When It Rained at Hembry Castle Chapter 16

The Unhappy Earl

I

t was late that December night, the moon receding in an arc to the other side of the world. Though it was frigid outside and icicles dripped from the glass, Richard kept his window open. He had been back at Hembry since early that morning, he and Hough having caught the early train from London. He had an argument with Jerrold the night before, and he wanted to leave the city at first light before Jerrold returned for another round. Poor Jerrold. Jerrold, who was always whinging that Richard didn’t do enough to help him, though Richard had done, and was still doing, quite enough.

Hough needed to return to Hembry anyway. Ever the doctor, he needed to see a patient in the village. He had insisted that Richard didn’t need to accompany him, though the doctor suggested, gently, that perhaps there was business at Hembry that needed tending? Richard already felt spasms of guilt. He wasn’t doing his duty, and it wasn’t fair to Frederick. Frederick, who had been a good, kind brother from their boyhood. Frederick, who was always the first to defend him when their mother began meddling. Frederick, who should have been Earl but for an unfortunate accident of birth order. Because that’s all birth order is, isn’t it—an accident? It had been six months since his father died, but Richard still missed him terribly. His father would know what to do. His father would know what to say. But his father wasn’t there, and he was Lord Staton now. He would be Lord Staton until the day he died.

Richard hadn’t left his room since he returned that morning, refusing every visitor, even Frederick, even Daphne, especially his mother. But the day hadn’t been all gloom. He was sitting by his window eating his luncheon on a tray when he saw his niece running toward the castle with the Ellises’ grandson. Richard hadn’t seen Daphne light up that way since she was a girl and he used to dress her rag doll in her mother’s undergarments and say, in his most feminine voice, “Who took my bloomers? Do you have my bloomers? Where are my bloomers?” Daphne laughed so hard she gasped for breath, and so had he. Now here she was looking like young Mr. Ellis had told her the old joke and she couldn’t contain her joy. The grass was slippery, and they had to grasp each other to remain upright. The heel of Daphne’s boot caught in a puddle and she nearly plummeted to the ground, but young Mr. Ellis caught her around the waist. If they were going to fall, young Mr. Ellis seemed to say, they would fall together. It was so charming, the two young people, stealing shy glances, holding hands. Richard was happy for Daphne. Of course, his mother would die of shock if anything more serious than a run in the rain were to come of Daphne’s acquaintance with the young writer. But Daphne and Mr. Edward Ellis were well-suited, both with their inquisitiveness, both with their ready laughter. Richard noticed their connection when young Mr. Ellis came for luncheon. The differences in social station were not an issue for the Earl. He believed the young people should be together if that’s what they wanted. Why, in 1870, are we still caught up in a feudal system where only the first-born sons inherit? Why are we still trapped in this nonsensical world of titles and heirs and property? If my niece wants to marry a nice young man who has caught her fancy and is working hard to make his way in the world without a family name or a trust, then she should. And she will. Richard would see to it. You should be able to be with the one you love no matter what anyone else thought. No matter how hard you had to fight for it.

The rest of the day passed and Richard did little enough. He chose a book from his shelf, though he couldn’t have said which book it was for all the attention he paid to it. When it was well dark and the rest of the house was asleep, Richard sat at his desk with the outturned lion’s feet, opened the long drawer, and pulled out his pens, ink, and paper. He had a vague idea of a plan to set things right, but that was as far as it went. He wrote a few ideas onto the paper, but they wouldn’t do. He crumpled the paper and threw it into the dancing orange flames in the hearth. Richard poked the fire, which crackled as it rose higher. He dropped onto his bed in a heap that looked like a pile of well-tailored clothing. Though it was too dark to see outside, he looked for the shadow of the river that flowed through the grounds. It was a serpentine river, curving along the grassy banks that sprouted white and yellow daisies in spring and summer. It reminded Richard of the River Thames on a much smaller scale. He was such a child when the family stayed at Staton House and he and Freddie wandered off from Nanny and ended up by the river. At first the low-tide water looked fun, like he wanted to take off his shoes and splash in the mud and search for trinkets as he saw the poorly dressed boys doing. When they fished out the body of a dead man, drowned in the river they said, he ran back to the safety of Staton House. A few months later at Hembry Freddie tried to teach him to swim. He remembered the moment as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. He was trying to keep up with Freddie, who was already an expert swimmer. In his haste he slipped beneath the water and hit his head against the sharp rocks, slicing the skin near his left eye and knocking himself unconscious. He nearly drowned. Since then, no matter how hard anyone prodded him, he stayed away from the river.

He looked around the room with its beige walls, marble hearth, and Baroque accents. Anyone would be pleased by such a home, by such a life. He was the Earl of Staton. He was a peer. And yet he had so many questions. Why had he been born into this family? Why was he the first born? His life would have been difficult for him no matter what station he had been born to—of that he was certain. But at least as a shoemaker’s son or a soldier he might have had a chance to find some happiness. As Earl, he had no chance at all. It’s true, Richard thought. As Lord Staton I have no chance at all.

He picked up the book on the table by his bed and smiled. Our Mutual Friend was his favorite after all. The weight of the volume felt wrong, and he opened the cover with such force he nearly ripped it away. He gasped when he realized the book was empty. He stormed to the door, his hand on the knob, ready to scream bloody murder until his letters were found. Those damned servants! Of course it was one of them. How dare they invade his privacy that way! How dare they…

He staggered back to his bed and sank down, his head bowed over his knees, his gray-streaked chestnut hair brushing the top of his boots. How could he make a scene? Everyone will search for the letters, and the letters will be found (if they were still in the house) and then everyone will know. About his love. About his father’s words. The baby! He had promised about the baby! What would happen if the contents of those letters became common knowledge? What would happen to him? What would happen to the family, and to those who mattered most to him in the world?

Richard opened his wardrobe and threw whatever clothes he could grab—shirts, waistcoats, trousers, underthings—into his traveling bag. He didn’t ring for Feesbury, the neglected man who was supposed to be his valet who was left behind more often than not. Richard needed to get away. Now. He had only arrived back that morning, and he was certain there were things at Hembry that needed seeing to, but Freddie could handle it. Freddie, who should have been the first-born, who should have been Earl. I’ll leave Freddie a note saying I had to go, it was urgent. Freddie has figured out that I haven’t been about with the Marlborough House Set for over a year, so I’ll say instead I’ve gone to Gladfellow House in Yorkshire.

As Richard wrote his hurried note he decided against mentioning Gladfellow House, knowing Frederick could very well show up there. He wrote Frederick’s name in large letters at the top of the envelope so whoever found the letter on his desk would know who to give it to. People were good at finding letters in his room, apparently. Richard slipped on his overcoat and a heavy scarf, set his top hat low on his head, and grabbed his travel bag. He turned the knob as quietly as he could, opened the door, and saw no one. It was so late even the servants would be tucked away in the attics. Richard stepped into the hallway with a light tread, afraid of setting the old floorboards creaking. He closed his door and left down the dark spiral staircase.