Chapter 28: Lady Cecily Tavington
The elegant elderly lady stared down at them from the staircase.
"My dearest," she demanded with incredulous disdain, "who are those women?"
Tavington paused and glanced at the stone-pale face of his mother at her most forbidding. Perhaps she did not receive my letter—No. Caro and Pen knew I had been wounded. All right. That's the way it's going to be--
"My dear Madam," he said, turning and leading Jane forward. "Let me present to you Mrs. Tavington, the former Jane Rutledge of Charlestown, South Carolina. With her is her sister, Miss Laeticia Rutledge. This is our servant Mrs. Royston, who is holding your grandson, William Francis Tavington. Surely you received my last letter, Mamma?"
"Indeed I did. I merely thought you were being your amusing, teasing self. I mean, who could credit—?" Lady Cecily remaining staring at them. Jane straightened her shoulders as her mother-in-law's gaze swept over her like a north wind, chilly, dispassionate. The regard turned her this way and that, considering, and ultimately discarded her worthless. Somewhat prepared, Jane only tightened her jaw. She had faced worse at home.
Tavington glanced at her companions. This was not going at all well. Jane's expression was the blank mask he had seen when she was at home with her family. Letty's eyes were humbly fixed on the floor, as she reverted to her usual demeanour from her slave days. Moll's face was growing dangerously red. Tavington had a brief, terrible, hilarious vision of their imposing Carolina nursemaid giving his mother the set-down of her life. It must not come to that.
"I am so very happy to be home, my dearest mother," he told her soothingly, kissing her hand. "I thought only of coming to you at once. If, however, the house is unprepared for us, perhaps it is best if—"
Lady Cecily's expression flickered faintly with alarm. "Of course your room is in perfect order, my darling boy. I am overjoyed to welcome you home at last."
Jane watched her with cynical detachment. She would have been sorry for William's disappointment if his mother had declared there was, so to speak, no room at the inn; but she was not looking forward to being a guest under this woman's roof. Unfortunately, maternal love seemed to trump all else. She may not want us, but she certainly wants him.
Tavington gestured Moll forward. He smiled winningly at his mother. "Would you not like to see your grandson, Madam?"
"Bring the child here."
Moll stalked forward, thinking her precious little Will very unlucky in his grandparents. She held the infant out for inspection, eyeing the hoity-toity madam before her watchfully. Lady Cecily was considered a tall woman, but Moll towered over her by half a head—or would have, but for the lady's high piled hair, which gave her an extra ten inches of height. Moll wondered how such a mare's nest was kept so carefully arranged, teased and ratted and heavily powdered as it was. The pomade and perfume did not hide the smell of unwashed scalp beneath. She must sleep standing up. I haven't seen so much paint since Liza Jane Stubbs spilled the whitewash. Maybe this bedizened old quean would improve on acquaintance, and maybe not.
Lady Cecily made no attempt to take the child. She peered at him curiously.
"William Francis, you say?"
"Yes," Tavington said. "He was christened after me, and after our good friend Lord Rawdon, who is his godfather."
His mother assumed an air of puzzled innocence. "Lord Rawdon? I am not sure---"
"Lord Rawdon is the heir of the Earl of Moira."
"Ah. The Irish peerage. Unfortunate."
At this point, Caroline came forward, and speaking very carefully, said, "They have come so far, ma'am, and it is already late. They must be very tired. Perhaps we should show them to their rooms, and let them refresh themselves a little before dinner. Would that not be a good plan?"
Jane thought it a capital plan, but everyone waited breathlessly to see what Lady Cecily would decide.
"Yes. Let it be done." Her mother-in-law collected herself, and began issuing commands to the butler. "See to the luggage. Mrs.—" she paused "--Tavington is to have the Willow Room. Her sister may have the Dutch Room. Have the servant shown to the nursery. We shall dine in an hour, Rivers. Inform the cook of the additions." She touched Tavington's cheek. "My dearest."
Turning, she swept up the stairs, out of sight. As soon as she was gone, sighs of relief were heard all around. After a few more civilities, the Tavington sisters led their guests upstairs.
Rivers had summoned help, and three footmen appeared. Rivers muttered, seemingly not intending to be heard, "There'll be hell to pay in the kitchens! A word of warning would be too much to hope for—"
He went outside to the carriage, and his complaints changed to quick, efficient commands. He told Tom, one of the footmen, to "show Mrs. Royston to the nursery, and help get her settled. Call down Sarah and Dorcas to clean the place a bit."
Tom was the tallest of the footmen. He looked to be a bit under thirty, and was a fine, strapping fellow, in Moll's opinion. He eyed the of the trunks and boxes piling up in the hall.
"This lot yours?" he asked, pointing to Moll's little trunk, on which Moll had carved 'M. Royston' with her clasp knife.
"That's mine, and the big workbasket, and the long bundle in canvas. This little mite's cradle is on top of the coach, and that—' she nodded at a trunk larger than her own, "holds his linen and such. I reckon I'd better have a look at this nursery." "
"Then, Madame," declared Tom, with a sweeping bow, "Permit me the honor of showing you the back staircase of Number Twelve, Mortimer Square—the proper staircase for the likes of you and me!"
Moll laughed. Tom hoisted her trunk easily up on one shoulder, and then slipped the handle of the workbasket over his other arm, picked up the canvas wrapped musket, and led the way. Moll followed, thinking Tom's appearance from behind equally admirable.
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Jane did not want to gawk, but she was trying to take in as much of the house as she could. It really was much larger than it had seemed from the outside. The staircase was to the left of the hall as they came in. To their right, she caught a glimpse of a large, elegant dining room.
Caroline understood her curiosity. "I shall show you everything later, but of course you want to know your way about the house. Behind the dining room is the morning room, where Pen and I spend much of our time."
Jane noticed that the doors on the other side of the hall were closed. Caroline said nothing about them, and Jane did not like to pry. No doubt all would be revealed in good time. She heard Letty's faint intake of breath and looked behind to see Letty gazing at the ceiling, transfixed. Above them was a circular skylight, diffusing light down the staircase. Jane paused to admire, herself. Tavington pretended to be indifferent, but was very pleased at her liking a feature of the house that was one of his own favorites.
"Yes. The oculus. It's very nice, I suppose. At least, one can see the steps without stumbling!"
Caroline took up the description. "And now here we are at the first floor." She pointed to the arched door of a room that faced the square and was over the dining room. "There is the drawing room, where we shall have our tea after dinner. Behind it is the music room. The rooms are separated by folding doors, and thus can be combined for very great occasions," she laughed, with a hint of deprecation.
"And on this side by the staircase?" Letty asked. These doors, also were closed. She was enchanted with the house, and loved even the halls, with their beautiful plaster medallions and scrollwork, standing out pure white against the sunny yellow of the walls.
"The ballroom," Penelope told her, rather subdued. "It has not been used in some time."
They continued up another flight of steps, which led, Caroline, told them, to "the second floor. Our bedrooms are here." This hall was plainer, and bisected by a transverse hall, which was dotted with doors. Caroline led them to the side over the ballroom. "You shall have the rooms opposite Pen's and mine. Will that not be pleasant?" She seemed a little uneasy, and Jane wondered what troubled her.
There was another flight of stairs, and Caroline smiled at Jane. "Those lead above to the nursery, where we shall go after dinner. You will see that the little one is perfectly comfortable."
Tavington considered turning aside and going to his own room directly, but decided it would be better to see his ladies situated. He could not remember the Willow Room, except that he thought it was green. Jane should like that, he hoped. What he principally recalled was that it was the room furthest from his own. He muffled a snort. Mamma was a fool if she thought the length of an upstairs hall would keep him from sleeping with his wife.
They reached the first door. Penelope told Letty, "This room was our sister Lucy's. But don't tell Mamma we spoke of her. It is forbidden!"
"Still?" Tavington asked Caroline, in an undertone. She bit her lip, and nodded sadly.
The door was opened, and damp, musty air struck them in the face. Letty's gasp of delight prevented Jane from making any comments about the unprepared state of the room. It had been closed up for quite awhile, Jane guessed—possibly since Tavington sister had eloped, which would be at least three years. Nonetheless, it was a handsome room, and Letty was enchanted with it.
"Oh! How pretty! How pretty!" Letty cried. She ran to the fireplace, which was decorated in blue and white tiling. The bed curtains were a printed toile in the same colors. "I love blue!"
"Those tiles are Delft," Penelope informed her, pleased at the sweet girl's pleasure. "Thus, the 'Dutch' Room."
Letty did not know what "Delft" was, but it was obviously something rare and beautiful.
The servants arrived and her luggage was sorted out.
"Betty," said Caroline to a maid, "help Miss Rutledge unpack, and put the room in order."
Seeing Letty happily occupied, Jane thought she could move on to see the "Willow Room," that Lady Cecily had so pointedly assigned her. She had no idea where Tavington's room was, but she was certain he could find her if he so wished.
"Now, my dear Mrs. Tavington," Caroline said with some embarrassment, "the Willow Room has not been used for years, but I am sure that we can—" she opened the door.
If Letty's room smelled of damp, this smelled of mildew and mouse droppings. It was a very old-fashioned room, Jane saw at once, with furniture much darker than her own taste—much more in the style of her grandmother's day. The one attractive feature was the mantelpiece of mellowed white marble, carved with willow boughs. The drapes were of dark green velvet, giving the room a funereal appearance. White sheets covered much of the furniture like ghosts. A tall, massive oak wardrobe loomed over the room like a tombstone. Jane sighed, feeling the weight of Lady Cecily's opinion of her behind this choice.
Caroline had faltered, but smiled bravely, and finished her thought—"I'm sure it can all be put to rights very quickly. Jenny—" she directed a tiny maid, who could not have been more than thirteen. "Open the shutters and air the room thoroughly before you light a fire."
Jane smiled back at her new sister, just as bravely. "I shall be perfectly comfortable, I assure you. It is a splendid old room. I must tell you sometime about traveling through the backcountry and sleeping on a cornshuck bed. A little dust and must is a mere nothing." She caught her husband's expression, and lifted her chin in mock defiance.
Tavington, in his turn, flinched in mock alarm, but was torn between relief at Jane's well-bred acceptance of these shabby quarters, and irritation at his mother's calculated insult to her new daughter-in-law. He excused himself, having seen enough. "I shall meet you—" he consulted his watch—"in twenty minutes, in the dining room."
"Twenty minutes!" Caroline echoed in fright. "Pen! Hurry!" She turned hastily to Jane, "Excuse us, my dear, and Jenny, help Mrs. Tavington change for dinner! Excuse us!"
She and her sister vanished into their own rooms, and Tavington strolled away, down the long hall. Jane watched him, too tired to feel much resentment at the moment, and busied herself with the problem at hand.
A manservant came forward, and asked, "We have brought your belongings, ma'am. Is this everything?"
Jane looked at the pile of luggage. Big trunk, small trunk, book trunk, bandboxes, crate of linen—which seemed superfluous, but might not be--crate of silver and china— "I have also a small spinet, which is on top of the coach. That is mine. Fetch it, and assemble it—there," she ordered, pointing to a corner by the window.
The maidservant unlatched the shutters and the grey light of the London sky flooded in, along with a strong scent of coal smoke. Jane shrugged. That was part of London, too, and better than the scent of mildew. Wondering about the view from her window, she walked over, twitching the dust covers from the furniture as she passed. Jenny followed her, picking up and folding the sheets, placing them in a tidy pile on the floor.
The opened shutters revealed the stableyard and the little outbuildings behind the façade of the great square. Shabby little houses rose up from the lane, and along with them the faint stink of urine and rotten food, noticeable even at this height from street level. Beyond was a vast landscape of roofs and chimneypots and distant, tall church spires. It was not the glamorous view of the square that the rooms opposite must boast, but Jane felt her spirits rising a little. This was London, the dream of so many years, and now revealed as far greater than any of her imaginings. Even the dark, shabby back alleys were somehow awe-inspiring. Yes, she was in London, and that was something.
However, the view would not help her deal with shortcomings of her new bedchamber, and she set to work to know every inch of it, starting with the most important piece of furniture. The bed was carved dark oak, and was covered with a stiff coverlet of deep green that matched the hangings. It looked imposing, in a very old-fashioned way, but it positively reeked of mildew.
She told the little maid, "After you finish unpacking, remove that coverlet and take it somewhere to be aired. I cannot possibly sleep with such a smell. If the mattress is sound, make up the bed with some of my own sheets and quilts from—that—crate. " She grimaced. If the mattress were to be mildewed as well—which it might well be—there would be no replacing it on short notice. She might well have to buy one herself, and it would take time to have one made to the exact dimensions of this great bed.
"Yes, ma'am." The little girl, bustling about her work, opened the wardrobe and uttered a squeak of outrage. There was a faint echo of her squeak from the wardrobe. Jane glanced up and came closer. Inside the wardrobe lay the remains of a silk coverlet wrapped in paper. It had become a large and comfortable mouse nest, and shreds of tattered silk and scraps of paper drifted out through the opened door.
"Ugh!" cried the girl. "You wicked little villains!"
"Well," said Jane sourly, "clear it all out after I have dressed for dinner. We can put my clothes away later. There is a green silk in the big trunk. Does this house have a water closet?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. On this floor, behind the back stairs." She dropped her voice. "But her ladyship don't like anyone else using it."
"Indeed. I thank you for your warning." She took a look under the bed. No chamberpot was in evidence. There must be something.
There was. On the other side of the bed, behind a screen, a small oak chest opened to reveal a commode. The pot was below and full of spiders.
"Clean this out as well, and I will want some hot water tonight. Is there a bathtub in the house?"
"Yes, ma'am, but her ladyship—"
Jane gritted her teeth, and heard the girl out. It appeared that a very ornate and elegant bathtub was generally in Her Ladyship's boudoir, and a petition must be directed to that great lady, if it were to be moved to another room. "Is there no other tub in the house?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am—there is a little rusty old tub in the attics, but 'tis a shabby thing—"
"Will it hold water?"
"Well—yes, ma'am."
"Good. Have it brought down here, and place it behind the screen. It will do for me and for my sister while we are here. Tomorrow we shall bathe." She already knew she had no desire to ask Lady Cecily for the favor of anything so intimate as a bath. It was quite bad enough that she must now go downstairs and dine with her.
The stool before the dressing table was covered with green morocco leather, cracked with age. With a frown, she seated herself on it, staring with dissatisfaction at the dim mirror and her plain, pale face reflected in it. She blew out a breath, and attempted to tidy her hair.
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Moll followed Tom, the tall footman, to the very top of the house, admiring a man who could keep up a friendly conversation while carrying a heavy load up the endless narrow stairs. By the end of them, the walls had become the plainest yet, covered with just a coat of whitewash.
Tom stopped before a door, and declared. "And now, Madame, I give you—the nursery!"
He set down his burdens before the door, and swung it open with a flourish. Moll beamed in surprise and pleasure. Now this is a right nice place! she thought, admiring the generous space and the wide glass windows overlooking the square. It was a little dusty, but Moll knew how to deal with that. It was big, bigger than the whole cabin she and Bob Royston had built, even counting the lean-to and corncrib. She was impressed by a huge cradle, covered in gilding, with a coat of arms on the wooden canopy. It smelled a little. Moll stood back, still holding her little charge closely. "This little man's used to the cradle we brought. You could set a half-dozen of him in this thing. Put a sail on it, and you could go to sea!"
"Well, the quality are a rum lot, you know—a thing ain't the thing if it ain't twice the size it needs to be. I'll send some help your way, and go fetch the rest. Until we meet again, fair lady!" He waggled his brows at her outrageously, and she shook her head, laughing.
She confided her pleasure in dozy Little Will. "Well, boy, there's one good-humored body in this place. That's a comfort!" She looked around the room, and said in wonder. "It looks like you'll have all the playthings you'll ever need, and then some!"
The nursery was a treasury of rich children's toys: more than Moll had ever seen. A battle-scarred but magnificent rocking horse, a pair of stick horses, cricket bats, the most elaborate Noah's Ark imaginable. On a low table, surrounded by child-sized chairs, was a beautiful little dollhouse, with perfect tables and chairs and beds. Moll promised herself the pleasure of cleaning it up and playing with it a little herself. Three exquisitely life-like dolls gathered dust on a shelf. Looks like those girls need their linen laundered. And I'm just the one to do it! She found a plain wooden chest and looked inside. Smaller toys were piled inside: game boards and scattered puzzle pieces; tops and balls, battered toy swords, letter blocks and forsaken puppets, their arms flung wide like the dead on a battlefield. There were things that Moll could not identify. No doubt Mrs. Tavington could tell her the names of some of the wonders.
It was a well-furnished room, too. It was full of good sturdy furniture, strong enough to last, and not so fancy as to be ruined by children's play. A pair of children's cots, a good table with a pair of benches on either side. A high chair, forgotten in a shadowy corner. She turned and looked at the rest of the room. Another, larger bed was in the corner furthest from the fireplace. "Bit small for me, but I can make do." The fireplace itself was small, with a stout metal screen, but with plenty of room to heat up the dusty iron teakettle on its little iron hook. A big oak cupboard promised more treasures, when she had time to go through it. A comfortable wooden chair, that looked just her size, was near the window.
"Moll, old girl, your luck has turned at last."
The Colonel's mother might be a haughty piece, but she had a fine house. Moll would not see much of her, probably, and would have this large and magnificent room to raise the baby in. She smiled broadly, and pulled the big chair closer to the window. Sitting down to admire of the view of the great green square, the splendid houses, and beyond, the huge palace the Colonel had called Colchester House, she sighed with pleasure.
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Awkward as the occasion was, Tavington was enjoying his after dinner tea. His next day was agreeably planned out in his mind. He was still aglow from the pleasure of finding his own room just as he had left it—as if he had been away only for a brief visit at a country house. It was almost as if the war had never happened. Only the very real presence of Jane, sitting stiffly on the yellow silk of a drawing room sofa, her emerald green gown standing out against it like the lush swamps of South Carolina, reminded him that there was a world far from Mayfair and his family. Letty was beside her, knuckles whitening as she clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
His wife and sister-in-law looked like a pair of schoolgirls called before the Headmistress for some escapade: one terrified, the other defiant. Mamma was playing the role of stern Headmistress rather too well, he reflected. She was interrogating the girls relentlessly. No—interrogating Jane. His wife was his mother's target, and she had no time for lesser victims at the moment.
"And what trade does your father follow?"
Tavington shut his eyes.
Jane smiled slightly and unpleasantly, and replied with only the tiniest edge to her voice. "My father is not in trade. He is a planter of rice and indigo. His principal seat is Cedar Hill, an estate of some eight hundred acres. He has numerous other properties which consitute an additional acreage of six hundred or so."
"Very extensive!" Penelope murmured encouragingly, and then fell silent as her mother's cold gaze fastened on her.
After a moment, Lady Cecily's attention was once more fixed on Jane. Tavington's mother abruptly observed, "I daresay that you had never imagined yourself connected with a noble family, Mrs. Tavington. In the ordinary way, of course, it could never have happened. War, alas, is a great leveler. Soldiers come upon all sorts of odd people, when they are posted to remote and barbarous outposts, far from all decent society."
Burning resentment flickered to life behind Jane's blank gaze. Her smile remained fixed. "Certainly soldiers do meet a great variety of people. As to the society of South Carolina, you must apply to your son for his judgement on its decency, as he has seen it for himself."
Tavington fidgeted slightly. Oh, Mamma, can you not be civil, even for my sake.? She is here and there's nothing to be done about it. He took another look at Jane's face and nearly groaned aloud. She was looking positively mulish. She might have disliked her life in South Carolina and even criticized the people there herself, but in the face of his mother's attacks she seemed to feel perversely obliged to defend her birthplace and all its inhabitants.
His mother studied Jane as she would a fly in amber. "Such an odd manner of speaking, too. That accent—it puts me in mind of those Negroes who performed songs and dances at Lord Duncannon's fete. Are you of African extraction, Mrs. Tavington?"
Tavington hissed warningly, "Mamma!"
Letty nearly jumped from the sofa. Jane grasped her hand, holding her down without looking at her, staring at Lady Cecily darkly. "No," she replied with brittle clarity. "I am not."
"Curious, then—but you do sound—how amusing…"
Tavington caught his mother's eye. Something in his gaze must have warned her that she had gone too far, for she changed the subject. "Are you musical, Mrs. Tavington?"
"I play a little, as does my sister—"
"Jane plays extremely well, Mamma," Tavington declared, "and Letty sings charmingly. We are hoping to find her a first-rate master while we are here in Town."
Caroline brightened. "Oh—well—that is most delightful, and we know just the man—"
Lady Cecily cast an appraising look at Letty, who dared not look back. She asked—or rather, repeated, "You play," looking at Jane. Her gaze shifted to Letty. "And you sing."
"A little, Lady Cecily—" whispered Letty, terribly embarrassed.
Lady Cecily considered them. "I wish to hear you."
Letty's eyes widened. Jane smiled frostily. "Of course, ma'am, if it pleases you."
Tavington interposed firmly. "It must be tomorrow, my dear mother. We have had a wearying journey."
"Very well—I suppose. Tomorrow without fail."
Jane turned to Caroline and Penelope. "Colonel Tavington has told me that you are both delightful performers. I so look forward to hearing you."
"Oh!" protested Penelope. "A brother's partiality!"
"We are indeed, very, very fond of music," Caroline assured her, looking at her with ever increasing interest. "It is one of our chief pastimes." She threw a cautious glance at her mother, who radiated displeasure. "Of course, we do not perform outside the family anymore—"
"No, indeed," Lady Cecily snapped. "No one is interested in a pair of spinsters!"
Caroline bowed her head in submission, but Jane thought she saw a hint of irony. Caroline's eyes met hers, and Jane decided to ignore her mother-in-law's rudeness to her own daughters.
"I look forward to many pleasant hours spent at music together."
Lady Cecily sniffed.
Another pause in the conversation. Tavington broke the silence with, "Where is John?" He was looking forward to seeing his brother. Caroline and Penelope looked at each other, and then at their mother.
Lady Cecily remarked carelessly, "Your brother does not often find the leisure to dine with us. His seat in Parliament causes him to be engaged in affairs of national importance. I hope to see him later tonight, but I think it unlikely."
Penelope smiled weakly at Jane. "Our brother has so many good friends. They quite engross his time."
"I see."
Tavington fidgeted in his chair. Damn. Jane was not looking happy. Of course it must be very odd and uncomfortable, coming to make her home in a strange city and a strange house. She looked tired and rather chilled, too. Her shoulders hunched the way he had noted in the past, when she was feeling overwhelmed. Her face was blank, but it was not serene. Her eyes were wary and embattled, as if she expected another attack at any moment. It was, in fact, the same expression she had worn when they had first met. Mamma was being horrid, but Jane must know it meant nothing. It troubled him a little, but she would adapt to her new surroundings, as she always had before. That was a great comfort. Jane was very adaptable indeed.
He took even more comfort in Letty's air of wonder and awe. His mother had not deigned to speak to her after her demand that she perform tomorrow, but had cast a few brief glances her way. At least she had said nothing directly unkind to the poor girl. He refrained from staring at her himself: she seemed not to want anyone's notice, and sipped her tea as if imagining herself invisible.
So he engaged Mamma in the kind of chat she had always preferred: a review of great names and their current deeds. He was informed who was in town, and who was not; he was told the current dull state of the Court, unchanged in the years he had been gone, except for the introduction of the King's older daughters, whom his mother considered absurdly over-educated and as dull as the rest of "those Germans."
Lord Ravenswood, his mother's faithful old friend, and the patron whose influence with the Secretary at War was responsible for Tavington's promotion, was in his house at Richmond, and no doubt would be delighted to have Tavington wait upon him as soon as possible. Lady Cecily hinted that "soon as possible," meant exactly that.
Tavington assured his mother that as soon as he was fit to be seen about town, he would do so. "Of course, I must report to Horse Guards tomorrow. I have a few other errands that cannot be delayed. After that, I should be only too delighted to pay my duty to the old gentleman."
"Other errands?" His mother let the suspicious words hang in the air.
"I must see my tailor as well. I've nothing but uniforms, and can hardly wear them about town when I am not on duty. I shall send a note to his lordship, and visit him within a few days. I must also hire a valet."
"I should say so," agreed his lady mother. "Perhaps someone who can do something with your hair! Really, my dear—so severe, so utterly without style! And no powder at all! You like as if your wife dressed your hair!"
Jane, who had in fact dressed her husband's hair that morning, merely raised a brow at her husband, who scowled back, saying, "I have been at war, Mamma, and have had things to think about other than my hair!"
His mother's bland look of aristocratic indifference cracked slightly. "You wrote that you had been wounded. Should a physician be summoned? Are you entirely recovered?"
At last. A chance to bring Jane into the conversation. "I need no physician, Madam. I was cared for by my dear Jane, and she would not permit me to be injured any longer than absolutely necessary. She quite scolded me into health, did you not, my dear?"
Jane dismissed this with a polite smile. "I had expert assistance, not the least in your strong will and sound constitution."
Lady Cecily did not immediately respond to that, leaving his sisters to beg for details and commiserate over his sufferings. After their expected exclamations of horror and relief, his mother abruptly told him, "I saw Lady Dorothea Manners with her mother the Duchess yesterday. Such a lovely girl. She will be crushed when she hears of your marriage. I always liked Lady Dorothea. She is my idea of the perfect young lady: accomplished, elegant, well-bred, and of the finest blood in the land. Such a pity—"
"Really?" Tavington smirked. "I seem to recall that you thought her nose much too long; her hands ill-shaped; practically no chin at all; no wit, no spark—"
"She is greatly improved," Lady Cecily informed him repressively.
"I am delighted to hear it," Tavington purred. "I am shocked that such a paragon has not been swept to the altar. The youth of England are to be reproached."
"And alas, Lady Georgiana Howard is to be married." She gave him a look under her painted eyelashes.
Tavington had not spoken to Georgy since she had rushed, sobbing, from the rotunda of Ranelagh Gardens, the victim of his mother's malice. He forced himself to speak. "A pretty girl, as I remember. Does she still write verses?"
A very faint smile of satisfaction appeared on his mother's face. Tavington felt it boded no good for anyone. His mother said sweetly, "She is wittier than ever. Lady Georgiana was always a particular favorite of mine."
Tavington refused to let that pass. "Odd. I was under the impression that you did not like her at all."
"You were mistaken, my dearest."
"Really?" Tavington was tired of this nonsense. "It is of little moment. We are here in London to renew family bonds and to be happy, and the current marriage market is not of—"
"Speaking of the family, your cousin Sattersby is married as well."
Thank God, Tavington sighed to himself. Let us get away from the subject of the women Mamma now thinks I ought to have married! "Indeed. I am happy for him. Who is the lady?"
She said, "The Honorable Miss Catherine Mitford. The new Lady Sattersby plays the harp exquisitely, and is quite a Queen of Fashion. One cannot be surprised. She was a success from the first season she came out. And such a splendid dowry!" With generous condescension, she shared the details with Jane. "No less than fifty thousand pounds, and a superb estate in Dorset. She has made Sattersby quite independent of my wretch of a brother. Such a pity, William, that Sattersby should snatch such a prize!"
"I don't remember Miss Mitford," Tavington answered, profoundly bored.
"No, of course—she came out after you were gone to America." The last word was uttered with a sneer at the Americans on the yellow silk sofa.
Tavington observed, "I hardly see that coming home a bachelor would have helped me win Miss Mitford, as you say she is already married to Sattersby. May they be happy. Now tell me, Mamma: is there anything worth seeing at the Theatre Royal?"
He was assured that it was all very dull at the moment, due to the stupidity of so many men spending this season in the country, shooting and hunting. "Vauxhall and Ranelagh are still open, to be sure. No doubt they will be a novelty and wonder to visitors from the Colonies."
"I look forward very much to seeing all the novelties and wonders London affords," Jane replied, suspiciously wide-eyed. "But I fear I must excuse myself from this delightful rencontre and go up to the nursery. William Francis must be hungry by now."
-----
Jane laughed to herself, as she nursed her little son, enjoying the twilit view of Mortimer Square that Moll had been eager to show her when Jane appeared at the nursery door. Lady Cecily had been appalled that she was nursing her own child. It was not done. It was uncouth. Miss Tavington had rather spoiled her mother's disapproval, by daring to remind her that Lady Spencer herself had given suck to her latest child.
"The Spencers!" Lady Cecily sneered. "I know them of old. A Bible on the table and a pack of cards in the drawer!"
Undaunted by her mother-in-law's contempt, Jane had succeeded in escaping the 'delightful rencontre" in the drawing room, and Letty and her sisters-in-law had fled with her, all eager to see a child once again in the long-deserted nursery of Number Twelve.
She was pleased with Moll's touching exultation in the nursery and all its conveniences. "I do not know how long we will be here, Moll," she warned her.
"No matter, ma'am. I'm all set to enjoy it, however short the stay!"
Caroline and Penelope were pleased with Moll, if a little in awe of her size and the fact that she had a musket mounted above the fireplace.
"Your husband was a soldier?" Caroline asked.
"That he was, ma'am. A sergeant, and a good 'un. The Colonel can tell you he never shirked. But that there's my own, handed down from my Pa. You might say that's my family heirloom. It did good service in the war, if I say so myself."
Caroline looked a question at Jane, who nodded, firmly and gravely, and whispered, "I shall tell you more someday. Moll defended us bravely in a most desperate circumstance."
Moll was still pacing the room, gesturing extravagantly at all its beauties, praising the furniture, the view, the obliging nature of the footman and the two maids who had assisted in putting the nursery to rights.
Letty was enjoying the view, too, joking with Moll about the grandeur of their neighbors. She asked Penelope, "Is that really your uncle's home, over there? It is so impressive!"
"Yes, indeed," Penelope assured her. "Dear Uncle Colchester is up at Colneford Castle, right now, but I expect he will return after Christmas. He always does."
"And then he calls on Mamma, and they quarrel, as they always do, and then we don't speak again for five or six months," Caroline added wryly. "It's a pity. He is our only other near relation, and he was always a good influence on John." She stopped, obviously thinking she had said too much.
Jane, wishing to save her embarrassment, asked Moll if she had had her supper yet.
"Yes, ma'am!" Moll beamed. "They do things right here! Sarah brought it up and she and Dorcas kept me company. A good bite of this and that, and I can boil myself up a cup of tea, whenever I feel like it! Look here at these fine dishes in the cupboard."
She opened an upper door, revealing gaily-painted teapot and cups, with matching plates and bowls and saucers. They were inexpensive but pretty, and Jane smiled indulgently, understanding a little how a frontierswoman like Moll would perceive this house.
Penelope, however, surprised her by getting quite misty-eyed over the crockery. "Oh! I had forgotten them! And once we had every meal with these! Look! This was my own special bowl! It has that extra butterfly! Oh," she said, smiling approvingly at Moll, "I am so happy that someone who appreciates them will be using them again! And how wonderful to have a nephew!" She came over to touch the baby, as if afraid he might be gone tomorrow.
Caroline whispered in her turn to Jane, "If Mamma comes here, she might be vexed not to see him in the family cradle."
"I would be sorry to offend her. It needs a bit of airing and cleaning first, and then we shall, of course, be proud to make use of it." She really liked her own cradle better, but perhaps it would be tactful if she could manage that concession.
"I am so sorry about your room!" Caroline admitted, in the same soft murmur. "If only Mamma had told us! You must think us dreadfully mean—but really, there has been no occasion to use the room in years and years, and it has been better to close it and save the cost of heating—"
"Really, Miss Tavington, I quite understand, and I do not blame you. There is nothing that cannot be dealt with. As long as the mattress is still sound, I shall be perfectly comfortable."
"You are too good. I am glad to see that you are brave, too."
-----
To his dismay, Tavington found himself alone with his mother.
"Oh, William," she lamented, with a mixture of sorrow and disgust. "My dear—"
"Don't, Mamma." Tavington warned her. "I am married. Jane is my wife. I was fortunate to find her."
"Fortunate!"
"—For if I had not, I—would—be—dead--now." He paused, to let that sink in. "I would be dead now, without her care. Never doubt it. You would never have seen me again. I would be rotting in an unmarked grave in the wilderness. Would you have preferred that? Would you really prefer my death to my marriage to a wealthy and generous-hearted heiress?"
"A mediocre twenty thousand pounds! You could have done better—"
"I could have done a great deal worse, and you know it!"
"Oh, William!" she repeated, more sadly still.
"Jane is a very intelligent and adaptable girl. If you give her a chance, you may find her able to become everything you wish in a daughter-in-law." He considered his words. That is, if you ever wished to have a daughter-in-law at all, which is open to question. "I hope never to hear a repeat of that remark about African heritage. It is absurd, and you know it."
"But they really sound—"
"Well, of course, they do! Their nursemaids teach them to speak! The accent is stronger, I grant you, among the ladies, who have traveled less, than in the men, many of whom have been educated in England. Jane's own father was at Oxford."
"Really?" She was still suspicious. "Are you sure he's not a tradesman?"
"Oh, Mamma, for God's sake!"
"Oh—but I am so happy to see you again, my dearest! And you are really, truly recovered?"
"On my honor, I am; with no scars that will appear in public."
"That is too bad, in a way," she reflected. "If you were to stand for Parliament, it would not be amiss to have some mark of service…"
He laughed. "I can always 'strip my sleeve and show my scars,' if you like. There are no lack of them. Not that the Whigs would care. I'm not ignorant of the papers here, Mamma. I know the treacherous rubbish they've circulated about me, and about Rawdon, for that matter."
"I have no doubt that the wretch Colonel Hayne deserved hanging, but there is bound to be a to-do on the floor of the Commons about it when Lord Rawdon returns. Are you sure you want your name associated with his?"
Ah. So she does know who Rawdon is. "Yes, Mamma. I do. Frank Rawdon has been a faithful friend and has done nothing contrary to his honor. I will not desert him, as he did not desert me."
"Very well. I shall discuss this with Lord Lyttleton in my next letter. I am sure it can be dealt with."
"Good. So now, Mamma, tell me all the real news."
They talked another half hour: about fashions (his mother had strong opinions about his new wardrobe, and she told him he must not wear anything in blue or buff, which were the colors of their enemies the Whigs); about the ton (she hated the young Duchess of Devonshire and her clique); about the theatre (the great Garrick was dead, and English drama with him, in spite of all Sheridan and Goldsmith could do); about the affairs of the young Prince of Wales (who was well on his way to becoming a very great fop and seducer); about her brother Colchester (who was a senile old fool and should be knocked in the head).
"And what of John?" Tavington asked. "Shall we see him tonight?"
"I think not. He will be at White's, I daresay. He does not confide in me." This last was uttered with a resentful air, and Tavington did not pursue the issue.
-----
Letty had never had a room of her own before. She lay alone, in the grandeur of the big four-poster, the curtains of blue patterned toile drawn partly around her. She did not want to close herself in. She wanted to enjoy the sight of the last of the fire ringed by pretty Delft tiles, of the big chest of drawers, just for her, of the dainty French dressing table with her own things laid out on it. How splendid they looked in this setting: silver-backed mirror and brush, silver-mounted ivory comb, silver powder box, silver trinket box—all laid out just so. She had a little money. Perhaps she could buy a little bottle of eau de Cologne. A very pretty bottle of something sweet. That would make it perfect. But it would not be lavender or lemon. It would be something entirely different, and all her own.
There was a little bookshelf, on which she had proudly placed her Bible, her prayerbook, and The Governess, the only books she owned. She wondered if it might be possible for her to buy a book. She would like to have her own copy of Evelina, and refer to it as she saw more of London. It was a dream, a wonderful dream, even if, like all dreams, there were disturbing elements in it.
Lady Cecily did not like them, and did not want them in her house. That much was clear. However, she very much wanted her son, and for now had understood that she must put up with them to keep him by her. Miss Jane bore her angry stares and her hurtful remarks the same way she had always borne such meanness back in her own family.
Oh, but it was such a magnificent house! Miss Tavington and Miss Penelope were so kind to her, and said such sweet things at dinner about how pretty she was, and how happy they were to have new sisters. If she could only avoid Lady Cecily's notice, and be very, very quiet, life could be wonderful here, with the rich, delicious food, the visits upstairs to the nursery, the possibility of playing on the harpsichord in the music room, the promise of the sights of London, and now, this glorious room of her own.
That nice little maid, Betty, had helped her dress, and told her much about the house. Letty had been told that her sister had been given a room that had been shut up for years. A great deal of the house had been shut up, in fact. Lady Cecily was not as rich as she appeared, or as she wished to appear. She also discovered that the servants were very curious about her and about the new Mrs. Tavington, of course, but Letty resisted the urge to gossip.
She considered her clothes. Perhaps Mrs. Tavington would order a new wardrobe for herself, now that they were in England, and perhaps Letty herself might get a few new things, too. She had looked at some of the ladies in the streets and in the open carriage, and knew that they needed to trim their hats a little differently to be in the latest style. The drooping plumes some ladies wore looked odd, but that must be the fashion. Perhaps Miss Penelope had a current issue of the Lady's Magazine. Her silk dress was still good, but was showing signs of wear. She had her blue habit for walking and riding in a carriage, and it was nearly new. The violet habit could be cleaned, or at the worst, turned, and would still be serviceable. The sprigged gown she had brought was not appropriate for this cooler weather, but she had the blue damask for daily wear. She could wear that tomorrow.
Tomorrow! She must sing for Lady Cecily tomorrow. The thought made the tips of her fingers tingle. It was alarming, but it was something she must do—and do well, to help her sister and brother-in-law. She must not disappoint them and let Lady Cecily sneer at them. Worries, cares, and delight faded with the fire, and she was soon in a deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of a world of possibilities.
----
Jane could not stay in the bed a moment more: the stench of mildew was suffocating. She wondered if she would have to sleep in the nursery, and if the beds were any cleaner there.
There was a soft knock at the door. She took her candle in hand, and went to open it. "William!" she whispered, pleased to see him. His rippling dark hair was loose about his shoulders. He was in Turkish slippers and a gorgeously embroidered silk banyan. He was so much like an oriental prince that she felt obliged to kiss him.
"You look magnificent!"
"I forgot I had this!" he laughed softly, taking the candle from her, as he came into the room. "Thank God I did not take it with me to America, or some yokel would be using it as a horse blanket now!"
He set down the candlestick on the dressing table and pulled her close. She returned his kiss, and then pulled back to inform him, with arch gravity, "But you cannot sleep here. I cannot sleep here. The mattress is rotten with mildew. I was just going up to the nursery to see if I could fit in one of the little cots!"
"Rubbish! You'll sleep with me, of course. The bed's a bit narrow, but if one of us is on top, and one below—"
"Lead me to your den of iniquity!" Jane laughed.
He took her by the hand, and retrieved the candlestick with the other, and led her down the long hall to the far end. The floor boards creaked faintly under their soft, soft footsteps.
"Which is your mother's room?" Jane whispered.
"Here," he smirked. "Next to mine."
"Oh, dear. We must be very quiet."
"Nonsense. If she didn't want to hear, she should have given you a bed fit to sleep in. She must bear the consequences!"
He opened his own door for her, and led her in, rather enchanted to have a lover in there at last, something he had always been careful to avoid when he lived at home. Now he had a perfect right, and he found it quite stimulating. Jane was looking about her, full of curiosity and wonder at his most private and secret domain. She glanced back at him with a quick, excited look. Candlelight always became her. He set down the candlestick.
"Come over by the fire," he growled. By mutual consent, they threw off their garments, letting them pool on the floor. Tavington swept her up in his arms and carried her to his bachelor bed. Her head curved trustingly against his pulsing throat. The bed made hardly a sound as he laid her gently in it. "And now, my Jane, a happy homecoming indeed."
They could not keep quite still: Jane always cried a little at the height of her passion, and Tavington did not wish to curtail his own enjoyment in any way. A quick, relentless thumping announced to the bitterly angry Lady Cecily that her son was engaged in the act of coitus with that unattractive nobody who had tricked him into this farce of a marriage. She listened, unable to sleep, to the disgusting noises of animal lust filtering faintly through the wall, remembering an equally handsome man long ago, and nights of shameful surrender; and she bit her lip, swearing vengeance on her enemies, living and dead.
Note: 'Turning" a gown or any item of dress meant that one unpicked all the seams, turned the garment inside out, and sewed it back together so all the old dirt and wear would be on the inside. Obviously, this doesn't really work with prints, but with plain broadcloth like the habits, it would do very well.
Yes, I do mean "quean," and not "queen." A quean is a disreputable woman.
Americans should remember that in British usage the first floor is the floor above the ground floor. (In other words, the British first floor is the American second floor. The American first floor is the British ground floor.)
Thanks once again to my loyal reviewers!
Next--Chapter 29: Brothers and Sisters