Part III
Chapter 54: All Roads Lead to London
In the middle of an exclusive street in the middle of exclusive Mayfair was a most exclusive gentlemen's club. The service was impeccable, for the waiters effaced themselves skillfully, sometimes making one wonder if the wine had appeared by magic. The members particularly liked the chairs: large, soft capacious chairs, smelling of the best leather:--chairs in which one could sink out of the world's reckoning and enjoy peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away. They were not the chairs one would find in a Mayfair drawing room: those hard, narrow, spindle-legged horrors that seemed determined to eject their occupants by the artful means of their slippery silk upholstery. No, indeed--the club chairs enveloped one in comfort, and invited the happy gentleman who sat in them to stay as long as he pleased.
William Tavington entered the club that afternoon with a spring in his step. How pleasant to meet friends, to play cards, to hear the latest news. Important news, of course, concerning the war and politics. It was not gossip—he was quite clear about that-- not the trivial things that silly women went on about. If the conversation sometimes veered in the direction of the personal lives of one's acquaintances—their views, their ambitions, their horses, or their love affairs—it was understandable, for one needed to know these important details to fully understand a friend or enemy.
Life was good. Not only did he have the common pleasures of clubs and dinners, but Jane was at home now at Mortimer Square, at home where she belonged. He would chat with his acquaintances for a few hours, and then go home to his wife, taking tea with her, dining with her, slipping into the velvet darkness of her bed at night, her soft skin warm against his. It would be very pleasant to have Jane share a home with him, just as she ought. With Mamma confined to her apartments, the rest of the house was theirs to command.
Pen and Caro had greeted them so happily. Pen had handed the household keys over to Jane, and would not brook a refusal. His sisters had kissed the trio of cranky little boys, delighted to have children in the house to stay. John had clapped him on the back, telling him he was quite content to be a boarder until he had his own place, and that henceforth he considered Tavington the master here.
Jane was pleased with the little changes and repairs that Pen had undertaken: the billiard table showed no evidence that it had ever been used for any other purpose; stained and frayed brocades in the drawing room, music room and ballroom had been replaced by fresh new fabric. They had not gone to the expense of new-furnishing the rooms: Mamma had done that not three years ago, and the cost had been no light matter. Nonetheless, the new touches had served their purpose. Number Twelve, Mortimer Square was looking very handsome indeed. It looked just as it should: like the elegant—even luxurious—home of a well-connected family...
Tavington smiled, relaxing into his club chair, remembering the charming scene. The sound of sweet ladylike voices made a pleasant background music for his daily life. He had hoped to have John's company at the club, but John was engrossed in his duties and gone to attend a debate. The Tory whip was astonished that it was no longer uphill work to get John in for votes. If John went on in this way, he might yet make something of himself.Or would, if their party were not soon to be out of office. The Whigs were nipping at their heels. Lord North would face a no-confidence vote any day now, and then the whole pack of knaves and liars would be swept into power. Tavington tried not to be downhearted. The Whigs could not rule forever. If only John could keep up this sudden interest in his career!
He sighed deeply, and the sound was just loud enough to awaken his neighbor in the next chair from a light doze.
"Tavington? Is that you? Good God!" The muzzy, sleepy voice cleared, and the occupant, until now hidden by the sheltering wings of the chair, leaned forward. Tavington saw first the tip of a beaky nose, and then the rest of a long, gangling young man.
"Rawdon! You're here! I was planning on calling on you!" Tavington's face lit with pleasure, and he reached over to shake Lord Rawdon's hand.
"I was planning on calling on you! How are you? You look very well!"
"And you, too. French food obviously agreed with you."
Rawdon laughed easily. "I admit that my French captors fed me well—especially in the last few weeks of my durance vile. I can hardly complain of my treatment. It was certainly better than any I could have expected had I fallen into rebel hands."
The rebels, in fact, had wanted to hang Francis, Lord Rawdon, for his execution of a spy and parole-breaker. The French had been scandalized by the request to do just that. After some month of waiting and a heavy ransom, they had set Rawdon free, and he was now back in London, reacquainting himself with all his old friends. He looked far healthier than he had when Tavington had seen him last. Pale, yes--but at least not pale green.
"You are quite well, Rawdon? I confess I was alarmed for you when we bade you farewell in South Carolina."
"Never better. It was the heat—that damnable damp and heat. I was at the end of my tether, I confess. A week of so at sea and I was a new man. Of course," he snorted self-consciously, "the new man was promptly captured by the French, but at least I wasn't dying anymore! How was your own journey? You seemed to have entirely evaded the enemy."
"Yes. Luck was with us."
"I am remiss! How is your brave and charming lady? And how is my godson? I must call on him, too, and make certain that his parents are treating him as he deserves!"
"Well—come to dinner tomorrow. Are you able?"
"Yes—stay—I---" he paused, and then his eyes crinkled up in good humor. "Yes. I shall come. At what hour?"
"Would six suit? We shall be very happy to see you. Oh! By the way, my brother is giving a ball on the twenty-sixth. I hope you will attend."
"Thanks, with all my heart! The twenty-sixth? A pleasant change—better to be captive to English ladies than to French prison guards! And how is Mrs. Tavington enjoying London?"
"Very much. She has been out in the country for the past few months, however, at my brother's estate, while the servants in town were inoculated. Since—" It occurred to Tavington that he must say something to Rawdon, who of all people would wonder at the matter. "--since her sister married Lord Fanshawe."
"Her sister!" wondered Lord Rawdon. "I had no idea she had a sister."
"Er—well, her sister is a natural daughter of Mr. Rutledge. In South Carolina, of course, she was in the old man's household, but knowing she would be free in England—"
"Stay—I think I know—that pretty young creature, her maid! She is Mrs. Tavington's sister?"
"Yes. She came to England as Miss Laeticia Rutledge, and was shortly thereafter married to Lord Fanshawe."
Rawdon's mouth hung open. Hastily, he remembered his manners and said, "Fanshawe! Is he still alive? The man must be at least a hundred!"
Tavington laughed. "Not quite. He is rather her senior. But you understand, Rawdon," he added, lowering his voice, "that I thought I should ask you, just in case—"
"I'll say nothing of the past," Rawdon assured him instantly. "But you must admit it is a very astonishing circumstance."
"No one is more astonished than I," Tavington replied, rather wryly, "except possibly my wife. The entire business took us entirely by surprise. However, Lady Fanshawe has written to us that she is extremely happy. We expect to see her in London tomorrow."
"The whole world seems to pouring into London," Rawdon remarked. "Tarleton is back in England, and I believe he arrived in London a few days ago. I have not yet seen him, however."
"I only arrived yesterday myself from the country. No doubt we shall soon meet."
"If we take care to be where cards are played and pretty women are to be found."
"I have no objection to cards in moderation, but I fear Tarleton will think me a tiresome old married man—good for nothing but going home early to my wife and child."
"As for me, I envy you. I am in no great hurry to settle, but I can see it might be very much to my taste in a few years."
After another pleasant hour of talk, Tavington took his leave, and went home. With Jane there, Caro and Pen had taken the opportunity to go out together and call on some friend or other. Jane had encouraged them to accept the invitation, saying she wanted to stay home anyway that afternoon. Lucy and Protheroe would join them for dinner, and she had felt that was all the excitement she could bear on the day of her arrival.
She was not in the morning room. She was not in the music room. Tavington went up to her bedchamber, and did not find her there, either. In the little dressing room at the end of the hall he found only her maid.
"Where is Mrs. Tavington?" he asked Pullen, who looked up from her sewing. "No, don't get up. Where is she?"
"Oh, sir!" Pullen said grimly. "That French maid of her ladyship's came knocking, saying that her mistress was at sixes and sevens and that Mrs. Watkins could not give her any more laudanum drops yet. Mrs. Tavington went to see if she could help calm her."
Jane calm Mamma? How can this be? Quickening his step, he hurried to see if Jane required rescuing.
His nose twitched as he entered Mamma's bedroom. He had not been here in a week, and the smell was not improving. Fragile and shrunken, Mamma lay in state in her great bed, a magnificent lace cap overwhelming her head. Jane was seated in a chair by the bedside, reading aloud in French. His mother's wrinkled hands clutched at the satin coverlet like the talons of a bird of prey. Now and then she issued a strange, croaking laugh.
She saw Tavington and called out, a little too loudly, "Come and hear this, my dear, if you please. Miss Grey has been reading to me from the Memoirs of Saint-Simon. Such an amusing story. Une omelette à l'évêque! Ha ha! And Mme. de Charlus lost her wig—quite burned off. Read it for Sir Jack, Miss Grey. He dearly loves a laugh."
"Very well, " Jane assented quietly. "Mme de Charlus soupait un vendredi chez Mme la princesse de Conti… "
Jane read slowly enough that Tavington could understand most of it. The lady's wig had caught fire from a candle as she reached for the salt, and the Archbishop of Reims, to save her, had snatched it from her head. She had not known she was on fire, and so in reprisal had thrown an egg in his face.
Tavington smiled, and remarked, as Jane finished the passage, "Very amusing indeed, since the French are so vain of their manners and claim no one else has any!"
"True," his mother agreed, a rusty chuckle issuing from deep in her throat. "How fortunate that Miss Grey can read French. That companion of mine is good for nothing," she added, with a spiteful glare at Nurse Watkins, who was calmly knitting in a corner. "She cannot even find my box."
"Which box, Madam?" Tavington asked wearily. Mamma made less sense every day.
Lady Cecily blinked, and her eyes traveled the room, as if searching for something precious. "My box," she whispered. "I must find it."
Mrs. Watkins leaned forward and whispered, "She taken to talking about that box all the time, sir. She says she mustn't lose the papers in it—says that it's a State secret, and there are those who will pay well for it. It worries her, it does."
"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Watkins," Tavington said shortly. "We all know Lady Cecily's mind is drifting. Like as not it is some trifle of twenty years ago. Try to keep her calm. Tell her you have the box, if you must!"
"I tried that, sir, and nothing would do but she must see it. Then she went on about how your father had stolen it and accused me of being his mistress. That's when I called for your wife. Lady Cecily thought she was that Miss Grey and calmed down right quick."
Jane looked sad and tired, and set the book by. "And now I must see to the children, my lady.."
"Yes, yes, the children," Lady Cecily agreed vaguely. "Do something about Caro's penmanship, I pray you. She blots and smears in the ugliest way. You must put a stop to it."
Jane rose, and curtsied slightly. "A lady's hand is indeed important."
She left the room, and Mrs. Watkins came and settled Lady Cecily's pillows about her. She administered the laudanum, and Lady Cecily gave a deep sigh.
Tavington bent and kissed his mother's forehead. "Rest now, Madam."
His mother's eyes shone glassily, her mind already withdrawing into some interior world. Tavington turned and left, wanting to talk to Jane. He shut the door behind him and caught her up in a few steps.
"What was all that?"
"There were difficulties earlier and Mrs. Watkins asked me for assistance, as she is accustomed to calling upon your sisters when your mother becomes too excited. Apparently Lady Cecily takes me for some governess named Miss Grey. Do you remember such a person?"
"Not I. She must have left when I was quite young. Mamma went through quite a number of governesses over the years."
"Apparently she liked Miss Grey. I know it is wrong to lie, but it seemed to uselessly cruel to argue with her. If she likes me as the governess, that is better than disliking me as a daughter-in-law." After a moment, she added, "I was sorry to see how much more ill she looked. And she plagued me about that box. The maid said she asks for it constantly, but since she calls her Paulette, it must have been something important a long time ago."
"Yes, Paulette was three maids ago, back when Mamma was Lady of the Bedchamber to the Dowager Princess of Wales."
"Was she really? To the King's Mother? I did not know that."
"It did not last long. She had to resign it when my father was in his last illness—about 1761, it would be. And the Dowager is dead now, so there is no longer any connection to the Court. Besides we hated it—her children, I mean. Mamma was gone for long periods of time. It did not matter so much to me, because I was in school, but it was a great burden on my sisters."
----
Tavington enjoyed his first dinner back in London greatly. He had guessed, but not fully realized how Mamma had repressed his sisters' spirits. Lucy and Protheroe arrived, and it had all been a little like the olden days, when as children they had dined together with a few little friends, playing uproariously at being grown-up ladies and gentlemen. The dinner conversation had a touch of unreality about it, but Tavington would grow used to it in time. John, graciously giving up his place at table to his younger brother, talked of this or that Parliamentary committee. Caro mentioned her book: she was making a fair copy that could be sent to a publisher. Penelope had invited fellow patrons of the Magdalen to tea on Friday. Lucy and Protheroe related stories of the ridiculous legal situations of his clients. Tavington himself faced Jane down the length of the dining table, occasionally wondering how this little girl had talked him into playing house, but rather liking the game, really.
The main topic of conversation was the ball that was planned for the twenty-sixth. The ball was technically being given by Sir John Tavington, with Mrs. William Tavington as hostess. Between them, the brothers had decided that it would be more tactful for Sir John to give a ball in his brother's honor. The display of the new portrait would seem less like one man's vanity, and more like a family celebration of a returned hero.
Jane had resigned herself to a black ball gown. She discussed it thoroughly with Pullen. At this, her first London ball, she must make a good appearance, and she had gone with Pullen and her sisters-in-law that very day to order splendid toilettes. It seemed wasteful and stupid to fill her wardrobe with black gowns, so she was having something made that could easily be modified. A gown could look entirely different with a fresh stomacher or different trimming. Their income was good one, but Jane did not intend to spend it recklessly. She hoped they could put at least a little money aside every year for the children.
The guest list was large. John thought fifty a good round number to have, and so they were inviting rather more than that, allowing for people's prior engagements and absences from town. Not just Alan St. Leger, but his entire family were invited: the Marquess and Marchioness of Melmerby, their eldest son Lord Thurston and his wife, and their daughters, the Ladies Helena, Beatrice, Imogen, Isabel, and Sylvia St. Leger.
"Very pretty, good-natured girls," Caroline told Jane. "The youngest is rather—young—to be out, but I like them. I'm glad to hear they are coming to town. We do not see nearly enough of them. Their estate is in Cumberland, and it is a long journey for them."
And then there were the obvious invitations: to Lord and Lady Fanshawe, to the Tazewells, to a group of John's friends from White's, to the Parrotts –
"We must invite them," Penelope sighed. "They were Mamma's friends so long. It would look odd if we did not."
"Let us not forget Uncle Colchester," Caroline reminded them. "He is in Dorset with Bill and Kitty, and no doubt is enjoying the country there, but perhaps they all might come for William's sake."
Tavington felt rather guilty at that point, and had caught Jane's forced smile.. It would have to happen someday. Uncle Colchester genuinely loved his nephews and nieces, and Tavington wanted him there. He had no idea what he would feel at seeing Kitty again, but for Jane's sake, he would not make an ass of himself. If he did, he would not be surprised if Jane slapped Kitty's face and then his own. Discretion must be the watchword.
Penelope had a number of friends she wished to invite—people she knew through her charitable concerns."And of course, let us invite dear Mr. Bellini."
Caroline laughed, "That would be pleasant. But you all are forgetting—we must certainly invite Sir Joshua, the artist responsible the portrait. We must invite him and make much of him!"
Jane was surprised by the number of people who were named: some cousins on the Tavington side of whom he had never told her, Cabinet ministers and Court officials and their wives and sons and daughters. Tavington himself put in a word for Lord Rawdon, and a few other officer friends of his, back from America.
"No doubt, with the new arrivals, there will be others we shall all wish to invite," John agreed indulgently. "There should be plenty of supper and dancing room for all!"
After dinner, the children were brought down to be kissed again. Ashbury remembered Lucy and Protheroe from Christmas, and was happy to see them, but was disappointed that they had not brought Ned.
"Another time, Ash, I promise," Lucy assured him.
Too soon, the children were whisked away, and Lucy sat looking after them, smiling to herself. "I had thought to receive on Thursday," Jane told her, "Or we could come to you—whatever is convenient. I really ought to go to you next, of course."
"Oh, let's not be so formal," cried Lucy. "Thursday would be delightful. We shall come right after Ned has his dinner, and bother you all afternoon."
"Do, dearest!" Penelope agreed. "It is so much better, since one of us has to be nearby for Mamma's sake. If you come here, we can all be together!"
Jane looked over at Tavington at that moment, and they exchanged a look of complete understanding. Together. It was a sweet moment, and one that they had much to say about later that night, when their guests were gone...
-----
On Tuesday morning Tavington took Jane into the study to begin their work on his memoirs. There was not much writing done. Jane had hardly seen the study, and wanted to look at everything in it. Then there were papers to assemble. They talked over an outline of the work, and what exactly Tavington was aiming at. They laughed, reminiscing over their time together in the backcountry. So much had happened, so much had changed since those days, and yet they were less than a year ago! Jane jotted down some amusing anecdotes that must not be forgotten. Still laughing, they joined the rest of the family in the morning room.
While they were there, a note arrived.
Dear sister,
We have just arrived. I am so tired. I long to see you, but Lord Fanshawe says that you must wait upon me, not the other way. He is most insistent, and I do not like to go against him. Please call tomorrow if you can. I have so much to tell you, and forgive me for seeming haughty in not coming to you at once.
Your loving sister,
Letty
Jane read through the note and frowned. Sensing everyone's eyes on her, she looked up, with a slight laugh. "It is from Lady Fanshawe. She is safely home, and begs me to call tomorrow. She says she is very tired. I hope she is not ill."
"Oh, my, yes!" Penelope sympathized. "Her condition, of course! I long to see dear Lady Fanshawe, but I suspect the two of you would like to have a little time to yourselves. I shall call another time, when she has had some time to catch her breath."
"I, too," Caroline said, her eyes still fixed on her manuscript. "It will be so pleasant. Perhaps they could dine with us."
"I shall certainly ask them," Jane promised.
But tonight was for Lord Rawdon, who was a very good guest indeed. He arrived punctually, and civilly expressed his sympathy to Jane at her father's death, but was otherwise his cheerful self. Jane wished briefly he were not so young. If only a pair of gentlemen of mature years were to come to sweep away Caro and Pen! She loved her sisters-in-law. While she would miss them if they were not in the house, it seemed such a waste of intelligent, sweet-natured, attractive women to be alone. It's not that unusual, of course. There are more nice women than men to deserve them.
The children were brought down for a visit after dinner, and Lord Rawdon reacquainted himself with his little godson.
"He's looking well. The country air agrees with him—and with you, Mrs. Tavington!"
"Yes—I think it did," Jane agreed, with a smile. "It is a wonderful place."
"And these are your brothers, I hear, Mrs. Tavington? What fine little fellows!"
He grinned at Ash, who grinned back, and showed him Red Horse, as a mark of high favor. The conversation canvassed sea voyages, and the boys' arduous journey, and Rawdon's own misfortunes.
"It will be some time before I set foot on a ship, I assure you!"
Moll took the little ones back up to the nursery, and the talk turned to other things. Rawdon teased Jane about her exploits on the King's highway. Her smile became tense. Everyone, it seemed, knew the story of the initial attack, but almost no one had heard about Carver's attempted revenge, which was much more on Jane's mind. Her family looked at her uneasily, but Jane did not want to talk about it. Even remembering it caused her pain.
She changed the subject. "London is to be full of old army acquaintances. I heard you say that Colonel Tarleton is back. Are any senior officers remaining with the army?"
"Hanger has said something about returning to America, now that he is recovered from his illness. Sir Henry is still there, of course, but perhaps he might be replaced in the next few months."
Tavington looked grave. "I own myself deeply disappointed in Sir Henry."
"Well," shrugged Rawdon, "there's plenty of blame to go around. The best revenge on the rebels is to live well ourselves!"
"Hear! Hear!" agreed John lifting a glass in salute. "I hear Will has already invited you to our little ball on the twenty-sixth. Will's portrait from Reynolds is arriving any day, and we can all admire the painted version of him!"
"A happy occasion! I long to see the picture. I am thinking of having my likeness taken, as well. I now wish we had had a group portrait made, those first few weeks in South Carolina. So many are gone—so many scattered. It would have been something to remember. Webster gone, Cochrane gone—"
"But Lord Cornwallis shall always be with us," Tavington observed, rather sourly.
"He's not so bad, Tavington! He has suffered a great deal. He'll be in London soon himself, but he needed a little time with his children first. I heard a rumor, my dear fellow, that you were at work on a history of the Southern Campaign. I hope you treat the Lord General kindly."
"It is no rumor. I am, with the help of my good wife—" he bowed to Jane—"in the process of writing not so much a history as a personal memoir. After all, I did not see the entire campaign. Some other man must tell that tale. I planned to ask you for the loan of any papers you may have relating to that time, for of course I lost everything at the Cowpens"
"I'll see what I have," Rawdon said readily. "If you are not planning a campaign history, what do you intend?"
"A mere pleasant, patriotic trifle: a panegyric to the loyalty of the provincial troops and their suffering, with the added spice of camp tales and even a soupcon of romance! There will be no sniping and no character assassinations in my book—thought I do not plan to be kind to the enemy."
"You must sell by subscription, Tavington, and I shall be your first purchaser. I'm glad you're not attempting a diatribe against Lord Cornwallis. It would be very impolitic as the present time. The King thinks very well of his lordship, and no doubt will think well of you, too, if you do not descend to controversy and name-calling."
"There plenty of that in the Commons!" John remarked.
"Well, there's an equal amount in the Lords, or so I'm told," Rawdon laughed.
-----
Jane was sick with impatience the next morning. She was dying to see Letty, but had to consider the daily schedule of Fanshawe House. If his lordship breakfasted at eleven, she could hardly barge in upon them too early. Instead, she had fixed upon one o'clock as the hour of her arrival, and had told Scoggins to have the carriage brought round at a quarter of one.
After that, the time crawled by. Tavington left, for a meeting with General Tazewell and other appointments. Caro was writing. Pen was sitting with her mother. Jane spent time with the children, and wrote some letters, her mind flickering back and forth, wondering how Letty would look, and what she would say. She stopped again at the nursery. Ash ran to her, nearly bowling her over, wanting her to look, look at the cup-and-ball he had found in the toy chest. Jane kissed him and told him it was a splendid plaything.
"Where you going?" the boy asked, overhearing the women's talk.
"I am going out to see—" she puzzled briefly over how to put this "---your other sister, Lady Fanshawe—Sister Letty."
A surprised blink. Ash clearly had no idea who this person might be. Jane schooled herself to patience and sat down. "You have another sister, Ash. She is my sister and your sister. She is my age. Her name is Letty, and she married Lord Fanshawe, so now she is Lady Fanshawe." Trying to say something that might please him, she told him, "She's very pretty."
Ash was still, thinking this over. "Where is she?"
"She lives in Lord Fanshawe's house, Ash. I am going to see her today. She was away traveling, and she is back in London now."
"Can I go, too?"
Sensing a fit of the sullens coming on, Jane said quickly. "Not today, Ash. She will come soon to visit. She is not feeling too well after her long ride in the carriage. You remember how tired it made you!"
He thrust out his lower lip, considering. Finally he nodded, and went back to praising his toy. Jane gave him another kiss and got up to leave.
"My regards to her ladyship," Moll said, frowning over her sewing. "Reckon she'll look mighty fine."
"Yes, I imagine she will!"
Jane dressed very carefully, tremendously grateful to Penelope for the well-cut visiting habit that she could don. Pullen sensed her nervousness, and took special care with her hair and cosmetics. The habit, the shoes, the gloves, the hat placed just so: everything was inspected minutely. Jane studied herself in the long looking-glass and felt that despite in all being black, her clothing was really very handsome. She must always let Pen and Pullen have their way about her hats, for she could never trim them so cleverly.
Finally feeling that she would do, she went down to the carriage to see how marriage had dealt with Letty, rather excited at the idea of being her first visitor.
As it happened, however, she found she was not the first visitor—nor even among the first. She stepped down from the carriage and told Scoggins to come for her at half-past four, and then was admitted to the grandeur of Lord Fanshawe's domain.
It was a most magnificent house: more a little palace than a house, perhaps. Marble floors, gilded pilasters, painted ceilings, works of art were her first dazed impression. She was received by the butler very respectfully. Obviously, Letty had told him she was expected.
Instead of going down the hall to the intimate little parlor Letty had described in a letter, she was led upstairs to a splendid drawing room, full of people. She felt a pang of disappointment. She would not be able to see her sister alone.
She was announced, and Letty appeared, a black swan in her splendid mourning, and came to her, hands outstretched. "Oh, my dear sister! I've missed you so much!"
Jane felt tears burn behind her eyelids, and shook them away, not wanting the kind of havoc that they would wreak on her carefully-applied eye paint. Letty seemed more beautiful than ever: clad in yards of black watered silk and yards of fragile lace. Her jewelry was all pearls: pearls of creamy iridescence and of all sizes. Jane was startled at the size of one of them that was displayed on her sister's bosom. If swung on its golden chain, it looked like it could have felled an ox.
"My dearest, dearest sister," she cried. "It's been so long!"
They embraced, and kissed each other's cheek, breathing in the other's familiar, loved scent, and recalling all the days of their lives in an instant.
But they were not allowed to enjoy the moment indefinitely. Lord Fanshawe was approaching, to bow to Jane and comment smilingly on the fair sight of so much sisterly affection. Jane was conscious of his appraising glance, a raised eyebrow, and a certain judicious approval in his estimate. She could not know that Lord Fanshawe was infinitely relieved that she had not made an eyesore of herself in his drawing room. In fact, he liked the visiting habit quite well, and was glad that Mrs. Tavington did not look entirely unworthy to be Lady Fanshawe's sister.
She was then presented to a mob of well-dressed people whom she did not know, and whose names were a jumble to her. One pale and pregnant lady was the Viscountess Carteret: Jane sensed that Letty liked her. Her husband, an older man with a rather pleasant countenance, stood behind her, bowing civilly. She met Mr. This, and Lady That, and Sir Oliver Didn't-Catch-the Name. Like a sullen pink rosebud amidst the tall lilies, a very young and pretty girl occupied a little chair in a corner, and was introduced as Miss James.
Then, to her pleasure, a tall and robust figure emerged from the rest, and she felt herself smile more happily.
"Mr. Bellini! Well met!"
"Signora!" He bowed deeply. "Permit me to express in person my condolences."
"Oh—yes!" Sometimes Jane forgot all about the reason for her mourning. Papa is dead. "Most kind."
"Come and sit by me, sister!" Letty cried, taking her by the hand and leading her to a long and luxurious sofa. They sat, the silks of their garments rustling together. Letty squeezed her hand, giving her a glance that Jane interpreted as wishing they could speak privately.
Jane took the opportunity to whisper. "I shall be at home tomorrow. Do come. Come early."
"I shall," Letty whispered back. Then they were swept up in the general conversation.
Jane was interested in Miss James, who seemed to belong to nobody there, and was perched on her little chair as if expecting to be chased away. Knowing nothing of the girl, she could not ask her who in this crowd were her parents, or how she knew her sister. Lady Carteret, however, was easier to get to know. The lady appeared ill, but happy to be there.
"Your sister is such a dear friend of mine," Jane was told. "So lovely and so natural. I quite dote on her."
"I am glad my sister has found a good friend. You met in Bath, I conclude? She wrote of how pleasant she found it."
"Yes, indeed! We were quite inseparable. She spoke often of you. How I envied her. I should have loved a sister."
"It is certainly the sweetest of bonds. We had never been apart before her marriage, and I found the separation difficult."
"But now you are here in London together! I promised her I should have a dinner party for her. She shall sing, and I trust that you shall not deny us the opportunity to hear you play. I have heard from Mr. Bellini of your talent!"
"He is generous to say so, but yes, I love music and would gladly play for you."
"Excellent! I shall write to tell you the day. It must be soon, you see—" she grew paler still, and Jane was concerned, wondering if she was about to faint.
"My dear," boomed Lord Carteret's voice above Jane's head, "perhaps we should go. You look very tired."
"Oh, dear. Perhaps so. I am so happy to have met you, Mrs. Tavington."
"And I to have met you, Lady Carteret."
People came and went throughout the afternoon, but Jane saw that little Miss James remained through it all, saying little, but watching everything. From time to time an older lady or gentleman would come by her chair and address her kindly. Jane could not hear the words, but saw the girl rolling her eyes when the speakers' backs were turned. She was, nonetheless, a beautiful girl: dressed charmingly in a strawberry taffeta that set off her naturally blooming cheeks and her wealth of honey-blond hair. Her eyes were large and bright blue. The roundness of them, combined with the perfect arch of the girl's brows, gave her the appearance of a wide-eyed innocent. Jane though her only flaw was her nose: a pert little nose, turned up in a perpetual dainty sneer. It robbed the face as a whole of the dignity it should have had. Jane admitted to herself that she, with a long, thin axe blade decorating her face, had no business condemning anyone else's nose.
Tea was served: an elegant tea. Exquisite little cakes appeared, covered with marchpane and crystallized violets. Jane wondered if everything in the house was a work of art. Bellini sat down at the grand pianoforte and sang an aria by Gluck.
It was all very delightful, but Jane really wanted to speak privately with Letty, and it was apparent that this was the one thing that would not happen. Other people came by: people who had heard of Jane's encounter with the highwaymen. Jane heard them talking about her and laughed to herself.
"—So little—quite a delicate creature. One can hardly credit it!"
"—But indeed it is true. I heard that she fought by her husband's side in America. They met when he rescued her in the course of a battle—"
"—Have you not heard? One of the scoundrels attempted revenge and Colonel Tavington hacked him to death! Such a handsome man, but so ferocious—"
"—I know! His eyes---"
Jane stopped laughing, reminded of rough hands on her throat. Letty had not heard the story, it seemed, and must be told. When applied to, Jane confirmed the tale, but made light of her danger, as far as possible. Letty did not appear to be deceived by her sister's casual tone.
"I'm glad the Colonel killed him," she said, her sweet voice strangely hard.
Lord Fanshawe agreed. "It saves the nation the cost of a rope, certainly. How well you are looking, Mrs. Tavington, despite your adventures. Or perhaps because of them? Does the frisson of danger brighten you eye?"
Jane laughed. "It was the sort of adventure that is extremely disagreeable to experience, I assure you. It is true that once recovered from, the memory of one's escape can be pleasant."
There were nods and murmurs of agreement. Jane's cheerful dismissal of the affair made a good impression.
The conversation changed to the pleasures of Bath, and Letty brought up the beauty of the restored Roman baths, and her new passion for all things antique.
"My sister," she informed the company, "has reason to believe that there may be ancient remains at Wargrave."
Fanshawe was actually quite interested in the subject. "Has there been an attempt to examine the site?"
Jane was glad she had saved old Doctor Crumby's papers. "The beginnings of one, at least. The previous vicar of the parish was something of an antiquarian, and left copious notes. The Reverend Mr. Bordon is considering pursuing the quest, with the aid of Sir John and my husband. It has believed for sometime that there was a Roman villa situated on Old Wargrave Hill. Above it were a Saxon fortress and a Norman castle. The stonework of the foundation is exposed in places and the layers are quite different. Perhaps in the spring Sir John will permit an excavation."
"Perhaps there are statues or marble pillars?" Letty suggested.
Bellini appeared to find the discussion amusing, in a rather ironic way. "In my homeland, one is constantly coming across the traces of the past. Often they are no more than a crumbling plaster wall or a carved roof beam. Sometimes, however they can change a man's life—"
"—Sometimes?" Jane encouraged him, hoping for a story.
He looked at her, considering. Then he granted her wish.
"Ebbene. A ploughman, a poor man, lives in a little house with his two young sons. Every day he goes to the field to plough. One day, in the field he is stopped by a great stone in the furrow. He heaves it aside. His boys come to see—curious little boys, full of mischief. They turn over the stone and see the face of a beautiful woman. Un miracolo! The Blessed Virgin has appeared to bless the fields. They carry the heavy head to the church and the priest chases them away for bringing to him a pagan goddess. The priest keeps the head in the baptistery, and the boys go often to admire it, but one day it is gone. A rich cavaliere has come and paid the priest for it in gold. The boys tell their father, the poor ploughman, and they all go out at night and dig here—there—and there—" Bellini mimed the search with expressive gestures. "—by the light of torches they search, and their spades strike buried marble like music. The body of the goddess is found—much of it, at least! The older boy is sent to find the rich cavaliere to offer him the rest of the statue.
"The poor man is paid well for his prize. He takes the gold and buries it in a place no man knows, and tells only his older son. With some of the money he sends his sons to school in a town far away. Meanwhile, the rich cavaliere has had the statue—it is of the Goddess Venus-- put together once more and displays it proudly in his palazzo. All come to see and admire, and they ask him where he found such a masterpiece. 'In such-and-such a village. A poor ploughman found it in his field.' He tells them how much he paid—no—he tells them a higher price—to make himself greater. Word comes to the little village that the poor man is rich and has a box of gold. Now the poor man find that gold can be a misfortune, for everyone comes to his door: the priest to ask for an offering, the landlord who claims that it was his, as the statue was found on his land—"
Here many of the assembled—especially the landlords present—nodded their agreement with the gentleman's point of view.
"—and one night some robbers, who have heard that the poor man is not so poor and has a great box, bursting with gold, in his house. In the morning, all is silent, for the man is dead, after refusing to tell the robbers where the gold was hidden away. The little house is half-destroyed by the robbers, searching, searching. No one can find the gold, though many try, digging holes in the field, cracking the plaster in the house. The priest writes to the oldest boy at school, to say that his father is dead, and that it was the judgement of God on him for his greed. If the boys know where the gold is hidden, they must tell the priest, and the gold will pay for masses to save their father's soul."
"Infamous wickedness!" a lady exclaimed.
"The boys do not reply to the priest. They stay in school, far away, for years. No one in the village ever sees them again. No one recognizes two strange young men who ride through the village one day in springtime. They stop by the fountain in the piazza, to water their horses. They ride away. It grows dark, and no one sees them return, and seek out the old ruined house. They take spades they have strapped to their horses, and they dig quickly and quietly in the old midden. The stink is terrible. They look in the place the older brother knows and find two old clay vessels, broken and full of rotten olives. No one would give these dirty pots a second look. The older brother, however, takes a shirt to muffle the sound and cracks the filthy pots very carefully. He lifts a shard of the pot and sees the gleam of a golden coin. Within the pots, lining the sides, is thick, hard wax. And sticking to the wax is the money the cavaliere paid for the statue of the goddess.
"There is no time to melt the wax. The dirty pieces of the pots are gathered up. Not one piece is missing. They are loaded into bags and tied to the horses. The young men ride away from their village and do not look back. And that is the story of the treasure of Venus. It brought good fortune to some and death to others."
There was a rustle of applause. "A capital tale!" cried one gentleman. "Mrs. Tavington, perhaps there is a pot of gold under your ruins!"
Lord Fanshawe was very amused. "If so, it would be a bold man who would try to steal it from Mrs. Tavington. She might shoot him with her pistol!"
There was hearty laughter at this sally. Jane felt it incumbent on her to smile, though the remark seemed a subtle dig at the time Jane had fired upon her brother-in-law. Only Miss James did not laugh, but rolled her eyes again. Jane studied her curiously. The girl immediately realized she had been observed, and looked away, blushing. She straightened up on the little chair very self-consciously.
Lord Fanshawe noticed Jane's interest in the girl. "Miss James is my ward, Madam. She has been attending school here in the metropolis, but her studies are now complete. I have withdrawn her from the school—"
Here Jane noticed that Miss James suddenly looked very miserable.
"---and as there is now a Lady Fanshawe in residence at my home, she will live here, and provide her ladyship with her companionship. A solution that will be pleasant for all, I trust."
"That is most kind of you, my lord," Jane said, not knowing what else to say. The girl did not appear happy to be here, and Letty was smiling dutifully throughout her husband's speech. I must find out what she really thinks about this.
The clock struck the half-hour. To her dismay, Jane found that it was time to leave, and she had hardly had a word with her sister. She rose to take her leave, and was delayed by the many people wanting to talk to her. Letty kissed her again, and Fanshawe bowed graciously. Miss James bobbed a curtsey, staring at the floor. She glanced up to find Jane's eyes on her. Without the self-control of her elders, she shot Jane a little hostile, sulky look, and then bit her lip when Jane raised a brow. This is going to be interesting. Possibly very unpleasant, but interesting, Jane thought, climbing into her carriage.
-----
That same afternoon, Tavington found himself in the enormous studio of Sir Joshua Reynolds. His portrait was finished, and had hung there as the varnish dried. There had been some foolish mistake by an assistant, and part of the draperies at the edge of the painting had needed redoing. It was complete now, and Tavington had come to give his final acceptance of the work. He was greeted, and shown into the high-ceilinged room, full of other pictures.
His own portrait commanded the observer, set as it was against the far wall, with rays of cool winter light illuminating his face. He could not judge fairly if it was a good likeness. It was a very striking picture, however: with the rearing horse behind him, and his hand on his sword, it was full of action and energy.
He paused to consider the horse. It was not the horse he had ridden to battle: not poor Troilus, stabbed through the heart and left to feed the crows. He had only asked that the horse be a chestnut, as like in color and markings to Troilus as possible. Reynolds, accustomed to the whims and fancies of wealthy patrons, had indulged him. Nonetheless, it was not Troilus.
There was a soldier-groom in the picture, his back to the viewer. In Carolina, their grooms had mostly been freed blacks—young lads who had found a home in the British Army. This groom was clearly white, though his face was not visible. Reynolds had thought the groom needed to be in uniform to make the military theme consistent, and the black grooms had not worn the uniform. Tavington could live with that.
He had insisted on the being painted in the uniform of the Green Dragoons. While the garb of the Dragoon Guards was extremely elegant, Tavington wanted the painting to commemorate his wartime services. He wondered if it was suitable for the ballroom. He had done his hair in the same plain style he had worn it throughout the American campaign, not allowing poor Doggery to curl it or powder it in the least.
"It's a portrait, sir!" the valet had protested. "You're supposed to look your best! It's for posterity!"
"It's the way I looked at war. The curls look ridiculous with the helmet."
He had shown Doggery what he looked like in the helmet, and the valet had finally agreed, remarking that he did not know why his master had worn such an ugly piece of haberdashery anyway.
Tavington had liked the helmet, though the plumes tended to look very sad when rained upon. His new metal helmet, with the horsehair crest, stood up better to bad weather. The old helmet looked very well in the picture, at least, making him look even taller than he was. He had enjoyed posing in his old uniform. He cocked his head, wondering if he had really gone into battle with such a silly smirk on his face…
"A magnificent piece," said a low, vibrant voice beside him: a lovely woman's voice.
Tavington started and turned to look at the companion who had appeared beside him, like a fairy in an old tale. He knew his jaw had dropped, but did not care. He had never seen such a vision. She was a little taller than Jane, but not much. Her skin glowed from within, the most perfect skin he had ever seen: not painted white, but a natural cream that begged to be touched. He was completely ensnared by her eyes: they were pale green, the color of translucent jade, and fixed him with a limpid, amused regard. The woman was dressed in the height of fashion, and even a little beyond. He had not seen that particular kind of hat before, but the buckle—clearly ornamented with diamonds, not paste jewels—showed her both in command of wealth and confident in her own style.
Collecting himself, he bowed. "William Tavington, Madam, At your service."
She gave him her little gloved hand, and he kissed it. "I am Mary Robinson. Mrs. Mary Robinson. You may have heard of me."
He looked her over with admiration and curiosity. The famous Perdita, the cast-off mistress of the Prince of Wales, the lost darling of the London theatre! St. Leger had spoken of her beauty, but he had been too cool in his praise.
Tavington realized that he was still holding her hand, and let it go, murmuring, "Honored."
The fair lady turned to admire his portrait. "Such a likeness! So full of martial spirit! Truly, 'none but the brave deserves the fair!'"
A nervous laugh escaped him. "Not all ladies would agree with you. Are you here to sit for Sir Joshua?"
"Indeed I am. Do you think he will like my costume?"
"What man would not, who could call himself a man?"
"You are too gallant, sir."
Tavington was very much of two minds about this lovely creature. One half of his mind was wondering how to find the closest bed and ravage her instantly. The other half was watching the first half, and shouting, 'No, you fool! Remember Jane? She'll never forgive you!"
There was, luckily, no bed in sight.
Even more fortunately, the last person he expected to see suddenly swaggered into the room.
"Tavington!" shouted Banastre Tarleton in elation. "You! Here! This is a merry meeting!"
"My dear Tarleton," cried Tavington, feeling rescued from utter disaster, "How good to see you!"
Tarleton's eyes were immediately on Mary Robinson. His jaw dropped, too. He bowed.
"And who is this? I pray you, madam, to say if you are a goddess, or some mortal woman!"
It was not a bad paraphrase of shipwrecked Ulysses' question to Princess Nausicaa, Tavington decided, though he himself had never said anything so damned silly to a lady. He turned to Mrs. Robinson, to see what she would make of it.
Ever the actress—and a well-educated one--she curtseyed, and responded sweetly, "'Stranger, you seem no evil man, nor foolish.'"
"Hahahaha!" laughed Tarleton, a little wildly, approaching her as if to seize her in his arms. "No, really, Tavington, introduce us instantly, I beg you."
"Mrs. Robinson, may I present to you Colonel Banastre Tarleton? Tarleton, Mrs. Robinson."
There. It was done. He had escaped. Tavington extricated himself, and headed off to speak to Sir Joshua, wondering what would transpire between the two of them.
Tarleton called after him absently. "Good to see you, Tavington! We'll meet later at Robinson's."
He and the exquisite young woman were looking into each other's eyes, plainly unaware that Tarleton had misspoken. What? Tavington laughed to himself. Did he mean White's or Brook's? No matter. Somehow I think he'll be at someplace that can very likely be described as "Robinson's." This is going to be interesting. I must tell Jane all about it.
Note: George III did not inherit the throne directly from his father, but from his grandfather, George II. Thus, his father (who predeceased George II) and his mother were the Prince and Princess of Wales.
Une omelette à l'évêque--A bishop omelet
As I plunge into Part III of Tavington's Heiress, I wish to express my thanks to the readers who have supported me. If you like the story, or have ideas to improve it, or simply wish me to continue, I ask that you leave a review. If you wish a reply, either log in or leave your email address. Some of you long-time reviewers, of course, are already well known to me!
Next—Chapter 55: To Visit the Queen
