"That's what I consider true generosity: You give your all, and yet you always feel as if it costs you nothing." Simone de Beauvoir
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XIX.
Callan had fully expected to be in a prison carriage right about this moment. He had certainly not expected to be sitting, sitting, down on the fanciest sofa that he had ever seen in his life as he awaited a duke's company.
He had nearly turned back towards his office a dozen times. Probably more like fifty times as he had forced his legs to take him to Mayfair. But every time he had wanted to turn away, his mind went to Lily, and he didn't want her coming to the office the next day to find out that he hadn't tried again.
All Callan felt like he did was try, but she had asked him to try once more, and Callan knew that he had nothing to lose. Literally nothing. Callan didn't want to disappoint Lily ... but it also brought him a comfort that he was wholly unused to in knowing that when this eejit turned out to be the eejit that Callan knew he was, that Lily would be there to support him.
Callan was entirely unused to leaning on anyone, and Lord knew that he ought not to be leaning on her. She was precious, and he meant that in the sense that she was innocent and very unworldly in comparison to him. But the more he thought about leaning on Lily, pleasing her, and trying for her, and for himself, Callan knew that he was already in worlds of trouble. He kept trying to remind himself that he was simply protective over her.
But because of her, because of Lily's belief in him, Callan found himself sitting in the fanciest room that there ever had been. When he had knocked on the door and given his name to the servant who had answered the door (and, mind, was wearing a finer suit than Callan was), he had fully expected to be turned away.
When the servant got one whiff of an Irish accent, Callan expected to be chased out by the hounds. But instead, he was received by a simple, "His Grace has been expecting you," before he was led inside the house.
'House' ought to be a criminal word when thinking about the building that Callan was currently inside. Granted, he had only seen the entry hall and this room, but it was simply extraordinary. Callan did not know quite where to look. Before he sat down on the sofa, he had brushed his behind, terrified he might have had some muck on him that would have leeched onto the upholstery.
This room seemed reserved for nothing but sitting. It served no other purpose. There didn't seem to be any baskets of mending about or anything else to warrant being in the room. There were several marvellous sofas and chairs all immaculately clean and ornate. The handles on the chairs were gold. Were they real? The very thought made Callan's stomach twist.
Every table had an urn that was filled with fresh flowers, and there was a pianoforte situated by the large window that was letting in a great deal of the spring sunshine. Callan had never seen a pianoforte in real life. He had come to that realisation upon setting his eyes on the white and gold instrument before him.
Everything about this room, and the whole house, he could surmise, made Callan feel entirely out of place. It felt wrong. It was wrong for him to be here. He could hear his father's voice in his head, and he could see the look in his mother's eyes when her family ignored her if ever they passed her. Every day of his childhood in Ireland, Callan had been reminded of his place by the people who lived in places like this.
These people didn't value people like Callan. There was no way on God's green earth that this duke had a vested interest in Callan's business. He had already been ruined by one of them. Sir Richard Frogmore was probably at his club right that moment laughing. Either that or preying on another innocent woman as he tried to ruin his next rival.
Only a fool made the same mistake twice.
Callan made the decision then to leave. He would find his way out by following the permeating smell of poverty back to his office. As he stood up from the sofa and checked for stains, it was then that he noticed a portrait that hung above the grand fireplace.
He immediately recognised the eejit. Prince Whatshisname was staring at him with a confident gaze, though he looked about a decade younger than the man who had called upon Callan. Around him, Callan noticed, was his family. He was painted standing beside a woman, and their four children were huddled around them.
Callan had never considered the notion that the eejit had a wife or had children. They were young in the portrait. Three girls and a boy. The two elder girls were standing either side of their parents, while the younger girl and boy were in front. The mother had her arm around the eldest girl, while the eejit had his arm around the second. They were like their mother, he observed. Dark hair, fair skinned, blue ... such blue eyes.
They had their mother's eyes, it seemed.
But they weren't the prettiest blue eyes that Callan had ever seen.
"Goddammit, Lily," Callan murmured under his breath as he thought about the owner of those eyes. "I might well take you up on that offer to burn this house to the ground. This'll be your birthday gift."
Callan gritted his teeth. As much as he wanted to, as much as every part of his body was screaming to leave, he wouldn't. He would hear the eejit out, and he would know if the man was having Callan on. He wouldn't be fooled again.
The door to the fancy room then suddenly opened, and the servant who had let Callan into the house returned, though this time he straightened his posture as announced, "The Duke of Ashwood."
Callan wanted to dive out of the window by the pianoforte. What was he doing meeting with someone who needed a servant to shout his name before he entered a room?
But the eejit then entered the room with a smile that seemed to show that he was marvellously happy to see Callan waiting for him.
"Mr McCarthy, I am so pleased you have come. I do apologise for the delay and I hope you have not been waiting long. My family are having a little celebration for my daughter's birthday."
The duke's tone was so familiar, and Callan was quite taken aback. It was like he was receiving an old friend, and not a man who had cursed him out of his office a short time ago.
"We'll have tea, thank you, Thomas. And some sandwiches, and whatever biscuits are laying about."
"Certainly, Your Grace." The servant bowed his head and departed the room, closing the door behind him.
"Do they bring you whatever you ask for?" Callan found himself asking without thinking.
"Generally," replied the duke.
I'll have a bowl of gold bars for dinner, please.
Stewed ten pound bank notes, delicious.
Callan couldn't help the bitter and facetious thoughts that entered his head. As much as he couldn't believe that this man was genuine, Callan had enough decorum to not insult him in his own house. If they were to step outside, however ...
"Did you say it was your daughter's birthday?" Callan suddenly recalled. "I can come back ..." He probably wouldn't.
But the duke shook his head. "No, it is quite alright. The festivities can continue without me for a little while. My mother quite commands a room. They shan't miss me." He chuckled to himself.
Callan then wondered how Lily was celebrating her birthday today. He hadn't thought to ask. It was the day for birthdays, it seemed. He would remember to ask her tomorrow when they were travelling back to Mayfair with their torches and pitchforks.
"Please, sit down." The duke motioned for Callan to occupy one of the armchairs, before he murmured, "I don't usually receive in here, I'm sorry. I would normally take guests in the drawing room, but my family are gathered there. Otherwise, I would be able to pour you something finer than tea. You shall join us afterwards and then I shall have you for a drink. You will be able to tell me if the Irish whiskey I have is as authentic as you remember."
The duke sat down beside Callan in another armchair, and he must have noticed Callan staring at him like the man was an utter lunatic.
And that was because he was.
Not only had the man just apologised to Callan because one of his many rooms with sofas was being used, he had just invited Callan to sit with his family and drink whiskey?
Callan wasn't sure he wanted to do any sort of business with this man. He was clearly mad and belonged in an insane asylum.
"I imagine that the last few days have been very trying for you. I am very sorry for what has happened to your business. It was utterly disgraceful and dishonourable of Sir Richard to cause you such trouble." The duke's tone was still very familiar, but he kept eye contact with Callan and spoke with a frightening amount of sympathy.
If he noticed the awfully disturbed expression on Callan's face, he did not make a comment about it.
"It's a little more than 'trouble'," Callan managed to say, his teeth still clenched. It was only then that he realised they were, and he tried to relax his jaw. He swallowed before he took a breath and said, "Tell me what your interest is in my business so that I can decide if you're a just a gowl, or a gombeen as well."
The duke pursed his lips and frowned as he repeated, "'Gowl'? 'Gombeen'? I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with those terms. What do they mean?"
Had they slipped out? Callan had tried very hard not to insult the man in his house. He had kept his mouth shut for at least five minutes. "They're Irish words for 'friend'," he bit back. And then he couldn't help himself. "I'd recommend calling all your English friends 'gowls'. They really deserve it."
Callan was not making a great effort to fool the duke, and the man saw through him quite easily. But he didn't react like a great lord would, or how Callan expected a great lord would react.
He maintained his expression of understanding, and said, "I am certain that a lot of them do deserve it."
Callan's eyes narrowed. Did the man mean what Callan thought he meant? Lord, any minute now this eejit was about to burst into fits of laughter and declare it all a practical joke and kick Callan out on the street. That was the only explanation. Or the man's doctor would come racing in accusing the duke of escaping the madhouse.
"But to answer your question, I am very interested in your business. I like to keep my eye on industry and the cotton trade is going to, and continuing to be, one of great profit."
Ah, there it was. He was another Sir Richard. He didn't really sympathise with Callan. He wanted his business, his ships, and Callan out of the way.
"I have worked hard over the years to expand my estate beyond Hertfordshire. That is where my family's country home and our estate lie."
"But of course. I would have you to my country home, but it is currently being remodelled."
Who'd said that? Had Callan been possessed?
Nevertheless, his snide remark elicited a laugh from the duke. "I admire your wit, Mr McCarthy."
"I am clearly not very funny as I had meant to be callous," Callan admitted.
"I've half a mind to ring for my eldest daughter and have her do the convincing for me," the duke mused.
No sooner had he spoke did a succession of servants suddenly arrive. They carried with them silver trays bearing a teapot and cups, as well as dishes laden with sandwiches, pastries, cakes, and biscuits. There was more food there then could possibly be eaten, though Callan knew that he could achieve it given the challenge. He had gone hungry many times before.
But as he was shocked, the duke barely batted an eyelid at this very normal display. What was more? He didn't lean forward to collect his cup. He watched patiently while one servant poured tea through a strainer before another used a tiny silver tool to pop a sugar cube into the cup. A third servant was required to pour in a splash of milk. Only then could the duke be handed his cup of tea.
"How do you take your tea, sir?"
It took Callan a good minute to realise that the asking servant was speaking to him. "In a cup, usually."
Callan had not meant to sound ungrateful. In reality, he felt more akin to these finely dressed servants then he did the man he was taking tea with. He was entirely uncomfortable with the idea of being served. He'd never been served in his life.
Callan noticed the amusement pass over the servant's face, as it did the duke, before he replied, "Very good, sir."
Callan had never had tea with sugar before, and only because he'd never been able to justify buying sugar when buying meat was more of a priority. But he rather enjoyed it when he finally had gotten over the shock of being served and had managed to take a sip.
The servants departed and the duke encouraged Callan to help himself to the food. The duke selected a cut sandwich and three biscuits. Callan tentatively picked up a biscuit and ran his fingertips over the edge. He could smell the butter and sugar that had gone into the baking, and he knew that it would taste divine.
But why did it feel like dancing with the Devil? His father was turning in his grave.
Callan couldn't bring the biscuit to his lips. Instead, he sat in conflicted silence.
"I looked into your business," the duke said, breaking the silence. "As I said, I like to keep my eye on industry, and yours was one that piqued my interest."
A smart remark came to mind, but Callan managed to hold his tongue. He did, however, find the strength to meet the duke's eye. To his surprise, there were no airs. He didn't seem to have any. Had he had them before? Had Callan imagined them?
Or was this all a part of the duke's madness?
"Slavery is a wicked business," he continued. "I have a particular loathing for it, and it is quite close my heart. When I learned that you had the sense and the heart to operate using fair trade, I knew that you were a young man that I had time for. Times are changing, and the trade business ought to keep up."
Callan's brows rose. That had piqued the duke's interest? He hadn't been aware that any of the rich eejits had much respect for human dignity.
But it had not escaped Callan's attention that the duke had experience with slavery. "Were you an ... owner ... once?"
The duke was quite shocked at the question, and he gasped, "Heavens, no! No, I could never be involved with such a barbaric practice. No, my brother-in-law, my sister's husband, was once an enslaved man in the West Indies. He is free, as every human ought to be, and lives on my land in Hertfordshire. My wife's sister-in-law, as well, was once enslaved. Well, you might have heard of her as she has quite the reputation in London. But, nevertheless, to answer your question: no."
Callan could hear the truth in the duke's tone, as well as the care, the genuine care for these two people. Callan then felt awfully stupid as he was under the impression that the enslaved ... that enslaved people were ...
Did the duke have relatives who were dark skinned?
He had never heard of such a thing. What he had heard of was vilifying comments towards people who beckoned from anywhere other than England. If one happened to be of another nationality, God help them. Callan was safe until he opened his mouth, but he hated to think what a dark-skinned human would have to endure from a small-minded eejit.
"What will it take to turn your fortunes around, Mr McCarthy?" the duke asked. "How much has Sir Richard cost you, and what must I invest?"
Callan could barely fit all of his thoughts in his mind at that moment, so much so that he practically burst out of his chair. "You've got to be having me on!" he exclaimed. Before he knew it, Callan was across the room leaning on the pianoforte. It looked far too valuable for his hands to be upon it, but he needed something to brace himself with.
"I am not in the business of 'having people on', Mr McCarthy," the duke replied calmly.
"I'm Irish!" Callan retorted. "I'm a Catholic. I hate you people, and you hate me."
The duke did not flinch. "I'm well aware that you are Irish, Mr McCarthy. I've already learned some of your colourful dialect today, remember? But you are wrong on one subject. I do not hate you.
"You can be Irish, or you can be from the moon. I do not care from whence you hail so long as you are of decent character.
"I also do not care for your religion. To whom you pray is no business of mine, and those who make the religion of other's their business are not the sorts that I would call Christian.
"I hope that I have given you no reason to hate me, but if I have, you have my sincerest of apologies."
Callan once again detected no falsities in his voice. He had no reason, none but his better judgement, not to believe him. Callan knew that he was well on the way to being fooled twice.
And when he was, as Callan knew that their kind couldn't really be trusted, he would blame Lily, and then he would get her to burn this ostentatious palace to the ground.
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Hope you enjoyed it!!
Where is Lily in all this? Does she know Callan's there? Is he going to see her? WHAT. IS. GOING. TO. HAPPEN?
Anyway, one epic length chapter for you.
Oh Adam. You make my heart happy. Sweet man.
I hope you've all been enjoying your weeks! I won't be able to get another chapter up until probably Sunday or Monday. I've got a bit on in the coming days. But I'll do my best!
Vote and comment xxx