Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Several days after the double wedding, Dorian sat down at one end of the breakfast table opposite his friend, Charles Hooper.

“How goes the book?” Dorian asked.

“Not as well as I would like, not as bad as might be,” Charles replied, splitting a scone and lading on an excessive amount of clotted cream.

With a great want of manners, he leaned over his plate and bit into the delicacy. “Mmmmm, now this is delicious,” he mumbled through his bite.

“Chew and swallow before you speak if you wish for me to understand you,” Dorian teased his friend.

Charles did as directed, following the bite up with a gulp of tea. “Sorry,” he said. “But it is just so good. I can’t help myself. Your cook is amazing.”

“He is talented,” Dorian agreed. He took a bite of his more modestly stuffed scone and chewed appreciatively, letting the delicate flavours play over his tongue.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Charles went on. “The quiet here is just what I need. I can focus, and no one interrupts my writing. The work is not coming on very fast, but my notes are growing steadily. I hope when I go back to London to find a publisher. It will put paid to my father’s perpetual nagging.”

Dorian gave Charles a sceptical look. “Are you sure of that?”

Charles laughed. “By no means. But it might cause him to pause with his everlasting critique of my habits for at least a moment or two.”

Dorian saluted him with his teacup.

Charles stuffed the last of his scone into his mouth, then washed it down with a huge gulp of his tea. “Well, I guess I should get to it. No publisher in all the world will agree to take on an unknown author with an incomplete book.”

“Quite so,” Dorian said, struggling to keep the smile off his face at his friend’s attempt at wisdom.

After Charles withdrew to his room, Dorian lingered over his meal a few minutes before wandering outside in search of his gardener, Jacob Hetzelmeister.

He found him puttering among the roses, tucking straw around their stems. “Hello, Lord de Clare!” the gardener said, straightening up from his task. “I’m not so certain these have made it through the winter, but I’ll keep after ’em and see if I can at least preserve the roots. Is there something I can help ya with?”

“As a matter of fact, there is, Mr Hetzelmeister. I have it in mind to add a formal garden to the hospital grounds. I have read that walking or sitting among plants can have a salubrious effect upon mental health.”

“Plants are powerful healers.” Mr Hetzelmeister bobbed his head in agreement. “I have some annuals started in the atrium. Likely, they’d do well in a formal garden until you get something more permanent like going on.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Dorian said. “When do you think you could start turning the earth for it?”

“Well, ordinarily, I’d say by St Paddy’s day, but with the weather and all, I’d be hoping to do it by the first of May,” Mr Hetzelmeister said. “Any sooner, and I’d be worried that they get nipped by the cold.”

“Sadly, I fear that you might be right,” Dorian agreed. “It has been unseasonably chilly this year.”

“Ain’t it, though?” the gardener agreed. “I do hope we won’t have another summer like the last one. It’s been tough on the farmers and on the stock. The hunt master says it’s been that hard even to make sure the deer have good provender; it has.”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” Dorian agreed. “So, we agree you will get your crew working on a formal garden as soon as the weather warms?”

“More’n glad to,” Mr Hetzelmeister said. “Most o’ the fellas would be glad of some extra work. It’s been hard to come by of late. It’s a wonder you’ve not had more patients down with the dismals, what with these awful, drizzly days. I surely do admire the way you take care of people. Which is not to be wondered at, what with your father’s dedication to medical advancement.”

Dorian felt his face flush with embarrassment but was saved from further reply as Charles came striding across the lawn.

“I thought you were hard at work on your novel?” Dorian said.

“I am completely stalled on it,” Charles replied. “I thought a breath of fresh air might get the creative juices flowing. Or I might seek out some like-minded people who would graciously grant me some ideas. After all, one of my reasons for coming to Bath was to meet other writers.”

Dorian thought for a moment. “I think Sir Francis might be in. Of course, if he is hard at work on his book, he might not be receiving visitors.”

“Perhaps we should call on him and find out?” Charles suggested. “At the very least, we might visit with his wife or daughter, should they be in.”

“Entirely possible,” Dorian returned. “There is almost always someone about at Aldham Park. Although, this might change somewhat now that the twins are married and moved to their own homes.”

“Such things do make changes, don’t they?” Charles observed. “Still, it would not hurt to check, would it? Perhaps we could stroll over there.”

It was not a long walk from Clare Court to Aldham Park. Although the day was still cold, the sun had burned off most of the frost.

“This chill air is quite bracing,” Charles remarked. “I can feel my head clearing with every breath. And one always feels so much better when the sun shines, don’t you think?”

“I quite agree,” Dorian said. “We have seen far too little of it of late. There has been an excess of dreary days.”

When they reached Aldham Park, they discovered that Sir Francis seemed also to be taking a break from his morning writing. “Always pleased to meet a fellow writer,” he said when introductions were exchanged. “And you know that you are always welcome here, Dorian. How are things coming along at the hospital? Any great plans for the future?”

“I hope to establish a strolling garden,” Dorian said. “I am convinced that at least some of our milder cases might benefit from fresh air in pleasant surroundings.”

“A capital idea! I know I always feel more inspired after a morning walk,” Sir Francis endorsed the idea.

“I had hoped we might exchange some ideas or that you could give me some pointers,” Charles put in.

“Hmmm. How about we visit the library? I just received a parcel of new books. I find that reading what others have written frequently sparks new avenues of research. What are you writing, m’boy?”

“A novel or a play — I’ve not yet decided,” Charles said. “But I agree, libraries are always fascinating. Especially if they include books one has not yet read.”

“Come right this way,” Sir Francis invited. “I am delighted to show off my collection.”

As they walked down the hall from the drawing room to the library, Dorian heard the strangest wailing sound coming from a room opposite the library. “I’ll catch up,” he said, diverting his steps from those of Sir Francis and pausing at an open door whence came the noise.

Lenora stood beside a piano where Summer Tunstall, formerly Lenora’s governess and now her tutoress, sat with her fingers positioned above the keys. “Let’s try an A,” Miss Tunstall was saying. “It’s a simple note. We’ll keep it in the middle registers.”

Miss Tunstall struck a key, and Lenora opened her mouth, letting out a screech that was more nearly related to a door hinge creaking in D sharp than anything musical.

Fidele, the family dog, lifted his small muzzle and howled in distress at the sound.

Dorian applauded. “An amazing performance!” he exclaimed.

“Amazingly awful,” Lenora sighed. “I simply cannot seem to get the hang of matching my voice to the sound. Even Fidele does a better job of it.”

“Perhaps if we try one more time,” Miss Tunstall suggested.

“No, no,” Lenora waved the idea away. “I simply cannot bear any more of it. I would much rather converse with Dorian, whom I have not seen in ever so long. I’m sure you have something to do, Miss Tunstall. Why don’t you go do it?”

Thus, summarily dismissed, Summer Tunstall picked up her sheet music and left the room.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Lenora said, tugging on a bell pull that hung next to the door. “I simply do not have an ear for music, but Miss Tunstall does not seem to comprehend the difference between cannot and will not. She is convinced that if I try hard enough, I should be able to sing on key, just as she bullied me into learning my letters and penmanship.”

“You are an amazing equestrienne and an entertaining conversationalist,” Dorian said by way of comfort. “No one can be good at everything. But let me see if I can help with your difficulty. What do you like to sing — even if it is off-key?”

Lenora giggled. “Off-key and off-colour, I fear. Mother is appalled when I sing to amuse myself.”

A maid tapped on the door. “You rang, Miss?”

“I did. Will you please bring up some tea and biscuits for the two of us? I’d like to catch up on the local gossip.”

Dorian sat down at the piano and started doodling off music fragments.

“Sing something,” he said. “Just anything.”

Lenora opened her mouth and chanted, “Aunty Mary had a canary . . .”

Dorian grinned at her and took up the melody, singing bass to her tenor, “. . . up the leg of her drawers.”

The song went through several suggestive verses concerning the antics of the bird in question, ending with “. . . laid an egg as big as her head.”

The maid who brought in the tea and biscuits turned a bright, poppy flower red upon hearing the lyrics. But she placed the biscuits, teapot, and cups on a low table reserved for that purpose. With perfect correctness, she asked, “Will there be anything else, Miss Temple?”

“That will be all. Thank you, Susan,” Lenora said. “I can pour.”

Dorian continued to twiddle at the piano for another minute or so. “It is not that you cannot sing,” he said. “It is that you are not a soprano. If the song is in your range, you do very well.”

“I had fun, at least,” Lenora answered. “Are you still messing about with music? It’s a very common song, but so much fun.”

“Music should be fun,” Dorian said, closing the lid to the piano keys and moving over to the table. He sat down opposite Lenora. “How did you really find France now that we can speak freely?”

“Wet and dismal,” she replied. “We had scarcely a single day out of doors. Renting horses was expensive, so we rarely went riding, and the water was so choppy boating was right out. I am so glad to be home.”

“I can imagine,” Dorian said. “It has been wet and cold here, too. Such strange weather.”

Lenora poured, and they sat silently for a moment, sipping their tea.

Abruptly, she set her cup down and said, “I plan to snag a husband this season. Why don’t you come to the Pump Room and watch me do it?”

Dorian got a squirmy feeling inside at this announcement, and he felt his face heat, although he was not sure why. He sipped his tea, then said steadily, “Just like that?”

“Just exactly like that,” she said. “I’ve put off matrimony far too long. Now that my sisters are wed, I am sure Mother wants me out of the house.”

Dorian set his cup down, resolutely keeping a stoic face. `Lenora was so earnest he did not want to laugh at her. “Then I suppose I must come to observe your technique.”

“Perhaps you also feel guilty about not meeting your marital obligations?”

“Perhaps,” Dorian said. “I’d not given it a great deal of thought.” He had actually given the matter a great deal of thought, most of it going into studiously avoiding matrimony. Still, he had to concede Lenora’s point. Neither of them was getting any younger.

They chatted a little longer, then Dorian collected Charles from the library, and the pair walked back to Clare Court.

A letter was waiting for Dorian. Standing in the hall, he opened it. His uncle, Jonathan Holt, would return to the manor shortly. He was bringing his daughter, Emma Holt, with him.

Dorian folded the missive, tucking it into an inner pocket. He had mixed feelings about his uncle’s return, especially accompanied by Emma.

No one could be more different than Emma Holt and Lenora Temple. Emma was quiet, reserved, and genteelly accomplished. Her needlework was perfect, if uninspired. She could ride a gentle mare competently, and her singing was note-perfect.

On the other hand, Lenora’s needlework was inspired but flawed by missed stitches, unexpected knots, and loops. She could ride nearly anything on four legs and even do it side-saddle. As for her singing … Dorian had to smile at the thought. The rude little ditty she sang for him perfectly suited her voice, but her mother would have been aghast to hear it.

Comparing the two young ladies, Dorian could not help feeling that Emma somehow came up short, even though he would have been at a loss to explain it if someone had asked him why he felt that way.