The Importance of Love Read online

  Tears were flowing freely down her face much to the Viscount’s discomfort.

  ‘There is something she is not telling me,’ he thought, as he took his hat from Bates and left the house with its shuttered front windows.

  *

  Even before he left his home the next day for the funeral, the Viscount had a distinct sense of unease.

  The cortege was to leave from Belgrave Square at eleven o’clock and the funeral was to be followed by the reading of the will at the Solicitor’s office.

  Arriving at his grandfather’s house, the Viscount went to take his place with the chief mourners and was told that he should travel in one of the many carriages arranged for the journey to Kensal Green. Stung, he tried not to show how upset he was by this slight.

  He could see his father from a distance, but he was making a point of ignoring him.

  At last, the undertaker announced that it was time to leave.

  The Viscount looked at the velvet-draped coffin in the enormous, glass-bodied hearse festooned with a forest of black plumes and wanted to weep.

  It took all of his inner strength not to sob aloud in front of the assembled throng.

  Slowly, the undertaker took up his position in front of the team of six black horses. The procession began to move forward with the Marchioness and the Earl travelling in a black landau immediately behind the hearse.

  Two outriders on liveried horses, a pair of feathermen and numerous pages all dressed in black with black streamers flying from their hats began the solemn journey around Belgrave Square.

  On the side of the hearse were shields bearing the Marquis’s coat of arms, topped with coronets, while the lavish fittings would have been considered eye-popping had they not graced a funeral vehicle.

  The Viscount’s carriage followed the parade. People from streets around lined the pavements to gawp at the spectacle.

  At Hyde Park Corner, the undertaker jumped up onto the box of the hearse and the whole procession picked up speed as it made its way towards North Kensington.

  Along the way, people stopped to doff their caps and bow their heads as a mark of respect. It had been a while since London had seen a funeral on such a grand scale.

  Some time later they arrived at Kensal Green. After a short service in the Chapel, where many mourners were forced to stand outside, the coffin made its way to its last resting place.

  The Viscount barely noticed the architecture of the solid mausoleum that rose up in front of them. It stood not two hundred yards from the famous tomb of Princess Sophia and, apart from the solid columns that flanked the four corners of the structure, it struck him as a rather modest affair.

  In fact, he almost felt proud of the fact that his grandfather had chosen such a restrained monument.

  For the older generation building an ostentatious and expensive final resting place had been all the rage during the early days of the Belgravia of Death as Kensal Green had been named.

  Yet here was one of the most important and aristocratic men in the Kingdom about to be interred in a building that would have been self-effacing for a merchant, let alone a Marquis.

  ‘Oh, Father. Do not ignore me,’ thought the Viscount, as the pain in his heart increased. Each time he attempted to catch his father’s eye, the Earl simply looked away. ‘Why must you make everything so difficult?’

  The Minister began to intone the final rites as the pallbearers halted by the open door.

  With tears in his eyes, the Viscount’s gaze rested upon the lintel over the door that bore a name. Squinting he began to make out the letters of the name.

  “Le Fevre,” it read.

  ‘Le Fevre?’ thought the Viscount.

  Moving swiftly to the side of the mausoleum, he pushed through the crowds to read the simple inscription.

  “My well-beloved, Marie-Annette Le Fevre, taken from this world 26th January 1891.”

  Underneath the inscription was a carving of an angel next to a dove carrying a streamer in its beak to Heaven.

  The meaning was quite clear to the Viscount. This was a woman whom his grandfather had quite clearly adored! And what was more –

  ‘It was not my Grandmama,’ he breathed almost audibly.

  Perplexed, he returned to where he had first been standing. His head was whirling and he felt a little unsteady on his feet.

  Reaching out to anchor himself, he touched the shoulder of one of his younger cousins who turned round to face him with a face like a frightened whippet.

  “David,” she chided in an undertone. “What ails you?”

  “I am sorry, Arabella,” he replied, a wave of nausea sweeping over him and a clammy sweat breaking out on his brow. “I suddenly felt a little dizzy.”

  “Poor David,” she whispered. “You and Grandpapa were very close, were you not? It must be dreadful for you.”

  Someone in the crowd hissed at them to hold their tongues and the sound of the bell tolling drowned out the rasping sound.

  The coffin was now being laid to rest on the stone shelf inside the mausoleum.

  The Viscount did not enter to stand alongside his grandmother and father. He remained a little way from the entrance, wondering who on earth Marie-Annette Le Fevre had been and why she so occupied a place in his grandfather’s affections that he had risked a terrible scandal by being buried alongside her.

  The Viscount knew that it would soon be the talk of London and that the family name would now be covered with infamy.

  At last the ceremony drew to a close. The furious waggling of black funeral bonnets told the Viscount that he was not the only one to have noticed the name on the side of the mausoleum.

  ‘That is why Grandmama was so upset yesterday,’ he thought, as he returned to his carriage.

  He instructed the driver to wait a while until the crowd had dispersed and then charged him to make all haste to Holborn.

  *

  The George Inn remained a sanctuary for Luella and the Countess over the course of the next few days. The Countess’s health did not improve and gave Luella cause for great concern.

  The Landlord was kind enough to send for a local doctor, who did his best, but seemed more interested in getting downstairs and filling his tankard than alleviating Aunt Edith’s condition.

  Luella wished there was a friend she could send for, but they were all miles away in Scotland.

  And the omnipresent threat of Frank Connolly hung like a long shadow over her.

  As a result, she only ventured out when absolutely necessary and spent her days reading in the tiny sitting room that adjoined their bedrooms.

  Then one afternoon whilst staring out of the window, she was staggered to see Aunt Edith standing rather shakily in the doorway.

  “Aunt Edith. What are you doing out of bed?”

  “It’s no good, Luella. I cannot bear being in it a moment longer. Would you ask the landlord to bring me a boiled egg? Then you must charge him with finding us a carriage West.”

  “Surely you are not thinking of continuing our journey?” exclaimed Luella horrified.

  “We have been here long enough and I promised myself that as soon as I was strong enough to stand, we would leave.”

  Nothing Luella could say would dissuade her from her intended course. Reluctantly, she went downstairs and requested the egg and ordered a carriage West.

  As she returned to their rooms, Luella shook her head in exasperation.

  ‘If anything happens to Aunt Edith, I shall only blame myself,’ she said to herself wearily trudging upstairs. ‘I would almost sooner face Frank Connolly than have her kill herself on my behalf!’

  *

  The Earl’s carriage was already outside the Solicitor’s office by the time the Viscount arrived.

  As he climbed down, a motor car whizzed past and almost ran him over. Just in time, he heard the honking of the horn and jumped out of the way.

  “Goodness! That was close,” he cried, as he watched the motor car disappear in a cloud of dust.<
br />
  He mused that the streets of London were now filling up with these mechanical monsters.

  In fact he had considered purchasing one himself from the showroom in Berkeley Square. That was, of course, before his father had cut his allowance to a bare minimum. Now, it was all he could do to pay the servants’ wages.

  They were all waiting for him inside Mr. Brownlow’s large office. His father sat furthest away from the door with a face like a sphinx, while his grandmother tried to raise a smile for him, but it appeared more like a grimace.

  Also in the room were a few distant relatives whom the Viscount only ever saw at family gatherings.

  ‘Vultures,’ he thought, as he acknowledged them.

  “Are we all present now?” asked Mr. Brownlow. “My Lord?”

  “You may begin, Mr. Brownlow,” said the Earl without a hint of emotion. He adjusted his spectacles, took a deep breath and began to read,

  “To my son, David, I bequeath the house in Belgrave Square, the house in Chalfont and the bulk of my fortune, subject to the condition that my wife, Emmeline, is allowed to live in it and be kept by him until the end of her days.”

  The Earl gave a slight nod as if satisfied and moved to rise.

  “If you please, my Lord, there is more – ”

  The Earl looked at the Solicitor with a quizzical lift of his eyebrows.

  “More?”

  “Yes, my Lord. May I continue?”

  “Of course.”

  “To my grandson, David, I bequeath Torr House in Bideford, North Devon, along with a stipend to be used solely to renovate the property and to make it once more the most splendid and beautiful house in the area.”

  “What house is this?” cried the Earl, before the Viscount had a chance to make further enquiries. “I know of no house in Devon!”

  He jumped to his feet and hovered dangerously close to Mr. Brownlow’s desk.

  “It is, erhem, was your father’s property. Look, I have the deeds here.”

  Mr. Brownlow produced a parchment covered in gothic script. The Earl took it from him as if he did not believe of its existence. After reading a few lines, he threw it across the desk.

  “What is it, David?” asked the Marchioness. “If it is to do with that woman, then I wish to be informed.”

  There was such a tense silence in the room that no one dared moved a muscle.

  “Would everyone leave now please, apart from my son and my mother,” said the Earl through gritted teeth.

  “Well,” came the exclamation from one of the cousins.

  The Viscount had a sinking feeling he knew who the house had belonged to.

  When he was a child, his grandfather had often declared himself off to the West Country for the shooting or the hunting and reappearing weeks later.

  He had never questioned the reason for his grandfather’s long absences as so many of the nobility emptied out of London during the pheasant season or for Whit Sunday. Was it not all part of the Season?

  And now it all became horribly clear to him.

  ‘Grandpapa had kept a mistress,’ he reasoned, as Mr. Brownlow closed the door behind the last of the relations.

  Mr. Brownlow cleared his throat as the Earl glared at him.

  “Would you mind explaining to us what this is about? I know of no house in Devon and the man was my own father.”

  He leaned over the desk at the Solicitor who appeared to be unruffled by this turn of events.

  “Darling, sit down,” said the Marchioness in a quiet voice. “It is quite all right, Mr. Brownlow. I was well aware of my husband’s other life.”

  “Other life!” shouted the Earl. “What other life is this? And why did I know nothing of it?”

  “Your father did not wish you to know. He thought it would be better if you did not.”

  “Mama, how can you sit there so calmly? The man was an adulterer and disgraced his wedding vows. And now this. Brownlow, there must be some mistake. Are you certain this house of shame was not meant to be sold and the profit given to me?”

  “I am afraid that his Lordship was quite definite, my Lord. I witnessed the will myself. Torr House goes to your son, David.”

  “Outrageous!” screamed the Earl, waving his cane at the poor man. “Not only does my mother have to suffer the humiliation of having my father’s grubby little secret aired to all and sundry at the funeral, but now his whore’s house goes to my son. It should be sold, I say. And the memory wiped off from our family’s slate.”

  “Not possible, my Lord. Unless, of course, Lord Kennington wishes to sell it. Although I must emphasise that should he do so, he will not inherit the money and, as the place is almost uninhabitable, he would not make much from it.”

  The Earl’s eyes bulged with fury.

  “Come along, Mother. We have heard enough,” he fumed. “Brownlow, I shall contest this farce of a will. It has brought shame to our name and should be disposed of, along with that damned house.”

  He hoisted his tearful mother up from her chair and bundled her out of the door without so much as a backward look or a goodbye to Mr. Brownlow.

  As the door slammed shut, the Viscount let out a sigh.

  “I am sorry for my father’s outburst. He is deeply upset, as we all are.”

  Mr. Brownlow nodded sagely and pursed his lips.

  “Death does not bring out the best in people,” he remarked. “But your grandfather was very definite about leaving the house to you. I know that he hoped you would make something brilliant out of it and resume your passion for architecture. That is why he left you this particular bequest.”

  The Viscount arose and shook Mr. Brownlow’s hand. As he went to leave, the Solicitor called him back.

  “My Lord, you will need these,” he said, handing him a large bunch of keys. “You will find two servants in residence who keep the house open and they will be very glad to see you. Do not let them or your grandfather down.”

  Extending his gnarled hand, the Viscount shook it warmly.

  Several moments later, he found himself standing on the pavement still clutching the heavy bunch of keys.

  He turned them over in his hand. There were two large ones with ornate handles and several smaller ones. Their thick black iron was tinged with red rust that stained his pigskin gloves.

  ‘Torr House,’ he murmured, wondering what it looked like. ‘Grandpapa, I shall not let you down. Even if the place is a ruin, I shall do your bidding.’

  With one look up to Heaven, he choked back his emotions before walking purposefully towards his waiting carriage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Once back home the Viscount sank into a mild depression that took several days to shake off.

  He would sit for hours at a time, twirling the keys from Torr House in his hand and pondering his grandfather’s bequest as he regarded the ageing metal.

  Mr. Brownlow had sent him some correspondence after the reading of the will, giving him some more details of the house.

  There were two servants, a butler, Cork, and a housekeeper, Mrs. Cork, who kept the place open, although he emphasised that they lived in a cottage in the grounds as the main house was in such desperate need of renovation.

  “Your grandfather abandoned the house once Madame Le Fevre died and said he could not bear to visit it and be reminded of her,” he wrote. “As a result, only minimal repairs were carried out. The roof was patched five years ago after a storm caused damage, but that is all. You are to be given the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds initially with an annual income of five thousand pounds, subject to you taking up residence in the house for a period of no less than three months per year.”

  ‘He must have loved this French woman very much,’ thought the Viscount, as he ruminated on his grandfather’s extra-marital domestic arrangements.

  ‘But then again, it is highly likely that his and Grandmama’s marriage was not a love match. With his being the heir to such a vast and powerful title, it would have been only natural for hi
s parents to have sought a political alliance.’

  His grandmother had been an Earl’s daughter and the marriage of the two great and powerful families lent both sides considerable weight in the world at large. Although she had a brother, she had inherited all of her mother’s property and fortune and that had enriched the family further.

  But love?

  The Viscount shook his head as he spoke aloud,

  “Although Grandmama clearly loved Grandpapa, I was never certain that it was reciprocated. Respect and admiration, yes – but passion? No. He found that in this French woman’s arms, that much is definite.”

  He put down Mr. Brownlow’s letter and gazed out of the window of his study.

  The small garden was blooming and he noted that the roses had done very well this year.

  The thought that he might enjoy a garden but in a more beautiful setting made him come to a decision.

  And then, there was the prospect of stamping his own mark on Torr House.

  His thoughts were interrupted by Hoskin asking what he would like to wear to the dinner at the Reform Club that evening.

  “I shall not be going,” he said decisively. “Please begin packing my things. We are going to Devon.”

  “Devon, my Lord?”

  “Yes, Hoskin. I want you to go downstairs and assemble the servants. I shall make an announcement in fifteen minutes. Tell them not to worry – no one is going to lose their job. I shall need every last pair of hands with what I have in mind.”

  The valet bowed and left the room.

  The Viscount picked up Mr. Brownlow’s letter once more and flicked through the deeds.

  There was one photograph of the place, taken in the days when it had been the most important house in the area. The tall Jacobean chimney pots and tessellated windows gave it an air of ageing dignity, while the oak frame contrasted with the rich earthy-coloured bricks looked homely rather than grand.

  ‘It should have been a house filled with children,’ he mused, surprised at himself for thinking such a thought.

  Setting down the photograph, he took up his sketchpad and quickly drew the outline of the house. Once that was completed, he sketched in a new wing to the left and an orangery to the right.