by Jo Beverley
She’d persuaded herself that there was little danger of meeting people whom she’d known well in Carlisle—but she’d overlooked the school. Many young gentlemen of Cumberland, Westmorland, and northern Lancashire had spent a year or two at Otterburn’s before going on to grander schools. Simon’s world could be full of them.
Desperately playing her part in the conversation, Jancy tried to imagine what an ex-schoolboy might know or say that would trip her up. There were so many details of Jane’s early life that she didn’t know. Her toys, her pets, Martha’s baby name for her. Dacre had referred to her as Janey, and she’d told Simon Jancy was her baby name. Had he noticed?
Simon took her hand beneath the table. She knew he thought she was distressed by sad memories, not fear.
Conversation had moved to principles of education, so she concentrated on appearing carefree. See, she tried to tell herself, you have met one of those young men and all is well. What notice would a schoolboy take of a child?
She made herself believe it and was almost calm by the time the meal ended. Everyone rose so Kirkby could clear the table, and she was thinking she could make an excuse to retreat into privacy, but Dacre came over.
“I don’t wish to impose, Mrs. St. Bride, but I wondered if you still executed portraits.”
It was as if a great stillness settled around her. For far too long her mind was empty, but then she managed, “I’m sorry . . . ? Oh, no. It was not I, sir, but my cousin who was the artist. However did you know about that?”
He seemed taken aback. “My apologies. I could have sworn . . . I have a picture of my sister, you see, sent to me last year, and I thought you might do one of my wife. Here, let me get it. I’m sure everyone will be interested, for it is so excellently done.”
He was gone before she could protest, and how could she? But she was icy and unsteady. Thank heavens Simon was setting up the card table and unaware of any crisis. She sat in one of the side chairs, fighting faintness.
If she insisted Nan had been the artist, surely Dacre couldn’t contradict her. He couldn’t be sure of such a detail, especially when he hadn’t been there. She was trying to remember if Jane had signed those charity drawings. Surely not. She hardly ever signed her work.
This wasn’t the end, then. Only yet one more battle to fight.
But if the limited world of the Eweretta held such traps, what would the whole of Britain hold? Many of Jane’s pictures, for a start.
Dacre came back with a framed picture and announced, “I have a treat for everyone. A drawing executed by Mrs. St. Bride’s cousin!”
He related the story of the young artist doing pencil sketches to raise money for the soldiers and displayed the picture on the desk. Everyone gathered to look, and Jancy felt she must go, too. It was small, as were all the ones done at the fair, but even without knowing the sitter, Jancy could tell that as always Jane had caught the likeness. A shy, nervous smile and a kind heart.
All present voiced their admiration.
Then Simon said, “We have more. Would you mind sharing them, my dear?”
Numbly Jancy said, “No, of course not.” If doom was to strike, she wanted Jane to get her due.
He brought back the portfolio and everyone sat at the now cleared table to pass them round.
“A remarkable talent,” the colonel said.
“A sad loss,” murmured Norton.
“You were something of a hoyden,” stated Mrs. Ransome-Brown, looking at the picture of Jancy in the tree. “Ah,” she added, picking up the self-portrait. “The artist.” She looked from the picture to Jancy and back again. “A remarkable resemblance between cousins.”
As usual, it carried a hint of suspicion, but no one, not even the Grand Panjandrum herself, could suspect the truth.
Jancy said, “Yes, we were often mistaken for each other by those who didn’t know us well. Our coloring was exactly the same.”
The lady produced a lorgnette and peered at Dacre’s picture. “What tiny initials. JAO. What was your cousin’s name?”
Jancy’s head went hot, her hands and feet cold. There was only one thing to say. “Jane Anne Otterburn, ma’am. We were both called Jane Anne Otterburn.”
The lorgnette was turned on her. “A remarkable coincidence.”
“They are Otterburn names, I understand.”
“How very confusing it must have been.”
“That’s why one of us was Jane, ma’am, one Nan.”
She braced for the next blow, but when it came, it was from an entirely unexpected direction. The pictures went the rounds, were admired, and then arrived at her to be put away.
That was when Jancy realized that before Simon brought the pictures out, he’d removed the one that showed their simple Abbey Street house. The picture with the sign in the window saying Mrs. Otterburn. Haberdashers.
For all his grand words, he was ashamed of even that minor failing.
She tied the portfolio and then excused herself.
She stood in the small room, still and hopeless. How had she ever thought her lies could hold? In York, especially living quietly, there’d seemed no danger. Perhaps that had lulled her.
For a while, the ship had seemed equally safe, even when Lionel Dacre turned out to be from Penrith. In fact that had reassured her, proving that even people who knew Carlisle posed no threat.
But the Eweretta was Simon’s world in miniature. They would not live quietly but in the midst of a world full of Grand Panjandrums with nothing better to do than scrutinize every detail of her life, men like Dacre who’d attended her father’s school, and all the people who treasured Jane’s charity sketches.
Dear God, Simon wanted to become a Member of Parliament.
She remembered the captain saying, “All roads lead to London.”
She couldn’t stop her mind from reeling out a scene. Some elegant London party, attended by Simon’s eminent friends and all sorts of important people. Someone bringing over the Member from Carlisle and the Member’s wife.
“Ah, yes. I remember you from Mrs. Otterburn’s haberdashery, Mrs. St. Bride. You were the Scottish cousin, were you not? So good of Mrs. Otterburn to take you in.”
It was so clear to Jancy that she sat on the chest, as faint as if it were happening now. She could argue that it was unlikely that the wife of a Member of Parliament would patronize grander shops, and that even if such a lady had once visited Martha’s haberdashery, she wouldn’t remember who had served her.
But she’d reached a breaking point.
She could not live like this, and more important, she and Simon could never build a good life on such shifting sands. She must confess to him. About the switch, at least. If he could understand, could forgive, then perhaps they could fight this together, but she couldn’t do it alone any longer.
But—she didn’t know if it was cowardice or true concern—not yet. How could she hurl such a thing at him when they were trapped here by the ocean, pinned under scrutinizing eyes? He would have no escape.
As soon as they reached land, however.
As soon as.
Agonizing though it was, her decision eased her, but there were ramifications. They must not make love again. It would feel in some way dishonest, but above all, they must not risk a child. Simon must be free to decide what was best, and a child would bind him to disaster.
It was possible that she was already with child, but she doubted it. Could a baby take root in a body during such protracted illness? And they’d made love only once since her recovery. Her courses should start again at any day, and then she’d know for sure.
If they didn’t . . . ? She’d have to reassess, but until then she must be resolute.
She couldn’t imagine how to reject him, so she hurried out of her clothes and into bed. When Simon came in she pretended to be asleep, face burrowed into a pillow damp with tears. He climbed into the upper bed.
Her trickster mind did not give up easily. She lay awake for hours, but no amount of frantic t
hought brought her a miraculous solution. When she did sleep she dreamed of a storm, of the ship springing leaks and taking on water. She ran frantically from place to place, trying to patch the holes, but new ones kept spurting and no one came to help.
“Jancy, Jancy, hush. . . .”
She woke to Simon holding her, comforting her, tucked behind her in the narrow bed.
“I dreamed of a storm,” she gasped, holding his strong arms to her heart, shattered by what was to come.
He stroked her. “It has turned a bit rough. But nothing serious.”
“How can you tell?”
“No sounds of urgency on deck. Go back to sleep, love. You’re safe. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”
Oh, my love, my dearest treasure. If only I could say the same to you.
She couldn’t sleep again, so as soon as daylight shone in, she slipped out of bed. If she stayed, she knew, he’d want to make love.
She dressed with some difficulty, for the ship was tossing in the strong wind. Even so, she put on her cloak and gloves. She needed fresh air, as if it might scour her clean.
When she went into the cuddy, Kirkby was setting out pewter plates for breakfast, balancing like an acrobat. “Nice brisk morning, ma’am,” he said cheerily.
Jancy clutched at a chair for balance, thinking that the steward had an optimistic term for everything. She expected that one day he’d say, “Lovely bit of hurricane today.”
What would he say about her affairs?
Interesting bit of a pickle you’re in, ma’am.
She went out on deck but had to stay within the shield of the overhanging poop deck, for the wind was wild and occasional waves slapped over the deck. The sailors staggered about their work, drenched, and the poor cow and goat were mooing and bleating their complaints. Clearly nature was in sympathy with her situation. Or howled in horror at her wickedness.
The door opened. She looked over her shoulder to see Simon in his greatcoat. “What on earth are you doing out here?” he demanded.
“I wanted some fresh air.”
He looked as if he was worried about her sanity, which wasn’t surprising. He took her arm and dragged her back inside. It was the first time he’d truly compelled her to do anything. He steered her roughly back into their cabin but then took off her cloak and wiped her face and hair with a towel. She’d forgotten a bonnet and not pulled up her hood.
“What is it, love? Are you feeling sick again?”
Grieving, she took the escape offered. “Perhaps a little. I don’t want breakfast.”
“Then go back to bed.” He unfastened her gown with skill grown from experience, stripped her down to her shift, and tucked her under the covers. “I’ll bring you some sweet tea. And some bread and jam. Try to eat, love, please.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Simon took Jancy the food but had no appetite himself, so he returned to the howling winds and the whip of cold, wet air, frantic with fear. Jancy had become like breath itself to him. Essential.
The long days of her illness had felt like an eternity in limbo. He’d hated to know she was suffering and be unable to do anything. Though he’d told himself that she couldn’t die of seasickness, that her cousin had to have been particularly frail, he’d been deeply afraid. Once she recovered, he’d thought all would be well.
Hal joined him, taking a firm grip on one handhold. “Trouble?”
Neither of them had bothered with hats, which would have been pointless in the wind that slapped their greatcoats about them.
“Jane,” Simon said. “Perhaps it’s just seasickness, but I don’t know.”
“Sea travel is hard for the ladies. Even on the Eweretta it’s a rough life with little privacy, and this weather . . .”
“I don’t think that’s it.” Simon was sure it wasn’t, which was part of the problem. “Do you trust Blanche?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t mean to be faithful. I mean with everything.”
“Of course,” Hal repeated. “You don’t trust Jane? Why not?”
“I don’t know.” Simon rocked with the ship’s sudden lurch. “That’s what’s driving me demented. She’s done nothing wrong, nothing. Yet I feel . . . I don’t know, full of doubts. How can I love someone and feel like that? And I do love her. The lightning has struck. I feel”—he looked up the tall masts to the rigging and mighty sails—“like canvas without wind when away from her.”
“Yes.” After a moment, Hal added, “I saw the way she tended to you when you were ill, Simon. It was not the behavior of a dishonest woman.”
“Does that make sense?”
“I think so.”
“But what about maggots?”
“What about maggots?”
“How did she know about them?”
Hal stared at him. “You’re accusing your wife of heaven knows what because she saved your arm with maggots?”
“No. Yes. No! I simply don’t understand how she knew.”
“Ask her.”
“She says she knew someone interested in folk cures. Is that enough to cause her to stand firm against a doctor and risk my life?”
Hal rocked with the heaving ship for a while. “When you put it like that . . . But it’s hardly a black sin.”
“It’s part of so many things. You didn’t know Jane before Isaiah’s death. She acted like a middle-aged nun. Again, not a sin, but I know now that was an act. It isn’t who she is. I much prefer the real Jancy, but I can’t stop wondering why. And now she’s becoming peculiar again.”
“ ‘Jancy’?”
Simon thought of all that the name Jancy meant to him. “A baby name. She likes it, for private moments.”
“Didn’t Dacre say that at the school they knew her as Janey?”
Simon considered that but shrugged. “An easy error. What do you remember about the masters’ families from your school days?”
“One had a very pretty daughter,” Hal said with a smile.
“Not, I assume, a child.”
“No.”
The wind was dropping. It still dragged at hair and clothes but in a tamer way. Shouted commands caused new activity up in the rigging. The Eweretta settled beneath his feet and then surged forward. A marvelous machine, a ship, and how nice to be a captain, able to control it with ropes like a puppet master.
“Did Jane’s uncle perhaps prefer her to be quiet and subdued?” Hal asked.
“The very opposite. When she arrived in York she was sick from the voyage and in mourning for her mother and cousin, so he understood her quiet ways. But by spring he was hoping to buy her pretty clothes and take her to dances. He’d have loved to see her the belle of York, but instead she became his housekeeper and sometime clerk.”
“Shy?”
“What do you think?”
After a moment, Hal said, “No.”
“Then what’s the matter with her?”
Hal shifted to lean more comfortably. “Last night, I thought she might be frightened of something.”
Simon frowned. “Of what? Of McArthur I could believe, but he’s dead.”
“I sit opposite her while you sit beside. She looked alarmed.”
“When?”
“I’m not sure. When she was talking to Dacre, perhaps. About the north.”
A suppressed worry uncoiled in Simon. “I have wondered if she did something there. Something she’s ashamed of. I can’t imagine it can be too terrible, but I need to know. . . .”
“Then get her to tell you.”
“With thumbscrews? She’s like a locked box.”
How long was it since he’d thought of that image? He’d believed the box open and revealing only wonders.
“She could simply be afraid of what’s to come,” Hal said. “Blanche is a very different case, but she’s shown me how exclusive our world can be. Perhaps all worlds. We each live in a kind of sphere composed of family, friends, and those we naturally meet in our activities. But each sphere is as limited as
a glass ball. Most people never go beyond to meet those whose ways are strange.
“The army stirs things to some extent. It’s hard there not to learn about men whose lives and interests are completely different. Travel can be a shock, which is probably why so many people try to travel firmly within their secure sphere. But perhaps we all fear the strange. Look at this ship. How much have we mixed with the officers, never mind the crew?
“Blanche’s world isn’t mine, and mine isn’t hers, even though she’s moved in high circles for years. We each still take things for granted only to realize that the other doesn’t. Sometimes it seems that we speak different languages. I, of course, want her to learn to speak mine, but why should she, any more than the Iroquois or the French habitant should learn English?”
“Because people have to be able to talk to each other?” Simon asked, trying to understand what Hal was saying.
“Shared words don’t always have shared meaning.” Hal grimaced. “I don’t know. I think my point is that until a short while ago Jane’s sphere was entirely different to yours. I don’t suppose she minds moving into yours, but it won’t be easy for her. What’s normal and natural for you is not so for her, and many will be like Mrs. Ransome-Brown, regarding the invader with suspicion. I’m sure Isaiah Trewitt was a noble soul, but the Trewitts aren’t what our world considers admirable.”
“They’re solid, honest stock.”
“Confess it, Simon. You’re worried about what your family will say.”
Simon sighed. “No. But I worry about what they’ll think. It will all work out, however, as long as she stops her peculiar behavior. If she carries on as she is, they’ll think I’ve married a madwoman.”
After a moment, Hal asked, “Are you worried that you have?”
It was the point Simon had been both circling and avoiding. He knew his silence was revealing.
“Wait until we land,” Hal said. “It’s not surprising if ships distress her, and it’s an uncomfortably tight sphere. Stoddard seems to think we’ll sight land within the week.”
