Back in Society (The Poor Relation series)

by Beaton, M. C.

Jamie laughed. ‘This I find hard to believe. You always court married matrons so that you never need to have any fear of marriage.’

  ‘There was something very special about her. Tiens! When our eyes met, I could hardly drag mine away.’

  ‘So when do you meet this paragon again?’

  The comte spread his hands in a Gallic gesture of resignation. ‘Who knows? Perhaps when the Season begins, I shall find her.’

  ‘Are you so sure she will be there?’

  ‘Her clothes were of the best.’

  ‘She could be the daughter of a rich Cit.’

  ‘The old gentleman with her was no Cit. In fact, I could almost swear I had seen him before.’

  ‘You will amaze the hopeful mamas at the Season if you decide to put in an appearance. They’ve been after you for years.’

  ‘I am thirty-two, old but not in my dotage.’

  Jamie looked at him with affection. ‘I always wonder why you never married.’

  ‘Too busy having fun, too busy making the money. My feckless parents, God rest their souls, escaped the Terror with only their jewels. As soon as I came of age, I took what was left and gambled on the Stock Exchange, to great effect, as you know. It was my pleasure to take them out of that sordid lodging-house in North London and transfer them to a life of comfort in the West End.’

  Jamie shook his head. ‘I still don’t know how you became so wealthy so quickly. You would occasionally disappear for months on end and then reappear, more plump in the pocket than before.’

  ‘Business acumen,’ drawled the comte. ‘But you are not married yourself, hein? How do you account for that?’

  Jamie sighed theatrically. ‘A broken heart. But you know about that. When we first became friends five years ago, it was the very first thing I told you.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Miss Fiona of the Highlands, who preferred a Scottish lord double her years and a life in a draughty castle. Mark this, my friend, she has probably got the chilblains all over, elbows like nutmeg graters and a red nose from drinking strong spirits to keep out the cold.’

  ‘Oh, I forgot about her this age. She comes to London with her husband, Lord Dunwilde, for the Season.’

  ‘And you will break her heart in revenge? That is what always happens in the romances.’

  Jamie flushed guiltily because that was exactly what he dreamt of doing. ‘Fiddle,’ he said aloud. ‘I shall join you at the Season and together we will hunt down your beauty.’

  Harriet, Duchess of Rowcester, sat in the ‘staff’ sitting room and looked about her with pleasure. ‘How good it is to be back,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘And how good to see you in looks,’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘We are so sorry about the death of your child. I lost all mine, one after another. But life goes on and you are still young and strong. You will have more.’

  ‘Enough of my problems,’ said Harriet hurriedly. ‘When do I meet this Lady Jane?’

  ‘We just call her Jane – Jane North. Jack has gone to fetch her. She is very beautiful, yes, but so downcast and sad that you may find the idea of sponsoring her a hopeless task. How was she today, Sir Philip?’

  ‘Less dull than usual,’ said Sir Philip. ‘We went to the tea-gardens in Chelsea and you should see the waitress there. What shoulders!’

  ‘Spare the ladies,’ complained the colonel. ‘If you spent the time ogling some waitress, then I have no doubt Jane will be more in the megrims than usual – if that is possible.’

  Jack opened the door and Jane made her entrance. She was wearing one of her new gowns of pale blue muslin cut low at the neck. Her glossy hair was elaborately dressed.

  Head held high, she looked around the room and then her eyes fell on Sir Philip. ‘I have thought about your strictures, sir,’ she said, her eyes flashing, ‘and I take leave to tell you you are an insensitive toad.’

  She then stared around in surprise as Miss Tonks began to giggle helplessly. The colonel and Lady Fortescue were laughing openly, as was Mr Davy. Sir Philip had a malicious grin on his face.

  The colonel clapped Sir Philip on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done it, Philip. She’s come to life.’

  ‘Enough! Enough!’ said Lady Fortescue. ‘Jane, my dear, come here and make your curtsy to Her Grace, Harriet, Duchess of Rowcester.’

  Bewildered by the response to her acid remark to Sir Philip, Jane nonetheless took in the beautiful and elegant figure of the duchess for the first time. She curtsied low. ‘I beg your humble pardon, Your Grace, I did not know there was anyone else present.’

  ‘You may call me Harriet and I shall call you Jane. We shall no doubt be a great deal in each other’s company during the Season.’

  ‘The Season, Your . . . Harriet?’

  ‘Did Miss Tonks not tell you? I am to bring you out. We shall have such fun.’

  ‘Fun,’ echoed Jane, and then she sat down suddenly and began to cry. Harriet, suddenly overcome with longing for her dead child and absent husband, began to cry as well.

  Sir Philip marched to the door. ‘If this is your idea of fun, then I am going to Limmer’s to get drunk!’

  THREE

  It is charming to totter into vogue.

  HORACE WALPOLE

  The next day Jane could hardly believe that she was going to have a Season after all. Not that her opinion had been asked. Harriet appeared to consider the matter settled and this beautiful duchess did not seem to think it at all odd that she would be chaperoning a fraud. Perhaps as she had previously worked at the Poor Relation and had probably been subjected to all sorts of adventures, the unusual to her had become everyday.

  Jane stopped her packing, for Harriet’s carriage was to arrive in an hour’s time to take her to the duchess’s town house in Park Lane.

  She walked to the window and opened it and leaned out and looked down into Bond Street. It was early afternoon and the Bond Street loungers were just starting to go on the strut. A gentleman with a club-foot was heading in the direction of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. Jane felt her interest quicken. Could this, then, be the famous Lord Byron? It was well known that Lord Byron, like other gentlemen of the ton, took boxing lessons. The art of boxing was considered a must for any gentleman of fashion. Thomas Assheton Smith, when Master of the Quorn, after a battle in Leicester Street with a six-foot coal-heaver, clamped raw steak on both black eyes and sent his defeated opponent a five-pound note for being the best man who had ever stood up to him. Some foreigners landing at Dover were amazed to see a Lord of the Treasury, also just arrived whose ministerial box had been taken away from him by customs-men, lashing out with his fists to regain it. Bottom, that quality in which Sir Philip had found Jane so notably lacking, was highly prized during the Regency.

  After the man she believed might be Lord Byron had disappeared, her attention was caught by three dandies walking arm in arm along the pavement, indifferent to the passers-by whom their stately progress was crowding into the kennel. They were formidable figures with their wide-brimmed glossy hats, their spotless white starched cravats so tight and high that the wearers could scarcely look down or turn their heads, their exquisitely cut coats worn wide open to display waistcoats – from left to right – of buff, yellow and rose. Then there were the skin-tight pantaloons, or ‘Inexpressibles,’ gathered up into a wasp-waist; the fobs, jewels, chains and spotless gloves; the whitethorn cane to hint at the lands from which their incomes derived; and the wonderfully made boots whose surfaces shone like black glass.

  Outside the perfumer’s opposite, a carriage was setting down a fashionable lady. Like a lot of her peers, the high-waisted fashions gave her a sort of hoisted-up look. She glanced up at the hotel and Jane, drawing back a little so as not to be noticed watching, saw that her face had an odd look, a cross between vacuity and insolence. She was soon to learn that this was the London look.

  Her thoughts were in a jumble. She could not quite believe that, for the present time anyway, she was safe from tyranny. But she would need to be very brave and enjoy as
much of each day as she could. For sooner or later her father would find her and bring with him the terrible Miss Stamp, and Jane shuddered at the thought of the dreadful punishments that woman would enjoy meting out.

  She stayed so long buried in her thoughts that the chiming of the clock finally alerted her to the time, and she scrambled through the rest of her packing.

  John, who, with his wife Betty, was personal servant to the hotel owners, came to carry down her trunks, her luggage having been augmented now by the clothes Lady Fortescue had ordered for her. Jane wished Miss Tonks had decided to come with her. She wondered what Harriet was really like.

  ‘I have decided,’ said Harriet, ‘to start nursing the ground. To that effect, I think we should make calls. As Duchess of Rowcester, I am welcomed everywhere, a fact I still find strange, for when I was cook at the hotel, a Cit’s family would not even have entertained me.’

  Jane looked at the calm and beautiful face opposite, at the beauty of the duchess’s jewels and the elegance of her gown and said, ‘I cannot imagine you working in a kitchen.’

  Harriet laughed. ‘I was very good at it, but I must admit I was relieved when Sir Philip found a chef to replace me.’

  ‘You are very good to do this for me,’ said Jane. ‘I . . . I do not deserve such kindness. I tried to take my own life.’

  ‘Well, to be sure you must have been at your wits’ end.’

  ‘It must seem very odd to you who have so much courage that someone could be so cowardly as to contemplate suicide.’

  Harriet’s green eyes suddenly filled with tears and she turned her head away.

  Jane rushed and knelt at her feet and took her hands in her own. ‘What is it? You must not cry.’

  Harriet took out a handkerchief and dried her eyes. ‘I lost my daughter. She died of typhoid. I was distraught. I still grieve. Yes, I do know what it is like to want to take one’s own life.’

  ‘The duke, your husband?’ said Jane. ‘He is not with you?’

  ‘He is gone to Italy to attend a funeral. We . . . we have become estranged over the death and it is all my fault. When my Emily died, I felt all love, all caring, all affection draining out of me. Dear me, Jane, and I am supposed to be entertaining you. I do not know what came over me.’

  But Jane’s sudden sharp concern for her hostess had made her temporarily forget her own troubles. ‘If the idea of attending events at the Season is too much for you, Harriet,’ she said, ‘we could still contrive to have a pleasant but quiet time and we could talk often about your poor Emily. One must have someone to talk to.’ She sighed. ‘I never did, you see, and that is perhaps what magnified all my problems out of proportion.’

  Harriet smiled. ‘Rise. Or you will get a cramp kneeling at my feet. No, a few balls and parties will entertain me. We shall go on a call to a certain Mrs Haggard, a friend of my husband, who is bon ton. She has a daughter, Frances, to puff off, and so she will know all the eligibles. How are your water-colours? One must have a portfolio to show gentlemen callers.’

  ‘I believe my painting is adequate. Painting, books and music were my only escape.’

  ‘Pianoforte?’

  ‘Again, quite good, I think.’

  ‘And your singing voice?’

  ‘Not good at all, I am afraid.’

  ‘But you know how to receive and entertain gentlemen?’

  ‘I have had experience of entertaining my father’s friends, yes.’

  ‘I understand from my friends that you are pretending to be staying with some old nurse and that you have forwarded money to her and letters for your father.’

  ‘Yes, they are most kind. I must find some way to repay them for their generosity. My new gowns were so expensive, they made me blink.’

  ‘But you must have been aware of the high cost of dressmaking?’

  Jane shook her head. ‘A dressmaker came from the nearby town at home to fit me. The gowns were made and the bills sent to my father.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Harriet. ‘There is always some way to repay the poor relations!’

  ‘The hotel owners? And yet they appear to be wealthy.’

  ‘They lived through a series of adventures, I can assure you. Since my marriage I have been kept informed of everything that has happened by Miss Tonks and Lady Fortescue. Now you must change and look your best.’

  Jane went thoughtfully off to her room. She found a lady’s-maid waiting for her who introduced herself as Mary. ‘You are Her Grace’s lady’s-maid?’ said Jane. ‘Perhaps you should attend to your mistress first.’

  Mary curtsied. ‘I am your lady’s-maid, Miss North. I was elevated in station today from housemaid. If it please you, miss, I am perhaps not as practised as most lady’s-maids, but I am willing to learn.’

  Jane submitted to her ministrations, her brain in a turmoil. So much had happened to her emotions. She remembered her fury at Sir Philip and blushed. All he had spoken was the truth. How selfish she had been! And now here was Harriet, despite her great grief giving up time and money to bring out an impostor. But it was not Sir Philip’s criticisms which had brought Jane to life, but her deep concern for her hostess. Wrapped all her young life in her own misery, Jane had never been able to look out from her confined world and see any misery in others.

  She resolved to do her very best to please this Mrs Haggard. She could only hope the lady would like her.

  But from the moment she entered Mrs Haggard’s saloon and made her curtsy, her heart sank. Mrs Haggard’s cold, rather bulbous eyes raked her up and down. Then she delivered herself of a contemptuous sniff before turning away to introduce her daughter, Frances. Frances was a small girl with a great quantity of brown frizzy hair, a snub-nose, and a large mouth. There were four other matrons in the room. Harriet drew Jane forward and introduced her. Hard eyes stared at Jane’s beautiful face. One of the matrons only gave her two fingers to shake.

  ‘Come and look at my sketches,’ said Frances.

  Jane obediently followed her to the end of the long, dim room, leaving Harriet, the matrons and Mrs Haggard in a little island formed of chairs and a table next to the fireplace.

  A desire to do her best for Harriet prompted Jane to say in a low voice, ‘Did I do something wrong, Miss Haggard? I appear to be the subject of intense disapproval.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ said Frances. ‘You do not have to look at these boring old drawings. I simply want to talk. It is because you are beautiful and that means you are competition. The others there also have daughters to bring out. Any moment now, Mama will bring out the list of eligibles and the others will take notes and know to whom to send a card to a ball or rout. But you look quite clever as well. Are you?’

  And Jane, reflecting on what she now saw as her gross lack of gratitude in that she had tried to commit suicide and then, having been saved from death, had not put herself out very much in any way to thank her benefactors, said, ‘I think I am rather stupid.’

  ‘Well, that shows you are clever. Only very clever people can afford to say they are stupid. I need your help.’

  ‘In what way, Miss Haggard?’

  ‘Call me Frances, for we are going to be such friends.’

  ‘We are?’ Jane was half amused, half taken aback.

  ‘Oh, yes. We must combine forces. I have worked it out very carefully. The minute I saw you, I thought: If I make a friend of her and keep close to her at balls and parties, she will attract the gentlemen, and as she cannot dance with them all, they will be obliged, through politeness, don’t you see, to turn to me and ask me.’

  ‘Your remarks are very flattering, Frances, but I do not consider myself beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, but you are. You could do with a little animation. I know it is fashionable to be poker-faced, but I notice that young ladies with animation are considered attractive. I note these things, don’t you know, and write them all down. Then I study my notes as a student studies his professor’s teachings.’

  ‘Do the other ladies go to su
ch efforts?’ asked Jane.

  ‘What are you talking about, Frances?’ called Mrs Haggard.

  Frances jerked open a portfolio. ‘Miss North is advising me on how to better my technique with putting a wash on paper, Mama.’

  ‘Very well.’ Mrs Haggard turned back to her guests.

  ‘No, I do not think so,’ said Frances, turning back to Jane. ‘I hope not, for then I will have the edge, don’t you see? I have already selected my beau. I saw him driving in the Park and asked Mama who he was. She said he was a Mr Jamie Ferguson and not at all suitable.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He is reported to be in love with a Scottish lady, Lady Dunwilde, and he is best friend of the rackety Comte de Mornay, who goes about breaking hearts and never getting married. I made a sketch of him. See, I have hidden it between the one of this boring cottage and this dreary tree.’

  The rather foxy features of a gentleman looked up at Jane.

  ‘You are awfully good,’ said Jane.

  ‘Yes, I am, aren’t I? But Mama does not know that. Ladies should not be clever at anything to do with art. They are expected to confine themselves to pretty sketches. So this, then, is Mr Ferguson. So you must flirt with him and attract him to your side and then spurn him quite dreadfully so that he will turn to me for consolation. He is usually with the French comte. This is he.’

  She slid out another sketch. Jane looked down at the man she had seen in the tea-gardens in Chelsea. ‘You do not approve of him?’ she asked Frances, for the comte’s handsome face had a sinister cast.

  ‘No, I do not. How can Mr Ferguson consider marriage with such a friend always near him?’ She lowered her voice even more and leaned forward so that her frizzy hair tickled Jane’s cheek. ‘You will help me, will you not?’

  Jane laughed and Harriet, at the other end of the room, turned and smiled. A small triumph to report to her friends at the Poor Relation.

  ‘I think you are a romantic. You have written a play in which I shall attract this Mr Ferguson, make him fall in love with me, then jilt him so that he turns to you. I do have it correct?’