My Lord Winter

by Carola Dunn

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Edmund gazed around the ballroom. He found the glittering assembly much less attractive than that afternoon’s waxen crowd. There was Lady Jersey, tearing someone’s reputation to shreds with her sharp tongue; Lord Sefton, who had gambled away a fortune and recouped it by enclosing the land of his poorer neighbours; Lady Oxford, each of whose children was reputed to have a different father; Lord Hertford, a nonentity who owed his position as Lord Chancellor to his wife’s position as Prinny’s favourite.

  There was golden-haired Lady Hornby, a dainty doll surrounded by admirers, but mutton dressed as lamb, since by all accounts she had a daughter old enough to make her come-out; rumour had it that the girl was not allowed to appear at the same functions as her mother lest the marchioness’s true age be remarked upon.

  And there, thank heaven, was Fitz, though unfortunately accompanied by his wife and sister-in-law. Edmund braced himself. Lavinia Chatterton was certainly no worse than the other young ladies who, for the past few weeks, had been induced by ambition or by ambitious mamas to pursue him. Indeed, Lavinia might even be better than most, for had not Jane befriended her at the Abbey?

  He made his way around the room and greeted the Fitzgeralds, then turned to Lavinia, bowed and requested, “May I have the honour of the next dance, Miss Chatterton?” Noting her alarm, he added dryly, “I promise not to propose marriage.”

  She giggled. “I am engaged for the next, my lord, but I have a country dance free later on, if you wish it. And it would do you no good to propose marriage, for I have an Understanding with Mr. Arthur Meade. He is gone into Lincolnshire to ask Papa’s permission.”

  “Lord Meade’s heir? My felicitations, ma’am.” He wrote his name on her card and went reluctantly in search of another partner. At least she had answered him honestly.

  He could not say the same for any of the young ladies he subsequently stood up with. They all said what they thought he wanted to hear and they bored him. Worse, he knew they tried to please him not because they liked him but because he was a “Catch.” Behind his back they laughed at his stiff manners. Yet any of them would consider marriage with the Earl of Wintringham a feather in her cap, with lack of affection of no importance whatever.

  Lavinia, her spine stiffened by her brief encounter with Jane, had the courage to follow her own inclination. Edmund began to look forward to his dance with her.

  He was disappointed. She was uneasy when he led her onto the floor, and each time she opened her mouth to answer his polite queries about her enjoyment of the London Season, she paused as if to censor herself.

  “You need not fear that I shall suddenly decide to seek your hand, you know,” he said sarcastically as he took her back to her sister. “Is that why you have been biting your tongue?”

  “No...yes...no, my lord,” she said, flustered. “That is, if Mama hears that you stood up with me, her hopes may revive.”

  “Then doubtless they will wither again when I do not call tomorrow.”

  Her relief was not flattering.

  When they arrived, Fitz was bending solicitously over his wife. He straightened. “Lavinia, Daphne’s tired. I’m going to take her home, but if you wish to stay I daresay we can find a lady to chaperon you and I’ll come back to fetch you.”

  “Oh no, I shall go with you. The ball is monstrous dull with Arthur gone.”

  Edmund suddenly wondered if he might have enjoyed the tedious affair had Jane been there. She was not, and he could not bear to stand up with another hopeful, toad-eating partner. “I am leaving, too,” he said abruptly.

  “Come with us, Ned, and join me for a game of billiards and a nightcap,” Fitz invited him.

  When he hesitated. Lady Fitzgerald added her soft voice, saying she felt guilty because Fitz spent so much time dancing attendance on her that he scarcely saw his friends. So Edmund accepted. It was better than going home to brood on Jane’s unwonted reticence and to ask himself for the hundredth time whether she guessed how nearly he had kissed her.

  As soon as they reached the Fitzgeralds’ house, the ladies retired. Edmund and Fitz repaired to the room the latter laughably called his library, which had earned that name with three shelves of novels and an outdated edition of Debrett’s Peerage. Its chief feature was a billiard table. Fitz poured brandy from a decanter and they began a game.

  Edmund wasn’t concentrating. Playing a poor shot, he said enviously, “You’re a lucky man.”

  “Because I generally beat you? Gammon, it’s sheer skill.”

  “No, not that. If I’m not mistaken, you are in love with your wife, and she with you.”

  Fitz beamed. “Yes, damme if I ain’t the luckiest man in the world.”

  “I have been haunting the ballrooms for weeks now, and I’ve not found a single eligible female I care a groat for.” Chalking his cue, he sighed. “Nor, I confess, have I the trick of making myself agreeable.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Fitz consoled him. He leaned over the table, eyed the balls carefully, and with one stroke pocketed all three. “You haven’t the knack of doing the pretty, but just make a try at fixing your interest and I daresay there’s not a one wouldn’t have you.”

  “That goes without saying. They are all heels over head in love with my purse and my title. It will have to be a marriage of convenience.”

  “Lady Wintringham’s plaguing you, is she?”

  “She will return to Town soon, and if I don’t have a name or two to offer she’ll...” Edmund stopped dead in the middle of a shot, set down his cue among the balls, straightened, and staring unseeingly at his friend said, “Fitz, I’m a fool.”

  “Well, I don’t know that I’d go that far.” Fitz delicately removed the cue from the table. “Though I must say that’s a devilish odd thing to do in the middle of a game, even if you are losing.”

  “I’m an unmitigated fool, a jobbernowl, a knock in the cradle, any name you want to call me. But thank heaven I have seen the light in time.” His heart sang. “If I’m to marry a woman who loves only my fortune and rank, why should I not at least marry a woman I love?”

  “A woman you love?” said Fitz cautiously. “Didn’t you just say you don’t care a groat...”

  “Do you recall Miss Brooke?”

  “Miss Brooke?”

  “Miss Jane Brooke. One of the fog-bound travellers at the Abbey. Surely you remember her! She helped deliver your child.”

  “Er, um, well, yes, as a matter of fact I do remember her. I, er, to tell the truth, she’s come here to see Daphne and the baby. Just once or twice.”

  Edmund frowned. “She has? Neither of you has mentioned it to me! There is some mystery that I must... No, never mind.” He had finally come to his senses. He didn’t give a damn if Jane only wanted the security he could offer her. He didn’t give a damn if she were base-born. But let the world get a whiff of mystery and some scandalmonger was bound to ferret out the truth of her parentage. “I’m going to marry her,” he said simply.

  “Marry Ja.. .Miss Brooke?” Fitz’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God!”

  “Why not? I never thought you were so high in the instep.”

  “No, no, I’m not, I assure you. I’m devilish fond of Ja...Miss Brooke, and so are Daphne and Lavinia. Not but what I did think you...?” he added questioningly.

  “I love her. What does her lack of rank, or anything else, matter? But listen, Fitz, not a word to a soul, not even Lavinia or your wife. Just let my aunt catch the slightest hint before the knot is tied and she will find a way to put a spoke in my wheel. I shall get a licence tomorrow. Jane and Miss Gracechurch will come to Dorset with me on Friday and we’ll do the thing there. My aunt shall be presented with a fait accompli.”

  “Er, I don’t want to be a wet blanket, old chap, but can you be sure Miss Brooke will accept?”

  “You yourself said that any of the most eligible young ladies would jump to retrieve my handkerchief should I toss it. Jane has none of their advantages. I can save he
r from a life of hardship, of toil. Why should she refuse?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure,” Fitz mumbled.

  Edmund walked home on air.

  “My lady’s back,” Alfred greeted him.

  Edmund returned to earth with a crash.

  * * * *

  Miss Gracechurch sat by the open window in Jane’s sitting-room, reading. At least, a book lay open on her lap. After perusing the same paragraph three times, she had no notion what it was about. Nor was she aware of the flowers in the garden, where her gaze was fixed, though the peonies and tulips were at their best and the fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley filled the air.

  Half an hour ago. Lady Hornby had sent for Jane to her boudoir. Interviews with her mother always upset Jane, and this morning she was already in low spirits.

  Yesterday, after hearing Lord Wintringham’s sad story, Jane had continued listless and unhappy. She was deeply in love with the earl, yet she refused to trust him with her true identity. Miss Gracechurch’s heart bled for her. She berated herself for having permitted the original masquerade, for letting it continue, for allowing secret meetings. If only she had realized sooner that what started as a game had become a serious emotional entanglement.

  Her own yearning for Mr. Selwyn’s...sympathetic friendship had blinded her to Jane’s needs at a critical time. Not only had she neglected her duty, she had failed the person she loved best in the world, who had no one else to rely on.

  The door opened and Jane trudged in. The spring was gone from her step and her face was woebegone, though she tried to smile at Gracie.

  “The marchioness discovered last night that I rejected Lord Ryburgh and Lord Charles.”

  “Was she very angry?”

  Jane nodded. Miss Gracechurch went to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and led her to the chaise longue. Sitting down beside her, she took her hands. “What did she say?”

  “I had to tell her that I have no liking for any of my suitors. She is going to try this afternoon to persuade those two that they must not take my refusal seriously. I am to go to Almack’s tonight and charm them so that they will offer again. But if they do, I shall refuse them again, Gracie!”

  “I would not have you tied to a man you do not care for.”

  “I know I can count on your support. The marchioness says that if I am not wed by the end of the Season, I cannot expect another. I am too old, if you please, as though that were not her fault! But it will not be so bad to retire to Hornby, will it? We were always happy there. You shall be my companion instead of my chaperon, but we shall still study together, and sketch, and make music, and walk, and...deliver babies.” Her voice dropped on the last words and she fell silent.

  Gracie knew Jane’s thoughts had flown to the last baby they had delivered together. She ventured one last plea. “Can you not bring yourself to tell Lord Wintringham...?”

  “No! I had rather mysteriously disappear, leaving both of us with happy memories, than sink myself in his opinion and have nothing to remember but his scorn.” Her momentary animation faded. “I am so tired, Gracie. I slept badly last night. If I must go to Almack’s tonight, I had best go and lie down for a while now.”

  She trailed out, each slow, weary step piercing Miss Gracechurch’s conscience with a dart of self-reproach.

  Self-reproach was futile. She could not sit still and watch Jane dwindling into an unfulfilled old maid. Half acknowledged was her own reluctance to return to the isolation of Hornby Castle, which had swallowed up her youth. There had been happy times—she had delighted in seeing her pupil grow up to be a cheerful, friendly, loving young woman—but circumstances had changed. Neither she nor Jane would find contentment at Hornby now.

  She needed advice, and Mr. Selwyn was the obvious person to consult. Sending Thomas for a hackney, Miss Gracechurch hurried to her room to don pelisse, bonnet and gloves.

  As the hackney rattled towards the City, she hoped she was right to expect the lawyer to be in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn at this hour. She could have sent a note. However, much as she wanted his counsel, still more she wanted the comfort of his presence. Even a sober governess of six-and-thirty needed...reassurance at times, she told herself.

  She had walked with Mr. Selwyn in Lincoln’s Inn Gardens once, and he had pointed out his chambers, so she knew where to direct the jarvey. Asking him to wait, she checked the names on the brass plate by the door and mounted the narrow stair. In the cramped outer office, the four clerks perched on high stools at their desks all turned to stare when she tentatively entered.

  The eldest, a balding, gloomy-faced individual with ink-stained cuffs, stepped down and bowed. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “My name is Gracechurch. I have no appointment but I hoped that Mr. Selwyn might spare me a few minutes.” Feeling a blush steal up her cheeks, she wished she had not come to disturb him at work.

  The clerk went away, and came back a moment later followed by Mr. Selwyn, a smile of welcome on his long, kind face.

  “My dear Miss Gracechurch, this is a pleasant surprise. At least, I trust it is not an emergency?”

  “Oh no, I... That is...”

  “Come through to my office, where we can speak privately.” He led the way to a small room bursting with books and papers, seated her, and closed the door. “There, now we can be comfortable. If we were at home I should feel obliged to call my housekeeper as chaperon, but what can be more respectable than a lawyer’s office?” Sitting on a corner of his desk, he looked down at her gravely. “Now, my dear, tell me what is the matter.”

  Soothed by his calm attentiveness, she poured out the story, much of which he knew or had guessed. “What really distresses me,” she ended, “is that Jane has given up. She is a courageous girl, who has never hesitated before to fight for what she wants—witness our setting out for London in an ancient and decrepit vehicle! Yet now, when her future happiness is at stake, she is sunk in apathy.”

  “I wonder whether a shock might jolt her into action,” mused Mr. Selwyn.

  “A shock?”

  “You say she is resigned to retiring to Hornby—with you. Suppose she had not that alternative. Suppose...” He leaned forward, clasped her hands, and went on simply, “My dear Miss Gracechurch, will you marry me?”

  Taken utterly by surprise, she gazed up into his eyes. Sympathetic friendship—fustian! Reassurance—fustian! What she wanted from this man was all the tenderness and ardour she saw there. Sober governess—fustian! She was a woman and she loved him. “Yes,” she said.

  So the sober lawyer pulled the sober governess into his arms and kissed her with all the thoroughness of a profession noted for its passion for thoroughness.

  “David?” she murmured when she recovered her breath. Her head rested on his shoulder where, since her bonnet had fallen off, it fitted neatly against the angle of his jaw. “May I call you David?”

  “If I may call you Claudia, my love.”

  “Of course, though I cannot promise always to answer to it at first. I am so used to Jane calling me Gracie. David, I cannot abandon her.”

  “I would never ask it of you. My hope is that when you tell her you are going to be my wife—” here he broke off for a quick kiss by way of punctuation “—it will precipitate a crisis which will work to everyone’s advantage.”

  “Do you think so?” she said dubiously. “I cannot see how.”

  “If not, we shall try something else. There is always more than one way to settle a suit.”

  “How fortunate that I am to marry a lawyer! Very well, I shall tell her, David, but I dread the consequences.”

  * * * *

  Unaccustomed to sleeping in the afternoon, Jane awoke to a feeling of lassitude. She lay gazing up at the plaster mouldings on the ceiling, laurel wreaths and Tudor roses and the hunting-horn emblem of the Hornby coat of arms.

  Hornby—how glad she had been to leave. How glad she would be to return, to sink back into a peaceful country life with dearest Gracie and
Ella, and forget her disastrous foray to London. Tonight she would go to Almack’s, to avoid another confrontation with her mother. She would save her courage for the moment when the marchioness learned she had no intention of marrying. Once, she had thought her courage equal to anything, but the realization that she loved Edmund and had damned herself in his eyes seemed to have drained every drop from her veins.

  She blinked hard against the prickle of tears.

  “You awake, my lady?” Ella peeked around the door, then came in carefully, bearing a tray. “I thought you’d fancy a cup o’ tea.”

  “Thank you, that does sound good.”

  “There, now, let me plump up them pillows and you just sit here cosy and drink it up while I put out your things for tonight. What’ll you wear?”

  “I don’t know, Ella. Whatever you think.”

  “How’s about your first ever ball gown? You’ve not worn it in a while, my lady, and never to Almack’s as I recall. It’s blue, to be sure, but his lordship don’t go to Almack’s.”

  “The blue satin and white net? That will do.” It was a particularly pretty dress, with blue embroidered flowers and Valenciennes lace trimming. Perhaps looking her best would make her feel better. The tea was refreshing. She breathed in the fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley, wafting through the open window, and decided to carry a nosegay.

  As Ella disappeared into the dressing room, Miss Gracechurch tapped on the door and came in. “Have you slept, Jane dear? You have a little more colour.”

  “I am much recovered. I shall get up in a few minutes. Come and have some tea, Gracie. Ella brought an extra cup.”

  Miss Gracechurch poured herself tea and perched on the end of the bed, delicate Limoges cup in hand. Puzzled, Jane saw that she was agitated, vacillating between intense, almost incredulous joy and anxious apprehension.

  Carefully casual, Miss Gracechurch said, “Lord and Lady Hornby dine from home tonight, do they not?”

  “Yes. You and I shall eat in comfort in my sitting room before we go to Almack’s.”