He. Alexander James Sholto.
Why did she care what he thought? How old was his housekeeper?
She made her way downstairs, holding her robe up to keep from stumbling. The fire had died down to embers, though much of the log seemed untouched. She gave the bellows a half-hearted pump and inserted three short branches as wide as her wrist beneath the grate. Then she went back upstairs to her journal.
Boxing Day passed swiftly. Everyone thanked Jean kindly for the scarves she had brought for them from London, although the pretty swaths of silk could not be worn until the period of full mourning was over. Jean thanked them for her gifts--two sets of black-bordered handkerchiefs--Alice and Miss Bluestone, a penwiper--Caro, a grey knit muffler--Miss Mackey, and a beautiful sheet of heavy paper with the melody line of "The Boar's Head Carol" and the words of the first verse and refrain--Georgy. The last pleased Jean very much.
Elizabeth had sent two novels, a new edition of Shelley's poems, and a thick volume of music for Georgy who headed straight to the harpsichord. Liz also sent a practical selection of black lace, fringe, ribbands, and beads, and three black mantillas. Colonel Falk's wife Emily, who never forgot Christmas or birthdays, had sent the mantillas. There was still no answer to Jean's letter with her account of the marriage proposal.
Jean saved Hugh's gift for last. It was a porcelain figurine.
She kept the fire going.
The next day brought a change in the weather. It cleared and became much colder. The yule log's heat was welcome. When Jean caught sight of Mr. Sholto riding past from the direction of Earl's Brecon, she went to the front door and waved to him. He waved back but continued on his way to the stables. It was afternoon, nearly teatime, and he returned afoot a short while later. Agnew ushered him into the sitting room.
He apologized for his riding gear--there was indeed the whiff of horse about him--and declined tea with thanks. He said he had just come to inspect Jean's fire-making. He fielded the girls' teasing with aplomb and good-humour. Jean thought he looked tired, but his arm no longer hung in a sling.
He had ridden to Greylands, the manor house the Warings leased from the estate. Mr. Waring wanted him to check the coverts for flood damage, he said. Miss Bluestone asked how his Christmas dinner had gone down.
His mouth quirked in the familiar grin. "Very well. Noisy. The bread sauce was much admired, and the goose vanished under the assault. The bairns liked their crackers."
"We didn't have crackers," Georgy mourned.
"I wished we hadn't," he said ruefully. "I was deafened."
"Were there many children?" Jean asked.
"Five at the running about stage. Two babes in arms who were relatively peaceful."
"Good heavens." She tried to imagine the scene. "Was your, er, house not terribly crowded?"
"It was, but no harm done. How did you contrive to move the log into the fireplace, Lady Jean?"
She laughed and described Dawson's assistance in tipping the grate and Polly's thought for the bellows. She was proud of them and of herself--and the log still burnt.
He congratulated her on her success and took his leave, warning her not to let the fire burn too hot at night lest the log not last until New Year's Eve. Hogmanay.
Jean hoped it would last until Epiphany.
8.
The next day saw a new snowstorm, a mild one to begin with. By noon Jean could scarcely make out the shore of the old lake from her bedchamber, so she was surprised when the post came in good time. Agnew brought it up to her.
Tom had franked Elizabeth's letter. Jean read it with starting eyes.
My dearest Sister,
I hope you and the girls are able to feel some holiday cheer, and yes, Tom and the boys are well. He took them to skate in the Park, which leaves me free to write what I must. My dear, pray do not agree to marry Hugh Fremont. He is a handsome, accomplished man, and I know nothing to his discredit, indeed I like him, but he is not the husband you deserve for one very good reason. He is a lover of men. Well, so are we all.
She had scratched something out. Indeed the letter was full of scribbles and scratches as if it had been written in haste and not copied.
How glad I am that you are not eighteen. Our inadequate language makes this a difficult enough subject to discuss as one adult to another. Think of our cousin, Willoughby Conway-Gore. You will tell me he is married. Yes, he is. To Bella, whose story you know. They are married because Bella wanted the status of a married woman and because Willoughby wanted her fortune. Both of them entered the marriage with their eyes open. They are good friends, but that is all they are. Such arrangements are more frequent than you may imagine.
How often have you heard a man, usually a young man, say that he is 'not in the petticoat line?' Sometimes that means he is uncomfortable playing at courtship, or that the women he knows bore him, that he can't dance, or simply that he prefers a game of billiards to tea with the ladies. Sometimes, though, it means that he is (scratch, scratch). That he feels a physical attraction to boys or other men. We say that such men have Greek tastes, because the Greek philosophers welcomed the idea. Women were for bearing children. Men were for love. And, conversely, from the female viewpoint, men were for war, women were for love. (We say Greek tastes. The French say English tastes. You will appreciate the irony.)
You may ask how I know this about Hugh. In fact, I don't know anything. It has been my assumption since I first met him. Woman's intuition? Possibly. (Scribble, scratch.) I hope you will forgive me, Jean. I asked Tom. He thinks it 'highly probable.' As you know, Tom likes Hugh and likes his politics, though Hugh is no help on the Irish question. Tom suggests that you take a deep breath and ask what his tastes are. He, Tom, was indignant at the thought that Hugh might be attempting to deceive you, but I pointed out that Hugh may think you already know. If that is so, he is assuming that you want a marriage of convenience. If you do, then I daresay he would be a bargain in the Marriage Mart.
I am going to say something else unforgivable. (Scratch, scribble.) When you were too young to know better, you became infatuated with Owen Davies and thought you were in love with him. He betrayed you, and from that time on you've had difficulty trusting your suitors and your own feelings. Hugh's conduct will not have helped. (Scratch, scratch.) When you and Maggie made your debut, the gossips called the two of you Fire and Ice. That was unkind, as gossip usually is, and dear Maggie is hardly a conflagration, but I do think it past time that you thaw, Jean. You need to listen to your heart and find a man you can trust.
My heart aches for you, but please don't marry Hugh, at least not for the wrong reasons.
Your loving and somewhat distraught Sister,
Liz
P.S. Tom thinks the Lords may pass the Emancipation Bill. Oh, to be free of politicks!
P.P.S. My best to Miss Bluestone and the girls.
It was not for nothing that Jean had red hair. She read the letter through a second time with growing fury. When she got over the first shock, she was angry with Elizabeth, Lady Liz, Lucky Liz.
What right did Liz have to spill her suspicions to Tom, of all people? When Jean was fifteen, she had thought herself in love with him! Her anger with Liz was half embarrassment. True, Tom had never betrayed Jean's trust--she had just outgrown her fancy. She valued his opinion. Her whirling thoughts stilled. His opinion was that Liz was correct in her thinking.
Oh, it's too much. I hate Hugh Fremont. She jumped from her chair and began pacing. Ugly words, ugly thoughts. "Greek tastes," indeed. She leant her forehead against the cold pane of the window and closed her eyes. Was Liz's allegation true? She herself was no judge of such matters. Perhaps she was no judge at all.
Why was she fuming at Hugh? She hadn't fallen in love with him. All she had felt for him was a mild liking. If he assumed she was seeking a convenient marriage, he was not incorrect. She had been toying with the idea. Perhaps he had been willing to exploit her ignorance, but he had not been wrong to judge her a downy bird, ripe f
or plucking.
There was a knock at the door. Miss Bluestone called her name. On any other subject, Jean would have been happy to ask Miss Bluestone's advice.
The knock came again.
Jean strode to the door. "Come in. I've had a letter from Elizabeth."
The governess's calm eyes searched Jean's face. Without a word, she entered the bedchamber and sat on the chair near the window.
Jean gave a short laugh, shut the door lest her sisters intrude, then went to the desk for the letter. She held it out, noting with detachment that her hand trembled. "I should tell you before you read it that I've had an offer of marriage from Hugh Fremont. Liz knows him. I asked for her opinion."
Miss Bluestone frowned but didn't speak. She held the crossed sheet close to read, the frown deepening. When she had finished, she set the paper down. "How fortunate her ladyship writ in time to warn you off."
"You're not surprised!"
"No. Mr. Fremont is pleasant enough and everyone speaks well of him. As a Christian I must condemn his sin, but I know nothing else against him. Forgive me, Jean. I did not raise the question with you, because--" Her voice trailed, and her eyes searched Jean's face again. "I thought you indifferent to him."
Jean slumped onto the bench at the foot of the bed. "I daresay I am."
"Then there's no problem. Thank him for the offer and tell him no."
"Without asking?"
Miss Bluestone rose. "Unless you're curious."
"But I'll have to see him."
"Yes." She hesitated at the door. "Shall you come down for tea?"
"I-- Very well. I must tend to my log." She watched Miss Bluestone suppress a smile. "I know it's a joke, but I'm determined to keep the fire going."
"That's good."
Jean was not ready to deal with her sisters. Bellows in hand, she made for the fireplace. Fortunately the girls didn't torment her to read the letter aloud. They speculated about skating in Hyde Park, and wondered whether the Thames had frozen over, and wished they were in London.
The dower house was snowbound for a day, though Jem dug a path from the house to the stables and was able to care for the horses. Jean kept her fire going. Rereading Liz's letter for the tenth time, she noticed that Elizabeth hadn't asked after the telescope. Either Mr. Sholto had already reported to Liz, or she was deeply distracted by her sister's plight.
Jean thought about the letter until she tamed her anger. Then she just felt tired. Hugh had told her he admired her and suggested he would cherish her as his wife. What did he mean? That he would lock her in a cabinet and dust her once a week? He'd said he knew she wasn't in love with him and had acknowledged that he was being pressed to marry. He had repeated the word 'honour' twice. Marriage with her would 'honour' him. At no point had he suggested that he loved or even desired her. He had been honest--except for what he had not said.
Let it go, she told herself. Her pride, not her heart, had been wounded.
Now she began to think seriously about what to do with her life. She would not let herself turn into Alice, that much she knew, and she also knew she was being unfair to Alice who was widowed and poor. Alice had a right to be peevish. Chaperoning unwed ladies was, in a sense, her profession.
Jean did not need a profession, not even a dignified one like Miss Bluestone's, and she had no justification for peevishness. She was not lonely. With six sisters, four brothers-in-law, and uncounted nieces and nephews, she had no reason to be. Perhaps she needed a dog. She thought of her sweet Irish setter Tom, now long gone. No. Their lives were too short.
Why am I thinking of dogs? She stared out the snow-blank window and laughed at herself. Better a dog than Hugh Fremont.
She marched downstairs and asked Cook for a lesson in baking bread.
That was how she happened to be in the kitchen the next morning, Hogmanay, when Mr. Sholto appeared on the areaway stairs. He took in her presence with a glance, smiled but didn't guffaw, though she was elbow-deep in bread dough, and entered the kitchen, followed by two young men. Boys, really. Gangly boys.
Cook shrieked. She raced to the shorter of the two and embraced him with floury hands. "Oh, Billy, you're safe home!"
The other boy watched the reunion with an air of approval. Sholto stamped the snow from his feet and caught Jean's eye. "Her grandson."
"Ah."
"They've been in Scotland."
"I see."
"Mrs. Graves?" he said.
Cook subsided, beaming. Billy blushed. Jean did too. She had forgotten that Graves was Cook's surname.
Sholto introduced the boys to Jean. They were his assistants and lived in the gardener's house. They blushed and mumbled, clearly confused by the sight of the earl's daughter kneading bread dough.
Sholto explained that they had spent the past sixmonth on the Lothian estate with an eye to learning the Scots side of things. Thanks to the abominable weather, they had enjoyed all kinds of adventures on their way south, fetching up in Lincoln. They had reached Earl's Brecon the previous evening and slept in Sholto's cottage. He meant to deliver them to the gardener and send a cart from the Brecon stables for their gear.
Perhaps Cook's holiday gloom had arisen from anxiety for her grandson. Why didn't she say anything? Why didn't I know her name?
Transformed by joy, Cook brewed tea, chattered with her grandson, and fed the three of them tea and scones whilst Jean kneaded away. She wondered whether to excuse herself, but she did not. It was interesting to hear the buzz of other people's lives.
Polly came in, attracted by the noise. From the way she and the second boy exchanged blushes, Jean thought something was going on there.
Polly caught her eye. "A'nt you done with that, me lady?"
"I don't know," Jean admitted. "I've never made bread." Kneading was tiring. Her shoulders ached.
"Lordamercy." Cook spotted the two of them drooping over the highly elastic dough. "Here now, Lady Jean. Don't overdo it." She whipped out a wicked-looking wedge-shaped blade the size of a small book and chopped the dough into four equal bumps. "Just set those in the bowl--no, the oiled one. That's it. Cover it with the cloth and let the loaves rise." She wiped her hands on her apron and turned back to her grandson.
Jean covered her creation and went to wash her hands. Let it rise. How long? Two minutes? Two hours?
* * * *
She remembered to keep the yule log burning, and the bread was not inedible. Cook served it at dinner. It inclined toward grey and was a bit heavy, but one could chew it. Her sisters teased her because her suitor had not braved the drifts to call on her. Miss Bluestone said nothing.
For no reason she could think of, Jean kept thinking about Mr. Sholto's assistants coming in out of the snow for tea and scones. Were they apprentices? He hadn't used the term. An apprentice paid a fee to be trained for seven years. The gardener had apprentices, and Sholto had been Mr. Moore's apprentice, though not, she thought, for the full seven years. Perhaps these lads were in training for a shorter period too, or it might be they were just hired for specific duties. She could ask Cook--Mrs. Graves.
* * * *
Hugh Fremont appeared, driving the tilbury again, at half past ten on New Year's Day. He said the roads were open. Jean was not eager to confront him, but she knew what she must do, and a short drive on the snowy way to Earl's Brecon ought to allow sufficient time--and privacy--for her to say no.
"Have you heard from Lady Clanross?" Apparently he was as impatient of ritual commonplaces as she was, for they had just passed through the Brecon gate when he spoke.
Jean took a breath of chill air. "Yes. I have a question for you. It's rather delicate."
He made no reply but his hands were steady on the reins.
"My sister believes you are a lover of men. Is that true?"
Silence. He cleared his throat. "Yes, but--"
"Were you going to tell me?"
"I thought you knew of my...predilection."
"I did not. I acquit you of any attempt to dece
ive me, Hugh. The fault, if there was one, lay with my ignorance. However, I must say no."
They had reached the point where the road turned, one way to the village and the other to Grantham. He followed the Grantham road.
"You're sure?"
"Why?" she burst out. "I don't understand. If you dislike women--"
"I do not dislike women," he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat again. "I'm fond of any number of women--my mother, my sisters. I have friends who are ladies of the highest rank, including, as I thought, your sisters Anne and Elizabeth."
"Liz speaks well of you. However, knowing me as she does, she advised me not to marry you. I didn't consult Anne."
"I see." He was silent. At last he added, "As I said, I admire you." He set the horse to a strict trot. She wondered at his control. "You asked why I mean to wed. For myself, the answer is that I want children as much as any man, children of my own." After a moment he added, "And my father insists that I marry."
"I see. I'm sorry, then, for your disappointment, but I must say no. I could not sustain the charade."
When they reached the turn-out for waggons, he took his time reversing their direction. The wheels slid sidewise but not, fortunately, into the ditch. He reined in and touched her gloved hand. "I thank you for not railing at me, if you were indeed in ignorance. I hope we may remain friends."
"Of course."
"May I ask what your feelings are, Jean? I believed you might be ready for such a marriage, but I see I was wrong."
She looked away, tears blurring her vision. "I don't know. I don't understand myself well enough to say, but I know I'm not capable-- I can't--" She took a gulp of air and let it out in a puff of white steam. "I believe I prefer not to marry at all."
"That would be a great waste." After a moment, he eased the reins and made a chirruping sound. The tilbury inched into motion without sliding. Jean blotted her eyes with her black-bordered handkerchief. By the time they reached the dower house, she felt almost cheerful. Hugh said that he would not come in, and she was glad.
The Young Pretender Page 9
