by Lisa Berne
This innocent question immediately provoked in Wakefield a loud angry outburst, which soon devolved into tears. Mrs. Penhallow had come to take Jane away, only Jane mustn’t go, he didn’t want her to go, couldn’t she stay just for one more night, just until he could eat macaroni again?
“Wake,” said the Duke, but Jane softly said to him, “If you don’t mind having me, I’d be glad to stay for another night.”
He lit up. “I say, that would be splendid. You really don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and Jane said to Wakefield:
“I’m staying.”
He stopped crying and lit up too. “Oh, Jane, that’s capital.” Then he dimmed a little and said to the Duke, “Father, you’ll go downstairs with Jane, won’t you? Just in case Mrs. Penhallow tries to take her away?”
“I think,” said the Duke, “that Jane is perfectly capable of conveying herself where and how she likes. But I’ll go with her for moral support if she happens to need it.”
“Well, that’s jolly. Martha, have you noticed how soft Snuggles’ ears are? He likes it if you pet them.”
So Jane and the Duke left Wakefield’s bedroom upon a scene of renewed calm, and together they began to make their way downstairs, and Jane noticed, with a sudden sharp sense of pleasure so intense that it was rather unnerving, how entirely comfortable and companionable it felt to be walking side by side with the Duke, each of them adjusting their stride just a tiny bit without even having to mention it, as if it were completely easy and natural and just how things should be.
Though he wasn’t exactly proud of it, Anthony had gotten rather used to Margaret’s absence, and so he was a little surprised to see her in the drawing-room. And he was more than a little surprised to see her and old Mrs. Penhallow seated rather cozily next to each other on a sofa, apparently engrossed in pleasant conversation.
It was like seeing formerly hostile generals from opposing camps engaging in an amicable parley.
He hadn’t seen Margaret look this benign since before the Merifields came.
Actually, he hadn’t seen her look this benign for a lot longer than that.
Uneasily he wondered if they had been talking about him, busily comparing notes as to his various flaws, shortcomings, faults, foibles, failings, inadequacies, deficiencies, limitations, and general subducalness.
His surprise turned to astonishment when Margaret greeted both himself and Jane with marked civility, and also when Mrs. Penhallow greeted him with a similar marked civility.
For a few moments of intense disorientation, Anthony wondered wildly if he were dreaming.
Showing no signs of disapproval or dismay, Mrs. Penhallow smiled at Jane, then asked after Wakefield, complimented the lofty dimensions of the room, remarked upon the chilly weather, mentioned the state of the roads, hoped Lady Margaret’s justly renowned Siberian irises were doing well, and wondered when Jane was coming home.
“I’d like to stay one more night, Great-grandmother,” answered Jane, and turned to Margaret. “I hope that’s all right with you, ma’am.”
“Of course,” said Margaret graciously. “If there’s anything you need, Miss Kent, I trust you’ll let me know at once.”
“That’s very kind,” Jane said. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Penhallow didn’t stay long, and Jane walked with her to the front door to say goodbye. Bracing himself for the predictable storm of Margaret’s wrath to break over his head, Anthony took the opportunity to let her know about Nurse’s retirement and Martha Lawley’s promotion to the post, and was not only surprised and astonished but also actively shocked when Margaret merely nodded and thanked him for letting her know.
“I say, Meg,” he said, looking hard at her, “are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. And how are you?”
As this was quite possibly the first time in their whole entire lives together that she had asked him this, Anthony felt his jaw drop, and so precipitously that he was surprised it didn’t catapult to the floor and pitch upwards so forcefully that his eyeballs shot out from their sockets and dangled by their stalks.
He said, “Oh, I’m fine.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
Jane came back into the drawing-room, but stood hesitating just past the doorway, and Margaret graciously said:
“Please do come in and sit down again, Miss Kent.”
Jane did, and Margaret went on, “I’m afraid that we may have gotten off on the wrong foot together, Miss Kent. I was preoccupied, I daresay, with getting the house ready for guests, and then of course with guests here, I was so terribly distracted then as well. I’m so glad you’ll be here for another night—it will give us a chance to talk together. I do so much hope we can start over again, and be friends.”
Anthony actually put a hand underneath his jaw, to keep it from dropping again in his astonishment. But Jane, very composed, only said politely:
“Thank you, Lady Margaret. I hope so, too.”
Then there was some remarkably affable (if very mundane) chitchat for a while, and Anthony found himself thinking how nice it would be if Jane and Margaret really did become friends. For one thing, Margaret might stop saying nasty things about irregular connections, people sneaking rolls into their pockets, and other, similar remarks which were not only unnecessary but depressing.
The rest of the day passed quite peacefully.
He and Jane spent time with Wakefield, talking about pigs and astronomy and Greek mythology and also how it could be possible that not everyone in the world liked dogs, and Jane told them a few amusing stories from her life back in Nantwich, and then he and Jane had dinner with Margaret, who was still being friendly, and they talked about this and that (still mundane, but actual conversation nonetheless), and then he and Jane went back upstairs and played backgammon with Wakefield and he, Anthony, read out loud from The Tempest, which had, in Wakefield’s opinion, a ripping beginning as it started with a terrible storm at sea and a shipwreck.
Margaret even came in, wanting, she said, to see how Wakefield was and if Jane had everything she needed, and although Wakefield was clearly far from overjoyed to see her, at least he didn’t shriek and collapse into tears, but only answered with a reasonable amount of calmness that he was feeling better and that he hoped to start chewing things again tomorrow and also go over to the stables and visit his pony who he was sure had been missing him a great deal, and after this brief exchange of civilities he asked Anthony to please keep reading, because he wanted to know what happened with Caliban whom he considered to be the most interesting character in the story by far.
Margaret stayed so long, seating herself in a chair by the fire and listening to The Tempest with her hands folded restfully in her lap, that there was absolutely no opportunity for him to take another stroll with Jane somewhere which might just have allowed them to kiss a bit. (Or a lot.)
This was a disappointment, but still Anthony went to bed that night feeling happy and peaceful.
Jane went to bed that night feeling thoughtful and uneasy.
For one thing, she didn’t quite like how earlier today Great-grandmother had, as they had walked to the front door together, inquired as if casually about her sleeping arrangements, and seemed rather excessively relieved to hear that a trundle bed had been brought into Wakefield’s room. Also, she had said she would have some exciting news to share when Jane came home, and when Jane asked what it was, Great-grandmother had only shook her head and smiled, saying playfully that she would wait to tell Jane at the Hall. Jane had felt a little like a horse in front of whom a carrot was being dangled just out of reach, and then felt awful for feeling that way when there was every probability that kind, generous, indulgent Great-grandmother had something pleasant in store for her.
And another thing: Jane didn’t trust Lady Margaret’s sudden turnaround into amicability.
It reminded her of the time Betts Johnson, a girl in the neighborhood with
whom she had shared a powerful and bitter antipathy from age five onward, had, at the age of twelve, abruptly presented to Jane a face of sweetness and affability, offered to give her a roasted turkey leg, admired the color of Jane’s hair and how it waved, and invited her to come home and see the new doll her mother had made for her. Jane, longing to make friends and greedy for the turkey leg and keen to see the doll, had eagerly gone with Betts who, as soon as they were in the shadowy little alley behind her house, whistled and thus summoned two of her cronies, and the three of them fell upon Jane and had beaten her to a pulp.
That was, in part, how Jane had learned to be a wary Nantwich girl.
And there was one more thing.
She had been hoping to find a few (or many) moments in which to kiss the Duke some more, but with Lady Margaret hanging about like she had, it had been impossible. When Wakefield tired of listening to The Tempest and admitted that he was ready for sleep, the adults had each gone their separate way for the night.
So Jane had retired to her comfortable little trundle bed feeling thoughtful, uneasy, and disappointed.
Chapter 16
The next day Wakefield woke up so much restored that he not only demanded breakfast right away, he happily devoured his soft scrambled eggs with three slices of crunchy buttered toast, and even though he hadn’t yet eaten macaroni, he accepted with very reasonable good humor Jane’s suggestion that it was time for her to go home.
“If I can eat toast, I can eat macaroni like anything,” he said. “Thanks awfully for coming to stay, Jane. I’m sorry if I was beastly.”
She smiled and kissed him on the top of his head. “You weren’t at all. Goodbye, dear Wakefield.”
“Goodbye,” he said, and gave Snuffles a bit of buttery crust.
So Jane said goodbye as well to the Duke and Lady Margaret, who both thanked her profusely, and Jane, sitting in the Hastings carriage which was to take her back to Surmont Hall, watched as Lady Margaret’s friendly face receded into the distance, then felt sorry she hadn’t looked at the Duke instead.
Why did she feel as if she had lost an opportunity she would never get back?
It was a cold, unsettling feeling.
Jane leaned back against the soft velvet squabs, pulled her pelisse a little more tightly around her, and scolded herself for being silly. Her visit at Hastings had gone well, Wakefield was fine, she had been deliciously kissed by the Duke, and now she was going home.
Surely there was no reason to feel so uneasy.
No reason at all.
It seemed as if she had been gone from the Hall for a month, or more, rather than just two nights. She was received with such warm familiarity by Great-grandmother, Livia, Cousin Gabriel, and the children, too, that it helped take her mind off the puzzling questions of the Duke’s concertina-like behavior and also his sister’s sudden transmogrification into amiability. Jane was longing to ask Great-grandmother about her exciting news, but between taking a nice long bath and spending a lively hour in the nursery, and after that witnessing the arrival of all the other things Great-grandmother had ordered for her from Miss Simpkin (which had to be inspected and admired and, in the case of an absolutely stunning jade-green evening-gown with matching satin slippers, tried on at once), it wasn’t until after dinner when she, Cousin Gabriel, and Livia were gathered in the rococo drawing-room that Great-grandmother finally made her announcement.
“I have decided, my dear Jane, that you and I are going to London for the Season.”
“What?” said Jane, astonished, and saw that Livia and Cousin Gabriel were surprised as well, so clearly they hadn’t been told the news either.
Great-grandmother was looking very pleased with herself. “Yes, you’re going to make your Society début, my dear. We’ll attend the Queen’s Drawing-room, naturally, and as for vouchers for Almack’s, I’ve written to Sally Jersey—who says, of course, she’s merely awaiting our arrival before coming to call with them at once. I’ve also written to Mrs. Dauntrey, of the Dauntrey Employment Agency, to hire staff for the Penhallow townhouse in Berkeley Square, and to my favorite Town modiste, Madame Hébert, as you’ll require—despite the protestations I can already see you fomenting—a great many additions to your wardrobe.”
Great-grandmother smiled at Jane (who, a little dazed to hear of all this bustle, couldn’t help but think again that her dear kind relation truly wasn’t one to let the grass grow under her feet), and then went on:
“That will be our first priority, and once you’re properly outfitted I shall introduce you to all my acquaintance among the ton, and of course in addition to balls, dinner parties, Carlton House receptions, Venetian breakfasts, rides in the Park, et cetera, et cetera, we’ll visit various galleries and museums, attend concerts and lectures, and do whatever else strikes our fancy.”
Even more dazed, Jane suddenly found herself thinking of Great-grandmother Kent, who always said, in ringing tones of the deepest conviction, that the London Season was merely an excuse for all the country’s worst and wickedest rogues, rakes, rascals, scoundrels, tarts, jezebels, hussies, sinners, reprobates, degenerates, libertines, wastrels, scapegraces, spendthrifts, dandies, harpies, idlers, loafers, strumpets, harlots, trollops, jades, coxcombs, popinjays, scandalmongers, fops, swells, drunkards, gamesters, wantons, slatterns, malingerers, layabouts, triflers, fribbles, philanderers, lawyers, French spies, freethinkers, seditionists, atheists, anarchists, adulterers, Americans, snuff-takers, coffee-drinkers, writers who had no business calling themselves that, disgraced politicians, and various other n’er-do-wells—under a very thin and glittering veneer of so-called respectability—to congregate in all their finery, which in the case of men meant obscenely tight pants and in the case of women, thin wispy transparent gowns with shockingly low necklines.
Which of course had made Jane wish with all her irrepressibly defiant heart to experience it herself, knowing all the time that it was to be forever denied her, given that there was a very good chance she was going to live out the rest of her life in Nantwich and quite likely in the most fearsome, abject, and pitiful poverty if she didn’t get over her intense hatred of sewing, which she probably wouldn’t, and the Lord only knew (as Great-grandmother Kent often said) what was going to become of her.
Jane took a deep breath, which made her chest expand against a bodice which, satisfyingly, would soon need to be let out again.
London!
The Season!
Oh, what fun!
She felt as if she had suddenly been plunged into a great busy beehive of excitement, although she had never in real life gotten that close to one, having (she hoped) a reasonable amount of common sense, nor was she so caught up in dazzled delight that she would really think that being thrust into an actual beehive would be pleasant.
All she meant was, this was a very exciting development and she could hardly wait to see if Great-grandmother Kent’s assessment was in any way correct. Though, upon the briefest interval of reflection, it seemed unlikely that Great-grandmother Henrietta would deign to grace such a scandalous rogues’ gallery with her lofty presence.
A conundrum which only made the prospect even more intriguing.
Even as Jane was pondering this, a memory rose.
A familiar voice:
I detest the idea of it.
The Duke, saying this to Lady Felicia about London.
Gamely Lady Felicia had insisted:
Oh, Your Grace, you must go. Truly! It’s absolutely divine, I do assure you!
And he had replied, cool and implacable:
I mustn’t, and I won’t.
How long did a Season last? For how long would she be away from home, and the Duke?
And Wakefield, and Livia and Cousin Gabriel, and the children, and all her new friends, and Mr. Pressley, too, and his lessons and wonderful sermons?
And . . . what if while she was away, Lady Margaret produced the perfect candidate for the Duke? Someone so devastatingly clever and beautiful and accomplished
and delightful and splendid and entrancing that she could finally overcome his longtime reluctance?
Don’t be stupid, Jane, she told herself severely, you’re not a guard dog to circle the Duke with your teeth bared.
Besides, if it took that kind of vigilance to keep the Duke from looking at another woman the way he sometimes looked at her, with his blue eyes both dark with passion and filled with light, then maybe there was no point to her concern.
“Grandmama,” said Cousin Gabriel, jolting Jane out of her reverie. She saw that he was looking at Great-grandmother with an expression that was half quizzical, half amused, his dark brows raised. He went on:
“You’re not going to engage in matchmaking again, are you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” In Great-grandmother’s aristocratic voice was just a hint of haughtiness.
Livia laughed. “Oh, Granny, beware! The best laid plans, you know.”
Jane glanced among the three of them, baffled, and Livia went on kindly:
“I’m sorry, Jane, we’re being obscure! You see, when Gabriel was a single gentleman, Granny—who knows absolutely everyone in Polite Society—embarked on herculean feats of matchmaking, determined to find him the best and most perfect bride in the world, but to no avail. Poor Gabriel ended up with me.”
Cousin Gabriel turned on her that subtle, loving smile. “Not poor. Lucky. Fortunate. Incredibly fortunate.”
Livia smiled back at him, and Great-grandmother loftily waved her hand in the air, saying:
“If it should happen that Jane meets someone she likes very much, someone suitable, then naturally we would all be thrilled for her.”
Someone suitable.
Jane rolled this phrase around in her mind. She had gleaned, even while only half listening to the Merifields’ boring chatter about London, that the Season provided an opportunity for people (and by “people,” they obviously meant “young women”) to find a spouse. To contract an eligible—suitable—union.