by Lisa Berne
Jane burst out laughing again and Wakefield, giving her a glance of approval, said, “I knew you’d like it, Jane. Do you want to meet our dogs now?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and so Wakefield introduced her to the biggest one, Breen, then Joe, Sam, and Snuffles the pug, all of whom seemed equally happy to be introduced to her. “May I pick up Snuffles?” she asked Wakefield, who graciously gave his consent, and so she lifted up the tiny pug and gave a joyful laugh when it settled at once into the crook of her arm. “How sweet he is! I always wanted a dog, but my great-grandmother Kent was afraid of them. A dog bit her when she was a girl, and she never lost her fear.”
“Aunt Margaret’s cat bit me last week,” said Wakefield. “I was only trying to play with it.”
“In fairness, my boy, your qunt Margaret told you not to.”
“Yes, but Father, the poor thing always looks so millencocky, and I thought I’d try to cheer it up.”
“Do you mean melancholy?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. It wasn’t worth it, though. It absolutely sank its fangs into my hand, do you remember, Father? Aunt Margaret said she’d never heard anybody scream so loud in her life, and that I probably broke both her eardrums. Which I don’t think is true, because the other day I was trying to sneak past the drawing-room and she found me out right away. I say, is it time for luncheon? I’m starving. Jane, do you want to have luncheon with us? Cook told me there would be roast beef and macaroni today.”
Jane looked at the Duke. She wanted to say yes, but it was really up to him.
And she saw that he was looking back at her.
Actually, he was staring, and with a rather flatteringly fascinated expression on his face, too.
Anthony was seeing Miss Jane Kent with fresh eyes.
Anybody who jumped at the chance to slide blancmange into the Duchess’ trough was someone he wanted to know better.
Also, she clearly liked dogs, which was another major point in her favor, and she was wearing boots just right for a tramp in the outdoors, a choice so wise and practical that he would have liked to—say—wring her hand by way of signifying his approval.
He would not, therefore, be so petty as to carry a grudge against her for taking that last sandwich yesterday; he would be magnanimous and let it go. Plus he had noticed that when she smiled, a charming dimple appeared in each cheek. There was something so appealing about dimples. He said:
“Do join us, Miss Kent.”
She smiled again, and there they were—those dimples.
He smiled back. Yes, very appealing.
“Thank you. I’d like that. Your Grace.”
“You both sound very stuffy,” said Wakefield critically. “Come on, let’s go. Jane, you’d better put Snuffles down. He likes to go about with the other dogs, and I don’t want him thinking he’s not as good as they are, just because his legs don’t work properly.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Wakefield,” Jane said, and gently put Snuffles onto the ground. He immediately scampered off to try and take hold of Joe’s tail in his mouth.
The three of them, leaving behind a still-downcast Johns to rake out the interior of the Duchess’ pen, walked toward the Hastings manor house. As Wakefield, who had positioned himself in the middle of their trio, told him all about today’s lessons, Jane’s agreeable interest in the ruin, her resemblance to the Greek goddess Athena, and how well he had driven the pony-cart, Anthony listened attentively, but he also cast a few sideways glances at Miss Kent.
He wondered why he hadn’t observed yesterday that she had a nice face.
He liked how her big gray eyes were framed by dark curling lashes, and how her nose turned up, just a little and in a delightful way, at its tip. And how her chin was a bit pointed, giving her profile a look of subtle determination. Of course, he already had seen that her mouth was beautifully formed, pink as a rose in bloom, and very soft and tender.
Oh, and those dimples, too.
She was smiling at something Wakefield had just said, and so there was at this exact moment a dimple in the cheek that he could see from this angle.
What was it about dimples, that made them so attractive?
They had passed the stables, to which all the dogs were diverted, then had come onto the graveled sweep, and were now approaching the wide marble steps of the house. Wakefield went on chattily:
“Father, Jane told Mr. Pressley and me how before she had no money to go to school, but now she does. Isn’t that jolly? Also, she just spent practically three days in bed, and I told her how you were in bed for three years. Do you remember the time I had the influenza and had to stay in bed for a whole fortnight?”
“The memory,” said Anthony, “is seared into my brain. You’re an awful patient, old chap.”
“Yes, but Father, I felt terrible and I was bored. That’s a foul kimbonition.”
“Do you mean combination?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. Oh, hullo, Bunch. Is luncheon ready? We’re all starving.”
“Indeed it is, Master Wakefield,” said Bunch, who stood waiting in the Great Hall after a footman had opened the door to admit them.
“Well, that’s splendid. Bunch, this is Jane from Surmont Hall. Jane, this is Bunch, our butler. He buttles like anything.”
“Thank you, Master Wakefield,” Bunch said, then bowed politely to Miss Kent and received her pelisse and bonnet which he passed along to one of the footmen. “Lady Margaret awaits you in the family dining-parlor,” he said, and so they proceeded there at once, where they found Margaret sitting in her usual place at the foot of the table, looking all too funereal in her customary black, and Anthony introduced her to Miss Kent while a footman swiftly set an additional place.
“How do you do, ma’am?” said Miss Kent, and Margaret replied:
“How do you do? Do sit down before the soup gets any colder than it already is.”
Conversation did not improve from there.
“I understand, Miss Kent, that you’re newly arrived at Surmont Hall.”
Miss Kent paused with her spoon lifted halfway to her mouth. “Yes, ma’am, that’s right.”
“You are from Nantwich?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s near Liverpool, is it not?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“A low, vulgar city by all accounts. I daresay Nantwich is not much different. You’re a relation of the Penhallows?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow is my great-grandmother.”
“I believe, Miss Kent, the connection is somewhat irregular?”
“Irregular?” piped up Wakefield. “What do you mean, Aunt Margaret?”
Anthony saw that Miss Kent, who had flushed a rather charming pink color, took advantage of Wakefield’s questions to finally bring her soup spoon to her mouth, and then, looking very determined, she began to spread a great deal of butter on a roll. What did Margaret mean by that remark, anyway? Irregular connection. It sounded like some sort of plumbing problem.
Margaret was frowning at Wakefield, a sudden red flush on her cheeks, giving Anthony the distinct impression that, in her rapid-fire interrogation of Miss Kent, she had forgotten Wakefield was even there. Repressively Margaret said to him:
“Nobody was addressing you.”
Wakefield shrugged and went back to his soup.
“Are you planning a long stay here in Somerset, Miss Kent?” Margaret continued.
Miss Kent paused again, this time with her buttered roll halfway to her mouth. At this rate, Anthony thought, she’d never be able to eat her meal, and with a sudden rush of gallantry he hastily interrupted:
“I say, Meg, have you seen my riding gloves? Can’t find them anywhere.”
Margaret gave him a frigid glance. “If you had bothered this morning to look at the suit of armor in the Great Hall, you may have seen the gloves tucked into the face-plate.”
“Well, that’s excellent.” He had, actually, bothered, and had all along
thought the face-plate a rather useful place in which to stow his gloves, and an amusing one to boot, but went on with an air of inquiring innocence: “So are they still there?”
“Of course not. I had one of the footmen remove them, and convey them to your room.”
“Ah. Thank you.” Damn it, thought Anthony, this subject’s pretty well thrashed out already, and Jane’s only halfway through her roll. Now what? He cast about in his mind, lit on something that would be akin to tossing a firecracker into a flaming pit of hell, and said, with deceptive casualness:
“I heard a rumor that Miss Humphrey’s planning to show delphiniums at the fête this year.”
This conversational gambit proved to be, Anthony would soon congratulate himself, a masterstroke, as Margaret promptly launched into a passionate (and seemingly endless) monologue about the relative merits of delphiniums versus irises, thus enabling everyone else to enjoy their luncheon without further impediment until, almond custard having been served and Margaret pausing to draw breath, Wakefield said, as he scraped his bowl clean with his spoon:
“Aunt Margaret, Jane and I were wondering if the ruin has a bad smell on purpose, or if it’s by accident.”
“Don’t scrape about with your spoon; it’s unsuitable behavior for a marquis,” said Margaret coldly. “And are you referring to Miss Kent?”
“Yes.”
“That is how you should address her as well.”
Jane was nodding her thanks at the footman who had just given her a second helping of custard, but quickly said:
“Oh, ma’am, I told Wakefield to call me that.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes,” put in Wakefield, “because Jane and I are schoolfellows, Aunt Margaret, and also because we’re great friends already. She gave the Duchess some blancmange, and she likes Snuffles, too. Yes, please, Marner,” he said to the footman, who had come to stand next to him with the custard bowl, and watched with approbation as Marner gave him a large additional serving, then went on:
“So Jane and I were wondering about the smell, Aunt Margaret, because it’s atrushish.”
Even more coldly Margaret answered, “Are you attempting to say ‘atrocious’?”
“Yes, that is what I said. It’s not that we don’t like the bad smell,” Wakefield said kindly, “because we do. We just wanted to know if you had it done on purpose.”
“A marquis,” responded Margaret, “ought not to discuss olfactory matters at table.”
“Well, I wasn’t, Aunt Margaret, I was talking about bad smells.”
Anthony laughed, and accepted from Marner his own second helping of custard. He said to Wakefield, “‘Olfactory’ means having to do with scents and smells and things like that.”
“Oh, it does? Bad smells?”
“Any sort of smells.”
“So are the stables an olfactory, then? Because there are a lot of smells made in there.”
“I say, that’s clever usage. But ‘olfactory’ is an adjective, not a noun.”
“That’s good to know, Father, thank you,” said Wakefield, and scraped his spoon against the side of his bowl in order to capture a delicious blob of custard that clung there. “Jane, would you like to play billiards after luncheon? It’s all right if you tear the cloth a bit with the stick, I do it all the time. Accidentally, you know.”
“I daresay,” said Margaret, “Miss Kent will be wanted back at the Hall.”
At this Jane looked up from her bowl and at Margaret, who sat to her left. Her big gray eyes, which had been twinkling with humor just a few moments ago, were thoughtful now. “Yes, I suppose I shall be. I’m sorry, Wakefield. Another time?”
“All right, Jane,” replied Wakefield, and Margaret said, between tight lips, “Miss Kent,” and Anthony, who had been planning to spend a quiet, peaceful hour in his library delving once again into Dinkle’s Advanced Concepts in Piggery, said, rather to his own surprise:
“Miss Kent, may I drive you home?”
Chapter 5
“It’s very nice of you to take me back to the Hall.” Jane and the Duke were sitting side by side in the high front seat of his curricle, an even more dashing vehicle than the pony-cart, and as they bowled along the curving road which led between the two estates, it felt a little like they were flying. Jane was enjoying herself very much. She added: “Your Grace.”
“I was glad to, Miss Kent.”
“Thank you also for luncheon. It was delicious. Especially the macaroni.”
“Yes, I liked that, too.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I took the last of it.”
“No, not at all.”
Jane stole a glance at the Duke’s profile. He handled the reins with easy grace, but his face, which had been cheerful when he’d tendered his offer to take her back to the Hall, was now gloomy beneath the brim of his tall dark hat, and his voice was flat and even a trifle grim.
The change had occurred just as Wakefield had been finishing his custard. Lady Margaret—in a sudden shift of her mood—had brightly announced that in all the excitement of having an unexpected guest for luncheon, not, of course, that it was in any way a trouble, or an inconvenience, or unwelcome, she had quite forgotten to share the news that an express had just arrived this morning with the gratifying intelligence that her dear friend the Countess of Silsbury, accompanied by her delightful daughter, Lady Felicia, would soon be arriving at Hastings for a lovely long visit. A very, very long visit. Possibly longer than anyone could even anticipate.
And that was when all the light went out of the Duke’s expression. He had only said to Lady Margaret, in a voice so dry that all human emotion seemed leached from it, I thought the Countess was merely an acquaintance.
Lady Margaret had airily waved her hand, saying, No doubt you mistook me. The Countess is a dear friend—why, she’s practically family. I’m sure she and dear Lady Felicia will feel right at home here.
Jane now remembered Wakefield saying earlier today, When Father gets married again and has more children, I’ll let them be dukes, and the vicar looking startled, saying, I wasn’t aware that His Grace had entered into matrimonial arrangements, and Wakefield replying with casual certainty, He will. Aunt Margaret will make him. And then I won’t be the only sixcessor.
Jane glanced again at the Duke. She wondered if this Lady Felicia was his intended. He certainly didn’t seem happy about it. Or, at the very least, he didn’t seem to relish the prospect of having Lady Felicia and her mother come to stay. For the Duke’s sake, she hoped Lady Felicia liked pigs. And that Lady Felicia was a nice person, who would be good to Wakefield.
They barreled past an enormous open field dotted with cattle, beyond which lay innumerable rolling hills, in quiet shades of wintry gray and brown, stretching out into the distance, and then into a wooded area, where the shadows were deep and tranquil, the silence tempered only by the sounds of horses’ hooves and jingling harness. It was cooler here in the woods, and Jane was thankful for her warm pelisse.
She looked down at the hems of her gown and pelisse.
Pale green and cherry red, and shabby old dark boots peeping out from underneath.
In the Great Hall at Hastings, where Jane had put on the pelisse and her bonnet, she had seen how Lady Margaret was eyeing her from head to toe. And then she had sweetly said:
What a delightful color combination, Miss Kent. Red and green. One sees that so rarely. Really, you’re quite an original.
As she had been tying the ribbons of her bonnet—a light blue bonnet, borrowed from Livia, which, incidentally, didn’t match anything she had on—Jane had pondered Lady Margaret’s remark. How interesting to veil an insult through words which, on their surface, were flattering, and through a tone of common courtesy. Was that how a duke’s sister did things?
Back in Nantwich, nobody bothered trying to craftily disguise their barbs. It was all people shouting at each other things like you bloody lobcock and eh, go on, you’re nothing but a bewattled trug and say that to
my face, you damned gaspy chub and so on and so forth.
Jane had finished the neat bow under her chin, tugged it tight, and merely said, Thank you, ma’am, and laughed inside herself to see Lady Margaret look so nonplussed.
One didn’t grow up in Nantwich without developing a bit of a tough hide.
The curricle emerged from the cool dark woodland and now, in pale sunshine again, they were passing more open fields to either side, in which sheep both grazed on what was left of autumn grasses and fed themselves from wooden racks filled with hay.
Grandfather Titus had been right in his letter to Charity: it was very beautiful here in Somerset, thought Jane, even in winter. In Nantwich winter meant dirty snow heaped up high in the streets, a cold so damp and penetrating one never really felt warm, thin watery soup, and chilblains.
She looked down at the pretty wool gloves Livia had lent her. They didn’t fit her well, but oh, they were warm. Happily she wiggled her fingers, just a bit. No chilblains for her this year.
“I’m sorry.”
Jane gave a little jump. “I beg your pardon? Your Grace.”
“I said that I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“For my sister’s asking you all those personal questions at luncheon.”
“It’s all right. Your Grace.”
“I really don’t think it is.”
“Well, I wouldn’t let it bother you.”
“It does. Margaret shouldn’t have been so damned nosy.” The Duke gave a deep sigh. “She can be very difficult sometimes. Actually, most of the time.”
“It’s hard for people who have lost someone dear to them. It can make them very emotional, don’t you think? Who was it that your sister is mourning?”
“Her husband.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“He died over ten years ago.”
“Oh,” Jane said. “What a very long time to be in mourning. How hard for Lady Margaret. She must have loved him very much. Your Grace.”