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Chapter 5: A Proposal in Form
Jane awoke with a start. Wildly, she looked around her familiar white room. The bright late-morning sun reflected off the white walls and white draperies. A second sun blazed from the mirror above her dressing table. The resulting brilliance made Jane squeeze her watering eyes shut. Then she remembered the ball, the dancing, and then—the impulsive proposal made to Colonel Tavington.
"Oh, no!"How could she have done something so stupid? He must still be laughing. Worse, he must still be laughing with all his officers. That horrid Mr. Fenton would snigger behind his hands. The whispering—the smirking—the gossip—the scandal! Jane clutched fistfuls of mousy brown hair, still slightly curly from the night before.
"I never want to go to a ball again!"
Letty came in and heard her. She was smiling. Jane was relieved at the sight, for if the gossip were going the rounds, Letty would have looked concerned.
"What's wrong, Miss Jane? I'd have thought you'd be in good spirits today. Lots of people thought you looked nice last night. Old Miss Mary Manigault's maid told me that Old Miss and Miss Caroline said they'd never seen you look so fine—talked about you being a 'late bloomer.'" She came over to inspect the remains of Jane's curls. "They're holding up pretty well. From now on, we'll do them up every night. Men like curls."
"I hate men," Jane declared frantically. "A pox on them."
Letty began sorting through the clothes press. "No call to say you hate men, honey. Some of them danced with you last night, after all."
"They're the worst," Jane insisted. "Men who dance with you and get you to say ridiculous things." She gasped, recollecting it all. "Oh, Letty, I've been so stupid!" Her voice broke, and she hid her face in her hands.
In a moment, Letty was sitting on the bed, her arms around her. She asked in a low voice, "What happened? Did one of those men take liberties?—"
Jane shook her head in despair. "No. I took liberties, I suppose. I asked a man to marry me."
"Miss Jane!""Yes. I really did. It's too awful." She wiped her nose. "Maybe he won't remember this morning. Maybe he got drunk last night and he's lying in a ditch somewhere in utter oblivion. Oh, what'll I do? What'll I do?" She jumped out of bed, tripping on the rumpled sheets, and ran back and forth in distraction. "I know!" she cried. "I'll pretend it was all a joke! I'll pretend I never said it! I'll pretend to be ill and not leave my room until he's gone."
"Was it one of—those redcoats?"
Jane buried her face in her hands again.
Letty took a deep breath. "I thought you had better sense, honey. Those fly-by-nights we got staying here are no good. I know for a fact that—" Letty stopped, unsure what she could say. Miss Selina's maid Phyllis had threatened Daisy the laundrymaid with worse than a whipping if it got out, but all the house slaves knew that Miss Selina had been deceiving the Master with that good-looking British Colonel. The two of them had made a fool of him right in his own house, in his own bed. Daisy had seen the sheets and knew what was what. It was a terrible situation for them all. If they so much as looked wrong at Miss Selina, she would sell them away from Cedar Hill and they'd never see their families again. On the other hand, if the Master got wind that they were keeping the secret of Miss Selina playing him false, he would be within his rights to hang them all.
Letty gave thanks, as she did every night, that she and her mother belonged to Miss Jane, who would never, never sell them—and who certainly wouldn't get rid of them to please Miss Selina. It was a fragile defense, but it was all she had. She had on many occasions used it against gentlemen visitors who tried to force themselves on her. They knew that the Master would not care what use they made of her, but the threat of telling Miss Jane had mostly kept them away. That, and trying not to be seen by them. It had become even more dangerous with the officers in the house, but she could time her errands with prudence, and keep to the sewing room, Miss Jane's room, and the little closet adjoining that held her small bed and clothes box.
And now Miss Jane had gotten into some sort of fix with one of the unwelcome visitors. Yes—they were unwelcome. For all the Master talked of being loyal, and for all his caution in never signing any of the rebel papers, he did not like having them in his own house. If he knew the truth, there would be trouble. Bad trouble.
She tried to be encouraging. "Oh, he'll know it was a joke, honey. Just some harmless flirting."
Jane gulped. "I hope so. I really do." In the cruel light of day, all her exciting plans for taking Selina's lover away from her, for taking herself away from the daily miseries of Cedar Hill—they all looked terribly hare-brained. The man didn't like her—he didn't care about her at all. If only I hadn't mentioned the money!
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The money. It always, always, came down to the money.
Tavington tossed the dregs of his tea into the fire. The hiss satisfied him somehow. He had had a busy morning among the stables, talking to the grooms, looking over the mounts. He had pronounced them fit for the venture upcountry not an hour before. The day after tomorrow, he would lead his men up the river to hunt down the remains of the rebels.
He had awakened this morning with a slight headache, and a growing feeling that he had a major decision before him. The girl had seemed to be in earnest last night. She fancied him, and she would bring with her a fortune that would change his life beyond recognition.
She was a nice enough girl, if a little sharp-tongued. Bordon went on about her accomplishments, and they were, in fact, adequate. She'll likely prove an unimaginatively faithful wife and a very good mother. I could do worse.
He snorted. Can I realistically do better? That's the question. Who else is going to have twenty thousand pounds? I've been a fool in my time, but I'm not that great a fool.
He stood aside, while the young grooms led out a string of good horses, specially chosen for the officers of his regiment. He watched them appreciatively, noting the two he had designated for his own spare mounts. Big, handsome beasts. The sounds of the clopping, snuffling horses, the shouts of the grooms, the thousand camp noises barely penetrated his concentration. If he were going to move on this, he must do so immediately.
I shall have to live with her until one of us dies.
Easier for him than for her. He had his employment. An officer always had a thousand excuses to be absent from home. The world was full of beautiful women if he needed better sport than his wife. My wife. That simply sounds odd.
Twenty thousand pounds. He would not be cruel to her—that would be ungentlemanly, and damned foolish besides. He would treat her with the courtesy due a lady—the courtesy due to Mrs. Tavington. She would be raising his children, and it would be impolitic to cause her to raise them to hate him. No. It would be a marriage of convenience, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. Among other things, she played very nicely on her spinet. He would enjoy that.
He had no desire to marry for love, anyway. After all, he had seen the consequences of a love match with his own eyes. His mother and father had been famously in love. They had been the talk of London. The marriage of Sir John Tavington and Lady Cecily Mortimer had been touted at the time as the most romantic of pairings—a couple whose physical beauty and high birth promised to be stuff of fairy-tales.
Well, he had not, obviously, been there for the wedding, but he had seen the fairy tale match for himself some years later: the spite, the screams, the foul, drunken epithets his father spewed at his mother; the bile she spewed right back. "Mad Jack," indeed. The romance had turned ugly: his father had died raving, rotting with the pox; while his mother had sat grimly at his deathbed, counting the minutes until she would be a widow and free of the man she considered her mortal enemy.
And so, a prudential alliance with a respectable young lady might be the answer to a host of problems. Just as he strove to be as little like his father as possible, so his marriage would be nothing like his parents'. The lack of passion could be a blessing in disguise. Passionate love turned all too easily to passionate hate. Instead, his union would be a practical, sensible one, based on mutual advantage…
All in all, the more he considered it, the more he thought Miss Jane Rutledge just the perfect bride for him.
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When he was not in residence in Charlestown, Ashbury Rutledge liked to hold court in his study in the late morning. It had always been the time he preferred to do business, taking the reports of his overseer, seeing to his correspondence, and admitting the occasional suppliant to an audience in his sanctum sanctorum. Even now, as he convalesced, it was a place that made him feel secure in a very insecure world.
His butler, Davus, announced that Colonel Tavington wished to speak to him in private. Rutledge scowled. The man was a vexation, but only a temporary one. He and his fellow bullyboys in red would be departing the day after tomorrow to plague decent people elsewhere. Rutledge knew he was walking a fine line, and the presence of these unwelcome visitors had tested him to his limits.
His Pinckney cousins, Selina's uncles, had written angrily to him, denouncing his lack of loyalty to South Carolina. He had replied, through discreet channels, in such a way as to make his views clear. He cared neither for King nor for Continental Congress. What he cared for was that that things remained the way they had been in South Carolina all the days of his life. That meant, he explained, that their intertwined families--the great web of Rutledges and Pinckneys, of Draytons and Middletons, of Balls and Manigaults and Laurenses and Rhetts—should remain the rulers of South Carolina, no matter who the titulary head might claim to be. Their tight little circle had ordered things in South Carolina since the earliest days when their great-grandfathers arrived from Barbados with their slaves. As it was in the beginning, so it was and ever should be, world without end.
Thus, he explained, he thought it prudent to bide his time among their British "friends." He could assume control of the Pinckney holdings, protecting them from confiscation, and in the future, if the tide turned, his Pinckney cousins could vouch for him and do him similar services. Whether the King won or lost, the ruling families of South Carolina would remain on top of the heap where they belonged.
In practical terms, this assumed loyalty to the British had both advantages and disadvantages. He was free to conduct business, to pursue his mercantile interests, to make arrangements for the sale of his profitable indigo crop. Secretly he damned the invaders for the financial losses from the sequestration of the rice. It would hurt, but it would not break him.
On the other hand, he had to maintain pleasant relations with military men. Rutledge despised soldiers—of any army. A soldier was a brute incapable of the finesse of high finance—a destroyer, not a creator. With the exception of the highest among them, soldiers came from the lesser gentry of the United Kingdom—younger sons seeking their fortunes, wastrels, and unwanted bastards of careless gentlemen. He must now entertain them at his table, and suffer the sight of Colonel William Tavington flirting with his darling Selina night after night.
Selina was a treasure. She had the man eating out of her hand. He had always known she would prove a worthy partner. From the time she was an exquisite little girl, orphaned and staying with her uncles, he had had his eye on her. Despite all his efforts, Jane could not be made to befriend her, but he had had his way in the end. He could have married half a dozen times since Clarissa's death, but first he had had some wild oats to sow, and then there was Selina, gold and ivory, like a piece of jeweler's work. He had been patient, and waited until the child ripened into a beautiful woman, and then had taken her for his own. His faint, tender smile faded somewhat as Tavington entered the room.
"Welcome, Colonel. Seat yourself---no, there. It is much more comfortable. How may I serve you?" The tones were better than civil—they were warm, manly, and affable. Rutledge congratulated himself on striking the right tone, for Tavington's lips twitched in an answering, if somewhat uneasy smile. He sat, and Rutledge, now that he had the man seated in the full glare of the sun, could analyze him at his leisure.
He was somewhat--uncomfortable. Rutledge had found Tavington arrogant and condescending, but he had held his peace. Now, however, the man seemed to find himself at a disadvantage. While pleasant in itself, this could be the harbinger of misfortune. Plainly, the man had bad news, or wanted something disagreeable, or was hiding something. Rutledge did not let his personable mask slip, and ordered Davus to bring them tea.
"Or something stronger, sir?"
"No—I thank you. Tea would be perfect."
A silence. Rutledge, still smiling slightly, kept his eye on Tavington, waiting for the man's move. Then—
"Mr. Rutledge, I am not unaware that our stay with you has strained the normal limits of hospitality—"
Rutledge scoffed amiably. "I am aware as you sir, that we are at war."
"Nonetheless—or indeed because of the war, sometimes people are thrown together in unexpected circumstances." He paused, and Rutledge waited, wondering what the man could be talking about. He wanted something, but what?
"Both I and my officers are extremely conscious of your generosity to us. Your household has offered us a most refreshing respite from the war. We shall all regret our departure."
Knowing this for an opening gambit, Rutledge merely nodded.
Tavington looked slightly strained under the appearance of hauteur. "Yes. These few days have been particularly pleasant to me, because they have afforded me the opportunity of making your daughter's acquaintance."
Rutledge faltered a moment. Pasting the smile on more forcefully, he scrambled for comprehension. The man was speaking of Jane! Of all possibilities, the one unlooked-for! Feeling he had every reason to look suspicious, he allowed his eyes to narrow and to study the man before him in an entirely new light.
Tavington, for his part, was trying not to sweat. The man was civil enough, but now looked decidedly less friendly with the turn the conversation had taken. He had not thought the man fond of his daughter, but any gentleman would care about the honor of his house. Perhaps this was a good idea, if only to draw suspicion from his wife. She should be properly grateful when I tell her.
Rutledge tilted his head back, and looked down his nose. He shut his lips tightly, resolutely silent, forcing Tavington to speak.
"You cannot be blind to your daughter's many merits: an accomplished lady—her performance on her instrument is exquisite--a diligent housekeeper; her manners refined; her conversation cultivated and most individual. Her loyalty to her family, and the tenderness she shows her young brother have convinced me that she is the woman most likely to provide me the domestic happiness for which I had always hoped. In short, sir," he went on smoothly, desperately trying to remember all the speech he had prepared for this occasion, "I ask the honor of your daughter's hand in marriage."
Davus entered quietly with the tea. Rutledge barked, "Take that slop away and fetch us some brandy!" The slave backed out of the room hastily. Rutledge stared at the man before him. Tavington already very hot in the harsh sunlight, felt the hostility in the room become palpable.
The silence stretched out painfully. The faint sounds of the rest of the household vibrated through the study walls: footsteps on the staircase, whispered conversations outside the door, a light tread above them. Outside were the usual distant shouts and calls from the fields and outbuildings. Motes of dust danced in the light slanting through the stiff yellow curtains. Tavington watched them in tense fascination, waiting for his prospective father-in-law's reply.
Rutledge looked hard at Tavington, who turned his glance aside, not wishing to engage in a staring contest. Just as well. Davus returned, looking very subdued, and poured them each a glass of brandy, bringing them forward on a silver tray. Tavington took his, with a nod to his host. Rutledge picked his up slowly, resisting the urge to dash it in Tavington's arrogant face, and then growled at the slave.
"Get out."
He took a long swallow, and then considered the man before him. Tavington was sipping at the fiery liquor, plainly appreciating the quality, and pretending they were having a friendly conversation. Despite all his dislike of the man, Rutledge knew he must maintain the same pretence as well.
The shock was considerable. He had long since despaired of Jane having any commercial value to him as bride material. She had always been a keen disappointment, from the day she had been born female and had killed her mother in the process. She had grown up plain, with the most unattractive ways he had ever seen in a child: quiet, bookish, inquisitive to a fault. Not like his lovely Selina, he mused, letting a faint smile stay across his lips. No, Jane had been a failure as a daughter. He had had some hopes of her making a useful marriage, when the Manigaults wanted to merge their shipping interests with his indigo production. An alliance was arranged, and the Manigaults were even willing to let Jane choose which cousin to wed. She had been properly obedient, and had even seemed to like young Ralph. She had certainly made a spectacle of herself about his death. But no one else had come forward, with all the chaos since the war began. Even with Jane's large fortune, she was not what a proper man fancied. And so, what was Tavington's motive? He considered what he knew about the man, and dredged up long-forgotten gossip about the family from his memory.
Jane's twenty thousand pounds, of course. The man was a fortune-hunter, pure and simple. Now feeling he understood the situation perfectly, Rutledge thought himself able to control it. The question was, was this a marriage that could benefit Ashbury Rutledge? He had no particular affection his daughter, and had little interest in her welfare, but a very great interest in his own prospects. He was keeping his lines of communication open with his Patriot relations. A certain balance could be struck, at least in the short term, which could be to his advantage…
"I am surprised, Colonel Tavington. I had seen no sign of understanding between you and my daughter."
"Your daughter is a very modest young lady, sir. It was only last night at the ball that we had an opportunity to make our feelings known to one another."
"I see." With the noncommittal answer, there was another silence.
"My daughter has a very large fortune—twenty thousand pounds. Were you aware of this fact?"
Tavington smiled briefly, and he thought unconvincingly. It would be stupid to lie. "Your daughter has many attractions. I was aware that she was also well-dowered."
"What are your plans after the war?"
"I shall, of course, first go home and see my family in England. My uncle, the Earl of Colchester--"
"Ah, yes, your family…You are the younger son, I believe. You do not have a home or any property of your own at present?"
Tavington's slight smile could not sustain this. This colonial was not, apparently, impressed by his noble relations. "No, I do not."
"And what jointure are you prepared to settle on my daughter in the event of your death?"
"I am certain that suitable arrangements can be made."
Rutledge was blunt. "You have no fortune of your own, I would conclude."
"After the last war, the King gave out sizable land grants. I have every reason to expect some such reward. And I am well-paid as a colonel."
"But the Tavington money, I believe, was dissipated in your father's lifetime. Don't look so startled, Colonel. The story is very well-known."
Tavington's smile was cold now. Mad Jack's soiled reputation had dogged his footsteps, even here. "I had not thought it to have traveled all the way to the Colonies."
Rutledge smiled back, equally cold. "It did not need to. You forget, Colonel, that we are Englishmen, after all. I was at school at Harrow when the story of the Bagley House scandal was on everyone's tongue. And I was at Caius College, Cambridge, when the affair of the Duke's private club was published." He smiled again, letting the man know that he could keep nothing from Ashbury Rutledge.
Tavington was silenced for a moment, and then smirked back at the presumptuous Colonial taunting him. You may think yourself very clever, Rutledge, but I'm the one who had your wife in your own bed. Perhaps someday I'll share that bit of news with you. Instead, he raised a brow, and merely said, "How convenient that we understand one another so well. No intrigue, no disguise. I do indeed wish to marry your daughter. What say you?"
Rutledge sat back in his comfortable leather wing chair, feeling agreeably in command. "My daughter's well-being is of paramount importance, of course."
"Of course."
"If you are indeed her choice, I would not stand in the way of her happiness." Before Tavington could reply, he raised a hand. "I would expect the consideration due me for such a manifest act of loyalty to the King's cause. Many men would fear to ally themselves so publicly."
"Indeed."
"Perhaps in the future we can consult with Sir Henry Clinton about releasing my rice stored in Charlestown."
"It is possible that Sir Henry might make exceptions for such loyalty."
"Of course, I cannot commit myself until more certain of this very proper quid pro quo. Therefore," he said, with an air of benevolence, "I grant you permission to court my daughter. If in the future, arrangements can be made…"
Tavington sneered. "I understand you perfectly. I will be leaving the day after tomorrow. That will, unfortunately, leave precious little time for courting."
Rutledge spread his hands in helpless sympathy. "You will find my daughter a most dutiful correspondent." He rose. "I have found our conversation of great interest, Colonel, but now I must bid you farewell. I have another appointment that cannot be put off."
Stiffly, Tavington rose and bowed. Striding from the room, he resolved on having the man's wife again—and thoroughly--before he shook the dust of Cedar Hill Plantation from his feet.
Rutledge watched Tavington leave, feeling more than the usual envy and dislike for the man's vigorous health, straight back and military bearing. He rang the bell for Davus.
"Send my daughter to me."
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Jane came downstairs at once, wondering if her father wanted to consult about the menu for dinner. She entered the study briskly, and paused at the grim look directed at her.
"Sit," her father ordered, directing her toward the chair facing his desk. Jane blinked a little, trying to avoid the full sun in her eyes. Her father was silhouetted against it, a large dark figure enthroned in his great chair.
Her father did not wait for her to speak, but immediately launched into an inquisition.
"Have you been carrying on a flirtation with Colonel Tavington behind my back?"
Her heart sinking, Jane whispered, "No."
"No? You astonish me. Not ten minutes ago, Colonel Tavington sat in that very chair, assuring me that he had gained your affections."
Jane stared at him, her eyes huge, her lips bloodless.
Her father appraised her coldly. "Have your been meeting with him in secret? Have you allowed him liberties?"
"No, Papa! How can you think?---" she stopped, horrified at his conclusions.
"What am I to think? A man—a stranger of less than a fortnight's acquaintance—comes to me demanding my daughter's hand. What can I think but that there has been some gross impropriety? Are you saying he's a liar?"
"No, Papa! It was at the ball---we talked---" She tried to collect her whirling thoughts. "I had no idea he would be so precipitous…"
"He's a soldier, Jane," Rutledge observed with contempt. "He hasn't much time."
Jane swallowed and tried to breathe slowly.
Rutledge said, "I am disposed to grant his suit—"
Jane looked up in fright.
"—in part."
Not at all comforted by either his words or his tone, Jane waited in suspense to hear her father out.
Considering his words, Rutledge declared, "This could be of some use to me, Jane. This suitor of yours has no fortune of his own, but he has influence, and of course, his rank. I cannot in conscience permit you to bind yourself to him on such short acquaintance, but I have permitted him the privilege of courting you."
Jane suppressed a groan.
Her father, surveying her dispassionately, continued. "Colonel Tavington will be leaving the day after tomorrow. I suggest you spend the time with him wisely. Miss Gilpin will chaperone all of your encounters, but I expect you to make yourself as pleasant as your virtue permits. Do something with yourself, for God's sake!" His voice softened, became patronizing. "You looked quite acceptable last night. Your dress, your whole appearance was much improved."
Jane murmured a few words, in which "Letty" and "Mademoiselle Renaud's" were distinguishable.
"Yes, Letty. She's a good girl, Letty, and quite an accomplished lady's maid. You do well to let her have her way. Have her fix your hair and face the way she did before, and put something on that doesn't make you look like one of the house slaves." He caught her eye, demanding a response.
"Yes, Papa," she answered dutifully.
"After Colonel Tavington's departure, you will be permitted to correspond with him, as his betrothed."
"Write to him! Papa, what would I say?"
"What does any woman say? Write the same rubbish you sent young Manigault!"
Stricken, Jane protested, "Papa, please! I don't feel about him as I did about Ralph. It is possible I have mistaken my feelings entirely—"
Her father rose up in rage from his desk, strode heavily over to her chair, and without warning, slapped her face.
"You'll feel the way I tell you to feel!"Too shocked to cry out, Jane put a hand to her burning cheek, and stared at her father. He had never actually struck her before.
Neither regretful nor appeased, he loomed over her, and growled, "I hope you are not going to be a willful, selfish, undutiful daughter--"
Jane looked down at the floor, trembling. "No, Papa!"
"—because I won't have it. You will obey me: you will make yourself agreeable to Colonel Tavington, you will make yourself as presentable as possible, and you will do it cheerfully."
"Yes, Papa!"
He smiled, satisfied at her submission. "Then go to it, Jane. Go out to the kitchens and make sure I have food fit to eat today. Then get up to your room and make yourself pretty for your suitor. Try to behave like Selina, for a change. Make her your model. You can't go far wrong there. Now get out."
Jane cast a quick, burning glance up at her father, tempted to spoil his fool's paradise in an instant. The words would not come. How could she describe the vile scene she had witnessed? And what good would it do, in the end? Biting back her anger, she stood, proudly straight, and left the room silently.
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Next--Chapter 6: Secrets, Lies, and Appalling Ill-Breeding