The Last of Lady Lansdown

by Shirley Kennedy

  She might have been asking for another biscuit while at tea. His face a mask, Griggs walked to the body, knelt, placed his fingers around his lordship’s wrist and felt for a pulse. After a few seconds, he looked up. “He is indeed deceased, madam.”

  She had known in her heart her husband was dead, but just hearing the words plunged her into a state of near panic. “He was ... we were ... he was walking toward the bed. One minute he was all right and then the next he grabbed his chest and fell to the floor.”

  “Really?” the butler skeptically inquired. “That is hard to believe when it is obvious he died in flagrante delicto.”

  “In flagrante what?” She had never heard the words.

  Griggs ignored her question. He arose with purpose and addressed her. “You will go to your room, madam.”

  “But ...”

  He pointed toward the door. “Leave.”

  Griggs had never, ever addressed her in any but the most obsequious of tones, but he seemed to know what he was doing, and besides, whom else could she turn to? “All right.” Her eyes strayed to the incredible sight of his lordship’s member, still as fully erect as a sturdy stanchion in gale force winds. “What about that?”

  “I shall take care of it.” Griggs gave no flicker of emotion. “Just go.”

  She turned and left, desperate, sure the whole world would soon know the intimate details of her husband’s demise. The stony-faced butler proved true to his word. The news soon circulated that the Earl of Lansdown had been alone, attired in his dressing gown, lying prone in front of the fireplace, his dead fingers clutching an empty wineglass. Not a word concerning the unfortunate condition of his … Don’t think about it.

  “His sudden death does seem strange. I, too, thought he was in the best of health, but doubtless it was his heart. You never know, do you, Mama?” She took one more look at her dreary self in the mirror and squared her shoulders. “Very well, let’s go downstairs.”

  Jane had little love for dark, gloomy Chatfield Court, but one of the rooms she admired was its spacious library, so restful with its plush Axminster carpet, coved, arched ceiling painted with sumptuous baroque paintings, and many shelves of books lined up against the dark, wood-paneled walls. When Jane entered, she saw James and Beatrice were already seated. As usual, she felt a strange qualm at the sight of Arthur’s twin brother. The physical resemblance to her late husband was unmistakable, but James’s temperament was completely different from his brother’s. His milquetoast demeanor sharply contrasted to Arthur’s caustic, demanding, arrogant attitude. James was so quiet, in fact, that people hardly noticed him. When his wife was around, he pretty much disappeared into the woodwork, content to be an observer, generally with a glass of port in his hand, a sly, vaguely lecherous look in his eyes that Jane always found unsettling.

  As always, Beatrice took the lead. “Sir Archibald will be here in a moment. We need to go over your marriage contract. There are certain arrangements that must be discussed.”

  Could the woman not even wait until the funeral was over? Jane sank onto a sofa, Granny and Mama beside her, and observed Beatrice with concealed distaste. One would think she was the sweetest woman in the world with her girlish voice, plump, motherly figure, pouty lips and big, innocent-looking gray eyes. She even looked good in mourning, what with her white and rosy pink complexion that contrasted well with black. So unfair. “What arrangements do you mean?” Jane was all innocence.

  “Your move to the dower house, of course. Ah, there you are, Sir Archibald.”

  Horace Archibald, the earl’s long-time solicitor, entered the library and seated himself behind the large mahogany desk. He was a portly, distinguished-looking gentleman with thin, white hair, whose wise old eyes peered at them through silver-framed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. Giving a courteous nod to all, he said, “You wished to know the particulars of the earl’s marriage contract, Mrs. Elton?”

  “Exactly. I have glanced it through and was just going over the contents with the countess.”

  Granny leaned over and whispered in Jane’s ear, “Glanced, my foot. More likely she’s got it memorized word for word.”

  “I have it here.”

  “I was about to tell the countess how comfortable she will be in the dower house. I believe it will be best for all if she moves soon. Naturally, I am anxious to move to Chatfield Court, and I’m sure the countess will wish to get settled in her new home. Oh, dear,” Beatrice made a little moue at Jane, “or should I even call you ‘the countess’?” She broke into a self-satisfied smile that made Jane seethe inside. “Of course I am the Countess of Lansdown now.”

  Sir Archibald frowned and cleared his throat. “She will retain her title, Mrs. Elton. We will simply have two countesses instead of one. We must not be too hasty. There is a most important matter to consider.”

  “What is that?” Beatrice hitched slightly forward toward the edge of her chair.

  “It’s a rather delicate matter. I don’t think—”

  “Please, out with it.” Judging from the sharp edge to her voice, Beatrice did not take kindly to the thought there might be a dark cloud on her otherwise rosy horizon.

  “Very well then.” The solicitor gave a shrug of resignation. “There is always the possibility a recently-widowed young woman might be with child. So, as I am sure you are aware, Mrs. Elton, we must wait to see if such a possibility exists. If her ladyship is, and the child is a boy, then the title and the entire estate—”

  “Of course I was aware of it.” Bridled anger shone in Beatrice’s eyes. “In Arthur’s case, it is simply not possible. I see no need to wait. Arthur wasn’t capable of fathering a child. He always blamed poor Elizabeth, but I knew better. He was the one at fault. There’s just no way—”

  “It’s the custom. We must wait.” He addressed Jane. “My apologies for broaching such a delicate subject.”

  With child? Impossible. Jane had to gather her wits about her before she answered. “I don’t think—” She was about to explain why she couldn’t possibly be carrying Arthur’s child when she felt a sharp jab to her ankle. What on earth? She looked down and saw the source—Granny had just jabbed her with her cane. Hastily, she withdrew her foot. Granny didn’t want her to protest? All right then, she could take a hint, but why? She would find out later. “How kind of you, Sir Archibald, but there’s no need to apologize. Can you tell me, what is the proper time to wait?”

  “Six months at the very least.”

  “What?” Beatrice’s face flushed an unbecoming, mottled red.

  “Actually, an heir to the estate can be born up to ten months after the father dies, so waiting ten months would be even better.” He directed a mollifying smile toward Beatrice. “Of course, a doctor would be called upon to verify the ... er, ahem, condition, if such should be the case.”

  “So we must wait nearly a year for something that is utterly impossible?” Beatrice’s voice sounded tight as a drum-head.

  “I am afraid so.”

  If Jane had not been in such a wretched mood, she might have enjoyed the sight of Beatrice’s mouth working as she vainly tried to maintain a semblance of a smile. She was fooling no one.

  Mama looked relieved. “So we won’t be moving right away?”

  “Indeed not.”

  Mama looked even more relieved. “Sir Archibald, could you briefly review the terms of the marriage contract? As I recall, my daughter will receive the dower house plus the income from his lordship’s estates in Ireland. Correct?”

  The solicitor’s pleasant expression faded. “That’s true. Although, she won’t be as well off as we had planned.” He rifled through some papers. “The countess was to receive six hundred to a thousand pounds a year from the Irish estates. Lately, however, the estates have not been doing well. I regret to inform you she is more likely to receive three hundred pounds a year, if that.”

  “Are you sure?” Mama’s voice sounded distressed.

  “Very sure.”


  Mama had turned pale. “Will we have enough for Millicent’s dowry?”

  The solicitor shrugged. “I’m afraid not.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “Let us not jump to unpleasant conclusions. Let us wait.” He cast a meaningful glance at Jane. “Let’s see what the future holds.”

  Jane felt like leaping up and proclaiming there was no way in the world she could be with child. Leery of Granny’s cane, she kept her silence.

  Later, when the meeting was over and everyone else had left, Sir Archibald drew Jane aside and bent his head confidentially. “A word of warning, if I may.”

  “Of course.”

  “During the next few months, you must be extremely discreet. By that I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, sir. I must avoid any hint of scandal.”

  “Exactly.” The old solicitor looked relieved to have relayed his message so easily. “Many eyes will be upon you. You must be the soul of discretion. Avoid any encounter that might be misconstrued. I would go so far as suggest you live the next few months as if you resided in a nunnery.”

  A nunnery? How quaint and old-fashioned. Had the circumstances warranted, she would have laughed, but she managed to maintain her solemn expression. “You are absolutely right, Sir Archibald. Never fear, I shall heed your warning.”

  Sir Archibald smiled solicitously. “It’s only a matter of time before this will all be behind you.”

  A matter of time? As if she cared. After her dreadful experience with the earl, she planned to remain single. It would be a cold day in hell before she ever did that with a man again.

  Jane did not find a chance to speak to her grandmother until later that night when she visited the old lady’s bedchamber. Granny lay propped on her eiderdown pillows, holding an open Bible and wearing a pink beribboned nightgown. A lace night cap was perched askew atop her silver-haired head.

  “Come in, dearie.” Granny reached for the cup and saucer sitting next to her on the nightstand. She took a long sip and gave Jane a conspiratorial grin. “What lovely tea.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Jane had long since been in on Granny’s little secret—her delicate, rose-painted china cup held not tea but a healthy slug of gin.

  “I’d wager I know why you’re here,” Granny said.

  “I’d wager you do. I want to know why you jabbed me with your cane when I was talking to Sir Archibald. I simply wanted to assure him I am not with child.”

  Granny peered at her over the top of her spectacles. “What makes you so sure you’re not?”

  “It’s simply not possible.”

  “Why is it not possible?”

  “Do you think I don’t know how babies are made?”

  “You’ve been married a year. Don’t tell me—”

  “This may surprise you, but I am still a virgin. Practically, anyway.”

  “What?” Granny’s spectacles slid down her nose. “How could that be? The earl seemed a rutty old goat if ever there was one.”

  “Well, he wasn’t so rutty. All year long, he tried, but he could not ... uh ...”

  “Get it up?”

  “Exactly. If you want to know the truth, it was always soft. He would try to ... you know ... but the thing would bend in the middle.”

  “That’s strange.” Granny’s lips curved into a mischievous grin. “From what I hear, he certainly got his cock up the last night of his life.”

  Jane gasped. She sputtered. Words escaped her.

  Granny jammed her spectacles back up her nose. “You were there, missy. He didn’t fall off his chair. Either he fell off you or he was about to.”

  She finally found her tongue. “How on earth do you know?”

  Granny grinned. “You think servants don’t talk?”

  Damnation. Did Mama know? Did Beatrice know? “I trusted Griggs. I thought he was the soul of discretion. He assured me—”

  “Ha!” Sudden sympathy filled Granny’s faded blue eyes. She nodded at a bedside chair. “Sit down before you fall down.” Jane sank onto the chair. “You’re safe. Don’t worry. I hear things the fancy snobs in this house will never hear. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You were there.”

  She could never lie to her grandmother. For one thing, she would never get away with it. Actually, she felt a sudden rush of relief at the prospect of letting it all pour out. “Oh, Granny, it was all just horrible! He was parading around the room, showing off, if you know what I mean. And then—”

  “Did he poke you?”

  “Did he what?”

  “You heard me. Did he get it in or not?”

  “He did not get that far.” She took a thoughtful pause. “At least not that time.”

  “So, he has poked you before?”

  “Well ... last week he ... sort of.”

  “You mean his lordship was a stuffer?”

  Struck with the absurdity of their conversation, Jane clapped her hand over her mouth and started to giggle. “You could say that, yes, he was a stuffer, but he managed to stuff it in just a little bit.”

  Granny raised her eyebrows. “Just a little bit and you think you’re still a virgin?”

  Strange, how she could talk about the most intimate things with her grandmother and remain at ease. With anyone else she would die of embarrassment. “Granny, the truth is, last week he sort of stuffed it in, as you so quaintly put it, but only the once, and then just barely. So there is no possible way—”

  “Hog wash. You cannot be a little bit of a virgin. Either you are or you are not, and you definitely are not. You could have a bun in the oven right now.”

  “I do not believe it.”

  “Time will tell, missy.”

  Granny could not be more wrong, but she would not argue. Time would indeed tell. “At least I have gained us some time. We won’t have to move tomorrow.”

  “That’s the spirit. You will be happy, Jane. I can feel it in my bones.”

  Jane smiled wryly. “There’s only one thing in the world that would make me really happy.”

  “What might that be?”

  “If I could go to America—find Papa—start a new life.”

  “What?” Granny feigned surprise. “You mean you would give up all this wealth and privilege just to go live among the savages?”

  “In a minute—a second. If I had the chance, I would not even have to think about it.” Jane sighed. I can’t do that, can I? I can’t just run off. I have my obligations.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “If I were a man, I could.”

  “Well, you’re not. You’re a woman, and women cannot do as they please.”

  “Even you.” Jane cast a piercing gaze at her grandmother. “Independent though you are, I would wager there have been times in your life when you could not do as you wished.”

  Granny got a faraway look in her eyes, as if momentarily lost in her reveries. “More than you will ever know, my dear.”

  Was that a tear sliding down Granny’s cheek? At any rate, it was time to change the subject. “I wonder what the dower house is like. I’ve never seen it.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.” Granny left it at that.

  Thank God, the funeral was over. Now mourners, fresh from the cemetery, filled the house. Guests milled about wherever Jane looked. Women in elaborate black dresses, men wearing black armbands around their sleeves. The general mood had lightened considerably from the gloom of the funeral. Coming down the stairs, Jane heard animated conversations and easy laughter. Apparently, many of the mourners had managed to recover from their profound shock and grief at the tragic passing of the Earl of Lansdown.

  She joined some of the guests. Soon Lord Rennie strolled up to greet her.

  “My condolences, Lady Lansdown,” Rennie remarked in his usual sincere fashion. He spent the next minutes desperately struggling to extol the supposed virtues of her late husband. Finally she could not stand one more minute. With a furtive shift of her eyes, she searched for a means of escape and noticed Douglas Cartland stand
ing alone in the corner, watching her.

  Rennie turned to follow her gaze. “Yes, I brought Douglas along. He knew your husband back in the old London days when he,” there was an uncomfortable pause, “uh, when he lived there.”

  Jane turned her attention back to her neighbor. “I was surprised he remembered the exact day we met.”

  “Of course he would remember. June sixteenth is the very night he—”

  “The night he what?” She was curious at Rennie’s mid-sentence halt.

  He bit his lip. “Guess I should not say. Something personal, you know. Something I don’t guess Cartland would like bandied about. Is Miss Hart here?”

  “Millicent?” Jane looked about, her gaze combing the crowd for a glimpse of her younger sister. “I don’t see her at the moment, but she must be around somewhere.” Come to think of it, she had not seen Millicent for quite a while.

  “Then I shall look for her. Excuse me, Countess.”

  Jane watched as Rennie wandered off. Poor man. Even if he found her, it would do no good.

  Jane felt someone come up beside her. “Ah, there you are, my dear aunt,” said an oily male voice, “may I offer my sincere condolences?”

  It was odious Percy, the Eltons’ oldest son. Just the sound of his voice made her flinch inside. She wished she could run and hide, but good manners decreed otherwise. She turned to face him, noting his utterly bland appearance. Percy was of medium height, in his middle thirties, and slight of build. His thin, sandy hair and pasty, unhealthy-looking complexion attested to the decadence of his life in London. Jane never cared for his patronizing attitude, and Millicent hated his shifty-eyed, lecherous gaze. The oldest of the Eltons’ five sons, he was still a bachelor. “No woman would have that slimy fop,” Millicent had proclaimed.

  Jane put on her polite smile. “Thank you, Percy. How kind of you, and may I express my condolences to you? I know how you must be grieving the loss of your dear uncle.”

  “I am desolate.” His eyes raked over her boldly. “Keep in mind that I stand by to console you in your grief at any time.” He leaned intimately close, his lips curving into an inviting smile. “When you feel lonely, and I am sure you will, do let me know, dear Aunt.”