"Never speak to your father thus, young lady. Your temper and your language only reinforce that I am doing the right thing, so listen carefully to me. There will be no Season in Town, no routs, no balls, no theatre—nothing!—until you see reason. From now on, you will not leave Avanlea until you leave it as the bride of the Duke of Branwell. And I am sending Thomas away to London tomorrow morning so you may contemplate in solitude the folly of your past behavior. It is to be hoped that in three week's time, the date for which I have invited Branwell to make an extended visit here, you will have come to your senses."
Jane made a horrified little gasp.
"And don't think to sweeten me up on this. I vow to you that I will not change my mind. It is time to grow up and be a dutiful daughter, and obey your father. You must trust that I know what is best for you."
Jane turned her head slightly so he would not see the tears welling up in her eyes. It was, after all, the only vestige of pride that she had left, not to fall at his feet in sobs. That her dear father had nearly struck her, that he thought her shameless and a burden was almost too much to bear. But she refused to cry in front of him and show him how deeply he had wounded her.
"You have made yourself quite clear, sir," she replied tonelessly. "May I have your leave to go now?"
He nodded, restraining the urge to gather her in his arms and comfort her as he had done so many times in the past. She looked so miserable and forlorn as she turned to go that his heart gave a wrench. He prayed that his sister had been correct, that he was doing the right thing.
* * *
Jane raced blindly down the corridor, only vaguely aware of where she was or the sympathetic glances from the servants. She only knew that she had to make it to the front door, to the fresh air, to her horse.
Once mounted, with her stallion striding out in full gallop over the broad meadows of the estate, she finally gave way to her tears. They stung her face as the wind whipped at them. Her sobs mingled with the thudding of the hooves, creating a symphony of despair that she felt to her very heart. No one had a right to break her spirit, she told herself. No one! And yet she felt so alone, so small against the censure of her father, her family, the rules of Society.
Was there anyone who would understand how she felt?
There was Nanna. Or, more properly Miss Nancy Withers, who had come to Avanlea with the young slip of a girl who had been Jane's mother. Nanna, who had been her mother's nurse, who had followed her young mistress to serve as nurse to a new generation of children and who, by unspoken agreement of everyone in the household, had remained after the death of Jane's mother to keep a watchful eye on the two children, even long after they were out of the nursery.
It was to Nanna that a frightened and confused eight-year-old girl had run to when the vast house suddenly fell silent and cold, then filled with a sea of black-clad adults who spoke in low voices to her Papa. It was Nanna who slowly coaxed a little sunshine back into all their lives, sharing picnics by the river, getting gloriously muddy hunting for polliwogs along its shallow banks, and even sparking the first laugh from their father by loosing a barnyard cat into the inner sanctum of Mrs. Greenwell's kitchen. Oh, how they had all had to stifle their merriment at the look on that august personage's face on seeing a muddy ball of fur plopped on an expanse of polished pine lapping cream from one of her spotless Staffordshire pitchers. Their father had hurried them from the door so as not to have the bad manners of laughing aloud. But once in his study they had all collapsed with mirth until tears rolled down their cheeks. That one shared moment had seemed to break the ice of his grief and once again he became the Papa of old, sharing long rides around the estate and dinner together in the evenings.
It was Nanna, too, with whom she and Thomas had shared the intimate moments of growing up. The magic of a perfectly formed robin's egg, the tears at being too young to go to Town with Papa, the wonder of a first kiss.
Though Nanna had retired to her own snug cottage on the estate last year, declaring that now her little ones were truly grown up and didn't need her anymore, Jane rode over frequently to visit when she was at home. Settling at Nanna's knee while she knitted, just like in days gone by, Jane would regale her beloved old nurse with the latest gossip from London as well as confessing her and Thomas's latest escapades. Nanna would chuckle and scold, Jane would look contrite and they both would laugh and take comfort in the familiar warmth of each other's presence.
On reaching the cottage, Jane burst through the door with a sob and without a word Nanna gathered her to her ample breast.
"Come, come," she soothed, patting Jane's disheveled hair into some semblance of order. "It's not like you to be such a watering pot. Dry your eyes while I fix some tea and then you'll tell me all about it."
She disengaged Jane's arms and handed her a linen hanky. "Now let me guess," she called as she put a kettle on the stove. "Lord Edgarton has proved a sad disappointment because the poem he's sent is not up to snuff with Lord Byron's work. Or is it that Baron Haverill has refused to let you drive his matched grays, even though you are an infinitely better whip than he is?"
Jane couldn't help smiling in spite of her quivering lower lip. "Oh, Nanna, do you, too, think I am such a frivolous thing?"
"I'm quizzing you, love, as well you know. Now come sit down and tell your old Nanna what is wrong."
* * *
On finishing her halting explanation, Jane hugged her cup close to her chest as if she needed its warmth. "So you see," she added, "I am in an impossible situation!"
Nanna shook her head. "Your aunt has always been a meddlesome woman, always sparking no good. But I have been fearing your father would do something like this for some time now. I know he has been ill at ease about you. He has long worried that he hasn't provided you with the proper upbringing for a lady—it has been rather unconventional, you know—and he is quite concerned about making a good match for you. And you haven't helped allay his concerns, Missy, with your behavior."
"But I will not be treated like... a prize mare, my merits and faults discussed by others, to be given, on careful consideration, to the highest bidder. I won't! I am a person with my own mind and I will not have my freedom taken away."
Nanna recognized the mulish tone in her former charge's voice and shot her a reproving look.
Jane bit her lip. "I'm sorry to sound like a fishwife, but when Thomas engages in pranks he is called high-spirited. I am called shameful. It's not fair!"
"No, it isn't. It never has been," answered Nanna softly. "You know that well enough and it's something you must learn to accept."
"Must I?" asked Jane desperately. "You, too, think I should accede to my father's demands and spend the rest of my life with a husband I care nothing for, a man who may order my entire existence exactly how he wishes?"
"Now, now." Nanna stroked Jane's hair. "I didn't say that. I just mean that it is time you admit that in your station in life you have limited options if you don't marry. You may remain on the shelf and care for your father in his dotage or become a doting spinster aunt to Thomas's future brood, hanging in his pocket and always making his wife feel a bit out of sorts with you—a life I assure you would not suit!"
"Those are not the only options. I shall have an independent income when I come of age, I could set up my own house with a woman companion—you, Nanna! We could have our own establishment and do as we please."
Nanna shook her head. "Do you really think that would suit you either? No, you must marry. Certainly not the Duke of Branwell if you don't wish it. But perhaps there is another young lord with whom you feel some rapport. I'm sure your father would relent if you promised him you would settle down and apply yourself seriously to seeking a man you could be happy with."
"So instead of having my father sell me off, you would have me sell myself?" interrupted Jane bitterly. She tried to picture a face among the scores of eligible men who had ever shown a spark of true humor or hint of understanding when she attempted a heartfe
lt opinion. A void expanded inside her. "If these are the rules of my class, I wish them to the Devil! I never wish to marry! Would that I could change places with Mary Langley. No one bothers to try to force a farmer's daughter to marry against her will."
Nanna shook her head sadly. She loved Jane as a daughter and her heart went out to her in her misery. But she had seen this day coming for some time. With Jane's wealth and rank it had only been a matter of time before her independent streak of word and action would result in the reins being tightened. A part of her rebelled along with Jane at the injustice of it. Why, indeed, could a woman not be free to act as she chose? But she knew it was inevitable and it was better to help Jane realize and accept it.
"Little one, you are no longer a child but an adult, and must grow up and accept the responsibility of your station. Your life has changed." She noted the stubborn tilt of Jane's jaw, a look so familiar that she nearly smiled in spite of herself.
"But you always encouraged me to think that a woman had as keen a mind as a man," protested Jane. "Why should I submit myself to the... tyranny of marriage? You never did!"
A cloud passed over Nanna's face. "That is true, my dear. But don't think I haven't missed things in life for it." She paused. "And don't think that your friend Mary has such a sweet life of it. Yes, she and Martin are in love and will be married. But until he found a position at Deerfield Manor, he had no prospects and she was forced to look for a position, which as you know I helped her find. A good one, too, for it was as a governess to one small boy, the ward of a marquess who lives out of the country. I had heard through my sister, whose dear friend—well, it doesn't signify. But mind you, she was going to work!"
"And control her own destiny," interrupted Jane.
"A fine destiny," said Nanna sternly. "In the employ of someone else. It's not such a fine life to work, my dear, though you shall never know it."
"Better than being leg-shackled. At least can give an employer notice," retorted Jane.
"In any case, it is of no consequence for Mary any longer," soothed Nanna. "Martin has just been promoted to upper footman at Lord Harbaugh's estate and so they will wed in three week's time. I'm sure she means to tell you herself tomorrow. She just stopped by here to give me the news and ask me to write her regrets that she is no longer able to take the position." Nanna motioned to an folded paper on her side table. "I have the letter right here. Would you be a dear and have your father frank it for me? I don't plan to walk into the village for another few days."
Jane slipped the letter into the pocket of her riding habit. "Of course."
Nanna gave her an affectionate hug. "Now, it's time for you to be off home or you'll be late for supper. Think about what I have said."
* * *
Jane spurred her horse into an easy canter. Her initial shock and despair had given way to an unyielding resolve. Just as everyone else was set on making her change, she was determined to do things on her own terms. No one would bridle her spirit! No one! Just what she would do, she still wasn't sure, but just the mere fact that she had made such a decision buoyed her spirits.
She urged Midnight to greater speed, reveling in the feel of the wind in her hair and the raw energy of her mount. As she bent close over his mane something jabbed her side and she remembered the letter in her pocket. Tugging at the reins, she slowed to a walk and took out the cream-colored missive. Written in large letters was the address—Mrs. R. Fairchild, Highwood,———shire. After a moment's hesitation she broke the seal and unfolded the sheet of paper:
Dear Mrs., Fairchild,
I regret to inform you that the young lady I recommended to you, Miss Mary Langley, will be unable to take up the post of governess to the Marquess of Saybrook's ward due to her forthcoming marriage. I know you expected her to arrive in a week's time, and I am most sorry for any trouble this will cause you. Unfortunately I know of no other persons with the proper qualifications in this area that I might recommend to you. It is to be hoped that others of your acquaintances will be of more help to you.
Respectfully,
Miss Nancy Withers
Jane refolded the letter and put it back in her pocket. As Midnight continued his leisurely gait homeward, she patted it thoughtfully and a small smile crept to her lips, one of grim satisfaction.
Chapter 2
"Mary, I wish you joy, truly I do," said Jane as she hugged her childhood friend. Though Mary Langley was just the daughter of one of her father's tenant farmers, they had become fast friends as little girls and spent countless hours playing together. Nanna had encouraged the friendship, sensing that the motherless little girl needed such a companionship. She had even, with the duke's approval, seen to it that Mary had been included in some schooling, noting that as well as making the time more enjoyable for Jane and Thomas, it was providing the girl with a means of bettering her own life when she grew up. A well-educated girl could find work as a governess or companion, a step above being a farmer's wife.
Even as the girls grew up and the gap between their social status stretched more obviously between them, Jane never forgot her friend. The two of them still spent time together, Mary listening raptly to the descriptions of balls, evening gowns and—heaven on heaven—the Assemblies at Almack's.
"Oh, Jane!" replied Mary, as the two friends took a seat on the simple iron bedstead. "I'm up in the boughs. I don't deserve to be so happy!" She shot her friend a guilty look. "I'm sorry about you and your father. Perhaps His Grace..."
"Nonsense." Jane smiled. "Let us not talk of my problems. I have faith that they will prove to be not insurmountable," she said obliquely. "Now, about Martin. I have always liked him. Tell me all about..." And she let her friend chatter on for the better part of half an hour.
"Oh," finished Mary. "I've been a prosy bore, haven't I, rattling on like this? I've kept you far too long."
"Not at all. I've thoroughly enjoyed myself."
Jane got up and began wandering around the neat little whitewashed bedroom that Mary shared with a younger sister. A trunk was half packed in expectation of her friend's coming move and one or two dresses lay draped over a wooden chair.
"Tell me," murmured Jane. "Have you a few simple dresses—preferably grey or mouse brown—that you'd be willing to sell to me?"
Mary looked at her in astonishment. "Why, whatever for?"
Jane sat back down on the bed and threw her arm around her friend's shoulders. "Do you promise not to tell a soul?"
Mary laughed, the scene so reminiscent of countless times before—Jane always instigating some mischief and herself a not too unwilling partner. "Why is it that I sense I should leave the room right now?"
"No, no, it's nothing to be worried about," assured Jane. "There's really nothing for you to do."
Mary rolled her eyes. "How many times have I heard that!"
"Truly. Just the dresses and your vow of silence."
"Go on. You know I can't say no to you. And besides, I'm dying of curiosity."
"You are engaged to be governess to the Marquess of Saybrook's ward..."
"Was engaged," corrected Mary. "You know very well that Nanna has written my regrets."
"No indeed she hasn't. In fact tomorrow a letter is to be posted informing the housekeeper that Miss Langley will arrive on the twenty-first, as expected."
A look of horror spread across Mary's face as the import of Jane's words dawned on her. "You must be mad! Oh, it would never do. You as a governess!"
"It suits perfectly," replied Jane. "I am more than capable of teaching an eight-year-old his lessons. And the situation couldn't be more perfect. The marquess never visits his estate. The only ones there are the housekeeper and the servants, so there is not a chance of running into any houseguests who might recognize me."
"I don't know." Mary shook her head doubtfully. "It doesn't seem right—you, a servant." She looked searchingly at her friend. "Have you really considered what it is like to work for someone?"
Jane returned her gaze
. "I have thought about what it would be like to marry someone I don't care for. At least I may quit an employer. Besides, how truly awful can it be? The housekeeper is a friend of one of Nanna's acquaintances and is said to be a kindly woman. It is she whom I'll have to deal with. My biggest complaint will most likely be that things are too dull." She exhaled a sigh. "Truly, I'll manage just fine, so please say you'll help."
Mary nodded reluctantly. "Of course I will. You know I'll not see you forced to act against your will. Now, I have a few gowns that will do. It's lucky that I'm a Long Meg too, though fuller than you around the hips and the bosom. And you'll need other things I'm sure you haven't thought of. You'll not have your abigail to take care of your needs, you know." She began to get in the spirit of things. "I have a list I made for myself. We shall pack a small trunk here. Martin can take it to Luddington next week and send it on by coach to Highwood."
"How clever. I had been wondering how to get my things out of the house," admitted Jane.
"Well, we'll manage." She eyed Jane's blond locks. "We'll have to do something about your hair."
"My hair!" exclaimed Jane.
"I'll give you a walnut leaf wash to dull its color. And spectacles. Yes, that will be a good touch."
It was Jane's turn to look surprised.
"No matter that's it's only a housekeeper instead of the marquess. There will still be other servants and it doesn't do to be too... you know, attractive. Mamma has explained to me how Lords may look upon a governess."
"Oh," breathed Jane. "I hadn't thought of that."
"And no doubt not a good many other practical things. We shall have to sit down and go over what is proper behavior..."
"Not you too," muttered Jane.
"If you are going to pull this off, you cannot act like a duke's daughter," warned Mary.
Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] Page 2
