When It Rained at Hembry Castle Chapter 4

Upstairs at Hembry Castle

C

ertainly, Edward had spent many carefree days as a child at Hembry Castle running through the servants’ hall or hanging onto his grandmother’s skirts or Mrs. Graham’s apron. He always knew there was a different world through the green baize door, though he never had any great desire to know that world better. He had always found the nobility amusing with their odd manners, strict rules, and monotone voices, and he had never felt any burning desire to see them in their natural habitat. Edward knew from his grandparents that the people upstairs weren’t so different from anyone else though they (and anyone else) believed they were. Certainly, the aristocrats had land, a manor house, sometimes even money, but they also had the same problems as people anywhere. Sometimes their problems were magnified because of their position. Perhaps it was because of his proximity to Hembry Castle that Edward was never particularly impressed by any of it. He wasn’t worried about what the Countess of Staton thought of him, or what the Earl of Staton thought of him, or what anyone else thought of him, except for his new editor. And the editor’s daughter.

Edward stepped through the green baize door and stopped. It was the first time he had entered the castle proper and he had to admit he was dazzled. It was as though the sun shined brighter on the other side, and Edward laughed to think that the Earl of Staton and his family would certainly think so. Really, it was only that the sun had finally prevailed against the rain and the windows upstairs were floor to ceiling where downstairs there were only a few glass eyes at the top of the walls to let light through. But we’ll allow the family to think the sun shines only for them, Edward thought.

He closed the door and heard nothing from downstairs. The door was a barrier, a clear sign to the servants from the family—you are there and we are here. You are allowed into our space to make our lives easier, but we will rarely stray into yours. Edward stood near the foyer near the front entrance with long halls stretching away from him in three directions, the walls perfect showcases for an art collection nine generations strong. There were masterpieces from Raphael, Titian, and Tintoretto. Wherever Edward looked were portraits of Meriwethers, beginning with flat, two-dimensional figures painted during the Renaissance to a Gainsborough from the 18th century. One in particular that caught Edward’s eye was called “The Earl’s Daughter” by Thomas Lawrence, the portrait artist for George III. Without looking at the title, Edward could have guessed that this was another family portrait. The young woman, wearing a flowing canary-yellow dress and holding the leash of a pointer dog, had the same heart-shaped face and the same violet eyes as Miss Meriwether. In fact, with a few minor differences (Miss Meriwether’s nose was not so long and her smile not so coquettish as the young woman in the painting, who looked certain she would capture some appropriate suitor’s eye soon enough), it could have been Miss Meriwether.

Edward’s heart beat faster and he dried his palms on his trousers. The thought of his editor’s daughter was enough to make him palpitate. There were pretty girls all around if one deigns to look, but with Miss Meriwether it was…what? Her smile? Her friendliness? American girls were known for their friendliness—that’s the first reason young American heiresses were all the rage in London (the second being they were heiresses). Edward had passed many hours daydreaming about that moment outside the Daily Observer when Miss Meriwether knelt beside the flower vendor’s son. No well-born young English woman would chat in the street—it’s so common, you know, chatting in the street—but she would most especially not stop to chat with a flower vendor and his son. Miss Meriwether was fascinating in comparison. That’s it. Edward snapped his fingers. He was fascinated by her. Fascinated, and nothing more.

He heard a stout “A hem!” and turned to see his grandfather with his hands clasped behind his back, hunched forward, looking over the top of his spectacles in his usual manner.

“Grandfather! You’ll scare someone to their death one of these days.”

“Disappearing and reappearing when one is needed is a butler’s greatest talent.”

“You don’t need to appear like a genie out of Aladdin’s bottle on my account.” Edward nodded toward the portrait. “Do you know who this is? It only says ‘The Earl’s Daughter.’”

“That is Lady Rowena Meriwether. She was the fifth Earl’s daughter.”

“She looks like…”

Mr. Ellis squinted at his grandson. “Yes?”

“It’s not important. Is it time?”

“It is. The family will be going into luncheon shortly.”

Edward followed his grandfather through a maze of rooms and hallways. “How does anyone remember their way in this house? All the passages look the same.”

Mr. Ellis pressed his spectacles against his nose. “If you pay attention you can learn the ways of the house. There are whispers telling you everything you need to know if you listen.” He stopped outside the drawing room. “Mr. Edward Ellis,” he announced. He nodded toward the door, indicating that Edward should go in. Edward exhaled, feeling like he had, perhaps, been sacrificed to the lions after all. Once he was safely in the room, he scanned the occupants, hoping to see Miss Meriwether. Frederick Meriwether rose from his chair.

“Young Mr. Ellis. I’m so happy you could come. Welcome.”

“Thank you, Mr. Meriwether.”

Frederick gestured to a fine-looking older woman in black bombazine for her deceased husband, her gray hair pulled into a simple chignon, sitting in state with her back to the hearth. “Mamma, this is Edward Ellis. He’s a reporter at the Daily Observer.”

Edward bowed. “How do you do, Lady Staton.”

The great lady tugged at the chain around her neck, found the silver ear trumpet attached at the end, and held the device to her ear. “What did you say?”

Frederick spoke louder. “Edward Ellis, Mamma. From the Daily Observer.”

“Mainly over, did you say? Mainly over where?”

“EDWARD ELLIS FROM THE DAILY OBSERVER!”

“I heard you, Frederick. There’s no need to be rude in front of our guest. Isn’t the Daily Observer that dreadful paper you’re working for? For the life of me I can’t fathom why you insist upon it when you should be here with your family.”

Frederick sighed. “That’s right, Mamma. That’s the newspaper I’m editing and young Mr. Ellis here works for me.”

Lady Staton repositioned the ear trumpet to better effect. Her youngest son, Jerrold, and his wife, Hyacinth, stood near, watching with great interest. Both Jerrold and Hyacinth were tall, thin, and frigid-looking, as though the thickest blanket in England wouldn’t warm them, and they appeared more like brother and sister than husband and wife. They stepped closer to the conversation, stopped, stepped closer again, and stopped once more when they were close enough to hear the proceedings. Jerrold gestured to the empty wing chair closest to his mother, which Hyacinth took without as much as a glance at her husband. Mrs. Meriwether reached down, and Edward thought she would come up with an ear trumpet of her own. Instead, she flourished a filigree monocle. She held the glass to her eye and examined Edward, though Edward was more amused than concerned, thinking of “Little Red Riding Hood”—all the better to hear you with, my dear. All the better to see you with. Perhaps he hadn’t been sacrificed to the lions but to the wolves. If Edward knew anything from his grandparents, he knew aristocrats didn’t like anyone they weren’t used to, so he was hardly surprised at being studied like a wax figure at Madame Tussaud’s. Besides, while they were busy studying him he could return the favor. He noticed that the Countess of Staton was not a beautiful woman. In her later 60s, she didn’t have the radiance of a woman who had been beautiful in her younger days and was lovely still. She seemed as though she had withered too young, perhaps before she ever bloomed. Finally, she nodded.

“Our butler is named Ellis.”

“What a coincidence,” Edward said. “I have a grandfather named Ellis who is a butler here.”

When Lady Staton didn’t seem to hear, Frederick said loudly, “I told you that young Mr. Ellis is Ellis’ grandson, Mamma.”

“Ellis? Our Ellis? Is the young man lost?”

“No, Mamma. He’s here for luncheon.”

“Is he serving? Someone find him some livery.”

Frederick shrugged at Edward. “I do apologize. I told her last week you were coming.”

“She must have not had her ear horn at the time,” Edward said. “Besides, I quite understand her confusion. What would the grandson of the butler be doing here except to serve at table?”

Frederick turned away—in an attempt to hide his smile, Edward thought. “Indeed.” Frederick stepped closer to his mother, found her trumpet on the chair, and handed it to her. The Countess nodded with great dignity and held the device to her ear. “Mamma, young Mr. Ellis is here as a guest. He’ll be dining with us.”

“Pining with us?”

“Dining with us!”

“I heard you, Frederick. You needn’t shout. Why is the butler’s grandson dining with us?”

“Because I asked him to.”

“I see.”

The Countess’ expression darkened, and Edward guessed that she finally understood. She rose from her chair, she was taller than Edward expected, and tugged at her gloves, bringing attention to the egg-sized jewels she wore even to this small afternoon gathering. “Frederick,” she called. Frederick joined his mother by the window. Edward couldn’t make out the Countess’ words and he wished for an ear trumpet of his own. Still, he didn’t need to hear to understand her meaning. Lady Staton released Frederick and called her youngest son and his wife to her, after which the three stood close in commiseration, their eyes darting toward Edward.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Frederick said. “My brother and I are most glad to have you.” As if on cue, the Earl of Staton entered the drawing room. “Richard, this is Edward Ellis, the young man I was telling you about. He’s one of the finest reporters we have at the Daily Observer and a talented author in his own right. I invited him this afternoon to discuss some writing he’s going to do for the paper. And I thought Ferguson and Wately might like to make his acquaintance. Are they here?”

“Ellis told me they’ve just arrived.”

“Excellent. Edward, my brother, Lord Staton.”

Edward bowed. “How do you do, Lord Staton.”

Richard Staton smiled in a manner as friendly as his brother Frederick. With this closer view than he had at the funeral, Edward saw what his grandmother had been telling him for years—the new Earl was a handsome man in his refined, languid way.

“I’m happy to know you, Mr. Ellis. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” The Earl noticed his mother, brother, and sister-in-law watching from the corner. “I see Mamma understands that this fine young man is the butler’s grandson.”

Frederick nodded. “I don’t know why it’s such a surprise. I told her Edward was coming last week.”

Lord Staton stood next to Edward. “Remember that you are my guest, and I want you to feel welcome.”

“I do, Lord Staton. Thank you.”

“Now.” Richard nodded toward the doorway. “Here comes Hough, my dearest brother.” A man about Richard’s age, in his later 40s, with graying black hair and a square face which retained his urbane handsomeness, entered the room. Edward recognized him from the funeral.

Frederick gestured to Edward. “Mr. Hough, I’d like you to meet Edward Ellis. Young Mr. Ellis works at the Daily Observer. Mr. Ellis, this is Mr. John Hough, our family physician.”

They were distracted with the arrival of more guests. Mr. Ellis tried to reach the door before they did to announce them, but the three men created a wide rank and they were in the room before the butler. Frederick clapped when he saw them. “Poppers, wonderful to see you. Carlton! You haven’t changed in 20 years.” There was another guest, a young man around Edward’s age with his fair hair tucked behind his ears, his eyes darting around the room.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Palmer, Freddie,” said Lord Staton.

Mr. Palmer looked at the juniper-green curtains, the embossed wallpaper, the damask chairs, the tapestry footstools, stopping on the Countess of Staton who stared at him like she didn’t know what he was—animal, vegetable, or mineral. The young man nearly jumped from his boots when he noticed her daughter-in-law watching him as well, her left eye a squint while her right eye pierced him through her monocle.

“Palmer here had never been to Hembry, so I thought this would be a good time to visit. What do you think so far, Palmer?” The young man shook his head, nodded, shrugged, then shook his head again, all the while staring at Mrs. Meriwether, whose monocle pointed accusations his way. The Earl laughed to fill the space. “We’ve been friends for years, haven’t we, Palmer?” Palmer winked in response.

The Countess of Staton condescended a nod in the men’s general direction. She was granted a reprieve from small talk when Mr. Ellis appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Ferguson and Mr. Wately.”

Edward chuckled at the relieved look on his grandfather’s face, as though the day hadn’t been a complete loss after all. The two newcomers received the same scrutiny from the corner, though they were good-natured about it and even managed to engage the taciturn Jerrold in light banter. When Jerrold had exhausted his topics of conversation, which took all of three minutes, Ferguson and Wately gestured toward Edward.

“So tell us, Mr. Meriwether, is this the young genius you intended to introduce to us?”

“The very same,” said Frederick. “Young Mr. Ellis’ pieces are among the most widely read at the Daily Observer, and he’s had a few stories printed in various publications. I sent them to you last week.”

“Yes,” said Ferguson. “We’ve read them. That’s why we agreed to come.”

Edward stopped breathing, only for a moment, but it was enough to leave him feeling faint. He leaned close to Frederick and whispered, “Mr. Ferguson and Mr. Wately of Ferguson and Wately Publishing Limited?”

“Indeed. I thought perhaps they might like a personal introduction to an up and coming literary talent such as yourself.”

Edward wanted to say something that expressed the depth of his gratitude, but then his grandfather announced Miss Meriwether. Edward marveled at how Daphne’s asymmetrical black silk dress flowed downward from her waist and gave her the appearance of floating. Even in black she’s lovely.

Miss Meriwether joined her father by the window. “I’m not late, am I, Papa?”

“Not at all. Ellis hasn’t…well, there he is.”

Mr. Ellis bowed toward the Countess. “Luncheon is served, my lady.”

Everything happened in such an orderly fashion, and it occurred to Edward that life at Hembry Castle was rather like those stage performances he loved to watch at Covent Garden or the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Everything unfolded as though it had been rehearsed to perfection, with the actors and actresses learning their roles and their stage business, reciting their dialogue with impeccable timing, keeping the performances running smoothly, day after day, night after night, for centuries. Following her script, Lady Staton rose, her ear trumpet left to dangle behind her. She whispered something to Richard, who shook his head.

“This isn’t a grand dinner party, Mamma. It’s simply a few friends who have come to luncheon. We don’t need to sashay into the dining room two-by-two like animals herded onto Noah’s Ark.”

The Countess nodded her acquiescence. “You’re the Earl now, Richard. However, your father…”

“My father isn’t here. Besides, if I remember correctly, and I think I do, he was never one to harp on formality when it wasn’t necessary. At this moment, it isn’t necessary.” Richard the Earl smiled at his guests. “My dearest Daphne,” Richard held his arm out to his niece, “allow me to escort you.”

Edward heard Lady Staton say, behind her fluttering fan, “I do wonder about your brother sometimes, Jerrold.”

To which Jerrold, his face a thin-lipped mask like his mother’s, replied, “We did always wonder about Richard.”

The dining room was grand in its simplicity, painted daffodil yellow per the 7th Earl’s decree to add some sunshine inside. Three chandeliers hung from the white ceiling with moldings of flowers and birds. The marble Greek-style fireplace was set off by white-framed family portraits and a painting of a beautiful blue-eyed cat. Mr. Ellis directed his grandson to the left of Mr. Frederick, while to Mr. Frederick’s right sat Miss Meriwether. Lady Staton conducted herself with all graciousness, though Edward noticed the eye darts intended for her eldest son, of which Lord Staton appeared not at all aware, or, more likely, not at all concerned. Mr. Hough, the doctor, and his lordship’s other friends were seated to Edward’s left since there were not enough ladies to complement the number of gentlemen. Young Mr. Palmer sent forlorn winks Lord Staton’s way, to which the Earl nodded in commiseration while struggling through a one-sided conversation with his sister-in-law. Mrs. Meriwether began her midday meal by running her white glove over the back of her chair, wiping the flatware on the napkin, and sniffing the wine before she tasted it (only partaking in these activities when the Countess’ head was turned, of course). Mrs. Meriwether removed her gloves with the utmost reluctance, as though, Edward thought, she was afraid of touching anything because nothing at Hembry Castle met her meticulous standards. Mr. Ellis watched Mrs. Meriwether, as did Lord Staton, though Lord Staton seemed amused where Mr. Ellis was not.

Ferguson and Wately (pronounced Fergusonandwately) seemed quite at home at the table of Lord Staton. They caught Mr. Ellis’ attention quickly and often for refills of the Chateau Lafite Rothschild they pronounced “Superb!” If Edward hadn’t known his grandfather was standing in the shadows he would hardly have known he was there. The servants were, under Mr. Ellis’ direction, wisps of movement, neither seen nor heard. They stayed back if they were not needed, and when they were required they stepped out, accomplished the deed, and disappeared again. Jerrold Meriwether appeared to be eating alone. He spoke to no one and kept his eyes on his plate, holding up his wine glass when needed. Occasionally, he’d sneak a glance at his wife, who was oblivious to him. Mrs. Meriwether tilted her long neck toward her mother-in-law and the ladies leaned close in conversation. They looked, Edward thought, like a two-headed gorgon. Meanwhile, the discussion for the others turned to the state of the publishing business, which Fergusonandwately lamented as precarious indeed. Lady Staton held up her ear trumpet to listen.

“Are you discussing books again?” She turned to her daughter-in-law. “Your brothers-in-law have always spent too much time in books.”

“Books are preferable company to most people I know,” Frederick said.

Lady Staton turned away as though she hadn’t heard, which she might not have since her ear trumpet was now dangling behind her. Frederick whispered something to his daughter, who laughed. Edward struggled to stay focused. He heard a cough and saw the shadow of his grandfather.

“More wine?” asked Mr. Ellis.

“Thank you, Grandfather.”

The room fell silent.

The Earl of Staton held up his glass. “Ellis, have I told you how impressed I am with your young man? I believe Fergusonandwately here are considering publishing a collection of his stories—at least, that’s what I’ve gathered from our conversation. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

Ferguson, looking somehow ruddier and less steady than he had when he arrived, nodded.

“Quite correct, Lord Staton. We’ve been speaking to young Mr. Ellis here, and we’re impressed. Am I right in saying so, Mr. Wately?”

Mr. Wately nodded. “Very true, Mr. Ferguson. Very true. We had already read the young man’s pieces in The Daily News and The Fortnightly Review. Tonight was simply to see if the young man himself showed as much promise as his stories, and we believe he does. Don’t we, Mr. Ferguson?”

“We do,” said Mr. Ferguson.

“As you can see, Ellis,” Frederick said, “I was quite right to invite your grandson this afternoon. He has made a fine impression.”

Mr. Ellis bowed and backed into the shadows.

“Congratulations, Mr. Ellis,” said Miss Meriwether. “I think you’re going to be a famous author. Papa enjoys helping rising literary talent. He has an eye for spotting the best.” Miss Meriwether took a sip from her glass, and Edward noticed how the red wine stained her lips.

“I’m fortunate to have your father’s confidence so soon after our acquaintance.”

“Papa told me you remind him of himself when he was your age. Isn’t that right, Papa? Driven to be the best, determined to succeed. Papa wanted to be an author himself.”

“It’s true enough,” said Frederick. “I’m afraid I let the dream slide away after I began working as a journalist. Now I find enjoyment helping new authors succeed.”

“I predict only good things for you in the future, Mr. Ellis,” Miss Meriwether said.

Edward wanted to pause the moment there. He was speaking to Miss Meriwether, and despite the stuttering he thought he was succeeding well enough. But then their time together was done. Though it was luncheon and not dinner, Lady Staton still excused herself and the other ladies. She was certain the men had important business to discuss, she said. Edward couldn’t decide if she sounded sarcastic or not. With the women gone, Lord Staton waved his hand in the air.

“Well, Ellis, since the ladies have left we may as well have the brandy and cigars.” He looked at his guests. “Gentlemen, would anyone mind terribly if we indulged in some nighttime luxuries this afternoon?” The men laughed since none of them minded in the least.

With Miss Meriwether gone, Edward turned his attention to Lord Staton’s friends. They were an eclectic group of men and hardly the sort you’d expect the Earl of Staton to roam about with. Mr. Hough was deep in conversation with the man called Poppers, who had black hair, a white complexion, a red carnation in his buttonhole, and a blue neckerchief rolled under his collar. His lordship whispered something to the one called Carlton, whose long mouth pulled wide whenever he smiled. Poor Mr. Palmers appeared to be completely overwhelmed. All he could do was nod at everything anyone said.

The footmen placed glasses next to each of the men, and Mr. Ellis reappeared with the brandy and the cigar box. After all the men had been served (both Edward and young Mr. Palmers passed on the smokes), the one called Carlton pointed his cigar in Edward’s direction.

“So tell me more about yourself, Mr. Ellis. Lord Staton tells me you’re a reporter at the Daily Observer. What else should I know about you? I mean, if Fergusonandwately here are considering publishing your stories, you must be someone I should know.”

“Young Mr. Ellis is quite the talented writer,” said Frederick.

“Are you?” Carlton squinted as he leaned across the table. “And what is it you write about with such talent?”

Edward felt heated, either from the brandy or the weight of everyone’s attention. “For the newspaper, I write about politics. For myself, I write about life.”

“Life! A worthy topic indeed. And what sort of life do you write about?”

“Whatever I notice around me. About people and the way they behave…”

“They behave in a most ill-mannered way, if you ask me,” said Jerrold. He drained his brandy and Poppers slid the bottle in his direction. “They make out like you’re the only one in the world, you’re the only one they need, and then they take advantage when you’re in a weakened state. Whoop! And they finish you off. Then they want you to clean up the mess like the whole disaster’s all your damn fault and…”

The Earl shook his head. “My brother is getting broody. You’d think I’d never done a thing to help him.” If bullets could shoot from eyeballs, Jerrold Meriwether would have sent a bullet or ten in his eldest brother’s direction. As it was, Lord Staton remained unscathed. He nodded at Edward. “Please excuse my brother’s interruption. You write about people and…?”

Frederick placed his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “I told you, Richard. This young man is the next Mr. Dickens.”

“The next Mr. Dickens!” Carlton squinted again, this time with a sly smile. “That’s quite the compliment. And I noticed you’re clean shaven.” He gestured toward his friends, including the Earl. “We’re all clean shaven, aren’t we, gentlemen?”

Jerrold wagged his finger vehemently in case anyone missed the straggly excuse for facial hair protruding like undergrown grass above his lip. Fergusonandwately featured well-grayed beards, one full and luxurious, the other adorned by muttonchops. Frederick laughed as he patted his own newly growing gray-flecked beard. The rest of the men were indeed clean shaven, which Edward had to admit.

Carlton scratched his naked chin as he considered. “Yes, you are a very handsome, very clean shaven young man who is being touted by the Earl’s brother as the next Mr. Dickens. I must know more of you.”

“Carlton, please.” Mr. Hough shook his head. “Don’t bother the young man.”

“I’m not bothering him. I’m simply curious. Mr. Ellis, have you ever gone to see the new prints at the printers’ shops in London?”

Edward looked at Frederick, then the Earl, hoping they would let him in on the joke Carlton must be playing. The Earl shook his head with an expression that said Don’t pay him any mind.

The Earl turned his back on Carlton and faced the publishers. “And what do you think of our Prime Minister, Mr. Ferguson? You had a rather low opinion of him the last we spoke of it.”

“My low opinion has sunk even lower.” Ferguson spoke with the harshest tone Edward had yet heard from him. “Her Majesty doesn’t care for him, and neither do I. He wants Home Rule for Ireland, of all things. If that villain Gladstone wants Home Rule for Ireland, who knows what part of the Empire he would grant Home Rule to next. India? Preposterous!”

Wately nodded, his double chin wagging comfortably beneath his muttonchops. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Ferguson. A liberal Prime Minster? In 1870? Who could have imagined such a thing!” He held out his hand as though pronouncing the death verdict on Gladstone. “Where is Mr. Disraeli when you need him?”

“Mr. Disraeli was defeated in the General Election,” said Lord Staton. “It’s Mr. Gladstone’s turn. What do you think, Freddie? I should warn you gentlemen that my brother Frederick might very well be a liberal at heart.”

Frederick puffed on his cigar as he considered. “I prefer to make up my own mind about such things. I don’t care for propaganda from either side.”

Lord Staton shook his head. “If he likes to make up his own mind then he’s most certainly a liberal. Don’t you agree, Palmer?” Young Mr. Palmer shrugged, the most he had contributed to any conversation that afternoon.

Wately turned to Edward. “So, young Mr. Ellis, grandson of the Ellis standing behind me, who will gladly refill my empty glass with more of that excellent brandy, won’t you? Thank you. Good man.” Wately drained his glass in one swallow. “Now, Edward Ellis, what do you think of Mr. Gladstone’s liberal government?”

“I’m happy to have a liberal government in place, Mr. Wately. I hope it means good tidings are in store for the working-class people who have been neglected by previous governments.”

“Indeed? And what do you think of the Irish Question? The Eastern Question? The Woman Question?”

“I think that for a country that insists it has all the answers there are certainly a lot of questions.”

Everyone laughed, even Jerrold, though the exertion seemed to tire him. The Earl’s friends held their glasses high, toasting Edward Ellis, the Next Great Thing in Literature. The Earl of Staton clasped Edward’s shoulder, Frederick beamed as though he had discovered a great prize, young Mr. Palmer winked, Mr. Ellis smiled in the shadows, and Fergusonandwately nodded in unison. But all Edward could think about was seeing the American girl again.