Jennie Kissed Me

by Joan Smith

“He did not mention anything of the sort. We are leaving in a week. That was all settled at the beginning.”

  “Did he say if the apartment on North Audley is ready?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “I suggest you ask him.”

  “You could take the pleasure out of winning a lottery, Mrs. Irvine,” I scolded. “Lord Marndale is just friendly, that’s all.”

  “You don’t frighten a filly when you’re trying to get the bit in her mouth. Victoria is the burden he means to saddle you with, my girl. Mark my words. There is no point stretching your neck like an angry gander.”

  “You are mixing your metaphors, Mrs. Irvine. Am I a filly or a gander?”

  “A goose!”

  Sunday morning we went to church; Sunday afternoon it rained. The gentlemen worked in Marndale’s office for a few hours and afterward read the newspapers. I caught up on my correspondence, and we all retired early. In a surly mood I determined to speak to Marndale about the apartment on North Audley Street before he left the next morning. I waylaid him as he was sorting papers in his office in preparation of leaving.

  “Did you find time to get around to your apartment house?” I asked.

  He looked so blank that I knew it had never entered his head. “I was too busy, but I’ll attend to it tomorrow,” he said. After a pause he continued, “You are not in a great rush to leave us, I hope? Since you and Vickie are getting on so well ...”

  “I believe we agreed on the duration of my visit. I would like to leave in a week.”

  He gave a frowning pause. “In a week I’ll have some time to spend at Wycherly myself,” he said. “I had hoped—”

  The breath caught in my lungs. He wanted me to stay till he could be here full-time! The charm of London faded like mist in sunlight as I envisaged the days with Marndale here entertaining Victoria and myself. Then I remembered Mrs. Irvine’s warning.

  “No, no. I want to get to London before the Season is over,” I said brusquely. But I added in a friendlier, jocose manner, “I was happy to give you a hand, but there are limits to my patience, Marndale.”

  “Of course. I’ll get busy and find someone to replace you. Now that is a contradiction in terms,” he added, with another of those devastatingly intimate smiles. “One cannot replace the irreplaceable.”

  Lord Anselm chose that inopportune moment to come blundering in. “Did you get the alterations to the bill—oh, Miss Robsjohn. I was looking for you to say good-bye. Au revoir, rather. I look forward to seeing you in London soon. You forgot to give me your direction.”

  His hair never looked frizzier or his chin longer. I wished him at Jericho. “Marndale can give you the direction,” I replied.

  Marndale cast a questioning look on me. He was either thinking I had lied about my former familiarity with Anselm or that I had been encouraging him wantonly. He would think I could love a man like Anselm. He must abhor either my veracity or my taste in gentlemen.

  Lady Victoria and Mrs. Irvine came to the door to make their farewells, and the gentlemen left with no further private conversation. Marndale’s leave-taking was more than civil but less, somehow, than I had anticipated. I did have the satisfaction, however, of telling Mrs. Irvine that I had spoken to Marndale about leaving and that he knew our plans.

  Chapter Nine

  On Monday Victoria and I discussed with the Hubbards the preparations for our overnight hiking expedition. I personally viewed this as more of an ordeal than anything else, but it had taken hold of Victoria’s imagination, and she considered it a necessary step on her climb to self-dependence. There was no sorrow in my heart when the next day dawned too dark to begin the enterprise. Rain looked imminent, but till it came we spent the morning rehearsing our outdoor skills: building a fire in the stable yard, packing our gear, and so on.

  The sky cleared by mid-afternoon, but I managed to convince her an early-morning start was of the essence, and she was easily diverted to continue her driving lessons instead. The next morning it was pouring rain, and even though the sky cleared shortly after lunch the bush would obviously be too wet to make the outing anything but a misery. When we returned from our driving lesson that day some neighbors had called and were being entertained by Mrs. Irvine in the saloon.

  Mr. and Mrs. Everett were friendly, provincial people, whose main interest was political. They wished to discover how Marndale was progressing with some appointment he was trying to procure for their son. We told them he would be home on the weekend, and we would ask him to notify them. Mrs. Everett was curious to learn who Mrs. Irvine and I were and what we were doing at Wycherly, but she expressed her curiosity so genteelly and discreetly that it was possible to misunderstand her and get away with the vague words “friends” and “little visit.”

  Wednesday, which dawned fair, was the one day Victoria did not want to go on our expedition. “I had thought we would be back from it by Wednesday,” she said. “I promised Mrs. Munson I would call with a basket. I have had Cook prepare a basket of food, and I have packed a parcel of baby blankets and things from the attic for the twins. I cannot let her down. A lady’s word is her bond, is it not, Jennie?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I assured her. I was relieved at the reprieve and proud of my charge, too. This was scarcely the same hoyden who had stowed away in my carriage a week before.

  When we returned from the Munsons’ at noon on that same day, Marndale was there. He had got home earlier than expected and was to stay for the remainder of the week. His first words were to his daughter, but above her head his eyes sought me out with unhidden eagerness. His greeting to me a moment later was flatteringly effusive.

  When I quote the words, “Nice to see you again, Jennie. I must say, the country certainly agrees with you,” they sound ordinary enough. But their delivery was flattering. A man’s eyes do not dart so intensely over a lady’s face and linger so long on hers if the words are mere civilities.

  There was no mention of Anselm but much talk of Marndale hurrying up his business as he was eager to finish it and be free to spend a little time at home.

  “If you have come to visit me, Papa, you have chosen your time badly,” his daughter told him. “Jennie and I will be leaving on our outdoor expedition tomorrow morning.”

  “I made sure you would be back by now.”

  “No, the weather prevented our going. We leave tomorrow.”

  Marndale looked a question at me. “Must you?” he asked quietly. Again the words give no notion of the mood. His look spoke volumes of disappointment.

  “Is there some special reason you would like us to remain, Papa?” Victoria asked. “If it is important, naturally I shall put off the expedition, but you know Jennie is leaving next week, and I could not undertake it without her.”

  Marndale was much too clever to reveal any expression of slyness, but I had the sense that his “reason” was an excuse, conceived on the spur of the moment. “As a matter of fact, I do need you, Victoria. I have some important guests coming this weekend. Some members of Parliament and even a few ministers. As my hostess you will be in charge of making them comfortable. I quite depend on you.”

  “On me!” she exclaimed. It would be hard to say whether she was more astonished or pleased.

  “You are old enough to take on the duties of my hostess now. It will be excellent practice for when we go up to London next spring.”

  “Will I sit at the foot of the table and be able to stay up late?” The very nature of her concerns showed she was too young for the job. On the other hand, she was not much too young, and the country was a good place for her to begin learning her duties.

  “Certainly,” he replied.

  “Oh, Jennie, this is all your doing! Only a month ago Papa called me a silly goose. You were right as usual. You said if I wished to be treated like an adult, I must act like one, and already Papa is treating me like a grownup. Thank you, Papa.” She ran to him and threw her arms around him in a display of childish eagerness. Over her head Marndal
e gave me a sheepish look.

  “Then we may consider the expedition off?” he asked her.

  “Postponed till I have performed my duties as hostess.” She turned to me. “Could you not stay just one or two days longer, Jennie, and we could have the expedition on Monday, after Papa’s guests leave?”

  Marndale looked to hear my answer. “Good students should be rewarded for learning their lessons so well, don’t you think, Jennie?” he asked.

  “If the weather is good on Monday, I shall stay for our outing, but I cannot linger here forever.”

  We all three talked a little longer. When Victoria dashed off to begin being an adult by telling the housekeeper of her new glory, I had a private word with Marndale.

  “Mrs. Irvine will not like my prolonging the visit,” I said. “She is eager to be getting on to London. Is the apartment ready?”

  “I stopped around the last thing before leaving London. The painters were giving it a final lick and polish. It is practically ready to move into.”

  “Did you manage to find someone to stay with Victoria?”

  “I twisted my cousin Alberta’s arm. She has tentatively agreed to come to Wycherly till I can find a suitable companion. It is deuced hard to find the proper sort of lady. Alberta is really much too old, and the half dozen who answered my advertisement were either too young or too sly or too underbred. A man is particular in his requirements for a lady to help him raise his daughter.”

  “Yes, it must be someone he could trust completely regarding not only character but also social graces. Would it not be better for you to take Victoria to London with you, where you could keep a sharper eye on her and her companion?”

  Marndale’s head jerked up in surprise at my suggestion. He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, frowning. He was interested, but something in the idea displeased him. “Do you think it would do?” he asked doubtfully. “It is the question of propriety that bothers me.”

  “Where is the impropriety in hiring a companion for your daughter? Why should it be more improper in London than here?”

  “What would Mrs. Irvine do? Return to Bath?”

  The question seemed totally irrelevant. His meaning did not sink in for sixty seconds. “Mrs. Irvine? Good God, Marndale, you cannot think I meant for you to hire me!”

  It is seldom that one sees the curious sight of a gentleman blushing. Marndale spluttered and blustered a moment, but there was no hope of concealing his error. “As you and Vickie are getting on so famously, I thought ... Actually it would be an excellent idea. You want to go to London, and I want an unexceptionable companion for my daughter.” His eyes glowed with approval of the companion he had in mind. “You see now my concern for propriety. With Mrs. Irvine here there is nothing amiss in your visit, but for a gentleman to go hiring a companion for his daughter plus a companion for his daughter’s companion—well, it would be bound to raise speculation.”

  “I should think so. And in any case, I thought you understood that I do not propose to continue in anyone’s employment now that I am financially independent.”

  “You have heard the old saw: Hope springs eternal ... About your friend—Miss Hopkins, is it?” he said, but I think he just wanted to quit the embarrassment of his error. “You mentioned a colleague of yours who might be suitable.”

  “Yes, Miss Hopkins, but she is no older than myself. Surely you have any number of young female servants. Would it be improper to hire another as companion to Victoria?”

  “A companion is in a different category—not a servant, exactly. She is a gentlewoman. More care is required for her reputation.”

  “Do you not have a housekeeper in London who might play propriety?”

  “Yes, but you intimated Miss Hopkins might be too soft to handle Victoria.”

  “Victoria has improved. And if you were to be on hand on a regular basis, that would be a further incentive for her to behave. Really I think giving her more duties would do the trick. Will you write to Miss Hopkins?”

  “Perhaps. I’ll think about it a little more. Now I must wash up for luncheon.”

  At the noon meal Victoria assumed her place at the foot of the table, at the other end of the board from her father. She made a hostessy business of welcoming Mrs. Irvine and myself to the table and inquiring for our comfort. It was really quite amusing to watch her play off her airs and graces.

  Immediately luncheon was over Marndale went into his office and remained there till dinnertime. Victoria took her new duties so seriously that she seldom left the housekeeper’s skirt tails. She made an occasional foray into her father’s study to discover how many guests she might expect and how long they would stay and so on. About the only contribution I made to all her plans was to suggest she keep notes, which she did.

  I sat with her in the late afternoon to learn who was coming. It was a short but impressive roster of guests, mostly political gentlemen and their wives.

  “How shall I entertain the ladies while the gentlemen work, Jennie?” she asked. “They will be older ladies, you know, so I cannot do anything too strenuous, like riding.”

  “You could drive them into Chillingfold. Ladies usually like to see the shops and the village.”

  This meager suggestion was noted down for the first day. “And after that?” she asked.

  “They can stroll through the flower gardens and perhaps tour the house.” She made two headings, one for fair weather, one for foul.

  “I think that takes care of it. They will arrive late Thursday. Whichever day is fine I will take them into Chillingfold, and the other day they can tour the house. Saturday evening Papa is inviting in neighbors for a larger dinner party and some dancing. I must write the invitations and arrange for the musicians. Now, which bedchambers shall I put everyone in? I’ll go upstairs and check the rooms.”

  I tagged along with her for this job. She had her list in hand, jotting down jobs to be done. Make sure the rooms are turned out, fresh linen, flowers in the rooms, and so on. I noticed she had given the Chinese Room, formerly inhabited by Mrs. Irvine and myself, to a Lady Pogue.

  “Is there not a Lord Pogue?” I asked her.

  “She’s a widow. Her husband’s name was Sir John Pogue,” she answered rather stiffly.

  “Not a favorite of yours, I see?”

  “No, a favorite of Papa’s,” she said curtly.

  Her sniffy answer alerted me to suspicion. “How old a lady is she?” I asked nonchalantly. “My thinking is that if she is elderly and infirm, she might not want to come to the village with us. You ought to make some other arrangement for her. Perhaps Mrs. Irvine might help to entertain her.”

  “She is about your age. Thirty or so.”

  “I am not that old!”

  “Oh, well perhaps she is not either. She is Papa’s new flirt. Aunt Alice told me she has seen them together in London, but I did not think he would invite her here at this time. It is supposed to be a working visit.”

  A ball of anger burned inside me. I had no right or reason in the world to be angry, but I was. This was proof positive that Marndale’s only interest in me was to provide his daughter a companion. If he was occasionally a little gallant, it was only to divert me and make me think I should be happy in his household. As this was the case he should not have looked so disappointed when Victoria told him our plan to leave on our wilderness expedition.

  “She is very well to grass,” Victoria mentioned.

  “Is she pretty?”

  Victoria clamped her lips tight then opened them a fraction to say, “People seem to find her so.”

  She would have claimed the lady to be an antidote if it were at all possible. I concluded that Lady Pogue was an Incomparable. And a wealthy one to boot. What chance had I against such stiff competition? None, and the only way to save my face was to pretend to like the situation.

  “You should be happy, Victoria. Your father has no son, no one to inherit his estate and fortune. He will certainly want to remarry. You should try to get along
with his—his friend. She might end up being your stepmother.”

  “That is exactly what I am afraid of. I shouldn’t mind his remarrying if he married someone nice. She is horrid, Jennie.”

  “What is it you dislike in her?” I was reduced to quizzing a child and felt guilty about it but not guilty enough to desist.

  “Everything. She is selfish and a flirt, and ... She makes me feel stupid and young and awkward. A real lady would not do that. You never did, even when I was acting stupidly. You always tried to help me, but she only wants to go off with Papa and leave me alone. I wager she would not last one night in the wilderness. She can scarcely be away from her coiffeur and her dresser for an hour.”

  Elegance was added to the rich beauty’s growing list of attractions. That Marndale had invited her, an unattached lady, to a working visit indicated a serious attachment. And that he persisted in the affair in the teeth of his daughter’s opposition was as good as a statement of intention to marry the lady. I must pull back a little in my attitude to Marndale, or I would have Mrs. Irvine saying, “I told you so.” About the only good news I heard was that Lord Anselm was also to be of the party. He might provide me an escort for the dancing party.

  When I went abovestairs to prepare for dinner, I mentioned offhandedly to Mrs. Irvine that a Lady Pogue, flirt of Marndale’s, would be of the weekend party.

  “Then we might as well leave immediately. I know why you have been hanging on, Jennie. I told you it was no use.”

  “Nonsense; we will meet all sorts of eminent people, meet them under Marndale’s roof, to lend us a note of ton. That cannot do us any harm when we get up to London.”

  “Lord Eldon and old Bathurst will do us a world of good!” she said in her ironic vein. “An invitation to sit in the visitors’ gallery at the House and hear them spout hot air is the best to be hoped for. It is the vain hope of attaching Marndale that makes you cling on like a burr. You’re trying to saddle a dead horse, my girl. Lady Pogue is a famous beauty. Her fame spread as far as Bath during her brief fling with Lord Byron.”