Jilted

by Ann Barker

  ‘Yes indeed,’ responded Lady Agnes, smiling like a cat that had not only got the cream, but also knew from where to procure the next bowlful. ‘A young girl, all alone, jilted, penniless, and in delicate health: how could the church be so heartless as to throw her out?’

  ‘But I’m not alone and penniless, and I’ve already told you that my health is excellent,’ Eustacia protested, mystified.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t know that, do they?’ answered her godmother, still beaming.

  Over the next few days, Eustacia frequently found herself wondering what her mother would have made of the situation in which her daughter found herself. Her intention in sending Eustacia to her godmother had been that she should be cared for at some distance away from the scene of her jilting, with all the scandal that that entailed. No doubt Lady Hope had anticipated that her daughter would benefit from the wise counsel of her old friend, the vicar’s widow. What Eustacia’s mother could never have expected was that the same vicar’s widow would seek to embroil her young guest in an intrigue which involved falsifying the opinions of a peer, deceiving ecclesiastical authorities as to the nature of her, Eustacia’s, circumstances, defrauding the church of its rightful property and denying the village the priest that it was entitled to have.

  She recalled how Lady Agatha had visited them once when she, Eustacia, was only seventeen. She had taken her goddaughter to York and they had gone to an inn and, as there was no parlour, they had sat in the taproom. She remembered another occasion when Lady Agatha had taken her driving in the country. When they had found a secluded spot, her ladyship had taken out brandy and cigars. Eustacia had tried both and been vilely ill. In many ways, it was not surprising that a lady with such a capacity for plots and plans should still be plotting now.

  It was odd, though, that at one moment, her ladyship seemed to be saying that they should keep quiet about Eustacia’s Unfortunate Experience, and at another that she should be advocating using this sad circumstance as a weapon in her fight against the bishop. Part of her rejoiced at this piece of intrigue. At Woodfield Park they had always led a very quiet life. Most of the time, Eustacia did not mind. Sometimes, though, she thought of her mother’s exciting and slightly scandalous past, and wanted to have adventures of her own. This scheme of her godmother’s, surely harmless in its way, promised a little intrigue and excitement, if only for the short term.

  How strangely things fell out, she thought. Her mother, the former actress, would always be tainted with immorality in many people’s eyes. Yet her mother was a pillar of the local community, a vigorous supporter of the church, and a fierce opponent of falsehood. Lady Agatha’s approach seemed rather entertaining in comparison.

  There had been no further visits from the church authorities, and no correspondence from them either. On the other hand, a letter had arrived from another source that very morning which had brought to her ladyship’s face that self-satisfied smile with which Eustacia was beginning to be very familiar. ‘Ashbourne is still hell-raising in Italy,’ she had declared. ‘He will have no interest in my concerns.’

  ‘What if the bishop writes to him?’ Eustacia had ventured.

  ‘Ha! If anything arrives for him with the frank paid for by the bishop, he’ll throw it in the fire,’ her godmother had stated positively. ‘We’ll not see him here.’

  Throughout this discourse, Miss Warburton had sat quietly in her place, buttering her toast with careful precision and cutting it into small, neat squares.

  Now, although she had not finished, she stood up. ‘If you will excuse me, I think I will go to my room,’ she said in even tones.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk in a little while?’ Eustacia asked her. The two younger ladies had quickly formed the habit of walking together each day.

  ‘I shall be ready,’ Jessie replied, before leaving the room.

  ‘Poor Jessie,’ said Lady Agatha shaking her head. ‘I fear she has always had a weakness for my brother, but it would never do. A rake like Ashbourne would never look her way. She’s not the kind of pretty slut that appeals to him at all. In reality, she wouldn’t like it above half if he did pay her any attention, although she’d never believe it if I told her so. Unfortunately, the alternative is no better in my opinion.’

  ‘What is the alternative?’ asked Eustacia curiously.

  ‘Henry Lusty, of course,’ her godmother replied scornfully. ‘You don’t think this business with the bishop is the only reason he calls, do you? If I thought he was really interested in her, I would encourage him tomorrow. Unfortunately, I suspect that he believes that by courting her, he will get a foot into this place. If you’ve finished your breakfast, you might as well go and find her. She seems to have taken to you.’

  To Eustacia aged 22, Miss Warburton at 30 seemed venerable. The notion that this lady could at one and the same time be smitten by a rake and pursued by a curate was novel indeed. They had talked about all kinds of things as they had strolled about the village together, but their conversations had not encompassed either of these two gentlemen. The truth was that in Miss Warburton, Eustacia had discovered the kind confidante that she had not found in her godmother. Jessie’s gentle sympathy had drawn out the whole sorry story of Morrison’s desertion, and it had been about him and about Eustacia’s own life that they had talked.

  Now, Eustacia felt guilty. She had poured all her troubles out to Jessie without ever wondering whether Jessie might have things that she wanted to talk about. Eustacia resolved that she would remedy the situation that very day. The essential thing would be to show herself ready to listen to Jessie’s problems without looking as if she was being vulgarly intrusive.

  In the event, it was Jessie herself who raised the matter. ‘I suppose you must be wondering why I fled the breakfast-table this morning,’ she said.

  ‘It seemed to me that you left just after my godmother spoke about Lord Ashbourne,’ Eustacia replied. They were walking down the drive, making the most of the sunny day. Eustacia, dressed as usual by Trixie, was in a dark pink gown, set off handsomely by dove grey gloves and kid boots, and a charming bonnet with pink flowers and pink and grey striped ribbons. Jessie, in a mustard-coloured gown with a plain bonnet, managed to look several years older than she really was.

  ‘You must think me such a fool,’ Jessie said, after they had walked along in silence for a short time.

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ replied Eustacia without hesitation. The other woman’s gentle kindness had won her heart almost from the very first. It made a welcome change to Lady Hope’s imperious conviction that she must know best for everyone, and Lady Agatha’s inclination to make use of other people quite shamelessly in order to further her schemes, and to discount any concerns that did not affect herself.

  ‘Well I do,’ Jessie replied frankly. ‘I have told myself time out of mind what a fool I am, but it does not seem to make any difference, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Have you known the family for long?’ Eustacia asked her.

  Jessie nodded. ‘Mama and Lady Agatha were friends for years. My father was a squire with a small income, but he wasn’t very wise with his money, I fear. After he died, Mama and I were left without a home, so Lady Agatha persuaded Lord Ashbourne – the present Lord Ashbourne’s father – to provide us with a cottage on his estate and somehow we managed. Mama was ill for some years before she died, and I looked after her. Then after her death eight years ago, Lady Agatha invited me to come and live with her.’

  ‘Is Lord Ashbourne like his sister?’ Eustacia asked.

  ‘A little,’ replied Jessie.

  ‘Is he handsome?’

  ‘Yes, he’s very handsome,’ answered Jessie wearily. ‘Handsome and wicked and careless, and he’s never cast so much as a glance my way. Perhaps if I met him every day, I would get used to him. If I never saw him at all, that would be even better; but I see him just enough to keep him in my mind.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Eustacia tentatively, ‘but surely Lord Ashbourne mus
t be a married man.’

  ‘He is a widower,’ answered Jessie. ‘His wife died giving birth to his only son. Ilam was brought up chiefly by a local farmer’s family. Ashbourne has been kicking over the traces ever since. Mercifully his fortune is immense, or he would have run through it years ago.’

  ‘Have you never thought of anyone else?’ Eustacia asked curiously.

  ‘Not really,’ replied Jessie simply. ‘However, it may be that that situation could be on the point of changing.’

  Eustacia remembered her godmother speaking about the curate, Henry Lusty. Could it be that Jessie was considering encouraging his suit?

  By now, they were walking along the main street. Eustacia and Trixie had travelled the other way down it when they had first arrived in the village. Now, the two ladies strolled up the gentle incline. As they reached the gates of Illingham Hall, Jessie said impulsively, ‘Would you like to see Ashbourne’s portrait? There is one inside.’

  ‘Would it be allowed?’ Eustacia asked.

  ‘The housekeeper likes showing people around,’ Jessie told her.

  ‘What about Lord Ilam?’

  ‘He would not mind. In any case, he is from home.’

  ‘Is he gambling in Italy with his father?’ Eustacia asked, remembering her mother saying that he might be a rake as well.

  ‘Oh no,’ replied Jessie positively. ‘He and his father are not upon good terms. Shall we go in?’

  Eustacia allowed herself to be persuaded. In truth, she was feeling rather curious about Lord Ashbourne. Her mother had warned her about this notorious rake before she had ever come here. Now, she had the chance to see him for herself.

  The housekeeper, a thin, wiry-looking woman with iron-grey hair, obviously knew Miss Warburton very well, seemed to be gratified to meet Lady Agatha’s goddaughter, and was quite happy to permit the two ladies to make a tour of the house without her.

  ‘I won’t take you all the way round,’ said Jessie confidingly as they made their way up the stairs that led up from the hall. ‘I expect Lady Agatha will want to do that. I would be grateful, however, if you will perhaps not mention today’s visit.’

  ‘Of course,’ Eustacia replied, as they climbed the stairs. Like the majority of the house, it was Elizabethan, and richly carved with vines and grapes, in the style of Grinling Gibbons. There was a sharp turn to the right at the top of the stairs, and Eustacia gasped with admiration, for she found herself standing at the end of a long gallery, with huge windows on one side, and bookcases which extended from floor to exquisitely painted ceiling on the other. The windows looked out onto a well kept old-fashioned parterre.

  ‘This place seems well managed,’ remarked Eustacia looking round her with the eye of one accustomed to a father’s diligence and a mother’s good housekeeping. The house was obviously cared for, with highly polished wood and sparkling windows, and the fabric of the place looked to be in good order. How much was Ilam responsible for this good care, she wondered? She bent to examine an exquisitely decorated table, and slipped her reticule off her wrist when it got in the way.

  ‘The gardens are beautiful, aren’t they?’ said Jessie. Eustacia looked up and wandered over to join her at the window. Beyond the parterre was a terrace with a summerhouse, and a variety of trees behind. ‘They were tended especially by Ilam’s grandmother. Ilam was born here, as his grandfather was alive at the time, and Ilam’s father was the viscount. He and the previous Lord Ashbourne hated each other. It runs in the family, I’m afraid – fathers and sons hating one another. Do you want to see the portrait now?’

  They went into an anteroom set in a corner of the house, with latticed windows in two of the four walls. With two doors diagonally opposite each other, there was little space for furniture or wall decoration. There was one large picture in the room, hung to face the window to the left of the door through which they had just come. The gentleman in the picture was dressed according to the fashion of about twenty years ago. He was leaning negligently against a heavy wooden desk, his arms folded, one leg crossed over the other. It was an unusual pose.

  There was only one portrait of Eustacia’s father at her home. In that picture, he was depicted as being outside in the grounds, the house appearing in the background. Beside him was seated Lady Hope with a diminutive Eustacia upon her knee. There was also a sketch of her father, again outside with the house in the distance. In this drawing, he was shown with his gun, and his dog lying obediently at his feet. On visits to other stately homes, Eustacia had seen similarly stylized depictions of the owner in a family group, or in a pose which sought to convey his sporting prowess. Often, too, there were portraits of peers in the ermine robes of their rank.

  The stance of the sitter in this picture, however, seemed to suggest an attitude which might best be described as ‘If you want to paint me, you’ll do it here, damn your eyes.’ His expression was not a pleasant one; yet it was a handsome face as Jessie had said, if rather a lean one, with high cheekbones, soaring brows, a well-shaped but thin-lipped mouth and dark, rather hard eyes with a hint of a cynical smile behind them.

  ‘Was the painting done here, or at Ashbourne?’ Eustacia asked, wondering why it remained here when the man who had sat for it was resident elsewhere.

  ‘It was done here, when he was Lord Ilam,’ Jessie replied. ‘His father only died ten years ago.’ She paused for a short while, then said, ‘Shall we go now? I really ought to stop myself from looking at this picture. It does me no good at all.’

  Eustacia readily agreed. As for the picture doing Jessie no good, doubtless she was right. After all, the picture was only a depiction of a man who, according to his reputation. had never done any woman any good either.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was not until they were just a few steps away from the village shop, from which Lady Agatha had asked Jessie to procure some black thread, that Eustacia realized she had not got her reticule.

  ‘Are you sure you had it when we set out?’ Jessie asked, with half an eye on the shop. She wanted to get there before it closed for the customary two hours during the middle of the day.

  ‘Yes I did,’ said Eustacia after a moment’s thought. ‘I took my handkerchief out to use it just as we arrived at Illingham Hall, if you remember. I think I took it off my wrist in the long gallery when we bent over to examine the marquetry on that table in the window. I’ll go and get it while you buy the thread. Then I’ll meet you here.’

  ‘I could come with you after I’ve bought the thread if you like.’

  ‘No need for you to suffer for my mistake,’ said Eustacia cheerfully. ‘I’ll be back in no time.’ It would be as well for Jessie not to have another opportunity to gaze at Lord Ashbourne’s portrait, she told herself as she hurried back to Illingham Hall.

  She was almost there when she saw some very pretty wild flowers that she did not recognize, growing by the side of the road. She bent to pick a few, meaning to ask Jessie if she knew what they were called. Moments later, she berated herself for her foolishness. She could have taken Jessie to the spot and shown them to her just as easily. Now they would wilt long before she got them home. Telling herself that what was done was done, she walked on to Illingham Hall with the flowers still in her hand.

  The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, but the servant who came to the door was very happy to allow her to return to the gallery once she had explained what had happened. Her reticule was on a chair near to the far window in the gallery. She picked it up, thankful that no servant had discovered it and taken it away for safe keeping. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she put it down again and walked into the little anteroom that housed Lord Ashbourne’s portrait.

  There was a signature at the bottom of the portrait, and she leaned forward to see if she could make it out, setting her flowers down on the little table that stood in front of the picture. She could not decipher the writing, so instead she stood back, wondering how old Ashbourne had been when this likeness was taken. She knew that he was a lit
tle younger than her mother and the father of an adult son, so he would probably now be in his mid forties. Judging by his clothes, she would surmise that he must have been in his twenties when this was painted. What had happened to him by this time to make him look so hard? Was it because of the death of his wife?

  It was while she was still looking at the picture that she became aware that she was no longer alone. Turning, she saw the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the doorway and she gasped in surprise. Some magic must surely be at work, for there before her in the flesh, not roistering in Italy as she and everyone else had supposed, was Lord Ashbourne!

  Suddenly remembering his reputation, and that she was all alone, she stepped back, her hand to her throat. Then he took a step or two into the room and as the light from the window fell upon his face, she realized that she must have been mistaken. This could not be Lord Ashbourne, for he was only the same age as the man in the portrait, and probably only a few years older than herself. Furthermore, although there was a likeness between them. the man who had just entered was built more heavily. His brows were a trifle thicker and without the pronounced arch which gave Ashbourne a look that was almost satanic. His hair, rather than straight and black, was wavy and very dark brown, and caught behind his head with a ribbon, whereas the sitter’s hair draped his shoulders; his eyes though were the same shade of grey.

  ‘Forgive me for startling you, ma’am,’ he said. His voice was deep, and his tone, though courteous, was a little on the blunt side. ‘Were you looking for anything – or anyone, perhaps?’

  Eustacia blushed, glanced involuntarily up at the portrait and back at the newcomer again. ‘I just came … that is—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he interrupted, his voice becoming a little world-weary. ‘You need not bother trying to explain yourself. I’m well used to the spell that my father seems to cast over half the female population. I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, if you were in search of him, but he isn’t here.’