Jane’s feelings shot from misery to exaltation at such a rate that she had to hang on to the table for support. She tried to remember Felice’s teaching, which had included instructions on how gracefully to accept compliments from a gentleman you wished to encourage as well as how to repel unwelcome advances, but her mind was a blank. She hung her head and blushed.
She longed to look up at him, to discover whether he cared for her as a woman or whether he considered her a wayward schoolgirl, likely to land in trouble.
‘I must go now,’ he said gently. ‘We should not be meeting in such an irregular way.’
‘Yes,’ said Jane politely, holding out her hand, while inside her a voice cried, ‘I love you, please love me in return.’
He took her hand and raised it to her lips. She was still wearing her dinner gown and her head was bowed so that he could see only the roses in her hair. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up. Jane’s large hazel eyes met his with such a blaze of love that he gave a muttered exclamation and pulled her tight into his arms and bent his mouth to hers.
All in an instant, Jane crossed the threshold into womanhood on a wave of searing passion. As his lips moved against her own, as his arms tightened even more about her, the churning mixture of sweetness and pain, longing and passion inside her made her utter a stifled cry.
Lizzie, lying awake on her pallet, heard the choked sound. She knew that Miss Jane and Lord Tregarthan were alone together in the servants’ hall. She also knew that for some unaccountable reason Rainbird had left them unchaperoned. Lizzie tried to tell herself it was all none of her business, but even down in the kitchens she had heard of Lord Tregarthan’s rakish reputation, and Miss Jane was so very young.
Lizzie decided that if she could get the Moocher to rush into the servants’ hall, then she could race after it and break up whatever was going on. She gave the cat lying against her side an impatient push, but the Moocher had dined well, as well as the servants, on all the rich concoctions MacGregor had prepared and Mrs Hart had refused, and he growled impatiently and snuggled closer to Lizzie.
‘No, you should not, my lord!’ cried Jane suddenly and loudly as Lord Tregarthan’s experienced fingers closed around one breast. Then she murmured huskily, ‘Perhaps you should,’ before turning her mouth up to his again.
Lizzie gritted her teeth. Her duty lay plain before her. She rose and pulled on a cotton wrapper over her shift and made her way into the servants’ hall, coughing loudly and bumping into things to make as much noise as possible. When she opened the door, the couple were standing a little apart. Jane’s mouth looked slightly swollen. Lord Tregarthan looked as unruffled as usual. ‘I thought I heard a noise,’ said Lizzie, dropping a curtsy.
‘It is only us, as you see,’ smiled Lord Tregarthan.
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Lizzie and stood her ground, which she felt was very brave of her. Lizzie had rarely seen any members of the Quality face to face. Usually she got an oddly angled view of them either looking up the area steps or looking down from Alice’s and Jenny’s room in the attic, as it was part of Lizzie’s duties to clean the maid’s room. There was something so terrifyingly magnificent about this handsome lord with the guinea-gold hair and the impeccable evening dress.
Lord Tregarthan gave Lizzie a mocking glance and then turned to Jane. ‘I shall ask your father’s permission to pay my addresses to you when I return,’ he said. ‘Goodnight, Jane.’
He raised his hand, picked up his hat and cane, and then he was gone.
Lizzie smiled with relief. Lord Tregarthan was going to marry Miss Jane, so all was well.
Jane moved past her like a sleepwalker and made her way out of the kitchen.
Lizzie went back to bed, pushing aside the cat, which was now stretched right across her mattress.
‘It must be lovely, Moocher,’ she whispered wistfully, ‘to be allowed to fall in love and get married.’
Number 67 Clarges Street shook with a series of disasters the next day. Captain Hart had left and Felice had left as well, and even the most thickheaded put one and one together and made two.
Joseph told Luke, the Charterises’ footman, Luke told the upper servants clientele of The Running Footman, and so the news that Captain Hart had left his wife spread throughout the world – that is, the only world that mattered, St James’s Square to Grosvenor Square. Who was Captain Hart, anyway? No one had thought to ask before, concentrating as they did on the ‘originality’ of Mrs Hart. Why, said one to another, Mr Nevill had said he was none other than the famous hero of the Nile and Trafalgar – that Captain Hart.
His wife had made him sell out and at last, after a long time of being nagged to death, he had turned and run off with the lady’s maid and good luck to the man! By the time society had breakfasted on hot chocolate and risen from bed at two in the afternoon to face the rigours of a new day, Mrs Hart was socially damned. Originality became vulgarity in the eyes of the ton.
By four o’clock that afternoon Mrs Hart and Euphemia were dressed and prepared to receive callers, including the Marquess of Berry, who was to take Euphemia driving at five.
But no callers arrived. The Marquess of Berry sent a note to say he could not take Euphemia driving as he was otherwise engaged and, alas, was quite sure he would be otherwise engaged for some time. The Marquess had thought this a very delicately witty snub, but to Mrs Hart and Euphemia it was the cut direct.
More letters and cards arrived. Mrs Hart must understand that the invitation to this ball or that rout had been sent in error.
Unfortunately, Mr Brummell had met the Duchess of Devonshire the previous evening and had learned that the snuff box was not a present from Mrs Hart after all. He gleefully added his mite of gossip to the seething cauldron.
Then someone else said that Captain Hart had married beneath him and that Mrs Hart was none other than the daughter of a tenant farmer. Gracious! Society shuddered to think they had allowed such a person within their rooms.
By the time several people remembered that Mrs Hart had been an heiress and although she had made her come-out in Brighton, not London, she had been, and was, a member of the gentry, no one wanted to listen. The farmer’s daughter story was much better.
Mrs Hart had a fit of the vapours and took to her bed. Euphemia, still confident in the power of her beauty, was convinced the whole scandal would soon blow over.
Only Jane was happy.
But even that was not to last very long.
Abraham, Lord Tregarthan’s footman, had called to talk to Rainbird and admire Alice. During the conversation, he produced the note he had forgotten to deliver and laid it on the table. ‘Better put it on the fire and forget about it,’ said Rainbird.
‘You do it for me,’ said Abraham. ‘I keep carrying it about, I don’t know why.’
Heavy footsteps heralded the arrival of the agent, Jonas Palmer. Abraham took his leave. The servants immediately recollected pressing duties. Palmer interrogated Rainbird about the tenants. He had heard the gossip about Captain Hart leaving and wanted to know whether Mrs Hart planned to vacate the house. It might be possible to keep the Harts’ money and rent the house to another tenant for the rest of the Season.
‘Ask her yourself,’ said Rainbird crossly.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Palmer. ‘And I’ll have a talk to her about you. Seems to me you’ve been getting fat and lazy.’ He rose to go. With an exclamation of annoyance, Rainbird went off to his pantry. Palmer saw the note addressed to Mrs Hart, picked it up, and carried it upstairs. Joseph was sent ahead to request Mrs Hart to see the agent.
But Mrs Hart sent down word that she was much too fatigued. Palmer left the note on the silver tray in the hall and left. Alice, seeing the note, thought it was a new one, as she was sure Rainbird had thrown that one from Abraham on the kitchen fire. She took it up to Mrs Hart, who was lying in bed, half drugged with laudanum.
Mrs Hart read it in amazement. It was marked Monday, the day before, but without a
date. At least he had had the decency to state that his intentions were merely to discuss business with Captain Hart. He must be unaware of the fact that the captain had left.
But Jane had been going about with a dreamy smile on her face – insulting to her mother, who felt Jane might at least show some natural feeling over the disappearance of her father, not knowing that Jane was too much in love to realize quite what was going on. The idea of bringing her strong-willed younger daughter down a peg was irresistible. Mrs Hart sent for Jane.
One look at the glowing happiness on her daughter’s face was enough to tell Mrs Hart that Jane had again been misled by Beau Tregarthan. She heaved herself up against the pillows and fixed her daughter with a cold eye. ‘Has Tregarthan been giving you the impression that he meant to call on Mr Hart with a view to asking permission to pay his addresses to you?’
‘Yes, mama,’ said Jane.
Something stabbed at Mrs Hart’s never-too-active conscience. The girl looked beautiful, the shining, wonderful beauty of a woman who knows she is loved. But, like most miserable people, Mrs Hart wanted to spread the misery about.
‘Then you are mistaken,’ she said harshly. ‘I have here a note from Lord Tregarthan in which he says his reason for calling on Mr Hart is purely to discuss a business matter. It is clear he thinks he may have given you the wrong impression.’
A dark shadow crossed Jane’s face. ‘May I see the letter, mama?’
Mrs Hart tossed it on the bedcover and Jane picked it up. A hot tide of shame washed over her. She had allowed him such familiarities; she would have allowed him more had not Lizzie appeared on the scene. With a choked sob, she crumpled up the note and fled from the room.
Jane longed for her father for the first time in her life. He would know what to do, of that she was sure. But he was gone, and there was no one else to turn to. She dared not ask Rainbird for advice, for that would mean telling the butler of her own shameful behaviour and she was sure Rainbird would be shocked.
So she nursed her grief to herself, longing for Beau Tregarthan to return so that she could tell him how much she despised and hated him. All Euphemia’s nasty gossip about him burned in her brain.
For two whole days, the house in Clarges Street fell silent and became as shunned as it had been in previous years when the full weight of the bad-luck curse had been on it. Mrs Hart went into a decline, the last resort of a genteel lady making a bid for flinty-hearted society’s charity.
Jane had cried until she could cry no more. But after the gloomy two days, the rainy weather, which had suited her mood, changed. Bright sunlight washed the London streets. And Mr Nevill came to take her driving in the Park. The fact that Mr Nevill was Lord Tregarthan’s closest friend did not deter Jane from accepting his invitation. She felt she could not bear the mourning atmosphere of the house any longer. The full impact of her father’s desertion had finally hit her. She could not in her heart of hearts blame him for leaving, only for disgracing them all by taking Felice.
Mr Nevill was an easy-going escort. He was blunt and direct and had none of the social graces of his friend. He quickly found out that Jane Hart was very good company provided Lord Tregarthan’s name did not cross his lips, something that puzzled Mr Nevill greatly, for Lord Tregarthan had told him to keep an eye on Jane and had given out all the signs of a man deeply in love for the first time.
Euphemia was not left to mope in the house either. The reported size of her dowry was enough to encourage several gentlemen to brave society’s disapproval, and although the Marquess of Berry was still absent, there were enough young men present to restore Euphemia’s amour propre.
Mr Bullfinch divided his time between his work in the City and his social life in the West End. He stayed most nights at his club because it was often too late in the evening to face the journey back to his home in Streatham.
He was determined to find a wife. He was sure a marriage based on mutual appreciation and affection would be successful. Already Clara’s ghost was becoming a pale wisp of a thing. The visit to Clarges Street had been a mistake. The love letters, the very sight of the place, had brought all his old obsession and agony racing back. So long as he stayed away from anything that might remind him of Clara, he was convinced he would soon forget her.
As if the Fates had decided to mock this decision, he found himself faced with Mr Gillespie, who was strolling down St James’s Street just as Mr Bullfinch was emerging from Brooks’s. Mr Bullfinch experienced that familiar surge of impotent fury he always felt on the rare occasions when he met the doctor. Of course Gillespie could not be blamed for failing to find the reason for Clara’s death, but still. . .
‘How fares the world, Bullfinch?’ called Mr Gillespie cheerfully.
‘Middling,’ said Mr Bullfinch. ‘Where are you bound?’
‘I’m bound for the nearest chop house to find something to eat and then I am going to call on a Mrs Hart in Clarges Street.’
‘I know the lady. What is wrong with her?’
‘I have not yet seen her.’
Mr Bullfinch hesitated. ‘Look,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Mrs Hart’s youngest daughter, Jane, has been poking and prying into the death of Clara Vere-Baxton. Seems convinced it was murder. Do not encourage her. I have been extremely distressed already by her curiosity. She is very young and means no harm, but perhaps if she brings the matter up, you might dampen her interest.’
‘Most certainly I shall,’ said the doctor angrily. ‘Her suspicions are an insult to my professional ability. Good day to you, Bullfinch!’ The doctor walked off down the street in a temper, thumping his gold-topped cane against the paving stones as he went.
When the doctor called at Number 67 Clarges Street that afternoon, it was to find Mrs Hart lying in a darkened bedroom with the windows firmly closed. He had heard the gossip about Captain Hart leaving her and correctly, but privately, diagnosed an acute case of injured pride. He prescribed some brightly coloured innocuous pills and recommended that she should get as much fresh air and sunlight as possible. The parks, he said, were good places for a little daily exercise. Mrs Hart thought of hard eyes and hard faces staring at her in the Row, moaned, and turned her face into the pillow.
Mr Gillespie quietly left the room and said to Rainbird, who was waiting on duty outside the open door, that he would like to see one of the daughters, preferably the younger one, who might have more time than the elder to care for her mother. He had heard of Euphemia’s great beauty and would have liked to see the girl for himself, but, on the other hand, an opportunity to talk to Jane Hart and stop her from harbouring stupid suspicions about the death of Clara was most important.
Rainbird led him down to the front parlour, served wine and biscuits, and went to fetch Jane.
Jane looked curiously at Mr Gillespie as she entered the room, Lord Tregarthan’s description of ‘a waiter with sore feet’ leaping to her mind. He had a pleasant, deferential smile and manner, but his eyes were hot and angry and restless. He told Jane bluntly that he believed Mrs Hart to be perfectly well although her nerves were overset, adding it was imperative that Jane saw to it that her mother had plenty of fresh air and sunlight as well as a plain diet.
Jane said she would do her best.
Mr Gillespie surveyed her steadily. ‘I have been in this house before,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Jane. ‘You see, I heard all about Clara Vere-Baxton’s death.’
‘A great tragedy,’ said Mr Gillespie. ‘She was very young and very beautiful.’
‘And you could not find any cause of death?’ asked Jane eagerly.
‘None whatsoever.’
‘But there must have been some cause.’
‘Not known to medical science, I assure you. May I point out to you that such matters are hardly the business of young debutantes.’
‘You are impertinent.’
‘I am merely telling you, you would be better to leave things you do not understand alone. I have attended His Majesty. It is not for
you to cast doubts on my ability. I am ordering you here and now to put the matter out of your mind, or it will be the worse for you.’
Jane looked at him sharply. ‘Are you warning me?’
‘Yes, I am warning you,’ said the much-goaded doctor. ‘I gather you have already caused a great deal of distress to Mr Bullfinch. You are a very clumsy little girl,’ he added with some venom.
Jane’s temper flared. ‘Let me tell you this, Mr Gillespie,’ she said coldly. ‘I am convinced there was something strange about Clara’s death and I will not rest until I have investigated the matter further.’ She rang the bell and asked Rainbird to show the doctor out.
‘Oh, how silly I am,’ thought Jane when he had gone. ‘I don’t care a fig about Clara Vere-Baxton anymore. I only wish this terrible pain at my heart would go away.’
When Mr Nevill called a half hour later, Jane persuaded him to take Mrs Hart with them to the Park and then spent an exhausting hour abovestairs talking her mother into getting up and dressed.
At last Mrs Hart allowed herself to be helped into the open carriage. As she had painted circles under her eyes and put heavy white blanc on her face in order to win the doctor’s sympathy, she indeed looked a figure of tragedy.
Once more she became an item of interest to the ton. After all, no one else in London had supplied such an amusing source of gossip as Mrs Hart and they had quite missed her. The stories of her wealth and genteel background quickly ousted the farmer’s daughter one and she was gratified to receive many kind enquiries after her health.
On the following day, cards and invitations began to arrive again. Mrs Hart rallied amazingly. It all went to show that a husband was not of much use anyway.
ELEVEN
I confessed to my physician that there was something on my mind which agitated me so violently, that I could find no rest . . .
HARRIETTE WILSON’S MEMOIRS
The fact that Jane Hart had been told to leave the mystery of Clara alone, by Lord Tregarthan who had abused her innocence, and by Mr Gillespie whom she had taken in dislike, made her all the more determined to find out more about it.
Plain Jane Page 13