Chapter 31: The Pleasures of London
Jane found it difficult to adjust to Lady Cecily's odd schedule. Her mother-in-law was never present at breakfast, and apparently did not rise much before noon. That in itself was a good thing, for it gave Jane hours that did not have to be spent in unpleasant company. Jane could rise, take her time dressing, have a leisurely breakfast with her sisters—and occasionally her husband—and enjoy Letty's music lessons.
She wrote her letters in the morning, too: To Mary Laurens, to little Mr. Midshipman Pevensey, and again to Miss Gilpin, who had responded quickly to the announcement of her arrival. The former governess repeated her original invitation, describing her home and village so delightfully that Jane felt nearly homesick for a place she had never seen. A comfortable little vicarage in a pretty little town sounded more and more desirable, when contrasted with living in grandeur in London, in the fine house of a woman who clearly detested her.
It would certainly be less expensive, she reflected sourly, going through the pile of tradesmen's bills that they had already run up in a little over a week. Letty's new gown had put a serious dent in the funds Jane had designated for clothing. Other purchases would have to be deferred. Lady Cecily had already said something sneering about Jane having only three gowns for evening, but that was too bad. Her husband, she knew, had spent a great deal on his new wardrobe. Jane and Letty must have a new gown apiece for day, but Jane would explain to her sister that those would be the last acquisitions for the quarter. Letty must be made to understand that it would be ridiculous and dangerous to go into debt, simply because of other's people's ideas of fashion. Jane did not think she could stomach Lady Cecily's tactic of running up bills and never paying them. And shopkeepers would not allow an unknown Mrs. Tavington the same latitude given to Lady Cecily, an earl's sister and a well-known member of the fashionable ton.
Aside from the expense, the most unpleasant aspect of her mother-in-law's way of life was how late she stayed up. Lady Cecily went out a great deal. She made and received the usual "morning" visits, but Jane smirked at the misnomer. None of Lady Cecily's morning visits occurred earlier than two in the afternoon. Jane much preferred her mother-in-law to dine out, for then Jane was not trapped in the drawing room, playing cards to all hours, until Lady Cecily finally retired around three in the morning. Jane would leave periodically to nurse the baby—the only excuse that Lady Cecily would grudgingly allow—and would return to play the same card games and hear the same acid remarks. It was very fatiguing. If this made her a country bumpkin, Jane did not care.
She almost never saw Sir John, and her husband rarely. William had told her he was busy with his regimental duties, but he also was spending a great deal of time with his brother. It was only natural that he would want to renew fraternal ties, and Jane had found nothing objectionable about the elder Tavington. Sir John did not seem particularly impressed with or interested in her, but he was polite, and that counted for a great deal with Jane.
Today the two men had disappeared on a jaunt out to Richmond to see Lord Ravenswood, the friend who had been instrumental in obtaining William's promotion. They had left early, taking Sir John's fast and elegant curricle, laughing like schoolboys. Or at least like tall, well-dressed schoolboys. William had said he would be back for dinner, but from the way Sir John had dismissed such a promise, she thought it more likely that they would either dine with Lord Ravenswood, or at some inn along the way that Sir John favored.
There were some mysteries in the house. One was what Caroline did with her time. Her eldest sister-in-law spent much of the morning alone in her room. Perhaps she preferred to write her letters there, but Jane found it hard to believe she had such an extensive correspondence as to require four hours a day. It was none of her business, however. She and Caroline were getting on well, and Jane wanted to do nothing to offend her.
She would be very happy when their stay with Lady Cecily was over. While her sisters-in-law were friendly, nothing made up for having to bear Lady Cecily's manifest dislike. It was a dull, heavy weight that Jane carried around all day long. Any meal graced with her mother-in-law's presence was a trial, as Jane waited for the verbal sticks and stones. They were less overt when William was present. When he was away, however, there was no limit to the hostility. Family visits were typically at least two months in South Carolina, and Jane had gathered that they were similar here in England.
Two months of Lady Cecily! Jane groaned aloud thinking of it, and decided that after one month had passed, she would force William to discuss finding a place of their own. She did not need a house with an unused ballroom and eight grand bedchambers for family and guests anymore than she needed Lady Cecily's insults. Nor did they need all the rooms that were Sir John's preserve—though he appeared to share them gladly with his brother. Across from the dining room and morning room were the library, and a billiard room that let into Sir John's smaller private study. When the men were out, Jane would sometimes creep into the library to borrow a book. She did not like to do so when deep voices and cigar smoke drifted through the closed door.
It was not all unpleasant. Letty's heartfelt joy in her new life brightened Jane's days. Her sister threw herself into being a Londoner: poring over the latest issues of the Lady's Magazine, studying the goods in the shops they visited. Jane did not mind going out a-shopping, even if she was careful as to how much she actually spent. The smallest things pleased her sister: a little blue bottle of musk, a new novel, exotic feathers to trim their hats. A stop at Negri & Gunter's to sample the ices was a delight to them both. Jane had heard of eating flavored ices, but had never before had the opportunity. At Gunter's, they were served everyday, and Negri & Gunter's itself was a kind of place outside her experience: an eating establishment where unescorted ladies could order delicious refreshments, without having to sequester themselves in a private room.
Jane's room had improved with the arrival of a clean new mattress and some fresh hangings of dark yellow. A patterned quilt of her own was spread upon the bed. She did not think she would ever love the place, but it was acceptable. Her books were there, and she could play her own little instrument without commentary by her mother-in-law. She could sleep there without feeling that Lady Cecily was listening to her every breath, and William now slept there with her, unless he was out very late, as he so often was.
As to William, he too seemed happy enough. A little restless, perhaps: a little dissatisfied at his attempts to make people understand what the war was like and the mistakes that had been made. Jane gathered that even among other soldiers, there was a certain lack of interest. The war was not going well, and people did not want to hear about it. They did not care about the sufferings of the loyalists: people far away about whom they knew nothing. William had persisted, however, and now he said they would listen when he talked about the unhappy fate of his soldiers, wanting to make certain they would be provided for in case the worst happened.
She saw some of the Whig newspapers, too, and now and then her husband was mentioned. Horrible things were said about him. Jane knew it was the usual political rhetoric that she hated and found so boring, but she did not like her husband to be hurt by all the lies. The Whigs accused him of having been terribly cruel to the freedom-loving Patriots. Much was made of the Hayne affair, making their good friend Lord Rawdon sound like a murdering tyrant. Jane threw the paper down in disgust. Whoever had written the article knew nothing about South Carolina. And they clearly had never met Benjamin Martin. She wondered how the author of the article would have liked suffering through an attack by those rebels. The whole thing made her want never to read a newspaper again.
There were two great consolations in living here. The first lay in her vicarious pleasure in Letty's music lessons. The harp master was too busy with Letty and Penelope to have much time to spare for her, but Jane watched carefully, and could usually find a spare half hour in the day to practice by herself. She spent a little time daydreaming about purchasing her own harp, but knew that such an extravagance would be impossible any time soon.
And Signor Bellini's singing lessons were fascinating. Jane found herself learning more about music than she had ever dreamed. Occasionally, Bellini wished Jane to play, so he could watch Letty more closely, and he was always gracious and complimentary about her ability to accompany her sister's voice. Listening to his insights about the music, she found herself becoming a better musician than ever before. And he talked so well too: telling them about places where he had sung, and concerts in London, his travels, and composers with whom he had worked. He knew everybody: Linley, Hook, Arne, the Haydn brothers, Salieri, Mozart. As a young boy soprano, he had even met the great Handel. His stories, which he interwove with his musical advice to Letty, were an education in themselves.
Another source of happiness was the nursery. Jane spent hours there with Moll and the baby, more relieved than ever that she had not ceased nursing William Francis herself. Moll had cleaned the place meticulously, and arranged her favorite finds to best advantage. It was, without question, Jane's favorite room in the entire house. There were times that Jane wished she could take her meals there, too, for the windows showed such a pleasant view—even when it rained (and it seemed to rain nearly every day)—and Jane could sit in a chair and do some sewing and chat with Moll about her nurserymaid's own impressions of their new home. They would go through the toys, and occasionally rearrange the wonderful doll's house.
One large box-like object Penelope told her was the remains of a puppet theatre. Jane was restoring it to its former glory, with the help of Moll and the lively footman, Tom, who was handy with a bit of carpentry. Jane had never had such playthings herself, and was as astonished by them as Moll. But these pleasures could just as easily be enjoyed in a house of her own. As soon as they were established, Signor Bellini could come to them, of course. And what tremendous fun it would be to furnish her own nursery! In this, if in nothing else, Number Twelve Mortimer Place would be her model.
But wait! There was another source of happiness today, for after dinner they were to visit one of the great sights of London, the famous Pantheon.
-----
Green and purple and soft, soft, gold. The multitude of lights shaded with softly colored glass glowed down on the great interior like the stained glass of a cathedral. The Pantheon on Oxford Street, however, was not a house of worship, unless one considered the worship of pleasure a bonafide religion in its own right.
The Tavington brothers helped their ladies push through three huge card rooms, each more splendidly decorated than the last, while Letty could not keep from crying aloud in awe and delight. Jane was open-mouthed herself, trailing after her husband and his family, thinking this was quite the most beautiful place she had ever seen. And then they ascended a magnificent staircase, and an enormous round hall opened out before them, making everything else they had seen before look paltry in comparison.
People were promenading about under the vast coffered dome. Circling the floor were two levels of alcoved boxes with gilded chairs and tables . Across the room an orchestra was playing, the biggest group of musicians Jane had ever seen assembled. She would have liked to have sat nearer the musicians, for the music was confounded with talk, laughter, shouts, and shrill exclamations from hundreds of well-dressed people.
Letty turned to her, very excited. "It's lit up like day! Only prettier," she added. Jane simply nodded, her head swiveling as she tried to comprehend the scene before her. Lady Cecily was glaring at her. Jane quickened her step and swept Letty along with her to the designated box. Sir John was smiling grimly, waiting only until the ladies were settled before urging his brother to join him at cards. Jane wanted just to look for the moment, and barely heard the snippets of conversation around her.
"--Yes, we'll be off in just a moment, John. I hardly see the need for hurry—"
"--Oh, look, Mamma! There is Sir Thomas Linley. He composed the music for tonight—"
"—Absolutely not, Pen. I gave in to the extent of escorting you all to this bacchanal. I'm refuse to sit here like a—"
And strangers were approaching, voices high and affected.
"—Lady Cecily, it has been too long—"
Letty turned to her, eyes wide and alight. "Isn't this Heaven, Mrs. Tavington? Wait, some of your powder—" She leaned forward to brush a little stray powder from the shoulder of Jane's gown.
The two of them had had their hair dressed high and powdered a la mode. Jane hated powder, but she admitted there was no one here who had not conformed to the style. At least they had had expert help.
A few days after their arrival, Penelope had approached Jane when she had understood the need for a lady's maid. Hesitantly, she asked if the place could not go to a girl recommended by a favorite charity. Jane saw no reason not to indulge her sister-in-law, and the next day, a gaunt young woman in grey had been presented to her.
She had curtsied, and given her name. "Margaret Pullen, ma'am."
Penelope whispered, "She is from the Magdalen, you see, my dear, but quite reformed."
Jane looked blank, and Penelope explained. "It is a place that shelters repentant fallen women. A most laudable institution."
It was hard to imagine that pale, lifeless young person as a wanton woman of the town. She was stick-thin, her knuckles red and swollen, her small mouth perfectly colorless. In her plain grey garb, she looked more like Jane's concept of a nun than a lady's maid. And yet, when asked and tested, she seemed to have a perfect knowledge of hairdressing, of fancy sewing, of the current fashions. She smiled briefly when Letty began chatting about the proper way to clean lace. It was the only sign during the introductions that Pullen was anything but an automaton.
But she had done well for them, and Jane felt they both appeared to advantage tonight. Letty had sat by Pullen, directing her as she applied Jane's cosmetics and dressed her hair, the two of them consulting like two professionals on the arcana of making the most of what one had. And then Letty had sat at her table, while Jane looked on, and Pullen turned her half-sister into a princess.
Letty looked perfectly lovely. Her silk gown, the rich color of Madeira wine, stood out against the crowd of women in paler colors. She certainly contrasted with Jane, who was wearing her pale rose gown of last year, though altered to fit both style and new figure. Both of them wore pearls, and Jane wondered if anyone, meeting them for the first time, would see a family resemblance.
Several of Lady Cecily's acquaintances were being introduced. Jane kept her smile fixed during her mother-in-law's inevitable hesitation when she said, "Mrs.—um—Tavington." In their finery, painted faces, and powdered hair, everyone looked just the same to Jane, and she wondered if she would remember any names at all.
A number of the ladies were all but flirting with William—wait, they were flirting--
Lady Cecily noticed it too, and gave Jane a mocking sneer. Jane smiled cheerfully at her, not wanting Lady Cecily to see how much she hated other women admiring her husband, feeling that first impressions were correct, and that she was never going to like her husband's mother.
Sir John was plainly out of patience. "Come on, Will. Danforth is keeping places for us at the tables. Let the women chatter."
Tavington shrugged, and excused himself, smiling at the disappointed murmurs that followed him.
Jane touched his sleeve as he passed, catching his attention, "Don't forget, sir," she reminded him. "I must leave at eleven." She could not be gone longer, for the baby's sake. The Pantheon, unlike Vauxhall or Ranelagh, was not so far away that Jane could not have a few hours amusement, which is why their party had settled on it for tonight.
"Yes, yes, Madam," Tavington answered impatiently. "I assure you it is all arranged. The carriage is ordered. I will see you home then, and then return here. Do not concern yourself."
He was gone, in a flash of green with his brother, falling into step with some other gentlemen they seemed to know well.
Penelope, who was on Jane's other side, pointed out everyone she knew, giving them individuality with gossip and anecdote. "Really," she told Jane, "it is rather thin tonight. Most of the ton is in the country or at the watering places, this time of year. But the music is very nice, don't you think?"
"Very nice," Jane agreed. "I only wish I could hear it."
Her eye was caught by the most elegantly dressed man she had ever seen. Jane could not see his face, but he had wonderful presence. About her husband's height, and in a confection of melting blue and gold that would have looked gaudy on a less dignified individual. He had a tall and elegant walking-stick, and he strolled with a perfect combination of gravity and unconcern. He moved in their direction, and then stopped, and Jane could see his face.
Alas, he was old, she saw with disappointment. At first glance, he might appear handsome, but that was the paint, giving an illusion of what might have been his past appearance. Perhaps he noticed Jane looking, for he glanced at their party, and seemed amused. After a moment, he shook off some companions with him and came to speak to them.
Lady Cecily recognized him, and Jane was interested to see that the sight of him had disconcerted her. The stranger made an elaborate bow to them, and Lady Cecily composed herself to make the introductions.
Yes, she was definitely uneasy. Jane was curious to know who could have that affect on her mother-in-law, but it was hard to hear Lady Cecily's unusually subdued tones in all the noise.
"—My lord, you do not know these ladies. This is Mrs. Tavington, the Colonel's wife. Beside her is her sister, Miss Rutledge. Mrs. Tavington—Miss Rutledge, this is my old friend, Lord Fanshawe."
"Ladies," beamed his lordship, seeming very happy to meet them all. "I am astonished at such beauty left unguarded! Are you without an escort?"
"My sons," Lady Cecily said through clenched teeth, "are at the tables."
"Ah! The family passion! Well, good luck to them! It seems you are in need of protection, and I am only too happy to provide it."
There was little Lady Cecily could do, except invite him to join them. Jane puzzled over their contrasting demeanors: Lord Fanshawe, smiling and affable, and Lady Cecily, stiff and tense. Jane wondered why such a rude woman would not cut the man dead, since she plainly wanted nothing to do with him.
The two of them began a quiet conversation, which was hopelessly drowned out by the orchestra and its inattentive audience.
Penelope whispered, "Lord Fanshawe was an old friend of our father's, really; not Mamma's. He has a very scandalous reputation!"
Letty leaned in, wanting to hear, "Really? He looks so gentlemanly. I never saw such a graceful bow."
"Oh, yes—he was a great—" she dropped her voice to a confidential hiss "—seducer in his youth. 'Beau' Fanshawe they called him, because he was said to be the handsomest man in England."
"Well," Jane said dryly, "he isn't anymore."
Letty cocked her head. "I can see that he was very handsome once. His eyes are still beautiful."
Jane laughed discreetly. "You just like them because they are so blue."
They were a beautiful color, she admitted: the vivid blue of good sapphires. One could still see the beautiful bones of the old man's face, holding together the ghost of past glories. He held himself straight, which had given the illusion of youth at a distance, but from the sagging skin and the lines, he must be seventy at least.
Penelope positively giggled. Caroline, very badly placed to hear their conversation, moved away from her mother, and sat down by Letty. "They don't want me to listen to their conversation anyway," she said, very low. "I fear that Lord Fanshawe is one of those to whom Mamma owes money."
"One of the many," Penelope sighed. "I wish we could take a turn around the room, but Mamma does not like to be left alone."
"I wish we could hear the music," Jane confessed. "Why do they have such an orchestra, if no one is going to listen?"
They did listen for awhile, as more and more of Lady Cecily's friends came by to gossip. Jane was distracted by a louder effort from the orchestra, which featured a brilliant trumpeter, and then by some friends of her sisters-in-law, who were very curious about her marriage.
Letty found herself once more unable to hear the conversation at all, and was about to move closer, when a voice in her ear said, "And what does the fair flower of the Carolina colonies think of the metropolis?"
She nearly jumped, so startled was she. At her side was Lord Fanshawe, sitting down quite at his ease, looking at her very complacently. "I am sorry," she apologized, reflexively. "I was so surprised—"
"Surprised that one would wish to speak to you? Surely not! Lady Cecily roused my curiosity by the brevity of her introduction. I was forced to demand particulars. When a gentleman long absent appears with a wife, one would think the gentleman's mother would have more to say."
"We have only been in England a little over a week. I doubt Lady Cecily knows my sister well enough to describe her justly."
"Nor to describe you—justly. I am told you are a pretty sort of girl. That is manifestly unjust, for it is clear to all that you are the most beautiful woman in the room."
This was too much. Feeling frightened by so much notice, Letty turned her head, and muttered, a little incoherently, "No—no, really, sir—my lord."
Fanshawe studied her a little longer. "There is no reason to be frightened, my dear young lady. I am but an old man. If an old man cannot pay you compliments, who can? I repeat, you are the beautiful woman in the room—nay, in the entire Pantheon. I am an acknowledged judge, and you must abide by my decision."
Unwillingly, she smiled, and dared to glance at him. He was still smiling, perfectly easy and calm. He was not leering, or looking as if he would grab at her. "Well, then, my lord—I thank you, but I have seen many beautiful women here tonight."
"Really?" His surprised gaze swept the room. "I haven't. Oh, a great deal of silk and paint and powder, to be sure, but you, my dear young lady, are quite another matter. But I can see that personal compliments distress your modesty, and so we will speak of other things. To return to my first question: does London Town please you?"
"Oh, yes!" Letty was too excited to be fearful. And besides, he was, as he said, an old man. This was her favorite subject. "I love it. I have never been so happy. I told my sister when we came in here that this is like Heaven—or like Heaven ought to be—the lights, and the decorations, and the beautiful music—"
"Ah, the unjaded eye! To be young again and seeing it all for the first time! I regret I was already all too familiar with London's many beauties at your age. However, I remember well that thrill when I first laid eyes on Saint Mark's Place in Venice, and yes—when I journeyed to the land of the Turks and saw St. Sophia in the rose-red light of sunset…" He looked dreamily about him. "This place is modeled after it, as I'm sure you know."
Letty blushed, and murmured, "No, my lord. Modeled after what?"
He did not seem to despise her, and said, "The great basilica of Saint Sophia in Constantinople. It's now a Mohammedan mosque, of course. Still sublime, anyway. I think this is one of the most beautiful interiors in London."
"I'm sure it must be," Letty earnestly agreed. She had never heard of Constantinople, and hardly knew what the old lord what speaking of, but he seemed to like the place as much as she, and that was a great recommendation, in her mind. "I have never seen such beautiful buildings as I have now in London," she confided. "We are staying with Lady Cecily in Mortimer Square and that is all so impressive! The church we went to on Sunday was so grand. Across the square is Lord Colchester's house—which is very big indeed."
"Do you think it beautiful?"
She lowered her voice, uncertain. "It is very imposing, but I don't know—"
"You are quite right. The side walls along the garden are a mistake. Too blank. It makes the whole thing look boxy and ungraceful. You have a good natural eye, Miss Rutledge."
"But Lady Cecily's house is so beautiful! The plasterwork is so white against that beautiful yellow of the walls. And I love to look up at the-- oculus. The way the sun comes down through it makes me feel—I don't know—"
Fanshawe looked at her with more attention. "I think you and I have something wonderful in common: a hunger for and appreciation of beauty. Have you seen any paintings in town that pleased you?"
"I don't know much about paintings. I never thought about them being beautiful. Back in Charlestown, they are all of ugly men who own property. I have not really looked at the paintings in Lady Cecily's house. They are mostly old people and horses."
Fanshawe could not hide his amusement. "Yes. I agree that taste in fine art was never a Tavington strong point—nor a Mortimer one, for that matter. Old people and horses!" He chuckled. "I have suggested to Lady Cecily that a painting of her handsome soldier son at his vigorous time of life would improve the general level of portraits on her walls. Someday—" he paused, with an odd look. "--I would very much like to show you some of my paintings. Beautiful young women—heroic mythological scenes—sun-drenched landscapes from Italy. I also have some wonderful classical marbles that I picked up on my travels."
His lovely companion was clearly not understanding that last. He explained, with the benevolent air of a kind teacher. "Statues from Greek and Roman times. There is one of a dancer that I particularly like."
Letty thought about that. "It sounds interesting. There is a statue in Charlestown, but it is only a politician. A woman in pretty clothing would be nicer to look at."
"I agree entirely. A woman in pretty clothing is always a finer sight. I am glad, though, that you find Lady Cecily's home otherwise charming."
"Oh, yes! I have my own room—a room all to myself! It has blue draperies and white and blue—" she remembered the word "—Delft tiles around the fireplace. I love blue. Have you ever noticed how many different kinds of blue there are?"
Fanshawe studied her face with growing pleasure. "Indeed I have. It is a very pleasant thing to contemplate. Such considerations are essential to my occupation."
"Your occupation? I thought lords did nothing at all."
Fanshawe threw back his head with a delighted laugh.
Letty persisted. "What is your occupation?"
"Collecting beautiful things."
That puzzled her. "Is there much money to be made in that?"
Another laugh. "Not much to made, but a great deal can be spent, and a great deal of pleasure had in the collecting."
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"I believe the game is mine, gentlemen," Sir John declared.
There were groans around the table, and the other players rose to look for wine, women, or the watercloset. "I generally play at White's," John complained to his brother. "Don't have to put up with all this swish and tits at White's."
"Bear up, John," Tavington laughed. "Besides, whist is a safer game. I can't understand why you play faro, anyway. The house odds—"
Sir John gave a devilish smile. "The house odds are quite all right, when one is the dealer."
"Ah." Much now became clear.
"I make damned good money dealing faro at White's, Will. You should try it. Aside from my own winnings, I'm paid a guinea an hour. It adds up, quite nicely."
"I should say so."
They had won quite a bit tonight, playing partners. John might not claim to know much about anything else, but he was an excellent player, and generally won more than he lost.
"What I really don't understand," Tavington said, looking at the table, "is why Wargrave isn't generating the income it used to, John."
"Well, old fellow," his brother admitted, "it's mostly my fault. I let Porter have his head in running the place, and I don't go there often. I daresay he robs me blind, but as long as I get at least three thousand a year, I can't complain. I certainly don't want the bother myself!"
"But, good God! That's throwing money away! In Papa's day, I know his income was over ten thousand!" A few curious faces turned their way. Lowering his voice, Tavington apologized. "I'm sorry, John. It's really none of my affair, but I hate to see you being cheated."
"Never mind, Will. The fact is, some of Papa's income came from the other estates, and those are long gone. Wargrave itself might squeeze six thousand in a good year, but I hate all the rubbishy nonsense of being lord of the manor."
Tavington pulled his chair closer. "Let's go to Wargrave soon, John. I find I really haven't much to do being colonel of the 3rd. It's like being a figurehead. St. Leger does most of the administrative work, and the day to day is the province of the captains. Until the King returns to London all we have is drill. I need something to do. You said it yourself. We can get away and do a bit of shooting—see the place—look over the accounts."
John rolled his eyes.
Tavington tried again. "I'll do it, if you like. I got rather good at regimental accounts in America. Let's just have a look at the place for old times' sake. If you don't mind, I could bring the girls and get them away from Mamma for awhile."
"God knows they need a holiday from the old woman. All right. I do understand, Will. After all, the place will be your boy's someday, and you have every right to want it looked after. I'm warning you, though. It's a rotten old pile, and there's no one around for miles to talk to."
"What about the parson of Wargrave Cross—what's his name—Doctor Crumby? He was a nice old fellow."
"Oh, Lord! Dead over a year. Haven't gotten around to naming a successor. Rotten as the place is, the living is worth quite a bit. Fellow offered me five thousand for it, but I didn't like the look of him."
"Are you saying that there hasn't been a vicar there in over a year?"
"No. Sorry. Haven't gotten around to it."
Tavington was struck with a brilliant idea. "Look here, John. I know just the man. A good friend of mine from the army is going into the church—"
"Some scrubby army chaplain?"
The picture of the revolting Mr. Blethers flashed through Tavington's mind and made him laugh. "No! nothing like that. A captain of mine. A brave fellow. He was badly wounded in South Carolina and is planning on leaving the army altogether. He already has his degree and all he needs is to be ordained. Nothing to it."
"Not some Peter Pious? Not going to want us to start having services at the chapel again, is he?"
"No, not at all! A damned good fellow. He stood by me through it all, and I'd like to do something to help him and his family—"
Sir John pulled a pack of cards to him and shuffled them. "High card wins."
Tavington's face lit with understanding. "Are you serious?"
"Perfectly, old fellow. The Bishop's been hounding me anyway. High card, and you can give the vicarage et al. to your wounded comrade. Low card and I sell it to the highest bidder."
A few of the cardplayers came over to watch. "Tavington and his brother the colonel are drawing high card for the presentation of the living at Wargrave Cross," one of them told a friend.
"Really? Look here, Sir John. I'll give you seven thousand for that parish—"
"Silence, gentlemen!" commanded Sir John. "The game is afoot! You cut the cards first, Will."
Tavington reached out, swallowed, and turned over his card. "Six of hearts."
There was a murmur from the onlookers. Men of all ages, and not a few women were leaning over the table, holding their breaths.
"—Bad luck, that--"
"—A six! It could go either way—"
"—I'll give you eight thousand—"
Sir John gulped the last of his wine and took a card. He turned it over, looked at it, and raised his brows.
"—I say, that's not fair! Let us see what you've got—"
Sir John flicked the card onto the table, face up. "Five of spades."
Tavington nearly leaped from his chair. "Ha!" he cried, knowing that he was grinning like a fool.
John did not seem at all put out. "I told you, old fellow. It means little to me. Glad you get something out of the wreck of the family fortunes. Anyway, write your military friend and tell him to bustle on home and convert the heathen of Essex at sword's point. The Fighting Parson! Won't that be a joke?"
"He'll do very well. He's quite clever and has a very sensible wife. It will mean a lot to his family. Thank you, John. I won't forget this." Forget? "Good God, look at the time! I promised to take Jane home at eleven!"
Sir John shook his head in compassion. "A pitiful sight. My brother, the henpecked husband."
"Oh, rubbish! I'll be back in less than an hour. She'll be so happy to hear about this."
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"You cut cards for it?" Jane stared at her husband in astonishment. Or tried to stare. The coach lanterns shone only dimly through the fog. It was very nice of William to escort her home, when the others of their party were still enjoying themselves at the Pantheon, and might well be there for hours. Though she could not clearly see his face, she could hear the happiness in his voice.
"Yes! And I won! I almost never win against John. He's nearly as good as Bordon himself! I shall write first thing tomorrow."
"How nice," said Jane, thinking that it was a very dubious way to select a parish priest. "I shall be very happy to see Captain Bordon—no, Mr. Bordon again—and to meet his wife. How odd life is!"
"Very." Tavington really was quite enchanted with this turn of fate. He had inherited next to nothing from his family. His own money had been spent in his father's lifetime, the small estate intended for him disposed of for debt, and what had not been sold was entailed on John. The Tavington family had once had considerable local patronage in the church. Now only the three parishes that comprised the Wargrave estate remained: High Grave, Larrowhead, and Wargrave Cross itself.
The two others were far from the country house, but the vicarage of Wargrave Cross was less than half a mile from Wargrave Hall. A brisk walk only, even in the winter. He remembered the vicarage as quite a nice house, though how well maintained was a serious question. At any rate, he would write to Bordon immediately, and urge him to come on the first ship. John had told him that the income from the parish glebe was a good round seven hundred a year. A decent income for a gentleman's family, even without considering any private resources that the Bordons might have.
It was only a few minutes to Mortimer Square. Jane glanced up to the faint flickering light in the nursery window, impatient to be there. She hardly felt her husband's hand as he helped her down and saw her safely through the door. Dropping her satin cloak into Rivers' hands with hardly a backward glance, she called out, "Goodnight, then, William. Enjoy yourself."
She was running lightly up the stairs, as quickly as she could with her high-piled hair and high-heeled slippers. Tavington had thought she looked quite well tonight, but it seemed to matter little to her. It was clear that being a mother meant more. Perhaps that was as it should be. Nonetheless, he felt oddly lonely as he climbed back into the carriage, to return to the whirl of gaiety.
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Readers of Regency romances may have heard of Gunter's in Berkeley Square. Gunter did not become the sole proprietor until 1799.
The original Pantheon burned to the ground in 1792. The rebuilt Pantheon went through many incarnations, until it was demolished in 1937 to make way for a branch of Marks and Spencer.
Lord Fanshawe is played in my head by Peter O'Toole, by the way.
Next—Chapter 32: Revelations and Quarrels