The Winter Rose (15 page)

Freddie could trace his line back almost as far, which earned him
high marks in Isabelle's book. Richard Lytton, the first Earl of
Bingham, had been ennobled under Edward I at the end of the thirteenth
century. He had conquered Wales for his king, then he'd led his armies
north to put down William Wallace, attacking at Falkirk with a
staggering brutality. Wallace named him the Red Earl, and said there
wasn't enough water in all the oceans of the world to wash the blood off
his hands. A portrait of him had hung in the gallery at Longmarsh.
Blond, amber-eyed, handsome, the Red Earl looked exactly like Freddie's
late father. Exactly like Freddie him-self. The painting hung in
Freddie's own flat now. His mother had insisted he take it. She hated
the sight of it.

As he passed Isabelle's dining room, Freddie's eyes swept covetously
over a Holbein portrait, a Chippendale table, a pair of Tang Dynasty
urns. What a magnificent collection, what a stellar house, and what an
incalculable boon both would be to a young MP. His own family boasted
few such possessions; most had been sold to pay the bills. As for
houses, there was a squat brick monster in Carlton Terrace and there was
Longmarsh, the family seat, a decrepit estate in the Cotswolds. Both of
them belonged to his brother.

At the thought of Bingham, the benign smile on Freddie's handsome
face slipped, and like a base metal showing under thin plating,
something darker emerged. He thought, with bitterness, of how tired he
was of standing in other men's shadows. By the time he reached
Isabelle's drawing room, however, the smile was back in place.

"The Honorable Sir Frederick Lytton, my lady," the butler announced, ushering him inside.

"Freddie, my dear."

His future mother-in-law was sitting by the fireplace, looking
formidable in pearls and gray silk faille. The icy color matched her
eyes. Other London hostesses had long ago put off formal dresses in the
afternoon for more comfortable tea gowns. Not Isabelle. She was born
wearing stays, Freddie thought, and would die in them. She sat ramrod
straight. Looking at her, he realized that not once in all the years
he'd known her had he seen her back touch the upholstery.

"Isabelle," he said, bending to kiss her hand. He straightened and smiled.

"What a pleasure it is to see you, Freddie. How gracious you are to take time from your political duties to visit me."

As if I had a choice, he thought grimly.

Her summons to tea had arrived in the morning post. Although politely
worded, it was a command. He guessed she'd heard that India had
graduated and was practicing medicine. And if that letter hadn't made
his morning ghastly enough, another had arrived with it--sent by the
lovely Gemma Dean, telling him they were finished. She was angry at him
for standing her up. He'd planned to spend the weekend with her. He'd
even plumped for a present--a watch that he'd ended up giving to India.
He'd nearly been out the door and on his way to forty-eight hours of
bedded bliss when that idiot of a Wish had appeared, ruining everything.
He'd had no choice but to go with him to India's graduation, pretending
that's where he'd been headed all along. Gemma's letter had been full
of recriminations. She wanted to marry him and was angry that he didn't
want to marry her. The very idea. A Lytton marrying a girl from East
London. It would be like pairing the Dar-ley Arabian with a carthorse.
She'd found someone else, she'd written. Someone who would marry her.

"How is political life treating you, Freddie? Has Salisbury forgiven you your trespasses?" Isabelle asked.

She was making small talk. She'd sent for refreshments, and Freddie
knew the civil tone would last only as long as it took for the maid to
bring them.

"He speaks to me again," Freddie said. "I suppose that's something."

"I wouldn't. It was a dreadful thing to do. Downright traitorous."

"It was a bid for survival, Isabelle. Mine. Yours. The entire ruling class's. I had no choice."

Two years ago, shortly after winning the Tower Hamlets seat, Freddie
had stunned the political world by deserting the Conservative Party for
the Liberals. Publicly he'd ascribed the move to a desire to see
government do more for the poor. In truth, his defection had nothing to
do with politics, but everything to do with a cause--his own. A shrewd
political animal, Freddie had scented the wind and determined which way
advantage lay. The Liberals would soon lead England--and he would lead
them.

"I fail to see how turning your back on your own party, on the prime minister himself, insures one's survival, my dear."

"Salisbury won't be prime minister for much longer. He's been at the
helm since 'eighty-five. Nearly sixteen years. The Liberals challenged
him repeatedly during that time, and twice they won."

Isabelle waved her hand dismissively. "They barely managed to hold the premiership when they had it. A year here, two there."

"Yes, in 'eighty-six and 'ninety-two, but Salisbury was stronger
then. The old boy's tiring. He's a creature from another age. He was
ready to step down a year ago and would have, were it not for the Boer
War. As soon as we have a victory, he'll go."

"And his nephew will take his place. Another Tory, Freddie."

"Arthur Balfour won't last long. The writing's on the wall. The
Tories are finished. Times are changing. The country is changing. New
voices are making themselves heard. Radicals, socialists,
suffragists..."

"Dreadful people, all of them. I wish they would just go away."

"I quite agree, but they won't. And no matter what they call
themselves, they all want the same thing--a new order. The Tories are
not listening; the Liberals are. They understand that it's time for the
ruling class to share some small bit of power."

"And you believe that's right, Freddie?" Isabelle asked waspishly.
"You believe that the man who delivers my milk and the man who sweeps my
chimneys--men who can barely speak proper English, never mind read it
or write it--should rule England? These men rather than men who have
been born into great political families, who have been educated and
groomed for a life in government? Are you going to tell me that is
right?"

"I'm afraid it has nothing to do with what is wrong or right, and
everything to do with what is necessary," Freddie said. "Look at what's
happening on the Continent--the strikes and marches. The anarchists with
their bombs and assassinations. They wish to abolish property. To
destroy the social order. That cannot happen here. We must prevent it.
We must give the workers crumbs, and quickly, before they rise up and
take the entire cake."

Isabelle turned her gaze to the window. She was visibly distressed.
"The white lilac needs pruning," she said at length. "It's grown far too
shaggy."

Discussion over, Freddie thought. Isabelle was typical of her
generation. What they didn't see--or didn't wish to see--didn't exist.
Ireland's agitation for Home Rule, the war in South Africa, restive
trade unions--to Freddie these troubles were all ominously related, all
signs of a gathering storm that might well shake the foundations of
Empire. To Isabelle, they were mere nuisances to be solved either by the
colonial service or the local constabulary.

While she talked on about her gardens, a clap of thunder sounded.
Freddie glanced at the window. Rain pattered against the mullioned
panes. Summer clouds were passing over. For a moment he saw another
window, heard another voice. He was a child again, in his grandmother's
bedroom at Longmarsh. She was winding her music box. It was Chopin. The
"Raindrop Prelude." She was playing it to drown out the sound of his
father, drunk again, and raging. Bing and Daphne were lying on her bed,
crying. His mother was sitting on the window seat. Her arm was broken.

Bing had left his bicycle on the lawn again. Their father had found
it there, wet from rain. He'd come after Bing, a brass poker in his
hand, intending to beat him with it for being careless. Their mother had
gotten between them, so he'd gone for her instead.

He stopped when she was insensible, then staggered off to his study
to find more drink. Freddie's grandmother had come in from the garden
just then. She rushed the family to her bedroom and locked the door
behind them.

"You must act, Caroline," she'd said, wiping the blood from his
mother's face. "You must leave him. Now. He could have killed you."

"I've tried. You know I have. He threatens to divorce me. He says the
courts will give him the children and I shall never see them again. Who
will protect them if I leave?"

His grandmother had walked to her dressing table to hunt for some
salve. On the way her gaze had fallen upon Freddie, who was not crying
like his brother and sister, but watching and listening.

"Lie down, boy," she said. "Go to sleep."

"What shall we do, Grandmother?" he asked.

"I don't know. I dearly wish I did. We are two women and three children and quite powerless against him."

Freddie did not wish to be powerless. Though he was only ten at the
time, he told her that he would be powerful. "I promise, Grandmother,"
he'd solemnly said.

He had kept that promise. He would always keep that promise.

"But then again, Freddie," Isabelle said now, calling him back from
the past, "what is the point of hiring Gertrude Jekyll to do the
herbaceous bor-ders when the house is largely unused?"

She was still talking about her garden. The maid arrived with a tray
of finger sandwiches and cakes, and a pot of tea. Freddie knew another
discussion was about to begin--on a topic far less appealing than
herbaceous borders. He braced himself for the maid's departure. The
drawing-room doors clicked shut. They were alone.

"It didn't used to be so. This house used to be full of life. There
were parties and dinners and dances. We spent the entire London season
here. My daughters made their debuts here. Do you remember?"

"Indeed I do."

"Indeed you do," Isabelle echoed, fixing him with eyes gone glacial. "Tell me, what is India doing these days?"

Freddie decided against any sugar-coating. "She graduated from
med-ical school a week ago, and is working for Dr. Edwin Gifford at his
Whitechapel practice."

Isabelle swallowed hard. When she spoke again, her voice shook with
anger. "I blame you for this. How could you have allowed it? You should
have married her by now. As her husband, you could have forbidden it."

Freddie's temper sparked, but he kept it under control. "It isn't my
fault," he said. "She refused to even think about setting a date until
she'd finished her studies. You know how stubborn she is."

"But Freddie, you must do something. You must make her see reason.
She cannot keep this up, this... this paddling about in filth and gore.
Traipsing through the slums. Working side by side with men. You must
stop her practicing medicine. It will ruin her."

"I told her at her graduation that I wouldn't wait any longer. She agreed to set a date. Soon."

"Soon is not soon enough," Isabelle snapped. "You are her flanc�If
you of all people cannot bring her to heel, perhaps it is time I found
someone who can."

Freddie affected a stricken look. He stood and said, "Perhaps you're
right, Isabelle. You know how I feel about India, I love her more than
my life, but perhaps she would be happier with someone else. Someone
more of her world. She has her school friends and she has Maud. Perhaps
this matter would be better left to the knowing heart of a girlfriend or
sister."

Isabelle paled. The last thing she would want was for one of India's
doc-tor friends to matchmake for her, never mind Maud. The mere
suggestion that one wayward daughter might shepherd the other had its
intended effect.

"Freddie, sit down. That is not what I want at all. I want India
back. Back in our world. She is our only hope, mine and my husband's.
You realize that, don't you? Maud is completely past redemption. India
isn't. Not quite." Freddie started to say something soothing, but
Isabelle cut him off. "Our two families have known each other for years.
There is a trust between us and an understanding. I hope that I may be
direct with you."

"Of course," Freddie said. This was going even better than he had
hoped. He felt certain that Isabelle was about to make his fondest wish
come true. The two of them had been dancing around this topic for ages,
but she had never made him any firm guarantees. All she had ever said
was that if he were to marry India there would be a dowry.

"As you know, India's father and I have no male heirs, only a nephew,
Aloysius, whom we will name as our heir if there are no grandchildren.
We need a son-in-law, a right-thinking man who can steward the family
fortune. I am, as I have always told you, more than pleased that you
will be that man, but the engagement has gone on far too long. Marry
India, bring her back within the fold, and do it quickly. We are
prepared to be very generous about the marriage settlement... if there
is a wedding--and an end to this doctoring nonsense--before the year is
out."

Freddie nodded, struggling to maintain a calm expression. He was close--so tantalizingly close--to getting what he wanted.

"India will receive a sizable dowry--including a lump sum of �100,000
and an additional �20,000 per annum. She will also receive the Berkeley
Square house and, upon my death, Blackwood."

Freddie had to fight the urge to whoop with joy. This was beyond his
wildest dreams. A fortune in cash, the London house, and the Welsh
estate--all his.

"Isabelle, that is more than generous, and it is lovely to think that
India and I would be starting our lives, our family, in this wonderful
house that holds so many happy memories. But all that really matters to
me is India's happiness."

"There is no greater happiness for a woman than marriage and society.
If you do love my daughter, if you bear any affection toward myself and
Lord Burnleigh, please use all haste in making her your wife."