by Louise Allen
* * *
Telling Cousin Violet about the argument with Ivo and the subsequent misunderstandings plunged her from gloom into misery. Violet was a tolerant woman and, in many ways, an unconventional one, but it seemed to Jane that morning that she had reached the boundaries of her independence from convention.
‘What your parents are going to say I cannot imagine,’ she said, tossing aside her embroidery after a luncheon they had both picked at.
‘They need never know, surely?’ Jane eyed her cooling cup of tea with distaste.
‘From the sound of it, letters full of gossip from Lady Tredwick and Lady Merrydew—most of it distorted—will be fluttering on to the tables of every one of their doubtless extensive Dorset acquaintance by the first post. Your mama will be receiving visits of congratulation from half the county within days.’
‘Lord Westhaven will stop them writing. He is a friend of Lady Tredwick and she and Lady Merrydew will hardly wish to displease him.’
Perhaps a biscuit? No.
Jane sipped tea instead. ‘Ivo—’
‘Ivo is an earl. He is going to emerge from this smelling of roses,’ Violet said, her voice bleak. ‘You will appear as the ambitious young miss scheming to ensnare a lord and he will seem to have been too chivalrous to have contradicted you in the middle of the street when you seized the opportunity to ensnare an exceptionally eligible husband.’
‘Oh.’ That was one hideous scenario that Jane had not managed to conjure up in the long watches of the night.
* * *
The afternoon dragged on. Surely Ivo would either send a note to say all was well or dispatch a carriage to take her to explain herself to the Marquess? Violet sat down to read a large pile of horticultural journals, apparently as a means of soothing herself, and Jane attempted two sketches, tore them both up and instead tried to write to her friend Verity, the new Duchess of Aylsham.
It took some effort to reduce the events of the past few days into any sort of coherent narrative, but finally she managed it. Then there was the more difficult part, admitting that she had been dazzled by the daydream of herself as a society portraitist, her work admired, people flocking to her studio in such numbers that she could support herself.
But I am not that good—not yet, she wrote, wondering if that was boastful, the assumption that she might, one day, achieve that standard. No, it was not, she decided. She was honest enough to know she could improve and ambitious enough to work to do so.
And I do not want to starve in a garret for the sake of my art while I learn and improve—not that I think I would improve, not under those circumstances.
How would I even buy materials?
Violet appears to enjoy my company—perhaps, if I was certain that it would not be an imposition, I could remain here as her companion, although Mama is set on me making my come-out next Season.
Do you think that if I do not ‘take’ she might agree—?
Violet looked up. ‘Is that a carriage stopping?’
Jane covered her letter with a clean sheet of paper and went to the window. ‘Yes, I cannot see properly, it is behind the wall. Strange, it looks like—Violet! It is Papa and Mama.’
Violet put down her journal, took off her spectacles and stood up. ‘Oh, rats,’ she said, with what Jane considered considerable restraint until she saw how pale her cousin had become. ‘It would seem that our joint letter writing has not been as reassuring as we thought.’
‘At least they do not appear to have brought Billing. Nor can they have heard about yesterday. Oh, no, there is Billing and Papa’s valet, Simpkins.’ Jane took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirts and went out to the hall. ‘We must overwhelm them with the warmth of our welcome—and somehow keep them away from Ivo.’
She threw open the door and ran down the two steps to the garden path. ‘Mama! Papa! What a lovely surprise.’
Violet came down to stand beside her. ‘Cousin Mildred, Cousin Arthur, how delightful to see you. I do hope you had an uneventful journey.’ She turned and called back into the hall, ‘Dorothy—prepare the Blue Bedchamber and the one next to it for Mrs and Mrs Newnham and tell Cook to send in tea and cakes.’
‘Just some thin bread and butter,’ Mama said faintly. ‘You know that I cannot eat anything rich after the exertions of a journey. Oh, Jane.’ She shook her head reproachfully, but allowed her daughter to kiss her cheek.
‘Come inside,’ Violet urged. ‘My footman will help your people with the luggage.’ To Jane she sounded perfectly at ease and delighted with her new guests, but the colour was rising and ebbing in her cheeks and her smile looked forced.
Her parents settled in the parlour with the air of explorers who had braved storm-tossed oceans and snow-blocked Alpine passes to reach their daughter, not undertaken a straightforward journey over good roads in the comfort of their own travelling carriage.
‘Jane,’ her father said, fixing her with a stern gaze. ‘Your mother and I have endured the most distressing anxiety.’
‘Papa.’ She sat down to keep her quivering knees under control. ‘I do hope you received our letters.’
‘Of course we did. And naturally we set out immediately. Where is that man?’ Mama demanded.
‘What—oh, you mean the unfortunate person I assisted? I have no idea.’
Which is true. Ivo might be doing almost anything at the moment.
‘I took him to the first respectable inn and summoned a doctor, as I told you in my letter. I am sorry about Billing, but I had no idea how badly he was hurt and she was being so obstructive that I feared she would delay me getting him to medical aid. Imagine how dreadful if he had died as a result.’ Jane managed a look of surprised innocence. ‘You surely do not think that I brought him here? That would be shocking.’
‘Violet?’ Mama turned to her cousin. ‘Tell me this is so!’
‘I told you in my letter, Mildred,’ Violet said. ‘I had thought I had made it quite clear. I cannot imagine why you felt it necessary to rush here in such haste. Not that you are unwelcome,’ she added with a tight smile. ‘But really, Cousin, I cannot help but feel that you are overreacting to the actions of a young lady who showed both courage and a truly noble concern for a person in trouble. One could say that Jane was a perfect Good Samaritan.’
‘You have been gravely deceived,’ her father said. ‘Billing, loyal servant that she is, set out the next day once she had recovered herself and learned that Jane spent the night at Turnham Green in company with that man and then set out in the morning with him.’
‘I told her to go home and gave her the money to do so,’ Jane said indignantly. ‘Of all the sneaking... I did not spend the night in his company, merely in the same building—’
Jane was interrupted in mid-flow by the sound of the knocker. All four of them looked towards the door as the sound of Violet’s footman speaking to the new arrivals came indistinctly through the panelling.
‘I shall tell Albert that I am not receiving visitors,’ Violet said as the door opened and the footman stepped inside.
‘The Marquess of Westhaven and the Earl of Kendall, Miss Lowry.’ He shot a nervous glance at his mistress, clearly trying to convey that he had not felt brave enough to ask a marquess to wait on the doorstep.
‘My lords.’ Violet shot to her feet. ‘Good morning.’
‘Miss Lowry, I presume? My apologies for calling unannounced,’ the Marquess said with great amiability and a smile that could have cut teak. ‘I did not feel, under the circumstances, that this was a matter that could wait.’
‘Circumstances?’ Violet said faintly. ‘Er... My lords, may I present my cousin Mrs Newnham, her husband Mr Newnham and her daughter Miss Newnham.’
Jane found she was being assessed through rather faded blue eyes by a man who, quite clearly, was what Ivo would look like in fifty years’ time. The Marquess nodded sharply. ‘Miss
Newnham. Ma’am, sir.’ He sat down when Violet made a vague gesture towards the best armchair.
Ivo, meanwhile, was shaking hands. ‘Mrs Newnham, Miss Newnham, Mr Newnham.’ His fingers tightened on hers, whether in warning or apology she could not guess.
Violet jerked the bell pull, but Albert was already bringing in fresh tea and more cups and saucers, followed by Charity with a plate of biscuits.
‘Tea?’ Violet asked and began to pour before anyone answered. Her hand shook and she put the teapot down for a moment, then resumed filling cups more steadily.
Jane’s parents were staring as though mesmerised by the sight of a marquess in Violet’s front parlour. Neither spoke. Perhaps, Jane thought, they were working on the principal that a marquess was like royalty and one had to wait to be addressed. Jane, who at least had had the benefit of a duke to practice on recently, took the plunge. Someone had to.
‘My parents have arrived from London within the hour, my lord.’
‘Excellent timing,’ he said drily. ‘A smooth journey, Mrs Newnham?’
‘Very, my lord, thank you, although, like all travel, exhausting. We used our own carriage, naturally.’
‘I find it best,’ the Marquess, presumably owner of an entire carriage house full of the things, agreed gravely.
What are you doing here?
Jane tried to catch Ivo’s eye, but he was looking at her mother, politely attentive as she chattered on, apparently in the grip of nerves. Once started she did not seem able to stop.
‘Your family are clearly intrepid travellers, ma’am,’ the Marquess remarked, stopping her mother in her tracks. ‘I have to offer my most sincere thanks to Miss Newnham for her courageous efforts on behalf of my grandson.’
He might as well have dropped a bomb, fuse fizzing, into the middle of the room. Ivo, who had been so expressionless as to appear carved from wood, visibly winced. Violet let a low moan escape her and Jane’s parents stared at Lord Westhaven and then at Ivo and then at her and then back to the Marquess. Her father’s jaw had dropped, her mother gave a faint shriek.
‘He is the man? This is the...person you removed from a common alehouse?’
At which point there was another knock on the front door, followed moments later by Albert, wide-eyed with nerves at this apparently unstoppable deluge of aristocrats. ‘Lady Tredwick, Lady Merrydew and Lord George Merrydew, Miss Lowry.’
Jane wondered if she had fainted without anyone noticing, because she was aware of nothing until she heard her name and, blinking, found the new arrivals seated. The room was becoming exceedingly cramped, but the ladies settled themselves on to the sofa with the air of two large chickens making themselves comfortable on their nests with much fluffing of feathers and gentle clucking.
And the clucking was, presumably, the sound of two gossips looking forward to a truly wonderful session, full of delicious revelations.
Ivo stood up abruptly. ‘Mr Newnham. I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, sir?’
Her father, still looking faintly stunned, got to his feet. Her mother fanned herself vigorously with one of the tiny embroidered napkins and Violet gave herself a visible shake.
‘Please, use my little library. It is just across the hall, Cousin Arthur.’
Presumably Ivo, with great good sense, was removing her father from the crowd to explain the situation in a more tranquil setting, Jane thought. She could only hope that Papa would be sufficiently soothed by Ivo’s status. She realised that everyone else in the room was staring at her and felt the colour rising in her cheeks.
‘My goodness, Miss Newnham, never tell me that the news we learned yesterday was in advance of your parents’ approval?’ Lady Tredwick said coyly as the door closed behind the two men.
Her mother gave an audible gasp. ‘News?’ she murmured faintly.
‘Honoria, dear friend.’ The Marquess fixed Lady Tredwick with a look that made Jane, on the periphery of it, gulp. ‘I never took you for a gossip.’
Her Ladyship bridled. ‘Certainly not. I was merely—’
He turned to Jane. ‘I understand that you are a considerable artist, Miss Newnham.’
She found her voice from somewhere and, by some miracle, did not babble. ‘Lord Kendall is too kind. I do find it very satisfying to attempt to master the skill.’
‘Portraits are your forte, he tells me. In oils.’
And what else has he told you? Not, surely, that I talked of painting professionally or you would be shocked. Even more shocked than you must be already.
‘That is my favourite subject and medium, my lord.’
‘And Jane does such lovely little watercolour sketches,’ her mother interrupted. ‘Landscapes, posies of flowers, kittens...’
‘How delightful,’ Lady Merrydew cooed. ‘Such a charming pastime for a young lady.’
Jane forced a smile and tried to look like a young lady who painted kittens and posies in watercolour. There had been no sound from beyond the door since it had closed. Perhaps Papa was believing every word Ivo said and was perfectly happy and reassured as a result. It did seem unlikely, knowing Papa...
The door opened again and her father stood on the threshold. ‘Jane, could you join us, please.’ He looked as though he had received a shock, not necessarily an unpleasant one, but something that had rocked his certainties. Surely after realising that his daughter was capable of painting footmen in the nude—she mentally rearranged that sentence to painting nude footmen—the discovery that she had spent some time in the company of a respectable earl was not so very earthshattering?
She followed him into Violet’s book room. Ivo was standing in front of the little fireplace, looking even more than usually aloof. When she closed the door he gave her the ghost of a smile.
Her father cleared his throat. ‘Lord Kendall has done us the great honour of requesting my permission to address you,’ he said. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.
‘Permission to address me? Lord Kendall has no need of permission to speak to me, surely?’ And then, as her father made a choking sound and Ivo looked at her quizzically, she realised what he meant. ‘I—He... What? Could I speak to Lord Kendall alone, Papa?’
‘Of course.’ Flustered, her father went out, closing the door with exaggerated care.
‘Ivo? What on earth are you thinking? Papa has not tried to pressure you into this, has he? You knew what I will say.’
The smile was gone. Ivo raked his fingers though his hair. ‘No. I asked his permission before he had the opportunity to express his outrage or to make demands. With your parents here already, knowing that we spent at least one night under the same roof, and those two scandal-mongering old hypocrites finding us all in a huddle, what else can we do? Either we are conspiring together to conceal a scandal or we are a happy family group planning a wedding—I cannot see any other explanation for how this looks, can you?’
‘I can cope with a scandal,’ Jane said.
Ivo made a move as though to reach for her and she took a couple of steps away from him, was brought up short by the desk, turned and paced back. She found she was wringing her hands and made herself stop.
‘I am no one of any consequence and I told you I do not want to marry, so it does not matter if other gentlemen look at me askance.’
Ivo, who had not moved from the fireplace, looked grim.
‘Oh, of course—it will look as though you have ruined me and refused to do the right thing! Well, that is easy to deal with. You have asked Papa, he said yes. I have said no. So, there is no stain on your honour, is there? If anyone should ask me, I will say that I realised that I could never marry a man I did not love and that I am resigned to spinsterhood. Your grandfather will be relieved.’ She frowned at him. ‘Why has he come, anyway?’
‘He came because he wanted to meet you, hardly expecting to find your parents here.
I had told him the full story—it was the first time I can recall him laughing until the tears ran.’
‘What is so amusing?’ Jane demanded.
‘The scene in Bath,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘But it seems that, on reflection, he was impressed by your actions and declared that he is coming to the conclusion that some sturdy gentry blood is just what the family line needs. Apparently a recent encounter with some of my cousins has rattled his belief that the more ancient the name, the better.’ He shifted his position to watch her as she paced away. ‘Your friend Verity married a duke.’
‘Her father is a bishop and they have connections to any number of great families.’ This room was too small. Jane felt trapped, as though at any moment she would be battering herself against bars like a goldfinch in a cage. ‘They are in love,’ she said. ‘That is what matters.’
‘We do not dislike each other, do we?’ Ivo offered.
He did not make the error of declaring warmer feelings, for which she was exceedingly grateful. Nor did he try to touch her again and, strangely, she was sorry for that. Just now it would be nice to be held, to have a broad male chest to lay her head against, warm hands to... She straightened her back and looked him firmly in the eye.
‘I dislike you intensely when you try to stop me doing what I want—what I need to do for my future.’
Ivo laughed. ‘Other than that. We get on, do we not?’
‘It is not the point.’ She was not going to admit that she had thought better of her plan to set up as a portraitist. ‘Nor is it amusing.’
‘There are advantages to being married, you know.’ His voice had dropped, making the words resonate with a meaning she realised she understood very well. ‘I think we could improve on that kiss, for example.’
Jane was not aware that he had moved. Perhaps it was her restless pacing. Now they were very close indeed, close enough to see the grain of his skin, the precise, sharp groove between lip and nose, the thickness of his eyebrows. She could smell his cologne and the starch of his linen and a faint, tantalising hint of masculinity. Hold me.
