Chapter Text
Jack Morville inspected the letter from his mother: from the address, it seemed that his parents had returned to Gilbourne House, and hence he was relieved to realise that he would not have to suffer any further literary anecdotes regarding the Coleridges and the Southeys, all of whom he regarded as dashed loose screws, whether Mr Southey was Poet Laureate or not. Then he broke open the wafer sealing the letter and began to read it.
“Well blow me down!” he expostulated, turning the letter over, and quickly scanning it.
“Sir?” said his batman, Giles Forsyth, turning in the doorway; he had just delivered the letter.
“Damme if m’sister hasn’t gone off and gotten herself betrothed to some dashed Earl or something—” Jack scratched his mouse-brown curly hair. “Unless m’mother’s funning me? You think a mother would do that to her son, Forsyth?”
Forsyth considered the matter. “Your mother often in the way of funning, sir? Didn’t strike me that way.”
“No, her and Papa are the most deuced serious people I know. Can’t take ‘em seriously!—don’t suggest that you do for a minute!—but they’re very earnest.”
“And your sister, sir?”
Jack put his head on the side. “Cilla’s a jolly good girl, very practical head on her shoulders. Would have made a great quartermaster, if she’d have been a man. Packs a mean punch, stopped me and Tom from scuffling many a time when we were lads, and then treated our wounds.”
Forsyth blinked at this praise. “She sounds a little unusual, sir?”
Jack wrinkled his nose. “If you had my parents bring you up, Forsyth, you’d be a little unusual too? Cilla and I think we’re so resolutely practical in life because we reacted against the dashed stupid nonsense that Papa comes out with. Thing is—Papa don’t hold with Earls. Not saying he’d go so far as to cut off their heads, but he doesn’t like ‘em, not at all!”
“How does he feel about this betrothal then?”
Jack went back to the letter. “Oh! Mama says he changed his tune when the Dowager Countess St Erth deigned to suggest that a Morville wasn’t good enough for a Frant—what a laugh!”
Forsyth’s face transformed with awe. “Your sister … is marrying … a Frant… Not Gervase Frant, seventh Earl of St Erth?”
“Apparently, yes,” said Jack. “Do you know him?”
Forsyth breathed out. “No, I don’t know him. But I know of him, sir. He was in the 7th Hussars. Fought in the Battles of Orthes, Génappe and Waterloo.”
“Good God,” said Jack, faintly. “Very martial fellow, is he?”
“Yes.” Forsyth paused. “Also—”
“Spit it out! Got to know—this is my sister we’re talking about here!”
“They say that Lord St Erth is a leader of fashion, and one of the handsomest, most eligible men in the ton. I expect your sister is very beautiful?”
Jack’s mouth dropped open and worry fluttered in his chest. “Well, uh, as I say, Cilla’s a very good girl, and ever so practical, but the truth of it is…she’s a female version of me and Tom. We’re all chips off the same old block. She’s got a pleasant face, but not in the least beautiful!”
Forsyth looked philosophical. “Many women in the ton will be dashed disappointed, but I daresay it’ll do ‘em good?”
Jack finished off the letter. “Now I’m worried, Forsyth. Something havey cavey going on here. Wonder if I could get some leave to go visit m’parents?”