My Lord Winter (22 page)

“I know I can count on your support. The marchioness says that if I am not wed by the end of the Season, I cannot expect another. I am too old, if you please, as though that were not her fault! But it will not be so bad to retire to Hornby, will it? We were always happy there. You shall be my companion instead of my chaperon, but we shall still study together, and sketch, and make music, and walk, and...deliver babies.” Her voice dropped on the last words and she fell silent.

Gracie knew Jane’s thoughts had flown to the last baby they had delivered together. She ventured one last plea. “Can you not bring yourself to tell Lord Wintringham...?”

“No! I had rather mysteriously disappear, leaving both of us with happy memories, than sink myself in his opinion and have nothing to remember but his scorn.” Her momentary animation faded. “I am so tired, Gracie. I slept badly last night. If I must go to Almack’s tonight, I had best go and lie down for a while now.”

She trailed out, each slow, weary step piercing Miss Gracechurch’s conscience with a dart of self-reproach.

Self-reproach was futile. She could not sit still and watch Jane dwindling into an unfulfilled old maid. Half acknowledged was her own reluctance to return to the isolation of Hornby Castle, which had swallowed up her youth. There had been happy times—she had delighted in seeing her pupil grow up to be a cheerful, friendly, loving young woman—but circumstances had changed. Neither she nor Jane would find contentment at Hornby now.

She needed advice, and Mr. Selwyn was the obvious person to consult. Sending Thomas for a hackney, Miss Gracechurch hurried to her room to don pelisse, bonnet and gloves.

As the hackney rattled towards the City, she hoped she was right to expect the lawyer to be in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn at this hour. She could have sent a note. However, much as she wanted his counsel, still more she wanted the comfort of his presence. Even a sober governess of six-and-thirty needed...reassurance at times, she told herself.

She had walked with Mr. Selwyn in Lincoln’s Inn Gardens once, and he had pointed out his chambers, so she knew where to direct the jarvey. Asking him to wait, she checked the names on the brass plate by the door and mounted the narrow stair. In the cramped outer office, the four clerks perched on high stools at their desks all turned to stare when she tentatively entered.

The eldest, a balding, gloomy-faced individual with ink-stained cuffs, stepped down and bowed. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

“My name is Gracechurch. I have no appointment but I hoped that Mr. Selwyn might spare me a few minutes.” Feeling a blush steal up her cheeks, she wished she had not come to disturb him at work.

The clerk went away, and came back a moment later followed by Mr. Selwyn, a smile of welcome on his long, kind face.

“My dear Miss Gracechurch, this is a pleasant surprise. At least, I trust it is not an emergency?”

“Oh no, I... That is...”

“Come through to my office, where we can speak privately.” He led the way to a small room bursting with books and papers, seated her, and closed the door. “There, now we can be comfortable. If we were at home I should feel obliged to call my housekeeper as chaperon, but what can be more respectable than a lawyer’s office?” Sitting on a corner of his desk, he looked down at her gravely. “Now, my dear, tell me what is the matter.”

Soothed by his calm attentiveness, she poured out the story, much of which he knew or had guessed. “What really distresses me,” she ended, “is that Jane has given up. She is a courageous girl, who has never hesitated before to fight for what she wants—witness our setting out for London in an ancient and decrepit vehicle! Yet now, when her future happiness is at stake, she is sunk in apathy.”

“I wonder whether a shock might jolt her into action,” mused Mr. Selwyn.

“A shock?”

“You say she is resigned to retiring to Hornby—with you. Suppose she had not that alternative. Suppose...” He leaned forward, clasped her hands, and went on simply, “My dear Miss Gracechurch, will you marry me?”

Taken utterly by surprise, she gazed up into his eyes. Sympathetic friendship—fustian! Reassurance—fustian! What she wanted from this man was all the tenderness and ardour she saw there. Sober governess—fustian! She was a woman and she loved him. “Yes,” she said.

So the sober lawyer pulled the sober governess into his arms and kissed her with all the thoroughness of a profession noted for its passion for thoroughness.

“David?” she murmured when she recovered her breath. Her head rested on his shoulder where, since her bonnet had fallen off, it fitted neatly against the angle of his jaw. “May I call you David?”

“If I may call you Claudia, my love.”

“Of course, though I cannot promise always to answer to it at first. I am so used to Jane calling me Gracie. David, I cannot abandon her.”

“I would never ask it of you. My hope is that when you tell her you are going to be my wife—” here he broke off for a quick kiss by way of punctuation “—it will precipitate a crisis which will work to everyone’s advantage.”

“Do you think so?” she said dubiously. “I cannot see how.”

“If not, we shall try something else. There is always more than one way to settle a suit.”

“How fortunate that I am to marry a lawyer! Very well, I shall tell her, David, but I dread the consequences.”

* * * *

Unaccustomed to sleeping in the afternoon, Jane awoke to a feeling of lassitude. She lay gazing up at the plaster mouldings on the ceiling, laurel wreaths and Tudor roses and the hunting-horn emblem of the Hornby coat of arms.

Hornby—how glad she had been to leave. How glad she would be to return, to sink back into a peaceful country life with dearest Gracie and Ella, and forget her disastrous foray to London. Tonight she would go to Almack’s, to avoid another confrontation with her mother. She would save her courage for the moment when the marchioness learned she had no intention of marrying. Once, she had thought her courage equal to anything, but the realization that she loved Edmund and had damned herself in his eyes seemed to have drained every drop from her veins.

She blinked hard against the prickle of tears.

“You awake, my lady?” Ella peeked around the door, then came in carefully, bearing a tray. “I thought you’d fancy a cup o’ tea.”

“Thank you, that does sound good.”

“There, now, let me plump up them pillows and you just sit here cosy and drink it up while I put out your things for tonight. What’ll you wear?”

“I don’t know, Ella. Whatever you think.”

“How’s about your first ever ball gown? You’ve not worn it in a while, my lady, and never to Almack’s as I recall. It’s blue, to be sure, but his lordship don’t go to Almack’s.”

“The blue satin and white net? That will do.” It was a particularly pretty dress, with blue embroidered flowers and Valenciennes lace trimming. Perhaps looking her best would make her feel better. The tea was refreshing. She breathed in the fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley, wafting through the open window, and decided to carry a nosegay.

As Ella disappeared into the dressing room, Miss
Gracechurch tapped on the door and came in. “Have you slept, Jane dear? You have a little more colour.”

“I am much recovered. I shall get up in a few minutes. Come and have some tea, Gracie. Ella brought an extra cup.”

Miss Gracechurch poured herself tea and perched on the end of the bed, delicate Limoges cup in hand. Puzzled, Jane saw that she was agitated, vacillating between intense, almost incredulous joy and anxious apprehension.

Carefully casual, Miss Gracechurch said, “Lord and Lady Hornby dine from home tonight, do they not?”

“Yes. You and I shall eat in comfort in my sitting room before we go to Almack’s.”

“Almack’s! I had forgot. My wits have gone a-begging, I vow.”

“And what has dispossessed them of their usual abode?” Jane asked, smiling.

“I... Oh dear, I hardly know....” Her cheeks pink, she set down her empty cup on the bed and took a deep breath. “My dear, wish me happy. Mr. Selwyn has asked me to be his wife.”

“Has asked you to...? To marry him? And you have accepted?” For a moment Jane stared blindly into an empty future. She was cold, so cold; her head swam and a dreadful tightness constricted her chest. Then pride, good breeding, and her love for her dearest friend came to her rescue. Shaking herself, she said in a voice she scarce recognized as her own, “Forgive me, you took me by surprise. My darling Gracie, of course I wish you happy, though I have no doubt that you will be. Mr. Selwyn is the most amiable gentleman in the world.”

Miss Gracechurch hugged her, and she found a temporary solace in the embrace that had soothed her childhood hurts and sorrows. But present reality intruded, in the form of Ella, asking had she finished her tea and was she ready to dress.

She slipped out of bed, her composure fragile as a blown glass goblet. In a dream, a bad dream, a nightmare, she washed and put on petticoat, satin slip, net frock, satin dancing slippers. She sat down at the dressing-table, her white face a stranger in the looking glass. Pearl ear-drops, pearl necklace.

“A touch o’ rouge, my lady? Miss Pickerell’ll lend me her ladyship’s.”

Dumbly, she shook her head and Ella began to arrange her hair.

Someone knocked at the door. Thomas, with a note for his sister.

“Beg pardon, my lady, but the lad said ’tis urgent.”

Jane nodded, uninterested. Ella took the twist of paper, firmly shut her brother out, and opened it. She gasped.

“My lady, ’tis from Alfie... Mr. Alfred. He just found out Lady Wintringham’s making his lordship go to Almack’s tonight! Lor, he told us just in time. Now don’t you worry, we’ll think up summat to tell your ma why you didn’t go. You’ve been a touch peaky all day.”

“But I shall go, Ella.” Watching, listening from some distant place, Jane wondered at her own icy calm. “I cannot put it off for ever. The worst will soon be over and then...and then.... Please put out my fur-lined cloak.”

She was cold, so cold.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Almack’s: the Marriage Mart; to the uninitiated, a set of less than magnificent assembly rooms in King Street, St. James’s; to the eligible damsels of the Ton, the holy of holies where only those judged worthy by the lady patronesses were admitted to the Wednesday subscription balls.

Eligible gentlemen had less difficulty gaining entrée. Without prospective husbands to be hunted, the purpose of the assemblies would vanish and with it the influence of the patronesses, the overweening doyennes of Society. A gentleman had only to remember to wear knee breeches rather than pantaloons, and to arrive before the doors closed at eleven o’clock, to be welcomed.

Correctly attired and on time, Edmund was unsurprised to be greeted with complaisance even by so high a stickler as Mrs. Drummond Burrell. Lady Jersey, with her usual hint of malice, twitted him on not having previously graced Almack’s with his presence. His aloof dignity, and his status as a superior match, saved him from further reproach.

He moved on into the ballroom. Neil Gow’s Band was fiddling away up on the balcony, and waltzing couples swirled about the floor. However ghastly this evening, Edmund reminded himself, tomorrow he would propose to Jane and the next day whisk her away to Dorset.

Glancing around, he saw Fitz nearby, talking to Lord Orme. Edmund was slightly acquainted with the viscount, a noted Town Beau, and did not care for him. Deciding to seek out Fitz later, he was about to go in search of a partner when Fitz saw him.

Lord Fitzgerald’s thin face turned an unlikely shade of puce. He bounded forward and grabbed Edmund’s arm.

“I say, Ned, you never come to Almack’s.”

“There is a first time for everything.”

“But you told me you mean to offer... And besides, you won’t like it above half, I assure you. Devilish flat company, low stakes, and the supper’s a disgrace. You’d best just turn around and go home.’’

“Unfortunately, home is where Lady Wintringham arrived last night. My aunt considers it remiss of me to have avoided Almack’s.”

“Oh, lord!” Fitz blenched, then rallied. “Damme if she knows what it’s like.”

“I don’t believe the countess has stepped within these sacred portals since she married off the last of your cousins, Wintringham,” Lord Orme confirmed.

“You see, Ned? All you have to do is toddle off home and tell her you don’t care for the place.”

“So I shall, when I can tell her I have stood up with two or three suitable partners. I suppose Miss Chatterton is here? At least she has no designs upon me.”

Over his shorter friend’s head, Edmund glanced about the room. The waltz was over and the dancers were returning to the seats around the walls. Opposite the door where he stood, he caught a glimpse, between attentive gentlemen, of a young lady who reminded him of Jane.

When Jane was his wife, she should come to Almack’s if she chose, he vowed. She should dress in silks and laces, bedeck herself in sapphires to match her eyes, and dance the night away.

Lord Orme had followed his gaze. “Admiring the latest heiress, eh?” he asked.

“Heiress?” said Edmund without interest.

“She’s the only daughter. There’s a brother, but Hornby has plenty for both by all accounts, and she’s a pretty chit, into the bargain. Oh, haven’t you met her? I’ll present you to her if you like. That’s Lady Jane Brooke.”

At that moment, the girl looked across the room. Even at that distance, her eyes met Edmund’s with a shock of recognition.

He shook off Fitz’s hand, turned on his heel, and stalked out into the night.

Lady Jane Brooke, daughter of the Marquis of Hornby! His thoughts whirled. Pretending to be a nobody, she had made a May game of him, enticed him into abandoning formality, laughed at him behind his back like her fellow debutantes. She had undermined his walls and left him defenceless.

And somehow she had persuaded Fitz to betray him. Fitz knew everything, that was obvious. She had stolen from him a friend he could ill spare, flung him back to the agonizing isolation of his first days, weeks, months at Wintringham Abbey, surrounded by his girl-cousins’ contemptuous derision.