And Hunter smiled back, utterly reassured by Algernon’s presence. The moment he had left Tarlton Manor, Hunter immediately made his way to Braithwaite House. He was certain that his cousin would be at home, and he knew, without a doubt, that Algernon would come with him. He would come without question and, in the end, that was exactly what he did.
The two of them had decided to ride on horseback, realizing that speed was of the essence. They had covered much ground on the first day, finding themselves not ten miles away from their destination when night had fallen. They had stayed in a coaching inn, both rising with the sun, both ready to set off immediately in their quest to find Emmeline.
“Then I shall do as you say, Algernon. I shall hold onto my title until the moment comes that I need it.”
With the horses tied, the pair made their way through the small garden and up the stone steps to the ridiculously grand front door. Hunter knocked loudly, and the two men waited in silence for the door to open.
When the door did open, they saw a young woman in a plain brown gown which had an apron tied firmly around it. She had a gaunt face and hollow eyes, and despite being neat and tidy, was clearly the household servant.
“Good morning, my name is Hunter Bentley, and I have come to see Mr Kent Fitzgerald,” Hunter said with a smile.
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but Mr Fitzgerald is away from home at the moment.” The young woman looked truly apologetic if a little curious about the appearance of two very fine-looking gentlemen on the doorstep.
“Then perhaps I could have a few moments with your mistress, my dear?” Hunter said and smiled warmly again, trying to gain her trust.
“If you’ll step in for a moment, gentlemen, I will see if my mistress is available,” the young woman said politely as she showed them into a hallway which was a little wider than Hunter had expected.
“Thank you kindly,” he said to her departing back as she scurried away out of the hallway and through one of three available doors.
“So far, so middle-class,” Algernon said disparagingly.
“Algernon, there is nothing wrong with people trying to improve their circumstances. You would surely not see everybody poor, would you?”
“I would not see anybody poor, cousin. But I would not see them made into the middle classes either. Really, I would not wish it upon anybody. The middle classes have a constant need to impress, a constant striving for acceptance which must be absolutely exhausting. The need is so great that they are always occupied either looking down on people beneath them or staring up and trying to impress those above them. I always think of the middle classes as the wasteland between rich and poor, and I would sooner trust a poor man who works hard than a middle-class man who perpetually seeks for approval.”
“I had no idea you felt so, cousin.” Hunter smiled, briefly diverted from his cares by his cousin’s curious choice of timing.
Algernon was not particularly known for his political interest, nor even social commentary. But it was clear to Hunter at that moment that Algernon was a good deal more contemplative than he ever would have claimed to be.
“If you’ll come this way, gentlemen.” The maid reappeared and indicated that Hunter and Algernon should follow her.
They followed her into a small but not unpleasant drawing room. Hunter noted that the furniture was good, as was the decoration, although everything was a little too large for its surroundings. The furniture had been chosen for its attempt at grandeur rather than its practicality, that much was clear.
There was only one inhabitant of the room, and with her ageing blandness and fading brown hair, her resemblance to her son was remarkable. She could be no other than Kent Fitzgerald’s mother. She was sitting demurely on a chaise longue and rose with practiced elegance to incline her head graciously at the two strangers in her drawing room.
“Mrs Fitzgerald, please do forgive our intrusion so early in the day, but we have a matter of great import. My name is Hunter Bentley, and this is my cousin, Mr Algernon Rochester.” The two gentlemen bowed deeply, and Hunter was pleased to note Mrs Fitzgerald’s pleasure at the performance.
“I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, gentlemen. But please do have a seat, and I shall have tea sent for.”
“Please, do not go to any trouble, my dear lady,” Hunter said with a smile so forced it hurt his face. “I am only too aware of how we have intruded, and I would not see your morning further disarranged.”
She nodded graciously, and all three of them sat down.
“And what may I help you with?”
“In truth, Mrs Fitzgerald, we are looking for your son,” Hunter began.
“I am afraid he is not here currently. He is out of the county on business. He spends a good deal of his time down in the South where he is soon to become master of a very fine manor.” Her face took on a sudden look of pride, and Hunter began to wonder if Algernon was not right after all. Perhaps the middle classes really were so very easy to read.
“Indeed, I am from those parts Mrs Fitzgerald and know that your son is soon to be master of Tarlton Manor. He shall live not far from me, in fact, and it is about just that which I have come to see him.”
“Then it is a shame you have had such a wasted journey, Mr Bentley, for he is bound to be there this moment.”
“I am afraid that he is not there at the moment, Mrs Fitzgerald. In truth, I believe him to be in the area here. Tell me, does he stay anywhere else when he returns home?” Hunter tried to appear nonchalant, but he could see that Mrs Fitzgerald had become a little suspicious. He wondered if this was the moment to make much of his title.
“No, he does not stay anywhere but at home. Please do tell me, Mr Bentley, what is this about?” She looked a little less determinedly gracious and a little more concerned.
“Are you absolutely sure he is on business at the moment?” Hunter went on, choosing to ignore her question.
“Yes, he does much business in the South, only now he stays at Tarlton Manor when he is there.”
“And what is your son’s business if I might ask?”
“He is in the soap trade, Mr Bentley.”
“He is a merchant?” Hunter said and gave a good impression of being impressed.
“No, he is not a merchant. He works for a merchant.” Her face dropped a little, and Hunter realized more than ever that Algernon was right.
It was clear from her tone that Mrs Fitzgerald’s son was nothing more than a salesman, travelling the country in order to peddle soap in great quantities. And for Mrs Fitzgerald to have to admit such a thing clearly gave her embarrassment. Algernon really was right; the middle classes did always seek to impress and to find themselves unable to do so gave them great consternation. Hunter chose not to antagonize her.
“Oh, very good. Although I daresay he will be leaving all that behind him when he becomes the master at Tarlton.” Hunter gave her a look which he hoped conveyed how very impressed he was.