She looked up into the mocking eyes, and thrilled to the challenge she found there.
“I almost believe we are,” she answered.
They stood thus for a moment, silently sharing a long regard. A low, drawling voice broke suddenly in upon them. “Good evening, Celia; your servant, Summers. It appears to have escaped your notice that the play has recommenced.” It was the Earl of Bordesley.
Chapter VIII. Errand To Brook Street
ALONE IN her bedchamber, Jane sat on a low stool before the fire, thinking over the events of the evening. A different atmosphere had fallen over the party in the box when the Earl of Bordesley had joined them after the interval. Jane had been allowed to watch the remainder of the play in peace, for no one showed the least inclination to chatter. There had been something in the Earl’s manner, too, a suggestion of menace; could it be, wondered Jane, that he disapproved of his wife’s tête-à-tête with the handsome gentleman she had encountered in the passage?
Jane reflected uneasily that perhaps she ought to have remained at Celia’s side; but it had been difficult to ignore Lady Breakwell’s insistent pressure on her arm without positive incivility. It would seem that my lady Bordesley had no more discretioàn than the flighty young Celia Walbrook had possessed: a chat with the gentleman would have been perfectly proper had it not been prolonged beyond the moment when everyone else had returned to the play. Jane had seen little of the Earl, but she fancied that such tactics would not answer with him. He would, she felt sure, be jealous of his wife’s good name. How foolish in Celia to risk the displeasure of the man she loved for the empty admiration of others! But, of course, it must be difficult for one so bewitchingly lovely to resist the temptation of bringing men to her feet. If Jane’s aesthetic sense could appreciate Celia’s beauty, it was evident that her appeal to the opposite sex must be strong indeed.
Harsh sounds intruded rudely upon these thoughts. Jane raised her head and listened. Sharp voices came to her ears from Celia’s boudoir next door; she could not distinguish the words, but she recognised the Earl’s deep tones and Celia’s and found herself involuntarily straining to catch the words. She picked up a book from the table at the side of her bed. She moved the candlestand nearer to her elbow, and tried to concentrate upon the text.
In a little while, the uproar ceased. She heard Celia’s door open, and the Earl’s firm footsteps departing down the passage. There was a short interval, and the door opened again: this time, it was evidently Celia’s maid who presented herself, for Jane recognised her voice. A sharp sound, as of a slap, quickly followed, and the girl was heard to retreat. Celia’s door slammed with finality, and through the dividing wall came the muffled sound of sobbing.
Jane stirred uneasily in her seat. It was against her nature to allow anyone to be miserable without offering such comfort as she was able; but would Celia welcome an intrusion on her grief? She rose as if to go next door, then hesitated, listening. For perhaps five minutes she stood there, immobile, hearing through the wall Celia’s unabated sobbing. At last, she could bear it no longer. She left her room quietly, and tapped gently on the door of the boudoir.
There was silence for a moment.
“Who is it?” shouted a muffled voice at last. “Go away!”
The sobs were renewed even more violently than before. Jane opened the door, and edged a trifle into the room.
“It is I, Jane,” she began hesitantly. “Celia, what is the matter? Is there anything I can do?”
The other looked up, her lovely face distorted with rage.
“I suppose you have come to crow over me, is that it?” she shouted, wiping the tears away from her cheeks fiercely.
“No such thing, as you very well know,” replied Jane calmly. “However, since you have no need of me, I’ll say goodnight.”
She started to retreat, but Celia ran forward, and, seizing her by the arm, dragged her into the room.
“No, don’t go away, Jane. I must talk to someone. Come and sit over here.”
She seated herself on the sofa, pulling Jane down beside her.
“I must look a sight,” she said ruefully, picking up a glass from a small table nearby, and earnestly contemplating her reflection. She dabbed at her eyes once more, and patted her curls into place.
“It is all Francis’s fault! He does put me in such a passion!”
“He seems very kind,” said Jane.
“Kind! My dear Jane, you can have no idea! He seems to think that, because I am married to him, I must behave as though I were some heathen female in a seraglio or some such: if he could have me guarded by fierce natives with knives, I am persuaded that he would do so!”
Jane disregarded this poetic flight. “You mean that he is consistently jealous?”
“Jealous! There was never anything like it, I assure you! If I so much as to speak to another man, he has a fit of the sullens!”
“Then perhaps it was not very wise of you to allow that gentleman to single you out at the theatre,” suggested Jane, in a diffident manner.
“Oh, one cannot gainsay Mr. Summers! Where he is concerned, I find myself doing all manner of things I had not previously intended.”
Jane smiled: she could not think Celia serious.
“He is one of those irresistible charmers, is he?”
“He is such fun! And why should I not have a little fun now and then, pray — life with Francis is beyond anything dreary!”
Jane frowned. “If you find it so, why did you marry him?” she asked bluntly.
“My dear Jane, how can you ask? Who could refuse a Viscount who has the strongest expectation of soon becoming an Earl, and whose fortune, moreover, is as great as that of the Bordesleys?”
“I don’t think such considerations should weigh at all,” said Jane, indignantly. “Do you mean to tell me that you were never in love with him?”
Celia stared at her, then burst out laughing.
“Upon my word, you are an innocent!” she exclaimed. “Such romantic notions do not obtain in fashionable circles, let me tell you! Marriage is a matter of policy, for the most part — oh, yes, there is the odd love-match now and then, but most people find their amours outside marriage.”
“If that is so,” said Jane decidedly, “it is just as well that I don’t belong to those elevated circles of which you speak. Such notions do not suit my way of thinking.”
Celia looked amused. “I dare swear you believe in an undying love for one object, do you not?” she asked, mockingly.
Jane coloured a little, avoiding her eyes, but made no reply.
“I do believe you are already in love!” said Celia, watching her shrewdly. “Come, Jane, confess his name! Do I know him?”
Jane shook her head. “There is no one. Your imagination runs away with you.”
“That I do not believe! But never fear, if he is one of our circle, I shall smoke him out! You had far better confide in me.
She waited a moment, but saw that she could expect no answer.
“Perhaps he is someone whom you have met in one of your posts,” she went on, musingly. “Some tutor with a naughty eye, eh, Jane? Do you remember the dancing master at Miss Leasowe’s? He was my very first conquest, and I was not then sixteen!”
“You quite mistake the matter. But since you are feeling more yourself, I will take my leave; it is getting late.”
She said goodnight and returned to her own room, regretting the kindly impulse that had taken her into Celia’s. It was plain to see that the girl had not changed from her schooldays. There was still the same lack of principle, the same disregard for anyone’s feelings but her own. Almost Jane pitied the Earl, to whom she had taken an instant liking. But then, men of his age seemed to have a propensity for attaching themselves to women younger than they were; an attempt, perhaps, to recapture their lost youth. In the event, thought Jane grimly, he was more likely to find himself prematurely aged. However, it was no concern of hers. She dismissed the business from her mind, and prepar
ed for bed.
She awoke the next morning to the comfort of a fire to dress by, and bright sunlight streaming across her bed through a window from which the abigail had drawn back the curtain. The girl returned presently with hot water, and a message from my lady to the effect that, if Miss Tarrant should care for it, she might partake of breakfast in my lady’s boudoir. To such a civil request, Jane could only send back a polite acceptance, and in half an hour presented herself at Celia’s door. On the threshold she paused, amazed at the sight that met her eyes.
The elegant room had been transformed into a bower of flowers. Huge baskets of daffodils, narcissi and softly coloured tulips stood about the room; while on every available small table were set bowls of violets and pale primroses.
Jane bent over the nearest of these, and gratefully inhaled the fresh, woodland scent.
“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Where did they all come from?”
Celia smiled complacently. “From Francis: this is his way of begging my pardon for his harsh treatment of me last night. Come and sit over here, and I will ring for the coffee.”
The harsh treatment of which she spoke did not seem to have left its mark upon her this morning. She looked lovelier than ever in a peignoir of rose colour, which fell in soft folds about her. Jane, who was dressed in a morning gown of white muslin, felt suddenly out of place. In spite of all that the Spring flowers could do, the boudoir was for her too pampered a setting. She took a seat beside my lady at the low table before the fire.
“It is certainly a magnificent apology,” she said.
Celia shrugged.
“I suppose so: everything that Francis does is on the grand scale, even his jealousy. You will see — for the next day or so, he will not be able to pay me too much attention. Pah, it sickens me! Let us talk of something else. I have an errand for you to undertake after breakfast — there is a note which must be delivered.”
The meal over, Jane made herself ready to execute this commission. Celia placed the letter in her hand, enjoining her strictly to make haste and leave the house before Bordesley was astir, and that if there should be any reply to carry back, not to present her with it before the Earl’s eyes. Jane did not much care for the scent of intrigue which this raised, but could not do other than concur.
As she left the house and descended the steps leading into the Square, she glanced at the direction written on the cover of the note. It was to a Sir Richard Carisbrooke, at an address in Brook St. Her heart missed a beat, for the name was familiar to her. Letitia Carisbrooke had been her dearest friend at school, and her home had been somewhere in Town. Could this Sir Richard possibly be some connection of Letty’s? She very much hoped not, for it looked decidedly as though Celia were conducting some kind of illicit affaire with the gentleman concerned. Jane conceived an even greater dislike of her errand.
It was only a short way to the address, a typical Town house with a fanlight over the door and three stone steps leading down to the street. Jane raised the wrought iron knocker and tapped.
A manservant presented himself, and Jane explained her errand. The servant seemed uncertain what to do.
“Sir Richard is ill, madam,” he said, hesitantly. “If you would like to see my lady, or Miss Letitia —”
“Oh, no,” cut in Jane hastily. “It will not be necessary to disturb the ladies. If you will be good enough to ask one of them to deliver the note to Sir Richard when he shall have recovered —”
She broke off, as a young lady appeared in the hall, and seeing the door open, came forward.
“This lady has brought a note for Sir Richard, Miss Letitia,” said the man, holding out Celia’s letter to the newcomer.
The young lady, a merry-faced girl with dimples, blue eyes and yellow curls, looked first at the letter and then at Jane. What began as a casual glance turned into a long scrutiny. Recognition came into her eyes.
“Well, I never did! If it isn’t my own Jane! You wretch, where have you been hiding yourself all these years? And why did you never write to me? Come in, come in; don’t stand there upon the step! Mama will love to see you — I used to talk of you for ever!”
She seized the reluctant Jane by the arm, and ushered her through the hall and into a small drawingroom on the ground floor.
“Now we can talk!” she exclaimed, breathlessly; and proceeded to show her own ability in that direction. “Mama is upstairs with Richard — oh, Jane, are you acquainted with him? I did not know of it, but then, brothers can be sly when they choose! Green says you were leaving this note for him, so obviously you must be friends.”
“No, Letty, you are mistaken,” said Jane quickly, before her friend should have time to embark once more on a sea of words. “I am not acquainted with — your brother, is it? — I merely brought this note for him from Lady Bordesley.”
Letty looked amazed and concerned. “Lady B — Celia Walbrook that was? Jane you are not — you cannot be staying with her? Why, you never liked her any more than the rest of us did! And if I thought that you were, after not even writing to me in all these years, why — why, I declare I would have done with you forever!”
Jane’s worried expression gave pause to her friend’s verbosity.
“No, Letty, I am not precisely staying there as a guest.”
“You are in trouble, Jane, I know you are! I said so to Mama when you did not write after you left Miss Leasowe’s. Jane, you must tell me — I insist. I may be able to help.”
Jane saw that there was no help for it; she briefly explained the circumstances which led to her being in Celia Bordesley’s household. Letty heard her out in a silence that was most unusual for her.
“A governess!” she exclaimed, when Jane had finished. “My dearest Jane!”
“A companion at the moment,” corrected Jane, with a smile.
“And to Celia Bordesley!” said Letty, in tones of horror. “Oh, no, Jane, this must not be!”
“It is not so very bad,” said her friend. “We manage tolerably well so far.”
“But there must be something else to be done for you!” exclaimed Letty. “Your Papa — dear Jane, I was so distressed for you! — but he must surely have left you some money, and then you have relatives, I remember. Can you not make a home with any of them?”
Jane shook her head decidedly. “I have no fancy to be an encumbrance upon anyone. I am young, in good health, and like to be doing something, you know. At times the life is a little difficult, I will confess, but it has its compensations. I am constantly meeting new people, seeing fresh scenes; moreover, I am not obliged to be dependent upon anyone. That, to my mind, is the greatest evil that could befall me.”
Letty was reluctant to believe that her friend could be happy in such a way of life, and put forward a number of wild schemes which should so much enrich Jane that she would no longer be obliged to earn a living. They both laughed heartily over these, and Jane promised to try them when all else failed.
“But why did you never write to me?” asked Letty, when they were sober again.
Jane glanced awkwardly at her friend, then looked quickly away.
“I — my circumstances were so changed — I did not wish to embarrass anyone; it seemed best to drop my former acquaintance.”
“Jane Tarrant! How you could think — others, perhaps, but not I! After all that we had meant to each other —”
“Forgive me if you can, Letty. I never doubted your loyalty for one moment, but, indeed, it seemed the best way.”
“Well, I fancy I know my Jane,” said Letty, with a warm glance at her friend. “I’ll say no more; but now that I have found you I shall hope to see a great deal of you. You are but a step away from us, after all.”
“My time is not my own however,” Jane reminded her.
“Oh, stuff! Celia Bordesley will be obliged to give you some time to yourself, and then you can spend it here with me. It will be quite delightful!”
Jane agreed, though with some mental reservations. She was ver
y fond of Letty, and would have liked to resume their former friendship: but she could not help feeling the inequality of their respective situations, and wondered if perhaps Lady Carisbrooke would be as eager for the connection as her daughter. It was, after all, an age of snobbery.
“I am sorry that your brother should be unwell,” said Jane, thinking to change the subject. “It is nothing serious, I trust?”
“We don’t really know what has been the matter,” replied Letty, with a worried frown. “The doctor himself is puzzled, but says it is some form of brain-fever. However, Riccy is better today; Mama has been able to talk to him for the first time, and he insists that he is quite able to get up. Jane, do you know what is in this letter? I’m not sure if it is wise to give it to him just yet.”
“I’m afraid I cannot help you there.”
Letty frowned at the note, which she still held in her hand. “I’m certain that it can do him no good. Oh, I hate Celia Bordesley, I just hate her!”
Jane stared. Such an outburst of venom was unusual in her happy-go-lucky friend.
“Well, of course I know you never liked her. But what can she have done to give you such strong feelings?”
“It is on account of Richard!” choked Letty. “You cannot conceive what she has done to him! I tell you, Jane, he worshipped her — it was pitiful to watch. Why, on one occasion he almost cut Mr. Brummell himself, and I need not tell you what a social solecism that would have been! The poor boy thought that she meant to marry him, and when he found out that it was Bordesley, I shall never forget his face! And she led him on, Jane; it was deliberately done because she must have everyone admiring her, not because she really cared one jot for poor Richard! Knowing her as I do, I tried to warn him, but he would not listen. It is no use to try and tell men anything, my dear, though it should be staring them in the face. Always remember that!”
Jane promised gravely that she would, suppressing a desire to smile at the worldly-wise air which sat so oddly on Letty’s dimpled face.
The Jewelled Snuff Box Page 7
