by Lisa Berne
“Why?”
“Because I had been kindicting an experiment.”
“Oh, I see. What kind of experiment?”
“Do you remember how I told you last week about Aunt Margaret suddenly not wearing black and not noticing me dropping my spoon into my porridge? Or my fork?”
“Oh yes, I do remember.”
“So my experiment was to see how many things I could drop in my porridge before she noticed.”
“Ah.”
“But I had only just picked up my spoon when Aunt Margaret told me to not even think about it. Which means that if a fairy did put magic juice into Aunt Margaret’s eyes, it wore out.”
Jane nodded, and Wakefield went on:
“It also means my experiment is over, I suppose. But I’m not sure what I proved. I still don’t think fairies are real. Also on Saturday, Lady Thingummy kept trying to get Father to go for a ride or a walk, or to show her round the conservatory, but he wouldn’t.”
“Do you mean Lady Felicia?”
“Yes, that’s right. And I think Lady Thingummy’s mother was angry with her, because when nobody else was looking I saw her sticking her elbow into Lady Thingummy’s side. As if she wanted her to do something but she wasn’t. And that Viscount What’s-his-name was walking in a very funny way. I laughed when I saw it, because he was waddling, Jane.”
“Dear me.”
“Yes, and also on Saturday Aunt Margaret had a headache for the rest of the day and stayed up in her room. And yesterday too. Father and I got up early and went for a ride, and when we got back my tooth was hurting again, so he had Nurse give me a little bit of lidium and I went to lie down with Snuffles, and Father stayed with me the whole time. That’s why we didn’t go to church.”
Jane looked with concern at him. He did seem a little peaky. “She gave you laudanum, Wakefield?”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Oh yes. But Father’s sent for the dentist,” said Wakefield gloomily. “Some chap from Bath. Father says he’s nice, but how nice can it be when somebody’s messing about in your mouth?” He brooded for a few moments, then brightened again. “But I haven’t told you the most tremendous thing yet, Jane. At breakfast today, an express came for Lady Thingummy from her husband.”
“Do you mean Lady Silsbury? The Countess?”
“Yes. Why isn’t he a count, instead of an earl? Or why isn’t she a—an earlesse?”
“That’s a good question. I’m afraid I have no idea.”
“We’ll have to ask Mr. Pressley. At any rate, Lady Thingummy screamed while she was reading the letter, and Marner was so surprised he dropped a dish of scrambled eggs.”
“Oh! I hope nobody was angry with him.”
“No, Father said the Duchess would love them. Don’t you want to know what was in the letter, Jane?”
“Yes indeed. Was it—was it terrible news?”
“Not a bit of it. It turns out Earl What’s-his-name—did you know he had two broken legs, by the way?”
“No.”
“Yes, he broke them in a hunting accident, and had to lie around at home supposedly, until they got better. But while Lady Thingummy and Viscount What’s-his-name and the other Lady Thingummy were here, he snuck off to London and made a bet at his club about which fly would land on somebody’s head and he won thirty thousand pounds.”
Jane stared at Wakefield. “My goodness.”
“Yes, and here’s what’s even tremendouser. Lady Thingummy—the old one—said, ‘Thank God,’ and she took her napkin from her lap and dropped it right into her porridge. You should have seen how it sank, Jane. It was ripping. I was going to try it myself, even though I was pretty sure Aunt Margaret would notice, but then Lady Thingummy—the old one—got up and she said, ‘Well, we’re off then,’ and then the other Lady Thingummy got up, and Viscount What’s-his-name did too, and they were all smiling so much that they looked like clowns. I got up too and went to stand behind Father’s chair, just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“In case they started juggling or something like that.”
“Did they?” Jane asked. Because after hearing that somebody actually won thirty thousand pounds betting on a fly, anything seemed possible.
“No, they only went upstairs to have their things packed. Half an hour later they were gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. And all their baggage, too. I know it was half an hour because I asked Bunch how long it took, and Bunch is always right. I say, Jane, your eyes are all round again, like the time you thought the Duchess was my mother.”
“It’s just that I’m so surprised.”
“I was too. But isn’t it jolly? They were awfully dull. Didn’t you think so?”
“Well, I didn’t know them very well,” Jane prevaricated, though secretly she not only agreed with Wakefield that it was jolly that they had left, she was also glad, glad to the heights and depths of her soul, and also the width, that the Duke was not engaged to the devious Lady Felicia, and, moreover, that Wakefield wasn’t in danger of being shipped off to boarding school against his will, and she even found it within her to be glad that Lady Margaret wasn’t in danger of being shipped off somewhere as well. Though Jane also wondered if Lady Margaret was unhappy about the Viscount going away.
Waddling away.
Jane grinned inside herself.
“Ow,” Wakefield suddenly said, clapping a hand to his cheek.
“Oh, dear, is it your tooth again?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes.”
Jane looked at him with fresh concern. His sweet, fine-boned face was abruptly pinched with pain. She hated to see him like this. “Do you feel like you need a little more laudanum?”
“Yes, but I haven’t finished my math problems.”
“Don’t worry about that. I think you should go home, Wakefield. What do you say?”
“I do want to be at home,” he admitted, and she answered at once:
“Come on then.”
They went to the front hall and got his jacket, and Jane helped him put it on, and together they walked outside and to the pony-cart where Higson sat patiently waiting. Wakefield didn’t protest when she insisted on giving him a boost up, and if she needed any further confirmation that he really felt unwell, she had it when Higson made as if to hand him the reins and Wakefield replied:
“No, thank you, Higson, I don’t want to drive right now.”
“Higson,” said Jane, “as soon as you get home, will you make sure the Duke knows that Wakefield needs him?”
“And Snuffles, too,” added Wakefield.
“To be sure I will, miss,” said Higson, and Jane saw how concerned he was too, and was satisfied that the Duke would know posthaste. She stepped back and said, “Goodbye. Dear Wakefield, I’ll be thinking of you.”
“Goodbye, Jane.”
They drove off at a spanking pace, and Jane went back inside to the study. Mr. Pressley still hadn’t returned, which made her think that the poor parishioner, whoever it was, really was in dire straits. But if anyone could help, it would be Mr. Pressley, for whom she had come to feel an ever-increasing respect and admiration; he conducted himself with such calm, quiet dignity and kindness.
Jane picked up her pencil and immersed herself in long division again, though in the back of her mind was a continual, niggling worry about Wakefield.
When she returned home to the Hall, she had a hearty luncheon and was about to go meet Monsieur Voclaine in the ballroom for another lesson, but was intercepted by Great-grandmother, who—with a sardonic kind of satisfaction—showed her a note from Lady Margaret, who had written, in curt, but stiffly correct language, that due to circumstances beyond her control, the upcoming ball at Hastings, as well as the theatrical performance, the soirée musicale, and the petit pique-nique faux on plein air were all cancelled.
“It’s just as well,�
�� said Great-grandmother. “Breakfast in a conservatory! Only imagine the humidity. I do wonder what poor Lady Margaret could have been thinking.”
Jane could have told her, or at least offered up a guess, but she didn’t, and gave back the note to Great-grandmother, then went on to her lesson, which had her grappling all over again with the annoyingly complex intricacies of the cotillion, which turned out to be an excellent way to divert her thoughts from the Duke.
Mr. Rowland, as resplendent as Anthony remembered him with his fluffy ginger hair and whiskers and even the same vivid peacock-blue waistcoat, arrived early on Tuesday, and Margaret brought him up straightaway to Wakefield’s room. Anthony sat next to Wakefield, who lay in his bed, a little drowsy with laudanum but rigid and wary for all that, with Snuffles, previously tucked into the curve of Wakefield’s armpit, now struggling to his tiny feet and eyeing the newcomer with hostility.
“Wakefield,” Margaret said, “this is Mr. Rowland, our dentist, and I want you to do everything he says.”
“I won’t,” answered Wakefield, reaching out for Anthony; and Anthony enfolded that small hand in his own larger one.
“You most certainly will,” said Margaret, but the words were barely out of her mouth before Mr. Rowland said:
“How do you do, Your Grace. And, more importantly,” he added, his voice friendly and gentle, “how do you do, My Lord?”
“Terrible,” answered Wakefield, and Snuffles barked as loud as he could, which was surprisingly noisy given his diminutive size.
“Oh, that nasty dog,” said Margaret in disapproval. “I’ll have it taken out right away, Mr. Rowland.”
“By no means, Lady Margaret,” replied Mr. Rowland, with a nice mixture of deference and firmness. “He’s very right to protect his master. What a delightful little creature he is—I had a pug myself when I was a boy. How he snored! My Lord, may I sit next to you and your father?”
“No. Go away.”
“Wakefield!” Margaret was scandalized. “Mr. Rowland has come all the way from Bath just to see you. You’re to be quiet and do what you’re told.”
“You go away,” said Wakefield, his voice trembling, and Anthony said:
“That might be best, Meg.”
He could see that she was about to protest, but then Mr. Rowland added, in his gentle, tactful way:
“You needn’t worry, Lady Margaret. We’ll take very good care of His Lordship, I promise you.”
Margaret scowled, but left the room, although she could have, if she wanted to, closed the door more quietly than she did.
Mr. Rowland’s eyes were twinkling ever so slightly as he said, “Now, My Lord, it’s just we men, which is bound to be much more comfortable, don’t you think? Are you sure I can’t sit next to you, just for a bit? I won’t do anything without asking you first.”
“I suppose so,” said Wakefield ungraciously, and, not at all put out by his patient’s hostile tone, Mr. Rowland went to wash his hands very thoroughly in the basin on top of the dresser before coming to sit down on the side of the bed.
“What’s your dog’s name, My Lord?”
“Snuffles.”
“Ah, that’s excellent. I named my pug Rolypoly. ‘Roly’ for short, of course. Is Snuffles a good snorer?”
“Oh yes, he snores like anything. It’s capital,” answered Wakefield, with just a little more animation.
“Yes indeed. It always sent me right off to sleep. Does Snuffles try to eat moths and butterflies? Roly did, though there was only the one time I ever saw him catch one. I wish I could tell you what his face looked like with the moth in his mouth! He spat it out and ran away, and I laughed so hard I actually retched.”
Thanks to this engaging anecdote, Wakefield’s suspicions softened sufficiently to both allow Mr. Rowland to pet Snuffles for a little while, and also to let him (after he went and washed his hands again) examine the afflicted tooth, though the whole entire time he held on to Anthony’s hand very tightly, and Anthony wished it was his tooth that was bad, and would have cheerfully changed places with Wakefield in a heartbeat.
The family were gathered in the Little Drawing-room, and Crenshaw had just announced that dinner was ready, when there came the sounds of boot-heels, firm and quick, in the hallway, along with other, lighter footsteps moving even more quickly.
James the footman came in—actually, he rather burst into the drawing-room, clearly nipping in ahead of someone else—and just barely had time to say, “His Grace the Duke of Radcliffe,” before the Duke himself came striding in.
Jane saw at once that this wasn’t the aloof, impossibly distant, somewhat more carefully dressed duke she had recently seen at Hastings. His tawny mane of hair was in wild confusion, his neckcloth was awry, and his boots were just as scuffed as ever. Even though Jane was very conflicted in her thinking (and feeling) about him, still she immediately thought to herself how very and delightfully handsome he was. And then his dark-blue eyes sought hers directly and held them.
“Good evening, Duke,” said Great-grandmother, with a kind of barbed sweetness. “What a surprise. Have you come to join us for dinner? We’ll have another place set for you.”
“Good evening, ma’am,” said the Duke, then nodded at Livia and Cousin Gabriel. “How do you do. I apologize for coming at such an hour, but I’ve brought a note for Miss Kent, and to beg a great favor from her.”
He advanced into the room and pulled from his greatcoat pocket a letter, slightly crumpled and also dotted with dog hairs, which he gave to Jane.
She opened it right away.
Dear Jane,
My bad Tooth must come out tomorrow and it’s all very foul. But it would be a little less foul if you could come and keep me Company. The Dentist chap isn’t bad but I am still Afraid although please don’t tell anybody I said so.
Your friend
Wakefield
Jane looked up at the Duke. “Of course I’ll come! Oh, poor Wakefield! What time do you want me there?”
The Duke’s face relaxed just a little. “That’s splendid, Jane. I can’t thank you enough. Can you come first thing? Around eight or so?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Your Grace, is Wakefield ill?” asked Livia. “Can we help at all?”
He turned to her. “Thank you. He’s got an infected tooth that’s to be pulled tomorrow morning. It’s not a permanent one, which is the silver lining, but it’s still going to be miserable for the poor fellow.”
“I take it,” said Great-grandmother, “that Wakefield has asked for Jane?”
The Duke nodded. “Yes.”
“My dear Jane, are you quite certain you wish to attend? It’s sure to be an unpleasant procedure. I remember when your grandfather Titus, in fact, had an extraction as a child. I like to think I’m made of sterner stuff, but in truth I had to leave the room and ask for smelling-salts.”
Jane saw that the Duke’s face had tightened with anxiety again but he said, looking at her with a kind of painful gallantry:
“It will be unpleasant. If you’d prefer not to come after all, I’ll of course understand.”
“My great-grandmother Kent had several teeth pulled,” Jane said, “so I know what it’s like. And I expect your dentist is a great deal better than the man who did the pulling back in Nantwich. I’ll be there. Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Jane,” he said, with so much gratitude that she forgave him for being such an ass lately, and smiled up at him.
“Shall I have a place set for you, Duke?” interposed Great-grandmother. “Otherwise I’m afraid our dinner may be a trifle spoilt.”
“No—thank you, ma’am. I’ll be off. My apologies again for disrupting your dinner hour. See you tomorrow, Jane.”
“Goodbye,” she said, “and please send Wakefield my love,” then watched him nod again and leave the drawing-room with those long loping strides of his. It really was quite a charming way to walk, all fluid and athletic. Honestly, if he had been wearing an immense ermine-trimmed
dukish sort of cloak, it would ripple behind him in a very delightful way.
Suddenly Jane noticed how incredibly empty the room seemed without the Duke, and she also noticed that in her heart she seemed to feel a similar sudden emptiness in his absence. Startled, she stared at the doorway through which he had passed. Was it possible? Was it really possible that she was—
“Gabriel,” said Livia, “I wonder if we ought to have a dentist in to look at the children.”
“By all means,” answered Cousin Gabriel. “Have you noticed any problems, my love?”
“No, I think they’re fine, but how can one know for sure?”
“The Penhallows,” Great-grandmother remarked, “are famed for the superiority of their teeth.”
Livia laughed. “I remember your saying that, Granny, the first time we met. Do you recall that ghastly scene in the Orrs’ garden? You accused me of being stubborn as a mule. And you didn’t like my red hair, either. You said there hadn’t been such a common shade in the line since Sir Everard Penhallow married into the York family three hundred years ago.”
“What I remember most,” Cousin Gabriel said, “was the outrageous act that preceded it.”
Livia smiled and gave him a sparkling glance. “Outrageous indeed. Jane, surely your great-grandfather had a useful pamphlet about dental health?”
With a little start Jane emerged from her wondering daze. “Oh yes,” she answered. “He suggested taking a mouthful of hay that had been soaked in vinegar during a full moon, then biting into it with one’s left hand held over one’s head to find out if one has abscesses.”
She laughed, but saw that Great-grandmother apparently found no humor in it, but was instead looking at her quite pointedly, a thoughtful, even slightly troubled expression on her face.
And all during dinner, Jane noticed, Great-grandmother seemed to be in rather a bad mood, and she couldn’t help but speculate—uneasily—if it had something to do with herself.
“Where’s Jane, Father?” said Wakefield, for probably the tenth time that morning, and patiently Anthony replied:
“She’ll be here, my boy, worry not.”