter, once the peace has been restored, to be a subject of the committee of the whole House.”

“I fear that, too, Sir Henoch,” said the Earl. “I share your sentiments, but believe that your remarks were ill-timed.” He paused. “I trust that you do not construe my words here as an attempt to breach the privilege of your House. But there are prior issues at hand. Everything in time, Sir Henoch. You will have your day again, I am sure. Please, stay your oratory on that subject. One enemy at a time. There are other things you and Mr. Hillier can work together on in the Commons.”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“You know, of course,” continued the Earl, “that Mr. Hillier here sits on a committee that is considering a petition from some colonial merchants to reduce the duty on hats from their quarter.”

“And I on a committee that is considering a petition from city shopkeepers to reduce the duty on Spanish oranges, your lordship. I can say with confidence that the notion will never be debated in the House.”

The Earl hummed in approval, but said, “When, at your house some time back, you offered to speak against the reduction of duties on other commodities, you did not include hats. Is there a reason why you assumed I might be interested in those articles?”

Sir Henoch was at a loss for words. He could not openly confess that he was certain that the Earl and his brother were closely connected with the smuggling into the country of hats and other commodities along the Dorset coast, and that his certainty was bolstered by intelligence gathered through informal conversations he had had with contacts within the Customs Board bureaucracy. He could no more admit this certainty than he could propose blackmail. Of course, Sir Henoch knew that Hillier’s committee was considering hats, and that other committees were considering petitions of a similar nature. He had merely mentioned hats in his speech; he could just as well have mentioned Irish lace or French shoes. It was immaterial. So he concluded that the Earl was probing him for the depth of his knowledge of the Earl’s culpability.

After these ruminations, Sir Henoch replied, “Nothing in particular, your lordship. Only that you, together with so many others charged with the dignity of England, would consider such a reduction a threat to the Crown’s solvency, and a blow against the nation’s interest.” He spoke these words facing the Earl in the most self-righteous manner he was capable of.

The Earl seemed satisfied with this answer, and, letting the matter rest, became intent on finishing his plate. Hillier smiled approvingly at his colleague, and did the same. Viscount Wilbourne blinked at him. And the nephew, who had not said a word all evening, looked perplexed. Sir Henoch was certain, judging by the look on the boy’s expression, that he was as mystified by the exchange as was the Viscount. The young baronet looked like the perfect scion of aristocracy: he wore a spotless white wig with a green ribbon on the tail, and a pearl gray suit that was as lustrous as his uncle’s. There was a fastidious air about him that seemed directed at the company, not the table. Too much of a prig for politics, mused Sir Henoch. He decided to test the mettle of the boy, and perhaps pay him back for the
encounter in the Palace Yard. He wondered if the Earl was aware of his nephew’s “republican” leanings.

“May I compliment his lordship on the excellence of his port?” he said after taking a long swallow of it. A servant immediately appeared and refilled his glass.

The Earl seemed to smile, and nodded acknowledgment.

Sir Henoch addressed Hugh. “Milord seems to be in a state of mental percolation. Have you anything to say on the subject of our Britannic flora?”

Hugh had been content to endure the conversation in silence, for it either did not interest him, or concerned matters he did not fully understand. But now he had been invited to speak his mind. “Only that I was prompted, by the talk, and also by your speech in the House, Sir Henoch, to recall an episode from my Roman studies.”

“Oh? Which episode, milord?”

“The fate of Cremona.”

“Cremona?”

Viscount Wilbourne spoke. “It is famous for its violins,” he announced.

“I was reminded,” continued Hugh, “of what happened to the citizens of that fortress town when they surrendered to Antoninus Primus’s legions.”

“Nothing disreputable, I trust,” remarked Sir Henoch, fearing that it was.

Hugh shook his head. “They were plundered and butchered. Their houses were burned, their temples razed, and their riches carted away. No man, woman, or child was spared the sword, outrage, or the fetters. The survivors were made slaves, to be sold to the highest bidders. And when the citizens of Rome heard what had happened, their probity compelled them to resolve not to purchase the new slaves. Out of spite, the captives were put to death by their captors.”

“Well,” sniffed Sir Henoch, “Roman history is quite gory. To my recollection, the reduction of the intrusive barbarians was never the stuff of bedtime stories or children’s tales.”

“Cremona was a Roman colony, sir, populated by Romans, and one of Rome’s most prosperous.”

Sir Henoch’s ignorance was not feigned. “Forgive me, milord, but I don’t see the relevance.”

Hugh asked rhetorically, “Will the scarlet of our martial tunics some day share the shame of the praetorians’ scarlet cloaks?”

Sir Henoch fell back in his chair, unable to answer. Hillier watched the Earl’s face grow pink. And Hugh held Sir Henoch’s glance, waiting for an answer.

Hillier said, “What gives you leave, milord, to construct such a dire analogy?”

Hugh answered as though it were obvious. “Sir Henoch’s patriotism, Mr. Hillier, together with a wealth of sorry precedents in Roman history for his proposed lex Britannica.”

“And the violins?” asked Viscount Wilbourne, looking around desperately. “What happened to them?”

The Earl threw the Viscount a sharp look, then addressed Sir Henoch. “Rome was in the midst of a civil war,” he said, blandly changing the subject of the conversation, “over who would be emperor, Vettilius or Vespasian.” He paused, then waved a hand in dismissal of the subject. “Civil wars are notoriously fratricidal, Sir Henoch, and sufficiently lurid enough in their episodes to seduce the attentions of someone the age and experience of my nephew. And, anyway, my nephew’s analogy is quite erroneous.”

“And, who became emperor?” asked Viscount Wilbourne.

“Vespasian,” answered Hugh, ignoring his uncle’s slight, “the son of a tax collector. He began construction of the Coliseum for the entertainment of the masses, and banished the philosophers because their teachings caused men to think and contemplate disloyalty.”

“Very interesting pastime, the study of history,” remarked Hillier, attempting to lessen the sudden tension. “It has many uses, I am sure, but as a repository of moral guidance, I’m afraid it has nothing to offer us moderns.”

“Quite true, Mr. Hillier,” replied Hugh. “Roman history especially is a nonpareil chronicle of the absence of reason in men’s affairs. It is my earnest hope that we do not emulate the Romans in that respect. That we speak a different language, wear different clothes, and eat different foods, will not guarantee that we will not. The consequences must be the same, if we do emulate them.”

Sir Henoch sat forward and took another swift draught of port. He was angry. The insult the boy had offered him could not be repaired, and he knew that he could not ask for an apology. He said, not looking at anyone
in particular, “I’ve found that reason, which ought to direct men’s affairs, seldom does. That is not my doing. When I speak, it is not men’s reason that I address to the exclusion of their passions. It is, after all is said, the passions that govern their reasoning. I believe I am correct in thinking that some very prominent philosophers have averred this precise position. This Scottish scrivener, Hume, I heard even approves of it.” Then he dared himself to face Hugh. “Milord, reason is but the application of caution in men’s affairs, once a sentiment has been decided. That is all reason is, or should be.”

“I will be found dead in my bed,” stated Viscount Wilbourne, “before I am ever caught agreeing with a Scot!”

Both Hillier and Sir Henoch laughed in relief for the diversion. Hillier exclaimed, “Your lordship, you’re a poet!”

Viscount Wilbourne glanced around the table with imbecilic delight. The Earl, though grateful for the diversion, too, began to wonder just how much the Viscount’s mind had decayed.

Hugh turned to his uncle. “Sire, may I be excused before dessert?”

This, too, caused the Earl to feel relief. His nephew’s request would save him the bother of sending him away. “You may, nephew.”

“We shall only be discussing imaginary revenues calculated on imperative expenditures, milord,” said Hillier. “Dull matters, no doubt, for one so lively as yourself.” He paused. “Or perhaps some other excitable subject.”

“Say, rather,” chimed Sir Henoch, “imperative revenues based on imaginary expenditures, sir. I confess I don’t see the distinction.” He turned to Hugh and smiled broadly. “Good night, milord.”

Hugh nodded. “Good night, gentlemen.” He bowed slightly to the pathetic form of Viscount Wilbourne. “Good night, your lordship.” And with a final bow to his uncle, he turned and left the supper room.

When the doors on the far side of the room closed behind Hugh, Sir Henoch turned and addressed the Earl. “Your lordship, you have a nonpareil relation in that boy. I don’t recall ever having observed so much bottom in one so young.”

“He has been a pain to me, at times, Sir Henoch,” replied the Earl, a subtle menace in his words, “but he is blood, and quite above judgment by all but his father and me.”

Sir Henoch shook his head. “No aspersions intended, your lordship,” he replied. “And forgive me the presumption, but I do believe he reads
things less innocuous than Tacitus and Plutarch. Why, just the other day, he admitted to me that he bosoms that stigmatized work,
Hyperborea
, and even speculated on what its villainous author might have said in answer to my speech! What an obsession! What an imagination!” He shook his head again. “I could not believe that his lordship allowed such trash in his house, so I did not credit it. Though if his father your brother approves of it, as he intimated to me at my house some time ago, well,” concluded Sir Henoch with an expression of pouting incredulity, “one can’t know what to think.”

The Earl studied his guest with a mixture of admiration and contempt. “You hanged the author, did you not, Sir Henoch?” he asked.

Sir Henoch frowned. That question again! “No, your lordship, I did not. I merely saw to it that he was.”

“I would not allow it, Sir Henoch,” said the Earl after a short moment, “and you were wise not to believe that I would.”

Sir Henoch rushed to say, “I sincerely hope that his lordship does not contemplate punishment for the lad’s words to and about me. I cannot be insulted! I have been called worse things than a patriot—much worse—and been the subject of inelegant hilarity.”

“I have not yet decided, Sir Henoch,” replied the Earl with a finality that closed the subject of his nephew.

A moment of silence passed. The Earl signaled the servants to begin serving dessert.

“Speaking of boots, your lordship,” said Sir Henoch, reaching inside his coat and bringing out some neatly folded sheets of paper, “I dictated my speech to my secretary, and now take the liberty of presenting you with a copy of it, so that you may better judge its force and wisdom, word for word. I have received many compliments on it, and some criticism. Why, some spy in the galleries took it all down, and I’m told it will appear in
Gentleman’s Magazine
or some other gossipy rag—though my name will be changed to some unflattering style.” He handed the papers to the Earl.

“Thank you, Sir Henoch, for your thoughtfulness.” The Earl took the papers and put them to the side. “I shall read it tonight, before I retire.”

Viscount Wilbourne abruptly grinned. “Have any of you heard the latest gossip about Bute and the Prince of Wales? The daft Prince dotes on the Earl, and the Earl dotes on the lad’s mother, the Dowager. An unnatural ménage, that!”

The members for Onyxcombe and Canovan were startled by the Viscount’s outburst and the relative sanity of his subject, and the Earl was
embarrassed. But even though the topic had been raised by a man whom they by now had concluded should be mourning the loss of most of his faculties, the career of John Stuart, third Earl of Bute, Groom of the Stole, and advisor and confidant of both the Dowager Princess of Wales and her son, George, absorbed their attention for the remainder of the evening.