Cecily was most amenable to being bathed, after having eaten with more neatness and grace than Jane might have expected.
“It won’t be too hard to learn to speak swell, I ‘ad – had – to learn flash whids to stay alive,” she told Jane. “Ma was a chamber-maid, and got into trouble, so Da ain’t even me da for real, but ‘e loved Ma, see. I ‘ad – had – a little brother and sister, but me brother were allus sickly, and he died of scarlet fever, well, the joint-ail fever what come after it, and me sister jus’ died. Then Ma died bringin’ a dead one into the world, and after that, Da took to drink, and lost his job. I took to beggin’ an’ Simmy, bless ‘is ‘eart, his heart, I mean, showed me how, and took me under his wing, and me thinkin’ as how he was the one as should be pitied. Nah, Simmy is just bene.”
“He is a remarkably good boy,” said Jane. “We are proud to be his parents, and I am sure we shall be proud to be your parents.”
“I’ll do me best,” said Cecily. “Cuh, look at all that muck in the water, I never knowed I was that darty.”
“Most of it’s from your hair,” said Jane. “I suspect it is a more glorious colour under the muck than just gingery brown, as we shall see when it dries.”
“Ma called it tishun,” said Cecily.
“Titian was an artist who liked to paint a particular colour of red hair. Was your mother red?”
Cecily shrugged.
“She had ches’nut hair, like the hosses,” she said. “’Bout the same colour as Nat.”
“Well, we shall be careful about dressing you in clothes that go well with it,” said Jane, “And avoid certain shades of pink, which will not be good with it. However, some shades of pink are quite acceptable, and do not fight with some shades of red, so we will take no notice of the adage ‘don’t dress a redhead in pink’, because it’s not entirely true. But for now, you will wear one of my nightgowns, which has been cut down, if not yet hemmed, and I will make over one of my gowns for you to wear tomorrow.”
“Cuh, you aren’t half kind, missus,” said Cecily.
“I know you do not want to forget your own mother, but I hope in time you might call me ‘Mama’,” said Jane.
“That’s different to ‘Ma’, so it’s not taking her place,” said Cecily, obediently letting herself be dried and dressed in a nightgown.
It was a relief to know that Cecily had received some training in the amenities of polite behaviour; it would make teaching her somewhat easier. And that would be easier on her, a girl of eleven or twelve, who would have been completely feral without a loving mother in her earliest years.
Chapter 9
Jane had to admit to being excited at the idea of crossing the famed portal of Almack’s. It was the holy of holies of social ambition, presided over by its notorious patronesses, like the high priestesses of some ancient and mysterious cult whose rituals took place behind closed doors.
Jane had an urge to do something outrageous when they got there, in the same way as she always had an urge, when chanting the creed in church, to stand up when declaring that ‘we are all miserable sinners’ and explain that as sinners went, she was actually quite cheerful.
She knew she would not do anything outrageous, any more than she would interrupt a church service, but it was the sort of urge which led small boys to throw muddy divots of grass at freshly laundered sheets to see the mark on them.
Simon had been working in the laundry to re-wash the sheets for that urge, and now appreciated the hard work which went into laundering.
It had been necessary to punish him, but Jane had understood.
She would write to him and tell him of her own unruly thoughts, because he would find it amusing, and also comforting to know that adults were sometimes seized by inappropriate urges too. The sort one regrets the moment after succumbing to temptation.
Meantime, a clean and sweet-smelling Cecily had been introduced to Fanny, Joseph and Susanna.
“I ain’t maternal-like,” said Cecily, eyeing them with suspicion, “But if they’re me sisters an’ bruvver, then I’ll do what I have to, to look arter vem.”
“They have their maid to care for their immediate needs, but I hope you will play with them from time to time, and talk to them, and answer questions when they are old enough to ask them,” said Jane. “At three, Fanny is quite a chatterbox. She’s Frances by rights, after her father, but I prefer to forget his influence.”
Fanny regarded Cecily quizzically. The little girl was used to people coming and going, her cousins and others temporarily under Jane’s eye.
“Story?” she asked, hopefully.
“I’m not sure it’s fair asking Cecily for a story just yet,” said Jane. “Why don’t you show her your dolls?”
Fanny seized Cecily by the hand and dragged her off to see her dolls, one of papier-maché, one with an ivory head, the latter with wooden body, and a number of small Grodenthal wooden dolls inhabiting a baby house, painstakingly dressed by Ella and Jane. There were also two larger wooden dolls dressed most exquisitely as fashion dolls, given to the little girl by Dorothy, from the shop, when they fell out of high fashion. Each of them had a number of hats, bonnets and headdresses, and Fanny showed them off proudly. Jane privately thought that Dorothy spoiled Fanny, but then, Dorothy had so wanted a child by Frank, and adored his daughter. Jane tried to make sure Dorothy saw Fanny when her family was in London, as she had a soft spot for her late husband’s unfortunate mistress.
“I had a doll once,” said Cecily, softly. “Ma dressed her for me. After Ma died, though, we had a housekeeper for a while, afore Pa was too much of a drunkard to pay for one, and she said I didn’t need no doll at my age. I fink she sold it, for the clothes would of been valuable. Ma did sewing for the lady of her house as well as being a chamber maid, and she knew how to make a lady’s clothes.”
“You shall have your own doll,” said Jane. “Even if you only keep her to look at!”
Cecily hugged her.
“Oh thank you!” she sobbed. Jane stroked her hair.
“My poor little girl, you have been robbed of a childhood, and I shall try to make it up to you,” she said. “Your real father should have paid for your upbringing; in law he is supposed to do so, but I suppose your mother was turned off without a reference and did not know she could make a complaint in law.”
Cecily shrugged.
“She said he weren’t takin’ no for an answer,” she said. “So it weren’t a nice fambly, were it?”
“No,” said Jane. “I’d like to see if I could get you compensation, but after so long, I doubt it’s possible. However, if I find out who it was, I can probably make his life uncomfortable for him, unless he is socially elevated. And maybe even then if the Prince of Wales continues to look favourably upon us. We shall have to see. But what is important is that you are our little girl, and we will look after you.”
Cecily leaned into Jane’s embrace, and Fanny demanded to join in. Fanny did not understand what was going on, but she did understand cuddles. So did Nat, and Jane found her arms rather full of a mix of little girl and dog.
In Highbury, Jane’s friend, Emma, had taken great delight in sharing Jane’s news after Christmas that her husband had been knighted with Augusta Elton. Mrs. Elton had never been very kind to Jane, and had taken a spiteful delight in denigrating Caleb, the reason Fowler and Henry Redmayne had initially come up with the idea of hinting that Caleb was the son of a royal duke. That this rough soldier who was so unlike the smooth, charming Frank Churchill, should have received a knighthood was gall and wormwood to the woman. She had taken delight in informing Emma that Jane had doubtless got it wrong. Emma bided her time; she knew that Jane was in London now, and was likely to have at least a passing mention in a gossip column at some point. Emma perused the columns with more interest than was strictly seemly, given that her motives were not charitable. However, she was rewarded in her endeavours by finding a piece in the gossip column which exceeded her expectations.
Emma took equal delight in showing Mrs. Elton the gossip column.
“Here is a piece about Jane, Mrs. Elton, and Sir Caleb!” she said cheerfully. “Listen to this: ‘We believe that the hero of Christmas, Sir Caleb Armitage, and his lovely wife, Jane, Lady Armitage, will be found in the hallowed halls of Almack’s when the season reopens. We are hoping that Lady Armitage will be wearing the demi-parure gifted to her by the Prince Regent, for her part in capturing the grandson of the Young Pretender and helping her husband foil the dastardly plot by infernal machine. The demi-parure is said to be modelled on a favourite set of jewellery of her late majesty, Queen Charlotte, made in her memory for the Prince, as the Christmas celebrations of the royal family were a part of her legacy to her children. Rumours that Sir Caleb is in the employ of the Prince to root out more misguided Jacobites have been denied by the palace. This newspaper is offering a cash prize to the best poem written to celebrate Sir Caleb’s ride ventre-a-terre across the countryside, knowing that if he was not in time, the entire royal family would be slaughtered. Also expected at Almacks ...’ oh, and other people listed,” said Emma.
Lines of mottled purplish-red anger adorned Augusta Elton’s cheekbones. Her expression was ugly.
“Really, Jane has done well for herself; do you know why she was given jewellery by the Prince Regent? Normally such things are given for ... other services.”
“If you repeat that ill-conceived speculation, I will communicate with Sir Caleb to sue your husband for your slander,” said Emma. “Jane has written to me that she has not even met the Prince Regent yet, and expects to do so. She trapped the Jacobite fellow, and locked him in a room in their house in Essex, which he had previously owned, and returned to, in order to retrieve incriminating papers he had left there. That’s why she was given a valuable piece of jewellery. One might speculate that His Royal Highness had already commissioned it for another recipient, and found it a way to reward her without further expense to himself, of course, but there is no scandal attached to Jane, and if you make some, you must expect to be exposed to the full rigour of the law, Mrs. Elton.” Emma then sighed. “Why did I have the courtesy to remind you of that when I might have had the pleasure of seeing you exposed before the law? I must be getting tolerant now I am a mother of two children.”
“Well really!” said Mrs. Elton.
Emma gave her a straight look.
“Yes, Mrs. Elton, really. You consider yourself an arbiter of taste, but you have the manner and the prurient mind most guttersnipes would be ashamed of. You continually speculate about everyone you meet, assigning to them the basest of motives and actions. I truly wonder if you can really be as base as you appear to think everyone else, since it is well known that a cheat calls foul play, and a thief calls theft more readily than any honest person. Good day to you. I am going to share Jane’s news with the Westons, who will be glad for her, as anyone with an ounce of Christian charity might be.”
Emma swept off, leaving Mrs. Elton gobbling in sheer rage. Emma planned to describe the encounter to Jane in a letter; it would be sweet for her to see how low the Elton woman was brought by her jealousy. Emma reflected that Augusta Elton had always been jealous of both her and Jane, since however poor Jane had been at the point when she first returned to Highbury, before her ill-fated marriage to Frank Churchill, she was still most definitely a lady, with all the manners of a lady acquired as naturally as breathing in her upbringing. Augusta Hawkins was a woman of no class or breeding who had nothing to recommend her but a respectable fortune from her family’s endeavours in trade. She aped what she saw as the manners of the gentry, and signally failed. Her spite came from her anger over her failure to understand in what way she was failing to act like a lady. And unlike the Coles, who did not pretend to be what they were not, but who would ask for help in dealing with an unfamiliar social situation, she could not even recognise how far she was from acting like a lady.
Emma reflected that she should be sorry for the woman; but she disliked her too much, and being the mother of two hopeful infants had not made her that tolerant.
In London, Jane had no idea that her old nemesis was receiving such a set-down; indeed, Jane was quite stunned that she had appeared in the social commentary of a well-known newspaper. Her main reaction was to wonder that the newspapers had so little to print that they felt a need to fill their space with such trivialities, save perhaps the speculation that Caleb was potentially hunting traitors, and to reveal that with a plainly disbelieving report that the palace had denied it. However, she kept a clipping of the column, with the appropriate header of the paper, for the amusement, one day, of any grandchildren she might have. She would have laughed to have known that this item was causing so much grief to Augusta Elton, but in truth, Jane did not even think about the spiteful woman. Once she might have felt some vengeful satisfaction that such a thing would cause Mrs. Elton pangs of jealousy, but she had left the Elton woman so far behind that she did not even think about her.
She was more concerned with asking Mr. Montgomery if he had any enemies, and had sent a note, asking him to attend upon her before they left for the evening.
As Mr. Montgomery was likely to bring his valet, being, like Fowler, a man of all work, Caleb might quietly find out what Coxsedge had found out at the same time.
Jane looked around her parlour with satisfaction as she awaited her guest. The cool, serene combination of blue, silver grey and cream still soothed and calmed her, as it had done when Frank had been in a bad mood, and on that day when she had to assimilate the news that he was dead.
Fowler had brought up the hot water urn, and Jane was ready to seethe the tea as soon as Mr. Montgomery arrived.
The sound of the doorbell caused her to smile in satisfaction; Mr. Montgomery was punctual.
It was a surprise, therefore, when Fowler announced Mr. Daventry Popham.
Chapter 10
“Beau! Have a seat! Tea?” asked Jane. “I was expecting someone else, but Fowler can get another cup ...”
The Beau held up a hand.
“I never drink tea; it is made with water, and fish procreate in water,” he said.
“You are incorrigible,” said Jane, ringing the bell for Fowler.
“Thank you,” said the Beau. “However, I came to apprise you of another death.”
“Another one? Was this a Draisine accident too?”
Popham stiffened.
“I missed a death by Draisine accident?”
“No, I apologise, there was no death, I noticed that a Draisine had been damaged deliberately, and the young owner was none the worse. I was expecting him in order to talk to him about his enemies.”
“Ah, now I see why you are all disposed, presiding over the tea table like a motherly preceptress ready to strip away all pretensions and stand your prey in the corner until he is ready to get over the sulks and tell you what you want to know,” said Popham.
“Mr. Popham, behave,” said Jane. “Ah, Fowler, brandy for Mr. Popham.” Fowler went out on his silent feet.
“Why? I like it when you ruffle up your feathers like that,” said Popham. “My nickname wasn’t ‘The Gadfly’ at school for nothing, you know.”
“I can see why,” said Jane. “Now tell me about this death so I may throw you out without ceremony, as old friends may, for when my potential victim arrives.”
Fowler returned with a brandy decanter and a glass for the Beau, and a second glass so that Jane might offer some to Mr. Montgomery when he arrived. Jane smiled grateful thanks to him for that; it would have been bad manners to have the brandy out and not offer it to her anticipated guest if he should arrive before the Beau departed. Popham waited for Fowler to withdraw.
“I know he is in on all your secrets, but Fowler unnerves me,” he admitted. “The party deceased is a Lady Julia Demomerie, who choked on a fish bone when dining alone. Her sole beneficiary is her great nephew, one Lawrence Pelham.”
“I know, or rather, knew her, briefly,” said Ja
ne, grimly. “And her nephew is a most unsatisfactory character, impatient in the extreme, and also something of a gambler.”
“Well that covers most of the ton,” said the Beau.
“It might well, but ... no, it cannot fit,” said Jane. “He wagered that his aunt would live into her eighties.”
“He’s also covered by an unimpeachable alibi,” said the Beau. “He was at White’s all evening, and never left the gaming tables.”
“Nevertheless, pray tell the doctors examining her body before it is prepared for a funeral to swab inside her throat as well as removing the fish bone,” said Jane. “I would be interested to see if fish was all she choked on. I would also be interested to know if there were any new servants in her household.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Beau. “I knew you’d be able to work out where to start. Oh, afternoon, my dear fellow, I was just leaving,” he said, as Fowler announced the anticipated guest.
“Mr. Montgomery, Mr. Popham,” said Jane, automatically. A brief handshake that social convention demanded, and the Beau whirled off, telling Fowler he could see his way out.
“Something of a dandy,” remarked Mr. Montgomery, in distaste, as Jane begged him to be seated.
“Yes, but he is an old friend of ours, and has a fund of amusing stories,” said Jane, who had no intension of giving away the Beau’s considerable mental acuity. “He came to break the news to me that a new friend is dead, Lady Julia Demomerie.”
“I say! Bad luck,” said Montgomery. “Of course, it’s dashed convenient for Pelham, he was all to pieces with the cent-per-centers pursuing him like a bear or whatever.”
“Splendid, so while his great aunt is cooling down, he can get rid of the immediate creditors and then run through the money the old lady left him, until he’s back under the hatches again because the reason he’s in financial trouble is because he’s a gamester and a fool,” said Jane, with heavy sarcasm.
Jane and the Sins of Society Page 8