The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  Papa’s last win at cards had fortunately been of recent date, so there were new dresses to wear and plenty of paint and pomatum and powder. Hetty always saw that the frivolities of life were attended to.

  Although London was so near, it was hard to find out what the current fashions were. Jane’s only friend was Philadelphia Syms, the vicar’s daughter, whose mind was wholly bent on fashion. Philadelphia was a year older than Jane and longed to be able to see one of the “fashion babies” from Paris. The fashion babies were dolls dressed in the current Parisian mode, which were occasionally displayed in London by the French Queen’s dressmaker. Like Jane, Philadelphia was a clever needlewoman and had helped Jane make the gowns for the annual visit to the Bentleys. Like Jane, the worldly Philadelphia despised the Bentleys and fostered Jane’s dreams of revenge as they plied their needles in the vicar’s comfortable parlor. The vicar was a surprisingly devout man for his times, taking his religious duties seriously instead of neglecting them for the pleasures of the gun and rod like most of the other Anglican clergy. He was also a very innocent man and was unaware of the frivolous turn of mind of his only daughter.

  Philadelphia had but one ambition: to somehow get invited to London on a visit and secure herself a rich husband who would be able to furnish her with a comfortable home and the latest in Parisian modes. She sometimes seemed to Jane a little mercenary in her outlook, but, on the other hand, Jane herself longed for a rich husband to restore her father’s estates, and the two girls’ somewhat parallel ambitions kept them close friends.

  The vicar’s wife was a haughty lady who did not approve of Jane, and although she tolerated the girl’s visits, she made sure that Jane was never invited to any of the social functions at the vicarage. A social invitation to Jane meant that Jane’s stepmother might come too, and Mrs. Syms felt sure that the local gentry would shun the vicarage if they thought there was a chance they might have to socialize with the boisterous and vulgar Hetty.

  The vicar was moderately wealthy, owning two farms as well as his large and spacious vicarage, and he kept his own carriage and pair.

  Both Philadelphia and Jane were avid readers of novels, particularly the ones that dealt with gothic castles in unheard-of countries, haunted by impossible ghosts.

  Jane and Philadelphia had been at school together for two whole blissful years before Jane’s father had gambled away his inheritance. They had been sent to Mistress Hampton’s boarding school in Tunbridge Wells, where they were furnished with textbooks and largely expected to tutor themselves. They had left after two years with a smattering of the Italian language, a vague knowledge of geography, and whole volumes of girlish gossip.

  Jane had left in disgrace because her school fees had not been paid, but Philadelphia had left because she was tired of school and because she was mostly able to talk her parents into letting her have her way.

  Jane thought Philadelphia was the prettiest girl she had ever seen, with her heavy ash-blond hair and creamy skin and wide blue eyes. Philadelphia thought so too.

  “I wish she were going with me this evening,” mused Jane, crossing to the window and staring hopefully out. Only a few flakes were falling. There would be no moon, but since the distance to the Bentleys’ was short, there would be nothing to cancel the impending visit.

  The noisy opening of the kitchen door downstairs and a shriek of laughter from Hetty heralded the end of the Marquess’s amorous afternoon. Jane’s lip curled in distaste. Her mind could not envisage what they had been up to, but she knew it was something to do with all that pawing and petting that went on between the married couple. The sighings and sobbings of the heroines in the novels she read seemed just as strange. Love, if it did exist, was all very well for those who could afford it. Jane could not.

  It was time to prepare for the evening—the evening when once again she would see her home.

  It was to be an evening that fired her ambitions as they never had been fired before.

  Chapter Two

  The snow had stopped falling and the countryside stretched bleak and white all the way to Eppington Chase, former home of the Westerbys. The Bentleys had sent a carriage and outriders to escort their guests. The Marquess, an elegant figure in his antique finery, received the first shock of the evening.

  For it was not the old Westerby coachman, Pomfret, up on the box, but a pasty-faced young fellow, who informed his lordship rather smugly that Mr. Bentley had hired new servants for the Chase.

  “But there are families who have served the Westerbys for generations,” protested the Marquess, outraged.

  The coachman gave him a cynical look but contented himself with folding his mouth in a thin line. This tawdry Marquess couldn’t even pay the wages of a scullery maid. Who was he to be so high and mighty about the servants at the Chase?

  Jane noticed her father’s trembling fingers and turned her face to the snowy fields.

  Jane and her stepmother were wearing pocket panniers under their dresses. The hoop was divided into two sections, and the panniers were formed by pulling drapery through the pocket holes, the pockets hanging on the inside in the form of bags.

  Hetty had absolutely refused to allow Jane to wash her hair. What was the point of it, she had said reasonably, when one’s hair was going to be covered with pomatum and flour? Jane had, however, managed to arrange Hetty’s long, coarse hair into a fairly modish style, dressing it high over a small velvet cushion stuffed with straw and embellished with silk flowers made with her own nimble fingers. Her own hair was also powdered, but in a more modest style as became her years. It was dressed simply, with the ends set in curls and going over the head from ear to ear. She had not painted her face, but Hetty had liberally covered hers in white enamel and rouge and had placed a large black patch in the shape of a crescent moon next to her mouth.

  Jane had fashioned her gowns well. Hetty was wearing a pink silk “flying gown”—that is, the material fell straight from shoulder to hem at the back—with an underskirt of the same, edged with gimp. It had a lingerie neck and sleeve ruffles, and Hetty’s slender, bony legs and feet were encased in green silk stockings and yellow embroidered slippers.

  Jane herself was dressed in the same pink silk, but she had fashioned it with Watteau pleats at the front, and her underskirt had bowknots and lace frills.

  Her two stepsisters were simply attired in straight gowns with ruffled yokes, in pink silk. For the Westerbys had only had the one bale of silk left over from Papa’s last gambling success, and so they were all in pink, with the exception of the Marquess, who was dressed in primrose-yellow brocade. His fine cadogan wig was looped under and tied at the back with a solitaire of black taffeta, with the ends brought around and tied in a bow under his chin over his white cravat.

  In the dim light of the carriage, he looked quite young and handsome, and Jane felt a strange pain at her heart. She wished he could always look so. But shortly the blaze of candlelight would reveal the marks and lines and bags of dissipation and self-indulgence.

  “He is a child!” thought Jane despairingly. “Hetty is all very well, but she cares nothing for appearances.”

  As if to confirm her thoughts, Hetty produced that instrument which is euphemistically called a back-scratcher and is in reality for scratching your head without disarraying the hairdresser’s art, and applied it vigorously.

  They were approaching Hoggs Bridge. Not very far to go now.

  The bare branches of the trees glimmered with a dusting of snow and rattled mournfully in the rising wind. It seemed as if spring would never come. For months now, winter had held the land frozen in a steely grip, freezing hopes and ambitions and youth in Jane’s immature breast.

  The carriage swung round between mossy gateposts crowned with their stone griffins, and bowled up the drive bordered with conifers and laurels. Eppington Chase had a handsome Corinthian portico and a new wing of spacious rooms and galleries tacked onto the original Jacobean structure. They had been added by the Marquess of Weste
rby in his heyday, when he still possessed money, his beautiful, domineering first wife, and a fine collection of Italian pictures and statuary collected on the Grand Tour.

  It was into this new wing that the Westerby party was ushered. The main saloon on the first floor, which Jane remembered as being an enchanting place full of marble statues and objets d’art, had been changed completely. Mrs. Bentley had fallen prey to the current rage for chinoiserie. Everything in the apartment was Chinese—frames of glasses, chairs, and tables. The walls were covered in Chinese paper filled with figures of little Oriental people endlessly marching over bridges with no beginning and no end.

  A wit of the time had suggested that a prudent nation should prohibit such wallpaper, if only for the sake of pregnant women, for, as everyone knew, if a woman looked at any sort of picture long enough, her child would be born in that image. And although Mrs. Bentley’s penchant for the Oriental had been of recent date, one would think, looking at her daughters, that it must have always been there, somehow.

  Fanny, the eldest Bentley girl, was twenty years of age, and the delicate prettiness of her looks was marred by an unfortunate yellowish complexion. Since, however, she wore a great deal of white lead on her face, it was not often noticeable, and several London gallants had been known to compare her to a Dresden shepherdess, unaware that, without her white paint and corsets, Fanny, in the bedchamber, looked more like a small Buddha. The fact that she was not yet married was a source of wonder to all and to Fanny herself. Even her devoted gallants would be hard put to it to explain why they would never consider marriage, although Fanny was well dowered.

  Frederica was five years younger and although her skin was fair, her eyes were small and narrow, giving her an unappealing look of Oriental cunning. It was all very strange, for both girls were completely unlike their parents.

  Mrs. Bentley was a fine-looking woman. Her face, under its towering wig—delicately dusted with blue powder and supporting a miniature galleon under full sail—was smooth and unwrinkled. Her eyes were wide and brown, and her small mouth was perpetually curved in a little smile, like the smile one sees on Greek statues.

  Mr. Bentley was very tall and thin and prodigiously elegant in his dress, but there was always the suggestion of the gawky clerk about him. He had a habitual stoop, and his bony wrists always seemed to protrude noticeably from the lace at his cuffs. He was wearing his own hair, powdered and confined with a black silk ribbon at the neck. His eyes were pale and watchful and guarded, as if he felt himself surrounded by enemies—which, perhaps, he was, having fleeced most of the young blades of London at cards.

  “All in pink!” drawled Mrs. Bentley by way of greeting. “I recognize your handiwork, Jane. Quite good. Perhaps I shall give you some of the girls’ sewing. I am sure you are sore in need of pin money. Pray be seated, Lady Hetty, and tell me how you go on.”

  “Very well,” said Hetty carelessly, digging at her scalp with the back-scratcher and sending a little cloud of powder flying up into the scented air. She plumped down on a sofa in front of the fire. “I’m froze,” she remarked to all and sundry. “Have you got any caudle?”

  “You may have a glass of ratafia,” said Mrs. Bentley in repressive tones.

  “Ratafia! In this weather?” laughed Hetty. “Something stronger to warm my bones. Here, fellow—brandy, I think.”

  The footman she had addressed cast a cautious look toward his mistress. Mrs. Bentley gave a small nod. The Marquess of Westerby watched the footman leave the room and then turned to Mr. Bentley.

  “Have you pensioned off all the old servants?” he asked.

  “Not pensioned off, dear coz,” corrected James Bentley. “Simply dismissed.”

  “Gads ’oonds! Why?” demanded the Marquess testily.

  James Bentley gave him a pale, considering look and then replied, “Because old servants become too familiar. I like deference, obedience. They are not my family servants, after all.”

  Fanny, the eldest Bentley daughter, gave an irritating titter, and Jane glared at her.

  “Our little Jane,” cooed Fanny. “You look very well, remarkable in fact, considering your straitened circumstances. La! Don’t it feel sad, Jane, not to be able to go to London? We was there during the earthquake last year, and it was tremendous fun. We sat out in the parks all night, playing brag, even Frederica, and we wore earthquake dresses—wool, you know, for wearing out of doors.”

  “Why out of doors?” asked Jane.

  “So that the buildings should not fall on us, silly.”

  “I would have thought it to have been very frightening,” replied Jane.

  “Pooh!” Fanny tossed her powdered ringlets. “’Twas nothing, although people were fleeing out of London. Some others expected a volcanic mountain to spring up in Smithfield! And ’Tis said they were laying bets in White’s as to whether it was an earthquake or the powder mills. A parson was quite scandalized and said, ‘I protest, they are such an impious set of people, that I believe, if the last trumpet was to sound, they would bet puppet-show against Judgement!’”

  “Talking of parsons,” said Mrs. Bentley, “I believe you gave the living to Mr. Syms.”

  “You know I did,” replied the Marquess testily.

  “He does not suit me,” said Mr. Bentley, staring at his glass. “Not at all. Proses on too much about the Bible.”

  “That is his job, after all,” pointed out the Marquess, gulping down a full glass of brandy.

  “His job is to furnish me with an amiable dinner guest,” said James Bentley. “I do not wish to be preached at by one of the inferiors of the parish.”

  “That reminds me of a poem,” said Jane icily. She cleared her throat and stared full at Mr. Bentley.

  “When Dukes or Noble Lords a Chaplain hire,

  They first of his Capacities enquire.

  If stoutly qualified to drink or smoke,

  If not too nice to bear an impious joke,

  If tame enough to be the common Jest,

  This is a Chaplain to his Lordship’s taste.

  “Except,” she added thoughtfully, “you are not a lord, Mr. Bentley, nor are like to be.”

  “The low upbringing and surroundings which you impose upon Jane,” said Mrs. Bentley to the uncaring Marchioness of Westerby, “are becoming apparent in the girl’s behavior. Mr. Syms does not agree with Mr. Bentley, therefore Mr. Syms must go. The Westerbys have no say in the matter. They no longer have any say in anything.”

  Hetty’s stomach gave a deep and loud rumble. “I’m starving,” she announced cheerfully, as if the very room were not humming with seething hates and resentments.

  “Mr. Syms,” said the Marquess, his voice beginning to shake, “is a gentleman of undoubted character and was handsomely recommended to me.”

  Mr. Bentley surveyed the Marquess’s trembling hands and smiled a thin, slow smile. “He was not recommended to me,” he said softly.

  The Marquess’s hand flew to his sword hilt, and Mrs. Bentley hurriedly stood up. “Your arm, my lord,” she said firmly. “Mr. Bentley, pray escort Lady Hetty. The girls can follow.”

  “Don’t, Father,” whispered Jane. “Please don’t.”

  The Marquess stared down into the elfin face of his daughter and then shook his head like a horse being tormented by flies. “Very well,” he said under his breath. He allowed Mrs. Bentley to place the tips of her fingers on his arm, and he led her toward the dining room.

  The dining room was mercifully lit by few candles, Mrs. Bentley having reserved the evening’s blaze to show off her new chinoiserie in the saloon. In the dining room, however, the customary Bentley parsimony had reasserted itself. The table was meagerly furnished with four scrawny fowls, some athletic gamecock, a few frizzled smelts, and an ancient pike. Unfortunately, peas were served with everything, and Jane writhed in embarrassment as she watched the antics of Hetty and her daughters as they tried to trap the peas with their two-pronged forks. Hetty at last gave up any pretensions to gentility and
scooped them up with her knife, as did Sally. But little Betty was too much in awe of Jane and manfully tried to handle the dreadful instrument until one tough pea escaped her stabbings and hit Mrs. Bentley in the eye, whereupon little Betty slid under the table and stayed there for the rest of the meal.

  Jane was too preoccupied in worrying over the future of the Syms family to care about her little stepsister. In her mind, Jane killed all the Bentleys. In her mind, she stood at the graveside as the four coffins were being lowered into the ground. Mr. Syms would, of course, perform the burial service, which would be poetic justice indeed. Jane could hear the clatter of the dry earth as it fell on Fanny’s coffin.…

  “Jane!” Jane realized she was being addressed by Fanny and nearly fell from her chair. She had, after all, just buried her. “Have you heard of Lord Charles Welbourne?”

  “No!” said Jane crossly, pushing her plate away. She felt quite upset. It had been so pleasant having Fanny dead for at least a few moments. She was not anxious to resurrect her.

  “Oh, he is splendid,” sighed Fanny, casting languishing eyes to the ceiling. “I wish Papa to try to arrange a marriage.”

  “Won’t do,” said her father with a fond smile. “He’s too rich to be bribed by a dowry, and he’s the best card-player in London.”

  “Better than you?” asked the Marquess curiously.

  “Even than I,” smiled James Bentley. “But I still would like to cross swords with him. I am not of his company. My good wife would not let me visit the hells he frequents.”