by Mira Stables
He seemed to be brooding aloud, talking to himself rather than to her, turning the stem of his wine glass between his fingers as he spoke. Honor sat up stiffly erect in her chair. “I never heard of such a preposterous suggestion,” she exclaimed. “She could not have done so. Why! She had not even seen me since I was two years old and did not know in the least what I was like. Or, indeed, that I was not already deep in love with someone else.”
Mr. Jocelyn’s smile deprecated such unnecessary heat. “And are you?” he enquired gently.
“No. Of course I am not,” she retorted sharply, regardless of the scandalous nature of such a topic between comparative strangers. “And I could never love such a man as you have described—selfish, cold and arrogant.”
“Not even for the rank and the wealth that he could bestow upon you?” persisted the curious Mr. Jocelyn.
She chuckled. “Least of all for that. Oh! I would like to be rich. One can do so much with money. But I should make a shockingly bad Marchioness and I shouldn’t like that at all. It is quite difficult enough being a nobody in Bath—there are so many things that one mustn’t do or say for fear of being thought fast or ill-bred. Being a somebody in London would be quite above my touch. I wouldn’t have the least notion how I should go on. I should be paralysed with fright and utterly miserable. No. You must be mistaken. My godmother could never have conceived so crazy a notion.”
He smiled and sipped the neglected burgundy, studying her thoughtfully over the rim of the glass. “You might like it better than you imagine,” he suggested idly. “Think of the luxury that would be at your command, the dresses and jewels, the horses and carriages, the splendid house that you would live in.”
“Yes. And think of spending the rest of my life in subjection to a pompous stuffy old wretch, full of his own consequence, who expected me to obey him and flatter him and bow down to his lightest pronouncement as though he were some fabulous Eastern Potentate,” retorted Honor.
Mr. Jocelyn accorded this very mild sally considerably more appreciation than it merited. Indeed he seemed to find it so humourous that it was some time before his soft laughter completely subsided. Honor, who was feeling extremely hungry after all the excitements of the evening took the opportunity of nibbling one of the little cakes that Goodborn had so thoughtfully provided. It was a very cosy and domestic scene that met Aunt Thomasine’s affronted gaze when she walked, all unsuspectingly, into the parlour at the shockingly late hour of half past eleven.
Chapter Nine
Aunt Thomasine had taken a decided fancy to Mr. Jocelyn at their first meeting and had frequently regretted his absence during the past weeks but she was far from pleased to find him closeted alone with her niece at so late an hour. Not even Honor’s story of the service he had rendered her when she was set upon in the street was sufficient to reconcile her to so imprudent a tête à tête. While she did not go quite so far as to have him shown the door she made her disapproval so plain that Mr. Jocelyn had no choice but to say his farewells and go, though not before he had asked Miss Fenton to give him the pleasure of riding with him next day.
“I doubt if it will afford you much satisfaction, sir,” said that lady tartly. It seemed that he was taking her submission for granted and tacitly assuming that she would continue to ride Lord Melborne’s mare. It was not a matter that she wished to dispute in her aunt’s hearing, but she did not care for having her hand forced in this unscrupulous fashion. “I am by no means an accomplished horsewoman and I cannot feel that to be riding at the gentle amble which is my notion of enjoyment will add anything to the pleasure of your ride.”
“You quite mistake the matter, my dear Miss Fenton,” he rejoined smoothly. “I do not enjoy the spectacle of a lady riding like a circus performer, aping the ways of the stronger sex and even, on occasion, taking the lead in the hunting field. However I do feel that you would be well advised to practise the art of riding until you are perfectly at home in the saddle. It is an accomplishment that is useful at all times and particularly to one who resides much in the country. Perhaps you will permit me to advise and guide your efforts? You are young enough yet to have the makings of a competent rider.”
Honor’s fingers itched to slap him. Odious, patronising wretch! She was perfectly well aware that he was deliberately trying to provoke her to unbecoming repartee, but with Aunt Thomasine’s eagle eye upon her she could only murmur meek assent and add a few words of spurious gratification.
Miss Helmore scarcely waited for the unbidden guest to take his departure before emptying the vials of her wrath upon her unfortunate niece. By the time that she paused for breath the girl had been made to feel that matters could scarcely have been worse if she had attended an Assembly in her shift. Finally the whole business of the conspiracy that she had uncovered had to be explained, since Miss Helmore naturally wished to know how she had come to be unattended in the street. And once again the two ladies found their opinions in strong conflict. At a bound Mr. Jocelyn regained his place in Aunt Thomasine’s esteem. Far from resenting his interference in their affairs, she felt that his behaviour had been truly gentleman-like. He had cared for their comfort with tact and forethought. It was Honor who was at fault. Even if she had discovered the cheat, need she have proclaimed her knowledge? A tactful blindness would have been more modest and sensible. She should be grateful that he seemed willing to overlook her unruly behaviour—hoydenish was Aunt Thomasine’s word for it—and must remember to thank him prettily for his kindness when she rode with him next day.
It was as well for the absent Mr. Jocelyn that a night’s rest had in part soothed the girl’s ruffled sensibilities and that a letter from Mama had given her thoughts another direction before they met again. Mama had written to announce her intention of paying them a visit. The twins had given her no peace until she yielded to their repeated demands for this promised treat. The friend who had been bearing her company had been summoned home to her daughter’s lying in, and although she had no intention of appearing at any public functions, Mama was longing to hear at first hand of her elder daughter’s social triumph. Rumours of this success had reached them, even in quiet Trowbridge. She hoped to arrive in Bath before the month was out though the exact day was not yet fixed.
If she had not still been very much on her dignity, Honor would have admitted that Mr. Jocelyn was the most delightful companion that any lady could desire. He suggested that they ride out in the direction of Lansdown, a pleasant ride and an easy one for the novice. There was much of interest to be seen and no alarming obstacles to be encountered. Very much on her mettle at first, stiffly erect in the saddle and monosyllabic in her replies to his remarks, she was insensibly soothed by his disarming courtesy until she found herself actually asking his advice on the management of the mare and accepting with pleasure his moderate praise of her prowess. They rode back together in perfect amity once more. It was only as he helped her to alight that he murmured mischievously, “Do you realise, Miss Fenton, that not once have we crossed swords? Are you sure that you feel quite the thing? Or did your aunt scold you so severely after my departure last night that your spirit is quite crushed?”
But Honor declined battle, assuring him airily that she was in excellent spirits, since she was looking forward eagerly to the arrival of her family in the near future.
“Masterly, Miss Fenton,” he said approvingly. “A delicate set-down delivered with tolerant kindness. I cannot think why you should say that you would make a very bad Marchioness. You seem to me to have a marked aptitude for the position. You certainly know how to depress pretension! Confess, now. You meant to snub me from the outset and must now be well satisfied with your success. Here have I exerted myself to the utmost to please and entertain you, only to be told that your good humour is due to the approaching reunion with your family. Not even the prospect of dancing tonight with the fascinating Sir Ralph, a rival I might respect.”
The teasing gleam in his eyes belied the mournful tones. The girl’s
colour rose but she met his gaze squarely. “Indeed I did not mean it so,” she said frankly. “It is true that I was quite out of charity with you last night, for aunt was very cross and it seemed to me most unjust that I should take all the blame for indiscretion when you were quite as much at fault. But I have so enjoyed my ride that you are more than forgiven. What is more I still owe you an apology. Since we were interrupted last night I had no chance to say that I was sorry for misjudging you—about the necklace, I mean.”
She looked so young and sweet in her penitence that he had some ado to refrain from catching her close and bestowing his forgiveness with a kiss. There was a glow in the blue eyes that was quite foreign to them, but he only said lightly, “It is very good of you to accept my word. I am grateful.”
“Well as to that,” returned Honor, with slightly devastating candour, “Aunt Thomasine supported your view of the affair. And I do see that Aunt Honoria being her sister makes a difference. There is certainly no reason why she should not accept a kindness from Lord Melborne if she so chooses.”
“But Miss Fenton would rather not do so?” he enquired.
She looked up at him shyly. “Do you think it would be allowable?” she asked confidingly. “Especially the mare. I don’t care so much about the chairs, but I am not very brave with horses and this one is so gentle and affectionate. I seem to manage very much better than I ever did before.”
“But you must know that I think it allowable,” he pointed out. “So from what you tell me, does your aunt. I think you may safely accept our judgement in the matter. Especially about the mare. She cannot be up to Lord Melborne’s weight so she is no loss to him. And without her I can see myself bidding farewell to the enjoyable rides that I am hopefully planning now that we are friends again.”
This suggestion took very well with the lady and appeared to banish any lingering doubts about the ethics of using Lord Melborne’s property. She agreed with pleasure to a proposal that they should ride again next day. “But in the morning,” she stipulated, “for it is the night of the Cotillon Ball and it would not do to be late.”
If she had hoped that Mr. Jocelyn would request the pleasure of standing up with her at this function, she was disappointed. He murmured polite agreement and bade good afternoon.
They rode together each day that week, once in company with Penelope and Philip, but generally by themselves. Miss Fenton’s horsemanship improved apace. So did her faith in Mr. Jocelyn’s social expertise. She even brought herself to ask his advice on the vexed question of gambling, making no secret of the fact that it was financial stringency rather than moral scruples that prompted the request. “Though I do think it is wrong to gamble to excess,” she added, as a sop to the principles in which she had been reared.
“Have you played much since you came to Bath?” enquired her mentor.
She shook her head. “Scarcely at all. I could not afford to lose and so did not care to win. I avoided the card tables as much as I could.”
“And when you did play, was your fortune good or bad?”
“Strangely enough, since I have neither skill nor aptitude, it was very good.”
“Excellent. Then the matter is simple. You will tell the exact truth—that you do not care to play—find it, indeed, a dead bore, since your luck is so consistently good. But you will pronounce this opinion with a languid distaste that brooks no argument. You shall practise that presently until you have the manner of it perfected. Circumstances will bear out the truth of your remarks and no one will guess that your choice is dictated by the fact that your pockets are to let.”
She gave a rueful little grimace. “That is all too true. I had no notion of the cost of living in the city. It is very odd, for none of the charges are really excessive but it is amazing how they mount up.”
He looked at her curiously. “If rumour does not lie, you have an easy way out of your difficulties. With Sir Ralph Rampton’s resources to draw upon, you would not need to worry about expense.”
“I am not doing so,” she answered tranquilly. “I shall be sorry in many ways when the season comes to an end, but you must have a very poor opinion of my good sense if you think I would marry for money. Sir Ralph is very amiable and attentive but he only dangles after me because I give him no encouragement. Were I to show a hint of complaisance, he would soon draw off.”
Mr. Jocelyn whistled softly. “You do yourself an injustice, Miss Fenton. It is not good sense that you lack. You are too shrewd by half. A soft and yielding femininity would better suit the purpose if your mind is set on making an advantageous marriage.”
She shrugged impatiently. “Tell me, Mr. Jocelyn, is your mind set on making an advantageous marriage?”
He bit back a smile. “No, Miss Fenton, it is not. But I am given to understand that for a lady of limited means such a course is essential. Is she not trained from birth to this end? She learns to be biddable and agreeable in the face of every provocation to show temper. Her dress, her manners, her pretty smiles, are all calculated to please. She displays her most attractive side whenever there are gentlemen present and saves her spite and tantrums for her own sex. Is this not so?”
She was looking at him curiously. “I did not know that you disliked women so much, sir,” she said steadily.
He grinned. “Wrong again, Miss Fenton.” And then, quite outrageously, “I like ’em very well, the pretty creatures. Perhaps I do not value them so high as chivalry would demand, but if they are gay and amusing, what matters if they are also greedy and vain? Who am I to blame them?”
She did not like him in this cynical humour. It made him seem much older, set him apart from her simplicity, and she was too inexperienced to understand his mood. She said humbly, “They are not all greedy and selfish, sir. Think how good Aunt Thomasine has been to me. And Aunt Honoria, too.”
His face softened at the childish plea. It was a much kinder voice that said, “So you will go home to Trowbridge quite contentedly at the end of your season? Resigned to spinsterdom?”
She wrinkled her brow a little. “That, of course. But not quite contentedly. I shall miss the friends I have made and the libraries and the theatre.”
That made him laugh wholeheartedly. “Miss Fenton you have a wisdom above rubies. Almost you restore my faith in your sex. So temperate a judgement of the gay dissipations of Bath! Shall you not miss the balls and parties and wearing your best dresses every evening?”
“Yes. Of course I shall. And often long for the gaiety and the music and the candle glow of the Assembly Rooms. But I shall have so much to remember and to tell. And at home there is always a great deal to do. I shall have little time for repining.”
“You will miss your favourite mount,” he said abruptly, and she nodded a little sadly, wondering why he seemed bent on stressing the bleakness of a future that she was trying to face with decent fortitude.
There were things that she would miss more than parties and books, or even friends and a favourite mare, she thought, as she watched the erect figure on the bay hack turn out of sight round the corner of the Square, the lead mare obedient to the seemingly casual hand on the reins. Things like a man’s blue eyes lit by amused affection—for she dared to hope that he did at least hold her in some degree of affection, even if it were only the kind of tolerant warmth that one extended towards a child; things like a man’s strong hands tossing her so easily into the saddle; a man’s harshly set mouth softening to unexpected tenderness. Oh, yes! Miss Fenton was wholly resigned to her spinsterdom—since she could not have Mr. Jocelyn. How long had she known that her heart was given to him? Since they had danced the minuet? Or even at that first meeting when his voice had assured her that she was safe? She could not say for sure. She only knew that she was his to command; that her body thrilled to his lightest touch, her heart leapt at his smile; and that he was not for her.
Not for any woman, it seemed, if today’s random talk was any guide. She was selfish enough to be glad of that. No doubt if she truly
loved him she ought to wish him happy at all costs—even with another woman. Alas! Her fingers curled into claws at the very notion. Bitterly she wondered who had shattered his belief in a woman’s capacity for loving.
When she came to think about it she really knew very little about him. Weeks ago her aunt had confidently murmured some nonsense about easily finding out whether or no he was a bachelor. But no one could tell them anything. And in spite of the hours that she herself had spent in his company she did not even know his first name, or where he lived or how he passed his time when he was not with her. Since that first ball he had never again appeared at any of the regular social functions—a consolation that she hugged close to her desolate heart. So much, at least, he had done for her, even if it had been only for kindness’ sake.
He might even be one of the adventurers with whom Bath abounded. She had so often been warned about them. Smooth-spoken rascals on the catch for an heiress or out to ruin some gay young sprig at the gaming tables. Even in her despondent mood the thought of Mr. Jocelyn as one of that kidney made her smile. She would vouch for his integrity if she met him walking out of her dressing-room with the Swynden necklace in his hands.
The necklace. She would have to do something about that. Lord Melborne could not be expected to wait on her decision for ever. She wondered if he had yet arrived at Swynden Hall. Mr. Jocelyn would probably know. She suspected that he acted as some kind of agent for his noble relative. How else should he have access to the resources of the establishment? No doubt it was some odd quirk of masculine pride that held him silent on the subject, though to her it seemed a perfectly respectable occupation and certainly no cause for reticence or shame.
Mama and the children were to arrive tomorrow so there would be no ride with her beloved to be the high light of her day. Better to go and busy herself in making sure that all was in readiness for their reception than to linger brooding over a man’s incomprehensible attitudes.