Jane and the Sins of Society

by Sarah Waldock

  At least it gave her the knowledge to watch out for such things.

  Steal the White Loaf was a good game, Cora was ‘it’ to begin with, and sat with her back to the company at one end of the room, with a bracelet behind her. The others took turns to try to sneak up to grab it, and if Cora heard movement, she might turn round to catch the ‘thief’ in the act. Cora might not be clever, but her hearing was sharp enough, and soon exchanged places with a Mr. Lawrence Pelham.

  Mr. Pelham was an impatient player, and turned round often enough to earn censure, both from Mrs. Fielding, and an older woman who was sat with the parents.

  “Lawrie has no patience,” murmured that worthy to Jane.

  “Few young men do,” said Jane, dryly. “I expect he will learn it. I’m Jane Armitage.”

  “Julie Demomerie,” said the old woman. “And it’s Lady Julia by rights, just as you are Lady Armitage.”

  “I’ve still not got used to it,” said Jane. “Your young relative likes to dress well, too.”

  “He’s an expensive cub, but he’s my nevvy’s only child. Hard sometimes not to be too soft,” sighed Lady Julia.

  Jane wondered whether she should share how Mrs. Churchill had alternately spoiled and denied Frank, and made him selfish and greedy, but it was none of Lady Julia’s business. Maybe if they met often enough at such gatherings it would be suitable to share personal matters.

  Mrs. Fielding announced a change of game to Move All, and lifted an eyebrow at Jane, who went obligingly back to the piano. Music was not necessary really for this game, but it made it more lively and jolly. One less chair than there were young people were set in a circle, and the last person who was ‘it’ in the previous game stood in the middle, and called out “Move All!” The object was for ‘it’ to find a chair, and the last person left without somewhere to sit was the new ‘it’. It left the young people laughing and breathless, and if there was the odd incident of a young lady sitting on the knee of the beautiful young man who almost had to be the Russian poet, well, such hoyting behaviour occurred in parlour games, and a sharp “Elizabeth!” from the girl’s mother quickly broke up such a lack of decorum.

  “I believe I will sit out,” said the Poet. “This game has no dignity or beauty. I go elsewhere for a while.”

  “And take your chair with you,” said Mrs. Fielding, sternly.

  “I? I am of royal blood, I do not carry chairs like a kulak, a peasant. Let the footman do it.” With a dismissive wave of the hand, he wandered off.

  A footman hastily retrieved his chair, and Miss Elizabeth Elliot discovered that she was ‘it’ by default of not having found a proper chair.

  “I don’t want to play any more, either,” she said.

  “You’ll play one more turn until another person is chosen,” said Mrs. Fielding, and sulkily, Miss Elliot complied. She was about to leave the room in search of Mr. Kiasov, or more correctly, Jane had discovered, Gospodin Kiasov, when she was intercepted by her mother and led firmly to sit with the dowagers.

  “I’m bored,” groused Miss Elliot.

  “You should not have dropped out of the games, then,” said her mother. “You may either sit here until a new game starts and join in with that, or we will go home, and you will then go to bed after a nursery dinner, if you cannot act your age.”

  “I want to stay,” muttered Miss Elliot.

  A game of Musical Magic followed, Jane doing her best to lead each victim in turn to their allotted tasks, and then dinner was announced. After dinner would be dancing, followed by a late supper.

  Dinner was sumptuous, with a number of removes, and finishing with both syllabubs and ice cream.

  “I am glad I am playing, not dancing,” said Jane, to Caleb, who had taken her in to dinner. “I am not sure I could dance on such a spread.”

  “Why, I would not have been able to do so myself, had I not been frugal,” said Caleb.

  Jane flushed.

  “Ice cream is something of a secret vice of mine,” she admitted.

  She took herself over to the piano ready to play for the dancing, and played a waltz air to entice the others into the ballroom. The Russian poet drifted over.

  “Ah, I was not mistaken earlier,” he said. “You are serene as the sky on a summer’s day, and your hands are perfect! I will write a poem to your perfect fingers!

  Jane looked startled and just had time to notice that Miss Elliot was glaring at her before Caleb tapped Kiasov on the shoulder.

  “You will refrain from presuming to address my wife in that improper manner,” said Caleb. “If you even dare to write your miserable and mediocre poetry to her fingers, I will knock you down, because you would show yourself to be insufficient of a gentleman for me to call you out. Now move away.”

  The poet’s dark eyes filled with tears.

  “It is true that my poetry is miserable and mediocre, but I strive! Always I strive! And I seek a muse ... the so-serene pianist is an inspiration, pray do not prevent me from listening to her and watching her!”

  “You can do both from a decent distance,” growled Caleb. The poet retreated, dabbing at his eyes.

  “How did you know how bad his poetry is and that he would get emotional about it?” asked Jane.

  “He’s Russian, Jane-girl; they cry at the drop of a hat, I was in charge of the safety of the Czar’s retinue in 1815. Learned a bit of Russian too, but as it was from their hussars’ stable hands, it ain’t fit for civilised company. I hope you don’t think I was too heavy handed? I didn’t think you were enjoying his company.”

  “I wasn’t; indeed I was horrified. Thank you!”

  Caleb bowed.

  “At my lady’s services.”

  Caleb left Jane to her playing, to be at the services of any lone girl who needed a partner. Miss Evans thought him wonderful, and thanked him shyly for treating her as if she were a beautiful lady.

  “My dear Miss Evans,” said Caleb, “You are a lovely young lady. My wife is beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir Caleb, she is so lovely, and gracious, and graceful! I was not flirting with you, indeed I was not, I could not compete even if you were not married!” Miss Evans looked aghast.

  “I know that, Miss Evans. But you see, when my wife was your age, she was an awkward and gawky girl, who was certain she was plain, and uninteresting. I am certain she was neither plain, nor uninteresting; and neither are you. Presently you will grow into knowing where your feet are at all times, and you will learn to smile without worrying about what impression you are making, and to present as serene and gracious an appearance as Lady Armitage does.”

  “Oh, do you really think so, Sir Caleb?”

  “I know so, child. Now, run along, and flirt with someone your own age, who is unattached, because learning to flirt is a skill as much as dancing, and you might as well enjoy it.”

  “Oh, yes sir!” said Miss Evans.

  Caleb shook his head, smiling. She was as much a child as Araminta. More so, indeed; Araminta had learned cynicism in the school of hard knocks.[8] He turned his attention to the young girls, and smiled at Miss Elliot.

  “Would you honour me with a dance?” he asked.

  “I suppose so. Mama will not let me dance with Alexei a third time,” said Miss Elliot.

  “Oh, if it is too much effort to dance, far be it for me to force you,” said Caleb, with heavy irony.

  “No, I would like to dance. Thank you. You are married to the lady at the piano, are you not?”

  “Yes, I am. I must say I did not think much of that Russian fellow’s manners making most improper comments and compliments to my wife; but I have come to the conclusion that he is not so much a rude fellow as a poet.”

  “Indeed; he does not find himself bound by conventions,” said Miss Elliot, eagerly.

  “If you ask me, he should consider it his duty to learn to cope with conventions, if he hopes to marry one day,” said Caleb.

  “But it will trammel him as a poet!” declar
ed Miss Elliot, dramatically, throwing the comment over her shoulder as the dance parted them. They danced through a figure and met up again.

  “You are perhaps correct in that, and in that case one may hope that he never marries, for to expect a wife to put up with the hardships of a poet’s temperament, having ornaments thrown at her, and vituperation heaped on her head when she interrupts his muse is unreasonable, not to mention the fact that when I met him in ’15 he could not keep servants, for he was too demanding. No man can expect a gentlewoman to do all his cooking and washing for him, heave his coal and tend to beating his own carpets, I understand that before he got a job in the embassy he lived in total squalor,” said Caleb.

  “It cannot be so!” Miss Elliot was shocked.

  Caleb shrugged.

  “It is why I am pleased that my wife sees playing as a pleasant avocation, and is not a genius,” he said. “I am not sufficiently selfless to devote my life to genius.”

  He left Miss Elliot looking horrified, and thoughtful. He strongly suspected that the comment about vituperation for interrupting the muse had resonated strongly with her.

  He drifted over to the Dowagers.

  “A word, Mrs. Elliot?” he murmured to the chit’s mother, noting that Miss Elliot had withdrawn to cool her face.

  “My daughter filled your ears with her ridiculous ideas?” said Mrs. Elliot.

  “No, I out-talked her,” said Caleb. “Told her what a genius her idiot poet was and how he can’t keep servants because of it. I’m almost certain that he has told her off for interrupting his poetising. She winced when I said poets do this. If I may venture some advice?”

  “I’m willing to listen to anything.”

  “Throw them together until she’s totally bored by his eulogies to her golden locks, and make sure to suggest he shows her museums, preferably when it is raining, and have an adequate young man of your choice follow them to procure a hackney carriage when the poet cannot,” said Caleb.

  “Sir Caleb, you are a devious man. Thank you.”

  Caleb bowed, and left her to do his duty for the rest of the ball. It was as well to be in practise.

  Next week, Almack’s would be giving its first subscription ball, and they would be going.

  Chapter 7

  In the meantime, there was a pedestrian curricle race to attend.

  The day was mercifully dry after two days rain, and Jane was much relieved. She would have supported Caleb in his interest had it rained, but not having to huddle under an umbrella was an advantage.

  She took an umbrella, just in case. On due consideration, she left Nat, the pug, at home. He might try to chase the Draisines and get hurt.

  Montgomery’s carriage was followed out to Hampstead by a crowd of urchins, including Ginger, and Montgomery’s man ceremoniously lifted the Draisine down as Montgomery passed it to him. Another coach was likewise being divested of its Draisine.

  “You’d get less mud in the carriage, and be able to store it more easily, if you put a couple of hooks on the back of the body, and straps to make it more secure,” said Caleb, thoughtfully.

  “By Jove, an excellent idea! Come and meet Grey; Mr. Roland Grey, the chap I’m racing against,” said Montgomery. “Grey, this is Sir Caleb Armitage, who is thinking of getting a Draisine, and his good lady, who supports his interest.”

  “A wife whose price is above rubies,” laughed Grey. He had a metal wheeled Draisine, which Caleb regarded with interest.

  Jane, however, had noticed something; there was iron swarf on the steering handle.

  “Mr. Montgomery,” she said, “I believe you will have trouble steering, since your steering lever appears to be broken.”

  Montgomery’s man gasped.

  “What?” Alexander Montgomery whipped round and stared at the top of the steering handle near the pintle mount, where Jane indicated. “Oh no! Grey, we must call it off, if I ride that, it could be very dangerous, how can it have been so weak as to shear like that?”

  “Mr. Montgomery,” said Jane, “I do not believe that a simple shear through accident would leave grains of metal swarf. I believe that someone has taken a fine file or what I believe blacksmiths call a hacksaw to your Draisine.”

  Montgomery rounded on Grey.

  “Have you done this?” he demanded, furiously.

  “How dare you accuse me of something so low!” Grey was equally furious.

  “Gentlemen! Let us not wrangle; I have no expectation that any gentleman sportsman would sink so low as to sabotage his rival,” said Caleb. “The same might not be said for someone with money riding on the race, but it is my experience that those who are enthusiastic would never spoil a good race.”

  “That’s why I was angry,” said Grey, scowling at Montgomery.

  “I apologise unreservedly,” said Montgomery. “Please forgive me, I was upset.”

  “Damned right,” said Grey. “This is monstrous; you could have been killed if you had come off and hit a wall, or a rock or fallen under a carriage going the other way. What are we to do? All these people have come out to watch us.”

  “Short of borrowing another Draisine, perhaps each of you might use Mr. Grey’s machine and race against the clock?” suggested Jane.

  “It is not ideal, because the original bet was on whether wooden or iron wheels were better,” said Montgomery.

  “What are the tolerances of the steering bar, and might the good one be dismounted and remounted on Montgomery’s machine, so each might then race against the clock on his own Draisine?” suggested Caleb.

  “There is a smithy just past ‘The Spaniard Inn’, said another man. “Perhaps Mr. Montgomery’s Draisine might be mended?”

  “The best solution!” cried Mr. Montgomery. “We shall repair to the smithy, and return in an hour or so.”

  The crowd grumbled a little, and settled down to picnic, or to repair to the inn for a drink.

  “Ginger,” said Jane, “I’ve a little job or two for you and your friends.”

  Ginger grinned an urchin grin.

  “Whatever you says, Missus,” the child said.

  “Someone has done this, and it will have been done in the stables or wherever Mr. Montgomery keeps his machine,” said Jane. “It is possible that a beggar or urchin saw something suspicious last night. I fancy quite late, last night, since I am sure Mr. Montgomery checked over his Draisine to see that it was well lubricated and so on. Also, a hacksaw may have been stolen from somewhere that cuts metal. It is not like a common saw, with a wide blade and wooden handle at one end, it is a bow saw, with a fine blade, and a bow shaped metal frame on three sides of a rectangle. Farriers may use them instead of clippers to cut lengths of bar metal to length for horse shoes, and I believe that coach-makers use them to cut springs to length. Of course such a tool might even have been abandoned in the place where the Draisine is kept. Be careful if you find one, they are very sharp.”

  “Cuh, Missus, how do you know all that?”

  “Because Simon, Simmy, is very fond of horses and has spent long hours with the local farrier, and comes home to share it all with me,” said Jane.

  The circumstances in which Simon had discovered about this amazing saw had been less than salubrious; the local constable had been entertaining some of the youngsters with how he could lock himself into his hand-cuffs, and get himself out with a bessy, or lock-pick, and had somehow dropped the key into the pond rumoured to be bottomless. Simon had suggested retiring to the blacksmith, where that worthy had used the said saw to release the chastened constable, whose lock-picking skills were not as good as he thought they were. Simon had felt it wise not to mention that he might have a good chance himself; and as he said, it was more fun to watch the hapless man being rescued. Caleb had decided that such a saw blade was a useful thing for an officer of the law to own, and now carried one in the seam of his coat, along with his own set of bessies. Jane possessed one too, which lived in her reticule, in her comb case, along with her own bessies in an etui bo
x, and her muff pistol. One might never have occasion to use such things, which was all to the good; though Jane had most certainly used her pistol and kept in practice with it.

  “What do you think, Jane-girl?” asked Caleb, as they waited for the Draisine to be mended.

  “I think that there are too many possibilities to speculate too far, as yet,” said Jane. “As you suggested, it might be that someone has money resting on the outcome, who has paid someone to do this, or did it themselves; which means it might even be Montgomery’s man, who had the greatest opportunity. It might also be Montgomery’s younger brother, who appears to hold his brother in great aversion. Whether that aversion was enough to spill over from animadverting against his brother into attempting to hurt or kill him I do not know. I have to say, however, that I cannot help thinking that it is a most uncertain way to kill a man, and might even be a foolish schoolboy prank designed to embarrass Mr. Montgomery, without being aware of how dangerous it might be. We have to be aware, too, however, that it seems likely that the younger brother is Mr. Montgomery’s heir, as Mr. Montgomery is unmarried, and there is no suggestion of any other brother between. ”

  “So personal, and possibly not meant to be deadly, or for gain, and again possibly not meant to be deadly. A broken Draisine would lose the race, without needing the rider to be dead. If it’s a matter of inheritance, it becomes a whole different matter.”

  “Indeed. And unless we know whether Mr. Montgomery has any real enemies, we shall not be any further forward. What Ginger finds might, of course, affect what we know.”

  “You want to adopt that brat, don’t you?”

  “I do, Caleb; but I have written to Simon, explaining what I think I know about the child, and asking what he thinks,” said Jane. “Anyone who knew him could claim to be a friend, and I will not adopt anyone, however vulnerable, who is going to cause our oldest son any disquiet.”