Rags-to-Riches Wife

by Catherine Tinley

  Mrs Foster called her name.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Instinctively Jane looked to Mr Kendal. He had no answer. But just feeling the connection of his eyes locking with hers gave her the courage to carry out the wild plan that had come to her just moments before.

  She lifted her chin, and turned to Miss Dodsworth. ‘I could perhaps sing, if you will accompany me on the piano?’

  ‘Of course!’

  They walked together to the centre of the room. Mr Kendal’s uneasiness was palpable.

  Jane knew she was about to look foolish—and, what was worse, she would make her entire party look foolish. While she was used to singing, she had never performed. She glanced towards the Millthorpes. Mrs Millthorpe was twisting her hands round and round. Mrs Kendal was frowning with worry. Mr Millthorpe remained impassive.

  ‘What do you wish to sing?’ Miss Dodsworth took a sheaf of papers from the box and began flicking through them.

  Jane’s heart sank.

  I do not know any of these!

  With a trembling hand, she removed some more.

  Nothing.

  Miss Dodsworth removed the last remaining papers and began sifting through them while Jane watched.

  ‘Wait!’ She held out a hand. ‘What was that previous one?’

  ‘“Ruhe Sanft.”’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Jane perused it. While she could not read music properly, the words were all there, and now the tune came to her.

  ‘I think I know this one.’

  Miss Dodsworth’s eyes widened. ‘But it is one of the most difficult pieces to sing! All those high notes! And Herr Mozart writes such beautifully complex music—Are you certain you wish to sing this one?’

  I have no choice. It is the only piece I know.

  She nodded, and moved to stand close to the piano, where she could see the words on the sheet if she needed them. Her grandfather was directly ahead. She dropped her gaze.

  I cannot look at him now.

  Thankfully Mr Kendal was to her left, outside her direct view.

  Miss Dodsworth moved the sheets to the music rack in front of her. Mrs Foster raised an arm to indicate to her guests that the performers were ready, and silence fell.

  Why was it totally silent? Why couldn’t some of them keep conversing, as they had with the other performers? It was clearly the novelty of having a stranger in their midst. A servant, at that.

  Knowing that was no help at all.

  Miss Dodsworth played the opening bars and there was a murmur of surprise in the room—clearly some of them recognised the music. Jane began to sing at the right time—and thankfully in the right key—but she knew she was singing much too quietly. Her voice, quivering with trepidation, was being drowned out by Miss Dodsworth’s piano-playing.

  Instantly Miss Dodsworth played more softly, perhaps erroneously believing that Jane was singing quietly for dramatic impact.

  Jane sang in the original German, its meaning playing in her mind.

  What was, what will be, should not chase you any longer...

  Keeping her eyes fixed on Miss Dodsworth’s hands, she let the message of the aria flow through her. Everything she had been up to now did not matter. Maid or lady. Servant or mistress. What would happen in the future was also unknown.

  Sorrow and grief, fear and doubt should not plague you...

  As she sang, gradually her worries vanished. She stood straighter, and allowed her voice to strengthen and soar. ‘“Ruhe Sanft, lass los...”’

  Rest gently, let go...

  The words were perfect. She reached the final bars, allowing the song to resonate around the room. And as the last notes rang out and faded away she stopped, slightly breathless.

  There was utter silence.

  Fearing the worst, she raised her eyes to meet her grandfather’s. His were wet with tears.

  An instant later resounding applause rang out.

  Miss Dodsworth rose and enveloped Jane in a fierce hug. ‘That was beautiful! I have never heard anyone sing so well!’

  Mrs Foster came forward to gush, and to compliment, and moments later Jane found herself surrounded by well-wishers, all eager to tell her how wonderful a singer she was and how her piece had affected them. Mrs Kendal hugged her, and Mr Foster thanked her profusely for ‘deigning to sing’ at his ‘humble soirée’.

  Jane, dumbfounded, could only murmur vague thanks. Her mind was awhirl. Mostly what she felt was relief. Through a gap in the crowd she saw her grandfather lift an imperious finger.

  ‘My grandfather is calling me,’ she explained, glad to get away from the unexpected attention.

  The man sitting beside Mr Millthorpe jumped up to give her his seat as she approached. ‘Delightful!’ he muttered. ‘Truly delightful!’

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied politely, sliding into the seat.

  ‘Well, Jane?’

  Her grandfather had dried his eyes, she noted, but he still looked shaken.

  ‘Well, Grandfather?’ she returned softly.

  ‘Edward was a fine singer.’

  ‘Yes, he was. We would often sing together.’

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it firmly, overcome.

  ‘And my Eleanor...’

  She waited.

  ‘It was as though her voice was singing through you. I have missed it these forty years and more.’ His voice cracked. ‘Thank you, child.’ He leaned forward and rested his forehead briefly against hers. ‘Thank you.’

  It was so soft she barely heard it.

  She swallowed back tears and tried to give him a misty smile. ‘I want to know more about her.’

  ‘And so you shall.’

  The next performer—a young matron who was extremely proficient on the harp—began to play, and Jane sat silently, still holding her grandfather’s hand.

  But what of Mr Kendal? He had not come forward like the others.

  But then, she reminded herself, he is naturally reserved.

  She sent a sideways glance in his direction. He was staring fixedly at the harpist, his handsome features devoid of emotion. He might have been carved from granite.

  Suppressing a pang of disappointment, she chided herself for her vanity. Was it not enough that so many in this room had enjoyed her singing? Must she have his approval as well?

  The answer came immediately.

  Yes. Yes, I must.

  Her heart sank as distress spread through her. Of all the people in this room, his was the opinion she valued most. Not even her grandfather’s approval could satisfy her. She must crave Mr Kendal’s regard. But why?

  Because he is important. He is my—my friend.

  She frowned. ‘Friend’ was too little a word. Miss Dodsworth could be her friend. Mrs Kendal, even. No, what she felt for Robert Kendal was altogether more complicated than mere friendship. But she had no name for it beyond ‘friendship’ ‘amity’ or ‘esteem’.

  None of these even came close to reflecting her burning need for his company, his approval, his regard.

  Strangely reluctant to pursue the thought, she distracted herself by focusing, once again, on the music.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Having arrived home hours after midnight, they all slept late the next morning.

  Jane woke from a nightmare-free sleep with a delicious feeling of contentment. Despite her worries, and the unpleasant incident with Marmaduke Haw and his mother, the soirée had gone rather well in the end. Miss Dodsworth was a darling, the Foster family warm and gregarious, and most of the neighbours had seemed welcoming and kind.

  But, Miss Dodsworth apart, she could not imagine local society tolerating her for very long.

  ‘The situation is delicate,’ Mr Kendal had said, depressing Miss Dodsworth’s innocent assumption about the d
epth of the family’s welcome for Jane.

  Although there had been her singing, and the gratifying response to it.

  She turned over in her comfortable bed, hugging the memory close. She had accepted compliments about her voice all of her life, yet last night was the first time she had ever truly performed.

  I should like to do it again. But next time I will watch Mr Kendal for his response.

  She pictured him smiling, clapping. But then the doubtful voice in her mind tripped her up with an image of him from last night. He might be frowning or, worse, looking uninterested. And, of course, she would never have the opportunity to be in such society again.

  At least she had had last night.

  There was a gentle scratching on the door.

  ‘Come in! Oh, good morning, Nancy.’

  ‘Properly speaking, miss, it is afternoon,’ Nancy replied cheerfully.

  ‘What?’ Jane sat bolt upright. ‘Never in my life have I slept so late! I am quite ashamed of myself!’

  ‘But why, miss? You did not retire until after three, so you had every right to sleep on.’ She opened the heavy curtains, allowing pale winter light into the room. ‘Only Mr Millthorpe is downstairs. The others have not yet emerged from their bedchambers.’

  ‘My grandfather is downstairs already?’ Jane’s sense of guilt increased. ‘I must go to him.’

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in a simple printed muslin with a yellow ribbon around the waist, Jane tapped lightly on the library door.

  ‘Enter!’ he called imperiously.

  She went in. ‘Oh! I do apologise, Grandfather. I had not realised you were with your steward.’

  ‘Stay, stay, child. It is of no matter. I had finished anyway.’ He addressed the steward. ‘Make sure he comes tomorrow, if you can. And tell him to bring that clerk of his!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The steward gathered his papers, bowed to them both, and departed.

  ‘Good day, child.’ He embraced her warmly. ‘Now tell me, for it has been perplexing me, how did you learn to sing like that? I know the source of your talent of course, for as I told you Eleanor had as fine a voice as I have ever heard, but your singing has more than raw talent. You have honed it, learned technique. How, and when?’

  ‘I cannot remember a time when I did not sing. As I said last night, Papa sang with me even when I was a baby, so Mama says, and when I was older I used to sing with Miss Marianne all the time. When she became Lady Kingswood she encouraged me to keep singing.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘But how did you know that Mozart piece? Why not simple country airs?’

  ‘When Miss Marianne was growing up she had to learn to play the harp and to sing. She had to practise the harp every day. I was so envious that she was being allowed to learn an instrument, which always puzzled her. She said when I sang with her it made the practice more interesting. Eventually she insisted I be present and a part of her lessons with music tutors.’ She smiled softly, remembering those far-off days. ‘I was always happiest when I had music.’

  ‘Just like Eleanor. That’s where Edward got his talent—a talent he passed to you.’

  She beamed at her grandfather, loving the feeling of connection to her past.

  The sound of hooves on gravel drew their eyes to the windows. Robert, looking magnificent on his black stallion, was just leaving.

  ‘He always rides when he is troubled about something,’ said Grandfather quietly. He sat back in his chair. ‘Tell me, child, how did you and Robert deal together on your journey to Yorkshire?’

  This was unexpected. ‘Um...very well.’

  His eyes narrowed, and she felt her colour rise.

  ‘He was—he was most gentlemanlike.’

  He snorted. ‘By the sounds of it he was far too gentlemanlike, if you ask me!’

  She had no answer to this.

  ‘Do you still walk with him in the afternoons?’

  She had not known he knew about their walks. ‘Yes, unless the weather is bad.’

  ‘Good.’ He patted her hand. ‘Now, let me tell you more about Eleanor’s singing...’

  * * *

  Robert was livid. With himself.

  ‘I am the greatest fool in Christendom!’ he announced, making Blacklock’s ears twitch backwards. ‘No, not you,’ he said reassuringly, patting the stallion’s neck.

  They continued slowly to the top of the mount, where the beech grove crackled with copper leaves and beechnuts underfoot, the canopy above bare to the leaden sky. Robert dismounted and the horse began foraging for winter grass among the carpet of last autumn’s windfall.

  Stomping across to the edge of the hill, he cursed his situation and his own foolishness in the strongest possible terms.

  Eventually he calmed a little, and talked himself through the mess he had created.

  It had all begun the moment he had laid eyes on Jane. He was a full-blooded man, and as such he always noticed attractive females, but from the start there had been something particular about the way her pretty face and fine form had continually drawn his eye.

  ‘My fair Diana!’ he said now, remembering his foolishness on the night he had first met her.

  Could he even then have read the signs? He shook his head. It was not unreasonable to assume his interest in a random serving maid had been no more than a momentary diversion.

  Even when I spent most of that dinner at Ledbury House being distracted by her presence?

  During the journey he had convinced himself that what he was feeling was simply the effect of propinquity—that he would have become fascinated with any attractive young lady if he had been thrust into her company for a prolonged period of time.

  And there may well be an element of truth in that, he acknowledged wryly.

  But without the long journey, would he have ever come to truly know Jane?

  Their arrival at Beechmount Hall had changed things. No longer had it been simply Robert and Jane, spending all day and all evening in each other’s company. Most of the time now he was limited to enjoying her society in the presence of his aunt, his uncle and his mother.

  Not exactly the ideal situation for courtship, he noted wryly.

  For courtship was what he now wanted.

  Although he had not consciously been pursuing her at the time, he now realised his afternoon walks with her, his delight at being seated next to her at dinner every evening, his impatience to join the ladies after the evening port—all were indications that his heart, not just his fancy, was engaged.

  Her burgeoning relationship with her grandfather was a joy to observe. Despite the implications for his own future, Robert could not help but be glad to see how the old man lit up in her company.

  And why should I not enjoy seeing it? For I respond to her in just the same fashion.

  He knew his aunt and his mother were worried about him being cut out by Jane, but Robert was at peace with it. His uncle’s estate was not entailed; he could dispose of it as he pleased. And what better way to honour his beloved first wife and his lost son than by transforming the life of his only granddaughter, his own flesh and blood, by lifting her from servant girl to mistress of Beechmount Hall, with all the wealth and status that entailed?

  He frowned. She had not been raised to such responsibilities. He must ensure the staff supported her. The lawyers, too. The steward would need to be patient with her.

  Idly, Robert wondered if she would accept him as an adviser.

  He shook his head. Possibly not. It might seem unlikely to all her other advisers that he could support her with a genuine lack of bitterness, so they might advise her to stay away from him.

  The thought sent a pang of pain through him. He could cope with losing the inheritance he had always assumed to be his, yet the thought of being estranged from Jane filled him with agony.

  He strode across
to his horse, mounting via a fallen tree trunk that lay nearby. As they picked their way downhill he reflected on last night’s events. First, the journey—the delicious proximity to her, the heat of her thigh against his... He had been glad of the darkness covering evidence of his overwhelming desire for her. Seeing her in that pink gown, the satin clinging perfectly to her form and the low neckline exposing her white skin to his covert gaze, had threatened to drive him to madness. Never had he felt desire such as this!

  To see Marmaduke Haw ogling that same décolletage had filled him with disgust and rage. Yes, most men were interested in the female form. But most men behaved respectfully towards ladies even while appreciating their beauty.

  Haw has no class, no breeding. Jane, raised a servant, is worth a hundred of him!

  Finally he allowed himself to remember her singing. Not knowing the prodigious talent she had hidden from them all, and assuming she would have to give some excuse as to why she could not play an instrument, he had awaited with dread the moment when Mrs Foster’s eyes would alight upon Jane. Although the rumour of her upbringing as a servant had spread around the salon, his neighbours could not have known if Jane had any of the accomplishments expected of a young lady. They would all have been agog, many expecting her to fail.

  Once he had seen her step forward with Emma and realised she was going to sing he had been rather relieved. Even a simple country air would have been enough. The fact she had sung a complex Mozart aria had been entirely unexpected. The realisation that her singing was not only good, but astonishing, had slowly dawned on him.

  He was not a man much given to flights of fancy, but as her voice had dipped and soared he had felt as though she pulled at his very soul. Afterwards, when her angelic song had ended, he had been unable to respond, or move, or even think. He had belatedly come round, as if waking from a deep sleep, to find that the applause had ended and people had clustered around her to congratulate and exclaim. Then she had walked towards her grandfather, and Robert had seen in his uncle’s expression something of his own reaction to Jane’s divine melody.