The Last of Lady Lansdown

by Shirley Kennedy

  Millicent’s blue eyes lit. “Plus my dowry. Yes, of course, I’m grateful for that, but he’s all I said, nonetheless.” She stood and pushed back her chair. “The seamstress is coming this afternoon to finish the blue calico. When Lord DeWitt arrives next week, I shall look so absolutely smashing he will have no choice but to propose.”

  “Are you sure you love him?” Granny asked.

  “Love him? Lord Dewitt is perfect in every way and I absolutely adore the man.”

  Granny emitted one of her skeptical grunts. “No man is perfect, missy.”

  “Well, Lord DeWitt is, and he’s going to be mine, all mine!”

  After Millicent bounced out of the room, Granny turned to Jane. “I wonder if that girl realizes the sacrifice you made.”

  “Does it matter? I’m just glad she’s happy.” Jane recalled her sister’s sad plight after their father left. Her flighty heart had been set on a coming-out and season wherein she would meet and fall madly in love with her future husband, who of course would be rich, titled and incredibly handsome. Instead, after Papa fled the country, she spent her days sobbing on her bed, convinced her life was over. Not until the earl proposed to Jane, promising in his zeal to support her family, did Millicent bounce back to being her lovable, scatter-brained self. She’d had her season. Even better, she had met rich, titled, handsome Lord DeWitt, who, everyone predicted, was bound to propose when he came for his visit.

  Mama cast a triumphant look at Granny. “There, you see? Jane is happy.”

  “Quite happy.” A lie, of course, but some things were best left unsaid.

  “Now all she needs is to present his lordship with an heir and her life will be complete.”

  “Well, I don’t see that happening.” Granny’s voice had a sly lilt. “It’s been a year. What do you say, Jane? Can Lord High-and-Mighty not get it up?”

  Mama jerked as if she’d been stung by some insect. “Mother, please.” Furtively, she looked around, as if to make sure no servant overheard such an indelicacy. “Mother, how could you?” She drew herself up into a quivering bundle of self-righteousness. “There are some matters we simply do not ever discuss.”

  “Maybe we should.” Granny looked at Jane. “Well? Are you going to answer my question?”

  “No, I am not.” Jane had long since learned the best way to deal with her grandmother was to counter bluntness with bluntness. Besides, if ever there was a subject she did not want to discuss, it was her intimacies with her husband. Little did they know ... and as far as she was concerned, they would remain in ignorance.

  Mama stubbornly continued, “Jane, it has been a whole year. Do you not have any idea why—?”

  “No, I do not.” Jane rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “So, what are you saying? My year of grace is up and therefore you will be hounding me from now on?”

  “You need not be so touchy. I am only thinking how important your producing an heir must be to the earl. How it must gall him—not having one child while his twin brother has eight.”

  “Of course he would like a child, but please have patience and don’t keep asking.”

  Her words seemed to make no impression on her mama. “You do realize what would happen if his lordship dies without issue? The title would pass to that worthless twin of his.” Seemingly horrified at the vision she had created, she scowled. “Dear God, that awful Beatrice would be the new Countess of Lansdown. She would get everything, and you, Jane, mark my words, would be thrown out on the streets with nothing but your jointure.”

  “I won’t be out on the streets. I’ll have my dower house.”

  Mama ignored her. “The rest of your poor family would be out on the streets, too. I can just see Beatrice flouncing about, Queen of the May, with her fancy title.” Mama seethed with mounting rage. “Oh, I cannot bear the thought. You must give the earl an heir immediately!”

  Easier said than done. Jane stifled her smile. “You are the one who always says ‘Everything in its own good time.’ Well, give it more time and don’t look for trouble.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Mama sniffed, “I would not be surprised if Beatrice prays every night you will go the way of the first countess.”

  Enough was enough. “Let’s proceed to a more pleasant subject, please.”

  Granny spoke up. “I wish to go upstairs now. Jane, ring for Griggs. Tell him I want that new young footman to carry me up, the one with the shapely calves.” She sneaked a conniving glance at Jane. “Do you suppose he pads them?”

  “Mother, please! You are not supposed to even notice a mere servant, much less—”

  “She’s joking, Mama.” Jane rose hastily and went to the bell pull. “I’ll ring.” She was grateful to Granny for distracting Mama’s attention. She wished she could be distracted. No such luck. Ever since her husband had issued his command invitation, her ordinarily sunny mood had given way to joyless apprehension. She had grown to hate the summons to her husband’s bedchamber. Worst of all was knowing that she did not have a choice.

  Why did he go to Sudberry this morning? What was so important he had to go himself?

  She could not imagine what it was.

  Chapter 2

  On the cobbled main street of the small village of Sudberry, passersby stopped to watch the shiny black coach, resplendent with the Lansdown coat of arms on its doors. It was pulled by four matched grays that brought it rumbling to a stop in front of Felton’s Apothecary Shoppe. The interest of the passersby turned to ill-concealed surprise when the earl stepped from the coach. Seldom were they privileged to gaze upon His Lordship in person.

  “Wait here, Thomas.” Arthur Elton, Earl of Lansdown, a tall, spare man in his early fifties with a thin face and hawkish nose, stepped to the curb and cast a scowling gaze upwards at the wooden green apothecary’s sign swinging above the door. A mortar and pestle were painted on the sign, circled by the Latin phrase, Major Agit Deus. “A God more powerful is the agent,” the earl silently mouthed. From Virgil’s Aeneid. He would lay odds that nary an oaf in this wretched village could translate the words, and that included old Felton. Well, he did not give a farthing which God was more powerful as long as he acquired what he came for.

  A bell jingled as he stepped inside the shop and closed the door. No other customers, thank God. Felton stood behind the counter. He was a stooped, bespectacled old man, backed by shelves lined with the Dutch blue delft jars storing his various nostrums. One was filled with water that was teeming with a disgusting collection of leeches.

  “Ah, Your Lordship!” Felton’s rheumy eyes lit with delight. With a bright smile, he came around the counter and gave an obsequious bow. “Again, I am honored you have graced my shop by your presence, sir. I—”

  “Do you have it?” Lansdown’s lips tightened. Smiling at underlings was a waste of time.

  “Indeed, I do, m’lord. At last!” Felton, his smile stifled, scurried back behind the counter. He reached underneath, brought up a brown paper packet and laid it before the earl. “Just arrived this morning.” Employing great care, he unfolded the paper. Within, cradled in cotton, lay a small vial filled with a black liquid.

  “Here it is. Not easy to come by, if I do say. Just as you ordered—genuine Spanish Fly.”

  Spanish Fly. The very words caused Lansdown’s heart to skip a beat. “You’re sure it’s genuine?”

  “Indeed, yes. ’Twas shipped direct from Spain through a most reliable source.” Felton held the vial up to the light. “Actually, flies have nothing to do with it. The substance comes from a powder made from the crushed dried wings of a greenish beetle found in Southern Europe called Lytta vesicatoria. It’s an aphrodisiac for men as well as women. Although it’s little known—”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Of course, m’lord.” The apothecary hastened to rewrap the package. As he did so, he leaned forward, glanced around as if other ears might be listening and whispered, “It drives them wild.” He gave a lecherous wink. “A few drops of this and she will be on
her knees begging for it. Dying to please you, to do whatever you want her to do. She will—”

  “Five crowns as agreed.” Lansdown drew out a bag of silver coins and unceremoniously poured them on the counter. “Good day, Felton.” He scooped up the package and turned to leave.

  “Use it with care,” Felton cried to the retreating figure. “No more than ten drops mixed with any liquid and not a drop more.” He heard a near-indistinguishable grunt from the earl, who did not bother to turn his head as he opened the door. “Mind, it is a most dangerous drug, m’lord, and must be used properly, else—”

  The door slammed. Felton shrugged and softly addressed the empty shop. “Else you could kill the poor girl.”

  At last he had his Spanish Fly. Back in the coach, Lansdown leaned back against the squabs and allowed himself a satisfied smile. The months of frustration were at an end. By God, his wife of a year, the high-and-mighty Jane, would soon receive the surprise of her life.

  Arthur gazed out the coach window, taking no notice of the beauty of the lush shades of green foliage lining the road to Chatfield Court, nor the ever-changing view of the River Hulm, which resembled a ribbon of sparkling blue on this warm summer day.

  I was cursed from birth. Everyone said he was the lucky one, the twin born first, the older son who inherited the title, mansion, vast estates, while James, born a minute later, was merely the second son, left with the dregs.

  So was James the unlucky twin? No, by God, not with a wife who had borne him eight children! With all the delicacy of a rabbit, Beatrice popped out a baby every other year or so, all of them healthy, not a runt in the bunch. Among them, five sons. Five! Whereas he, Arthur, the honored and revered Earl of Lansdown, remained childless. No sons. Childless, by God, and not only that, forced to beam with delight at the christenings of his brother’s brats while he seethed inside, his envy nearly tearing him apart. Galling!

  Of course Elizabeth was entirely to blame. His utterly barren first wife tried her best, he supposed, spending countless hours in useless prayer, stuffing herself with pomegranate seeds and God-knew-what concoctions. Nothing worked, and when she finally died, some said of desperation, he felt a certain amount of regret—yes, of course, he did—but even as he stood by her freshly dug grave, he vowed his next wife would be young, beautiful and fertile. Above all else, fertile.

  Jane had deceived him. Even he, as intelligent and perceptive as a man could be, was fooled by her beauty and surface charm. There was a time when he was so smitten he thought he could not do without her. Even married her without a dowry. She seemed perfect at first. Miss Jane Hart, daughter of a baronet, had a coming-out and a season in London where she’d been the belle of the ball and could have caught any one of the many beaux who pursued her. Only after he married her, when it was too late, had he discovered her cold witch’s heart.

  A year passed, but he still remembered his much-anticipated wedding night when he thought he could, with a little luck, impregnate his new bride, and thus end the humiliation he had suffered because of the fecundity of his twin brother. Instead—he still shuddered at the memory—he found he could not perform. To say he was shocked was an understatement. Never had there been the slightest hint of a problem with his first wife. True, after Elizabeth died, he had experienced a bit of difficulty with his mistresses, but they were only whores who could pleasure him in other ways, so what did it matter whether or not—he allowed a caustic laugh to escape his lips—he could rise all the way to the occasion.

  A wave of smoldering anger coursed through him. All Jane’s fault. How could he be expected to achieve an erection when he was bedded with an iceberg who lay there with that get-it-over-with look on her face? To be honest, at first she made some pretense of welcoming his advances, but later on, he could feel her flinch when he touched her. Now the feeling was mutual, even though just last week ... He reflected upon his partial success the week before. He surprised himself, but even so, at best his performance bordered on pitiful. So nothing had really changed. Over time, his love had turned to hate, and who could blame him?

  Now he took great pleasure in finding ways to hurt her. When she needed a lady’s maid, he hired Bruta, the ugliest, most odious woman he could find. Then he sold Jane’s horse. He had to smile every time he recalled the stricken look on her face when he informed her Beauty was gone, sold at Tattersall’s in London to someone—he could not recall whom. It was the first and last time he saw tears in her eyes.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Riding a horse is not conducive to a woman’s good health. Especially one in her child-bearing years, such as you. It is for your own good. You are not to ride anymore.”

  She said no more, although the pain in her eyes clearly showed her dismay. Served her right. She was the most frustrating woman he had ever known, and the most galling.

  Well, she would soon get what she deserved. Oh, yes! He smiled and patted the pocket containing the Spanish Fly. He could hardly wait for tonight.

  * * * *

  Later in the day, Jane stood chatting with Mrs. Stanhope, the head housekeeper, in the entryway of Chatfield Court. She employed her usual tact in discussing what to the servants was indeed an unpleasant subject—the plans for the upcoming visit of James and Beatrice Elton.

  Mrs. Stanhope had worked at Chatfield Court for many years. Once she confided in Jane how, while the first Countess of Lansdown was alive, the servants of Chatfield Court sent up endless prayers that she would bear a healthy child—a boy, of course. Their pious concern was based less on a genuine desire for her ladyship’s happiness than the fervent hope that her persistent foul temper and shrill histrionics would disappear if only she could present his lordship with an heir. Such an event was never to be. When the countess died without issue, the servants heaved private sighs of relief.

  The servants’ joyful respite came to an end when the earl’s twin brother and wife came to stay shortly thereafter. Their eight unruly children were mostly grown, but Beatrice Elton herself proved to be far more loathsome than the late countess on her worst day. “We always knew where we stood with her ladyship,” Mrs. Stanhope confided. “She might have screamed at us, but at least she did not parade around as if she were Queen of England.”

  Much to the Eltons’ rage and dismay, the earl remarried and packed them off to their modest home in London even before the new Countess of Lansdown arrived. What the housekeeper did not tell Jane was how the servants’ delight knew no bounds when they met her. At only twenty-five, she was the very antithesis of the unstable first countess and the insufferable Mrs. Elton. Pleasant, even-tempered and kind, she undertook to run Chatfield Court with a firm but gentle hand, restoring peace and harmony to what had been a miserable, disordered household. Not to mention that she was a delight to look upon: tall and slender with rich, auburn colored hair, full, rosy lips and large, intelligent, wide-set blue eyes.

  “The Eltons arrive tomorrow, Mrs. Stanhope. I trust all will be in readiness?”

  “Indeed, m’lady.” The plump, gray-haired housekeeper could not quite conceal a frown. “How many of the children will be coming?”

  “Only Percy.” Jane disliked giving Mrs. Stanhope such distressing news. Of the Eltons’ eight detestable children, Percy was the standout. As a boy, he had played nasty tricks on his younger brothers and sisters, as well as the servants. Rumors abounded concerning his cruelty to small animals—rumors that were promptly denied and quashed by his adoring parents. As an adult he had not changed. His sly ways and sarcastic comments made him impossible to like. Jane didn’t care for him at all, taking pains to avoid being alone with him in the same room. “I recall your mentioning that all the Elton children were quite lively when they were small.”

  “ ‘Lively’ is hardly the word, m’lady. We tried to confine them to the fourth floor, but their mother thought nothing of letting them run screaming and yelling throughout the mansion—all eight of them—and no hand lifted to discipline them, I might add.” Mrs. Sta
nhope huffed indignantly. “During their visits, his lordship kept to his study. The first countess—if I may be frank—only added to the uproar with her constant screaming.”

  “Well, at least they are all grown now.”

  “Thank the Lord.”

  Just then, the sounds of dogs barking, horses neighing and footmen shouting announced the arrival of Lord Lansdown’s coach rolling to a rumbling stop at the front portico.

  “There are matters I must attend to.” Accompanied by the jingling sound of the many keys dangling from Mrs. Stanhope’s belt, she beat a hasty retreat.

  Jane felt a flutter of anxiety, as she always did when about to confront her husband. She, too, would have liked to make a hasty retreat, but that would only postpone the inevitable. She stood waiting, her gaze sweeping the vast entry hall of Chatfield Court, a dark corridor dominated by a massively beamed ceiling, huge stained glass windows of Gothic design, a curved staircase and above, a galleried hall hung with sober-faced portraits of the many Earls of Lansdown. They began with the first earl, deceased in 1581, and ended with Arthur, the sixth and present earl, whom many would have liked to see dead.

  Griggs, the butler, hastened to open the door. His lordship strode inside. Jane noticed he held a small package in his hand—rather unusual considering he ordinarily deigned not to carry his own purchases. That was the work of his footmen, not his exalted self.

  Jane forced a smile, wondering if the surprise the earl talked about was in the package. A pretty bobble of some sort? No, not that. Since their wedding and his initial generosity, Arthur had stopped giving her any sort of gift. Besides, she still had the feeling the “surprise” would not be a pleasant one. Whatever it was, she reminded herself, this was all her own doing and she must make the best of it. After all, she had known when she married the Earl of Lansdown that she did not love him. At least you respected him. What she had not counted on was how, over the one year of their marriage, her respect gradually shifted to a vague distaste, spiraled down to a definite dislike, to ... did she now hate him? For a moment she closed her eyes in utter misery. With all her heart, she yearned to love her husband, but how could she love a man who constantly looked down his hawkish nose at her as if she were a lesser being? Who sold her horse and kept her in the country like a prisoner? Who gave her the world’s most awful lady’s maid, and, worst of all, who summoned her to his bedchamber for those unwelcome nights when she performed what Mama delicately referred to as her “wifely duties.” No! Don’t even think of it.