Page 96 of Rivals at Ashmore Castle

Lord St George was a great patron of music, a trustee of the Royal Opera House, and was the one person Richard was sure would always know what was going on in the concert scene.

With a couple of pink gins and a quiet corner, St George gave him an amiable grin and said, ‘Don’t often see you in here so early. Something on your mind?’

‘Something I’d sooner get off it. I thought you might know why there are no reviews of the Queen’s Hall concert last night.’

‘Oh, Lord, Tommy Burton’s return to the podium! You have a particular interest?’

‘I was there. Family connections – won’t go into them. The place seemed half empty.’

‘Quite. The serious patrons and the ton boycotted the concert, and certain influential people had a word with the newspaper proprietors to make sure there was no mention of it. To judge by my pater’s fulminations, it’s thought Burton had rather a damn cheek showing his face again.’

‘Why did he?’

‘Testing the water, is what I heard. He’s doing a tour of the European capitals, expected to secure a couple of engagements in London. We were approached at the Royal Opera for him to conduct one performance of our Onegin, but we knew the patrons wouldn’t stand for it. We have a lot of grandes dames of Lady Burton’s vintage among our most generous donors, and they were incensed by the way he treated “poor Violet”, and shocked about the divorce.’ He sipped his gin and shrugged. ‘I don’t know what the old boy was expecting, but he soon found out he was persona non grata in London.’

‘How did he end up at the Queen’s Hall?’

‘Oh, the London Symphony Orchestra, being new and independent, is more ready to take risks. Their board thought it might be useful to start a reputation as being un-stuffy. They were the only outfit prepared to give him a show – and even then, I believe, he had to give them a guarantee about covering the cost of empty seats over a certain number. He won’t have made much out of the appearance, that’s for sure, but of course he’s as rich as Croesus, and it wasn’t the fee he was after. It was the reconciliation.’

‘Which he didn’t get,’ said Richard.

‘What did he expect? You can’t divorce your wife, run away with a girl half your age and expect to be received into the bosom of society as if nothing had happened.’

‘So he’ll never be able to come back?’ Richard mused. In a way, he thought, it would be better for there to be a clean break. It was clinging to a tenuous hope that wore you down.

‘I didn’t say that,’ said St George, brightly. ‘It’s all pretty raw at the moment, but give it another year. He was too impatient, that was all. Also, I understand the new Lady Burton, the pianist gal, is really talented – something out of the ordinary. I missed the concert she did here before the scandal broke. Were you there?’

‘I was,’ said Richard. ‘And she is. Something out of the ordinary. So you think we haven’t seen the last of him?’

‘Not a bit. He’s unsinkable. And gossip tends to evaporate and be replaced by curiosity. This time next year, I predict it will all have been forgotten and he can romp about at all the concerts he likes. I’m going to potter in to luncheon. Join me, and tell me what you’ve been up to lately.’

‘Glad to,’ said Richard.

They got up and strolled towards the dining-room. ‘I don’t hear your name linked with any likely filly,’ said St George, conversationally.

‘Who would have me? Second son, remember?’

‘Dashed beastly thing, primogeniture. You can’t help feeling your younger brothers are waiting for you to die. And m’father’s constantly urging me to marry and secure the line. Makes one feel like a stud bull. They’re pushing Araminta Ffoulkes on me now.’

‘She’s the eldest, isn’t she? The one with the teeth?’

‘Nice gal, but I’ve not the least desire to get married, and it seems unkind of everyone to be getting her hopes up.’

‘Perhaps it doesn’t. She might not want to marry you,’ Richard said cheerfully.

‘Can’t imagine why she should,’ St George admitted. ‘Awful business for females, marriage. But, then, what else can they do, poor creatures?’

‘What indeed?’ Richard agreed. ‘Even that extremely talented pianist had to marry Sir Thomas Burton.’

‘What a world we live in! Yes, Bates, a table for two. And I shall definitely be having the sole, so see that there’s some of the Sancerre I liked chilled. Half-bottle – or will you join me in the fish, Tallant? Excellent. Make it a whole bottle, then, Bates.’ They sat and the menus were presented. ‘Now, what to start…’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The mid-morning meal that the servants called ‘lunch’, after the first rush of work had finished and before other regular tasks began, was the favoured time for chatting. Everyone gathered round the big table, and normal precedence was relaxed somewhat, as the huge teapots came in along with a sustaining nuncheon – today, thick slices of sultana cake.

At one end of the table Mrs Webster said, ‘Mrs Sebastian is looking well, very much the lady. And so confident now, she’s like a different person.’

‘I was in her room when her maid was unpacking,’ Rose said. ‘She’s got lots of lovely clothes – as good as her ladyship’s.’