The Last of Lady Lansdown

by Shirley Kennedy

  “Then go see him, soon as you can. Be careful. He’s kindly enough, but like most solicitors, he’s a popinjay with a poor opinion of women. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already in cahoots with James. If I were to wager, I would say you’ll get nowhere, but it’s worth a try.”

  “Then I shall go,” Jane looked toward the window, “soon as the rain stops.”

  “That reminds me.” Granny laid down her Bible and frowned. “You’re not going to like this.”

  “You mean there’s more bad news?”

  “One of the maids, who shall remain nameless, informed me that Percy Elton has been following you about. He has even sneaked into your bedchamber. She caught him red-handed, going through your things.”

  “The devil!”

  Her grandmother smiled at Jane’s use of profanity, knowing she would never use it elsewhere. “Percy Elton is the worst of a bad lot.”

  “I’ve heard he leads a life of debauchery in London. I heartily wish he would go back there and leave me alone.”

  “I fear things could get even worse. All eight Elton children could descend upon Chatfield Court, along with their spouses and unruly brats. From what I hear, the servants are already alarmed.”

  “Then we must get rid of them, Granny. We absolutely must!” Jane looked out the window and silently cursed the rain. Her heart hardened with resolve. The Eltons had to go.

  Chapter 11

  Next day the rain stopped. For two days thereafter, the roads remained muddy and impassable. Not until the third day was Jane able to order the coach brought around so she could travel to the town of Sheffield where Sir Archibald maintained an office.

  She dressed carefully, pleasing Bruta no end by agreeing to wear full mourning regalia: black bombazine gown, long crepe hood, black gloves, black silk bonnet, black shammy leather shoes. For an extra touch, she carried a black crepe fan. When she viewed her totally mournful self in the mirror, she made a face. No matter. She would look the part of the grieving widow if it killed her.

  During the long coach ride, she reminded herself that Sir Archibald did not approve of forward women. She must act as helpless and feminine as possible. Also, she must curb her tongue and say nothing derogatory about the Eltons. She had sense enough to realize that any accusations she made, even though true, would only make herself look bad. Besides, she had no proof of their shocking behavior, and they would surely deny everything.

  When she wasn’t reminding herself what to say, her thoughts invariably drifted to Douglas Cartland. Over and over she relived their kiss in the drawing room, each time wondering if lust alone was what drove him to sweep her into his arms, so urgently, so hungrily. Of course, his actions were driven by lust, and only lust. Men were like that. Besides, had he not said he would never marry? She was a fool to think he really cared. Even if he did, what could she do? Countless times she commanded herself to stop thinking about him, but she could not.

  Stop wanting to be in his arms. Was she obsessed? Love sick? No, a grieving widow was not supposed to be love sick. Besides, she did not love Douglas Cartland. At least, she didn’t think she did.

  “My dear Countess, how delightful to see you.” The ever-courteous Sir Archibald bowed her into his office, offered her tea and gestured her to a comfortable seat across from his desk. After initiating a brief discussion concerning the inclement weather, he settled back in his chair and crossed his hands over his ample stomach. “How are you feeling?”

  She knew what he was asking. “Nothing has changed since your visit. Certain matters are still unsettled.”

  He gave her a knowing nod. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “It’s a delicate matter, Sir Archibald.” She remembered to speak softly, lower her eyes and sigh. “A troubling matter.”

  “Do go on.”

  She explained her mission. All was not well. No one to blame, but a certain tension had developed in the household ... Much as she loved her dear brother—and sister-in-law, and, of course, their fine son, Percy—she felt they would be more comfortable in their London townhouse until such time as the estate was settled ...

  Sir Archibald listened intently, his expression unreadable. At first she had no idea if anything she said made an impression, but as she talked on, and he hadn’t communicated one sympathetic sound or gesture, her spirits fell. When she reached the end of her appeal, she sat back, awaiting his answer with more than a little unease.

  For a long moment, the solicitor sat in deep thought, tapping two fingers to his lips. “I appreciate your concerns, Countess. I realize the loss of your dear husband has caused you to be ... shall we say, overly distraught? Small problems can loom large at such a time, and though I understand your distress, I am sure it can all be worked out. You have my deepest sympathy, of course, but as for asking the Eltons to leave, my answer must be no.”

  “I beg you to reconsider.” She struggled to maintain an even, conciliatory tone. “There are things you don’t know, things—”

  “I have heard quite enough.” The ring of cordiality had somewhat receded from Sir Archibald’s voice. “I have made my decision.”

  “You don’t understand.” Desperate, she bent forward and gripped the edge of the desk with her black-gloved hands, forgetting her chosen role as the pitiful grieving widow. “I cannot go on this way. The Eltons have made my life miserable. I want them gone. James is not the earl yet. Have you not the authority to order them to leave Chatfield Court?”

  “Of course I have the authority. However, I chose not to grant your request, which, forgive me, I find to be most unreasonable.”

  Desperation drove her on. “Then can you at least release the dower house to me? I shall move tomorrow. I shall—”

  “Impossible. As executor of the earl’s estate, I must abide not only by the law but my conscience.” The solicitor gave her a condescending smile. “With all due respect, my dear Countess, I feel your youth and inexperience have led you to a misunderstanding of the facts. You would be well advised to submit yourself to the care and guidance of the Eltons. Finer people I have never met, and frankly, I find your diatribe against them to be most unreasonable.”

  She sank back in her chair. “Then you will not—?”

  “Definitely not. The Eltons are at Chatfield Court to stay, either forever, or, depending upon certain matters with which you are well acquainted, for at least another few months.” Sir Archibald made a show of finding some papers on his desk and shuffling them about. “Was there anything else, your ladyship?”

  Feeling so utterly defeated she could hardly talk, she wanted to give him a quick “No nothing else” and flee the office. But she’d come with another matter to discuss, and discuss it she would. She raised her chin. “I have also come to discuss the tenants’ rents. I understand they have recently been increased, and—”

  The solicitor abruptly raised his hand. “You needn’t go on. The fact is, your late husband arranged to raise the rents directly before his unfortunate demise. Now I, in consultation with his brother, am making sure his wishes are carried out.”

  “But Sir Archibald, the increase is so unfair. Some of the tenants—”

  “Now, now, you should not concern yourself with such matters.” He smiled indulgently. “James Elton and I know what is best. My advice is, go home, take up your embroidery—or water colors, or whatever it is you ladies love to do—and leave the running of the estate to your brother-in-law and me.”

  “I see.” Hopeless. What more could she say? Sir Archibald would laugh in her face and consider her utterly demented if she told him Beatrice had slipped oil of pennyroyal into her tea, or that sly, sneaky Percy was following her around, or that James assaulted her and asked her to be his mistress. It was clear she could throw herself to the floor, kick her heels and start to scream, and he would not deviate one iota from his rigid system of belief.

  Tears of frustration filled her eyes, but she held them back. She reminded herself that this man held her future in h
is hands. Above all else, she had better be nice or he could ruin her. Arising from her chair, she choked back angry words. “Thank you for your advice, sir. I shall give careful consideration to what you have said.”

  She swept from the office, her head held high.

  She spent the first part of the journey home mired in misery. Halfway there, she envisioned the expression on Douglas Cartland’s face should he see her at this moment, slumped in a corner of her coach, dabbing at her tears with her black-bordered handkerchief, the perfect picture of defeat and self pity. Despite her depression, she had to laugh. He would probably suggest that in the mood she was in, she might as well throw herself on that burning pyre in India. Thinking of Douglas made her feel better. Things could be worse, and tears would get her nowhere. She would have to cope with the undeniable fact that the Eltons would be living at Chatfield Court for some time to come, whether she liked it or not.

  She might as well make the best of it because there was nothing she could do.

  She reached home to find dinner over and everyone gathered in the drawing room. She would put in a quick appearance before she went upstairs. Lord knew, she wasn’t hungry and couldn’t have eaten anything anyway. When she entered the drawing room, Beatrice was the first to greet her. “Hello, my sweet, did you have a good journey? How is Sir Archibald?”

  Jane concealed her surprise. She had not told anyone except Granny where she was going, but she might have known her snoopy sister-in-law would find out. “Sir Archibald is fine.” Damned if she would give one more bit of information than she had to.

  Percy stepped forward. “Ah, your ladyship, I trust your journey went well.” His eyes snaked over her body, undressing her as they went. “You’re looking lovely as always.”

  Like father, like son. She managed a brief but polite, “Thank you.” What a disgusting man. What a liar. Lovely? In her dreary mourning clothes, she must look a bedraggled mess from her journey.

  “You should have let me know, Countess. I would have been happy to accompany you. Keep in mind that I, too, love to ride. Weather permitting, we must explore those beautiful riding trails together.”

  She would rather throw herself in the Thames in the middle of winter than go riding with Percy. “Mmm. You must excuse me. I am dreadfully fatigued from my journey and must go upstairs.”

  “Of course, my dear,” said Beatrice. “You go right ahead.”

  Jane left the drawing room thinking she had made a successful escape, but she wasn’t that fortunate. She had reached the foot of the staircase when she heard Beatrice’s voice behind her. “Wait, Jane. I want a word with you alone.”

  She turned reluctantly. “Yes? What did you wish to say?”

  Beatrice’s perennial smile disappeared. “I want to know why you went to see Sir Archibald.”

  The nerve! “It’s a private matter.”

  “I am sick and tired of your tricks.”

  “I have no tricks. I am just—”

  “Where are the jewels? Did you think I would forget? You’ve taken them, I know you have.” The last vestige of Beatrice’s mask of cheerfulness and amiability had dropped away. This was a new Beatrice, her face distorted by a snarling rage.

  “I have no idea where the jewels are, and furthermore—”

  “You are going to regret this!” Clenching her fists, the older woman pushed her red-flushed face into Jane’s. “I will be the countess! James will be the earl!”

  “Calm yourself.” Jane borrowed Sir Archibald’s galling words. “You are overwrought. I will talk to you in the morning.” She started up the stairs, but before she reached the second step, Beatrice grabbed her arm and she had to turn.

  “Don’t push me too far, Jane. I’m warning you.”

  She jerked her arm away. “Warning me of what?”

  Beatrice’s blazing eyes drilled into her. “This is my home, not yours, you scheming little tart, and you will never, ever take Chatfield Court away from me, do you understand? I don’t care what I have to do to get you out of here.”

  Stay calm. Not easy, considering the crazy way her heart was pumping. “You have made yourself quite clear,” she managed to reply in a reasonable voice. “However, I choose not to answer while you are in such a rage. Anything else?”

  “You heard me!” Her sister-in-law quivered with fury. She was so upset that for the first time Jane could almost feel a touch of sympathy for the poor, distraught woman.

  In a voice both soft and disarming, Jane asked, “Beatrice, why are you saying these things? I know assuming the title is important to you, yet you seem so unyielding, so intent on becoming a countess that when you indicate you will go to any lengths to get what you want, I believe you, and, frankly, find it rather frightening.”

  Her appeasing words caused her sister-in-law to halt her tirade. Jane was surprised to see tears spring to her eyes. “You have no idea what my life has been like,” Beatrice replied in a less belligerent tone. “I am only the daughter of a knight, and a poor one at that. No title, of course. I was simply addressed as ‘Miss.’ When I married James, the son of an earl, I thought I was stepping up in the world, but what good has it done me? As a second son, James is only ‘The Honorable,’ and I am only addressed as ‘Mrs.’ Have you any idea how galling that is? Can you imagine how hard I have worked to maintain my position in society when there is only a ‘Mrs.’ in front of my name and most of my friends are ‘Lady This’ and ‘Lady That’? They love to lord it over me. It is simply unbearable.”

  “I do sympathize, of course, but after all, it’s only a title. Why should you care that much? You’re still the same person, title or no.”

  “I do care!” Beatrice fairly shrieked. “You don’t understand the humiliation I felt when you, a little chit from nowhere, usurped my position in this household. So unfair. After Elizabeth died, I was the one who took over running this household, and I did a fine job of it, too. Then you came along, and all because that idiot, Arthur, lusted after you. All of a sudden you were the countess, and I was nothing, nobody, turned out like a vagrant from Chatfield Court and forced to move back to London.” Beatrice’s lips twisted into a cynical smile. “So, yes, Jane, I do care that much. I want that title, I deserve that title, and I intend to have it. No one, including you, is going to stop me.”

  Hearing the vitriol spill from Beatrice’s mouth, Jane decided any more discussion would be futile. She squared her shoulders. “Threats will get you nowhere. Be aware that if you try to harm me in any way, you won’t get away with it. Am I clear?”

  Beatrice glared at her with hate-filled eyes. “You heard what I said. I meant every word.”

  “I meant every word as well.” Nothing more could be said. Jane turned and ascended the staircase, knees trembling. She very much wanted to grip the railing for support, but feeling Beatrice’s eyes piercing her back, she resisted, keeping her head high and her gait steady. Only when she reached the safety of her bedchamber and shut the door did she whisper, “Oh dear God.” Clearly Beatrice meant what she said. There could be no doubt her very life was in danger.

  Douglas. If only she could see him right now. How she longed to confide in him, tell him of this awful mess. She had told him she didn’t want to see him anymore, but he had come to see her, hadn’t he? Then why couldn’t she go see him?

  Well, she knew the answer to that.

  Just then her grandmother knocked on her door and came hobbling in. “Granny, it is past your bedtime.”

  “The devil it is.” Clutching her cane, Granny gingerly lowered herself into a chair. “I came to see if you were all right.”

  “Not really.” Jane perched on her bed and described her terrible day, beginning with how Beatrice threatened her, ending with Sir Archibald’s treating her like a child. “I felt utterly humiliated.”

  “Hogwash.” Granny thumped her cane for emphasis. “Use your head. Don’t ever be ruled by your feelings. What do you plan to do?”

  Jane spread her hands. “What can I d
o?”

  “You can stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Leave it to Granny to bring her to her senses. “You’re right. I’m in a mess and I need to think clearly.”

  “That’s better, missy. So, what do you want to do?”

  Without thinking, she blurted, “I want to see Douglas Cartland again. He’s the one who warned me about Beatrice.”

  “Then see him.”

  Her grandmother’s practical reply moved her to laughter. “Easier said than done. I cannot order up the coach and present myself at his door.” She slid from her bed and started pacing. “Besides, I cannot because,” she felt the faint blush creep over her cheeks, “I have a lot of reasons.”

  “Ah, so that’s how it is,” Granny said softly.

  “That’s how it is.” She sank down on the bed again. “I haven’t forgotten Sir Archibald reminding me about ‘the appearance of propriety,’ but when I’m with Douglas, propriety seems to fly right out the window.”

  “Anything else?” Granny asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Frowning, she glanced down at her black mourning gown. “I’m supposed to be the grieving widow. This is the worst possible time for me to even think about another man.”

  Granny issued one of her skeptical sniffs.

  “I know, but if Mama could read some of the disgraceful thoughts that run through my mind, she would be horrified.”

  “When will you stop worrying about what your mother thinks?”

  “Truly I don’t, Granny, but I myself worry about what I’m thinking. I find myself daydreaming about Douglas Cartland all the time. I know I shouldn’t—”

  “Dear girl, if we ever lose our dreams, then we are lost.”

  “You don’t know what I’m dreaming.”

  “Yes, I do.” Her grandmother sat for a while, looking into space with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she had just drifted off to another time, another place. “His name was Daniel Barnes,” she said in a soft, wistful voice.

  “Someone you loved? You’ve never mentioned him.”