Chapter 4

P ausing just inside the threshold, Julian couldn’t help reveling in the sight of this haven to the written word. Ernest Callaghan’s study was everything he’d imagined it to be. Cozy, to be sure, for though it was roughly twice the size of the bedchamber they’d just come from, the space was stuffed full of the detritus of one who made his living by the pen.

Stacks of papers were piled on every flat surface. Quills and inkwells were used and abandoned atop the towers of books that sprouted along the floor with the regularity of a Roman colonnade. One large armchair sat in a place of honor before the fire, though it was accompanied by several spindly-looking seats that were gathered round, and Julian could well imagine sitting there the entirety of his stay.

The one thing missing from this study (beyond a bit of order and organization) was a desk, though he supposed going without was a necessity in such a cluttered space. If one wished to host visitors in his literary sanctuary, then a lap desk would have to do.

“I am so very excited to finally meet you, sir,” said Julian, glancing about the room.

Collapsing into his armchair, Mr. Callaghan motioned for him to take one of the others. “None of that ‘sir’ business. I do not countenance such formalities. I am Ernest, you are Julian, and that is that.”

With only the greatest strength of will, Julian was able to hold back the eager smile that threatened to burst forth at the thought. “Then I should amend my statement and say, I am so very excited to finally meet you, Ernest.”

The gentleman settled into his seat, slouching in a manner that Julian’s waistcoat and chair wouldn’t allow. “And I am very glad to have you. Nothing invigorates the soul more than spending time with the next generation of poets.”

Julian shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “That is kind of you to say, but you are too generous with that title. I am a man of business who dabbles in poetry in his spare time. Not a true poet.”

“But you will be.” Leaning toward one precariously perched pile of papers, Ernest shifted through them and held out a letter from within it. “The work you’ve shared is inspiring, Julian.”

Ernest handed over the page, and Julian’s gaze fell to the carefully transcribed copy of Ode to a Fallen Star as the gentleman recited a few lines:

Thou spark of light, once blazing bright and free,

A billion years thy journey didst see,

But now, extinguished, thou dost fade away,

A cosmic ember, lost in endless day,

Yet who shall mourn thy passing, star so bright?

Who shall lament thy fall from heaven’s height?

“Is it arrogant to admit I am excessively proud of that one?” asked Julian with a smile.

“You should be,” said Ernest, settling back into his chair once more. “You have talent, my boy. Too much to be wasting your time being a man of business. You cannot hope to fully open the avenues of creativity when you spend your days trapped amongst such mediocrity. Leave the menial labor to the menial minds.”

Julian huffed a chuckle. “That is well and good, but one needs to eat.”

“None of that nonsense,” said Ernest with another dismissive wave. “Though we live simply, I support my family with my poems; why not you? Then you can spend your days contemplating the words of the greats and capturing the very essence of nature and humankind with your quill. Surely that is well worth sacrificing a few creature comforts.”

Despite the hardness of his chair, Julian couldn’t help but adore the thought of establishing a chamber very much like this one. Granted, he preferred the books to be on the bookshelves and the papers placed in portfolios, but despite Ernest’s haphazard organizational style, the chamber oozed comfort. It seeped from the very plaster, gathering around him to brush away the last of the cares he’d carried from Newcastle.

Cinnamon and sugar wafted from the kitchens below, and somewhere in the cottage, the children rushed about, their laughs echoing off the plaster walls and through the floorboards. With frost gathering on the window and the fire blazing away, Julian couldn’t help but see the appeal of spending every passing hour here.

“We often entertain the artistically minded during the holidays,” continued Ernest, “but I invited you particularly because I am determined to convince you to give up this ridiculous ‘man of business’ nonsense and dedicate your life to higher pursuits. The world has enough ledgers and not enough poetry.”

“Why must it be one or the other?” asked Julian with a wry smile. “I am quite happy to do both.”

“Nonsense! ‘Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, Tomorrow will be dying.’” Before Julian could say another word, Ernest launched into another verse. “‘Seize the day, put very little trust in tomorrow.’ ‘Grasp the moment, ere it slips away.’”

With a frown, Julian considered the lines. “I recognize Herrick and Horace, but I am not familiar with the third.”

“That is one of my own, as of yet unpublished, pieces. I’ve spent my life determined to live up to that sentiment, and I will not see another young man forced into a life of servitude and tedium when there is so much more to be had. Life ought to be lived to its fullest!” Ernest spoke with the passion befitting his profession, and Julian couldn’t help but admire it and the simple life the gentleman had carved out for himself.

“You are quite the salesman, Ernest,” replied Julian. “No doubt, my brother would be pleased to use your silver tongue to open the wallets of his investors.”

Ernest laughed and shook his head. “He could not afford my salary.”

The clamor below rose, growing far louder than even the horde of children could manage on their own, and Ernest perked at that. Nodding for Julian to follow, he rose to his feet and hurried toward the door. The noise grew as they made their way down the stairs, and when they stepped into the parlor, Julian was welcomed by a veritable maelstrom of people.

Six adults, five children, two youths, and a partridge in a pear tree were all stuffed together in a parlor, and with a shout of greeting, Ernest waded into the fracas, throwing his arms around the gentleman in the center, sweeping his son and granddaughter into his arms. Children ran about, bumping into the adults, who seemed not to notice any of it as they embraced.

Julian’s ears rang from the noise, and it felt as though a dozen more people were packed into the tiny space. Despite inching toward the wall, he wondered if he mightn’t disappear to his bedchamber for a moment; Julian enjoyed gatherings and parties well enough, but after days of travel, this was too much for his weary bones.

Just as he was about to formulate an escape, he spied the maid in the corner, quietly watching the whole exchange with her hands clasped before her. His button still clung to his waistcoat, but only just, and Julian might as well do something about it.

Weaving around the gathering, he stepped into her space with a nod. “I have a button coming loose on my waistcoat. Will you see to it?”

Her brows drew upward as she cocked her head at an angle that drew attention to her already pronounced cheekbones, and Julian couldn’t help but think that if the woman knew how to smile, no doubt it would help to soften the hardness of her features.

“Why, yes, sir,” she said with a bob. “Anything you require, sir. Just leave it on your bed tomorrow, sir, and I will add it to the mending, sir.”

“I can change into another so you can see to it immediately. I would hate to lose the button,” said Julian. Despite its small size, the cost to replace it was great enough to warrant care; not dear enough to beggar him, of course, but counting pennies made and broke fortunes.

A twitch of her lips was the only shift in her expression, though the maid’s eyes brightened as though smiling. “Of course, sir. As you command, sir.”

“I wasn’t commanding—”

“Julian,” called Ernest, drawing his attention away from the impertinent maid. Though a veritable mass of people stood between him and his host, Julian waded into the fray, and the moment he was within reaching distance, Ernest placed a firm arm around his shoulders. “This is my friend and our guest for the season, Julian Knight.”

“This is my wife, Jane,” said Ernest as the lady came forward with a curtsy, though the hold he had on Julian didn’t allow him to return the nicety. Then, nodding at the man of the hour, he added, “And this is my eldest son, Thomas. Just returned home with his wife, Charity, and their daughter, Biddie.”

Reaching forward, Julian offered his hand, and the two shook. “It is wonderful to meet you. Ernest has written of your time in the navy. It sounds as though you had quite the adventures.”

Mr. Thomas Callaghan’s brows rose at that. “He did?”

“Is it so surprising that I would gloat about my seafaring adventurer of a son?” asked Ernest.

“I am not a seafarer anymore, and I wouldn’t say I had many adventures,” replied Mr. Callaghan.

With a wrinkle of his nose, Ernest sighed. “Yet another gentleman who fell prey to the siren call of money. I cannot comprehend why you surrendered the open ocean and distant lands for ledgers and a desk in London.”

“My wife and child are far more alluring than any distant lands,” replied Mr. Callaghan.

“Yes, yes,” said Ernest with a nod. “I suppose I do see your point. Your Charity is a beautiful creature.”

“Isn’t she?” added Mrs. Callaghan as she beamed at her daughter-in-law. “And Biddie is such a dear!”

Reaching forward, the lady snatched the child from her father’s arms and proceeded to bounce her about as two young ladies swept in beside her to coo over Biddie.

“You are here for the holidays?” asked Julian.

“We hadn’t meant to intrude on their Christmas plans,” said Mr. Callaghan. “We’d intended to spend a month here starting in November, but I work for Meyer, Notley, and Dunn, managing their merchant fleet—”

“And with that storm that hit the south coast, you must’ve been needed in London to see to your ships,” said Julian with a nod. “I understand there were a good many vessels damaged in the tempest.”

Mr. Callaghan sighed with a great puff of his cheeks and shake of his head. “And we were not unscathed, though we avoided the worst of it. Until those matters were settled, I had to remain—”

“Please, no more talk of business,” said Ernest, repositioning Julian as he pointed to the others in the room. Motioning towards a lady a few years younger than Julian, he added, “This is my daughter Emily, whose children accosted you this afternoon.”

At that, the perpetrators paused, glancing between Julian, their grandfather, and their mother with expressions of remorse that were as believable as plaster painted like marble. The lady in question hardly looked old enough to have that many children. But then, neither did she seem of an age to warrant mourning garb, but her mob cap bore the distinct black ribbons of a widow.

She seemed to notice the glance at her headdress, and her lips pulled into a sad smile. “My husband may be gone these five years, but I cannot bear to give up my mourning colors. Lieutenant Rawden Fitzherbert deserves to be remembered for his bravery and sacrifice.”

“I do apologize if I made you uncomfortable,” said Julian. “I didn’t mean to draw attention to your loss.”

But Mrs. Fitzherbert waved it away with the same flair as her father. “I am always pleased for any reason to speak of my dear husband.”

“Yes, yes, we are all sorry that Rawden isn’t here, but if you do not stop her now, she will go on forever about him and their time in Spain with the army,” said the youngest of the Callaghan siblings. Despite the sharp-sounding words, Mrs. Fitzherbert only gave a huff of displeasure, full of the put-upon irritation granted an elder sister.

Motioning toward the speaker and the young lady next to her, Ernest continued, “Then these are my youngest, Helen and Ophelia.”

The ladies (who were hardly old enough to be called such) each dipped a curtsy, though Miss Helen glanced up at Julian with an inviting smile that was far more practiced than one ought to see on such a young face.

Miss Ophelia, showing as little respect for Miss Helen’s antics as she had her elder sister, stepped forward with a shrewd appraisal. “Papa says you are practicing to be a poet.”

Though Julian hesitated a moment, he managed a, “Yes.”

The girl’s eyes brightened. “Then you must help us with our pantomime.” Turning to Mrs. Fitzherbert, she added, “Wouldn’t a few silly verses be a perfect addition? Papa refuses to entertain the notion.”

“With good reason,” said Ernest, stepping between them. “I adore participating in the panto, and it is one of my favorite traditions, but I will not countenance degrading my art in such a manner. And do not forget, Julian is here to hone his craft, not to waste time writing comic lines. This is a busy time of year, and we wish to make the most of it.”

“Yes, Papa,” said Miss Ophelia with a sigh worthy of a broken heart whilst Mrs. Fitzherbert gave another impatient huff, though that only earned them a shake of their father’s head as he smiled at his daughters’ antics.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Angelica,” he said, turning Julian about once more to point him at the maid in the corner.

With so much chaos surrounding him and the whirlwind of names and faces, Julian stood there, staring at her. His wits knew something was amiss; perhaps some fever had addled his brain, leaving him a lackwit.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir ,” she said as she bobbed, that silent laugh brightening her eyes once more.