A Noble Man. Anne Ashley
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after their sister.
“Oh, Connie’s in fine fettle. Put on some weight since the last time you saw her. Still,” he shrugged, “only to be expected at her age. Increased the progeny by three since you’ve been away. Five of the little blighters she’s produced now. Which says something for Lansdown, I suppose. I have a deal of respect for our dear brother-in-law. Poor chap must possess the patience of a saint to put up with our bird-witted sister.”
Benedict, willingly accepting a further slice of the apple tart and a full measure of the brandy, could not suppress a smile. No doubt Constance continued to treat Nicholas as though he were still a mischievous schoolboy, and his evident resentment was quite understandable. He decided to make his own feelings known.
“I perceive a great change in you, Nick.” He took a moment to study the very fashionable attire. “Apeing the dandy yourself now, I see.”
“One must dress, dear brother.” The pained expression returned as his attention was drawn to that gaudy neck decoration once more. “Just as well you did come straight here. Wouldn’t do to let people see you looking like that, you know. There’s the name to consider, and all that,” he remarked with quaint snobbery. “We’ll rise early tomorrow and pay a visit to a tailor…Or perhaps several.”
The following morning Benedict discovered that his brother’s idea of rising early was not quite the same as his own. So, after he had consumed a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs and buttered rolls, washed down with several cups of freshly-brewed coffee, and there were still no signs that Nicholas was ready to leave the comfort of his bedchamber and face the new day, Benedict decided to pass the time by exploring the metropolis to see what changes had taken place during his years away.
He stepped outside to discover a morning that was both dry and bright, and blessedly free from the evil choking fog that often shrouded the city even at this time of year. His athletic, long-striding gait quickly brought him to the end of the street and into a wider thoroughfare, where hordes of people were now busily going about their daily work.
This was the part of the city that he knew best of all, where pretty girls in white pinafores and black taffeta bonnets were parading the fashionable streets and squares dispensing milk from the buckets they carried, their cries mingling with those of other hawkers, eager to sell their wares. This was where he had happily frittered away his time, and money, paying visits to friends and enjoying the many pleasurable activities the capital had to offer any young gentleman of wealth and rank. This was what, five years ago, he had very much resented being forced to leave behind.
He remembered clearly the bitterness he had felt when his father had insisted that he travel to Jamaica and learn to respect the value of money by taking charge of the family’s plantation out there. Their parting had been an unpleasant one, with many biting recriminations uttered on both sides. Not many months had passed, however, before Benedict had come to realise that his father’s actions had been totally justified, and he could only be thankful that the majority of letters exchanged during their years apart had been full of warmth and understanding; his only real regret now being that he had not returned to England in time to see his father one last time before his death.
Yes, those years in Jamaica had changed him completely. He was no longer that care-for-nobody, that frivolous, pleasure-seeking fribble whose only ambition was to cut a dash in society, and who squandered vast sums of money without a thought to whose hard work financed his pleasures or from whence the money had come. Older and, hopefully, wiser now, he believed he could take his father’s place and carry out his duties as head of the family in a responsible and caring manner. The cut of a jacket, the set of a cravat and a looking-glass shine on a pair of boots were no longer important to him. A sigh escaped him. Nevertheless he supposed it behoved him to take his brother’s advice, and attire himself as befitted his station in life before returning to the fashionable world, a world that, if the truth were known, he had little desire to re-enter.
The stink of rotting refuse and equally unpleasant odours suddenly assailing his nostrils induced him to take stock of his surroundings. Without being aware of it, he had walked ever eastwards into those areas of the capital where most people of his class rarely or never ventured. The distinction between rich and poor could not have been more marked. There were no fine mansions here, no crossing-boys to clear away the filth from the streets, and no ladies and gentlemen, dressed in their finery, taking the air. Which was hardly surprising, he decided, ripping the kerchief from his neck and putting it to good use by placing it over his nose and mouth.
The air was foul, polluted by filth and grime which oozed from the tightly-packed hovels, and half-starved children, dressed in rags, or nothing at all, were grubbing round in the dirt. What it must be like here when the weather became warmer he dreaded to think. Little wonder these areas of the city harboured the constant threat of typhus. To the poor wretches living here disease and starvation were commonplace, a way of life from which there was little hope of escape.
He knew, of course, that it was the height of folly to remain in these noisome streets, where vice and corruption abounded on every corner, and yet he found his interest well and truly captured. So engrossed did he become in the heart-rending wretchedness surrounding him that it was not until almost noon that he ventured back to the more affluent part of the city, and was greeted none too politely when he did eventually return to his brother’s house.
“Where the deuce have you been?” Nicholas demanded to know. “Figgins informed me that you left the house hours ago.”
“That is correct.” Benedict joined him at the table, and helped himself to a cup of fresh coffee. “I decided to occupy my time while waiting for you to rise in exploring the capital.”
“Expect you discovered some changes, eh?”
“Can’t say I took much notice of the area round here. Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Shoreditch and Smithfield certainly proved most interesting, though.”
“Good gad, Benedict!” Nicholas was beginning to wonder whether those years spent under a tropical sun might not have had some adverse effect on his brother’s mental state. “What on earth possessed you to venture to those spots? They’re all notorious havens for every form of low life. Even the Runners won’t enter those places alone, not even in broad daylight.” A disturbing possibility suddenly occurred to him. “Dear Lord! You didn’t go there to find a woman, did you?”
One ducal brow arched. “Credit me with some intelligence. Not that I didn’t receive several offers, but I have far too much respect for my health.”
“Well, thank the Lord for that!” his graceless brother responded, audibly sighing with relief. “Though I’m rather surprised you managed to return totally unscathed.”
“Dressed as I am, I no doubt appeared one of their own and, therefore, not worthy of accosting.”
This candid response returned Nicholas’s thoughts to what for him was the most pressing problem besetting him at the moment and, after hurriedly finishing his meagre repast, he wasted no further time in taking the first steps in putting his brother’s deplorable appearance to rights.
It rather amused him to see the appalled expressions on those famous Bond Street tailors’ faces when his brother entered their superior establishments in his wake. Benedict did not appear to take offence at the unenthusiastic reception he received wherever he went, and certainly displayed praiseworthy self-control when he was pulled this way and that, and measured with ruthless efficiency. Nicholas soon discovered, however, that beneath that veneer of complacency was an iron strong will, for nothing would induce Benedict to have his coats made fashionably tight, nor tempt him to select anything other than the plainest of colours for his clothes.
“Damned unimaginative! That’s what I call it,” Nicholas remonstrated, as they emerged into the sunlight once more. “Yellow-and-black-striped waistcoats are all the fashion this Season.”
“I do not doubt you are correct, brother. But I have no intention of going about the capital resembling something that spends most of its life collecting pollen.”
Nicholas was about to cast further