When It Rained at Hembry Castle Chapter 11

Staton House

T

he next day when Edward arrived at the offices of the Daily Observer he found a note on his desk from Mr. Meriwether. Edward was expected at Staton House that afternoon for luncheon. Staton House! It was less than a day since he promised Christina that Miss Meriwether was nothing to him. Already the memory of that promise was slipping away.

Wellesley and Roberts, one over each of Edward’s shoulders, read the note and snickered.

“You’re invited to Staton House for luncheon,” said Wellesley.

“Apparently so,” Edward said.

Wellesley snatched the note from Edward’s hands. “First you win over the brother of the Earl of Staton, now the Earl himself. Soon it will be the Prince of Wales, and then Her Majesty the Queen.”

Roberts sat in Edward’s chair, legs crossed, face expressionless. When he spoke he pronounced his words in elongated tones this side of nasal.

“I say! Egads! Crikey! Blimey!” Roberts mimed holding a teacup with his pinky finger stretched toward the ceiling. “You see, my good man, I went round to Hembry Castle for a spot of tea with the Earl of Staton, and the Earl was quite well when I saw him, quite well. We had a laugh with the old boys Jiggy and Beaker while we were out shooting things and then we ate them for dinner. That’s the things we ate for dinner, not Jiggy and Beaker. What!”

Edward grabbed his note from Wellesley, laughing despite himself. “If you must know, it wasn’t Lord Staton who invited me but Mr. Meriwether.”

“Mr. Meriwether or his pretty daughter?” Roberts winked at Edward.

“I don’t think Miss Chattaway would approve,” said Wellesley.

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but I saw Miss Chattaway last night and she’s perfectly at ease with my acquaintance with Miss Meriwether. In fact, she and Miss Meriwether are great friends.”

“Obviously Miss Chattaway has never seen your face when Miss Meriwether is near.”

Without another word, Edward stomped down the stairs, pushed through the exterior door, and stopped near the L of Gough Square, struggling to pull air into his lungs, his throat was so tight. He was blinded by the late summer sun, realizing too late that he had left his hat at his desk. He wasn’t going back now. He wouldn’t be mocked by the likes of Roberts and Wellesley about something as innocuous as a simple luncheon. Edward used his hand to shield his eyes as he watched the people jostle toward the drivers who blocked the main thoroughfare with their cabs. Though Edward could find his way around London blindfolded, he was suddenly at a loss about where to go. He felt naked without his hat, which, to be fair, he nearly was. Only the working classes went without hats, and then only when it couldn’t be helped. Edward knew he should go back to get the offending article, but he was stubborn. Perhaps he should deny the accusations, giving Roberts and Wellesley a good telling-off, but it was too late now, and he knew everyone in the office was having a good laugh at his expense. Oh well. He had had enough laughs at theirs. Hatless, he turned down St. Dunstan’s Court and walked toward Fleet Street. He wondered if he had a moment to go home for a new hat but decided against it. He didn’t want to be late to see Mr. Meriwether. Then, in a panic he realized he didn’t know where he was going. He pulled the note from his pocket and saw the West End address on Park Lane.

Edward decided he had time to walk the three miles if he kept a brisk pace, which was good since he needed the exercise to clear his head. He headed west along the Mall, past St. James’ Park, past Buckingham Palace to the east side of Hyde Park and Park Lane. Edward stopped at the edge of the green expanse, looking at the people out for a drive, indulging in their moment to see and be seen. The women inside the carriages looked straight head with great dignity, feigning not to notice the women in the other carriages as those inhabitants did the same. He found Staton House easily enough, Number 10 Park Lane, the white Georgian with its arched doorway and the large windows that let in the green of the park. Edward laughed when his grandfather opened the door.

“Hello, sir,” said the elder Mr. Ellis. “May I take your coat and…? Might I inquire after the location of your hat?”

“It’s at the office. Don’t ask.” He grasped his grandfather’s hand. “I didn’t know you were here, Grandfather.”

“I arrived last night. Come in.”

Edward walked into the reception room where his grandfather took his coat. With the high, molded ceilings, white walls, and large windows, there was a brightness to Staton House that Hembry Castle lacked.

“What brings you to London, Grandfather?”

“I had some pressing news for Mr. Frederick. Her ladyship thought it would be best if I told him myself.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Mr. Frederick will have everything under control.”

Edward grasped his grandfather’s arm. “Is Miss Meriwether all right?”

“Miss Meriwether? Oh yes, she’s perfectly well. It’s his lordship.”

“Is Lord Staton well?”

Mr. Ellis straightened his jacket as though he were reminding himself of his butler’s duties. “For now, let’s say that Mr. Frederick is doing everything he can to help his lordship. I assume,” Mr. Ellis looked sternly at his grandson, “that this news will not leave this room.”

“I’ll be the soul of discretion.”

Mr. Ellis showed Edward into the sage-green sitting room with green and blue carpets and mahogany furniture. “Mr. Frederick asked me to give you his apologies. His business has taken longer than he expected, though he sent word that he’ll return shortly. He asked Miss Daphne to keep you company in the meantime.” Mr. Ellis gestured to the sage-green sofa. “Would you care for some tea?”

“Yes. Thank you, Grandfather.”

Edward studied the paintings on the walls—regal-looking, well-dressed, long-nosed aristocrats, fine-standing horses, and one portrait of a golden retriever. The bookcase caught his eye, and he examined the volumes. He was startled when a maid arrived with the tea tray.

“Shall I pour, sir?”

“No, thank you. I can manage.”

“Mr. Ellis says to tell you Miss Daphne will join you directly.”

“Thank you…”

“Anabel, sir.”

“Thank you, Anabel.”

The servants at Staton House were as good at disappearing as they were at Hembry Castle, and before Edward blinked Anabel was gone. He poured himself tea, admiring the blue thistle Royal Worcester set, wondering how many years of salary such a porcelain luxury would cost. As he glanced at the crown-wearing stamp on the bottom of the saucer Miss Meriwether appeared, a vision in lavender which brought out the violet in her eyes. Edward tried to stand and smiled sheepishly when he realized he was already standing and had only succeeded in making himself look a half-inch taller. He was enthralled at the sight of her until he gave himself an internal lashing. Hadn’t he just seen Christina the night before? Besides, the lovely young woman standing there was Daphne Meriwether. She lived in this grandeur, and he lived—well, he didn’t live at Staton House. She was the niece of the Earl of Staton. He was Edward Ellis, grandson of the butler and housekeeper of the Earl of Staton. Again, he thought of Christina. It was always a surprise how easily he could forget her when Miss Meriwether was there.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I was downstairs showing Mrs. Bucket, our cook, how to make American-style biscuits.”

“Are American-style biscuits so very different than our biscuits?”

“What you call biscuits we call cookies.”

“Cookies? That’s a great word. Cookies.”

“It comes from the Dutch word ‘koekje’ or so I’ve been told.”

“You’re a linguist as well.”

“Hardly. When Americans say biscuits we mean something more like a scone, though maybe a bit heartier. Come to the kitchen and you can try one.”

Edward followed Miss Meriwether down the stairs. He passed the servants’ hall, more compact than the one at Hembry Castle, and saw a footman and a maid huddled too close for propriety near the table. Miss Meriwether must have seen them as well because she turned to Edward with a conspirator’s grin which he found positively endearing. Edward smelled something comforting coming from the oven, and Mrs. Bucket, the Staton House cook, shook her graying hairs, the ones sticking out from her cap, at Edward.

“Are we on parade now?” Mrs. Bucket asked.

“This is Mr. Ellis,” Daphne said. “He works for my father at the newspaper. I invited him down to try an American-style biscuit.” Daphne opened the oven, took two oven towels, and pulled out the tray.

Mrs. Bucket shook her head. “Too much flour if you ask me. Looks like you’re baking bricks.”

“If I’ve done everything correctly they should be flaky and light.” Miss Meriwether held her index finger in front of her mouth. “Ssh,” she whispered. “Don’t ever tell my grandmother you saw me doing this. You’re both sworn to secrecy. Lady Staton would die of fright if she knew I baked my own biscuits.”

“Don’t matter a toss to me,” said Mrs. Bucket.

Edward bowed. “Your secret is safe with me, Miss Meriwether.” He watched as she lifted a golden biscuit and set it on a white porcelain plate. “Do you enjoy cooking?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. My mother taught me. I cook for Papa all the time at home.”

“Ohhh…” Mrs. Bucket slapped a white-floured hand to her forehead, leaving a pasty ring above her eyes. “Ellis? Are you...?”

“My grandson.”

Mr. Ellis stood in the doorway. “If you’re going to be the guest of Mr. Frederick, Edward, then you should behave like the guest of Mr. Frederick and not like the grandson of the butler.”

Miss Meriwether stepped between the butler and his grandson. “I’m sorry if I did wrong, Ellis. I asked him to come down to taste a biscuit.” Miss Meriwether spooned some freshly churned butter into a bowl and set it on a platter. “Would you like to try one, Ellis?”

“No, thank you, Miss Daphne. And you need never apologize to me. You’re still learning our ways, and I don’t fault you at all. My grandson, on the other hand,” he turned a sharp look onto Edward, “knows better.”

The maid who had brought Edward his tea appeared. “Mr. Ellis, Mr. Frederick is home.”

The senior Mr. Ellis waved Edward and Daphne toward the stairs. “You mustn’t keep him waiting.”

Miss Meriwether added the rest of the baked biscuits to the platter and led the way upstairs. Mr. Meriwether was in the sitting room pouring himself some tea from the pot Edward left behind. He kissed his daughter’s cheek when she appeared.

“Uncle Richard?” Miss Meriwether asked.

Mr. Meriwether shrugged and left it there. He nodded at the platter of biscuits, grabbed one, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. “A taste of home.”

“Is America home?” Miss Meriwether asked.

“It’s my chosen home. It’s strange to think of now, but for a long time I thought of myself as an Englishman living in America with his beautiful American family. But since we’ve been back I realized I’m more Americanized than I knew. I feel as though I’m a visitor here.”

“Is it really better in America?” Edward asked.

“Not better,” Miss Meriwether said. “Different.”

“Different how?”

“There’s no aristocracy in America, at least not officially. There are no lords and ladies, no House of Lords, no rules of etiquette, or if there are they aren’t as pronounced as they are here.”

“That might not be entirely true,” said Mr. Meriwether. “Those in New York Society have their rules of etiquette, surely. I’ve heard Mrs. Rhinelander and her lot are rather strict about following rules, even more so than we are here, if that’s even possible.”

“Fortunately for me, I was not part of that scene. My mind spins in confusion every time Grandma corrects me.”

Mr. Meriwether gestured to the sofa. “Sit down, both of you, please.” When everyone was comfortable, Mr. Meriwether rang for a fresh pot of tea. “Thank you for coming this afternoon, Edward. May I call you Edward?”

“Of course.”

“And you will call me Frederick.” When Edward tried to protest Mr. Meriwether waved his hand. “Please, Edward, I insist that we must be equally on a Christian name basis. Having lived in America for as long as I have all this formality is wearing on me.”

“If you insist, then I’ll certainly concede.”

“There you are. Good man. Now, you’re probably wondering why I asked you here this afternoon. As it happens, recent events concerning my brother the Earl lead me to believe I’ll be detained at Hembry Castle for some weeks, and I need to know that I leave the newspaper in capable hands. I want you to take over as acting editor.” Frederick paused, allowing Edward a moment to take in the news. “As acting editor, you’ll be in charge of day to day operations, and all final decisions will be yours. I know this is very sudden, and I’ve only been at the Observer a short time myself, but you were the first person I thought of when I realized I wouldn’t be able to come to London as often as I’d like. Will you do it?”

“It’s a great opportunity,” Miss Meriwether said. “To be the acting editor of the Daily Observer? At your age? It will help your prestige, and maybe even encourage Fergusonandwately to publish that collection of your stories.”

Edward sipped his tea as a way to allow himself time to think. Finally, he said, “I’m certain there are those who have been at the paper longer than I who should be considered first.”

Frederick finished the rest of his biscuit in one bite and helped himself to another. “The truth is, Edward, you and I have been working closely together, and I know that of all the staff you’re the one with an eye for the bigger picture. You have your finger on the pulse of what people want to read. And the original stories you’ve written are among the paper’s most widely read. Circulation has gone up since your stories started appearing. Of course, if you don’t feel comfortable taking on the assignment, I certainly understand, but I want you to know I have no doubts about your ability. I know you’ll keep the ship sailing smoothly.” Frederick turned to Mr. Ellis, who was standing silently by the tea tray. “What do you say, Ellis? Do you believe this young man would be capable as the editor of the Daily Observer?”

“I believe that young man can do anything he sets his mind to, Mr. Frederick.”

Miss Meriwether leaned toward Edward. He was distracted by her rosewater fragrance.

“There, you see. We all know you can do it. What do you say?”

Edward wanted to kiss her hand, at the very least, though he restrained himself since his grandfather and Mr. Meriwether were watching. “I’m most grateful for your offer, Mr. Meriwether. I’m happy to accept. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. And it’s Frederick, please.”

Luncheon was ready, and Edward laughed when Frederick carried the plate of biscuits with him to the dining room. While the meal—the soup, the salad, the ham—were all delicious, the part that stood out to Edward was the biscuits baked by Miss Meriwether’s own hands. They were indeed light and flaky, yet hearty, as though one biscuit would make a meal unto itself. He nodded after every bite.

“So you approve of my American-style biscuits?” Miss Meriwether asked. Something about the way her jewel eyes sparkled and her lips parted took his breath away.

“I approve heartily, Miss Meriwether.”

Frederick helped himself to another biscuit. “Sitting here reminds me how awkward I felt when I first arrived in New York. As much as I had always longed to leave Hembry, I found myself out of place in America. For a while I thought I had been too impulsive in my haste to leave England. I thought it would be easier in America than it was. I was so frustrated I began looking for any excuse to return to England. Then, one day I was leaving the office on Park Row and I saw the most beautiful young woman—fair complexion, golden hair, eyes like amethysts. Sound like anyone we know?”

Yes! Edward wanted to leap out of his chair, but he felt his grandfather drilling a hole into the back of his skull with the intensity of his butler’s glare.

“I was as struck by the young woman’s beauty as it’s possible to be, and then, as I had the chance to get to know her, I realized her physical beauty was merely an external manifestation of the beautiful person she was inside. In that one moment of happenstance I found my reason to stay in New York and I never looked back.” Frederick took his daughter’s hand and beamed at her with fatherly pride. With luncheon finished, he stood from the table. “If you’ll both excuse me, I have some business to tend to before we leave for Hembry.”

“I should be leaving as well,” Edward said.

Frederick stopped by the door. “Edward, I’ll come to the office later to tell everyone the news. If they give you any problems, tell me and I’ll see to it at once.”

Edward bowed to Frederick, then followed Miss Meriwether from the dining room. He stopped when he saw a stack of crates labeled ‘Daphne’s Room’ lined up against the wall.

“Are you returning to America so soon?” He gestured at the crates.

“These are arriving, not returning. Some of my things were misplaced somewhere along the journey. They finally arrived this morning. Should we see what’s inside?”

Mr. Ellis stepped from the shadows. “Shall I get the envelope opener, Miss Daphne?”

“Certainly, Ellis. Thank you.”

Edward watched his grandfather leave. “I apologize for my grandfather, Miss Meriwether. I can see you’re still disconcerted by the way he appears suddenly, out of the mist it seems.”

“I’m getting used to it. And must it still be Miss Meriwether? If you can call my father Frederick, then you can call me Daphne, surely. We’re much quicker to use first names, or Christian names as you say, where I live.”

“Doesn’t that lead to a false sense of intimacy? As though you’re close to someone you hardly know?”

“I’ve never thought of it like that. We don’t have the distinction of rank the way you do here, so most people are Mr. or Mrs. or Miss so it isn’t as necessary to acknowledge someone’s title. I think my father was right about New York Society. They’re certainly prim and proper about using titles and following rules, but in my quiet town where everyone knows everyone else we call each other by our first names. I hope you and I are good enough friends by now that I’m not being too forward if I said I’d prefer it if you called me Daphne.”

“And you must call me Edward.”

Mr. Ellis returned with the envelope opener on a silver tray. Daphne sliced the top of the crate and Edward saw the books inside. Daphne pulled the volumes out and smiled as though they were long lost friends.

“I’m so glad these finally made it. I was sad to think I had lost them forever.”

Edward sat on the floor beside Daphne to see the titles better. He helped pull the volumes from the crate—Ivanhoe from Sir Walter Scott, The Swiss Family Robinson from Johann David Wyss, Tales from Shakespeare by Charles Lamb and Mary Lamb. Everything by Shakespeare. Everything by Dickens. “You have excellent taste. These are among my favorite books.”

Daphne pulled a tattered volume from the bottom of the pile, and Edward saw the title, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft. “My mother gave this to me, as her mother had given it to her. Education is an important issue to me as it is to you. Wollstonecraft talks about how women have the right to an education if for no other reason than they are the first educators of their children. She also said women who are educated are better partners for their husbands instead of mere property or ornament. Do you find her ideas shocking?”

“Not at all. In fact, I quite agree. It goes back to when we were speaking about education—everyone has the right to be educated, rich and poor, male and female.”

Daphne nodded, and Edward guessed she liked what he said. He had to pull his eyes away from her, his grandfather was standing behind them, so he looked back into the crate and saw the gold writing on the green-pebbled cloth, One Thousand and One Nights.

“It was one of my favorites,” Daphne said. “I think ‘Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp’ and ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves’ are the best stories in the collection. Have you read it?”

“Read it? I think this book saved my life when I was a child. I could escape into it and forget about…” He looked at his grandfather, whose right eyebrow was raised in caution over his spectacles.

“What did you need to forget about?” Daphne grimaced. “It’s none of my business. I apologize for my American curiosity.”

“Curiosity is important, I believe. It keeps you interested in life.”

“You must be interested in life since you’re a writer.”

“I am, as it happens. Watching people, trying to understand why they make the choices they do, why they act as they do, why they say what they say and why they don’t say what they mean, it’s fascinating. My desire to write stories stems from the many books I read as a child, I suppose. Those books became more real to me than the world I lived in. How much more fulfilling it was to be part of Sinbad’s world or the Swiss Family Robinsons’ than to be where I was. I always had crazy daydreams floating through my brain at any and all times of the day. I was always making up stories about the people I saw, and when I began working as a journalist I decided it was time to start writing down those odd imaginings.”

“I understand exactly what you mean,” Daphne said. “I wasn’t unhappy as a child, not at all, but I think all children want to have their imaginations stirred. And look at what a fine writer you’ve become, Edward Ellis. All because you loved books as a boy.”

The desire to kiss her burned his lips, but a stout “A hem!” from his grandfather returned his thoughts to more appropriate places.

“What have you been reading lately?” Edward asked.

“I’ve been rereading Mr. Dickens mostly. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Have you read the final number of Drood yet?”

“I have. What did you think?”

“I wish he had lived long enough to finish it.”

Edward turned a copy of David Copperfield over in his hands. “So who killed Drood? Roberts, Wellesley, and I had quite a conversation about it at the office.”

“How do you know Edwin Drood is dead? As far as we know, as far as we’ll ever know, he may be murdered or he may be missing. Maybe he grew tired of it all and ran away. As my Uncle Richard says, Mr. Dickens would have his flights of fancy.”

“Unfortunately, it seems The Mystery of Edwin Drood is destined to remain a mystery. What else have you been reading?”

“Since I’ve been here I’ve been reading about British history. That’s one thing England has over America—your history is so much more fascinating than ours. England has such a long and extraordinary past with all your battles for the crown. Some of your history sounds like fairy tales to me. You have such riveting stories, kings like Henry VIII. Our history hardly compares.”

Edward’s grandfather chuckled in the shadows.

“Didn’t your Civil War end fairly recently?” Edward asked.

“I try not to think about it,” Daphne said. “It wasn’t easy, listening to the death tolls, watching the black wreaths go up on the doors, learning of the loss of young men we knew. I thought I was trapped in a nightmare whenever I read about how horribly both sides behaved toward each other. Americans versus Americans, and they were so cruel. My father was running the New York Times when the war broke out, and he’d come home looking like he’d seen a ghost, he was so full of bad news from the front. Half the time he didn’t even want to tell me what he heard. My mother died near the end of the war. From consumption.”

“I’m very sorry,” Edward said. Daphne looked so far away suddenly, and Edward wanted desperately to bring her back. “Our wars were much the same. They were fought for kings and queens, but otherwise war is war. All wars are senseless in their own ways.”

Edward thought Daphne looked very young and very wise in that moment, as though he could sense her joy but he could feel her sadness too. We all have our sadnesses, he thought. It’s the way we handle them that make us or break us. If he hadn’t admitted to himself that he was in love with her before, now Edward was helpless against his feelings. I am in love with Daphne Meriwether, he thought. I cannot hide from it any longer. He looked up from the book in his hand to see his grandfather watching him, the accusatory eyebrow still hanging above the spectacles.