Chapter 29: Brothers and Sisters

Dinner will never be that bad again, Tavington hoped, in the sunny light of morning. He helped himself to coffee in the library. Jane was still upstairs, sleeping in his bed. He seemed to remember her leaving the room for awhile in the middle of the night, probably to see to the baby up in the nursery. He had told Rivers to send a maid to help her dress this morning. Breakfast was never served in the Tavington household until after nine.

As for himself, he had been too restless and excited to be home to sleep late, and had dressed and come down to enjoy a quiet morning in the quiet library. He had written a quick note to Lucy, to inform her that he was home and would call on her today. Rivers had taken it and assured him it would be delivered directly. Tavington sipped his coffee comfortably, and hoped Mamma would not openly insult Jane again after that first unpleasant ruction. As to her other guest, he had noticed her studying Letty in a way that at least was not hostile. Perhaps Mamma was pleased with her beauty, though it was very different from her own.

There was a noise at the door: John at last, surely. Even with the door closed, the bellowing was unmistakable.

"Rivers, you bugger! Help a fellow, won't you? No, don't call Pratt. I just want a bit of a sit-down in the library. Not quite ready to face the stairs, don't you know?"

The noise approached. Tavington grinned, anticipating his brother's surprise. The door was kicked, and burst open. John staggered in, shepherded by a harassed-looking Rivers. Tavington gave the butler a nod of dismissal. His brother stopped dead at the sight of someone in his favorite chair.

"Who the devil are you?"

"Don't you know me, John?"

"Good God! It's you!"

Tavington came over to shake his brother's hand. "How are you, John?"

Not well, he was pained to see. John had grown older too, and at the moment hardly resembled a gentleman: his dress stained and disheveled, reeking of spirits and cigar smoke. Up close, Tavington could see the moist, blotchy skin, marred with red spidery veins, the grey in the unshaved stubble, the eyes bloodshot and bleary. He had put on weight, too, and it did not become him. It was not the hearty heft of the sporting man about town: it was the unhealthy flab of a heavy drinker who stayed up too late and whose only exercise was dealing cards and lifting a glass. Be as that may, John was his brother, and Tavington was glad to see him.

He said so immediately. "I'm sorry I missed you at dinner."

"Find yourself pecked to death by the hens, old fellow? Wished I'd known you were coming. Had a splendid set-out at the club. Take you along tonight." He focussed on Tavington again. "Bloody hell! You're home from the bloody colonies, Will! This calls for a drink!"

Tavington raised his coffee cup. "I started without you. Sorry."

John laughed, and fumbled for the decanter. "Right with you, sir. Give a fellow a chance." A good three fingers was poured, slopping wetly over the polished table. "To my little brother! Back in the withered bosom of his family at last!"

Tavington laughed too. "That's appallingly rude of you, John. I'm very happy to return to the fleshpots of civilization. Having never had to do without them, you cannot appreciate---"

"Ha! Do I detect a touch of envy—"

"--You cannot appreciate them as they deserve. I spent two entire months, for example, without a drop of decent brandy, and with only Madeira to drink. The claret I had last night—"

"Only the best!"

"—was nectar of the Gods."

His brother grunted, throwing himself into an overstuffed leather chair. "Ooof! That's better. So tell me everything, Will. You look well, old fellow. She was maundering about deadly wounds, or some such stuff—you know I try never to hear what she's saying—but it must have been the usual fantasy."

"No—I really was wounded in January. It was nearly the end of me, in fact."

"God."

"Well, that's what I said. Stuck with bayonets here—" he placed his hand at his right side. "—and here." he gestured at his collarbone. "Shot here—" he pointed to his left upper arm. "—and grazed here. " he indicated his left side. "And slashed across the chest."

His brother stared at him, shocked. "God in Heaven, Will. Did someone mistake you for a beef, and try to slaughter you?"

"I wondered at the time! Don't worry," he said smiling wickedly into his coffee. "I killed the fellow later."

"Damned glad to hear it," his brother muttered fervently, slurping at his own drink. "I did hear that Mamma's oh-so-dear Lord Ravenswood got you into the Guards."

"I shall have to call and thank him, once I order some decent clothes."

His brother grew serious, despite the haze of alcohol. "So. How goes the war? Are we going to win?"

"Probably not."

"Pity. At least you're well out of it now. Brought home any good loot?"

"Well--I didn't come home empty-handed, if that's what you mean."

"Well?"

"I bought you one of those Pennsylvania-style rifles for your collection. It's still packed, but I'll show it to you later today."

"Damned decent of you. Don't do much shooting anymore, but—well, perhaps I shall, if I can claim your company—"

"That sounds—"

"— It'll be like the old days. Ha! We'll get away from the old harpy, take my curricle, and gallop off to Wargrave—she won't know what's become of us!"

"Well—"

"Today! No—I have to meet Cholmondeley and Malden—but soon?"

"Certainly not today anyway, John. I've got to go to Beverley's. I haven't anything to wear—"

"You sound like a woman!"

"No, I really don't have anything other than what you see, and a wretched thing that was thrown together for me after I was wounded. The baggage train was looted after Cowpens, and I lost all my clothes."

John stared again. "Really! That's ghastly. War is a terrible thing—"

"Besides, I have to report to Horse Guards—"

"I suppose. Duty calls."

"—and I want to see Lucy—"

"Ha! The old woman will have your ears if she finds out! Lucy's still very much non grata. Terrible thing, running off with the clerk."

"Lawyer."

"Clerk—lawyer--what have you… It's all the old woman's fault. When I think of the fine fellows that Lucy could have had—"

"Water under the bridge, now."

"Ha! That's all you know! The old woman still has her teeth sunk into it, like a damned old b—"

"Don't, John."

His brother was getting red with anger, but now subsided again, with a bitter laugh. "You've been away, old fellow. Been away for years and years and years. She's worse than ever. None of us can get a moment's peace. Well, I do, of course, because I can bloody well get out and stay out all night, but Caro and Pen have a sad time of it."

"John, why do you stay here, if you hate it so much?"

"Oh! well--it's not so bad for me, as long as I don't see the old woman. Don't have to pay for my own establishment--don't have to talk to a cook or hire a housekeeper. Damned convenient, really. Probably just laziness. Don't want to make the effort of moving out. And it won't be so bad for you either, of course. You were always her favorite."

"I wonder, after last night—"

"What happened?"

"Mamma's not best pleased with me, John. I did not come home alone."

"God! You didn't bring home a case of the pox, did you? I told you—"

Tavington burst out laughing. "No! I brought home a wife!"

Sir John Tavington was silenced. After a moment, he seemed nearly sobered. "You're married?"

"Yes, wish me joy, my dear John. There is indeed a Mrs. William Tavington, here in this very house. And a young Will, as well, born last May. Caro and Pen are over the moon."

"A boy?"

"Yes!"

"A boy!" John's eyes gleamed. "That's damned good news! If anyone starts hounding me about marriage, I can tell them we've already got ourselves a Tavington heir. Well done, my dear fellow!" He lifted his glass to his brother, saluting him, and took a long swallow.

"It's not too late for you, John. Being married can be a pleasant thing—"

"Stop, stop. Don't even hint at it. The old woman won't have it. You must know yourself that the only reason you could marry was because you were thousands of miles away, on another continent!" He looked at the glass in his hand with a reflective air, swirling the brandy. "Still, the wife business is a dodgy thing. What did the old woman say?"

"She was—she pretended—well, I wrote her and told her all about it, and she pretended that she thought I was joking about it! She was not very—pleased."

"So you're a married man. A Colonial then?" He chuckled. "You brought home a Colonial! The old woman must be spitting nails!" He smiled, pleased at the thought. "Is she pretty?"

"Well—"

"Oh, dear God—"

"She's a very nice girl, John, with a very pretty fortune."

"Aha! How bad is she?"

"She's not ugly, John. She's only rather plain, but she dresses very well, and is a sensible, clever girl. And she saved my life, when I was wounded."

"That's why you married her?"

"No—I married her for the money—twenty thousand pounds!"

His brother nodded. "Not bad. Has the old woman made her cry yet?"

Tavington grimaced. "She's seen worse than Mamma, John. She went through hell to come out to the backcountry and nurse me, and then through hell again when we retreated. Mamma won't find her much like the little bread-and-butter misses she's tormented in the past. I do worry about her sister, though."

"You brought the sister as well? Are you mad?"

"No—Jane's very fond of Letty, and it was the best thing all around. Now she is pretty. Very pretty," he added, with a solemn sip of coffee.

"So why not marry that one?"

"Only a half-sister. No money. Jane got her mother's fortune, but the father married a new, young wife and disinherited the girls after he had a son. A shame. She's a lovely girl, and better off here, even with Mamma, than she was with that old scoundrel."

"Hard to believe."

"Believe it."

They chatted pleasantly a little longer. John was exhausted, after a hard night of gambling and drinking, and gave a great yawn. "Sorry, Will! I suppose I'm off to the land of Nod. Will you be dining here tonight?"

"Yes, certainly. I ought to let Jane and her sister settle in a little more before I leave them to Mamma."

"Good God, what a fate! Will you be staying here, or taking a house of your own?"

"I'm really not sure. I'll have to find out what Horse Guards has planned for me. For all I know the regiment is in Scotland or Ireland…"

"Don't think so. I believe they're in London. Ever since the riots last year, they've been careful to protect the city."

"I read about Lord George Gordon and his 'No Popery' followers. What a lunatic."

"Well, yes, of course, he's mad as a hatter. It was no joke, though, I can tell you, when he forced himself into the House and started haranguing us. I actually wondered if we were all going to be slaughtered by the mob. There wasn't much damage here, other than some broken windows, but Uncle Colchester's coach was stopped in the streets and the crowd made him shout 'No Popery!' before they'd let him go."

"Scum. Was he hurt?"

"Roughed up a bit. He's not young, and it was a great shock. Sattersby was no use at all—spent the entire time in his new nest in Dorset."

"What do you think of his bride?"

"I think—she's very much like—a woman. A lively, pretty, talking thing. Talks too much for my taste. Between ourselves, I don't think her well matched with Sattersby. Bound to be trouble, someday."

A long, thin, liveried servant came through the door and stood regarding Sir John with dour compassion. Sir John greeted him with a sardonic chuckle. "Ah, Pratt! Come to save me from myself?"

"That's right, sir."

Sir John nearly fell out of the chair and into the waiting arms of his valet. "Later, Will. We'll talk later. And I'll meet this wife of yours!"

After his brother was helped away, Tavington rang for the butler. "Rivers, I don't suppose you know of anyone who'd do for my valet, would you?"

Their admirable butler seemed to have anticipated Tavington's need. "It may be, Colonel, that I know of such a person. My sister's sister-in-law's second cousin once removed is out of a situation at the moment."

"Has he any experience?"

"Indeed, sir. He was valet for some years for Lord Fontenay before that gentleman's unfortunate demise."

"Good God, what happened to Fontenay?"

"He found himself in difficulties sir, involving some debts of honor. He shot himself. Twice."

"Twice?"

"The first time he neglected to put a ball in the pistol. Nasty powder burn. Had he not been more successful shortly thereafter, it would have caused him considerable discomfort."

"Pity. He was a good fellow. Well, send for this second cousin, or whatever. I'll take him on trial. If he can get here before I go out today, so much the better "

The butler bowed his assent.

Tavington added. "After breakfast, call a hack carriage for me. I have errands about town."

"Very good, sir."

-----

The sister's sister-in-law's second cousin once removed, by name Doggery, came sooner rather than later, and Tavington felt that he himself was the one being taking on trial, as Doggery gave little surreptitious, doleful glances at Tavington, evidently lamenting his new master's taste in garments and hairdressing. The man was a spindly little fellow, with a face like a sad monkey, but Tavington had him brought into the now empty library (not knowing if Jane was yet dressed), and demanded a trial of his skill as a hairdresser and barber.

The results of this impromptu audition were surprising and pleasing, and Tavington took him on at once and had him shown to the servants' quarters. He was impatient to be out and about, but knew it would be unkind to leave until after breakfast.

The meal was a light-hearted one, for Mamma, it seemed, now always took her breakfast in her boudoir, and was never down until the afternoon.

"And then," said Jane with mock gravity, "we shall be examined in music."

"Will you be back by then, Colonel?" Letty asked timidly. "It would be better if you could be here."

"I shall certainly by back by three o'clock," he assured her. "Caro, ask Mamma if she can possibly wait until I can enjoy the concert."

His wife and her sister seemed to be a little nervous. He thought they looked nice enough, if rather unadorned. Each was wearing a rather pretty dress of linen damask: Jane's a yellow that he thought he remembered; and Letty's a soft blue. They chatted pleasantly enough with his sisters, and Tavington felt sorry that he must remark about the shortcomings of Jane's room.

"We will see what can be done, William," Caroline promised him. "I know that we can find some better draperies for her, and I will order a new mattress. That may not be available for a few days, however." She turned smilingly to Letty, "And you, ma'am? Is there anything that can be done to make you more comfortable?"

Letty looked up from her breakfast, surprised. "Oh—no! My room is charming. I would not change a single thing!"

"The perfect houseguest!" laughed Penelope.

-----

The carriage Rivers found for him was an open barouche-landau with a knowledgeable driver, and Tavington enjoyed his ride about town in it. Knowing his mother as he did, Tavington had not even brought up the idea of borrowing her own coach for the day. Besides, a hack driver would not be tattling to the women of Mortimer Square about his itinerary.

It took over an hour to order his new wardrobe. He needed so much, and was offered a bewildering range of choices. His uniforms were easy enough: his measurements were brought up to date, little changed from his last visit in 1776. However, it was not done to wear uniforms about town unless one was on duty or appearing at an official function. Tavington immediately needed two suits of civilian clothing suitable for day, and ordered something much more elaborate for the evenings of pleasure he was anticipating. A rich brown velvet he considered, and then rejected. It reminded him unpleasantly of something, but he was not sure what. He shook his head, and it was set aside. His mother had told him to avoid the indigo blue of the Whigs—the color chosen because it was the same as that worn by the rebel Continental army. Unfortunate. He liked blue as much as Letty, and knew it became him. Perhaps a lighter blue…

No, that would unnecessarily vex Mamma, and make his own loyalties ambiguous. He decided instead on a changeable coppery silk, a voluptuously fine green wool (which he stated he would pay for partly in advance with full payment on delivery, if they could have it for him tomorrow), and a wine-colored velvet. Some patterned Spitalfields silk was designated for waistcoats that could be finished quickly, and some plain silk would be elaborately embroidered for more waistcoats that would be delivered in a few weeks. A very stylish greatcoat, draped behind with three capes, he required as soon as possible.

His shopping list was long, and the carriage stopped many times along Bond Street and Jermyn Street, as Tavington ordered shoes, boots, hats, linen, silk stockings, lace.

He next reported to Horse Guards, the headquarters of the British Army, and found out quite a bit about his new command. His superiors were notified of his arrival, and one of them, General Tazewell, was actually available. Tavington had not known the man to speak to, but found him an affable new acquaintance. He was briskly invited to dine with the General the following day at his club, the Beefsteak, where Tavington would also meet with his new lieutenant-colonel, Lord Alan St. Leger. He could hardly show himself at his officers' mess until he had a uniform appropriate to the occasion.

"St. Leger's a son of the Marquess of Melmerby. Cousin of yours, an't he?" asked the general. "I suppose you already know him."

"Just barely," Tavington shrugged. "Yes—my grandmother was a St. Leger, but Lord Alan must be almost ten years younger than I. After all those years spent in America, I feel I hardly know anyone."

"You'll soon be back to your old self," laughed Tazewell. "Come to the club prepared to spin some good yarns about the Colonies!"

Tavington smiled back. "I have a few you might find amusing."

-----

Duty done, Tavington told the driver to take him to Tudor Street-- number 7 to be exact--and sat back to enjoy the spectacle of the city. They passed through the Strand (Tavington remembered that the Beefsteak Club was nearby), Fleet Street, past the Temple, and soon they were in Tudor Street.

It was not a very grand street, and the houses looked old and rather narrow, but Lucy lived here, and that was enough. He gave his name to the decent-looking manservant who opened the door, and was pleased a half-minute later to hear his favorite sister's voice.

"Oh, he's here! Show him up, Tobias!"

And in the end, she could not wait, for she met him on the steps to kiss him, and walk him up to her little drawing room herself.

"Would you like some tea? Tobias, fetch us some tea."

Tavington did not particularly need tea, but knew his sister would enjoy showing herself a model hostess. He admired her happy face, and studied the house. It was not a bad house, though it was not half the size of their mother's, and all the walls were of a dark wood. On the ground floor was the dining room and, he guessed, Protheroe's study behind it. The first floor drawing room Lucy led him into was a pleasant place: furnished attractively, if rather simply, and with only a view out the windows of the equally narrow houses across the narrow street. It was Lucy's, however, and she was clearly proud of having a house of her own.

She had aged better than the rest of his family: still her pretty, vital self, though not as slim as before. She looked rounded and softened by motherhood, as if that experience had smoothed off sharp corners but left her whole. Her eyes, the silvery blue that she and he and Caroline had inherited from their mother, were as bright as ever, and at peace. Her brown hair, lighter than his own, was covered by a very entrancing gauze and lace cap, trimmed with pink ribbon rosettes.

"Oh, William! How handsome you look! Uniforms do so become you!"

He laughed and shook his head. They sat together on the single sofa, her hand in his. She smiled at him affectionately, and added, "Though I think you would look well in anything!" She grew serious, and said, "So much has happened since we were last in the same room. My life—well, you can see—"

"Are you happy, Lucy?"

Her face glowed. "Yes. So very happy. I know that you are disappointed in my marriage—yes, don't deny it—but Edward is the best and kindest of men, and a most loving husband and father. I can trust him completely. How many other women can say the same?"

"You broke many an aristocratic heart when you eloped with him, I am told."

"Rubbish!" Her face hardened in determination. "If any of them had cared two pins for me, they would dared our mother's displeasure and taken me away. 'Oh, dear!'" she mocked. "'Mustn't cause a scandal! Anything but that!'" She laughed, a little harshly, and then smiled sweetly again. "Do you think I miss spending night after night at those balls and routs and revels, tittering and flirting with nitwits, while Mamma and John were busy at the gaming tables, winning and losing fortunes?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

She laughed again. "No. It was dull and tiresome and made my head ache, with my hair piled up into the latest fashion. The last time, I remember it was made into the shape of a Grecian Urn. It must have weighed half a stone. I could hardly move. It was nearly a relief to be locked away. Now I wear caps, like the old married woman I am, and I am perfectly comfortable."

"You look quite lovely."

The tea arrived. Lucy told the manservant, "Have Rebecca bring down Master Ned, as soon as he has had his dinner. Then go to Mr. Protheroe, and tell him that Colonel Tavington is here." She turned to her brother anxiously, "You can stay a little while, can you not?"

"Not much more than half an hour, Lucy. I promised to get back and defend my wife and sister-in-law from Mamma. She demanded that they play and sing for her this afternoon."

"Was she civil to them?"

"Do you think it likely?"

"No. Oh, William, was she horrid to them?"

"Quite horrid to Jane. Sneered at her and gave her the Willow Room, which had been shut up for years and stank of mildew. Letty—she ignored, but allowed to have your old bedchamber."

For the first time, Lucy looked a little wistful. "Oh, my dear old room! Did she like it?"

"She adored it. When Caro asked if she wished anything to be changed, she declared it to be perfection as it was."

"I'm so glad. My room was my sanctuary for all those years. I'm glad someone else is enjoying it. She sounds very nice."

"Letty is a lovely girl, but timid and shy, from her years as a slave. She is very happy to be free and in England, however, and is very much looking forward to all the town's diversions."

Lucy smiled slyly. "And among the –diversions—do you think a call at Number Seven, Tudor Street is in their future?"

"I rather think so. Would tomorrow be convenient? I've all sorts of business about town to take care of, and tomorrow I must dine with some fellow officers, but a little after noon I plan to take them on a drive that climaxes with a Tudor Street visit."

"And Mrs. Tavington will not be offended if I cannot return the call?"

"Jane understands your situation. After all, she and I eloped, and she suffered her father's displeasure."

"Did her father know about Miss Letty's changed circumstances?"

"There was an appalling meeting at the Charlestown docks. The man appeared, most surprisingly, to bid us goodbye. His reaction to Letty's appearance was just what I would have expected, unfortunately. Jane defied him, and hurried Letty away."

"Your Jane sounds like a very spirited young lady."

"Perhaps too spirited. She did not defer to Mamma in the way that Mamma expects. I hope there will not be a scene."

Lucy bounced up, and poured herself another cup of tea. "Oh, I hope there is! It's just what Mamma deserves! You ought not to make your wife stay long in that house: you know Mamma will never accept her or be civil to her. If it gets too bad, you can come here—oh—" her face fell. "But I have only two spare rooms—"

Tavington answered, perfectly straight-faced, "Jane and I could possibly share—"

"Oh!"

"—but I will not let it come to that." He changed the subject, hearing footsteps coming downstairs. "And I have not yet made the acquaintance of my nephew."

The little boy, holding his smiling nurse's hand, toddled into the drawing room and then ran to his mother, peeking around her shoulder at the strange man in red. He had Lucy's eyes.

And so, Tavington made the effort to make friends with a small child, something he had never done before. Ned was an appealing little fellow, with his bright eyes and dark curls, and was curious about the many bits of shiny metal on Tavington's person. His vocabulary was not quite up to elevated conversation, but with his mother's prompting, he could say, "How 'oo do, Onka Wiyam?" and after awhile consented to seat himself on Onka Wiyam's knee. He appeared to comprehend that this red-coated individual was a 'sojer!" Tavington was satisfied with the beginnings of their acquaintance, glimpsing a long, eventful future as this little boy's friend and counselor.

Shortly thereafter, Protheroe arrived. The downstairs door opened and closed, and a moment later, Lucy's husband appeared, bowing civilly. Tavington had not remembered him being good-looking, and he was not, but he had a clever, thoughtful, interesting face, and made a respectable appearance in his plain but well-tailored coat and fine wig. Tavington thought there was a hint of unease, but was determined to make friends with this man as well as with his little son. He offered Protheroe his hand, and told him how pleased he was to find his sister so very well and happy.

"My wife and son are everything in the world to me," Protheroe said frankly, without a trace of the affectation or irony that would have been second nature to a man of the ton. "I understand that you are also a father now."

This made a very successful topic of conversation. Tavington gave them an edited version of his son's birth, and then, lightening the subject, told them about the woes of traveling with a small infant. Protheroe chuckled compassionately. Lucy was not so pleased at the story about the rum, and raised her brows at her brother. Both men burst out laughing at her, and little Ned squealed with laughter too, not understanding the conversation at all, but happy that the men were happy.

"Actually, Protheroe," Tavington said, "I wanted your help on some matters of business. There is my wife's fortune, which needs investing—I hoped in the five-per-cents. I wonder if you can deal with this, or refer me to some reliable man who can."

His brother-in-law seemed very pleased to be consulted. "It would be my honor to serve you, Tavington. Let me know when you wish to meet—it can be here, or at my office. I see no difficulty in handling the money as you wish. How much is the total?'

"Well, Jane's fortune is some twenty thousand, and I have a little that I have scraped together over the years. I also have about three hundred paid from Jane's investments that were closed down in Charlestown. I am quite resolved to put myself in your hands. You and your father always did well by our family—though I know that we have not done well by you."

Protheroe dismissed that. "Well, the past---well, the past is past, you know? I take it you do not share your lady mother's—"

"No. I do not. I shall visit tomorrow, and bring my wife and her sister."

"And the baby, I should hope!" Lucy appeared adamant.

"And the baby, if you like," he agreed, smiling. To Protheroe, he said, "I shall bring the papers to show you, and we can start the process." He bowed to them both. "And now I really must away. Protheroe, Lucy, my dear. And you, young master Ned!"

His nephew grinned, and waved a pudgy little hand in farewell.

-----

As he expected, Mamma had chosen not to wait for him. He took the stairs quickly, hearing the incisive, powerful tones of the big harpsichord in the music room. He recognized the piece, one of the ones Jane favored, a sonata by that Italian she liked. He smiled, listening to the volley of notes flowing effortlessly. Jane had nothing to blush for as a musician.

He reached the door as she was ending her piece, and was the first to applaud. She looked about and saw him, a relieved smile lighting her face. "You're back!"

He bowed to the ladies assembled, continuing to clap as he seated himself by Caroline. "Not a moment too soon! I would have been sorry to have missed the entertainment."

"How well you play," cried Penelope. "Caro, don't you think—what execution!"

"Yes, indeed," agreed her sister, "I, too, am very fond of the music of Signor Scarlatti. You are most accomplished!" She looked over to her mother. "Dear Mrs. Tavington is an excellent musician, is she not, ma'am?"

Lady Cecily was markedly less enthusiastic. "She plays adequately. A proper master could have given her more polish, a more elegant taste—that je ne sais quoi beyond mere mechanical note-playing." She smiled condescendingly. "But yes, considering all her unfortunate limitations, she plays well enough." She deigned to speak to her daughter-in-law. "It is a pity you do not know the harp. It is far and away the more fashionable instrument."

Jane was very collected in her response. She knew that she had played very well indeed, and her husband's mother was merely trying to bait her. "You have a beautiful harp, ma'am. Do you play?" Her eyes held a limpid, innocent challenge.

"No longer,' was the sharp retort. "I have better things to do." Her eyes moved inexorably to Letty. "And now I wish to hear this young person."

Letty hands were shaking, but she rose obediently. Jane began the accompaniment to A Pastorale, and Letty, not looking at her audience, sang it through without mishap.

Tavington had always thought she had a very nice voice, but his sisters were delighted, and his mother eyed the girl with greater interest than she had hitherto shown. In fact, she spoke first. "A most pleasing voice. Untrained, unfortunately, but perhaps it is not too late to remedy that defect. Sing something else."

And so, Letty was made to sing her entire small repertory. Tavington simply enjoyed it, but noted his sisters and mothers listening intently, with a positively—professional—air.

"When Signor Bellini comes on Thursday, we must have Miss Rutledge sing for him," suggested Penelope.

"No." Lady Cecily surprised them all. "Penelope, you will write immediately to Signor Bellini and have him come tomorrow. Miss Rutledge must waste no time in improving herself. And let him come early." She smiled slightly, so as not to crack her face-paint. "Come here, my child."

Letty looked up at the old lady and felt a faint chill at the little smile. She had learned over the years to be very sensitive to the expressions of the powerful in her world, and knew instinctively that this woman was not a friend, despite her fair words. Nonetheless, her long training overcame her reluctance, and she dutifully glided over to stand before the mistress of the house.

"You are a very pretty sort of girl, Miss Rutledge. An olive skin, but your eyes and figure make up for that shortcoming. Very delicate hands and wrists. We shall have the harp master as well. Even the simplest tunes are bewitching when played on the harp. You have no fortune, as I understand it?"

"No, Lady Cecily."

"—Mamma," Tavington broke in, not liking this inquisititon.

"Please do not interrupt me, William, I am only trying to be of assistance. You walk with grace, Miss Rutledge. Does she dance well, William?"

"Yes, Mamma, very well."

His mother considered the girl before her, and declared, "Her lack of fortune may not be fatal to having a good establishment in the future, when the lack is counterbalanced by a handsome appearance and some notable accomplishments. With proper instruction, she could be quite the ornament of a musical gathering. Do you play cards, my dear?"

"A little, Lady Cecily. I have learned whist—"

"That is very satisfactory." She turned coldly to Jane. "I will be having a few friends to dinner on Wednesday next to celebrate my son's return—eight or nine—a mere trifle. Will you and Miss Rutledge have adequate apparel for such a gathering?"

"Letty has the dress you saw last night, and I—"

"You must order her a new gown. She must be properly dressed if she is to appear in society. You ought to engage a lady's maid as soon as may be. Caro—Pen—order the carriage and take Mrs. Tavington and Miss Rutledge to Madame Margot's establishment this very afternoon. Stay—I will go, too. There must be no mistake about the colors."

Thus, abruptly, ended the little concert. His mother rustled away to change for the expedition to the modiste's, and the other ladies were left in confusion, not quite understanding the need for hurry. Caroline and Penelope were rather embarrassed by their mother's dismissal of Jane.

Caroline repeated her earlier praise. "You play beautifully, Mrs. Tavington. It is a great pleasure to hear you."

"Thank you," Jane replied. "And I still think that you have a magnificent harp. If the harp master comes, I shall not be too proud to take instruction along with Letty!"

Tavington was pleased with her good manners in turning the subject. He was even more pleased—and surprised, in fact--at his mother's sudden interest in Letty. Even if Mamma did not care for Jane, she could be of significant help to his sister-in-law if she adopted her as her protégée. And if his wife and sisters enjoyed their music together, perhaps it would be a good idea to stay at Mortimer Square a little longer than he had planned.


Note: St. Leger is pronounced Si'lin-jer. Rhymes with Dillinger. If Tavington's taste in clothing seems showy, that was 18th century gentleman's style. No plain black for them (unless you were a very stuffy clergyman). When Lady Cecily criticizes Letty for having an olive complexion, it simply means that Letty is not the extreme snow-white-and-rose fashionable ideal of the 18th century.

Next--Chapter 30: Back in the World