Rescuing Lady Jane

by Lydia Pembroke

  “Why do you feel no affection towards me?” she had asked him one night, after her wifely duties were done. Shivering beneath the covers, she had glanced across the room as he dressed.

  He had not even turned as he replied.

  “I have tried.”

  “Was it all an act — your wooing of me?”

  “In part,” he had answered. “I had thought I might come to love you, for you were amusing and intelligent and there was a delightful charm to you that I could not help but admire. It was only when we arrived at Waterford that I realised I could never form a true attachment to you. My heart will forever belong to the woman who came before you.”

  “I can understand that,” she had said softly, “but why must you be so cruel?”

  He had whirled around.

  “Are you not listening to me, Jane? I cannot stand to look at you and think of the woman who should stand in your place. It is easier to punish you for not being her, than to comfort you with false affection.”

  “Then, why come to me each night? Why put yourself through the torment of looking into my eyes, when you loathe me so?”

  He had offered a cold smile.

  “You are pretty enough to be distracting, for a short while.”

  “Surely, Lucy is also pretty enough to be distracting?” She had been treading on treacherous ground, but his brutality had made her bolder. If he was going to punish her anyway, then it did not matter what she said or did not say.

  A scowl had twisted up his features.

  “I would not degrade myself in such a way. You degrade yourself by mentioning such a disgraceful notion. Her flirtations are diverting, I must admit, but I am a gentleman. Lucy is a maid. What vulgar ideas you have conjured in that mind of yours, Jane. Tell me, after all this time and everything I have done, do you still feel a pang of jealousy?”

  “I only thought it might be worthwhile to my soul to have the burden of my so-called duties shared.”

  He had sneered at her in disgust, and walked from the room without another word, slamming the door behind him.

  Although she would never have admitted it to him, his words had crushed her. All her life, she had longed to be someone’s true love. Instead, she had become a bitter afterthought in the heart of a broken man.

  One day, four months after arriving at Lower Nettlefold, she decided that enough was enough. James was not there to forbid her from leaving the house, and the staff did not care how she behaved as long as she kept out of their way. Taking her coat and her scarf, and a pair of winter boots, she stepped out into the crisp cold of the early-January afternoon. Moving around to the back of the house, to follow the banks of the Nettlerush River, she turned left and set out along the well-trodden path.

  The surface of the river had frozen over, though she could make out the rush of water beneath. It was not wide enough to skate upon, though it brought back happy memories of skating across the River Ouse during the winter months, when her family ventured into York. She smiled to herself, recalling the elated cries of the children who had joined her. Her cheeks had been pinched red and her face had been numb, but she had never been happier.

  She walked along at her leisure, enjoying the frosted fields that stretched towards the horizon, and the sleepy willows that bent solemnly towards the frozen water. The trees had lost their leaves, leaving the branches gnarled and skeletal, but she could sense their eagerness for the coming Spring. It shivered through the cold air, bringing a whisper of a promise that verdant life would return soon enough.

  Along the trail, she did not encounter another soul. Instead, her eyes sought out the jaunty hop of blackbirds and robins as they pecked for nourishment, plucking berries from the holly bushes.

  Through a small patch of woodland, she discovered a slumbering hedgehog, balled up beneath a stack of twigs and fallen leaves. She crouched for a moment or two, to observe the adorable creature, before moving along.

  Hedgehogs always reminded her of horse-chestnuts, freshly fallen, before the conkers had split from their green shells.

  Before long, she heard the sound of hammering in the near-distance. Curiosity pressed her on towards it, prompting her to branch away from the main path and take a narrower, less-used track through the tangled undergrowth of another plot of woodland. An eerie stillness settled upon her surroundings as she traipsed through the forest, the intermingled boughs deadening the noise from the outside world.

  Indeed, the trees created the perfect natural tunnel, the exit leading out into a clearing. An old church stood in the centre of the dell, the dark-grey stone mottled with lichen and moss, the roof mostly caved in through years of neglect. All around the forgotten churchyard, several young men toiled away at fixing the ancient masonry.

  They scrambled up and down the wooden scaffolding like monkeys up a tree, barely fazed by the height, as they fixed a new roof in place, slate by slate.

  She watched in amazement, seeing how deftly they worked. It was evident that the old church had once been beautiful, and would be again, with a little of this love and care. An oak tree stood in the churchyard, its branches spreading wide, sheltering the church from the elements.

  “Are you lost, Miss?” a voice asked.

  Jane’s eyes darted towards a young man who was approaching her slowly, opening the wrought iron gate of the churchyard to let himself out. He was tall and naturally athletic, no doubt from years of labouring, with warm eyes the shade of a ripened hazelnut, though flecked with amber. His hair was an autumnal shade of reddish-brown, tousled in unruly curls atop his head. He wiped his muddied hands on a rag as he closed the gap between them.

  “I am not, Sir,” she replied, realising she had yet to answer him.

  “Should you be out here all alone like this?”

  Jane shrugged.

  “Likely not, but there is nobody to mind my absence.”

  “It is not often that I see young ladies, such as yourself, wandering in these woods,” he said, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you certain you are not lost? Might you permit me to escort you back home?”

  “I am quite happy to continue on my afternoon walk. I simply stopped to admire what you are doing,” she explained. “This is such a beautiful building. Truly, it is heart-warming to see that you are giving it renewed life.” The man relaxed and beamed at the compliment so that Jane felt obliged to explain. “Old buildings like this always seem so melancholy in their disrepair, so I felt a desire to pause and watch for a while, to try to envisage what it might look like once you are finished.”

  “Well then, please allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with a kind smile. “I am Mr. Elliott Bevan, the architect on this particular endeavour.”

  “An architect, you say?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “What a splendid skill. Yes, that is most impressive indeed,” she mused, half to herself. “I am Jane Felling, Baroness of Waterford.”

  His face blanched. “My goodness, you really ought not to be out here. I have encountered your husband before. I doubt he would take kindly to you conversing with me in this manner.”

  “There is no cause for concern, Mr. Bevan. He is not at home. Even if he were, I doubt he would notice my absence.”

  Her cheeks felt warm, as she realised that she had spoken too boldly. There was something about Mr Elliott Bevan that made her want to tell him everything. A gentleness about him that invited trust.

  He cast her a curious glance.

  “Are you feeling quite well, Lady Waterford? You are somewhat pale.”

  “As well as can be, Mr. Bevan.”

  “Are you sure I cannot escort you back to your house? Might I send for a physician?”

  “No, thank you. I should like to wander a while longer. I have taken up enough of your time.”

  “I wish you a pleasant walk, Lady Waterford.” He paused uncertainly. “Perhaps, you might like to visit the church again once it is complete? It will look remarkable in the Spring. That is my fervent ho
pe, at least.”

  She smiled. “I should like that very much, Mr. Bevan. I look forward to seeing what you have done to restore this fine building.”

  “That is splendid news.”

  “Farewell, Mr. Bevan.”

  He bowed elegantly. “Goodbye, Lady Waterford. Stay safe on these roads. I do not like to think of you walking alone, but I see I will not dissuade you.”

  “You cannot, though I thank you for your concern.”

  A small chuckle rippled from her throat, taking her by surprise. She had almost forgotten what laughter could sound like, and how it filled the heart with such effervescent joy.

  She carried on along the path which led back to the main trail. As she walked, she glanced back over her shoulder to where Mr Bevan stood. He had not moved from his position, his gaze fixed on her with a steady intensity. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he raised his hand in a wave. She waved back, before continuing on her afternoon walk. Somehow, her body felt lighter, her mind overcome with sudden unexpected elation. Her shoulders seemed less weighted, her secret smile unrelenting as she let the woodland envelop her once more.

  A fantasy was developing in the recesses of her brain. One that she could retreat to when James caused her heart to ache once more. A private world, with Mr Elliott Bevan standing at the centre.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, with James still absent from the house, Jane made her way down to the kitchens. She inhaled the sweet scent of cakes baking, and marvelled at the array of pastry and fresh fruit that had been laid out, ready to cook. Mrs. Carson was the only member of staff in the household that Jane felt comfortable around, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.

  The older woman was plump and ruddy-cheeked, with a mass of grey hair that had been fought into submission beneath a white cap. Her friendly blue eyes lit up as Jane entered the room, causing her to pause in her baking.

  “Lady Waterford, what a pleasure to see you,” she said brightly.

  Jane smiled.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Carson.”

  “And what brings you to this part of the house, My Lady? Might I set out something for you? The serving staff tell me you’ve scarcely eaten in the past week. Is there something in particular that you wished for?”

  “Actually, I was wondering if I might take a batch of your delicious custard tarts for a few friends in the village. I may even steal one for myself,” she said, keeping her story vague. She did not wish to incite Mrs. Carson’s suspicions as to where the pastries might be headed.

  “Why, certainly. I should be delighted to make them for you, My Lady. I must tell you, it’s a grand thing to see you settling in at last. Now, would you care for some coffee and one of these fruit pastries whilst I prepare them? I should very much like to see you eat something. It worries me when people don’t eat.”

  Jane nodded and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.

  “That would be wonderful, Mrs. Carson.”

  Cheered by Jane’s acquiescence, Mrs. Carson set out two buttery pastries, rich with blackberry jam from autumn’s bountiful harvest, and a large cup of steaming coffee that had recently been brewed. The kitchens were warm and inviting, surrounding Jane in a blanket of comfort as she sipped the hot coffee. Here, for the first time, she did not feel like a stranger. She watched as Mrs. Carson busied herself with the tarts, humming a sweet tune to herself as she worked. They spoke of simple matters, discussing the affairs of the village and Mrs. Carson’s family. Truly, Jane almost felt as though she were at home in Egremont Hall, sitting in the kitchens with the cook there, Mrs. Batley.

  How she had loved to sit and watch Mrs. Batley toiling away over the evening’s preparations or baking well into the small hours of the morning to ensure that there was an enticing spread of food for breakfast.

  “You have two sons?” Jane asked.

  Mrs. Carson nodded.

  “Oh yes, My Lady. Grown boys now, both strapping and handsome as the day is long. I brought them up proper, the pair of them. One is hoping to garner a place at Oxford University, whilst the other is content to work at the blacksmith’s. I hope they’ll find themselves good, honest women to start families of their own with.”

  “That sounds like a wonderful dream, Mrs. Carson.”

  “Do you think Clackford House might be hearing the patter of little feet anytime soon? I know you’ve been here longer than his Lordship expected, but it’s a fine thing to see you making the most of it at last.”

  “For the matter of the patter of little feet,” she placed her hand across her stomach. “I do not know when I shall be gifted with that singular joy. I long for it with all my heart. A child would bring me such happiness, I am certain of it.”

  “Children are a wonderful thing indeed, My Lady. I’m sure the Lord will bless you with a littl’un when the time is right. You’re young and in good health. It will happen in due course. Although, you might eat a little more, to invigorate yourself.” She flashed Jane a conspiratorial wink, before placing a third pastry onto the plate before her. “I had no idea you’d made acquaintances in the village, and I’m mightily pleased to hear it. It’s not wise to stay cooped up inside all the time. It can drive a person to the brink of madness, if truth be told.”

  Jane laughed softly. “It can, Mrs. Carson.

  Two hours of cheerful chatter later, and the tarts were set in a basket and ready to go.

  Jane took them gratefully, saying a fond farewell to the kindly figure of Mrs. Carson before she exited the house. Taking the same route she had followed the previous day, she walked along the country path and admired the hardy snowdrops that grew in the shadow of the woodland.

  The world around her smelled deep and earthy, the morning’s frost having thawed and melted into the ground.

  Droplets fell in bulbous beads from the branches overhead, hitting the undergrowth in a muted percussion that provided the music to her stroll.

  Before long, she arrived at the outskirts of the glade where the old church sat. The labourers were hard at work once more, the thump and clang of hammers and tools chiming like gongs as she came to a halt. Mr Bevan noticed her immediately, a smile lighting up his handsome face as he hurried through the gate to meet her. All the previous day’s anxieties seemed to have dissipated from his strong, angular features. In their place, there was only gladness.

  “Lady Waterford, you have returned so soon?” he said, catching his breath.

  “I thought I might bring a gift to you and your men, to reward you for your hard work.”

  She handed him the basket of fresh tarts. He inhaled the sweet, sugary scent, his hazelnut eyes gleaming with boyish excitement.

  “This is much too kind, Lady Waterford.”

  “Nonsense. After such diligence, you must all require a little treat.”

  He smiled widely.

  “You are so very thoughtful, Lady Waterford. I must confess, I wondered if I might see you again on this path.

  “It brings a sense of timelessness, a peace in-fact,” she admitted.

  “I share your sentiment My Lady. You seemed so content walking along it yesterday, and I… well, I hoped you might find yourself upon the same route today. The walks hereabouts are remarkable. If it were not improper of me, I would offer to show you the finest pathways and secret trails that very few are aware of. There is one particular route that leads through the woods on the opposite side of the village, past the old mill. I often walk there myself on Saturday afternoons, and pause on the bridge that traverses the rushing water. I have never known serenity like it.”

  Jane gazed at him in silent awe. He had painted such a lovely picture in her mind.

  “That sounds beautiful, Mr. Bevan.”

  “It is, Lady Waterford.” He cast her a shy glance. “Is your husband still not at home?”

  “He is not.”

  “Is he often away from you?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “He has a great deal of busines
s to attend to. I do not fully understand what it is he does here, but it seems to take up much of his time.”

  “Is it not terribly lonely at Clackford House, without him?”

  “It is far lonelier when he is there.”

  The words slipped out before she could prevent them from escaping.

  A sad expression moved across his striking eyes.

  “I thought you seemed forlorn when you came here yesterday. I told myself it was only a trick of the light, or a lingering case of winter cold that had yet to lift from your humours. I suppose it is not my place to understand the sufferings of someone such as yourself, but I am sorry that you feel such desertion, Lady Waterford. A young lady like you… well, it seems unjust that such sadness should be allowed to touch such beauty.”

  He dropped his gaze as though he, too, had said too much.

  “I have forgotten the last time a gentleman called me beautiful,” she murmured, tears brimming in her eyes. “Please, enjoy the tarts that I have brought for you. I will not disturb your work any longer, Mr. Bevan. I have already stayed long enough. Please, excuse me.”

  Without another word, she turned and hurried back up the track through the woods.

  She did not stop until she reached Clackford House, where she took herself directly to her bedchamber and locked the door behind her. Sinking down in front of it, she held her head in her hands and wept for the woman she had once been.

  Her shoulders heaved as she let out grating, ugly sobs that wracked her entire chest.

  She cried until her eyes itched and her throat was raw — a desperate call to her former self, whose heart would have soared at the compliments of a handsome young man like Mr Bevan. He had been on her mind since their first meeting, and he showed no signs of being easily ignored.