by Lisa Berne
You asked how Great-grandmother’s matchmaking endeavor has been going, and if it’s driving me to distraction. It hasn’t, really, I’m enjoying the Season a lot—and I have to say I am very impressed by her diligence. She is much esteemed, admired, and fawned over and we are invited everywhere: we go to breakfasts, teas, dinner-parties, assemblies, balls, Almack’s, the theatre, for walks and for drives, et cetera, et cetera, and I have met so many eligible men that I must admit it’s been rather difficult keeping their names, faces, and titles straight. (Which is quite a funny thing for a girl from Nantwich to be saying.) Some of them are very nice, and Great-grandmother—who’s told me more than once she hopes I’ll be betrothed before the Season ends—lets me know who she thinks might be a good choice for me.
I had wondered, of course, how my unconventional background might play into things here. Would I get funny looks, or little innuendoes, or cold shoulders, or rude remarks, and so on. Amazingly, none! Such is the power of Great-grandmother’s personality, I daresay, that nobody has ever mentioned my background at all. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if people are afraid to even gossip behind my back, for fear that Great-grandmother will somehow find out and her wrath will descend upon them. She is quite the force of nature! I do love her.
Tomorrow she’s taking me to meet Mr. Farris, the family’s man of business, and to formally codify the terms of my dowry. I’m dreadfully uncomfortable by how much money she’s spending on me, but every time I bring up the subject she gets so sad about Titus that I feel quite wretched.
I miss you all. Please give the children kisses from me.
Love,
Jane
P.S. I forgot to tell you before—I’ve seen the Merifields quite a few times. Lady Felicia is engaged and seems very happy. The Viscount does his best to ignore me, even though the Countess keeps trying to get him to talk and dance with me and so on. Poor man. It’s terrible of me, I know, but I find it all quite humorous.
Jane sealed Livia’s letter with considerably less wax, then began to write one more letter.
1 June 1817
Dear Miss Trevelyan,
I hope this finds you and Miss Humphrey well and enjoying the warmer weather. How is Miss Humphrey’s garden doing? And your writing? My great-grandmother and I are both well and enjoying London. I wanted to tell you that at an evening-party last week, the subject of the Tudor queens came up—somebody mentioned being related to Jane Seymour—and someone else said he had read your books about Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn and enjoyed them very much. Imagine my sense of self-importance when I was able to say that not only do I know the author, but that I had first-hand knowledge of a third book coming soon, and that you were deep into the writing of the fourth! Several people said at once they would buy your books. So I do hope I’ve done a little to help with sales.
Sincerely yours,
Jane Kent
Having sealed this third and last letter, Jane yawned, stretched, and got up. She blew out her candles, took off her dressing-gown, and climbed gratefully into bed, where she lay for a few minutes pushing aside her sleepiness and thinking about her letter to Livia. Everything she had written was true, but she had deliberately not mentioned the fact that she had already received several offers (which Great-grandmother had refused on her behalf, this being fine with Jane, as she couldn’t see herself coming to care for any of the men tendering them, all of whom Great-grandmother had dismissed as being, for one reason or another, not sufficiently deserving of the hand of her beloved great-granddaughter), nor had she said to Livia that she seemed to be living in a curious state of mind encompassing happiness and sadness both at once.
Happiness because she really was enjoying her Season.
The sadness, of course, was because of the Duke. She thought about him more often than she would have preferred, but she was doing her best to look forward, not back.
Well, damn. Even by thinking about how she was trying not to think about the Duke, she was . . . thinking about him again.
Yes, thinking about him, and how much she had enjoyed his company, and how incredibly attractive she found him, and . . .
Jane tugged up the hem of her nightgown, and slid a hand between her legs. She brought herself to pleasure’s peak, rather quickly, and drew down her nightgown again, turning onto her side and staring into the darkness. It wasn’t so bad, touching oneself, but one would rather be touched. Ardently, passionately, eagerly.
Love or nothing.
She wanted to love and be loved.
To share a bed—a life!—with somebody.
She thought about the men she’d met here in London. The Earl of Westenbury, for example. He was stunningly handsome, with beautiful manners, and was exceedingly well-dressed. But—not only did she not find him terribly interesting, she didn’t feel he was genuinely interested in her. There were no real sparks between them.
What about his friend, Étienne de Montmorency, Society’s darling? So rich, so urbane, so charming, and even better dressed than the Earl. No: there was something insinuating about him, and anyone who spent so much time hanging about the Prince Regent wasn’t a person she could admire—the Regent being, in her opinion, lazy, licentious, and a terrible father who also wasn’t doing a particularly good job of running the country while his poor father the King was so pitifully discomposed.
What about the Viscount Parfitt-Saxe? He was nice, and such a good dancer, and never seemed to mind that she was still fumbling her way through the cotillion.
Mr. Samuel Graham? He had a lovely dry sense of humor, and was a dog-lover, too.
Colonel Palmer? He told delightful stories about his travels around the world, and she liked his adventurous spirit.
The Archduke Karl Augustus? There was something so appealing about a man who wore a royal sash (diagonally from shoulder to waist) with such unselfconscious élan, plus he was a little shy, which she also found appealing.
Perhaps, Jane thought, I ought to consider them more carefully.
She could try. She would try.
Love or nothing.
“Did ye no’ hear me, Yer Grace?”
Anthony started, and looked into McTavish’s scrubby weather-beaten face, the expression of which conveyed a mixture of exasperation and concern.
He had not, in fact, heard what McTavish had just been saying to him, as he had been brooding over the look the oracular Mrs. Roger had given him the other day when he was in Riverton.
It had been a long, hard stare, and it would not be going too far to describe it as a glare. Or even a scowl. Why had she done that? He had jostled no passersby, kicked no dog (not that he ever would), insulted none of his fellows, and all he had been doing was riding along the high street minding his own business, which was primarily trying to repress thoughts of Jane.
Also while not listening to McTavish just now, he had been thinking with a kind of weary relief that when he got home their houseguests would finally be gone, Miss Evelina Allenton having received exactly zero offers of marriage from himself and additionally been declared by Dr. Fotherham fit and ready to travel after her traumatic experience of being attacked by Margaret’s cat and having her ankle mauled.
So mortified had Margaret been that she had, in front of their guests, instructed Bunch to take the cat and have it drowned in the lake, and Anthony had watched aghast as Margaret scooped up her suddenly limp and boneless pet and thrust it at Bunch who had impassively received it at arm’s length and left the drawing-room at his usual stately pace, as if he was used to someone giving him disgraced cats to carry away and put paid to however many lives they happened to have left.
While not possessing any real affection for the cat, Anthony had nonetheless been horrified by Margaret’s vengeful spirit (especially since Miss Allenton had been taunting the cat with a morsel of bacon Anthony had no idea why she happened to have on hand), and all he could think to do by way of swiftly excusing himself from the room was to announce that he needed to answer n
ature’s call, a coy and horrible euphemism which he had never in his life deployed before, but when a cat’s life (or lives) was (were) at stake, even a miserable and grumpy feline which he had yet to hear purr in ten years of very distant acquaintance, there had been no time to concoct a better excuse.
Luckily, he had caught up with Bunch for a low-voiced confabulation just off the Great Hall and Margaret’s cat had been secretly bundled off to Bunch’s pantry, where it was to be confined until the Allentons had left, and when Anthony had slipped into the pantry very early this morning hoping that Bunch had not been clawed, bitten, nipped, tripped, pounced upon, savaged, ravaged, shredded, hissed at or otherwise beleaguered, and possibly to the extent that he, Anthony, would have the misfortune of stumbling across Bunch’s bloody and tattered corpse stretched out upon the floor, he had been astonished to see Bunch, still in his dignified dressing-gown and slippers, sitting at the head of the big oak table drinking a cup of tea with Margaret’s cat curled up in his lap and looking so contented that Anthony had actually rubbed his fists in his eyes to make sure it was still the same cat.
It was, and it had been purring.
“Yer Grace,” said McTavish again, rather loudly, and Anthony gave another start.
“What is it, McTavish?”
“Caterpillars.”
“Caterpillars?”
“Aye. Caterpillars.”
“What about them?”
“They’re in the succession house, Yer Grace,” said McTavish grimly. “And ye know wha’ that means.”
“Do I?” answered Anthony vaguely. Indifferently.
“If we dinna stop them, there’ll be nae apricots come September.”
Apricots? What had Wakefield told him about the surprisingly philosophical Higson’s remark on the subject? It took him a few moments to recall it.
Life is like a dish of apricots.
It still made no sense, but rather than trying to puzzle it out again, Anthony only shrugged. “Oh well,” he said to McTavish, who peered at him sharply, his great wild eyebrows drawing together with that same mixture of exasperation and concern, after which he gestured with a dramatic sweep of his burly arm and said:
“Look at this then.”
Anthony duly looked at the long row of little pumpkins that stretched out to left and right beneath the cheerful summer sun. Vivid orange and nestled cozily among their green leafy vines, they were flourishing.
“We might just bring home the gilt cup this year, Yer Grace.”
Anthony shrugged again.
McTavish drew a deep breath, let it out gustily, and said, “I was saving the best news fer last. The lassie’s vinegar remedy is working. The blight on the apple trees is gone.”
“Is it?”
“Aye.”
“That’s nice,” said Anthony, but with so little enthusiasm that the exasperation left McTavish’s face, and concern was all that remained.
“Ye ought tae go home, Yer Grace.”
“Should I?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“’Tis luncheon time.”
“Is it really?”
“Aye. Go home, Yer Grace, and eat something. Ye look like one o’ my scarecrows,” McTavish said bluntly.
“Do I?”
“Aye, ye do. ’Tis nae a wholesome sight. Go home, man, go home.”
“Very well,” answered Anthony, and began drifting back toward the house. As he came near the lime-walk, he could smell the sweet scent of the tiny, white blossoms among which the bees danced and hummed. The trees were verdant and lush with their green heart-shaped leaves having returned in riotous abundance.
He passed by the lime-walk, unmoved, thinking vaguely that it might be pleasant to be a scarecrow. Very little was asked of one; nobody paid much attention to one. One just hung about suspended on a pole, season after season, and eventually one quietly rotted away.
At luncheon Wakefield said, “Father, why aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You said that yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. And—”
“I take your point, my boy.”
“Then why aren’t you eating? Are you all right?”
Anthony glanced down at his untouched bowl of soup. There was no way it would fit in his stomach. Because of the truncheon. Then he remembered that he was fine. Absolutely, perfectly, entirely, utterly, completely, and totally fine. “Of course I’m all right.”
Wakefield looked skeptical, but went back to his own bowl of soup, and Margaret said cheerfully:
“What a shame the Allentons had to leave so soon. I’ll write to Georgiana Dibbs and let her know that she and her daughter Cassandra are welcome to come sooner if they like.”
“More people coming to stay?” said Wakefield. “I’m tired of all these houseguests, Aunt Margaret.”
“If I wanted to know your opinion on a subject which is none of your concern, Wakefield, I would have asked you.”
“Yes, but Aunt Margaret, they’re all awfully boring, you know.”
“Nonsense. And stop slurping your soup. It’s unsuitable behavior for a marquis.”
“When I’m a duke I’ll slurp my soup like anything.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I will.”
“You won’t. Now be quiet and finish your soup.”
So of course Wakefield slurped his soup, Margaret glared at him, and wearily Anthony intervened, by way of drawing her fire:
“Bunch has been taking care of your cat, Meg.”
“What?” Margaret snapped. “I told him to—”
“I told him not to.”
“And that was none of your concern. How dare you countermand my order?”
“What did you tell Bunch to do, Aunt Margaret?” asked Wakefield, deeply interested.
“Be quiet and finish your soup.”
Wakefield scowled, scraped his spoon against the side of the bowl, and loudly slurped some soup.
“Stop it at once, Wakefield.”
“Stop it at once, Wakefield,” said Wakefield, imitating her stringent tone exactly.
“Are you repeating my own words back to me?”
“Are you repeating my own words back to me?”
“Why, you rude and insolent little boy!”
“Why, you rude and insolent little boy!”
“Stop it.”
“Stop it.”
Margaret turned to him, glaring. “Anthony, are you going to permit this shocking display of disobedience to continue?”
“Anthony, are you going to permit this shocking display of disobedience to continue?” said Wakefield, glaring also.
Under other circumstances, Anthony might have had to repress an impulse to laugh, so comically precise was Wakefield’s imitation of his aunt, but today he only said, tiredly, “Wake, do stop. And Meg, leave off, please.”
“Leave off? I won’t leave off when I’m being mocked by a rude and disobedient little boy! If you were a better father, you’d punish him as he deserves! If you were a duke in anything but name, you’d—”
“Oh my God, Meg, but you’re exhausting,” Anthony said, and slowly got up from his chair. “Come on, Wake, let’s leave your aunt Margaret in peace.”
“But Father, I’m still hungry.”
“Bunch will have some sandwiches made for you.”
Wakefield shoved back his chair and jumped nimbly to his feet. “Oh, that sounds jolly. Can I eat them underneath the billiards table?”
“No,” said Anthony. “You’ll eat them in Bunch’s pantry, sitting at the table.”
“All right, Father.”
So listlessly did Anthony leave the family dining-parlor and walk along the corridor that Wakefield got impatient and skipped on ahead of him, leaving Anthony alone with his thoughts, which at the moment happened to be a recollection of what he had read (or, to be precise, what he hadn’t read) this morning in the papers while not eating his eggs and toast
and so on.
As was his new habit, he had furtively turned to the London Gazette first.
To scan the engagement announcements.
Always looking for the name of Jane Kent.
He had yet to see it.
So far.
Jane had been gone for weeks and weeks.
And maybe sometime soon he would see the announcement with her name in it.
Maybe even tomorrow.
“There it is,” said Great-grandmother softly.
She and Jane stood side by side, looking at the tobacconist shop with its crowded window-front filled with pipes, snuffboxes in all shapes and sizes, fancy silver cases for the well-heeled connoisseur, shallow bowls for spitting into, and dozens of big glass jars filled with amber-colored tobacco.
Here, on busy, noisy Cheapside Street, was where Great-grandfather Kent had had his print-shop.
Here, most likely, was where Titus Penhallow and Charity Kent had met all those many years ago and fallen madly in love.
Jane stared at the window-front, imagining it filled with an enticing array of Great-grandfather’s pamphlets and chapbooks promising health, success, good looks, and love along with dozens of solutions to life’s problems large and small. She pictured a young, dashing Titus strolling by, stopping to read some of the titles, bursting out laughing, and going into the shop to buy some as a joke for his friends; behind the counter, helping out in the family business, was Charity.
The rest, as the saying went, was history.
Jane gave a deep, long sigh, feeling (yet more strongly) somewhere between happy and sad. Then she said, “Thank you very much for coming here, Great-grandmother.”
“I wanted to see the shop too, my dear. Would you like to stay longer, or shall we be moving on?”