by Ruth Axtell
“Perhaps he felt a conviction to—to take the gospel to the heathen.” The more she spoke, the more awkward she felt at the growing puzzlement on his round face.
“A ‘conviction’?’ ’Pon my word, Miss Barry, you sound like a Methodist. Don’t tell me you are one.” He chuckled as if the joke was on him.
She smiled in reassurance. “Not at all. I am merely a vicar’s daughter.”
He opened his mouth, then burst out laughing. “That’s a good one—a vicar’s daughter.”
They had rejoined the other gentlemen by this time. “Did you hear that? Miss Barry’s a vicar’s daughter.”
Mr. St. Leger eyed her. “How curious. You don’t look like a vicar’s daughter.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Allan echoed, taking her measure.
“What does a vicar’s daughter look like?” she asked, feeling their ridicule.
“Deuced if I know,” Mr. Allan murmured.
“Prim and drab,” maintained Cubby. “Certainly not wearing a fashionable gown like yours.”
Once again she was the center of attention. She made a mocking curtsy, remembering Lady Dawson.
“Certainly not enjoying a season in London,” Mr. Allan said.
“Nor flirting with gentlemen of questionable repute,” Mr. St. Leger added softly.
“Am I flirting?” She batted her eyelashes at each of them. If they were going to tease her, she would show them she was not fazed. “With gentlemen of questionable repute? I had no idea.”
“We are shockingly disreputable reprobates, dear Miss Barry,” Cubby said, folding his hands before him as if he were sincerely penitent.
She lowered her lashes. “I have read that flirting is an art.”
“Which you have mastered, Miss Barry,” Mr. St. Leger murmured. “I applaud you.”
At that moment Megan approached with Mr. Emery. “Look who is here,” she said, glancing at the men around Jessamine as she spoke. “I wondered if you cared to join us for supper, Jessamine. Mr. Marfleet is with our party.”
“Is it supper already?” Mr. St. Leger studied Megan through his quizzing glass as if she were a curious insect.
She blushed. “Yes, indeed.”
“Hello, Emery,” he drawled to her escort. “Who invited you?”
Mr. Emery smiled, unruffled. “The same person who thought fit to include you on the guest list.”
“We may as well make it a party,” he said, yawning. “Lady Fortescue, whatever her indiscriminate taste is in her guests, is known to put on a decent collation.”
Mr. Allan put out his arm to Jessamine. “Shall we, Miss Barry?”
“Thank you,” she murmured, looking forward to sitting down. Hopefully, a bit of food would settle her stomach.
Lancelot watched the group head for the supper room. His friend Emery looked around, doubtless searching for him. But Lancelot remained standing where he was, as he considered joining the supper party.
He wasn’t sure if he could endure a half hour or so watching Miss Barry flirt with Harold’s set.
He’d been watching her for a while before asking her to dance. He’d scarcely recognized her in her getup, her hair shorn, her bosom half exposed. And drinking champagne.
The group hovering around her like a pack of bloodhounds were wealthy young men who cut a dash about town in their sporting curricles and dandified appearances. They played hard and deep into the wee hours at the clubs on St. James’s before heading off to less savory neighborhoods to bet on cockfights and badger baiting.
Lancelot didn’t like it one bit that their attention was focused on Miss Barry. Where was Lady Bess?
His fingers fiddled unconsciously with the necklace in his pocket. What had she been doing pawning her jewelry? She couldn’t have racked up debts already. Or could she?
Every young man who came to London for the first time fell prey to that temptation. Lady Bess was known for her love for cards, but he found it hard to believe she’d allow her charge to indulge in gaming.
Turning away in disgust, Lancelot wandered the deserted ballroom for a quarter of an hour before heading to the supper room. He was hungry and it was foolish to avoid the room because of some silly chit.
He served himself a plate of food from the vast array—though most serving dishes were now half empty. Standing well away from the tables, he ate mechanically, his eyes scanning the crowd.
Miss Barry still sat amidst the dark-coated gentlemen. At least Miss Phillips and Emery sat at the same table. They seemed to be having a hilarious time by the sounds of their laughter.
Lancelot continued taking up forkfuls, though the food tasted like mush in his mouth. Finally, his plate still half full, he set it on a passing footman’s tray.
Instead of leaving, he remained standing near the entrance, continuing to observe Miss Barry’s table, telling himself he was only doing so because he needed to return her necklace to her before the evening was over.
Jessamine had eaten the plate of delicacies, thinly sliced ham and turkey, pickled vegetable, miniature puff pastries filled with crabmeat, and various sweetmeats. But instead of helping ease her discomfort, it had made her feel worse.
“If you will excuse me,” she said, pushing her chair away.
Megan looked at her, concern in her eyes. “Are you all right, Jessamine?”
She nodded and forced a smile to her lips. “I’m fine.”
“Can I get you anything?” Mr. Allan asked.
“No, I don’t need anything, thank you. Just let me excuse myself a moment.” If she didn’t get away from them soon, she would be sick over the table. She would never outlive the humiliation and would have to leave London for good.
She stood, and all the gentlemen followed suit. Feeling embarrassed at the attention, she quickly moved away, motioning Megan back. “Please, I am quite all right. I shall return forthwith.”
She walked resolutely from the room, glad Megan didn’t follow her. By the time she reached the corridor, she was tempted to run. She hurried toward the stairs to the ladies’ retiring room. Footsteps sounded behind her. She glanced back to see Mr. Marfleet at her heels. Of all people!
“Are you all right?”
“I—I’m fine.”
“You look pale.”
“I am fine. I just need the retiring room.” Feeling her stomach begin to heave, she didn’t wait for his reply but picked up her skirts and dashed up the stairs.
To her consternation, he followed behind her, but she was too much in a hurry to snub him. She found the room set aside for the ladies and pushed open the door.
He stood behind her, looking helpless.
“Leave me, please.” She closed the door in his face.
She pushed past a maid and entered the water closet, thankful for such modern facilities in this opulent residence.
She was immediately sick.
Horrified she might ruin her new gown, she did her best to protect it. Finally, feeling relief, she stood on shaky knees and groped for the washbasin.
After cleaning herself up, she stood a moment, leaning against the basin, a cold, wet washcloth to her forehead.
Weak, but with her stomach settled, Jessamine exited the lavatory and spent a few minutes in front of the dressing table, accepting the maidservant’s assistance to tidy her appearance. She pinched her cheeks to put some color back in them.
The maid stepped back. “There, miss, everything in place.”
“Thank you.” Jessamine let out a breath, realizing she should not have drunk so much champagne. It had seemed so harmless going down. Forgive me, Lord. She uttered the prayer while staring at her still-pale cheeks.
As much as she hated admitting she was wrong, she had learned from her parents that it was best to ask forgiveness sooner rather than later, and move on. If only she could move on so quickly in matters of the heart.
She had not been able to talk to the Lord about Rees. The words lodged in her chest and refused to find an outlet. She had spent too many y
ears worshipping him from afar.
Now, she stood and smoothed the gown, eyeing her reflection from all angles to make sure her gown was not ruined. She breathed a sigh of relief that no harm seemed to have been done.
She opened the door and stopped short to find Mr. Marfleet still standing in the corridor.
“What are you doing here!”
He looked taken aback but only stared at her neckline. She put a hand to her throat.
“You aren’t wearing any jewelry.”
She started at his abrupt words. His gaze seemed fixed upon her bare throat. “No.”
“You usually wear a necklace—with a pearl. I should think it would look nice with your gown.” His gaze drifted downward.
He had noticed her necklace. She lifted her chin, her gaze unflinching. “I—I disagree. It wouldn’t go at all.”
She took a step to move by him.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.” She began to walk toward the stairs.
“The champagne didn’t bother you?”
She swiveled around, her eyes wide. “How do you know I drank champagne?”
He swallowed. “I watched you.”
“You watched me!” Her mouth opened than snapped shut. Of all the nerve! “What right do you have to stand there—censuring me!”
He flinched. “I’m not censuring you. I was merely concerned if you were feeling sick from drinking too much champagne.”
She planted her hands on her hips, her annoyance growing. “First of all, I was not drinking too much champagne. I was merely not accustomed to it.”
“So you were feeling unwell.”
“Only a trifle. It was the—the rich food I had just now.”
“As long as you are feeling better now.”
“I am, thank you.” Why did he make her feel as if she was in the wrong? As if her parents were here watching her? With a swish of her skirts, she turned and resumed walking.
“I . . . wanted to give you something.”
She looked over her shoulder without stopping. “What?”
He fished something out of his pocket.
A fine gold chain dangled from his hand.
8
Jessamine fumbled for her quizzing glass and stared at the pearl suspended at the end of the chain Mr. Marfleet held. “Where did you get that?”
His gaze traveled to meet hers, and she remembered. “You—you went into the pawnbroker’s shop?” Even as she said the words, she could scarcely believe he’d do such a thing.
He swallowed visibly. “I wondered what you would be doing coming out of a pawnbroker’s shop.”
She approached him warily, wanting to get a closer look at the necklace, even now disbelieving it was hers. It looked incongruously delicate in his large hand. “And the man showed it to you? He was supposed to put it away—save it for me.” Her voice rose at the man’s untrustworthiness. She should have known people in London couldn’t be trusted.
“I had to . . . to convince him.” Before she could react, he hurried on, as if afraid she wouldn’t let him speak. “I redeemed it for you. Here, take it.” He held it out to her.
She recoiled but then thought better of it. Slowly she extended her palm, and he dropped the necklace into it. She clasped it tightly, relief flooding her. She’d hated what she’d done and had been afraid she’d never have enough money to redeem it.
Slowly her eyes rose to meet his. “How much did . . . did you have to pay for it?”
His gaze shifted and he shrugged. “You needn’t worry about it.”
“Of course I need to. I shall pay you back . . . only I can’t yet.” Her face felt hot. How could she be indebted to Mr. Marfleet? It was worse than having to deal with a shifty pawnbroker. Mortification filled her.
“You needn’t trouble yourself. You may pay me when you can, in the amounts you can. Please don’t trouble yourself. I don’t need the money at present.” His mouth quirked upward. “I’m living at home and have few expenses.”
She stared at him, feeling sicker to her stomach than she had when she’d run to the lavatory. To be beholden to this man she scorned for no good reason except that he reminded her of all she was trying to run away from.
Shame filled her. She knew she ought to say something, but the words of gratitude stuck in her throat, wedged tighter than a chicken bone.
His smile slowly disappeared, and his slate-blue eyes gazed earnestly into hers. “Is something the matter?” He gave a nervous laugh. “It—it is your necklace, isn’t it?”
The words gave her an excuse to look downward. “Yes,” she whispered. “It is. It was . . . was my grandmother’s. Thank you. I’ll repay you, I promise,” she added quickly before turning around and almost running from him.
Lancelot stood staring after Miss Barry, feeling as confused as a blind man in a crowd. Harold was right. He would never know the first thing about women.
He’d waited the whole evening, the necklace feeling like a hot coal in his pocket, hoping for a moment alone with her to restore the necklace.
He’d imagined the smile that would finally grace her fine lips as she met his eyes in gratitude. Even though she had said the necklace wasn’t important, the last few moments had proved otherwise. It was a family heirloom.
But instead of looking happy to have it back, she could hardly choke out her thanks and had run from him as if he would do her some harm.
He should leave her alone. Wash his hands and be done with her. He didn’t know why he persisted. He wasn’t even sure if he liked her.
But there was something in her green eyes when she stared up at him that awakened all his protective instincts. It was the look of a little girl who has lost something precious and didn’t know where to find it.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he strode down the hall. He wouldn’t disturb her anymore with his company this evening. He’d carried out his purpose. Harold had clearly taken off long ago. He’d walk home and spend time with his botanical notes. There was no confusion there.
Jessamine awoke with a pounding headache between her temples and an awful taste in her mouth. But worse was what she felt inside. Shame at her behavior. What had she tried to be at the ball? Worse than drinking champagne and flirting with the young gentlemen had been being confronted by the necklace.
She buried her head in her pillow at the memory of seeing her grandmother’s necklace in Mr. Marfleet’s hand. Her mother had entrusted it to her. How could she have done such a thoughtless thing as take it to a pawnbroker? She cracked her eyes open and looked across the room at the gown hanging over the back of a chair.
What had seemed so beautiful last night now reproached her. How was she ever going to pay Mr. Marfleet back? She would not remain in his debt. That was unthinkable.
He’d looked at her with such pity, as if he knew exactly what she’d done and why. He’d admitted to watching her behavior.
He’d worn that wise, knowing look so much like her father’s, when she was a little girl and had misbehaved. Instead of anger, he’d looked sad, which made her feel ten times worse than if he’d whipped her. It had compelled her to obey in order to avoid disappointing him, until obedience and a desire to please had become second nature to her.
She sat up in bed, ignoring her throbbing head, and hugged a pillow to her chest, her knees drawn up. She was tired of seeking to please. And she didn’t need someone like Mr. Marfleet hovering around her as if she was still that little girl!
She punched at her pillow, wanting to sob in frustration. Only by an effort of will did she hold back the tears. She didn’t need puffy, red eyes on top of everything else. She’d cried enough since finding out that Rees and Céline were expecting a child.
She bit her lip, holding back a longing for how things had been. When her father had gotten an inkling of how the wind blew between her and Rees, he’d counseled her to be patient, for Rees was a man worth waiting for.
She’d obeyed him, and been good and d
one everything as she ought. All for nothing!
Knowing it was useless to stay in bed where her thoughts would continue torturing her, Jessamine threw off her covers. Thankfully, Lady Bess had not witnessed her indisposition of the previous evening, and Megan was too kind to say anything.
Kindness—ugh! Jessamine preferred a good, bracing dose of sarcasm or censure to pitying words and looks. An immediate vision of Mr. Marfleet came to her mind, and his teasing words on Bond Street. But she erased them, preferring instead to conjure up Mr. St. Leger’s subtle derision and world-weary air. There was a sophisticated gentleman, and one who had appreciated her wit.
After struggling with her garments, she descended the stairs to the breakfast room in the hopes that a cup of tea would help her head.
She was thankful only Megan was there so she didn’t have to feign lightheartedness in the face of Lady Bess’s unfailing morning cheer.
Megan smiled, but a second later her smile faded. “Are you quite well? You look pale. Maybe you should have stayed in bed a bit longer the way Lady Bess has this morning.”
“Only a bit of a headache,” Jessamine said, advancing into the room. “It will pass, I’m sure, once I’ve had a cup of tea.”
“Let me get it for you, and perhaps some dry toast.” As she spoke, Megan bustled about serving her.
“Thank you,” she murmured when the tea and toast sat before her. She bowed her head to say grace then took a sip of the strong, hot tea.
“Do you think it was . . . the champagne?”
Jessamine stared at her friend. Between Megan and Mr. Marfleet, it would seem she’d been observed the entire evening. “I’m sure a couple of glasses of champagne can do a person no harm.”
“No, of course not. Unless you are not accustomed to it.” Megan fell silent after her hesitant comment.
Jessamine nibbled at a corner of her toast. A letter from home lay at the side of her plate. She broke the seal and unfolded it. Recognizing her father’s hand, a wave of homesickness came over her as she read about the Sunday services, a sermon he’d prepared, a prayer he’d written, and the calls he’d made on parishioners. All the while he lamented her absence.