by Mira Stables
She was quiet and thoughtful for so long that presently Mr. Jocelyn enquired the reason for her pensive air.
“I was thinking that I am little accustomed to this style of travel,” she told him. “Even when Papa was alive we did not keep a carriage. It is very agreeable to ride in such comfort but you must be thinking that I shall repine if we are unable to do so when we are wed.”
Since Mr. Jocelyn’s eyes were straitly concentrated on his horses she did not see the gleam of laughter that they held and his voice was perfectly serious as he said, “Are you by any chance trying to tell me that you will not be an expensive wife?”
She sighed thankfully. “Yes. Exactly so. And I must say it is a relief to find you so swift of understanding because it is not an easy thing to say and savours strongly of self-praise. But you have only seen me in Bath where my days have been wholly given to the pursuit of pleasure and might not realise that I have not always been so indulged. Truly I have been taught to hold household and keep up a creditable appearance on a modest income. You need not imagine that I shall be forever teasing you for some luxury that we cannot afford. I’ll confess at the outset that I dearly love pretty clothes but thanks to Aunt Honoria’s generosity I have such a quantity as will last me for an age, and since I am well used to refurbishing my gowns you will see how well I shall manage.”
“I can only be grateful that you did not see fit to make these disclosures earlier,” said Mr. Jocelyn solemnly, the corners of his mouth sternly controlled. “Had I realised what a paragon I was wooing I should never have found the courage to propose. And I do wish you would not talk in this nonsensical vein when my hands are fully occupied with my horses. There is only one way of dealing with you, my absurd, adorable darling, and to be provoking me so when I am quite unable to mete out the punishment that you deserve is most unfair. But do not think that you will escape your just deserts. Though I must bide my time, the score will not lessen with keeping.”
She laughed and begged pardon and allowed herself to be deflected. Mr. Jocelyn then enquired about Mama’s reactions to the previous day’s contretemps and was told how the misfortunes of the Knightleys had saved Honor from an evening spent in listening meekly to reproaches. Since she also told him, rather shyly, that she had finally convinced Mama that she could never return Sir Ralph Rampton’s regard, there was a good deal of understanding in the glance that he bent upon her. But he only said gravely, “So now the way is clear for another suitor?”
She was a little doubtful. “Y-yes. I suppose so. But I have had an excellent notion about that,” she went on eagerly. “If I sell the necklace back to his lordship and give the money to Mama for Percy’s education, perhaps she will not so greatly object to my marrying you.”
Mr. Jocelyn gasped and choked. He tried very hard to maintain a sober front but the humour of the situation was too much for him. His head went back in so hearty a peal of laughter that it startled the horses. It was as well that the handling of a spirited pair was second nature to him. Honor could not think what she had said to provoke such an outburst. Presently, when he had mopped his eyes and steadied his voice, he told her, “If ever I stood in danger of holding too good a conceit of myself, I am fast being cured. As if it is not enough that you obviously deem me incapable of supporting a wife unless she is well versed in domestic economy, you now suggest that only a substantial bribe will persuade your Mama to accept me as a son-in-law.”
Put like that, admitted Honor, blushing vividly, it certainly sounded very bad. Fortunately they had now reached the roadside barn which Mr. Jocelyn had decided would be a good place to rest his horses. He was therefore able to devote his whole attention to the task of convincing his promised bride that, despite her sad lack of faith in his capabilities, his sentiments towards her remained unchanged.
But the interval devoted to this satisfying demonstration was brief. All too soon, in Honor’s view, he put her firmly from him and looked down at her, his expression almost grim, though it softened gradually as he studied her happy trustful face.
“You are such a babe,” he said ruefully. “So I must be wise for both of us. We should not be meeting in this clandestine fashion. Forgive me, my sweet. I’m afraid I thought only of having you all to myself so that I could give you my betrothal gift. For with or without Mama’s approval, betrothed we are. And I could not wait to see if you like what I have chosen for you.”
Out of his breeches’ pocket he tugged a small bag of undressed leather—in fact an old-fashioned ring purse. “Rubies are not your colour. And diamonds—well, diamonds bring difficulties, don’t they? So I chose these,” he explained, tugging off the ring that secured the neck of the purse. He took her hands and turned the palms upwards, pouring the contents of the bag into them.
Her fingers cupped a pool of green fire. She drew a deep breath of awe and amazement. She had thought the Swynden necklace magnificent, but the jewels she was holding made it seem a charming trinket.
“See,” explained Mr. Jocelyn eagerly. “There is a necklace and a bracelet. And the star—” he held it up to catch the light—“you can wear as a brooch or a hair ornament. My mother was used to wear it in her hair. All the ladies wore powdered wigs in those days. The emeralds were vivid against the whiteness.” And then, since Honor was still silent, overwhelmed by the magnificence of the gift yet somehow lost and frightened, too, he went on gently, “Do you remember the green gown that you wore at the Assembly Ball? I knew then that green was your colour. So I chose emeralds for you. You should always wear green,” he added softly, “the colour of true love.”
She thought how strange the sentiment sounded on the lips of the sardonic and eminently practical Mr. Jocelyn. But everything seemed strange at the moment. She was bewildered. The emeralds were a blaze of glory between her fingers and even an ignorant girl who scarcely knew claw from collet could guess that they represented a king’s ransom. He had spoken of his mother wearing them. Family jewels, then. Who and what were his parents that he could casually reject rubies as unbecoming to the girl he loved and select emeralds with no more care than she herself would bestow on the choice of a string of beads? Why did he not tell her about himself and his family? No wonder he had chuckled over her remarks about economy when all the time he carried a fortune in his pocket. The stones were beautiful, it was true, but somehow her innocent happiness was dimmed. She was even a little frightened.
He was swift to sense the change in her mood though not to guess its cause. “You do not like them?” he said flatly. And the genuine disappointment in his voice was oddly comforting.
Hastily, guiltily, she protested that she thought them very beautiful; that never before had she seen anything so exquisite; that she had always thought emeralds the loveliest of all the precious stones. All of which was perfectly true, yet did not answer his question.
“What is it, then? Do you believe that emeralds are unlucky? Some people do, I know. Would you rather have pearls?”
It was the last straw. It dispelled her shyness, loosened her tongue. She shook her head vehemently. “They frighten me,” she said simply. “I should be afraid to wear them for fear that I might lose them. But worse than that, they make me afraid of you. When I thought of marriage I thought of—of love—and of dear companionship. Not jewels. They are too grand for me. I only wanted to be with you—to belong to you. And I don’t even know your name,” she finished with desperate inconsequence, and burst into tears.
A fortune in precious stones fell forgotten in the dust as he gathered her close in his arms while she sobbed out her puzzlement and her fears. He waited, his cheek against her hair, until the sobs gradually died away. Then he dried her cheeks for her and kissed her very gently as one might kiss a hurt child. “You will have to be very patient with me,” he said softly. “I meant only to give you pleasure, not to distress you. And you are very right to believe that love and belonging together are more important than jewels. But since we do love each other, will you not wear my je
wels to give me pleasure? As for my name—” he gave a rueful little laugh— “it is quite as alarming as the jewels. My parents endowed me with so many that you may take your choice of half a dozen.”
She looked up at him wonderingly, the last tears still clotted on her lashes. “You are somebody rich and important,” she said, almost accusingly. “Why did you not tell me so? I thought you were just your cousin’s agent. I suppose you are cousin to Lord Melborne?”
She made it sound as though he had committed half the crimes in the calendar. He composed his features into an expression of meek penitence. “No,” he said carefully, “I cannot claim that distinction. Nor am I his agent. As for being important—well—that is relative, isn’t it? I certainly hope that I am important to you. For the rest—I did tell you that I was well able to support a wife, so you cannot claim that I deceived you there. Surely you would not have me boast of my riches?”
Something slightly theatrical about that last remark together with the way in which the corners of his mouth were tucked in as though he was trying not to laugh made her suspicious, but though she looked at him long and searchingly he managed to preserve an innocent front. Presently she said, on a long sigh, “I suppose I was being foolish beyond permission. It was just that, for a moment, you seemed like a stranger and I felt myself shut out.”
This time there was nothing gentle about his kiss. Since, however, it presumably reassured the lady that she was not, in any sense, shut out, it was very well received.
“And you will wear my emeralds?” he asked softly.
“Oh! Yes, please! Let me try them, now. For I shall have to give them back to you, you know, until Mama has given her consent.”
He shook his head at that. “Not so,” he said coolly. “That was why I took them out of their case and put them in this,” indicating the shabby purse. “You may keep them in it and tuck them away in a drawer and no one will be the wiser. Then, when you are alone, you may put them on and look at yourself in your mirror. And the emeralds will remind you that you are promised to me.”
By the time that he had fastened the necklace about her throat, decided that the bracelet was rather loose on her slender wrist and tried the star against her hair, it seemed to Honor that she stood in little need of such a reminder. Rather would she recall the caresses with which each jewel had been set in place. In her renewed happiness she quite forgot that still she did not know his name—or names. It was not until he had reluctantly taken her back to Beaufort Square, the emeralds, in their rough concealment once more, safely tucked away in her reticule, that he said, as he kissed her hand in farewell, “And when you look in your mirror, decide which you will have for your husband. Simon Marcus Julian Vereker St. Osyth Jocelyn—and all of them very much at your service.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Jocelyn—she had still not decided which of that high sounding string of names best became him—had decreed that they should not meet again until she was willing to permit him to approach Mama. That was blackmail, she told him indignantly, and quite unnecessary. She would seize the first possible opportunity of explaining things to Mama. Only—
“Yes. Only,” mimicked Mr. Jocelyn, smiling. “You have till next Thursday, my love. On Thursday I shall pay a morning call in Beaufort Square. Let us hope that by then you will have found that opportunity. If you have not—best have the smelling salts conveniently to hand, or the hartshorn or whatever remedy Mama favours, for Thursday marks the limit of my patience. As for blackmail, it is no such thing. I am merely concerned to protect my moral integrity. Yours? Why, no. Believe me, my sweet, you do not stand in half the danger that I do. When I find myself alone with you I am beguiled by a dozen different temptations, all of them equally impossible to resist. Like this, for instance,” and he kissed the slim wrist where the bracelet hung slackly. “Now if a man finds that he cannot resist temptation, then he must do his possible to avoid it,” he explained, with an air of exaggerated virtue that made her giggle. “So I will not appoint a rendezvous before Thursday. However we may chance to meet before then since I shall be about the city a good deal. I have a certain amount of business to settle in these last days of my bachelor freedom. And also I am engaged to visit the theatre to see Mrs. Siddons in ‘Othello’. You are going? Good. Then we shall at least see each other on that occasion. See that you pay good heed to Desdemona’s fate! I have already warned you that jealousy is my besetting sin.”
That was all very well and Honor was just as eager as he to have matters settled. But speaking to Mama was not so simple a matter as it sounded. For one thing they were never alone. Mama had relaxed her principles to the extent of attending the occasional lecture or concert. After much careful soul searching she had even consented to accompany them to the theatre, since it was Shakespeare and so must be perfectly respectable. But on dancing evenings she retired early to bed, exhausted, she explained, by such a continuous round of gaiety, and was always asleep by the time that Aunt Thomasine and. Honor returned. During the day, either she had the children with her or they were entertaining friends. It began to seem distinctly probable that Mr. Jocelyn would indeed arrive on Thursday morning to find Mama in total ignorance of his pretensions.
It was Percy who finally broke the impasse, and in characteristically forthright fashion. Since the affair of the home-made cracker his behaviour had been comparatively decorous. He had temporarily abandoned engineering for carpentry, and, aided and abetted by Goodborn who furnished him with tools and timber, was busily engaged in the construction of a box that was to hold all his treasures when he went home. Goodborn had shown him just such a box which had an ingeniously simple locking device in the form of a sliding panel, and had promised that if the preliminary workmanship was of sufficiently high standard he would impart the precious secret to the eager novice. So Percy planed and sanded industriously and his elders had a blessed breathing space.
He was not, of course, supposed to pursue these activities in the reception rooms. But sanding, though necessary, was tedious. Percy was of a gregarious disposition. And who could complain of a little sweet-smelling wood dust on the carpets, especially if they had the pleasure of his society as compensation?
So it was that he was happily occupied, his presence forgotten by his elders, in the parlour window seat where the light was best, when Mama complained to Aunt Thomasine as was her wont two or three times a day of Honor’s failure to attach a suitable parti. Since Honor herself was absent, having gone with Penelope to exchange the library books, there followed the customary lament for the eligible Sir Ralph. Percy listened with deep interest. So Sir Ralph had been taken with Honey, had he? To be sure, he had been very condescending to Honey’s little brother on the two occasions when they had met, enquiring rather pompously about his progress in his studies and painstakingly explaining to him how necessary it was for a parson—he assumed that Percy was destined for the Church—to have a good grounding in Classics. Percy had thought him a dull stick. What a pity that he had not realised the possibilities of the situation earlier! With a sign for lost opportunity he renewed his labours. He could feel the satiny sheen beginning to bloom on the oak. He smoothed it lovingly.
Mama abandoned Sir Ralph and spoke of their return to Trowbridge. She was quite out of frame today. She had fancied buttered eggs for luncheon and one of them had been stale. After that nothing was right. Percy grinned tolerantly as she spoke wistfully of new laid eggs from their own fowls and other comforts of home. If only Honor would make haste and complete the tedious business of selling the necklace they could leave this noisy crowded city and return to rural peace and quiet. If her daughter was minded to be a spinster, who was she to stand in her way?
It was at this point that Percy spoke up. “Well she ain’t,” he said succinctly.
“Ain’t what? I mean is not what? I do wish you would not speak in that vulgar fashion, Percy dear,” said Mama crossly. “I’m sure you never did so before we came to Bath. It comes of being too much
with the servants.”
“Honor ain’t—I mean is not—determined to be a spinster,” said Percy, sticking stubbornly to the point at issue. “She’s going to marry Mr. Jocelyn.”
It never entered his head that he might be giving away a secret. He had not heard of any discussion of Honor’s marriage, but since it was a subject of little interest to him and it probably wouldn’t be for ages yet, he had seen nothing unusual in this reticence.
There was a hint of artificiality in Mama’s laughter, an alerted uneasiness in her glance as she said lightly, “What a ridiculous notion! Why! We are scarcely acquainted with Mr. Jocelyn. And if Honor had any such foolish idea in her head you may be sure her Mama would be the first to hear about it.”
“It would seem that her brother was the first to hear about it,” corrected Aunt Thomasine drily. “What’s all this about, Percy? And a round tale, if you please. This is no time for impudent hoaxes.”
“’Tis a round tale, Aunt,” he retorted, righteous indignation at their disbelief informing every syllable. “Mr. Jocelyn told me himself that he wanted to marry her. Said it was his dearest wish. And she—well—she didn’t actually say she would. But I could tell,” he ended in a chivalrous attempt to gloss over his sister’s shocking display of sentiment on that occasion. “And then he sent me out of the room. Said my presence was super—super something or other. I’m not trying to gammon you, cross my heart.”