Tea and Scandal

by Joan Smith

  “Since you have discovered my tendency to didacticism, then I might as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb. I think it was rash of you to buy a snuffbox when you don’t take snuff.”

  Fenwick delved into his bag and handed her the box of marchpane. “Here is salt for the wound, shrew! I not only squandered a whole guinea on a snuffbox, I also bought you this—and it isn’t even your birthday. Go ahead, tell me it will ruin your teeth, or your complexion, or your figure. It’s clear I can do nothing right.”

  Jane stared at the box, while a soft smile stole across her lips, and rose to lighten her eyes. She felt the most lowering fear she was going to cry. No gentleman had ever bought her bonbons before. She had to pinch her lower lip between her teeth to stop it from trembling.

  “Thank you, Lord Fenwick,” she said in a choked voice. “I hope I am not so ungracious as to say any of those things. That was very thoughtful of you.” She peered into the box. “And it has cherries and nuts, too! You remembered.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, embarrassed at her lavish praise.

  “The snuffbox is very pretty,” she said, with an air of apology.

  A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “You don’t have to patronize me. My feelings are not so delicate as that.”

  “Is that what I was doing? I was trying to apologize for putting my oar in where it didn’t belong.”

  “You were right. When you don’t have to work for your money, you don’t watch how you spend it. You’re good for me, Aunt Jane. You will be reforming me if we aren’t careful.”

  With a brash but charming smile, he took her elbow and accompanied her out of the shop. “Aunt Jane.” She would not put that in her letter to Harriet. It cast a shadow on the afternoon’s pleasure. So that was how he saw her, as a maiden aunt. And here she had thought he rather liked her.

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time Jane returned to Wildercliffe, it was too late to go out for a walk. Her Aunt Fay had ventured into the garden at least. Jane found her taking the sun on the west terrace, which gave a view of the gardens, with rich fields behind, and in the distance the hazy green of trees. Strange to think all this vast estate belonged to her aunt. Almost impossible to believe that a working lady could end up a countess.

  “I’m sorry we were so long,” Jane said. “We went for a little walk. Lord Fenwick helped me pick out a new bonnet.”

  Her aunt looked at her askance. A glance showed her that Jane still wore the glow of pleasurable excitement. Fay was sorry to have to do it, but she felt she must disillusion the girl.

  “I can see why any lady would be attracted to Fenwick, of course. He has that air of glamour.... But it would be foolish of you to expect anything to come of it, Jane. I don’t want to see you hurt. Swann is your man, if you’re on the lookout for a husband.”

  “I’m in no hurry, now that you and I are settled so comfortably here,” she replied.

  But her blush told the story. The foolish chit was becoming too fond of Fenwick. “Nor am I in a hurry to lose you. Swann will be here long after Fenwick runs back to his London friends. We shall see if anything comes of it. Swann is a nice, comfortable fellow. If he had a wife to see he brushed his jacket and combed his hair, he would not be bad looking either.”

  Jane squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Don’t worry, Aunt Fay. I realize Fenwick is above my touch. Just let me enjoy these few days of such high company. I felt like a princess, walking on his arm in Bibury.”

  “Just so you realize you won’t be walking down the aisle with him.”

  They soon went in to begin their toilettes. Lady Pargeter, determined to provoke Lady Sykes, wore her richest gown of black velvet, and the showy Pargeter diamond necklace that was much too grand for the occasion, but when would she have another chance to flaunt it in Phoebe’s face?

  Although Jane looked less impressive, she did not resemble a schoolteacher, or anyone’s maiden aunt. The new hairdo lent her a touch of town bronze. Excitement put a sparkle in her eyes, and a glow on her cheeks. Her Aunt Fay took one look at Jane’s aging pelisse and sent off for a cashmere shawl.

  Much to Lady Sykes’s chagrin, Mrs. Swann was not only wide-awake for the dinner party, but so eager for it that she had her Bath chair pushed into the hallway to greet the guests.

  “Ah, Rampling!” she exclaimed in a wavering voice, when the ladies were shown in. “I did not know I had invited you. But where are the Pargeters? Did you not come with them?”

  Lady Pargeter ignored the question and gave the old lady a peck on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Mrs. Swann. How well you are looking.”

  Mrs. Swann wore a yellow brocade gown that had not been the height of fashion thirty years before, when she had had it made up. The lace had gone beyond yellow; it was snuff brown. She had shriveled to such an extent that the dress hung loosely from her gaunt shoulders. From the waist down she was wrapped in a blanket, to ward off the chill from the front door.

  “I am doing pretty well for a lady who is pushing a hundred,” she said with wild exaggeration. “But where are the Pargeters?”

  Swann heard the commotion and came into the hallway. Phoebe was not far behind him. “This is Lady Pargeter, Mama,” Swann said.

  “Rubbish! I know Rampling to see her. Do you think I am loony?”

  “Lady Pargeter, welcome to Swann Hall,” Phoebe said, and gave Fay’s hand a brief shake. Her sharp eyes took in the velvet gown, the sparkle of diamonds. She turned to Jane to conceal her annoyance. “And Miss Lonsdale. My, you do look nice,” she said, running her eyes over the chit. She saw Miss Lonsdale had made an effort to update her appearance. “Just right for a small party. So vulgar to overdress. It is the mark of the parvenue.”

  “Who is this girl?” Mrs. Swann demanded, staring rudely at Jane. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally nabbed a girl, Scawen! Good for you. She’s not nearly so bad as I feared you would end up with. But where are the Pargeters?”

  Lady Pargeter took the easiest way of pacifying the old malkin. “Unfortunately, the Pargeters couldn’t come, Mrs. Swann. They send their regrets.”

  “Damme! Not coming, after I have laid on a veritable feast. I shan’t ask them again, rude bints. Well, as you are here, you might as well come into the saloon.”

  Scawen took the ladies’ wraps while Morton wheeled her chair into the saloon. Jane hardly glanced at Horace Gurney, nursing a glass of wine in the corner. Her first interest upon joining the party was to determine that Lord Fenwick was there, as indeed he was—looking quite devastatingly handsome in a deep mulberry jacket with a ruby in his cravat. He rose upon the ladies’ entrance and made his bows. He was too suave to embarrass Jane by complimenting her in front of the group, but he lifted his eyebrows and gave an approving nod to acknowledge her new coiffure and more stylish gown.

  As he showed her to a chair, he said quietly, “Well, well, Mademoiselle Lonsdale. Why have you been hiding your light under a round bonnet? I like that coiffure. It suits you admirably.”

  She said, “Thank you,” and immediately rushed on to speak of Mrs. Swann.

  Fenwick was not ready to discontinue his compliments and flirting that quickly. “You were supposed to inquire why I called you mademoiselle, literalist! That would have given me an opening to compliment you on your gown. I wager you did not wear that chez Prism.” His eyes just flickered over the expanse of creamy bosom, with a demure ruffle of lace suggesting more than it revealed.

  “I did, actually. I changed the neckline this morning.”

  “Most felicitously.”

  “Fay gave me the lace. It’s real Belgian.”

  Mrs. Swann had been speaking in a loudish voice all the while. She proved impossible to ignore.

  “I see Lizzie lent you her diamonds, Rampling. And a fancy gown as well, but that don’t make up for her not coming, damned if it does. All my work. Pheasants, a dandy spring lamb, a turbot—to say nothing of the asparagus—and now the Pargeters are not coming, if you please. And n
ever a note to warn me. I call that shabby.”

  Lady Sykes smiled a foxy smile and said, “It was very ill bred of Lady Pargeter not to reply to a written invitation. I must agree with you there, Mrs. Swann.” She did not look within a right angle of the housekeeper, but she knew her arrow would reach its mark.

  Mrs. Swann’s rheumy eyes toured the room and settled on Jane. “So you are Scawen’s lady,” she announced. “Come here and let me get a good look at you.”

  Scawen turned beet red and said, “This is Lady Pargeter’s niece, Mama.”

  “Rubbish! Lizzie has no niece.”

  “She is my niece,” Fay said.

  “Your niece, Rampling? Does she have any dot? Scawen has to marry at least a small fortune. Swann Hall is falling apart.”

  “Miss Lonsdale was a schoolmistress,” Lady Sykes explained.

  “No money at all, then? Dear me, what a pity, for she would make an excellent wife. A nice plump bosom on her, and a good wide hip. She would give you a nurseryful ere long, Scawen. Has she any prospects at all? A rich uncle?”

  Fenwick’s eyes slid to Jane, expecting to see her writhing in embarrassment. She sat, nice as a nun, smiling at Mrs. Swann.

  “Miss Lonsdale has a wealthy aunt,” Fay said.

  Mrs. Swann hit her knee and crowed, “Excellent! You want to keep on terms with the lady, Miss Lonsdale. There is nothing like money when all is said and done. A pretty face soon falls into ruin, but gold keeps its sheen.” She then turned her troublesome attentions to her son. “Snap her up while you can, Scawen. You cannot expect to do better, for there is no denying you have no looks at all, and very little conversation, though you was always good-hearted.”

  “Heh heh,” Swann said. “I would not say no if Miss Lonsdale asked me.”

  “Gudgeon!” his mama scolded. “Is that how the world wags nowadays, the ladies offering for the gentlemen? I knew Prinney was destroying society with his carrying on, but I did not realize it had come to this. Am I having any more guests, Scawen?”

  “Mrs. Rogers and Mr. Parker are coming, Mama. He is a schoolteacher.”

  “Surely not from the parish school!”

  “No, a very select private school for young gentlemen.”

  “He is a gentleman,” Lady Sykes inserted. “He wrote a card accepting.”

  “I shall not brave the draft from the front door for a schoolteacher,” Mrs. Swann said. She pulled at her blankets and said querulously, “What is keeping him? I want my dinner.”

  She was pacified with a glass of wine, and before long Mr. Parker was shown in, accompanied by Mrs. Rogers, the widow of the late vicar of the parish. She was a jolly lady of middle years, wearing a puce gown. Her fulsome figure provided a comical contrast to Mr. Parker’s cadaverous frame. He was a tall, thin gentleman in an ill-fitting jacket whose cuffs were bereft of nap. Everything about him looked undernourished. His long face was emaciated and the unappetizing color of a slug. Even his hair was thin and colorless, not quite gray, yet not blond or brown either. It hung lank about his unprepossessing face.

  “Good day, Mrs. Rogers,” Mrs. Swann said. Mrs. Rogers came to shake her hand before taking a seat. Mrs. Swann then turned her attention to Parker. “He is a long drink of water,” she informed the company.

  Lady Sykes introduced the new arrivals, taking care to end up with Parker at Jane’s chair. “Miss Lonsdale is also a schoolteacher,” she said. “You two will have plenty to talk about. Do you mind giving Mr. Parker your chair, Fenwick?”

  She could not trust the way Fenwick was running after Miss Lonsdale. Of course, there was no danger of his offering for her, but he might give her ideas above her station. If he put the notion of having a Season into her head, for instance, Nigel would be hard-pressed to nab her, for she really looked very pretty this evening.

  “Pray, do not disturb yourself, Lord Fenwick,” Parker said, unaware of the burden resting on his narrow shoulders. He got himself a chair, which he drew up to Jane’s other side.

  “So you are a fellow teacher, Miss Lonsdale,” he said, with the sympathetic eye of a fellow sufferer.

  “I was teaching in Bath, but I have given it up. I’m my aunt’s companion now, at Wildercliffe.”

  “Ah! A wonderful place, Wildercliffe.”

  “Yes, it’s magnificent.”

  They spoke a little about Wildercliffe, then he told her about the school where he taught. When Jane felt she had done her duty, she turned back to Fenwick.

  “You mentioned there was to be some unusual feature at this dinner party, Lord Fenwick. Was it Mrs. Swann’s outspoken way you referred to, or are further treats in store?”

  “The gaiety has hardly begun. I want to compliment you on your forbearance, ma’am. I daresay some ladies would blush to hear their physical charms trumpeted so loudly in public. You took it like a rock.”

  “She meant no harm. At her age, you know, she hardly realizes what she is saying.”

  “Yet she’s not lacking in wit. She knows a prime catch when she sees one.”

  “Yes, and she knows the importance of a dowry, too.”

  “I want my mutton!” Mrs. Swann exclaimed in a loud voice, just as Morton came to announce dinner.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mrs. Swann clapped her hands. “Now we are in a pickle!” she said. “I counted on Lady Pargeter to lead the parade. The highest-born lady gets to go first. We will have no promiscuous seating at my table. Ladies go first.”

  Jane looked at Fenwick. “Promiscuous seating? What does she mean?”

  “It’s not the racy sort of thing the name suggests. One envisages sitting with a lady on his lap, peeling grapes and spilling wine, but it refers only to ladies and gentlemen sitting side by side. Even that lechery is forbidden us tonight. Ladies on one side of the table, gents on the other, like a country dance.”

  Mrs. Swann’s voice trumpeted out again. “You will lead us in, Lady Sykes, even if you ain’t a real lady. Only a baronet’s widow.”

  Lady Pargeter stood aside. “Age before beauty,” she said in a low voice, but not so low that Lady Sykes could not hear it.

  “I hardly know how to arrange the rest of you,” Mrs. Swann said, regarding her motley crew of guests. “A schoolteacher, a companion, and a vicar’s wife. I daresay you are second in consequence, Mrs. Rogers. Then Rampling and her niece, and I shall go at the end of the crocodile’s tail. The gentlemen follow behind, also in order of consequence. Lord Fenwick, you may lead, followed by Gurney and Parker. I don’t know exactly who Mr. Gurney is, or what he is doing here. You’re no one, are you, Mr. Gurney? No one special, I mean.” He shook his head, smiling. “Anyhow, the host brings up the rear. All in a line, now. And mind where you sit. Ladies on one side of the board, gents on t’other.”

  The guests, exchanging puzzled looks, did as the old lady ordered. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” Fenwick said, assisting Jane from her chair. “And I shan’t even have the pleasure of sitting across the board from you.”

  “Certainly not. I shall be below the salt. Are we allowed to talk across the table?”

  “Bite your tongue, Miss Lonsdale! I doubt if we are even allowed to look at the opposite sex. There may be a set of blinkers at our plate. I wish I had brought a good book to bear me company. Mrs. Radcliffe, for choice.”

  “Well, Miss Prism always told us that a lady does not complain. All experiences are broadening, so away we go.”

  He watched as she swept away, still smiling valiantly. The lady had countenance. Not a word of complaint. She actually found something useful in this farouche affair.

  Other than the peculiar manner of seating, the dinner party was not radically different from any other dinner. Both the head and foot of the table were left vacant, so that those at the end of the board had only one partner. To put the host and hostess there would involve seating a gentleman beside a lady. Jane sat at the end, beside her Aunt Fay and across from Mr. Parker. Mrs. Swann was so busy gobbling her food that she did not object when t
he guests spoke across the table. Mr. Parker seldom went into company. He latched on to Jane like a drowning man, perhaps because his side companion was Horace Gurney, who preferred to converse with his wineglass.

  “What subjects do you teach?” Parker asked her, and she told him English was her main subject, with some lessons in deportment. Of course, she reciprocated and asked him what he taught.

  “Latin and Greek,” he said proudly. “I studied the classics at Oxford, and prepare the older boys for university. Education is the sine qua non of a gentleman, do you not agree, Miss Lonsdale?”

  “Oh indeed, and I would add the same applies to ladies, in a lesser degree, of course.”

  “Aere perennius.” Seeing her blank look, he translated, “More lasting than brass—education endures forever.”

  “The classics are a useful ornament for gentlemen, I daresay, for sprinkling on speeches and things, but for every day, I have never felt the lack of Latin and Greek to be a drawback.” Until now, she added to herself.

  “I am willing audire alteram partem, as you might say.”

  The conversation continued, partly in English, partly in Latin and Greek, and mostly in confusion on Jane’s side. It was almost a relief when Parker began to quiz her about her own work.

  “Miss Prism’s is an excellent school!” he said. “It turns out a well-finished young lady. My aunt used to work there. She is retired now.”

  “Is she married?” Jane asked.

  “Oh no. It is an axiom that Miss Prism’s ladies are married to their work. She still lives in Bath, and sees her old friend Miss Prism often. I shall tell her I met you.”

  Jane felt an awful churning inside, yet she could hardly ask him not to mention her. She hoped that, like many casual conversations, this one would be forgotten as soon as the evening was over. Course followed course, until even Mrs. Swann was sated. Phoebe’s instructions to the cook obviated the necessity of the hostess’s doing any carving, except on her own plate.