Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4) Page 15

  He smiled at her, but the smile did not reach his somber eyes. Granville returned his attention to his father beside him who was saying, “But enough of that today. We shall talk more tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Georgiana hoped that she and Granville might talk more later as well, but the schedule was very full. After breakfast the family gathered around the kissing bough where the duke mounted a stepladder held by three footmen and cut the presents from their ribbons. The duchess distributed the packages—to exclamations of delight from each recipient.

  She handed Granville a four-inch square package wrapped in white paper and tied with red ribbon. His face registered amazement when he read the attached card and discovered that the gift was from his father.

  Withdrawing from the jovial group, he was undoing the ribbon when Georgiana joined him. “A present from my father. Can you credit that?”

  “Well, pray hurry up and see what it is!” Georgiana was holding a velvet case containing a string of pearls from her father.

  Granville tore the rest of the wrapping off. There, looking like a cockleshell in a nest of white tissue paper, was a hearing device like the one Charles Simeon had invented for the duchess. Still thunderstruck, Granville held it out to Georgiana. “My father had this made for me.” His tone of voice rather than his words spoke his amazement.

  “How very thoughtful of him! Mama finds hers a great convenience; I’m sure you shall too.”

  “Yes, quite,” Granville said slowly and turned to find the earl. Lord Harrowby was standing near the fireplace. “Father, I… Thank you, sir. It’s very thoughtful of you.”

  “You are quite welcome, Granville. I thought you might find it useful.” That seemed to be all the earl had to say. Then he added almost gruffly, “And Happy Christmas.”

  “And Happy Christmas to you too, sir.” Granville shook hands with his father. Then he went to wish his mother a happy holiday and see if she liked the small volume of poems he had given her.

  Georgiana had to spend the next few hours conversing with various visiting family members. It was midafternoon before she left her Aunt Susan with Lady Granville in the library and went in search of her cousin. But when she looked in the Octagon Room, her twelve-year-old sister Blanche had a request. “Georgiana, it’s so cold outside Primrose said we might play shuttlecocks in the Entrance Hall, but we need one more. Will you help us?”

  Not wanting to disappoint the youngsters, Georgiana agreed. For the next hour she and her younger sisters knocked the shuttlecock about beneath the magnificent hunting scenes lining the walls. They had been painted by John Wootton out of gratitude to the third duke. The duke had spotted remarkable talent in a servant’s child and paid for the boy’s art training in Italy.

  “Louisa, mind the clock!” Georgiana cried as her sister’s shot landed on the Renaissance clock brought from Raglan Castle.

  Georgiana failed to return the next serve. The feathered missile fell unnoticed to the stone-and-slate floor as the sound of carriage wheels on the drive sent them all to the windows. But before anyone could decipher the crest on the carriage door, Lord Worcester hurried through the hall and down the steps in time to hand the ladies out of the carriage himself.

  “Who is it, Georgie?” Mary Octavia, the youngest of the brood, pushed Georgiana aside for a better view.

  “It is Charles Culling-Smith, his wife, Lady Ann, and his daughter Emily Frances,” she said as matter-of-factly as she could manage.

  “But that’s—”

  “Yes, dear.” Georgiana began herding the children away from the windows. “It is the mother and stepfather of the late Lady Worcester and her half-sister. Now pray do not be so rag-mannered as to stand here gaping at your brother’s guests.”

  Georgiana led the retreat from the room in some confusion. Could this be what Henry had in mind when he said there was someone who would be right? If so, they were sure to be in for some stormy weather. What a duster an attachment to his former sister-in-law would raise. Could such an attachment be right? Let’s see, the Table of Kindred and Affinity forbids a man to marry his wife’s father’s mother. Could he marry his wife’s father’s daughter? Well, it was too much for her to puzzle out. Worcester must settle his own affairs. At least there is no prohibition against marrying one’s mother’s sister’s son. She smiled.

  There was, however, no sign of anything but general good will and holiday merriment two hours later when all the company gathered in the dining room. In the best old English style that could not have been outdone at Raglan Castle, the boar’s head was brought to the table, heralded by trumpets, garlanded with herbs, and borne by two footmen carrying the silver basin between them. The entire company sang the traditional song.

  The boar’s head in hand bear I,

  Bedecked with bays and rosemary;

  And I pray you, my masters, be merry…

  “Our steward hath provided this

  In honour of the King of bliss

  Which on this day to be served is

  In Reginensi atrio.

  The dish was set before the duke who, to the applause of the guests, removed the orange from the boar’s mouth and presented it to Nixon. The duke then presented sprigs of bay and rosemary from the dish to the principal guests, which he diplomatically chose to bestow upon the head of each household. The last one, again to the approval of the company, he presented to his wife. “Happy Christmas, my dear.”

  The duchess thanked him prettily and signaled Nixon that he could begin serving the family-stirred plum porridge.

  Eating her porridge, Georgiana remembered the wish she had made the day before and smiled. Circumstances had seated her next to the very person she had been longing to talk to all day. “I have been singing that carol since I was out of leading strings, but I have never understood why we sing part of it in Latin.”

  Granville returned her smile. “The tradition is sacred—from the hallowed halls of Oxford where it all began.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Because a scholar at Queen’s in the murky days of the fourteenth century was walking unarmed in the forest with only a Latin text of Aristotle when he was attacked by a wild boar. The nacky student thrust the volume down the boar’s throat crying, ‘Swallow that if you can,’ to which the boar replied, ‘Graecum est,’ and died. And Latin students have continued disrespectful of the subject to this day.” He turned to his tutor on Georgiana’s other side. “Right, Peacock?”

  “I believe there are many who contend that boar hunting is the only proper use for a Latin text.” The tutor wrinkled his forehead at the thought.

  “But I hope, sir, that my son is not among them,” the earl said drily.

  Fortunately, the discussion was interrupted by footmen serving the next course. A train of servants circled the table presenting roast goose, Westphalian ham, turkey garlanded with sausages, stuffed pike and oysters, fricassee of turnips, vegetable pie, boiled beet root, carrots, and roast potatoes. The Christmas feast emphasized quantity rather than diversity.

  Georgiana followed the footman’s progress to the end of the table where the duchess accepted a slice of ham. Georgiana noted with surprise the topaz and filigree jewelry her mother was wearing with the brocaded gown. Since the others seated nearby were engrossed in conversation, Georgiana leaned toward her mother. “You look perfectly beautiful, Mama, but you always used to wear your pearl and diamond drops with that gown. I wonder that you changed.”

  “My dear, I haven’t had a chance to tell you my news. Did you notice anything unusual in church this morning?”

  “Apart from the fact that all the men stayed through the service?” She grinned at her brother. Then she remembered. “Yes, I did. It looked like diamonds in the crib. But what…”

  The duchess laughed. “A very silly piece of sentiment, I fear, but since it was Christmas and all, I am selling them to build my chapel in Wales.”

  “But, Mama, they were your second-best pair.”
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br />   The duchess sighed. “Yes, and my favorite. I would much rather have sold my best, those odious blue diamonds that are so large wearing them gives one a headache. They would have fetched at least two hundred pounds more. But they belonged to Mary, the first duchess, so parting with them was unthinkable.”

  “Have you told Papa? What will he say?”

  “I daresay, so long as no one asks him to contribute his second-best hunter, he will be content.”

  The conversation next to her concluded, so Georgiana turned to the bishop and commended him for his sermon.

  “Thank you, my dear.” He smiled kindly at her. “It gives me great pleasure to hear one of your tender years say that. We must reach our young people.” And then in his humble way he inquired earnestly, “But I hope I did not speak too harshly?”

  “No, indeed, my Lord Bishop. Your tone was just right. It is easy to see how you have accomplished so much in your ministry.”

  “Any little good I may have done has been entirely owing, under God, to my preaching the fundamental doctrine of the gospel—Jesus Christ and Him crucified.”

  From the other side of Georgiana, Granville joined the conversation, giving Georgiana a chance to savor a tender morsel of braised turkey. “Your sermon was excellent, Uncle, but what of the good works without which we are told faith is dead?”

  “Indeed, my boy, much good is accomplished by works. Just thinking of the compassionate work represented by those sitting around this table quite overpowers one. But good works cannot be the means of justification. They are, rather, necessary accompanying fruits or evidence, and that is the point so often missed by some of my High Church brethren.”

  “Yes, yes, Uncle, to be sure. But that some in high office who have neither justification nor good works on their plates should oppose your elevation is past enduring.” Granville brought his fork down with a far louder crash than he intended. He looked at his plate to be sure the china wasn’t chipped.

  “I agree,” Georgiana said more quietly. “It seems quite wicked in them.”

  “No, no, my children,” the bishop said in his gentle voice. “These men do intend to act for the good of their country. Being in opposition brings out in a peculiar way the worst in human nature. We must watch and pray against an uncharitable view of the action of public men. You must not only abstain from evil speaking, but also refuse to entertain evil thoughts of others. Keep looking forward that increased means of good may be abundantly blessed and may bring forth fruit to God’s glory.”

  “I am assured you are correct, sir. But to my mind, one way to bring fruit to God’s glory will be in your translation to a wider field of influence,” Georgiana insisted.

  “Thank you most kindly, my dear.”

  “I cannot for the life of me think it right that such a thing should be held back by Parliament—as if you were a piece of legislation!” she continued.

  The bishop smiled at her. “Persevere in your prayers for me that I may ever have inward peace—peace by the blood of the cross applied by the power of the Holy Spirit. I shall treasure your remembrance.”

  The conversation moved on to other topics as the footmen passed everything on the sideboard around a second time. It was considered minimal to eat at least two servings of each dish at the Christmas feast.

  At the head of the table, Georgiana’s father was discussing his new interest in his role as Hereditary Keeper of Raglan Castle. “It’s a beautiful old place and should be open to the public. My father had all entrances blocked up and ordered that not a stone should be touched. Utter nonsense! The place was so covered with ivy you couldn’t distinguish it from the rest of the countryside. I’ve ordered the rubbish taken away and the briars and thorns cut from the bulwarks. And I hired a resident warden. Don’t suppose they’re making much headway this winter—bitterly cold in Wales this time of year. But next spring I shall go see their progress.”

  “Amazing fellow, the first marquess.” Lord Worcester referred to the first bearer of the title he now held. “He was eighty-five when he defended Raglan for the crown against Cromwell’s men. Almost beat them too. He held out eleven weeks with the enemy chipping away at the tower with pickaxes. But Cromwell’s guns finally breached the eastern wall, so he consented to treat.”

  “What a marvelous heritage. You must be very proud. I think opening Raglan Castle to the public is a splendid idea, Your Grace.” Emily Culling-Smith addressed first Worcester and then his father, leaving them both beaming at her.

  The duke then turned to his brother-in-law. “And what news do you bring of our friend Wilberforce, Harrowby?”

  “Unfortunately, Wilberforce has been unwell,” replied the earl, “and unable to attend regular sessions in the Commons. But I presented a petition in the House of Lords on behalf of the Free People of Color in Jamaica—a large, wealthy, loyal class of people of good conduct, themselves owners of the whole pimento plantation—who desire simply that degree of consideration to which wealth and talents in other parts of the world are entitled.”

  “Such as, sir?” Granville asked with open interest.

  “Such as eligibility to serve in parish vestries or in the General Assembly or to serve in any public office of trust, to hold commission in the regiments, to serve as jurors, and to have free admission to schools for their children.” The earl’s voice took on a ring, almost as if he were speaking again in Parliament.

  “But for what purpose did you bring the petition forth?” the bishop asked.

  “At that period of the session it was, of course, impossible to introduce a measure. Because of the extreme difficulty and complicated nature of the subject, I wished it to be understood that if ever it should be taken up by Parliament, its introduction must be committed to an individual with far more ability than I can pretend to.”

  “Wilberforce, do you mean?” Worcester waved away the footman offering a third round of roast goose.

  “Quite likely—if only his health will permit. I am satisfied from the respectful nature and moderate terms of the petition that its prayer must one time or another be granted.”

  Worcester threw down his napkin with some asperity. “Moderate terms! That’s precisely the problem—and with Canning doing all possible to block the Amelioration measures we are to consider this session, all we’ve gained so far might be lost. What is needed is more sweeping measures. Wilberforce himself will be the first to tell you so.”

  “Emancipation, you mean?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “Yes, certainly. In due time. But for the moment it was something for the petitioners of that unfortunate and degraded race to know that the peers of Great Britain consider them brethren. I agree with Wilberforce that it is essential to keep hope alive in these downtrodden peoples. If they feel forced to take up desperate measures, it could prove fatal to their cause.”

  “I say, Father,” Worcester interjected, “I failed to mention that I received a letter from Fitz yesterday.” Lord Fitzroy Somerset was one of the most noted members of their family. The youngest son of the fifth Duke of Beaufort, Lord Fitzroy had gone to Portugal with Wellington where he served as aide-de-camp throughout the peninsular war.

  Peacock, sitting next to Georgiana, looked up. “Fitzroy Somerset? Isn’t he Wellington’s secretary, the one who lost an arm at Waterloo?”

  Georgiana touched her napkin to her mouth. “Yes. It was near the close of the day, and my uncle was standing beside Wellington when his right elbow was struck. It’s one of our favorite family stories that he bore the operation without a word, but when it was ended, he called to the orderly, ‘Hallo! Don’t carry away that arm till I have taken off my ring.’ It was one his wife had given him. She is a niece of Wellington, you know.” She looked across the table at Emily Culling-Smith. “I believe my aunt, Lady Emily Harriet Somerset, Lord Fitzroy’s wife, is a relation of yours also, is she not?”

  Emily bobbed her soft brown curls and gave a nervous smile. “I daresay she is, but the connection
is far too convoluted to untangle.” Her final words brought a rising blush.

  “Well, Henry, what of my famous brother?” inquired the duke.

  “He reports that he has returned from his mission to Spain as Wellington’s envoy. He says Wellington’s views upon the constitutional crisis in that country were well received, and he has every hope that French intervention on the Peninsula may have been averted.”

  As the conversation continued, Georgiana puzzled over Miss Culling-Smith’s embarrassment at her connection to the Duke of Wellington. Then Georgiana realized—Worcester’s first wife had also been a niece of Wellington, and that possibly stood in the way of an attachment between Emily and Henry. If the Iron Duke should take against the match…

  Horrified at her want of tact, Georgiana turned to say something to soothe Emily’s feelings, but found another had accomplished the task for her. Granville was showing Miss Culling-Smith his new miniature hearing device. When Emily held the tiny cockleshell to her ear and gave a light trill of laughter, Georgiana knew that any earlier embarrassment had vanished. How like Gran to expose his own vulnerability to bring another comfort. It was as if his having been hurt in the past made him more attuned to the needs of others.

  The company ate sparingly of the milk and fruit puddings, cheesecakes, and currant cakes with Cumberland sauce that comprised the final course of the meal. And Georgiana, who was feeling a little sick to her stomach, declined even a small serving. Then because of the family nature of the festivities, the men didn’t linger in the dining room over the duke’s fine old brandy. Instead, all returned to the Great Drawing Room to drink tea and witness the burning of the ashen fagot.

  Nixon oversaw the bringing in of the fagot, a large bundle of green ash sticks bound together with bands of ash and hazel saplings. “This band is mine.” Charlotte touched a slim shoot wrapping the end of the bundle. “You must each choose one—Emily, Mr. Peacock, everyone. If yours is the first to break in the fire, you will be the first to marry.”