to say so, sir, you look very fit indeed.”
“Thank you, Benson,” says the Deacon. “You do as well. I’m delighted that you’re still livery master.”
“Oh, only in charge of the entrance carriage now, Master Richard.” The old man spryly hops up to his place in front and takes the reins and whip in hand.
As we roll out onto the lane, the sound of the carriage wheels—iron, not rubber—on the asphalt surface and the clop-clop of the huge horses’ hooves make it probable that anything we say in a normal tone of voice won’t be heard by Mr. Benson. Still, we speak with heads leaning close and just above a whisper.
Jean-Claude: “
“I was ten years old the last time I was here,” says the Deacon. “And spanked by one of the butlers for punching young Lord Percival on his prominent snout. He cheated in some game we were playing.”
I keep turning my head, trying to take in as much as I can of the perfectly mowed and manicured hills, trees, bushes—a lake of some acres sends light flashes toward us as the wind ruffles it into low waves—while far off to the south I believe I can see the beginning of formal gardens and the hint of a tall building on the horizon. But it’s far too broad and expansive to be a single building—even for Bromley House—so it must be a village of sorts.
“You were—are—a social equal to the Bromleys?” I whisper. It’s a rude question, but I ask it out of surprise and slight shock. The Deacon had insisted that I go to his tailor at Savile Row to get a bespoke suit for this meeting—I’ve never owned one that fit so well or felt so good on me—and he insisted on paying for it, but I had been certain from the months together in Europe that the Deacon had no great reservoir of funds to fall back on. Now I’m wondering if the next 9,000-acre estate beyond Stamford is called Deacon House.
The Deacon shakes his head, puts away his pipe, and smiles ruefully. “My family has an old name and no money left for its final disappointment of a scion…me. It’s not legal now to surrender one’s hereditary title, but if it were, I would do so in a heartbeat. As it is, I have attempted to avoid all use of and reference to it since I returned from the War. But way back in another century, I occasionally came here to play with Charles Bromley, who was about my age, and his younger brother Percy—who had no real friends or playmates for reasons you’ll discover soon enough. That all ended on the day I punched Percival in the nose. After that, Charles came to visit me instead.”
I knew that the Deacon had been born in the same year as George Leigh Mallory—1886—but because of his still-dark hair and superb physical condition, surpassing (as I believe I’ve mentioned) both Jean-Claude’s and mine in most aspects of climbing, ice and snow work, and stamina, I never really thought of Richard Davis Deacon having lived fourteen years of his life in the previous century…fifteen years under Queen Victoria!
We clop onward.
“Do all visitors park their cars at the gate and take carriages to the house?” J.C. loudly asks Benson, the driver.
“Oh, no, sir,” replies the old man without turning his head in our direction. “When there is a party or reception at Bromley House or Bromley Park—although there are precious few of those these days, the Lord knows—chauffeured guests may ride in their motorcars directly to the house. The same applies to our most esteemed visitors, including the former queens and His current Majesty.”
“King George the Fifth has visited Bromley House?” I say, hearing the awestruck provincial quality and American twang in my own voice.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Benson says brightly, tapping the slower of the two white horses on the rump with a light touch of the whip.
All I knew about the current British king was that he’d changed his family name from the House of Saxe- Coburg and Gotha to the more English-sounding House of Windsor during the Great War, in an effort to renounce all his close connections to Germany. Still, the Kaiser had been George V’s cousin, and it was said that they’d been affectionate. They certainly looked very much alike. If they had swapped medals and uniforms on one of their many visits to see each other, I almost believe each could have ruled the other’s kingdom without anyone noticing.
I’d once asked the Deacon about the current king and all he said was, “I’m afraid he divides his time between shooting animals and sticking stamps in albums, Jacob old boy. If George—His Majesty—has a third passion or ability, we, his loyal and loving subjects, have yet to learn about it.”
“Has other British royalty visited Bromley House?” asks Jean-Claude in a voice loud enough for Benson, our driver, to hear.
“Oh, my, yes,” says the driver, glancing back over his black-liveried shoulder this time. “Almost every royal has visited and stayed at Bromley House since construction of the home began in fifteen fifty-seven, the year before Elizabeth came to the throne. Queen Elizabeth had apartments here which have never been used by guests other than royal. The so-called George Rooms were used as a vacation suite by Queen Victoria for several months in eighteen forty-four—and she returned to them many times. It is said that Her Majesty especially enjoyed the ceilings painted by Antonio Verrio.”
We clop along in relative silence for another minute.
“Yes, many of our kings and queens and Princes of Wales and other royals have enjoyed parties, overnight stays, and long vacations at Bromley House,” adds Benson. “But in recent years the royal visits have dropped off. Lord Bromley—the fourth marquess, you know—died ten years ago, and His current Majesty may have more pressing things to do than visit widows…if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“Isn’t there an older son still living, big brother to the Percy Bromley who disappeared on Everest?” I whisper to the Deacon. “The fifth Marquess of Lexeter?”
“Yes. Charles. I know him well. He was gassed during the War, was invalided out but never really recovered. He’s been virtually a prisoner in his room and attended to by nurses for some years now. Everyone had been suspecting that the end was near for Charles and that Percy would take up the mantle as the sixth Marquess of Lexeter sometime later this year.”
“How, gassed?” whispers Jean-Claude. “Where in the British Army does one put a Lord?”
“Charles was an army major and had survived much of the worst fighting, but in the last year of the War, he and other important personages from government and the army were part of a Red Cross delegation, visiting forward positions to make a report to the agency,” the Deacon says quietly. “A three-hour cease-fire had been arranged between the British section of the Front there and the Germans, but something went wrong and there was an artillery barrage almost on their positions…mustard gas. And most of the delegation’s members had forgone carrying gas masks with them. It did not matter for Charles, since his worst wounds weren’t in his lungs but were the result of actual mustard powder from the shells spilling onto his flesh. Some wounds, you see— especially being exposed to mustard gas powder—literally never heal. They must be dressed anew every day and the pain never ceases.”
“Damned
The Deacon smiles grimly. “They were British artillery firing. English mustard gas that fell a bit short. Someone didn’t get the cease-fire notice.” Then, after a short interval filled only by the sound of the carriage wheels and the clop of the huge horses’ hooves, the Deacon adds, “Actually, it was the artillery unit that George Leigh Mallory was in charge of that killed half a dozen Red Cross important personages and turned poor Charles Bromley into an invalid, but I’ve heard that Mallory wasn’t there at the time…was back in Blighty nursing his own wound or illness of some sort.”
The Deacon, more loudly: “Benson, could you tell us about the door for the royals on the west side?”
Ahead of us I catch a glimpse of formal gardens, perfectly manicured fields and low hills, and many spires and steeples rising above the horizon. Far too many spires and steeples for a
“Certainly, Master Richard,” says the driver. The long white mustaches are twitching slightly—I can see that even from the rear as he drives—perhaps because he’s smiling.
“Arrivals for Queen Elizabeth since the sixteenth century, Queen Victoria, King George the Fifth, and others were always arranged for late afternoon or very early evening—if convenient for the royals, of course, sirs—since, you see, the hundreds of windows there on the west side were specifically designed to capture the sunset. The glass was actually treated in some way, I believe. They would all glow gold, as if there were a bright fire behind every one of those many windows, you might say, sirs. Very warm and welcoming to His or Her Majesty, even on
