“In Mr. Bertram’s sketch collection,” said Mrs. Boyce. The housekeeper had asked him what she ought to do with Bertie’s extensive collection of sketches and he’d told her to put everything away. “I had them put tissue paper between the sketches. And they came across it in one of the earlier portfolios. Shall I have it placed in the casket?”
The envelope was light and unsealed—presumably when Bertie had been alive, no one ever went nosing in his sketches but himself. Stuart emptied the content of the envelope into his palm.
Photographs, two of them. The first was a family portrait of Bertie and his parents. Bertie would have been about five or six, small, blond, standing next to his mother, his hand in hers.
The second was a photograph of two young boys. One was Bertie. It took Stuart a moment to realize that the other was himself. They sat on a stone bench, two stiff, serious faces—one must hold oneself entirely still, or the photograph would be blurred.
Then he saw it, their clasped hands on the bench. For some reason, the sight stunned him. He quickly slid the photographs back into the envelope.
To be buried with me.
He gave it back. “Yes, you may have it placed in the casket.”
Dearest Georgette,
I wonder why I never asked you this before, but do you remember that hushed-up scandal about Mr. Marsden, the late Lord Wyden’s second-youngest son? At the time you said—you horrible tease, you—that you knew the truth from eavesdropping on your mother’s conversation with the distraught Lady Wyden, but that your mother caught you and made you swear not to say anything to anyone.
And remember that you told me that you’d let me in on the secret after Lord and Lady Wyden had both passed on? They have, and I want to know what happened. Don’t make me wait too long.
Kisses to the twins,
Love,
Lizzy
“I’m sorry, sir. Did you say Manchester South or Manchester South West?” asked Marsden.
“South West,” Stuart answered.
This was the second time Marsden had asked Stuart to repeat something. But Stuart was little better. He kept losing his train of thought and once had to ask Marsden to recite back a paragraph so he’d know what he’d said.
“While I am sympathetic to your anxieties with regard to your constituents’ strong feelings toward the Irish Home Rule bill,” continued Stuart, “allow me to point out that these same constituents voted you into office knowing full well that electoral success for the Liberals would return as Prime Minister Mr. William Ewart Gladstone, who has made it abundantly clear during his years in opposition that Irish Home Rule is a matter of moral imperative, that he stands fast by his commitment to the Irish and will reintroduce the bill in the upcoming parliamentary session.”
He paused, waiting to see if Marsden would need any further clarification. But Marsden only looked up expectantly.
“With the support of the electorate, and with Mr. Gladstone’s skills and persuasion, it is fully expected that the bill will pass in both Houses. I understand, having been a young MP myself, that you would not wish to be left out of this historic vote. Furthermore, I believe you would not wish to bypass the opportunity for an early and speedy passage of certain private bills near and dear to your heart.”
“Corporate charter?” asked Marsden, his pen scratching furiously.
“Railroad,” said Stuart.
Now that the threats had been laid, Stuart engaged in two paragraphs of cordiality. It was the last letter for the morning. Marsden closed his notebook and rose. “I’ll have these ready for you tomorrow, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Stuart.
They were ahead of schedule; it would be another five minutes before the carriage pulled up in front of the manor to take Stuart to the funeral.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, sir, do you think it wise for Mr. Gladstone to push for Irish Home Rule again? It cost him the government last time,” said Marsden.
“It very well could this time also,” said Stuart, shuffling through a pile of letters Prior had brought in a quarter hour ago. Privately, he wasn’t quite as confident of the bill’s passage as he projected in his letters to hesitant backbenchers. The Conservatives still held the House of Lords. The Liberals had only a forty-seat majority in the House of Commons. And the courage to do the right thing was a rare quality in any politician.
“Yet you have thrown your support behind him,” said Marsden.
“The Irish grow restless. But they are still willing to work with us. Do we really wish to procrastinate until the day they decide to take up arms?”
“Haven’t they already taken up arms, in a way?”
“If you speak of the bombings in the eighties, those were the action of an overwhelming minority. I would prefer that we act before the sentiment for violence finds favor with a greater part of the population,” said Stuart.