Back in Society (The Poor Relation series)

by Beaton, M. C.

  Harriet was in her private sitting room when Sir Philip was announced. She looked at him half-annoyed, half-amused. ‘It is an odd time to call, Sir Philip,’ said Harriet. ‘I am preparing to receive our callers, the gentlemen who danced with Jane and myself at the ball.’

  Sir Philip’s pale eyes turned thoughtfully in the direction of the little escritoire in the corner of the room. He must distract Harriet’s attention. He could not pretend to suddenly feel faint, for she would simply ring the bell and summon her servants to help. He walked over to the window and looked down into the street. ‘I am concerned about Jane,’ he said. ‘I do not think she should be encouraging the attentions of that comte.’

  ‘Jane is not at all interested in the Comte de Mornay,’ replied Harriet. ‘Why! What is the matter?’

  For Sir Philip had let out a stifled exclamation and was peering down into the street.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘There must be something.’ Harriet went to the window. Sir Philip backed away. Harriet looked down but could only see a footman walking a dog. Sir Philip darted to that escritoire and pocketed a seal, a half-finished letter and a blank sheet of crested paper and thrust them both into his pocket just as Harriet turned round.

  ‘I thought I saw an old friend,’ said Sir Philip airily. Harriet looked at the old man suspiciously. ‘Sir Philip, now I have assured you that Jane is well and not in danger of being seduced by the comte, is there anything else you wish to know?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Sir Philip, backing to the door.

  After he had gone, Harriet rang for her maid. ‘Open the window,’ she commanded. ‘The room is airless.’ The maid opened the window and a brisk breeze blew in and scattered the papers on Harriet’s desk. The maid picked them up and put them under a paperweight. And later, Harriet, unable to find the letter she had started to write to her husband, assumed it must have blown away.

  Jane, although she had had a rigid social training from Miss Stamp, found herself hard put to remember the names of the gentlemen who called that afternoon, with the exceptions of Mr Farley and the comte. The comte only stayed for ten minutes and was polite, courteous, and rather distant. She felt she should be relieved. Instead she found herself irritated with him and decided that his was the behaviour of a mountebank, proposing marriage to her one minute and ignoring her the next. And yet, despite that irritation, she often thought in wonder about her attempt at suicide. Day after day, there seemed to be so much to live for – Frances’s friendship, the kindness of Harriet, the odd feeling of stability given by the knowledge that those hotel proprietors who had saved her life were still interested in her well-being, for Harriet told her that they always asked how she was getting along.

  Pique at the comte’s behaviour made her be very charming to Mr Farley, a fact that Harriet noticed with approval, although she would not have liked the reason for it.

  When Jane left that evening for the opera with Harriet, Harriet said with some amusement, ‘You really are London’s latest beauty. A man across the road was sketching you!’

  Jane flushed slightly. ‘I never thought myself anything out of the common way.’

  Harriet laughed. ‘That is part of your charm. You are a sensible girl. I was glad to see you treat the comte with a certain amount of coolness.’

  Jane, who had thought until then that she had behaved in no particularly remarkable manner towards him, began to wish she had not been so cold. Rake he might be, but the comte, apart from teasing her with that mock proposal, had been courteous.

  ‘Although,’ Harriet was going on, ‘it will do your consequence no harm if he is seen to be paying attention to you. Since I am now sure your heart is in no danger from that direction, I think I may allow him to take you driving. Mr Farley, of course, is an excellent suitor. So sensible!’

  So dull, said a little voice in Jane’s head. So very dull.

  Frances was at the opera in an adjoining box to Harriet’s. Lady Dunwilde paid her a visit at the first interval and drew her aside. ‘Did you give Mr Ferguson my message?’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘And what was his reply?’

  ‘It was most odd,’ said Frances. ‘He just laughed.’

  ‘Ah, he laughed with pleasure.’

  ‘Well, no, it was a sort of mocking laugh, and then he said, “Too late.”’

  Lady Dunwilde bridled. ‘Then you may tell him from me that I have no feelings for him whatsoever.’

  ‘Would it not be better just to ignore him, my lady? Someone as beautiful and charming as yourself does not need to waste time on a heartless young man.’

  ‘He is the same age as I!’

  ‘For sure, for sure. As you wish. I shall tell him.’

  ‘Do that, and I shall call on you tomorrow to hear his answer.’

  ‘But I may not see him.’

  ‘He is just arrived in the box opposite, with the Comte de Mornay.’

  Frances looked across the lighted theatre and saw Mr Jamie Ferguson watching them avidly. He did not look at all like a man who had been put off the love of his life with lies. She felt very young and silly. Here she was being used by this harpy to set up an adulterous affair. And if Mr Ferguson was the type of man to want an adulterous affair, then she did not want to have anything to do with him. Lady Dunwilde left. Other young men crowded into the box and Frances forced herself to sparkle and flirt and did it to such good effect that the comte, levelling his quizzing-glass across the theatre, said to Jamie, ‘Miss Haggard is in looks tonight. She is a fetching little creature.’

  But Jamie only saw Frances as a conduit for his hopes and desires. The performance was beginning again. He would need to content himself until the next interval to find out what it was that Lady Dunwilde had said.

  But at the next interval, he could not get near Frances. Her box was full of callers and she made no effort to speak to him alone. He would need to wait until the ball after the opera.

  The comte was finding a similar difficulty in getting near Jane when he visited Harriet’s box. Mr Farley was there and the comte heard that tiresome man remind Jane of their engagement to go driving on the following day. He was surprised to find himself experiencing a bitter, sour feeling which, after some quick thought, he identified, to his surprise, as jealousy. He slipped out of the box and summoned one of the opera footmen and told him to go into the Duchess of Rowcester’s box and tell Mr Farley his mother wished his company immediately. He waited until he saw Mr Farley leave, then re-entered the box and sat down quickly next to Jane.

  ‘Alone at last,’ he said.

  ‘That is because the performance is about to begin,’ said Jane.

  ‘It is?’ He settled himself more comfortably in his chair. ‘Too fatiguing to return to my own box. I shall stay here.’ Jane looked to Harriet for help, but Harriet’s eyes were fixed on the stage. Jane was barely aware of the last act, only of the handsome figure next to her, aware that his eyes were often fixed on her face. Her breathing began to become rapid and shallow and she was relieved when at last the performance was over. But it seemed the comte was going to accompany them through to the ball, offering an arm to each and smiling all around in a sort of proprietorial way.

  Harriet, noticing all the little envious glances cast in their direction, decided to indulge the comte. In Jane’s averted glance, Harriet only read that Jane did not particularly care for the comte and decided it would be safe to use his escort to bolster Jane’s standing in society. It did a lady no harm to be seen to be courted by a rich rake, provided that lady was well-chaperoned.

  For her part, Frances knew the moment had come when she had to put an end to the lies. So when Jamie immediately approached her and asked permission to take her to the floor for a waltz, she sadly agreed. ‘I have a confession to make,’ she murmured. He bent his head and smiled indulgently, ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Telling lies,’ said Frances.

  ‘Bad lies?’

&n
bsp; ‘Very bad.’

  ‘Do you want to tell me?’

  ‘I must. Lady Dunwilde did not say any of those cruel things. She wishes to have an affair with you.’

  His face darkened. ‘What? What is it you say?’

  ‘I was to tell you there was still hope.’

  ‘Why did you lie to me? Why?’

  ‘I do not approve of adultery. I do not like Lady Dunwilde.’

  She raised her eyes to his but he was looking across the room to where Lady Dunwilde was dancing and his face was suddenly radiant. ‘I am sorry,’ whispered Frances.

  ‘Eh? Oh, all forgiven, I assure you.’

  At the end of the dance, after the promenade, he escaped after surrendering Frances up to her next partner. As she was led off, Frances watched him cross the floor to claim Lady Dunwilde’s hand for the dance, saw the quick exchange, saw the baleful look Lady Dunwilde cast in her direction, and tried to persuade herself she had done the right thing. Despite her distress, she noticed that Jane appeared to be enjoying the comte’s company. They were sitting out, drinking lemonade, and Jane did not seem to be aware that Clarence Farley was glowering at them from behind a pillar.

  ‘So although you tease me about my rakish disposition, Miss North,’ the comte was saying, ‘I am glad you can tease me about something. Do you think rakes can ever reform?’

  ‘I am not well enough up in the ways of the world,’ said Jane, ‘but no, I do not think so. You are a sad flirt.’

  ‘On the contrary, at the moment I am a very happy flirt. Tell me why you have honoured Farley with your company.’

  ‘He is . . .’

  ‘Safe?’

  She gave a reluctant laugh and he was pleased to hear that laugh.

  ‘Yes, safe. Talk about something else.’

  ‘Let us observe Miss Frances. Smitten as I am by your charms, I remarked that Miss Frances talked very seriously to my friend Mr Ferguson during the waltz. Mr Ferguson looks startled, angry, then elated. Your little friend looks cast down, although she is putting a brave face on it. Off goes Mr Ferguson to Lady Dunwilde’s side.’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Jane loyally, although she was sure that Frances must have told Mr Ferguson the truth.

  ‘You even lie prettily. Another forbidden subject. So let us return to you. Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Four brothers in the military,’ said Jane.

  ‘And are you fond of them?’

  ‘I barely know them. I was born when they were grown men. My mother did not live for very long after I was born.’

  ‘So you were raised by your father. Who is your father?’

  ‘Mr North,’ said Jane, opening and shutting her fan nervously.

  ‘And Mr North is a landowner?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Comte.’

  ‘How large is his property?’

  ‘I do not know. How large is your property, sir?’

  ‘I do not own land . . . yet. I was brought to this country by my parents after the Terror. They brought a quantity of jewels with them but settled down in an undistinguished suburb to eke out their remaining days by selling one jewel after another. I became interested in stocks and shares, a genteel form of gambling. I took the remaining jewels and was able to make a fortune for myself and them, so that their final days were passed in comfort. I keep thinking of the family lands in Burgundy. Perhaps they will be restored to me. Perhaps I may go back there one day. But I have a mind to buy myself a property in England. Perhaps in Durbyshire? What do you think, Miss North?’

  ‘I have no views on the matter.’

  He smiled at her, his blue eyes glinting in that mocking way which disturbed her so much. ‘I can see it now – a pleasant mansion, some rolling acres, and children tumbling about the place. In my mind’s eye, it is always sunny. I shall return from inspecting my property and she will be there to meet me with the children gathered about her skirts.’

  ‘Monsieur le Comte,’ said Jane with a slight edge to her voice, ‘you are a romantic. I am persuaded that your wife will be entertaining her friends while the children are abovestairs in the schoolroom being bullied by some ferocious governess.’

  ‘Which is what happened to you, Miss North?’

  ‘We were not discussing me.’

  ‘True. But think again of my picture, Miss North. Do you yourself not have dreams? Do you not imagine having your own establishment with a loving husband? Close your eyes. Cannot you hear the laughter of the children and the sound of the wind in the trees?’

  Jane thought of her grim childhood, and to her dismay a tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘Now what have I done?’ asked the comte. ‘I would not distress you for the world. Pray tell me what ails you, Miss North. Your servant, your devoted slave, ma’am.’ The laughter had left his eyes. There was only kindness and concern.

  Jane pulled herself together with a great effort, for that kindness in his eyes evoked in her a strong temptation to lean on him, to tell him everything, to ask for his help. But perhaps that was all part of the comte’s lethal charm.

  Clarence Farley bowed before her. ‘Our dance, Miss North.’

  She rose to her feet and curtsied. The comte rose at the same time and bowed and then went off in search of Harriet.

  Harriet was talking to Mrs Haggard. ‘Duchess, may I have your permission to take Miss North driving?’

  Harriet looked up at him, thinking again how handsome he was. She thought quickly. It was only a drive in the Park. Jane could not come to any harm. She appeared to be getting on so well with Clarence Farley. That interest would keep her safe. And it would do no harm to give Mr Farley a little competition. ‘Miss North is engaged to go driving tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the day after? At five?’

  ‘Delighted,’ said the comte.

  Mrs Haggard watched him go. ‘Are you sure that was wise?’

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ replied Harriet. ‘I have made extensive inquiries about this comte. He does not have a reputation for seducing virgins. He is amusing himself with London’s latest beauty. To change the subject, Frances is quite a success.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Mrs Haggard complacently. ‘We had many callers today. I am no longer worried about her prospects.’ But she looked up in surprise as Frances came up to her at the end of the dance and said hesitantly, ‘Would you mind very much, Mama, if I were to return with Jane after the ball?’

  ‘I do not see why,’ said Mrs Haggard rather crossly. ‘It is Her Grace to whom you should be addressing your request.’

  Harriet, seeing the pain at the back of Frances’s eyes, said quickly, ‘You know what it is like. They want to discuss beaux. Of course you are welcome, Frances. And there is no need for a footman to bring your night-rail, for I can supply you with anything that is necessary, and one of Jane’s gowns will serve you for the morning.’

  Mrs Haggard opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. A duchess was a duchess, and it would do Frances’s consequence no harm to be seen on such free and easy terms with the Duchess of Rowcester and her protegée.

  So, at the end of the ball, an uncharacteristically silent Frances travelled home with Harriet and Jane. Jane was not surprised when Frances appeared in her bedchamber after she had courteously said goodnight to Harriet, crying, ‘I must tell you all. It is all too dreadful.’

  Jane listened sympathetically while Frances told her about revealing the truth to Mr Ferguson, ending up with a wail of ‘And he was too happy to reprimand me!’

  ‘I think you really must forget about him, Frances,’ said Jane. ‘You cannot still have any feelings for a man who is even contemplating an affair with a married woman.’

  ‘It is the fault of that friend of his, that comte,’ said Frances mulishly. ‘Just because that frivolous Frenchman finds it amusing to court married ladies, there is no reason for Mr Ferguson to do the same. Do you think he can be reformed by the love of a good woman?’

  ‘Meaning yourself?’ Jane looked at her sadly.
‘I do not think so. From my observation, the ladies of society marry for convenience and then fall in love afterwards, and not with their husbands.’

  ‘But the Duchess of Rowcester is so in love with her husband, and he with her. Everyone talks of it.’

  ‘There are exceptions, Frances, but it is not usual, or so I believe.’

  ‘What of love? What of romance? Would you settle for someone like Clarence Farley?’

  ‘Yes, I can see that I might. It would mean freedom of a kind, an establishment of my own, children.’ A little smile curved Jane’s lips and she said dreamily, ‘Rolling acres and a tidy mansion and the children at my skirts when he rode home.’ For a moment she saw herself on a summer’s evening standing outside such a house, but the man on horseback coming down the drive was the comte, not Mr Farley. She blinked the bright dream away.

  The comte, after having said goodnight to Mr Ferguson, waited in vain for his carriage to be brought round, finding after quite half an hour that someone had told his coachman to go home, that he intended to walk.

  He set off through the dark streets in his evening finery, wondering what his valet would find out about Jane, marvelling the whole time that his mind hardly ever strayed away from her.

  So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he almost did not hear the pounding of feet after him until it was too late. As it was, he swung around, drawing his dress-sword, and swerved to the side at the same time, just missing a murderous blow from a cudgel. With his back to the wall of a building, he faced his assailants, for there were three of them. They tried to rush him but his sword flickered like lightning, piercing the man with the cudgel in the arm and then sweeping round to dart at the other two, who fell back, turned round and took to their heels. The man with the wounded arm was stumbling off. The comte caught him, swung him round and held the point of his sword to his throat.

  ‘What were you after, mon brave?’ he asked.

  ‘Your jewels, money, that’s all. I swear.’

  The point of the comte’s sword pressed a little harder into the man’s neck. ‘Try again. Who sent you?’