Harriet, despite the fact that she did not want to leave her beloved husband’s arms for one moment, moved to Jane’s side and said quietly, ‘Come with us. What happened? Do not cry. Is your father returned?’
As they moved up the stairs to the drawing room, Jane dried her eyes and tried to compose herself. In a flat voice she told them all that had happened to her at the Farleys’.
When they were seated in the drawing room, the duke said, ‘He was probably nothing more than the paymaster for some inefficient organization of treacherous malcontents. De Mornay sounds like an efficient fellow. He will soon sort things out. All you have to do is try to recover from your shock.’
‘Clarence Farley sent an express to my father telling him where I am,’ said Jane, beginning to cry again. ‘He will come and take me away.’
Harriet rapidly explained Jane’s situation to her husband. ‘Do not worry,’ said the duke. ‘We will give your father a hard time of it.’
‘But I do not see what you can do,’ wailed Jane. ‘I am not of age and he has every legal right to take me away.’ The duke and duchess exchanged rueful looks over her bent head. ‘Perhaps the comte will think of something,’ said Harriet in a comforting voice.
But Jane would only shake her head. He had said he loved her, he had held her and comforted her, but she could not believe he would propose marriage. And how could anyone stand up to the tyrant who was her father?
For Jane the following week was a dismal affair. Still suffering from shock and expecting her father to arrive any moment, she stayed mostly in her rooms at Harriet’s. The comte had called twice, each time to report to her how the traitors had been rounded up and the ringleader had proved to be a rich and eccentric City businessman who had bribed weak young men to join his cause. He had been arrested and taken to the Tower. There would be no need for Jane to give evidence, the comte would handle all that with his lawyers. They would take a statement from her to be read out.
And Jane’s misery seemed to be intensified by the happiness about her. Frances, newly engaged, was floating on air, and Harriet and her husband walked about in a glow of rediscovered love.
One afternoon, as Jane was trying to listen to Frances’s happy confidences, the butler entered and the words she had been dreading to hear fell on her ears.
‘The Earl of Durbyshire.’
Frances gave a squeak of dismay and darted from the room, almost colliding on the stairs with a burly middle-aged man and a thin angular lady.
When the earl entered, Jane was standing by the fireplace. She felt all her luck had run out. If only Harriet and her husband had been at home to lend her a little support.
Behind the earl came the dreaded Miss Stamp.
‘So you lied and cheated and tricked me,’ roared the earl. ‘It’s bread and water for you when we get you back home.’
Jane tried to summon up some courage. ‘I do not want to go with you,’ she said. ‘I am a guest here.’
‘You are my daughter,’ howled the earl, ‘and you will do what you are told.’ He seized her by the shoulders and shook her and shook her until the bone pins rattled out of her elaborate coiffure onto the floor and her hair cascaded about her shoulders.
‘You are a wicked and evil child,’ said Miss Stamp, who appeared to be enjoying herself immensely.
‘Please leave my fiancée alone,’ came a measured voice from the doorway.
The earl stopped shaking his daughter and swung round and stared wrathfully at the elegant figure of the comte. ‘What are you talking about, you jackanapes!’
‘Your daughter is to marry me,’ said the comte, ‘whether you wish it or not. Stand away from her.’
‘I can do what I like with her. She’s my daughter. What are you going to do about that, hey?’
The comte drew his dress-sword and looked thoughtfully at the naked blade. ‘Kill you?’ he suggested amiably.
There came the sound of feet thudding up the stairs and Frances tumbled into the room, followed by the hoteliers, Harriet, and the duke. She had been lucky in finding Harriet and her husband as they were returning home, and even more fortunate on her road to alert the hoteliers, finding them all approaching in an open carriage after making a call on one of their clients.
The Duke of Rowcester glared awfully through his quizzing-glass at the enraged earl. ‘What are you doing in my home, and who are you?’
‘I am Durbyshire,’ said the earl. ‘I am taking my daughter home and none of you is going to stop me.’
‘I had just been explaining that Lady Jane is engaged to be married to me,’ said the comte.
‘Over my dead body,’ shouted the earl.
‘Exactly.’ The comte looked him up and down with contempt.
‘You do not have my permission to marry her and there’s nothing you can do about it,’ said the earl. ‘Take her away, Miss Stamp, and get her to do her packing now.’
‘I’m tired of all this,’ said Sir Philip suddenly. ‘It is all very easy, though why I should help a churl like you, de Mornay, is beyond me.’ He scuttled up to Jane and took her hand and led her to the comte. ‘Take her, de Mornay, and get out of here. Haven’t you heard of Gretna? Take her away, man, and put that sword away. You don’t want to murder this nasty man and hang for it. He ain’t worth it.’
The comte looked down at Jane, at her hair tumbled about her shoulders, at her tear-stained face, and he sheathed his sword and swept her up in his arms. The hoteliers crowded around the fuming earl, defying him.
‘And if you do anything or make a scene, I’ll have all this in the newspapers,’ said Sir Philip. ‘You’ll be exposed to London society as the bullying old fool you are. I suggest you thank your stars your daughter is marrying well and get out of here and take that long drip of acid with you.’
‘I have never been . . .!’ began Miss Stamp furiously.
‘I can see that,’ said Sir Philip, maliciously misunderstanding her. ‘What man would want to get his leg over the likes of you?’
‘Where is your room, my darling?’ asked the comte outside the door.
‘Upstairs, but . . .’
‘We are not going anywhere, my love. I cannot take you off just like that. You need your clothes and belongings.’ He began to carry her up the stairs.
Jane looked up at him dizzily.
‘Are you really going to marry me?’
‘Oh, my love.’ He kissed her passionately and then said softly, ‘As soon as possible. Which way?’
‘Put me down,’ said Jane, ‘and I will show you.’
She pushed open the door leading to her bedroom. ‘Now we will stay here,’ said the comte, ‘until everything is quiet, and then perhaps next week we shall make a slow and comfortable journey north to Gretna.’
Jane looked at him shyly. ‘I will have no dowry. And how did you ever find out my real identity?’
‘I sent my efficient valet, Gerrard, into Durbyshire with a sketch of you to ferret out your secrets.’
‘My father will never relent. I am penniless. I have nothing to give you.’
He wrapped his arms around her again and held her close. ‘Oh, yes, you have,’ he said softly. ‘Kiss me!’
And Jane, brought up to be dutiful, did the very best she could.
NINE
To be in it [society] is merely a bore. But to be out of it simply a tragedy.
OSCAR WILDE
Three months had passed since the death of Clarence Farley, and the hoteliers sat in their private sitting room for the last time, each with their various thoughts.
Prince Hugo and his retinue had left, and below them the hotel was silent and empty of guests. Down in the kitchen Despard, once chef, now owner of the Poor Relation, which he had bought with all the money he had salted away, was entertaining Rossignole, his fellow chef, now partner, and a group of friends.
Sir Philip was moodily tapping out a tune with one hand on the piano. Lady Fortescue had had her way. They were all going to live together in a r
ented house in Manchester Square until such time when they found a suitable property, and only Lady Fortescue seemed happy with that arrangement.
Miss Tonks, who had wistfully dreamt of a home of her own and a husband of her own, thought drearily that they would all go on as usual until they died, even though they no longer had a hotel to run. Colonel Sandhurst had taken the arrangement to mean that Lady Fortescue did not want to marry him, and his life stretched out, dull and empty, to the grave. Mr Davy had been about to propose to Miss Tonks, but seeing with what seeming placidity she had accepted the new arrangement, he had come to the conclusion that she was happy for their friendship to continue, but nothing else. He was always conscious of the great difference between them in social status.
Sir Philip had not proposed to Miss Tonks either. There was no point. They would all be together just as before, and one of them would look after him in his rapidly declining years and he could not imagine why he felt so terribly old and depressed.
‘I had a letter from Jane,’ said Miss Tonks, breaking the moody silence. ‘She says they were married at Gretna and are now staying with Scottish friends of Mr Ferguson outside Edinburgh. She thanks us all over and over again for saving her life. She is so much in love . . .’ Miss Tonks fell mute again and silence came back, punctuated only by Sir Philip’s playing the same phrase over and over again.
The door opened and Jack the footman and Lady Fortescue’s old servants Betty and John came in, carrying bottles of champagne. ‘A present from Despard,’ said Jack, ‘or Mr Despard, as I now must call him.’ Jack looked very fine in a new coat of black superfine with black silk knee-breeches. He was to be the hotel manager, but Betty and John would follow their old mistress to Manchester Square.
‘How kind,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘Send Mr Despard our thanks and compliments, and do join us.’
‘We are expected back at the party belowstairs,’ said Jack. ‘Do you wish us to stay and open the bottles for you?’
‘I can do that,’ said Mr Davy. ‘Off you go.’
‘Hark at him,’ jeered Sir Philip, turning around on the piano stool. ‘Gives the orders quite like the little gentleman that he ain’t and never will be.’
Miss Tonks, correct to the last, waited until the servants had retired and said, ‘Will you never have done with your nasty remarks, Sir Philip? The thought of putting up with your crotchiness from here to the grave depresses me beyond reason.’
‘And the thought of looking at your stupid sheep face every day of the week is not much to look forward to either,’ rejoined Sir Philip.
‘Enough,’ barked the colonel. ‘Open a couple of bottles, Mr Davy, and pour us all a glass.’
Soon they were all sitting in a half-circle before the small fireplace, drinking champagne.
‘A toast!’ said Lady Fortescue, raising her glass. ‘To our future together.’
‘Future,’ echoed several voices dismally.
She looked about her, her black eyes snapping. ‘This is not a wake. We are rich, we are successful, and we are about to be back in society.’
Sir Philip, more affected by the champagne than the others, for he had been drinking earlier that day, said waspishly, ‘You haven’t got a heart.’
‘I?’ Lady Fortescue stared at him in amazement. ‘I am all heart. I may say what I have done in keeping us together was out of thought for you all.’
‘So here we are,’ said Sir Philip, ‘with the old colonel pining away there. Ah, yes, Colonel, I know your dream. You hoped for a place in the country with Lady Fortescue as your bride, a fine place with your horses and hounds, and she never even gave you a thought.’
‘But I did,’ protested Lady Fortescue. ‘Did you not think that I would not rather be alone with my husband? But I could not leave Miss Tonks, or you, Sir Philip, to fend for yourselves.’
‘Do you mean,’ said the colonel, ‘that you are going to marry me after all?’
‘I did think that was the arrangement,’ said Lady Fortescue.
‘But Amelia, my heart, you said nothing to me of this.’
‘I am saying it now. You and I will be married and . . .’
‘You cannot want the rest of us around,’ said Miss Tonks. ‘I would not, were I married.’
‘Well, nobody’s going to marry you,’ said Sir Philip spitefully.
‘I know,’ said Miss Tonks, and began to cry.
Sir Philip felt a pang of remorse. He was just about to propose to her when Mr Davy suddenly got down on one knee in front of Miss Tonks and drew her hands away from her face.
‘Letitia,’ he said in a low voice, ‘I would like to marry you, but I did not think I had hope because of the difference in our social situations, and because you seemed happy to live forever with the others.’
Amazement dried Miss Tonks’s tears. ‘But I want to marry you,’ she shouted. ‘I don’t want to live with them.’
There was a stunned silence.
‘More champagne, Colonel.’ came Lady Fortescue’s amused voice. The colonel refilled the glasses. ‘It looks as if I have caused a lot of unnecessary suffering. And now we have this house, but only rented. So I shall marry my dear colonel and Miss Tonks her Mr Davy, and we will all go our separate ways. But what of Sir Philip?’
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ said Sir Philip. ‘I’m as happy as a lark. I’ll leave you love-birds together and find more congenial company.’ He stomped out, but, sad to say, the two couples left behind were too happy that evening to worry about him.
After chatting for ten minutes, Miss Tonks and Mr Davy rose and left the sitting room and made their way down to the hall and stood together under the light of the great chandelier. The doors, usually open to the fashionable crowd on Bond Street, were that night closed and barred. From downstairs, in the kitchen, came the faint sound of someone singing a song in French.
Mr Davy reached out and took Miss Tonks’s hand in his own. ‘Dear lady,’ he said, ‘it was a clumsy way to propose.’
Miss Tonks’s thin face was radiant. ‘Where shall we live?’
‘I think I am a town creature. Would it trouble you to live in town?’
‘Not at all,’ said Miss Tonks dreamily, ‘anywhere will do.’
‘This place will always hold some exciting memories for you.’
Miss Tonks looked around, remembering how she had come here nearly destitute, frightened and lonely, to find companionship, warmth, adventure, and now marriage. ‘It will always be dear to me,’ she said. ‘People who came here seemed to be always lucky in love. Jane was our last success, in a way, although we did nothing really to bring her and her comte together.’
Mr Davy kissed her gently on the lips. And then he said, ‘I think, Letitia, you can count yourself as the Poor Relation’s last romantic success.’
Lady Fortescue and the colonel, and Miss Tonks and Mr Davy were to have a double wedding, a quiet double wedding. But the end of Lady Fortescue’s brave venture into trade amused the Prince Regent so much that he declared he wished to be present. Slowly the quiet wedding grew and grew, to become a fashionable affair. The Duke and Duchess of Rochester were to be there; the Marquess and Marchioness of Peterhouse, the marchioness being none other than their former colleague Miss Budley; then Lord Eston and Cassandra, who had worked for them at the hotel when she ran away from home; and Arabella and her husband, the Earl of Denby; and Captain Peter Manners and his little wife Frederica; and even Lord Bewley and his wife Mary. All the romantic successes of the Poor Relation were to be there. And then, just before the great day arrived, Jane and her comte turned up, declaring they would not miss the event for worlds. Society clamoured for invitations. It was decided to hold the wedding breakfast in the Poor Relation, now renamed The Grand, with Despard offering to supply the catering as his wedding present.
The Duke of Rowcester was the colonel’s best man, and the Marquess of Peterhouse did the honours for Mr Davy, while his wife was bridesmaid to Miss Tonks, Miss Tonks’s embittered sister having refused t
o even attend. Harriet was bridesmaid for Lady Fortescue. Miss Tonks was in white, as was Lady Fortescue – magnificent gowns of Brussels lace embroidered with gold thread and pearls, which had cost a fortune. Harriet was wearing that necklace, and Sir Philip could hardly bear to look at it. He had been through so much over that necklace and no one knew except perhaps that churl Davy, whose opinion did not count. The couples were married in the rented house in Manchester Square, which had been decorated with flowers for the occasion.
Lady Fortescue and her colonel were correct and dignified, as was to be expected, but the Marchioness of Peterhouse, the former Mrs Budley, declared that it was really Miss Tonks’s day. Happiness had lent her a sort of beauty.
After the ceremony they all travelled to Bond Street and to the Poor Relation for the breakfast. The Prince Regent, who had failed to put in an appearance at the ceremony, arrived with his friends for the breakfast and kissed both brides, and the new Mrs Davy thought she might faint from an excess of exaltation.
‘How wonderful it all is,’ said Jane to her comte. ‘Everyone is so happy. I never thought when I first came here that such happiness would be the result.’
He laughed. ‘Our happiness, you mean. I think the others have managed very well on their own. All I want to do is to take you away as soon as possible and kiss you senseless.’
Jane blushed, but her hand stole under the table and found his own.
Along the table from her sat Frances, drinking champagne and sparkling with happiness beside Mr Ferguson. ‘It all ended well, don’t you know,’ said the irrepressible Frances. ‘We will soon be married, and if I catch you even looking at middle-aged Scottish ladies, Jamie, I will scream!’
At the end of the breakfast, the Duke of Rowcester rose to toast the happy couples. ‘The only sad thing about this day,’ he said, ‘is that it is the end of the Poor Relation as we all have known it, and there are many of us here who owe our happiness to the hoteliers.’
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