Chapter 41: A Family Parliament

Lord and Lady Fanshawe were gone. Even the last rumble of their carriages wheels had blended into the constant background murmur of London. The rain was coming down harder now, sheeting the windows of the morning room. Twisting ropes of water sprayed from the downspouts. "Well, good luck to her," Tavington muttered, as he sat beside Jane on the comfortable old sofa. Jane said nothing at all, and simply stared listlessly into the fire. John came in, talking quietly with Protheroe, Caroline, and Lucy.

"--I've been making a list of them. I can't very well write to the women myself without seeming—"

"Oh, Jane, my dear!" cried Caroline. "I hope you are not wet. You could catch a dreadful cold!"

"No—" Jane said, rather distractedly, "I am not wet. Just bewildered, I suppose. Where is Penelope?"

"She has gone upstairs to see if Mamma is all right." Her voice lowered. "Mamma was so angry that she was not allowed to attend the wedding."

Tavington groaned faintly. If anything could have made the day worse—

"When she comes down," John said, "We'll need to talk."

"Of course," Caroline agreed soothingly. "In the meantime, let us have some fresh, hot tea."

There was little conversation. Everyone seemed to be in a kind of suspense, and the cups of tea were clung to as vital occupations for the hands and mind. But blessedly, Penelope came in soon.

"Mamma saw Lord and Lady Fanshawe leave from her window. She complimented her hat. She's rather pleased about it all, and not just because of—well, I'm sorry, Jane dear, but she genuinely thinks she has helped Letty, you see." Tactfully, Penelope did not repeat everything her mother had said about plain and jealous sisters, and about Lady Cecily's pride in making a fine match for pretty Miss Rutledge.

"I suppose I can imagine that." Jane set down her cup, not wanting any more.

"Look here," John interrupted. "I don't know how to begin this, so I'm just going to start talking. When one of you has a good idea, you can shout it out. The fact is, the old woman has not been taking care of her finances as she ought. We believe she has considerable debts, but we're not sure to whom. We know she's owed money. Will and I went through her room before the nurse came and found bills and notes and all matter of important papers put in the oddest places."

Jane had a moment of insight. "Did you look in the water closet?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Tavington, rather shocked.

"Lady Cecily dislikes anyone else being there. Perhaps she has hidden things there too."

"By Jove!" John exclaimed. "That's a good thought! Here, Caro—take some paper and write down the minutes of this meeting. We'll search the water closet first thing."

"How very official!" laughed Lucy.

"Why not?" Penelope considered. "It is a meeting of our family parliament and we must keep proper records. Are the ladies permitted to vote?"

"I rather think it important that you do," Tavington replied, with an affectionate smile. "There aren't that many Tavingtons—or their connections—" he amended with a nod to the Protheroes. "I think our current crisis will take all of our united resources to resolve."

"Right!" John agreed. "That's the spirit! Each of us can do something to get us through the worst of it. It's my fault that we also have all the repairs to Wargrave at the same time, so it's only right that I do more. That means staying in London, I'm afraid. My only income at the moment is dealing at White's. And I win more than I lose. On the other hand, I must suggest, dear brother, that you give up gambling for the duration, for you always lose more than you win."

Tavington nodded, resigned. "Too true, I confess. My army pay will cover my mess fees and other expenses, and give us a reliable income for things that cannot be bought any longer on credit."

"Like food!" Penelope told them. "The butcher will not extend any more credit to us, and we really must pay him. The poulterer and greengrocer too. I'm afraid that we must reduce some of the excess at our table. And John showed me the dressmaker's bills already! New clothes are out of the question for the rest of the quarter."

Caroline said, "John asked me to write to the women whose notes Mamma was holding. It is certainly a potential resource. John is writing to the men."

"—And Protheroe agreed to follow our letters up with threatening missives of his own if we're ignored."

Protheroe nodded, and Lucy squeezed his arm approvingly.

More darkly, Tavington added, "And if that doesn't work, I can always call them out—the men, anyway! That should shake some of the money out of their purses! Oh—and perhaps Caroline should be assisting Mamma with all of her correspondence," he suggested. "She is likely to say all sorts of horrible things about us."

"Yes, I'll do it," Caroline agreed, looking unhappy. "But I will discuss it with her. Mamma is ill, but she is not dead, and she ought to have her feelings consulted, as far as possible."

"I'll take over all of the housekeeping," Penelope offered hastily, glad that Caroline had offered to deal with the letters. Mamma's friends could be so unpleasant.

Jane was silent, feeling rather left out. She was not--absolutely not--going to give up her little nest-egg to pay that woman's debts. What else could she do to help?

"Well, I think that's all we can do until we know more about the debts," John said. "There's no need to start selling anything off until we know where we stand."

"Perhaps I should cancel the portrait commission with Reynolds," Tavington considered. But his sisters cried out against that.

"Oh, William! We were so looking forward to seeing it!" Caroline mourned.

John agreed with his sisters. "Don't cancel it, old fellow. You haven't even scheduled your sittings. Go ahead and get it done. By the time Reynolds is finished, we should be flush again. Pity though-- trust Mamma to engage the most expensive painter in England!"

"Very well, then," Tavington agreed, secretly very pleased. The portrait had become important to him as something to remind society of the war in America. John was right. They would only have to pay on delivery, and the work had not yet even begun.

Rivers made a quiet appearance. "The post, Sir John. You told me to bring it to you at once."

"Yes! There's a good fellow, Rivers." John sorted through the letters. "Something from Elliott. I thought he was coming round to today to see how Mrs. Watkins was managing." He broke the seal, and glanced over the contents. "Can't come today. Be here tomorrow. Oh! Here's something! Elliott's heard a rumor about smallpox in the City."

"Smallpox?" Penelope asked, horrified. "The children!"

Lucy hastened to reassure her. "All my servants have had smallpox or have been inoculated. I shall keep Ned in until the disease has run its course. But you, Jane—perhaps—"

"Mrs. Royston has had smallpox. I have seen the scars. As to the other servants, I don't know. I was inoculated myself many years ago. My governess insisted upon it. I really don't know what else—"

Caroline murmured, "Mamma always kept us in the country until we were old enough to be inoculated—"

"Of course!" John cried. "Mrs. Tavington should go to Wargrave!"

Jane looked up, surprised. Her husband was looking concerned and displeased, but the others were chattering about Sir John's very good idea.

"—it is such a healthy spot—"

"—far from infection—"

"—and Mrs. Tavington hasn't seen it yet. I wanted her to ride over that day, but Uncle—"

Tavington said impatiently, "All this is very well, but Jane has only been home a few days. It seems very hard that she should be sent off again, for who knows how long—"

"But Will!" his brother broke in. "It's an excellent idea! Your wife is a clever woman. She'll be there to oversee the new servants and to keep us informed about the progress of the repairs. And it really will be better and safer for the boy. It's a splendid notion."

Caroline looked conflicted. "Of course we will miss dear Jane, but nothing must endanger little William Francis." She turned to Lucy. "Are you certain you would not prefer to go to the country, too, dearest?"

"Quite sure," Lucy replied. "I have prepared for just such situations, and there is no need for me to go right now." Thinking that Jane seemed very unhappy, she tried to think of something cheerful. "And, now, my dear Jane, if you are not too fascinated by our family Parliament, I was hoping you would give me a peep at the baby! We will let the others determine matters of strategy!"

"Oh, yes!" cried Jane, her face clearing a little. William Francis was such a comfort. "I must show you his new cap. I made it myself after a fashion I saw in a shop on Jermyn Street!"

The two ladies climbed the steps, letting the voices of the Tavington council fade behind them. Lucy put a kind hand on Jane's arm.

"You look so sad, my dear. I know your sister's wedding was not—what you might have hoped. Edward assured me that at least she will be very well provided for."

"Yes—there is that! But Lucy, I am so bewildered by it all. We have been in England only since mid-September, and already so many of my hopes and dreams have been overthrown. I have lost my sister, and William—" She stopped, not sure how much she could say.

"Jane! You must think of it that way. You have not lost your sister. She has gone on her wedding trip, but in a few months she will be back, full of all the places she has seen. You will visit back and forth, and how delightful it will be! It is not like my long exile from my family at all!"

They had reached the second floor, where Lucy, and then Letty, had occupied the Dutch Room. Lucy was reminded of it, and said. "Would it be too horrible if we were to see my old room? Would it make it worse for you?"

"No." Jane shook her head. "Letty was only there a few weeks, so it has no painful associations for me. She enjoyed it very much, but you should find it much as you left it, now that her things are gone."

It was only a short distance down the quiet hall. Lucy quickened her step and flung the door open with an excited laugh. "Oh! It is just as I remember it! I loved this room so much. I've found some Delft tiles, and plan to decorate my bedchamber with them, but it will not be quite the same." She noticed the broken pane, covered with paper until the glazier could arrive and repair it. "What happened there? Did a bird fly into the window?"

"No." Jane muttered in embarrassment. "I shot at Lord Fanshawe and missed."

Lucy gaped, and then burst out laughing. "You really shot at him? Really? I never heard of such a thing! You are so brave! I no longer question anything the papers say about you! What a heroine!"

"It was terribly stupid of me. I completely lost my head. I thought he had harmed Letty—and he had, in a way, for she was forced to marry him—the wicked old—"

"Don't, Jane," Lucy counseled her. "Such anger does no good. They are married, and whatever her difficulties, you must help her make the best of it. And in a prudential light, it is a very great match for her."

Jane sat heavily down on the bed, and noticed that it was more comfortable than her own. "I never thought Letty would marry. I thought she would always live with me and be my companion. I never imagined her marrying at all."

Lucy sat beside her, looking grave. "Mamma did not want me to marry, either. She wanted me to stay with her and be her companion. Do you think that was right?"

Jane was thunderstruck at the comparison. She felt anger, and then confusion, and then shame in a single moment. "You must think me horribly selfish. I confess I never thought of Letty marrying. In South Carolina—I don't know how much you know—Letty could never have married anyone, legally, at least. I simply took her for granted." She put her head in her hands, and whispered, "I see now how dreadful that was. To think of her, not as a person, not as a woman. I see now that she always wanted to marry. Perhaps she has dreamed of having children. That would explain—"

Jane suddenly understood many things more clearly—among them that William Francis had sometimes depressed Letty. She began to cry again, feeling all of Letty's sadness at her dependence and poverty, her longing for a home of her own. "I thought her less than myself—less important—less intelligent—less worthy of attention and respect. And thus am I punished for it."

"Oh, come!" Lucy said, trying to rally Jane's spirits. "Where's all the heroine's courage? Letty is not angry or resentful. Nor is her situation without fault. She is a viscountess and a wealthy woman, but she is also married to an old man who must regard her to some extent as a pet or a project. She seems to learn quickly, though!"

"Yes! Letty is—I never thought of her as clever, but she is, in many ways. She has picked up manners and music very quickly. I do not think she will cause Lord Fanshawe any embarrassment."

"Indeed! She may surprise even him with how well she assumes her position. Good luck to her! And now," said Lucy, giving Jane an affectionate pat. "think of yourself, and how to make the best of your situation. I know that Mamma was not very nice to you, but she was not nice to me either, and yet here I am, happy and healthy, and with a house of my own and a son and a husband to love—and who love me!"

Jane sighed deeply. "You are very fortunate."

"I know that you do not yet have a house of your own, but you already have the husband and son!"

Jane stared at the floor. "Yes, I have William Francis. Sometimes I cannot wait until he can speak!"

"Have you quarreled with William, Jane?" Lucy asked, picking up on Jane's refusal to include William as a source of happiness. "Was it about Mamma? You can see that he now understands that she was not in her right mind—"

"It is not just that—thought I felt he did not stand up for me against her as a husband should," Jane said frankly, not caring to defend the indefensible. She would burst if she did not tell someone. "William is—a very great flirt. When we were at Colneford, he and a lady... Well, he hurt me very badly—ignored me and neglected me in order to spend time with another. I understood it in a way—she was so much prettier than I, and I know that she's much more what he would have liked in a wife. It hurt horribly all the same, and I cannot feel for him what I once did." She got to her feet, and brushed the stubborn tears from her eyes. "Forgive me for abusing your brother to you. It was wrong of me. I shall never speak of it again. Let's go to the nursery now."

Lucy seized her arm. "Jane! How terrible for you! I don't wonder that you are in such low spirits. I do not excuse William—he is so handsome, and has always liked to be admired by women. It was wrong of him to behave in a way that would wound you. I hope you told him that such behavior was inappropriate. Some men are very thick-headed if not set straight. I imagine it never occurred to him to think how it might seem to you."

"I'm sure it didn't," Jane agreed, a little tremulously. "But don't you see—that makes it worse. It shows he doesn't care enough about me to consider my feelings. And then he stayed behind to be with the lady, and then I was set upon by those ruffians. It was as if he didn't care what became of me!" She began to cry again in earnest. "I know that he only married me for my money, but that is not why I married him!"

Lucy took her in her arms, and held her tight. "My poor Jane! William is a blockhead! You know that, don't you? He's a vain and silly blockhead, but you mustn't give up on him. He can be trained with time and care—trained like a spirited hunter! He does care about you! If you knew how he speaks of you to others—how he talks about how good and clever and brave you are. He talks always about how you saved him. Make clear to him that the only woman he can flirt with is you!"

"You make is sound so easy! I have felt so out of place here. Your uncle was kind, but I felt that I did not quite fit in—"

"Nonsense!" Lucy's eyes blazed. "It you do not fit in there, then you must make a place where you do! I think it would be a very good thing for you to go to Wargrave!"

"Really? Because of the smallpox—"

"Yes—there is that! It would be safer and healthier—for you too!" Lucy walked over the mantle, and studied the lay of the blue and white tiles. "William will miss you sorely. He will miss the baby. You have made a name for yourself as a brave and independent woman, and people are likely to ask why you were called upon to defend yourself. That will make William feel guilty, which is a very good thing. William doesn't feel guilty often enough, and it's the best way to make him behave. And then you will be such a help to the family, watching over the restoration of the estate. It will be an occupation for you, and—"

"What?"

"You will love Wargrave! I, Lucy Protheroe, prophesy that you will love it! It's the finest place in all the world, excepting my house on Tudor Street. How I would love to go there again, but Edward cannot leave town just now, and I cannot be without him. I know! Perhaps we could come for a fortnight at Christmas!" She laughed again. "Listen to me, inviting myself to John's house! But I should love it of all things!"

"It sounds delightful, but we shall have to see if the house is in good enough repair. I don't think you—or your husband—would enjoy a dripping ceiling." Lucy enthusiasm was infectious, and Jane felt herself beginning to smile.

"Lord, no! But I know you'll set it right! Now let's see the baby! I must report back to my Ned. He was so put out that he was not invited to the wedding. He wanted to visit the baby himself. He speaks of your son as 'My Friend!"

Jane laughed. "How sweet!"

"Yes, I think so. I love to think about them, growing up and playing together and having all sorts of adventures. Come! I need to see William Francis this very minute, and that intrepid nursemaid of yours too!"

-----

The conversation with Lucy helped Jane a great deal. Lucy, of course, thought better of her brother than Jane did, but that was only right. Jane was still very angry with him, and considered her exile at Wargrave a good opportunity to get away from William Tavington and all the contradictory emotions he roused in her. Either absence would make his heart grow fonder, or her wounded affection would fade a little with time and distance. Jane concurred with Lucy that guilt seemed to inspire better behavior in William. He, it seemed, was feeling somewhat guilty, and was hanging about all through dinner and afterwards, touching and smiling, and wanting to be friends or sweethearts or what have you.

Tavington was indeed concerned about Jane's low spirits. The Wargrave plan had some merit, but he feared that Jane would look upon it as an attempt to get rid of her—to send her away into oblivion in the country. She had had so many hard knocks in the past few weeks that she deserved something pleasant. That evening, he tidied himself conscientiously and set out for his wife's bedchamber, determined to please her in the best way he knew.

She called "Come in," to his soft knock, clearly expecting him. She was sitting up in bed reading, looking very young and tired.

He came to her at once, threw off his embroidered banyan, and climbed into bed beside her. "What are you reading?"

"La Princesse de Clèves."

"That's right—you read French very well, I recall. What is it about?"

"Suspicion and betrayal."

"Does it end happily?"

"Not in the least." In fact, reading about the unhappiness of the Princess, about her thwarted love for the Duke of Nemours, about the Prince her husband dying, believing himself betrayed—none of it was making her feel any better.

She put the book aside, and prepared herself for her husband's advances without particular enthusiasm. There was a great, Letty-sized hole in her life, and the edges of it were ragged and painful. William could not fill the void, even had he wanted to: he could not be trusted. Over everything hung the horror of Lady Cecily's illness. Jane had understood something of what Sir John Elliott, the haughty little physician, had told the family, but not the details. Jane knew the pox could drive people insane, but why did Lady Cecily not know she was ill? She had wanted to ask someone, and who better than her husband? He might not like the subject brought up at such a moment, but Jane felt she had every right to know the worst.

"Something is preying on my mind. I must speak of it—speak of it once—and I hope you do not refuse to answer."

Tavington hoped she was not going to interrogate him about Kitty again, and was surprised when she asked, "How could your mother be ignorant of her condition? Surely she would have sought treatment before that dreadful disease began to steal her wits!"

"Ah." Tavington grimaced, disliking the ugly subject, but then he looked at Jane again. She is frightened, he realized. Frightened of suffering my mother's fate.

To some extent he could reassure her. "When the pox is contracted," he told her, after a little hesitation, " the first sign is an ugly sore on the private parts, called a chancre. On a man it would be very obvious, but on a woman it might be—inside—and unknown."

"How horrible."

"Yes—it is a hideous thing."

"And if, as you say, the signs are obvious for a man, your father must have known himself infected."

He cleared his throat, hating this subject. "It is—very likely."

"Monstrous."

He held her close for awhile, not speaking, and then decided that she must be reassured at once, however ridiculous it made him feel. "Here," he said, tossing the bedclothes aside. "You may examine me to your satisfaction."

Embarrassed, she could hardly look at him, but he insisted, inviting her to inspect him minutely, encouraging her to take him in soft little hands, to reacquaint herself with him, and reassure herself that she was in no danger. Besides, it was very enjoyable to be fondled so. He sighed with pleasure, as she handled him more boldly, and what she contemplated became engorged and ready.

Jane scowled at him, but did not stop her play. She felt less frightened now, and had not slept with William in several days. He was not spoiling it by smirks or smugness, but was clearly eager to resume their relations. She scowled again, thinking he was much too sure of himself.

And yet, he knew how to make himself pleasing. Estranged as she felt from him, it was impossible not to take pleasure in the touch of his lips, his hands. He gathered her closely against him, stroking her breasts gently, nipping and licking until she quivered with impatience. Why should she deny herself out of foolish pride? She would be the only one to suffer. This, however badly it reflected on William, was what he did best. He might not have provided her with a home of her own, and he might have a roving eye, but here in their bed he could at least give her some transitory joy.

She gave herself up to it, relaxing back as he pushed her nightshift aside, and slowly eased into her. Once he was in, and secured, and held tightly, Jane wrapped her legs over his, knowing for the next few moments, at least, he was only hers.

Tavington bucked happily inside her, some of his anxiety fading in the mindless pleasure of lying with his own wife in their own bed. It had been days since he had done this with her, and he had missed the comfortable familiarity of it. Jane was such a nice little thing, after all. She knew him best, knowing only him. He arched his back like a cat, stroking her in the long, deep way she liked, leaning on his left elbow so he could pinch a pebbled nipple until Jane squeaked with urgency, and then slipping his fingers down to touch her between her legs. She shuddered and moaned, and squeezed down hard in a way that made him moan in response.

"Oh, don't stop, please!" she pleaded, catching at his wrist. Her hips rocked in time with her muffled whimpers. With deliberate violence, he quickened his pace just as she started to thrash about in her release. She flung his hand aside and dug her fingers into his buttocks, her cries sharpening. Her own vocal pleasure triggered his, and he surrendered to the rush of ecstasy and the victory of renewed possession.

They lay thus, sweaty and entangled, for some time. Jane always took longer to return to herself than he. When she finally gave him the little push at his shoulders that meant "let me breathe," he obliged quickly, hoping that this meant he was forgiven. Jane reached for the clean handkerchief she always kept by the bed, and began to tidy herself. Tavington took it from her, and did it for her, touching her as gently as possible. He laid the handkerchief by, and drew her close for a kiss.

She did not refuse him, but afterwards, said very politely, "Thank you. That was very nice."

She turned on her side, away from him, and snuffed the candle. Tavington's anxiety returned. He took her in his arms and cuddled her close, not wanting her to push him away. "I have missed you, Jane. I am very happy to be with you again. Perhaps the stay at Wargrave is a good idea, but for myself, it will be rather lonely. I promise I shall come out to the country often. It will be very enjoyable to show you all my favorite places."

"Lucy has spoken very glowingly of the house. I am sure I shall be quite all right, and I am perfectly willing to assist your brother. He has been very kind to me."

Eager to encourage this line of thinking, Tavington pointed out other consequences. "John is unlikely to marry, it seems. It the course of nature, the estate would eventually go to William Francis. John has spoken of how much he wants it to be in good order for him."

"Very kind of him to say so, but I don't want to be greedy and think only of inheritances. The place is clearly important to all of you, and it will give me something to do beside feed the baby. William Francis is cutting his first teeth, and suckling him can be a trial sometimes."

"The little villain!" Tavington found a nipple and stroked it soothingly. "If it becomes too painful we shall have to find a wet nurse. I don't want you to be hurt."

She did not answer. His words caused Jane to think about all the ways he had hurt her himself, and they struck her as annoyingly hypocritical. Or perhaps, as Lucy had suggested, he was simply a blockhead. Instead, she spoke into the darkness, carefully casual. "Do you think your brother would object if I invited a companion to Wargrave?"

"Of course not, my dear, but I don't think that Caro or Pen would leave—"

"I was thinking of writing my friend Miss Gilpin and asking her to come to me. I have missed her. Would there be any objection?"

Her voice, in the soft tones of pillow talk, sounded so wistful that Tavington would have granted her every wish. He had not liked the old governess much, and hoped she would not influence his wife against him. On the other hand, he did not want to forbid Jane any comfort she might desire. With what good grace he could muster, he answered, "No. Invite her, by all means. It will do you good to see her again."

"Thank you." She turned away from him more determinedly, and promptly went to sleep, leaving her husband feeling a little unsettled.

-----

Having received permission, Jane did not waste any time.

October 16, 1781

Number Twelve, Mortimer Square

London

My dear friend,

I received your last epistle, and was much amused at your depiction of your brother and his friend the squire, and the depth of the mud into which they plummeted. "The Joys of the Country!" Well, I cannot laugh much, as I too will be living the bucolic life in but a day or two.

After my stay at Colneford Castle, I thought I would be remaining to the city for some time. There was some little trouble on the way home that was ridiculously exaggerated in the foolish newspapers at the time. I am perfectly well, I assure you. Alas, various matters have arisen which require my departure to my brother-in-law's country seat, Wargrave Hall. Between a rumor of smallpox (my little boy, of course, is too young for inoculation), and the need for someone to keep a weather eye on Sir John's restorations, it became apparent that I would be the one to go.

I shall be quite alone for the greater part of the time. The Colonel will accompany me, but must return to his duties in the capital almost instantly. Lady Cecily has fallen ill, and requires the attendance of her daughters. Sir John, of course, has affairs of state that cannot be slighted. You ask if Letty will not be with me, and I must tell you directly—no, she cannot. Letty is married.

Brace yourself, my friend, for the most extraordinary news that you have ever read. Letty attracted the attentions almost instantly of a wealthy peer, Lord Fanshawe. He proposed, and was accepted, and yesterday they were united. If you feel slightly dizzy, imagine my state. There is some disparity in age, and of course great disparity in education and birth, but the viscount offered her a most generous settlement and Letty—now Laeticia de Vere, Viscountess Fanshawe—could not refuse the offer.

How strange the world is, and how the Wheel of Fortune turns without warning! Perhaps I am rebuked for past pride and arrogance, for my half-sister is now my senior in wealth and consequence, and will no doubt take precedence of me until the end of our days.

That said, I am without a companion, save my trusty servants, Mrs. Royston and Miss Pullen. I am to go to Wargrave Monday, and no doubt will be introduced to the entire establishment (such as it is), but it will be a difficult change for me. There is no vicar nor vicar's wife, either, for Sir John (between us) has been remiss in appointing such an individual, and the parish has been without a head nearly a year! You will never guess who is to supply the deficiency! Do you remember Captain Bordon, the Colonel's clever and cautious boon companion? Yes! The gentleman is still in America, but the Colonel has written to him and he and his wife no doubt will arrive in the next few months!

I will have my child and my duties to occupy me, but I will be desperate for an intimate and advisor. My dear, dear Miss Gilpin—could you not find it possible to pay me a visit very soon? I have enclosed a note from my husband's sister, Miss Tavington, explaining the route and the coaches you would take to find me in Essex. Even if you could stay but a fortnight (though I would prefer six fortnights, if you could spare them!) it would be doing me such a kindness! I am told the house is in poor condition, but Sir John gave command to prepare some bedchambers against just such a visit.

Believe me, my dear friend, yours most affectionately,

Jane Tavington

Very decisively, Jane folded and sealed the letter and sent it off to the post with all haste. It would take over a week to reach its destination, but an express would needlessly alarm her friend. If I cannot bear a few days of my own company, I am a sorry specimen indeed!

-----

Jane and Tavington would go to Wargrave on Monday. The plan was that he would return to London Wednesday morning. The time was filled with preparations and morning visits. Mrs. Tazewell called to hear the news of Letty's wedding. She and Jane had already exchanged calls just after Jane had returned from Colneford Castle. She was a pretty, good-natured woman, whose husband could be useful to her own. Jane welcomed the acquaintance, and told the lady the pleasantest version of the marriage possible.

"And so you are going into the country again. That is a pity, for so many people wish to meet you, after hearing of your adventures." She laughed, and Jane admired her remarkably good teeth. "Well, you will certainly be back in London in a few months for the Season, and you can be lionized then!"

"I shall be entirely forgotten by then, I imagine."

"Oh, no! And I shall help to keep your memory green. If I might so presume, I should like to correspond with you, while you are away."

"That would be most kind of you. I shall write to you directly on my arrival."

Bellini called too. He was a natural diplomat, and accustomed to concealing disapproval or disappointment, but Jane could see he was not overjoyed at Letty's marriage. Like a sensible man, however, he tried to put the best face on it.

"Milord Fanshawe is a great connoisseur of the arts. He will value the lady as she deserves. I have been informed that on her return, she will resume her musical studies. You say she looked well at the wedding?"

"Oh, indeed! Letty is always lovely, but she looked particularly beautiful and happy. Lord Fanshawe gave her a magnificent set of sapphires, and she was so delighted with them. Their wedding trip will no doubt expose her to some of the finest sights in the kingdom, and she will be full of art and culture on her return."

Bellini was professionally civil. "No doubt, Madame."

Jane blushed, realizing how silly her words had sounded. "I, too, am leaving London for a time. My family is concerned about rumors of smallpox. I have been inoculated, but my son—"

"I understand, Madame, and I approve your husband's care for you. I suffered the disease long ago, and was lucky to survive, unlike my two brothers. You are wise to be cautious."

Daringly, she asked, "Would you write to me, Signor? I shall be rusticating in the country and shall have need of a little art and culture myself."

His smile grew warmer. "I would be honored to be your newspaper, Madame!"

-----

Had it not been for their straitened circumstances, Jane would have gone a-shopping, at least for new publications to take with her. Wargrave, she was told, had a large library, but she had no idea what books it contained, nor in what condition she might find them. Instead, she raided the library downstairs, with a brisk knock and a head held high. Her courage was unnecessary, for the gentlemen were out, and no one challenged her right to thumb through the pretty editions she selected.

She made a little stack of books that she had heard of, but had never had access to before: Voltaire's Candide, Rousseau's Le Nouvelle Heloise, the plays of Moliere and of Marivaux, L'Histoire de Manon Lescaut. Many of the books were considered "racy" or "fast," and she would never have dared to purchase them, but she would be alone in Essex, and who could say her nay? Carefully, she chose books that did not show the signs of frequent use, and so would not be depriving the household of old friends.

Behind some other books, she found a novel whose title made her laugh: Fanny Hill: The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, by John Cleland. With rather curdled nostalgia she remembered that day at Cedar Hill and that stupid young officer—what was his name?--who wanted her to read this book with him. She peeped inside the covers, and sputtered with disbelief. This was rather more than simply racy. With a saucy shake of her head, she added it the stack. Perhaps she would learn something new, and give her husband a surprise.

She had some new music to study as well, sonatas by Mr. Haydn, and some pieces by the young Mozart, whom Mr. Bellini admired greatly. She had an empty journal into which she could pour her thoughts, and her little account book to keep close watch on her expenditures. Jane was determined to make the best of what she could not help but regard as her exile in the country. She would read, and practice, and raise her child, and supervise the house. Her isolation need not be complete: she would have her correspondence with her new sisters and her widening circle of friends, like Mrs. Tazewell and Bellini. If she could secure a visit from Miss Gilpin, so much the better.

In fact, she persuaded herself, she was happy to go. She was uncomfortable remaining under the same roof as her mother-in-law, whether the lady was a pitiful invalid now or not. Now and then, she would hear a cry, a protest, and was reminded of Lady Cecily. Her heart swelled with unforgiving resentment. The old lady had done her best to destroy Jane's happiness, and had connived in what could have been her sister's ruin. To some extent she had succeeded, for Jane missed Letty dreadfully, and was not comforted when she imagined Letty not missing her to an equal degree. Lucy's words about Letty burned like fire. Was Jane so selfish? These were very unhappy reflections.

On Sunday, Jane persuaded her sisters-in-law to join her at church, and on her return, Jane was overwhelmed by her husband and Sir John, giving her last-minute advice and little notes to remind her of the state of repairs and improvements.

"I have written to my uncle, too," William told her. "If you have any difficulties that require immediate assistance, send a servant to him. He can be there in two hours."

Jane replied stiffly, disliking the idea of begging for help. "I cannot imagine that I will have any difficulties that I cannot manage. You forget that I have managed large households before. I am not afraid of work—or workmen, for that matter."

Tavington looked at her with some concern. Jane had withdrawn from him a little, and was not her open, candid self with him anymore. There was a curious barrier between them. It was as if they had gone back to an earlier stage of their relationship when they were ceremonious acquaintances. Not even nights in their bed had entirely won her over. She enjoyed their intimacies, but then thanked him politely and went directly to sleep. All the old tenderness seemed to be gone, and Tavington found himself disliking their new understanding. Jane had become very independent of him. There was nothing he could complain of, for she was perfectly civil, if damnably distant. And it was his own fault, after all.

Time, he hoped, would heal her wounds. She would find Wargrave interesting, and would enjoy the country greatly. Her own two servants would go with her of course. Moll Royston had all the packing for the baby and herself in hand, and had made a sound suggestion, when he had come up to visit the baby.

"How many men are on the place? Might be wise to bring a stout fellow along to be Mrs. Tavington's footman. Seems like everybody else will be working on the house. They won't know her anyway. A brave fellow who answers to her would be a mighty good idea."

Wanting to make friends with Moll again, he listened to the suggestion with a mind to indulge her. "Who would you suggest?" He forbore to smirk. "Tom Young?"

She fixed him with a steady eye. "He'd do, I reckon. He knows the footman business, and he's good in a fight."

Tavington decided that he was forgiven enough to sit down and ask for the tale of the battle with the highwaymen. Of all the participants, Moll was the most likely to tell it coherently, without embellishment. And tell it she did, like a clear-headed soldier giving a report of an action. Tavington was suitably impressed by their restraint in the use of their firearms, and praised Tom's courage and activity.

Moll thawed a little more. "Most likely this trip will do Mrs. Tavington good. She ain't going to be at someone else's beck and call, and if anybody fusses her, she can send them packing. As I see it, Colonel, the main thing is that the men working on the place need to know that she's giving the orders. Wouldn't do for her to feel ignored or looked down on."

Fidgeting a little in the hard wooden chair, Tavington assured her, "She will be mistress of all she surveys."

"Well, now. That don't sound so bad."

Notes: La Princesse de Clèves was published anonymously in 1678, and is thought to have been written by Mme. de la Fayette. It is one of the first modern psychological novels. Instead of improbable adventures with a formulaic happy ending, it has a highly realistic plot, introspective exploration of the characters' thoughts and feelings, and a somewhat ambiguous but decidedly not happy ending.

Thank you to all my reviewers, both signed in and anonymous. I appreciate your feedback. Some of you have very good ideas!

Next—Chapter 42: The Joys of the Country