Work Text:
Soft showers went over Buckinghamshire. The grounds of Stowe house, yellow-green at this time of year, were submerged in the steely light of an overcast sky. It was a Saturday like the one that came before it and an August like any other. The lady of the house received her mail with a cup of tea. Two envelopes on a silver tray – one she recognised as her husband’s dutiful report of his departing from London. She stirred in her spoon of sugar, the taste lingering at the back of her mind as more familiar than pleasant. She reached for the second piece of mail, snapped the seal and discarded the envelope – it fell just left of the plate like every other morning letter. Once the page was straightened out between four fingers, her quick, practised movements stopped.
Golden bracelets betrayed a twitch of hands. She dropped one edge of the paper, before diving to grasp it again. She mastered herself back into formation. Her eyes weathered the ruthless march of cordialities; statements; assurances; condolences. The tremble in her mouth and hands became more pronounced with each sentence, but none was worse than the very first.
“Venerable Lady Stowe, I praye You are in good Health & it is with Great Regret that I inform you of what followes;”
Lord Stowe’s carriage ground to a shaky halt in the wet gravel. He was helped out of his cushion and into the mud of his estate’s north entrance and promptly shook off the young postilion’s fussing. He was greeted by the sight of his manor’s edifice, hidden behind the muslin-like curtain of rain; and on the steps, a long, serious face. The steward stood without his hat just outside the entrance in grim anticipation – behind him, the door revealed the warm light of a candlestick and a maid’s face, sick with worry.
Before the master’s fine heels could sound on the steps of his manor, the maid disappeared within, the golden flicker following her into the dark. The scene of greeting was once more the usual grey and green. The Earl of Stowe was properly and warmly conveyed back into his main hall where just moments earlier, someone stood vigil, mortified.
An off-hand question about the maid was thrown into the steward’s general direction. If Lord Stowe had been paying attention when asking, he would have seen the lines around the old man’s mouth go taut. But as it was, he failed to note either the change in countenance or the enigmatic answer: ‘The household have awaited your arrival with great unease, my Lord.’ Nor did the Earl think much about the absence of his wife among the cord of welcome-home-sirs. It was to be a pleasant evening of well-earned leisure at his own hearth, away from business.
A terrible, humid chill ran up and down the length of the drawing room, whistling from one open window to another. To Lord Stowe’s muttered curse, the servant replied only that the Lady asked for fresh air. She was sat next to the fireplace, a furious, crackling blaze. Lady Stowe was, at that moment, a pitch-black silhouette in front of the wall of red fire, motionless, with her chin suspended on her hand like a figure of antiquity. The figure rose, gracefully, as soon as she recognised the sound of his steps and drifted a few paces from the fireplace, waiting.
‘God bless you, my Lady, it is good to be back in one’s own parts,’ he began jovially and promptly stopped as he noticed his wife’s expression. It was one she did not wear often and he was careful to never be the reason for it.
Lady Stowe was afforded a hellish look by the flush of red under her dark eyes and the shaking glow of the fire. She greeted her husband with a level voice and, since it was generally her preference to hide little from him, she said, ‘I have received word of Keith.’
Her husband waited patiently but without optimism, arms dawdling awkwardly by his sides, where hers were frantically wringing the fabric of her dress. The next words were spoken with a plain tone, but with all the weight of the pause that preceded. ‘He fell.’
Husband and wife were seated across from each other. They moved in a well-practised, asymmetrical table-top dance, both stirring cups, reaching for napkins and swapping plates; both dressed in an elegant uniform of their darkest velvets and glimmers of white lace. The rain was even more incessant than the previous days and it was only morning.
‘I sent word to Francis,’ said Lord Stowe after clearing his throat once or twice and before gesturing for more coffee on the table. ‘If you wish it, I shall have the family mausoleum prepared. I can make arrangements on the next occasion I am in London,’ he went on. Sometime between the words “body” and “papers,” his wife clattered down her spoon and spoke up.
‘It is kind of you to offer such efforts, my Lord, but I am intent on making all arrangements by myself. Leave the matter to me and do not trouble yourself, or God forbid, our son, with these matters.’
Lord Stowe shook his head slightly, so as not to transfer too much powder onto his lapels. ‘For Goodness’ sake, Frances, you speak as if this was a petty chore. It is no easy task and none the easier for a woman, least of all for you. Please, my Lady, allow me to take this burden from you where I can.’
Lord Stowe accented his quite sincere speech by wiping grease off his fingers, rising up, with some difficulty, and reaching around the table to take his wife’s hand. Lady Stowe, white hands on her morning mail, placed a quick kiss to his ringed knuckles. Her eyes were back on the paper before her back leaned back on the chair, only her earrings still swung, discomposed. ‘My lord and husband is gracious,’ she sighed emphatically over the paper. ‘But he ought to know, what must be done will only be a burden to me when taken out of my hands.’
The original ill-fated letter was answered in neat penmanship the same day, Monday. On Tuesday, a clerk was called to settle the deceased's finances at noon and at three o’clock in the afternoon, a consultation with a local artisan took place about a tombstone. On Wednesday, Lady Stowe attended breakfast with her husband, a hastily-thrown second breakfast with a secretary and dinner with relatives. Thursday brought rumours, and with them curious visitations, so, the Lady of the house emerged with her more understated jewels and her most elegant voice to greet the neighbours. Friday saw Lord Stowe departure back to London and subsequently, the arrival of the deceased’s possessions, of which careful inventory was taken. On Saturday, Lady Stowe did not emerge from her chambers. On Sunday, she welcomed Lord Aveling to the halls of his father’s manor.
Francis walked along the bright galleries, retreading his old pacing tracts. His hunched shoulders were cloaked in a dark coat and his eyes were downcast – the serious countenance made his fair, round face look even younger than usual. Stray golden locks peeked from underneath his wig, roused from behind the ears by the bad habit of rubbing eyes with his elbow sleeve.
He and Lord Stowe had had a rendezvous in the middle of their respective journeys to and from London. He had asked all the questions a curious but dutiful son could ask, how Lady mother took the news, how she fared. The Earl answered in appropriately sepulchral tones, that she was indeed a strong, sensible woman and very like the stoic matrons of Rome, honoured by her son’s sacrifice. Having the situation described in terms of such pathos by his father, he was surprised to find Stowe manor going about its business, for lack of a more fitting term, as if nothing had happened. The rain pelted against windows. The stable hand took care of his stallion with a smile. His mother sat at her accounts with her cup of tea and her two spoons of sugar, teardrop-shaped earrings dancing above the edge of steep shoulders.
That evening, he shed tears for his brother and for his own loss of Keith. ‘I always wished I could see more of him,’ he told the valet on the first night back in Stowe, ‘now I never will! What injustice, his noble sacrifice!’ Immediately struck by the petulant sound of his own lament, he sent the servant away and hid his burning cheeks in his hands until sleep came to his aid.
The young lord entered the library and cleared his throat. It had been some time since the last time his mother called him for a tête-à-tête; he moved cautiously along the wooden panels, as if unsure as to who he should see. Lady Stowe stood at one of the windows, behind a levee of light, which blurred her sharp features terribly. He thought he could see a silvery smile passing through the familiar face – but it was hard make out his mother’s expressions from under such heaven-like brightness. ‘Francis, have you contemplated, on occasion, what it would be to wear your father’s signet-ring?’ She asked, eyeing her son with a stern, glinting eye. The young man flinched and ungracefully stumbled through the answer: ‘I- have not, no. It is not mine yet and, and, I hardly wish to come by it prematurely.’
His mother bent her long neck forwards and let out an uncharacteristically rushed sound, a cross between a sigh and a laugh. ‘God help me, one son a soldier and the other a diplomat.’ A perfect silence fell over the room before Lady Stowe resumed her posture and announced:
‘I want you to purchase a ring – any ring will do that strikes your fancy and befits your station – nothing ostentatious – I want you to wear it as you would the signet-ring. At all times.’
‘Mother,’ Francis wanted to intercede but Lady Stowe raised her own ornamented hand. ‘No, child, heed my words!’ She exclaimed. ‘It is no great sacrifice that your old mother asks of you. You must become accustomed to bearing your family crest proudly, to safe-keeping your station and future. I will not have you inherit your father’s seal, only to lose it before a month is out. When you first claim the signet-ring, its import must already be impressed upon your finger.’
The young man had had his hands behind his back. He clutched them tightly enough to hurt. He nodded, he promised to obey his parent’s wish. Then, shyly, Francis ventured: ‘Mother, forgive me, but is there a reason behind making such a request… at such a time?’
Lady Stowe turned towards the window. She started speaking, slowly, as if wary of touching a subject never before acknowledged out loud in Stowe – ‘Colonel Windham, that is Keith’s father, he was a good man. Grant it, not a very ambitious one. Your brother wore his signet-ring for longer than you have been alive, child.’ She paused, she stirred at her post by the window. The young heir did not dare make a sound, eyes wide. ‘That ring was not found among his possessions.'
Nothing more was said on the topic. By the end of Francis’ audience with his mother, the sun had drawn back to its usual place behind the clouds – he saw her clearly and read her effortlessly once again. Upon their departure for second breakfast, the rain started to drum against the porte-fenêtres. The scene was that of a well-lit, well-set table; of Lady Stowe dining with her son, her jewels rocking gracefully to the rhythm of her knife and spoon, her powdered wig framed on two sides by the gold and silver of candles and an overcast sky. In other words, it was a Monday and the very end of summer – like many that had come before and like many more which were yet come.