Red Jack's Daughter

by Edith Layton

  The door to the salon stood open so that the gentleman caller could be seen from any part of the hall by the omnipresent Bartholomew. The butler could then perceive if anything were to go amiss. It was not as though anyone truly expected a gentleman to go mad with lust and give way to beastly appetites if left alone with a young female. But since even that unlikely eventuality had to be forestalled, Society decreed that it was not proper for any man to remain in seclusion with any young lady of breeding if there were no responsible female in the house—unless, of course, they were related by blood, law, or marriage.

  However, Miss Eastwood, without even having heard the butler’s cautionary cough, after only moments of tearful indulgence upon Thomas Preston’s shoulder, decided for herself that she should not remain so close to him. Not for reasons of propriety, but because of her sudden realization that she was behaving very missishly.

  She soon eased herself away from him, returned his handkerchief, and sat and composed herself. Then she explained in disjointed phrases the cause of her tumultuous greeting. He listened quietly, his face and body still, though his mind ranged far.

  At length, when he felt he had heard the whole of it, he sat across from her and asked, “So Leith forbade you going to Brussels to collect your legacy?”

  “I suppose he did, in a way,” Jessica answered, cocking her head to one side as the notion caused her to slow her jagged breathing. “Though not in so many words. But blast it, Tom, it is true that if I went, Ollie would feel bound to as well, and he is, after all, no longer a youth.”

  “Of course,” the blond gentleman answered quickly, “but then, I suppose Ollie could have deputized me to accompany you, and you know that I should have been glad to lend my aid.”

  Jessica sat up straight. That thought had never occurred to her, and her face lit with enthusiasm, but after a moment’s thought she drooped again. “Still, Alex is right, perhaps Mr. Jeffers can act more swiftly by himself. ‘He travels fastest who travels alone,’ you know. And it is true that the fact of my skirts would have meant that I could not be quite the easiest of traveling companions for Mr. Jeffers. He’s such a stuffy, pompous fellow. Why, you know I’d be glad to bed down anywhere just like any campaigner, but he would doubtless want to slow his steps or book accommodations ahead just because of my sex.”

  “There is that,” Tom acknowledged, “but then I could have perhaps reassured him on that head. With two men as protection for you, he might not have felt so constrained.”

  “But it’s done,” Jessica said miserably. “I cannot go back on my word now and I’ve told the fellow to get on with it.”

  “Are you sure it is too late Jess?” Tom asked quietly. “I can pack and be ready to go within the hour. You know, old soldiers travel light. And I’m sure you can as well. I don’t think you’re the sort to worry about whether you have enough matching gloves or whether your slippers need their buckles reshined.”

  Jessica chuckled softly and he went on with a bit more enthusiasm, “You’d like the Continent, Jess. And it would be a good change for you. In fact,” he said, watching her face brighten, “it would be far better for you than sitting here in London, worrying yourself to flinders. It’s always better to go out and meet one’s fortune than to sit by and let others do for you.”

  Jessica held her breath and then let it out slowly. “It is too late. For there’s the bother of convincing Ollie and Lady Grantham and Mr. Jeffers and, Lud, Tom, I’d have to have another go-round with Alex. No, I can’t go back on my word in any case. But I wish you had spoken when you were here earlier, Tom, for it is a capital idea.”

  “I, too,” he said savagely. He rose, turned his back to her, and then wheeled around on his heel, a look of great frustration upon his face.

  “Truthfully, Jess, I cannot like what has been going on here. I know Ollie and Lady Grantham mean the best for you, but it has been hard for me to hold my tongue, seeing how they are misusing you.”

  “Misusing me?” Jessica echoed in bewilderment. “Oh, Tom, no. It is just that they don’t know me so well as you do. They mean it all for the best, I think.”

  He began to speak and then let out his breath in an explosive sigh. “Jess, Jess,” he finally said, shaking his head, “they have not been honest with you, and it pains me to have to sit back and only watch, having no right but the right of an old friend.”

  “Well, I suppose it was thoughtless of Lady Grantham not to tell me that she knew Red Jack. But then, Tom, it wasn’t quite right for him not to tell me he spent so much of his time in London, either. Even though I was only a child, and a girl, at that.” Jessica brooded as she thought of her recent hurt.

  “I don’t mean that, Jess,” Tom said, sitting again, but dragging his chair up close to her, lowering his voice and speaking earnestly. “Of course Red Jack didn’t tell you. Nor did I. It is my thinking that he came to London so often because he was looking for another mother for you. Yes,” he said quickly, watching her face as the thought penetrated and a gleam of hope appeared in her eye, “he must have felt that you needed a woman to look after you, and where was he to find a wife? At home in our tiny village? Or on the battlefield? It is my opinion that he was searching for a life’s mate. But as you well know now that you’ve been here awhile, where was a fellow like your father to find the sort of caring responsible female for the job here among the gilded flowers of town? And could he have told you of his intentions, only to dash your hopes each time he failed? No, Jess, never believe Red Jack betrayed you.”

  Jessica felt as though some crushing weight had been lifted from her spirit. She gave Tom a look of such pure enraptured gratitude that he felt silent, only watching her radiant face.

  Then he spoke again, slowly and hesitantly, “But it wasn’t that I was speaking of. Damn, Jess, you know I’m a bluff fellow and have no sweetened words like all the titled fops and popinjays you’ve been forced to consort with. But, Jess, I’ve got to tell you something.” He paused and went on only after she laid one hand upon his own and urged him to speak.

  He clasped her hand hard, looked her directly in the eye, and said bluntly, “Jess, they’re trying to marry you off.”

  She withdrew her hand as though his were afire. “What?” she asked, disbelieving, her equanimity shattered again after it had so recently been so patiently restored.

  “Oh, it’s true,” he said bitterly. “And the more villain I, for I knew of it from the first. They enlisted my aid in talking you into it as soon as I arrived. You see, they don’t quite believe that Red Jack left you anything of import, even with Mr. Jeffer’s evidence. And they feel that even if he did, a female ought to have a man to take charge of her affairs. That’s why they togged you out so fine and that’s why they’ve been throwing you at the head of every eligible fellow they’ve come across.”

  “But Alex said all they wanted to do was to see me behave as they think a female of my age ought. And that the dresses were for propriety, and the social whirl for something to do...” Her voice trailed off as she thought. She stared at the wall for a moment and then turned her rich brown eyes wide upon him. “Alex too?” she breathed.

  “Alex first, you might say,” he growled.

  “But they can’t ... if I don’t agree,” she cried.

  “As to that, I cannot say. They can’t starve you or beat you, you know,” he said. “This is the nineteenth century, after all. But, Jess, they’ve already changed you out of all recognition with sweet words and reasonings. They’ve played upon your sense of duty and honor. Why, they’ve gotten you to change your style and your mode of life. They’ve gotten you to stay and sit patiently whilst someone else tracks down your legacy. And that was never the Jess I knew. Or Red Jack neither. You are changed already. Who’s to say what they can or cannot do with more time? Ollie is your legal guardian, you know.”

  Jessica rose and stood silently, taking in the truth of his words.

  He stood as well, and took her by the shoulders. “Jess, you shall
always be the same for me, no matter how they deck you out. I know you think of me only as an old friend, but you cannot have failed to see how highly I regard you. I am your friend. I could be more.” He looked at her trembling mouth and began to draw her infinitesimally closer to himself, when the sound of a light cough in the corridor caused him to drop his hands and step back.

  “I only mean to say that you need not feel alone in this. I am here now. And I will always be here to help you.”

  But she scarcely heeded him. She only nodded and said absently, “I know, Tom, and I thank you for your friendship.”

  Seeing how troubled he appeared to be and sensing his frustration, she added more calmly, “And if ever I need it, I will call upon that comradeship. But I need a bit of time to think. This really has been the most disturbing morning. But,” she said with some spirit, “think on it I will, you can believe that. And you needn’t worry,” she said quickly, for he was about to speak, “I won’t peach on you. I know who my true friends are and I shan’t say a word.”

  “I confess that relieves me,” he said, “for I should hate to break company with Ollie, for old times’ sake.” And he added, with a slow menacing smile that made mockery of his next words, “And I should hate Leith to call me out.”

  She laughed with assumed amusement. “Oh, don’t quake, Tom, it don’t suit you. Anyhow, I doubt I’m important enough to be a dueling matter for my Lord Leith.”

  They spoke for a few more moments, and then Tom, becoming aware that enough time had passed for a proper afternoon visit, judging by how often he could heard Bartholomew gently clearing his throat and treading back and forth in the hallway, prepared to take his leave. But before he left, he pressed a card into Jessica’s hand.

  “It is my present address,” he whispered. “Just as a precaution, remember, Jess. Anytime, any day that you have need of me, you can contact me there.” Then he bowed and left her standing bemused in the salon.

  As he strode down the street toward his lodgings, he thought swiftly. It would have been better to have been alone with her longer. But he had returned as soon as he had seen Lady Grantham leave, and he had left only when the butler had made it apparent that overstaying his visit would have been overstepping his bounds.

  He hummed to himself as he walked. So there was a legacy, after all, as well as Ollie’s promised settlement. He would have to add that tantalizing bit of news into his weekly report to his employer Cribb. He almost laughed aloud at the thought of the greedy anticipation the bit about the legacy would be received with.

  Then he chanced to think upon the expression upon Jessica’s face when he had absolved Red Jack of his wenching. And then he stopped humming. He thought that perhaps there might be more advantages to this plan of his than even he had anticipated. For her father had been wrong after all. There was a woman there, somewhere. Perhaps with patience she could someday even be brought to realize it. He grinned at the thought, and though it was only early afternoon, he went off for a celebratory pint for a good day’s work done.

  Jessica could not appreciate the fact that the sun had finally come to clear the morning dreariness, for it seemed to her that there was a red haze about everything that she perceived. If she thought that she had ever been angry before, it was as though she never knew the meaning of the word “rage.”

  As she refined upon all that she had been told, her anger grew. First it was directed at her hostess, and then at the perfidious Ollie, and then at the smooth-tongued, plausible Lord Leith. As she thought of him, her hands curled into claws, then fists. But then, being Jessica Eastwood, her anger turned back again at herself. And there she found the worst blame. Thomas Preston’s consolations were washed away in thoughts of the others that had duped her, and of her own gullibility.

  It was only when Bartholomew, growing uneasy at the sight of his mistress’s young visitor standing stock-still in the center of the salon for so long, entered the room and asked if she might like some tea, that Jessica whirled around to face the exterior world. Her mind made up, her fury became a towering and awesome thing to see.

  “No, thank you,” she said with great care, such underlying force in her soft husky voice that the butler almost winced.

  “I shall be going out,” she said decisively, “as soon as I get my wrap.”

  “But, Miss Eastwood, your maid is with Lady Grantham,” the old servitor protested. “Shall I fetch one of the undermaids to accompany you?”

  “No, indeed,” Jessica said rashly, thinking that she could bear the sight of no inhabitant from this den of liars, even though she knew full well that she ought not to go out by herself, since everyone had told her no lady walked unattended in the streets of London.

  She ran to her room and flung a wrap about her shoulders, and while she hurried down the stairs, she tied her bonnet on with shaking fingers. She paused only once before she reached the door.

  “Bartholomew,” she asked so directly that he had not time to think of his answer, “what is a decent hotel for gentlemen? One where an army officer might stay?”

  “Why, Stephen’s Hotel, miss,” Bartholomew answered automatically.

  “And where is it located?” she demanded.

  “Only a few streets down,” he answered, “to the left. But Miss Eastwood,” he protested, feeling like Pandora, who had let the Furies out by also simply flinging open a door, “what shall I tell Lady Grantham?”

  So many vile answers came to Jessica as she fled the house that she had to bite her lips to keep from voicing any of them. “I shall send word,” Miss Eastwood only paused to say over her shoulder before she reached the pavement and hurried down the street.

  Jessica was so preoccupied by her seething thoughts that she did not notice the curious glances she received by passersby as she stalked along the fashionable streets. She looked quite magnificent, but also decidedly odd. For what the curious saw was a slender young female, dressed in a demure muslin with an ecru wrap, with strands of blazing hair peeking out from under her stylish bonnet, striding along unattended and muttering to herself. She was too well-attired to be a servant girl, too young to be an eccentric, and too modestly robed to be a fancy piece. Just what she was, no one quite knew, but she was worthy of being watched and commented upon. But this she did not respond to, being so intent upon reaching her destination.

  Her first impulse had been to leave, and her second was to do it alone. Thomas Preston had been kindness itself, but she had no wish to encumber him. She would not stay with Lady Grantham a moment longer, neither would she trust Ollie a step farther. She must take matters into her own capable hands, she thought, and the first step would be to procure suitable lodgings. A hotel that would suit a military gent like her father would suit her as well. She would obtain rooms and then return only to collect her maid and belongings. Let Ollie rattle away, she swore to herself, once she was well-ensconced in private apartments, it would be difficult for him to prize her out again. Knowing Ollie, she reasoned, he would argue and protest, but in the end give way.

  Marry me off, she thought, her thoughts blazing brighter than her hair, as if I were some simpering nodcock from the provinces, as if I were a Johnny Raw from the country, ready to fall into wedded bliss with some titled oaf who will take over my life and my fortune? She almost laughed aloud at the idiocy of their plan. And then she shivered at how well they had already lulled and cozened her into stepping along their well-plotted path.

  By the time she saw the dignified entrance to Stephen’s Hotel, she had worked herself into a rare state. So intent was she upon her thoughts that she did not heed the stir she caused as she marched across the carpeted lobby. For Bartholomew had spoken no less than the truth: Stephen’s was a suitable hotel for a military gentleman, but only for officers and men-about-town. It was no place for a lady, not even for a less-exalted female. Few of her sex, except for chars, had even set foot within its portals, and never any unattended.

  As she approached the desk, where a startle
d clerk watched her entrance in dazed fashion, several gentleman who had been lounging about or doing some desultory reading in their chairs, straightened and gaped after her. But in the tunnel vision of rage, Jessica saw none of this.

  “Good afternoon,” she said immediately upon reaching the clerk. “Have you any rooms available?” Impatient with his stupid, uncomprehending stare, she added, to clarify matters, “For this evening. Commencing this evening, I should say.”

  “For whom?” the young clerk managed to reply, hoping he might retrieve some sense from her bizarre entrance into these sacred masculine precincts.

  “For myself, of course,” Jessica stated, “and my maid, of course.”

  By this time, Jessica began to note that her request had quite discomposed the young man, and so she was relieved when he was shouldered aside by a dapper, thin older man, who was obviously the manager of the establishment.

  That gentleman was a fastidious sort who loved his position well, and not the least of his reasons was that it brought him into contact with very few females. For they were of an order that he had never cared for. The sight of Jessica demanding rooms in his hotel made him bristle. Though she was well-dressed and well-spoken, he did not for a moment doubt that she was there to cut up his peace for nefarious purposes. Either she was a tart seeking business within his establishment, or some wild young creature acting on a dare from inebriated companions. In either case, he rose to battle. But since he waged warfare as he did all else, with innuendo and sarcasm, Jessica did not perceive his horrified anger at all.

  “We have no rooms tonight for such as yourself, madam,” he said with a sneer.

  She thought him a very lofty and disagreeable fellow, but thought it reasonable, though regrettable, that so well-known an establishment would be solidly occupied. She shrugged off her disappointment and asked, “That is too bad. But perhaps you can recommend another hotel to me?”

  The manager was staggered at the barefaced insolence of the baggage. He smiled what he felt was a terrible sardonic smile and leaned toward her. “Why, yes, my Lady,” he sneered, “I should think there were several suitable hostelries for you and your maid in Tothill Fields or in Seven Dials.”