A Heart's Rebellion

by Ruth Axtell

  Jessamine leaned toward the window just as the carriage came to a halt. They were behind a line of carriages making their way to the Marfleet residence.

  Megan was looking out the other window. “I should say there are at least a dozen carriages, Lady Bess, and they look so grand. Some even have a crest on them.”

  Lady Bess leaned forward once more, trying to see over her shoulder. “Can you see the color of the hammer-cloth or the footmen’s livery?”

  “I see blue with gold on a carriage two ahead of us.”

  Lady Bess pondered, sitting back and flicking open her peacock-feathered fan, which matched the color of her gown. “That could be the Earl and Countess of Withycombe or perhaps the Marquess of Grenfell.”

  Unable to stifle her own curiosity, Jessamine put her spectacles on and peered out her window again. The coaches did indeed look grand, many with the coats of arms upon their doors and elegant liveried footmen on the footboards. Her heart began to thud as the reality of a dinner party sank in. “How many guests will there be, do you think? There seem to be an awful lot of carriages pulled up.”

  Lady Bess closed her fan and said with satisfaction, “Any respectable dinner party will have at least a dozen guests. This one, by the number of coaches here already, will have at least twenty, I’d wager.”

  A heavy, leaden sensation settled into the pit of Jessamine’s stomach.

  “Twenty,” breathed Megan, excitement sparkling in her eyes.

  Why hadn’t Jessamine pleaded indisposition and stayed home? Why had she insisted on a London season and not been content to remain in her small village where she knew everyone and was comfortable with them all?

  “The baronet has a seat in the House of Commons, so there will be other members present, I’m sure. He is a Tory, so I wouldn’t expect any Whigs.”

  Before Lady Bess could launch into another summary of all she’d gleaned in the past two days about the Marfleet family, the coach lurched again, sending her forward.

  As she settled herself once more upon her seat, the coach moved only a short way before stopping. They waited in silence, tense. Even Lady Bess looked subdued, her fan clutched in her pudgy, beringed hands.

  “At least we are not the first nor, hopefully, the last guests to arrive,” she said when the coach moved forward.

  After a quarter of an hour of stopping and starting, their hired coach pulled in front of the entrance. Jessamine leaned over Megan’s shoulder, recognizing the fluted pilasters on either side of the door, which stood wide open this evening. A red carpet led down the steps onto the pavement to the carriage.

  “Take off those hideous spectacles!” hissed Lady Bess.

  Hurriedly, Jessamine complied, having seen enough, and stuffed them through the drawstring of her beaded reticule with shaking fingers. She quickly pulled the twisted silk cords closed just as a footman opened their door.

  Wearing blue velvet livery and a powdered wig, he let down the step and handed out first Lady Bess then Megan and lastly Jessamine, who had deliberately hung back.

  This would be her first real foray into London society. What would she say and do? How to behave? Would she meet someone to take her mind and heart off Rees Phillips for the first time since he’d dropped her for that Frenchwoman?

  As these thoughts scurried through her mind like a mouse over a dining table, never stopping for long at any one dish, the footman handed her down, and she smoothed her gown before proceeding up the wide carpet behind her godmother and Megan.

  Another footman met them at the door. He looked identical to the first, both tall and broad shouldered. He took their wraps, though Lady Bess retained her shawl, declaring one never knew when there would be a draft, even in the best of houses.

  This footman led them up a wide, semicircular staircase to the first floor, where an older man, undoubtedly the butler, met them and took them into a room brightly lit by dozens of wall sconces and a chandelier hanging from the plastered ceiling.

  He announced, “Lady Beasinger, Miss Barry, Miss Phillips.”

  A sea of faces seemed to turn their way. How many were titled ladies and gentlemen, members of Parliament or high-placed officers, she wondered, spotting a red coat in the midst.

  It was not quite a sea, she amended, seeing not a crowd but well over at least two dozen individuals. Lady Bess turned to greet their hosts. At the same time, Mr. Marfleet came up to them with a hesitant smile.

  “Good evening.” He bowed to both Jessamine and Megan as Lady Bess spoke to Sir Geoffrey and his wife. “I’m glad you could come. May I present my parents, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Marfleet? And my sister, Miss Delawney Marfleet?”

  Jessamine faced a distinguished-looking couple and a young lady at their side. She made her curtsy alongside Megan.

  Sir Geoffrey reminded her of Sir Harold in a mature, fiftyish way, his dark blond, wavy hair graying at the temples. Still handsome, his chiseled features were ruddy as if he spent time out-of-doors, hunting perhaps. Blue eyes stared into hers, a blond eyebrow raised appraisingly.

  Lady Marfleet was a tall woman with upswept hair a shade darker than her husband’s under a diamond and sapphire tiara. Miss Marfleet was tall like her mother, her hair a similar shade, but the resemblance ended there. She wore no jewels, and her hair was pulled back tightly, doing nothing to soften strong features like her father’s.

  “How lovely to meet you two young ladies. Lancelot tells me this is your first season,” Lady Marfleet said in a cultivated voice.

  As they murmured their polite affirmatives, Jessamine felt every detail of their toilette taken in by those seemingly warm brown eyes. Fleetingly she remembered her conversation with Mr. Marfleet about his being a foundling on the doorstep, and almost burst into laughter. She stifled it just as Lady Marfleet dismissed her and Megan with a slight movement of her patrician chin.

  They followed Lady Bess farther into the room. The carpet was so plush that Jessamine’s slippers sank into it without a sound.

  All around came the steady drone of voices. The room continued to fill with entering guests, the black or dark-blue coats of the gentlemen relieved by the brightly colored gowns of the ladies. She and Megan seemed to be the only ones in pale-colored gowns as befitted unmarried young ladies.

  Everyone around them seemed to know one another in contrast to her and Megan, who stood huddled beside Lady Bess as chicks under a hen.

  Mr. Marfleet appeared at her elbow. “Thank you for coming. I hope it doesn’t prove frightfully boring for you. They’re mainly my father’s guests, fellow MPs, you know.” He seemed ill at ease, and again she remembered their last conversation, this time remembering his words “ugly younger son of Sir Geoffrey Marfleet.”

  Did he feel like an ugly duckling among his handsome parents and brother? Even his sister had a striking look about her, though she hid it behind an unfashionable coiffure and gown.

  “My dear boy, we are tickled that you had your mother include us in your party,” Lady Bess told him. She had no qualms about lifting her quizzing glass to her eye and subjecting him to the same scrutiny his mother had given Jessamine and Megan.

  His sister stood at his side, looking at Megan and Jessamine with frank curiosity.

  Lady Bess’s quizzing glass focused on something beyond Mr. Marfleet’s shoulder. “Isn’t that Lady Gouldsborough? I haven’t seen her in an age. Not since she remarried.”

  Mr. Marfleet turned a fraction. “Yes, it is she with Henry Dalton. She is Mrs. Dalton now.”

  “I must say hello, if the two of you will keep the young ladies company for a moment?”

  “With pleasure,” he murmured.

  Lady Bess was off in a flurry of lace.

  Megan giggled. “You mustn’t feel compelled to stay with us. We are quite accustomed by now to standing about not knowing a soul, are we not, Jessamine?”

  Jessamine smiled with effort. She did wish at times that Megan weren’t quite so forthcoming about their lack of social standing. “Indeed.”


  “Then you are in good company,” he returned with an easy smile that included them both. “Since my return to London, I scarcely know anyone.”

  “And is not particularly desirous of remedying the situation,” his sister added.

  He looked abashed. “Not particularly. You heard the despair in my brother’s tone, and now my sister betrays me.”

  Megan looked around her. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Harold isn’t here. He rarely attends my mother’s dinner parties. He has his own town house—he and his wife.”

  “I see. Is she in town?”

  “No,” Miss Marfleet answered. “Lady Rosamunde Marfleet is at their country place in Hampshire. She prefers it to London.”

  Megan nodded.

  “If you think I am unwilling to go into society, my sister here is worse. The only reason she condescended to come to dinner this evening was that it is under her own roof and she must eat.”

  “My brother exaggerates. He has the luxury of running off to places like India where he can escape British society, and then has the temerity to come back and criticize me.”

  Jessamine blinked at the raillery between brother and sister.

  Mr. Marfleet gave his sister a lopsided grin. “And yet the moment I return and am well enough to be on my feet, I obey the pater and accept invitations high and low.” He addressed Megan and Jessamine. “My sister stays ensconced in our solarium and paints. She is an accomplished watercolorist.”

  Jessamine eyed her with new curiosity. Miss Marfleet shrugged off her brother’s words. “I am passable. But at the moment he flatters me, since he needs me to illustrate the dozens of plant specimens he brought back from India.”

  Mr. Marfleet took no offense at her words, merely smiled indulgently and said, “She is very gifted in her abilities.”

  Miss Marfleet raised her eyebrows with an expression of “you see?”

  Jessamine said, “My father would love to see your paintings, I’m sure. He is . . . somewhat of an amateur botanist, though he does not travel. But he frequently experiments with new varieties of flowers in our small glasshouse at the vicarage.”

  “I should like to see his collection,” Mr. Marfleet said at once.

  “I’m sure it is nothing like what you have brought back with you.”

  “If my brother has his way, he shall publish his findings in a folio,” Miss Marfleet said. “That is why I am doing my best to illustrate them for him.”

  “How fascinating,” Megan said. “I look forward to seeing it. I can’t paint worth a straw, although it is an accomplishment all young ladies are supposed to have.”

  “Since it is my only accomplishment, I do not feel any overweening pride in it.”

  “You look very pretty this evening,” Mr. Marfleet said in the pause that followed, his glance encompassing both Megan and Jessamine.

  Megan executed a curtsy. “Thank you, sir, but we feel quite dowdy ever since arriving in London.”

  Jessamine envied her friend her easy manner.

  “You wouldn’t feel so in India,” he said, “unless you felt overshadowed by the brightly-colored cloth some of the women attire themselves in. They can be quite pretty.”

  “It must be terribly exotic,” Megan said.

  “Even the colors of the land are intense. It’s such a vast area that the regions vary enormously.”

  “I’ve heard it is very hot,” Jessamine said, just to contribute something.

  “Except for the mountains to the north, yes, it is,” Mr. Marfleet replied. “That is why Europeans quickly succumb to the various diseases that are so prevalent. Our constitutions don’t seem able to withstand the oppressive heat.”

  Before she could ask him anything about his health, his mother requested that they find their partners for dinner.

  “I’m to escort you,” he told her, “and my friend Donald Emery”—he indicated another young gentleman who approached them—“is to escort you, Miss Phillips.”

  The brown-haired gentleman bowed to Megan. “At your service, miss.”

  “Thank you.” She returned his smile and placed her hand on his proffered arm.

  Jessamine felt a pang. All Megan had to do was smile. It lit up her face and looked so genuinely warm that both men and women were won over. Jessamine knew the smile was sincere. By contrast her own smile felt as stiff as the plaster molding the ceiling.

  “Shall we?”

  “Oh—yes, thank you.”

  Mr. Marfleet stood waiting, his bent arm held out. She placed her gloved hand atop it. He was dressed in a black coat and pantaloons, looking, except for his cravat, every inch a vicar. She should have spotted it immediately, she who’d grown up in a parsonage and had been around vicars all her life.

  “You are very quiet this evening. I hope this company doesn’t intimidate you.”

  She started at his words. He would think she was addlepated if she didn’t start paying attention to what was going on around her. “Not at all,” she answered tartly.

  “Is it because you can’t see them?”

  “What!” Her gaze flew up to his. He was wearing his spectacles, but they did not hide the amusement in his eyes.

  She had a good mind to whip hers out of her reticule and put them on to show him she didn’t care a fig what she looked like. What a pair they’d make! But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  She looked straight ahead of her as they walked to the dining room. “I told you, I am not so shortsighted, as you perhaps”—she glanced sidelong at him—“and only wear my spectacles when I need to focus on some minute object in the distance.”

  Before he could reply, she continued. “I didn’t wear them tonight since I didn’t expect to address those sitting across the dinner table, but then again, a gentleman who speaks to a lady he has not been introduced to perhaps expects his guests to do the same.”

  She had the satisfaction of seeing his cheeks turn a ruddy hue.

  “I have already asked your pardon about that,” he said in formal tones, all amusement erased from his eyes. “I don’t know why I did it. I can assure you I am not in the habit of addressing young ladies I have no acquaintance with.”

  They arrived in the dining room, and Mr. Marfleet showed her to her seat. As she had expected, both she and Megan were seated near the foot of the table as their lack of rank demanded. She was surprised when Mr. Marfleet took his place beside her. She thought as son, he would be seated closer to the head of the table.

  As if reading her mind, he cocked an eyebrow. “Did you not expect me to sit beside you when you are my guest?”

  She felt her cheeks warm. “I didn’t know what to expect, to be perfectly frank.” She sought Megan, who was sitting directly across the table from Mr. Marfleet. Mr. Emery sat beside her across from Jessamine. She smiled in their general direction before looking around for Lady Bess.

  She made out her peacock-blue gown and fan farther down the table; Lady Bess was already feeling at home among her dinner companions from the sound of her voice. “Thank you for including Lady Bess in the invitation,” Jessamine said in a low tone to Mr. Marfleet.

  “It was nothing. Besides, I could not very well invite you and Miss Phillips without a chaperon, could I? I am not so far gone from propriety, no matter how long I’ve been in India.” The wry humor had returned to his tone.

  She fixed her attention on the table instead of replying to him. She did not wish to appear too friendly to him. It would do no good to encourage him. Her supposition that his interest lay in Megan must have been wrong, yet she did not want him to think she was available.

  Everything on the table was exquisite from the white damask linen to the gilt-edged plates, heavy silverware, and fragile crystal goblets atop it. The center of the long table held crystal vases filled with arrangements of flowers cascading over their sides and ivy trailing along the tablecloth.

  The footmen began serving the first remove, a creamy soup. There were many other di
shes on the table, and Mr. Marfleet did his duty offering her a selection.

  Accustomed around her father’s table to say grace before meals, she discreetly bowed her head and uttered a short prayer.

  When she took up her fork, Mr. Marfleet said quietly at her left, “Amen. I’m sorry my parents do not generally say a blessing over the meal—especially not at a dinner party.”

  “There is no need to apologize. I didn’t expect it of them.”

  He swallowed a spoonful of soup and then said, “Your father is a vicar as well as an amateur botanist?”

  “Yes,” she replied after taking a spoonful.

  “That is perhaps why he named you as he did?”

  She nodded cautiously, surprised that he had made the association.

  “Jessamine. Yellow jasmine. Gelsemium sempervirens.”

  “Or plain wild woodbine, not nearly so exotic.”

  “But just as beautiful.”

  She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, feeling uncomfortable with his notice. “My father’s passion—besides that for the Lord—is flowers. He loves the beauty of them. He has developed a couple of new varieties of roses and a peony.”

  “I shall have to look up his name.”

  “He hasn’t any renown. He hasn’t sought publication, and if I didn’t keep his notes straight, he’d probably have forgotten half of what he’s done.”

  “He is a devout man? Forgive my asking,” he added quickly, “but being a member of the clergy does not guarantee devotion. I have found sometimes quite the reverse.”

  “No, indeed,” she was quick to agree. “My father, however, is devout. That is perhaps why he has remained a lowly vicar in a small village when he could have moved to a bigger parish when the opportunity presented itself. But he knew his flock would be neglected . . . under the present rector.”