by M. C. Beaton
Jane left and went up to her room, hoping that when she was on her own, she would manage to accept with dignity that she had made a mistake, that Tregarthan had not meant a proposal. But Felice was waiting for her, Felice who, in that mysterious way of servants, already knew that my lord had not proposed.
“Sit down, Miss Jane,” she said, “and we shall discuss milord.”
Jane turned her head away. “What is there to discuss?” she said airily. “He has gone out with papa, and that is no great matter.”
“You were given to understand he would propose to you this morning,” said Felice, “and that is a very great matter.”
“I was mistaken,” said Jane stiffly. “I should have used my wits. He does not care for me.”
“Tiens! That is the talk of a child and not a woman. Attend me! Now, this Lord Tregarthan has taken you out driving, no?”
Jane nodded her head.
“He has never before given any young girl that honour. I heard him advise Mrs. Hart to take you to Leonie’s and he also added that he looked forward to seeing you at the ball. A man whose affections are engaged does things like that. You expect too much too soon.”
Jane shrugged. “He thinks I am a schoolgirl.”
“Then stop behaving like one,” said Felice. “You cannot expect any gentleman to propose to a girl without a dowry after such a brief acquaintanceship. Only heiresses are proposed to very quickly and the proposals always come from unsuitable fortune hunters.”
Jane smiled. “You are very kind, Felice. I do not think I have heard you say so much before.”
“Well, now that I have begun to talk, listen,” said Felice. “Now, madame does not wish my presence at the moment, so we shall begin your lessons.
“You must learn how to flirt, how to gossip, how to charm. I study these things, me, because I, too, may find a husband here.”
“But servants cannot marry,” said Jane, wide-eyed.
“I did not say anything about marrying a servant,” said Felice. “There was no one I wished in Brighton and Mrs. Swann did not entertain, which is why I paid that Lady Doyle to recommend me for this post.”
“Paid?”
“Is it not done? Lady Doyle told me it was quite the thing. I had not had a post before Mrs. Swann, you see.”
“Dear me,” said Jane. “I fear, Felice, that Lady Doyle lies and lies to get money any way she can. We must tell mama.”
“No, do not do that. She might dismiss me. We shall expose Lady Doyle later. Now, to your lessons …”
The days before the ball flew by in a rush. No one had time to ask Mr. Hart why he had gone off with Lord Tregarthan. Euphemia and Mrs. Hart were kept busy attending routs and assemblies. Euphemia’s vouchers for Almack’s had not arrived, but both she and her mother expected them any day. Jane was left at home. Mrs. Hart felt she was already doing more than enough by taking her to the ball in Berkeley Square.
Downstairs, the servants were planning what to do with their evening off. All privately disapproved of Rainbird taking Felice to the play, particularly Alice, Jenny, and Mrs. Middleton. He had never asked any of them to go to the playhouse. Besides, Felice was French, so Rainbird was not only being disloyal to his friends but downright unpatriotic.
Joseph had thought up several grandiose schemes but had finally rejected them all. Even the most practical one—that of meeting Luke, the Charterises’ footman, for a drink—had fallen through as Luke was to be on duty that evening.
Alice, Jenny, and Mrs. Middleton finally banded together and arranged to go to Vauxhall to see the fireworks and, for the first time, Joseph noticed the wistful look in Lizzie’s eyes. He could not take her anywhere himself, he thought. Once, when they had all been staying in the country, he had found Lizzie very good company, but it had not mattered then, being away from London, that he should be seen talking to a mere scullery maid.
“What will you do, Lizzie?” asked Rainbird.
“I don’t know,” said Lizzie sadly. “Perhaps I shall stay here with the Moocher.” She leaned down and patted the gold-and-brown cat, which gave a growling purr and rubbed itself against her legs. Then it leapt lightly onto Joseph’s lap and stared up into his face.
Joseph wriggled uneasily. He felt the Moocher was asking him to take Lizzie out. He felt Lizzie was asking him to take her out, as she looked at him with those large, pansy-brown eyes. To get away from both his adorers, he put the cat on the floor and, mumbling something about needing a breath of fresh air, made his way up the narrow stone-area steps.
Luke was returning back to Number 65, a flat package under his arm. “Don’t know what’s up with them all this Season,” he grumbled when he saw Joseph. “Run here … run there. Will’s sick, so I got all the work.” Will was the second footman.
“And there’s something else,” said Luke, slouching against the railings. “I won the draw at The Running Footman. Fourth prize.”
“What d’you get?” asked Joseph. “I didn’t get nothing.”
“Two tickets for Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
“So who’re you taking?”
“Nobody. It’s on Thursday and I’m on duty.”
“I’ll buy ’em, half price,” said Joseph.
“Garn. Tell you what—three quarters.”
“You didn’t pay for ’em,” said Joseph hotly.
The two footmen seemed set to haggle all night, but Blenkinsop, the butler, emerged from Number 65 and sharply called Luke to heel.
“All right, half price it is,” Luke said, shoving the tickets into Joseph’s hand.
Astley’s Amphitheatre at Lambeth was a wonderful circus, full of displays of horseback riding, acrobats, lurid plays, and spectacles. Joseph went downstairs fingering the tickets. Felice had entered the kitchen and was studying a recipe for a wash for the hair.
“What was all that argy-bargying about upstairs?” asked Rainbird.
“I was buying two tickets to Astley’s from Luke,” said Joseph. “He won them at the draw at The Running Footman. I got ’em half price. It’s not as if he paid for them.”
“Who are you taking, Joseph?” asked Alice, patting her golden curls. “I should love to go.”
“So should I,” chimed in Jenny.
“But you was going to Vauxhall,” complained Joseph.
“But Astley’s is another thing,” said dark-haired Jenny. “Come on, Joseph. Take one o’ us.”
Joseph sat down. The cat sprang on his knee and he absent-mindedly stroked its fur.
“I’ll take Lizzie if she’ll go,” he said gruffly.
“Lizzie will go,” said Felice in the silence that greeted Joseph’s announcement. Lizzie was clearly beyond speech.
“Well, that’s settled then,” said Joseph, turning red under all the curious, staring eyes.
“My boy,” said Rainbird, standing up, “come with me. I have a bottle of port I’ve just decanted and I would appreciate your judgment.”
Never before had Rainbird asked Joseph’s opinion on anything. Joseph gave the cat a last affectionate pat and stood up. It was pleasant to be deferred to by Rainbird of all people.
“I must have growed up somehow,” thought Joseph in awe as he followed Rainbird into the butler’s small pantry. “Must be the cat. Like a father, I got responsibilities now.”
Euphemia’s courtship by the Marquess of Berry continued at a sedate pace. Jane envied her sister. She did not envy her the marquess but rather her level-headed and practical approach to marriage. Euphemia was sensibly prepared to settle for a title and fortune without bothering her pretty head about love and romance. Jane had tried to get her to talk about the marquess, hoping perhaps to find out that Euphemia was secretly dismayed and frightened, but Euphemia was so complacent, it was ridiculous to assume she was plagued by even one doubt.
Jane had thought long and hard about Lord Tregarthan. It was still hard to make the switch from the dream lover to the real and present man. The dream Lord Tregarthan now appeared strangely boyish
. In her dreams, he had rescued her from all sorts of perils and each dream had ended with him taking her in his arms and depositing a chaste kiss on her mouth.
In every fantasy, the elation she felt was always caused by the look on the watching Euphemia’s face rather than by any passion engendered by the feel of his lips.
It was hard to picture Lord Tregarthan in reality as the giver of chaste kisses. He was too large, too virile, and too masculine for that. As the eve of the ball rushed upon her, Jane became tormented by new physical feelings she did not understand—an odd mixture of yearning and desire.
Under Felice’s tuition, she had learned to sit gracefully, how to hold her fan—by the end, never by the handle unless when it was unfurled—how to sit down on a chair without looking round, how to parry a “warm” flirtation, and how to behave in a sweet and demure manner if addressed by one of the formidable patronesses of Almack’s.
The ballgown looked disappointingly simple to Jane, who nourished dreams of spangled gauze, which was what Euphemia would be wearing. Felice, however, crowed with delight when she finally slipped the dress over Jane’s head. She led Jane to the long glass. Jane thought she looked rather odd. Admittedly, the gown, with green-and-gold stripes, was very dashing and showed her bosom to advantage. Her tousled curls had the frizz pomaded out of them and they glinted with reddish lights in the candlelight. Felice had found a pair of long, jade earrings from somewhere and long gold kid gloves. “No ornament in your hair. You are so mondaine, you will be taken for a Frenchwoman.”
Jane looked at her doubtfully and then realised Felice was paying her a high compliment. But despite Felice’s warm and welcome praise, Jane could not help wishing that she, Jane, looked more like an ordinary debutante—someone with light brown hair and a pastel or white gown—someone, in fact, like Euphemia. All in that moment, Jane realised how much she wanted to look like Euphemia, how much she had always wanted to look like Euphemia.
The Harts had rented a carriage for the evening. Mrs. Hart knew that they could well have walked—Berkeley Square was only just around the corner—but it was unfashionable to arrive on foot, so they all had to set out one hour early to move the small distance, waiting and fidgeting behind a long line of other carriages.
What would Lord Tregarthan think of her gown? wondered Jane. It was so hard to tell what he thought about anything, or if he thought much about anything at all. It was considered vulgar and unmanly to betray any feelings whatsoever. Although that did not apply to Lord Tregarthan, who did not affect the studied and wooden expression of most gentlemen of the ton, the gentle, mocking humour in his eyes was, in its way, as much a barrier to his real feelings as the current fashionable fish-eyed stare. How pleasant it would be if she could make just one pair of masculine eyes light up at the sight of her.
Mr. Bullfinch would be there. Better to concentrate on the mystery of Clara, instead of longing for masculine adoration, which always seemed to be for Euphemia and never for Jane.
When they were finally arrived, Jane’s heart began to beat quick and fast. Even Mrs. Hart and Euphemia fidgeted nervously as they mounted the steps to the ballroom. Only Mr. Hart, wooden-faced as ever, stood patiently, seemingly unmoved and unimpressed by the grandeur around him.
Then Mr. Hart turned and looked down at Jane. “I think, Jane,” he said in a low voice, “you will create a sensation. You have become a most tonnish young lady.”
Tears of gratitude filled Jane’s eyes; she fumbled for her father’s hard, calloused hand and gave it a squeeze.
Perhaps her father actually loved her, thought Jane in wonder. She had come to believe that maternal and paternal love were only to be found among the lower orders.
And then it was her turn to make her curtsey to their hosts, Lord and Lady Quesne.
She had an impression of a stout, cross-looking woman and a choleric man, and then she was in the ballroom. Quizzing glasses were raised in their direction, hard eyes glared and raked Jane from the top of her curls to the bottom of her gown.
There were hundreds of candles lighting the ballroom. Jane had never seen such a glare of candles.
She felt small and naked.
She wanted to go home.
She wanted to go back to Upper Patchett.
And then she saw Lord Tregarthan.
Chapter
Eight
A public horse-whipping is an extremely disagreeable thing, and yet cases have been known when such have been administered by irate brothers or fathers, when the only fault committed by the young man had been to obey the commands of a forward and bold young woman—one of the sort to whom Hamlet would have said, “Get thee to a nunnery.”
—Mrs. Humphrey, Manners for Men
Jane looked at Lord Tregarthan and could not look away. He was like a rock in this desert of coloured, shifting society sand.
He looked very grand in an exquisitely tailored coat of dark blue wool. He wore a ruffled shirt above a white satin waistcoat, breeches of buff kerseymere and white silk stockings. His flat black shoes had real diamond buckles instead of the paste ones being worn by many of the other men at the ball.
Jane knew she was attracting attention by standing staring at him, but she wanted him to come to her side so that she might not feel so alone in this alien world.
A group of men and women came up to him. Soon more guests arrived and all Jane could see of him was the back of his golden head above the moving, jostling throng.
Jane had never been out anywhere in the evening that was so brightly lit as this. At her mother’s rout, there had been plenty of candles and lamps, but there had still been soft shadows in the corners. This was rather like being on stage.
She sat down next to Euphemia and looked at her fan. Euphemia was striking an Attitude and Jane thought it was very silly, so it was to cover her embarrassment as well as her fear that she kept her eyes down. One glimpse at her sister had been enough to show her that Euphemia had her hands clasped as if in prayer and her eyes were rolled up to the ceiling. Jane recognized the pose as Early Christian Martyr.
Several gentlemen came up to be introduced to Euphemia. Jane was aware of their presence, rather than seeing them, as her eyes were still on her fan, so she missed the fact that many masculine eyes were also on herself. Then she heard herself addressed and, looking up, saw that Lady Quesne was ushering forward a thin, pimply gentleman who did not seem to know what to do with his hands or feet.
She introduced him to Jane as a Mr. Jellibee, adding that Mr. Jellibee was just panting to dance, and then left them together.
Mr. Jellibee led Jane on to the floor. It was a country dance, and Mr. Jellibee had an odd way of leaping forward right onto Jane’s feet.
Jane did her best and was thankful when the set finally came to an end. Mr. Jellibee asked her if she would like some refreshment. Jane, anxious to be rid of him, refused. She was turning away to rejoin her mother, who was sitting with the chaperones, when she saw Lord Tregarthan standing with an imposing-looking woman.
Jane forgot all Felice’s training. A quick glance behind her was enough to show her that Euphemia was happily engaged with the Marquess of Berry.
Jane marched up to Lord Tregarthan and said in a loud, strained voice, “I wish to speak to you, my lord.”
He broke off his conversation and gazed down at her in mild surprise. The lady with him looked furious.
Lord Tregarthan turned to his companion. “My lady, may I present Miss Jane Hart. Miss Hart, the Countess Lieven.”
Jane turned a fiery red and sank into a deep curtsey, wishing at that very moment she could sink through the ground. The countess was glaring at her.
Countess Lieven was a patroness of Almack’s and the most formidable female leader of the ton. She often said, “It is not fashionable where I am not.”
“As I was saying,” said the countess, pointedly turning a shoulder on Jane, “we must strive harder to keep mushrooms out of the opera house.”
Lord Tregarthan ga
ve Jane a sympathetic smile, but she turned and scurried away, her face flaming.
“And talking of mushrooms,” went on the Countess Lieven, “we shall not be sending vouchers to the Hart family. I was in two minds about it, but if that sort of pushing behaviour is an example of that family, then we are better off without them.”
“Miss Jane is very young,” said the beau, “and she knows I wanted to discuss a certain matter with her. Besides, it is not her come-out, you know, but the sister’s.”
“And which is the sister?”
“Miss Euphemia Hart. Over there. Just taking the floor with Berry.”
Euphemia was laughing very loudly and flirting quite dreadfully.
“Do you know,” said the countess, “I do believe she’s worse than the younger one. Besides, the mother is most odd, as I recall. Tried to embrace Lady Jersey, claiming to have a mutual friend of whom no one has ever heard.”
“You must do as you see fit,” sighed the beau. “Perhaps the Harts will survive without an entrée to Almack’s.”
“No one,” said the Countess Lieven, “survives without an introduction to Almack’s. No one.”
Mrs. Hart was busily engaged in talking to the lady next to her when Jane sat down on the other side.
Jane studied the toes of her silk shoes. She had behaved dreadfully, and she knew it. She could only be thankful her mother had not witnessed her behaviour. For any young lady to accost a man boldly in the ballroom, no matter how well she knew him, was beyond the pale.
She could feel herself burning up with mortification.
Then she saw a pair of smart black dancing pumps standing in front of her. Her eyes slowly travelled up a vista of silk stockings, knee breeches, waistcoat, and cravat to a dark, handsome face smiling down at her.
The gentleman half turned to her mother and said, “I have been searching for Lady Quesne to beg an introduction, but she is nowhere to be found. My name is Eprey, James Eprey. May I beg a dance with this beautiful lady?”