6.
Hugh Fremont drove up in a sleigh the next morning whilst they were moving their clothing and a few odds and ends of furniture to the dower house. Jean declined the offer of a ride through the countryside, though enough snow had fallen to make the landscape look like something in a fairytale. Her sisters volunteered to take her place.
As he drove off with the two young ladies giggling beside him, Fremont sent Jean an odd look. Begging for rescue? Defying her to laugh at him? She smiled and waved.
Miss Bluestone stood at her elbow on the wide front terrace of Brecon. "I could have overseen the move."
"Yes, I know."
"The girls were right, Jean. He wants to court you."
"He may try."
"Do you like him?"
"Better than I thought I did before our dinner the other night." That was as much as Jean was willing to admit. She had thought about Hugh Fremont since the dinner--with favour. She was also conscious that waiting for the perfect match was a losing game. She liked him. Perhaps she could learn to love him, but she would have to know him better before she was willing to take that gamble.
The remove went without a hitch. Jean ceded Fanny's room to Alice and took the small corner room with its wider view of the lake--or of where the lake would be. With snow blanketing most of the mud, the scene outside was pretty but eerily unfamiliar. She could just make out the pavilion, white on white.
As she watched, a man came out the side entrance of Brecon and headed down the drive. It was Mr. Sholto. Jean told herself she recognized him at that distance because his arm still hung in a sling. He must keep his horse at Brecon. Well, he would. Cottages don't have stables. Someone caught him up a few yards from the house and held him a while in conversation. Then he walked down the drive, head bent against the wind. He had the loose, long-legged gait that covers miles with ease.
She darted to her looking glass, smoothed her hair and bit her lips to redden them. Then she went downstairs, leaving piles of clothing unsorted.
She waited awhile in the foyer. Nothing. She wandered into the sitting room, and looked out the window, but she could see only overgrown shrubs hung with snow. Miss Bluestone and Miss Mackey could be heard upstairs with Alice's voice adding a plaintive descant.
Impatient, Jean went to the front door and opened it, but she saw no one on the drive. Sholto had walked right past the dower house and not taken the trouble to stop and ask how they did.
When Hugh and the girls returned, red-cheeked from their outing, Jean agreed to drive to Hazeldell with him the next day. To see Cecilia. Georgy nudged Caro and giggled.
* * * *
Fremont arrived at the dower house before ten. He had abandoned the sleigh and now drove his tilbury. Although the snow had not melted from the fields, patches of mud showed on the road. The air was brisk, but Agnew supplied warm bricks for her feet, and she swathed her neck and face in a woolen scarf, so she was snug enough. Their conversation was polite but desultory, as if both were marking time.
It was coming on toward Christmas. Fremont told her of his family's plans for the holiday. His married brother and sister, both younger than he, had brought grandchildren for inspection. He sounded glum. Jean suspected that his father was pushing him to wed. She wondered whether she could prevent him from making her an offer and whether she wanted to prevent him.
When they pulled up before the entrance to Hazeldell, a pretty Queen Anne manor in red brick, they found everything at sixes and sevens. Cecilia's mother and sister-in-law had come the day before to assist at the accouchment. Jean gathered that Cecilia had obliged by going into labour at eight that morning. Charles was white-faced and had sent for the midwife only minutes before Jean and Fremont arrived. At the Infirmary, he dealt with the most appalling injuries with aplomb, but he was as squeamish as a ten-year old in the face of childbirth.
He talked and paced and paced and talked. Being Charles, he spoke more bluntly than was proper. Jean couldn't blame him, he was so obviously suffering. She could see that Fremont was eager to go away, and she certainly had no expertise to offer a stricken husband. When the midwife bustled in, they took their leave. Charles's sister Mary saw them off.
"How is Cecy?"
"Calm as a summer sunrise. She always is." Mary let out her breath in a whoosh. "However, the child is breach and will have to be turned, so it's fortunate Mrs. Proudy came at once. Now, if you'll pardon me?"
"By all means." Jean gave her a hug. "Let us know the outcome, my dear."
"If Charles does not calm himself, I may strangle him. Otherwise I anticipate nothing untoward. My love to Miss Bluestone and the girls."
As they trotted off, Jean saw that her escort was stiff with indignation.
"They told me she had another week to go." He sounded betrayed. "The babe was not expected until Christmas Day."
Jean wondered who "they" were. She said something vague.
"I didn't mean to pitchfork you into a melodrama."
Melodrama? Jean glanced at his profile. His jaw was set.
"Someone should cut out his tongue. He's indecent." He must have been referring to Charles's blunt commentary.
"Good heavens, the man is a surgeon. He knows all the things that can go wrong, and he is most sincerely attached to his wife. No wonder he's distressed."
"It isn't his first child." He kept the horse at a strict trot. "Or hers."
"No."
"He's making a great fuss over nothing."
Jean said, "My father's first wife died bearing her fourth child, and my mother died of her sixth. I think childbirth is not nothing."
He huffed and drove in silence. At least he let the poor horse drop to a walk.
"I hope my sisters didn't bore you yesterday."
He cleared his throat. "Not at all. Lady Caroline has a well-informed mind."
Oh, give Georgy a year to catch up. She almost said that but thought better of it. He was not in a mood to be teased. Nor was she in the frame of mind to tease him. She wished Cecilia a safe delivery.
Jean ventured a few more commonplaces to which Fremont gave terse replies.
A mile or so before they reached Earl's Brecon there was a wide place in the road where waggons turned. He pulled onto the verge and eased the reins. His horse nosed a clump of dried grass that stuck up through the snow.
"Lady Jean, I hope you will do me the honour of taking my hand in marriage. I have admired you for some years now--"
"Too many," Jean murmured, wry.
"Please, hear me out."
She inclined her head. Snowflakes drifted down.
"We are both at the age when we are urged to marry--when we ought to marry. I am my father's heir and well to pass though not wealthy. Our tastes and political ideas agree. I believe we could make a good marriage." He grimaced. "I don't flatter myself that you are in love with me after the fashion of three-volume novels, but I think, with the right will, we could cherish each other as man and wife. You would do me great honour," he repeated.
Jean sat silent. In truth she didn't know what to say. She liked his honesty. At last she said, "It's a very generous offer, Hugh. Shall you give me time to consider it? As you say, we are both being pressed to wed, you probably more than I because your parents are here to wish it. I have an independence--did you know that?"
"No."
"My godmother, my mother's aunt, was called Margaret Jean Cameron. My twin and I were named for her. Maggie is five minutes older than I, so her name is less plain."
"Miss Cameron left you her fortune?"
She made a face. "Fortune is too large a word for what Great-aunt Margaret left. I have a small income. I could live on it without being anyone's dependent if need be. Like most women, I was brought up to marry, and indeed I want children, but I don't want them enough to leap into marriage without looking. After all, I have many nieces and nephews."
"So have I."
She cocked her head, considering him. His nose was red with cold. "A strong p
oint in your favour is that half the ladies in Society will hold me in abhorrence if I say yes. You must know you are a desirable partí." She smiled at him. "And I like you for having a pleasant tenor voice, among other things."
He cast her a sidelong glance and smiled too. "You said you wanted me to give you time."
"I shall tell you my answer after New Year's."
"Very well." His fists clenched on the reins. He eased them, first one hand then the other. "I should have waited for more romantic circumstances, but after that dinner I ventured to hope--"
"Hush," she interrupted. "I must think your offer over and ask my sister Elizabeth's advice."
"She made such a marriage--" His voice trailed.
Jean didn't correct him. Everyone outside the family assumed Elizabeth had made a cream-pot marriage. In fact, she had fallen deeply in love with their cousin Tom. That he was an earl and their father's heir was beside the point. Jean was not Liz, however, and God knew Hugh Fremont was not Tom Conway.
When she went into the dower house, she told neither her sisters nor Miss Bluestone of the offer of marriage. She thought about it, though. All day, off and on.
* * * *
Everyone had been baffled by the remains of the fire in the dower house sitting room. Jean didn't solve the mystery for them, not being one to give her head for washing. The girls would have made a great joke of it. As Mr. Sholto had. A stray thought. She turned her mind back to the riddle of marriage.
After their nuncheon, she followed Alice upstairs, Alice to nap and Jean to record the morning's adventures in her journal. Around three, a groom arrived from Hazeldell with the news that Cecilia had been delivered of a son and that both were doing well. That was a relief. At least there was one happy ending. Or happy beginning.
The child was to be christened Thomas, not Noel or Christopher. Jean supposed his lordship would stand at the font as the boy's godfather. Tom had many godchildren, and had even had a god-dog. In the throes of fifteen-year-old devotion, Jean had named her Irish setter for him. As Tom was by no means pious, the addition of little Thomas Wharton to his flock created a chance for comedy she could not pass up, so she set the journal aside and writ Elizabeth a letter.
Once she had attuned her mind to her sister's, it was easy to go on to a light-hearted account of Hugh Fremont's courtship. Elizabeth knew him because they moved in the same social and political circles. Jean was sure Liz would be frank in her advice and would keep her tongue behind her teeth. To be sure of that, Jean begged her not to mention the offer to anyone but Tom, not even Anne and Maggie.
As Jean was about to seal the letter, it occurred to her that she hadn't mentioned Fanny--or thought of her for hours. She picked up her quill and added a plea for Liz's understanding of her state of mind. It shamed her that she had judged her sisters severely for the same callous indifference.
She sealed the letter, though she was sure she was leaving out something important. She hoped Tom and Elizabeth hadn't left Town for the holidays. She thought the political situation and Fanny's death had combined to fix them in London for the immediate future, though they might have gone down to Hampshire to visit friends.
At dinner, she asked Miss Bluestone and Alice what they knew of Clanross's holiday plans, and Alice confirmed Jean's opinion. Tom would remain in Town until it was time to take the twins back to their school in January, and Elizabeth would never desert her boys on a holiday, or stray from Tom's side except perhaps to rescue her telescope.
"Shall we have to eat Christmas dinner at Brecon?" Georgy sawed away at a bit of tough mutton.
"We could dine with the Brecon staff," Jean ventured.
The others stared at her as if she had lost her wits. "Mrs. Smollet wouldn't tolerate any such breach of decorum," Alice said at last. Miss Mackey murmured a shocked echo of that sentiment and passed the sauceboat.
"And we have to consider Cook's feelings." Miss Bluestone meant their own cook. Serving as sous chef at Brecon had struck a blow to Cook's self-esteem, already reeling at the shambles the flood had made of her kitchen. She had fits of weeping. Jean wondered if all cooks were creatures of strong emotion.
"We could ask Mr. Fremont to dine with us here." Caroline watched Jean through lowered eyelashes, a faint smile curving her mouth.
In fact, Hugh had asked Jean to spend the rest of the holiday with his family. She had thought it prudent to decline an invitation that, in any case, did not appeal. She indicated to her sisters without drama that she knew Mr. Fremont would be caught up in his duty to his visiting relatives.
"Well, then, let us ask Mr. Sholto!" Georgy smirked at her own cleverness.
Miss Bluestone eyed her with disfavour but made the obvious admission. "It's true he has no family here."
Alice said, "Mr. Sholto and Mr. Tidmarsh." The vicar was a childless widower. Jean wondered whether Alice had her eye on him.
The girls groaned, but Miss Bluestone nodded. "A good notion, Mrs. Finch. I daresay both men have other invitations, however."
Jean buttered bread. "We can only try our luck." She knew Miss Bluestone would dislike the gaming metaphor.
Miss Bluestone ignored the gambit. "Georgina, you may write out the invitations. I shall take a close look at your penmanship." She was a firm proponent of copperplate.
Georgy looked as if she regretted her brilliant idea but writ two elegant notes in due course. Jem would deliver them in the morning and await answers. Time was of the essence. There were only four more days until Christmas.
Jean went to bed unaccountably cheerful. As she drowsed, she envisaged London houses. She had never had a free hand at decorating a house. She thought she might enjoy it.
She woke in the middle of the night with a song from her childhood running through her head, words and all. It was the tune Mr. Sholto had whistled as they walked up the drive to Brecon, the day she started her first proper fire. "Rare, O rare, bonny Jean Cam'ron, Rare, O rare, bonny Jean O."
The words took her back in time. She was nine or ten. Her father was still alive and her mother ailing from the latest miscarriage. They were living in Scotland on the Lothian estate, so it must have been summer. Someone, probably a footman, had been trying to court one of the nursemaids, and Jean had listened because at first she thought he was singing a song about bonny Jean Conway. Little egoist.
The footman's pursuit of the nursemaid had been diligent and tuneful. Jean learnt the words. The twins' nanny, a Scotswoman like the countess, was amused when Jean sang the song for her. Nanny McKenna explained that people had once believed in something called the King's Touch, that the king could cure illness by touching the sufferer. Jean remembered wondering if the king could cure her mother.
The ballad was a Jacobite tale and therefore still slightly seditious. It told the story of Jean Cameron, who fell ill, so ill that she was "like tae dee." And the only cure anyone could suggest for her was "ae blithe blynk o' the Young Pretender." So potent was Bonny Prince Charlie's magic that all he had to do was give the victim a good-natured glance and, presto, he would effect a cure.
When everyone, friends and doctor, recommended the same "blithe blynk," Jean Cameron sat down and writ the prince a letter in which she told him "Wha' were his freends and wha' were his foes, And a' the wards were sweet and tender Tae win the hearrrt o' the Young Pretender."
And of course there was a happy ending. Scarcely had Jean Cameron sealed her letter when the door flew open and "in cam' her King." She did what any sick lady might do in the circumstances. She cried out to the angels to defend her and "fell in the arms o' the Young Pretender." The presumption was that the prince's touch cured whatever ailed her.
Lying there in the dark, Jean had to chuckle, but her amusement soon gave way to discomfort.
It had been several years before she questioned the "blithe blynk." Could it be something more than a quick glance? Charles Stewart was a lad for the ladies. As a grown woman, Jean thought it all too likely that HRH had seduced his way from the Orkneys
to the English border and beyond. She hoped her namesake had been able either to defend her virtue or to enjoy her "cure." But that was foolish. The song dealt with Jenny Cameron, who had been a real person, quite different from the Jean of the song.
And what did Sholto's whistling mean? True, he had whistled nothing more than the refrain, nor was there anything unduly warm in his manner toward her. He had seemed almost absent-minded. Perhaps he had not been aware of the story his song told, or even of which song he chose.
But what if he had been? Did he think of her as the legendary Jean Cameron? Cameron had been her mother's surname. Did he think of himself, perhaps, as the Young Pretender? It was his kind of joke. She remembered the dinner invitation and hoped against hope that he would refuse it.
She thought it would be hours before sleep came but she was deep in dreamless slumber within minutes.
* * * *
For once her hopes were realized. Sholto penned a courteous note, declining the invitation on the grounds of a previous engagement and wishing all of them a happy Christmas. His handwriting was spikier than Miss Bluestone would have approved in one of her charges. Mr. Tidmarsh accepted in clear copperplate. Alice and Cook were pleased.
Jean decided that afternoon was a good time to disperse Fanny's collection of porcelain figurines. Neither Georgy nor Caro wanted one--they shivered when she asked them to choose--but Alice and Miss Mackey each took a figure that reminded them of Fanny, and Miss Bluestone picked a small Miss Muffet who sat on her tuffet with an open book in her lap. Jean kept the figure of a rogueish dairymaid, because she remembered giving it to Fanny for her sixteenth birthday.
That only left twenty or so, eight of them displayed and the rest wrapped in silver paper and tucked into a box in Fanny's dresser. Jean chose one each for Maggie, Anne, and Elizabeth. She didn't think Kitty would want one.
That left seventeen. Under Alice's basilisk gaze, Jean removed them all to her own room and brooded over them. Poor Fanny had had very few friends who had kept up with her as she faded from life. Jean thought of Mr. Sholto. Few friends that she knew of.
The Young Pretender Page 7