Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.
Chapter 9: "My Dear Jane—"
With the sunrise, Ashbury Rutledge found himself once more the undisputed master of Cedar Hill, and his hand lay heavy on those who had incurred his displeasure.
Letty awakened early. Her sleep had been restless: filled with disturbances and terrible dreams. From her little bed in Jane's dressing room, she had heard everything that had passed between her mistress and the Colonel. That itself had been a nightmare, the terrible kind that freezes one helpless while the worst happens. She had heard Miss Jane crying and pleading, she had heard the sounds of the Colonel taking her. Letty knew all those sounds, from her earliest youth. Miss Jane might be a rich white lady, but in the end men used women the same way, high or low, rich or poor, black or white.
She dozed off after Miss Jane had stopped crying. There had been some noises later, and she heard the Colonel talking. She did not dare leave her bed until he was gone. She slept a little more. With first light, she crept out the closet, out of Miss Jane's room when she saw she was sleeping, and run upstairs to tell her mother the bad news.
Biddy was asleep in the little bed in the nursery, her hair over her shoulder in one grizzled braid. She rubbed her eyes, and motioned Letty to come with her out into the hall to tell her everything.
"Let her sleep herself out, baby, and then we'll go take care of her," she said, after the story was over and she could hold Letty tightly.
Jane, lying sore and wretched in her curtained bed, awakened to her father's familiar heavy tread and the loud voice shouting commands. She had never felt less desire to get up. Around eight, Letty came in, and to her surprise so did Biddy, talking in soft, kind voices.
"Are you awake, Miss Jane?"
"Yes, I'm just lying here resting."
The curtains were pushed quietly aside and her servants came to have a look at her, seeming a little anxious. Jane tried to smile at Biddy, but a painful thickness caught in her throat, and she suddenly burst into tears. Instantly, she was swept up in a warm embrace, while Letty sat on the other side of the bed, stroking her back.
"Oh, Biddy, it was so awful!"
"Never you mind, honey. He's gone now, and he won't be back for a long time. Let's get you dressed, and then you'll feel better."
Like a child, she allowed the two of them to change her out of her rumpled nightgown. Letty stripped the soiled sheets off the bed, while Biddy showed her how to clean herself more thoroughly, tutting over her bruises. Jane's face burned as she remembered that parts of the night had not been unpleasant. He had kissed her softly, not once but many times, and he had kissed her cheek very gently after he had finished that dreadful consummation business. It was impossibly confusing—at one moment he was handsome and tender, and the next he was like a stallion when the mares came into season. That part had been frightful.
"Why didn't you talk to me, honey?" Biddy asked her. "I could have told you everything that would happen and you wouldn't have been so scared of him." She gave Jane a severe, loving tilt of her head as she dampened the cloth again.
"I didn't think," Jane admitted, shamefaced. "I should have." She sniffed, and said, "It smells strange."
"That there's his seed, honey."
"Really?" Despite her anger and discomfort, Jane was curious. "Really?" she repeated. "I had heard about men having seed, but I thought it would be like—well—like seeds."
Biddy stifled a chuckle and gave her shoulder a squeeze. Jane got up and kissed her cheek, clutching the warm feather-bed softness of her nurse close to her.
"I got to go, honey. I got to see to Little Ash."
Jane sighed, resenting her brother. She slumped listlessly while Letty brushed her hair out, and then shook her head when Letty suggested the curling iron or the box of paints. Instead, she piled her hair under a plain, clean cap. She would not bother with vanities. They had contributed to last night's disaster. And besides, she needed to see what was going on. Her father was still shouting, his voice mixed with others, and as soon as she went downstairs for breakfast, she found out what had happened.
Before the tall clock in the entry hall chimed ten, Miss Gilpin had been summarily sacked. She was told that his carriage would take her to Charlestown in three hours—it did not matter to him where. She was henceforth no concern of his. She went upstairs to pack in tears, not knowing where she would lay her head that night.
Jane was furious at this piece of injustice. She ran upstairs again, ignoring her father's summons until she had had a moment with her former governess. She had her tin box in her hands, and slipped into Miss Gilpin's room and closed the door.
They embraced, sobbing. Miss Gilpin was ashamed of yielding to despair, and in a moment had wiped her face and said bravely, "My dear Jane, this is a heavy blow to be sure, but we must bear it. I will go home to England. I am sorry to leave you, but I know I will be happy with my brother…"
"And you will write to me? I must know that you are safe!"
"Of course—of course, my dear Jane. I must simply find a place to stay until I can find a ship---"
"I shall write a letter to Cousin Mary. I'm sure she'll give you houseroom until then. Don't worry. You will have the letter to take with you today. Go to her house on. Bay Street and then send word by the coachman." Embarrassed, she took a breath and asked, "Did my father pay you any of your salary for the year?"
Miss Gilpin hesitated, embarrassed. "Well---no. I was not due my money, you know, until Michaelmas. It is clear he does not mean to pay me."
"I knew it!" Disgusted, Jane seethed with a universal dislike for all men of her acquaintance. "How thrifty of him! Never mind, I haven't forgotten you!"
She opened the tin box and began counting out her cherished hoard. "I want you to have this—No—" seeing Miss Gilpin's head shake—"you must, really must accept this! If Colonel Tavington—" the name was spoken with great bitterness—"had but kept his word we would still be living happily together, even in some army billet. He did not. I was a fool to pin my hopes on a man. I should have taken my future in my own hands."
Jane had lain awake half the night, thinking about how she could have managed it herself, and spared herself a painful and humiliating encounter with a brute who cared only for her money. It was all perfectly clear: she could have pled the excuse of a visit to her cousin in Charlestown. The visit would have stretched out over many months—everyone would have become accustomed to her absence before they understood that she meant never to return. She could have been happy staying with Mary Laurens, or with her great-aunt Eliza, or with the John Draytons. She could have spent years paying one visit after another, until her father would have forgotten her, and no thought of her returning to Cedar Hill would have occurred to him. What a fool she had been, to give herself to that man! He had treated as he would Selina, and Jane was not like her, would never be like her…
Miss Gilpin gasped, "My dear Jane! A thousand pounds! How can you spare this!"
"It's my money!" Jane blazed. "Every penny my own! It will break my heart if I cannot know you are provided for properly! And don't give it to charity! I want you to have this money, and live happily on it."
"Oh, Jane!"
"Put it in your purse at once, and don't tell a soul. Colonel Tavington knows about my twenty thousand pounds, but he doesn't know about anything else! If he asks what happened to my income for the past few years, I'll tell him I spent it all. How can he prove otherwise? Don't worry. I have more saved, and I'll be getting still more in June. If I have a thousand pounds myself, I'll be all right, no matter what happens to the rest!"
It was plain that something very unfortunate had happened between her former pupil and the Colonel. Miss Gilpin had expected as much, and sighed. Unable to resist the offer, she put the money away immediately and kissed Jane as her mother would have, had she lived.
Jane whispered, "I must go. Papa has sent for me. I hope he sends me away too, but that's unlikely." Pressing her friend's hand, she left the room, and went downstairs, bracing herself for the ugly scene that must follow.
It was even worse than she expected. She had known, without really knowing it, that her father was completely indifferent to her. Now, it seemed, he despised her: she had proved herself a fool, marrying a stranger without a legal settlement to protect her. Every shred a respect he might have had for her was gone. And even worse were his leering, vile questions. He actually asked if the pleasures of her marriage bed were worth twenty thousand pounds.
No, he was not going to send her away. That would inconvenience Selina. She would remain at Cedar Hill, as housekeeper. While he would permit her the great favor of taking her meals with the family, she would no longer be allowed the privilege of using the carriage, and she would keep to her room, the nursery, and the kitchen and other offices. Selina's widowed Aunt Alice would be joining them soon, to act as a proper companion for her stepmother: to read to her, to listen to her, to be a part of the family as Jane no longer was. For as her father told her, "You are no longer a Rutledge, but a Tavington!"
She left the room feeling more bruised and soiled than ever. There was only one place to go. She ran upstairs to the nursery and cried for half an hour, her head in Biddy's lap.
Biddy's dress was of coarse fustian, a thin stripe of berry-red against a ground of dull gray. Jane studied it, her tears darkening it in patches, looking at the interwoven threads, as she sat exhausted on the floor. Her thoughts were a tangle, and she remembered so many things now, things she ought to have noticed and considered before making this wild bid for freedom that had failed so badly. At the inn yesterday, she had seen Harry Nettles, and felt ashamed of herself for not paying more attention to him the night of the ball.
Jane had always despised men who were duped by pretty faces. Too many times had she watched men lose their heads over Selina. Seeing only her beauty, they did not allow themselves to see the limited intelligence, the shallow spiteful nature that was just underneath the pearly skin and golden hair. But now, it seemed, Jane herself was no better. She had hardly noticed plain and unassuming Harry Nettles at the ball, and had instead thrown herself at the handsome, arrogant Tavington, a man who was practically a complete stranger. How different things could have been. There had been no reason for her to hurry. She could have used the wits she was so vain of, judging and thinking and waiting until she found the right man to take her away from her family.
But there was no more time to wallow in grief. Coral entered the nursery with Little Ash in tow. He had just enjoyed a fine toddle outside the house, and demanded Jane's attention. He was too small to sympathize with her; and he was Selina's and her father's. A dark flicker of jealousy stirred in her: she ruthlessly suppressed it. He might be theirs, but he was not them. So she kissed him, and tickled him, and played for a little while, before leaving to write Miss Gilpin's essential letter.
-----
That day set the pattern for many succeeding ones. Jane felt like a ghost in her father's house. She took her meals in silence. In silence, her father ignored her presence, unless he had a direct command or complaint. Selina abused her without end. Only gentle little Aunt Alice Izard, soft as rice powder, addressed her civilly. Jane thought she would hate Miss Gilpin's supplanter, but she could not.
Alice Izard was a poor relation, and this lucky invitation of the Rutledges was a gift of God to her. Her luck and her obligation did not make her spiteful to Jane, however much that might have been anticipated. She knew that Jane's elopement, which was the talk of Charlestown, had deeply offended her father, and she pitied Jane for the outcome, even though she felt that Jane had been at fault. Sensibly, because she was dependent on Selina's good opinion of her, she did not try to make Jane her friend. She did, however, never insult Jane herself, or laugh when Selina taunted her. Aunt Alice had learned that in such situations--whether she herself or another was the target--it was best to appear too stupid to understand an insult. Selina grew accustomed to the mild, befuddled look on the older lady's face, and did not expect much assistance from her in tormenting Jane.
With the beginning of June, Rutledge decided to move his household to his house in Charlestown. Jane handled most of the arrangements, but welcomed the change. She had seen nobody but her family and their slaves since Tavington and Miss Gilpin had departed. Her little white room no longer seemed a sanctuary, but a place filled with distressing memories.
Once the immediate impression of her wedding night had faded a little, Jane thought more about how it had all begun, and began to dwell more on the fact that it was really all her stepmother's fault. Selina had put Tavington in Jane's head, and Selina's behavior was not helping put him out of it. Her dislike and contempt for Selina were growing by the day, and it was only a matter of time before matters came to a head.
-----"Another letter from your wife, Bordon?"
"Yes," the captain smiled with conscious pleasure. "She has so much to tell me about the children. Actually, I received two letters at once this time."
Tavington's smile turned faintly sour. He would never admit he envied Bordon, but he had once met the much-praised Harriet and had found her witty and charming: a keen observer of human nature, who had not been too afraid of him to poke gentle fun at some of his own foibles. He had been more aware, since meeting her, of how he could hide his social unease under a mask of haughty reserve. He had thought her attractive too, liking especially the bright, watchful eyes that always seemed filled with good-natured laughter. Bordon was a lucky man. At least his wife was writing to him.
He had not heard a word from Jane since their wedding day—and night. Tavington had tried to conceal the truth from himself, but now acknowledged that perhaps Jane had not found the experience entirely satisfactory. It had all been too rushed—necessary, of course, to establish their bond and protect his interests, but really, considering the ceremony, and the lack of time to talk, and the consummation---he winced a little, recollecting his behavior---well, perhaps it was time to mend things. After all, he was a man and soldier, and not a timid young woman. He would write to her and try to smooth things over. Not that he needed to apologize----but yes, perhaps he did need to apologize. An apology might please Jane greatly, whether he had done anything he need apologize for or not. He had won the battle, and could afford to be generous.
All in all, things were going well for him and his dragoons. The rebels were in disarray. At Waxhaws, they had fired at him under a flag of truce and he had broken and savaged them in revenge. Their collaborators and sympathizers were receiving rough justice for their crimes. Just today, he had tracked down some of the rebel wounded to a farmhouse that he had subsequently ordered burned. A young rebel had been captured as a spy and another had put up a fight and been shot for his pains. All things to fill him with righteous satisfaction. At the corners of his consciousness, he remembered the terrified face of a tiny golden-haired child. It was sad, really, what women and children faced because of the foolish choices of those who ought to protect them.
As he ought to be protecting Jane. Well, there was no help for it. Had he dragged her, a sheltered young lady, along with the army, she would have been in constant danger, not only from rebels, but from all the diseases that were dogging his men. A sip of bad water, and Jane Rutledge—Jane Tavington—would die an agonizing and ugly death, burning with fever, and bleeding from the flux. Whatever the rubs and acrimony within her family, she was physically safe there, to a degree he could not guarantee in an army camp.
Bordon was laughing over his letter. Tavington left him to it, and went to his tent, preparing pen and paper for one of his own. He thought it through silently, and then committed himself.
June 6, 1780
My dear Jane,
I hope you and your family are well and safe. I am in good health and unwounded. We have been proceeding north for the past week and the rebels continue to fall back from us. We met Buford and his men at the Waxhaws. I do not know if you are acquainted with the man, but I cannot say that I was impressed. He declared his defiance in the most insolent terms, but then proceeded to show amazing incompetence. His men were overthrown, and then displayed a flag of truce. As Tarleton and I attempted a parley, we were treacherously fired upon, and Tarleton's horse was shot out from under him. I thought him dead (though I was mistaken—he is perfectly well, now) and our troops took a fierce revenge for the rebels' treachery. Buford, for all his fine words, fled away, leaving his men to face their fate without him. If things continue in this train, South Carolina will soon be pacified. Perhaps I shall be able to return to you in a few short months.
My dear wife-- for so you are, though we were together as husband and wife only a matter of hours—I wish to apologize for anything you found amiss in my behavior to you. There was so little time that I fear I was impatient and unkind. Having had some time to reflect on this, I do understand that you might have found my conduct somewhat ungentlemanly. I wish you to understand that whatever I did, I did with good intentions. I wished to have our marriage put beyond your father's power to forbid or annul. This has been achieved, and after the war is over, we can make a fresh start.
Do not think me unaware of your unhappiness at home. The conduct of your father and stepmother must be indeed hard to bear. You deserve better. My dalliance with your stepmother I beg you to look upon as the thoughtless behavior of a man who has been too accustomed to such light women. You have my word of honor that any further infidelities with her are at an end. Nothing good can come of them, even if I still found her desirable. I do not. Her spiteful jealousy of you, above all, has made me feel a growing aversion for her company.
Jane, I know you were bitterly disappointed to be left among such people. I had my reasons, which I will lay before you now at length. You have not seen the world as I have. I do not discount your unhappiness at Cedar Hill, but you are in no physical danger there. You cannot know the terrible things that I have seen in this war. You are an intelligent and competent young woman, but it is impossible that you could defend yourself against the sort of ruffians that prey on the helpless in a land chaotic with war and rebellion.
You have heard, I believe, the story of what happened to Mrs. Giles, the former Lady Colleton, and her companions at Fair Lawn plantation, when those unhappy ladies were attacked one night by drunken dragoons . What you must keep in confidence, for the sake of the ladies involved, is that their sufferings were much greater than reported. Tarleton insisted the men be flogged, and to keep the matter as quiet as possible, I did not publicly oppose him. I still feel passionately, as Major Ferguson did, that the men ought to have been hanged. I have my eye on the villains, for having once transgressed as they did, they are bound to attempt some such outrage again.
Perhaps you feel that nothing of the sort could happen to you. I pray that is so. However, as a philosopher once said, "Accept that anything that can happen, can happen to you." Your safety must be my first concern. Until I am in a position to provide you with my own protection, you must remain in your father's household.
My friend Bordon has just received a letter from his wife, full of family news. I now realize, with some embarrassment, that I have never spoken to you of my own family, which is now yours as well. No, I will not bore you with tales of my esteemed uncle the Earl. In reality, though our townhouses are in the same square, we do not see the family often. I went to school with my cousin, Lord Sattersby, but though cousins, we have never been friendly.
My father, as you no doubt have heard, is dead. My mother, Lady Cecily, lives with my elder brother, the present Sir John, and my sisters in her house at 12 Mortimer Square. It is quite a nice house, and was a gift to her from her father at her wedding. John is a good sort, but not very ambitious, for all he has a safe seat in Parliament.
Here Tavington paused, not sure what more he could say about John. He had always rather liked his brother, despite his many faults, but he could not imagine the hard-working, energetic Jane having much in common with him. He turned to his sisters with more confidence.
You will find my sisters the sweetest and gentlest of creatures, and they will no doubt prove good sisters to you, too. Caroline and Penelope are older than I, and unmarried. They, like you, are very fond of music, and live very pleasantly and quietly together.
I also have a younger sister, Lucy, who is very dear to me. Lucy is married
Tavington paused again. Thinking about Lucy and her marriage, in some ways very like his own, he wondered what his mother would say about it all.
to a successful lawyer, Edward Protheroe. I regret that I could not see her married, for it all happened only two years ago, when I was already in America. She writes fairly frequently, especially to tell me about their child. Lucy did not marry young, and for that reason, everything seems the more precious to her. My nephew Ned is the joy of her life.
My mother
Not a pause, but a dead stop. Tavington felt the usual confusion of emotions when thinking of his mother. What could he say that Jane would like? Would it be enough that he had a mother, whom he could share with the motherless Jane?
is a very cultured, refined woman, very devoted to her family. She never remarried after my father's death.
What else could he say? His mother had been a great beauty, but that might not sound appealing to Jane, after living with Selina. His mother favored her sons over her daughters, and that was not very appealing either. She had a large circle of powerful gentlemen friends that she had used to obtain every possible advantage for her sons--
She has worked tirelessly for my advancement.
In his mind's eye, he pictured Jane and his mother under the same roof, and shied away from the possibilities. Jane was his wife, and surely his mother would respect that. John was unlikely to marry. Surely Mamma must understand the need for the Tavington family to have an heir---
He decided that there was no profit in idle suppositions, and concentrated instead on his letter.
My dear wife, I pray you put aside your disappointment and write to me. I truly wish to know how you are getting on. In one sense, your father's proposal of a courtship by correspondence was a sound one: it is the only way we are going to communicate with one another for some time. So, let us call this our courtship, and let it be a prosperous one.
I am, Madam, your most devoted husband,
William Tavington
-----
Jane did not receive Tavington's letter until late in the month. It had gone to Cedar Hill, and was only belatedly forwarded on to the house on Queen Street. She opened it with curiosity, not recognizing the handwriting. Then realizing who the author was, she stood unmoving for several minutes. Her first impulse was to crumple it and throw it down the privy. Her second, rational one, was to read it through.
She was too busy to do it justice at the moment. Instead, she stuffed it into her pocket, and went outside to the kitchen to oversee the work. Impulsively, she decided to join in by baking a cake. This took some time, but the activity soothed her. Daisy, the chief cook, and her children and assistants worked cheerfully about her. When the cake was taken from the oven, perfectly browned, she let young Nancy sprinkle it with sugar while she went back to house to attend to her letter.
Jane was much happier in Charlestown. Her father's prohibition about the carriage hardly mattered here: she could walk to her relatives and to church; she could visit the shops; she could look out at the harbor, feeling the call of distant places; she could see her lawyer and tend to her financial affairs. And it was impossible for Selina to keep her out of the parlor entirely: Selina's relatives were Jane's, and they were there to chat with both of them. Remarks were sometimes made, but the scandal was dying down, obscured by exciting news of the war.
The town house was somewhat smaller than Cedar Hill. It had been closed down, and then had been inhabited by some careless billeted soldiers, but now the Rutledges had it to themselves again, due to Sir Henry's general benevolence before he left for New York. Considering that it could be called Colonel Tavington's residence, he felt it excessive to burden the family with other officers. Rutledge was pleased; not wanting further intrusions. Selina was feeling too ill to care at the moment.
For it became apparent during their move to Charlestown that Selina was with child.
Jane felt only disgust at her father's exultation, knowing that the child might not even be his. Selina, between bouts of nausea, would lift her head, glaring triumphantly at Jane. Jane had carefully kept her temper these first few weeks, but sometimes wished to slap her stepmother's face. Jane had wondered if she herself might have a baby—after all, that was point, she supposed, of the unpleasant and incomprehensible things her husband had done to her. She had begun listening to her body, alert to any of the changes that Biddy had gently explained to her. The idea even had a certain appeal. A child of her own would be hers: a little person to love and to teach, and who would love her. But of the changes, there was no sign, and Jane was somewhat disappointed, in a way she did not fully understand. She was glad enough not to feel as ill as Selina obviously did. And she could not helping feeling that Selina's discomfort was richly deserved.
And always, always, she was told the same cruel things: that Tavington had married her for her money; that he would take her money and leave without her; that she would be a pauper and a poor relation to the end of her days; that she did not deserve the kindness of her family.
Some of these things she had come to believe; others she had good reason to know were false. She was not going to be a helpless dependent: her little nest egg would see her safe. Having a little money of her own helped her through one of Selina's pettiest punishments.
Since she was not really supposed to be in the parlor, Selina pointed out she had no right to play the instrument there, which belonged to "the family." Jane had gotten up, given her stepmother a long, deliberate look, and had taken her time gathering up all the music that belonged to her. This she carried upstairs, leaving only a few scattered sheets that had been Selina's before her marriage had allowed her to stop playing. Aunt Alice owned the rest, which Jane left untouched.
The lack of an instrument could be remedied. Jane took a stroll out to the shops, and within a few days, a little bent-side spinet was delivered to the house on Queen Street, a tiny triangular harpsichord that fit cozily into a corner of Jane's bedchamber upstairs. Her room in town was very different from her chamber at Cedar Hill. Her townhouse bedchamber was large and square, and painted a pleasant green. A plaited rag rug softened the floor. Her bed was dressed in celery-green muslin, with a pattern of vine leaves. At the foot of her own large bed was the little narrow one where Letty slept when they were in town. All in all, with her books, and her little writing desk, and her new instrument and Letty for companionship, Jane felt the change to town was a very agreeable one. The lack of Miss Gilpin was still painful, but there was no cure for that; and now, considering the hatefulness of her relations, she could only feel that Miss Gilpin was better off on that ship to England, escaping the war and reuniting with her brother.
And now she had a letter from a man she had been told she would never hear from again. She sat down at the writing table by the window, and smoothed the crumpled pages carefully.
"My dear Jane…"
It took three tries to get through the letter. The first paragraph, full of dull army news, she shrugged at. How could he imagine she was interested? But then he spoke of more personal, compelling issues. She was bewildered that he was writing to her, that he was apologizing, that he wished her to know things about himself, and above all, that he wished her to respond. He certainly was not writing like a man who intended to take her money and abandon her. What was he playing at?
He spoke so fondly of his sisters, and so seriously of the dangers of the war to women. Jane shook her head at his warning. He did not know her well enough to understand that she could take care of herself. Perhaps that was not his fault, entirely. They had known each other too short a time.
Much of the letter she did not understand. He spoke of his family living in Mortimer Square. Probably that was in London, though he did not say so. Very many things were plain to him, but not so plain to someone who did not know England. His sister Lucy was married, but he did not say where she was. Perhaps he thought Jane should understand it all, but she did not.
Well, maybe that was for the best. If she did choose to write him—if she felt she could honorably accept his apology for his very ungentlemanlike conduct-- she could ask him to make it all clear. Yes—that was good—she would have something to say. She could request more details about his family, more descriptions.
But could she write to such a man? A memory of darkness, of a suffocating weight and powerful hands holding her helpless, of a tearing, stabbing pain made her shiver. No wonder men make women swear such terrible oaths to obey them! The pages fluttered in response, and one dropped to the floor. She pushed a stray hair from her face before she bent to pick it up. She looked at the page again.
He expressed true contrition for the adultery, and promised it was over. Jane was not quite so sheltered as her husband imagined. She knew that men took their pleasure where they found it, willingly or unwillingly, from slave or free. He had simply indulged himself: Selina had broken her marriage vows. At least Jane would not have to see such conduct again. Her lips twitched in satisfaction: How disappointing for Selina. Too bad. Then she considered that Selina might be carrying Tavington's child, and her smile faded. She bit her lip and looked at the rest of the letter.
Like a typical gossiping man, he told her details of the ladies who were attacked in April. It did help Jane understand his fixed idea that she should be safe—it somewhat excused his betrayal of her fondest hopes, but she wished he had not written it. It was hideous to imagine the poor women—women she knew-- suffering worse treatment than she had. And if it were known that the ladies had suffered ravishment, they would be ruined, no matter how innocent they were. Jane vowed that she would not spread the news.
Carefully, she folded the letter, and locked it in her desk. She must read it again tonight, and think it over. Perhaps it might be possible to reply to the letter. They were inescapably married before God, and if Tavington were sincere in his repentance, Jane must be a Christian and forgive him. Perhaps it might be possible…
------
Note: Mortimer Square is fictional. I have based it on Berkeley Square in the Mayfair section of London, as it was in the 18th century. The southwest side of the square is occupied by Lansdowne House, at one time home to William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne, later 1st Marquess of Lansdowne.
Next—Chapter 10: Exchanging Olive Branches