Plain Jane

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘You silly boy!’ raged Rainbird. ‘Why did you not leave them where they were?’

  ‘I ’eard the capting comin’ and I got frit.’

  ‘Give them to me,’ sighed Rainbird. ‘They are probably just letters Miss Jane has been receiving from someone.’ He took the package of letters and turned it over. It was tied with ribbon and wrapped around with one sheet of blank paper that concealed the name of the addressee.

  Rainbird went wearily up the stairs. He paused in the hall, listening to the buzz of voices in the front parlour, and assumed the captain was still talking to Felice. He hesitated, longing to listen at the door, but finally he shrugged and went on up to Jane’s bedroom. He strolled in without first scratching at the door, and then stopped in dismay. Jane was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair.

  ‘I am very sorry, Miss Jane,’ said Rainbird. ‘I did not hear you return and the bells did not ring, so I assumed . . .’

  ‘Mama is with papa,’ said Jane. Her mother was so busy questioning him in the front parlour as to what he was doing talking to Felice, thought Jane, that she had not had time to disturb the servants. ‘What have you there?’ she asked.

  ‘These letters were found by Dave, the pot boy. The cat escaped and he pursued it into your room. It jumped on the desk and a drawer sprang out. Dave should have replaced the letters. I am sorry.’

  Jane stood up and went to the desk and examined the little drawer. Thoughts raced one after the other through her head. It was a secret drawer. What if the letters gave a clue to Clara’s death? Rainbird would not let her read them if he learned they did not belong to her. If they had been sent by Mr Bullfinch, then Rainbird would – correctly offer to return them to that gentleman.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Rainbird,’ said Jane with her back to him, praying he had not examined the letters himself. ‘I would be grateful if you did not mention finding them to my mother.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Rainbird, placing the letters on the top of the desk. ‘But a word of caution, Miss Jane. I hope you are not encouraging some unsuitable young man to write to you. I do not recall any letters for you coming either through the post or being delivered by hand.’

  Jane forced a laugh. ‘These were sent to me while I was in the country,’ she said. ‘Simply a girlish friendship. Her letters are vastly amusing. I hid them, for Euphemia takes delight in prying into my affairs.’

  ‘Good night, then, Miss Jane,’ said Rainbird.

  ‘Good night,’ said Jane.

  She waited breathlessly until his footsteps could be heard descending the stairs. Then she lit more candles and sat down and untied the ribbon binding the letters.

  She hesitated. It seemed awful to read someone else’s correspondence. But perhaps the letters were very old and the person who had sent them was now dead. It would do no harm to make sure. Besides, how could she return the letters, supposing the writer were still alive, if she did not find out who had written them?

  She opened the first letter and began to read. Colour flamed up into her face. The words seemed to scorch the very paper. She did not need to look at the signature to realize they were from Mr Bullfinch.

  ‘My darling Clara,’ he began, before plunging into such a cry of passion that Jane went hot and cold by turns. Even to her innocent mind, it became clear that Mr Bullfinch had known Clara more intimately than any gentleman had a right to know a lady before marriage. With shaking fingers, she opened the others and read them as well.

  There was no doubt about it. Mr Bullfinch had been obsessed with Clara and had feared desperately that she no longer loved him.

  Jane wondered what to do. It would embarrass Mr Bullfinch quite dreadfully if she returned the letters. But would not he perhaps betray some sign of guilt? Only look at what he had written in one of them – ‘If you are not to be mine, I will make sure that no other man has you.’

  Somehow, Jane decided, she must see Lord Tregarthan as soon as possible and ask his advice.

  A frown creased her brow. She wondered why her father had wished to speak to Felice alone. What an odd business! Jane was suddenly too sleepy to wonder any more about the letters or her father’s behaviour.

  She fell asleep to the sounds of a waltz tune drifting through her head.

  NINE

  He wanted to be happy, he expected it, or he would not have married her.

  Under all this selfish shunting of the responsibility of home happiness on to the woman’s shoulders, lies a deep justifying truth – it is her business – and the fact that some of nature’s laws, such as gravitation, are at times extremely irritating, does not, however, make them inoperative.

  ANNA A. ROGERS

  All at once, life became very flat and dull for Jane Hart.

  Lord Tregarthan did not call to pay his compliments the day after the ball, but sent his servant instead with his card. That servant was Abraham, who found time to scuttle down to the kitchen to confess to Rainbird his failure to deliver that earlier note.

  Rainbird pointed out that Abraham was unlikely to be found out now and to let the matter rest. Abraham stayed to flirt with Alice, greatly cheered by her response to his overtures. Alice thought him a very nice young man, but that was all. She encouraged his sallies out of a vague feeling of pique towards Rainbird. She had not forgiven the butler for taking Felice to the play. If he was interested in taking out any female, then Alice felt it should have been one of them – even Lizzie.

  Mrs Hart became too involved in buying new gowns for Euphemia and basking in Euphemia’s success with the Marquess of Berry to take Jane anywhere. Mrs Hart also failed to notice that her husband was furious with her.

  She had berated him in her attempts to find out why he had chosen to see Felice in private. But, despite her taunts, accusations, and insults, Captain Hart had refused to say one word in explanation. By the time Felice herself had offered the quiet reason that Mr Hart simply wanted to know the meaning of some French phrases, Mrs Hart had forgotten about the whole affair, and also that she had called her husband a useless nincompoop, loudly regretting the day she had ever married him.

  Only Rainbird noticed the blaze of anger in the captain’s eyes when they rested on his wife. Jane was too absorbed in fretting over her housebound existence, and worrying about when she would see Lord Tregarthan again, to remark on it, and Euphemia was too self-absorbed.

  As Mrs Hart’s vanity over her daughter’s success grew, so did her pettish temper. She now considered herself a leader of the ton. Things were bad enough, but one morning, a week after the ball, Mrs Hart received a letter from the patronesses of Almack’s refusing Euphemia vouchers.

  Mrs Hart and Euphemia screamed and sobbed and would not be comforted. Only the recollection that the Marquess of Berry was to be their guest at dinner that night made them pull themselves together.

  Mrs Hart had also asked Lord Tregarthan. She was sure he had no interest in Jane whatsoever, but London society had proved jealous and curious enough to show it believed there to be a gratifying tendre. Although Euphemia and her mother knew he was to attend, neither had thought to inform Jane.

  Dinner was to consist of roast sirloin of beef, boiled shin of beef, boiled leg of mutton with caper sauce, a couple of rabbits and onion sauce, salt fish boiled with parsnips and egg sauce, puddings, jellies, fruit and nuts. MacGregor had also been asked to produce several side dishes ‘in the French manner’, Mrs Hart hoping to nonplus the cook, whom she did not like. But MacGregor had once worked in Paris and was delighted to have an opportunity to demonstrate his skill.

  Felice helped Jane into the glory of the finest gown she, Jane, had ever worn. It had been delivered from Leonie – ordered for Jane when Mrs Hart had thought Lord Tregarthan was going to propose. It consisted of a pink gossamer satin slip with a Grecian overdress of white gauze fastened at the front with silver filigree. The bottom was trimmed with five inches of Vandyke lace. It had Spanish slashed sleeves confined with silver filigree buttons and cord. Her hair was
dressed à la Grecque and ornamented with Persian roses. Shoes of white satin spotted with pink foil, long pink French kid gloves, and a white crepe fan completed the ensemble.

  To her surprise, her mother entered and presented her with a pearl necklace and bracelet. ‘We have a beau for you tonight,’ said Mrs Hart, ‘so I wish you to look your best.’

  Jane’s heart began to hammer. ‘Who is he?’ she asked tremulously.

  ‘A Mr Bullfinch, my dear. A banker. Very wealthy.’

  ‘Mr Bullfinch!’ Jane stared at her mother in horror. What an incredible coincidence! ‘But he is the man who was engaged to poor Clara.’

  ‘And who is this poor Clara?’

  ‘Why, Clara Vere-Baxton, the lady who was found dead in Green Park.’

  ‘Oh, I heard something about that, but it was centuries before. Mr Bullfinch is a good catch.’

  ‘So good that I may end up in the Green Park as well!’

  ‘Jane! Either you behave prettily or you may keep to your room.’

  Jane sighed. It would be lovely to stay in her room but, on the other hand, it was a wonderful opportunity to find out more about Mr Bullfinch. ‘I am sorry, mama,’ she said meekly. ‘I shall behave.’

  ‘See that you do!’ said Mrs Hart grimly. ‘And make sure Felice returns those pearls to me. You are only to have them for this evening. I hope this dinner is a success. I feel I have been too lenient with the servants here. Rainbird is all very well, but Joseph is dithery and lazy, MacGregor is a savage, and Mrs Middleton a fool.’

  ‘Mama,’ ventured Jane. ‘I understand you had little hope of securing a husband for me, so why have you suddenly decided to produce Mr Bullfinch?’

  Mrs Hart looked at her younger daughter and frowned. Gossip had it that Mr Bullfinch was unattached, very rich, very plain, and practically of the merchant class. For all those reasons, she thought he would do very well for Jane.

  Mrs Hart, overwhelmed with social success despite her snub from Almack’s, had begun to regard herself as a member of the aristocracy. She felt sure Mr Bullfinch would be well aware of the honour done to him and would be only too eager to find an excuse to ally himself with such an illustrious family.

  She said, ‘I always have your best interests at heart. Mr Bullfinch approached me at the Quesnes’ ball. He was most gracious, and Lady Quesne urged me to further my acquaintance with him. If the Quesnes favour him, then he must be good ton.’

  She patted Jane’s cheek and left.

  Jane took out Mr Bullfinch’s letters. Perhaps if she memorized one phrase and dropped it into the conversation, she could watch his reaction.

  There was one line Mr Bullfinch had obviously written from some place in the country: ‘The ice is now frozen on the ponds and lakes, hard and glittering in the sunlight, hard and glittering like your beautiful eyes when you look upon this, your devoted slave.’

  It seemed rather hard to think about working that into a general conversation. Jane was about to search for another when the door opened and Felice stood there, waiting to take her down.

  Jane was not prepared for her own reaction on seeing Lord Tregarthan again. He was standing in front of the fireplace, talking to Mr Bullfinch, as she entered. Candlelight glinted on his burnished hair and his blue eyes turned in her direction with a mocking, caressing look. Jane flushed to the roots of her hair and stood stock still. Felice had to give her a gentle push in her back to nudge her forward.

  Jane made her curtsy to Lord Tregarthan. There was a roaring in her ears. She realized Mr Bullfinch was asking her whether she had enjoyed the Quesnes’ ball. With a great effort, she pulled herself together and answered that she had.

  ‘I have not seen you about,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘I sat through Mrs Gulley’s musicale and I went to Summerses’ rout, but never a sign of you, although I did see your sister.’

  ‘I have not been out at all,’ said Jane, gratified that he had missed her.

  Mr Bullfinch smiled at Jane. Jane blinked up at him in surprise. He had a delightful smile, a warm smile, which lit up his face and gave him great charm. ‘Perhaps I may persuade you to come driving with me, Miss Jane,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bullfinch,’ said Jane.

  ‘But not tomorrow,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘Tomorrow is mine, is it not, Jane? Do remember you promised to allow me to take you out.’

  He smiled down at her in that new caressing way of his, and Jane felt her knees turn to jelly. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, dropping her fan, and then bumped her head against his as they both stooped to pick it up.

  ‘Your roses have slipped,’ he said, gently touching her hair and straightening a battered blossom. ‘There! Now you look like the gypsy princess again.’

  Mr Bullfinch looked curiously from one to the other, bowed and walked away, and was soon engaged in conversation with Euphemia. The Marquess of Berry had not yet arrived.

  ‘What is Tregarthan about?’ hissed Mrs Hart behind her fan to her husband. ‘He cannot want her himself so why does he not leave her alone? I only invited him to annoy that cat Mrs Wentworth, who is trying to secure him for one of her pasty daughters.’

  ‘Mayhap he wants to marry her,’ said Mr Hart curtly.

  ‘Nonsense. He is merely amusing himself.’

  ‘I do not think he is such a fool,’ said Mr Hart. ‘He would have a warm, loving wife in Jane, which, believe me, is far better than being married to a discontented fashion plate.’ This last was said with considerable venom, but Mrs Hart had noticed the arrival of the Marquess of Berry and had fluttered off in his direction.

  ‘You had not said anything about taking me driving,’ said Jane shyly to Lord Tregarthan.

  ‘Ah, but I meant to. I should have realized you would be kept prisoner. Do you not wish to go driving with me?’

  ‘I should like it above all things. You see, I have something important I must tell you . . .’

  ‘Dinner is served,’ said Rainbird from the doorway.

  The company, which consisted of six guests and the Harts, moved into the dining room.

  Lord Tregarthan was seated opposite Jane with Euphemia on one side and an elderly lady on the other.

  Jane had Mr Bullfinch on her right and a Mr Woodforde on her left.

  Chambermaid Jenny had been exalted to the dining room in order to help Alice and Joseph. Beautiful odours rose from the side dishes placed before them. MacGregor had excelled himself.

  Now although Mrs Hart’s faith in Lady Doyle was waning fast, old habits and loyalties died hard, and Lady Doyle had told her that all the ton complained about their servants and it was accounted a fascinating topic of conversation.

  Mrs Hart was taste deaf as some people are tone deaf. She picked gingerly at a dish of plaice covered in a delicious sauce à la Matelote. She all at once assumed that MacGregor would not know how to make French sauces, so she gave a shiver of disgust and looked behind her for Rainbird, who had gone to fetch a cordial for one of the elderly guests. She called Joseph.

  ‘Take these side dishes back to the kitchen.’ Then, raising her voice, added, ‘My cook is a Scotch savage and has no idea how to cook French dishes. But you will find his plain cooking very good. Of course, our own staff in the country, which is very large, is very well trained.’

  Lord Tregarthan raised his eyebrows and waved Joseph away as the footman tried to remove two of the side dishes at my lord’s elbow. ‘I must have a debased palate,’ he said, ‘for I swear your chef cooks like an angel.’

  Mrs Hart hesitated. But it seemed such a grand, tonnish thing to do, to complain about one’s cook, that she gave a brittle laugh and said, ‘Well, we shall leave those beside you, Lord Tregarthan. Joseph, take the rest away immediately.’

  Joseph piled up the dishes and carried them out.

  Mr Bullfinch was talking to Jane about the horrible winter they had all endured. ‘Ice everywhere,’ he said with a shiver. ‘I became tired of having to crack the ice in my water cans before I could wash in the morning.’


  Jane saw her opportunity. ‘That reminds me of something I read,’ she said. ‘“The ice is now frozen on the ponds and lakes, hard and glittering in the sunlight, hard and glittering like your beautiful eyes when you look upon this, your devoted slave.”’

  And then she shrank back before the blaze of anger in Mr Bullfinch’s face. Lord Tregarthan tensed in his chair, watching them curiously.

  ‘Miss Jane,’ said Mr Bullfinch in a low, urgent undertone. ‘You have obviously found some letters I wrote to Miss Vere-Baxton. How dare you read my personal letters? How dare you!’

  ‘I am sorry,’ whispered Jane, all at once appalled at the enormity of what she had done.

  ‘Was it not enough,’ went on Mr Bullfinch in that dreadful undertone, ‘to lose the only woman I ever loved without having some child read my letters and then mock me?’

  Tears welled up in Jane’s eyes. Lord Tregarthan was about to break with convention and address a remark to her across the table when the door of the dining room opened with a crash and MacGregor stood bristling on the threshold.

  Had Rainbird returned with the dishes, he would have known how to placate the fiery artist of the kitchen.

  But Joseph, whose feet were hurting him, had merely thumped down the tray and said, ‘Mrs Hart don’t like your cooking.’

  MacGregor had begun to tremble with rage. He tore off his apron and skull cap and headed for the stairs.

  Now, still shaking, he glared at the assembled guests and finally focussed on Mrs Hart at the end of the table.

  Rainbird appeared behind him, alerted by Joseph, who had rushed to tell him that MacGregor was on the warpath. ‘Now, Angus . . .’ he began, but the cook was beyond reason.

  ‘Whit was the matter wi’ thae dishes?’ he demanded.

  Mrs Hart glared back. Like many of the English of the period, Mrs Hart hated the Scotch with a passion. Bigotry and bad temper raged in her bosom.