Burscough looked surprised, as if he had forgotten about his mistress and his bastard children. “I’ll send something,” he said dismissively and stalked to the door.
Jenny stared at the back of his powerful shoulders and squat figure, her dismay turning to distaste. It was bad enough that Burscough had a mistress of such duration he had fathered a ten-year-old boy with her, but now he was turning his back on her with no notice. How unfeeling could a man be? The woman had been in the last stages of pregnancy when Jenny had seen her in March. She would have delivered the child by now and have an infant to care for as well as the son.
There was no money to spare for Burscough to send her something. Jenny was thoroughly familiar with the household finances, unlike many wives, for Burscough insisted she take care of such matters. Even a few pounds would strain the resources of the estate and would require disappointing local merchants at the end of the month.
Although, Jenny knew she would rather go without dresses and furbelows and disappoint the merchants and discredit Burscough’s reputation, than let the woman starve without support. She would ensure the woman received a little each month, even if Burscough failed to arrange it.
Jenny glanced at the lap secretary. Her letter to Jack lay on the top. Burscough had not even glanced at it. He had been too taken with the news of an impending heir. The letter was only the latest attempt at writing to tell Jack what had happened. The many other letters she had begun had all petered out beyond the announcement that she was with child, while her terror over the future had swamped her thoughts and frozen her fingers.
Now she picked up the secretary, settled it on her knees, dipped the pen and wrote.
My dearest darling Jack:
Burscough wishes to return home to Lancashire today. Under the circumstances, I can see no way for us to be together in the future, for he has dismissed his mistress and turns his attention to his responsibilities as a duke. As his wife, I must honor that intention.
This season was a brief, stolen moment, that we were lucky to have and we were even more fortunate that we were never discovered. Now the season is over. If you are truthful to yourself, you will admit that you are glad the madness will end and you can return to a life without deceit.
I will love you always. Nothing will ever change that.
I just cannot be with you.
Jenny.
Before she could reconsider, Jenny sealed the letter and affixed a Penny Black stamp. She would drop the letter into a pillar box at the train station.
Then Whittle arrived to discuss the closure of the London house for the off-season and travel arrangements for the household. Jenny was pulled into the day-to-day details of her life.
Burscough fussed over her physical comfort when they settled in their compartment on the Manchester train several hours later. He swore at Whittle when her lap rug could not be found and sent him away with threats to dismiss him for his slovenly carelessness.
Then he threw himself onto the seat opposite Jenny and gripped his hands together as he studied her.
“I am quite alright,” Jenny assured him, hiding her uneasiness at Burscough’s sudden concern and caring.
“I will take no risks,” Burscough replied.
Jenny thought of the infant he had abandoned in Saint Pancras and said nothing.
“I do believe this is an omen,” Burscough said. “A good omen. Have you ever had a moment like that in your life? When you realized that you have a choice before you, one that, if you choose the other path, will alter…everything?”
Jenny’s heart ached. “Yes,” she whispered. “I have faced those choices.”
Burscough nodded. “All was black, before today. Now…there is light. You have given me that.”
He sat back, his extraordinary confession done. He said no more but looked through the window at the outer suburbs of London falling away as the train headed north, his face in repose, with no anger marring the features.
Jenny looked out the window and thought of Jack, instead. Her choice today had closed off the light. All she could see ahead was darkness.
Chapter Thirteen
Present day: The Garrick Club, King Street, St. James, London. February 1867.
“There seems to be some sort of fuss at the door,” Dane said, peering through the carriage window and frowning.
Ben bent to look. “That’s Will. And Peter…and good lord, I think that is Daniel. He’s back from America. Why are they all standing at the door like that?”
Dane met his gaze. “I’m afraid I can guess.”
The carriage halted. Ben gave a soft oath and pushed the door open. “Jenny?”
Dane stepped down behind him and paid the driver. “Let’s see.” He resettled his hat and dropped the cane down so the silver head was in his hand.
They moved down the footpath toward the solid oak doors of the Garrick Club. There were two bright gas lanterns on either side of the doors, illuminating the footpath and the group of well-dressed gentlemen gathered upon it.
The club’s footman, Jessup, a big man with a large mustache and an even larger belly, stood barring the door. His red coat and gold buttons were bright in the gas light.
Pedestrians on the other side of King Street were glancing over and whispering to each other as they passed.
Ben slowed his pace as he got closer.
Dane, though, quickened his. He pushed through the shoulders of the small group of men, moving right up to Jessup. “Jessup, what on earth is the fuss about?” He used a mild tone, as if he didn’t already know exactly why Jessup was refusing to allow any of Ben’s family into the club.
Jessup grew red in the face. “Your Grace,” he acknowledged. “I’ve been given me orders, your Grace. These gentlemen can’t be allowed in.”
“Don’t be silly, Jessup,” Dane replied. “They’re perfectly respectable. They all pay their bills and hold their liquor better than you, which is more than I can say for some members. Open the door, there’s a good chap.”
Ben sidled up next to Daniel. “Welcome home,” he murmured.
Daniel glanced at him, then smiled and shook his hand. “They said you were coming tonight.”
“You’ve picked an interesting night to attend,” Ben said, jerking his chin toward Jessup and Dane.
“This? This is nothing. Try dodging miniballs and musket fire, instead.”
“This is far more personal,” Ben pointed out.
Daniel considered Jessup, who was not moving out of Dane’s way. “That’s Wakefield, then?”
“Dane, yes. I’ll introduce you once we’re inside.”
“I have a feeling even a duke won’t be enough to move the man out of the way,” Daniel said. His smile appeared briefly. “I have been away for five years and nothing has changed. Society is still making storms in teacups.”
“You don’t know Dane,” Ben said with calm certainty.
“I don’t,” Daniel admitted. He settled his gaze upon Dane.
“See here, Jessup,” Dane said calmly. “You and your employers are making a mistake barring these men entry.”
“I’m just following my orders, your Grace,” Jessup said.
“And those orders were?”
“To not allow entry to any member of the Williams, Davies or Wardell families.”
“I am a member of that great family,” Dane replied. “You would deny me?” His voice was very quiet.
Jessup swallowed. “I’m afraid, your Grace, that I would have to.”
“I am a fully paid-up member of the club, Jessup. So are these men. How would it appear if word got about that the club was arbitrarily deciding who could be participating members or not, based upon gossip in the newspapers? Why, every man in the club should be denied, if that is the measure of a member in good standing.”
Daniel grinned. “He’s making the man think. Clever.”
Jessup just looked confused. “I…don’t rightly know, your Grace.”
“You are in a positi
on of privilege, Jessup. You must know. You have the power to allow entry. You should understand the decisions you make. You are judging men based upon unsubstantiated rumors.”
Jessup licked his lips, doubt and confusion warring in his eyes. “But…the court case…” he said helplessly.
“Until the matter has been decided upon by a judge, no other man should declare themselves superior than he and rule accordingly. Do you consider yourself wiser than the judge, Jessup?”
“I…ah…no,” Jessup admitted.
“Yet you are judging these men for something that has not yet been decided.”
Jessup glanced at the four men standing on the pavement behind Dane. He looked frightened now.
“He’s rather good, isn’t he?” Daniel murmured to Ben.
“Dane? Yes.”
Another club member stepped through the four of them and up to the step that Dane stood upon. He touched his hat to Dane. The brim shadowed his face. Ben felt a slither of shock when he recognized the keen blue eyes and sharp chin, with its red, closely trimmed beard.
The man glared at Jessup. “Oh, let the members in, for heaven’s sake, Jessup. They’re cluttering up the footpath and embarrassing the club. Go on. Open the damn door and let me in.”
Jessup, in the face of a member’s rancor and the hint of public shame, turned and fumbled for the handle, then pushed the door open and moved aside. The man in the soft hat stepped inside. Dane hesitated. When Jessup remained standing with the door open, he stepped in and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Good decision, Jessup,” he said quietly.
“Who was that?” Daniel breathed as they climbed the steps and moved inside.
“I think…” Ben peered ahead. At the back of the big entry way, the man was handing his hat to another footman, and removing his coat. The red hair glowed in the lamplight. “Yes, it’s Stephen Crispin Spearing, the opposing solicitor in Jenny’s case.” Secondary shock touched him once more.
“I have been away too long,” Daniel said, removing his cape. “I have never heard of him before.”
“I can give you all the detail you want,” Ben said dryly.
“I should first give my thanks to your duke. It was the smart thing to do, to force the matter, yet too many of the higher ranks haven’t the backbone for making a spectacle the way he just did.”
“Dane doesn’t like hypocrisy,” Ben told him.
“If he always responds to hypocrisy that way, he’s in for a rough few weeks,” Daniel judged. “The newspapers have only just begun to settle into this, you realize? It is far too salacious a scandal for them to not milk it for every copy they can sell.” His tone was one of a man who knew his business.
Ben sighed. “I feared it might be.”
Daniel clapped his shoulder. “We’re in, and the gossips cowed for an evening. Where’s the brandy, then? Or did you lot drink it all while I was gone?”
* * * * *
Two years ago: The Burscough Estate, Lancashire. March 1865.
Jackson Vaughn Ryder was seven months old when Jack reached past the shield Jenny had raised and spoke to her. He did it with subterfuge, for which Jenny did not blame him, for she burned every letter he had sent. She had made herself place them on the flames unopened, even though she longed to hear his voice, even in script. The number of letters had reduced over the summer, while Jenny tried to be a good wife.
The challenges of running an estate with too few resources took up much of her time. Jenny found herself turning to tasks for which she had no experience or skills and learning as she completed them. She made candles from lard and worked with the cook to preserve every morsel of food to tide them over the winter. Gardening—not of roses and hollyhocks, but of vegetables and fruit trees—became her lot. Walking miles to pick berries and mushrooms, wild greens and more were a weekly chore.
Every yard of fabric was turned to good use. The tiniest scrap was worked into quilts for their beds, while old garments were dismantled and reworked into new garments, especially for Jackson, who seemed to grow at an alarming rate.
Jenny learned to card wool and spin it with a spindle that Whittle had hued from a stout piece of oak, after she had shown him a picture of one in one of the few dusty books in the house. Cook taught her how to dye the wool with vegetables and fruit. She had always known how to knit. Now, though, she had a new appreciation for the skeins of wool she had purchased in the past with nary a thought for the work that went into the making of them. The colors and evenness of those skeins were marvelous compared to the bumpy, faded wool she produced, yet the shawls and blankets she knitted were warm.
Then there was sewing—more and more of it every day and none of it the delicate embroidery with silks that a lady kept herself busy with. Burscough needed shirts and linens, and repairs to his aging garments. Household linens would mysteriously tear overnight. Hems would unravel and seams split without notice. There was always far more ordinary household sewing to complete than Jenny had time to do. Tending her own wardrobe just wasn’t possible. She patched tears and basted hems as needed, although the making of a completely new dress took time she simply didn’t have.
Her correspondence fell behind. Time spent writing chatty letters to friends and family was a luxury she could not justify. There had been no letters from her father, of course. Elisa had written a few times. Her letters were bland recitations of news from home and Jenny could sense her reservation.
Peter and Will had never been regular correspondents and for many years Sharla had not written to anyone at all.
When the letter appeared at the breakfast table with Sharla’s terrible penmanship on the front, Jenny felt as if she had been handed a rather sweet gift—a tiny indulgence in her day of parsimony and making do.
She broke the seal eagerly and unfolded it, while Burscough munched through his single slice of bacon, holding it in his grease-covered fingers and enjoying it with open pleasure.
The strong, bold hand inside the letter was not Sharla’s. Jenny knew the writing well. Before she could quickly fold the letter, phrases and words leapt out at her.
…forgive Sharla for the deception…
…no announcement in the newspapers about the birth…
…must know that you are well, that he is not mistreating you…
…concerned…
…silence…
…I understand...
Her hand trembled. Close the letter. Burn it, Jenny told herself.
Yet she could not. Jack was speaking to her and it was impossible, now she had read a sliver of his words, to fold the letter back up and not read the rest.
“News, Gwendolyn?” Burscough asked, as he wiped his fingers on his napkin. It had taken weeks of gentle coaxing for him to stop using the hem of the tablecloth.
“My…” Her throat closed up. She had never directly lied to Burscough and she couldn’t now.
He glanced at the front of the letter. “Your sister? That writing of hers is distinctive.”
Jenny turned the letter over, to look at Sharla’s scrawled hand. “It is,” she agreed.
Burscough pulled the teapot closer and poured himself a cup, his curiosity satisfied.
Jenny turned back to the letter.
Jenny:
First you must forgive Sharla for the deception she has played. If you will not open my letters, and I can only presume you have not, for you have responded to none of them, then I must try one last time to reach you. Sharla has agreed to this because she is as concerned about you as I—as are we all, including Father, who will never admit it.
I have said everything I will about the child. I haven’t the heart to go over it again, especially when I know that there is little chance you will ever read this. I will contain myself to the single question: Do you and the babe fare well? There was no announcement in the newspapers about the birth, which leaves me to worry that something went wrong.
Jenny drew in a breath and glanced at Burscough. He was not used to the ways of soci
ety, of the recording of births and deaths and the traditions surrounding them. It had not occurred to Burscough that he should announce Jackson’s birth in the papers, especially the Times. Jenny had said nothing because the money needed to pay for the announcements had not been available.
She turned back to the letter.
That is all I ask of you now. I must know that you are well, that he is not mistreating you. Silence is not an answer, Jenny. Silence only drives me to more worry.
I understand, now, why you left London early last season and why you did not attend this one. I understand, and I will leave you be, once you have assured me that you are quite alright.
Yours, forever.
J.
Jenny folded the letter, her heart thudding with sick intensity and tried to eat her oatmeal as if all was as usual, while her mind whirled and worry built.
She knew Jack. He meant every word and would abide by them. If she gave him silence as an answer, he would pursue the matter. Pursue her. He would arrive in Burscough, looking for her and for answers. The arrival of a high ranking peer and stranger in the tiny village would cause an uproar of which Burscough would be forced to take notice.
The wisest course of action would be to write a short letter, a note, that she and Jackson fared well.
Then Jack would go away as he had promised.
Only, she didn’t think she could write the note, for she was not fine. Not at all.
Jenny glanced around the plain room with the faded walls and lack of furniture. The scratched tabletop and the stained linens.
Every day drew out like a long, sad note on a viola, full of worry for her son and struggles to meet simple needs she had once taken for granted. If Jackson developed a fever, she had no recourse but to nurse him herself, with her ignorance her only guide.
If the merchants in the village ever banded together to confront them about the growing sums of money Burscough owed them, Jenny didn’t know what they would do. Only the villagers’ respect for their lord made them tolerate the debts. Jenny hated visiting the village shops, now. She had not moved out of the house for weeks.
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