The Notorious Lord Havergal

Joan Smith

Lettie Beddoes and her companion, Miss FitzSimmons, were just finishing breakfast when the butler entered the morning parlor with the post. Lettie’s main interest in this daily event was always to see whether there was a note from Tom, her younger brother, who was on the edge of graduating from Oxford. Her sharp eyes espied a franked letter in the bunch, and she gave a
tsk
of annoyance. Her acquaintance with peers and members of Parliament was slight. The only gentleman of her acquaintance possessing the privilege of a frank was Lord Havergal, and he was the last person she wanted to hear from.

Miss FitzSimmons flipped through the post and, finding nothing for herself, examined her friend’s letters instead. “There is a letter from Tom. And another letter for you, Mr. Beddoes,” she said archly, handing them over. Violet FitzSimmons was a widgeon, but not even she was dense enough to mistake her friend for a gentleman. It was her monotonous little joke; she repeated it every time Lord Havergal wrote to his testamentary guardian, Miss Letitia Beddoes. Havergal innocently assumed L. Beddoes to be a gentleman and addressed his letters to her accordingly.

Lettie put Havergal’s pesky letter aside and opened Tom’s first, to see what new items he required to cut a dash at Oxford. Tom’s toilette was impeccable, but his letters were invariably stained with tea, wine, jam, or at the very least, inkblots. This time it looked like jam.

Violet FitzSimmons waited impatiently to hear what Tom had to say. “Waistcoats,” Lettie read, scanning the short letter. “His have become so stained, they are beyond cleaning, and his pockets are to let. I can let him have a few guineas of my allowance. We do not want him to make a poor impression at university. He will be graduating soon and must be in fashion when he goes up to London to seek a position.”

“Tom would look well in stripes,” Violet said, her eyes assuming a faraway look as she envisaged her favorite in an elegant striped waistcoat. “Narrow stripes have a slimming effect,” she explained. “Not to say that Tom is chubby. He has practically lost his baby fat.”

“Well he might! He is one and twenty now and master of all he surveys, so long as he does not survey beyond the five hundred acres of Laurel Hall.”

It occurred to Miss Beddoes that Violet ought to try the slimming effect of stripes herself. At five and thirty, she was filling out to matronly proportions. The extra pounds suited her face well enough. Her cheeks were full and youthful, her brown eyes were still bright, and her hair was hardly touched by frost. But when she stood, her spreading figure whispered, “middle age.”

There was no danger of Miss Beddoes letting herself go in this indulgent manner. With the estate to take charge of since Tom left, her body was more muscular than when she was in her teens. Mr. Norton, the only gentleman who took any sort of proprietary interest in her, frequently told her she was “too lean.” But then his favorite animals were pigs, so she did not harken to his opinion. Yet she had noticed recently that strangers, upon first meeting Violet and herself, took them to be of more or less the same age.

As she was eight years younger, this did not entirely please her. Her mirror told her she had lost the first flush of girlhood, but she was by no means raddled. She blamed the error on her authoritarian manner. As resident mistress of Laurel Hall since her papa’s death a year ago, everything was left up to her. An equivocal manner and hesitant commands ask to be disobeyed. She learned that much the first month and altered her style accordingly.

Lettie possessed an air of dignified maturity. Her black curls were pulled back severely, revealing a chiseled nose and firm jaw. A broad brow, gray eyes, and pleasant smile completed her visage. Her gowns, always of the best materials if not the latest cut, were held to be unexceptionable in the narrow society of Ashford. Mr. Norton told her the haughty way she held her head lent her an air of distinction, and Violet told her she was sick and tired of hearing her praised for her “countenance,” when what she
was
was bossy. Miss Beddoes paid very little heed to either of them.

“What has Lord Havergal to say, Lettie?” Violet inquired, before giving her a minute to read the letter.

She slit it open and perused it, murmuring the gist of it as she read. “His shooting box ... Cotswolds ... wants to protect this valuable property ... new paint... possibility of adding ten acres ... A thousand pounds,” she said, closing the letter with the inevitable sense of discomfort that always accompanied these requests.

“Lord Havergal spends a great deal of money, does he not?” Violet said, shaking her head. “I mean to say, this twenty-five thousand his cousin Horace left him was spoken of by the family as a mere drop in the bucket where Havergal is concerned, yet he seems to be
constantly
pestering you to get hold of it.”

“Viscount Havergal will inherit a great deal of money when his father dies, but Lord Cauleigh enjoys excellent health. Meanwhile, Havergal has a more than adequate allowance, along with a few inheritances from other relatives, like that left him by Sir Horace.”

“I don’t quite understand how it is that Sir Horace Wembley is both Havergal's cousin and yours, yet the two of you are not related and have never even met,” Violet frowned.

“Sir Horace was Havergal’s cousin; he was married to some cousin of my mama’s. The Beddoes were connected to him, not related.”

It was a connection the Beddoes cherished, as it was as close as they came to touching nobility. The family was genteel, of course. They lived in some provincial splendor at Laurel Hall, in Kent. Mr. Beddoes had been an astute gentleman and had always contrived to keep several thousand pounds ahead of the grocer.

Sir Horace, when he was alive, had been accustomed to discussing his investments with Mr. Beddoes. They became the best of bosom bows, and when Sir Horace died, he made Mr. Beddoes the executor of his estate. Lettie’s farseeing father realized he was no younger than Sir Horace, though of somewhat better health, and suggested a co-executor be named in case he died before the trust was terminated.

“There is no one who understands the ins and outs of your affairs so well as my own Lettie,” Papa said. “It is a pity she were not a gentleman, and we could make her co-executor.”

“Why, it is not illegal for an adult lady to act insuch matters, is it?” Sir Horace asked, stroking hischin. “I seem to recall my own mama was guardianof some nieces..."

“Well, but Lettie is only three months older than your heir. This Havergal would not care for having a young lady holding his purse strings.”

“Oh, as to that, the dab I am able to leave won’t mean a thing to Havergal. Lettie will only have to see that the Consols are paying their five percent and send the interest along to Havergal each quarter. I would leave it to him direct, but the lad runs through money like water. It will be well for him to have a little nest egg set aside. Whatever you do, don’t let the lad get his hands on it, or it will be gone within a fortnight. I will arrange that he assume the capital on his thirtieth birthday. I trust Havergal will be married and settled down by that time, and you will still be alive and kicking till then, eh Beddoes?”

Within three months of Sir Horace’s demise, Mr. Beddoes was carried off by a heart seizure. Lettie had just turned twenty-six when she became testamentary guardian to Lord Havergal in the matter of Sir Horace Wembley’s endowment. She was now twenty-seven, and for the past year, she had let Havergal live under the misapprehension that she was not only a gentleman, but a gentleman of advanced years. His letters invariably inquired about her gout. Where this gout came from, she could not imagine, except that her papa used to complain of it, and Havergal perhaps assumed it to be a family failing. He seemed to think Lettie was her father’s brother.

She had written him a kindly letter at the time of her father’s death, outlining the legal situation and assuring him that she was willing to do what was in her power to assist him. Unaccustomed to business communication, she had signed it L. A. (for Anne) Beddoes and received a very polite reply addressed to Mr. L. A. Beddoes. She did not correct the error, as she felt he would take directions more kindly from a man.

The next letter from Havergal was equally polite. It suggested that in lieu of quarterly payments, it would be more convenient for him to receive all the interest on the estate in a lump sum at the first quarter. L. A. Beddoes replied promptly: Was Lord Havergal aware that this would mean an entire year with no income, as it would take twelve months for one year’s interest to accrue? The next missive from Lord Havergal was less polite. L. A. Beddoes had misunderstood his intentions. Would he please continue with the present arrangement till further notice. During the ensuing months, Havergal had tried by a number of transparent ruses to get his money out of her. He had suggested various schemes that were bound to make him a fortune, but L. A. Beddoes squashed them all.

It was inevitable that Violet and Miss Beddoes should take an interest in this quasi-ward, and as Violet was an avid reader of the social columns, they were not long in the dark as to just what they were dealing with. It was a rare journal that did not have some account of Lord H’s doings, and a rarer one that had anything good to say of him. He was a fixture at the balls, races, plays, operas, and other amusements that the
ton
offered. Lord H was mostly famous for being extremely eligible, but there were also mentions of his nags, his gambling, his toilette (the Havergal cravat evoked a few cartoons), his women, and his pranks,

It was Lord H who took a blanket and pillow into the House of Lords and was ejected when he began snoring. This was in protest against the government’s refusing to debate his bill on the redistribution of rotten boroughs. A staunch Whig, he reproached a fellow Whig by painting the door of his house, on Half Moon Street, Tory blue when that gentleman wrote an article in favor of increasing Prinney’s income. “One would have thought he could commiserate with
that
request,” Violet said with unusual acuity. They were well aware by that time that Havergal had a prodigal way with money.

Through all that interesting year, they had only the vaguest idea of Lord Havergal's appearance, based solely on poorly drawn cartoons in the journals. Some showed his jaw unusually large and square. Another gave him a curl in the middle of his forehead and lashes an inch long. All cartoons agreed in outfitting him in the first style of elegance, with broad shoulders and intricate cravats. And all suggested in different ways that they were parodying a handsome gentleman.

“I wonder what he really wants the money for,” Lettie mused. “Could it have anything to do with the new fad of pig racing in Green Park we were reading of? I seem to recall Lord H’s name occurred. Hand me the latest journal, Violet.”

Violet reached to the table behind her, and they began rifling through the pages. “Here it is,” she said, handing Lettie a page.

Lettie read aloud, “ ‘
PIG
RACE
IN
GREEN
PARK
DRAWS
CROWD
. The handsome Lord H’s entry, Hamlet, was judged the fastest trotter. Unfortunately the porker could not decide in which direction to run. Like his namesake, he vacillated at the critical moment and lost the race. Rumor has it that Hamlet’s poor sense of direction cost Lord H a thousand pounds.’ " Lettie set the paper down. “That sum sounds familiar, does it not? It is not Havergal’s shooting box in the Cotswolds that requires a thousand pounds, but his creditors. I shall deny his request—as usual.”

Violet spooned sugar into a fresh cup of coffee and said, “I wonder where they find jockeys small enough to ride pigs. Do you suppose they use children? It would be dangerous.”

Lettie kept her lips steady and said, “I shouldn’t think they use jockeys at all, Violet.”

“Ah, that would explain the pig’s running the wrong way.”

“It does not explain how a grown man can waste his time on such folly. I’ll answer Tom’s note and Havergal's letter, and then we’ll drive into Ashford. I mean to have a new shawl for the spring assembly. The fringe of mine has knotted so badly, I cannot get it to hang free, even with my comb.”