by Julia Parks
With her purchases loaded in the carriage, Jane said, “Now, Tucker, I have one more gift to select, and you cannot be with me.”
Her maid smiled. “I was thinking th’ same thing, Miss Jane.”
Maid and mistress parted company on Milsom Street. Jane lingered where she was, peering into the pastry shop window..... When Tucker was out of sight, she stepped two doors down and entered the linen draper’s shop. She had just settled on a blue shawl of the finest weave when a familiar voice interrupted her train of thought.
“No, I wanted a navy blue. That is too light.”
Jane followed the sound and soon found the voice’s owner. “Mrs. Peterson, I didn’t know you had returned to Bath!”
“Only yesterday, Jane. How nice to see you again. You look wonderful! I must ask you about Miss Pettigrew.” Faith Peterson turned to the clerk and said, “I shall come back an- other time, young man. Let’s go have some tea, Jane.”
“I would love to.” She handed the clerk her selection. “Wrap this up tight for me, please. I’ll come back for it later.”
“Very good, Miss Lindsay.”
When they were settled at a dainty table at Jolly’s Pastry Shop, Mrs. Peterson said, “I saw the notice in the paper about Miss Pettigrew’s betrothal. She must be very happy.”
“She is. I believe it is truly a love match. It rather shocked my aunt and me. Cherry has always been such a flibbertigibbet. But she is quite devoted to Mr. Pope-Jones.”
“A good family, the Pope-Joneses, I mean.”
“Yes, she and my aunt are spending Christmas at their country home.”
“Were you not invited?” asked Mrs. Peterson.
“Yes, but I declined. This is Cherry’s moment. Besides, I can’t think of anything worse than spending Christmas with strangers.”
“Spending it alone is definitely worse. I know,” said the older woman. “Well, it shan’t be. You will come to my house for Christmas dinner. Then neither one of us will be alone.”
Jane hesitated, wanting to ask if Drew would be present but not daring. She knew Mrs. Peterson was not above matchmaking, but she wouldn’t lie if asked a direct question. Finally Jane mustered enough nerve to ask, “Will Drew be there?”
“No, I’m afraid not. That is why you coming would keep me from becoming moped. I do so hate to be alone at Christmas.”
The sorrow in Faith’s tones made Jane ask anxiously, “He’s not ill or anything, is he?” What if he had died from the pistol shot?
Chuckling, Mrs. Peterson patted Jane’s hand and said, “Of course he’s not, my dear. He’s in York, and he has recovered completely.”
“I…you mean Drew told you about…?”
“Yes, he couldn’t hide it from me. When first I saw him, I noticed his hair was combed strangely. I soon had the whole story. I do hope it taught you not to sleep with guns under your pillow.”
“No. That is, I don’t usually do such things, but it was a strange inn, and I was travelling alone.”
“And someone had tried to take your life,” whispered Mrs. Peterson, after looking around to be certain no one was eavesdropping.
“Not someone,” said Jane quietly. “It was my cousin, Roland. I have come to realize that in the past months.”
“Have you?” Her tone was incredulous. Jane returned a puzzled look. “Then why on earth haven’t you written to Drew, you foolish child? He has been the worst bear, always cross!”
“I didn’t suppose he would care. If you could have seen the look on his face before we said goodbye, you would agree.”
“Nonsense, Jane!” Mrs. Peterson stopped. Lowering her voice, she added, “He had just been shot, Jane. How should he have looked? Never mind, you will write to him today?”
“No!”
“Then I will.”
“No, please, Mrs. Peterson. I couldn’t do such a thing, and neither will you. The circumstances have changed!” Jane whispered frantically.
“Changed? In what way?”
“Drew is now the Earl of Cheswick. He will think it strange that I’ve changed my mind. He and everyone else will think I am marrying him for his title.”
“Jane, I can’t argue with you about what the world will think. You are no doubt more versed than I am in the ways of the ton. But you must ask yourself if the opinion of the world is worth losing a lifetime of happiness. Drew loves you. He would gladly give up his title and the estates if you would be his wife. Has he not spent the last five months putting up with tradesmen and workers, trying to get his town house ready for you?”
“He has? But why? Why would he simply assume I would come running at the drop of the hat? I haven’t heard a word from him!”
“And you won’t. Drew is a proud man, very dictatorial. He is more like his late uncle than he would care to admit. You know what he is—he takes charge of the least detail of one’s life. I tell you, I wouldn’t choose such a man. But there is a depth of feeling in him that is so precious, so out of the ordinary. And, I suppose, all of his overbearing ways are worth this—at least for someone of your strong character. You will be able to stand up to him. I daresay you’ll lead him a merry dance.”
Mrs. Peterson’s eyes had grown misty, but Jane was growing impatient. “But I cannot simply write to him!”
“No, but I can.”
b
“It’s anthrax, my lord. No doubt about it. We’ll have to destroy the entire herd and burn the carcasses.”
Drew stared at the field of cattle. Most of them appeared healthy still, but he knew it was only a question of time before each one sickened and died.
“Then do it,” he said. Turning on his heel, he climbed on his horse and rode away without a backward glance.
When he had been summoned back to York by his capable estate manager, he had hoped the man was mistaken. But after viewing a bonfire of dead livestock as he passed one of the neighbouring estates, he knew the worst had come true.
For the gentry, the epidemic would mean a loss of income; for the labourers, it spelled death. If their milk cow died, they faced starvation. And worse, perhaps, the workers themselves could contract the deadly disease.
When Drew reached the manor house, he shut himself up in his study and composed a letter to his mother, explaining that he would remain in York for several weeks. He knew she would be disappointed he would be away for Christmas.
b
For Jane, Christmas was indeed different, but in a delightful way. Drew’s mother had exaggerated when she had told Jane she would be alone on Christmas. She had invited twenty-six people to her dinner. Guessing games and singing were the entertainment of the afternoon. After dinner, guests were invited to participate in an exchange of gifts. The gifts had to be created, however, for Faith Peterson hadn’t warned anyone about this plan.
Everyone drew names; they then had a half hour to find a gift. Jane had drawn Giles Stanton’s name. She thought and thought and was about to give up when her frustrated gaze fell on Lydia Ashmore. Slowly, she smiled. She took Miss Ashmore aside and asked permission to write on a card the gift of one kiss from Lydia. The young lady blushed, but laughed and agreed.
When they reassembled in the drawing room, the merry exchange began. The Dowager Duchess of Wentworth began by handing a card to her friend and hostess. Faith began giggling as she read it aloud.
“I give you, my oldest friend, a piece of advice. Never accept an invitation to a dinner unless you first discover if the hostess has planned some inane form of entertainment.”
“I protest, Your Grace,” said Giles Stanton. “I think this a very good sort of game.”
“I suppose so, since you cheated and drew Miss Ashmore’s name,” said the dowager.
“You next, Giles,” said Jane. He grinned. From his pocket, he produced a small velvet box. Lydia Ashmore gasped and looked to her parents for guidance as she opened it.
“Well, what is it, girl?” asked the dowager.
“A ring, a pearl ring,” she whispered.
“Will you accept it, Miss Ashmore?” asked Giles.
“I…” She looked at her father.
“Go on, Lydia. I’ve spoken to your young man.”
Giles placed the ring on her finger and might have kissed her in front of everyone if Jane hadn’t interrupted. “I should give you your present now, Giles.” He was none too pleased, but he took the card with a smile.
Reading it aloud, he said, “With the young lady’s permission, your gift is a kiss from Miss Ashmore.”
Everyone started laughing as Giles claimed his present.
Next, it was Jane’s turn. Faith also brought out a velvet jewellery box. As she handed it to Jane, she explained, “I cheated, also, Jane. I had this for you all along. Actually, it is not from me. It is something Drew found.”
Jane opened the box gingerly.
“Hurry up, girl!” snapped the dowager.
She stared at the contents of the box. The pendant. The Heartland pendant. It could be no other.
“How?” she whispered.
“He found it at a pawnshop. Someone told him where it might be found,” explained Drew’s mother softly. “Let me put it on you.”
“No, no. Not now, I am too overwhelmed. Thank you.” Holding the box tightly in her hand, Jane watched the rest of the gifts being exchanged. She would look up suddenly and discover Drew’s mother watching her, but she still was too stunned to seek an explanation.
When all the guests were taking their leave, Jane found a moment to be alone with Mrs. Peterson to ask, “Was there any message?”
“Only that he hoped this would make you happy until he could speak to you again, face to face.”
Impetuously, Jane hugged her. Then she hurried out to the waiting carriage.
b
Drew settled back against the comfortable squabs of the carriage. Had the weather been better, he would have taken his curricle, but not across York, not in the winter. Still, there was something to be said for being driven. He would arrive in Bath feeling jostled but not exhausted.
He had been anticipating this journey for six weeks, from the day just before Christmas when he had received his mother’s encouraging letter. He had been like a lion caged, unable to leave immediately. But the epidemic of anthrax had spread throughout the region—entire herds of sheep had been slaughtered, and still it spread. Then the terrible blizzard had hit. Food was scarce; people were starving, his people. Drew had been obliged to remain, even after the roads had become passable once more. Finally, the crisis had passed, and he had been free to leave.
He had received numerous letters from his mother, each containing glowing pictures of his and Jane’s future together. Being a realist, Drew had taken this with a grain of salt. He was unwilling to trust his optimistic parent in this. She was probably exaggerating, he had cautioned himself more than once. Jane may have realized he hadn’t been behind all her accidents, but that didn’t mean she was ready to spend the rest of her life with him.
So he had determined to journey to Bath at the earliest opportunity to gauge Jane’s feelings. Unfortunately for Drew’s patience, this earliest opportunity was the second week of February.
b
Jane began to avoid Drew’s mother. She knew Mrs. Peterson meant well, but Jane doubted her veracity after receiving neither a visit nor a letter. The older woman’s continuous promises of Drew’s devotion had begun to ring hollow as the weeks passed.
Jane threw herself into the preparations for Heartland’s Valentine’s Ball with a feverish energy. Cherry helped, but her fiancé was staying with the squire again, and she was often to be found in his company.
Two days before the ball, Jane sent Cherry to inspect the hothouse flowers with the head gardener. Two hours later, Jane set out to search for her cousin. She discovered her and Mr. Pope-Jones holding hands in the summerhouse, a cosy fire keeping them warm.
Her Aunt Sophie was also proving elusive. With Cherry’s nuptials scheduled for the first week of April, little else interested Sophie Pettigrew. Jane would set her to making a list of chores for the maids and would return an hour later to discover a list of additional guests for Cherry’s wedding.
Jane threw up her hands in defeat. Then an inspiration hit her. She had been so busy she hadn’t found any time to make up the anonymous valentines for the wallflowers. Jane gathered up all the necessary materials in a box and carried them to the summerhouse.
“Cherry, I have another chore for you, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, Jane! I’m sorry, I forgot about the hothouse flowers. I’ll take care of that right now.”
“No, no. I have something much more important for you to do.” Jane smiled at Cherry’s fiancé. “And perhaps you would care to assist her, Mr. Pope-Jones?”
“I will be happy to be of service, Miss Lindsay.”
“Good!” Jane stepped outside and returned with the box of papers and laces and ribbons. Mickey followed her, carrying a small, sturdy table. “You see, Mr. Pope-Jones, we always have a good supply of anonymous Valentine cards to give the ladies who have no, or few, admirers. That way everyone can enjoy our little tradition and not feel left out. Cherry and I have been taking care of this particular project since we could write a legible verse. It is rather fun to think up romantic sayings when you have no idea who will receive the card. Then we dress them up with lace and ribbons.”
“I see. I’m not very good with lace or ribbons, Miss Lindsay, but I have tried my hand at poetry at one time. It was not very good—”
“I’m sure it was wonderful,” protested Cherry. “I have every confidence you will be able to create a verse or two—now that you have such a beautiful inspiration?”
“Inspiration?” he asked. Jane nodded to Cherry who was gazing at her slow-topped fiancé with adoration. “Oh, yes! By Jove, don’t I just!”
Satisfied that they would manage to produce a mountain of very bad, but very sentimental verse, Jane hurried back to the main house. Her next objective was her Aunt Sophie. She discovered her still pondering over the distant wedding’s guest list.
“Aunt Sophie, I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course, Jane, you know I am here to help you.”
Jane managed to refrain from laughing. “It has occurred to me that if we use too many of the hothouse flowers for the ball, there may not be enough blooms to decorate the house for Cherry’s wedding breakfast. I have sent the head gardener out to check, but he knows nothing about the number of flowers it takes to do an appropriate arrangement. If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Say no more!” exclaimed her aunt, jumping to her feet. Sophie Pettigrew whisked out of the room and down the hall, never realizing how her niece had bamboozled her.
b
At five o’clock on the day of Heartland’s famous Valentine’s Ball, Jane was awakened from her nap by an excited maid. Tucker stood back, a pleased expression of anticipation on her face. Jane frowned and tried to burrow underneath the pillow.
“No, miss. You must wake up. Something just arrived for you.”
Jane sat up slowly, afraid to think what or who had arrived. But Tucker had said something. Jane held out her hand, and the maid placed the elaborate card in her palm. Jane frowned. Valentine cards were always saved for the ball.
“Open it, Miss Jane,” said the maid, unable to contain her excitement. Jane caught Tucker’s impatience and tore through the sealing wax. The verse was written in the most beautiful scrawling hand she had ever seen.
My dearest love,
I would ask your forgiveness for the long delay in writing. And I will let Hastings plead my case, just as he does Marlow’s to his Miss Kate Hardcastle. Do you remember the scene?
“Come, Madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I’m sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.”
Since it seems I was so inept at persuading you, perhaps Hastings’s words will soften your heart, and you will look upon my suit w
ith favour; my one and only valentine. I will know your answer if you will meet me at the summerhouse at seven o’clock.
Forever yours,
D.
“Well, what does ’e say Miss Jane?” exclaimed Tucker, unable to restrain her curiosity a moment longer.
“I am to meet him at the summerhouse at seven o’clock.”
Jane felt dazed, unprepared. She had given up hope. What should she do?
“Do?” demanded the maid.
Jane focused on the servant. She hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud. Suddenly Jane smiled, and Tucker clapped her hands with joy.
“Tucker, where did you put the red gown? The one from Paris?”
“It’s still in th’ box, Miss Jane, tucked away in th’ spare wardrobe. I’ll have it pressed and freshened before you can say St. Valentine!” Tucker hurried away.
Jane opened the door to the dressing room where Mickey was filling the copper tub. He gave her a queer look as she grinned at him and vanished back into her room.
Tucker returned half an hour later, the red dress draped carefully across one arm, a warm towel in the other. She hung the dress in the wardrobe and took the towel to Jane.
“You didn’t tell my cousin or aunt, did you?”
“No, Miss Jane. Though if I would ’ave seen them, I might ’ave. They’re dressing, too.”
“Good! I wouldn’t want anyone to know, Tucker. If things should go awry—”
“Don’t talk that way, Miss Jane,” said the maid.
“Very well, but you understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understand. But, don’t you worry. This time will prove the charm.”