But since he knew, naturally, that he must marry a lady of impeccable lineage, he was forced to own that Harriet would suit him decidedly better than any other marriageable young female of his set. Only it was all very dull; and without having the least ambition to many to disoblige his family, as the saying was, he did wish that he could have found a wife for himself, and that not a lady whom he had known from his cradle.
He wondered what it would have been like not to have been born in the purple, but to have been some quite unimportant person—not of too lowly a degree, of course, for that would certainly have been uncomfortable. He might have been obliged to live in Thatch End Cottages, for instance, with a leaking roof; or have been snapped up by the press gang; or even, perhaps (since he had always been undersized) have become the slave of a chimney-sweep. It was undoubtedly better to be the seventh Duke of Sale than a sweep’s apprentice, but he was much inclined to think that to have been plain Mr. Dash, of Nowhere in Particular, would have been preferable to either of these callings.
He began to picture the life of plain Mr. Dash, and was still lost in a pleasant, if slightly ill-informed, reverie when his chaise swept into the forecourt of his house in Curzon Street.
He came down to earth with a thud. Mr. Dash inhabited one of those cosy little terrace houses in a quiet corner of the town, and when he returned to his dwelling after a convivial evening spent with his cronies, playing French hazard, and getting his feet wet, he let himself into his house with his own key, and found no one at all who cared a button where he had been, or what he had been doing. None of his servants had ever known his father. In fact, he had very few servants: just a cook, and a housemaid or two, supposed the Duke, and—stretching a point—possibly a groom to look after his horses. Stewards, butlers, footmen, and valets were encumbrances unknown to Mr. Dash. Nor had he any relatives. Or had he one or two cousins? The Duke could not make up his mind on this point, for although the right style of cousin would undoubtedly be a comfort to Mr. Dash, cousins carried uncles in their wake, and Mr. Dash had no uncles—not even an uncle who lived a very long way from London, and never stirred out of his own house. And, thought the Duke, warming to his theme, Mr. Dash had no Chaplain, and no agent; no tradition to uphold; no dignity to maintain.
It was at this moment that the Duke returned to earth. His chaise had drawn up, and he found himself looking, not at a cosy little house in a terrace, but at the imposing portico of Sale House. As he blinked at it, the great doors were opened by unseen hands, his butler’s portly form appeared; and two footmen and the porter came down the steps to open the door of the chaise, let down the steps, remove the rug from across his Grace’s knees, and assist his Grace to alight. They were followed by Mr. Chigwell, the steward, who kept a sharp-eye on their movements, and was the first to offer a respectful welcome to his Grace.
The Duke began to laugh.
The elder of the two footmen, who figured on Mr. Scriven’s account-books as “the Duke’s footman,” continued to stand with his arm crooked for his master to lean upon as he descended from the coach, and his face rigidly impassive; but the younger footman found the Duke’s low laughter so infectious that he so far forgot himself as to grin in sympathy. Mr. Chigwell, himself a trifle startled, made a mental note of this, and silently rehearsed the words of stern reproof he would presently utter.
The Duke picked up his ebony cane, ducked his head to avoid knocking his tall, curly-brimmed beaver against the roof of the chaise, and jumped lightly down, ignoring both the steps, and the proffered arm. Mr. Chigwell and the porter both surged forward to prevent a possible fall, uttering in shocked accents: “Your Grace!”
“Oh, don’t, pray!” besought the Duke, in a shaking voice. “You will set me off again!”
Mr. Chigwell bowed politely but in a good deal of bewilderment. He said doubtfully: “I am glad to see your Grace in spirits. Will your Grace enter the house? You will be tired after the journey, I make no question. Refreshments have been laid out for your Grace in the Blue Saloon.”
“Thank you,” said the Duke.
He trod up the steps, smiled mechanically at Borrowdale, who bowed him in, and found that three more persons were waiting to welcome him. These were the groom of the chambers, the agent-in-chief, and a stalwart, smartly attired gentleman, who darted forward with his hands held out, exclaiming joyfully: “My dear, dear lord! You must let me be amongst the first to bid you welcome to London! How do you do? But I can see for myself that you are in good health!”
All desire to laugh abruptly left the Duke. He halted dead on the threshold, staring up in dismay into the florid countenance that loomed before him. Then, as he recollected himself, he blushed faintly, and held out his hand, saying, with a little stammer: “F-forgive me! I did not know you had been informed of my coming to town. It is excessively obliging in yon to have come to meet me, Captain Belper.”
“Why, I could not keep away, my dear Lord!” the Captain said, warmly shaking his hand. “I had the news from your good uncle, and excellent news I found it. I have not set eyes on you since I know not when! But come in out of the draught, sir! You see, I do not forget your old weakness! We must have no sore throats to spoil your visit to the Metropolis.”
“Thank you, I am very well,” the Duke said, disengaging his hand, and turning to bestow it upon the agent.
Mr. Scriven, a middle-aged man in a neat black suit, bowed very low over it, and said that it was a happiness to him to see his Grace. He hoped that everything would be found to be in readiness at Sale House, and begged his Grace to pardon any shortcomings. “Your Grace must know that we have not a full staff of servants here at present,” he said. “And I own that I am not perfectly happy in the Chief Confectioner.” His grave face relaxed into a smile. “But your Grace did not give me very long warning of this visit!”
“I am sure I shall do very well,” said the Duke. “I did not mean to put you to a deal of trouble. I daresay I could have been tolerably comfortable without a Chief Confectioner.”
Everyone realized that the Duke had uttered a witticism, so those who social status permitted them to laugh, did so, in a discreet way; and Mr. Scriven said that he hoped his Grace would not find his house to be quite so ill-prepared as that. He then added that he should hold himself in readiness to attend upon his Grace as soon as he should be needed, and bowed himself away to the set of offices in one wing of the mansion, where he conducted the business-of the Duke’s many estates and large fortune.
The Duke turned to find Borrowdale waiting to assist him to take off his long, multiple-caped driving-coat. He handed his hat, and his gloves, and his cane to his personal footman, allowed Borrowdale to remove his driving-coat, and stood revealed in fawn pantaloons, well-polished Hessian boots, and a blue cloth coat of Weston’s excellent tailoring. As he did not belong to the dandy-set, his shirt-collar points were not excessively high, and his neckcloth, although arranged with propriety, did not aspire to the niceties of the Mail-coach, the Osbaldestone, or the Trône d’Amour. A single fob hung at his waist; he did not carry a quizzing-glass; and except for a plain pearl pin in his tie the only other adornment he wore was the heavy sardonyx signet ring which had belonged to his father. The shank had had to be made smaller to fit his finger, and the ring seemed to be a trifle too large for so delicate a hand, but the Duke was fond of it, and rarely wore any other.