Plain Jane

by Beaton, M. C.

  With nothing but the occasional visits of Mr Nevill to occupy her mind, Jane once more set to work and badgered Rainbird for more information on the late Clara. All that Rainbird could add to what he had previously told her was that Clara had one female friend, a Miss Lucas, who was believed to be in London for her umpteenth Season. Despite the size of her dowry, she was considered exceeding plain and would not ‘take’.

  Jane, puzzled, said that Miss Lucas seemed an odd sort of friend for the beautiful Clara. Rainbird primmed his lips and said he thought Miss Clara enjoyed the contrast between her own looks and those of Miss Lucas. It was another little thing added to the list of things already stored in Jane’s mind, which all added up to form one rather unpleasant character. This whetted her interest rather than otherwise. Now it appeared more and more as if Clara Vere-Baxton were just the type to get herself murdered.

  Encouraged by what she began to believe to be Mr Nevill’s courtship of Jane, Mrs Hart decided to take her to a party that evening in Queen Street. There was no need to buy her a new gown. The one she had worn for the dinner in the honour of the Marquess of Berry would do. Jane was well aware there was nothing of the lover in Mr Nevill’s attentions and often wondered why he should seek her company so often, but she wished to go out in society to see if she could find Miss Lucas and so she did not say anything to make her mother think otherwise.

  The party was given by a Mrs Grace Baillie in her curious apartments on the ground floor of an old-fashioned house in Queen Street. Mrs Baillie was good ton but not very rich. The rooms were small and ill-furnished and so she had hit upon a novel way of arranging them. All the doors were taken away, all the movables carried off, and the walls were covered with evergreens and set about with trees in pots, through the leaves of which peeped the lights of coloured lamps festooned with garlands of paper flowers. Passages, parlours, bedrooms, and cupboards were all adorned, and in various corners were surprises for the amusement of the visitors: a cage of birds, a stuffed figure in a bower, water trickling over mossy stones in an ivy-covered basin, a shepherdess in white muslin, a wreath, and a crook offering ices, a Highland laddie in a kilt presenting lemonade, a cupid with cake, a gypsy with fruit, along with many other contrived intricacies, which formed a sort of maze. It was called an Arcadian entertainment and the ton were so thrilled with it all that several wits were already sitting in corners composing verses in honour of the evening.

  Jane wandered away from her mother and Euphemia and asked various people whether Miss Lucas was present. At last, a debutante said she had just seen Miss Lucas arriving and Jane threaded her way back through the maze of small rooms and passages towards the entrance. A few more enquiries and she found herself face to face with Miss Petronella Lucas. Miss Lucas had a long horse-like face and was wearing a girlish ensemble of muslin and pink roses, which accentuated the sallowness of her skin.

  Unused to approaching strangers without a formal introduction and frightened of social censure – although surely it was not the same as approaching a man – Jane shyly said she was staying at Number 67 Clarges Street and that she had recently learned Miss Lucas had been a friend of the late Clara.

  ‘My poor Clara,’ said Miss Lucas with a little gasp. ‘How I miss her! Come apart. I would like to talk about her. I have never had such a friend since.’

  She drew Jane a little aside into a rustic bower where there was a bench. Both ladies sat down together. Miss Lucas began to talk . . . and talk. Jane listened in increasing disappointment. According to Miss Lucas’s story, she, Miss Lucas, had been the belle of the Season and therefore confidante and adviser to the less fortunate Clara. The catalogue of Miss Lucas’s virtues went on and on.

  People passed to and fro behind them and in front of them through the forest effect created by the evergreens while Jane wondered how she could escape. Miss Lucas appeared to be all eyes and teeth and made Jane feel like that unfortunate wedding guest who was trapped by the ancient mariner.

  At last, when Miss Lucas paused for breath, Jane said, ‘But did Miss Vere-Baxton have any beau other than Mr Bullfinch?’

  ‘Well, as to that,’ said Miss Lucas, laying her finger alongside her nose in a most vulgar way, ‘Clara told me in confidence that . . . oh, I have dropped my fan.’

  ‘I think it fell under the seat,’ said Jane, rising. She leaned across Miss Lucas to see if the fan had fallen on that side of the bench when something made her twist round and look over her shoulder. A hand, a very white hand with a large mole on it, appeared through the shrubbery behind the bench. The hand held a dagger. It stabbed viciously down exactly at the point where Jane’s back would have been had she remained sitting.

  Jane screamed and screamed.

  Miss Lucas, not knowing what the matter was, but feeling that Jane was outdoing her in dramatics, began to scream as well. Soon they were surrounded by concerned faces.

  Breathlessly Jane told them what had happened. After the initial shock and consternation, several of the gentlemen began to laugh and said it was no doubt another of Grace Baillie’s entertainments.

  Mrs Baillie was appealed to. Although she knew nothing about it, she quickly grasped that the idea of a mysterious hand with a dagger could only add a welcome Gothic note and enhance her reputation as a hostess. To do her justice, Miss Lucas’s behaviour had convinced Mrs Baillie that both girls had been imagining things. So Mrs Baillie took the credit and Jane’s insistence that someone had tried to kill her was pooh-poohed.

  Then Mrs Baillie got one of her own footmen armed with a wooden dagger to leap out at people from corners and so there was nothing Jane could do but insist she was sure the attack on her had not been a hoax. There had been something so deadly about that thrusting steel – and the footman did not have a mole on his hand.

  She became too frightened to think of anything other than getting home. In any case because Miss Lucas was now laughing at her own fright and making a mockery of Jane’s screams to some bored listeners, she could not be encouraged to go on about Clara.

  Jane wandered off in search of her mother. Mrs Hart was only too ready to leave. She had been at the far end of the rooms when Jane had been attacked and so did not know anything of her daughter’s scene. The Marquess of Berry had cut her and Euphemia was sulking. Mrs Hart pronounced the evening sadly flat.

  They made their way through the intricate passages towards the street door.

  Jane looked back with a shiver, wondering who it had been who had attacked her. It was then that she saw Mr Gillespie and Mr Bullfinch standing in an ante room, their heads together. As she stared, they both looked up and saw her.

  Mr Gillespie gave his triangular smile and Mr Bullfinch smiled as well. Jane tried to drop a curtsy but her legs were shaking too much. She stumbled after her mother out of the house.

  Rainbird was waiting for them when they arrived home. ‘A letter has arrived, delivered by one of Lord Tregarthan’s servants,’ he said, handing the sealed parchment to Mrs Hart.

  She took it with the tips of her gloved fingers and looked at it disapprovingly. ‘No doubt it is another letter explaining he is not about to propose to Jane,’ she said crossly while Euphemia tittered. Jane blushed miserably and followed her mother and sister into the front parlour.

  While Euphemia poured tea and complained about the Marquess of Berry, Mrs Hart crackled open the letter. She stared at it and then turned it over.

  ‘Why, it is from Mr Hart,’ she said faintly. She fumbled in her bosom for her quizzing glass while Jane carried a branch of candles and set it on a table beside her.

  Mrs Hart read the letter slowly and then read it again with many ‘bless-my-souls’ until both Euphemia and Jane felt they would die from curiosity.

  ‘All most irregular,’ said Mrs Hart at last. ‘Your father and Lord Tregarthan appear to have gone to France to rescue an English family’ – she raised the letter and squinted at it through her glass – ‘the Hambletons, from a prison in Rouen where they had been incarcerated b
y Napoleon’s troops. It all had to be done in the greatest secrecy, which is why he says he was unable to tell me anything. They are at Dover, or rather, that is where Mr Hart sent this letter from. Felice went with them as interpreter. Baggage! Mr Hart stood by with a schooner on the coast while Lord Tregarthan went to rescue them. It seems they needed Felice to ask questions in the town and find out which of the guards would be most likely to accept a bribe. They were chased by Napoleon’s troops and only escaped by a hairsbreadth.’

  ‘Felice had no right to be so sly,’ complained Euphemia. ‘I would not take her back if I were you, mama.’

  ‘She is not coming back,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘Lord Tregarthan has supplied her with a dowry and she has gone to live in Brighton. Pah! Paying off his mistress, no doubt.’

  Jane looked at her mother in a kind of wonder. Could she, Jane Hart, possibly dislike her own mother? As Mrs Hart prattled on, reading the letter out loud over and over again, Jane remembered that interview with Lord Tregarthan in the kitchen. Now that she knew he had been on the brink of a perilous adventure rather than a journey to see his tailor, his behaviour began to seem as if it might contain more of the lover than the fop.

  But Jane was afraid of hoping too much. Lord Tregarthan would surely now be more beyond her reach than ever. He would return a hero and be fêted and courted. Jane thought of Felice and felt a stab of jealousy that the lady’s maid should be allowed to share the adventure.

  And yet, taken up as she was with thoughts of Lord Tregarthan, wondering how she should treat him on his return – coldly, a dignified nod, or to a casual smile and a handshake? – she had not forgotten the mystery of Clara. Someone had tried to kill her at Mrs Baillie’s. Someone who would try to kill again.

  By next morning, Mrs Hart was planning a rout to celebrate the captain’s return and Jane felt she could not bear her company any longer. She said she had the headache and wished to retire to her room. Mrs Hart looked at her sharply. ‘You must remember that Mr Nevill is calling this afternoon to take you out, Jane.’

  Jane was almost on the point of saying she did not want to see Mr Nevill, but then she thought that Mr Nevill would know the hour of Lord Tregarthan’s return, and Jane had a longing to see him, to look into his eyes and see whether he cared for her just a little. As she went out of the dining room, she met Rainbird, who was coming down the stairs from the attics. She gave him a faint smile and said, ‘Well, Mr Rainbird, it appears my father is to return to us soon.’

  Rainbird clutched the bannister. ‘And Felice?’ he asked.

  ‘Not Felice,’ said Jane. ‘She is to be an independent lady with a dowry. Oh, I see you know nothing about it.’ She told him the contents of her father’s letter.

  ‘Did Felice write? Did she mention me?’ asked Rainbird.

  ‘No,’ said Jane. ‘Were you expecting a letter?’

  Rainbird shook his head sadly. ‘No, of course not.’ He went slowly down the stairs. It was some time before he could bring himself to tell the rest of the staff the news.

  The first thing that Mr Nevill said after he drove off with Jane that afternoon was that he had received a letter from Lord Tregarthan.

  ‘Really?’ said Jane with affected indifference. He had not written to her. Why should he? Once more, her hopes sank. She had been an amusing diversion, nothing more.

  At last Mr Nevill noticed her sad eyes and asked her if she were feeling unwell.

  ‘No,’ said Jane curtly.

  Mr Nevill reined in his horses under a tree and looked at her anxiously. ‘You can talk to me, you know,’ he said.

  Jane could not tell him of her love for Lord Tregarthan, but she suddenly felt she could tell him about her other fears. She poured out the whole story of Clara, of the party in Queen Street, and of that hand holding a dagger.

  Mr Nevill heard her out in silence. Then he removed his curly-brimmed beaver and scratched his head in perplexity. ‘You say both Bullfinch and Gillespie were there? But they are both highly respected gentlemen. I mean, you don’t get a City banker or one of the King’s doctors going around stabbing young ladies?’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Jane, ‘that people are always blinded by rank and position. If Mr Gillespie and Mr Bullfinch were Mr Bloggs and Jones of Hungerford Stairs, mudlarks by profession, everyone would cry, “Jane, one of them did it. Seize the villains!”’

  ‘Why don’t you discuss the matter further with Tregarthan?’ asked Mr Nevill. ‘Marvellous head on his shoulders. He should be with you tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘I do not know whether I want to see him again,’ said Jane in measured tones. ‘I have not made up my mind.’

  ‘Here, you can’t say that!’ said Mr Nevill angrily. ‘I’ve been calling on you and squiring you around just so’s no one else could whisk you away. He told me to look after you. Besides, he said he was looking forward to seeing you and I’m blessed if I know what he’ll say to me when I tell him you don’t want to see him.’

  Jane took a deep breath. ‘Lord Tregarthan mentioned me in his letter?’

  ‘Yes, I have it here.’ He fumbled in his many pockets and at last produced a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Here we are . . . let me see . . . “curst bad crossing, Felice sick, captain sailed like Neptune” . . . ah, I have it. “All I want to do is see my little Jane as soon as possible. I hope you have taken good care of her.” There!’

  ‘So that is why you have been so kind,’ said Jane, her eyes like stars.

  ‘Of course it is. You didn’t think . . . I mean, not that you ain’t a pretty companion, it’s just . . . Oh, I say!’ For Jane had leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘I did often wonder, Mr Nevill,’ said Jane, ‘why you called on me so much. I did not know until last night that Lord Tregarthan had gone off with my father to save that family in France. He . . . he told me he was going to see his tailor in the south country,’ laughed Jane. ‘Before he left, he told me to leave the mystery of Clara’s death alone.’ She clasped her hands, her eyes shining. ‘But would it not be wonderful if I could manage to find out who killed her before his return?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Nevill, looking alarmed. ‘It all sounds a hum to me, daggers and bodies. Why don’t you go home and get some rest. Tregarthan will be with you very soon.’

  Jane smiled and nodded, but the happiness that had flooded her brain when she had learned of Tregarthan’s desire to see her again seemed to have cleared it. She was sure if she sat down with pencil and paper and wrote down all she knew, then she might arrive at the correct solution.

  When they returned to Glarges Street, Mr Nevill refused her offer of refreshment and drove off. Jane found her mother in the front parlour. ‘Mr Gillespie called when you were gone, Jane,’ she said. ‘What is all this about you throwing an hysterical scene at Mrs Baillie’s? There is some story going the rounds that you claimed someone had tried to stab you. It is making me look quite ridiculous, for you said nothing of it to me. Someone told me last night that a couple of females had started screaming at one of Mrs Baillie’s novelties.’

  ‘I made a mistake, mama,’ said Jane. ‘My nerves are a trifle overwrought.’

  ‘That is what Mr Gillespie said and he kindly left some pills with instructions that you should take them and go to bed for the rest of the day. Really, Jane, I am your mother, or had you forgot? It seems incredible you should believe an attempt had been made on your life and say nothing of it to me.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Jane. ‘I felt very silly when Mrs Baillie explained the whole thing had been a hoax.’ Jane did not want to tell her mother of her suspicions or of the news that Lord Tregarthan cared for her after all. All her mother would do would be to trot out all the old scandals about the beau’s love life and the futility of Jane nourishing any hopes in that quarter.

  ‘I should have known better than to take you out anywhere,’ said Mrs Hart fretfully. ‘Does Nevill show any signs of proposing?’

  ‘No, mama.’

  ‘Well,
I am not surprised. You are looking quite hagged. I must say there was a while when you looked very well. You are too intense, Jane. Excess of emotion can be very unflattering.’

  Jane thought again about Lord Tregarthan, about how he had asked Mr Nevill to look after her, and another sunburst of happiness flushed her face and brightened her eyes.

  ‘And you look feverish,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘Take your pills. You are to take two right away.’ She poured a glass of water. ‘Take them and go and lie down.’

  Jane looked at the two pills lying on her mother’s out-stretched hand. They were as red as rubies.

  Jane slowly took them from her mother’s hand. ‘I shall take them in my room,’ she said slowly.

  But once in her room, she laid the pills on a clean piece of paper, drew forward another sheet of paper and began to write down everything she had discovered about Clara and about the events at Mrs Baillie’s. She gave a little shiver and then rang the bell and asked Jenny, who answered its summons, to fetch Rainbird. Rainbird came in, looking curiously at Jane’s white and rigid face. ‘Sit down, Mr Rainbird,’ said Jane. ‘There is something I must tell you, and then there is something you must do for me.’

  ‘I am going to fetch Mr Gillespie to examine Miss Jane,’ said Rainbird some time later to Mrs Hart.

  ‘Very well,’ said Mrs Hart.

  ‘Do you not wish to see her?’ asked Rainbird.

  ‘Well . . . I am sure it is nothing serious. Jane is a very resilient girl. You will find me at Mrs Baillie’s at six o’clock should there be any cause for concern.’

  ‘Selfish woman,’ muttered Rainbird as he made his way out and along Clarges Street. Although he blamed Captain Hart more than Lord Tregarthan for supplying the means by which Felice had been able to secure her freedom from service – for if Captain Hart had not taken Felice away, she would still be in Clarges Street – he still liked and admired the man and felt he was a fool to return to such a querulous and domineering wife.