Lady Jayne Disappears

by Joanna Davidson Politano

  The girl’s smile invited the story. I launched into a touching tale of the young working-class woman who hides from the wealthy man who loves her so he doesn’t marry her and lose his inheritance.

  The seamstress perched on the seat, hands clasped and tucked between her knees. “What a beautiful tale. Please tell me at least some of it’s your true story. You make me want to run right out and find that man and tell him where you are. And then witness the reunion.”

  I sighed and glanced at the girl in the swaying carriage. “I only wish I had a worthy man who loved me. My real secrets are nothing wonderful.”

  “I understand, truly. I have ugly secrets of my own.”

  The heavy words caught my attention, stimulating the part of me always sensitive to story ideas.

  Easy silence settled over us for several minutes, but my head spun with possibilities as colorful as the bright green fields we passed. Was she an illegitimate child of aristocracy? She spoke so well, carried herself with grace. Maybe she was a cousin, born to someone at Lynhurst as well. I gripped my knees. Ah, the beauty! Two relations separated who later find one another as friends and kindred spirits.

  The closed face across from me did not invite any personal questions, though. Perhaps if I began with something less personal. “Now I have a question for you, Miss Wicke. Who on earth is Silas Rotherham, and why is he hanging about?” It had niggled at my mind for days.

  “I’d love if you would call me Nelle, as if we were chums. And Mr. Rotherham. Well, he is an old family friend who never had occasion to improve acquaintances with the family, until suddenly . . . he did. He came at the start of the London season to visit his old school chum Kendrick. Leastwise that’s what he claims, but he asks an awful lot of questions about relations, fortunes, and the like.”

  I considered the words. “Such a silent man. As if he’s judging everything and finding fault. Yet it sounds as though he’s the one with the fault.”

  “He’s hardly different than any other man swayed by the temptation of what’s right before him.”

  “Surely the family is suspicious of him.”

  She smiled. “Hardly. Sniffing around for details on the family’s fortune is a purely acceptable motivation, if you’re a prospective suitor.”

  “So he merely wishes to discover the amount of Juliette’s fortune? That seems like a simple goal that would not keep the man here an entire summer.”

  “Yes, but if one hopes to influence that number, he might find himself, you know . . . deeply interested in the matters of the household.” Her prim smile conveyed much.

  Back at Lynhurst, heat climbed my face as I was forced to repeat the story of my “mishap” to every servant I passed. The sludge still hung in heavy chunks on my dress, and my skin had become tight with it. But still, it was only mud. Why couldn’t they stop exclaiming over me as if I were bleeding profusely?

  Holding up my skirts to keep the grime away from the pristine tile, I snuck through the halls toward the stairs. As long as I could make it past the main part of the house without being seen by the family, it would be all right. The chambermaids would begin carrying water up to my suite before I even reached it. I could bathe away my disgrace, don fresh clothes, and once again take my place among my family.

  Ahead, the hallway spilled into the grand entrance with a clear escape up the staircase. It was empty, but the library doors stood open. I held my breath to sneak past. Silas Rotherham and Garamond hunched over papers inside, low murmurs and pipe smoke floating about.

  Once past the doors, I sprinted lightly toward the stairs, the toes of my ankle boots tapping across the tile as I watched the doors of the library. Five feet from the first step, I collided face-first with a pillowy mass and stumbled backward, nose smarting from the impact.

  “Oh!” Glenna’s shrill voice echoed in the two-story hall. “Oh, my heavens!” She pawed desperately at her dress where we’d hit and backed away. Desperate hands flitted around her marred frock.

  I lunged back, feeling like a leper, and bumped something hard behind me. Crash. A blue vase shattered on the floor around my feet, the pieces rocking, then coming to rest in the silent hall. Fresh-cut flowers lay in a puddle of water. I shook.

  The men charged out of the library like a rescue brigade, Garamond flitting around his distressed wife. Digory and a handful of lace-capped servants streamed from doorways, blocking my escape. One of the maids dropped to her knees before Glenna and scrubbed the dress with her apron as if the mud were flames.

  “Get this wild girl away from this house at once. I shan’t be attacked in my own home.”

  Hot and perspiring from scalp to foot, I stiffened, arms held away from my muddy clothes.

  Juliette rushed in, steadying her mother by the arms. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”

  “Look at the sort of madwoman your grandmother has welcomed into our home. Just look at her.”

  Gazes turned toward me, and Jasper’s words of condemnation rang through my hassled mind. The odor of raw mud tinged my nostrils and a chill from wet stockings climbed my legs. I’d have given anything to disappear in a poof and reappear before a huge horse trough, where I might jump in fully clothed and bathe.

  And then the image of the man from the night before swirled and took root in my mind. I want my stories back.

  Nathaniel Droll, the pen name, in the flesh. But no one else had seen him. No one. Perhaps I really was mad. Dizziness pulled on me, toying with my balance.

  Suddenly Nelle was there at my elbow, propelling me toward the servants’ hall. As we hurried out, Rotherham glanced around with politely veiled disgust. To my surprise, his look was not directed toward me and my muddy clothes, but toward Glenna.

  Tears pricked my eyes as we climbed the servants’ stairs together, behind a maid hauling a copper pot with water sloshing onto the uneven steps.

  “Something told me I should remain with you. I’m sorry I didn’t heed it.”

  Tears fell then. “It was God, I’m sure. He knew I’d need you.”

  Closed in the quiet bedroom upstairs, Nelle helped me untie, unlace, and unbutton, laying the muddied clothing across chairs as it was shed. “A house full of fanatics, and you’re the only one who talks about God that way. As if you really believe he’s floating about, ready to pull us up from a fall. It’s quite nice, you know.”

  I sniffed and released a calming sigh, shaking away the need to cry more.

  “And that was devilish rude of her, what she did. But she’s always been that way. The woman should be on the stage. I heard she gave quite a performance last night when you fell in the hall.”

  “You heard about that?”

  “Of course, miss.” She smiled, turning me around to undo the ties of my chemise. “It drew quite a crowd. Especially when Glenna and her set of lungs reached the scene. Drew every last servant in the house, I expect.”

  “I don’t recall seeing any of them.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t, miss. That’s what happens when you have a concussion.” She pulled my hair together and piled it onto my head with a comb. “It’s probably better you don’t remember. That woman’s dramatics would have made you want to fall through the floor with embarrassment. Any little upset, and she cries as if the roof’s falling in.”

  I laughed with relief and swiped a palm across my face. It had been a hallucination. I’d struck my head on the wall and hallucinated the whole run-in with Nathaniel Droll. I stepped behind the divider hiding the tub from the rest of the room and peeled off the loosened chemise. I sank into the warm water, easing my chilled body in as low as it would fit.

  Her voice grew louder to reach beyond the partition. “This house simply oozes religion, but has precious little of God. They’ve even built their own chapel right on the grounds—which, I might add, has likely never heard a sermon on decent human kindness.”

  Nelle appeared to place a fuzzy towel and dressing gown on the chair and remove my wet clothes from the floor, then disappeared
again. How like Jesus serving his followers. And how unlike the family that was supposed to love me as one of their own.

  “It goes far beyond what you saw today, Nelle. So very far.” I scrubbed mud from my arms until my skin was red. Jasper’s threats again floated back to me, mingling with my aunt’s introduction of me as a mere “relation.” “Did you ever hear of Lady Pochard’s younger brother, Woolf Harcourt?”

  “Lady Pochard has a brother? She’s never spoken of him.”

  “She wouldn’t, of course.” Pain constricted my chest at the admission. Poor Papa. “He died a pauper in debtor’s prison. Even with all that wealth, the woman would not extend help to him. I am that brother’s daughter, and I spent my entire life with him in Shepton Mallet Prison until his death. There, that’s my story. See? Far less fit for a fairy tale.”

  “Well, it’s something of a fairy tale, coming from Shepton Mallet to a place like this.”

  “Will you keep this a secret? My aunt is quite ashamed of it. I am becoming so too, I must admit.”

  “As well she ought to be!” Her voice softened. “But not you. Shame is reserved for those who disappoint God, not people.”

  “What words of wisdom.”

  “Have you seen the way she treats poor Lord Gaffney? The man isn’t the shrewdest bloke, but he never gets the kind end of her glances.”

  “Whatever has he done to her?”

  “He married her daughter, that’s what. He was the house steward when they still had the London townhouse. A gentl’man, but still very much in service.”

  I couldn’t stop a grin from stealing over my face. Glenna, the stuffed peacock afraid to besmirch her gowns or her reputation, had married a servant. Papa had been right—the walls were bursting with stories. And I must remain among them as long as humanly possible.

  Skin tingling from the warm bath and fuzzy towel, I stretched out alone across an open space on the pale rug in my room, wrapped in clean clothes with a notebook and pen before me. Something about Nelle captivated me. It wasn’t her looks—which were better than ugly and less than splendid—but her remarkable love. Gratitude mixed with awe compelled me to pen a new character into my novel—Lady Jayne’s close friend, Abigail. Nelle had confided that she had always been lost in the background. I had the power to change that, to immortalize the sweet girl in a novel.

  Beautiful women rarely find true friendship among their own gender, but when they do, it speaks highly of such a friend’s great worth. Abigail was one such friend to Lady Jayne. A girl with gold-spun hair and delicate grace, she was oft called plain by the world, if she was called anything at all.

  And when Lady Jayne’s suitor happened upon the pair in the entryway one day, he paused in hanging his greatcoat and took in the sight of them. Lady Jayne smiled coyly, but it was not his love who drew his stare this time, for he was already well-acquainted with her beauty. It was the unusual girl at her side who radiated contentment, a quiet joy that overrode her plain features for reasons he could not determine.

  What an odd twist that Charles Sterling Clavey should find Abigail somewhat attractive, but it made me appreciate the man.

  Kneeling beside my chair, I ended my writing time by praying for Nelle’s future spouse. My deeply romantic heart carved out a picture of the kind, affirming man who would recognize in Nelle the beauty of a lovely soul and cherish her as he ought. To that one man, Nelle would never be invisible.

  Dressed in a lilac dress a half hour later, I crept down the stairs in soft slippers and met the family in the drawing room. Perhaps none of them would bring up the incident with Glenna. But as we pulled out the heavy dining room chairs, Glenna turned to me, made-up face sparkling with dangerous delight. “Aurelie, I’m so glad you feel well enough to come to dinner. I’d like to make a request of you.”

  7

  She slept very well at night, owing to the fact that she never took her bitterness into bed with her.

  ~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears

  Pheasant and mashed potatoes awaited us on the sideboard in the dining room when we entered. The buttery smell did heavenly things to my senses, despite the nerves twisting my stomach.

  “Dearest, let her be seated first.” Garamond’s whispered words reached the entire room.

  “But it’s such a marvelous story, and she simply must share it before I burst.”

  Aunt Eudora’s lips pinched in sour disapproval—a trademark expression, to be sure, for the wrinkles around her mouth so easily slipped into the pucker. The old woman took her time being seated and directing the staff as they served the food to each person. Several long moments passed, in which I eagerly hoped the matter would be forgotten.

  But Glenna never forgot another woman’s moment of downfall. “Miss Harcourt, do tell us the whole thing. And start with whatever happened to drench you in mud in the first place. It must have been a dreadful story.” Glenna’s awful smile looked as though it would crack her face.

  I cleared the mashed potatoes from my throat. “It was a simple misstep into the carriage.”

  “Come, now. There must be more to the catastrophe than that.”

  My gaze lifted and met Silas Rotherham’s gray eyes, and the tenderness I found there comforted me. He offered a small, private smile and I returned it. My throat tight, I silently commanded the tears to stay back.

  He restoreth my soul.

  He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

  Verses repeated often by Papa, redirecting and refocusing me. Releasing the tension, connecting me to God, fading the evils of the world into the background. And suddenly a calming power swept over me, cooling the heat of embarrassment. Offering strength. Tell a story—that’s all Glenna had asked me to do. The one thing I did well.

  It’s always a choice, Aura Rose. Happiness is always a choice.

  My back straightened, shoulder blades hitting the chair back, and the story flowed like clear water poured from a cup, just as Papa had taught me. Starting with the comical splash into the mud, I wove through the details until Glenna’s voice broke through my near trance.

  “And then she broke the blue-flowered vase in the hall.” She clapped. “The priceless one Papa brought you from London.” She turned her animated face toward me. “Truly, it was like a game of dominoes, was it not, Miss Harcourt?” As if she were magnanimously making light of the situation for my sake.

  Aunt Eudora’s eyes blazed toward me. “You broke my Royal Worchester?”

  “I’m so sorry. I bumped it by accident and—”

  Her frown cut off the rest of my apology. “Do you think it possible to refrain from ruining my belongings while you accept my hospitality?”

  I ducked my head. “Yes, my lady.” But uncertainty pulsed through me at my ability to keep such a promise, and at the hopelessness of my fate in this house.

  “It looked as if she’d rolled around in the mud.” Glenna’s voice trilled into laughter.

  Garamond, always the man at Glenna’s side, laughed heartily, encouraging his wife’s witty remarks. Harder and harder he laughed.

  Then he was sputtering and coughing, fumbling for his water.

  “Oh my. Oh, Garamond.” Glenna rose and uselessly delivered a set of uneven pats to his back. He coughed and blotted his face, waving her off. Finally he rose, eyes watering, and charged out of the room to collect himself in private, Glenna on his heels. In a moment I also left with graceful strides, heavy skirt whishing on the carpet.

  Reaching the empty great hall, I lifted my dress hem and ran, thankful for solitude. My exposed ankles felt the coolness of freedom as I flew down a narrow hall.

  Perhaps I should simply return to my bedchamber. I’d done enough damage for the day. But a few paces more revealed a light streaming from the west, where my memory had painted nothing but a wall. The mystery of it coaxed me down the narrow hall to a haven of plants through double glass doors. Pushing inside, I stepped down into a glass-walled sanctuary of fruit trees, flowering p
lants, and vines that crowded toward the low ceiling. A piece of heaven it was, hidden away down a hall that had seemed to yawn open just now from the darkness. Inhaling deeply of the floral air, I ducked under low-hanging branches to a metal bench against the far windows, where I curled into the hard seat, knees to my chest, and talked to the One who accepted me already, thanking him for my rescue, and for this secret moment of beauty.

  God, I truly do not belong here.

  Where did I belong, if not here at Papa’s dear Lynhurst Manor?

  With Papa, that’s where. I fit into his world, by his side. We worked like elements of a steam engine that hummed in efficiency together down the track. Without Papa, I had only our shared story to comfort me. Eyes closed, I tried to push myself into the world of Lady Jayne’s tale, but it kept escaping my grasp. Uncertainty wet-blanketed my creativity.

  As the setting sun glowed orange and red against the bright green landscape, lighting the water in the tiny fountain beside me, footsteps approached.

  Mr. Droll?

  I shook my head, but I couldn’t dispel the premonition that I was about to glimpse this man again. The doors creaked open and black-suited legs carried a man obscured by foliage through the conservatory.

  Concussion. It had been a concussion before.

  It was Silas Rotherham who ducked under the branches. Of course it would be him. Releasing my breath and forcing myself to concentrate, to not make a foolish move, I masked my childish fears and focused on a flowerless lily plant at my feet.

  With a long exhale Mr. Rotherham sat on the bench, dropping a bunched-up linen napkin on the table beside me. Split-top rolls tumbled out of its folds. Was it that obvious I was starving? Enough that he felt the need to feed me. My body heated beneath the heavy fabric of my ill-fitting, borrowed gown.

  For moments we sat, his relaxed posture denying any awkwardness existed between us. Finally he drew his gaze up. “Have I ever told you how to rid yourself of distressful ants?”