‘But,’ he continued, ‘in the end I said to myself, “Marmaduke, it is the Staveley House February soirée. Everyone will be there and your mama wishes to go. You must do your duty.”’ He lowered his voice and bent his head towards her ear. ‘And never has duty been so desirable.’
The last word was almost a whisper, as his foul breath reached her nostrils.
She stiffened as deep within her the nightmare began again. A memory attack was building. She had to go!
Mr Haw, in essence, was similar to Master Henry. She sensed it. She knew it. In the way in which he had just spoken to her, touched her, looked at her body...
I need to leave ! Now!
She turned and walked away from him, giving no reason, no polite excuse. And as she did so she saw his jaw drop.
She focused on keeping her breathing steady, on delaying as best she could the overwhelming terror building within her.
As she hurried towards the door she was conscious of the interested looks on the faces of those around her—all of whom had been observing the little drama.
Oh, I know! she thought bitterly.
She should not have left him so rudely. A true lady would have found a way to extricate herself gently.
But I am not a lady. I am me. Jane Bailey. Serving maid.
Chapter Twenty-One
She half ran down the corridor, and was relieved when a maid indicated that a door on her left was the designated retiring room. Thankfully, the room was fairly quiet, with two ladies just leaving to return to the salon and two languid housemaids there to assist.
Ignoring them, she sank into a soft armchair and closed her eyes, allowing the memory attack to take over her body. Her heart raced and her breathing quickened, sending panic through her.
I have not enough air!
Pins and needles pricked her hands and feet and her stomach churned.
I cannot be ill here!
Then came the dizziness. She tried opening her eyes, but that only made it worse.
Henry was on her, his face twisted with Marmaduke Haw’s leering smirk, and she could not escape. It was as though Henry was there now, attacking her now, and Mama was yet to rescue her.
The reaction in her body was always just as intense as if the memories were real.
Go to the ending, her mind screamed.
This worked occasionally. Desperately she tried moving the memory to the point at which Mama had rescued her, but to no avail. She was stuck in an endless moment of Henry/Marmaduke’s weight on top of her, his hand on her breast, his foul breath in her nose.
Come back to now.
This helped a little.
She focused on the feeling of the chair beneath her. Not the table where it had happened. A soft chair. Cautiously, she touched it with both hands. Smooth satin. Carved wood. Her feet were planted on the floor. She wriggled her toes. Dancing slippers.
She opened her eyes. The housemaids were looking at her anxiously. Vaguely she remembered them asking her if she would like something—hartshorn? A tisane?
‘A tisane would be wonderful,’ she croaked. ‘Thank you.’
Her racing heart was beginning to slow a little. Deliberately she closed her eyes and played out the rescue part of the story. Strange how it never seemed as real as the terror.
He reminded me of Master Henry...even before he touched me and looked at me in that way.
Tonight she did not have to wonder why she was trembling from head to toe.
Gradually the pace of her pounding heart slowed and the feeling of terror subsided. She sipped the tisane provided by the maid, and after a time felt reasonably calm again.
She should return to the salon, she thought, as three matrons entered the retiring room. She had been gone from there a very long time. They glanced at her curiously, but did not speak to her, reminding her of the fact that her secret was now known, and of the rude way in which she had cut Mr Haw.
If she had truly been raised to be a lady then she would have found a polite way to end the conversation, as well as an excuse for leaving the room. In truth, she was no lady. Inside, she would always be a servant.
She had hurried out in clear distress.
She had embarrassed her grandfather and the rest of the family.
She had let Mr Kendal down—and after he had made the effort to support her so publicly.
She chastised herself. She should be better now! It had been years since it had happened. And she had thought Mr Kendal’s kiss had cured her.
She closed her eyes again, deliberately invoking the memory of his wonderful kiss. It took a moment, but there it was. Desire. Need. Hunger. And underneath a sense of safety—the knowledge that Mr Kendal was not the same as Master Henry.
There was hope for her recovery, then, even after this.
Her thoughts returned again to the salon, and to her own rude behaviour. She should have been stronger. Her mother had taught her not to put up with any nonsense from lecherous men.
‘End the conversation and get away,’ had been Mama’s advice.
It had served Jane well on the dozens of occasions when she had been importuned, by everyone from farmers to footmen. It was a normal part of life for women. On most occasions a memory attack had not followed, and she had been suffering fewer and fewer of them as the years went on.
So why was tonight different?
Dimly, she understood. She had been vulnerable tonight, given the turmoil of the past days. In addition, she had not expected something like this here, while she was dressed as a princess.
Such men were everywhere, it seemed. Even her fine gown and her aristocratic hairstyle had not saved her. Marmaduke Haw had judged her a servant, and believed he could behave towards her according to his whim.
She shook her head, reasserting her will. But she had not allowed it. She had been master of the situation, not he. He had expected her to allow him to behave so towards her, to be cowed by politeness, by society’s rules for the behaviour of young ladies. But she had her mama’s steel within her. She was a proud servant.
She nodded, filled with sudden vehemence.
I shall go back. Face them all.
Summoning her courage, she rose, gave a slight smile to the two housemaids, and made for the door.
As she opened it, she collided with the lady who was just entering.
‘Sorry!’
‘Oh, I am sorry!’
It was Miss Dodsworth.
‘Oh, there you are! Thank goodness! Robert is distracted with worry and has sent me to find you!’
They stepped out into the corridor together.
‘He is?’ Jane was bewildered by this news. ‘Why?’
Isn’t he angry?
‘I am not entirely certain,’ Miss Dodsworth confessed. ‘Something about Mr Haw upsetting you? I did not see you leave the salon.’ She grimaced. ‘Mr Haw does not always behave as he should...’
‘Indeed he does not!’ Jane replied hotly.
‘Oh, dear!’ Miss Dodsworth was sympathetic. ‘Most of us know to keep away from him. Normally, he does not actually do anything—he is just vaguely lecherous. But Robert fears he overstepped the mark with you.’
‘He did.’ She did not elaborate.
‘How did he get the opportunity? Was Robert not with you?’
‘Unfortunately Mr Haw’s mother drew Mr Kendal away.’
‘Ah, that explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Why Robert is so animated. He clearly feels a sense of responsibility for you. Although...’
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ She laughed. ‘Just a fanciful notion. Now, you and I shall stay together, and Mr Haw will have no opportunity to behave badly towards us.’
Jane looked directly at her. ‘Do you really believe he would have behave
d so towards any woman? Or is it—?’ She gathered her courage. ‘Is it because he knows I was raised as a servant?’
Miss Dodsworth’s kind expression did not waver. ‘His mama has been telling anyone who will listen about your humble upbringing. But I and my parents judge people as we find them, and I think others will as well.’
‘But I saw the shock and disbelief on people’s faces.’
‘I am sure they wish your father had raised you in more comfortable circumstances,’ Miss Dodsworth replied slowly. ‘But many people here—particularly the older generation—remember him with fondness. I confess until tonight I did not even know of his existence!’
‘So—what would you advise? Should I stay in the retiring room or return to the salon? And what of Mr Haw?’
Miss Dodsworth sent her a keen glance. ‘I believe you were already resolved on returning to the salon when I came to find you. And as for Mr Haw—why, everyone knows how shockingly vulgar he and his mother are. Until now they have managed to walk on the edge of acceptability. Mr Haw may have overstepped the mark tonight by upsetting you. Let us see how it will unfold.’ She grinned. ‘Besides, if the Haws disdain you it is likely to make everyone else even more determined to like you!’
‘I see...’ Jane wasn’t convinced, but it was kind of her to offer such reassuring words.
They turned the corner into the main hall leading to the salon. Mr Kendal was there, pacing up and down. His hair was tousled, as though he had run his hand through it in some agitation. He looked beautiful.
Why was it that when Mr Kendal looked at her with admiration it filled her with heat and confusion, and yet other men just reminded her of Master Henry?
Indeed, she acknowledged with a gulp, I still believe I should delight in having Mr Kendal touch me intimately.
She felt her heart skip at the thought, even as Mr Kendal strode towards them.
‘Miss Bailey! How do you?’ He took both her hands in his.
‘I am well.’
It was true. She felt drained, exhausted, but the terror had settled. And seeing his concern, feeling his warmth, was immeasurably healing.
He raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You are pale and your hands are trembling.’
‘They are?’
He nodded.
‘I am much better now.’
He knows. He understands what happened, and why.
‘Also, they all know I am a servant.’ She said it bluntly.
He shook his head. ‘The fact you were raised a servant is only troublesome to the most rigid and the most inflexible among our local society.’
‘Th-there are at least some here who judge me as being lesser?’
Strangely, given her encounter with Mr Haw and its aftermath, her worries about status now seemed less acute, less significant.
His gaze bored into hers. ‘You are here tonight as your father’s daughter—as your grandfather’s granddaughter. Frankly, if some do not like it I do not give a tinker’s damn. Pardon me!’
He tagged on an apology for his warm phrasing. She shrugged it away, her heart swelling at his words of support.
‘I apologise for leaving you with that man.’ His loathing was obvious. ‘Tell me, if you can, what did he say to you?’ His brow was creased with concern.
‘It wasn’t the words. It was how he said it.’ She shuddered.
Mr Kendal’s jaw hardened. ‘He plays games with society’s rules...always acting on the edge of acceptable behaviour. How I should love to call him out on it!’ He eyed her keenly. ‘How do you now?’
His voice was deep, his concern clear. It made Jane’s heart sing.
‘Better.’ She nodded. ‘Much better.’
‘There is a little colour in your cheeks now. I am glad of it,’ he said simply. ‘Are you ready to go back inside?’
‘Yes.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘But I know my departure was rude, and—’
‘Think nothing of it! Everyone here knows what Mr Haw is. Your actions were perfectly reasonable in the circumstances.’
He was being kind. Nevertheless she was grateful.
‘Let us all stay together when we go back in,’ added Miss Dodsworth, who had been eyeing them with keen interest during this exchange.
They looked at her.
‘Yes, I thought you had both forgotten my presence,’ she murmured. ‘Let us go!’
Mr Kendal let go of her hands, offering an arm to each of them. ‘I am fortunate indeed!’ he murmured. ‘A beautiful lady on each side!’
Miss Dodsworth gave a suitably tart response to that, while Jane simply glowed.
On entering the salon, they realised that in their absence supper had been served. This provided the perfect distraction, since nobody paid them any notice as they merged with the crowd, choosing their preferred foods and then finding a settee.
Mr Kendal stood beside them, and they shared the same side table for their plates.
Jane was grateful that no one seemed to be paying her any mind. It allowed her to look about her and feel reassured that nobody was noticing her.
They are all much too well-bred to do so.
She perused the guests, trying to remember the names of the various people she had been introduced to.
Mr Haw and his mother had retired to the far corner. Jane eventually dared look in their direction—to find Mrs Haw eyeing her with open hostility. Her heart sank.
Mr Kendal, still alert to Jane’s distress, followed her gaze. ‘Do not be alarmed,’ he said softly. ‘Earning Mrs Haw’s enmity is an accomplishment in these parts. Is it not, Emma?’ he enquired of Miss Dodsworth.
‘Oh, beyond doubt! Robert and I used to compete for the honour of who would be the first to irritate her. To be fair to her, she does not hold grudges, and the next time you meet she is likely to be all charm again.’
‘Then, as I am unlikely ever to meet her again, I shall endeavour not to worry.’
‘Not meet her again? But—forgive me—the distance between you and your grandfather has been healed, has it not? I am hoping you will be a regular visitor to the county after this.’
Jane did not know what to say to this. She could perhaps see herself living with Mama, in an out-of-the-way cottage somewhere. If her grandfather intended to settle something on her then she and Mama would have an end to their money worries, but they certainly would not go out in society.
Miss Dodsworth looked to Mr Kendal, whose expression remained impassive. ‘The situation is delicate...’ he muttered.
Miss Dodsworth frowned slightly, but was too well-mannered to question further.
Jane glanced across to her grandfather. He was seated in his favourite spot in any room—by the fireplace—and laughing at something his host had said. He was clearly in high spirits, enjoying the company and the occasion. Jane could not help smiling. Thankfully her dramatic behaviour did not seem to have been widely noticed.
‘He is wide awake tonight,’ commented Mr Kendal.
Jane could hear the affection in his tone.
‘Yes—normally by this time he has had his brandy and retired.’
Miss Dodsworth interrupted. ‘Ooh, it is time to begin the performances. I do so love music!’
Mrs Foster had opened the lid of the grand pianoforte that stood in the centre of the room. A footman brought a box full of sheets of music and placed it on top, while another two moved a large harp from the corner into the centre of the room. The two Misses Foster, looking decidedly nervous, came forward—the elder to sit at the piano, while the younger took up her position behind the enormous harp.
Once the noise levels in the room had quietened to a suitable level, Mrs Foster nodded at her elder daughter, who began to play. After a moment the sweet sounds of the harp joined the piano, and the final few conversations ceased.
Jane had been lucky enough
to have had music in her life from the start. Papa had been an excellent singer, and Jane remembered singing with him—at first simple folk songs, but then pieces of increasing complexity. Naturally, however, she had never had the opportunity to learn to play an instrument. But Lady Kingswood could play both the piano and the harp, and had encouraged Jane to keep singing.
Right now Jane was captivated by the beautiful sounds the two girls were making, and the sure way in which their fingers played the keys and plucked the strings in perfect time.
I could never be so talented.
Of all of the luxuries ladies commanded, surely the ability to play an instrument was the most delightful?
When the piece finally ended, Jane sighed in appreciation before joining the others in heartfelt applause. The girls then each performed a solo piece, before stepping away from their instruments and curtseying.
‘Oh, I think I am to be next,’ murmured Miss Dodsworth, seeing Mrs Foster’s gaze wander around the assembled guests.
And so it proved. Mrs Foster called her forward to the piano, and Miss Dodsworth played a country reel, followed by a more intricate piece by Beethoven. They all clapped, and Miss Dodsworth returned to her place beside Jane and Mr Kendal.
‘Well done, Emma!’ Mr Kendal smiled.
‘That was wonderful!’ gushed Jane. ‘That second piece was really difficult, but you managed it with ease!’
‘I had to concentrate!’ Miss Dodsworth grinned. ‘I do enjoy playing, but I am always relieved when my piece is successfully completed.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you play the piano or the harp, Miss Bailey?’
Jane gaped at her, aghast. ‘Neither! Mrs Foster will not ask me to play, will she?’
‘Er...normally all the young ladies sing or play during these soirées. But perhaps given the circumstances...’
Mrs Foster had called upon a lady in a green dress, who came forward to play a single piece on the piano. Jane barely heard it, so great was her anxiety. The lady in the green dress was followed by two sisters singing a duet, and then came the moment Jane had feared.
Rags-to-Riches Wife Page 19