Page 8 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Tonight, the conversation had ranged from the importance of the bills currently before Parliament, to the Irish Question and the weightiness of the relevant deliberations taking place inside the Home Office. The former topic was espoused by Cynthia, only daughter and second-born of the Halstead children, in order to call attention to her husband, the Honorable Wallace Camberly, Member of Parliament, and underscore his importance and, by extension, hers.

A severe-looking matron in an azure satin gown, Cynthia sat on Lady Halstead’s right, opposite Violet. Cynthia’s features were hard, her brown eyes like onyx. Constant bad temper had left her lips pinched and thin; her most frequent expressions were of disapproval and disdain. Very little in life, it seemed, found favor with Cynthia. If blind ambition had a face, it was hers. “Of course,” she declared, “the coronation will soon take precedence over all else. The parliamentary committee to oversee it will shortly be named.”

Seated down the table on the opposite side, Constance Halstead, wife of Mortimer, who was her ladyship’s firstborn, reached for her wineglass. A tall, large-boned lady with a buxom figure and round features, Constance had an unfortunate fondness for frills and furbelows, and a voice that, regardless of the company, was always pitched too loud. “I daresay,” she stated. “But, of course, it will fall to the Home Office to oversee all the details of the day. Mortimer”—Constance glanced at her husband, seated at the head of the table—“will no doubt be heavily involved.”

Violet, too, glanced at Mortimer. Of average height and build, Mortimer’s adherence to rigid correctness in every aspect of his dress only served to make him unmemorable, easily overlooked in a crowd. His face, too, lacked distinction, his features held under such absolute control that his expression was usually bland, if not blank. Mortimer had been addressing the excellent roast beef, but now he looked up, his pale eyes going to Cynthia, his expression a stone-faced challenge as he said, “Indeed. There will be a great deal to be organized, and the Home Office will be in charge. There have already been preliminary discussions, although I am not at liberty to divulge any details.”

All he got out of Cynthia was a smirk, effectively communicating her belief that Mortimer could not reveal any details because he didn’t know any, not actually being involved at all.

Mortimer’s choler started to rise, but before he could respond to Cynthia, Maurice Halstead, second son and social black sheep—rake, roué, gambler, womanizer, and general profligate—drawled, “So it’ll be you who’ll be consulted as to how many frills will be on Alexandrina’s coronation gown? Oh, no, wait—she’s to be called Victoria, isn’t she?”

Mortimer narrowed his eyes on Maurice. “The coronation gown will be decided by the Palace, as is proper, and, yes, as even you should have heard, the young queen has declared she will be Victoria.”

The man seated next to Constance stirred. “What’s she got against the name Alexandrina, then?” William Halstead’s words were fractionally slurred.

If Maurice was the social black sheep, William was the family’s pariah. Violet was certain he attended Lady Halstead’s dinners in order to get at least one good meal a month, but even more because he knew his presence severely disturbed his brothers and sister, and their spouses, all of whom viewed William much as they would a cockroach, one they could sadly not squash.

The youngest of the Halstead children, William was always the most soberly dressed, in a plain black suit that was only just passable as suitable attire for a gentry dining table.

“Actually”—Wallace Camberly spoke for what Violet thought was the first time since they’d sat at the table—“I understand the boot’s on the other foot, so to speak, and it was more that she favors the name Victoria over all others.”

The reasonable and, coming from Camberly, most likely informed comment defused that topic, effectively ending it.

Seated beside Cynthia, Wallace Camberly was, Violet judged, even more ambitious than the lady he’d taken to wife. However, unlike Cynthia, he had no stake in the Halstead family’s internecine battles and largely remained aloof, commenting only when some subject interested him. As usual, he was quietly but fashionably dressed, as befitted his station. Violet knew him to be cold and utterly ruthless in pursuit of his goals, but he assiduously played by the rules as he perceived them—because that served him best in the long run, and if something did not benefit him, he didn’t waste time or energy on the matter.

The Halstead family sniping did nothing for him, so he ignored it.

Wallace’s lead was largely followed by his son, Walter Camberly, seated opposite, between Violet and William. Although already twenty-seven years old, Walter had yet to settle on any occupation; he drifted through life, apparently aimlessly. Violet wasn’t sure how Walter filled his days, but as Cynthia ruled that roost with an iron fist, Violet doubted that Walter derived much joy from his outwardly unfettered existence.

Like Violet, Walter kept his head down and let the conversational volleys fly past. The others of the younger generation—Mortimer and Constance’s children, Hayden, presently twenty-three years old, and his sister, Caroline, just twenty—likewise endured, rather than enjoyed, these evenings. They rarely made a comment of any sort. As far as Violet knew, the younger Halsteads were ordinary, unremarkable young people; if she had to guess, she would have said they found the Halstead dinners utterly boring but were too polite, and too reliant on their parents’ goodwill, to do anything but attend and remain silent. They spoke when spoken to but contributed little.

Then again, not attracting the attention of any of their Halstead elders was undeniably wise.

Mortimer fastidiously patted his lips with his napkin and again made a bid to seize the stage. “I believe we will be advising that the new queen meet with the Irish representatives at some point—I may have to travel to Ireland as part of the delegation.”

“Indeed?” Cynthia reached for the sauceboat. “Who knows? They may make you a permanent secretary over there.” She glanced at Constance. “My dear, you will have my sincerest sympathy if you are forced to relocate to Ireland.”

Mortimer’s face mottled. “Don’t be absurd! I’m held in far too high esteem, my opinions too highly valued for the Home Secretary to even contemplate burying me in Ireland.” Mortimer halted, belatedly realizing he’d risen to Cynthia’s bait. His gaze locked on his sister, lips compressing, he drew in a breath and held it for a second, as if pulling back from the brink of what, from experience, Violet knew could be a rapid descent into a cutting exchange of barbed insults. As the fraught moment passed, Mortimer shifted his pale gaze from Cynthia to Lady Halstead.

As usual, Lady Halstead remained unmoved by the vicious, almost violent undercurrents swirling about her table as she steadily sawed and ate her roast beef.

With a certain deliberation, Mortimer set aside his napkin. “How are you, Mother? I do hope the exertion of having us all to dine isn’t too draining.”

Lady Halstead’s brows faintly arched as she glanced up the table. “I’m well enough—as well as can be expected at my age. Thank you for asking, Mortimer.”

Cynthia immediately leapt in with a solicitous comment, one Constance then felt compelled to top. Not to be outdone, Maurice noted that Lady Halstead was looking a touch paler, but otherwise seemed to be “up to snuff.” For several minutes, Lady Halstead had to exert herself to fend off her children’s patently insincere interest.

Mortimer sought to end the discussion by stating, “I daresay, Mama, that you have many long years ahead of you yet.”

“Perhaps,” William said, now slouching in his chair, his hands sunk in his pockets. “But in any case, I hope you’ve got your affairs in order.” His dark gaze swept his siblings. “Heaven help us if there’s any question over the estate once you’re gone.”

Violet fully sympathized with the comment, but, of course, Mortimer, Cynthia, Constance, and even Maurice took it badly. The resulting furor broke over William’s head and looked set to last for quite some time—

Lady Halstead set down her cutlery and clapped her hands sharply. “Quiet! Oh, do be quiet.” As the voices faded, she picked up her cutlery again and returned her attention to her plate. “If you must know, I’ve asked Runcorn—the young man who has taken over from his father—to review my affairs and those of the estate and ensure that all is in order.” She glanced up briefly, her gaze bleakly severe. “Although I have no intention of dying just yet, rest assured that when I do, there will be no uncertainty concerning the estate.”

Silence held the table for a moment, then quiet mutterings rose, all to do with “young Runcorn” and whether he was up to the mark.

Violet glanced at Lady Halstead, then followed her lead in ignoring the rumblings.