She froze in place. As soon as the Trénis figure of the quadrille ended, she walked over to her aunt without a backward glance, seething at his criticism of her yet again.
"The storm seems to be worsening, Aunt Susan. We need to go home," she said in clipped tones.
Aunt Susan's brows shot up. "Yes, of course, dear." Pamela had never wished to leave early before, but she could not argue with the wisdom of the suggestion.
Pamela headed for the cloakroom and began to wrap herself against the winter weather. She stiffened as she felt Jonathan's presence behind her.
"If you'd care to wait until Sarah has finished speaking with the Earl, Miss Ashton, I shall ensure that you and your aunt get home safely."
"Thank you, Mr. Deveril, but there's no need. You've done quite enough rescuing of me for one day. We wouldn't wish to take you out of your way on such a dreadful evening."
She finished fastening the velvet frogs of her pelisse and flung her heavy shawl over her own head and shoulders without waiting for him to assist her. She marched straight out of the Parish Hall without saying farewell to anyone.
Her aunt followed in her wake, but did not reproach her for her abrupt behavior, since the weather had indeed closed in.
What an insufferable prig Jonathan Deveril could be at times! Pamela thought as they headed home.
So why did her heart lighten whenever she laid eyes on him?
Chapter Five
Pamela was determined not to have Jonathan's evidently bad opinion of her alter her demeanor in any way. But after a week of seemingly endless card parties, suppers, and concerts, she began to wonder if the vicar didn't have a point after all.
And Sarah, she amended, recalling her rudeness to the clergyman's sister, when she too had only meant well.
Perhaps she was capable of better things? And ought to pay more attention to the future? Take more care over the manner in which she comported herself?
She loved to dance, but now perceived that some men appeared determined to take the most gross liberties and had to be held firmly in check. At the gaming tables, many of her companions tried to urge her into ever-deeper play.
She had always wished her gowns to be the mode, but now she reflected that a bit less ankle and cleavage rather than more might actually be a good thing. Just as not always repeating everything one heard was also desirable. Along with not deliberately trying to score points off people whilst engaged in conversation with them.
Pamela also noted with some concern that several of the older women in the district now whispered about her behind their fans.
At first the chatter had been good-natured and indulgent, but now it was more pointed, and usually took place when one of her male acquaintances began to monopolize her.
She knew this was the most dangerous thing to watch out for. She recalled with a shudder the dastardly attempts of Mr. Prine to compromise her. She enjoyed a good time, but was not prepared to have her name linked irrevocably with anyone. The more she got to know some of the men, the more she thought they were dreadful rattles, if not actual rakes.
Peter Stephens was a confirmed card player, it was rumored Edmund Cavendish had ruined several naïve local girls, and Toby Stephens and Michael Jarvis were both immoderate drinkers.
But had they always been so bad? Or was she looking at them with such a critical eye because she had been warned against them? They were great companions at the hunt balls and parties. Could they really be so very wicked?
Jonathan of course did not hunt. He did not approve. Nor did he drink, and certainly had never been accused of wenching. Or gambling. Or loose, immoderate talk, gossip.
Ought she not look to her own deportment a bit more? she wondered morosely one day.
Then she stiffened her spine. Nonsense. She could make up her own mind. She did not need Jonathan or any other man telling her what to think, what to do.
She checked her riding habit in the full-length mirror once more and headed out for a day in the saddle and some hot rum punch at Timothy Bridges' house afterwards.
But it did not take her long to realize that Mr. Bridges wanted to give her more than a cup of hot punch. She barely managed to retain her modesty and virtue intact. Jonathan's advice about the knee to the groin was the only thing that saved her.
She fled like the hounds of Hell were after her as he writhed on the carpet of the parlor, and resolved never to cross his threshold again. She found herself wishing that her knightly Jonathan had been there to help protect her from yet another appalling and potentially compromising situation.
Jonathan and Sarah had been right. She had to be more careful from now on. She only prayed she had not ruined herself already in their eyes.
By the end of another week of measuring up, sewing, and preparing her wardrobe for Bath and London by day, and dancing, gaming, and eating all night, Pamela had to admit she was feeling jaded.
The weather seeming fair, she decided to go into the village to visit the Millers. If she were not fortunate enough to run into either of the Deveril siblings, she would go call at the Vicarage. She could use the excuse of wishing to see their new décor, or wanting a copy of the Stones' article on crop rotation.
She had not seen them except in passing each Sunday since the night of the ball, and hoped the visit would not be too awkward. However, she felt the need to mend fences. They might think that it was nothing to worry about, but she did not wish their future meetings to be strained. She certainly did not want any hasty words on either side to ruin their enjoyment of Bath.
She ran into an acquaintance upon arriving in Brimley, but it was not Jonathan Deveril. And it was not in circumstances she could have anticipated. She walked straight into the tall, handsome Earl of Ferncliffe, apparently coming out of the public house.
She blinked at the nobleman who usually appeared so quiet and formal. His color was high, and she thought she could detect the smell of alcohol upon his breath, and the reek of tobacco on his rather disheveled clothing.
She was used to a rather horsy set of gentleman, but he looked most disreputable in her opinion. She could only imagine what Jonathan would say if he saw the Earl.
Her aunt said true aristocrats were permitted their foibles and eccentricities. She tried to swallow her mild revulsion and put on her most charming smile. Even as she did so she wondered why womanizing and drunken debauchery were considered mere follies, when as Jonathan had often highlighted from the pulpit, they led to all sorts of other social evils.
She shook her head to rid it of Jonathan's moralizing, and tried to concentrate on the Earl's words.
"What an unexpected surprise. Delighted, Miss Ashton." He bowed over her hand.
"You have business here in town, sir?"
"I'm chasing up idle workmen. As you know, I've inherited a rather run-down property. I've been taking great pains to make it habitable. The roof is still half-off, and a severe winter storm is said to be coming this way. The men are all in the tavern, alas, and I am driven to extreme measures."
"How dreadful. I'm sorry there isn't more I can do."
"Oh, but there is. I have no sisters. I would take it as a great favor, Miss Ashton, if you would give me your assistance in choosing the décor for my home." He bowed.
She stared up at him, but his solemn face told her he was in earnest. "B-b-but I do not know your taste, have not seen the house, would never presume..." she stammered.
"You and your aunt have most excellent taste. I feel confident that you would make wise choices."
"I can but advise you, sir, as to fabrics which wear well, color schemes and so on. But the final choice would have to be yours. It's your money, and your home, after all."
"Splendid. I shall not forget your kindness, Miss Ashton, in assisting me in my hour of need. I must get back and supervise the roofers. May call upon you tomorrow with some fabric books and so on that they have given me?"
"Er, yes, why don't you join us for dinner?" she suggested, astoni
shed at the Earl's affability and his desire to deepen their acquaintance.
"I would not like to inconvenience your family."
"No, it's fine," Pamela said, thinking what a social coup it would be, even as she wondered why she was inviting him when he was so dull in general. "Shall we say two o'clock?"
"I shall be there." He bowed over her hand and departed.
He made rather unsteady progress down the street, but Pamela put it down to the fact that the wind had picked up considerably.
She watched him stagger to and fro, then wondered what she had let herself in for. They had not entertained grandly since long before her father's untimely demise. Her aunt and Step-mama would probably get attacks of the vapors as soon as they heard the news.
She also reflected that the Earl had not noted her lack of chaperonage at all. Nor had he offered himself in that role. Deciding that he had determined Town manners were for London and country ones for Somerset, she picked up her skirts and continued on her way.
She took refuge from the elements at Mrs. Miller's and did her best to pay more attention to what the woman was telling her. She gave her some warm knitted items she had been working on and had forced herself to complete. They were pronounced exactly what was needed. She gave a reading lesson to the two small children crawling about with some chalks upon the slate floor, Amy and Ben, while their mother put up the stew for supper.
The darkness fell rapidly due to the storm, but she decided, not entirely accurately, that the vicarage was closer than her own home, if she went along the bridle path which skirted the churchyard, and pressed on.
Sarah was astonished to see Pamela at her front door looking so wind-blown and wild. "My dear, come in, please. You must be frozen."
"Not at all. Just a bit buffeted about."
"Do your aunt and step-mother know you're here?"
"I told them that I was coming, yes."
"I'm so glad. I wouldn't want them to worry. Going home is quite out of the question. The weather is so fierce. You will have to stay the night."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to put you to such trouble."
"No trouble at all. We will be delighted to have the company."
"We shall see," Pamela hedged. "The storm may let up, or blow past us soon."
Sarah took Pamela's cloak and hung it up on the peg, then brought her into their sitting room and sat her down by the fire.
The wooden-paneled room had evidently been the one remodeled, because the dark paint and furniture had been improved upon considerably since she had last visited. It was now pale blue and cream with gold accents, with fine matching sofas and chairs, and a new pianoforte.
"Oh, my, what a change," she said, gazing around her in awe.
"The Duke of Ellesmere has been most kind. He said his Wedgwood room needed to be re-done, and so gave us the pieces he no longer needed. I dare say that was a fib, though, for they are little used. He's just trying to be kind."
"Such generosity indeed. Everything looks splendid. And the pianoforte is magnificent."
"Please do sit down and try it. I confess I used to enjoy playing, but my life is so full these days I seldom have the time."
"Does your brother play?"
"Oh yes, and sing. He used to be famous for his duets."
She raised her brows. "With you?"
Sarah looked at the floor for a moment before replying. "Um, many different ladies. He has a wonderful voice, and is such a mimic. He can imitate most of the people in the district if he so chooses."
Pamela's brows shot up. "Really, Sarah, you do surprise me. He tends to be so staid and serious in my company." She settled herself by the fire as Sarah indicated.
"He has had a hard life in some senses. His bouts of cheer are far fewer than in his youth. But he does have a wonderfully droll sense of humor, and a ready wit when he chooses to unbend."
"Yes, I remember hearing about him in the play last year, She Stoops to Conquer. He certainly made everyone laugh."
"The better to realize their own foibles. He's talked of doing another play this season, if he has the time and willing participants. He loves good dramas, especially satirical ones. Satire as social commentary and correction is one of his favorite themes."
Pamela gave a slight smile. "I can guess at some of the others. The evils of drink, the abolition of slavery, the role of women in society. Yes, while we frivolous women dance, he fights for our rights like Mrs. Wollstonecraft herself would have done had she lived."
Sarah looked at her carefully. "You almost sound as though you do not approve."
Pamela laughed and shrugged. "Why overturn everything? For the sake of novelty? What was good enough for my parents should be good enough for me."
Jonathan entered the room at that point, and remarked, "So it necessarily follows that if a boy or girl's parents could not read or write, they should be content with that for themselves, and never trouble to go to school if the chance is offered them?"
Pamela blinked. "Er, no. When you put it that way."
"Or if a child's parents are slaves, he too should meekly accept the yoke and not seek freedom?"
"Um, no. I suppose not," Pamela admitted.
"Or if a woman is beaten by her husband, that she should accept it because she saw her own father behave in that manner?"
"No, not at all," she said with a lift of her chin.
He smiled, his steely eyes warming just a little. "There, you see, Sarah, I told you we should make an honorary Rakehell of her yet."
"Oh, no, I have no desire to be a Radical or free thinker, sir."
Jonathan's brows knit. "You make it sound like the most appalling thing you could possibly be. I assure you, there is far worse, especially for a woman."
Sarah now remonstrated with her brother. "Really, Jonathan, you'll frighten Miss Ashton and she'll never come to visit us again. Please do behave."
He ran his hand through his sandy hair, ruffling it further, though it was already rather unruly and wind-blown. "I'm sorry. I've just come back from some of the outlying villages in the parish. It's been a hard winter, and they've been cut off. There has been much illness, and little food. With the war on, the press gangs have come further and further inland, and they've been hit hard. Imagine taking farmers off their lands and putting them to sea, and leaving their families to starve. I shall write to The Times at once."
"Please wash your hands and eat first, at least," Sarah requested with a good-humored smile. "And please do something about your hair, Brother. You look like a hedgehog."
Pamela had bristled at his remarks. "I had heard you were a Bonapartist, sir, but I did not think it true until now. How can you begrudge Britain the soldiers and sailors needed to fight for freedom?"
"I do not begrudge them, if they're willing to serve voluntarily, as I did myself. But these men are offered so-called free hospitality, deliberately got drunk, forced to sign a paper saying they will take the King's shilling, and dragged off. There's no honor in that."
She looked appalled and rather sheepish as she heard him out. "No, indeed."
He paced up and down in front of the hearth, warming to his theme even as he warmed his body. "As for fighting, most of them will never even see a French soldier. The English ships blockading the Channel are little better than hellholes, full of disease. They do not put into port at all for fear of the men jumping ship and going back to their families. The food is inedible at worst, indifferent at best. At least one-third of the crew will be killed off by malnutrition and dysentery. So much for fighting for our freedom."
She put one hand up to her chest. "Oh, my, I had no idea--"
"And while they are starving and dying, their wives, children, parents, are doing the same, with them gone, and no one to take on the duties of the farms. They are reduced to beggary, or worse."
"That's terrible!" Pamela exclaimed, truly appalled.
He nodded, and paused to rest his hand on the mantelpiece and face her. "Even if the men get to
see action, there is no pension for them if they are injured, and their pay is often held over for years because of military bureaucracy and inefficiency. What is a family supposed to do if the head of it comes back sans an arm or a leg? Or doesn't come back at all? What are a widow and her children supposed to live on?"
Sarah held up one hand as Jonathan's paused for breath, panting in his fury over what he had just seen. "Please, Jonathan, enough of this depressing talk. Pamela came here for a social visit, to admire our new sitting room and play the pianoforte, not be subjected to a catalog of social ills."
Jonathan drew himself up abruptly and sighed. "I'm sorry, Miss Ashton. My sister is absolutely right. You came here to enjoy the pleasures of her good society, not hear the rantings of a Radical parson with the social graces of a bull elephant and prickles like a hedgehog. I shall cry your pardon and withdraw." He bowed stiffly, and left.
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