Chapter 15

S tone walls hugged the dirt lane, cutting through the expanse of snow with its hard lines of gray and brown. The biting wind whipped through the trees, their bare branches gnarled and twisted like ancient claws, and Julian burrowed deeper into his greatcoat as he trudged down the road.

A Georgian masterpiece lay ahead, its silhouette stark against the horizon as the fading light illuminated the intricate stonework that lined the windows and doorways. The occasional carriage rolled past him, carrying revelers toward the grand event, and Julian nodded in greeting as the passersby waved at him.

A plume of smoke rose from the chimneys, a comforting sign of warmth and life within, and the faint hint of woodsmoke blended with the scent of pine needles and damp earth that permeated the air. Quickening his pace, Julian moved quicker down the drive, eager to throw off his winter clothes and find refuge from the biting cold.

Ushered in by a footman, Julian took in the polished wood staircase that greeted the guests with an overdone air of opulence, and in quick order, he was relieved of his things and ushered into the party proper. Candles blazed in every corner of the room, a veritable fortune burning up before their eyes, and every free surface in the drawing room was covered in greenery, all of which had been purchased or gathered by servants.

Julian did his due diligence, offering all the appropriate compliments and affirmations to his hosts. The decorations were beautiful. The array of food was magnificent. The games were plentiful, as was the space. Everything was in its proper order—and identical to every party he’d ever attended.

Had these gatherings always been so quiet? Just tittering laughter and reserved conversations? People partook sparingly, leaving the food as much a decoration as the evergreen boughs; the servants and impoverished of Haydon would likely feast on those remnants for days. The Callaghans’ offering had been far simpler, yet there was a hollowness to the Reddings’ gathering; a dim recreation of a superior masterpiece.

Why was Miss Callaghan so opposed to her family? Her interactions with them made it clear that she loved them dearly, yet her warning spoke of one who saw them in a poor light. Such an odd contradiction, and though Miss Callaghan remained aloof, Julian couldn’t help longing to understand.

“Julian, there you are,” said Mother, coming over to greet him with a buss on the cheek. “I feared you were throwing us over for the Callaghans.”

“With Christmas now underway, I will see little of them in the evenings, so I am quite happy to join you and the Wallises,” he replied, not bothering to admit that had he not already accepted the invitation, he likely would be with Ernest; a bit of caroling was a fine way to begin the celebrations, even if it came with frozen hands and feet.

Taking him by the arm, Mother turned him about and leaned close with a gleeful expression. “Good, for I have met the most delightful young lady. Just a treat.”

And without further ado, his mother thrust him at the young lady standing just behind him. As much as the Reddings’ gathering paled in comparison to the Callaghans’, he was grateful for the quiet when a sharp pain made itself known in the back of his head, piercing straight through his skull. Mama quickly made the introductions, and Miss Babcock beamed up at him; when his purpose for being in Haydon was revealed, she grew giddy, quickly delving into a discussion about poetry that proved she was well-versed in verse.

As the conversation wore on, Julian felt an overwhelming need to offer a silent apology to their hosts for his poor opinion at the outset. Sedate though the gathering may be, he could hear her without straining, and there was no need to raise one’s voice to be heard—which pleased his throat immensely. His eyelids drooped dangerously at times, but he forced himself to focus on Miss Babcock.

The lady was young, to be certain, but she was educated and had a mind of her own, willingly offering up her opinions with as much confidence as Miss Callaghan.

No.

There was no need to compare the two. Miss Callaghan had made her feelings about courtship clear, and this persistent thinking about her was only causing him trouble.

Miss Babcock laughed and shook her head with a wrinkle of her nose. “Oh, you are ridiculous, Mr. Knight. I grant you that Shakespeare was an incredible wordsmith. His turns of phrase and metaphors are brilliant, and his sonnets are sublime, but his plays are dreadful! With a few exceptions, the plots are formulaic, with characters claiming to be heroic when they are wretched at every turn. For goodness’ sake, Antonio spends the entire play attempting to ruin Shylock for no reason that I can ascertain, and by the end, I cannot help but cheer for the supposed ‘villain’ to get his pound of flesh and weep for him when he is punished instead. And do not get me started on that wretched Lear, who torments those he should reward and rewards those he ought to torment.”

“Ought I to ask your opinion on Romeo and Juliet ?” asked Julian with a grin.

Scoffing, Miss Babcock looked as though she’d eaten a piece of rotten meat. “It is a good story if one considers it a tragedy, but most deem it an incredible romance, and I find it sadly lacking. I will acknowledge that his comedies can be amusing and that some of his tragedies are truly wonderful, but when only five or six out of nearly forty are worth sitting through, how does that earn one the title of genius?”

Julian couldn’t help a laugh that escaped because the lady spoke with a zeal befitting the stage, despite her heretical beliefs. But before he could respond, Mr. Babcock slipped into the conversation, settling himself beside the lady as he watched Julian with the wary look of a father who was quite willing to fend off any knave who dared to disturb his daughter.

“I understand you are a man of business in Newcastle,” said Mr. Babcock.

“Yes, Papa,” she replied, sliding her arm through her father’s and patting it as though calming a fretful dog.

And with that, a new conversation flowed forth, sucking Julian in with equal interest as they discussed investments and property, including delving into his philosophy on managing one’s money. Though Mr. Babcock never disclosed his background, it was clear the gentleman was educated in such matters as he asked questions that were both apt and thoughtful—even if they left Julian feeling as though he were being interviewed for a position.

“I would argue that the modern obsession with wild speculation is hardly modern at all,” said Julian with a shake of his head. “It is a tale as old as time that people cast aside good sense and caution at the promise of gaining something from nothing. We have a more structured manner of enabling such behavior now with stocks and interest rates, but conmen have existed throughout the entirety of human existence, and they’re always fed well by those who have more greed than sense, eager to hand over their money for grand promises of ‘more.’”

“But I have heard some incredible tales about the fortunes being made at present,” said Mr. Babcock before sipping his drink.

“True, but in most cases, only a few benefit whilst everyone else loses far more than they gained. I have seen time and time again that sensible and careful investments provide handsomely for people, though the dividends require more patience.” Julian scoured his thoughts for an example. “I have a client who is a young widow, hardly older than your daughter—”

“How tragic!” said Miss Babcock, her expression falling as she clung to her father’s arm. “I cannot imagine losing my husband. I couldn’t survive such an ordeal.”

“I am certain you would manage, Miss Babcock,” said Julian with a reassuring smile. “No one ever expects to weather such a tragedy, but we do.”

Turning back to the conversation with her father, Julian continued, “Upon her husband’s passing, my client discovered that their finances were tied up in a manner that left her little to live on. When I met her, she was struggling to feed their children without decimating the capital—”

A gasp followed that, and Miss Babcock shook her head. “They had children? Oh, that poor dear. Imagine having to raise them all on your own! But why didn’t her father provide for her?”

Mr. Babcock patted her arm as she clung to him, and Julian fought not to stare at the girl.

“Not everyone has a father who can,” he said, and Miss Babcock blanched, her mouth gaping.

“I cannot imagine such a thing! To be so alone in the world. There is nothing worse than that.”

“I know it was difficult for this lady, but I assure you that it isn’t the worst that can happen,” said Julian, his thoughts falling back to those cautionary tales he’d stumbled upon throughout his life. He knew ladies who would consider it a blessing to be widowed, and those who would gladly accept poverty over destitution. Jails were full of men and women who did terrible things to feed their families, forced to live in a cesspool as their children starved just outside the prison doors.

“No,” said Miss Babcock with a decisive shake of her head. “I could not live like that. I would rather die.”

Julian stared at her, contemplating the contradiction she made. Just moments ago, she’d shown herself to be educated and intelligent with ideas that might have made his schoolmasters faint had they heard them but were supported by well-constructed arguments. And now, she stood there sounding so ignorant. So immature.

Continuing, he explained how he’d used conservative investments to provide for the widow whilst he scoffed at himself for being so surprised: the young lady was acting immature because she was.

Though possessing more years to her credit than Miss Helen Callaghan, Miss Babcock was still quite young and unfinished. No doubt she would balk at the description, but though her head was filled with opinions and learning she’d gathered from books, she lacked the experience that honed such intellect into wisdom.

Julian couldn’t imagine Miss Callaghan throwing her hands up and saying she would rather die than be forced to economize and live as a widow. Being closer to his age, she’d seen more of the world. Julian shuddered at the thought of marrying someone he would have to guide through life, rather than work alongside. Such an imbalance may be the preferred arrangement for many marriages, but with his age and wisdom, Julian knew it wasn’t for him.

And that was the trouble, wasn’t it? Having had to wait until he was nearing forty, the pool in which he could search was far shallower. Unmarried ladies his age were a rarer breed, being far fewer than those of Miss Babcock’s.

Though the conversation shifted and soon Mother was leading him toward other possibilities, Julian’s heart sank with each subsequent introduction. Not one of the ladies was a wretched option. Just like the many he’d met in Newcastle weren’t wretched options. But none of them seemed a good match.

The younger set was pleasant enough for a conversation or two but hadn’t the emotional polish to interest Julian for long. The older set was smaller in number, and the vast majority were unappealing because they allowed their disappointments in life to embitter them; no life was perfect, yet they focused on their losses, allowing them to sour the rest of their existence. Hardly something a man longed to add to his life.

Julian allowed himself to get swept into the parlor games, but the question lingered in his mind. Would he ever find a wife? Someone whose company he longed for? Who was not only a match romantically but intellectually and morally? As much as society revolved around presenting bachelors and maidens with opportunities to meet, such fleeting interactions hardly left him interested.

And apparently, the one lady who had sparked it had none for him. Or for matrimony. Julian didn’t know whether it would be more disheartening if Miss Callaghan’s dismissal were personal or simply a matter of policy. After all, one wanted to think one was engaging and appealing enough that a lady would renounce her vow never to marry.

“Are you growling?” asked Mother with raised brows as she glanced at her son.

“Not at all,” replied Julian, forcing himself to smile. Mentioning his frustrations now would only make the lady more determined to find him a bride; besides, such conversations were best had when one was not in mixed company.

“Are you unwell?” she asked, but the sound of singing cut her short.

The tune rang through the halls, announcing the Callaghans’ arrival before they appeared in the doorway, their faces shining as they sang of the glad tidings of great joy that happened so many centuries ago, and the sight of them was enough to wash away Julian’s doldrums.