by Mary Balogh
"There!" Lady Hope said as she returned to the side of her betrothed. "All ready. You see, it was not such a great upheaval after all, was it? And Cousin Edith has been practicing already. Let us take our places. Charles? Miss Moore?"
Jessica turned to glance nervously at Lord Rutherford. He bowed formally and stretched out a hand for hers. He really did not want to be doing this, he thought as he led her out onto the floor. He was somewhat relieved to see that Faith and Aubrey and a few other couples were also preparing to dance.
Well, he thought, turning to face Jessica, this was the last time he would be close to her. Torture as it would be, he must make the most of it too. His eyes met hers as his one hand went to her small waist and hers rested on his shoulder. He clasped her other hand in his.
"I am sorry, Jess," he said. "I would not have deliberately put you through this."
She swallowed. "It is your sister's evening," she said. "We must help make her happy."
She fixed her eyes on his waistcoat as the music played. He watched the shining curls on top of her head, remembering that the thought had occurred to him earlier that morning that perhaps two family betrothals would be being celebrated that evening. There was a dull ache somewhere in the region of his throat and chest.
"Jess," he said after a long interval of silence. She looked up at him, her eyes bright, so that for a moment he had an insane urge to bend his head and kiss her. "I shall be leaving here tomorrow. You need not fear that there will be awkward moments like this to live through in the coming days."
She stared at him and then nodded briefly.
"And you need not worry about coming face to face with me in town over the coming months," he said. "I will not be there. I shall retire to my own estate until the spring and then I am going to go abroad. Probably for a few years. It is unlikely that you will have to see me after tonight, Jess. Perhaps ever. You will be free of me."
She blinked twice and her eyes looked somewhat brighter than before. "Yes," her lips said, though he heard no sound.
He forced himself to smile. "I am sorry," he said. "I tried to order your life instead of asking what you wanted, did I not? You see the measure of my arrogance? It never really occurred to me until this morning that perhaps your own wishes just did not include me. I understand now. And I respect your choice. Will you forgive me? Can we at least part a little less than bitter enemies?"
She continued to stare at him with huge eyes before nodding her head briefly and looking sharply downward again. He took her through the motions of the waltz while every part of him ached to draw her closer, to move his arm right around her waist, to bring her head against his shoulder, and to sway to the rhythm of the waltz with her.
Jess. His hands touched her lightly, desperately trying to record the memory of her. His nostrils were deliberately conscious of the fragrance of her. Would he ever see her again? In years' time, when she was married with a few children, when he too maybe had taken a wife, would he see her again and feel nothing perhaps except the faintest pang of nostalgia?
Perhaps. But the prospect did nothing to ease the raw pain of today. Today she had told him that there was nothing about him that she could like, she had rejected his marriage offer. Today he had decided to go away from her rather than try again to persuade her to marry him. And today, now, he touched her, knowing that soon, at any minute, he must let her go and never touch her again. Today he had long months of emptiness and pain to look ahead to.
The music stopped before he was ready for it to do so. She looked up at him, a bewildered expression on her face.
"Good-bye, Jess," he said, raising her hand to his lips. He smiled down at her. "Be happy, my dear. I shall always wish for your happiness."
She did not immediately reply. He did not wait to see if she would have done so. He let go of her hand and hurried from the room.
15
Jessica was standing in her room at Berkeley Square, looking down at the small trunk and the valise at her feet. She thought she had everything. It had been easy packing her things when she was leaving the Barries. It had been merely a matter of taking with her all the scant belongings in the room. This time it was a little more difficult. There was so much to leave behind: everything, in fact, that the dowager duchess had bought for her. Only what she had brought with her would she take away again.
She looked down rather ruefully at the plain gray woolen dress she wore. She had thought when a maid had hung it with the others at the back of her wardrobe that perhaps she would never wear it again. Indeed, the dowager had urged her to give them all away. But she was very glad now that she had kept them. It would not do for a young lady to board the stagecoach and go in search of employment dressed up in expensive finery.
There seemed to be nothing left to do but pull on her gray cloak and bonnet and her black gloves and leave. Indeed, she must not delay for much longer. There was quite a distance to cover to the stagecoach terminal, and she must not miss the coach.
Jessica felt far more pain in looking around her this time than she had when leaving the Barries' home. She had been happy here. She had been treated well. She had felt loved. Once outside this building and she would be completely on her own again, all her dreams and hopes of the previous weeks finally dead. She would be a governess for the rest of her life, if she were fortunate.
She had said other good-byes much earlier that morning. The faithful Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh had not been content with merely summoning the carriage to bring Jessica from Hendon Park. She had got up to see her on her way. And it had been difficult to say good-bye. Jessica had hugged her very hard, feeling as desolate as if the old lady were her own grandmother. She had been grateful for one thing, at least. The dowager had made no attempt to persuade her to change her mind. Jessica had been somewhat surprised, but very relieved. She had been almost glad to be on her way.
She had said mental good-byes to those still sleeping at Hendon Park: to the duke and duchess who had accepted her as their guest with no apparent fuss, to Lord and Lady Bradley, who had always shown her quiet friendship, to Lady Hope, to Sir Godfrey. And to her grandfather. She had stood outside his bedchamber for a few silent moments before pushing under his door the note she had written the night before and running quietly downstairs to the waiting carriage. She wished things could have been different between them. She had been so very happy to see him just a few days before. And now she was leaving him almost without a word, never to see him again. If only he could have accepted her need to make her own decisions!
And she had said her mental good-byes to the Earl of Rutherford. All night long, in fact, while she tossed and turned on her bed, quite unable to snatch even a wink of sleep. She wished they had not been forced into company together the evening before. Without that encounter perhaps the bitterness of their morning interview might have sustained her for a few days, until she was far away and would find it easier to forget.
It had been agony to have to sit next to him in the drawing room at Lady Hope's request, to feel him close to her, to hear his voice. She had wondered how she would retain her composure long enough to waltz with him. His hand at her waist had seemed to burn a hole in her sash. She did not know quite how her hands had obeyed her will to touch his shoulder and clasp his hand. She had fixed her eyes somewhere on a level with his waistcoat, desperately resisting the urge to look up into his eyes or to lean forward to rest her forehead against his chest.
And she had cursed herself. She could have been celebrating her betrothal to him, as Lady Hope and Sir Godfrey were celebrating theirs. She could have been as glowing and happy as Lady Hope. Why had she said no? He had tried to talk to her, had tried to get her to explain why she would not marry him, and she had said nothing beyond agreeing with him when he had asked if there were nothing in him of which she could approve. That was not true. There was a great deal about him that she liked and admired. She could not love him else.
Why had she not explained? Perhaps if she had
shown a willingness to talk, he would have spoken too. Perhaps she would have found that his reasons for wanting to marry her were not quite as shallow as they seemed, after all. He had spent three whole weeks- and during the winter, too-traveling the country trying to find out more about her and had brought her grandfather to London to be with her. Were those the actions of a man who merely had a lust for a woman? Or who merely felt duty-bound to offer for her?
But no, she had said nothing when he had given her the chance. She had stubbornly waited for him to speak first. She had wanted to hear him tell her how he had come to value her acquaintance, how he had come to respect her person. She had hoped somewhere in the unconscious part of herself that he would tell her that he loved her. She had not been willing to meet him halfway. She had wanted him to do all the bending.
So she had danced with him, aware of the fact that her misery was probably of her own making, wanting another chance, just one more, to work things out with him. But she had ruined all her chances. He must hate her now. She had released him from the obligation of duty. Her words and behavior must have killed any more tender feelings that might have been growing in him.
And then he had spoken and made her feel ten times worse. He had spoken with kindness. And he had spoken of going away so that she could be free of him. Why had it hurt almost more than she could bear to know that he was going away, that he would not be in London for the next few months, or even in England for the next few years? She was going away herself. His words just made the whole situation that much more final.
By the time the dance had come to an end Jessica had scarcely known how to place one foot in front of the other. It was fortunate, she had felt, that he made quite clear the fact that he was about to leave the room himself, else they might well have collided in the doorway. As it was, she had waited a few minutes before making her own escape.
He had said good-bye to her. He had told her to be happy. He wanted her to be happy, he had said.
Jessica came out of her reverie and picked up her valise in some haste. If she did not hurry, she would miss the stagecoach. The dowager duchess would be very upset with her for traveling by the public coach when she had arranged for her own traveling carriage to make the journey. But Jessica could not accept. The break must come now. And she must travel in a mode consistent with her station in life. She would accept a ride to the coach terminal simply because she had a trunk and she did not have time to sally forth in search of a hackney carriage. But that was all.
Jessica left her room and ran down the stairs to the hallway. She did not look back.
The Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh allowed her maid to arrange her pillows behind her back and sank back comfortably against them. She laid her hands neatly on the silk cover of the bed and signaled the girl that Lord Rutherford might be admitted. She schooled her features into a polite smile.
"Ah, good morning, Charles m'boy," she said as he strode in. She turned her cheek for his kiss.
"Good morning, Grandmama," he said. "I hope I have not woken you too early. I have waited as long as I could since you left word that you wished to see me before I set out on my way. But I am eager to be gone."
"Is it some gel who has you so anxious to be back in town?" she asked. "Back to your wild oats, Charles?"
He grimaced. "By no means," he said. "Those days are over, you will be delighted to know, Grandmama. No, it is just that life grows dull here now that Christmas is over. It will be good to be busy again. I intend going down into the country by the end of the week, you know. It is time I looked over the estate again."
"Yes," she said, "young people must ever be busy, as I remember. And of course it would be dull for you here now that dear Jessica has gone away."
"Jessica?" he said. "Gone away? What are you talking about, Grandmama? I danced with her last evening."
"She left at five o'clock this morning," the dowager said, "in my carriage alone."
Lord Rutherford stared down at her in silence for a few moments. His face had turned paler. "She need not have gone," he said. "I told her last night that I myself would be leaving today. But perhaps she will feel more relaxed back at Berkeley Square. What the devil does she mean, though, by going back alone? And so early? Is the marquess not going too?"
"He does not know yet, m'boy," the dowager said with a sigh. "She is not staying at Berkeley Square, you know. She is going into Yorkshire. She carries a letter to
Georgina Hearst. Very old friend of mine, you know. She will find a situation for Jessica."
"A situation?" he said faintly. "As a governess, you mean?"
"She seemed to think it was the only thing for her," the dowager said. "I spent all of yesterday afternoon pleading with her, Charles, but the gel was adamant. It seems that you had convinced her that her reputation was in shreds and that a Season in London was out of the question."
"But that is ridiculous!" he said. "Of course her reputation is not ruined. Does she not realize that she would not be received here if such were the case? No one knows about those past indiscretions except a few people who love her. None of those people is going to make the knowledge public."
"That is exactly what I told her," the dowager said. She was toying with a lace handkerchief in one hand. She seemed to be deliberating whether or not she should raise it to her eyes, but she evidently decided that a show of tears would be out of character. "It seems she believed you and her grandpapa rather than me, Charles, m'boy. You must have been very convincing."
Lord Rutherford was pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed. "Do you mean that Jess has gone to Yorkshire to be governess to some stranger all because she feels she cannot remain in the life to which she was born?" he asked.
"Foolish, is it not?" she said. "She could have a brilliant future ahead of her, Charles. She is already popular with any number of eligible gentlemen. With her grandfather newly arrived and the Season approaching, she could choose almost any unmarried gentleman she wished. Dear Jessica! I cannot help feeling that she will be very unhappy in service, especially now that she has tasted the pleasures of society."
"She must have that future," Lord Rutherford said. "She must be happy, Grandmama. Only so will I be able to find all this bearable. She cannot go back. You did not see her as she was before. I shudder to remember what a docile, gray little governess she was when I first set eyes on her. Not again. I cannot let that happen to Jess again."
"Do stop pacing, Charles," the dowager said. "You are giving me the headache. I really do not see what you can do about the situation, m'boy. I could not do anything yesterday. Of course, if you succeeded so well in persuading her that her reputation was in ruins, perhaps you will also find it possible to persuade her that it is just not true. It is a shame she has left already."
"She left at five o'clock?" he said. "That is more than four hours ago. Did she leave straight for Yorkshire, Grandmama?"
"She was to call at Berkeley Square first of all," she said, "to collect some of her belongings and to take my best traveling carriage. But she will be on her way by now, Charles. It is too late. Poor Jessica must be left to her fate. Perhaps she will meet a gentleman in Yorkshire who will appreciate her real worth. She is still young, after all, and very pretty even when wearing those very plain clothes. And knowing Jessica, I would be willing to wager that she is already dressed in gray again."
"It is not too late!" the Earl of Rutherford said decisively. "I can overtake your carriage very soon, Grandmama. I shall persuade Jess that she is being foolish, never fear. And I shall bring her back with me. By tonight. It is I who will be going away, not her. She will remain in London and settle to the life she should be leading. She is going to have a happy life. I swear it."
"I think it quite likely if you can but persuade her," the dowager agreed. "But if you intend to ride in this raw weather, Charles, do be sure to dress warmly, m'boy."
She was not at all sure that her grandson had heard her maternal advice. He had already stridden fro
m the room. But the Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh did not seem unduly perturbed. She smiled smugly at one ornate bedpost and snuggled lower into her pillows.
The day's journey had not been nearly the nightmare of the previous one, Jessica thought with some relief later that evening. It had been every bit as uncomfortable, however, if not more so. The day had been bitterly cold and the coach drafty. Indeed, snow had begun to fall before they stopped for the night at an inn on the Great North Road. The coach seemed particularly ill-sprung, the passengers all very large and all carrying particularly bulky bundles. And there seemed to be an unreasonable number of unwashed bodies riding as inside passengers.
These discomforts aside, however, Jessica had found that she was not abused as she had been on that previous journey. Indeed, her right-hand neighbor, a woman whose abnormally large and stiff bonnet brim threatened to take Jessica's eye out every time she turned her head, was a plump, motherly person, whose hand regularly reached into her food basket and who constantly insisted on sharing its contents with other passengers, especially Jessica. The latter could well have done without the offerings, proffered as they were from a somewhat grubby hand. But she found herself reluctant to reject such obvious good nature. She accepted and even managed to eat a meat pasty and a jam tart.
The day wore on and Jessica's spirits drooped proportionately. What sort of a life was ahead of her? she wondered. Would the dowager duchess's friend be able to find her a suitable situation? Would it be a difficult job? Challenging? Lonely? Unfortunately, she was in no position to choose. She must accept whatever was offered to her.
And it would surely be a deal worse than it had been the last time. The last time everything had been new to her. She had had nothing with which to compare her life with the Barries except life at home with Papa. And although she had always been happy at home, she had to admit that it had been a rather dull life of plodding routine. Life at the Barries' had not been so very different except that she had felt the absence of love.
