by Holly Newman
"The tutor Hereward employed for his boys used to give them quotes to copy as handwriting exercises. They were always also moral lessons. One day when I was visiting the schoolroom, this was the quote he’d assigned."
Gossip is mischievous, light and easy to raise, but grievous to bear and hard to get rid of. No gossip ever dies away entirely, if many people voice it: it too is a kind of divinity.
Works and Days Hesiod c. 700 B.C.
The silence in the stillroom lengthened as Jane considered the words Elsbeth had written among her herbal secrets. Without a word, she turned to face the workbench, her hands moving to slowly gather her papers together again. Elsbeth was right. The man who helped Edward down from that tree then joined them for tea bore little resemblance to the monster, the true Devil’s Disciple of society’s tales. Those tales had achieved a kind of divinity. It would no doubt be impossible to live down, let alone eradicate those tales.
Jane found she could not forget those fleeting shadows of sorrow she detected in the earl’s dark eyes, nor the slight edge to his voice when he spoke of the past. But if she was to mercilessly throw Millicent at his head, then she must not feel any sympathy for the man. He had to be the villain he was painted, else she could not in clear conscience maneuver him into Millicent’s noisome web. She acknowledged the uncharitable nature of her thoughts and wished they could be otherwise. But where she could hold a doubt as to Lord Royce’s perfidy, she could not do the same for her aunt and cousin.
Lady Elsbeth briskly finished bottling her herbals, but her movements were automatic, her thoughts more than ten years in the past. She, too, once believed the tales society told. She listened, believed, and acted properly affronted at all the scandalous whispers. She didn’t know how she came to be so naive. Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of seven children and accustomed to her elder siblings directing her actions and thoughts. Or perhaps it was because there was some measure of truth in the tales.
It was a truth that had knifed her heart and bled her dry. At eighteen she had loved a rakehell; but she turned her back on him when he’d extended his hand. Her family, her position as daughter of the Duke of Ruthaven, her moral priorities—they all weighted her down. Often she was haunted by that last meeting with him. It took place on one of the more private walks at Vauxhall Gardens. It was a beautiful night, clear and fragrant. The sounds of music and voices and laughter wafted through the air. She confronted him with the truth of the tales she’d heard. He countered with words like love, trust, and honor while bitterness etched his moonlit face. He swore that he never lied to her and would never do so. He left belief and acceptance in her hands. To her everlasting regret, she believed the scurrilous tales before him.
In retrospect, she acquitted herself due to youth and unworldliness. But it made no matter. The damage was done, and fifteen years later she was an imprisoned spinster. She would not have that be Jane’s fate. It was not that she thought the Earl of Royce a match for her niece, for truly she did not. Nonetheless, if Jane accepted society’s tales without question now, she may well do so on other, more important occasions. No. Jane must be made to evaluate Lord Royce freely, without prejudice. Whereas Jane planned to throw Royce and Millicent together, Elsbeth would work to see that Jane also spent time with the earl. And remembering his easy camaraderie with Bertram and Edward, that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. She would have to do something about her sister though. That would take some consideration.
She stacked her dirty bowls, bottles, and utensils on a wooden tray and placed it on the end of her workbench. Becky could come by later to see that they were cleaned. She dipped her hands in a bowl of tepid water, then wiped them on a scrap of cloth tacked at the end of the workbench. She untied the large, canvas apron and slipped it over her head, hanging it on a peg embedded in the whitewashed wall. Then she laid a gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder.
"Do not brood so. Your face will set like a pudding," she admonished fondly, inexplicably feeling decades older than her niece, though only thirteen years separated them. "Come, let’s go for a stroll in the garden. This may be one of our last days to enjoy it in peace before Serena’s party descends upon us with all their concomitant noise and bother."
Jane smiled, tucking her notes under her arm. "An excellent suggestion. While we walk we can discuss the guest list, too." She linked arms with her aunt. "But if you tell me we must invite the Biddulphs, I shall squirm and turn recalcitrant on you. A more pious, dull group I have never encountered. I’m amazed they aren’t avowed evangelicals."
"I should think better of them if they were. But as to inviting them, I do not know. I shall ask Mrs. Chitterdean her opinion; or perhaps Mrs. Phibbs would know if Mary and Delbert included them in gatherings here." Lady Elsbeth sighed. "That is the problem with being new to a neighborhood. One doesn’t know the social situation, and it is easy to misstep and cause affront."
"Is it so important to observe all the rules all the time?" Jane asked as they climbed the stairs to the ground floor.
Lady Elsbeth looked askance at her niece. She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it firmly. What should she say to that? What could she say? Before she met the Earl of Royce she would have been quick to say it was important. But meeting him opened doors in her mind that she’d thought were closed and sealed forever. Fifteen years ago she followed the rules, to her lasting regret. Could she now, in clear conscience, encourage her niece to do likewise in all circumstances? It appeared she had much to learn as well.
"I don’t know," she said slowly, shaking her head in wonder. "But I suggest we follow the established practices of Mary and Delbert; after all, they have to live in the neighborhood long after we’ve left!"
Jane sighed. "Yes, I suppose that would be best. Let me go return my notes to the library and fetch my hat. I shall meet you at the side entrance. I could use some fresh air. My head is reeling. Perhaps we can join Twink and the boys at the Folly. Cook said they cajoled her into packing a picnic for them. Maybe they have some left. I think I would be better right now for a little childish nonsense!"
Lady Elsbeth laughed. "I couldn’t agree more. But with those two rapscallions do not count on there being leftovers!"
Jane’s answering laughter tinkled merrily as with a light step she ran off down the long hall to the library.
Jane and her aunt made their way leisurely across the smoothly scythed grass. Lady Elsbeth stopped occasionally to comment on a planting. Jane allowed her attention to be drawn to a pair of birds that appeared to be playing tag as they swooped and dove together, alternately beating their wings furiously and gliding on the breeze. She followed their progress past the rushes and over the ornamental lake to disappear in the spreading branches of the old oak on the other side. She was surprised to see a bundle of cloth laying on the ground at the base of the tree. She touched Lady Elsbeth lightly on the arm. "Look, isn’t that Twink lying under the oak?"
Lady Elsbeth raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare. "Yes, and sound asleep by the looks of it. The boys no doubt exhausted her. Isn’t that brown shape next to her Edward?"
"I believe so. But where’s Bertram?"
"Most likely asleep on the other side of the tree."
"Or he’s taken the opportunity of Twink’s relaxed vigilance to sneak off on his own," suggested Jane over her shoulder as she hurried around the lake to the oak tree.
"Surely he wouldn’t. Not after yesterday!" Lady Elsbeth exclaimed, following behind her.
But so it proved to be. Miss Twinkleham was stretched out on a blanket, gently snoring. Edward was next to her, his little arms and legs flung out in what appeared to his aunts a most uncomfortable position. The picnic basket at their side was open, and a steady army of ants marched in and out, wending their way across the blanket and grass to their nest among the roots of the old tree. There was no sign of Bertram.
Jane stared at the bucolic scene for a moment in bemused appreciation then gently nudged Nurse T
winkleham.
"Twink—Twink, wake up!" she urged the woman.
Edward stirred at the sound of her voice and raised a grubby fist to knuckle his eyes. "Aunt Jane?"
"Yes, love. Did you have a nice nap?" Jane asked, amusement coloring her tone.
He sat up. "I wasn’t sleeping," he contradicted indignantly. "I was keeping Nurse Twink company."
"Of course, dear," soothed Lady Elsbeth. She exchanged amused glances with Jane.
"What? What’s that?" demanded Nurse Twinkleham, struggling out of deep sleep. Her thin lips twitched and her eyes blinked against the light.
"Twink, are you all right?" Jane asked.
Nurse Twinkleham’s faded blue eyes opened wide and bright pink stained her lined cheeks. She rolled awkwardly to her knees, then struggled to her feet. "Oh! Miss Jane! Lady Elsbeth! I can’t imagine— That you should find me— Oh dear, oh me! Sleeping!"
Jane laughed and laid a reassuring hand on her old nurse’s arm. "I do not blame you at all. It is a beautiful day. Perfect for a nap in the fresh air. But where is Bertram?"
"I hope you do not think it was wrong of me, but I gave him permission to go on up to the Folly. "
"Of course not," assured Lady Elsbeth. "He is old enough for some freedom. I daresay both the boys are." She turned to look up the hill toward the miniature Grecian temple. "Do you see him, Jane? I swear my eyes are not as good as they might be."
"No, but he could have fallen asleep up there, and we wouldn’t see him behind the railing. I’ll go up and get him. Want to come with me, Edward?" she invited, holding out her hand to her youngest nephew.
Edward took her hand eagerly and they set off with a sprightly step, swinging their arms.
"I don’t see him, Aunt Jane," Edward said when they were halfway there. "And I don’t think he’s asleep. Bertram never naps," he added seriously.
Jane lightly bit her lower lip. "I don’t see him, either. Where do you suppose he could be?"
Edward shrugged, his thin shoulders rising up to his ears.
"Well, we’ll check carefully, anyway," said Jane.
But Bertram was not to be found.
Jane and Edward fruitlessly searched the area around the little Grecian temple. There was evidence that Bertram had been there: smudge marks on the telescope’s brass fittings and crumbs in a linen napkin attesting to the remainder of his picnic fare. A growing sense of uneasiness curled within Jane.
"Come, let’s get back to Aunt Elsbeth and Twink. They’ll be wondering what’s keeping us," she said as levelly as possible. She stooped to pick up the discarded napkin.
"He probably went off like the earl did," Edward suggested with miniature adult worldliness.
"What do you mean?"
"You know. When he went climbing by hisself and broke his arm. Bertram probably went off to do the same to show he’s smarter and stronger and that he won’t break his arm. "
"Oh dear, do you really think so?"
"Sure. He’s always trying to prove somethin’."
"We’d best send the grooms out looking for him. Come on," she said, turning to run lightly down the gently sloping hillside.
Edward enthusiastically followed her, and soon both were running heedlessly down the hill. A small hillock caught Jane unaware, interrupting her stride and pitching her forward. Her arms waved wildly, her skirts entangled her legs and she fell, tumbling down the grassy incline. Below her came twin screams from Lady Elsbeth and Nurse Twinkleham. From above Edward screeched her name. Jane hardly heard them as she concentrated on stopping her forward momentum. Each roll and thud, as another portion of her anatomy struck the ground, sounded loudly in her ears. Finally she swung her legs forward and her wild rolling slowed. She came to rest on her back, her skirts foaming about her. She stared up at the clouds in the sky as she struggled to catch her breath.
"Aunt Jane! Aunt Jane!" cried Edward, his little piping voice higher than usual. He was the first to reach her, throwing pieces of grass and dirt across her as he skidded to a stop by her side.
Her left arm rose slowly, bonelessly, to touch his cheek. She smiled. "I’m all right. Merely winded."
"Jane! Are you all right? Edward, run to the stables and have one of the grooms bring up the pony cart immediately. "
"No, no, I’m all right, Elsbeth," Jane assured her aunt. She struggled to sit up. Her chip bonnet, crushed and soiled, dangled from its ribbons about her neck. Her hair was in wild disarray, grass and leaves clinging to the silky black strands. "Help me up," she said, extending her hands toward Elsbeth and Edward.
"I’m persuaded you should let Edward fetch the pony cart," said her old nurse, searching her former charge carefully for injury.
"Nonsense, Twink. Quit fussing. I’m not made of glass," she said, batting the woman’s questing hands away, but smiling to take away the sting of her words.
"Well, my dear, judging by your appearance, you cannot wonder at our concern," said Lady Elsbeth, calmer now that she was assured of her niece’s safety.
Jane glanced down at her dress. Grass and dirt stains liberally smeared the white, floral-patterned dress, and the ruffle was tom from the hem so that it dragged on the ground. She grimaced at the evidence of her mishap then laughed and shrugged it away. "I’m fine, and a little East Sussex dirt will not harm me. My concern is for Bertram. Elsbeth, we must send the grooms out in search of him. "
"We will dear, we will. But do not worry so. He is a sturdy little boy. Much sturdier than you, I’ll warrant. Come, let’s get you back to the house. I’m confident you’ll feel better for a hot bath, else you’ll soon be feeling aches and pains you don’t realize you have. "
Despite Jane’s protests to the contrary, Lady Elsbeth and Nurse Twinkleham got on either side of her, linking their arms with hers to offer support on the walk back to the house. As they approached the manor house, a carriage rolled into view. "Isn’t that the Culpepper’s carriage?" Lady Elsbeth asked. "Of all the times Mrs. Culpepper should choose for visiting." Jane groaned.
"Well, there is no avoiding her now. We shall just have to send her on her way, for it should be obvious to even a woman of her intellect that this is not a time for visiting," Lady Elsbeth said flatly. "Miss Twinkleham, take Jane on into the house. I shall deal with Mrs. Culpepper."
"Nonsense, Elsbeth. It would be rude for me to walk away when it is obvious that she has seen me. Better to brazen it out. Besides, a good gander at my condition should help speed her on her way," Jane said with a laugh.
There was no time for more, for indeed the occupants of the coach had observed them and ordered their coach to pull up. Out tumbled Mr. Culpepper, his round complexion choleric. It was obvious he was a gentleman in the throes of some emotion. Behind him came his wife, her cheeks tearstained, followed by their daughter Maria wearing a bored expression, and lastly their son Henry, who looked far worse than Jane did.
"What happened to you?" Jane blurted out, astounded to see the boy with a split lip and swollen nose. Blood mingled with dirt smeared his coat and shirt.
"Well you should ask!" declared the boy’s father. "This is the work of that hellion nephew of yours, and I’d like to know what you intend to do about it!"
"I beg your pardon," said Jane, disconcerted. Henry Culpepper, who stood a full head taller than Bertram, was a stocky lad with a bully’s temperament. She could not imagine Henry coming out the worse in any exchange with her nephew. The sudden image of Bertram lying bruised and bloody somewhere swam before her eyes.
"I want to know how you’re going to punish the lad for this mischief," demanded Mr. Culpepper. "My Henry could be scarred for life."
"Scarred!" wailed Mrs. Culpepper. "Oh, no, not my baby!"
"Hush, Rebecca," admonished Mr. Culpepper, turning away from Jane for the moment.
Jane laid a hand on his arm. "But where’s Bertram? He could be hurt, lying in the dirt somewhere."
"Are you daft, woman!" roared Mr. Culpepper.
Jane fell back under the fier
ceness of his attack.
"Look, it’s the earl!" piped in Edward; but the adults, caught within their own drama, didn’t heed him.
"Now see here, sir," protested Lady Elsbeth. "Can’t you tell my niece has met with her own unfortunate accident? Temper your voice."
"And he’s got Bertram with him!" Edward jumped up and down, pulling on Nurse Twinkleham’s arm. That redoubtable woman took the added weight in stride, her attention on the gentleman who was casting vicious aspersions on one of her charges.
"Accident! What happened to my son weren’t no accident. That hellion Bertram is responsible. It’s what comes of being cabined and cribbed by a bunch of mollycoddling spinster women. And if that boy ain’t here, it must be ’cause he knows he’s earned and due for a whipping," Mr. Culpepper roared, his lower lip thrust pugnaciously forward.
"I beg your pardon," huffed Lady Elsbeth.
"Cut line, Culpepper," snapped a deep voice from behind the group.
They all turned, astonished to see the Earl of Royce descending from an elegant equipage. He was accompanied by a disheveled Bertram who, it appeared, was developing a splendid black eye.
"There you are, you little beast!"
Mr. Culpepper strode over to Bertram and would have taken him by the lapels to shake him like a dog if the earl hadn’t laid a hand square in the middle of his chest, holding him at bay.
"Now see here, Royce, what’s the meanin’ of this? Can’t you see what he did to my boy Henry? You’re no kin of the boy. Stand away. The lad needs to be punished," he said, pushing up his coat sleeves.
Royce held the man firm. One corner of his mouth rose in cold, sneering contempt. "What I see first is that Miss Grantley has obviously met with some accident for which she needs attention, not verbal bullying from a man of breeding who should know better. Furthermore, I see nothing in your Henry’s condition to indicate he got the worst of the match."
