by Anne Gracie
Jane let his rant wash over her, oddly distant from it all. She might have married this man—would have married him. He would’ve been the father of her children. She shivered, thinking about it, about the impossible standards he would’ve set them. The demands. The pressure.
And slowly the fears she had held so long, the bonds that had bound her, loosened.
She looked at the pompous little man with his tasteful clothes and his carefully combed hair and felt a swell of compassion.
Underneath all the bluster and pretense he was a sad and lonely man. He’d thought he could buy a beautiful wife, the way he bought his other pieces. And she’d thought his wealth would make her safe from the risk of love. They’d both been so very wrong.
“You can’t go on like this,” she told him when he stopped for breath. “If you do, you’ll never be happy.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“Expecting perfection, collecting what you think is perfection, surrounding yourself with beautiful things. They’ll never make you happy.”
“You were ready enough for them to make you happy.”
“I know, and I was wrong. I know now they aren’t enough. Not for me, not anymore.”
His eyes almost popped. “Not enough? I offered you my wealth, my house—houses—jewels—”
“Those are just things,” Jane said gently. “And I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I didn’t offer you enough either.”
He stared at her, perplexed and irritated. “But you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in years. Every season I looked, and after nearly ten years, along you came—absolute perfection.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but that’s just nonsense.”
“Nonsense?”
“What you’re talking about, the thing you call ‘perfection,’ is such a transient thing. One day I’ll be old and wrinkled, and before that, I expect I’ll get fat.”
“Fat?” He looked appalled.
She almost laughed at his expression. “If I take after my maternal grandmother, Lady Dalrymple—and it seems very likely—I will most certainly grow plump, at the very least. But whatever happens, I intend to age like Lady Beatrice.”
He frowned. “But she’s old and ugly!”
“That’s where we must differ: I think she’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” His tone made it clear he thought her statement ridiculous.
Jane nodded. “She’s experienced hardship, abuse, grief and illness, and yet not a trace of bitterness shows on her face. She still has a zest for life, and a heart full of love. Wisdom, love, experience—it’s all there, in every wrinkle and line—her character and her beauty just get stronger and more refined with age. And that’s how I want to be. I want to have children and grandchildren, a body well used and a life well lived. And wrinkles.”
He stared at her as if she was insane.
“Everyone ages and gets wrinkled, and that is why your definition of perfection is wrong.”
“Wrong? In what way wrong?”
Jane said gently, “It’s because you’re flawed, because you’re worried that deep down inside you, you’re not good enough. And so you collect lovely objects, and surround yourself with beauty, and are renowned for the perfection of your taste. And you hope that all this reflected glory and perfection will hide your own flaws.”
“How dare you!”
“I don’t mean it unkindly. Don’t you see, everything that’s human and beautiful is flawed. It’s the flaws that make each of us unique, that make us human and worthy of love.”
“Love!” He made a scornful sound. “Vulgar, middle-class claptrap!”
“Worth dying for,” Jane said. “And very much worth living for. Do you know, I was ready to sacrifice my own chance of love—and yours—for the sake of having children, for comfort and security . . . No, I thought I could avoid love. I wanted to avoid it. I thought it was some kind of uncontrollable force that would hurl me into uncertainty and peril. And jeopardize everything I wanted out of life.”
“It is. It will. It has.”
She smiled. “You might be right. Nothing is certain in life, I know that. But I thought happiness could be bought and could be acquired like”—she glanced at the broken little shepherdess—“acquired like that lovely little statuette. But it can’t. Love must be snatched in fleeting moments, treasured, nourished like a fugitive flame in the wind. It’s risky and uncertain.”
She thought of Zachary Black, locked away in a dank and gloomy prison, facing hanging for a crime he didn’t do. His future couldn’t be more uncertain, but her own feelings—her love—were strong and sure, burning for him like a flame in the darkness. And because of that, she was prepared to face the risk, had no choice but to love him and face what the future would bring.
The thought brought a strange exhilaration with it.
“I used to think my parents were wrong for eloping together and leaving two very good sensible matches behind. I thought their unhappiness—and my sister’s and my childhood difficulties—were the punishment for breaking the rules, for being improvident, for thinking only love mattered. And money does matter, and so does financial security and keeping your family safe, but without love, it’s . . . it’s as empty as . . .” She gestured at the little broken shepherdess. “As that. Pretty to look at, perfect from the outside, but when tested, ultimately hollow. Empty.”
He frowned, and Jane added, almost to herself, “Even in the direst of circumstances, Mama used to call Papa her prince. And she was always his princess, and . . . I want to be somebody’s princess too.”
“Who? What prince, dammit? English? Foreign? Is it a tiara you want?”
She gave a shaky laugh. “Zachary Black is my prince. I know so little about him—none of the things I used to think were so essential to my happiness. You offered me everything I thought I wanted, but I doubt we could ever have been happy together, could we? And today, as I saw Zachary Black taken away by those horrid constables, I knew that I loved him. And that I was more like Mama than I wanted to be. I’ve been struggling against loving him for such a long time. He’s an impossible man.”
“He is! And he doesn’t deserve you—he’s a murderer!”
“No, he’s innocent. As for ‘deserving,’ while it’s true that love must be earned, at the same time, it must be freely given.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“It doesn’t have to make sense—it just is.” She almost laughed at his expression. She was feeling quite giddy with relief. It was crazy—she’d just rejected the most advantageous offer any girl could want, and the love of her life was in jail, facing a capital charge—and yet, somehow, she felt relief. “You’re right—I’m afraid it’s midsummer madness with me.”
“But it’s not midsummer! It’s barely even spring!” he said, exasperated.
“I know. And that’s another reason why we would not suit—seasonal confusion.” He looked baffled and she moved to sit down beside him. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Lord Cambury, and I hope you’ll forgive me eventually.” She took his hands in hers. “But even more, I hope you will stop looking for physical perfection in a bride, and stop surrounding yourself with cold, beautiful things. You’re a good man, kind and decent, and fond of animals, but . . . you’re mistaken about so many things. Stop being afraid of whatever it is about yourself you’re trying to hide. You need to love someone, not collect things.”
He blinked at the blasphemy. “But I searched for you for years.”
“No, you searched for an imaginary ideal, not me. It’s not me you wanted, only my face. But to know a person, to love them, you have to look beneath the surface. And love them, perfect or not. Take a risk, Edwin, and learn to love imperfection. Learn to love—let yourself fall in love. It’s terrifying . . . and wonderful.”
“They’re going to hang h
im, you know.”
“Not if I can help it. Take care of yourself, Edwin. Good-bye.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek—the first time she’d ever kissed him—and hurried from the room, leaving him standing and staring after her, a peculiar expression on his face.
* * *
Dinner was an informal affair: just Jane’s sisters, Max and Freddy and Lady Beatrice. Jane barely ate a thing. She started with the news that she’d just severed her engagement to Lord Cambury.
As Lady Beatrice pointed out, it was going to cause a lot of nasty gossip—and none of it would be complimentary to Jane, so they’d better prepare for it.
“But why?” Abby asked, after the initial babble of surprise had died down. “I thought he was what you wanted.”
Jane grimaced. “I thought so too, but . . .”
“It’s the gypsy, ain’t it? Daisy said.
Jane nodded ruefully.
“What gypsy?” Abby demanded, having only known Zachary Black as an annoying man who’d pursued Jane in the park and then turned up at the literary society and embarrassed them all by speaking Italian. And Venetian.
It took a long time for Jane to explain to her sisters’ satisfaction, but when she had, once they were convinced . . . There was a long silence.
“So you’re finally in love, little sister?” Abby said softly. Her face was full of love, and Jane felt suddenly teary.
“But they’re going to hang him.” Her face crumpled and the tears came again.
* * *
After dinner, the men went off to their club, to seek out Gil Radcliffe and see what they might be able to do to help Zachary Black—or Wainfleet, as they called him. Because, as Max pointed out, Zachary was in fact the Earl of Wainfleet, and had been since his father had passed on, no matter what his cousin or anyone else said. Of course, there was the investiture still to come, but Max also pointed out that it would be harder for them to hang the Earl of Wainfleet than a mere Mr. Zachary Black.
Jane hoped he was right.
Lady Beatrice went to bed, and the girls gathered upstairs. They insisted she tell them everything about Zachary—from the moment she first met him, to what he’d asked her in the phaeton ride. They needed to be convinced he was good enough for Jane. And that he really didn’t murder Cecily.
“She’s been daft about him for ages,” Daisy told them. “She tried to pretend she wasn’t, but I could tell. And he’s a lot better than that old stuffed shirt, Lord Comb-it-up.” She gave them a mischievous look. “I biffed ’im one the other day.”
Abby’s jaw dropped. “Who, Lord Cambury?”
“No, the gypsy. I give ’im a good ’ard elbow in the ribs, and you know what he did?”
“No.”
“Nuffin’. Took it like a man. And then I threatened to gut ’im wiv a rusty knife if he ’urt Jane, and”—she looked at each of them—“he promised me he’d treat her right. Didn’t ’old it against me at all. Most blokes wouldn’t like bein’ talked to like that—’specially not from a little Cockney upstart female—and him bein’ a lord, as it turns out—but he knew he’d been actin’ the fool, and ’e took it fair on the chin.” She gave a brisk nod. “So I like ’im.”
Jane gave her a hug.
Damaris said, “There is still the matter of his missing stepmother. I don’t understand why, if he really did leave her in Llandudno, nobody there remembers it.”
There was a long, depressed silence. It was an unanswerable question.
They hashed everything over a dozen times, and though it was getting late, they made no progress on the question of Cecily or any future for Zachary.
It was clear to Jane that though her sisters tried to put a positive face on things, they simply couldn’t celebrate her falling in love with a man whose future involved a noose. They couldn’t hide their worry for her.
Jane was only worried for Zachary.
It was in a somber mood that Abby and Damaris kissed Jane good night and wished her sweet dreams. And not to worry.
Easier said than done.
Upstairs, Jane climbed into bed and blew out the candle. “Night, Daisy.”
“Night.”
She tried to sleep, but though she was exhausted from the day’s events, sleep wouldn’t come. She lay there, turning things over and over in her mind. Fruitlessly.
Then out of the darkness, Daisy said, “You said his dad used to bash Cecily.”
“Yes, and Zachary.”
There was a long silence. She thought Daisy had drifted off to sleep, but then she spoke again. “There was this girl in the brothel once, her sister used to get bashed somethin’ shockin’ by ’er old man. She could never get away from him—’e always found ’er and fetched her back. And bashed her again. So one day she come and hid wiv us, in the brothel—she’d never even spoken to her sister before that—she was the respectable type. But she was desperate, so she come.”
“What happened?”
“He tried all the usual places, and finally come lookin’ for ’er in the brothel, askin’ questions. And we all of us lied our ’eads off, swore blind we never knew what ’e was talking about.” She gave a little huff of laughter. “Some of the girls enjoyed themselves, asking him real awkward questions about why his respectable wife would run off on ’im, and why on earth he’d imagine she’d come to a brothel. Sent ’im off with a right flea in ’is ear, they did.”
Jane sat up in bed. “You think Cecily’s friend lied to protect her?”
“I dunno, but . . . it’s a possibility, ain’t it? And if they sent men lookin’ for her—well, women who been hurt . . . they don’t trust men, do they?”
It was indeed a possibility. Jane lay back down in her bed and, staring into the darkness, found a glimmer of hope.
* * *
By dawn she had her plan all worked out. The moment Daisy awoke, Jane explained it to her, running it past her for faults. Daisy was full of objections.
“Don’t be silly—the old lady won’t let you go. Nor will Abby and Max and the rest of them.”
“I know. I won’t tell them. I’m going to say I’ve gone to stay with Lady Dalrymple until the scandal of my broken engagement has died down a little.”
“But you can’t go all that way on your own, so who do you expect to come with you?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you. You’re so busy at the moment, you’d do nothing but worry about all your work piling up.” Daisy looked relieved and Jane went on, “And I can’t ask Abby, not while she’s expecting a baby, and Damaris gets ill in a carriage, and though I know she’d come if I needed her, I’d never ask her. And I know I can’t go alone, so don’t look at me as if I’m an idiot. I’m taking Polly. And William.”
“William?”
“I won’t take him with us into the village, but I need him on the journey. For protection. And before you ask, I’ll send Polly to hire a traveling chaise. They’re the quickest.”
“And the most expensive.”
“I have enough money, I think. People keep giving me ‘pin money’ so I can buy what I like for my season.”
“Why does it have to be you? Why not send someone else? Hire a woman or summat.”
“Because I’m going mad, not being able to do anything to help. And because I can do this. And besides, what woman? How do I know I can trust her with something so important?”
Finally Daisy had run out of objections, but she still didn’t like it. Jane expected that; Daisy hated lies and deception. “The old lady’s goin’ to have a fit when she finds out. So is Abby and Damaris. And if you upset Abby, Max will throttle you.”
“They won’t worry as long as they think I’m with Lady Dalrymple. They’ll be surprised, but not, I hope, suspicious.”
“Just don’t expect me to lie to any of them; if they ask me, I’m gunna tell them.”
“Of course, but just—try not to be asked, please, dearest Daisy.”
Daisy sniffed but gave a reluctant nod. Jane rang for Polly and explained what she wanted her to do. Polly didn’t like the idea either at first, but Jane promised her she would not lose her position, that Jane would take all the blame. That and the promise of five guineas when they returned from Wales secured Polly’s wholehearted cooperation.
Sworn to secrecy, Polly hurried off to pack a bag, and arrange the hire of the carriage. The story was that Jane’s grandmother, Lady Dalrymple, was sending the carriage to fetch her, so Polly needed to slip out to do the hiring in secret.
Daisy sat on the bed, watching while Jane packed a valise for herself. “Don’t forget your shinin’ armor,” she commented sardonically.
Jane looked up, puzzled. “My what?”
“You did say you wanted to be the knight instead of the damsel, dintcha?”
Jane laughed. “Let us hope there are no dragons to slay, then.”
* * *
Jane was ready to leave by quarter to nine. Lady Beatrice hadn’t yet woken. Jane prayed she wouldn’t. She left a note for the old lady with Featherby, saying she was going to stay with her grandmother in the country for a week or two, to avoid the worst of the scandal.
Featherby was quite concerned, and not a little suspicious of her sudden need to visit this grandmother that she barely knew—and more to the point that he hadn’t yet met and who was sending a hired carriage for her. He’d been their friend long before he became Lady Beatrice’s butler, but when Jane told him she wanted William and Polly to accompany her, for protection and propriety, he raised no further objection, though he was clearly not happy.
He sent William off to change out of his livery and to pack a bag.
The yellow chaise arrived as ordered, at nine o’clock on the dot—a good omen, Jane thought. She hugged Daisy good-bye, and climbed in with Polly while William packed their things in the trunk. The weather being fine, William was to ride on the outside seat at the rear of the carriage. That suited Jane perfectly, as she planned on keeping William in the dark about their destination until it was too late for him to object.