The Last of Lady Lansdown

by Shirley Kennedy

  “What a lofty plan. Quite admirable, but for a woman as attractive as you, it won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “The men won’t leave you alone. Not with that voluptuous figure and that come-hither look, which is there whether you want it to be or not. Then there’s that marvelous hair and the way your whole face lights up when you laugh.” He sat back, his gaze sweeping over her. “You’re quite fetching, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Your naivety is part of your charm.”

  “I am not naïve. I cannot imagine why you would think so.”

  He laughed softly. “I’ll tell you something you don’t know. The reason you don’t know is no one will tell you, fearing such an unseemly disclosure will shock your so-called delicate sensibilities.”

  “Really? What?” So intriguing. She could hardly wait to hear.

  “Have you ever heard of Spanish Fly?”

  Spanish Fly. Hearing the words brought an instant sense of something sinful, forbidden, to be spoken of in whispers. “I’ve heard of it, just vaguely.”

  “You do know what an aphrodisiac is?”

  “Of course.” Actually, she wasn’t sure, aside from knowing it was not to be discussed in polite society.

  “Spanish Fly is a powerful aphrodisiac, used for both men and women to enhance their sexual desire, and in a man’s case to ... shall we say, provide the assistance he needs. Your husband used it the night he died.”

  For a moment his words didn’t sink in. When they did, she gasped. “You mean he, he—?”

  “A small vial of Spanish Fly was found in the pocket of his dressing gown. Obviously, he took it to enhance his performance. Obviously, it worked. I can only guess, but I suspect his inability to satisfy you must have been driving him wild. I’m sure part of his motivation must have had to do with his wish to produce an heir, but I would wager a lot of his motivation had to do with his wanting to make mad, passionate love to his beautiful countess.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The servants, of course. Griggs is the one who found the vial. He told your housekeeper, Mrs. Stanhope, who couldn’t wait to pass on such a delicious tidbit to her good friend, Mrs. Shelton, who’s Rennie’s housekeeper. Mrs. Shelton told Rennie’s valet, who passed it on to Rennie, who passed it on to me.”

  She shook her head with annoyance. “It’s not fair. The servants know everything.”

  “Of course they do. By the way, the consensus of opinion is, some of that Spanish Fly was meant for you. If not that night, then probably the next. The earl, being the complete bastard he was, wanted it for himself first. Half of it was gone, so obviously he took too much, way too much, and that’s what killed him. Spanish Fly is a deadly drug that should be used with extreme caution. Consider yourself fortunate he didn’t slip a few drops into your wine.” He smiled with amusement. “For more than one reason.”

  The very thought that some of the aphrodisiac was meant for her caused her to slap her hand to her mouth. It remained there while she gazed at him with increasing horror. “I’m shocked ... I never dreamed ...” Realization struck. “So that’s why—”

  “That’s why the old boy’s flagpole was raised to full mast when he ‘departed this mortal coil,’ as Shakespeare wrote.”

  She opened her mouth to say, “That’s not respectful,” but an image of the earl and his flagpole flashed through her mind and laughter bubbled out instead. She couldn’t help it. He started laughing, too. Suddenly, with a movement so swift she was hardly aware of it, he was sitting directly in front of her, his laughter stilled. “You must have been driving him mad. I can only imagine how desperate he was to make love to you and frustrated that he could not. Am I right?”

  “I suppose.” His openness had opened the door to a flood of memories. “He tried so hard and got so angry when he couldn’t, you know. It was horrible. He screamed and cursed at me. He ... well, enough. He’s gone now. They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

  Douglas nodded with understanding, as if he knew she would prefer to change the subject. In a sudden move, he reached up and pulled off her blue riding hat. “I’ve seen enough of that silly hat.” He held it up and tweaked one of the high-standing feathers. “If I let go, do you suppose it will fly off on its own?”

  Again, she had to laugh, all bad memories forgotten. “It is a bit silly, isn’t it? It’s the height of fashion, I can assure you.”

  “So much for fashion.” He dropped the hat next to her discarded boot. Moving closer, he ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders and gripped them tight. His nearness bothered her so much that she gulped and became aware that she was breathing hard.

  She found her voice. “You’re a long way from my foot.”

  “Really?” Suddenly his lips were on hers, surprisingly gentle. So surprised was she, she stiffened and didn’t respond. He lifted his lips and murmured, “You will kiss me back, Countess.” His arms encircled her, one hand in the small of her back. She could feel his uneven breathing on her cheek. “Let’s try that again,” he said softly into her ear. He pressed his lips to hers again, at first caressing her mouth more than kissing it. The feel of it made her go all soft inside, and instead of pulling away, as propriety demanded, all she wanted was to melt into him. She pressed back, surrendering herself to the warmth of their kiss until he lifted his lips from her mouth and murmured an “Umm” in her ear, then a shaky, “Ah, Countess.”

  She slipped her hands behind his neck and murmured an answering, “Umm,” before eagerly locking her lips to his again. Such a delicious sensation, as if she were floating in a dreamy intimacy with this man whom she found deucedly attractive, despite herself. She hardly noticed when with one swift, sure movement he lowered her to the blanket so that she lay prone on her back, looking up at him.

  “Why am I doing this?” she murmured.

  “Because you like it.” His lips skidded over her chin and down her neck where his tongue found the hollow of her throat. There it halted and swirled in tantalizing circles, sending a warm wave of delicious feeling clear to her toes.

  “Sir Archibald would not approve of this.” She spoke without the least bit of conviction.

  “Sir Archibald would be scandalized.” His voice was husky. His hand had lain against her side. Now, slowly, it slid up her side and over her breast, where it stopped and rested. The pleasure from its warmth radiated through her jacket and cambric shirt clear to her flesh. He bent to kiss her again. While he sprinkled kisses liberally on her cheeks and nose, she felt his fingers making their way beneath her jacket, then slowly pulling aside first her shirt, then the soft batiste chemise she wore underneath. His fingers found the top of her breast and started rubbing with a feather touch against her bare skin. She really ought to stop him, but it felt too good. Then one finger slid from the top of her breast to her nipple and pulled it gently. An indescribably warm feeling flowed through her as he kept pulling, over and over again and her nipple grew hard beneath his hand.

  “I want to see you,” he whispered. She lay beneath him, powerless to move, while he spread open her jacket and shirt. With both hands he slid her chemise down over her breasts so they lay completely exposed. “Beautiful.” His brown eyes were murky with desire, his breathing hard. He bent his head and sucked on her nipple. She gasped with shock and pleasure. Then he placed his warm, wet mouth on her breast and slowly ran his tongue over and over again across her erect nipple. She gripped his shoulders, hearing a low groan coming from her own throat, the feeling so intensely delectable she forgot time and place, forgot everything except a driving need that made her want to spread her legs so he could do what he wished with her.

  Still busy at her breast, he reached for her hand and guided it to his manhood. She clasped it through the cloth. How amazingly hard it was, about to burst from his breeches. She couldn’t help but ask, “Spanish Fly?”

  “Good God!” Choking with laughter, he raised his head. “When th
e right time comes, you will find I have no need of Spanish Fly.”

  A mooing sound came from across the river. Jane turned her head and saw a row of cows standing behind the wooden fence, all gazing in their direction. A cow at the end of the row mooed loudly, raised her nose high and gave her a look that seemed to say, bad countess. “What am I doing?” The mood was broken. Bad enough the cows could see her, but what if somebody came along? She would die. She pulled up her chemise and moved to a sitting position. “Apparently we’ve been entertaining the cows.”

  He sat up, too. “We shall find a more secluded spot next time.”

  Pulling shut her shirt and jacket, she rose unsteadily to her feet, her riding habit disheveled, one boot off, her hat lying on the ground. Good God. What had she been doing? She, the esteemed Countess of Lansdown, rutting around in full view of every cow in the area. “There won’t be a next time, Douglas Cartland.” She bent to retrieve her hat and started to lose her balance.

  He caught her arm and steadied her while she recovered. “So you don’t want to see me again?”

  “Never would be too soon.”

  “No more picnics? No more riding?”

  “I’m going home.” She marched over to where Beauty was tethered to a mulberry bush.

  He followed her. “You need a leg up.”

  She wanted to refuse but knew better. She could never manage by herself. “Very well.” After she untied Beauty, she lifted her foot so Douglas could cradle his hands and give her a boost. Instead, he clasped her waist. Standing intimately close, he lifted her like a feather into the saddle. From her waist he trailed his hands down her hips, along her thighs and down her skirt. He looked up at her, his mocking smile back in place. “You haven’t seen the last of me.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  He looked down to where her skirt was slightly hiked up so her boots were exposed and clicked his tongue. “What a scandalous display.” He jerked her skirt down, carefully adjusting it to cover her boots. “That’s better. Gracious me, what would people say?”

  “Oh, you are impossible.” She nudged Beauty and rode away, riding crop in hand. She should have given him a good whack with it, she thought as she rode back along the river trail.

  When she reached the stables, she hastily dismounted and instructed Timothy to rub Beauty down. Ordinarily, she liked to do it herself, but time was flying and she was later than usual. Hastening up the path to the mansion, she hoped no one was around. If ever there was a time she wanted to slip into the house unobserved, this was it. She needed to compose herself, as well as get back into her mourning clothes.

  No such luck. When she slipped into the entryway, she encountered Griggs, who appeared to be waiting for her. “Your family awaits you in the drawing room, m’lady.”

  Drat and damnation. She looked down at herself. A big grass stain decorated her skirt. God only knew what her hair looked like or if her hat was on straight. “Tell them I shall be there as soon as I go up and change.”

  She started toward the staircase but Griggs spoke again. “Your mother said it was most urgent. She wanted to see you the instant you arrived home.”

  Had she and Douglas been seen? No, that was impossible. No one but the cows could possibly have seen them in their isolated picnic spot and yet ... A dreadful image filled her mind: Sir Archibald peering at them through the bushes, shocked and horrified, his glasses about to fall off his nose. Oh, God no! Her stomach clenched tight. Why had she done such a stupid thing as to allow Douglas Cartland such liberties? She wanted to run to her room and hide, but, of course, it was too late. Nothing to do but face whatever fate held in store for her and make the best of it. “Thank you, Griggs. I shall go right in.” She removed her hat, ran a hand over her hair and went to find out what her mother considered so urgent.

  Chapter 8

  Jane stepped into the drawing room, finding her mother, sister and grandmother engaged in excited chatter. “Hello, everyone.”

  “Jane!” her mother called when she spied her, “do come sit down. You will never guess what has happened.”

  No word about her not being in mourning? No looks of condemnation because someone had seen her with Cartland? She seated herself, completely mystified. “What has happened?”

  Mama held up a letter. “This just arrived from America. It’s from your father.”

  When the words sank in, Jane’s heart swelled with relief. “So he’s alive?” A lump had formed in her throat.

  “Read for yourself.” Her mother handed her the letter.

  My Dear Amelia,

  How can I begin to apologize for my weakness and cowardly actions? How can I begin to tell you how much I have missed you and the girls since I left those two long years ago? I can only say I still love you dearly. Not a minute has gone by that I have not missed you and wanted you all by my side.

  I have done well here in this young country, where opportunities abound. After a short apprenticeship with a shoemaker, I opened my own shop in New York City, with living quarters above. If you will forgive a bit of immodesty, I have prospered. I am doing so well, in fact, that I can now afford to send for you and the girls, provided they have not married, of course. I cannot promise you the life of luxury we once had, but if my love, caring and devotion still mean anything to you, then you will be rich and doubly blessed for the rest of your life.

  Know I love you dearly, my dear wife, and Jane and Millicent, too. I yearn to see you again and will never cease striving to make up for the harm I have done.

  I have sent a draft for £50 to our bank to cover the cost of passage for the three of you.

  Longing to see you again ...

  Your devoted husband,

  —John Hart

  Jane dropped the letter to her lap, tears welling in her eyes. “Papa is safe! What wonderful news.” She leaped up and gave her mother a hug. “I’m so happy for you. I knew in my heart he hadn’t truly deserted you.”

  Millicent clapped her hands in delight. “Isn’t it wonderful? Imagine, he owns his own shop and is prospering.”

  Even Granny had to smile. “I suppose that rascal isn’t all bad. At least he’s finally done the right thing.”

  Jane sat down again, her thoughts scattered. “This is so sudden. I can’t even think. But ... America! Why not? I cannot imagine how wonderful it would be to see Papa again and live in a land where everything is new. Mama, you must be so excited and thrilled at the thought you’ll soon see Papa again.”

  Her mother tossed her head. “Are you daft? Do you honestly think I would set even one foot on one of those leaky boats and go live in a land full of savages and uncouth colonists?”

  Jane was taken aback. “They’re not colonists anymore, Mama. We lost the war, remember? Now they’re Americans. But I don’t understand. Papa broke your heart when he left. I thought you would be overjoyed to hear from him. I thought you would want to be with him.”

  “I’m glad he’s not dead, if that is what you mean.” Mama’s expression softened, but only for moment. “Did you know they have no titles in America? How, I ask you, is one supposed to know who is important and who is not?” She thought a moment. “Who would know you are a countess?”

  “In America they wouldn’t care if I was a countess. I wouldn’t care, either. I just want to see Papa again.”

  “So do I.” Millicent’s eyes glowed with excitement. “They say America is the land of opportunity. I could find myself a rich young man there.”

  “I’ll come, too,” said Granny, “if these old bones can survive the Atlantic.”

  “I am not going,” Mama said firmly.

  “Why?” Jane was astonished. She would have guessed her mother would want to sail on the next ship across the Atlantic.

  “How could John think I would actually want to be a shoemaker’s wife living over some shabby shop? Besides, this is no time to even consider leaving England. Have you forgotten what we’re waiting for? I’m pinning all my hopes on your coming through for
us, Jane. Chatfield Court is our home, not Beatrice’s. The very thought of her taking over galls me no end. Besides, Millicent must have her dowry and marry a proper Englishman.”

  “She would not need a dowry in America. Mama, please reconsider?”

  Granny cackled. “You won’t change Amelia’s mind. As far as she’s concerned, the world is England and England is the world. There’s nothing beyond, and you won’t convince her otherwise.”

  “Your grandmother is absolutely right.” Mama regarded Jane, and after a long moment, a look of enlightenment came over her face, followed by a frown of disapproval. “Why are you wearing that blue riding habit when you’re in mourning?”

  Jane’s heart sank. How could her mother even think of such a minor matter at a time like this? “Because I don’t have a black one.” That was as good an answer as any, and besides, at this point, she didn’t care. She had just learned her father was alive—a wonderful surprise. She also realized how deeply her mother had been affected by Papa’s leaving. She remembered Mama as she used to be: generous, always laughing, always a stickler for the rules yet willing to try something new. That woman was gone forever. Her spirit was broken that terrible day she learned her husband deserted her. She would never be the same.

  The only way I can help her is to have a baby. A matter that was now in the hands of God.

  * * * *

  Douglas Cartland sat at the table in the elegant dining room of Chatfield Court, doing his best to avoid the inane conversation presided over by that Elton woman. Judging from the grandness of her attitude, you would think she was already crowned and anointed the new Countess of Lansdown. At the moment, she and several ladies present were engaged in a heated debate over whether or not a girl should wear more than seven feathers in her headdress when presented to court. Before that, Sir Archibald, the Elton’s insufferably boring solicitor, had pontificated for what seemed like hours on the superior importance of London banks as compared to smaller banks in the provinces. Douglas tried not to yawn, allowing his bored gaze to examine the twenty guests seated around the table. At the head sat James, the dull, insipid next Earl of Lansdown. Maybe. To James’ right sat Millicent, a pretty creature, to be sure, but lacking her sister’s wit, depth and compassion. To be fair, who could compare to Jane? Rennie sat next to Millicent. He’d been falling all over himself the entire evening trying to get her attention, but the shallow wench hardly knew he existed.