A Precious Jewel

by Mary Balogh

  Priscilla was silent.

  “I have taken you apart piece by piece over the past half hour,” Miss Blythe said. “I have not left you a single corner in which to hide. I have made you feel utterly worthless and soiled. I did not do it in order to leave you that way.”

  Priscilla looked at her hands.

  “I did it so that you can adjust your life to reality,” Miss Blythe said. “Girls who get pregnant have almost invariably lost sight of reality, have given in somehow to their dreams. You have to know beyond a shadow of a doubt, Priscilla, that you are a whore. Only then will there be a hope that you can live in this world with a degree of happiness. Do I make sense to you?”

  “Yes,” Priscilla said.

  “Very well, then,” Miss Blythe said. “Stand up, dear, and pull the bell rope. You will need some tea before you have the strength to leave here. We must discuss your traveling arrangements and you must tell me how you have been feeling. Has there been any nausea? And have you seen a physician? A foolish question—of course you have not seen a physician. You must come back here tomorrow morning and I shall have my own call here to examine you. We must be very sure, must we not, that you are in good health.”

  Priscilla pulled the bell rope and sat down again. All her muscles seemed to be trembling and quite drained of energy.

  “You do have backbone,” Miss Blythe said approvingly. “Most of my girls go from here still in tears, Priscilla, even after two or three cups of tea. I suspect that your hands will even have stopped shaking by the time I hand you your cup. Now, let us begin our discussion. I cannot spend much longer with you. Lord Quincy has requested an interview with me in less than an hour’s time. A new client, I believe. An awkward and fresh-faced youth just down from Cambridge and looking for some experience in manly sports. Just the sort of young man I would have assigned to you, dear.”

  SIR GERALD WAS not sure if he was glad or sorry for the busy nature of the few days following Priscilla’s announcement concerning her possible return to the country. One part of him wanted to crawl into the deepest hole he could find, like a wounded animal, to lick his wounds. The other wanted to get out, far away from all thoughts of her, to lose himself in activity.

  They were a foursome for the wedding day, he discovered. Miss Abigail Gardiner, the new Countess of Severn before the morning was over, brought with her a governess friend, Miss Laura Seymour, a pretty, auburn-haired young lady, and it fell to Sir Gerald’s lot to entertain her through much of the day.

  His friend’s bride made him uneasy. She was not as plain as he had expected her to be. Indeed, he thought she looked rather pretty all togged up in a new dress for her wedding. Not at all the striking beauty one would expect of Miles’s bride, of course, but no antidote, for all that. And she was certainly not quiet, either, not the mute, dull creature Miles seemed to have thought he was marrying. She did most of the talking once the wedding ceremony was over and her obvious nervousness had evaporated to a degree.

  Miles was going to end up devilishly unhappy with her. That was what was going to happen. He might have been better off with Miss Meighan, the bride his mother had chosen for him. At least he knew the girl. Of course, the very best thing for him would have been to marry neither one but to remain free for the rest of his life.

  There was never anything but trouble to be had from marrying. Look at Helena. And look at the new countess, who had apparently deceived Miles right and proper a few mornings before when he had made his unconsidered and insane offer to her.

  Sir Gerald was worried about his friend.

  And worried about himself, too. But he would not think of it. He smiled determinedly and allowed the countess to chatter to him—she seemed more comfortable with him than with her new husband—and conversed whenever he could with Miss Seymour.

  He had sent word to Priss to expect him the following afternoon. He went with dragging steps and a heavy heart. And it seemed to him that she did not have any of the radiance one might expect of a girl who was about to be married, either. Her eyes looked heavy, her face a little puffy. Her face looked rounder than it had used to look, he thought, as if she had put on weight.

  “Gerald.” She smiled at him when he was shown into the parlor, but she did not, as she usually did, hurry across the room to him, her hands outstretched. She stood where she was, close to the fire.

  “Hello, Priss,” he said. And he stopped close to the door.

  “How was the wedding?” she asked.

  “It took place,” he said. “She seems the most unlikely bride for Miles you could possibly imagine. But I suppose it was his decision and he must live with it.”

  “He will make the best of it,” she said. “He is a kind gentleman.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Won’t you sit down?” She gestured formally to a chair.

  “Priss,” he said, “have you made a final decision?”

  “If he sends,” she said, “and I think he will, Gerald, I think I ought to go.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think you ought.”

  “But it may not be for another few days,” she said. “Will you mind my staying here until then, Gerald? Perhaps I ought not. Perhaps you would prefer that I went somewhere else?”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “To Miss Blythe’s,” she said. “She would give me a room.”

  “I don’t want you at Kit’s,” he said. “Besides, Priss, I don’t think he would want you there. He surely would not, would he?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, then,” he said, “you had better stay here until you know for certain.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Priss,” he said. He still had not moved from his spot just inside the door. He still had not sat down. “Is this what you want to do? If it is, then I think you ought to go. But if it is not, then you had better stay with me. I can renew the lease on the house. We could even make a sort of contract for a year or two or even three if you wish. Perhaps I could even buy the house and you could live here when I finally … when we finally …”

  “I think I should go, Gerald,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said briskly. “Well, then. What do you want to do, Priss? Go walking in the park? It is a nice day, though cool.”

  “No,” she said. “I think you had better leave, Gerald. You are uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

  “Deuced uncomfortable,” he said.

  “Go, then,” she said.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to be with you or touch you, Priss,” he said. “It’s just that I don’t think I ought. It wouldn’t seem right.”

  She smiled. “I will be gone within the week, Gerald,” she said, “and then you may be comfortable again, dear.”

  Dear. She had called him that before. He frowned. He could not recall when the devil it had been.

  “Yes,” he said, “and you will be excited to have this life behind you once and for all, Priss. I’m glad for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Well, then,” he said, his voice hearty, “I’ll be going. A couple of fellows are expecting me at White’s. I’ll look in on you in a few days’ time again. The day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said quietly.

  “Good day to you, then, Priss,” he said.

  She smiled at him. All he heard was his name, whispered.

  SIR GERALD MET the Earl of Severn at White’s the next morning. His friend was looking quite pleased with himself, he noticed when he looked at him closely. He was not totally disillusioned with his marriage yet, then.

  “How is Prissy?” the earl asked when they had been talking about Jenny, newly released from the earl’s employ and besieged by eager would-be replacements. “Still threatening to move back home to the country?”

  “Some rejected swain wants her back,” Sir Gerald said, “even knowing what she has become. She should go, I keep telling her. She does not really suit the life of a courtesan.
It’s time I found someone else, anyway. A year is too long to spend with one mistress—makes them too possessive.”

  It was amazing, he thought as the conversation moved on to other matters, how one could make light of a topic that weighed one down with the whole burden of the universe. It’s time I found someone else, he had said. Who? Could there ever be anyone else? A year is too long to spend with one mistress. Yes, it was. It was far too long. A day had been too long with Priss. That very first hour with her had been too long. He had been lost, surely, after that one hour.

  Makes them too possessive. Unfair. Oh, unfair. When had Priss ever been possessive?

  He could not talk about his feelings to his friend. How could he? His feelings were too deep to share. And he was ashamed of them, if the truth were known. He was breaking up with a mistress. That was all. They had been together for a year. She had been thoroughly satisfactory. He was used to her, comfortable with her. Now they were breaking up. It was time. He had been right about that.

  He was ashamed of the fact that he could not feel as nonchalant as his words had been.

  He had a ball to attend that evening, he remembered, as he walked home later that afternoon. Lady Trevor’s ball. He hated balls. He would dance once with Lady Severn and then take himself off to the card room. At least the entertainment would keep his mind off Priss.

  But when he arrived back at his rooms, it was to find a note from her there. She wished to see him immediately if it was convenient for him. She had never written to him before.

  It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at her house. She came downstairs to the parlor as soon as he was admitted.

  “Gerald,” she said, “you had my note? I was sorry to have to write to you at home.”

  “Don’t mention it, Priss,” he said, clasping his hands behind him, noting that their positions were reversed from the day before. He stood before the fire, she close to the door. “What is it?”

  “I can leave immediately,” she said. “He wants me to go without delay, Gerald. Tomorrow. There is a stage early in the morning.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  “So I will be leaving, then,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m glad for you, Priss. I hope you will be happy. I’m sure you will be. I hope you have a safe journey. Is there anything you need?”

  “No,” she said.

  He drew a package from an inner pocket of his coat. “It is your settlement, Priss,” he said, laying it on a table beside him.

  “But I am the one leaving you,” she said.

  “A wedding present,” he said. “With my thanks. You have always been a good girl.”

  “It was my pleasure,” she said. “You were easy to work for, Gerald. You were good to me.”

  “I’ll say good-bye, then,” he said. “I have to be going anyway. There is a ball tonight.”

  “Ah,” she said. “I’ll not keep you then.”

  They stood at opposite sides of the room, staring at each other.

  If she were not standing so close to the door, he thought, he would be able to leave. All he could think of was leaving, being out of there, breathing in fresh air, hurrying along the street, never having to see her again.

  “Gerald,” she said. She rubbed a palm hard along her jaw to her chin and down her throat. She looked up at the ceiling and kept her eyes there. “Gerald.”

  “I’ll miss you, Priss,” he said.

  And then she was across the room, her arms tight about his neck, her face buried against his neckcloth, sobbing and sobbing to break her heart. He patted her back awkwardly and bit hard on his upper lip.

  “There, there, Priss,” he said. “It will be all right.”

  “You have been so good to me,” she said, her voice high-pitched as he had heard it before. “Always so very good, Gerald. And it was never work. It was never, never work.”

  “There, there,” he said. “You have a good heart, Priss. But remember what you are going to, love. You’ll be far better off married than just my mistress. You’ll be happy once the good-byes are said. Good-byes are always hard.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice more normal, though her face was still hidden among the damp folds of his neckcloth. “You are right.”

  He took her by the shoulders, kissed the top of her head, and put her firmly from him.

  “Good-bye, Priss,” he said.

  He strode from the room and closed the door so hastily behind him that it slammed. He was halfway down the street before he realized that the sound behind him was Prendergast calling after him and waving the cane he had left behind.

  THE VICAR BOWED TO PRISCILLA WHILE HIS WIFE took one of her hands in her plump one and patted it after placing a cloth-covered plate on a table.

  “Good morning, ma’am,” the vicar said. “And welcome to our village of Fairlight. We are always delighted to welcome new inhabitants into our midst. My name is Whiting, ma’am, and this is my good wife.”

  “So pleased to make your acquaintance, my dear,” Mrs. Whiting said, smiling and nodding her head. “We heard that you are a widow lady. May I express my own and the vicar’s deepest sympathies if your bereavement is of recent date?” She glanced at Priscilla’s pale blue woolen dress.

  Priscilla had arrived on the stage the evening before in widow’s weeds and with a detailed story provided by Miss Blythe. But she had put the black clothes away in the bottom of her trunk that morning when she got up and unpacked her things.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling at her two visitors. “And thank you for the cakes, ma’am. I would ask you to have a seat and drink a cup of tea with me, but I must say something first, if you please.”

  The vicar rubbed his hands together and smiled.

  “I am not a widow,” Priscilla said. “I am not married and never have been. I have come where it is quiet and far from town to have my child. It will be born in five months’ time.”

  Vicar and Mrs. Whiting stared at her and exchanged glances.

  “I do not wish to put you in an awkward position,” Priscilla said. “I fully realize that I may have to live the life of an outcast here. But I will not pretend to be a recent widow, as I had intended to do. What is past is past and the future will be difficult. But at least I want it to be an honest future. I am not going to hide the truth.”

  “Oh, my poor dear.” Mrs. Whiting bustled across the room, took Priscilla’s arm, and led her to a chair as if she were an invalid. “You ought not to be standing still on your feet. You will have veins in your legs to trouble you as you get older if you do. Do sit down. Did your young man refuse to marry you after all? Or was he killed in battle? I have heard of that happening and could fair break my heart over the suffering of the poor girl left behind.”

  “There was never any question of marriage,” Priscilla said. “I was his mistress, you see. For a year.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Whiting said, having seated Priscilla. She leaned over the fire, poking it into brighter life. “I never did think those women were as scarlet as people like to believe. They are human just like the rest of us, I have always believed. ‘There but for the grace of God …’ ”

  The vicar cleared his throat.

  “Our Lord forgave Mary Magdalene and the woman taken in adultery,” he said. “He set us a great example to follow, my dear. But he did tell them to go and sin no more. I admire your honesty, ma’am. But I would not be worthy of my calling if I did not add that I hope you have now seen the error of your ways and will turn from them for the rest of your days.”

  Priscilla looked at him. “I had to eat, sir,” she said. “But I do regret that I have involved an innocent child in the ugliness of my situation. Since I cannot now change that, though, I do intend that the rest of my life will be spent in seeing that his life is as happy and as respectable as I can make it. I love my child already. And I love its father, though he was but my employer.”

  “A fair and thoughtful answer, my dear,” the vicar said, coming toward
her, his hand outstretched. “If you prove to be as intent on reforming your character and life as you seem today, then you will find nothing but encouragement here. We are a small community. but we help our own through times of adversity. Welcome again to Fairlight, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said, smiling at first one and then the other of her visitors. “Thank you. I am Priscilla Wentworth, by the way.”

  “Miss Wentworth.” The vicar’s wife was filling a teapot with steaming water from the kettle. “I shall make a cup of tea and share it with you, dear. The vicar has to call upon Miss Sloane, who has been very difficult since she lost her sister last autumn, poor dear. Peevish, some might call her if they did not understand her situation. She is as deaf as a post, as misfortune would have it. But it is amazing what smiles and nods can accomplish. You will enjoy visiting her while you are waiting for your little one to arrive. We have had a great absence of little ones here in recent years.”

  The vicar took his leave. Priscilla settled back in her chair, took a cup and saucer from Mrs. Whiting’s hands, and listened gratefully to the endless confidences her new friend proceeded to share with her.

  She felt human again. Miraculously human. And more glad than she could say that she had risked putting off the masquerade, that she had risked being herself.

  She felt as if the long, slow process of healing had surely begun. She had felt it the evening before when she had stepped down from the stage into the picturesque little village by the sea in Sussex and found her thatched cottage in its own fenced garden at the end of the village street closest to the sea. And she had felt it early that morning when she had stepped outside the cottage and walked to the edge of the cliff a short distance away and seen the sandy path snaking its way down past cliffs and sand dunes to a long and sandy beach.

  She had felt as if perhaps, after all, there might be healing. As if perhaps she would survive and continue on into a new phase of her life.

  She had been completely, totally destroyed by Miss Blythe’s words. For a while, for several hours, she had been nothing, a creature of no identity. She had been reminded that she was, by her own choice, a mere object to the world of men, one to be used, enjoyed, despised, and discarded. To the world of women she was a creature to be scorned, shunned, hated, and feared.