Lady Jane (18 page)

“Good morning, darling. I’ve come to see if you’ll ride with me,” she said, carelessly pulling off her black beaver trencher hat. Her long guinea-gold tresses, obviously turned up under the hat without pins, tumbled down her back below the waist of her pale fawn velvet riding dress.

Jane’s mouth was slightly agape, not only in admiration of this studied gesture, but at the informality of her greeting.

“Lord, sister, you must have been practicing that all morning to have got it down so perfectly,” said Jaspar irritably.

Sarah turned lazily toward him. “Oh—you’re here,” she replied without enthusiasm.

“I’m just off,” he said resignedly, realizing the hopelessness of pursuing Jane with Sarah in the room.

“Good. Now, you will ride with me, dearest Jane. Say you will. How ravishing you look in that gray silk. I could never wear such a colour.”

Jane, with an irrepressible feminine instinct, turned to the console mirror beside her. “Oh, do you like it really?” she queried, nervously pushing back a curling tendril that had escaped restraint and fluttered before her ear. Jaspar, in the act of moving to the door, came up behind her. Their eyes met in the mirror as he stood behind her shoulder. She gasped at this near-reproduction of their first meeting, and jerked aside to turn and face him.

She forced herself to extend a trembling hand, “Th-thank you for c-c-calling, Lord Jaspar,” she said, her heart jumping around like a frightened rabbit in her chest.

He looked at her without replying for a moment, before taking her hand, bowing, and then turning away to the door. Jane watched him go, her hand pressed against her hammering heart. Well, she thought, that’s well and truly done it for sure!

“Well, really,” said Sarah, “he is beyond anything rude! To stalk out in that way without so much as a nod in my direction, not to speak of neglecting to say a word to you.”

But Jane was grateful that he hadn’t said a word, fearing she knew only too well what words he might say. After all, she found, she would rather
not
know the worst—not yet at any rate.

18

The
days that followed became increasingly full for Jane. She would not allow anything to interfere with the hours she spent with her son, but now there were also Dorrie’s lessons, morning callers (which included nearly every day both Mr. Quint and Jaspar), rides with Lady Sarah and calls or shopping expeditions with Lady Stanier. She would dine with Lady Stanier every evening, either in her own home, at Lady Stanier’s, or with various friends of the older woman.

There were also occasional evening parties of the more staid variety, for despite all Lady Stanier’s urgings, Jane was adamant in her refusal to attend balls or masques, feeling still too shy to embark on that sea of pleasure.

“Pooh! You are being much too nice, child. No one would find anything to criticise in a young widow of over three years’ time going about again. Besides, dancing is very healthy exercise and hurts no one!” exclaimed Lady Stanier, waving away a pair of violently scarlet stockings with yellow clocks being held out for her inspection. She and Jane were seated in Mr. Pillotsons Emporium in Pall Mall, the first stop on an afternoons shopping.

“But Aunt Stanier, I take a great deal of exercise and have never been healthier,” Jane protested demurely.

“Provoking girl! Hmmm-I rather fancy that mauve sarcenet. Mr. Pillotson! Will you have your young man fetch it down?”

Mr. Pillotson snapped his fingers and his clerk leaped up the ladder to bring down the bolt of silk, which he reverently handed to Mr. Pillotson, who unfurled several yards with a dramatic flourish. He draped it enticingly over his arm and held it out in front of Lady Stanier, who raised her
face-a-main
with great deliberation and bent to examine the fabric minutely.

“Ah yes—well—what do you think, my dear? Do you like it?”

“No.”

“What!” Lady Stanier straightened and turned to her. “You don’t like it?”

“No. Not for you. The colour is difficult and—and aging.”

“Aging, eh? Yes, perhaps you’re right. Take it away, Mr. Pillotson and bring—let me see—oh, bother! I don’t really think I’m in the mood for this, after all. We’ll come again another day, Mr. Pillotson. Come along, Jane.”

Mr. Pillotson bowed profoundly and led the way out, escorting them across the pavement and respectfully handing them into Lady Stanier’s smart landaulet. He stood smiling after them so long as the carriage was in sight, not at all dismayed at not having made a sale, for he knew to a penny the handsome profits that were his from Lady Stanier’s custom, and now here was this well-dressed young woman, newly come to town, whose patronage would no doubt add even more to Mr. Pillotson’s coffers.

Lady Stanier, meanwhile, was frankly eyeing Jane’s walking dress of bright green velvet trimmed with chinchilla narrowly at neck and cuff, and in a broad band around the edges of the short double cape. “Would I be able to wear that colour, do you think? I mean, would it be ‘aging’ for an old lady?”

Jane laughed. “Now you are angling for a compliment. You know very well you don’t think of yourself as an ‘old lady,’ nor does anyone else. You have as many suitors as any young girl of the Season. It’s really quite disgraceful.”

“Suitors? You call those maggoty old creatures suitors? I do not!” “They certainly behave as suitors, in my view. Plying you with posies and proposing—ah, don’t bother to deny it,” Jane laughed, seeing Lady Stanier’s mouth opening to protest, “if Lord Tremblay was not proposing to you last Tuesday, what was he doing on his knees when I came into your drawing room?”

Lady Stanier sniffed. “The old fool! He’s been doing that regularly since I was sixteen. Claims he’s never proposed to another woman since the day he first saw me. Actually, I expect it’s true. He’s always known I would never have him, so he’s felt quite safe in proposing. He really has never had any intention of marrying—much too spinsterish in his ways—has been since he was a boy. But he likes bolstering his picture of himself as no end of a romantic fellow. Lord knows he needs some colour in his life if he bores himself as much as he does his long-suffering acquaintance.”

Jane had collapsed back against the squabs by the end of this tart speech. “Oh, stop—please” she gasped between gusts of laughter, “it hurts to laugh so hard.”

“You would not find it so amusing if you had been subjected to the experience as many times as I have been. I vow I all but swoon with ennui just to hear his knees cracking when he gets down into the ridiculous posture and repeats those dog-eared words. I have always lived in dread of being discovered in that tiresome charade, and it finally happened. Thank heaven it was you and not one of those old tabbies with their tongues clacking at both ends who’d spread it all over town within hours. But that’s neither here nor there. You still have not answered my question about the colour. I suppose that green is too bright for me really.”

“How you go on! Of course it is not. It would be most becoming to you.”

“But the mauve is aging?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant it is a colour I associate with elderly ladies and I see no reason for you to be wearing old lady colours.”

“Sweet child,” murmured Lady Stanier, mollified. “Oh, is that Sarah Montmorency waving to you from that carriage?”

Jane leaned forward and then smiled and nodded to Lady Sarah who was enthusiastically waving a large swansdown muff from the window of her carriage as she swept by in the other direction.

“It is the latest
on dit
that her brother has so far paid four morning calls upon you—speaking of suitors,” Lady Stanier commented mildly.

Jane felt a quiver inside of something that she refused to identify. “Mr. Quint has the lead on Lord Jaspar by several days—or is that of small consequence to the
ton,
” she replied calmly.

“A source of amusement only. However, when Montmorency puts himself to the trouble of paying morning calls on a beautiful woman they sit up and take notice, I assure you.”

Again Jane experienced the fluttering inside. It could be fear, she thought. But fearfulness could not suppress her curiosity. “I had thought so handsome a man would be much sought after,” she said with a patently false air of disinterest.

“Oh, he is that! But much good has it done anyone till now. I can’t remember him looking twice at a girl since he entered his first drawing room. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen and one saw him everywhere for a time. Ah,
what
a good-looking boy, you wouldn’t credit it. But after about a year he became more elusive. Frightened of being trapped into marriage, no doubt. For some years now, he’s only gone into Society as an escort for his mama or Sarah. Probably he’s found it wise to keep an eye on Sarah, who’s been known to take more to drink than is proper for a young lady.”

“She gets bored, she says,” replied Jane in almost automatic defense.

“She confides in you?”

“Yes, I suppose she does,” Jane admitted.

“It must be a bore for you.”

“That’s what her brother says, though I cannot think why everyone should assume such a thing,” Jane said indignantly.

“Well, she seems a trifle caper-witted to me, but let’s not come to points over it. No doubt she has a more intelligent side that I have not been privileged to see,” said Lady Stanier equably.

“She has, I’m sure of it. She’s just never been given the encouragement to be other than a—a—spoiled darling of Society. That over-proud mother’s only contribution has been to prepare her for the marriage market! I’ve read some poetry aloud to her and she was quite moved by it. She requested to borrow the book to read by herself. I’m encouraged to hope she’ll discover there are other things worthwhile in the world besides gowns and balls and eligible
partis.
”

“And champagne and gambling, I think you should add,” commented Lady Stanier drily. “However, I’m glad to hear she’s attaching herself to someone with intelligence and taste. Shows she’s got a spark of good sense at least.”

Jane was too overcome by this compliment to reply, and dropped her eyes into her lap. Lady Stanier laughed softly and patted her hand. “Well, well, I won’t tease you about it any more. I only hope she won’t lead you into any uncomfortable situations with her foolishness.”

“I doubt she would try to—oh—I had meant to ask you—she
has
been urging me to go with her to a place called The Golden Crocodile, or some such outlandish name. Do you know of it?”

“The newest gaming house,” responded Lady Stanier promptly, always sure to know the latest in everything. “All the crack right now. Very deep play I’m told. Do you enjoy such things?”

“I was used to playing loo and whist with Sebastian and Mother Payton. Not for money, of course. I was very good at it, they would tell me,” she added, somewhat wistfully.

“Well then, why don’t you go? There can be no harm in a little play if one keeps one’s head. I confess
I
could never do so—keep my head, I mean. Talked too much, I expect.”

They drove along in companionable silence for a time, and then Lady Stanier returned to her previous thought. “About Montmorency. I hope you are not seriously discouraging his suit.”

Jane flushed scarlet. “His ‘suit’? After four visits it has become a suit?”

Lady Stanier continued placidly, “For I must tell you, if you are worried about his recognising the little girl who had previously been in his mother’s employ, I think you can forget all that. Obviously none of the family have done so, and I for one see no reason to suppose they ever will. You and Montmorency would suit very well, notwithstanding the dreadful prospect of Lady Montmorency for a mother-in-law.”

“Mother-in—! But he hasn’t—I can’t—we aren’t—”

“Dear heaven! So many negatives,” laughed Lady Stanier.

“But how can you even think of such a thing? I have no thought to remarry!”

“You haven’t? Then I think you had better take it into consideration. You are still a young girl, and I assume you are—er—as normal in your needs as the rest of us—”

“But
you
never remarried!” Jane protested, the blood pouring into her cheeks as the import of Lady Stanier’s remark reached her mind.

“My dear child, I had thirty-two years of a very satisfying marriage—you had two. I was nearing fifty—you are twenty,” Lady Stanier pointed out gently, “and if that carries no weight with you, I will add that my children were grown and married. Your son is still an infant, and in my estimation in need of a father. Sebastian would have made a wonderful father, but I don’t think he would want the child to go without one just because he could not be here to fill the role, any more than I believe he would want you to mourn him for the rest of your life.”

Jane felt a lump rise in her throat and she stared through blurred, unseeing eyes out the window. Unbidden, there rose in her mind the picture of Clinton leaning confidingly against Lord Jaspar’s knee, explaining to him earnestly that though he had requested very politely that he be given a pony, Nurse and Mama would not heed him.

It had happened that several mornings previously the boy had escaped Nurse and come running into the drawing room in search of his mama. Jane was patiently enduring yet another visit from Mr. Quint, and at sight of the man Clinton had become rooted in apparent amazement. As Mr. Quint, stays creaking, leaned forward with a condescending smile, Clinton’s eyes and mouth formed perfect circles and he became speechless. No amount of urging by his mama, or cajoling from Mr. Quint, dangling a watch chain literally clanking with fobs, served to stir the child to any other reaction than astonishment. When Nurse came panting to the drawing room door in search of her charge, she was as able to lead him away unprotestingly, as he cast his round-eyed look over his shoulder.

The spectacle of Mr. Quint drew Clinton back on the following day, much to Jane’s embarrassment and Mr. Quint’s patent annoyance as the same scene was reenacted. On the third morning Clinton arrived to find Jaspar there instead of Mr. Quint, and with no urging at all walked up to him, bowed with all his four-year-old aplomb and held out his hand. When Jaspar had shaken the tiny hand gravely and reseated himself, Clinton came up to him, and propping his elbow casually on Jaspar’s knee, proceeded to make his complaint, man to man, about the unreasonableness of women who fussed over one unnecessarily, and refused to understand about ponies.

Jaspar was agreeing with him that women could be obtuse about the basic necessities of young gentlemen, when Alben Quint was announced. He tripped across to Jane and gave her one of his most elaborate, flourishing bows. When he straightened up he found both Jaspar and Clinton observing him with identical expressions of awe. Mr. Quint acknowledged them with a dignified nod of the head, sat down in his finicking way on a sofa and extracted his watch chain, evidently convinced that if he dangled his fobs long enough before Clinton’s eyes, the child would eventually succumb to their blandishment. Jaspar reseated himself, but Clinton remained where he was, gazing at Mr. Quint with the same blank, almost imbecilic, look he reserved for Mr. Quint. Jane felt a strong desire to shake him.

“Clinton!” she said sharply. “Clinton! You will oblige me by making your bow to Mr. Quint and saying ‘Good morning,” she prompted very firmly. He seemed not to have heard her and remained standing at gaze, eyes never wavering, exactly like some clodpoll up from the country seeing Astley’s Circus for the first time, Jane thought, torn between exasperation and giggles.