by Nichole Van
“It will be at least another year or two before we must stoop to entertaining men of Hadley’s ilk. A sow’s ear will never be a silk purse, no matter how much it tries,” her mother continued on, repeating her favorite aphorism. “More to the point, Lady Whitcomb has informed me that her cousin, the Marquess of Wanleigh, will be coming for a visit in two weeks’ time—”
“The elderly marquess?” Jane scrambled to follow the change in topic. If this were the same marquess she remembered from years ago, the man was sixty-five if he was a day.
Lady Hadley shot her an unamused look. “He is a man of mature age and, I am sure, quite young at heart. His wife of forty years passed away last year, and it is my understanding that Wanleigh is looking to marry again. Moreover, Wanleigh was a good friend to your father, and Montacute has written to inform me that he welcomes Wanleigh’s suit.”
“Oh, you are considering remarrying then, Mother?”
Lady Hadley’s mouth formed into a stern slash, eyes narrowing as she shook her head.
Oh!
Jane’s heart plummeted.
Lord Wanleigh?
Courting her?
Oh, good heavens, no!
Her mother continued on, gaze pitiless. “As the Marchioness of Wanleigh, there isn’t a drawing room in the British Empire that would be closed to you. It is likely you would be called upon to be a lady-in-waiting to Princess Caroline—”
“Does the princess not currently reside in Italy, Mother?”
“Well, yes, but rumor is flying that she will return this year. King George is not long for this world, and once Prinny takes the crown, England will need her queen. We must ensure that you are in a position to benefit from the transition in monarchs. Marriage to Lord Wanleigh will ensure you a place with the highest ladies in the land.”
And give Montacute a stronger toehold into the highest levels of government, her mother didn’t need to add.
Jane’s stomach hurt.
Wanleigh was old enough to be her grandfather. His letters to Lady Whitcomb—which the lady read aloud with regular zeal—showed the man to be a self-righteous, pompous windbag. Good ton or no, all of her shrunk from marrying a man who would simply replace Montacute.
You don’t need to do this. You could marry elsewhere at any time, an insidious voice whispered. You are of age. They cannot dictate your choices.
Hadley . . .
Hadley was here. And there was definitely an attraction there, at least on her part.
Why not Hadley?
Or . . . was she simply grasping at straws at this point?
But . . . Hadley did need to marry an heiress. He could not support a wife and family otherwise. And marrying her without Montacute’s approval would not only negate her dowry but create a powerful enemy of her brother.
Montacute could be petty when enraged. Jane vividly remembered hearing tale of a baron who had challenged her brother in Lords over a bill. Enraged at the man’s temerity, Montacute had ensured that no one in Town would extend the man credit, all but chasing him from London. Time and again, Montacute viciously crushed those who opposed him.
So . . . even if Hadley pursued her in earnest, his suit was doomed from the beginning. And why did that thought make her throat tight and her eyes sting?
“Lady Whitcomb will be holding a ball in a fortnight in honor of her cousin, which of course we will attend. Wanleigh is most eager to meet you,” her mother continued. “Until then, I expect that you will maintain propriety with Hadley at all times. We would not wish to give rise to ugly rumors or expectations where he is concerned. I know such behavior has been a struggle for you in the past, but I do not need to remind you of the stakes currently.”
Lady Hadley fixed Jane with a stern look. Memories of Lord Eastman swirled between them.
Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.
But what did that thought matter now? Jane had become a lady and still no one wanted her. Not without a dowry and political gain attached.
Her mother continued, “We are all counting on you to resist the baser parts of your nature, Jane. I presume you will do the right thing by your family.”
Jane managed a polite, murmured response.
Her mother pressed a perfumed hand to Jane’s cheek before sweeping from the room, the door snicking shut behind her.
Jane tried to move, but a horrid numbness had taken over her limbs.
She hated this feeling. Of being a shiny guinea that her mother and Montacute were eager to spend for their own gain.
What is it you want, Lady Jane? Hadley’s words from earlier rose in her mind.
I don’t want an arrogant, old man as a husband, was her immediate reply. I don’t want to participate in my family’s social-climbing schemes. I want out of this gilded cage.
Jane remained still, fists tight, nails pressing half-moons, as usual.
But thoughts continued to pound her, unchecked.
What is it you want, Lady Jane?
She clenched her jaw. I want to rage at the sky. I want to hurl heavy logs and throw myself into wet streams and play pipes loudly on the south lawn.
English ladies, of course, did not do such things.
Only stupidly-attractive Scottish earls with their swinging kilts and boisterous laughs behaved thus.
How easy for Hadley to ask the question: What is it you want?
He didn’t have to stifle himself. He hadn’t been taught to leash and corral and curse his very nature in order to earn others’ love and affection.
Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.
Her chest heaved.
A gasping sob escaped.
None of us are what we seem, Lady Jane. I think ye ken that better than most.
Oh!
Foolish, foolish Jane.
How could she have been so blind?
She saw it. She understood.
What is it you want, Lady Jane?
She knew the answer. It tore loose from the deepest part of her soul, stretching hungrily toward the sky—
I want my wild, free-spirited child to be free.
I want to be the girl I once was at Rosehearth.
17
Jane’s personal revelation continued to thrum through her mind over the next several days.
How could she want to become that rambunctious girl again? She was half a lifetime older and more mature.
Being that girl had only ever brought her pain.
And yet . . .
The idea would not be quelled.
She thought about it as she stitched embroidery by candlelight after supper.
She pondered it as she took the air in the Italian parterre garden and drove Thunder out to visit tenants.
So . . . what if she let more of that girl free?
Jane had always assumed that no one would want her if she didn’t maintain strict propriety, that no part of that wild child could remain within her if she wished to be a proper lady.
But as her mother had inadvertently pointed out—no one wanted her anyway.
Not for her true self. Not for Jane.
Of course, all these thoughts led to a difficult question—was it even possible to merge that wild little girl with adult Lady Jane?
She had kept her baser self locked away in a tight prison for so many years. Opening the cell door and flooding the space with light was blinding. All she could do at the moment was shield her eyes and try to accommodate the idea of freedom.
These were the thoughts she determined—
That small girl, the one she had been at Rosehearth, had been happy. She had known true joy.
Most importantly, she had been loved . . . by Peter, by her nanny. They had loved her, wild impulses and all. And Jane had openly loved them in return.
Moreover, transforming into excruciatingly proper Lady Jane had not brought her happiness or joy. She had been crushed and contorted into something that felt viscerally unnatural.
And all those gymnastics
certainly hadn’t opened her heart to love. Nanny Smith had passed away years ago. Peter was still the only person she completely loved and who genuinely loved her.
As for a certain unruly Scotsman . . .
Hadley’s presence made it difficult to find clarity, as he was ever present, muddling her thinking with his charm and overly-large personality.
His deep voice carried throughout the house, whether he was laughing with Lord Rafe or simply talking business with the estate steward. The air changed from room-to-room as he walked, as if Nature herself were in his thrall. Jane was quite sure she could chart his course through the house based on the energy field that followed him.
Everyone spoke of him.
The steward enthusiastically described Hadley’s plan to modernize the home farm, going on endlessly about the new earl’s brilliant understanding of land management. Where the money would come from for such a scheme, Jane did not know, but the enthusiasm was palpable.
The cook kept small cannisters of shortbread at the ready, as Hadley had a bit of a sweet tooth.
Even Peter had changed. In a few short days, his tentative friendship with the man had blossomed. Peter followed Hadley around on estate business like an infatuated puppy.
Worse, Jane was worried that she might actually feel a smidgen of jealousy over all the time Peter got to spend with Hadley. The two men forming a friendship felt a little too much like her worlds were colliding and merging into one.
She found herself looking for Hadley. Waiting for him. Missing him when she went half-a-day without seeing him.
It was utterly bizarre. Was this what came of accepting her inner-self more fully? Her baser instincts constantly sought out his?
Two days after her mother’s scold, Hadley found her poring over a book of mineralogy in the library.
Jane’s proper conscience instructed her to make a polite excuse and leave the room, to avoid him per her mother’s instructions.
Her wild, impulsive inner-child told her to admire the breadth of his shoulders and make a teasing comment about chamomile tea.
Neither suggestion was quite right.
And so, she tried a middle-ground—she asked his opinion on her reading. Which led to questions. Which led to enthusiastically debating with him for several hours.
Jane gave up trying to understand her muddled feelings after that.
Hadley came upon her visiting tenants one afternoon and accompanied her through the rest of her social calls. He was charming to the vicar and laughed at Mrs. Jones’ terrible puns. And in between houses, their conversation never flagged. She and Hadley had endless ideas to discuss.
Another day, Hadley insisted she, Lord Rafe, and Peter accompany him to a nearby farm to inspect a pair of horses Hadley was considering purchasing. They dined at an inn, making merry as Rafe and Andrew regaled her and Peter with tales of their university days.
One evening, her mother retired early and the four of them played cards into the morning hours.
So it went, day after day, until Jane was quite sure the Hadley she knew was nothing like the loutish, unmannered Scot her mother and others assumed him to be.
And eventually Jane’s emotions settled into a knowing—
She counted Lord Hadley as a friend.
She genuinely liked him. Her feelings were perhaps even more than mere like.
He was kind and observant. He listened attentively to her questions and gave an ear to her ideas and explanations. He saw her as an equal intellectually, challenging and meeting her head-on in arguments. He had ceased goading her as he had before—as if challenging her to react—and now met her comments with good-natured teasing and dry wit.
Most importantly, he hadn’t balked at her ‘vibrant’ self. Granted, Jane had only been letting her baser instincts out a little at a time. Of course, Hadley had seen her at her worst in that stream, but what would he think if he knew that raging woman was more genuinely herself than the persona of Lady Jane?
But Lady Whitcomb’s approaching ball and confrontation with Lord Wanleigh loomed, weighing heavily on her. As if he could sense Jane’s wavering obedience, Montacute’s letters came with more regularity. His last had been particularly blunt:
Dear sister,
I have had a letter from Lord Wanleigh requesting permission to court you. Naturally, knowing Wanleigh to be a gentleman of superior moral character and aristocratic breeding, I strongly commended his suit. I would welcome Wanleigh as my brother. It is my wish that you act with decorum and unselfishly consider your family’s needs and reputation. We expect you to make the appropriate decision.
Montacute
The letter was a cold dowsing of reality.
Wanleigh had requested permission to court her before even meeting her. Was the man so enthusiastic to have Jane as a bride, he would all but offer for her, sight unseen?
Foreboding skittered down Jane’s spine. She struggled to see a way to avoid this situation descending into catastrophe.
No matter how often she found her thoughts winging fancifully to Hadley, the facts still remained unchanged.
She was reliant on Montacute’s good graces for her financial support and dowry monies. She needed her brother’s approval.
Hadley was bankrupt and required an infusion of cash.
Montacute would never agree to a liaison between herself and Hadley, so if the Scot was courting her for her dowry, he would soon be disappointed.
Dowry aside, even if Hadley was courting her for herself alone, how could he withstand the full force of Montacute’s displeasure? Hadley struggled to convince Lords to grant him a simple Writ of Summons. Even if Hadley had ample finances, Montacute would wreak havoc on him politically and socially.
No, anything more than friendship with Hadley was doomed from the outset.
Was this how her life would always be? She would free her inner child only to have Montacute imprison her once more?
Would she ever be able to keep who she had been at Rosehearth?
Or would she become like Lady Macbeth, cursed to madness for trying?
The morning of Lady Whitcomb’s ball dawned with fiery color in the sky. The day promised to be lovely.
Andrew was surprised by how much he anticipated the evening’s dancing. He didn’t dislike balls, per se, yet he couldn’t say he was excessively fond of them, either.
But the thought of dancing with Lady Jane had put a small spring in his step. Spending time with her over the past few weeks had been . . . altering.
Lady Jane had shed her mask of Prim Jane at last. Though Andrew suspected she still kept the more fiery parts of her personality tucked away, Jane had taken to laughing and gently teasing. It was like watching a butterfly emerge from the cocoon, slowly stretching its iridescent wings. Andrew had no doubt that Lady Jane would be incandescent once her wings were fully formed.
Over the past two weeks, he had found himself actively seeking her out, eager to learn her opinion on matters, to listen to the soft lilt of her voice.
Part of him was appalled that he had taken a liking to an aristocratic English lady. He could practically feel all his Scottish ancestors shuddering in horror.
But then he would remember that his emphatically-Scottish mother had fallen in love with his aristocratic, English father.
So Lady Jane happened to be English? He was part English himself. When she allowed her reserve to slip, she was clever and witty and irreverent, and he delighted in talking with her.
That was all that mattered to him.
Andrew’s valet was in the middle of tying his neckcloth, dressing for the ball, when Rafe entered the bedchamber. His friend carried a paper-wrapped package in one hand and two letters in the other. Andrew met Rafe’s gaze in the reflection of the bedroom mirror. Rafe raised an eyebrow, not needing to say anything to indicate he wished a word in private.
Motioning with his hand, Andrew politely dismissed his valet. The man bowed and left.
Rafe set the parcel and one of the
letters on Andrew’s bed. He handed the second letter to Andrew and then motioned for Andrew to turn his way, clearly intending to take over the valet’s task of knotting Andrew’s neckcloth.
Andrew flicked open the wax seal on the letter with his thumb and then obligingly raised his chin, chuckling at the same time.
“You don’t have tae help me dress,” he said, unfolding the letter and raising it high to read.
“Aye, I do. It’s the charitable thing to do.”
Andrew finished reading the letter with a grimace. Rafe tugged at his neckcloth.
Andrew sighed. “Och. I’m not that helpless when it comes tae dressing myself. I don’t need your charity.”
Rafe snorted, his polished accent slipping deeper into his Scottish roots. “I didnae say I was doing it for yer sorry self. I was thinking of all those poor saps at the ball tonight, having tae look at your blastit cravat. How the poor, wee things will suffer so needlessly.”
“Have off,” Andrew shoved him aside and looked at his neckcloth in the bedroom mirror. The thing was tied into a perfect mathematical. “For a lofty, English lord, ye certainly know how tae dress a man.”
Rafe shrugged. “I’ve watched my own valet dress me enough, ’twould be a shame if I hadn’t picked up a thing or two.” Rafe motioned toward the letter still in Andrew’s hand. “Bad news?”
“Just a note from my solicitor in London. The Committee on Privilege have further concerns over the documentation proving my parent’s marriage, as my mother’s character cannot be fully discerned. They now require a signed affidavit from the local sheriff because, ‘Given your family connection to Scottish unpleasantness, we cannot be too careful,’” he read in a sing-song voice. “Bloody English bullies.”
“Aye. I would speak with my father about it, but . . .” Rafe’s voice drifted off.
