Regency Valentines

by Jo Beverley

"Are you saying you were wearing those dismal clothes from choice?"

  "They're practical," Juno defended.

  "Pink stripe is no less practical than plain grey."

  "Pink ribbons will be a great deal of work with the iron."

  Marian laughed. "I grant you that point, but pink ribbons it will be. What else do I have that will easily adjust? Ah, the lilac. Another gesture toward mourning and it didn't suit me at all, but I think it might be just the thing."

  As soon as Juno was in it, Marian turned her toward the mirror. "See. I'm right. You are somewhat ethereal and the shade brings that out."

  "I don't want to be ethereal."

  "You don't have to be it, only look it. Gentlemen will swoon."

  "I don't want gentlemen to swoon," Juno protested, but then remembered Lovelace prostrate….

  "You see I'm right. And here, this shawl goes beautifully with it."

  The paisley shawl did, and so Juno, out of the kindness of her heart, found herself with a very becoming hairstyle and two charming gowns.

  The next day, she put on the grey dress trimmed with pink ribbons and studied herself in the mirror. She wished she could capture the image and send it to Mrs. Davies. She almost looked like the sort of young lady an evil villain would want to spirit away to a bleak castle; the sort of young lady a dashing Bellarion would risk body and soul to rescue and make his own.

  All unbidden, the image of Chart Ashby sprang into mind.

  What would he think to see her so transformed?

  Very little, she told herself firmly. She was nothing to him, and he must know many, finer ladies. Moreover, she was unlikely to ever encounter him again.

  She composed an account of her charitable endeavors and sent it to her cook. She soon received yet another reply which seemed mainly to do with Elly's concerns about her sick sister's welfare and which ended:

  I suppose that Mr. Cornwallis might be worried about his cousin. I wonder if she writes to him to say how she gets on. Of course you couldn't write to a strange gentleman, but you could write to your cousin, Mr. Ashby.

  The thought of writing to Chart Ashby made Juno's heart flutter. She'd considered doing so when she first arrived at the Grange, but it had seemed too bold. Now, however, she could see it was her charitable duty. She was writing the letter when Marian walked into the sitting room and demanded, "Who's taken the last volume of Masqued Valentine?"

  Mrs. Pyne, sitting by the fire with a book or her own, denied the crime. After a guilty glance at Of the Origin and Progress of Language Juno wanted to also say no, but she couldn't lie outright. Eyes down on her letter, she said, "I thought you'd finished it, Marian."

  "I had, but I wished to refer to the Valentine customs mentioned there. I know you wouldn't have it, Juno. You only ever read that book, over and over again. I don't know how it can be so fascinating."

  Juno didn't have to respond because Mrs. Pyne said, "Oh yes! It will soon be Valentine's. When I was a girl I enjoyed the games we played, though I remember not liking pricking my finger so I could write in blood."

  Juno said, "I'm not surprised. Do people really do such things?"

  She knew, but had to pretend ignorance.

  "According to Masqued Valentine they do," Marian said. "The heroine, Heloise, writes her name in blood and puts it into a box along with the names of the other ladies present. They had all done the same. But it isn't her true love who picks it, but evil Baron Jarlsberg. Of course, he has arranged it so. Alas, we have no gentlemen to pick."

  "You could do some of the simpler things," Mrs. Pyne said, bright-eyed at the thought, which led Juno to support the older lady.

  "If it's not too wicked."

  "It will only be for fun," Marian said, "for I have my true love."

  "But not blood, please," Juno said.

  "Oh, very well. We could try the names on the water one. That's where Heloise finds the name of her true love, Arthur Fitzdragon. All the ladies write the names of the men they know on pieces of paper and wrap them in clay. Then they throw the clay balls into a pot of water. Which ever name breaks free first and rises to the surface will be their true love. He will then appear within the month and they will be happy ever after." She suddenly brightened. "Perhaps it would bring Charles back so soon."

  Chapter Three

  On Valentine's Eve the ladies of Pyne Manor gathered for the ritual. The plan nearly came to nothing when Cressida saw how Marian had arranged matters. A wide copper bowl full of water was surrounded by four lit candles, which provided the only light in the room other than from the fire.

  "This smacks dangerously of superstition," she declared.

  "It's only fun, dear," Mrs. Pyne said.

  Cressida grimaced, but made no further objection.

  "You should take part," her mother-in-law said.

  "I? I don't seek another husband."

  "It's an amusement. Nothing more."

  Juno wondered if kindly Mrs. Pyne hoped Cressida would find a new love. She herself wasn't taking the ritual seriously for she hardly knew any men other than the heroes of novels. She didn't want anyone to realize that, so she said, "I think we should agree now not to reveal the name that floats up. It will be more exciting."

  "If you wish," Marian said. "If any name other than Charles rises from the water for me I'll know it's all a hum."

  "It is all a hum," Cressida insisted, "but if I must." She scribbled a name on each of her five slips of paper.

  Juno shielded her writing from view as she wrote Bellarion, Arthur, Cyrillus, Hector, and then, in a spurt of daring, Charteris. She rolled each up tightly and coated it with the sticky brown clay. When all three were ready they gathered around the copper bowl which the candlelight gifted with mysterious fiery depths.

  Marian went first, and dropped her names into the water, where they sank to the bottom. Very quickly the clay softened away and three pieces of paper floated up, uncurling so they could almost be read. She snatched the first, smiled, and then gathered the rest and threw them to sizzle in the fire.

  "You're next, Juno."

  Juno dropped her clay balls into the water, watching carefully. She didn't want a piece of paper to uncurl and reveal a ridiculous name. As soon as one paper began to rise, she grabbed it before it reached the surface, then held it tight without looking. She scooped out the others with her left hand. "Your turn, Cressida."

  Cressida dropped her clay-wrapped papers into the water. Eventually one rose ahead of the others. She fished it out and without looking at it, threw the other offerings on the fire.

  Juno glanced again at her own impossible prediction.

  Charteris.

  If only the foolishness were true.

  * * *

  Chart and Corny were sitting down to a very tasty dinner at the White Hart in Derby, looking forward to St. Valentine's Day. The reason for their being there was the lack of good hunting weather lately along with Juno's dutiful letter. The previous evening, facing another day without a meet, Chart had suggested they trot off to Derby to see the cousins.

  "Cousins?"

  "Juno and what's her name -- Cressida. See how they're doing. Tell you what," Chart had added with a grin, "know what tomorrow is?"

  "Cottesmore meet," said Corny morosely. "Or would be."

  Chart shook his head. "Saint Valentine's Day. And there the cousins are in Valentine Parva. It's tempting fate. My sisters make a big thing of it back home, so I know the rigmarole. What if we go to Derby, then at first light we nip into Little Valentine and leave a couple of romantic tributes on the doorstep."

  "Why?" Corny asked.

  "Living quietly. Still in mourning. Cheer them up. Send them a verse."

  "A verse?" exclaimed Corny, almost choking on his ale.

  "It's easy. 'Violets are red...' That sort of thing. I've had lots of practice. Sisters, you know." He found a sheet of paper, thought for a moment then wrote, reciting as he did so:

  Sweet Cressida so tall and fair,


  I love the color of your hair.

  Your eyes are such a wondrous blue

  I'm forced to tell you, I love you.

  Corny looked at him with stunned admiration. "Just like that! You're as good as that Byron fellow."

  "Oh, not quite," said Chart modestly. "Now for Juno." Another moment's thought and he produced:

  Little Juno, mild and sweet,

  I worship at your tender feet.

  Smile at me just once today

  And I will your trusty lover stay.

  "Last line's a bit wonky," judged Corny.

  "Depends how you say it," Chart protested.

  Corny still looked doubtful, but it turned out he was worrying about something else.

  "It's not like making an offer, is it? I mean to say, marrying cousins ain't that clever, so I'd have to marry your bluestocking and you'd end up with Cressida, who's a nice enough old thing, but way past her prime."

  Corny marrying Juno? That would never do.

  "No one takes Valentines seriously," Chart said, "and anyway, we're not supposed to sign them. Here, you copy out the one to Cressida and I'll write the one to Juno. Tomorrow we'll find some silk roses and be on our way. If anyone does guess, it'll be taken as fun, Valentines to cousins."

  So here they were, Valentine verses neatly written, tied in ribbon with silk flowers tucked beneath, ready for the next day's charitable bit of fun.

  * * *

  At Pyne Manor similar plans were underfoot. After the names in water Marian and Juno had discussed Cressida.

  "She's not past all hope," Marian said. "There should be flowers on the doorstep for her tomorrow morning, to encourage her mind toward romance."

  "Flowers on the doorstep?"

  "It's a way for a swain to show his interest. Don't you know that?"

  "Valentine's day is not the sort of fancy encouraged in my Oakham circle, but I think it's a wonderful idea to leave flowers for Cressida. Where will we get any at this time of year?"

  "Paper," Marian said. "I know a way which produces very pretty poppies."

  They found red paper and retreated to Marian's room to create the blossoms. When they had a respectable bouquet, they composed a verse and it was decided Marian would creep down to put it on the doorstep at first light.

  Juno loved the idea of the generous gesture and decided to do more. She went to the garden room by the scullery for a trowel, then slipped out of the house even though the light was going and found the lush patch of snowdrops, glowing white in a far corner. She uprooted a clump with plenty of earth and returned to the house to make up three pots -- one for Marian, one for Cressida, and one for herself so as to disguise who'd done it. She tried to pretend that this was yet more Christian Charity, but she knew she was finding the Valentine's Day superstitions wickedly exciting and despite all rationalization, the fact that the water had sent her Chart Ashby's name was raising impossible hopes.

  She paused by the door to look up at the moon that floated in the darkening sky, remembering the way his mouth turned up on one side when he smiled, the mischievous glint in those grey eyes, and the overpowering excitement she'd felt when he had stood close to her that once.

  When Arthur had taken Heloise in his arms and pressed reverent lips to hers, Juno had imagined Chart Ashby doing the same to her. It had made her feel warm and soft; it had made her yearn. It was all nonsense and dangerous and in direct opposition to all she had been raised to believe, but the vision lingered and she was as helpless against it as if she'd contracted galloping consumption.

  She turned dreamily to go into the house through the scullery door -- and encountered Cressida. "Where have you been, Juno?"

  With her hands full of snowdrops, there wasn't much point in prevaricating. She quickly explained her charitable work.

  "I suppose it will do no harm, but you'd better not bring those into the house."

  Juno looked down at the snowdrops. "Why not?"

  "Another superstition. If anyone brings snowdrops inside before St. Valentine's Day, all the unmarried ladies in the house will remain that way for the year."

  "As marriage is a trap most women would be best to avoid...."

  "I hardly think Marian would agree. What do you plan? One for each of us? I'll bring out three pots and we'll fill them on the wall there. We can leave them by the side of the house and tomorrow you can move them to the front step."

  As they worked, Juno asked, "You don't truly mind all this, do you, Cressida?"

  Cressida paused, staring ahead. "It's harmless, but I have a low opinion of romance. I don't approve of the novels Marian reads."

  "Yet her betrothal is suitable, is it not?"

  "Yes. Except for Charles being in danger." She shook her head. "Enough of that. We'll have our game tomorrow."

  The snowdrops were soon in their pots and nestled against the side wall of the house. Juno washed her hands in the scullery and went up to her room. When the house was finally quiet she made her way downstairs, trying to avoid the creaking steps. She made it to the kitchen unobserved and slipped out through the back door. She collected her pots and carried them around the house to the front. There she stopped in amazement.

  In addition to the poppies for Cressida, there were two other posies of paper flowers. She happily added her potted snowdrops, tucking in each a name on a piece of paper. She didn't believe that the morrow would bring her a valentine lover, but the kindness behind the pretence was magic. She had friends.

  * * *

  When Chart and Corny crept up to Hugh's Grange at first light they were astonished to see the doorway resembling a flower-barrow.

  "Thought your cousin lived quietly," Chart said.

  "Perhaps they're all for your Juno," Corny said clutching his flower-trimmed poem. "Thought you said she was a dull dab of a thing."

  "I didn't!" Chart protested, upset at the whole idea.

  They sneaked up and deposited their offerings alongside the rest.

  "Wish I could see Cressida's face," Corny said when they'd achieved a retreat.

  "Why not?" Chart asked, more interested in Juno's. Did she really have admirers here? "The manor's within sight of the churchyard. We'll hang about there."

  It was a nippy vigil behind a gravestone, but they endured it, fortified by Chart's brandy flask. Eventually the door was opened by a maid, who stared, then shouted something. In a moment two young women rushed to the door, exclaiming and picking through the offerings. An older woman and a child soon appeared and shooed them all inside with their trove.

  "That was Cressida," said Corny. "Which was Juno? They both looked dashed pretty to me."

  "I think," said Chart bemusedly, "she was the one in pink ribbons. She's done something to her hair."

  "Pretty little thing."

  "Derbyshire must suit her," Chart said, aware of a painful stab of jealousy.

  When they got back to the inn to collect their horses he said, "I don't see why we don't go and call now we're here."

  "But it was all supposed to be secret. They're bound to guess if we come waltzing up."

  "They'll guess anyway. They'll only need to ask to hear we've been in the village. We'll just go up and admit to it. It's all fun anyway."

  "What about the rest of those flowers?"

  "Yes," said Chart. "What about them?"

  Chapter Four

  Juno had been up with the dawn and dressed by daylight, ready to run downstairs and see everyone's reaction to the valentine display. It seemed an age, but was not much past eight when the maid let out a shriek.

  She raced down, joined by Marian who was also dressed. Cressida and Toby weren't far behind. Everyone exclaimed at the offerings, some more so than others, depending on when they had placed their own there. The flowers were all quickly and evenly distributed and then they came to the two scrolls -- one for Cressida and one for Juno.

  "Good gracious," said Juno looking at the beautiful yellow silk roses. They weren't home made. She gingerly unrolled th
e paper and read out the verse.

  "Juno, you sly thing!" Marian exclaimed. "You have an admirer."

  "No. Honestly!" The name Chart had sprung into her mind but it was ridiculous. He was miles away. "What about you, Cressida?"

  Cressida appeared bemused. "I haven't the slightest idea," she said, holding her verse as if it might explode. She put it on the hall table. "But perhaps, now the excitement is over, we can do justice to Mrs. Barleyman's breakfast."

  Marian and Toby went into the dining room, but Juno lingered.

  "Who do you think sent those poems?" she asked Cressida.

  "I have no idea, but my admirer is obviously the merest acquaintance, for he doesn't even know the color of my eyes."

  She walked briskly away, but Juno carried her roses with her into the dining room. At least the writer of her poem had known she was short and slim.

  By the time they'd all eaten the excitement had settled. Apart from Cressida and Juno's bouquets, the valentines were quickly explained and everyone seemed to take it as Juno had, as a pleasing sign of friendship. Juno took her two posies to her tower room to muse on yellow roses. No one had ever given her flowers before, not even silk ones. She found it didn't seem to matter who the donor had been -- the gift was as powerful as a storm, as music, as fire.

  It overwhelmed her mind.

  She touched the petals, spreading out from the secret heart. There was one firm bud, still curled in tightly on itself, looking ready to soften and open. Like her heart.

  Little Juno, mild and sweet,

  I worship at your tender feet.

  Smile at me just once today

  And I will your trusty lover stay.

  She found the failed meter in the last line as endearing as a stray dimple. It made the sender human. Could it possibly be Chart Ashby? No. It was absurd, impossible....

  Then, out of her high window, she saw two horsemen riding down the lane towards the manor house. Fashionable men on fine horses. One of them was Chart Ashby.

  Heart pounding madly, Juno flew to her small mirror and dragged a comb through her hair, blessing Marian a thousand times. She tried to see her gown and could not, so rushed down the stairs, knocked, and then hearing no reply, nipped into Marian's room to use the full-length mirror. She ruthlessly discarded her grey woolen shawl and dashed back upstairs for the paisley one. Then, seeking composed dignity, but almost dizzy with excitement, she made her way downstairs even as she heard the hollow sound of the knocker.