The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  Feeling strangely lost and sad, she rapped loudly with the knocker and was admitted by the butler, who informed her that her ladyship had retired to bed, saying before she did so that she had a feeling she had left something important at Crocker’s.

  “Yes, she left me,” said Jane crossly. It was no use becoming exercised over the idea of meeting His Majesty. She could not possibly see how such a grand invitation could be arranged at such short notice. And in any case, the invitation, if it did come, would be sent to Lady Comfrey, who might not remember to tell her, Lady Jane, about it.

  Or even to go!

  Chapter Eight

  Incredible as it seemed, in but two days’ time Lady Jane Lovelace and that eccentric recluse Lady Comfrey were on their way to Kensington Palace.

  The arrival of the invitation had had the same effect on the absentminded Lady Comfrey as if someone had placed a charge of gunpowder under her. Gone was her abstraction, her absentmindedness. The whole of Number Ten was thrown into an uproar as hairdressers collided with couturiers and wigmakers. Even the house had to be washed from top to bottom, for some reason. Perhaps Lady Comfrey felt that King George was endowed with special powers and that his royal eye could see into St. James’s and espy dust in the corners.

  And so the night was made hideous by the bangings and clangings of the washerwomen. Washerwomen never did their work except in the middle of the night, and Jane had never been able to fathom the reason for this strange custom.

  Now as a blustery wind spun red and gold leaves past the carriage windows and a glittering sun sent splinters of light from Lady Comfrey’s jewels, their carriage fell in with the long line of coaches and chairs entering the courtyard of Kensington Palace.

  Jane fidgeted and worried, wondering if her best sac-back brocaded gown, with its fichu of fine lace around her shoulders and cascades falling from each elbow, was grand enough.

  At last the coach came to a standstill and a footman opened the door. They alighted, and Jane followed Lady Comfrey up the great staircase amid a crush of magnificently robed ladies and gentlemen. Jane marveled at the richness of the dress, at the myriads of fluttering fans held by ladies and gentlemen alike, at the elaborate piled-up headdresses.

  Jane was aware of several handsome ladies staring at her curiously, and then she heard one say, “Not as fascinating as I heard. That one will not take Lord Charles to the altar.” Jane began to feel gawky and awkward. Her poise deserted her, and she stared miserably at the ground and wished the ordeal over. She could not see Lord Charles.

  Excitement and animation made Lady Comfrey almost normal as she stared around and began to espy familiar faces in the throng.

  “There’s Letty,” she cried to Jane, waving her fan in the direction of a formidable dowager. “Such a charming girl she was. And there’s Elizabeth, by my soul! We must give a drum, Jane. We shall have the gayest drum in London!”

  Jane tried to imagine a gay party with all these terrifying elderly ladies and failed.

  Jane now moved into the King’s Presence Chamber and looked around with wide eyes. Both upholstery and hangings were dusty and shabby and bore witness to the stories that King George was a miser. Evidently the palace had not been done over in years.

  Then, as the crowd shifted forward, Jane found herself on the threshold of the Drawing Room, where the King was holding court.

  “Where is the King?” she whispered to Lady Comfrey as she stood on tiptoe and tried to peer over a barrier of powdered heads.

  “There!” whispered Lady Comfrey, pointing with her fan as the crowd parted slightly in front of them.

  Jane had a glimpse of a stout, short, little old gentleman with a fiery complexion and under-hanging jaw. On his right stood a tall middle-aged lady with a forbidding expression who, Lady Comfrey explained in a low voice, was the Dowager Princess of Wales, and the sour-faced old maid on the left was Princess Amelia, the King’s daughter. The Princess’s voice sounded even gruffer than her father’s.

  Jane’s moment came at last. Lady Comfrey took her by the hand and led her forward. In a daze, she heard Lady Comfrey present her and swept a deep curtsy.

  When she arose, she found herself in the magic circle round the King. “Hey, here’s a pretty wench!” cried His Majesty, pinching her cheek and trying to tickle her waist, guffawing and chuckling the whole time. Jane colored up and shrank from this unexpected familiarity and hung her head.

  Her embarrassment provoked the little King exceedingly, and he shook his fist in her face and cried, “Pooh! She’s a stupid girl!” Jane began to tremble. She had heard stories that the King could be quite terrifying in a rage and had been known to run around the palace, calling everybody names; in his rage, he sometimes kicked his wig and coat around the room, like a spoiled child.

  She was in disgrace. Social ruin stared her in the face. Lord Charles would never be induced to marry her now.

  Then a tall youth detached himself from the circle, came forward, took her by the hand, and led her to the side.

  “Prince George!” prompted Lady Comfrey in an awed whisper.

  The young prince had a refreshingly clear English voice compared to the guttural German accents of his grandfather and family. With a pretty grace, he introduced Jane to his own circle of courtiers, chatting easily of the weather and how hot it had been, until she regained her composure.

  The distinguished notice of the young prince set Jane’s small feet firmly on the road to fashion. Nobody really liked King George anyway. Prince George could hardly have been said to be handsome, having wide, dilated nostrils, protuberant eyes, and that heavy Hanoverian jowl. But his manners were easy and unaffected, and Jane found herself chatting with him as if he were a friend.

  By the time he left her, Lady Comfrey was indicating that the audience was over.

  Lady Comfrey managed to maintain silence until they were in the coach, but then the floodgates opened wide.

  “Well, that’s a mercy!” exclaimed the old lady, settling back against the squabs with a sigh of satisfaction. “I declare I thought I should have to send you home in disgrace. His Majesty was in such a taking! But there, it all worked out for the best because, although he’s only a lad, Prince George is the more favored and the King can’t last much longer. Now we shall receive masses of invitations and be junketing from morning to night. I feel young already. We shall just hope that your terrible stepmama does not show her face in London, for she would ruin your chances. Why, we could have you married to a duke!”

  Jane was silent, thinking guiltily of Hetty and of her little stepsisters. She had not written to them, nor sent them the sugarplums they craved.

  “I was very surprised to receive such a distinguished invitation,” went on Lady Comfrey, “but I suppose King George remembered me. I was always considered bon ton, you know.”

  “I think,” ventured Jane, blushing, “that Lord Charles Welbourne arranged my presentation.”

  “That gambler! I’faith, you are ungenerous, girl. Am I not treated with the utmost condescension wherever I go? Lord Charles Welbourne, indeed! You have had your head turned by Bella’s stories. That young man, an I have it right, cares for naught but the gaming tables. He was not even there!”

  “Perhaps he had other things to do,” suggested Jane in a small voice.

  “Fiddle! What else has one to do if invited by the King? Forget about him. Leave your choice of gentlemen friends to me. And think on’t. I could not resist sending a note to that Bentley woman, telling her of your presentation. I’d ha’ loved to have been there when she opened it.”

  The information that Lady Jane Lovelace was to be presented at Court had indeed caused much heartburning in the Bentley household. Fanny had drummed her heels on the floor and had gone off into a strong bout of hysterics. Mr. Bentley had moodily cracked his knuckles, and his wife had sat very still, staring down at Lady Comfrey’s letter.

  “It is because you have not a title,” said Mr. Bentley at last. “Only think! L
ady Jane has the family background of a peasant, and yet she manages to meet King George, while my poor Fanny, who has every luxury, is ignored. You must buy your way into court circles, my dear.”

  “It would take a deal of money,” said James Bentley slowly. “I had planned a new wing for the Chase.”

  Fanny ceased her hysterics as abruptly as she had started, and glared at her father. “I swear I know how Jane came by the invitation. It was that Lord Charles. He was talking with her in the grounds of Ranelagh t’other night, and Jane was unchaperoned, too. Goodness knows what she did to gain such a favor.”

  Frederica sniggered awfully from the corner.

  “If you win Lord Charles’s money from him,” went on Fanny, “then he will have to leave the country or live in poverty like Westerby, and then he won’t have any more say at Court. And you would have more than enough to buy your way in without feeling the pinch!”

  “Wise child,” chuckled James Bentley. “But I go cautiously. Lord Charles, it is reported, has taken to imbibing strongly. He lost heavily at cards last night, but it is too soon to move. Patience, my dear Fanny, and perhaps we will have him. Give it a fortnight, and see what my spies bring me.”

  “Don’t you think such a sudden change in luck strange?” asked Mrs. Bentley.

  “No, my dear,” replied her husband with an indulgent smile. “I have seen better men than Lord Charles succumb to the grape. And that is how I made our fortune. We will watch and wait.”

  During the next weeks, Jane watched and waited also. Lady Comfrey and she had indeed received many invitations, which Lady Comfrey seemed hell-bent on accepting, down to the last fěte champětre and turtle breakfast. But although Jane found herself among the fashionables, although she learned the art of flirting with her fan to a nicety, although she danced to perfection, Lord Charles was not there to see any of it. Disturbing stories began to reach her ears. It seemed he was indeed losing money heavily. That she cautiously put down to his strategy of luring James Bentley to the card tables. But it was Fanny Bentley who had the pleasure of shocking and worrying Jane.

  Lady Comfrey had paid the twenty-guinea subscription fee to the Italian opera. She attended it with Jane on the opening night, a cold, bitter night with the autumn gales blowing the smoke from the chimneys down into the streets and sending trash whirling round in dizzying spirals at street corners.

  To Jane’s surprise, Fanny Bentley, accompanied by the doting Mr. Jennings, paid a visit to their side box at the first interval. Fanny was all smiles and charm and gushed warmly over Jane’s silk gown. She waited until Lady Comfrey had turned to speak to Bella, who was standing sentinel at the back of the box, and then said with a titter, “Your dear friend Lord Charles is dancing down the primrose path to destruction.”

  Jane quickly schooled her features into a look of indifference, but Fanny went on, regardless. “Of course, you know he is losing heavily at the tables, and they say he is never sober, but to be seen at the opera with that class of woman is the outside of enough.” She leaned over the box, pointed down into the pit.

  “Lord who?” asked Jane indifferently, fanning herself at great speed.

  “Come now. Charles Welbourne. Your cavalier of Ranelagh!”

  “The opera is about to begin,” retorted Jane, wishing she were masked. “I must compose myself. ’Tis exceeding vulgar in you, Fanny, to lean over the edge of the box like that. At least wear a fichu, if you must!”

  Fanny’s gown was cut very low. Her face turning pink under her white paint, she straightened up. Jane was staring down at the stage and showing no interest in anything else. Fanny bit her lip in a baffled way. The orchestra was striking up. There was nothing for it but to retreat to her own box in as orderly a fashion as she could manage.

  But once back in the Bentley box, Fanny dug into the deep pocket of her petticoat and produced a small opera telescope, which she placed to one eye, fiddling with it until she had brought the Comfrey box into focus. What she saw gave her immense satisfaction, and she put the glass down on her lap and leaned back in her chair with a happy little sigh.

  Jane stared miserably straight ahead, deaf and blind to the performance on the stage. That one glance into the pit had been enough. Lord Charles and Sir Anthony were sprawled at their ease. Both appeared to be very drunk and were accompanied by two raucous and vulgar ladies of the town. Lord Charles’s hands had been wandering carelessly over the figure of his female companion, and the bawd was ogling and flirting and screaming with delight.

  Jane realized miserably that her growing passion for Lord Charles had been founded on a fairy tale, a false image of a gallant knight riding to her rescue. How could she let such a monster touch her? Then, after a time, the music began to sooth her savage breast and the misery decreased little by little. It was like recovering from a strange sickness. She felt her head clear for the first time in weeks. Only that day, Lady Comfrey had definitely promised Jane a dowry. She should be able to marry, and marry well, and then take care of Hetty and Sally and Betty.

  James Bentley would never hand over Eppington Chase, no matter how much money she had, and she must have been mad to think so. The most she could hope for was a home of her own and perhaps children to love.

  She would never think of Lord Charles Welbourne after she had written to him releasing herself from the contract.

  Her life had been pleasant since the Court presentation. Lady Comfrey, stimulated by all the amusements, hardly ever rambled on to herself. Several gallants had begun to leave flowers and cards at Number Ten. To date she had not noticed them much, her mind being wholly taken up by Lord Charles Welbourne. How naive and stupid she had been! A man like Lord Charles did not receive the reputation of being a rakehell without giving the gossips some cause.

  With a beautiful brand-new feeling of serenity, Lady Jane smiled on the Italian opera and applauded the performers loudly.

  At the foot of the stairs in the foyer of the theater, as Jane and Lady Comfrey battled their way through the crowd, Lady Comfrey stopped abruptly and let out an almost girlish peal of laughter. “Why, it is Mr. Braintree,” she cried, moving forward to give her hand to a very old gentleman who was rouged and patched like an Exquisite.

  “Odds fish! Harriet!” cried the gentleman, bending over Lady Comfrey’s hand. “Stap me! If you ain’t the prettiest thing in town.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in such a comic way that Jane could not help laughing.

  “’Fore George!” went on Mr. Braintree, turning a watery blue eye on Jane. “Who is this fair charmer? Aha! Don’t tell me, Harriet. I can see it plain as day. ’Tis your sister.”

  “Oh, you rogue!” squealed Lady Comfrey. “’Tis my goddaughter, Lady Jane Lovelace.”

  “Does she reside with you?” asked Mr. Braintree, rolling his eyes again to the ceiling. He seemed to be incapable of looking anyone in the face.

  “Indeed she does,” said Lady Comfrey, quite girlish, “and we are hardly at home. We are invited everywhere.”

  “Happy, happy girl,” cried Mr. Braintree to the ceiling. “To share the premises of one Harriet Comfrey, to dwell beneath the same roof as that lovely zephyr, to breath the same air. Stap me! The idea overcomes me.” Overcome with emotion, he seized Lady Comfrey’s hand and covered it with kisses.

  “Naughty man!” shrieked Lady Comfrey. “But you shall come home with us and take tea!”

  “Tea!” screamed Mr. Braintree, writhing in ecstasies and releasing great clouds of scent from his clothes. “Fair lady, lead on. I fall at your feet.”

  The three, with Bella in attendance, waited at the front of the theater for Lady Comfrey’s carriage to be brought round.

  Jane felt a tug at her cloak and looked behind her. A footman in livery pressed a note into her hand and backed away into the crowd. Jane looked quickly at the note. Lady Comfrey and her beau were too absorbed in each other to have noticed anything.

  She opened the paper and read the short message: “Dear Lady Jane, Be not shocked at
my female ornaments. It is better I play my dissolute part to the hilt. Yr Humble and Obedient Servant, Welbourne.”

  Oh! And lovesickness came back like a great cloud and decended on her head. He cared enough for her opinion to explain his behavior. And she loved him. Loved him with all her heart.

  She had never felt more miserable in her life!

  Chapter Nine

  Lord Charles Welbourne fidgeted impatiently while his tailor fitted a coat of black velvet to his broad shoulders.

  “Whose funeral?” demanded Sir Anthony, marching into the room. For once, he had abandoned his high heels in favor of a serviceable pair of riding boots.

  “James Bentley,” replied his friend. And then to the tailor: “Zooks, man. Are you going to take the whole of the day?”

  “I am nearly finished, my lord,” protested the tailor. “If it would please your lordship to stand quite still for a few minutes longer, then I can complete my work.”

  Lord Charles sighed and complied. He was heartily tired of the sight of his tailor. One ruined coat after another had been thrown out or found its way to his servants’ quarters, as goblet after goblet of brandy had been tipped into capacious cuffs or up to elbows of his sleeves.

  He did not like to stand still. He did not like opportunities to think over his behavior. If and when he did, he was plagued by a vague presentiment of disaster. He sometimes wondered if Lady Jane were in fact the fairy she looked and had bewitched him. He found himself thinking of her too frequently. Of course he had no intention of asking her to keep her side of the bargain. He had merely entered into it to allay the tedium and lethargy that had previously plagued his life.

  He would not be ruining James Bentley. Simply taking away from him the Westerby estates which he had won so unfairly.