London - Edward Rutherfurd [455]
But the male line of the house of St James still carried the tradesman’s name of Ducket and it was hard for Miss Barham to bear. To oblige her therefore the young earl, who at that time was quite dazzled by her – she was the belle of every ball – changed the spelling to the French-seeming, if improbable, de Quette. It was, she told her friends, the older form of the name which only time had corrupted; and it was soon generally accepted that the earl’s family name must have come over with the Norman conquest. Some ancestors are born, others made: the de Quettes were not the only family to perform some carpentry on their name.
“Though it is pronounced,” she would say, with a show of English firmness, “Ducket.”
But that, she thought sadly, was the last time he had really tried to please her. She had her name now, her house; but as for the rest . . .
“These bills, madam. Have you seen them?”
Lady St James made a faint sound that might have meant anything. She never looked at bills.
“They are large, Lady St James,” he said.
“Are we in difficulties?” she asked innocently, “must I sell Pedro?” She sighed. “Pray do not tell me, my lord, that we are ruined.”
“Not quite,” he remarked drily. He knew that she suspected he was richer than he cared to admit; and indeed, as with many of his class, the burgeoning colonial trade and improved farming methods were yearly increasing his already substantial income. Even the expense of the London house was mitigated by the fact that most of the meat and produce consumed there was brought in by cart, once a week, from the estate in Kent. That very morning, though he had no intention of telling her, he had received plans for a new mansion at Bocton. “If we are not ruined, it is because I live within my income,” he stated. “Madam, I have here bills from tradesmen that total three hundred pounds.”
Lady St James threw up her eyes, and might have thrown up her head too, except that it would have disturbed Balthazar’s work on her hair.
“Perhaps we need not pay them all,” she suggested. Lady St James’s generosity, so pleasantly shown to her servants, did not extend to tradesmen.
Lord St James began to read them out. A hatmaker, milliner, Twining the tea-seller, her shoemaker, dressmaker, two perfume-sellers, Fleming the baker, even a bookseller. To most of these she replied with a little groan, or a murmur. “Robbery”, or “Impossible”. Finally he came to an end.
“The dressmaker must be paid,” she said firmly. She would never find another as good. She thought for a moment. She suspected all the bills were justified, but the baker’s annoyed her. She had held a huge party and decided, as she put it herself, to decorate the room with cakes. The party had not been a success. “Give me the baker’s bill,” she cried. “I’ll make the fellow eat it.” Actually, she meant to throw it in the fire. Fleming the baker could wait. He was not important.
She hoped, now, that her husband would go. He did not. Instead he cleared his throat.
“There is another matter, madam, that I wish to discuss.” She waited, offering nothing. “The family of de Quette, madam. I am the third earl. I still have no heir.” There was another pause. “Something must be done.” He gazed at her steadily. “I do not doubt that I am able.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Faintly.
“When, madam?”
“Soon. We are so busy at present. The season . . .” She collected herself. “Shall we not be at Bocton this summer? In the country?” She contrived a smile. “At Bocton, William.” It was his name.
But even though she smiled, it was difficult for Lady St James to convey even the modicum of encouragement