by Berne, Lisa
“Was he?” Jane said. “Why?”
“He fell out of a tree and hurt his back.”
“Oh, that’s dreadful.”
“He said it was rather restful, actually.”
Mr. Pressley intervened again, saying that perhaps they ought to begin, and in his gentle, pleasant way asked about Jane’s educational background and interests while Wakefield labored over some sums, sitting at a large rectangular table and swinging his legs back and forth. Without in the least making Jane feel inadequate or ashamed of her ignorance, Mr. Pressley gave her some books to take home and read, and Wakefield submitted his ink-blotched paper for Mr. Pressley to review, and after that the three of them had an interesting conversation about Tudor history, the origins of the British Royal Navy, and the ethical implications of Queen Elizabeth’s tacit approval of piracy.
“I told Father I might be a pirate when I grow up,” remarked Wakefield.
“You’re to be a duke, Master Wakefield,” the vicar reminded him.
“When Father gets married again and has more children, I’ll let them be dukes.”
Mr. Pressley looked startled. “I wasn’t aware that His Grace had entered into matrimonial arrangements.”
“He will. Aunt Margaret will make him. And then I won’t be the only sixcessor.”
“I believe, Master Wakefield, you mean successor.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Mrs. McKenzie poked her head into the room to dourly announce the arrival of Mr. Attfield, the churchwarden, who had come on urgent parish business, and Mr. Pressley apologetically said he was afraid lessons would have to end sooner than usual.
“That’s all right,” said Wakefield. “Miss Kent and I don’t mind, do we, Miss Kent?”
In point of fact Jane’s brain did feel rather full, but it hardly seemed appropriate to join in with Wakefield’s youthful glee. Fortunately Mr. Pressley then got up and said, “I’ll see you both tomorrow,” and so she and Wakefield got up too and made their way out of the vicarage and onto the front portico, where the light carriage which had conveyed her from the Hall stood waiting, as well as a dashing little pony-cart. Jane eyed it wistfully.
“I say, Miss Kent, would you like to come home with me and meet the Duchess?”
“There’s a duchess?” Jane said, surprised. How could the Duke be planning on marrying when he already had a wife?
“Oh yes. Fat as anything, too. You should see the way she eats blancmange. It’s the funniest thing in the world.”
Jane found herself thinking about what she had told Livia yesterday. How, as a girl, she had hated being good. Apparently there was still plenty left of that girl within her, because with all her heart she now wanted to see an actual duchess eating blancmange. Great-grandmother Kent had talked a lot about duchesses, including the beautiful (and scandalous) Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire, and also Catherine Wellesley, the Duchess of Wellington (who had married shockingly above her station). “Can we go in your pony-cart? I’ve always wanted to ride in one.”
“If you don’t mind squeezing in with Higson and me. You’re awfully skinny, which is good—you won’t take up much room.”
“Well, if you and Higson don’t mind, I don’t mind either.”
“Capital! I’m an excellent driver. Do you want to sit next to me? Normally I don’t like being near girls, but you’re not bad.”
“That’s one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever had,” said Jane, sincerely. “Thank you. By the way, am I supposed to call you ‘Your Grace’? Or ‘My Lord’?”
“‘Your Grace’ is for Father, and ‘My Lord’ is for me, but since we’re already friends I think you should call me ‘Wakefield.’”
“Then I will. And won’t you call me ‘Jane,’ rather than ‘Miss Kent’?”
“All right. Come on, Jane, I’ll introduce you to Higson.”
Jane met Higson, who politely tipped his black beaver hat and assured her she’d get driven back from Hastings at her convenience, and so she told the Surmont Hall groom to go directly on home, with a message letting the family know where she was, and gave him the books the vicar had loaned her as well.
Wakefield managed to keep the pony-cart pretty much within the lane as they made their way from the vicarage toward the Radcliffe estate, though there was one close call when he got so caught up in telling her the exciting plot of a play called Hamlet that they nearly veered into an oak tree. Jane heard Higson muttering under his breath but, to his credit, he let Wakefield bring the cart back onto the lane without snatching at the reins as Jane was sure he longed to do.
They traveled past some large stubbled fields, in their quiet winter fallow, and shortly arrived at a handsome old brick lodge-house (near which Wakefield, with ghoulish enthusiasm, pointed out to Jane a spectacularly flat dead toad); they passed through the tall open gates and into a beautiful grove of mature trees on both sides of the winding road. By and by they came around a long gentle curve and in the distance Jane could see a great palatial house, not unlike Surmont Hall, but as they drew closer Wakefield turned off onto a smaller lane which soon brought into view a wide, long lake, very blue and serene, and then they came to a curious lump of a building, quite tumbledown and all covered over with dank-looking moss and vines.
“Wakefield, what is that?” she asked.
“Oh, that’s our ruin.”
“Your ruin?”
“Yes, isn’t it jolly?”
“Yes indeed! But—what is a ruin, exactly?”
“Don’t you know about ruins?”
“Well, I’ve seen plenty of rotting old houses back in Nantwich—that’s where I’m from—but nobody called them ruins.”
Wakefield tugged at the reins to bring the pony to a halt. “They should have, Jane, because that’s what a ruin is. Aunt Margaret had it built last year.”
“She had it built?”
“Yes, she says they’re very fishinable, and that all the best people have them. Father didn’t want it. He said it was a complete waste of money, especially when we have a perfectly good Greek temple we could let go to rot.”
“You have a Greek temple?”
“Yes. You’ll be able to see it when we go round the bend up there. Oh, and McTavish was so angry about having to put all those vines on Aunt Margaret’s ruin that he gave notice.”
“Who is McTavish?”
“Our head gardener. Father doubled his pay to keep him on. He says that aside from Miss Humphrey, there’s nobody better at pumpkins than McTavish. Do you want to get a closer look?”
“I should say I do.”
“All right, let’s get down here. I say, Higson, you can take the cart back to the stables.”
“Very good, Master Wakefield.”
Jane and Wakefield climbed down from the seat and together went toward the ruin.
“Doesn’t it smell awful, Jane?” said Wakefield approvingly.
“Oh yes, it’s ghastly,” Jane agreed. “Is that on purpose, or accidentally?”
“That’s a very good question. We’ll have to ask Aunt Margaret. Don’t you wish we could go inside?”
“Yes, very much. This seems exactly the sort of place the ghost of Hamlet’s father would be.”
“Wouldn’t he just!” said Wakefield, much struck. “But Father says to keep out, because he’s not at all sure the roof will hold.”
“That’s very good advice, I think. Especially since one would probably carry out that bad smell, which would take several baths to get rid of.”
“I shouldn’t like that at all. One bath a day is enough. Come on, I’ll show you where the temple is.”
They walked in a leisurely way along the meandering path, which was rather rough and muddy, and Jane was glad she had decided to wear her old half-boots today, instead of the uncomfortable slippers which would already have been ruined by now. But both her pale-green gown, and the warm cherry-colored pelisse Livia had lent her, had hems which covered most of the boots, and thus
Jane felt she had achieved the best of both worlds.
She took in a deep breath of crisp, cold air, aware, suddenly, that she felt very happy. She had been measured head to toe by Miss Simpkin the seamstress, and Great-grandmother had ordered a great many things on her behalf; she had learned some interesting things today, ridden in a pony-cart, seen a ruin, was on her way to meet a duchess, and—best of all—made a new friend.
“Wakefield,” she said, “I’m very glad you invited me.”
He was busy kicking a rock along the road in front of him. “It’s jolly that you came, Jane. One does long for company sometimes.”
“Yes, one does,” answered Jane feelingly. “Do you have many playmates?”
“No, not really. There are some boys my age about—servants’ children, you know—but Aunt Margaret doesn’t want me playing with them.”
“Oh.”
“She says I’d have plenty of chums if I went off to Eton.”
“That’s a boarding school, isn’t it?”
“Yes, in Windsor. It’s rather a long way away, and I don’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I like being at home.”
Jane nodded. “It’s a lovely home. I mean—the estate, and everything.”
“Yes, it is. Look, there’s the temple.”
They had come around a curve in the path which had wound upwards on an easy gradient and now offered an excellent view across the lake to where stood a giant white building fronted by several massive columns, with a large triangular bit on the top, and practically reeking of antiquity.
“My goodness,” said Jane, awestruck. “Did your aunt Margaret have that built too?”
“No, my great-great-grandfather Osbert did. Father and I like to ride over there sometimes and he tells me all about the Greek gods, because he says that’s the perfect place to do it in. Ares is my favorite—he’s the god of war, you know, and he’s always getting into the most terrible scrapes. Who’s your favorite, Jane?”
“I don’t know yet. I still have to learn about them.”
“You might choose Athena. She had gray eyes, like yours.”
“What is she the goddess of?”
“Wisdom, peace, and war. Also, she was born straight out of her father’s head, already wearing armor and carrying a spear.”
“Dear me.”
“Yes, isn’t that capital? Father says Zeus—the father—must have had a frightful headache.”
“One would think so.”
“Aunt Margaret gets headaches sometimes. She has to go lie down for hours.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, but then she’s out of the way for a while.”
Jane didn’t know what to say to this brutally candid remark, and Wakefield cheerfully went on:
“Come on, I’ll show you the Duchess. She lives over there.”
He set off toward a small, charming brick house with a yard to the front which was enclosed by a stone balustrade four or five feet high. Jane followed, gaping in amazement. “The Duchess lives there?” she asked. Why, she wondered, didn’t the Duke’s wife live in that palatial old manor house with the rest of the family?
Had she stumbled across some dark, terrible mystery?
“Well, of course she does,” said Wakefield, and Jane, catching up with him, saw that the front yard was filled with clean, fresh straw, and that against the brick wall of the little house lay an enormous pink pig, dozing peacefully.
They came to the balustrade and stood looking down at the pig. Was it a pet of the Duchess? thought Jane. It would certainly be an unusual sort of pet, but, on the other hand, Great-grandmother Kent had talked quite a lot about the eccentric Duchess of York, who was known, among other things, for populating her country estate with more than a hundred dogs along with monkeys, exotic birds, and kangaroos.
“There she is,” said Wakefield. “Isn’t she splendid?”
“To be sure she is,” answered Jane, but glanced around, puzzled.
“What are you looking for, Jane?”
“I was wondering where the Duchess is.”
“She’s right there,” said Wakefield, in the tone of one trying to politely ignore the fact that one’s companion isn’t very bright, and gestured toward the pig. “That’s the Duchess.”
Jane looked at Wakefield, who seemed quite in earnest, and then at the pig again. “You mean—the pig’s name is Duchess?”
“Yes. Why do you look so surprised, Jane? I say, your eyes are as round as a plate.”
Jane burst out laughing. Wakefield gazed up at her, looking surprised himself, and she managed to say, rather breathlessly, “Oh, Wakefield, I thought you meant to introduce me to your mother the Duchess.”
“I haven’t any mother.”
Jane sobered at once. “Oh dear, I am sorry. I hope I haven’t offended you, or hurt your feelings?” she said anxiously.
“Oh no. I’m used to not having a mother. She died when I was three, you see, and I don’t remember her at all.”
“Still, I’m very sorry, Wakefield.”
“It’s all right. Would you like to give the Duchess a scratch?”
“Would—would she like that?” answered Jane cautiously.
“Oh, she loves it. Duchess!” called Wakefield, and the pig woke up with a grunt and lifted its big head to glance inquiringly their way. Wakefield picked up a large stick that lay against the base of the balustrade and waved it enticingly. “Scratch?”
The Duchess heaved herself upright and came waddling over to her side of the balustrade. Goodness, Jane thought, she must weigh three times what I do. Or more. Wakefield wielded one end of the stick to scratch at that wide, hairy pink back, and the Duchess looked so contented that Jane had to laugh again.
“Now you try, Jane.” Wakefield gave her the stick and Jane, tentatively at first, scratched the Duchess, then more firmly as she gained confidence.
“This is rather fun,” she said to Wakefield.
“Isn’t it?”
“Here now, what’s going on?” someone said roughly, and Jane froze. A sturdy middle-aged man in tweeds and with a big round red face came stamping toward them, eyeing Jane with both suspicion and hostility. Quickly Jane gave the stick back to Wakefield, feeling guilty, as if caught in some kind of horrible wrongdoing.
“Hullo, Johns. This is my friend Jane from Surmont Hall. She wanted to meet the Duchess.”
“From the Hall?” repeated Johns ominously, and Jane remembered Great-grandmother Henrietta yesterday asking the Duke, although in a noticeably ironic way, about the dispute between their pigmen. “I don’t let no people from the Hall near the Duchess.”
“Oh, Johns, don’t be redonculous,” said Wakefield. “Jane’s a good ’un.”
The Duchess gave a loud grunt, which Jane took to be a flattering show of support, but Johns only glared at her more fiercely. “I’ll thank you to step aside, miss, and that right quick.”
Jane wasn’t sure whether to cower, slink away, stand her ground, or, possibly, take the stick back from Wakefield and brandish it defensively, but then she heard pleasant crunching sounds and looked beyond Johns to see the Duke loping toward them on his long booted legs, dry winter leaves flattening beneath his boot-soles. He was wearing a long woolen greatcoat and a tall dark hat, which made him look incredibly elongated, and with him were three dogs—no, four, one was tiny—all trotting companionably more or less at his side, although to be precise the tiny one, a pug with a sweet squashed-looking face, was galloping valiantly along in a way that struck Jane as one of the most adorable things she had ever seen.
The Duke drew near, and Wakefield called out:
“Oh, Father, Johns is acting like Jane’s a spy sent over from the Hall. Do make him stop.”
“Like who’s a spy?”
“Jane,” Wakefield said. “Miss Kent here.”
“Ah. Johns, stand down. You besmirch the noble name of Hastings.”
“Besmirch, guv’nor?” said Jo
hns, taken aback. “Well, I never.”
“Besmirch,” repeated the Duke firmly, and Jane was relieved when Johns moved aside and went to kick moodily at some bits of straw that had escaped the Duchess’ pen. The Duke went on:
“How do you do, Miss Kent?”
“Very well, thank you,” Jane said, then added punctiliously: “Your Grace.”
“Father, I brought Jane over to meet the Duchess, and she scratched her back. I say, what’s that you’ve got?”
“Blancmange.” The Duke was carrying a china bowl which he held out for Jane and Wakefield’s inspection. Inside was a molded, creamy-white confection which jiggled in a humorous, yet appetizing way, and Jane suddenly realized that she was hungry.
“How ripping,” said Wakefield. “Jane, would you like to give it to the Duchess?”
“I’d love to.”
The Duke looked at her, on his long thin face an expression of pleased surprise, as if discovering in her unsuspected depths of character. “Are you a pig person, Miss Kent?”
He said it in a way that was so clearly complimentary that Jane found herself smiling up at him. His eyes really were a striking shade of blue. They reminded her of the deep serene color of the lake which lay beyond the Duchess’ charming little house. “Maybe so. Your Grace.”
“You should call him ‘Anthony,’ Jane, as we’re all friends now. Give Jane the bowl, Father, and I’ll tell her what to do.”
The Duke passed to Jane the china bowl, and Wakefield continued:
“Do you see the trough over there, Jane, against the balustrade? Put the blancmange in it. If your aim is good, you can toss it from here, or you can go round the corner and just drop it in.”
Guessing that she would sink even further in the dubious esteem of Johns the pigman if she ending up flinging the blancmange into that nice clean straw, Jane said, “I’d better go round the corner.” She did, and carefully tilted the bowl so the blancmange could slide out and fall directly into the long rectangular trough. It cracked in half and already Wakefield was laughing.
“Isn’t blancmange funny, Jane? Father, isn’t it funny?”
“Hilarious,” agreed the Duke, and they all watched as the Duchess ambled over to the trough and sank her snout into the soft creamy confection, which soon bedecked her entire face and gave her a delightful resemblance to Father Christmas.