by Mira Stables
Aunt Thomasine shot a swift glance at her cousin and turned to Percy. “I will add my recommendation to Mr. Jocelyn’s,” she said. “I, too, find your presence superfluous,” and jerked her head significantly towards the door. And at the sight of the wrath and outrage all too clearly expressed in his parent’s face, Percy very willingly took the hint.
He lingered uneasily in Goodborn’s tiny sanctum off the hall to waylay his sister on her return and tell her what he had done. He was much relieved to discover that she was not cross with him and acquitted him of tale bearing. She looked rather frightened as she trod determinedly towards the parlour door and the confrontation that awaited her, but she assured her brother that she would manage better without his support. On the whole he was glad of this. When Mama was in one of her takings she was apt to fall into hysterics or even to faint dead away, and judging by the sounds of gusty sobbing that reached his ears as the parlour door opened and shut behind Honor, she was in a first rate taking now.
Aunt Thomasine’s reasoned arguments had done little to cool her cousin’s temper. The chief cause of offence was, of course, Honor’s shocking ingratitude, her lack of filial obedience in thinking that she could choose a husband for herself without first seeking Mama’s approval. The secrecy that she had maintained over the whole distasteful business added to the insult. It betrayed an independence of mind quite scandalous in Papa’s daughter. Aunt Thomasine thought it better to make soothing noncommittal noises at this stage rather than to take issue with her cousin until the first fury of her rage had spent itself.
When, however, Mrs. Fenton proceeded to describe Mr. Jocelyn as an impudent upstart on the catch for a foolish headstrong heiress, she felt it was time to take sterner measures.
“I like Mr. Jocelyn very well,” she said temperately. “Perhaps his manner is a little stiff—hardly conciliating—but I have found him to be both kind and considerate. And as for being on the catch for an heiress, that is nonsense. Who should know better than you that Honor is no heiress?”
“You are grown very grand in your notions since you came to Bath,” retorted her cousin angrily. “For my part I should describe thirty thousand pounds as a very handsome portion—and that is what Lord Melborne has offered for the redemption of the necklace.”
Miss Helmore was silenced. There could be no denying the truth of Mama’s words.
“And no use pretending that he does not know of it, since it was he who came to conduct the negotiations. While when I recall his manner to me on that occasion—so icily civil as to be insulting, behaving as though I were some market woman haggling over the price of merchandise, just because I said that I thought it was a paltry offer from a man of Lord Melborne’s wealth and that I should advise my daughter to stand out for a better price.”
Aunt Thomasine stared at her, frankly agape. Mrs. Fenton bit her lip, aware that in her agitation she had betrayed more of her dealings with Mr. Jocelyn than was at all desirable.
“No wonder that you have taken him in such dislike,” said her cousin slowly. “After so exposing yourself you could not be expected to judge him fairly. So you accuse him of the very faults he perceived in you—cupidity and self-seeking.”
“It was not self-seeking,” denied Mrs. Fenton, clutching at the rags of dignity that remained to her. “It was for my children. You do not know what it is to be a poor lorn widow with no one to take your part. Even you, my own cousin, turn on me when I try to do what is best for my fatherless children. With thirty thousand pounds I could have sent Percy to Eton and to his father’s old college. There would have been no need for him to beg for his preferment. The best livings always go to men of private means. We could all have been so comfortable.”
“It certainly sounds as though you might have been very comfortable,” agreed Miss Helmore grimly, “though I take leave to doubt whether Percy shares your views on his future. Nor did I hear any reference to Honor—whose money it is—or to Tamsin in these fine plans of yours.”
It was at this point that Mrs. Fenton had recourse to the fit of mild hysterics that Percy overheard as his sister walked into the parlour. The arrival of her daughter worked powerfully upon Mama. She uttered one last wail of desperate woe and took refuge in her handkerchief, shuddering away from all Honor’s attempts at comfort with gestures of repulsion.
“I should leave her alone if I were you,” said Aunt Thomasine matter-of-factly. “She’ll cry herself out in a while if you don’t sympathize too much. And in the meanwhile you’d best tell me what lies behind this tale of young Percy’s.”
Honor smiled at her, a little pale but quite composed now that the moment of truth was upon her. “If he told you that Mr. Jocelyn has asked me to marry him and that I have gladly consented, you know as much as I do,” she said calmly.
Mama emerged from her handkerchief. “I will never give my consent,” she proclaimed in broken accents almost worthy of the Theatre Royal.
“Why not?” interposed Aunt Thomasine prosaically before Honor could speak. “We know nothing against the man. By all the signs he is well able to support a wife in modest comfort and certainly he is old enough to know his own mind. If it is not just the match you would choose for Honor you must bear in mind that she is not in her first youth and her looks are no more than passable. She will never be the beauty that you were,” she threw in, in a somewhat belated attempt at cajolery. “If her mind is so set on him, why not let her have him? You will have one mouth the less to fill.”
Honor nodded vigorous approval of this mundane description of her romance. Surely so sensible an appeal must move Mama to yield? Alas! Mama was one of those woolly minded creatures who mistake obstinacy for firmness. She had said that she would never give her consent. To do so now would be an admission of weakness. Moreover she had been sorely stung by her cousin’s indictment. She was not greedy. And as for preferring her son’s future to that of the girls, everyone knew that boys must come first. And if only Thomasine had waited a moment before rushing into such horrible accusations she had been just about to explain that it was care for the future of her girls that had persuaded her into trying to force up the price of the necklace. Resentment and obstinacy combined gave her the necessary stiffening. She put away her handkerchief, raised her head proudly and said, “I have said that I will never consent to Honor’s marrying that man, and that is my last word on the subject,” and with excellent dramatic instinct she rose quietly and retired to her own room.
The two who were left behind looked at each other ruefully. “My fault,” said Aunt Thomasine gruffly. “Handled it badly. Now what’s to be done?”
There was a gloomy silence. Then Honor said doubtfully, “I don’t think anyone could persuade her when she’s in this mood. And I’m sorry to have to say this, aunt, but nothing is going to stand in the way of my marriage. If I can’t win Mama’s consent then I shall marry without it. She will reconcile herself in time. She never nurses grudges. Besides, I have it in mind to make over the necklace money for Percy’s education and that will soften her heart towards us.”
Aunt Thomasine looked at her curiously. What a strange mixture the child was. So clear minded and sensible, yet tender hearted and loyal to her family. She had certainly not inherited the first two characteristics from the distaff side! She did not dream how much her own sturdy integrity had contributed to the development of Honor’s character. “And does your promised husband agree to your beggaring yourself in this extravagant fashion?” she enquired.
Honor tilted her chin defiantly. Then she remembered her promised husband’s reaction to that same suggestion, and laughed. Aunt Thomasine’s responsive twinkle encouraged her to pour out the full tale. “He was sadly cast down at the notion that Mama would have to be bribed to accept him,” she finished. “But seriously aunt, I think he is a man of means and really does not care about money. He teased me about living in Bluebeard’s castle and not liking the way of it and laughed at me when I said I was well used to housekeeping in modest f
ashion.” She hesitated for a moment, but who could she trust if not Aunt Thomasine? And she was longing to share her precious secret with someone. “He brought me a magnificent betrothal gift,” she said shyly. “Would you like to see it?”
“I certainly would,” nodded Aunt Thomasine and was invited to accompany the girl to her bedchamber where she waited expectantly while Honor rummaged in a drawer and pulled out the deceptively shabby bag that held her treasure. It chanced that the catch of the necklace had become entangled in one of the links of the bracelet, so that Honor, carefully intent on releasing the link without damage, did not see the expression on Aunt Thomasine’s face at her first sight of the jewels. Certainly she had no cause for complaint about her aunt’s interest and enthusiasm. She examined each piece with meticulous care and then suggested that Honor should put on the amber silk gown so that she might judge how well the emeralds looked against it.
Honor’s spirits rose. Though she had half expected Mama’s opposition yet the reality had proved a sad blow. Aunt Thomasine, while not exactly committing herself, seemed inclined to approve. Moreover this was the first time that she had found a confidante with whom she could speak openly of her plans and dreams. It was a delightful sensation and in enjoying it she spoke more freely than she realised. By the time that the emeralds went back into their hiding place Aunt Thomasine knew all but the more intimate details of what had passed between the lovers. She was too wise, however, to ask questions which might dry up the flow of confidences. Her attitude was sympathetic but detached. Only as she hung up the amber silk gown once more while Honor set her ruffled hair to rights did she say casually, “I think you are probably right in suspecting that Mr. Jocelyn is a man of wealth and position. If you recall, I said to you at our first meeting that one cannot always judge by appearances. Though he dresses so plain he has all the air of one who is accustomed to giving orders. Though why he should be so reticent about his birth and standing is a mystery to me.”
Honor related the history of the portrait in the gallery at Swynden Hall, but Aunt Thomasine could not see what that had to do with anything. “A great many of our first families are descended from the illegitimate offspring of the nobility,” she said bluntly, “and you can depend upon it that Mr. Jocelyn has too much sense to care a pin for the peccadilloes of his ancestors two hundred years ago. No. There is more to it than that. What did you say he was called?” For this, too, had tumbled out in the eager flood of confidences.
Rather shyly Honor rehearsed once more the imposing string of names that Mr. Jocelyn’s parents had bestowed upon their infant son. Aunt Thomasine listened attentively. Then she said that it was all very interesting but that now she had best go and see if Mama was sufficiently recovered to be able to go with them to the theatre. “For it will give her thoughts a new direction which is much to be desired at this juncture. Do not speak of your plans again tonight. By the time that she has slept on the possibility she will already be half accustomed to the idea and much more persuadable.”
Upon leaving her niece’s room, however, Aunt Thomasine did not immediately hasten to the side of the afflicted parent. She went instead to the library, where, after some searching, she found an out-of-date copy of a certain genealogical work in which she had developed a burning interest as soon as she set eyes on those emeralds. Fortunately it was not too out-of-date to serve her purpose. Nor did she spend much time on her research, turning without hesitation to the entry she sought and perusing a lengthy paragraph with close interest.
If her subsequent behaviour was any criterion it must be presumed that the information thus obtained was greatly to her satisfaction. She spent the rest of the evening in a state of barely suppressed mirth. Honor and her mother, treating each other with wary civility over the dinner table, were puzzled, even slightly outraged, by her inexplicable good spirits. Not even the tragic tale of love and treachery that they witnessed at the theatre could wholly quell Aunt Thomasine. True, her handkerchief was in frequent use, but Honor, sitting next to her, was well aware that it was rather to conceal the reflective smile that quirked her lips from time to time than to dry the sympathetic tear. Aunt Thomasine, in fact, bore all the air of a cat that has unexpectedly discovered cream in its saucer, in place of customary skimmed milk.
Honor herself scarcely accorded Mrs. Siddons’s Desdemona the appreciation that was its due. Apart from the distraction of her aunt’s peculiar behaviour she spent much time glancing about her, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mr. Jocelyn. She was torn between the longing to see him once more and the fear of how Mama would react. Not that she would make a scene in public, of course, but Honor had fully endorsed Aunt Thomasine’s views about the wisdom of letting Mama grow accustomed to the idea of the marriage by slow stages. A meeting with Mr. Jocelyn tonight would scarcely be helpful to this project.
In the interval between the first two acts she saw that Mr. Jocelyn’s party occupied a box on the opposite side of the auditorium. There were three other gentlemen with him, one of whom she recognized as the Marquess of Melborne. Mr. Jocelyn, she saw, was searching the audience through his glass. He found her, smiled and bowed, but made no move to leave his friends and seek her out. It was not long before Mama, too, noticed the party. But luckily she was quite taken up by the presence of the Marquess. If, as now seemed likely, he was settled in the neighbourhood for a time, perhaps they could come to some arrangement about the necklace without any troublesome intermediaries. As Honor firmly ignored this cut at Mr. Jocelyn, Mama did not pursue the subject, commenting instead on the distinguished appearance of his lordship and the restrained elegance of his dress. One could always pick out the true aristocrat, she told Honor sagely. A remark which caused Aunt Thomasine to utter an irreverent snort, though whether of disbelief or amusement it was difficult to decide.
It was after the final curtain that Mama complained of a headache. And no wonder, said Aunt Thomasine, so much as she had wept for Desdemona. Fortunately their chairs had already arrived. Mama was tenderly installed in hers and borne away. Aunt Thomasine was a little put out. She had planned to linger a while, talking over the performance with friends whom she had noticed among the audience and, she confided mischievously in Honor’s ear, taking a closer look at the Most Noble the Marquess of Melborne.
That pleasure at least was to be vouchsafed her, for the words were scarcely out of her mouth before the gentlemen of Mr. Jocelyn’s party came into the foyer. Mr. Jocelyn, seeing Honor and her aunt standing on the steps, excused himself to his companions and came down to join them.
Honor wasted no time on polite greetings. “I’ve told Mama and she is dreadfully cross,” she whispered urgently. “Please don’t come to see her on Thursday. Couldn’t you meet me instead? Perhaps in Spring Gardens? Aunt will come with me if you think it would be more proper. She is not at all cross with us, are you, Aunt?”
“Certainly not,” said Aunt Thomasine briskly. She looked Mr. Jocelyn firmly in the eye. “An excellent match, which has my full approval. As it would have had my dear sister’s,” she added, as though to make the matter quite clear.
Mr. Jocelyn lifted an enquiring eyebrow. Miss Helmore smiled benignly. “I must compliment you on your choice of a betrothal gift,” she said with some significance. “Nothing could better become the child. Er—family jewels, I apprehend?”
There was amused appreciation in Mr. Jocelyn’s smile. “Thank you, ma’am. Just so. And since you are so kind as to approve my suit, I would be most grateful if you could bring Miss Fenton to meet me on Thursday morning as she suggests. There are plans to be made in which I would welcome your advice. I have already obtained a special license and since I have your support, I will, at a pinch, make do without Mrs. Fenton’s.”
“She does not know you as well as I do,” explained Aunt Thomasine excusingly, but still with that irrepressible bubble of laughter in her voice. “If she did, I make no doubt she would add her approval to mine.”
“It is very good of you to say so,”
he answered punctiliously, seemed as though he would add something further but thought better of it, and handed them into the waiting chairs before rejoining his friends.
Chapter Fourteen
During the season Wednesday was usually a quiet day. There was the Cotillion Ball at the Old Rooms, of course, but until it was time to dress for that, the day was a leisurely one. This particular Wednesday, however, started badly. Mama decided to breakfast in her own room—an indication that the night’s repose had not effected the hoped-for softening of her mood. She was still in the sullens.
At breakfast a note was delivered to Aunt Thomasine. Having politely begged Honor’s forbearance she opened and read it with an air of grave concern. “This means that I shall have to desert you for the day,” she announced. “I am sorry for it, but the matter is urgent and brooks no delay. If I am not returned in time to chaperone you to the Ball tonight, perhaps Mrs. Charnley will deputize for me.” She declined Honor’s offer of help with her preparations, swallowed her coffee hastily and departed with an air of deep preoccupation.
Honor was left slightly disconsolate and extremely curious. She had thought herself pretty well acquainted with Aunt Thomasine’s affairs and could not imagine what crisis had arisen to summon her away in such haste. She wondered how best to pass the time, positively regretting the lack of the small essential duties that filled her mornings at home. Without a chaperone she could not go out and a morning spent with Mama in her present mood was like to lead to the sort of bickering that could do no good and would only make her feel miserably guilty for setting up her will against Mama’s. Eventually she sat down to write one or two unimportant letters, spending most of her time in nibbling her pen and dreaming of a rather nebulous future.