The Discerning Gentleman's Guide. Virginia Heath
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over the unfortunate stains in her past. If her employer wanted her to hold her wayward tongue in front of her nephew and apologise to him for her perceived insult, then Amelia was duty-bound...no—honour-bound...to do that.
It made no difference that the pompous Duke clearly had limited, if any, experience of what life was like for the majority of the nation’s subjects. It was not Amelia’s place to educate him. Even if she tried, she doubted he would listen. His hereditary beliefs were too ingrained and he clearly felt, like all aristocrats, that they had a divine right to govern the rest of the country simply because they had been born. This evening he had given her that look when she had dared to question him. That look that men always gave women when they wanted to put them back in their place. That look that said that she was incapable of understanding his line of argument, based solely on the circumstances of her sex. As if being in possession of a womb rendered her somehow more stupid than all humans who were born without one.
Ha! Amelia was better informed than most men and probably cleverer than them too. Not only had she read every learned treatise she could get her hands on, she had also experienced life from both sides of the same coin. She had been rich and cosseted and she had been poor and insignificant. Both states had shaped her personality and had given her more insight into the human condition than anyone else she could think of. His Royal Highness the Duke of Pomposity could not compete with that hard-won knowledge. If she had been born a man, she would run for Parliament herself. If ever an institution needed more wisdom, more empathy and more vision, it was that one. Just thinking about all of the injustice they perpetrated in the name of governance made her livid.
Too agitated to even think of going to bed, Amelia decided to head for the kitchen for some warm milk to help her sleep. Then she carried the steaming mug back out towards the deserted palatial hallway and allowed herself a few minutes to simply take it all in.
Although she had not set foot in her father’s London residence in a decade, she had a clear, indelible memory of the place. She only had to close her eyes to see the highly polished wooden banisters that she had surreptitiously slid down when nobody was watching, the sparkling chandelier in the entrance hall, the comforting smells of beeswax and polish that always reminded her of happier times when they had lived as a family. Back when she was little and her father still adored her mother—before he had found a way to annul their marriage in order to get a son—she had thought their house in Mayfair the loveliest house in all of England, but it paled in comparison to this. This was a level of luxury that Viscount Venomous would truly envy.
Amelia looked up at the wonderful ceiling and spun in a slow circle. She loved to draw and, although her attempts at art were pathetic in comparison, she could not help but appreciate this clever artist’s work. Every single cherub was different, flowers and leaves were dripping out of their chubby hands, but from this angle it was difficult to comprehend the total effect of the painting. A quick check of the hallway confirmed that she was still alone, so she quickly deposited her cooling milk on an ornamental table and lay down in the middle of the floor. Only then did she fully understand what the picture was trying to show.
The four corners of the high ceiling were filled with the flowers and fruits produced in the four seasons. Vibrant green holly, winter berries and bare twigs represented winter in one. Copper leaves, golden corn, horse chestnuts and acorns for autumn, spring daffodils and cherry blossom bloomed in another corner, then finally fat roses of every colour depicted summer. The cherubs were joyfully grabbing handfuls of nature’s bounty to sprinkle on the world below. It was whimsical and delightful, the tiny details sublime, and she could have stared at it for hours. It was exactly what she needed to alleviate her sour mood.
* * *
Bennett read through his speech one last time before he cast it aside in irritation. It was good, of course, because he had a way with words, but he was still not completely happy with it. Or perhaps it was not his speech that was vexing him? He was still smarting from Miss Mansfield’s scathing rant from earlier.
He had never been called evil before. He had been criticised in Parliament for being too moderate or too reforming, but he had never taken offence because that was politics. His father had been absolutely right. Change was a gradual process and it could not be rushed; it was normal for people to be resistant to it. Bennett’s first and foremost role in Parliament was to gradually whittle down opposition to change so that society, as a whole, could make progress.
Miss Mansfield had no understanding of such things. Her suggestion that he was personally responsible for making the lives of the poor more wretched than they already were was not only grossly unfair, it was downright insulting. He was very aware of their plight. In fact, he had always taken a particular interest in it. If something was not done to alleviate their suffering, then he feared that the very foundation of English government was in jeopardy. The last thing anybody wanted was a revolution like there had been in France or in the American colonies.
Why else would he be so insistent that the wealthy had to take on more of the responsibility for taxation? If the government could raise more from taxes, then that money could be used to improve society. One of his own aspirations was to see the compulsory education of all poor children in government-built schools. Many of his contemporaries were against making the masses literate, claiming that it would merely encourage more revolutionary tendencies, but Bennett firmly believed that reading was a skill that could only serve to improve their prospects in adulthood whilst making the nation greater. That certainly did not make him evil.
His aunt had spoken to him about Miss Mansfield, claiming that she had been dealt a bad hand by life and that she was a truly wonderful young lady when you got to know her. Bennett was yet to see any evidence of that, but it was obvious that Aunt Augusta was very fond of the chit, so for that reason alone he would be benevolent towards her. However, he was not going to be quite so polite the next time she offered her unsolicited and tart opinions.
No, indeed! Next time he would give the woman the sound dressing-down she deserved, no matter how devilishly pretty she looked.
A quick glance at the clock on the mantel told him it was past midnight, again. He had to be back in Westminster by eight. If he was not going to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon debate, he really needed to get some sleep. All of these late nights spent working until the small hours were beginning to take their toll. Unfortunately, these were trying times for the government and his workload was immense. Something had to be sacrificed in order to get it all done and at the moment that something was sleep.
Wearily, he unfolded his stiff body from his chair and stared at his discarded hessians next to his desk. Despite the fact that he knew that propriety dictated that he should put them back on, he could not bring himself to. They were new boots and they hurt. The polished leather was still so stiff that they pinched and rubbed in all manner of places. Besides, it was late and none of the servants would comment on his lack of footwear. Lovett had them all far too well-trained for that. In fact, if he chose to walk around the house completely naked except for a strategically placed fig leaf, none of them would dare to bat an eyelid. That thought made him smile, and smiling made his face ache. Clearly his smiling muscles were protesting at being used. It felt unnatural—which probably meant that Aunt Augusta had been quite correct when she had said that he was looking far too serious for a young man. He made a mental note to smile more. Perhaps it was vanity, but his esteemed father had not smiled a great deal, so by the time he was forty he’d appeared very dour indeed—even when he wasn’t.
But serious politics was not exactly a cheerful endeavour. And it was completely absorbing. His father had groomed him to serve in government. We are Montagues, boy, he would say, and we were born to shape this country. Later, when his father had realised that he was ill, Bennett’s training for the highest office had begun early. By the tender age of fifteen, he was ready and eager to step into his father’s footsteps. His final conversation with his father had been a solemn promise to continue his family’s political legacy. Bennett had taken the oath seriously and had worked tirelessly since to do the right thing. So tirelessly that he was always tired.
Perhaps his mother was also right and he needed to get out more. Bennett could not remember the last time he went out for a ride or walked in the park or even visited Aveley Castle,