Jane and the Twelve Days of Christmas (32 page)

I knelt down beside her chair.

“Do not look like that, Cass,” I pleaded. “What you observed meant nothing. He was half-alive, half-dreaming. He did not even know I was real.”

“He knew,” she said, in a barely audible voice. “He loves you, Jane.”

“Nonsense.” I was as brisk as tho’ she were young Caroline. “I suspect Mr. West loves nothing so much as his art; and that is just as well. It shall never disappoint, as a flesh-and-blood lady should.”

“Do not sport with me. If he asked for your hand, you should be gone in a thrice.”

“And leave you? Never.” I grasped her shoulders. “We are both of us too old to be thinking of setting up our own establishments, Cass. And besides—the question does not arise. He has no memory of that meeting in the passage; it is but a part of the whole insensible period of the past few days. I do not regard it; and you should not, either. I am certain Raphael West does not.”

She held my gaze searchingly. “Truly, Jane?”

“Truly. We shall leave The Vyne tomorrow, and he shall return
to London. Life shall go on as before. We shall remember him as a man thankfully delivered from peril, when others were not—and be content in the knowledge that he lives.”

She heaved a sigh, and held my hand between both of hers.

I left her then, to compose herself—and endeavoured to follow my own advice with as much grace.

I
F MY HEART HAD
been lighter this evening, I might have played at Candour in better spirits. To be witty without giving offence is an art I have not entirely achieved; and I began to regret my choice of character, from a fear of abusing everybody. I should rather have represented Policy, or even Hypocrisy—and gone about with fulsome compliments for all. As it was, I constrained myself to say only what was both honest and inoffensive—and thus, said very little at all.

Half the Kingdom, it seemed, had travelled through the cold to grace Eliza Chute’s Stone Gallery on Twelfth Night. Thomas-Vere and I stood at the foot of the staircase in the entrance hall, in the dying warmth of the Yule log, with baskets in our hands and masks covering our eyes. The effect was of a highwayman and his jade begging alms, but I did not care. The disguise allowed me to feel other than I was. Anonymity may be a powerful drug; it is as well we do not taste too much of it in our daily lives. As the guests entered in pairs and in groups, Sir Macaroni and Miss Candour offered their baskets of male and female rôles; the guests chose at random, and went on to assume their characters in the heat and chatter of the Great Drawing-room. Wither and Mary Bramston were among the first to arrive, as befit those in some wise attached to The Vyne; she penetrated my mask immediately, and asked whether “that poor artist fellow was dead yet.”

“Unfortunately not,” a voice above us on the stairs said quietly;
and Raphael West, arrayed in his most correct evening dress of black coat and white shirtfront, with his cravat splendidly tied, descended the final few steps. “Raphael West at your service, ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Bramston, and bowed low over her hand.

She had sense enough to colour as she murmured her pat phrases of congratulation on his recovery, and forgot entirely to draw a character, returning to do so once West had safely moved on.

“Do not trouble to take a card, my dear fellow,” Thomas-Vere enjoined as West approached him. “We did not provide one for you. You were to have died well before this evening’s gaieties—and have confounded all expectation. You shall do very well as The Beau, however, for a more elegant turnout is not to be found in the drawing-room. Everyone will know at a glance that you are meant to parade as Brummell.”

“I shall not offend your dignity by enquiring if you are well enough to stand,” I said. “Do not be making a fool of me, therefore, by falling over into a swoon.”

“What is your own rôle, Jane?”

“Candour. I am meant to expose the nakedness and expence of half the ladies, and abuse the figures of all the men.”

“I can think of nothing more suited to your talents.” He bowed.

I grimaced at him. “Am I such a shrew?”

“Nay; a powerful voice for Justice. Is it true that Lady Gambier has consented to join us?”

Thomas-Vere let out a snort. “I had thought she would keep to her room in strictest mourning. But perhaps she drew Melpomene as her rôle—the Muse of Tragedy—and means to play it for the crowd.”

Throngs of happy guests, in their most brilliant finery of the season, passed to and fro in the Staircase Hall and the
Saloon, the drawing-room and the dining parlour; but all these were behind our position at the foot of the stairs, and I could see nothing of Lady Gambier. Edward Gambier I knew to be present—he was as simply arrayed as Raphael West, but his cravat was black instead of white.

“When all this is over,” West murmured while Thomas-Vere was engaged in offering a card to John Harwood, “I must speak to you about my researches in Portsmouth and London.”

“My duty as Candour compels me to admit that I have looked into your sketchbook,” I said. “William Chute has done the same.”

He frowned.

“You forget,” I warned. “It was feared you would die. We thought it imperative to know why someone wanted you silenced. Ah, Mrs. Portal! How ravishing you look in that singularly-coloured gown!”

I presented my basket and offered Lucy the rôles; they were dwindled, now, to but a handful. A few minutes more at my post, and I should be released to what enjoyment in Twelfth Night I could find.

“Then you have seen pieces of the puzzle,” West said. “But we shall talk of this tomorrow.”

He bowed, and moved around the staircase into the crowd.

“That was Mr. West, was it not?” Lucy Portal observed. “I am happy to find him recovered. It was a dreadful moment when we were interrupted in our walk, by the passage of your nephew’s horse—on such an errand!”

Her words recalled a question that had lingered in my mind. “Mrs. Portal,” I said when she would have moved on, “you may be surprized to learn that your old friends the Gambiers are within.”

“The Gambiers?” she repeated. “At such a time? And in deepest mourning?”

“Their arrival was unexpected. But it brought to mind a matter you mentioned on our Sherborne walk. You said that Lady Gambier was not generally received in Bath society. I have been wondering what you meant.”

Lucy smiled at her husband. “Go ahead, John—I shall be with you in a moment. I meant, Miss Austen, that many in Bath were inclined to cut Lady Gambier in favour of her husband, the Admiral. You know that the two are estranged?”

“I did not,” I said.

“The Admiral is everywhere admired, as much for his propriety as a Christian, as for his record of service,” she said. “But having brothers in the Navy, you will know this already. Lady Gambier’s coldness to her husband has excited much comment; he is generally to be pitied.”

“That makes matters plain. Thank you for your candour, Mrs. Portal.”

She dimpled, and plunged into the throng.

“Well, Miss Austen, I believe we have earned several glasses of my brother William’s claret cup.” Thomas-Vere set down his basket and offered me his arm gallantly. I tried not to stare overlong at the spectacle of his hosed feet, encased in a pair of Eliza’s heeled slippers. I held my masked head high, instead, and prepared for enjoyment.

I
T WAS A REMARKABLY
pleasant evening. James-Edward and Miss Wiggett were charmingly coupled as the King and Queen of Misrule; their court enacted a series of tableaux, to the general admiration of their parents, and quitted the drawing-room for a juvenile feast above-stairs, complete with an entire Twelfth Night cake.

My mother was discovered in a comfortable coze with the elderly Sir William Heathcote, who proved the ideal escort for Lady Lavish.
Mary was happy in avoiding the Archbishop and his frowns, by dancing several dances with Mr. Harwood, who must regard the rector’s wife as the safest object of a ruined young man’s affections. Lady Gambier held pride of place near the fire, where she clutched a handkerchief and spoke to nobody. Cassandra solaced her disappointed hopes by sitting quietly in a window embrasure and sketching the colourful company; I observed Raphael West to join her there, and gently offer his opinion of her drawing, which brought a blush to Cass’s careworn cheek and a brighter light to her eyes. He had no notion she nursed a
tendre
for him, of course, and behaved only as a gentleman ought; but I silently blessed his good manners and sensibility.

I had been whirled about the Stone Gallery myself on two occasions—once by Thomas-Vere and a second time by my nephew, James-Edward. I had refreshed myself with pasties and Naples biscuit and William Chute’s champagne. The hour wanted but a few minutes until eleven o’clock, and some of our guests with children in their keeping had begun to make their
adieux
. Eliza, wrapt in a sable stole, had taken up her post near the South Porch to press their hands in farewell. She looked contented and at peace, as tho’ the unpleasantness that had marred The Vyne were at last banished.

And then, among the welter of carriages drawing to the South Porch door to carry away the departing guests—one arrived, and drew up at the door.

It was a post-chaise, not a private carriage, and the postboy so chilled at this hour of the night that the occupant opened the carriage door himself. He stepped out, fitting his tricorn hat to his head, his cloak swirling about him.

“Oh, Lord, Jane,” Eliza breathed as she clutched at my arm. “It is the Admiral. I had hoped we should not see him here until morning.”

I did not reply; my gaze was riveted by the figure descending from the carriage behind Lord Gambier.

Amy Gage.

In her arms she carried her son.

The Admiral guided her through the maze of carriage wheels at the door and hurried into the foyer, sweeping off his cloak. “Mrs. Chute, ma’am? Well met. You had my letter, I hope? Had no notion we should be interrupting a rout!”

“Admiral,” Eliza said breathlessly. “You are very welcome. Pray come into the warm. And … your companion?”

“Well,” said Edward Gambier behind me. “If it isn’t Dismal Jimmy and his bit of French muslin. I didn’t think you would try it on, sir, in a house where your wife was staying—and before half the county, too!”

Jimmy. Jem. The boy was named for his father—and it had never been John Gage.

Much that I had not understood, fell into place as a latch slides into a hasp. But this was not the time or place for brutal declarations; Eliza had already suffered indignities enough.

“What brought you to Hampshire, Edward?” Lord Gambier demanded in bewilderment.

“Not only I, sir, but my aunt as well,” Edward returned grimly. “She is even now in the drawing-room, if you wish to know which room to avoid.”

“Let me escort you upstairs,” I suggested to Amy Gage, “so that you might turn your child over to Nurse. She is an excellent woman and will know just how he should go on; and he will enjoy the company of my niece—a trifle older, to be sure, but ready enough to comfort the boy, should he be wakeful in the night.”

“By all means, Jane,” Eliza said thankfully, “and pray require Nurse to make up a bed for this young woman in the schoolroom as well, so that she might be near her son.”

I extended my arm to Amy Gage, who was shivering in the draughts of the foyer, and said over my shoulder to Edward Gambier, “A little conduct, sir, if you please. You owe your hosts some civility, if not your uncle. Pray carry him up to the library and provide him with brandy. You may give him a piece of your mind there.”

Edward had the decency to look abashed, and nodded. “You’re correct, of course. I forgot myself. Sir—if you would be so good as to follow me above-stairs.”

Our little cavalcade hurried off, without half the county, as Edward had suggested, being aware. The child was starting up a wail of exhaustion—the journey from Portsmouth was a long one—but Mrs. Gage muffled him with her cloak. In short order he was established by the schoolroom fire, being petted by Nurse and fussed over by Jemima and Caroline. Amy Gage gave me one grateful look, and I left the small party to its own devices.

“Who is that girl, Jane?” Eliza asked as I once more descended the stairs.

“Lieutenant Gage’s widow,” I supplied.

“Then I do not understand anything at all,” she said, and threw up her hands.

I
T WAS NEARLY AN
hour before the last of the Twelfth Night guests had departed The Vyne. As the rest of us mounted the stairs in search of our beds, Edward Gambier came to the library door.

“Aunt Louisa,” he said. “My uncle is here. I have told him about Mary.”

Lady Gambier was being supported up the stairs by my mother—despite the fact that Mrs. Austen was the senior of the two women by roughly fifteen years. She achieved the landing as her nephew spoke, and raised her head to stare at him.

“Very well,” she said. “We have achieved our purpose. We return to Bath in the morning.”

“Do you not wish to speak to him?” Edward asked.

She hesitated. “What is there to say?”

“You might comfort him in his distress.”

To my horror, her ladyship managed a wintry little smile. “Let him have his fill. It may be some recompense for the injuries he has done to me.”

She turned away from the library door. The rest of us collected on the landing—my sister and brother, Thomas-Vere, Mary, the Chutes, Raphael West—stared after her.

“No,” I said firmly. “It will not do, my lady. It is not justice to your niece—and what is left to any of you, now, but Justice?”

She turned her basilisk stare upon me and said, “You are impertinent, Miss Austen. It is both vulgar and unbecoming. Much may be forgiven youth—but not a woman of your age.”

“Call me Candour,” I suggested, “for I mean to speak the truth, Lady Gambier. It has been sadly lacking—both in your family, and in this house. Mary Gambier died for want of truth, and you carry that on your soul.”

Her face coloured, then went dead white. I thought she might swoon. Edward Gambier leapt forward and supported her.