It did not take them long to arrive at the location Jane had chosen for their outing, a grassy glade beside a small stream. St. Clair glanced round as he handed her down from the curricle, and remarked, “Correct me if I am wrong, but is this not part of my property?”
“Oh dear, you have caught me out. But I must own that I have been trespassing here for a good many years—since long before it was your property. It is one of my favourite places, and I doubt the former owner ever knew of my crime. Are you going to exact a fine from me?”
His eyes gleaming with amusement, he replied, “No, not in a monetary sense. All the same, I think I must claim some sort of forfeit from you.”
But Jane was left to wonder what that might be.
Upon their arrival, Alice had jumped down from her horse without waiting for assistance, and after securing the reins to a nearby bush, she had begun exploring the glade. There was little to interest her, however, and now she was back, demanding, “A forfeiture for what?”
“For trespassing on my land,” St. Clair told her.
“Oh, is this your land? I had not realized it was such a vast estate. Was that old curmudgeon a relative of yours? Papa says he was as rich as Croesus, so you must be very plump in the pocket now. I suppose that will make you a great deal more acceptable to the ton, will it not?”
Jane had to clench her jaw to keep from criticizing the girl, but she was determined not to spoil this day by sending Alice into a temper. To salve her conscience, she told herself that she would find a way later to bring up the subject diplomatically.
St. Clair, however, was looking decidedly as though he were ready to give Alice a severe set-down. Meeting Jane’s eyes, however, he seemed to understand the pleading in them. He turned back to Alice and said mildly, “It is my land, and the old gentleman was a relative, although a very distant one. I have no notion of how my inheritance will affect the ton’s view of me, and it is impolite to enquire into a man’s wealth, or lack thereof ...unless you are the father of a marriageable daughter.”
Jane held her breath, expecting a tantrum, but to her surprise, Alice merely said, “Oh.” Then, with an abrupt change of subject, she asked, “May we eat now? We were late in starting, and I am famished.”
There was no opportunity for private talk during the picnic meal, but on the trip back to Meadowbrook, Alice did not remain quite so close to the carriage. Jane guessed that the girl was a little out of charity with St. Clair, for he had treated her with amused tolerance all morning. Now, bored and restless since the promised treat was over, Alice had apparently decided to punish him by depriving him of her company. She took to galloping ahead of them, then waiting impatiently for them to catch up before forging ahead again.
Watching her, and hoping she would not be so imprudent as to go beyond their sight, Jane said ruefully, “I suppose I should arrange some entertainments for her and invite the other young people from the neighbourhood to keep her amused.”
Glancing at her with a grin, St. Clair said dryly, “Forgive me, Jane, but I am heartily sick of the chit and her problems. I don’t wish to talk of her.”
“Oh, of course not. I did not mean to bore you with my troubles.”
“Your troubles do not bore me. It is simply that I would rather speak of other things just now. For instance, I have not told you how glad I am that you have left off wearing those ridiculous caps. You are far too young and attractive for such things.”
Jane wished with all her heart that she did not blush so easily. She said in a slightly strangled voice, “Oh, well, Agatha is forever scolding me for wearing them. I simply grew tired of listening to her. But there is no need to offer me Spanish coin. I am neither young nor particularly attractive.”
“You are younger, by several years, than I,” he told her. “As to the other, perhaps it is true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
It was a good thing that he was not watching her then, for she was certain that her absurd happiness at his compliment showed clearly on her face. Even the knowledge that he must be very practiced at making such speeches could not dampen the thrill she felt. Sincere or not, she knew she would cherish his words forever.
They were silent for several minutes then, and her thoughts returned to Mrs. Micklethorp and what she had been about to reveal. What terrible thing would she have learned about St. Clair if they had not been interrupted? She did not want to know, yet she could not stop wondering.
She could not have known that St. Clair’s thoughts were on the same subject, but, just as they turned into the carriage drive at Meadowbrook, he said, “Jane, I need to speak with you. Not now, for what I have to say to you is private. Will you agree to meet with me later?”
Without stopping to consider, she answered, “I shall come to your chamber tonight.”
“No!” he said sharply. Then, gentling his tone, he repeated, “No. That would not be wise. Besides, Kearny is certain to be somewhere within earshot. It would be better if we met in the rose garden after Alice is abed.”
“Very well,” she agreed quietly, pleased at how calm she sounded when, in truth, she felt oddly excited and rather daring at the thought of such an assignation with St. Clair. What could he mean to tell her?
If he was going to divulge the truth about himself, she preferred to hear it from him rather than from someone else. But perhaps it was something else altogether...
CHAPTER TEN
By the time they arrived at the front entrance, Alice had already disappeared in the direction of the stables, and after handing Jane down from the curricle, St. Clair drove off in that direction, too. Jane watched, bemused, until he was out of sight, then turned towards the house.
With her thoughts wholly centred upon the proposed rendezvous with St. Clair later that night, she wondered how she would manage to get through the intervening hours. But all of that flew from her head when she stepped through the door to discover a state of near pandemonium.
Elsie stood near the bottom of the stairs, glaring at Melrose. At the sight of her mistress, she cried, “It weren’t my fault! Melrose weren’t nowhere about, and how was I to know the old cat— I mean the vicar’s wife—can’t abide the squire?”
Before Jane could enquire as to the meaning of this astounding speech, Melrose answered sharply, “If you had but waited a moment, instead of rushing to answer the door yourself—which you know well is no part of your duties— I should have been here. Now, if you know what is good for you, you will stop bothering Miss Jane and take yourself off to the kitchen to help Cook.”
The maid flounced away. Melrose turned to his mistress to offer his own apologies, but Jane scarcely heard him or registered his unusually harassed look.
Alice and St. Clair had just come in, but her attention was riveted on the sound of a booming male voice coming from the drawing-room. “Here now, woman, be careful with that foot. It hurts like the very devil!”
Agatha’s voice sounded unsympathetic. “Oh, stop your complaining, Alfred. You have only yourself to blame. If you were not forever attempting to behave as if you were still a young blade...”
“Papa!” shrieked Alice, and dashing past Jane, she flew into the drawing-room.
“Ah, there you are, puss. Come give your papa a kiss, but be careful of that foot.”
St. Clair raised his eyebrows at Jane and said, “I believe this is a case where retreat is the better part of valour. I shall be in the estate room should you need me.”
Jane merely nodded distractedly and went to the drawing-room. There she discovered Sir Alfred, sitting in a wing-chair beside the empty fireplace fondly greeting his daughter, while Agatha finished arranging his heavily bandaged left foot on a pillow-topped footstool.
“Sir Alfred!” Jane said, wondering if she sounded as stupid as she feared she did. “I thought you would be in Brighton, or on your way to the Continent by now.”
“Aye, and so I should have been, had it not been for this,” he growled, nodding at the offending ap
pendage. “But I must have injured the damned toe somehow, for the confounded thing has swelled like a blasted balloon and is devilish painful.”
“In a pig’s eye!” said Agatha inelegantly. “Injured, indeed! It is the gout, and comes as a result of all that rich food and drink, not to mention other things which are better left unsaid. And I shall thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head while you are in this house, sir!”
Jane thought she heard Agatha add, “Old fool,” under her breath, but could not be certain.
After favouring Agatha with a blistering scowl, the squire looked sheepishly at Jane and apologized for his language, then said, “But what is this I hear about St. Clair?”
“Oh, Papa!” declared Alice. “Only think, I have been staying in the same house as a noted rake!” Then she added with a slight pout, “But he is not at all what I thought he would be. In fact, he treats me as though he were my uncle, or some such thing.”
Looking somewhat relieved. Sir Alfred said, “Well, well. Always liked the fellow myself, even if he is a bounder. Hear he has inherited everything from that old curmudgeon Caldwell, though, so I expect all that nasty business will soon be forgiven. Even so, can’t have him living in the same house as my young puss, here.”
For the briefest of moments, Jane was sorely tempted to tell him that he might take his daughter away with him, with her blessing. But of course she could not be so uncivil. Instead, thinking it time to take command of the situation, she sent a reluctant Alice off to change out of her riding habit, then told Sir Alfred, “Your daughter, sir, is being well chaperoned. And as for St. Clair, he has been recuperating here after an unfortunate accident. Ethridge Hall, as you know, is scarcely fit for occupancy.”
“Well, well,” said the squire again with a thoughtful frown. No doubt you are right. Might not be such a bad thing for my girl, after all. Hear he has hired workmen to set the Hall to rights, which makes me wonder if he is planning to mend his ways and settle down. By all accounts he is rich as a nabob now. Before we know it, all the matchmaking mamas will be throwing their eligible daughters in his path. No harm in my puss having a head start, is there?”
Jane had no notion of how to answer that remarkable speech. So much for taking command of the situation, she thought wryly.
She turned at the sound of someone clearing his throat and found Melrose still standing in the doorway. “Yes, Melrose?” she asked.
“I was wondering. Miss Jane, what you wished me to do about the lady.”
“The lady?”
“The vicar’s wife.”
“Good God!” Jane exclaimed. “Is she still here?”
“I am afraid so, Miss Jane. She was a trifle overset when the squire arrived, and—”
“Ha!” interpolated Sir Alfred. “That’s rich! ‘A trifle overset.’ Went into a spasm is what she did.”
“I had her removed to the morning-room,” finished Melrose rather faintly.
“Damned gossiping busybody,” muttered Sir Alfred.
“Great heavens!” declared Agatha. “I forgot all about her. You had better go to her, Jane. I could not get rid of her, for she is determined to speak to you, and I fear she won’t leave until she does. I have a fair notion of what it is she means to tell you.” Then she added rather cryptically, “Just remember that there is always more than one way to look at a thing.”
Squelching a pudding-hearted urge to feign illness, Jane said, “Very well,” and walked resolutely from the room.
As she mounted the stairs, she heard Sir Alfred saying, “Speaking of unfortunate accidents, did you hear that I was robbed by that devilish rogue of a highwayman? And the damned fellow is still on the loose. Don’t know what this world is coming to!”
Jane did not hear Agatha’s reply, nor did the thought of the highwayman bother her any longer. In any event, she had too many other things on her mind. A few moments later, she entered the morning-room with a determined smile pasted on her lips.
Mrs. Micklethorp was lying on the sofa, clutching a vinaigrette in her hand, but at Jane’s entrance, she sat up and looked at her accusingly. “Praise God, you have finally returned,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer I could bear to remain under the same roof as that man.”
“St. Clair?” Jane was surprised into asking. So far as she knew, the lady had not so much as laid eyes on St. Clair.
“No, no, not St. Clair—well, him, too, but I was referring, on this occasion, to Squire Brant. The man has an evil tongue in his head and not an ounce of civility in his body. As you know, my dear, a vicar’s wife must deal with a great many persons of the lower classes, but they, at least, know how to show a proper respect. Such language as he uses! Well! As I said, I could scarcely bear to remain in the same house with him.”
Suppressing a strong inclination to tell her persistent guest that no one had constrained her to do so, Jane said, “I’m sorry, but I had no notion that you would stay for such a lo—I mean I had not realized that you meant to wait for me, ma’am.”
“I know my duty, Jane, and as I told you earlier, I came to speak with you and I mean to do so before I go.”
As much as Jane had longed to avoid this, she now only wished for the woman to say her piece and leave. In any case, it appeared that nothing would stop her.
Deciding that it was better to hear the truth now, rather than indulge in speculation, Jane sat down wearily. “Very well, ma’am. Just what is it that St. Clair is supposed to have done?”
Mrs. Micklethorp assumed the classic pose of someone about to offer a choice morsel of gossip, while at the same time managing to appear reluctant.
Even as she wondered at such an ability, Jane resigned herself to hearing a long, involved tale.
However, the vicar’s wife told the whole in only two sentences. She said, not entirely unsympathetically, “I fear there is no supposing about it, for the story came from the most reliable source. In any event, not to wrap the matter in clean linen, my dear, he eloped with a young lady, got her with child, then abandoned her to her fate, refusing to marry her.”
Surprised by the brevity of that speech, and shocked by its content, Jane’s first inclination was to deny that it could be true. But something stopped her. She could not, however, think of any other response, and so she watched in a silent daze as her guest rose, saying, “There, I have done what I came to do. I shall go now, but I do hope that you will consider well all that I have said, and act accordingly.”
With that, Mrs. Micklethorp took her leave, but Jane scarcely registered that she was finally gone.
What she had heard was far worse than anything she had imagined. For him to have abandoned the girl after getting her with child... no, she could not believe that of him. And yet, even loving gossip as the vicar’s wife did, would she repeat such a vicious tale if it were completely unsubstantiated?
Jane hated the doubt which had insinuated itself into her mind, but could not rid herself of it.
Mrs. Micklethorp had said that the story came from the most reliable source, which could only be the girl or her family. But surely they would not have wished to broadcast such a disaster. They would be more likely to do all in their power to hush it up, would they not?
By now, Jane’s head was throbbing and she longed for nothing so much as the privacy of her own chamber, where she could try to come to terms with her confused feelings. For, even while she unhappily accepted the possible—probable?—truth of the story, she was desperately trying to find excuses for St. Clair.
But she could not do as she wished; she still had a guest to see to. It would be too uncivil to ignore the squire’s presence in such a way, and so she forced herself to return to the drawing-room.
On her way, a new concern occurred to her. She knew that Sir Alfred had given most of his staff leave, since he had expected to be away for some time. What if she were obliged to house him, too? Her financial resources were already considerably strained.
In the end, she was not obliged to
house the squire. He did, however, accept her invitation to stay for dinner, which turned out to be both a blessing and a trial. It was a severe strain to sit at table with St. Clair and attempt to behave as if nothing had changed when, in fact, her heart was breaking. It was fortunate, therefore, that the squire was there, for he dominated the conversation, making her inability to meet St. Clair’s eyes, or to speak easily with him, less obvious.
Afterwards, as St. Clair said good-night, he gave her a meaningful look and, under his breath, murmured, “Until later.”
She knew he was referring to their proposed meeting in the garden, but she could not tell him that she would not be there. For one thing, they were not alone, and for another, she did not know what to say to him. More to the point, she feared she might burst into tears if she tried to speak.
In her chamber, as she slowly made ready for bed, she wondered dejectedly how long he would wait for her. Not long, she thought. During dinner, Mrs. Micklethorp’s extended visit had been mentioned, and St. Clair had looked at Jane sharply. His understanding was highly acute, so no doubt he already suspected that she now knew the truth about him and would not be surprised by her failure to appear.
Perhaps he would even be gone by the time she awakened in the morning. And she wondered, as she crawled into bed, why that thought should make her weep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
St. Clair waited for Jane for scarcely a quarter of an hour. She knew this because she had frequently glanced at the clock by her bedside. So she knew exactly what time it was when her door opened and he strode into her chamber.
The sight of him filled her with such happiness that, just for a moment, she forgot all other considerations. Yet somehow this seemed much more improper than her visits to his chamber had ever been.
Sitting up, Jane clutched the sheet to her chest and hissed, “St. Clair! What are you doing here?”
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