by Joan Smith
He frowned then, wondering if he hadn’t made himself sound like a coxcomb. “I hope you don’t think ...”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The other conversation suddenly rose in volume. Jane heard the name Parker, and turned her attention to hear more.
“Not inviting Mr. Parker?” Lady Sykes was saying, with a tinge of annoyance.
“It would throw my table out of kilter. Four ladies and four gentlemen will do admirably for a small, informal dinner. I hope Mr. Gurney will come—if he is able.”
Fay looked to the corner, where Horace was falling asleep, but he made the effort to smile and assure her he would attend.
“You have only three gentlemen,” Lady Sykes pointed out. “Fenwick, Swann, and Gurney.”
“Oh, did I not mention it? My good friend Lord Malton has accepted. I could not leave him out. He would take it very much amiss. We are bosom bows.”
“Dear Malton,” Lady Sykes said, with a shake of her head. “He is looking ancient since his wife died, is he not?”
“I’ve noticed a marked improvement since he has begun calling regularly on me,” Fay replied.
Lady Sykes’s sharp eyes snapped. She had had some thoughts of nabbing Malton herself, but he had not returned her one call. He had been such a lethargic host that she hadn’t bothered to call again.
“Setting up a new beau, Lady Pargeter?” she inquired ironically. “In London society, it is the custom to wait until the crape is set aside before going courting.”
“Lord Malton is not in mourning; it is he who is doing the courting.”
Lady Sykes turned a fulminating eye on her brother. “Get Lady Pargeter a glass of wine, Horace. Where are your manners?”
“We must be leaving,” Lady Pargeter said, rising. “We still have to call on Mrs. Rogers. We wanted to make sure you were free before inviting her.”
“Of course I’m free. What else is there to do in the middle of nowhere?”
Horace knew Phoebe was annoyed with him, and struggled to his feet to accompany the ladies to the door, leaving Fenwick to receive the blast of Phoebe’s ire.
“You see what she is up to!” she said. “Poor old Pargeter still warm in his grave, and already she is legging it after another fortune! And the young chit was rolling her eyes at you, Fenwick. Watch your step, or you will be added to their harem.”
A glint of anger flashed behind his smiling facade. “What a slow top you are, Phoebe. You should have tossed your own bonnet at Malton.”
“At least mine is not draped in crape.”
She rustled from the room and went calling on Lord Malton within the half hour, only to learn he had gone to call on Lady Pargeter.
Chapter Fifteen
“I am going to call on Miss Lonsdale,” Scawen announced after dinner that evening. “You’ll come with me, Fen?”
“I have some correspondence I must write,” Fenwick replied. “In fact, I shan’t be able to remain with you any longer, Swann. I had a note from Mama this morning. I must go to Bath to tend to some business for her. Perhaps you will be kind enough to deliver this note to Lady Pargeter, begging off. She will want to find another man for her dinner table. I’ve written Miss Lonsdale a farewell note as well.”
Swann accepted the notes reluctantly. “Dash it, how can I court Jane without you to oil the wheels for me? You will be coming back soon, I hope?”
“That’s up to you, Swann. I shall return to stand as best man at your wedding, if you like.”
“I’ll never get her to the altar without you to give her a shove. She’s always livelier when you’re along.”
Fenwick was aware of a keen desire to stay, but it would be wretched to take advantage of such a trusting soul as Swann.
“You’ll do fine by yourself,” Fenwick assured him.
Lady Sykes was happy to hear of Fenwick’s departure. At least he wasn’t enamored with the schoolteacher. Phoebe had had no reply to her note to Nigel. No doubt he had gone rattling off to Newmarket to lose money on the horse races.
“Bath, you say?” Lady Sykes said to Fenwick. “Do give my regards to your dear mama, Fenwick. And while you are there, you might have a word with Miss Prism to check up on Miss Lonsdale. I’ve written a dozen letters to Bath. No one has ever heard of her. I begin to wonder if she was ever there at all. Really, it is very mysterious.”
Fenwick stiffened in annoyance. “Do your own dirty work, Lady Sykes.”
“I’m not suggesting there is anything amiss with the girl personally,” Lady Sykes assured him. “Who got the position for her, is all I mean. Who she received letters from—that sort of thing. I have been pondering this business of Lady Pargeter running after Malton. Why would she be so eager to nab another parti if she were sure of keeping Wildercliffe? Depend upon it, when the year is up, the estate will go to Miss Lonsdale, Pargeter’s by-blow daughter.”
“Why would Pargeter wait a year to establish his daughter, if Miss Lonsdale were his daughter? You’re hunting mares’ nests, Phoebe.”
Phoebe said no more. The full depth of Fenwick’s scheming had just occurred to her. He was dashing off to Bath for no other reason than to ascertain that Jane was the future owner of Wildercliffe, before rushing back to marry her. Her anxiety soared. She would send Mr. Parker to Bath to look into the matter for her, at once. He must make discreet queries at Radstock, too. If a Mrs. Lonsdale ever gave birth to a daughter, which she took leave to doubt, the church would have a record of it.
She sent a note off to Parker that very night. Knowing he had a position, she suggested that he say his mama was ill, to account for his absence from school. She was so eager for news that she offered the loan of her own carriage for the trip. She had little occasion to use it herself in any case. Parker was so eager to ingratiate a baronet’s wife, and to have a free trip in a well-sprung carriage, that he leapt at the offer.
Fenwick, in his room writing letters, didn’t hear Parker arrive at Swann Hall. Fenwick felt it was the proper thing for him to leave the field to Scawen, and he could not account for his reluctance to do it. As he sat with the pen in his fingers, staring at the empty page, he saw Jane’s face floating at the edge of his mind. Her shy gaze, her trembling smile, brought an answering smile to his own lips. He remembered her pleasure in the marchpane, and what she called the “wonderful outing” to the village. What would she not say about London?
For quite thirty minutes he sat, imagining how she would look in better bonnets, only to find her low poke suited her best. He imagined how her blue eyes would grow in wonder when he showed her the sights of London. Had she ever been there? He didn’t know. She hardly ever spoke of herself. Perhaps Swann would take her there on their wedding trip. His rueful smile dwindled to a frown. Swann wouldn’t show her the things she would want to see. He’d sit home by the fire, spilling tea on his waistcoat and patting his dog.
He frowned the image away and drew the sheet forward. No doubt he would forget Miss Lonsdale and her trembling smile, once he was away. He would spend a day or two with Mama—long enough for Miss Merton to hear rumors that he was there—before slipping quietly off to Newmarket.
Scawen Swann was at Wildercliffe that same evening, having uphill work trying to entertain Miss Lonsdale, who was in the megrims to learn that Lord Fenwick was leaving Swann Hall before the dinner party, and without even coming to take his leave in person. She tried to find Mr. Swann amusing, but his mumbling and stumbling only increased her headache.
All she wanted to do was run up to her room and read again the brief note Swann had delivered. Ere long she excused herself and did just that.
“Dear Miss Lonsdale: I regret that business makes it necessary for me to leave for Bath early tomorrow morning. I shall not be able to attend the dinner party, to which I looked forward with so much pleasure. Kindest regards, your servant, Fenwick.”
That was all. Not a word about hoping to meet her again. Nothing personal. He had written a similar note to Fay. J
ane’s only consolation was that he need not have written to her at all. At least he had taken that much trouble.
The next day it rained buckets. Jane went to the library, where she stared out the windows at the falling rain, which struck the windows with a hard slap, before trickling in rivulets down the glass. Rain turned the parkland into a silver haze, streaked with menacing shadows from the trees. She only emerged from the library for meals.
Lord Malton braved the elements to entertain Fay in the afternoon. The rain kept Scawen at home, for which Jane was grateful. On Friday she was busy with arrangements for the dinner party. She offered to oversee the table and the flowers, but knowing that Fenwick would not be of the party robbed her job of any real pleasure. What would Swann care for flowers?
The dinner party itself was an anticlimax. With Fenwick absent, the table was uneven. Jane had balked at learning that Fay had invited Mr. Parker to even the numbers. As it turned out, the footman who delivered the message was told that Parker was visiting his sick mama, so the incumbent vicar was invited to replace him. Reverend Hellman had turned the late Reverend Rogers’s practices on their ear, lending the services a High Church touch of Rome that was unacceptable to Mrs. Rogers.
Between the ecclesiastical sniping and the verbal darts thrown between Fay and Phoebe and Mr. Swann’s spilling a full glass of red wine on the tablecloth and Horace Gurney’s bleary, wordless stare, the dinner party was declared a disaster. Jane tried to keep her spirits up for her aunt’s sake. She told herself she was infinitely better off than she had been at Miss Prism’s, yet the dull ache in her heart did not go away.
It was temporarily forgotten the next morning when Fay handed her a letter postmarked from Bath. Fenwick was the name that darted into her head, but as soon as she saw the elegant copperplate writing, she knew the letter was from Harriet. Fenwick wrote a bold, masculine fist.
News from Harriet was always of interest, however, and she read the letter eagerly.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed a moment later.
“What is it, Jane?” her aunt asked in alarm.
“Harriet has been turned off. I wager Fortini has been at her since I left.”
“The poor girl.”
Jane read on quickly. Already it had darted into her head that her aunt might invite Harriet to Wildercliffe until she could find another position. The same thing had occurred to Harriet, and in fact, desperation had led her to take the unusual liberty of announcing that she would be arriving that same day. She was full of apologies. She promised she would not stay long and would be honored to find a cot in the servants’ quarters for a night or two. She had nowhere else to go. She said she would be happy to earn her keep. Tears started in Jane’s eyes to learn Harriet’s predicament. She read the pathetic passage to her aunt, to soften her heart.
“She apologizes too much,” was Lady Pargeter’s comment. “Naturally she will come here, until we can find another place for her. Tell Broome to air the yellow guest room next to yours, Jane. You two will have a deal of gossip to catch up on. I shouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Swann could use her. She really needs a companion. You will be happy for Harriet’s company when you are at the Hall, eh?” she suggested archly.
Preparing for Harriet’s arrival helped to ease the pangs of losing Fenwick. Harriet came on the four-o’clock stage, and was met in Bibury by Jane in Lady Pargeter’s carriage. Beneath an elegant, cool exterior, Miss Stowe had the heart of a rabbit. She was tall, with raven hair pulled severely back from a broad, high brow. Her aquiline nose lent her a forbidding air that led acquaintances to anticipate a much stronger character than the girl possessed.
After the young ladies had embraced and exchanged greetings and were settled in the carriage on their way to Wildercliffe, Harriet said, “What a handsome carriage, but you shouldn’t have brought it just for me, Jane! What a dreadful nuisance I am. I’m so sorry.”
“Never mind that. It was Fortini, wasn’t it? I know it was!” Jane said. “What did he do?”
“Nothing. It was not Fortini.”
“What happened, then?”
“Miss Prism had a caller yesterday—a young gentleman caller, asking questions about you, Jane. When I heard, I darted straight down to her office, hoping to get a look at Lord Fenwick, for he sounded charming in your letter.”
“Lord Fenwick called on Miss Prism?”
“I assumed it was he. Who else would be inquiring for you? Miss Prism didn’t say a word to a soul. You know what an oyster she is. Lord Fenwick didn’t drive his yellow curricle with all the silver on it,” Harriet continued. “He came in a very handsome black carriage. All the girls—the teachers, I mean—were talking about it. It was Lottie who told me he was inquiring about Miss Lonsdale. He actually told her that when he asked to see Miss Prism.”
“Lord Fenwick did go to Bath yesterday,” Jane said. The carriage sounded very much like Fenwick’s traveling carriage. He would have taken it for the trip to Bath. “But why was he inquiring about me, I wonder?”
“Perhaps if he’s planning to offer, he’s checking up on you,” Harriet said hopefully. “Of course, Miss Prism told him all about Fortini. Her version of it, I mean.”
“Are—are you sure she told him about Fortini?” Jane asked. She was assailed by a thousand questions and doubts. The first shiver of excitement that Fenwick was thinking of offering for her was closely followed by annoyance that he felt it necessary to check up on her. Hard on the heels of annoyance came chagrin that he would hear such a distorted view of her character. He would think she had been throwing herself at the music teacher! Oh dear, and he had made fun of those ladies who hounded gentlemen.
“Oh, certainly. I loitered outside the door of her office, pretending I wanted to see her about Lady Alice deGrue. Lady Alice has stopped eating— again. Of course, she stuffs herself with sweets from home, but Miss Prism told me to let her know if Lady Alice was not cleaning her plate, so it made an excellent excuse.”
“What did Miss Prism say?” Jane asked, yet she was loath to hear the answer.
“I couldn’t hear everything she said—you know the way she lowers her voice when she’s gossiping, but I definitely heard the words ‘Fortini’ and ‘throwing herself at him’ and ‘lascivious behavior.’ Lascivious, imagine! What does it mean? It sounds horrid.”
“It is horrid.”
“That would be why Lord Fenwick was so angry. He said he was shocked that Miss Prism would have such immoral teachers.”
“Did he mean me or Fortini?”
Harriet paused to consider it. “I’m sorry, Jane. I don’t know for certain, but Miss Prism would have put the whole mess in your dish.”
“Of course she would.”
“She will never see a flaw in him. I wanted to march right in and tell Miss Prism what I thought of her. Except that Lottie came along just then with the tea tray—Miss Prism served him tea. He stayed quite half an hour—so I had to get back to my class.
“I didn’t see Lord Fenwick leave. I wish I could have got a look at him. However, I did go to speak to Miss Prism when my classes were over. I was so frightened my heart was banging against my ribs, but I could not let her get away with that. I told her it was Mr. Fortini who pestered all the teachers, and she ought to turn him off. I told her that Lord Fenwick was courting you, and if she thought she was doing herself any favors by slighting the lady he planned to marry, she was much mistaken.”
“He is not courting me! Why did you say such a thing, Harriet?”
“I’m sorry, Jane. But in your letter, you said he called, and invited you out. You said he was charming. He gave you marchpane. Of course he is courting you.”
“Oh dear! But at least you told Miss Prism that after Lord Fenwick had left? She could not have told him I said that.”
“Yes, to be sure. And she said, ‘Miss Lonsdale gives herself a great many airs, but it is news to me that she is a fine lady. She is nothing more than a penniless vicar’s daughter.’ And that angered me, fo
r it was a jab at myself as well. Anyway, the upshot of it is that she told me I was overreaching my position to criticize her, and if I was so fond of Miss Lonsdale, perhaps I ought to join her at Wildercliffe. I said, ‘Does that mean you are letting me go, Miss Prism?’ And she said, ‘For once you have understood, Miss Stowe.’ Was that not horrid of her?”
Jane gave her friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I suppose you cried and implored her for sympathy?”
“I may have shed a tear,” Harriet said, blotting at her moist eyes, “but I did not implore her. I went straight to my room and wrote to you, then went to the staging office and arranged my trip. She let me stay in my room overnight. That was well done of her, was it not?”
“Oh, very generous!” Jane said angrily.
“She might have put me out on the street. I don’t know what I shall do if she gives me a bad character. I could not like to ask her about that, for she was in a rare pelter. Do you think I should write to her and apologize?”
“Apologize for telling the truth? Certainly not! Lady Pargeter will give you a character. Actually, there is a possibility of employment at a neighbor’s house. An elderly lady, an invalid, could use a companion.”
“Oh, Jane! You are the best friend in the world!” Harriet said, and threw her arms around her friend.
Harriet was overcome with wonder when the carriage turned in at Wildercliffe. “Oh my! Your aunt must be very rich!” she said. She went trembling through the high oak portals, to stare at the rose marble floors, and at Broome, the butler, who greeted her austerely. She called him sir, and thanked him twice. She was so grateful to Lady Pargeter that she was soon weeping copiously, and had to excuse herself to run up to her room to wash her face.
“Good Lord,” Fay said to Jane. “One feels ill to see what a life of bondage does to a lady. Miss Stowe is a handsome gel, if she could only leave off weeping and striking her breast.”
“She is shy,” Jane said, “but she’s honest, and a good worker, Aunt Fay.”
