Gunpowder & Rose - a Return To Sanditon Novella

One

The Albany was a reputable residence in the heart of St James. Its clientele consisted of bachelors; gentlemen all. This august residence was home to one such gentleman from a respectable lineage and adequate fortune. Or rather, it had been. Crowe looked around his empty suite of rooms and sighed. He would miss the place and the freedoms it afforded him. From this moment on, life was to become immeasurably more tiresome. Responsibilities, thought Crowe, scowling. Those blasted, pestilential tasks that fell to those of rank and privilege.

It was exactly three months, two days and approximately six hours since the course of his life had changed irredeemably. For on that crisp February morn, he had been required to attend the reading of his late uncle's last Will and Testament. His late uncle, of whom he had known not one jot. His father's older brother had forsaken any and all contact with his younger sibling; had cut him off and failed to acknowledge the familial connection, even amongst society. No private family disagreement for that old bastard, no indeed. The cut had been public and decisive and took the form of a duel. Brother fighting brother, and ultimately, brother mortally wounding brother, over nothing so much as the outcome of a wager. The Crowe men were nothing if not disreputable.

The familial estrangement had existed for almost the entirety of Crowe's life. He had been a child of ten years old when a coach had delivered a bloody and dying Maximus Crowe back to the family for his last remaining hours. Much to the surprise of his ten-year-old self, his mother had not wailed and sobbed, no indeed, she had wished her dying husband to perdition. From that day forth, Maximus Crowe and his erstwhile sibling were spoken of no more. As time had moved swiftly on the connection had long since been forgotten.

Therefore, when the summons had arrived for the Will reading of some little-known relation, Crowe had been curious enough to attend. Little had he known that he would walk away from that encounter with an earldom, an estate to manage and a bevvy of female dependants.

Crowe, in his state of disbelief, had found solace in the form of his gentleman's club and the fine liquor therein. He had imbibed sufficiently to fell most men, yet still could not fathom what had occurred. Defeated in his endeavour to become foxed, Crowe had then prevailed upon the hospitality of one of his most loyal and oldest friends, Lord Henry Babington.

He arrived at Beecham House just after the bells had chimed three of the afternoon. Lord Babington's butler, Morris, in the manner of butlers the world over, had announced his arrival with all due gravitas; only the slightest thinning of his lips belied his disapproval.

"Crowe, my good fellow, come along in," Babington welcomed with a handshake and a smile. "Unusual to see you about during daylight hours. Are you feeling quite well?"

Crowe entered the library with purpose and made directly for the sideboard, "Brandy, Babington. Where the deuce is the brandy?" he asked in desperation, forgoing the usual greeting.

Babington strode to the large mahogany desk and opened a cupboard therein, removing a bottle and two glasses.

"Little ones running around, Crowe," Babington explained apologetically.

Married for just over five years, Babington and his wife Esther were the proud parents of a four-year-old daughter Sophia, three-year-old son Marcus and their newest addition, three-month-old baby George.

As he poured his friend a healthy measure, he asked frowning, "This is unusual behaviour even for you, Crowe. Tell me, what has you in a brown study?"

Crowe gulped the brandy back in one long swallow before meeting the eyes of his old friend. "I have today been to visit a solicitor at the Inns of Court. I was summoned to a reading of the will of the recently departed 6th Earl Frogmore," he began unsteadily.

Babington regarded him in surprise and a measure of concern, "Frogmore? I didn't know he'd passed. Dreadful old curmudgeon, staunch Tory. He left no issue, I believe?"

Crowe nodded absently, "Correct. He had no children. Never married. However, they managed to track down a nephew," Crowe stared pointedly at Babington, holding his gaze until he saw understanding dawn.

"Wait, what?" Babington stammered, "Are you trying to tell me that Frogmore was your uncle?" He gaped in shock. "That would make you ..."

"His heir," Crowe answered for him. "So, they tell me."

Babington took a moment before a grin graced his features, "Good god man! Congratulations!" He paused, "Or commiserations? You don't look happy about this turn of events? I assume there's more?"

"How astute you are Babbers. There is indeed more," Crowe sat down heavily in one of the leather armchairs. "The will contained a codicil. A stipulation was added before the old Earls demise. A requirement," he stammered. Crowe felt like he was about to cast up his accounts. He cleared his throat and tried again, "The will requires that in order to inherit the majority of the estate's wealth, which is unentailed, I must consent to marry within a 12 month."

Babington, open-mouthed, gaped at Crowe in apparent disbelief. He walked back to the desk and grabbed the bottle he had left there and poured himself a brandy; topping up his companion's.

"So, let me get this straight. You have inherited an earldom that you knew nothing of, but in order to benefit from the wealth you must find some chit to marry you within a year?" Babington asked.

"Precisely, except, not just any chit. My uncle had three wards. Second cousins or such on my grandmothers' side. He has stipulated that I choose one of the three as my countess." Crowe scowled and downed his drink.

Babington considered him for a moment and then dissolved into laughter, "He's tied you up pretty it seems, the old devil." After a moment, he added, "What do you intend to do? Is there no recourse?"

"Do? What can I do? Without the unentailed fortune, the earldom will sink. I'm no pauper, but I certainly cannot sustain the costs of a large estate and, from what I've been told, Wentworth is a rotting great mausoleum of a place. I cannot eschew the title, and so I have little option," He looked up and grimaced. "Therefore, I shall await the letters patent and then go and rusticate. After all, how hard can it be to select a bride? One of them must be biddable, surely?"

Regardless, he thought, there wasn't enough brandy in the kingdom to make that prospect palatable.