The Hemingford Scandal

by Mary Nichols

  ‘No, no,’ Jane said quickly. ‘I am too tired. It has been a long day…’

  ‘Just a few steps,’ he pleaded, as Anne went to the piano. ‘Prove you can do it. You said you would not go home until you had learned to ride and dance again. If you do not, we cannot leave on Friday.’

  She took his hand and allowed herself to be led into the middle of the room. They danced a minuet, slow and stately, which caused no problem at all. ‘There,’ he said when they finished. ‘All your accomplishments back in working order. Shall we try a gavotte now?’

  That was more energetic, but she managed to complete it without stumbling. At the end she was breathless, but the rapid beating of her heart had little to do with the energy she had put into it. It was far more complex than that. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Now, I’ll teach you a new dance,’ he said. ‘I learned it while I was abroad, but it is coming to London and will soon be all the rage. You must be able to waltz.’

  She had heard of it, but she knew many people considered it too risqué for polite society. The man was expected to hold his partner round the waist! ‘Oh, no, I could not,’ she protested. ‘I have heard it is immodest.’

  ‘Jane, I have been carrying you about for weeks, supporting you, catching you when you stumbled, so how can my hand held lightly on your back matter?’ He turned her to face him, took her right hand in his left and put his other hand about her waist, holding her a foot from him. ‘See, there is nothing improper about this. Put your hand on my shoulder. Now, move backwards and follow my steps.’ He moved forward taking her with him. ‘One, two, three, one, two, three.’

  She faltered once or twice and he turned to his sister, watching them from the piano stool. ‘Have you any suitable music, Anne? It is much easier with music.’

  Anne sorted through the music on the top of the piano and found something in the right tempo and they began again. In no time at all, Jane had mastered the steps and caught the rhythm. She allowed herself to relax, to enjoy being held in this daring way, to be near him, knowing it might be the last time they were so close. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured, looking down into her upturned face.

  ‘I have a good teacher. Do you really think the waltz will become the rage?’

  ‘No doubt of it, and you will be one step ahead when it is danced in the ballrooms of the haut monde.’

  ‘I doubt I shall be invited to the ballrooms of the haut monde, and even if I am I will not be so daring as to stand up for a waltz.’

  ‘You will, if I ask you, surely?’

  ‘Will you ask me?’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly.’ He smiled and drew her closer so that their bodies were touching and a strange sensation coursed through her, making her falter. She would have fallen if he had not been holding her so firmly. Did he enjoy tormenting her, teasing her, testing her? She risked glancing up at him, and found his eyes searching hers. The pupils were dark, fathomless, asking questions she could not answer, making statements she found uncomfortable. It was as if they were repeating everything he had ever said to her, reducing it to its essence. Love, forgiveness, repentance, hope, all rolled into one searching look.

  She was beautiful, he decided, with that puzzled look on her face, her lips slightly parted. Why could she not see that he would do anything, make any sacrifice, for her? For her he would be what his grandfather wanted him to be and take pleasure in it. He could see her in his mind’s eye, living at Sutton Park, gracing it with her presence, making a real home of it. And in the spring, they would go to Bostock House and enjoy the Season in their own way. The gossip would die down. Gossip was only good if it was new; as soon as something fresh came along, the tattlers would spring on it like a cat on a mouse and forget Jane and Harry Hemingford and Donald Allworthy. Why could she not see that?

  ‘Jane,’ he murmured softly, as the music came to an end and they stood facing each other. ‘Change your mind.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Marrying me.’

  ‘So that you can enjoy your inheritance? No, thank you, Harry.’ She broke away from him and ran from the room.

  He looked perplexed. ‘What did she mean by that?’ he asked his sister.

  ‘She thinks you want to marry her to please Grandfather and have your allowance reinstated.’

  ‘Whatever gave her that idea?’

  ‘I am afraid I did. I did not mean to, we were talking about something else.’

  ‘Then you had better disabuse her of that idea at once.’ For the first time since they were squabbling children he was seriously displeased with his twin.

  ‘I tried. She refuses to listen to me and has hardened her heart.’

  ‘Sis, I warned you not to interfere. Jane needs time to get over Allworthy, to realise for herself what is in her heart. And it is not hard, it is soft and malleable, too malleable sometimes. It was you who told me how she had been coerced and you should have known better than to try the same thing yourself.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Then accept her decision, because I have.’ Only by speaking firmly could he convince her of that, especially when it was far from true. Not until Jane married someone else would he give up hope, but another lesson he had learned in war was patience. If only other people would leave them alone! He smiled to mitigate his anger. ‘I am taking her home on Friday and we shall accept your offer to be chaperon, with gratitude.’

  ‘Then I suppose it will have to be your gun.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Harry, I have been thinking about it.’

  ‘I wish you would not.’

  ‘Why not? It is the least I can do when you have been so disappointed by everyone else.’

  ‘If you mean Jane, I am not disappointed.’

  ‘Fustian! And I did not mean only Jane. Grandfather was unhelpful…’

  ‘Oh, Anne, what else did you expect? I am still an incorrigible bantling to him.’

  She ignored him. ‘And Colonel Garfitt. He was your friend, but he has not acted your friend over this.’

  ‘Anne, do leave off.’

  ‘Harry, do listen. We could continue to live at Bostock House and you could have your manufactory in the rooms above the stables.’ Because the Earl never came to the capital, they did not keep a town carriage and had only one groom to look after the riding horses. ‘The groom can move into the house. There are a dozen attic bedrooms and only a handful of servants to occupy them. It would save expense.’

  He smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘I cannot fire guns in the stables, Anne. It is too dangerous and would frighten the horses. And Grandfather would never sanction it.’

  ‘Then we do not ask him. He need never know. You can find somewhere to fire them. Manton’s would be convenient, and we could manage the tools and materials, whatever else you needed, with my money.’

  ‘Your money?’ he repeated, astonished. ‘A fine brother I would be to take your nest egg from you to further my own ends.’

  ‘I do not need it.’

  ‘Nothing would induce to me accept it.’

  ‘What will you do then?’

  ‘I thought of settling in Westmorland and breeding sheep.’

  She sat back and laughed. ‘You, a sheep farmer, that’s doing it too brown! What about your gun?’

  ‘Be damned to my gun! Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do.’

  He left her and went to the stable to speak to Giles, who had long since returned to his duties. ‘Go to the Nag’s Head tomorrow and book four seats on the London stage for Friday,’ he told him. ‘You will be coming with us. I have to buy a new coach and horses and you will be needed to drive them back.’

  That done, he went up to his room, to sit at the window looking out upon the quiet landscape of his childhood, slumbering under a full moon. It had been his home and one day it would be again, but in the meantime he must make a life for himself. He had been home from the war for several months now and in that time he had done nothing, thoug
h he might he halfway to uncovering a traitor. Had it been worthwhile? Looking after Jane had been worthwhile, of course, and he would treasure the time they had spent together, but he had known from the start it could not last. He sighed. The day after tomorrow, they would go back to London.

  They had one last ride the next day, all three roaming all over the estate, taking their leave of it, and then they returned to the house to pack for the journey. They would have to be up at six to be sure of catching the stage at seven-thirty. The Earl would not be up at that time and they said goodbye to him the evening before. Jane thanked him for having her to stay and he surprised her by taking both her hands in his and kissing her cheek, murmuring, ‘Take care of that grandson of mine, Jane.’

  She had hesitated, not knowing what to say. ‘My lord, I cannot influence him,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I think you can.’ He smiled and released her. ‘Come back and visit an old man, won’t you?’

  She said she would be happy to do so and then watched as he walked stiffly from the room. What did his lordship expect her to do? She could not, would not, try to persuade Harry to marry. That was a decision for him alone.

  Early next morning the three young people and Giles, together with their luggage, were taken to the Nag’s Head in a large, old-fashioned barouche that had not been used for years. Giles had ordered the stable boy to sweep out the cobwebs and give it a good clean. It was serviceable enough for a journey of four miles, but Harry would not risk it any further. ‘Besides, I would not be seen dead in it in town,’ he said, an opinion shared by Giles.

  The stage was on time as it usually was. Their luggage was loaded, Harry helped Jane and Anne in before climbing in himself, while Giles climbed up beside the coachman who was an old friend of his. The other seats were soon filled and they were on their way.

  They took breakfast at the Angel in Grantham, passed through Stilton and three hours later were in Baldock, where they ate a meal before going on. After stops at Welwyn and Barnet they rolled into the Bull and Mouth in London at half past five. The girls rested in the inn while Harry set about finding them a conveyance to take them home and a carrier to shift their luggage.

  Now they were back, Jane was filled with trepidation. Most of her memory had returned, but not all of it, and she was worried that she might make some awful faux pas by cutting someone she was supposed to know or being ignorant of a fact like a death or a new baby, which she ought to mention. She was also anxious to know if Mr Allworthy had returned to London or gone straight from Sutton Park to Coprise Manor. She hoped, more than anything, it was the latter.

  But her hopes were dashed. When she arrived at Duke Street, she was greeted, not by her father, but by her Aunt Lane, who bustled out to the hall as soon as she heard her arrive. ‘Jane, my dearest,’ she cried, taking Jane’s hands in her own and holding her at arm’s length while Harry stood watching. ‘How glad I am to see you. Let me look at you. Why, you look well.’ She stopped suddenly and peered into Jane’s face. ‘You do remember me, do you not?’

  Jane laughed. ‘Of course, I do, Aunt Lane. But I did not think to see you here.’

  ‘I came back as soon as I heard what had happened.’ She sent the maid who stood by the door scurrying for refreshments.

  ‘I have made a full recovery, thanks to Anne and Harry.’ She turned to him. ‘Harry saved my life.’

  ‘Then I must thank him.’ She offered her hand to Harry, who took it and raised it briefly to his lips.

  ‘Your obedient, Mrs Lane.’ He could feel the hostility in the air and decided to take himself off. ‘I will leave Jane in your hands, madam.’ He bowed and left them.

  ‘Where is Papa?’ Jane asked, as she followed her great aunt into the drawing room.

  ‘He is in the library, working on his book. He will join us directly.’

  ‘Oh. Mr Allworthy did not withdraw his patronage, then?’

  ‘Yes, I am afraid he did.’ She paused, watching Jane walking across the room, as if assessing the limp. ‘When I heard that you had given him the right about when he had been so kind as to offer to fetch you home, I had to come and see for myself what was going on. Jane, I cannot believe you have been so foolish.’

  ‘Aunt, I am sorry for Papa, indeed I am. But when Mr Allworthy came to Sutton Park, I did not even remember him. He was a stranger.’

  ‘So he told us. But he also said you remembered your cousins and you had no difficulty in finding your way around Sutton Park.’

  ‘But, Aunt, Harry and Anne were with me when the accident happened. How could I not know them? My loss of memory was strange. I remembered my childhood, when Mama was alive and we lived near Sutton Park, but nothing of recent events. I did not know I had been ill, nor why we went to Westmorland, nor anything of the journey up to the point of the accident.’

  ‘Not even Mr Allworthy, who loves you?’

  ‘Does he? I think not.’

  ‘But he offered for you and welcomed us at Coprise Manor. We were planning to announce your engagement to him. How could you forget that?’

  ‘But I did. I tried to remember, gave myself headaches trying, but it would not come to me.’

  ‘If you had come home with him, you might have remembered everything.’

  ‘I was not well enough.’

  ‘Mr Allworthy was of the opinion that you were well on the way to recovery; if you had come home with him, the physician he had employed would have straightened out your leg and you would not have been left lame.’

  ‘I had a very good doctor, Aunt, I do not think anyone could have done better. And Mr Allworthy was so pompous and overbearing, as if I was being deliberately provoking. I was not, I assure you, it was as if I had just met him for the first time and I found I did not like him.’

  ‘You were influenced by those cousins of yours, Harry in particular. I do not know what went on while you were in Westmorland, but I fear it was nothing to your credit. I did not want you to go, but of course you would take no notice of me, who has always had your welfare at heart.’

  ‘I am sorry, Aunt, but nothing went on.’

  ‘You said you could not remember.’

  Oh dear, this was becoming very difficult. ‘I have remembered since. We had a pleasant holiday, all three of us together. I am sure I wrote to you at the time.’

  ‘I do not know how we are going to live it down. Mr Allworthy was intent on calling Captain Hemingford out for enticing you from him, but luckily he was dissuaded.’

  ‘By you and Papa?’

  ‘No, the Countess. She is most displeased that you did not consider her sensibilities when she had been so kind as to offer to hold a ball for you to announce your engagement.’

  The Countess! Jane would have laughed aloud if she had not been so distressed and so tired. ‘I am sorry about that, but I do not wish to marry Mr Allworthy and I have told him so.’

  ‘You intend to marry Captain Hemingford?’

  ‘Not him either.’

  Her father came into the room at that point, kissed his daughter, and sat down beside her. He looked pale and his eyes looked strained, which was hardly surprising considering the time he spent poring over manuscripts. ‘Well, Jane, how are you?’

  ‘Almost as good as new, Papa. I am sorry Mr Allworthy has withdrawn his patronage. I think it was very unkind of him. You deserve recognition for all your hard work.’

  ‘Perhaps it would not have been the kind of recognition I need, Jane,’ he said with a sigh ‘There would have been strings attached.’

  ‘You mean Mr Allworthy made it a condition that I accept him?’

  ‘No, for he assumed you would until he went to Sutton Park. He believes you have been spoiled—’

  ‘He did not say despoiled?’ she put in quickly.

  ‘Good gracious no!’ he exclaimed. ‘He did not go so far as to say that.’

  ‘No.’ She managed to laugh then. ‘By spoiled he meant lame, scarred, imperfect, not fit to be his wife.’

  ‘Jane!�
�� Her aunt sounded horrified. ‘I am sure you are wrong.’

  ‘Then what strings are you talking about?’

  ‘I meant the gossip, Jane. This is the second time our name has been linked with gossip. It would not help to sell my book. It is a serious work of scholarship and I wanted and expected it to be recognised as such. If it were published now, it would be “that book written by the father of that notorious tease”.’

  If she had not been so tired she might have found a reply to that, but it had been a long day, and she could argue no more. She wanted her bed. ‘I am very sorry, Papa,’ she said. ‘I hope you will be proved wrong. And now, do you think I might retire? I am still not fully recovered.’

  She kissed him and climbed the stairs where Hannah helped her into bed. In spite of her exhaustion, or perhaps because of it, she could not sleep. She had been right about the gossip; if her aunt and father were not exaggerating, it was not going to be pleasant going out and about and she was glad the Season was over and only the year-round residents were in town. But what angered her most of all was the thought that Donald Allworthy had fuelled it. He could have stayed in Norfolk and kept quiet and it might have come to nothing. And though Papa was putting a brave face on it, she knew he was bitterly disappointed.

  She missed Harry already, missed his quiet humour, his understanding, his strength. She turned into her pillow and cried herself to sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Harry called at Duke Street at noon the following day and was received by Mrs Lane, who told him Jane was not at home, a euphemism for telling him she did not wish to see him. He was unsure whether it was Jane herself who did not want to meet him or whether her aunt had advised her not to do so, but whichever it was, he was perplexed and annoyed. He had come to enquire that she was well and suffering no ill effects from her journey and unless she was indisposed, it would have been polite to receive him.