Lucas Lodge was the house of a man who had made his money and wished you to know it, but not to enquire too closely into the particulars. It stood half a mile from the Longbourn estate on a modest acreage, built in the modern style with large windows and rooms that announced their proportions before one had properly entered them. The drawing room where the gathering assembled had been furnished with the kind of determined good taste that comes from consultations with London tradesmen rather than family inheritance: matching chairs, fashionable wallpaper, a looking glass of sufficient size to suggest prosperity without vulgarity. The fireplace was handsome Portland stone, too new to have acquired the patina of generations, and a fire had been lit against the autumn chill though the evening was not cold enough to strictly require it. The effect was comfortable, welcoming, and carefully calculated to suggest that Sir William Lucas had arrived exactly where he had always belonged.
I did not believe this for a moment, but I appreciated the performance.
Sir William Lucas had the manner of a man who had been important once and had decided, on reflection, that the memory of importance was more comfortable than its continuation. He had been in trade: import, specifically, the kind that requires knowing which ships carry what and who stands to profit by their arrival. He had at some point exchanged this for a knighthood and a modest estate and the role of gentry. He was generous, sociable, and entirely without malice, which combination I generally find more distressing than hostility. Hostility absolves one of any need for gentleness in one’s countermeasures.
Sir William was also, I noted within the first quarter hour of the Lucas Lodge gathering, a man who still thought in the patterns of his former profession. Not obviously. Not in any way that would have mattered to someone who did not know those patterns. But it was there in the way he assessed a room’s exits before settling into it, in the angle at which he positioned himself relative to conversations he was not part of, in the slight rearrangement of his attention when certain subjects arose. Coastal weather. Shipping news. The Revenue’s recent activities in the eastern counties, mentioned in passing by someone who had read something in a newspaper. On these subjects, Sir William’s response was a trifle too smooth and light to be convincingly disinterested.
Most interesting.
Almost as interesting as his daughter, who stood by the window watching the approach to the house for late-arriving guests. Or appearing to. More often than not, I found her watching me.
Continue reading “Fanficcing with Claude: The Rector’s Other Business, Chapter 3”
