by M C Beaton
“Anyway,” she added, “I have no chance of a season in London. My godmother wishes to have me but my uncle”—she indicated the funereal figure across the room—“will not attend. London, I believe, abounds in fleshpots.”
The marquess roared with laughter and Jean realized with surprise that she was a small success. Everyone in the supper room was covertly watching them. Her clothes were suddenly considered quaint but becoming. After all, any girl who could entertain a nonpareil like the marquess must have something.
“I suppose I could have a word with your uncle,” said the marquess raising his quizzing glass to look at Hamish and immediately dropping it as the old man started bowing and scraping in his direction, his withered face nearly in his food. “On second thoughts,” he mused half to himself, “he might get the wrong idea.”
Jean had forgotten the exalted nature of her company. After all, it had been like chatting with Miss Taylor. “Yes, his mind does rather run on sin,” she giggled. “He would probably think you meant to offer me a carte blanche. Anyway,” she stammered, freezing under the marquess’s shocked stare, “he would know you did not have any ideas of marriage. I have no dowry.”
“Carte blanche indeed!” raged the marquess, betrayed into equally bad form by his anger. “I’ll have you know, my dear, that should I wish to mount a new mistress, I should look for something more experienced. I do not seduce village girls.”
Jean’s face was the same color as her hair. “I faith, my lord, if I forgot myself, I am sorry. I had thought we were talking as friends.”
“Don’t forget yourself again,” snapped the marquess, struggling to assume the calm mask of thirty years of social modes and manners. “It was an outrageous thing to say,” he added in a kinder tone. “You must never speak like that again to any man of your acquaintance.”
Feeling like a gauche schoolgirl, Jean was led back into the ballroom to find Hamish waiting to be introduced.
“Will you be long in these parts, my lord?”
Horrible old man, thought the marquess, his pity for Jean again aroused. “No,” he said, shortly. “I leave tomorrow.”
“Well, now, perhaps you may see my little Jean in London?” said Hamish with an ingratiating leer.
“But I thought…” started Jean, bewildered.
“Now, now,” said Hamish. “You didn’t take any notice of an old man’s teasing. I shall write to your godmother on the morrow.”
The marquess bowed formally and departed, leaving Jean happy but confused. It had dawned on Hamish that his niece might be able to catch a rich husband and, after all, Lady Harriet Telfer-Billington had said she would frank Jean’s season, so it wasn’t as if he would have to pay anything.
“Glad to see you doing the pretty with the Lindsay girl,” said the Duke of Glenrandall, linking arms with the marquess. “She don’t get too much fun. That old curmudgeon of an uncle is too mean. Wouldn’t tolerate him around the place but the family’s very sound. The old general was a great character, I believe. Before m’ time, of course. Knew the girl’s father, Philip. Charming but couldn’t hold on to a farthing. Bet on everything from flies on the windowpane to geese crossing the road.”
The marquess shrugged his elegant shoulders. “Poor thing,” he said. “That old-fashioned gown and that terrible uncle. Least I could do.”
Lady Bess gleefully heard this aside and rushed to tell Jean. To be an object of pity is a dreadful thing. After one furious, hurt, stormy look at the marquess, Jean gathered the rags of her dignity and informed her uncle that she was leaving.
The following Sunday, the desire for revenge against the whole world in general and the marquess in particular burned in Jean’s now sedately covered bosom. She sharpened her quill with savage strokes, dipped her pen in the inkwell and applied herself to her uncle’s sermon.
A few years ago when the reverend had taken to his bed suffering from an excess of the duke’s brandy, Jean had written his sermon for him and had been landed with the thankless task ever since. Her uncle, she knew, never read her sermons. He merely intoned them mindlessly, being well fortified with madeira before the event. She tore up what she had written and began again.
“Because some among us today have great wealth and rank, it does not mean that they should humiliate those beneath them in social station. They should not be so puffed up that they forget the lowliest herdsman has feelings. The aristocracy of this fair country have become spoiled, vice-ridden and corrupt. Its young men waste their time in gaming halls and its so-called ladies are little better than whores offering their bodies to the highest bidder on the marriage mart…”
Jean giggled as she thought of the marquess’s face and ended the sermon with one of her uncle’s famous sayings. “And so, dear brethren, it is my utmost wish that the increase of such as these shall be given to the worm and that their immortal souls shall burn in hell.”
But it would never do. Perhaps it might amuse Miss Taylor. Jean slipped it into the desk drawer and began on what she mentally dubbed the “authorized version” of Uncle Hamish’s sermon.
When she had finished, she left for the church to arrange flowers sent over after the ball by the duchess. It was a beautiful morning, bright and fair, all wind and glitter. The old trees around the manse tossed their arms up to the cloudless sky and yesterday’s rain sparkled like gems on the smooth grass of the churchyard. Jean had learned that the marquess had decided to extend his stay, and although she was still smarting from his patronizing remark, she could not help looking forward to seeing him again. She chided herself for being impressed with nothing more than a tailored coat and a handsome face.
At the manse, the reverend carefully put down the decanter and made his way into the study to collect the sermon. First he opened the drawer of the desk to look for his snuffbox, which had unaccountably been missing, and to his surprise saw the sermon lying there. Without glancing at the papers on top of the desk, he picked it up and made his way sedately, if somewhat unsteadily, to the church next door.
He frowned at the elaborate display of hothouse flowers which he considered smacked of popery, but he was gratified to notice that the church was filled to capacity, and also that the Marquess of Fleetwater was ensconced in the duke’s pew, listening with bored attention to the prattling of Mary and Bess.
Clutching the wings of the brass eagle which supported the bible on the pulpit, he began his sermon. His blurred mind had no thought in it higher than the anticipation of lunch and it was only as he neared the end that he realized that the duke’s face was mottled purple, the duchess was looking at him in blank horror and the Ladies Bess and Mary were bridling like startled horses. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jean, very white-faced, freckles standing out against the skin. At the final sentence, a deathly hush lay over the congregation, suddenly broken by an enormous roar of laughter, as the elegant marquess doubled up in the pew.
For the first time, Hamish focused blearily on the words he was supposed to have written and, after a quick perusal, held up his hands for silence.
“This is the work of a Jezebel!” he roared. “My thoughts were on God’s business or I should have noticed the viper in my bosom, my own flesh and blood, my niece Jean had been at the Devil’s work. She placed this… this—” he waved the papers—“in my hands substituting it for my own holy work.”
He leaned over the pulpit and pointed straight at Jean. “Begone from this church, daughter of Satan!”
Jean turned and walked out, two spots of color burning on her cheeks, and, strangely enough, more hate for the marquess in her heart than for her uncle.
Chapter Two
The daughter of Satan sat on the edge of her bed and watched the light fading from the top of the mountains across the loch. A chill breeze rippled over the gray water and a seagull cried mournfully from the rocks.
A murmur of voices rose from the parlor below but Jean, who had wept until she felt numb, was past caring. There was a timid scratching at th
e door and it opened to reveal the housekeeper carrying a cheap tallow candle.
“Come, Mistress Jean, ye’re wanted downstairs,” said Agnes. Heaven help the girl; she looked so white! There was already talk in the village of her being a witch and Agnes’s kind heart ached for the girl she had known since a baby.
“It’ll be all right. You’ll see,” she said kindly. “Her Grace is there with the meenister and he will not be ranting and raving in front of the likes of her.”
Jean followed the housekeeper down the narrow, dark stairs into the parlor. Ornately carved Jacobean furniture stood stiffly to attention as if awaiting her judgment. The grandfather clock in the corner gave a small, asthmatic cough, cleared its throat and chimed the quarter hour. As Jean moved forward into the room, the peat fire helpfully belched out a puff of black smoke to enhance her devilish image.
“Now, child,” began Her Grace and held up her hand as Hamish would have spoken, “that was indeed a terrible business today.” Honoria, the Duchess of Glenrandall, felt a mixture of pity and irritation as she looked at the woebegone figure in front of her. A lazy, kindhearted woman, she hated to see anyone unhappy but at the same time felt resentful if she was forced to bestir herself.
“We have decided that it is better if you journey to your godmother’s on the morrow with my daughters and myself. I have sent an express to Lady Harriet Telfer-Billington apprising her of your arrival. I know it is short notice but I am sure you have little enough to pack”—with a glare at Hamish. “The clothes you have are not at all the thing, so it will be up to your godmother to furnish you with a suitable wardrobe.
“Miss Taylor will be arriving at any minute to help you choose anything that may be suitable. We shall stay with the Lamonts on the borders to break our journey. Remember always that you are being sent away in disgrace and it is up to you to rectify your errors by behaving modestly and like a gentlewoman. Ah, there is Miss Taylor now.”
Jean, still speechless, could only wait as the governess bustled into the room. “My poor Miss Lindsay…” she began but was interrupted by the duchess. “No sympathy,” she said sternly. “Leave us not forget that the girl has made a shameful spectacle of herself. I have told my daughters not to mention anything of this matter in London, and the Marquess of Fleetwater is, of course, a gentleman. He has assured me that no one will know anything of what occurred. Off you go with Miss Taylor.”
“And as for you, Hamish,” she said as the door closed behind the two ladies, “you have only yourself to blame. You should thank your Maker that the duke has decided not to remove you from your living.”
Upstairs, Miss Taylor, the only one to hear the true story of the sermon, shook her head over Jean’s scanty wardrobe.
“If you give me the gown you wore to the ball, I shall alter it on the journey and then when we arrive at the Lamonts, I shall try my best with the remainder.”
United by the common female bond of fashion, the two women looked gloomily at the well-worn dresses hanging in Jean’s closet. “I am to be punished indeed!” exclaimed Jean miserably. “To travel all the way to London only to appear an antique dowd in the eyes of the ton. How Bess and Mary will giggle and stare.”
As her eyes filled with tears, Agnes hurried into the room panting under the weight of a small trunk. “Your uncle’s had this locked away since your mother died,” said Agnes placing it in the middle of the room.
“He thinks there might be bits of jewelry in it. He says he hasn’t even looked inside, which might be the case since the meenister was awfy smitten with your mama.” And with that Agnes hurried off leaving both ladies to stare at each other in amazement at this revelation that Hamish might once have had a softer side to his flinty character.
Jean threw open the lid of the trunk. A faint odor of perfume wafted into the room and floated like an elegant, exotic memory on the chilly air and over the sparse furnishings. A sudden, almost desperate longing for the gay, pretty mother she had never known caught at Jean’s throat and she crouched on the floor beside the trunk scarcely hearing the ecstatic cries from Miss Taylor.
“Look, here is a magnificent string of pearls and oh!… this darling fan with the ivory sticks. Do look, my dear, it is a veritable treasure trove.”
At last Jean turned to the contents of the trunk. Miss Taylor’s enthusiasm was infectious and the sight of a set of garnets in an antique, gold setting warmed Jean’s feminine heart.
“Look, here are diamond earrings!” gasped Miss Taylor. “The stones are small but I could sell them for you in London and get you some pretty clothes.”
Life began to look rosier and Jean plunged happily into a daydream. She would sell the diamonds and buy the prettiest, most fashionable ball gown in all London. She would descend the staircase of the ballroom slowly, her head held high. Waiting at the foot of the staircase would be the marquess, his bored eyes leaping to appreciative life…
Another gasp from Miss Taylor and the ballroom and the marquess fled into the mist of imagination.
The little governess had opened a heavy wash leather bag.
“Gold, my dear, real gold! There must be about… let me see,” said Miss Taylor, her voice shaking with excitement as the pieces cascaded through her fingers… one hundred guineas! Oh, do not tell your uncle on any account or he will never let you have it.”
Jean stared at the gold as if hypnotized. She did not know that so much money existed. It had been dinned into her head at Glenrandall Castle that only tradesmen discussed money, so her standards were those of the Highlanders in the village.
“Why… I am an heiress,” she breathed.
Unaware that her unworldly charge really believed it, Miss Taylor gave an indulgent laugh and rattled on.
“We are to stay with Sir Edward and Lady Cynthia Lamont and they are said to be exceeding grand, you know. You must have money to give to the servants,” said the worldly-wise Miss Taylor. “Servants are so important to one’s comfort Give your vails to the housekeeper and butler when you arrive, not when you leave, then everything will be made easy for you during your stay.”
Jean nodded out of the window of her dreamworld in recognition of her governess’s wisdom and then retired back into a land of rosy fantasies.
Miss Taylor clapped her hands. “Enough of this. Let’s get your things together, though Lord knows you’ve only enough for one bandbox.”
The morning dawned cold and thick with mist as the duke’s carriages paused at the end of the manse drive to take up Jean. The duke himself was remaining behind to attend to estate matters.
In the foremost carriage sat the duchess clutching a vinaigrette and already supported by no less than two abigails. Her Grace detested traveling. In the second coach came Bess and Mary, who would have had it that Miss Taylor should travel in the third coach with the servants but the kindly duchess pooh-poohed the idea. They made room with bad grace.
As Jean climbed in, four pairs of china-blue eyes stared at her contemptuously, flicked over her well-worn plaid dress and shabby pelisse and turned to stare out of the window.
Despite Jean’s disgrace, many of the parishioners had turned up to wave her good-bye and press little presents and comforts for the road on her. Jean’s green eyes blurred as the carriage rolled off and had it not been for the sight of Hamish glowering through the mist like a demon, she would have broken down completely.
His parting words had been in character. “Remember where your duty lies, my girl, and get yourself a rich husband. The Lord expects it of you. Try to remember to be a credit to me. And here”—searching in a rusty black pocket—“to show you I am a forgiving and generous man, this will buy you some gee-gaws.” He counted ten shillings slowly and reluctantly into her palm, seeming surprised that she did not faint from gratitude.
If I marry, thought Jean, it will be so that I don’t have to be obliged to that horrible old man again, ever.
After an hour of travel, Bess and Mary started to yawn and stretch with boredom but Je
an was enchanted with the novelty of it all and pulled the bearskin rug closer around her legs and nestled her feet on the hot brick placed in the carriage for her comfort.
Two days of travel went by, broken by a brief night’s rest at a posting house. When they finally turned into the broad avenue which led to Rowannan Castle, home of Sir Edward Lamont where they were to stay for a few days, even Jean was heartily thankful. Bess and Mary had complained and whined throughout the whole journey and the duchess was nigh prostrate with travel sickness.
Rowannan Castle, set on the Scottish borders, was of mellow gray stone with crow-step gables and romantic turrets. The countryside was green, rolling and gentle, pleasing to Jean’s eyes, which were accustomed to the savage beauty of the Highlands. A modern extension with a terrace had been added to the entrance. Jean clapped her hands in delight “Oh, look. Peacocks!”
“Don’t be so rustic, for pity’s sake,” snapped Bess. “Only yokels leap about as if everything were a carnival.”
“That was unkind and unnecessary,” remonstrated Miss Taylor.
“Pray remember you are no longer our governess. A fact of which I am exceeding glad,” retorted Lady Bess with a toss of her yellow curls. “And were it not for Jean playing the very freak by altering her uncle’s sermon, you would be pensioned off and Mary and I should not be obliged to endure any more of your company. Or Jean’s, for that matter.”
“Faith!” exclaimed Bess, twisting her features into what she hoped was a worldly sneer. “I do so detest provincials.”
Jean was saved from replying by the opening of the carriage door. Sir Edward Lamont, who had come down the steps to meet them, turned out to be a portly man in his middle years with a friendly, easy manner. But his wife, Lady Cynthia, made Jean’s heart sink to the soles of her shabby boots.
Impervious to the chill of a Scottish castle, Lady Cynthia was clad in a gown of diaphanous green gauze, her hair was dressed à la Sappho and her roseleaf complexion was achieved by paint put on by the hand of a genius. To Jean’s unsophisticated eyes, Lady Cynthia appeared the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.
