But I wondered, with a sudden flash of bitterness, what their manner would have been to me if, after all, I had not inherited the property. Would the deference be there?
The respect?
The loyalty?
Or would I have been young Master Philip, a poor relative, with a room of my own stuck away somewhere at the back of the house? I knocked out my pipe, the taste was dry and dusty.
How many people were there, I wondered, who liked me and served me for myself alone?
“That is all, Seecombe,” I said.
“I will let you know if Mrs. Ashley decides to visit us.
I don’t know about a room.
I leave that side of the business to you.” “Why surely, Mr. Philip, sir,” said Seecombe in surprise, “it will be correct to put Mrs. Ashley into Mr. Ashley’s own room?”
I stared at him, shocked into sudden silence.
Then fearing my feelings showed in my face, I turned away.
“No,” I said, “that won’t be possible.
I shall be moving into Mr. Ashley’s room myself. I meant to tell you so before.
I decided upon the change some days ago.” It was a lie. I had not thought of such a thing until that moment.
“Very well, sir,” he said, “in that case the blue room and the dressing room will be more suitable for Mrs. Ashley.”
And he left the room.
Good God, I thought, to put that woman into Ambrose’s room, what sacrilege.
I flung myself down in my chair, biting the stem of my pipe.
I felt angry, unsettled, sick of the whole concern.
It was madness to have sent that message through my godfather, madness to have her in the house at all.
What in the name of the devil had I let myself in for?
That idiot, Seecombe, with his ideas of what was right and what was wrong.
The invitation was accepted.
She wrote a letter back to my godfather, not to me.
Which, as no doubt Seecombe would have thought, was duly right and proper.
The invitation had not come direct from me, therefore it must be returned through the correct channel.
She would be ready, she said, whenever it was convenient to send for her, or if not convenient she would come by post chaise.
I replied, again through my godfather, that I would send the carriage for her on the Friday.
And that was that.
Friday came all too soon.
A moody, fitful sort of day, with gusts of wind.
We often had them thus, the third week in September, with the big tides of the year.
The clouds were low, scudding across the sky from the southwest, threatening rain before the evening. I hoped it would rain.
One of our true downpours, with maybe a gale thrown in for further measure.
A west country welcome.
No Italian skies.
I had sent Wellington off with the horses the day before.
He would stay overnight in Plymouth and return with her.
Ever since I had told the servants that Mrs. Ashley was expected a sort of unrest had come upon the house.
Even the dogs were aware of it and followed me about from room to room.
Seecombe reminded me of some old priest who, after years of abstinence from any form of religious celebration, suddenly conforms again to forgotten ritual.
He moved about, mysterious and solemn, with hushed footsteps—he had even bought himself a pair of soft-soled slippers—and bits of silver I had never seen in my life before were borne into the dining room and placed on the table, or on the sideboard.
Relics, I suppose, of my uncle Philip’s day.
Great candlesticks, sugar-castors, goblets, and a silver bowl filled—great Joshua—with roses placed as a centerpiece.
“Since when,” I said to him, “have you turned acolyte?
What about the incense, and the holy water?”
He did not move a muscle of his face.
He stood back, surveying the relics.
“I have asked Tamlyn to bring cut flowers from the walled garden,” he said. “The boys are sorting them now, out at the back.
We shall need flowers in the drawing room, and in the blue bedroom, in the dressing room and boudoir.”