My Dear Jenny

by Robins, Madeleine

  “Probably?” Miss Prydd asked irrepressibly.

  “I cannot go back to examine the events leading to each encounter. Suffice it to say that I am convinced you are largely blameless.” Teverley delivered his judgment blandly, waiting for a fiery reply, which never came.

  Iphegenia stayed quiet for a minute more, then very pointedly asked a question about his years in India. Teverley accepted the change of subject with good grace, and spoke with ease and eloquence about his travels.

  “There were “ he was saying, “a good many splendid fellows working in the trade, but there was this one chap—” He paused to watch Feabers enter the room and deliver a message to Emily, who turned bright scarlet. “Excuse me, but what has upset your charge so?”

  “She is not my charge.” Jenny said tersely, but Teverley was not listening. Across the room Emily was in consultation with Feabers. Next to her Dom had assumed a mask of controlled fury, and was as white as she was red. A moment’s more conversation and Feabers nodded and left the room.

  “Ought we to ask, do you think?” Teverley’s eyes met Jenny’s in shared misgiving. Amazing, she thought hurriedly. The least little thing draws us together this way; worrying over Emily, I suppose.

  “No, see, Feabers has come back,” she murmured. “Wait and see what happens.”

  Together they watched as Feabers again bent to speak to Emily. Her reply was louder than before, colored with distress and quite audible to the others in the room.

  “You may tell Mr. Ratherscombe that I do not intend to be at home to him at any time in the future, and that he has behaved entirely in such a way as to make his presence unwelcome here.”

  Feabers, armed with this gratifying assignment, left the room with his face wreathed in something as close to a smile as his dignity would allow. Domenic, after a moment digesting the declaration Emily had made, permitted himself one deeply sighed “By Jove!” whereupon Emily burst into tears and cast herself onto Domenic’s shoulder. He was so completely beatified by this treatment that he took her hand, when her tears had subsided, kissed it solemnly, and breathed, “Emmy, you were absolutely splendid!” Whereupon she burst again into tears and the process was begun anew.

  Across the room Peter Teverley raised his brow, astonished. “Damme, the child’s not a child, it’s a woman. Who’d have thought that that pretty little chit had that much to her? Is this some contagion of yours, my dear Prydd?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, call me Jenny!” she exclaimed inappropriately. “It’s your name anyway! What do you mean, contagion?”

  “This elusive quality of not being what you seem to be. Here I have a woman who proclaims herself to be a lady’s-companion-ish sort of person, who continually contradicts the proposition by brangling with me each time we meet. Next I find that the chit I’d assumed had more hair than wit and more vanity than heart can assume the manner of Good Queen Bess talking to Essex. What charade will come next? Dom as rakehell?”

  “Perhaps” —Jenny rose from her seat— “the truth is simply that we are exactly what we seem, and when faced with trying situations or trying people and under extreme provocation we must find our way as best we can.” She picked up her workbag from the taboret and tumbled threads and pins into it with an angry snap.

  “I’m in favor of it, you know.” Teverley said lazily. “You have a tidy turn of mind when under—uhm—provocation. I suppose that Dom and I should take our leave.” He had come to his feet now, and followed her to Dom and Emily.

  “May I take her to the stairs?” Domenic asked gravely over Emily’s bowed head. Jenny nodded, and Emily, supported gingerly by Domenic, gave Teverley a watery smile, and was rewarded by his best bow over her hand. Then Dom helped her toward the door.

  “Thank you for your kindness to Dom,” Teverley murmured. “He’s a good fellow, for a halfling.”

  “He’s a very dear boy.” Jenny smiled.

  “I wish you will cure yourself of this habit of phrasing everything as if you were an aged hag, woman. My cousin is only a few years your junior.”

  “As I am only a few years your junior? Are you aware of the fact that Dom sees you as his aged uncle? But no, you have brought me to brangling again. I will say nothing more than good afternoon, Mr. Teverley.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Prydd.” He looked after Emily. “Splendid little thing. Most amazing.” His glance returned to Jenny, and he smiled deeply. “Most amazing.”

  Even after Mr. Teverley and Domenic had gone, Jenny did not straightaway go after Emily; instead she stood for a few minutes in the drawing room, musing (although not for the first time) on the particular charm of Peter Teverley’s smile. At last, with a shake, she recalled herself to her duties, characterized herself roundly as a greater fool even than Emily, and went in search of her shawl.

  Chapter Six

  The fortnight which followed Ratherscombe’s attempt upon the peace of the Pellering household was mercifully undisturbed by any further such incidents. Emily, and Jenny in her wake, settled into a round of parties and visits, punctuated by the occasional calls of the Teverley men, and by what seemed to Jenny to be interminable hours spent at Emily’s mantua-maker’s warehouse. Finally an afternoon did come when Jenny was able to persuade her friend that she truly did not care to come once more to New Bond Street to inspect the stuffs for Emily’s court dress, and when Emily and her mother had departed and Lord Graybarr had taken himself off to his club, she was able to remove to the library with pen, ink, and paper, to write some hopelessly overdue letters.

  She had finished the first, a letter to her aunt Winchell, and begun on a second, addressed to the nursery inhabitants of Winchell house, when a noise in the hallway distracted her from her writing. Aside from a mild surprise that Emily had dispatched her errands so quickly (for so she supposed the case to be) Jenny paid no attention to the bustle until it forced itself in upon her. The door was opened, and a frail, pretty, and very grim old lady entered the room.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Jenny laid aside her pen at once and rose to meet the older woman.

  “Yes.” The word fell cold and harsh from the visitor’s gentle mouth, and warred with her saintly mien: she looked like an angel in lavenders and grays, and sounded like a disgruntled governess. “Well,” the voice prodded.

  “Won’t you sit, ma’am, and I will ring for some tea—”

  “No need to do so, girl. I will be leaving presently. I am Lady Teeve.” The woman announced herself in such tones of portent that Jenny knew the name was meant to mean something to her, perhaps even to strike terror into her heart; even when Jenny recalled who Lady Teeve must be, she could recall no reason for fearing her.

  “You’re Domenic’s mother?” She smiled with more warmth. “I am so pleased to meet you! We count Dom as an especial friend here. I am—”

  “I know precisely who you are, girl. I wonder that you are brass-faced enough to own it—nay, to crow it at me in such a fashion.” Lady Teeve favored Jenny with a particularly cutting and distasteful glance, and continued, almost as if she were alone in the room. “Older than I had thought. I don’t know whether that means that you are a sensible sort of thing, or merely desperate.” Her tone denied either possibility or any hint of compliment. “I don’t much care. This thing will be put to a stop immediately.” For emphasis she tapped the floor with her stick.

  Jenny was entirely at sea by this time. Unless Lady Teeve had heard some ridiculous story, or was completely about in her head (a theory which Miss Prydd gave no little credence) then there was no reason—but then Jenny recalled Domenic’s words on the occasion of his first call. “If I want something, Mamma will be against it.” And it began to occur to Jenny that perhaps Lady Teeve did not know to whom it was she spoke. A few more words from the visitor convinced Jenny that she had it right.

  “My boy will be a viscount someday, as I am sure you are aware. Of yourself, aside from the fact that you’re too old, and nothing at all to look at! (for I take pride in plain spea
king, missy!)—a fact that I had not apprehended before now, which makes me the more worried on poor Domenic’s account—” The lady drew a breath, hopelessly entangled in her sentence. “I will not have it, do you hear? There is nothing to be said in great objection to your family, I suppose, although your mamma’s father was in trade, so you need not try to conceal it from me. But you are not suitable for my son. Aside from which, I have other plans for him. He will marry a suitable girl. Is that clear?”

  “Abundantly, ma’am.” Jenny returned Lady Teeve’s glare with a calm regard, which appreciably wilted that lady’s battle mien. For the first time since she had entered the room, Lady Teeve’s face settled into what Jenny hoped was her more usual aspect: that of a sweet-tempered, affable older lady.

  “Well, then, my dear. You will see that I can be a good friend to one who obliges me. If you will persuade Domenic to cease his hanging about this house, I will endeavor to help you in what little ways I may.”

  “Ma’am, may I ask who it is you think I am?”

  Lady Teeve looked sharply at the younger woman. “I thought we were done with this! I warn you, I will not be trifled with! Nor shall my son be trifled with.”

  “Nor should he be, indeed, ma’am. Not by me, certainly. Nor anyone else that I can think of—not in the manner which you evidently suppose.”

  “Miss Pellering...”

  “Lady Teeve, my name is Prydd. lphegenia Prydd. I am a friend of Miss Pellering, and I have been trying to figure out this misunderstanding for these five minutes. I am terribly afraid that you have been in error, or misled by someone—”

  Lady Teeve drew herself up to full height—still half a head smaller than Jenny. “I will not permit this! I will not be played with! Why did you not tell me who you were?”

  “Because, ma’am, if you recall, you specifically forbade me to do so. Miss Pellering is not at home at the moment. However, I think that you are very much deceived if you have cast Emily as some sort of enchantress who has thrown a spell over Domenic; why, she is two years his junior, and—”

  “When they met she was engaged to run off with some fortune-hunting rascal! A fine match for my son, missy. Well, you may give my message to Miss Pellerlng, if you please.”

  “If you please, ma’am,” Jenny broke in smoothly, “I shall not do so. It is hardly my place to do so. Aside from which, I do not believe that any serious harm can come to Dom in this house. He comes, after all, in the company of his cousin, Mr. Peter Teverley, and so far from encouraging his tendre, Emily has shown Dom no partiality at all. She looks upon Dom as she might a brother. They—”

  “She has entrapped my son,” Lady Teeve stated implacably. “I will not have him in her company.”

  “Then is it not your responsibility to speak with Domenic rather than to come and attack Emily Pellering? I give you my word that she has made no move to attach his interest, and his affection for her is brotherly—” Lady Teeve sniffed. “And perhaps a little calf love in it, as well, which will not last, nor root itself unless he is greatly opposed in it.”

  “Do you say that my son isn’t good enough for a tradesman’s daughter?” Lady Teeve asked with more indignation than accuracy. “I tell you, Miss—whatever your name is! I will not have Domenic dangling after your little Miss Pellering. I came in a civil fashion to discuss this, and I was prepared to be helpful.” Jenny repressed a strong urge to opine on Lady Teeve’s civility of manner and helpfulness. “You will tell Miss Pellering what I said.”

  “I would suggest again that you speak rather to Domenic, or failing that, to Mr. Peter Teverley, since it is in his company that Dom visits the house. In either event—”

  “Peter is no help at all. He simply ignores everything that I say. He’s as bad as Teeve in that. As for Domenic, you know as well as I that he is bewitched. Told me to mind my own business, quite as if I had not been the most affectionate and careful of mothers! I will not be so treated by my son, Miss Smith.”

  “Prydd, ma’am,” Jenny corrected levelly. “And if you have nothing further to communicate, I suggest that we terminate this interview.”

  “Are you dismissing me?” Lady Teeve hissed, outraged.

  “No, but I cannot see any point in prolonging a discussion wherein both parties are so clearly divided.”

  Lady Teeve rose and collected her reticule from the divan where she had dropped it. “You are entirely right, Miss Prynne. I will not stay in this house a moment longer. And you shall never see my son again, I assure you.”

  “We would miss him, ma’am,” Jenny said sweetly. “He has been a good friend to us here. Not so good as you would have it, of course. But he’s a prettily behaved boy, and will be a fine man when he grows up.”

  Lady Teeve was entirely at a loss. Either she was being insulted or complimented, but as to which—and as to which would have bothered her more—she was at a loss to say. Taking up her shawl and her dignity, the lady swept daintily from the room, favoring the startled footman outside the door with a singularly venomous look. Jenny stood where she was until the outside door had closed behind Domenic’s mother, then sank dazedly into her chair again. “Good Lord, when all I wanted was a quiet afternoon in which to write my letters!”

  Favoring the door with a look of dislike meant more for her departed guest than for Corinthian scrollwork, Jenny resumed her letter to her cousins. It was difficult to continue in her usually animated style, for between each detailed description of muslin flounces and high perch phaetons—for she had promised her audience a diligent report of all the wonders encountered on her travels—thoughts would surface irrepressibly. Ought she to tell Emily of what had passed? Or Domenic Teverley? Or Peter Teverley? Clearly, Lady Teeve was not disposed to listen to any but her own opinions, but Jenny did not relish the thought of another such interview. Indeed, she mused, until this day she would not have imagined she could have gone through such a scene without emerging in hysterics. I must be stronger-minded than I knew; and what I said to her... This was such an arresting thought that Jenny gave up for once and all on her correspondence, brought her letter to a quick and disjointed close, and went in search of her pelisse and bonnet. She enlisted the company of a maid and set out for Lady Bevan’s house.

  Fortunately, Maria Bevan was at home that afternoon, feeling elegantly and somewhat boringly fragile and planning colors for her nursery. Lord Bevan, after putting up with his wife’s notions for as long as he could, had fled the house muttering something about the sane company of the fellows at Manton’s. It was only half an hour after his disgraceful retreat that Miss Prydd’s card was shown to Lady Bevan. Maria, who had had neither time enough to become contrite, nor to have fully thought out the subject, was in the midst of a splendid feeling of ill-use, and welcomed her friend with a comic confusion of tears, joy, and wrath, all of which were confounded by her resolve to play as fragile a dame as any on the stage—when she recalled her part.

  “Dearest Genia!” She jumped up from her divan and began to flutter toward her friend. Then dropped back as she recalled her delicate condition.

  “Jenny now, Mary. I find I prefer it so.” She eyed her friend dubiously. “You know, if you are as ill as you seem—”

  “Not ill, Ge-Jenny. Simply—” She paused. “Well, you know—that is, no of course, you cannot know! I cannot think how I could have said such a thing! But I am—” She broke off, confounded by her own words.

  “I know it is a wise thing to care for yourself when you are enceinte. But really, Mary, hartshorn and vinaigrette in the middle of the afternoon? Indeed, I have heard that it does a baby no good if his mamma has been too quiet during her confinement, but only makes him fat and slow.”

  Lady Bevan had never entertained the notion of a fat baby. “I will not have a pudgy child! I will not have a fat little brat like that ... what was her name? Amanda Weatherfair, at school.”

  “Lord, I’d not thought of her in years, Mary. What became of her?”

  “What might have been e
xpected,” Maria said callously. “She became a companion to some dreadful old woman, and is still there, I suppose, fetching shawls and combing out pug dogs and heaven knows what else.” Maria shuddered deliciously at the thought.

  “She is hardly to be condemned for finding a situation in which she is no burden on anyone, Maria. At least she is working for her living, and in an honest household.”

  “As if she would be accepted to work in a dishonest one!” Maria crowed. Then, taken aback by Jenny’s look of reproach: “Am I being impossible again, Jenny? I am sorry, my love. But you must tell me what you have been so busy at, all this time, that you have not called upon me.” She rang for wine and biscuits, settling herself and her friend down for a comfortable coze with instructions to the butler that they were not to be disturbed.

  “Actually, I have been accompanying Emily practically everywhere; not to Almack’s, of course, but to all manner of routs and suppers and balls.”

  “Why not to Almack’s?” Lady Bevan asked curiously.

  “Just a little high-flying for me, I think.”

  “Nonsense!” Maria snorted. “If Lady Graybarr don’t get you a voucher, I shall do so.”

  “She offered it, indeed, but I thanked her and said no, Mary, what sort of game would I look, little and poor and thin as a pole, and plain as Sunday to boot, in that company? I’ve no fortune, no brilliance, and no beauty to recommend me, and aside from taking notes to send to Annabelle and her sisters—”

  “Who on earth is Annabelle?”

  “One of my aunt Winchell’s children. A dear little girl, with a powerful love of finery! I vow I have described every gown I have encountered this month and more, and have the most peculiar notes in my diary: ‘Wednesday, dined out, Emily in mouselline de soie, in a pretty shade of pink; myself in mauve gauze and ribbons. Met Lady S, who wore green with silk ruches and a wreath of silver roses,”’ she recited solemnly.

  “Very well, but you shall not put me off. I think your scruples ridiculous, but if it will make you uncomfortable—”