Jane lifted her head, and fixed the other with her candid grey eyes. She was prepared to carry the war into the enemy’s camp.
“Have you ever been in love, Celia, I wonder — really in love, so that you cared for the object of your affection more than for yourself?”
“A fool’s question, Jane. I told you once before that it is folly to love in that way. I have been in love a dozen times, but only as much as it pleased me. Take my advice, and follow my example. Why, if you choose, you might lead a very different sort of life, for I must say that you are not bad looking, Jane.”
“I thank you,” replied Jane drily, and was silent for a while.
She threaded her needle with a strand of red silk, and set the first stitch in a rosebud on the design. Her thoughts were busy; there was something she was determined to find out if she could.
“But surely there must have been someone,” she persisted, looking up suddenly into Celia’s face. “Someone who meant more to you than the rest? That gentleman we met at the theatre, for example, or — or Sir Richard Carisbrooke?”
The name came out more easily than she would have believed possible.
“Julian,” said Celia, softly. “Yes, I think if I could love any man in the way that you mean, Jane, it would be he. But much I should get for my pains! No, we understand each other too well to harbour any such romantical notions. As for Richard —”
She paused, and a slight frown creased her brows.
“I used to think of Richard as a dear, ingenuous boy. He is changed, though, in these four years — that swift, imperious manner is new to him, and there is a cynical air, very different from what I remember, and vastly fetching! But as for anything in the nature of your undying passion, Jane, I am afraid it would never be he who had the power to raise it. No, Richard is intriguing, and it might be sport to bring him to my feet again, but that is all.”
And more than enough, thought Jane. So complete an avowal of Celia’s intentions was unexpected, but the content was exactly as Jane had supposed. She pressed her lips together to still the trembling which suddenly overcame them, and wondered what the man’s feelings might be. Presumably he still found Celia irresistible, since he sought clandestine meetings with her. Yet Celia had spoken as though she had lost him, if not irretrievably; and surely if he were in love with her, he could not have spoken of her as he had done in the Park yesterday morning? He had said that she was no fit companion for Jane. These were not the words of a lover.
Celia broke in suddenly upon these reflections.
“By the way, Jane, I meant to ask this of you the other day — do not mention to my husband that I met Richard in the Library.”
Jane’s glance was indignant.
“Do you suppose that I should?”
Celia shrugged. “Why not? I tell you plainly that I suppose Francis to have brought you here for that purpose: presumably you are bound to do that for which you are paid.”
“No such undertaking,” said Jane, with emphasis, “was ever given by me — or indeed, sought. I came here as your companion, no more.”
“There is one other possibility,” said Celia, eyeing Jane narrowly.
“And that is? —”
“Could it be my lord who inspires in you these feelings of high and noble love?” asked Celia, quickly.
Jane stared at her for a moment, then gave a short laugh.
“Why on earth should you suppose so?”
The incredulity in her tone satisfied my lady. Jane, she was prepared to swear, was no actress.
“Just a notion I had,” she said. “I see I was wrong.”
She did not mean to put ideas into the other’s head by explaining that she had noticed a certain interest, a warmth in the Earl’s manner towards his wife’s companion. Celia would have found it difficult to believe that a girl in Jane’s situation would not hasten to ingratiate herself with the Earl, should she have reason to believe that there existed any partiality on his side. She therefore said no more, and a silence fell for some moments, during which Jane was free to pursue her own thoughts.
These were not altogether agreeable. She was recalling an incident brought to mind again by what Celia had just said, an incident concerning the Earl. It had occurred a few days ago, before the Earl’s departure for Worcestershire. Lady Breakwell had been sitting with Celia at the time, and Jane had been peremptorily dismissed. She had drifted into the drawing room and seated herself at the pianoforte, idly strumming as the fancy moved her. At such moments, alone and immersed in the memories recalled by the music she was playing, she was apt to be a little off her guard. Thus it was that she suddenly looked up with eyes luminuous with unshed tears, to see the Earl of Bordesley standing beside her chair.
She could not realise what a bewitching picture she presented. The soft candlelight imparted a golden glow to the skin of her shoulders, partly revealed by the neckline of the simple yellow gown she wore; and her hair glinted with fiery lights as she moved her head.
He looked down at her with a glance that startled Jane by its warmth.
“The golden girl,” he said, softly.
She rose hastily, the colour mounting to her cheeks.
“No, do not stop.” He arrested her movement with a gesture of his hand. “Will you be good enough to play that air for me again?”
Jane complied, her fingers stumbling slightly. It was an old English air that had been a favourite of her father’s. The Earl placed one hand upon the instrument, and stood listening in silence until she had finished.
“Thank you, Jane,” he said, quietly. “You do not mind if I call you Jane, as my wife does?”
Jane inclined her head stiffly. She did mind, very much, and made a mental note to call tomorrow at one of the employment agencies.
“My mother was very fond of that air,” continued the Earl, reminiscently. “You remind me of her.”
This was a gambit to which Jane was not unused. In spite of her efforts to subdue her good looks, there had been one or two occasions in her career when her virtue had been attempted. Such incidents had always involved finding a fresh post. She sighed; she had thought herself free here from that kind of happening, at least. All her anxieties had been on Celia’s account. It was never the hazards one forsees, she reflected, with a tinge of bitterness.
Aloud she said, “Your lordship will please to excuse me; there are commissions I must execute on my lady’s behalf.”
She half rose as she spoke; but he placed a beringed white hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back into her seat. His green eyes held an inscrutable expression.
“There is no need of haste, my dear young lady.”
He paused, and looked down into her eyes, his hand still on her shoulder.
“You are wise beyond your years, Jane. What do you think of my marriage?”
Jane started, and returned his glance coldly.
“It is not my affair to think of such matters, my lord.”
He dropped his hand, as though for the first time he realised the implication she might place upon his words and actions.
“What you say is very proper; would to God my lady might have such a nice sense of propriety! But it is not proper sentiments I want from you, Jane, but the truth: those eyes, I dare swear —” he placed his fingers beneath her chin, tilting up her head —“cannot lie. Tell me truly, Jane, is not my marriage a mistake?”
For a moment, in spite of herself, Jane felt a strange affinity flow between them. She put away his hand with fingers that were not quite steady, and lowered her gaze.
“You have answered me, though you never spoke a word,” said the Earl. “Yes, I myself know it is a mistake. There is no real understanding between Celia and myself; I should never have married her.”
Again, this speech held a familiar ring. Jane had before this encountered gentlemen whose wives, according to their report, did not understand them. Her chin went up, and she rose in a decisive manner.
“I can no longer listen
to you, my lord,” she said, with a quelling glance. “You wrong all of us by such talk — your wife, yourself, even me.”
His countenance filled with dismay, and he started forward: but she swept quickly from the room, closing the door firmly behind her. He did not follow.
Sitting now beside Celia, Jane relived this incident in her mind. She had forgotten it in the distraction of yesterday’s meeting with Sir Richard, but reviewing it now, in the light of what Celia had just let fall, it was distinctly disquieting. Perhaps she had made a mistake in changing her hair from its once severe, repelling style; but after the remarks made by — by someone who should be nameless, the urge had come over her once more to make herself as attractive as Nature had intended her to be. Evidently she must have succeeded only too well. She frowned; yet the Earl’s manner could not definitely be considered amorous. Was it perhaps his own particular technique in the business of seduction? His words, she reflected, were almost exactly the same as those in which her favours had been sought on previous occasions.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, a sinking feeling at her heart. There was no profit in thinking further of the matter. There were many matters of which she must not think …
Celia yawned again, more widely, but still daintily.
“Come, Jane, we will retire early,” she said, glancing at the clock. “Time hangs so heavily without company, and with Francis absent from home, there is no occasion to keep the servants up.”
This speech had the effect of bringing Jane out of her reverie. It was a novel idea for my lady to consider her servants.
“Heigh ho!” said Celia, rising and extending her white arms above her head in a luxurious stretching gesture. “I declare one becomes more fatigued sitting quietly at home than dancing half into the night! But it is ever so; it is always the tedious things which quite wear one out.”
Chapter XIII. Without Rhyme Or Reason
JANE LINGERED before the fire in her bedchamber, unwilling to begin preparations for bed. Sleep could not be wooed with an unquiet mind, and her mood at present was very far from tranquil. She rested her chin in her hands, and idly watched the reflection of the leaping flames in the smooth polished surface of the bed-post.
It began to look as though she could no longer stay in this house. She had feared from the first that it might be so, but for the wrong reasons. The disadvantages which she had foreseen paled before those which had come unexpectedly upon her. The fact that she disliked Celia, the occasional outbursts of spite which the other showed to her, were things tolerably easy to endure: she had met such difficulties before, and found that they yielded to a cheerful disposition. But the Earl’s apparently growing interest in her was quite another matter. Her experience had taught her that in affairs of that kind the best course to pursue was to go before it was too late. A girl with neither fortune nor connections could not hope to preserve her good name if she remained in the house of a wealthy nobleman who had taken a fancy to her.
She sighed: the one great difficulty of her situation was that she had nowhere to go. This obstacle was always present, the necessity of finding a fresh post before she could quit the old one. She had that morning called at the employment agency, only to be told that there was nothing available at the moment. They had promised to inform her when a suitable post offered. There was nothing more she could do. She must remain here for a time, at any rate; if the situation became too desperate, she could always go to the Sharratt’s. It was a measure she did not care to adopt unless no other possible course was open to her, but at least it was there, a final refuge.
She frowned a little as she recalled that Mr. Sharrat had shown some doubt when he had learned the name of her new employer. What exactly was it that he had said? Could he have had any suspicion, have heard any rumour concerning the Earl’s reputation? The lawyer was not the man to take alarm without sound reason, Jane knew.
And even this was not the worst. If she remained here, she must risk the chance of encountering Sir Richard Carisbrooke. Her friendship with his sister must inevitably lead her into this hazard, even if he came no more to see Celia. Jane confessed to herself that she could not continue to meet him with equanimity. She had succeeded tolerably well so far in putting him out of her thoughts. The encounter of yesterday morning had again overset her feelings for a time. It would not do: it would be best to go away, go to some place where their paths would never again cross.
She rose impatiently, unwilling to pursue her thoughts further. She determined to read for a while; had it been daytime, a walk would no doubt have helped to shake off her introspection. At this hour, a book offered her only hope of escape from her own concerns.
She rose, and crossed over to the table at her bedside, taking up the book which lay there. As she did so, she realised with annoyance that she had already finished it. She paused irresolutely for a moment. There would probably be something or other suitable downstairs in the library. Was it worth the trouble of the journey?
Eventually, she decided that it was; sleep seemed as far away as ever. She took up the candle from her table, and lit it at the fire.
She passed quietly from her bedchamber, so as not to disturb Celia. There was no sound from the other’s room, and the house seemed deserted. Most likely the servants were already abed. Her light slippers made no noise as she glided quickly down the staircase, the flame of the candle dipping with the draught of her movement. The large hall with its chequer-board floor was cold and dark. She shivered as she crossed it, and came at last to the library.
She entered, closing the door silently after her. There were a number of candelabra set about the room at intervals, and she lit one or two of these from her candle. The room wore a gloomy, musty aspect, as though it were not much used. She had never been here before, and decided that, when next she came, it would be in daylight. The place looked singularly uninviting by night.
She conquered her feelings, setting down her candle and beginning her search. She soon despaired of finding a novel; no wonder Celia preferred the Circulating Library. Here were volumes of sermons, the Greek and Latin poets, and heavy tomes which would have been an encumbrance to convey upstairs. Her eye lighted upon two such volumes, entitled “Animated Nature”. Curiosity impelled her to pull one of them forth from its place on the shelf. She saw that the work was written by Oliver Goldsmith, and had been well-thumbed. She placed the heavy book upon the table, and idly flicked over the leaves.
It was such a book as might appeal to a child, dealing as it did with animals. Her quick imagination conjured up the image of a child standing here as she was doing, turning these pages with fingers that were not always, as the evidence suggested, quite clean. She smiled at her fancy, and turned another page. As she did so, a paper fluttered to the floor.
She bent to retrieve it, and was about to place it once more in the book, when she saw that it was the likeness of a young girl. She brought her candle nearer, and inspected the drawing closely. The colours had faded a little with age, but the unknown artist had caught something of the spirit of his subject, for the face seemed to live. It was pointed, elfin, surrounded by auburn curls; the green eyes danced and laughed, as though their owner found life a merry business.
Jane frowned; surely that face was familiar to her? Then she noticed the name painted in at the foot of the drawing — Arabella Bordesley. So that was the explanation; this was a relative of the Earl’s, his sister or his mother. Judging by the style of the gown, Jane thought it more likely to be his sister.
She gazed with a new interest. Evidently the young Arabella had been a lively, merry girl, with more than her share of good looks. Jane wondered idly what differences time might have wrought in her. Strange that this sketch, which surely must have been accounted good by even the most partial of observers, should have been allowed to lie forgotten in a book. One would have expected to see it hanging on a wall in one of the principal rooms. Now that she came to consider it, Jane did not recollect having seen any
other pictures of the lady about the house. Was this deliberate, she wondered, and if so, was it the Earl’s doing, or Celia’s?
Unaccountably, she shivered. She told herself that it was cold here in this large fireless room. She gave one last look at the portrait, then replaced it in the book with gentle fingers, as though she laid a child to sleep. Impatient now to be gone, she hurriedly replaced the book on its shelf, and seized the first slim volume which came to hand, an edition of Cowper’s poems. Taking up her candle, she extinguished the others, and quitted the room.
She was halfway up the staircase on her return journey to her bedchamber, when she fancied she heard a sound. She stood still, listening. The eerie quiet of a house at night, when everyone is abed, closed all around her, seeming to press on her ears. Only the loud beating of her heart broke the silence.
Stay, there it was again; a muffled, regular sound overhead, of footsteps stealthily approaching from the other side of the house, in the direction of the servant’s staircase. For a moment, she was unable to move.
She told herself impatiently that she must not be nonsensical. No doubt it was one of the servants still astir, creeping about quietly to avoid rousing the rest of the household. She forced herself to continue on her way, climbing the rest of the stairs with slow, reluctant steps. As she mounted higher, the mysterious footsteps drew nearer to the landing which was also her objective. There could now be no doubt that when she reached the head of the staircase, she would encounter someone.
She squared her shoulders: she must not give way to idle fancies. It would be only one of the servants.
Her foot was on the topmost stair, when she perceived two forms approaching her from the passage on her left. Relief flooded over her as she recognised the one carrying the candle. It was Betty, Celia’s abigail. Her companion was a man, but she could not determine his identity, as his face was in shadow. She waited uncertainly for them to come up to her.
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