Sir John, who had taken little notice of Miss Pellering on her arrival except to note that she was a pretty child and in favor with Lady Teeve, began to be agreeably surprised by her. Emily, no matter that her eyes turned every now and again in Teverley’s uninterested direction, kept up a flow of delightful small talk, interspersed with questions that Sir John had no chance to answer, and flutterings of her long lashes. He made no comments on Lady Teeve’s dinner to her, and proposed himself, after a particularly charming remark, entirely her slave. Emily, who in truth thought him a rather old gentleman, and fat—although he was three years Teverley’s junior—moved the conversation on with little thought. She listened to Teverley talk to Miss Brickerham with half attention, and to Lady Teeve’s honeyed badgering of her son. The girl’s color was high, her eyes sparkled, and Jenny was afraid, from these signs, that Emily was growing more and more distraught.
At last, after what seemed like an interminable time, Lady Teeve rose to lead the ladies into the drawing room to wait for the gentlemen. Once away from Domenic and Peter Teverley, Emily calmed herself perceptibly, although Jenny watched her still with some uneasiness. Lady Teeve again drew the girl aside to ask her questions, in her mellifluous, soft, inexorable voice; Jenny, seeing there was nothing she could do to help her friend, conversed with Miss Sarah Brickerham on country life.
Miss Brickerham had begun to discuss her church work (for she was far more devoted than Jenny had ever been to “the dear parson and his work”), when the gentlemen returned from the dining room, carrying the rich scent of tobacco and port with them. Lady Teeve announced herself altogether unable to part with Emily’s company, and Jenny, with only one backward look to assure herself that the girl was faring well enough, acceded to Lord Teeve’s request that she come and play backgammon with him. He was a skilled player, far better than she, but a lucky roll of the dice and her own small talents brought her tally almost even with him. When the tea tray was brought in, she had won three games and was about, it appeared, to win yet another in a complete backgammon. Lord Teeve announced that, since it seemed such a sure thing that she would win, he would concede the game to her, but Jenny replied that there was always the chance of a lucky roll, and begged that they finish the play. When she had removed her stones entirely from the board Lord Teeve congratulated her on a fine win, and they went to tea much in charity with each other, to Lady Teeve’s ill-disguised disgust.
Miss Quare sat behind the pot, and Jenny imagined that this was one of her duties. Examining the woman as she moved about, dispensing tea with an air which plainly indicated she felt herself above such tasks, Jenny thought to herself that such might have been her life, and thanked heaven for her aunt and uncle Winchell and her welcome, however qualified, into their house. Lady Teeve was served first, then Miss Pellering and the Misses Brickerham. As Miss Quare filled the next cup, Lady Teeve gave her a look of quiet significance, and the cup was passed along to Lord Teeve. Sir John, Peter Teverley, and Domenic received their cups, and finally Miss Quare filled a cup for herself and settled, with a grateful sigh, into her chair. Left without a cup of tea, Jenny smiled a rueful smile and would, herself, have forgone the pleasure of the beverage, but Lord Teeve had seen all.
“But my dear Mary,” he addressed Miss Quare, “you have forgotten one of our guests.” At the mutinous look the companion gave him, Lord Teeve remarked, “You need not stir yourself, my dear. You have done quite enough.” And with a creaking of stays he rose from his seat and made for the tea tray.
“No, my lord, please, I can serve myself—” Jenny began.
“And deprive me of the chance to play the gallant?” He smiled at her. “Call it payment for those games you won of me—and damme if you ain’t a fine player, too. D’you play at home?”
“Indeed, sir, with my uncle I do. My aunt has no taste for the game, so I learnt it for his sake.” Jenny received her tea from the viscount’s hands and favored the old gentleman with a grateful smile. But Lady Teeve was not to be so easily crossed, and made it obvious that someone would have to be made uncomfortable to pay for her vexation.
“I cannot think,” she began with a loud sigh, “how Mary came to forget Miss Prydd’s tea.” She frowned at her companion, ruthlessly sacrificing her. “Pray remember, in future, Mary, and do not do it again.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Mary Quare muttered. “Excuse me, indeed.” And with an agitated flutter she rose and left the room, sparing only a look of bleak dislike for Miss Prydd.
Oh, dear, Jenny thought, and sipped the controversial cup. Now I do have an enemy, and where I meant none, too. From across the room Peter Teverley smiled at her, one brow raised quizzically, and Jenny found herself almost hating his look for the attention she was sure it must draw upon her.
Emily was unaware of any of this. Lady Teeve had asked that she talk of herself, and there are few things a girl of seventeen would rather do. She rattled on, unaware that she was giving details of her life—and Jenny’s as well—to a woman who was almost a complete stranger. Jenny could only hope that Emily would remember not to tell this woman, of all the leaders of the ton, how and where she had met Peter and Domenic. But since her chair was placed too distant to hear what was said, she decided there was nothing to be gained by fretting, and began again her conversation with Lord Teeve.
At last, tea finished, Lady Teeve rose to retire, taking the ladies with her. Lord Teeve was punctilious in thanking Jenny for the games of backgammon, and she promised him his revenge on the next evening; Domenic managed to distract his mother to Miss Brickerham, and paused at Emily’s side to tell her, with a look of tender meaning which she ignored, that he would see her in the morning. Dom watched Emily leave the room with a backward glance to Teverley, who was entirely oblivious of the whole, wondering why, all of a sudden, Emily had grown so cool. In sum, the good-evenings were so fraught with looks, meaning, and portents on the parts of Lady Teeve, Miss Pellering, and Miss Brickerham—who was also, obviously, interested in Peter Teverley’s oblique, unreadable smile—that Jenny was unable to restrain a gusty smile of relief when at last she attained her room.
“I was right, and Teverley was right, and I ought never to have come; Emily ought not to have come,” she sighed, brushing out her hair. “But here I am, rain or shine, and we must make the best of it. If only I could vanish.” She examined her all-too-solid self in the mirror. “No chance of that. So I’d do well to stay far from Lady Teeve’s notice when I can, and out of Miss Quare’s as well—poor thing! And if I can keep Emily from making a complete cake of herself I can return to London—I can return to Dumsford, indeed!—in good faith. Which is probably what I had better do, and quickly, before I forget how to be happy with my lot, and think”—she smiled irrepressibly— “of what I had not ought. But at least he is not angry with me anymore.” She settled herself in the large bed, realizing that she was exhausted, not so much from the journey as from the dinner. “Hi-ho, I shall be entirely done up by Sunday,” she murmured, and was asleep before she could think further.
Chapter Twelve
When the morning arrived, and Jenny was awakened by a maid kindling the fire and setting a can of hot water on the table, things looked eminently improved. The sun was already hot through the windows, and Jenny realized, with some surprise, that she had missed country mornings since coming to London. By the time she had washed, dressed her hair, and donned one of the new day dresses Lady Graybarr had given her, optimism had risen undeniably within her breast, and even the thought of Lady Teeve could not extinguish the smile on her lips. Indeed, looking out over the park and the small wilderness that made up the view from her window, she found it in her to hope that Lady Teeve would be satisfied with the unpleasantness she had created among her guests the night before, and would now feel content to ignore their past difficulties. This thought enabled her to descend to the breakfast room still smiling.
It was, she realized, still earlier than she had thought: Lord Teeve was deep in conversation wi
th Peter Teverley over the remains of a large platter of ham, and there were no others of the party in sight. Both the men rose when she entered, and Lord Teeve greeted her with the cordial cheer of an early riser greeting one of his own kind.
“Y’see, Peter, I told you if we waited long enough one of the ladies would come to grace our coffeepot. And,” he added, as Peter Teverley seated her, “I am sure you will do so charmingly, my dear.” He went on to inquire after her rest and to beg her to sample this dish and that from the sideboard. “It ain’t so lavish a spread as you find at dinner, but you should be pretty well set up with what’s here.”
“Indeed, sir, how could I fail to be?” Jenny smiled up from her bread and butter.
“Dinner is Lady Teeve’s province, and she likes it lavish and full of French dressings and fancy savories. Not that there’s anything to dislike in them, but I do like straightforward English cookery—at least at breakfast. Hey, Peter?”
Mr. Teverley grinned good-naturedly at his uncle, a smile untainted by the least irony. “You forget, Uncle, that I have spent years in a climate where they’re as like to serve you pickles at breakfast and curries at luncheon; the cook we had with us in Amedabad knew only two English dishes, porridge and pork pie. And being among the Hindu, we could hardly eat beefsteak every night.”
“Why not?” Lord Teeve asked.
“They feel that the cow is sacred, and indeed, it is a major crime to kill one, let alone permit someone to cook it. We would very probably have been murdered in our beds, for we were out in the country at that time, and we were far from substantially armed.”
Jenny shivered deliciously. “You don’t speak much of your travels, Mr. Teverley. It’s quite fascinating.”
“Surely not, my dear Prydd. Miss Prydd,” he amended, for his uncle’s sake. “I’ve become too used to ladies asking to hear my traveling stories, who yawn politely behind their hands and hope I think they are gaping in amusement. You cannot tell me you are genuinely interested.”
“I could be, but if you had rather not speak of it, I will not press you,” Jenny answered, stung by the tone of his speech.
“Well, if it is the intent of you children to play at quarrels and dagger-drawing, I shall retire to the study. Peter, can you join me for an hour or two this morning?”
Teverley smiled again at his uncle; Miss Prydd found herself wishing that he would, just once, turn that smile upon her. And smothered the thought.
“Of course, Uncle, I’ll join you directly.” He nodded at his half-emptied teacup.
“No need to rush, my boy. I will be closeted up for the morning. My dear Miss Prydd—no, I shall take an uncle’s privilege and ask if I may call you Jenny as my son does.”
“Indeed, I would be flattered, sir.”
“Well then, Jenny, I hope you enjoy your morning. If you like flowers, I suggest you ask Dom to show you through the outer gardens and the wilderness. In fact, I’d ask that Peter show you, for I’ve no idea when my slugabed boy will show his face, but I require Peter’s services myself.”
Jenny assured him that she quite understood, and thanked him for his kindness.
“Well,” Peter Teverley said, once his uncle had departed, “the two of you are in prime charity with one another, ain’t you?”
“Your uncle is very kind to a stranger. I think, although I expect he would deny it, that he let me win at backgammon last evening.”
“Not if I know my uncle, ma’am. But had he done so, would that be sufficient to prove his geniality in your eyes?”
Jenny bridled at his curt tone. “It does not. To tell truth, I would rather win or lose honestly than be assured of winning—in which case, why bother to play the game at all? But even had he done so, it shows only a concern and kindness toward his guests, however wrongly he might have judged me.”
“He would judge you, I imagine, by my dear aunt. She would have no qualms about winning by default, so long as she was, in the world’s eyes, the winner.” He looked hard at her. “You look uncomfortable, Miss Prydd. Do I offend you? Do you like my estimable aunt and consider her worthy of your support?”
“Whatever it is that I think of your aunt, I would certainly not speak of her in such a tone in her own home; and I wonder that you would ask such questions of me.” Jenny rose, her breakfast unfinished, and started toward the door.
“Oh my God, Jenny, stop,” he began, looking suddenly ashamed of himself. “Forgive me. When I am in company with my aunt it makes me somewhat unfit to be in company with anyone else. And it is the devil having to watch Aunt Teeve playing with you and Miss Pellering as she did last night.”
“I am perfectly capable of tending to myself—and Miss Pellering, if necessary,” Jenny stated, unmollified.
“Worse and worse,” Teverley muttered. “Look, Jenny, I did not mean—that you were incapable—that is, I meant to say...” He trailed off, looking ruefully perplexed. Looking at him, Jenny began to giggle.
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly, after a few minutes. “I am not in the least a giggling sort of woman, but—” She gasped helplessly. “You looked so comical and furious, and—”
“In other words, I was making a proper jackass of myself. Teach me to lose my temper irrationally before an intelligent woman. And I can never remember to hold my damned tongue.”
“I can see,” Jenny said soberly.
“My dear Prydd, I believe you are teasing me. And it is entirely unfair of you to harass a man who’s been so long from decent society he has forgotten how to act with a proper lady.”
“I had not noticed there being any difficulty,” she answered. Then it was her turn to blush and curse her ready tongue.
“I was not much in company with ladies in India—it wasn’t like Calcutta, you see, or the other outposts; there was very little society, and the women there were mostly of the—the type—”
“I quite understand,” Jenny finished for him.
“There were some of the respectable sort, but they were generally worse than the—other sort. At least the convenients had a sense of humor, and didn’t try to make a silk purse out of an entirely different nation! Whereas the officers’ wives and the merchants’ wives were bent on creating a society as petty and close-minded as even my Aunt Teeve could wish.”
“Well, perhaps it is not the country, but the ladies themselves,” Jenny suggested reasonably.
“Probably so. But nothing would make me take a wife to India—not if I valued my own peace.”
Jenny, with the image of Emily Pellering settled into an Indian household, surrounded by the sort of women Teverley described, in a place new and foreign to her, shuddered. Teverley saw and read her expression.
“Exactly, my dear Prydd. Not everyone is made of the stuff from which you, for example, are made.” Jenny thought she heard gentle derision in his voice.
“Certainly not, sir,” she murmured.
“And even you, I fancy, would have a hard time of it in India, Prydd. Think of a lesser woman!” He encouraged her, unaware that she was doing her utmost to avoid thinking of just that.
“Are you keeping your uncle waiting, sir?” she asked desperately.
“Meaning that I am dismissed, yes?” Teverley smiled. “I apologize if I have been rather abrupt, Jenny; not my intention. I’ll leave you to your tea.” He seemed as ill at ease as she felt, and as relieved to be quitting her company as she was to have him go. But at the door he turned to make his bow, and smiled at her a smile much like the one with which he favored his uncle.
And probably no differently from the way he smiles at everyone, Jenny told herself as she poured another cup of tea. No help for it; as soon as she and Emily returned to London she would have to make her excuses and go to the Bevans’. “And best not to stay in London too long in any case, or I shall never be happy at Dumsford again. And I know where I belong. He’s made that clear enough.” What on earth had possessed her to dream of Teverley? It was not so much the difference in their fortunes and estat
es that forced them apart. “But I am made of different stuff from the sort of woman he would choose—a woman like Emmy. And the devil is, she’ll drive him mad in no time, for she simply isn’t up to his weight.” And you think that you are? she asked herself silently. The elation of the morning had gone completely by now, as suddenly as it had come. “I suppose it is too much to ask that a man admire common sense in place of beauty and a sweet ninnyhammerish disposition. Even a man like Teverley.” Well, she had always known what her fortune had been; had never even been tempted to dream of a different one until she had met Teverley.
“I will simply learn to be contented again,” she stated firmly to the bottom, of her teacup. But when the thought of how she was to accomplish this nagged at her, she had no idea even where to start, and she had only the hope that Emily and Domenic would be able to distract her from these reflections that kept her from retiring again to her room.
o0o
Despite his father’s predictions, Domenic was not inordinately late in rising, and by the time Jenny had collected her thoughts and left the breakfast room, he was up and dressed, anxious to take his guests for a ride about the estate. He pleaded with Jenny to waken Emily, in the hope that the three of them might slip away before his mother and the Brickerhams were abroad. Jenny repressed a shudder at the thought, but he said, “Mamma would want to do something tedious like walking in the garden, and I want Emmy—and you too, ma’am—to see Teeve. You do ride, don’t you, ma’am? It’s the best thing if you are blue-deviled, you know: You can ride the ill temper entirely out.” He looked at her closely.
“Do I seem so blue-deviled?” Jenny smiled wanly. “But I’ve no habit, Dom.” She excused herself, ignoring the disastrous lurch that her stomach gave. “I do ride, of course, but—”
My Dear Jenny Page 13
