Chapter 12
Lady Jersey’s Interference
Felicity enlisted the help of Miss Fleet in collecting the journals who may be relied upon to advertise for school mistresses and governesses, for Lady Ellingham received all the most interesting journals to her table. She glossed over the state of the world, or any talk of parliament, to reach the society pages. It was the allotted day for the circulating library, and the ladies were able to pour over the pages to find some suitable advertisements without the presence of Lady Sumner or Mrs Fenton.
While his intended was in an old fashioned travelling carriage, bowling her way to London, Sebastian Fortescue, Viscount of Durant, was getting dressed. As he was not one of the dandy set, or in any way interested in being a leader of fashion, this did not take the customary hours allotted by some such gentlemen. It did, however, take some time. His valet was of course concerned about the arrangement of his full head of dark hair and the attention his master paid to the intricacies of his cravat. Unlike the valets to the pinks of fashion, Walters was not required to stand with a dozen white starched muslin cravats while his master arranged one after another to achieve that day’s genius. All that was allowed Walters was to stand behind Durant while he arranged one and then meet his master’s eye in the mirror. Then the valet gave the faintest of nods or head shakes to indicate if the result was at least tolerable. It was maybe the first, or at the latest the third cravat of the day. After that the Viscount got bored and whatever the result, it would have to suffice. This was able to be borne by the valet, as was the coat that might have been more tightly fitting, or the boots that might have benefited by a deeper white top, because the result was always the same. Durant’s tall athletic frame made every coat sit well, and the cravat under his darkly handsome face was all the better for its casual appearance. All this, though he knew it not, gave Walters prestige both below stairs and in the taverns frequented by servants on their free evenings. His lordship, though he never sought it, had style.
While aiding his lordship into his coat of blue superfine, the valet coughed. ‘Since you did not need me last evening, sir, I met with some friends,’ he began. Since the valet’s social life was not on the Viscount’s range of interest, he waited until his master said, ‘Go on.’
‘I learnt about the predicament that a certain young lady is in sir, and of course of your desire to quash the results of Lady L—’ he stopped, checking Durant’s face for signs of shock at his impertinence, ‘excuse me sir, but I thought I should mention—’
‘Yes, Walters, get on with it…’
‘But it seems that Her Grace the Duchess of T—’
‘I know to whom you refer. What is it?’
‘Well, sir. I am afraid Her Grace seems to doubt the young ladies character. It is quite an on dit with her, sir.’
‘Damn and blast the woman!’
‘Yes sir. I believe she has also sent some letters mentioning the incident to a few of her most favoured intimates.’
‘The devil take her! She must have seen me follow Miss Oldfield from her ballroom straight after I—’ he recollected himself. ‘In general I do not approve of gossiping among the servants, but in this case—’
‘Quite, my lord.’
‘And Walters, if you or Coates can do anything to carry your knowledge of the young lady’s innocence to other households, I will be grateful.’
Walters eyebrows rode up at this, but he said, ‘Certainly, your lordship.’ He coughed. ‘Ah, I believe Clem has been quizzed by other grooms about the carriage incident, my lord. He said nothing, of course.’
Durant, usually intensely private, frowned. ‘By all means have Clem open his mouth about the truth of the matter. He was behind the carriage the whole time Miss Oldfield was driving with me. But let him not mention Lady Letitia. It is complicated enough.’
‘Clem will say whatever you wish, sir.’
Durant gave Walters a sharper glance than he normally received. ‘The truth is quite sufficient. Miss Oldfield—’ he recollected he was explaining himself to his valet and stopped. He supposed it was because he wished someone who doubted Miss Oldfield’s virtue would ask him so that he could take care of the situation, verbally or otherwise. But of course he would never be asked and never be given the opportunity to champion her. That was to be left to his servants, apparently, he thought bitterly. Well, if giving his household privacy over to help her would aid the situation, he would.
His desire to help her was so intense it almost hurt. The joy mixed in with the concern that he had felt when he saw her again he had to acknowledge. But then he’d already admitted to himself, after the number of times he had thought of her in the interim, that the innocent face he had looked down on had charmed him. When once committed, she’d thrown herself into the part of Lady Letitia Fortescue and her laughing look at him when they had achieved their goal had delighted him.
And that was before Lady Aurora had gotten hold of her. With the help of a coiffeuse and some stylish clothes, Felicity had become the unquestioned belle of the season. She would no doubt be engaged soon enough to some crowing young pup if he had not used her so shamefully for his own ends, and if he had kept Tish in better check. He’d left that to Aunt Charlotte, reneging his duty to take the girl’s worst traits in hand — and only see what had occurred. A sweet young girl destroyed.
If only he hadn’t been so quick to form the engagement to Anne. She had made it clear that she had never thought of it before he’d done so. Why would she? They were simply good friends. It is just that he could not abide the idea of marriage to someone he could not share a thought with, which described many of the lovely debutantes he’d met since he’d come to town. Then too, Anne would be in an odd situation once her mother died. Heir to the small estate, with enough money to provide for herself, but a little old to have her debut. He’d believed it was a sensible solution for both of them.
Now, he only saw it as a barrier to stopping Miss Oldfield’s suffering. If he offered for her, the carriage ride would become no more than the prelude to the engagement. It may raise an eyebrow with high sticklers, but the world would happily embrace the new Viscountess Durant. It would have been the least he could do for her. She would not be the sensible choice perhaps, and he might have had to reassure Miss Oldfield on his ability to move only as fast as he desired — she was not an experienced girl. He knew that of her. She would be, he was sure, a wonderful mother. But before that she would have to be a wife and he was too mature for such a young girl. Better by far that she married some young blade such as Benedict Fenton.
If she did he would be free of this dreadful feeling of guilt and responsibility. He hoped someone would be good enough for her. With her sparkling laugh and her gentle spirit, it would be hard to find a man to merit her.
On the journey to her sister’s house in London, Anne Clarence concluded very little else than that she wished very much to meet Miss Oldfield. Any other thoughts concerning Durant or other persons that must be taken into consideration left her head buzzing. She wasn’t quite ready to be plunged into London once more, even if only to receive condolences from her many friends. But she could not, in all conscience, leave Durant and Miss Oldfield in such a situation. She wondered if she freed Durant altogether from his engagement, would it be the right thing? After all, Durant had never favoured young debutantes. His dalliances, to which he had sometimes obliquely referred, being of the more worldly and sophisticated type. She knew many things about his life in London from her sister and other friends passing on the on dits that might enliven her country existence. For Anne had had two seasons in London before her mother’s illness, had been very popular and had received no less than six proposals, not one of which had tempted her in the least. But then, Anne Clarence was her father’s heiress and had no need to take a husband that did not ‘meet her rigorous standards’ as Bastian had teased her. She did not think them so rigorous, she just wanted a husband she could laugh with.
She l
aughed with Bastian, of course, but in those days she had spent all her time with him advising him about the characters of the girls of her presentation set, many of whom were desirous of meeting him.
‘Miss Heston seems delightful’
‘She looks delightful,’ had said Anne, ‘but her conversation over the breakfast table would be limited to the latest fashions — of which she knows nothing, but is only saved by the good taste of her mama — and the people she met yesterday, of whom she says nothing of interest, being without any insight into character at all.’
‘You are harsh, my dear Anne. If I did not know better, I would suspect you of trying to land me for yourself.’
‘Yes, you might think that, if you were set up in your own esteem.’
Durant had laughed, but here she was three years later, having “landed him”. Only she hadn’t gone fishing for him at all. Maybe their friendship would be a good basis for matrimony. She hardly knew now. She knew he was handsome and confident and good. It was just like him to use another for his own purposes without thought of consequences, however. Having a grand position all one’s life entitled one. But she knew, too, that he would be humiliated at being the cause of a young girl’s downfall. Why on earth had he not written to her?
She was travelling to London much earlier than she had intended. She’d needed some quiet time. But as she thought back to the last days and months she wondered if she would ever have left her home. There was a comfort and excitement to her day there that made up her peace.
Was she coming to London to help Durant and the unknown Miss Oldfield, or to save herself from something else?
Mr Joyce rode away from Little Clarence with his heart in his boots. He’d not thought of what he was doing to himself while visiting Miss Clarence. He’d thought only of the brave girl in a difficult situation, uncomplaining, but underneath it all, distressed. It was his duty to relieve her suffering as best he might. So he visited her and gave her Christian succour, as his superior, the Reverend Mr Bigelow would have it. He laughed as he remembered how he had told her so, and how he had realised that when she grinned at him in that delightful way she had, he was in receipt of that succour himself.
His early years had been in a house such as Little Clarence, he would still be there if he had listened to his family. He did not inherit, there were two brothers ahead of him for that, and he understood that his annual allowance, once his father died, would be small. Not as small as his present stipend as a curate he knew, as he now looked down at his sadly fraying cuffs. But his father had seen it as his son’s job, whilst in town, to marry well. This did not encompass character or affection, but mostly money. His father picked a young debutante to throw his way. She was the daughter of an East India Company trader, and heiress to vast wealth. His elder brother Thomas would not have been allowed to wed her, of course, her birth being no more than respectable, but her money could be used to bolster the estate, and his birth, her consequence. But Mallory Joyce did not choose this life, but sought an independent life in the church, which his father had been furious about. For a younger son to join the church was usual, of course, but not when he could do the family more good by marriage. And the lady had been well disposed to him, too — he having rather more hair at that time than now — and yet he could not bring himself to do it. He had been twenty-two and had asked himself — after this, what more would be required from him by his parent? That his existence would be circumscribed, even in marriage, he did not doubt. So he found himself a job as a curate, which Oxford had prepared him for, and ended up under the thumb of another such pompous martinet, which served him right for parental disobedience. He had not recited this story to Miss Clarence, but he believed she had intuited much of it. And then again, though country bound, Anne Clarence was up to date on every piece of London gossip, with a hoard of correspondents keeping her informed until she returned to the metropolis. And now she had. And suddenly he realised (like Durant before him) that the comforting he’d been dispensing to her was not entirely altruistic.
The Reverend Mr Bigelow met him as he returned to Rectory. ‘And how is Miss Clarence today, Mr Joyce?’
‘She is called away to London, sir.’
‘Ah, one does not wonder that the temptations of London call Miss Clarence to them once again, given how turned her head has always been by the hollowness of worldly life. Her clothes alone, my dear wife informs me, show a need for display of superiority which is quite uncalled for in this country haven.’
Mr Joyce, who knew that Mrs Bigelow would give her eyeteeth plus, perhaps, the least cherished of her five children for just one of Miss Clarence’s stylish gowns, smiled inwardly at this ill-natured account. He imagined taking the tale to Miss Clarence tomorrow, and almost heard her speculating about which ill-favoured child might be sacrificed on such an occasion, and laughing with her. But now she would do her laughing with the Viscount Durant, that rippling-muscled, handsome, tall man with the full head of hair that she was promised to marry. He did not believe that such a man would permit his wife to roam the grounds of Little Clarence with an impecunious skinny curate. Or that she would ever wish to do so more. It was as it should be, of course. She was too wonderful a woman to be kept locked up at Little Clarence. She deserved a broader stage, a fuller life, a husband. He just wished he’d had some more warning, to accustom himself.
Her words ran in his mind, but he could make nothing of them.
‘My engagement’ ‘He asked me to be his wife.’ ‘Don’t refine to much upon it’ ‘Really’ ‘I will explain when I return’ Her eyes, her hands, he remembered too. And he was certainly refining much too much upon a little hand in his, or pleading eyes. She knew it would wound him, though he had not. He had never allowed himself to think that what they were doing was flirting. But now he did, and he saw the evil in it. Because she had kept her engagement from him, guessing, as she would, some of his feelings. And she had tried to save him from pain for the longest time.
There was nothing to be done. Nothing at all. Yet he found himself saying to Mr Bigelow, ‘I’m afraid, sir, that I must leave for town tomorrow. I have a personal matter to deal with.’
The vicar pulled himself up. This was the kind of thing that annoyed him about his otherwise biddable curate. He should be begging for permission to absent himself, which might be graciously given or coldly refused as the vicar saw fit. But in the habit of his class (for the vicar, while of respectable birth, was not, of course, part of the ton) Mr Joyce was informing him, not asking. Even at this moment, Mr Bigelow had no power to argue. If he forbade Mr Joyce, then his instinct was that the young man would do it anyway. He could threaten or chastise as he chose, he knew he had little effect on his curate. And he was, in general, a most useful man who performed the vast majority of the parish duties without demur. He could easily get another more biddable, but he was less sure of getting another as capable. He sufficed himself by emitting an ‘Hrumph!’ and adding, ‘I trust you will not be long gone, sir. There are duties to attend to. Duties that the Lord has seen to fall upon us.’
Mr Joyce longed to feed this titbit to Anne Clarence and see her laugh, but he merely replied, ‘I cannot say, sir. I will be no longer than is necessary.’
With this, the pious Mr Bigelow had to be satisfied.
Chapter 13
The New Arrivals
‘It seems that if I had a home, everything could be organised. Only look, my dear Miss Fleet, “A lady and her sister who have resided some time in Paris and are accustomed to tuition, are desirous of receiving a few young Ladies as Morning Pupils at their home, the number limited to eight. The terms are 12 guineas per annum, exclusive of accomplishments.’ Does that not sound wonderful? 12 guineas was all Mrs Hennessey was offering me, and if these ladies find eight pupils it will be eight times what my wages would have been.’
‘Yes, my dear. But you do not have a house, or a sister resident in London to assist you.’
‘I suppose I might send for Chari
ty, but she would not be parted from Amity. But only imagine, it would only be for mornings and then one would be free to do whatever one wished. One could keep a horse and gig at that rate, I suppose. And my lack of playing or sketching skills need not be an issue, for it is obvious that the parents are supposed to employ masters for the young ladies accomplishments. It would be quite a wonderful solution.’
‘Well dear, yes. If you had a house, and a companion to provide respectability. But you do not,’ reminded Miss Fleet again.
Felicity’s face fell. ‘Yes, I know. The lowering thing is, most of the adverts are from young ladies desirous of positions, not from families looking for governesses. Or schools looking for teachers.’ She shook off her depression. ‘Perhaps the best thing is to make a list of all the schools for young ladies mentioned in the advertisements. I could simply apply in the hope that they are in need of more school mistresses. Especially those outside London, in Brighton or York perhaps.’
‘Are you sure my dear, that you are not seeking a position you do not need? I know how you are adored by Mrs Fenton, I cannot believe that she or Mr Fenton would send you away at the end of the season.’
‘Oh, of course they would not. And I did consider whether I might beg that boon. Just to stay and be of use to her as a companion, as you are to my aunt. But she is so generous, I believe she would never give up trying to restore my reputation, even at the loss of her own. She has been so good to me, I could never thank her. Lady Aurora bought me gloves the other day, and I do not believe my Aunt Ellingham will foot the bill for them any longer. My aunt has been most unexpectedly generous in paying for my wardrobe, but she surely will not pay now. So Lady Aurora will be left with the bill, which is a humiliation, I assure you. I have no claim on Mrs Fenton, after all. I am literally a young girl she rescued from the street!’
Felicity and the Damaged Reputation: A witty, sweet Regency Romance Page 16
