There was a discreet tapping at the door.
‘Yes,’ she called impatiently. Was there to be no end of this persecution?
But it was only Soames, the butler, to say with unspoken sympathy that Mr Gurning wished her company in his study.
His study, she thought to herself, fanning her anger to keep up her courage. Her father’s study turned into a banker’s office. For her Uncle Gurning still kept up his city business and spent several days of each week in London. The house that had once been headquarters for the Whig elite of the county had degenerated into little better than a banker’s office. Only her best friends still came to see her and they did so apologetically, almost surreptitiously, by appointment, picking hours when her uncle was away in London and doing their best to avoid her aunt’s ostentatious hospitality.
As she went reluctantly downstairs again, she considered these friends. To whom could she turn for support in this crisis? There was Aunt Julia, of course, but she had proved herself a broken reed at the first onslaught of the Gurnings. Even at sixteen, Jennifer had wished to hold her own, to treat them as guests, to defer still to Aunt Julia as the chaperon in whose charge her father had left her. Aunt Julia had failed her then; hopeless to expect more of her now—and, besides, she was hundreds of miles away, with those unknown cousins in Yorkshire. Useless to appeal to her. Only Lucy Faversham remained. Lucy was her best and oldest friend, whose governess she had shared for years, and the daughter of her father’s staunch political associate, General Hugo Faversham. But Lucy was only eighteen, and motherless like herself. And though the General made no secret of his dislike for Uncle Gurning, Jennifer much doubted whether he would support her in open revolt. His radical politics hardly included rebellious young women. Indeed, she had long recognised him for the kind of man who would always prefer words to deeds...
But she had reached the study door. Entering, she found her uncle busy at the desk that looked so out of place among her father’s sporting prints.
‘Ah, Jenny, my dear.’ The bland tone told her he was going to pretend nothing untoward had happened between them. She knew this gambit of old and steeled herself to resist.
‘We were discussing the question of your betrothal,’ he went on, ‘and I believe I may have failed to make my position in the matter quite clear. There will be no question, naturally, of an early marriage. Your aunt and I would not lightly part with our dear niece...’ he paused, every inch the loving uncle.
‘No,’ said Jennifer, but, wisely she finished the sentence to herself: nor with her fortune neither.
‘Indeed,’ continued her uncle, ‘your aunt and I had been busy only the other day with plans for your debut which, as you are well aware, has of necessity been postponed until you should be out of black gloves. We have been seriously considering how best we might proceed, for, as you know, your Aunt Gurning is not, most unfortunately, in a position to present you to society.’
Reluctantly, Jennifer found herself admiring the man. It was not everyone who would have the courage so to face his wife’s social unacceptability. But what in the world was to follow? She had heard no talk of a debut before, and had resigned herself to the belief that her chance of this, with so much else that was more important, had been lost with her father. Did Uncle Gurning perhaps think that Aunt Julia could be persuaded to return and chaperon her? For herself, she doubted it strongly. The breach between Aunt Julia and the Gurnings had gone too deep to be easily bridged. And it would, she told herself, be foolish to imagine that the Gurnings would loosen their hold on her—and her fortune. They had no other produceable connection, she was sure, or she would have heard of it.
But her uncle, who had paused to shuffle the papers into place on his desk, was talking again. ‘Now,’ he said blandly, ‘we have hit on a most eligible solution for this difficulty. The Honourable George Ferris, as you may perhaps not be aware, is the grandson of a duchess, and, I apprehend, for, believe me, my dear, I have not been idle in my enquiries on your behalf since I received his application for your hand...’ he paused, lost for once in his own parenthesis, while Jennifer commented angrily to herself on his love of a title. But he had found his thread: “As I was saying, his grandmother, the Duchess, is said to be devoted to Mr Ferris, for all that he is nothing but a younger son; and has done much, they say, to make his career. Now I propose, in answering this letter and accepting Mr Ferris’s very flattering proposal, to suggest that your position in society would be best secured if you were to make your debut as his affianced bride under the protection of his grandmother. No, do not be alarmed; we would not quite abandon you: your cousin Elizabeth might, I believe, very suitably go with you to keep you company and your aunt and I would never be far away.’
No, she said to herself, I dare swear you would not. The prospect of being foisted in this way upon Mr Ferris’s reluctant family was, if possible, more unpleasant even than that of marriage with him. Brought up in the realistic male society of her father and brothers, she saw nothing out of the way in Ferris’s proposal for her hand. Doubtless he was pressed for money, as her brothers had always been, and was prepared to swallow her aunt and uncle for the sake of her fortune...But to have to take her into his family even before marriage had given him control of his prize...that, surely, he would find the outside of enough. For a moment she wondered whether she dared accede to her uncle’s proposals in the hope that they would prove so galling to her suitor that he would cry off from the match himself. But it was too great a chance to take, too extreme a sacrifice of her pride. She turned seriously to the task of persuading her uncle that she was resolute against the match.
But her arguments were wasted. She had never seen Mr Gurning so determined, and soon suspected that there must be much more of advantage to him in the scheme than he had so far admitted to her. Gradually, as he grew angry, it came out that George Ferris had hinted in his letter at the possibility of a seat in Parliament for young Edmund Butts and even, perhaps, for her uncle himself. She had long been aware of her uncle’s intense ambition to get his stupid, biddable ward into Parliament, where he hoped, no doubt, to use him as a mouthpiece for his own interests. Her heart sank. The snare was well baited indeed. Driven to panicky anger by a sense of her own helplessness, she protested so vehemently that Gurning in his turn grew angry. He had expected her to jump at what seemed to him a most eligible connection and in the surprise of her refusal had himself less well in hand than usual. ‘Very well, miss,’ he concluded, ‘we shall see who is to be master in this house. Get to your room and stay there.’
‘Master, indeed,’ she flared back at him. ‘You forget, I think, Uncle, that this is my house and you and your family my guests. You should think shame to batten on my hospitality and use me thus. I’ll not have it: a set of cadging cits,’ she stopped, appalled at what she had said. But it was too late: the words were out. She hung her head, shamed into silence by thoughts of what her father or her courteous Aunt Julia would have said to such a breach of manners.
Her uncle was quick to recognise and pursue his advantage. ‘Yes, miss, I should think you would hang your head. Now, to your room, and there you shall stay till you have recollected yourself and made amends by accepting this offer which is so much more than your ill breeding merits.’
Speechless with mortification, she turned and left the room. But outside she paused. She had thrown away the hand, but need she lose the whole game? If she went meekly to her room now, she knew she was lost. She had seen too often how her uncle made his word good with his recalcitrant ward to have much confidence in her own capacity to stand out against him. She looked around her. To demonstrate, no doubt, his certainty of triumph, he had made no move to see that she obeyed him and went to her room. And the front door stood invitingly open. Escape. Could she? Dared she? She knew it was now or never. Automatically, she smoothed the folds of her riding habit. Yes, that settled it; she was dressed for the venture. She would ride to Lucy Faversham’s house and throw herself on the General�
�s mercy. Surely he could not refuse at least to send her safely to Aunt Julia in Yorkshire?
She hurried round the side of the house to the stables, keeping well away from the study windows and half scorning herself for the cowardly precaution. If only she had the courage to stand up to her uncle and tell him she was leaving. For the first time she found herself sympathising with Aunt Julia’s flight; Uncle Gurning had a most uncomfortable gift for putting one in the wrong...
Old Thomas, the groom who had taught her and her brothers to ride, and picked her out of more hedges than she cared to remember, looked dubious when she told him to saddle her horse, Starlight, for her again.
‘Again, Miss Jenny? I doubt he’s not half blown yet. You’d best take one of the others.’
‘I’ll do no such thing.’ Impossible to explain to old Thomas that since her uncle had reorganised the stables Starlight was the only one of the horses she felt was really hers. Besides, she was well aware that his protest referred not at all to the horse’s condition but to the fact that it wanted but half an hour of the family luncheon. ‘Come,’ she put on her best air of determination, ‘saddle me Starlight and no more of your grumbling.’
‘You sound for all the world like your father, Miss.’ It was capitulation, but he still muttered to himself as he obeyed her, his old hands working with maddening deliberation while she waited impatiently, her ear cocked for sounds of pursuit. But none came. Her uncle must have assumed implicit obedience to his commands. Soon she was safe away, free and happy as she always was on horseback, riding across the Downs to Lucy’s house, five miles away. The sun shone, a lark sang high above her, she let the reins lie loose on Starlight’s neck and rode slowly along, dreaming of liberty...
But at Faversham Hall, disappointment awaited her. Lucy was delighted to see her, as always, but it came out at once that her father was away in London, where he would stay for the better part of a week. Jennifer received the news in so white a silence that her friend was alarmed. ‘But, my love, what ails you? Why so desperate for my father? Nothing is amiss, I trust?’
Jennifer laughed bitterly. ‘Amiss? All’s amiss, love. I’m blown up, Lucy, capoted, sunk. In short, I’m a runaway. I doubt you should not receive me in your father’s absence.’
‘A runaway? My dearest creature, what madness is this? But, come, calm yourself, drink a glass of wine and tell me all from the beginning.’
She punctuated Jennifer’s story with a soothing chorus of horrified exclamations, but when, at the end, Jennifer turned to her with a pleading: ‘What else could I do then, but throw myself on your mercy and your father’s?’ she looked grave.
‘You well know I would walk to Brighton barefoot if it would profit you, my love, but do but consider for a moment. Are you not letting your dislike of your uncle blind you to the eligibility of this connection? I have heard my father speak of Mr George Ferris and indeed he cites him as quite the coming man of the Party. I have always thought that with your looks and your spirit you were born to preside in a political house. And I confess I am hard put to it to find what grounds you have for taking such a dislike to Mr Ferris. Your brothers’ friend, Jenny?’
‘Friend, Lucy? What kind of a friend was it who left Richard to die at Waterloo? I have it from his servant who found him...Small wonder it took him a year to summon up courage to face me. A year ago perhaps he could have explained...told me something of Richard’s last moments...brought me some message. But now? It is but too plain that he seeks me only to repair his fortune.’
‘I never heard that he was spendthrift.’ Lucy considered it. ‘And indeed marriages have been made for worse reasons than that. He is a younger son, it is true, and no doubt his wings do want feathering a trifle. But what disgrace is there in that? It is not as if he was his elder brother who has, I apprehend, lost a fortune at play...And, forgive me, Jennifer, but circumstanced as you are, it may be difficult for you to make another match.’
‘I’d rather set up for an old maid at seventeen than have it said I stooped to a catch-match. No, do not laugh at me, Lucy, and indeed you are wrong about Ferris. It was he, I know, who introduced Francis and Richard to all the gaming hells in Brussels. You remember what a potheration my Uncle Gurning made over their debts.’
‘The more fool he. All young men play and run into debt, Jenny, it’s the nature of the beasts. Nor would you want a tame pigeon if I know you. But, come, I’ll stop teasing you. I only wish I could fathom why you are so deeply incensed against this man. His only crime seems to be his wish to marry you.’
‘Oh, Lucy,’ exclaimed her friend, ‘if you had but seen his letter you would understand. My uncle showed it to me. He thought it was “most proper”. I tell you, I might as well have been a parcel of merchandise of which my lord proposed to take delivery at my uncle’s convenience and on such and such a date. Small wonder my uncle was pleased with it; it was just such a letter as they write on “Change”. If there had been but one word for me, myself, one thought of the boys...but nothing, Lucy, nothing. I am the camel that’s to bring him riches, the necessary conveyance, nothing more. I’ll not bear it, I tell you. And besides, my quarrel with my uncle is gone too far now for drawing back. You’ll not fail me, Lucy. I cannot go back and eat humble pie with him. I will not. If you’ll not help, I’ll...I’ll go for a governess.’
Lucy laughed. It was indeed a desperate threat. But she soon sobered. ‘Indeed, I do not know how to counsel you for the best. You know I will always stand your friend, but your uncle is sure to look for you here, and how can I protect you with my father away? And to deal plainly with you, I much misdoubt me but that if he were here the General would think it his duty to send you back to your uncle. They are fellow magistrates, you know, and though he cannot like the man, I believe he has a considerable respect for him. Only the other day he told me that Gurning could hit a haystack better than most, and you know that is high praise from my father. Oh, if only your father had left a valid will and appointed you another guardian, Jenny...But as things stand I much fear you are in Mr Gurning’s power until you are twenty-one.’
‘I was in his power,’ said Jennifer, rising to her feet, ‘but as you see, I have escaped. I am sorry you do not feel able to assist me, Lucy, but since it is so, I must e’en bid you farewell.’
She was preparing to sweep out of the room when Lucy stopped her. ‘Come, come, Jenny, you know me better than that. Spare me your tragedy queen, I beg. I’ve done preaching. If you are really bent on revolt, I’m your friend. But what can we do? Impossible to conceal you here; it would be all over the neighbourhood in three days.’
‘I had wondered,’ said Jennifer seating herself again by her friend, ‘whether your father might not be prevailed upon to send me to my Aunt Julia in Yorkshire. She was always kind to me and surely would prevail upon our cousins to take me in.’
Lucy looked doubtful. ‘I think you are deluding yourself, my love. Only consider Aunt Julia a little—Mistress Mouse we used to call her, did we not, and I fear she has the spirit of one. No, depend upon it, Jenny, if she did not send you posting back to your uncle, she would deliver you up to him at his first demand.’
Jennifer nodded gloomily. It was all too accurate a confirmation of her own unacknowledged fear. ‘Then what can I do? It is but to remain hidden till I am twenty-one and my own mistress and then I’ll have my Uncle Banker packing soon enough. But four years are a long time...’
‘A very long time.’ Suddenly Lucy jumped up and ran across the room to her writing desk. ‘I believe I have it.’ She dug excitedly among her papers and returned with a lavender sheet of much-crossed, highly scented writing paper. ‘My cousin Lavinia,’ she explained to Jennifer, ‘I had the letter from her only yesterday. What you said of going for a governess put me in mind of it. But would you truly dare, Jenny?’
‘I’d dare anything rather than knuckle under to Uncle Gurning and his Lombard Street lover. But what do you mean? What’s your plan?’
Lucy was intent
ly deciphering the spidery handwriting. ‘Dear Cousin Lavinia’s letters are mighty hard to read and often, I confess, since she writes purest nothing, I do not stay to finish them, but something I am sure she said of the governess. Yes, here we have it: “...in despair, my dearest Lucy, Miss Milward (that’s the governess) has had the effrontery to elope with the curate...” something indecipherable here, poor Cousin Lavinia is clearly distracted...What’s this...“the vapours.” Yes, I am sure she has them...“the children beyond all control...”’ She put down the letter. ‘Poor Cousin Lavinia. The silliest woman, my dear Jennifer, it has ever been my good fortune to meet with, and no more control over her children than a hen with a brood of ducklings. Her husband died several years ago and Miss Milward has been her right hand ever since. I cannot conceive of that household without Milly, as they all called her. But I apprehend that she has grown tired of being the general dame of all work, femme de compagnie, governess, bottle-holder, philosopher and friend to my foolish cousin and has found it better to make her party good with the curate. I fear they will have but an uncomfortable time of it if Cousin Lavinia proves unforgiving...But, to the point; now do you smoke my plan?’
‘I collect that I am to take the place of the estimable Miss Milward. But tell me more of my charges. Are they so very shatter-brained a parcel of children?’
‘No, no, not the least in the world. They always minded Milly perfectly. It is only their mother who cannot control them. I am positive they will have a most healthy respect for you, Jenny, if only for your seat on a horse.’
Jenny laughed. ‘An unusual recommendation for a governess, surely?’
‘An unusual family. I never met Lavinia’s husband: he was always off at the wars when I visited her, but I believe he was fonder of his horses than of wife or children. Even you will find nothing to fault in the stables at Teyning Park.’
‘They live at Teyning, then?’
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