The Heart's Companion

by Holly Newman

  "A fairly concise accounting of society’s tale. But you, Miss Grantley, don’t believe it? What part don’t you believe?" A cynical sneer twisted his lips.

  She pressed her own lips tightly together, wishing to be anywhere but in this room with this enigmatic man. "I don’t know what the circumstances were with the young woman, so I will not venture a hypothesis."

  "Coward," he murmured.

  She flashed him an annoyed glance and breathed deeply. "I don’t believe you mistreated or neglected that young child. Whether he was your own or not. I believe, my lord, that you like children, despite the facade you present to the world. It is not fashionable to notice the existence of children. You ignore that dictum, but not from any perverse desire to thumb your nose at society. You couldn’t care if society notices or not. You do it for yourself, and you derive enjoyment from children for yourself. You would be incapable of hurting a child in the way gossip would have you. Furthermore, your gambling rampage did not start until after the child died, almost three years after the mother left him in your care."

  "Peter."

  "I beg your pardon, my lord?"

  "The child’s name was Peter. And you are correct. I would never have harmed that child, even though he was not my son."

  "What?" Jane’s head flew up, her gaze locking with the earl’s.

  He waved his hand airily. "That is just one of several small details society mistranslated. First, I wanted to marry Vivian Montrechet, and I thought she wanted to marry me; however, when we arrived in Europe she let me know quite firmly that she would prefer to remain my mistress. At that time I accepted her decision without question. Naive, on my part. For Vivian, I was merely a stepping stone. She hungered for gaiety and glamour. When she found herself pregnant, she came and told me. I knew immediately it was not my child and she knew I knew. It was evidently the result of a liaison she regretted, particularly as she had recently caught the attention of a certain German princeling. She allowed him to believe it was my child she carried. He accepted that. However, after she bore the child he invited her to live in one of his castles as his mistress, if she left the child behind. She agreed. She’s still there, as far as I know. "

  "So you were left quite literally with babe in arms."

  "Yes. Peter was a delightful child, and even though I would not claim him as my own, I did everything I could for him. Unfortunately I was not the wisest in choosing those to care for him. One day the maid who was watching him while he played outside became more interested in flirting with the groom. Peter decided to play in the fountain in the garden."

  "Oh no!" Jane gasped, knowing what he would say next, yet unable to stop listening.

  His voice continued in a neutral, dispassionate manner, as if he were relating the time of day. "He was discovered later floating in it, face down. I blamed myself for his death. You are correct, Miss Grantley. It was then that I went on a wild gambling rage. As if by losing all, or nearly all of what I had, I could in some way atone for the child’s death." His voice trailed off on the last, as if he were no longer talking to her, but talking more to himself.

  "You loved that child," Jane said softly.

  He looked down at his hands and shrugged. "In my fashion. As much as I am capable of loving anything, I suppose."

  "Oh, stop it! Stop it right now! That arrogant coldness is all an act with you. It’s what you feel society wants. Well, I’m not society. I’m Jane Grantley, and I won’t accept that behavior from you!"

  The parlor door opened suddenly and two pairs of eyes swiveled around to see who was there. Millicent Hedgeworth slid into the room.

  "Well, you will not get any argument from me that you are not society," she drawled.

  A brilliant blush swept up Jane’s neck and face. She glanced at Jeremy, who was still standing by the open door. He shook his head slowly, indicating that Millicent had not had an opportunity to overhear her conversation with Royce, and backed out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Relieved, Jane collapsed back in her chair, but she noticed the earl made no move to rise to his feet.

  She glanced back at Millicent and noticed that she was coloring furiously. She approached Jane with an unusual mincing step, as if she were half afraid.

  "Wha—what I mean is, if all society decided to leave the season as early as you, Jane, London would not be worth a visit," she stammered, looking anxiously from Jane to the earl and back. "Am I correct? I mean, there would be no one to give parties, or meet at Günter's, or drive in the park with. What would be the use of a London season?" she asked with a shrill laugh. She sat in the companion chair to Jane’s, smiling tentatively at them.

  Jane and the earl exchanged quizzical glances. Millicent was not acting in character.

  "Do you feel all right, Cousin?" Jane asked.

  "I am much better, thank you. Um, ah—Aunt Elsbeth feels I should get outside today for some fresh air. Avoiding the sun, of course. Ah, I was wondering, Jane, if you might join me in a little spin around the neighborhood? Mama tells me you are an excellent four-in-hand whip. Oh, dear, that does sound awkward, doesn’t it?" she said with a sharp, nervous laugh. "Here I am asking you to join me in a carriage ride, and practically in the same breath requesting that you drive us! It’s just that I’m a stranger in this neighborhood and would no doubt get lost if I drove myself. "

  Jane didn’t know how to respond. Spending time alone with Millicent was not her idea of a pleasant way to pass an afternoon. She knew her peace would not be of long duration. "What time?" she asked, resigning herself to her duties.

  "Now, in a half hour, an hour." Millicent shrugged delicately. "It won’t make any difference."

  Jane looked at her silently, weighing the benefits and consequences of accepting her cousin’s invitation. She decided it would be best to accept, for the sake of future harmony.

  "I can be ready in half an hour," she said.

  "Oh, good!" exclaimed Millicent, jumping to her feet. "I shall meet you in the Great Hall then." She turned to leave. At the door she stopped, turning around to address Royce.

  "I beg your pardon, my lord. I fear I’ve been rude. Will you forgive me?" She smiled sunnily, her confidence returning.

  Royce, still on the couch, bowed at the waist in a parody of the formal action. Millicent, glowing as if she’d received some precious gift, hurried out the door.

  The earl shook his head at the closed portal. "I know she is a relative of yours, but I cannot say I like the woman. She has the most grating manner I’ve encountered in years."

  Jane laughed. "Ah, then be forewarned. She has her marital eye on you."

  The earl feigned an abhorrent shudder. "Then I shall look to you to protect my good name, Miss Grantley," he said teasingly.

  "Which name?" she countered, rising to go and change. "Royce, or the Devil’s Disciple?" She hunted around for her shoes.

  The earl, finding her shoes under the settee, gently threw them at her as his answer. Jane’s laughter seemed to linger in the parlor long after she’d gone.

  Though Jane disliked keeping company with Millicent, she owned it was a fine day for a drive. An alchemical haze hung low across the land, creating a golden, gemlike glow. Everywhere one looked, it was like looking at a different Turner landscape. There was a magical sense of beauty and unreality in the air, hardly the clouds of darkness Mrs. O'Rourke claimed to be gathering.

  Harnessed in the traces, the old mare trotted smartly down the lane as if it, too, were infused with magic. With her hands light on the reins, Jane settled back to enjoy the drive. Tall, spreading trees provided shade, broken only by the occasional dappling of sunlight filtering past the dense, leafy growth.

  A small, contented smile hovered at the corners of Jane’s lips, her thoughts cycling back repeatedly to the earl and their last conversation. Pink touched her cheeks. Did his manner hint at a measure of warm regard for her? Did she dare trust her feelings?

  She was forced to admit to an elemental attraction for t
he man. But she could not let herself be so vulnerable as to show her feelings. That would leave her distressingly open for pain. She did not think she could take that from him. She feared she was in as much danger of mistranslating his actions as society was wont to do. How did one judge? How did one separate fact from fiction without visible evidence? Why was it taught from the cradle that open communication with a member of the opposite sex was impossible?

  Her hands tightened on the reins, and the old horse broke into a canter.

  "Jane!" protested Millicent, holding onto the carriage side, "what are you about? I thought you could drive!" she accused as Jane brought the horse under control.

  "I’m sorry, cousin, my mind wandered. It won’t happen again."

  "See that it doesn’t," her cousin snapped.

  Jane thought it interesting to note that now Millicent had achieved her ends of getting Jane to go driving with her, she’d reverted back to form. The question that plagued Jane’s mind was why? But that seemed to be only one of several unanswerable questions that plagued everything she did and the actions of everyone she knew.

  "Do you know where Royceland is?" Millicent asked a moment later while carefully smoothing her gown.

  "Yes."

  "Let’s drive by it. I should love to see it. Is it a dreadful old pile?"

  "Not at all. I judge it to be no more than one hundred years old. Penwick Park is much older. I understand there was another house here at an earlier time, but it was torn down to build the current edifice."

  Millicent nodded, as if she were filing away the information for further consideration.

  "That turn up ahead would take us by the house," Jane added.

  "Gracious, it is not far from Penwick Park, is it?" Millicent asked with a trace of annoyance.

  "You’re right. Unless one is intimately familiar with the property boundaries, it is easy to stray from Penwick to Royceland, as the children do with distressing regularity," she said, laughing.

  "There’s no fence or hedge between the two? That is one of the first things I should do."

  Jane smoothly turned the horse down the lane that wound past Royceland. "Why? The families have been on agreeable terms for generations. What purpose would a fence through the wood serve? It’s not as if the boundary were going through a farmer’s field."

  "Really Jane," groaned Millicent. "You are incredibly naive."

  Jane shrugged, though she did note that Millicent had no answer for her. "There’s the house," she said softly, pulling up by the side of the lane where a parting in the trees made the manor house visible in the distance. Built on classical proportions of yellow-gray brick, its restrained and uncluttered outline stood on the hillside, commanding the land around. "The gardens were a later improvement by Capability Brown," Jane added neutrally.

  "A fit seat for an Earl," Millicent commented, well pleased.

  Jane looked at her sideways, but made no comment. She picked up the reins again and turned the equipage about, heading back down the lane.

  "Are we near the parsonage?" Millicent asked.

  "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "I thought perhaps you would like to visit Reverend Chitterdean. Mama tells me he’s sick now."

  "Yes, he and Nurse Twinkleham are both sick. No doubt from tending Mrs. Chitterdean during her illness. I should like to stop by. I haven’t been able to for days, and I normally make it a regular habit."

  "Then let’s do," Millicent said, smiling at her cousin.

  Jane pursed her lips, but could not think of anything wrong with Millicent’s plans. She just wished she knew what prompted them.

  As they approached the parsonage, Millicent groaned.

  "What is it, cousin?"

  "I fear I am not recovered as I’d hoped. I think I’d best return to my bed," she answered wanly.

  "Of course," Jane said, turning the carriage about.

  "No, wait! There is no reason you should come with me. I am only feeling a little peaked. Why don’t you go ahead and visit the Chitterdeans? I can drive myself back to Penwick."

  Jane looked doubtful. "I don’t know if that would be wise."

  "Oh, please? I should feel even worse if I knew I were the cause of putting off your visit. "

  Jane was confused by her cousin’s unusual behavior, but could see no flaw in her argument. She thought a moment, then nodded and pulled up the carriage. She gave the reins to Millicent. "Go easy on her, she has a tender mouth," advised Jane. Then she got down. "Are you sure you feel well enough to drive?"

  "Oh, yes. Do not worry so, cuz."

  Jane stepped away from the carriage and turned toward the Chitterdean home. Behind her she heard Millicent flick the whip and urge the horse into a canter. Surprised, she turned around to watch. Millicent’s hat ribbons flew out behind her and she looked as if she were chased by the hounds of hell. Jane shook her head, bewildered. Perhaps Millicent had suffered sunstroke. What else could explain such odd behavior? Still musing over the situation, she approached the house.

  She was not more than ten feet from the door, looking more at her feet than at her way, when the front door flew open and Mrs. O'Rourke's warning echoed ominously in her head. She turned to flee, but Lord Willoughby came outside like an exploding cannonade. He grabbed her wrist, dragging her inside.

  "Took her long enough," growled Lord Willoughby in only a vestige of the tones Jane was accustomed to hearing.

  He roughly snapped her around and let go of her wrist. Jane fell against a vacant chair. As she struggled for balance, she was surprised to note Sir Helmsdon bound and gagged in a companion chair. Mrs. Chitterdean and the maid were not to be seen. Reverend Chitterdean was also bound, but not gagged.

  "What’s going on?" Jane demanded, as Willoughby grabbed a length of rope and tied her to the chair.

  "Why, your own marriage, ducky," said the supposed Lady Willoughby, her raspy whispering voice gone to reveal a common London street accent. She laughed harshly. "Caw, it’s a might too bad, it is. Might fetch a few yeller boys from the London stews, but that Lady Tipton wouldn’t a’ad non’r that. Said she still ’ad t’call you kin, and that just wouldn’t be fittin’. Bad Ton, she calls it." The woman scratched her backside through the material of her dress and laughed again.

  "Enough of your confounded chatter, Sophie," snapped her confederate.

  "Eh, none a your high’n mighty airs with me! Just remember who brung you to this lay!"

  "It may not be much of a lay if this here parson can’t talk!"

  Jane glanced around at Reverend Chitterdean. His face was unnaturally pale, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. As she looked at him he was wracked by a long, congestive cough. Afterwards he shook his head miserably.

  "I don’t understand," Jane said, dragging her eyes away from the pallid complexion of Reverend Chitterdean. "Are you saying my Aunt Serena has gone to this trouble just to see that I wed Sir Helmsdon? That doesn’t make any sense. Why? To lay the field open for Millicent to succeed with Royce?"

  Sophie snorted. The supposed Lord Willoughby shot her a glance of abject dislike, then turned to Jane. "What Lady Tipton’s doin’ you can be sure she’s doin’ for herself. And, if she can shoot off that featherbrained daughter of hers again, so much the better. Now shut your trap before I muzzle you like your husband-to-be there. I’ve got to think."

  Sophie jerked her head toward him. "Listen to ’im. Thinks, ’e says. Might as well git comfy, this could tike awhile," she advised with a cheeky grin.

  He moved to angrily backhand her mouth, then stopped, a sulky frown on his face. "Aw—you’re not worth the bother." He sat heavily on the edge of a wooden settle, his chin in his hands.

  Sophie threw up her hands in disgust. "If it weren’t for your talkin’ fancy, I’d a done better with one o’the boys in the troupe. Can’t you see, if this ’ere parson can’t talk, we justs bundles ’em into the carriage and tikes ’em to one who can. That license Lady Tipton gave us is good with any autem bawler,"
she said.

  "I know that, but that’s goin’ to take time, and time isn’t somethin’ we have! We got to have’m wed afore anyone comes lookin’ for her. Furthermore, we got this Chitterdean’s wife and maid as hostage to his good behavior. We don’t have that club with another."

  "So we gets ’em," Sophie said with exaggerated patience. He rolled his eyes. "Easy for you to say."

  An uneasy silence fell between them. Sophie hitched her hip onto the edge of the table, then slid back, swinging her feet off the floor, a frown of concentration on her strangely ageless features.

  Suddenly, the would-be lord slapped his knees and stood up. "I’ve got it. Royal Tunbridge Wells."

  Sophie slid off the table. "What? Are you daft? That’s at least fifteen miles from ’ere!"

  "I know, but the Right Reverend Cranford Crawley’s there, and I think we know a thing or two about him," he said with a wink and a smirk.

  Sophie smiled slyly. "Aye, that we do. But that’s a far piece, we’d likely be caught before we got there."

  He grinned, his ugly face more horrifying. "I know how to throw them off. Look, if we just needed another reverend, we’d likely need go no farther than five miles in any direction. That’s where they’ll look for us."

  "Yes, and 'ow does you propose to get to Crawley without leavin’ tracks they can follow? One of them aerial balloons?" she taunted.

  "No, you cow, by carriage. I heard from another bloke in the regiment how in America the Indians dragged bushes behind them to hide their trail."

  "So."

  "So, we tie bushes and branches to the back of the carriage and drag them after us, wiping clean our road."

  Sophie scratched her head, frowning. It didn’t set well with her to admit he had an idea. Finally she shrugged. "We’d best get busy then."

  The two compatriots went outside to fix the carriage. "Reverend Chitterdean, where’s your wife?" Jane whispered anxiously.

  The man jerked his head upwards to indicate upstairs.

  "You mean you really can’t talk? You’re not shamming?" He shook his head sadly.

  Jane looked over at Sir Helmsdon, a rueful, twisted smile on her face. "Looks like you’ll be getting your rich wife, sir."