An Old Betrayal - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Charles Finch (CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE) #40

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

When Lenox took his breakfast the next morning, it came with several letters tucked under his plate. One of them was from Hampshire.

He had forgotten writing to his old school friend Peter Hughes, who lived in his family’s dilapidated castle not far from Farnborough. Once they had been very close friends indeed, and still, whenever Peter came to the capital, they had the same easy rapport they’d had when they were both fourteen, sneaking off to the shops near Harrow to buy sweets.

Leck Castle

March 26

My dear Lenox,

Are you sure you’ve come across Archie Godwin, and not mistaken someone else for him? He is not tall, nor fair-haired — quite the opposite, in fact. He is a member of White’s, however.

The Godwins have an odd reputation in this part of the world — not so much Archibald or Henrietta, for they keep very much to themselves, and decline nearly all social interaction — Archie barely even hunts, though he is, ex officio, as a Godwin, a member of the Beagles, which his great-grandfather founded. People in this part of Hampshire remember his father, Winthrop Godwin. I believe Winthrop was a cousin — who can say how distant — of William Godwin, the political philosopher, whose daughter married Shelley. Winthrop was a vicious old fellow, according to my own pater. He was always in and out of court, died some years ago. I believe very late in life he might have married again.

As for Archie — one would scarcely call him a farmer, but there is no other suitable description of him to offer. He is not an esquire in any proper sense of the word. He doesn’t keep horses, other than for a handsome barouche Hetty uses now and again, doesn’t take tenants (there is a great deal of money at Raburn Lodge, and the houses he might let sit empty and unused). His sister was near marriage once but it was called off, for some reason. Their mother died when they were very young. Frankly I cannot imagine him going to London at all — he cannot find the will to make it to Farnborough for a winter ball — but the whole countryside knows that he went to London a few days ago.

I fear this is unhelpful, but at least I can give you an accurate description of him, for I do see him now and then, perhaps every six months. He is very short, just above five foot I would say, and has a bald crown, with dark hair around the fringe. He has an unprepossessing face, with a bulbous nose and eyes set rather too close together, though last I saw him he was wearing spectacles. Certainly he has never been anything but gentlemanly with me in our interactions. I always sense in his manner a bit of atonement for his father’s bad reputation — even apology, perhaps. It is no wonder he stays out of Farnborough, where they gossip like schoolgirls.

That is all the account I can offer for Archie Godwin. As for us, we are still struggling to keep the bones of Leck together, Frances and I, and there are many moments of worry — but as you know love and marriage are a tremendous solace, and we find great joy in each other’s company still. It would make us happy indeed if you and Jane could visit. Name your date. Otherwise I will be up in September, as always, to see my lawyers and spend a week in London. I know that I will see you then — if not before — and regardless of when our next meeting may be, believe me to be,

Your very dear friend,

Peter Hughes

When he finished reading this letter Lenox felt a powerful wish to see his friend again. Leck was a beautiful place, with ancient magic in its gray walls, situated on a rise of hill just above a pristine, circular lake, and Peter, who had grown quite fat and red, was one of the funniest, gentlest people he knew. His wife, too, a gray-haired woman slightly older than he, was unusually caring and sweet.

He thought of how unpredictable life was. If Peter had decided to come live in London after he finished at Cambridge, the two men would have seen each other three or four times a week for the past twenty years. Instead their friendship consisted in this — letters, a week in September, and the abiding memories of a daily closeness that was now decades in the past.

Lenox wrote his reply, sipping his coffee and relaying his news, including reports on Sophia and particularly on Edmund, whom Peter had known more slightly when they were all at school.

He still felt disappointed that they had been wrong about the robbery at the palace the past two nights, but it was absolutely essential that he devote the day to Parliament. As soon as he had finished his letter to Peter he stuck it in the silver toast rack where he kept his most pressing ingoing and outgoing correspondence, put on a light cloak, and left.

The next six hours were long and full of quick, significant meetings; Whirral and Peligo, the two men who rumor said were paying off Graham, appeared at his office, and though he tried to discern from their attitude whether they thought it was possible, somehow, that they had bought either his time or his favor, he could not see it. He was closeted afterward for several hours with the party leadership. There were significant speeches to be made that night. Gladstone parceled them out like favors at the end of a party.

None to Lenox, however.

When the meeting was concluded, and men began to stand up from the long oval table and break off into twos and threes, Gladstone came over to Lenox and asked, with a kindly smile, if the younger member would walk the halls with him.

“Certainly, Prime Minister,” said Lenox. It was still customary to address Gladstone by this title among members of their party, though he was out of office now. They offered the honorific with the assumption that one day he would resume his proper place in government; namely, at its summit.

They walked into the halls together. When they were alone, Gladstone said, “I looked down the benches last night and could not find you.”

“I was at Buckingham, sir.”

In normal situations this would have excused one’s absence from any social event short of a funeral or an invasion from the heavens, but Gladstone, like Disraeli, was unusually sharp. He raised his eyebrows. “A dear friend of Lady Monmouth’s, are you? I understand the dinner was only for a hundred people. I had to decline.”

Lenox smiled. “Not precisely.”

“Ah. Precision. It is an interesting virtue, is it not? Too much of it can lead to fastidiousness — but on the other hand an insufficiency of precision, a perpetual inexactness, can lead, I think, to the more serious degradation of moral inexactness, though it begin as merely a trait of laziness.”

“Sir?”

Gladstone stopped at a high arched window, recessed into the wall so that it offered a stone bench for passersby. He sat down and looked out over London through the glinting glass. Though it was a bright day the Thames was unusually turbid, churning up red clay along its two pebbly strands. At its depths toward the middle of the river, however, it flowed as sleek and gray as ever.

Gladstone looked back at Charles. “Sir Edmund assures me of your sincere belief in your secretary’s honesty. Unhappily, it is no longer a mere matter of exoneration. The opinion of the world is set against Mr. Graham — set firmly against him.”

“The opinion of the world is an ass.”

Gladstone smiled mildly. He knew that fact better than most. For many years he had visited with prostitutes, with the aim of reforming them. He had even invited them to take tea at Downing Street. His wife was always present at these meetings, yet gossip ascribed his fascination to less noble motives than he claimed. Lenox happened to believe him, but of all men he ought to have understood the impudence of quick tongues in London. There were times when the opinion of the world, as he called it, was scurrilous indeed upon the subject of William Ewart Gladstone.

“Edmund tells me as well that you have a strong personal connection with this Mr. Graham. It troubles me all the more, therefore, to tell you that either he must go — or you must. Not from Parliament, for the seat is yours, but you will return to the back benches. Mr. Graham has attained some power in these halls, Lenox, and for our purposes, however baseless the rumors, that will not do. We cannot lose ground against Disraeli. He already has our backs against the wall.

“The stain has not yet spread to you, Charles. Yes, I see your grimace. This is politics, my dear fellow, nothing else.” He stood and put a hand on Lenox’s upper arm. “Let me know when it is done, and we will be delighted to have you speak again.”