Page 13 of Inventing Vivian

Chapter 3

Benedict braced himself as hestepped through the front door of the Duke of Ellingham’s residence in Grosvenor Square. It was strange to put up his guard when he returned to his family home. But it was just another example of how everything in his life had completely reversed. Inside the house, black crepe was still draped over the entry hall mirror. A bouquet of lilies and chrysanthemums sat on the hall table beside a postmortem photograph of his brother that Benedict purposely avoided looking at.

Humphries, the butler, greeted him with a stiff bow. “Good day, Lord Covington. His Grace awaits you in the library.”

“Thank you.” Benedict gave the butler his hat and black gloves and climbed the stairs, still in awe of the grandeur of the mansion. He’d spent the Season at this residence for years, and it was not until he’d lived in a small room, slept on a woven mat, and shared meals with the others at the communal home that he realized just how extravagant his life in London was. People were happy with so much less.He’dbeen happy...

He pushed open the library door, stepping onto the thick rug that covered the wooden floor. The room was striking and masculine with leather chairs and heavy wooden furniture and shelves. On one end stood a stone fireplace, and hanging on the wall above it were hunting trophies. The heads of various animals stared with glass eyes, as did the pheasants stuffed on the mantel beside the very weapon that shot them. His stomach turned. Benedict had a soft place in his heart for animals. He’d always watched out for the animals in his father’s forest in Somerset, and as a young boy, he had given up eating meat altogether, considering killing animals to be cruel. His aversion to hurting any creature had been a source of teasing first from his brother, then his schoolmates. He’d reluctantly joined the Kingsclere Hunting Club years earlier, just to avoid ridicule, though of course he’d never actually participated in any hunts.

But the taxidermist’s creations were not the most unnerving presences in the room. At least thirty men stood when Benedict entered.

The Duke of Ellingham sat at his massive mahogany desk, looking impatient. He wore a dark coat with a black band around his arm. Benedict shared the same wavy blond hair as his father, though the older man’s was cut short and beginning to gray at the temples. The duke was tall with high cheekbones, a straight mustache, and a narrow chin. His shoulders were broad, his arms long, and he appeared to be made up entirely of sharp angles. Even though he sat while the others stood, the duke’s persona still dominated the room.

“Benedict, there you are.” He waved his hand toward an empty chair on the other side of the desk. A notebook and a fountain pen sat before it. “Gentlemen, allow me to present the new Lord Covington.”

The men bowed their heads respectfully, muttering greetings as they did. Each seemed to be scrutinizing Benedict, as if wondering if he could possibly manage such an important position.

Benedict worried he would disappoint them. He thanked the men for coming and sat in the chair, and the others returned to their seats.

“Now then,” the duke said. “You’ve a lot to learn. Your brother, rest his soul, trained and prepared for this position for over thirty years, and still he had much to learn.” He sighed.

Benedict wondered if his father found it painful to speak of Maxwell. The two had been close, spending nearly all their time together as the duke prepared his eldest son to one day assume the title. Benedict, on the other hand, hardly knew his father. Perhaps, he speculated, that was what had driven him abroad in the first place—the hope that he would find somewhere he belonged. And he thought he had. But fate had other plans.

“You see gathered here the duchy’s primary solicitors, the stewards of various holdings, land agents, tenant representatives, factory managers, quarry supervisors, political advisors, and representatives from the Bank of England.”

Benedict followed his father’s gaze and saw the men nod as their respective descriptions were mentioned.

“Each of these men worked closely with your brother, and today I’ve asked them to provide some background into their area of responsibility as well as explain what you are to expect from them and they of you.” He looked pointedly at the notebook, ordering with his eyes for Benedict to be ready to take notes.

Benedict opened it.

Over the next five hours, Benedict felt as if a flood of information was being poured over him and he caught only the smallest bit of it. The amount of work his brother had done was staggering. From what Benedict could gather, Maxwell had modernized communication between holdings and made risky speculations that had paid exponentially. He had invested in electric telegraphs, railways, and transatlantic steamship companies, and somehow, he’d managed to do all this while overseeing properties, managing quarries, attending tenant meetings, and taking factory tours.

Luncheon was brought in, and the men ate while Benedict continued to take notes. He would never remember the different men’s names, so he made certain to write them down, along with their job description and how to get into contact with them.

Most made appointments for future meetings, and many gave him pages of charts and columns of figures. And Benedict wondered how on earth he would ever learn it all.

Mr. Greene, the president of the Bank of England, finished his presentation, gave Benedict his business card, and returned to his seat.

The room was silent. Everyone seemed to have slipped into a stupor. Benedict was exhausted.

The duke rubbed his eyes. “I believe that’s everyone.” He scanned the room, stopping when a man in a far corner raised his hand.

“Not everyone, if you please, Your Grace.”

“Oh yes, I nearly forgot.” His Grace extended his hand, motioning the man forward. “Benedict, this is Cecil Wilson, representative for your philanthropic activities.”

Benedict felt a renewed rise of energy. Here was something of interest to him. He wrote Mr. Wilson’s name in the notebook and made a star beside it.

Mr. Wilson wore modern plaid trousers and a matching waistcoat, round glasses, and a tidy, thin mustache. Next to Benedict, he was the youngest person in the room.

“How do you do, my lord?” He handed Benedict a folder. “As you see, your brother was a great supporter of the arts. He also contributed considerably to St. Mary’s Hospital and to the refurbishment of Glastonbury Abbey.”

Benedict looked over the donated funds. He hadn’t realized his family was involved in benefactor work. There was a lot he didn’t know, and he was ashamed he hadn’t cared to learn when he’d had the chance. He’d been too busy attending parties and searching out other amusements. The reminder of how little he knew his brother and that the chance to make amends for their strained relationship was gone brought a tightness to his throat.

“I’ve included some appeals for aide from various charities in case you’re interested,” Mr. Wilson continued. “And once I learn what things are the most meaningful to you, my lord, I can help you find exactly the causes you would most like to champion.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Benedict said, still looking through the pages. “I will read these and contact you.”

---