Jane Fairfax

by Joan Aiken

  When the visit was concluding — “And shall we look forward to seeing you again this evening at the Assembly, sister?” said Lady Selsea.

  “My dear Lady Selsea, not on any account,” responded her sister gladly. “I assure you, I have better things to do with my time. But I believe that James will be there, for he thinks it his duty to escort the girls, and our mother, of course, and Mrs Consett.”

  “Ah yes — Mamma — how does she go on?” inquired Lady Selsea, who had up to this moment shown no particular solicitude as to the health or whereabouts of her parent.

  “She has struck up a friendship with Mrs Churchill, and they are at present trying out the new hot-sea-water douche. No doubt she will tell you all about it tonight.”

  With effusive farewells for sister and cousin, and the slightest of token bows for Jane, the visitors departed.

  “Charlotte really is a d-d-detestable p-person,” burst out Rachel, as soon as she and Jane were alone in their chamber. “D-Do you know, she collects p-proposals? She says she has had f-fifteen offers already, and shows no m-more true f-feeling about them than if they were a box full of shoe-roses!”

  “Fifteen proposals of marriage?” exclaimed Jane in amazement, and when Rachel nodded, “I do not believe it! Or if so, they must have been from very frippery suitors. I cannot think any sensible man would wish to marry her.”

  “No, she is a s-selfish, cold-hearted girl. Do you know, she was praising the style of my hair (my gown of course she dismissed as beneath contempt) and when I told her that you had done it, and your own also, she seemed taken aback for a moment, and then said, with s-such a curl of the lip — ‘Oh, then I suppose she can always be sure of a post as a lady’s maid! That is, if my uncle does not propose to dower her?’ — giving me a most inquisitive glance!”

  “What did you say?”

  “L-Luckily at that moment my aunt rose to take leave. I merely g-gave her a look!”

  Jane said with a sigh, “I wish that I could obtain a post as lady’s maid. I believe it would be much more amusing than teaching spoiled brats. Most ladies get on very comfortably with their maids — well, they have to, after all, or they would be continually pinched and tweaked and sent down to dinner with their hair in a snarl. I should enjoy dressing my ladies elegantly, and arranging their hair in handsome new fashions — for which you must admit I have a decided talent.”

  She was engaged in dressing Rachel’s hair as she talked, setting grape-like clusters of curls on either side, to give added width to Rachel’s narrow features, catching up a swathe at the back in an opera-comb. Rachel had begged for this style, which was much in vogue at the moment, but Jane did not privately think it very becoming to her friend.

  “Nobody else will have such a b-bang up fashion,” Rachel said contentedly, admiring her bunches of curls in the glass. “It will give me great confidence.”

  “Rachel! You had better not let Mrs Consett hear you employing such language. You have been talking to the Dixon boys too much.”

  Rachel laughed. “Perfectly true. Do you know — I could see that Charlotte envies us our friends. I think th-that was why she was so anxious to make sure that we would be at the Assembly.”

  “Because she wishes to make sure that Matt and Sam and Frank Churchill are there also — oh, Rachel! Do you think she hopes to add our friends to her list of declarations?”

  The two girls stared at one another in dismay.

  “What a d-disgusting notion!” said Rachel. But then she laughed. “S-Still, I think our friends would have more sense.”

  “Perhaps we had best warn them to make their declarations to her at once, without delay, so as to be done with them,” agreed Jane. “Which muslin shall you wear — the tamboured, or the jaconet?”

  “The tamboured — the green with a tiny silver thread. Will that do?”

  “Your favourite — very elegant!” Jane assured her. “Something tells me that your cousin Charlotte will be far too fine, grossly overdressed, in order to show us poor dowds the proper style for ladies who associate with dukes’ daughters.”

  “N-Now I am afraid you are not d-displaying a proper spirit of charity!”

  Lady Selsea and her daughter had remained talking so long that the girls were obliged to scramble through their dressing, and, even so, dinner was late, which put the Colonel, who had a military passion for punctuality, into one of his bad tempers. Also the afternoon’s drive had set his lame leg to throbbing painfully.

  “Speak louder, girl!” he suddenly bawled at Rachel, having failed to catch one of her soft-voiced remarks, which startled her so greatly that she dropped and broke her glass, which a servant had just filled with lemonade, spilling its contents over her green gauze dress.

  “Now look what you have done — bungling, clumsy girl!”

  “Oh dear — I am so sorry!” gasped Rachel, and Mrs Campbell calmly said, “You will have to change your gown, Rachel; you cannot possibly go to the Assembly dripping like a mermaid!”

  “I — I do not mind it. It is of no consequence,” protested Rachel, but all the older ladies cried out at the foolhardiness of such an idea.

  “To go out in a wet gown! Quite wild! Besides being very improper — giving rise to all manner of ineligible notions about your upbringing.”

  “Do as your mother bids you!” thundered the Colonel, in such a voice that two drops of dark blood fell on Rachel’s plate. Jane, aghast, sprang up.

  “Yes, come, Rachel, do — I will help you change very quickly — we shall be back before you have done drinking tea,” she promised, seeing the Colonel’s furious scowl and glance at the clock. As they fled from the room he sat angrily tapping his gold watch.

  “Bring some ice — quickly!” Jane called to one of the maids, swathing her napkin around Rachel’s neck; and she persuaded Rachel to lie back in an armchair with ice packed on her nose and forehead while the fastenings of her gown were undone.

  “There: it has stopped. And what a mercy there is no blood on your dress — only lemonade, which will wash out. I am sure I read somewhere that to spill water is lucky — perhaps lemonade is luckier still — perhaps it will bring you fifteen offers of marriage like your cousin Charlotte!”

  Jane was gabbling at random in order to soothe Rachel who, she could see, was still painfully shocked and startled by her father’s outburst, the first of its kind for some time. Tears stood in her eyes, and her hands shook.

  “What shall you put on instead of the green?”

  “I don’t care. It is all one,” muttered Rachel, allowing herself, however, to be divested of her sopping petticoats.

  “Well then, how about the pink mull and your corals? They bring out the colour in your cheeks.” Privately Jane thought this gown more becoming to Rachel than her favourite green, and she swiftly fetched it and fastened the tiny buttons before any objections could be raised.

  “Oh, how unfortunate! Now your hair is tumbled, and I fear there will be no time to re-curl all those clusters —”

  “It is of no consequence,” Rachel said again, listlessly.

  “It certainly is of consequence. Your first ball! But there is no sense putting the Colonel in a passion. I know! I will dress it à La Sauvage — I was studying a picture of that in La Belle Assemblée while we were waiting for your grandmother in Harvey’s Library yesterday, and I know just how it should be done. Then you will look exactly like a Parisienne.”

  And, sure enough, in very little time, Jane’s clever fingers had built up a wild but impressive turret of brown hair on her friend’s head, interspersed with plumes and spangles.

  “There! No, do not stop to study yourself — you look very stylish — and it is perfectly safe — guaranteed to survive even a country-dance — Charlotte will be green with envy — your coral fan and gloves — come!”

  Clasping her friend’s hand, Jane made Rachel positively run down the stairs, so that she arrived in the hall with unwonted colour in her cheeks.

  The Colone
l, hat, gloves and greatcoat already assumed, stood there tapping his foot impatiently, but during the girls’ absence he had been obliged to undergo a fairly thorough trimming from his wife as to the thoughtlessness of upsetting his daughter before her first public ball.

  “Just when we wanted her to be at her best. It was really inconsiderate of you, James!”

  And Mrs Fitzroy had weighed in with a whole shower of sweetly barbed conversational darts. Therefore, when the girls reappeared, the Colonel merely remarked, “That is well. Now let us be off,” and hurried his party from the house without passing remark upon his daughter’s changed appearance, (which, at another time, he might have strongly criticized,) or, indeed, appearing to take it in at all.

  The Assembly Rooms, on the first floor of the Royal Hotel, were already beginning to fill when the Campbell party climbed the stairs, and the joyous tuning scrape of strings could be heard. A military band from the regiment quartered at Radipole Barracks was to play.

  The large ballroom, brilliant with lights, had as yet only a sparse company scattered over its bare waxed floor, and the older ladies in their satin gowns lost no time in appropriating seats near to the fire. A number of officers in red coats were strolling about, in and out of the card-room, and new arrivals, chaperons with their carefully dressed and adorned charges, continually surged up the stairs. Much to the comfort of Rachel and Jane the Dixon family soon made an appearance, surrounding the Campbells in a friendly group. They were accompanied by Frank Churchill, who came smiling up to Jane, claiming, it seemed, the right of taking on from where their conversation had broken off that afternoon.

  “My aunt was not well enough to undergo the fatigue of such an evening; and my uncle remains to keep her company. But they have given me leave to enjoy myself —” with a smile that was half irony, half straightforward anticipation of the evening’s pleasures. “May I congratulate you, Miss Fairfax? You have always such an air of elegance, especially when you wear white.”

  “Why, thank you,” she replied, rather inattentively. “But, Mr Churchill, listen, will you render me a service?” — in a low tone, glancing behind her to make certain that both Rachel and Rachel’s father were out of earshot, on the other side of the fireplace, talking to Mrs Dixon.

  “Of course! Need you ask? Anything that lies within my power.” The real kindness underlying his words could not be mistaken.

  “Then — if you please — make much of Rachel this evening! She has received such a set-down from her father earlier tonight. And her spirits are so very easily overthrown.” In a few swift words Jane gave Frank Churchill the history of what had passed. “The Colonel — wretched man — never realises how severely he can undermine her confidence. Pray, Mr Churchill, will you do all that is in your power to ensure that she enjoys herself?”

  “Trust me, Miss Fairfax! and I shall urge Matt to do likewise; we shall see that she never lacks for a partner. You are a good friend, Miss Fairfax!”

  He bowed, raising her hand to his lips with a sparkling look of complicity. Then he was threading his way through the crowd near the fireplace, to the side of Rachel, who, with the leaping firelight illuminating her rose-coloured gown and piled bright-brown hair, was not at all aware of the interested glances that she was eliciting from strangers as well as friends. Frank spoke a few words to her, Jane saw her give him a pleased, friendly nod, and, the orchestra at that moment striking up, a set began forming, and Frank Churchill led Rachel out on to the floor. Matt Dixon at the same moment approached Jane and asked for the favour of her hand.

  “Thank you! I shall be most happy!” she told him with truth. “How is your brother this evening?”

  “Well enough, as you see, to be here, but not well enough to dance. He will keep my mother company. He has charged me to inform you that you resemble Finuala, the daughter of Lir; which I am sure I have no need to do, as you must know it already.”

  “Indeed I do not! Who was Finuala?”

  “She was a sea-nymph, daughter of a sea-god; and she was changed to a swan.”

  Jane thanked him inattentively, as they took their places; the music was making her feet tingle with the wish to be dancing. But, as they were about to begin, they were halted by a disagreeable voice in Jane’s ear. It was that of Mr Gillender.

  “Hey-dey, Miss? How is this? I thought you and I were engaged to dance together? Here was I, firmly believing that we were bespoke, and now I see you stand up with somebody else! Did I not ask you this afternoon, out by that damned dull lake?”

  “Yes, sir, you asked me,” replied Jane coolly, “but at the time it was not expected that our party would attend the ball, and if you recall, I did not accept your kind offer.”

  “Well, upon my soul, that’s calm! Now here am I, high and dry for lack of a partner! For Miss Selsea is dancing with Dalrymple —”

  “I am sure, sir, the master of ceremonies will soon introduce you to any number of eligible young ladies.”

  “No such young ladies as I find tolerable!”

  Fortunately the demands of the dance now removed Jane and her partner from Mr Gillender’s vicinity; but throughout the two dances he kept reappearing at her elbow, from time to time, in the most unwelcome manner, and breaking into her conversation with Matt, who, though in general good-humoured, exclaimed when at last Mr Gillender took himself off into the card-room, “That is a most pestilential fellow! At Cambridge he was thought to be clever, but I could never see it. I always found him a dead bore.”

  “Oh, so you have known him at Cambridge?”

  “A very little.” A shade of discomfort seemed at that moment to pass over Matt’s face, but it was gone so fast that Jane thought she might have imagined it.

  “Do tell me some more about your home in Ireland,” she said. “I have such a curiosity to hear about it. The local people sound so very delightful.”

  And eagerly, as they danced, he continued to do so. Jane presently observed Charlotte, with an expression of strong displeasure on her countenance, not far removed from them in the set. Jane she wholly ignored, but bestowed a gracious smile upon her partner when they passed one another in the set.

  “Charlotte is not at all pleased with us,” murmured Rachel some time later as they stood getting breath back after the first two dances.

  “Well it is not our fault that she arrived too late to lead off the first set! And she can hardly complain about her partner! Is not that Lord Felix Dalrymple?”

  “Yes — but do not you think him very puny and disagreeable-looking? He asked me to dance, but I was very happy to be able to tell him that I am engaged throughout the evening.”

  Indeed Rachel, to her own astonishment, found that she was positively the belle of the ball, her hand being eagerly sought by many who had observed her dancing with Frank Churchill; she danced and danced, her cheeks pink, her eyes shining; while Frank and Matt kept vigilant, though unobtrusive watch to make sure that she was never, at any time, neglected or left without a partner.

  Jane herself had quite as much success as she could wish, dancing nearly every dance and receiving a number of compliments, the majority of which she privately thought very silly.

  “It was hard luck upon Charlotte,” she told Rachel at supper when they sat with the boys, “that your dress is so much prettier than hers, since they are both of the same colour. But hers is too bright.”

  “You were right in prophesying that it would be overtrimmed! I heard Grandmamma telling her that she should remove all that floss and spangled fringe; it made her like a Punch-and-Judy show, Grandma said. Poor Charlotte!”

  It was certainly, for Charlotte, a new and disagreeable experience that her insipid prettiness should, for the length of an evening, be outshone by her plain cousin’s unpredictable beauty; and she bore it ill.

  “Where in the world did you pick up that notion of doing your hair, Rachel?” she disagreeably demanded, when they were all drinking orgeat in the tea-room. “It resembles nothing so much as a heron’s-nes
t. Oh! I suppose Miss — thing — did it for you?”

  “The style is called La Sauvage, and is all the crack in Paris at present,” Mrs Fitzroy told her tartly. “It becomes Rachel very well. James! This so-called orgeat is nothing but weak barley-water. Can you not procure us some tea?”

  The Colonel grumpily did so, then retired to the card-room, where he had spent most of the evening.

  After the tea interval there were two more dances. Frank Churchill, as before, danced with Rachel, and Matt, ignoring a beckoning glance from Charlotte, asked Jane if she would again be his partner.

  “With pleasure, sir!” — evading a hopeful officer just approaching.

  Fortunately the disgruntled Mr Gillender had departed, as he threatened to do, earlier in the evening “to take himself to a gaming hell” whispered Frank; and Robert Selsea had retired to the card-room to play cassino. After two dances with Jane he had announced his intention of standing up with her again later, but she was relieved at his failure to do so, for she found his conversation, which was entirely about terriers and rat-hunting, singularly dull and, at times, almost incomprehensible.

  “Well, girls? Did you enjoy the ball?” inquired Mrs Campbell, rousing herself from heaps of Parliamentary reports to receive a glass of negus from her husband. With a little surprise she eyed Rachel’s flushed, animated countenance.

  “Oh, yes, Mamma! It was very p-pleasant — was it not, Jane?”

  “Rachel had a splendid success!” Jane told Mrs Campbell. “She was the cynosure of all eyes. Was it not so, Colonel Campbell?”

  “Why yes — I suppose so — that is, she did not appear to lack for partners —”

  But the Colonel, like his mother-in-law, was in a state of acute suffering from tired feet, aching leg, and rheumatic joints; he could not wait to escape to bed. Mrs Fitzroy, in like state, merely said that Charlotte Selsea looked a sight; the girl had no more dress-sense than a Hottentot.