Rags-to-Riches Wife

by Catherine Tinley

  The maid then returned with sweetmeats. No one looked at her except Jane, who was again feeling disconcerted by her exalted status.

  Soon afterwards the Dodsworths rose to depart, with Miss Dodsworth pressing Jane to return the visit. ‘Robert!’ she declared, ‘you shall bring her tomorrow!’

  Robert bowed his head in assent.

  Mrs Millthorpe looked decidedly grim, but had to paste a false smile on her face as Mrs Dodsworth reminded her of the Staveley House soirée, planned for Thursday evening. They all held the now familiar conversation about the state of the roads, then the Dodsworths took their leave.

  No sooner had the salon door closed behind them than Mrs Millthorpe sank into her chair with an air of exhaustion. ‘Well! I thought they should never go!’

  Mrs Kendal looked perplexed. ‘But they stayed only the usual length of time. And you have always welcomed them visiting before?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I declare you are positively bird-witted at times, Niece!’

  Mrs Kendal seemed quite startled by this, and a little hurt.

  Mr Kendal frowned.

  But Mrs Millthorpe was not done, and this time her venom was directed towards Jane. ‘I have never before,’ she declared, ‘had to endure a visit where I must hide the fact that a servant is in the salon, dressed like a lady and aping her betters!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mrs Kendal gasped, and a wave of mortification washed over Jane. Although she was a servant, there was no need for Mrs Millthorpe to be so cruel. She bit back an impertinent retort, and felt a sudden lump in her throat. Her eyes stung.

  Do not cry!

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’ Mr Millthorpe fixed a beady eye on his wife.

  At the same time Mr Kendal rose from his seat and walked across the room to sit with Jane. He did not speak. He did not need to. The unlooked-for support tightened Jane’s chest with gratitude. His cool grey eyes found hers and he nodded slightly.

  She gave him a misty half-smile. It was all she could manage.

  ‘Well!’ Mrs Millthorpe was addressing her spouse, an air of defiance in the toss of her head. ‘You cannot expect me to be easy about it.’

  Her husband spoke slowly. ‘About what, exactly?’

  Mrs Millthorpe was angry, but there was a deep hurt there too. One her grandfather could not see.

  ‘About having her—’ she jabbed a finger in Jane’s general direction ‘—in my home.’

  Here it was—finally. All the anger she had been suppressing since Jane’s arrival had finally slipped its leash.

  ‘She has every right to be here.’ Mr Millthorpe’s tone was disturbingly soft. ‘As she is my only living blood relative.’

  Two spots of colour appeared on Mrs Millthorpe’s cheekbones. ‘The daughter of a by-blow, I assume? What would your first wife, the sainted Eleanor, have had to say about that?’

  Jane gasped. She does not know I am Edward’s daughter! He has never told her!

  Her hands clenched into fists. She had not realised her grandfather had been so disrespectful to Mrs Millthorpe! Why on earth had he not told her the truth?

  Husband and wife glared at each other from opposite sides of the fireplace. Between them the fire blazed, crackled and spat.

  This should not be happening—and it is all because of my presence.

  She stood. ‘I do not wish to distress anyone. I—’

  ‘Sit down, child.’ Mr Millthorpe’s tone was harsh.

  She sat, trembling. Mr Kendal put his hand on hers briefly, his touch warm. She sent him a worried glance.

  Mr Millthorpe sat up straighter in his chair. ‘I have never had a by-blow.’

  There was a stunned silence as the impact of his words was felt.

  Jane felt Mr Kendal stiffen beside her.

  Mrs Kendal was the first to find her voice. ‘Then...then who is Miss Bailey?’

  ‘Her father was my son—Edward.’ Mr Millthorpe’s voice cracked a little. He coughed to disguise the emotion, then carried on, addressing Mrs Kendal. ‘We were estranged before you and Robert came to live here. Before my second marriage.’

  Mrs Millthorpe’s mouth was hanging open. She turned to Jane. ‘You are Edward’s daughter?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I did not know... I thought...’ She addressed her husband. ‘You should have told me.’

  They eyed each other, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire.

  Then he nodded. ‘You are right. I should have told you. I myself only discovered her existence recently, through the offices of a Bow Street Runner. She is Edward’s only child and his legitimate daughter. He took his mother’s surname when he left here.’ He looked at Jane. ‘Dodsworth was right, you know. You are related to the Farnham Baileys. Your grandmother’s people still live there. You have countless cousins in Yorkshire on your grandmother’s side.’

  ‘I do?’ Jane was astonished.

  Just a fortnight ago I had only Mama. Now I have a grandfather and ‘countless’ cousins.

  She could barely take it in.

  There were, however, more pressing concerns.

  Mrs Kendal had moved to her aunt and was gently patting her hand. ‘Oh, Eugenia, I had no idea! I had heard about Edward, of course, but we all thought him long dead.’

  ‘He is long dead!’ Mr Millthorpe banged a fist on the arm of his chair. ‘And through my own headstrong obstinacy I never had the chance to put things right.’ He looked at Jane. ‘Until now.’

  All eyes turned to Jane.

  He meant to put things right? But how? He could not bring Papa back. Could not undo her life growing up as a servant.

  Jane frowned, her mind whirring with racing thoughts. She could almost see the shifting perceptions in the room. She dared not look at Mr Kendal, but was conscious of his continued rigidity beside her.

  Finally Robert spoke up, his tone harsh. ‘You should have talked of this before. You should have told us.’

  Mr Millthorpe glared at him. The two of them locked gazes as the air in the room hummed with uneasiness. After a long moment, Mr Millthorpe dropped his gaze.

  ‘Yes.’

  The single word resonated in the room like a booming gong.

  ‘In truth,’ he continued, ‘I could scarcely believe she existed and had been found. I put myself through agonies of apprehension—that the Runner had erred, that she was not truly Ned’s daughter, that she would not come.’ He looked at Jane. ‘It is not just your Millthorpe eyes that convinced me, but your Millthorpe fire.’

  ‘Fire? But I am not fiery!’

  He laughed at this. ‘You were fiery enough to put me in my place when I told you of my estrangement from Ned. As I recall, you described me as a fool.’

  ‘I described both of you as fools! And I stand by it!’

  Frustration rose within her again. Her grandfather had made a muddle of all. He had held grudges when he should have let go, and he had kept secrets when he should have been open. What a catastrophe he had created!

  Mrs Millthorpe put a hand to her head. ‘Then you mean to take her to the Staveley House soirée on Thursday...?’ She addressed her husband.

  He nodded, his expression briefly rueful. ‘I do. I have waited to establish if she will be a suitable person in looks and in manner. I believe we can all see that she is.’

  Jane bristled with indignation.

  How dare he sit in judgement on me?

  ‘And,’ he added, ‘she will be presented as my granddaughter.’

  Jane gaped.

  He means to claim me after all?

  Mrs Millthorpe’s shoulders slumped in resignation. ‘But what is she to wear?’

  Mr Millthorpe looked a little taken aback by his wife’s question. Jane, too, was a little bewildered by it.

  ‘Wear?’ He looked Jane up a
nd down. ‘She has always looked perfectly presentable to me.’

  Mrs Kendal and Mrs Millthorpe looked at each other, their cynical expressions a mirror of each other.

  ‘And that shows how little you know of fashion!’ declared his wife.

  ‘I am proud of it!’ he retorted.

  They were back on familiar ground, and the disquiet in the salon had eased considerably. Still, an undercurrent of shock persisted. Again Jane, rendered almost speechless, could sense the shifting perceptions eddying and swirling all around her.

  They had not known—they had thought her illegitimate!

  Suddenly much became clear. Mrs Millthorpe’s hostility. Mr Kendal’s lack of concern about the possibility of his being ousted. Now that she thought about it she realised she had never spoken to him about the estrangement between her papa and his father.

  I must speak to him. He must not think I intend to displace him from his inheritance.

  She glanced at her grandfather. He would not do that to Mr Kendal, would he?

  Mrs Kendal turned to Jane. ‘Miss Bailey—’

  ‘Call her Jane. We are all family here.’ Mr Millthorpe’s tone made clear that this was unmistakably an order.

  Mrs Kendal gave a half-smile. ‘Jane... I have seen you wear the same dress each night since you came here—the amber silk. Is that your only evening gown?’

  Jane nodded. ‘It is. I did not know I would need even one evening gown.’

  Was this really happening? Must she go out in public as if she were a proper member of the family? Her caution about her grandfather’s intentions was, it seemed, now unnecessary.

  He means to recognise me in public.

  What this meant for her future was unclear. Suddenly there was quicksand beneath her feet again. Although such a change represented unlooked-for good fortune, it took away many of the certainties in her current life—including her role as lady’s maid. She felt lost, engulfed, as if Jane Bailey no longer existed. She was drowning in a wave of change and fear and insecurity.

  Mrs Kendal was frowning. ‘Aunt Eugenia, how quickly can Henby and Eliza make up a gown?’

  Her aunt had not been idle during the past moments. She had clearly been working herself up into a state of righteous indignation.

  ‘So now I am to be further inconvenienced, am I? My own personal servant taken away to make a gown for your guest? It is insupportable!’

  She fished a lace-edged handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at the corner of her eye.

  ‘She is our guest,’ her husband retorted. ‘And you will treat her with respect.’

  ‘Please,’ said Jane, desperate to avoid further disagreement. ‘I do not wish to cause trouble. I do not even wish to go to the soirée!’

  Her cry came from the heart. The very thought of attending filled her with dread.

  ‘It pleases me that you should go,’ said Mr Millthorpe curtly.

  Mrs Kendal, catching her eye, shook her head slightly. And as Mrs Kendal soothed her aunt with words of reassurance Jane finally plucked up the courage to glance at Mr Kendal. He looked grey-faced and grim, and did not turn his head to meet her gaze.

  Jane swallowed. Mr Millthorpe’s announcement had changed everything. Now she must begin again with people who had thought they knew who and what she was.

  But I am the same as before. I am Jane, raised as a servant. Being Edward’s daughter changes nothing.

  Even as she tried to reassure herself she knew it was not true.

  Finally Mr Millthorpe’s valet arrived, and took him away to rest. Mr Kendal took the opportunity to leave with him, muttering some vague excuse. Jane, eyeing his closed face and stiff posture, wished she had never come to Yorkshire.

  ‘Oh, dear, Robert...’ was his mama’s response. ‘Yes, of course. We shall discuss—’ she glanced at Jane ‘—everything later.’

  ‘I shall call for Henby,’ said Mrs Millthorpe, walking to the bells.

  Jane’s mind was awhirl. The events of the last half-hour were almost too much for her to understand. But she had sensed the shift in the air. The feeling that she was culpable of an unnamed crime. The feeling that Mr Kendal was displeased with her.

  And as she sat there, dressed in finery and with inappropriate curls in her hair, she was conscious of feeling deserted, solitary and friendless.

  In truth, she had never felt so alone.

  * * *

  Robert marched directly to the stables, stopping only to don his boots and his wine-coloured riding jacket. Blacklock, his stallion, gave a whinny and a nuzzle of greeting, and Robert as ever slipped him a piece of carrot. He saddled the horse himself, needing the familiarity of buckle and bridle, girth and stirrup to divert his racing mind.

  His uncle’s revelation had been entirely unexpected and he cursed his own stupidity.

  Mounting in the stable yard, he took the horse across the cobbles at a trot, enjoying the familiar sound of steel on stone. Stone setts gave way to gravel, then grass. Once free of the parterre, he urged the stallion to a canter, then a full gallop, and as his speed increased the battles in Robert’s head were momentarily forgotten. A crow briefly aligned its flight with theirs, but it could not keep up, and soon wheeled around towards a venerable oak tree nearby.

  We are flying faster than the birds, he thought, and the thought was closely followed by the recognition that the knot in his stomach was beginning to loosen. This never fails.

  All his life Robert had loved riding—some of his earliest memories were of sitting on the back of a pony. It had been his solace and his comfort on many occasions when he had needed it—when his uncle’s cantankerousness and his aunt’s criticism had been too much to bear, or when his dear mama had been talking to him for too long, or when he was possessed by the simple requirement for his own company and the need to escape the house.

  His horse knew the route well. Having descended the gentle slope at the front of the house, they wheeled around to half circle the lake, then began the climb to the rise behind Beechmount Hall. Robert slowed the pace to a walk, unwilling to exhaust the poor creature.

  ‘Good boy. Well done.’

  He patted Blacklock’s neck before dismounting. Tying up the reins so they would not trip the stallion, he walked to the edge of the hill to look down on his home.

  There it squatted—a solid, ugly and yet beautiful stone pile. The day was dull and overcast, and the heavy grey clouds on the horizon blended effortlessly with the grey-black Yorkshire stone. As obstinate as its master.

  He gave a short laugh. He had always known his uncle to be headstrong, immovable, and taciturn on matters of importance. But he had had no idea he was holding a secret such as this!

  The afternoon was almost gone, and the gathering dusk was beginning to settle around him like a weighty damp cloak. He mounted the horse again, and together they picked their way carefully down the hill.

  The last thing I need is for Blacklock to break a leg on an unseen rabbit hole.

  They passed the lake—home to many of his fondest childhood memories—and began ascending the park.

  The glow of yellow candlelight from multiple windows was both comforting and unfamiliar all at once.

  Is this still my home? My future? All is changed now and I know not what to make of it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Branches of candles had been lit, and the brightness inside the salon meant that Jane could no longer see the gardens outside. Dusk was falling and Mr Kendal had still not returned. They had all seen him two hours ago, passing the salon windows on a glorious black stallion, his face set with dark determination.

  ‘Oh, dear...’ Mrs Kendal had murmured.

  ‘Well,’ her aunt had replied cryptically, ‘he has only himself to blame. He should not have run that particular errand.’

  Had they been speaking of her? Was the errand she
’d spoken of his trip to Ledbury House to bring her here? She had caused such trouble...

  Jane bit her lip. Talk of Edward—and Jane’s very existence—had hurt Mrs Millthorpe and caused discord between her and her husband. It would have been better for them if she had not come.

  And yet even now, feeling as small and as upset as she could remember, she could not be completely sorry. Meeting her grandfather and penetrating his sour temper to find the interesting, lively mind beneath had been enlightening.

  He is part of me, she thought. And I am part of him.

  Seeing her father in those eyes every time she was in Mr Millthorpe’s company had brought back long-buried memories of Papa.

  And meeting Mr Kendal, too, would have been impossible without the errand that had sent him all the way to Bedfordshire.

  I cannot regret that!

  And yet there remained an undoubted uneasiness in the air. It had been somewhat dissipated by Mr Millthorpe’s departure from the salon, but afterwards his wife had embarked on a long list of the ills, slights and knocks she had been subjected to during the long years of her marriage.

  Mrs Kendal had made soothing comments from time to time, but in truth Mrs Millthorpe had seemed largely unaware of her audience. Jane had been content to remain silent, allowing the angry words to wash over her, hearing clearly the pain beneath them.

  Mrs Millthorpe’s personal maid, Henby, had arrived in answer to her mistress’s call, and Mrs Millthorpe had drawn her into the litany of complaints, asking for affirmation that her claims were true.

  Henby had replied soothingly that Mrs Millthorpe was right, and her every word just. This might have been merely the empty words of a servant, meeting her mistress’s needs, but the glare she had thrown towards Jane at one point had made it clear who Henby thought was to blame for her mistress’s distress.

  ‘And now I am to find a dress suitable for her to wear at the Staveley House soirée. On Thursday! Thursday, Henby! And today is Sunday!’