Octavia spent longer than she had intended at the library, and when she got back to Lothian Street, it was to be greeted by the information that Mrs. Cartland was awaiting her return in her private sitting room.
Octavia went upstairs to take off her hat and pelisse, and then went to see what Theodosia wanted. She found her sister was seated with a tray of cold meats and fruit on one side of her, and on the other a small table with a letter placed exactly in the centre of its round top.
“This came for you,” said Theodosia, picking it up.
“Thank you,” said Octavia.
“Not so fast, if you please. Who is writing to you?”
“Until I open the letter, I have no idea. And whoever it may be, it is no business of yours, Theodosia.” Before Theodosia realised what her sister’s intention was, Octavia had tweaked the letter from her fingers.
“Upon my word!”
Octavia glanced at the letter. It was addressed in a man’s hand, but not one she recognised. It bore a frank, so it wasn’t likely to have come from Christopher’s lawyer, nor yet from Wilkinson and Winter. She was as mystified as Theodosia, but wasn’t going to say so. She would take it upstairs and open it in private, she decided, but then, seeing the steely look in her sister’s eye, she sighed and reached for the paper knife which was on Theodosia’s writing desk.
“It is from a Mr. Portal,” she said, turning the page over to read the signature.
“Well, that is something to have the great Mr. Portal write to you, a mere relict—”
Octavia knew she was about to add “a person of no account,” but for once her sister restrained herself.
“Why, what is so strange about it?” Octavia had turned to the beginning of the letter and was running her eyes down the page. “It appears that he knew my husband and wishes to express his condolences.”
This was true enough, but there was more to the letter than that, some sentences which she did not quite understand, but which she wasn’t going to pass on to Theodosia. Mr. Portal, it seemed, had also been acquainted with her great-uncle and -aunt, and from what he wrote, although it was couched in discreet terms, he was well aware of her inheritance. Presently in France, he looked forward to having the honour of meeting her on his return to England, and meanwhile she could have every confidence in Mr. Wilkinson.
How odd, what did it mean? Who was this Mr. Portal?
“I suppose you have no idea who the great Mr. Portal is, being away so long, and not moving in quite those circles when you were a debutante. He is known everywhere as Pagoda Portal, you may have heard the name.”
“Like the tree in India?”
“I have no idea why he is called Pagoda, it is an outlandish name, although I believe it is something to do with his having made a great deal of money in India. He is a nabob, but a well-born, extremely well-connected nabob; nobody can say he is any kind of a mushroom.”
“So he is great because he is rich?”
“Now, do not be putting on those false missish airs. You have lived long enough and enough in the world to know that a great fortune commands a good deal of wholesome respect. Especially, as I say, when combined with belonging to such an ancient family—the Portals have been landowners and members of Parliament for ever, and they are related to quite half the House of Lords.”
She hesitated for a moment, seeking her words with care, which was unusual for her.
“However, his life is somewhat irregular, it would not do for you, in your position, to become more than a mere acquaintance, it would do your reputation no good at all if you were to be drawn into his set.”
“What set is that?”
“Oh, a very ramshackle, mixed set of persons, artists and poets; here a banker and there a politician, and women novelists and musicians, not at all the kind of people who would be admitted into my drawing room.”
Octavia thought they sounded rather charming.
“However, that is part of his eccentric way, a man so rich may be as eccentric as he wishes, you know. The difficulty comes in his—what shall I call them? His domestic arrangements. Now you are a married woman I can speak freely: Mr. Portal is not married, and it seems has not the least intention of entering that happy state. Instead, it is openly known that he and Henrietta Rowan, a tiresome woman if ever I knew one, have a liaison that goes far beyond what is proper. She is a widow, who seems to think that such a state allows her perfect liberty; she declares she will never marry again, and certainly there appears to be no inclination on either party to regularise their union.”
“Have they set up house together?”
“Good gracious no, whatever are you thinking of?”
“From the way you spoke—”
“It is a liaison, as I said, and one of which the whole polite world is aware. Mrs. Rowan, who is very well off in her own right, has her own house, done up in the most extraordinary style, I have to tell you, in the Turkish mode; it is a fancy of hers to admire the Turks, and therefore she has carpets and cushions and all kinds of hangings which are entirely unsuitable for one in her position. And in London! She spent years abroad, in Turkey, which is where she acquired the taste for such nonsense.”
Theodosia looked around her own sitting room with great complaisancy; in Octavia’s opinion, the room was overfilled with furniture, much of it downright ugly.
“However, Mr. Portal seems to like it well enough, one cannot expect a man who has made his own fortune to have much taste, perhaps. Mrs. Rowan holds a salon there in the afternoon, and soirées, and I don’t know what else. I admit that society flocks to her parties, she is considered a notable hostess, although for the life of me—I consider that she is not quite the thing. But since it appears that you don’t know Mr. Portal and this letter is written as a mere courtesy call, made as much on my account as yours, I dare say, then any question of you pursuing the acquaintance of either him or Henrietta need never arise.”
How like Theodosia, laying down the law on whom Octavia might be permitted to know, and asserting the rightness of her own moral judgement.
Octavia returned to her letter. “Mr. Portal sounds an amiable man,” she said. “He writes that he will do himself the honour of calling upon me when he is back in London.”
“Oh, that is only form, simple politeness, it means nothing, why should he call on you?”
“If he should do so, do you wish me to say I am not at home?” Octavia asked with deceptive meekness.
“That will hardly be up to you. It won’t arise, but if it did, it would never do to cross him, not with him being so rich and influential—although he sits as a Whig, please remember that. Your brother Arthur will hardly speak to him, they have crossed swords in the House too often for him to find Mr. Portal in the least bit agreeable. No, he must always be accorded every courtesy, but it is quite unnecessary for you to pursue the acquaintance.”
Which opinion made Octavia determined to become acquainted with Mr. Portal, and also with the interesting Mrs. Rowan.
Octavia had a swift reply from the lawyers: Mr. Wilkinson would be at her disposal whenever it were convenient for her. By great good luck, the letter had been delivered into Mr. Cartland’s hand. “You will not wish everyone to be aware of