Regency Valentines

by Jo Beverley

  Corny shook his head. "Won't do, old boy."

  Chart slammed down his glass. "I know it won't do. You know it won't do. She thinks it's right and tight."

  "Dicked in the nob?" Corny suggested.

  "No, she's not dicked in the nob," Chart snapped. "She's a damned proponent of women's rights!"

  "Rights to what?" asked Corny blankly.

  "God knows. The only right that bothers me is the right to live by herself with only servants for company."

  Corny kindly filled his friend's glass. "Not your problem, old boy. Leave well enough alone."

  Chart stared at the wine moodily. "But is it well? I think she's lonely."

  Corny shook his head. "Lots of friends. Dull bluestockings all over the place these days."

  "No way for an eighteen-year-old girl to live."

  "Chart, old boy, put your mind to your horses."

  "Can't. Not until I settle poor little Juno."

  "Going to ruin the hunting season," Corny warned, then came up with a suggestion. "Find her a companion."

  Chart shook his head. "She wouldn't take one. Doesn't think she needs one. Dammit, if I was eighteen and alone in the world, I'd have a bear-leader."

  The candles burned low and began to gutter as the two men considered the matter through an alcoholic haze.

  Chart suddenly sat upright. "Make it a good deed," he declared. "Find someone who needs a home!"

  Corny nodded. "That's the ticket. Who?"

  "The world's full of indigent females." After a while, Chart slumped down again. "Damned if I know any."

  He thought Corny had fallen asleep, but he must have been thinking for he suddenly stirred and said, "Cousin Cressida."

  "Juno," Chart corrected.

  "My cousin. Cressida Pyne."

  "Indigent?"

  "Course not," said Corny with a frown. "What sort of loose fish do you think I am to leave my cousin indigent?"

  "Apologies, old man. But then what good is she?"

  "Widow. Lives quietly near Derby with her young son. Bound to be cast down. Get Miss Rathbone to go and succor her."

  "That's the craziest idea I ever heard."

  "Not. They'll get on like nobody's business. Daughter of a parson. Very bookish and serious, Cressida is. Nice old thing, though. A knowing one, all right."

  "How old?"

  "Well over thirty."

  Chart thought of poor little Juno stuck in that dull house with no friends. "I'll do it," he said.

  Chapter Two

  A few days later Juno was in the kitchen. She sat at the deal table, chin on her hands, a slim volume open in front of her but ignored.

  "There's no reason," she said, "why I shouldn't travel. I could go to Italy."

  Mrs. Davies, the cook, didn't look up from the cake batter she was stirring. "If you say so, Miss Juno."

  Juno accurately translated this to be disapproval. She had long had the habit of bringing her thoughts to Mrs. Davies for reaction. Aunt Clarabel had not approved, saying the woman did not have an improved mind. Juno thought Mrs. Davies wise enough just as she was.

  Since her aunt's death, she'd spent more and more time in the kitchen. Her only other occupations were her classical studies, her prescribed reading of the newspapers, and her weekly pistol practice. She was aware of gaps in her education and was trying to work round to one of them -- men. Mrs. Davies, after all, had been married twice and had two grown sons.

  "But what am I to do with myself?" she asked.

  "What do you want to do, Miss?"

  "Something," sighed Juno. "I can't stay here for the rest of my life."

  "Well, miss, there's nothing stopping you," said Mrs. Davies.

  It was one of her Delphic offerings which Juno found both irritating and stimulating. Stopping her from going, or from staying? As with the Delphic Oracle, any attempt to demand precision inevitably led to busy silence.

  Juno tried a bold tack. "Do you think I should marry, Mrs. Davies?"

  "A young lady with a comfortable independence shouldn't marry unless she wants to."

  "But should I want to?"

  Mrs. Davies reached for a handful of sultanas and dropped them into her batter. "Not until you meet him."

  "Who?"

  "Bellarion."

  Juno looked in puzzlement at the book before her. It was Castle Blood by Mrs. Delamare. The heroine, torn from her loving family by the evil Count Grosmark was praying her true love, the dashing Marcus Bellarion, would arrive in time to save her from a fate worse than death.

  Bellarion was of course the true Count Grosmark, having been defrauded of his inheritance by his uncle. Even though the novel was dangerously seductive, Juno hardly thought the hero would sweep into her own life and solve all her problems.

  In truth, he was part of her problem.

  Novel reading had begun so innocently. Mary Wollstonecraft had written that `the best method that can be adopted to correct a fondness for novels is to ridicule them.' When Juno had discovered Mrs. Davies was victim of a taste for such weakening literature she'd felt obliged to read them and put an end to the rot.

  Each week Mrs. Davies would get a new one from the circulating library and each week Juno would read it and give the cook the benefit of her comments. As Mrs. Davies had little time for reading Juno began to read to her as she worked.

  One day she'd realized that the critical commentary had become excited speculation as to the likely development of the story. The `unnatural and meretricious scenes' and 'appeal to sensation' so abhorrent to Mary Wollstonecraft did not disgust her. Instead, they harmonized with the yearnings of her young heart. Knowing she was as foolish as an opium eater, she'd delighted in her secret vice even as she concealed it from her aunt.

  Now there was no one to disapprove and yet she was still guiltily aware that her taste for fiction was a vice and she an unrepentant sinner. She was not, however, so addled that she couldn't tell truth from fiction.

  "I can't marry Bellarion. He's only a character in a book."

  Mrs. Davies began to spoon her mixture into tins. "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "What do you mean?"

  "A rose by any other name, Miss Juno. A rose by any other name…."

  While Juno was puzzling over this, Elly came bursting into the kitchen, hand on chest. "He's back!" she gasped.

  Juno leapt to her feet, in no doubt at all about who "he" was. "Mr. Ashby?"

  Sensible middle-aged Elly leaned against the doorpost. "Handsome enough to die for!" she declared.

  "Say I'm not at home."

  "Oh, never do that, Miss Juno!" Elly protested. "He's doubtless come a terrible long way."

  "Happen she's scared of him, Elly," murmured Mrs. Davies.

  Juno stiffened. "I most certainly am not. I simply do not care to waste my time. I've sent him to the rightabouts once and I can do so again."

  "Bellarion," Mrs. Davies muttered.

  "Nonsense. If I don't dispatch him immediately, Elly, bring tea."

  Juno swept out, but not before hearing Mrs. Davies say, "Not the Minton this time, Elly."

  Ha! There would be no call for china-smashing to make her point. Mr. Ashby must have realized she was not a woman to ignore.

  Juno paused before a mirror in the hall and considered her appearance -- just in case, of course, there was a smear of dust on her face. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her practical round gown of blue-grey bombazine or the knitted grey shawl wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. How silly it would be to be flimsily dressed in January.

  Alas, she couldn't even try to convince herself that her hair was acceptable. Aunt Clarabel and she had always trimmed each other's hair, keeping it short for practicality's sake. Since her aunt's death Mrs. Davies had reluctantly taken over the task, always telling Juno she should call in a hair dresser to do it properly.

  Juno had refused, knowing it could be the first step towards a debilitating obsession with appearance. Mrs. Davies would become more skillful as t
ime went by.

  She ran her fingers through her pale curls in an attempt to make some of the more wayward tufts stay down. It was useless, as she well knew, so she abandoned the effort and went resolutely on her way.

  When she walked into the front parlor, however, her breath caught in her throat. Charteris Ashby was even more handsome than she remembered. Even worse, she realized that he was the image she'd carried in her mind as she read Castle of Blood.

  He was indeed Bellarion.

  "Miss Rathbone."

  "Mr. Ashby." Could he hear the betraying tremor in her voice?

  "Thought I'd drop by again," he said, seeming a little uneasy. Remembering smashed plates? Good.

  "Why? As I informed you, we are not cousins."

  "But we must be step-cousins or something."

  Juno couldn't deny that. "I suppose we must."

  A silence settled, broken only by the crackle of the coal fire and the ticking of the massive gilt mantle clock.

  "Fact is," he said at last, "wanted to apologize, Miss Rathbone. Had no idea that you weren't my full cousin."

  Juno decided not to point out to him that she would have objected to his interference even if they had been blood relatives. "I'm sure your intentions were of the best, Mr. Ashby."

  "Look here," he said with that devastating smile that tugged up the right side of his mouth and crinkled his fine eyes. "Can't you bring yourself to call me Cousin Chart?"

  "Oh, I don't think...."

  The smile turned pleading.

  "Very well," said Juno with a sigh. "Cousin Chart."

  "Splendid, splendid, Cousin Juno." He looked around. "Very cozy house you have here. Comfortable."

  "Very comfortable."

  "Must be a bit lonely for you since your aunt died, but you'll have a great many friends here in Oakham. School friends and such."

  "I was educated by my aunt," she admitted.

  "Oh. Still, you must know lots of people here."

  "Yes, of course I do," Juno replied.

  The trouble was that they were all of her aunt's generation. Aunt Clarabel had been a lively companion and Juno had never felt the lack of friends of her own age until her death.

  As she hadn't dispatched Chart Ashby, Elly came in to put the tea tray on the table. Juno had to sit and pour tea into the very plain cups. Odd to feel disappointment at that precaution. At it not being necessary. It had been strangely stimulating to cross swords.

  "Fact is," Mr. Ashby said as he accepted his cup, "wondering if you'd be able to tear yourself away for a week or two. Or longer."

  "Leave? To go where?"

  "Derby," he said.

  That didn't lessen her bewilderment.

  "The way it is, Cousin Juno, my friend Terance Cornwallis has a cousin. Widow. Lives in a village near Derby. He's beginning to think she's a bit low. Keeping him awake at nights, off his feed. Just last night we were saying that his cousin Cressida needs a visitor. Someone to cheer her up, encourage her to get out a bit, but we don't know anyone suitable. And then I thought of you. Bit of an imposition, but I had this feeling you're a woman who would like to help another woman."

  "Of course," said Juno blankly. "But would this lady welcome the intrusion of a stranger?"

  "She'd probably welcome anyone, but I had it in mind, if you'll permit it, to tell her you were feeling a bit low. Make it easier for her to accept help, don't you know."

  "I can't countenance deception, Cousin."

  "Not even to help a lady in need?"

  A moral dilemma indeed, but the prospect was appealing without the benevolent aspect.

  A new place.

  New people.

  A noble purpose.

  "If this poor lady agrees, Cousin, I will do my best to help her."

  His smile was positively dazzling. "What a wonderfully kind nature you have, Cousin Juno. On Corny's behalf, I thank you." He put down his cup and rose. "I'll set it all up in no time."

  He left Juno enraptured by the excitement of impending change, the knowledge of noble purpose, and the glory of his beaming approval. And thus, one week later, she came to be rolling through the frosty countryside towards the village of Valentine Parva, near Derby.

  * * *

  A few days later, Mrs. Davies unfolded a letter from her employer and read it to Elly.

  Dear Mrs. Davies and Elly,

  My journey was without untoward event and I am now at Pyne Manor in the village of Valentine Parva. Everyone here is most kind and welcoming, but matters are not quite as I expected.

  Mrs. Pyne is not alone, for her sister Marian lives with her at the moment, and also her husband's mother, Mrs. Pyne, who is a pleasant lady but an invalid. Marian Longley is also pleasant, but very fashionable for she has had a London season. She betrothed to a naval captain. She merely awaits his return to be wed and is rather restless. She seems to have formed the intention to make me fashionable which, as you know, would be against my principles.

  I did demur about extending my visit in these circumstances but Mrs. Pyne, or Cressida as she has directed me to call her, insists nothing will better raise her spirits than another young guest, though in truth, she herself is not old as I expected. She is only just thirty. Her son, Toby, is six years old and a pleasing child. The long and the short of it is that I have agreed to stay for a week or two. I believe I may be of comfort to the older Mrs. Pyne by reading to her and listening to her stories.

  During the journey, I read most of The Spectre of Marsh Hall and found it lived up to all our expectations. Imagine my delight when I found Pyne Manor to be very like Marsh Hall, except for having only one tower, not four. It is covered with ivy and has a heavy oaken door which creaks no matter how much oil is applied. Imagine my further delight to have been given the room in the tower, just like the one in which Seraphina was incarcerated!

  I confess this has at times made the story a little too believable and I have taken to reading in the sitting room, using my old disguise -- Lord Montboddo's Of the Origin and Progress of Language. I know you disapprove of this deception and you are doubtless correct, but my Secret Vice is such a betrayal of all Aunt Clarabel's teaching that I feel compelled to maintain the deception.

  I have finished The Spectre and will send it to you as soon as I have the opportunity. It is fortunate that Marian also enjoys novels and there are any number lying around...'

  Mrs. Davies put the letter down, "Foolishness."

  "But you like those books, Gertie."

  "That's not what I mean," Mrs. Davies said, frowning in thought. "Fetch me a sheet of the writing paper, Elly."

  "What, the good stuff?"

  "Yes, the good stuff. I'm not going to shame Miss Juno by sending a letter on rough, am I?"

  And so, the next day, Juno unfolded a sheet of her own embossed paper to read a letter from Mrs. Davies. It contained a brief, creatively spelled, account of the running of the house and a rambling story of how Mrs. Davies had drowned her worries about the fate of her first husband, a soldier, in endless charitable works. It ended with,

  'That Miss Langley must be in anxiety about her betrothed, engaged in war at sea, and would probably benefit from occupation to take her mind off that, but principles are principles.'

  Juno had not quite considered matters in this light. Balancing principles with charity was a great deal more complex than she had thought. But as the Bible said, of all the virtues the greatest is charity. Therefore, the next time Marian said, "My dear Juno, please let me do something about your hair," Juno swallowed and said, "Very well."

  She was given no time to change her mind. Marian quickly found sharp scissors and began her work.

  "Don't cut it too short, Marian!" Juno protested as the scissors scrunched close to her scalp.

  "You have always said you like it short for practicality," Marian pointed out. "I am merely going to make it stylishly short."

  Juno winced with each cut. There seemed to be a great deal of hair falling to the floor. At las
t Marian said, "There!" and turned Juno toward the mirror.

  "Good heavens!" Juno whispered.

  "Cressida!" Marian called. "Do come and see. It's a transformation!"

  It was indeed. Curling tendrils framed her face, which seemed suddenly to have developed more contours. Her eyes looked larger and her chin narrower. She turned her head and saw that the tendrils were longer about the nape of her neck. From the neck up at least she looked like a heroine ready for a dashing hero.

  She wanted to throw her arms around Marian and thank her, but that would be to betray her upbringing. She really didn't know how to react.

  "It... it should be very practical, I think," she said at last. "Thank you, Marian."

  It wasn't clear whether Marian found this thanks lukewarm for at that moment Cressida came in and was as admiring of the effect as anyone could wish.

  She seemed to understand Juno's feelings too, for she said in her kind way, "You will find it much easier to take care of now, for it will look tidy even if you forget to comb it. Really, Marian, you have a talent. If you are ever in need of the means of survival you will have the whole ton at your door."

  "Then let me practice my talent further," said Marian, a glint in her eye. "Next, Juno, your clothes. I do believe we're of a height, though you lack my curves."

  Juno was about to protest when she remembered Mrs. Davies's advice. She really wouldn't want Marian to dwell on her anxieties. She soon, therefore, found herself trying on one of Marian's older gowns, a very plain gray with a thin pink stripe.

  "I can't remember why I bought that one," Marian said. "Ah yes, it was when Cressida's husband died. Aunt Palgrave insisted on half-mourning."

  Aunt Palgrave was the godmother who'd steered Marian through her season. Clearly she'd done so well as Marian had attracted her Charles, who was well connected as well as being a gallant officer, but they'd clearly not become warm companions.

  Marian tugged on the drawstrings at the high waist to gather in the extra width. "That will do, I think, but it's rather dull. We could trim it with pink ribbons. You must be almost out of mourning, surely."

  "I've never been in mourning. My aunt didn't approve of ostentatious grief."