“Very much so. Mary, had I a great fortune, I could set myself up as an eccentric and go about where I liked, and people would only be amused by my oddity. But to go to Almack’s without a fortune! I would be set down immediately, and very properly, too.”
“Piffle, Jenny. You are too hard on yourself. Granted, should you appear in that gown, no one would ask where you had it from, but you are always neatly dressed, and appear to advantage—”
“With dark hair, a dark complexion, dark eyes, a mousy little figure, and no fortune ... you needn’t put a pretty picture on it, Mary. I have known since I was twelve that I was plain as the day, and what my future must be: precisely that which you described for Amanda Weatherfair. I don’t dwell upon it too much, and, indeed, consider that I have been extremely lucky.”
“I see no point in continuing,” Lady Bevan said stiffly. “You are determined only to think ill of yourself.” Then tactlessly, “I promise you that Ally looked a thousand times worse when she appeared at my door. Why, she had on an innkeeper’s wife’s dress, and such dirt! I do hope Tracy will keep her in hand.”
Jenny thought of asking why Lady Bevan’s sister had arrived in such disarray, and further, why she would now require such supervision, but thought better of it, knowing full well her friend’s rattlish tongue. Maria had found another tangent, and was off to pursue it.
“The last time you were here you spoke of a man, you sly thing, and it has taken me till now to recall it. What became of him? Does he call? Has he shown an interest in you?”
“If you mean Peter Teverley,” Jenny said directly, with as much composure as she could muster, “why, yes, he has called several times. Only, I think, because his cousin Domenic has a powerful infatuation with Emily—the merest puppy love—and his visiting gives Dom a chance to come in his company to visit as well.”
“And what excuse does Mr. Peter Teverley use?” Lady Bevan asked archly.
“I doubt that a man of his years and superior command needs any excuse at all. And even did he feel the need of one, it would be the merest civility.”
“How often has he called?” Maria asked pointedly.
“He may call two, perhaps three times in a week although we by no means are always in.” Jenny reflected silently that it was remarkable how often they were at home when the Messrs. Teverley called.
“And if he hasn’t a tendre for you, why does he call?” Maria continued impatiently.
“He might have a tendre for Emily, but somehow, I cannot believe it so.” Jenny offered judiciously. “She’s pretty enough to break all manner of hearts, certainly, but I think—I hope!—that a man of his wit looks for more than mere prettiness. Not that Emily isn’t the dearest and sweetest of girls, but she sometimes puts me forcibly in mind of—” Jenny broke off, horrified realizing she had been about to indict her hostess. “But then, I am not too sure—perhaps he does have a tendre for her,” she finished lamely, well aware of Maria’s unsatisfied look.
“Jenny, you disappoint me. Here am I, determined to find you a romance, and at every possibility you shy away! It is the most fatiguing thing, and exceedingly unkind as well. And you still have not told me about your Mr. Teverley.”
Jenny stated mildly that she was under the impression that they had talked, of little else for the past five minutes. Maria, in her turn, warned her friend that if she did not take care, people would accuse her of being a wit. Jenny denied this vigorously.
“I meant,” Maria insisted, “that you have not told me why you and he come to blows.”
“Mary Ervine, I have never heard anything so shocking in my life! I may have said that we were like to come to blows, and certainly there have been moments when it would have pleased me greatly to box Peter Teverley’s ears for him, but all that has ever passed between us are words—a few sharp words, once or twice—”
“And this from Genia Prydd, who never said boo to anyone? The same girl who let the curate tread steadily on her toes for an hour and a half in church one day because it wasn’t her place to scold him for it? Jenny!”
“Maria,” Miss Prydd mimicked. “What a child of sixteen will put up with and what is acceptable to a woman past her prime are two entirely different things. Mr. Teverley has a peculiarly free and easy manner. Not unpleasant, mind, but he comes so close to doling out set downs now and then that it seems inevitable that he should receive some himself.”
“I don’t know, but the only people I have ever seen who deal that way are Althea and Calendar, and they’re so besotted with each other that it’s hard to get one to say a word without the other.”
“That is hardly the case with myself and Mr. Teverley,” Jenny said drily. She was wondering what new, fascinating topic she could introduce to make her friend forget the rather painful subject of Mr. Peter Teverley. “Mr. Teverley comes to visit us because he wishes to pay his respects, and to see how Emily is fairing; he has an interest, a fatherly interest, in her, and helped us both when she was being plagued by a dreadful—uh—problem—”
“Adrian Ratherscombe,” Maria supplied helpfully.
“Yes, Mary, but how did you know of it?”
“Why, la, dear, this is London! Her family covered it nicely, but these things will out, and since there was no damage done, and Emily was punished by her own stupidity—and yes, I will call it that, for what a silly, green thing to do! But you see, she is accepted again at Almack’s, and everywhere else—although I imagine that it was something devilish for her mamma to procure that voucher at first!” She broke off. “This is hardly to the point. Is your Mr. Teverley any relation to Lord Teeve?”
“Maria, this is growing exceedingly tedious,” Jenny murmured in tones of despair. “I will tell you everything I know of Mr. Teverley: he is unmarried, was an India merchant for some few years—”
“Perhaps he’s a nabob! Oh, Jenny, how splendid for you if he were to offer—”
“Maria, this is not becoming talk, and I will not have it! Peter Teverley would no more look at me than the man in the moon. I have grown used to the fact that I am an old maid, and I do not intend to spend my life repining. But I neither intend to spend it in fruitless daydreams.”
Lady Bevan’s delicate lower lip trembled. “Jenny, my love, I had no idea that you had a tendre for him.”
“Mary, Good God! What could give you that idea? You have been throwing the man at my head since I entered your door, and despite my assurances that he has no interest in an—an—ape-leader!—you continue to do so.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny,” Lady Bevan sighed meekly. “But is he related to Teeve?”
“Yes, Mary.” Jenny sighed with wry exasperation. “He’s some sort of cousin to Teeve and Domenic Teverley, who is Teeve’s heir. Mr. Teverley was in the army after he left India, and is only now returned to the country. And that, I swear, is all that I know of him. Will it do?”
“I wonder which one he was.” Maria muttered abstractedly. “He wasn’t the rakehell one, was he?”
“The what?”
“One of Teeve’s cousins, or brothers, or nephews or something, was a dreadful rake some years back ... I suppose that we were both in the nursery then. He eloped with someone, or seduced her, or some such thing. And was a terrible rabble-rouser, always wanting to make speeches to the crowds. And gamed horribly. And was expelled from university. Or something like that. But one of them was a terrible loose-screw.”
Some perverse notion made Jenny agree that it might have been the Teverley with whom she was acquainted, although in truth, anything less like a loose-screw than Peter Teverley she could not imagine. Aside from the fact that the whole thing sounded very much like poor melodrama, she had to admit that Maria was prone—very prone—to exaggeration.
“In any case, my dear, it was long ago, and who knows but what he may have reformed himself. But do have a care in any attentions that he shows you, Jenny love, since he—”
“Maria, I give you my word that Peter Teverley sees nothing more in me tha
n a convenient chaperone for Emily Pellering. Indeed, if anyone should be wary of his attentions, it is Emily, for she has the most dreadful schoolroom infatuation with him. Indeed, your story might be the way to dissuade her from it, for I am sure the there is nothing in it.”
“I don’t understand,” Lady Bevan said bewilderedly. “I am at sea now, when I thought I would understand everything, and if you do not make this clear to me I shall think you a very poor sort of friend.”
“In truth, Mary, I’m not altogether sure myself. But just now, I see, I am a very late friend indeed,” Jenny cried ruefully, neatly distracting Maria’s attention. “Look at the time! And we are engaged to dine out this evening. Mary, I vow and swear that I shall return in short order to visit you. Please give my love to your sister, and to your Francis as well—do you know, I have never even met him?”
She reached for her pelisse as Lady Bevan broke into a paean of praise for her absent lord, ending with the solemn vow that, if her dearest Jenny would go, the next time, she would come to see Lord Bevan and his wife both.
“You must come and visit more often, my love. You’ve no idea how unpleasant it is to sit and do nothing all day long!” Jenny refrained from reminding her that Maria Ervine had been celebrated as the Laziest Girl on Earth when they attended school together. “Pray give my respects to Miss Pellering. And, Jenny?” Maria smiled awkwardly. “Think more kindly of yourself. You are a good friend.”
With mutual exchanges of affection and an embrace that perilously endangered Jenny’s second-best bonnet, the two parted and Jenny joined the maid who was waiting to accompany her to the Graybarr household.
Thinking idly as they walked, Jenny realized that Lady Teeve might be in a position to do greater harm to Emily than she had thought—should that lady hear of the affair at the inn! It was not to be thought of. For Dom won’t stop visiting, and Teverley will not listen to reason, and—no, but perhaps I can persuade him that it might hurt Emmy’s reputation to be seen so often with an older man. Nonsense! And he’ll know it. What on earth am I to do. “I almost wish that I had caught the measles!” she announced aloud, to the considerable astonishment of the maid at her side. But if she had never stopped at the Green Falconer, think of the excitement she would have missed. I shall never see half this sort of excitement again when I return to Winchell House; at least, not until Annabella is of courting age. And by then I shall be safely past thoughts of—of anything!
And with this grim comfort, Jenny entered the Graybarr House and scurried upstairs to change for the evening.
Chapter Seven
Somewhat distraught from her two very different interviews that afternoon, Jenny had hoped to make her way to her room and change without attracting any notice. This plan was scotched immediately she entered the house: Emily met her as she started up the stairs, with an air of distress poorly masked by her own curiosity.
“You said that you were writing letters this afternoon, Jen. Where on earth have you been this hour and more?”
“I finished two letters most dutifully, and then decided it was high time that I called upon Maria Bevan. Am I terribly late?”
“No, no, certainly not.” Emily assured her distractedly. “But had anyone, I mean, did anyone call before you left?” The question was tendered in tones of portent; Emily raised dark, turbulent eyes to Jenny’s in a pleading silence. Unsure as to what any of the servants might have said about Lady Teeve’s call, Jenny hesitated a second. “Jenny, were you here when Mr. Teverley called?”
“Mr. Teverley?” Jenny breathed with relief. “No, dear. No, Mr. Teverley had not called when I left the house. Did he call after?”
“And you weren’t out riding with him—or walking, or anything?” Emily pressed.
Jenny viewed her friend with a little alarm. “Certainly not, Emmy. In the first place, you know how I feel about horses! Riding? And in any case, had I gone anywhere with Mr. Teverley, though heaven knows why he would ask or I accept for such an outing, I would have told you. Don’t you know by now that he and I cannot help but clash when we meet? A fine, comfortable way to spend an afternoon that would be!” Emily slumped against the stairpost. “Did Teverley call while I was out?” she asked more gently.
“I don’t know!” Emily wailed, and Jenny guided her up the stairs and into her own room. “All Feabers will say is that a gentleman called while we were out, and declined to leave his card, but said he’d be back some other time. Jenny, you would tell me if he had called, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would, love. What earthly reason should I have to do otherwise?” Jenny spared a curious glance for her friend before returning her attention to her wardrobe, where she was searching out a gown to wear to the opera that night.
“Well, Feabers won’t say any more, and I swear it begins to feel as if there is a conspiracy to keep us apart!”
Jenny turned to Emily, consternation warring with amused sympathy. “Emily, even for one of a romantic nature, that is doing it altogether too brown. Who on earth would take part in such a conspiracy?”
Emily studied her hands intently. “I’m sure I don’t know, but Jen, if Mamma and Papa have asked you not to encourage me...”
“Or Mr. Teverley, perhaps?” Jenny murmured irrepressibly, instantly repenting at the reproach in Emily’s eyes. “Look you, Emmy, I will not, now or ever, keep anyone’s whereabouts a secret from you unless that person has specifically asked me to do so. No, Mr. Teverley has not. But do please bear in mind that he is twice your age—”
“Not at all! He is four and thirty, and I am eighteen. Almost.”
Jenny saw no point in continuing to argue that point. “Then remember also that it is not at all proper for a young lady to think seriously of a gentleman until she has had some positive signs of a returned interest.”
Emily looked as though she would dispute this, or even bring forth her evidence of Mr. Teverley’s interest in her, but some vestige of discretion made her say, instead: “So no one called by when you were here?”
“No gentleman, Teverley or any other, called when I was here.” Jenny evaded cheerfully. “Did the man leave no card?”
“Only the message that he hoped to have the happiness to find me here at another time. Isn’t that the most remarkably romantic thing you ever heard?”
Jenny was strongly tempted to answer that it was not, by any means, and to further add that it did not sound like Mr. Teverley in the least, but kindness won over common sense and a growing headache. “I suppose you will have to wait until your unknown caller calls again. But please don’t be too disappointed if it was only Dom, forgotten his cards, or Sir Andrew Mallory, and Mr. Prinkle, or your uncle Millington.”
“Uncle Millington is known to Feabers, as is Sir Andrew, and as for Mr. Prinkle”—Emily cast this would-be suitor to the dogs with cheerful malice— “I doubt he has ever had the imagination to forget his cards! Let alone refuse to leave one, should he have had it to leave. Well,”—she abandoned her mystery suddenly— “what do you wear tonight?”
Jenny eyed the two dresses she had finally settled on with a critical eye. “Either the amber or the gray silk-muslin. Which do you prefer?” She held them out. One was made of satin; its lower skirt and bodice were a deep amber color, with an overskirt of gauze in a slightly lighter shade. It was laced and tucked at the wrists and throat. The other, a pale blue and gray silk-muslin, was neither as modish nor as becoming as the amber, but was somewhat more to Jenny’s taste and her idea of what was consonant with her position in the household.
“Jenny, please, the gold. You’ve not worn it since it was delivered, and it is so fine!”
“Perhaps a little too fine for a country wren, Emily. Well, it is one or the other; I suppose it might as well be the amber.”
“Jenny, will you let me dress you tonight? Just this once?” Since their arrival in town, Emily had begged that Jenny let her lend some small gold ornaments and oversee the arrangement of her hair. Up to this evening Jenny ha
d demurred, certain that Emily would dress her up absurdly, and make, all unwittingly, a game of one with pretensions neither to beauty nor to youth. But tonight, still inwardly shaking from Lady Teeve’s onslaught, and feeling that perhaps Emily needed the diversion as much as she did, she agreed.
“But I reserve the final judgment, do you hear?”
“Absolutely, dear, sweet Jenny! Quickly, then, into your petticoats, and I’ll send Maggie in to you.”
Miss Prydd’s notion of dress and Emily Pellering’s were not very much alike; however, at the end of half an hour under the hands of Maggie and Emily, Miss Prydd pronounced herself satisfied, if a trifle startled. After vetoing several small brooches that Emily wished to scatter on her shoulder, Jenny remained some few minutes at the mirror, wondering if, had she been born to wealth, the reflection in the mirror would have been her own. She remarked wryly to Emily upon the changes a few geegaws and a fearless heart could wreak, then sent her friend down the hall to hurry with her own toilette. Emily skipped out of the room, her earlier suspicions quite forgotten, leaving Jenny to wonder if she ought, after all, to go abroad dressed in such a fashion. Staying behind a moment, Maggie made so bold as to reassure Miss in common but cheering tones that she looked entirely splendid, but very proper as well. Jenny, trusting Maggie’s judgment a little more than Emily’s, had to take the pronouncement of such a stalwart, and made her way to the stairs, abandoned to her appearance. “Although, only for tonight, of course.”
Fifteen minutes later Emily arrived in the library, charmingly decked out in pink-sprigged muslin with black ribbon. Lord Graybarr, who had promised his escort as far as Mrs. Temple’s house on Wimpole Street, said that he was proud to have such a pair of pretty chits to escort. Lady Graybarr, after frowning at her husband’s jocularity, was brought to admit that the girls looked very nice indeed.
Delivered to Wimpole Street, Jenny would have found time to worry again over her appearance, had not she had to take over the task of amusing Mrs. Temple, a plump, indolent, agreeable person who was easily pleased, and only wanted the latest gossip—which Jenny sadly lacked—or the chance to tell it herself, to make her happy. Emily had begun immediately to chatter in mysterious tones with Mirabelle Temple, the daughter of the house. By the time the four had dined and were installed in the Temples’ box at Covent Garden, Jenny had forgotten—almost—her unaccustomed finery, and Emily and Mirabelle entirely renewed their old friendship. Mrs. Temple nodded amiably for a time, and slipped with equal good cheer into a light slumber. The opera was, of course, dreadful, but only Jenny had had any idea of listening to the music; Emily and Miss Temple were still whispering and giggling when the curtain rose, and Mrs. Temple’s gentle snores indicated that she was not likely to pay the least attention to the plot. When the ramblings of the soprano had become unbearable, Jenny turned her attention to the audience, hoping to find a familiar face or to catch sight of someone famous in the audience. After a moment, however, she wished she had not.
My Dear Jenny Page 7