by Jo Beverley
Jane, meanwhile, was full of guilt. “How terrible. All that money wasted.”
“Nonsense. Prudence will make good use of those things.”
“But my parents did not provide money for the ornamentation of Prudence Hawkins. My mother would have an apoplexy if she knew. I cannot imagine how I came to buy so much. It is as if a madness overtook me.”
“Yes,” said Sophie happily. “It is always the same when shopping. And what else is money for?”
No wonder Lord Wraybourne needed to marry a fortune. Jane’s upbringing warred with her new delight in frivolity and, by a mere margin, upbringing won.
“I will not behave so again,” she resolved. “If I have money to spare, I will give it to a worthy cause.”
“Good Lord, Jane, if you are to turn Methodish on me I shall cut your acquaintance. Think of poor Prudence. She will have no status at all in the servants’ hall if you are not generous with your castoffs.” With that Sophie took herself away and left Jane to struggle with her conscience.
She started to read the sermons of Dean Bagnold, a parting gift from her mother, but when she came upon the words, “Clothing as ornament is an abomination. Simple garments of sturdy stuff, suitable for modest covering and protection from the elements, are all that is needed by all ranks of men and women . . .” she slapped the book shut in irritation.
Even her mother did not believe that. Otherwise, why had she ordered such fashionable clothes for Jane and why were her own gowns always of the finest cloth? Happily, Jane gave the victory to Sophie’s side. It was a young woman’s duty to uphold her family’s dignity in Society. Had not Jane’s husband-to-be specifically said that he wished her to be fashionable? And since it would be her own money which would purchase the necessary finery, she need feel no qualms at all.
Her conscience thus appeased, Jane could be happy once more, and this gave her leisure to reflect on Lord Wraybourne. Would he really cease his flattery, and did she wish it after all? Even if she knew he had chosen her for cold-blooded reasons, she could still find pleasure in his skillful attentions. She found herself eager for the next opportunity to match wits with her betrothed. She held a wreath of yellow roses against her dusky hair and regarded herself in the mirror with great satisfaction.
7
THAT PARTICULAR EVENING, the party did not go out or entertain at home, and Jane was glad of it. She would soon discover that to be in her bed before two or three in soon discover that to be in her bed before two or three in the morning was rare. Eventually, her body would learn to accommodate by allowing her to sleep until nearly noon, but on her second morning in London, her constitution was still keeping country hours. She was up unfashionably early. To pass the time she decided to explore the library, a small and carelessly stocked room, used more for card-playing than reading. It held a number of popular works, however, and Jane was suddenly aware of another aspect of her newly gained freedom. She could read whatever she wished.
She retreated to her room with a Minerva Novel called The Castle of Modena, of which her mother would totally disapprove, and was soon entranced by the world of the heroine, Virginia, who was being compelled by her heartless parents to marry the evil but rich Count Malficio when she really loved the honorable knight Sir Tristram. In some respects, the story seemed to address Jane’s own situation, and she began to suspect that she had been unfairly persuaded into her betrothal. Moreover, though Lord Wraybourne was inclined to flattery, he showed none of the respectful adoration with which Sir Tristram addressed his lady.
Jane sighed as she read of the faithful golden-haired knight, kneeling before Virginia. “You are a gossamer angel, tranquil and ethereal in this elysian bower. It cannot be, it will never be fitting for a mere crude man to touch even the hem of your mantle!”
It was only with reluctance that Jane laid down the book at this touching moment in order to go to breakfast, where her inclination to linger in Modena was disturbed by the reminder that Lord Randal and his twin sisters were due to call so that they might all ride together.
“But Sophie, I do not have a habit. My old one was left at Carne, and Madame Danielle refused to allow me to have the gray one which had been commissioned.”
Sophie was dismayed. “My old one would not fit you, Jane. What are we to do?”
Jane smiled nobly. “You must go, of course. In a few days I will have my new habit, and then we can ride together.”
“Are you sure? I will keep you company if you wish.”
“Of course, I’m sure, you goose,” said Jane, truly moved by this offer. “I have any number of things to do. For example, I really should write home.” And I have the entrancing world of Modena waiting upstairs, she thought guiltily.
As soon as she had waved the riding party on their way, she fled to her room to resume her reading. She was soon interrupted, however, by the news that Lord Wraybourne was below. Caught in the middle of the passage in which Count Malficio was suavely assuring the trembling Virginia that she was in his power and could not help but become his bride, Jane felt a stab of fear much greater than her irritation at having her reading interrupted.
She’d forgotten Lord Wraybourne’s gentle humor and remembered only that he was a man of the world, a duel ler. Heaven knows what he might do if crossed. Thinking herself very much the persecuted damsel, Jane sent for Lady Harroving to accompany her before going down to the salon.
Confronted with reality, however, Jane had to admit that though Lord Wraybourne might fall short of the standards set by Sir Tristram, he did not fit her notion of Count Malficio. His face was clear and honest, and even if those tantalizing lids tended to droop at times and conceal their meaning, the eyes they concealed could never be described as deep and fiery. The smile with which he greeted her was genuine, not sneering.
“I have come with your gift,” he said, holding out a package, “bought with the purse from the curricle race.”
Assailed by guilt at having allowed her mind to be so distorted by fiction, Jane opened the wrapping to find an embroidered girdle worked in golden thread and seed pearls with a large flower cameo for the clasp. What coals of fire were heaped upon her head then! Lord Wraybourne was not her enemy at all, and she was a wretch for her misjudgment.
“Oh, it is beautiful,” Jane sighed. “My first true gift and exactly what I wanted.”
“It is more in the nature of a trophy,” he said. “From the fact that Sophie has been pleading for one for weeks, I suspected it might find favor. Still, I cannot have you overwhelmed by every little trumpery. I shall have to give you so many gifts you will sigh and scarcely bother to open them.”
She laughed at this absurdity.
“I met Sophie and her party,” he continued. “They explained you are not yet able to ride. Do you know when your habit will be ready?”
“A few days at least.”
“May I beg the privilege of being your first riding escort in London?” he asked warmly. Jane could not stop her heart giving a little flip at the expression on his face. Could it be false? “I will provide the mount. Merely send a note when your riding gear is ready.”
She supposed it was his role to provide her a mount and escort her. Nonetheless, it was heartening that he was seeking her company a little, and the gift had been thoughtfully chosen. Jane did not try to fight the glow within her. Even if he had originally made his offer for cold-blooded reasons, there was no reason true feeling could not grow eventually.
She remained aware of how easily her mind had been distorted by the novel and thought that perhaps her mother’s ban on such books had been wise. Jane resolved to travel no more in the land of Modena and, as penance for her error, ceased avoiding Lady Harroving. Instead, much to that lady’s astonishment, Jane sought her out, to ask which tasks she would wish to assign.
“Such as what, my dear?” she asked, looking around her deliriously flounced boudoir, as if a task might be lying on the ground somewhere, previously undetected.
“At h
ome I wash the fine china and mend linen. I also help to prepare and preserve food, though I know there will be none of that in Town. I am not accustomed to being idle.”
“Nor will you be idle in Town once we get under way!” said Lady Harroving with a titter. “Good heavens, Jane, no matter what your life at home, here we leave such tasks to the servants. Soon we will be busy with engagements all day. For the moment, take a turn around the square with your maid or do an acrostic or something.”
With this irritated pronouncement the lady waved her away, but Jane still felt the need of penance. Remembering her earlier words to Sophie, she went to make that falsehood into truth by writing to her parents and was surprised at how tediously proper it was possible to make the past exciting week sound.
The stay at The Middlehouse had been pleasant, she related, with long walks and music in the evenings. The journey to Town had been a little enlivened because it was a large party, and her time since then had been taken up with her wardrobe and making new friends. Among her new acquaintances she mentioned Lord Randal’s sisters, the Ladies Caroline and Cecilia Ashby, as Jane was sure her mother would approve of their pedigree.
In fact, she reflected, the Ashby sisters, with their quiet, beautiful manners, were among the few she had met in these last days of whom her mother would approve. Yes, Jane might well put a great deal in her letters about the Ladies Caroline and Cecilia.
Jane then wrote a more informal and honest letter to Mrs. Hawley but was dissatisfied to discover that it seemed to be entirely about Lord Wraybourne. Anyone would think Jane had met no one else at all. She hastily threw in so many names she then began to fear that her governess would put her down as a toad-eating name-dropper. It would be so much easier if one could just be honest. But what was honest? Jane attempted to compose an honest letter in her head.
Dear Beth,
I am a mishmash of feelings—excitement, fear, delight, and insecurity. I am never sure from one moment to the next what I or anyone about me will do. I love having beautiful clothes though the expense troubles my conscience. It is strange and a little frightening to have such freedom and so many idle hours. I foolishly began to read a novel and found myself quickly led into all manner of errors, even to thinking Lord Wraybourne a monstrous villain.
Quite the contrary, Lord Wraybourne is both kind and charming and does not seem to begrudge the time he spends in my company. I no longer feel chagrin at having been chosen for my fortune. There are many other heiresses, and he is considered eligible. So there must be something about me which he finds pleasing. Even if his present attentions are dictated more by courtesy than warmth, I harbor hopes that in time he will come to be sincerely attached to me, which will be a relief, for then I can relax my guard and become attached in turn to him. It will be difficult, however, for one so inexperienced as I to judge when that time comes.
Jane smiled a little to think of the bewilderment with which Mrs. Hawley would receive such a maundering. But the last question was, nonetheless, a valid one. She had no comparisons upon which to base the answer. Her parents were too old to be guides for young love. In fact, she found it impossible to imagine that they had ever been young or in love at all. Lord and Lady Harroving were obviously no models either. Of course, if Sophie were to form an attachment, there would be much to learn, but she was, as yet, heart-free.
Jane did indeed need more time to learn about people and her betrothed. In a few weeks she would be better able to judge his behavior and respond appropriately. Until then, she must be careful to be moderate in her manners so as not to embarrass herself or him.
She folded the letters and sealed them, ready for a frank. Unfortunately, this left her without occupation. She succumbed to temptation and returned to her novel. After all, she assured herself, she was now aware of its dangers and absurdities and could guard against their influence on her mind.
An hour later, Virginia was locked in the cellar while Count Malficio made dastardly plans with her venal parents. Then, Jane was forced by Sophie’s return to lay down the book.
“I am sorry you missed such a delightful morning, Jane. I encountered any number of old friends and a group of dashing hussars on furlough from the war. A Major Heckleton is a friend of Randal’s and so we were soon one party.” Sophie’s bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “I do adore a uniform, and it is, after all, our duty to make our soldiers’ brief respite from war a pleasant one, is it not?”
These same soldiers in their brilliant regimentals were predominant in Sophie’s court that evening when they attended a performance of Twelfth Night at Drury Lane. At every intermission the Harroving box was crowded with visitors, many of them male. The official escorts of the party—Lord Randal, Sir Arthur, and a young man named Crossley Carruthers—found themselves pushed to the wall.
Sir Arthur promptly went to sleep. Lord Randal watched Sophie with an amused smile, but Jane noticed Mr. Carruthers looking rather cross. She felt sorry for him. He was a fine-looking man with bright gold curls, cunningly dressed, and a magnificent cravat which held his collar so high he was forced to move only with slow dignity. She was sure that ordinarily, he would have received warm attention, but, competing with the charisma of the uniform and the effortless elegance of Lord Randal, he was, for the moment, a mere cipher.
Lady Harroving had introduced him as a distant connection brought in to substitute for Lord Wraybourne, who had received a last-minute summons to dine at Carlton House. Connection or not, she paid no attention to him, being much too busy enjoying the company of so many more handsome men. Jane smiled warmly at him across the crowd of bodies and was pleased to see his expression lighten. She was quite unable to do more for him at the moment. Besides being entranced by her first visit to a theater, she had to do her duty and entertain those of Sophie’s court who were not yet able to attract that lady’s attention.
Surrounded by gallantry and light flirtation, Jane should have been delighted by such an opportunity to learn the way of the world but, quite simply, she missed her betrothed. If there was a joke, she wished to share it with him. If there was a question, it was he she would have turned to for the answer. Jane acknowledged she was more under Lord Wraybourne’s spell than she had wished to be, but there was little she could do except disguise her feelings and hope they would soon be returned in equal measure.
For now, the easy interplay within the party was pleasant, and Jane found it increasingly effortless. In only one case did she find socializing arduous. An unlikely young man had attached himself to Sophie, having gained introduction because his widowed mother was the sister of Sophie’s godmother. Sir Edwin Hever was thin, pale, and prematurely balding. His clothes were barely tolerable and of drab color. Among the bucks of fashion and the military uniforms, he stood out like a thistle in a flower bed.
He was up from Essex to find himself a wife. Being his doting mother’s only child, he was arrogantly sure that he had only to make his choice. He had apparently scrutinized Society during the Little Season without finding a bride to fulfill his exacting requirements. Now he was back, and his choice was obviously Sophie. The fixed, almost fanatical gaze he kept upon her and his tendency to hold her hand a little longer than was correct both spoke of an attachment. There was no chance that she would have him, but in the same way that the infantas of Spain had delighted in dwarves, she found him amusing.
“Is he not a grotesque?” she murmured discreetly to Jane. “I will keep him by to see to what insufferable lengths his self-importance will drive him!”
Jane noticed that, despite this tolerance, after the first few moments Sophie took care not to be the recipient of Sir Edwin’s conversation, which was tedious beyond belief. He did not listen to others but merely lectured. To make matters worse, he had only the most superficial, ill-understood knowledge of any subject. Having endured his dissertation on silk production, Jane gladly relinquished Sir Edwin so that he might give a colonel of the dragoons the benefit of his views on the war. She ho
ped the officer would slice him to ribbons in return.
Fortunately, entertaining the other gentlemen who surrounded Sophie was a pleasure and they showed no reluctance when forced to make do with Jane. In fact, they appeared only too pleased to indulge in a little light flirtation with the safely spoken-for Miss Sandiford. Jane blossomed under their admiration, confirmed in her belief that she looked very well indeed in her first real evening gown, of ecru levantine woven with bronze stripes, and the latest Marie sleeves decorated with knots of matching bronze ribbons. She only wished Lord Wraybourne were present to appreciate the effect.
There were others, however, to give praise if she sought it. She accepted light flattery from witty Major Heckleton with just the right degree of modesty, in imitation of Sophie. Lord Wraybourne would be pleased, Jane thought, by her lack of alarm at being told her eyes were like the midnight sky sprinkled with stars. Her lips twitched into a smile as she thought how pleased her mother would be that her daughter was having so much practice in the Art of Conversation . . . as long as Lady Sandiford remained in ignorance of Jane’s conversational partners and their flirtatious tone!
After the theater they all attended a soirée. Jane took the opportunity to be kind to Mr. Carruthers, since he was her partner, and found it most rewarding. Here was a man who approached the knight-errant she had once dreamed of, the one so close in many respects to Sir Tristram. Mr. Carruthers’ gray eyes were large and sensitive, his lips full and sweetly curved. In the most respectful manner he managed to slip delicate compliments into their conversation, always stressing, of course, how very far above him she was. Jane was embarrassed when she mistakenly called the young man Sir Tristram but that revealed to her where her thoughts were leading. She felt a little thrill of guilty excitement, even as she realized this feeling was a phantasm and had nothing to do with the emotion she harbored for Lord Wraybourne. Still, it had a charm all its own. To have a secret admirer would be very dashing and, with Sir Tristram, very safe.
