From the back of Jeanette’s mind came the voice of caution, warning her to draw the line at such confidences, but her husband was dead, and she’d protected the dignity of his memory to all and sundry without fail. The burden of hypocrisy was heavy and wearying.
Also lonely. “I had no way to know at the time, but Tavistock was less than considerate about his marital duties. ‘Perfunctory’ might be the polite word.” Perfunctory and determined, when he was sober.
“Because,” Mr. Dorning said, preparing Jeanette a slice of honeyed pear and cheese, “if he’d been plainly inconsiderate, you would have killed him. How long had he been married to his first wife?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years with only one child, and those were probably Tavistock’s most vigorous fifteen years. The inability to conceive was likely not your fault. I’ve heard of no Tavistock by-blows, which, for a man of his station and disposition, is hard to believe. Perhaps he was chaste and discreet.”
“He was neither.”
Mr. Dorning mashed a few raspberries into a portion of cheese, drizzled honey onto the resulting mess and passed Jeanette the knife.
“I’m sorry, my lady. You were barely out of the schoolroom and expected to content yourself with a frustrated, arrogant man twice your age. I can understand why you are concerned that your step-son could end up like his father.”
The tart fruit, smooth cheese, and sweet honey all hit Jeanette’s tongue at the same moment she realized that Mr. Dorning had articulated the very worry plaguing her of late.
“Trevor is a good young man,” Jeanette said. “Kind, considerate, intelligent in a quiet way. I am afraid that as he becomes more worldly, he will turn into his late father. Selfish, sly, demanding, and petulant. Full of his own consequence and heedless of others’ suffering, but he’s not a boy, and there’s little I can do.”
“But you worry,” Mr. Dorning said, dabbling a pear slice in a few drops of honey, then swirling raspberry sauce and honey together on his plate. “You worry that he’s already become good enough at lying to you that he’s half corrupted, and you don’t even know it. I have a suggestion.”
He bit off the end of the pear slice, and Jeanette finished her wine to distract herself from the sight.
“I’m listening, Mr. Dorning.”
“Sycamore, or for my familiars, particularly when they are exasperated with me, Cam. You are free to fly into the boughs at what I’m about to say, but hear me out first.”
“I never fly into the boughs.” Though, why not? Why hadn’t she ever?
“His young lordship was here at the club last night. He lost, badly. Do not bail him out. Let him flounder, and when he comes to me, hat in hand—for I bought his markers—don’t attempt to interfere.”
Interfere? “I am in the habit of interfering where my step-son is concerned, Mr. Dorning. I interfered when his father hired a nasty old drunk to teach Trevor his Latin on the end of a birch rod. I interfered when Trevor had torn his new riding breeches and was terrified his father would find out. That young man is the only good thing to come of my marriage. He’s the only proof I have of my own value in anything like a maternal capacity. If he has the airs and graces of a gentleman, I can assure you that is solely a result of my interference.”
Gracious heavens, she’d just flown into the boughs. Hadn’t raised her voice, but she’d delivered a tirade of sorts.
Also parted with a confidence.
Mr. Dorning used the knife to draw the letters S and D in the raspberries sauce on his plate. “I feel the same about this club. I did not build it, but it’s mine to protect and take pride in. I detested university, detested being one of a herd of drunken, randy boys pretending to scholarship. At the Coventry, I am somebody. I always have something to do that matters to the wellbeing of the club.” He drew a line under his initials, which, like the letters, melted back into the sauce. “I took over this place with Ash, and for the first time, I’ve been in a position to help my family. That is a heady power, to be able to help the people I love.”
Whatever Jeanette had expected by way of reply, it hadn’t been that. “Precisely. I want to help Trevor. I’ve endured much on the basis of the hope that I’ve helped him.” And yet, the object of all that aid had been to see Trevor mature into a self-sufficient young man.
Mr. Dorning set the knife aside. “I am asking you, my lady, to give me a chance to help him, too, and to also help myself. I love this club, but by August, I resent it too. I am run ragged by long hours and details that never sort themselves out. I will suggest to Trevor that he work off his debt by assisting me here for the busy weeks of the Season. He can do the pretty with you at Almack’s and still trot around at my side several nights a week to see what becomes of young men who can’t manage themselves.”
For Jeanette, parenting a step-son had largely been a matter of exercising self-restraint. Not laughing when a very young Trevor badly mangled his French. Not scolding, not lecturing, not doing for him what he had to learn to do for himself…
“You won’t let me pay off his markers?” she asked, longing to do that and knowing exactly how stupid a plan it was.
“No, my lady. They are his markers. He has turned eighteen, and he aspires to be a man-about-Town. Let him take up the responsibilities of that office. If he’s conscientious here at the club, he can work off the debt in a few weeks, and I will start him on the conundrum of finding me a better source of good, affordable champagne.”
The
