by M. C. Beaton
She opened the first letter and began to read. Colour flamed up into her face. The words seemed to scorch the very paper. She did not need to look at the signature to realise they were from Mr. Bullfinch.
“My darling Clara,” he began, before plunging into such a cry of passion that Jane went hot and cold by turns. Even to her innocent mind, it became clear that Mr. Bullfinch had known Clara more intimately than any gentleman had a right to know a lady before marriage. With shaking fingers, she opened the others and read them as well.
There was no doubt about it. Mr. Bullfinch had been obsessed with Clara and had feared desperately that she no longer loved him.
Jane wondered what to do. It would embarrass Mr. Bullfinch quite dreadfully if she returned the letters. But would not he perhaps betray some sign of guilt? Only look at what he had written in one of them—“If you are not to be mine, I will make sure that no other man has you.”
Somehow, Jane decided, she must see Lord Tregarthan as soon as possible and ask his advice.
A frown creased her brow. She wondered why her father had wished to speak to Felice alone. What an odd business! Jane was suddenly too sleepy to wonder any more about the letters or her father’s behaviour.
She fell asleep to the sounds of a waltz tune drifting through her head.
Chapter
Nine
He wanted to be happy, he expected it, or else he would not have married her.
Under all this selfish shunting of the responsibility of home happiness on to the woman ’s shoulders, lies a deep justifying truth—it is her business—and the fact that some of nature’s laws, such as gravitation, are at times extremely irritating, does not, however, make them inoperative.
—Anna A. Rogers
All at once, life became very flat and dull for Jane Hart.
Lord Tregarthan did not call to pay his compliments the day after the ball, but sent his servant instead with his card. That servant was Abraham, who found time to scuttle down to the kitchen to confess to Rainbird his failure to deliver that earlier note.
Rainbird pointed out that Abraham was unlikely to be found out now and to let the matter rest. Abraham stayed to flirt with Alice, greatly cheered by her response to his overtures. Alice thought him a very nice young man, but that was all. She encouraged his sallies out of a vague feeling of pique towards Rainbird. She had not forgiven the butler for taking Felice to the play. If he was interested in taking out any female, then Alice felt it should have been one of them—even Lizzie.
Mrs. Hart became too involved in buying new gowns for Euphemia and basking in Euphemia’s success with the Marquess of Berry to take Jane anywhere. Mrs. Hart also failed to notice that her husband was furious with her.
She had berated him in her attempts to find out why he had chosen to see Felice in private. But, despite her taunts, accusations, and insults, Captain Hart had refused to say one word in explanation. By the time Felice herself had offered the quiet reason that Mr. Hart simply wanted to know the meaning of some French phrases, Mrs. Hart had forgotten about the whole affair, and also that she had called her husband a useless nincompoop, loudly regretting the day she had ever married him.
Only Rainbird noticed the blaze of anger in the captain’s eyes when they rested on his wife. Jane was too absorbed in fretting over her housebound existence, and worrying about when she would see Lord Tregarthan again, to remark on it, and Euphemia was too self-absorbed.
As Mrs. Hart’s vanity over her daughter’s success grew, so did her pettish temper. She now considered herself a leader of the ton. Things were bad enough, but one morning, a week after the ball, Mrs. Hart received a letter from the patronesses of Almack’s refusing Euphemia vouchers.
Mrs. Hart and Euphemia screamed and sobbed and would not be comforted. Only the recollection that the Marquess of Berry was to be their guest at dinner that night made them pull themselves together.
Mrs. Hart had also asked Lord Tregarthan. She was sure he had no interest in Jane whatsoever, but London society had proved jealous and curious enough to show it believed there to be a gratifying tendre. Although Euphemia and her mother knew he was to attend, neither had thought to inform Jane.
Dinner was to consist of roast sirloin of beef, boiled shin of beef, boiled leg of mutton with caper sauce, a couple of rabbits and onion sauce, salt fish boiled with parsnips and egg sauce, puddings, jellies, fruit and nuts. MacGregor had also been asked to produce several side dishes “in the French manner,” Mrs. Hart hoping to nonplus the cook, whom she did not like. But MacGregor had once worked in Paris and was delighted to have an opportunity to demonstrate his skill.
Felice helped Jane into the glory of the finest gown she, Jane, had ever worn. It had been delivered from Leonie—ordered for Jane when Mrs. Hart had thought Lord Tregarthan was going to propose. It consisted of a pink gossamer satin slip with a Grecian overdress of white gauze fastened at the front with silver filigree. The bottom was trimmed with five inches of Vandyke lace. It had Spanish slashed sleeves confined with silver filigree buttons and cord. Her hair was dressed à la Grecque and ornamented with Persian roses. Shoes of white satin spotted with pink foil, long pink French kid gloves, and a white crepe fan completed the ensemble.
To her surprise, her mother entered and presented her with a pearl necklace and bracelet. “We have a beau for you tonight,” said Mrs. Hart, “so I wish you to look your best.”
Jane’s heart began to hammer. “Who is he?” she asked tremulously.
“A Mr. Bullfinch, my dear. A banker. Very wealthy.”
“Mr. Bullfinch!” Jane stared at her mother in horror. What an incredible coincidence! “But he is the man who was engaged to poor Clara.”
“And who is this poor Clara?”
“Why, Clara Vere-Baxton, the lady who was found dead in Green Park.”
“Oh, I heard something about that, but it was centuries before. Mr. Bullfinch is a good catch.”
“So good that I may end up in the Green Park as well!”
“Jane! Either you behave prettily or you may keep to your room.”
Jane sighed. It would be lovely to stay in her room but, on the other hand, it was a wonderful opportunity to find out more about Mr. Bullfinch. “I am sorry, mama,” she said meekly. “I shall behave.”
“See that you do!” said Mrs. Hart grimly. “And make sure Felice returns those pearls to me. You are only to have them for this evening. I hope this dinner is a success. I feel I have been too lenient with the servants here. Rainbird is all very well, but Joseph is dithery and lazy, MacGregor is a savage, and Mrs. Middleton a fool.”
“Mama,” ventured Jane. “I understand you had little hope of securing a husband for me, so why have you suddenly decided to produce Mr. Bullfinch?”
Mrs. Hart looked at her younger daughter and frowned. Gossip had it that Mr. Bullfinch was unattached, very rich, very plain, and practically of the merchant class. For all those reasons, she thought he would do very well for Jane.
Mrs. Hart, overwhelmed with social success despite her snub from Almack’s, had begun to regard herself as a member of the aristocracy. She felt sure Mr. Bullfinch would be well aware of the honour done to him and would be only too eager to find an excuse to ally himself with such an illustrious family.
She said, “I always have your best interests at heart. Mr. Bullfinch approached me at the Quesnes’ ball. He was most gracious, and Lady Quesne urged me to further my acquaintance with him. If the Quesnes favour him, then he must be good ton.”
She patted Jane’s cheek and left.
Jane took out Mr. Bullfinch’s letters. Perhaps if she memorised one phrase and dropped it into the conversation, she could watch his reaction.
There was one line Mr. Bullfinch had obviously written from some place in the country: “The ice is now frozen on the ponds and lakes, hard and glittering in the sunlight, hard and glittering like your beautiful eyes when you look upon this, your devoted slave.”
It seemed rather hard to th
ink about working that into a general conversation. Jane was about to search for another when the door opened and Felice stood there, waiting to take her down.
Jane was not prepared for her own reaction on seeing Lord Tregarthan again. He was standing in front of the fireplace, talking to Mr. Bullfinch, as she entered. Candlelight glinted on his burnished hair and his blue eyes turned in her direction with a mocking, caressing look. Jane flushed to the roots of her hair and stood stock still. Felice had to give her a gentle push in her back to nudge her forward.
Jane made her curts to Lord Tregarthan. There was a roaring in her ears. She realised Mr. Bullfinch was asking her whether she had enjoyed the Quesnes’ ball. With a great effort, she pulled herself together and answered that she had.
“I have not seen you about,” said Lord Tregarthan. “I sat through Mrs. Gulley’s musicale and I went to Summerses’ rout, but never a sign of you, although I did see your sister.”
“I have not been out at all,” said Jane, gratified that he had missed her.
Mr. Bullfinch smiled at Jane. Jane blinked up at him in surprise. He had a delightful smile, a warm smile, which lit up his face and gave him great charm. “Perhaps I may persuade you to come driving with me, Miss Jane,” he said.
“Thank you, Mr. Bullfinch,” said Jane.
“But not tomorrow,” said Lord Tregarthan. “Tomorrow is mine, is it not, Jane? Do remember you promised to allow me to take you out.”
He smiled down at her in that new caressing way of his, and Jane felt her knees turn to jelly. “Yes,” she whispered, dropping her fan, and then bumped her head against his as they both stooped to pick it up.
“Your roses have slipped,” he said, gently touching her hair and straightening a battered blossom. “There! Now you look like the gypsy princess again.”
Mr. Bullfinch looked curiously from one to the other, bowed and walked away, and was soon engaged in conversation with Euphemia. The Marquess of Berry had not yet arrived.
“What is Tregarthan about?” hissed Mrs. Hart behind her fan to her husband. “He cannot want her himself so why does he not leave her alone? I only invited him to annoy that cat Mrs. Wentworth, who is trying to secure him for one of her pasty daughters.”
“Mayhap he wants to marry her,” said Mr. Hart curtly.
“Nonsense. He is merely amusing himself.”
“I do not think he is such a fool,” said Mr. Hart. “He would have a warm, loving wife in Jane, which, believe me, is far better than being married to a discontented fashion plate.” This last was said with considerable venom, but Mrs. Hart had noticed the arrival of the Marquess of Berry and had fluttered off in his direction.
“You had not said anything about taking me driving,” said Jane shyly to Lord Tregarthan.
“Ah, but I meant to. I should have realised you would be kept prisoner. Do you not wish to go driving with me?”
“I should like it above all things. You see, I have something important I must tell you …”
“Dinner is served,” said Rainbird from the doorway.
The company, which consisted of six guests and the Harts, moved into the dining room.
Lord Tregarthan was seated opposite Jane with Euphemia on one side and an elderly lady on the other.
Jane had Mr. Bullfinch on her right and a Mr. Woodforde on her left.
Chambermaid Jenny had been exalted to the dining room in order to help Alice and Joseph. Beautiful odours rose from the side dishes placed before them. MacGregor had excelled himself.
Now although Mrs. Hart’s faith in Lady Doyle was waning fast, old habits and loyalties died hard, and Lady Doyle had told her that all the ton complained about their servants and it was accounted a fascinating topic of conversation.
Mrs. Hart was taste deaf as some people are tone deaf. She picked gingerly at a dish of plaice covered in a delicious sauce à la Matelote. She all at once assumed that MacGregor would not know how to make French sauces, so she gave a shiver of disgust and looked behind her for Rainbird, who had gone to fetch a cordial for one of the elderly guests. She called Joseph.
“Take these side dishes back to the kitchen.” Then, raising her voice, added, “My cook is a Scotch savage and has no idea how to cook French dishes. But you will find his plain cooking very good. Of course, our own staff in the country, which is very large, is very well trained.”
Lord Tregarthan raised his eyebrows and waved Joseph away as the footman tried to remove two of the side dishes at my lord’s elbow. “I must have a debased palate,” he said, “for I swear your chef cooks like an angel.”
Mrs. Hart hesitated. But it seemed such a grand, tonnish thing to do, to complain about one’s cook, that she gave a brittle laugh and said, “Well, we shall leave those beside you, Lord Tregarthan. Joseph, take the rest away immediately.”
Joseph piled up the dishes and carried them out.
Mr. Bullfinch was talking to Jane about the horrible winter they had all endured. “Ice everywhere,” he said with a shiver. “I became tired of having to crack the ice in my water cans before I could wash in the morning.”
Jane saw her opportunity. “That reminds me of something I read,” she said. “The ice is now frozen on the ponds and lakes, hard and glittering in the sunlight, hard and glittering like your beautiful eyes when you look upon this, your devoted slave.”
And then she shrank back before the blaze of anger in Mr. Bullfinch’s face. Lord Tregarthan tensed in his chair, watching them curiously.
“Miss Jane,” said Mr. Bullfinch in a low, urgent undertone. “You have obviously found some letters I wrote to Miss Vere-Baxton. How dare you read my personal letters? How dare you!”
“I am sorry,” whispered Jane, all at once appalled at the enormity of what she had done.
“Was it not enough,” went on Mr. Bullfinch in that dreadful undertone, “to lose the only woman I ever loved without having some child read my letters and then mock me?”
Tears welled up in Jane’s eyes. Lord Tregarthan was about to break with convention and address a remark to her across the table when the door of the dining room opened with a crash and MacGregor stood bristling on the threshold.
Had Rainbird returned with the dishes, he would have known how to placate the fiery artist of the kitchen.
But Joseph, whose feet were hurting him, had merely thumped down the tray and said, “Mrs. Hart don’t like your cooking.”
MacGregor had begun to tremble with rage. He tore off his apron and skull cap and headed for the stairs.
Now, still shaking, he glared at the assembled guests and finally focussed on Mrs. Hart at the end of the table.
Rainbird appeared behind him, alerted by Joseph, who had rushed to tell him that MacGregor was on the warpath. “Now, Angus …” he began, but the cook was beyond reason.
“Whit was the matter wi’ thae dishes?” he demanded.
Mrs. Hart glared back. Like many of the English of the period, Mrs. Hart hated the Scotch with a passion. Bigotry and bad temper raged in her bosom.
“Leave the room this minute,” she said. “Your cooking was returned because it was disgusting.”
“I am an artist,” howled MacGregor. “An artist, do ye hear … you great, pudding-faced harridan?”
Captain Hart’s wooden face cracked into a rare smile.
“You,” said the cook with loathing, “are the commonest old frump I have ever wasted ma art on. Upstart mushroom. The hell wi’ ye.”
“Take him down to the kitchens and bind him. He shall be horsewhipped,” shouted Mrs. Hart.
Euphemia burst into tears and cried to the Marquess of Berry for protection.
Lord Tregarthan rose easily from his seat. He signalled to Mr. Bullfinch and both men took the quivering cook gently by an arm apiece and hustled him out and down the stairs.
MacGregor sank into a chair at the kitchen table and burst into tears.
“Do we tie him up?” asked Mr. Bullfinch, looking at the sobbing cook as Joseph and Rainbird came
into the kitchen.
“No,” said Lord Tregarthan. “I cannot understand Mrs. Hart. My own chef is a volatile gentleman and I treat him with kid gloves. This man cooks like an angel. Listen, MacGregor, I shall find a place for you.”
The cook dried his eyes and looked miserably round the kitchen. He saw Rainbird and held out his large red hand like a child holding out its hand to its father. Rainbird took the cook’s hand and sat down at the table beside him.
“Better take my lord’s offer and leave now before you’re whipped,” said the butler.
“I cannae leave ma family,” whispered Angus MacGregor. “You know that, John. Ye ken fine what it’s like.”
“Oh, don’t leave, Angus,” cried Joseph. “I’ll take the beating for you. I’ll say it was all my fault.”
Joseph turned white as he realised what he had just said.
He turned to escape from his new knight-errant self and bumped into Captain Hart. Joseph turned even whiter. He had said he would take the beating meant for Angus. He would need to stay.
“A word with you, Tregarthan,” barked the captain. “In private, if you please.”
“Please, sir, Mr. Hart, sir,” gabbled Joseph. “Itwasallmehfault. I shall take the beating.”
“What, heh! Oh, the cook,” grinned the captain. He threw a guinea on the table in front of the astonished MacGregor.
“Great pudding-faced harridan,” said the captain.
Then he began to laugh, a grating, rusty sound.
“Come along, Tregarthan,” he said.
“No beating?” quavered Joseph.
“No, lad. No beating.”
Joseph put both hands up to his mouth, mumbled something, and fainted dead away. Lord Tregarthan caught him before he hit the floor. The dining-room bell began to ring noisily. Lord Tregarthan eased Joseph onto the floor while Lizzie rushed from the scullery to sink down beside the footman and pillow his head on her lap.
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Bullfinch. “What is going on here? Family? Are they all related?”
