by Jane Feather
And then there was the opportunity to expand her horizons into regions that she knew instinctively would excite her. Marriage to Jack Fortescu was the price to be paid. How heavy a price could it be?
She picked up the trowel again and vigorously dug out a weed that had escaped her vigilance. There was a greater satisfaction than usual in ripping out the plantain by its roots and throwing it into the pile of discards behind her.
A symbolic tossing away of a past that was over? Arabella shook her head, impatient with her own fancy. She had by no means made up her mind. She lifted her face to the heat of the sun, felt its warmth strike her eyelids, slide over her cheeks and lips.
Passion. He had offered her that too.
Oh, no. She thrust her hands palm-out in front of her, physically pushing the thought away. Not now . . . definitely not now. But she couldn’t forget what Meg had said about the dreariness of a life lived in a state of chaste spinsterhood. Was the prospect of avoiding that fate worth considering Jack Fortescu’s proposal?
She let her tense shoulders droop on a long exhalation. The dogs had flopped down beside her and their panting breath was adding unmercifully to the swampy heat of the late afternoon. Frederick had lost his life, his fortune, and probably his soul to Jack Fortescu. Why? St. Jules was not after her life, obviously. As obviously, her fortune didn’t exist.
Her soul, on the other hand, was a rather different matter.
With a little exclamation she snatched her hand from the thistle she was attacking. It was never wise to be inattentive around thorns. Again she sat back on her heels, staring down at a bead of blood on her finger. Her soul, of course, was where the risk lay. She had the feeling that if she was not very careful, Jack Fortescu could swallow her whole.
She sucked the blood from her finger then tucked the trowel into the pocket of her apron as she straightened from the rosebush. Her hair was sticking to her forehead and she brushed it to one side. She’d asked Becky to have a bath prepared and it must now be close to four o’clock. Dinner at five gave her little time.
She snapped her fingers at the dogs and headed towards the house. She felt a little lighter, as if some resolution was at least in the offing. And then the memory of the full misery of her London Season rushed back. Did she really imagine she could become part of that shallow, despicable world, where to see and be seen were the only important activities?
But what actually could be worse than living the rest of her life on the charity of her Cornish relatives?
What price resolution now? She ran her hands through the limp tangles of her hair and thought her head would burst.
Becky was waiting in her bedchamber with a tub of steaming lavender-scented water and a cup of lemon juice. “I thought maybe the pink damask gown, m’lady?” she said, gesturing to the gown that lay freshly pressed on the bed. “His grace always looks so handsome.”
“Yes, he does,” Arabella agreed somewhat dryly as she surveyed her tumbled appearance in the cheval glass.
“Stays tonight, ma’am. And perhaps panniers?” Becky suggested hopefully.
The stays were necessary to achieve the right set of the gown. But that was the only concession Arabella was prepared to make. There was no need for hoops or panniers. She remembered the duke’s comment about wanting to have the dressing of her. It was a rather patronizing comment, she decided. Her present wardrobe was probably outdated and countrified, but it suited her way of life perfectly well. And why on earth had he qualified his statement with that oddly enough? It seemed vaguely insulting.
“Just the stays,” Arabella said firmly.
Becky looked disappointed and Arabella explained with an attempt at conciliation, “It really is too hot even for stays, Becky. But I will wear those and you may do my hair however you wish.”
Becky’s eyes sparkled. “Powder, m’lady? I’ll just get the box.”
“No,” Arabella said more forcefully than she’d intended. “No, Becky, anything but powder.” She shuddered slightly, thinking of Lavinia Alsop’s monstrous creation. “We can do well enough with lemon juice, and you’re so skilled I know you can achieve the best effect.”
Becky smiled with pleasure as she helped Arabella out of her work-soiled clothes. “Oh, yes, m’lady. And you have such pretty hair. It’s a pleasure to work with.”
Arabella stepped into the copper tub with a sigh of enjoyment. She slid beneath the water, drawing her knees up and dropping her head back as Becky poured fresh water from a jug over her head then massaged soap into her scalp.
“How would you like to live in London, Becky?”
Becky’s hands stilled. “Oh, my goodness, m’lady. Town . . . I couldn’t live there.”
“If I go, do you think you could come with me?” Arabella asked the question lightly. Becky was only sixteen and she hadn’t so far given any indications of a swain in her life.
“Oh, I don’t know, m’lady.” Becky poured rinsing water over the wet curls. “Will you be going, Lady Arabella?”
“I’m considering it,” Arabella said. “And if I do go, I would like you to come with me. If, of course, there’s no one here to keep you. Indeed, Becky, I don’t think I could manage without you.”
“Oh, m’lady . . . there’s my mam,” Becky said, pouring lemon juice.
“We would come back here at Christmas and every summer,” Arabella explained. “And in London there would be footmen, grooms, any number of possibilities . . . I don’t think Mrs. Fith would want to deny you those opportunities.” She was beginning to sound like she was persuading herself, she thought.
“Well, I don’t know, m’lady,” Becky repeated, but sounded rather less doubtful.
“Think about it, Becky.” Arabella rose from the water in a shower of drops and reached for the towel. “We’ll talk again in a few days.”
She was ready a few minutes before the clock struck five. Becky had dressed her hair in a chignon at the nape of her neck, pomading the side curls to a glossy deep chocolate artfully threaded with ribbon loops of dark red silk. The stays lifted the swell of her bosom above the low neck of the pink damask gown and nipped her waist to accentuate the rich fullness of the skirts.
“Oh, you do look lovely, Lady Arabella,” Becky said admiringly. “Shall you wear the pearls?” She presented the jewel box.
Arabella opened it and took out the single strand of flawlessly matched pearls. Whatever she might say about her father’s general neglect, he bought only the best when he decided to buy anything. She held it up to her neck and the pearls took on the pinkish hue of the damask, glowing softly against her skin. She seemed to be going to an awful lot of trouble for a simple dinner at home, she reflected somewhat aridly, fastening the strand at her nape. She didn’t have to compete with her dinner companion. Although failing to do so she suspected increased the inherent disadvantages in her situation. She took the Chinese painted silk fan that Becky handed her, tucked an embroidered lace handkerchief into the lace ruffles that fell over her forearm, gave herself a mental nod of approval, and sailed downstairs.
Jack, waiting in the drawing room doorway, heard the click of her heels on the stair and crossed the hall to meet her at the foot of the staircase. He bowed with a flourish as she stepped down beside him. The gray eyes glimmered as he took in her appearance, lingered for an instant on the creamy billow of her breast above her décolletage. “Good evening, madam. My compliments.”
Arabella regarded him suspiciously, but could detect nothing untoward in his expression. No hint of mockery in the elaborately formal greeting. She decided to follow his lead. “Good evening, your grace,” she responded, with a sweeping curtsy.
He was looking particularly elegant in a cutaway silk coat of light and dark green stripes, with large silver buttons, a high collar, and a stiffly starched cravat. His hair was as usual unpowdered and tied back at the nape. She couldn’t help noticing as she rose from her curtsy how the open style of the coat revealed the powerful swell of his thighs in plain dark g
reen britches buttoned below the knee. For once he carried no sword.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” He offered his arm.
Franklin had arranged the long table with the same degree of formality he had always used when the family dined together. Two places had been set at either end of the gleaming surface. The view from end to end was obscured by branched silver candelabra, their tapers struggling to compete with the evening light. The steward, in his best livery, stood at the foot of the table, waiting to draw out Arabella’s chair. A manservant stood behind the duke’s chair at the head of the table.
Arabella took her seat with a murmur of thanks and shook out her napkin. She looked up the expanse of table, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. She had the feeling that this arrangement was not what his grace had had in mind when he’d insisted upon a diner à deux. To all intents and purposes, with this arrangement they could be dining separately. He hadn’t taken his seat but stood with one hand on the back of the chair, ignoring the servant standing behind it.
“No,” he stated, “this really won’t do.” He strolled around the table and came down to Arabella’s end. “Set my place down here, Franklin,” he instructed, taking the seat on Arabella’s right. “I’m not going to shout down the length of this table.”
Franklin looked at Arabella, who said, “Just as his grace wishes, Franklin.”
“But, my lady, Lord Dunston, your father, would always insist—”
“That is hardly relevant, Franklin,” Jack reminded him, somewhat unnecessarily, Arabella thought with a flash of annoyance.
“No, indeed, your grace,” the steward said stiffly. He signaled to the servant to rearrange the place settings.
“And you may leave us to serve ourselves,” Jack said in pleasanter tones.
Franklin looked even more put out but he merely bowed and set a covered silver soup tureen on the table between them. He removed the cover, bowed again, and made his stately way from the room, closing the doors behind him.
“Oh, dear,” Arabella said. “Poor Franklin. He does have a very strong sense of what’s right and proper. My father always insisted upon absolute formality at the dinner table.”
“And your brother?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow.
“That was a different matter,” she said shortly. “Franklin judges these matters by the old standards.”
“Well, they will all become accustomed to the new order,” Jack said carelessly. He raised the ladle in the soup tureen and filled Arabella’s bowl. “This smells good.”
Arabella made no comment, although her temper stirred again at this callous dismissal of the servants’ opinions. She suspected that Franklin was trying with his insistence on ritual to convince himself that there was nothing wrong with Lady Arabella’s dining alone with an unrelated stranger. If she had succeeded in keeping herself to herself in her own apartments, the household would have felt that some degree of propriety was being maintained. As it was . . . well, after Lavinia’s visit this morning, the gossip would be all over the county by now.
Arabella frowned into her wine.
“Is something wrong with your wine?” Jack asked as she continued to look raptly into her goblet.
“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing at all.” She took up her spoon. “Now explain to me, if you please, sir, the essential difference between the Whigs and the Tories.”
Jack accepted the task, although there were other topics he would have preferred to pursue. “In essence, the Tories are the king’s party, they support the absolute power of monarchy and Parliament. The Whigs believe rather more in the power of the people.” He broke a roll with a snap, as if punctuating his exposition.
Arabella frowned. “So a Whig would sympathize with the revolution in France . . . a revolution against the tyranny of the monarchy, the clergy, and the nobles. I believe you said you were a Whig. Do you have an opinion on the revolution?” She looked over at him, her gaze bright with interest.
Jack took a long time before he answered. It was an intelligent, reasonable question. She was not to know how he had been scarred by that blood-soaked mayhem, but it still took him long minutes before he had the riot of emotion and memory under control. “There are few Whigs now who would support the murderous mob rule that the revolution has become. No one supported regicide.”
Arabella nodded again, somberly. The executions of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had let loose the Reign of Terror upon France. Anarchy reigned across the country and from what she’d seen in the few newspapers that reached her, French émigrés, poverty-stricken refugees, crowded the streets of London.
“Do you know anyone who’s been to Paris since it started?” It was a natural-enough question. There had been so much intermingling of French and English aristocratic families, few members of the English elite didn’t have relatives and friends across the Channel. “I believe Frederick was there some time ago,” she said thoughtfully. “When I last saw him he mentioned that he had some business there.” She shook her head with a frown. “I can’t imagine what business Frederick had, apart from gaming.”
Unless of course he was escaping his creditors.
Jack raised his glass to his lips. “I can’t imagine why anyone would be fool enough to touch the shores of France.” He sipped. “But your brother, my dear, was ever a fool.” His voice was a harsh rasp and for a moment the gray gaze was as cold and bleak as Arctic ice. His drained the contents of the goblet in one swallow, then immediately refilled it from the decanter at his elbow.
The chill in the room was palpable despite the great orange ball of the sinking sun in the window embrasure.
Just what had Frederick done to earn Jack Fortescu’s undying enmity? Arabella half opened her mouth to ask the question and then closed it again. She couldn’t begin to form the words, not in this frigid atmosphere. Quietly she continued with her soup, trying to ignore the silence as if it was somehow perfectly normal. When she finished she rang the handbell at her side.
Franklin’s return—accompanied by the manservant laboring under the burden of a tray bearing a haunch of venison, a dish of potatoes, and a carp in parsley sauce—provided welcome cover from the awkwardness. The dishes were set upon the table, and more were brought. Buttered beans, artichokes, a glass bowl of red currant jelly.
“Mrs. Elliot hopes this will suffice, Lady Arabella,” Franklin said. “If his grace should wish for poultry, there is a boiled fowl with capers.”
Jack held up his hand. “No . . . no, indeed, Franklin. Pray thank Mrs. Elliot, but this will be more than sufficient. It’s a positive feast.” He tried for a warm smile but it fell on stony ground.
“Probably not what you’re used to in London, your grace,” Franklin declared, depositing the soup tureen on the servant’s tray with something of a thump. “Should I carve the venison, my lady?”
“Yes, please,” Arabella said, taking matters into her own hands. Maybe the duke would prefer to continue dinner without the attention of the steward, but someone else in the room would at least force them to engage in some neutral topic of conversation. “I wonder when the weather will break,” she said brightly. “Usually a heat wave doesn’t last this long. Do you think there’ll be a storm, your grace?”
Jack regarded her over the rim of his goblet. The desolation had left his eyes and his mouth now had a slight curve. “I trust not, madam,” he said. “But perhaps your garden could do with the rain.”
“Certainly it could,” Arabella said, leaning back as Franklin slipped a plate of roast venison onto the table in front of her. “The lawns are looking very sad.”
“Then we must hope for a shower soon,” Jack said gravely, receiving his own plate. “Thank you, Franklin. You may leave us to serve ourselves from here.”
The steward bowed and left the room.
“Red currant jelly, your grace?” Arabella reached for the cut-glass bowl.
“All right, Arabella, time to call truce,” he said, taking the bowl from her. “As I’m s
ure you’ve realized by now, there was no love lost between your brother and myself.” He spooned red currant jelly onto his venison. “I don’t suffer fools gladly and I won’t dress that up.” He gave her a shrewd glance. “I don’t believe you have much time for them either, Arabella.”
“No,” she agreed.
“And was there much love lost between you and your brother?” His tone was level, but his hand holding the spoon was motionless as he waited for an answer.
“No,” she said quietly.
“Then may we put this matter to rest?”
She gave him the semblance of a nod and he decided it was the best he was going to get this evening.
Chapter 8
The banging of the front-door knocker stopped the next words out of Arabella’s mouth. It was a loud, agitated crashing of the brass knocker that bespoke an emergency. She looked askance at her companion, who said calmly, “It’s a strange time for visitors.”
“Visitors don’t normally announce themselves with such vehemence,” she said, pushing back her chair, ready to get to her feet.
“No, stay where you are,” Jack said, waving her down again. “We’ve had one impertinent visitation today, if this is another such, you’d be better letting Franklin deal with it. You don’t want to appear guilty and flustered.”
Arabella resumed her seat and calmly picked up her fork. He had a good point. Having accepted the present situation, however irregular, she needed to brazen it out. Nevertheless her ears strained towards the hall as she heard Franklin lift the heavy latch. “Oh,” she said, as the voices drifted clearly into the dining room. “It’s David.”
The door opened and Franklin said, “The vicar, my lady. Lord David Kyle,” he added unnecessarily but with emphasis, as if this new arrival heralded the restoration of normality in this household gone mad.