“Um, yes, indeed, most intrepid. With Lady FitzHenry, I quite understand. Speaking of Lady FitzHenry, I haven’t seen your lady mother in awhile.”
Rafe glanced at Chiara. “My mother is currently traveling abroad. I believe she mentioned something about the possibility of emigrating, perhaps to America.”
“Indeed? That’s a pity. Always enjoyed the company of Lady FitzHenry.”
Rafe held his face perfectly blank for several seconds before he replied, “Indeed.”
Lord Alvanley, one of Prinny’s inner circle, joined the group. “Lord FitzHenry, Lady FitzHenry, pardon me. Your Highness, you wished to leave for Greenwich before nightfall?”
“Yes, yes. By your leave, my lady, my lord.” Chiara slowly rose to offer her curtsey. He sailed off toward the door, with curtseys and bows lining his progress.
“I truly regret having to be grateful to Alvanley. He’s such a fool. But, I do appreciate him removing Prinny before people begin making pointed comments about the Hunt brothers.”
Chiara looked at her husband. “Did the trial end? I hadn’t heard.”
“Yes, they gave them each two years. Now I’m no bloody Whig, but I object to punishing good men who tell the truth. Prinny may not have liked being called ‘a corpulent gentleman of fifty,’ but that’s exactly what he is.”
“Indeed, it doesn’t say much for British principles. Napoleon does the same thing.” She hesitated. “Makes you wonder what we fought for.”
“Humm. I may have to do something to ameliorate John and Leigh’s situation. I’ll think on that.” He grinned over at her. “Later.”
Lord Wentworth ambled towards them and lifted his glass. “Uncle George, this is fantastic. You and Aunt Ada worked miracles.”
“Don’t look at me, girl. I just said, ‘Certainly, dear’ to whatever she wanted and stayed out of the way. I’m not stupid, you know.” She laughed and hugged him. He gave Rafe a man-to-man look. “You were bloody brilliant to be out of town for the duration. She would have driven you barmy.” He shook his head.
“Oh, but she did a magnificent job and on, what, two months notice. Besides, you worship the ground she walks on.” Wentworth regaled his niece with a heavy-lidded stare, tempered by a wry smile.
“And speaking of being out of town,” Rafe said, “we haven’t heard the latest. I imagine you’ve been busy.”
Wentworth edged them back into the secluded corner and lowered his voice. “Stupid bastard left enough records to convict him thrice over, even without either of your testimonies.”
Rafe’s eyebrow went up. “Pity he can only hang once, then.”
“Aye, but hang he will. He used his contacts at Whitehall to get into the ship chandlering end of things. He’d supplied five ships. Four of them were still in harbor so we off-loaded all their consumables and checked the gunpowder. We’ve sent a fast, little cutter after the last.”
“Hopefully not too much damage has been done,” Chiara said.
“Absolutely,” reaffirmed Rafe.
Wentworth wandered off, and Chiara urged, “Rafe, come sit with me. I know your leg has had a long day.” She led him to some chairs near the windows. “It’s our party. Let the world come to us.”
“Indeed, I need to rest so I’ll be in top form to perform my husbandly duties.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“Have you ever had a problem?”
A man approached them. He was tall, with graying black hair and deeply tanned skin. “Lord FitzHenry, Lady FitzHenry.” Ireland sang on his tongue. Black Irish, she thought, a descendant of Spanish Armada sailors washed ashore in west Ireland.
Rafe stood slowly. He looked the man in the eye. Chiara sat very still. It was like looking at brothers or…father and son.
“Thank you for inviting me. I am Lord Nigel Flannerty of County Galway in Ireland. I had my suspicions years ago, but Eleanor said nothing so I dismissed the possibility. Now that I see you, it’s like seeing myself 30 years ago.” He extended his hand.
Rafe looked at it and then at Chiara. She smiled. He reached for the hand.
Chiara got to her feet and offered both hands. She’s heard only good things about Nigel Flannerty, a widower with no children. “I hope you plan to spend a great deal of time in England. You’ll be the only grandparent.” She patted her tummy that bulged from her wedding dress.
“Oh, girleen, ‘tis a wonderful thing.”
“Absolutely!”
For The History Geeks
After Pope Pius VII officiated at Napoleon coronation in 1804, relations between the two heads of state degenerated. General Etienne Radet arrested Pius VII at Rome in June of 1809 and took him on a circuitous trip to Savona. The old man was housed in the Vescovale, the Episcopal Palace, there until he was moved to Fontainebleau in 1812. Only one piece of evidence hints at a British plot to rescue the pope. Napoleon wrote to the Prince Borghese in Turin on May 21, 1812 that he feared English ships off the coast were part of a plot to rescue the Pope.
Pope Pius lived to see the fall of his nemesis.
Chiara, pronounced “key-are-a,” is the Italian version of Clare or Clair. The most famous holder of the name was St. Clare, the friend of St. Francis of Assisi. The diminutive is Chiaretta. A somewhat less famous, but certainly no less beloved, holder of the name is my granddaughter, Chiara, aka ChiChi.
“Platter-faced” was a term used by Lord Clancarty to describe Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, sister of Alexander I, Czar of Russia.
The statue described in the Duomo of Cesena, St. Bartholomew by Marco d’Agrate, is actually in the Duomo of Milan near the front door. FitzHenry’s response is quite appropriate. I can vouch for that.
For the purposes of this story, I blackened General Etienne Radet’s character. For the record, I found no evidence of villainy. Not quite DuBois’s angel, he had curly hair, a long blade of a nose, high cheekbones, and a dimple in his upper lip. He served as the Commander in Chief of the Imperial Gendarmerie, Napoleon’s State Police Force. In reality, Radet transferred custody of the pope to another in Savona. Napoleon made him a baron and later major general. The Bourbon restoration saw Radet imprisoned for nine years. Released, he died in Varennes in 1825.
Chiara’s house is actually Stoneacre Garden in Kent. It dates from 1480 and is now owned by the National Trust. It still stands (never having actually been burnt) and has been restored as a recreation of a Tudor timber-framed house. Lady Meriwether’s house is Squerryes Court, also in Kent. Built in 1680 by Sir Nicholas Crisp, it has been owned by the Ward family since 1731. The formal gardens are at the back of the house while the area down to the lake is lawn. Squerryes Court is “near” Hever Castle, but not at all near Stoneacre Court.
Kitchen fires were a major problem in pre-industrial houses, so much so that kitchens were sometimes placed in separate buildings.
Michelangelo’s wonderful Slaves can now be seen in the Galleria dell’Accademia in Florence along with their more famous cousin, David.
An oast house is a drying facility for hops and other grains. Appertization, a predecessor to our canning, came to England in 1812. Tin cans became common in the 20th century.
The Hunt brothers, The Examiner newspaper publishers, were tried twice and finally convicted for printing articles critical of the government and the Prince Regent. Their incarcerations were fairly comfortable, and Leigh continued to edit the newspaper from his “cell.”
Very few Spanish sailors who wrecked on the west of Ireland lived to have progeny. If they weren’t killed in the wrecks, the English executed them. A few did survive, though.
###
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends