Chapter 46: …And Life Goes On
Steam rose from the bath. Tavington lay back and let Jane care for him. She had shooed away Doggery and Young, once the hot water had been brought up to the bedchamber. The bath was a large one; white enameled tin with sea-green edging trimmed in gilt. It was long enough for Tavington to stretch out in it.
"You have mud in your hair. I shall wash it."
"Umm."
He was very warm and relaxed. His terrible guilt and anger had been purged, and he felt a deep stillness inside him. Jane was talking to him in her pleasant quiet way, not demanding that he respond intelligibly. She scrubbed his hair with fine Castile soap, massaging his scalp.
"Perhaps I shall ask you to wash my hair frequently," he mumbled. "It's very nice."
She looked sharply at him, worried about his state of mind. He said nothing more, and she rinsed his hair carefully, finishing with diluted lavender water.
"That smells nice," he whispered. "It smells rather like you."
Jane smiled briefly and examined his feet. Pulling her little stool closer, she set about trimming his nails.
"You don't need to do that," he objected mildly.
"Yes, I do. They're too long. If I'm allowed to bathe you, I shall do it properly. This isn't as nerve-wracking as trimming the baby's nails. That frightens me to death."
"I am delighted that I do not frighten you today."
His eyes shut again, and seemed almost to be sleeping. Jane finished trimming, and took up the bath sponge again, washing the soap from her husband's chest. The old, livid scars stood out redly against his pale skin, testament to all he had suffered in America, and now, it would seem, in vain. No wonder he was melancholy. The sight that had met her on his return—William wet and bloody and muddy, chilled and shivering, had made her dismiss all other concerns, and devote herself to giving him a little needed cozening. She felt a sigh rise up inside her, and repressed it. William was moping quite well without her help.
"So you do like what I did in the nursery?" she asked idly.
"Very much. You must forgive my rudeness earlier. I suppose I was wishing I could take up residence there again. It shows a great deal of loving care and thought. When will Moll and her little helper move in?"
"Ah—not until William Francis is weaned. It is so much more convenient for me to have him next door. And as to Moll, William, there is something I ought to tell you—"
At the same moment, he blurted out—"There is something I ought to tell you—"
They stopped, startled, and then laughed.
"You first, my dear—"
"No, you—I interrupted you—"
"Really, Jane, I want to hear your news."
She looked uneasy, but took a deep breath. "Moll and Tom wish to marry. I am very much in favor of it. We had thought that they would marry as soon as Captain Bordon was here and in orders, or as soon as we return to London."
He nearly told her that his mother never permitted her servants to marry on pain of dismissal, but then thought much the better of it. "They would still remain with us?"
"Oh, yes! They don't want to leave. They simply wish to marry. I think it would be very nice for Moll. Tom makes her happy, and he is so brave and steady."
"It would require some maneuverings in the servants' quarters. What if she has a child?"
"We can worry about that if it actually happens. I had thought about giving the two of them the little room next to the nursery, but Miss Gilpin thought they should have their own cottage. I cannot give your brother's cottages away, and I want Moll close to me. Sit up a little. I want to comb out your hair. What do you think?"
He frowned, tilting his head to allow her to run the comb carefully through his long, tangled hair. "I'm sure we can arrange something for them. It is just as well that I give you my news now, for it may change some of your plans."
She paused in her combing. "What is it? Is it more bad news?"
He did not know how to answer that, and so simply said, "You ought to know before anyone else that John is planning to marry."
"Sir John is engaged?"
She could not help smiling. It seemed so unlikely, but William was treating the matter as a serious one.
He told her, "It has not yet been announced. He cannot marry before May, at any rate, but sometime next year there will be a Lady Tavington. Will you be very disappointed?"
She did not understand at first, and then said, "Oh! I see what you mean. Of course his wife will come and take charge of everything. I see."
Truth to tell, she did feel a little disappointed, but that was unfair and irrational. "No. I always knew that this was not my house. I have had great enjoyment in putting it to rights, but I did not expect to live here permanently. Have you met the lady?"
"Yes, on the fifteenth. She is a widow, and John is her little girl's godfather."
"Is she pretty?" She laughed self-consciously. "How silly to ask! Of course she is. That is just what one asks first, you know. I should have asked, 'Is she musical?'"
"I really can't say. As to whether she is pretty—John thinks she is." Seeing his wife's arch look, he surrendered. "Oh, yes, she's pretty in a very delicate way. I do not think her health is strong. She is over thirty, and has no fortune."
"A widow? Jane smiled naughtily, and quoted, "'And I do think she's thirty—' Well, what say you? Is she Cleopatra or Octavia? I can rather picture John as Antony."
"Oh! Octavia, no question. Octavia to the life." He laughed a little at the image of John as Mark Antony. He certainly drank enough. "She seems very sweet. Her husband was unkind, and deserted her. She lives with her parents. John was concerned about you feeling pushed aside, and does not know how well she would cope with being mistress of a large house."
"Well," Jane said, chin up. "She will be mistress of this house. Anything else would be encroaching and wrong. Even if she does things in a way I would do differently, I promise to keep silent and smile. Your brother can engage a housekeeper to help his bride. I have been told that the Carters wish to retire to their old cottage as soon as everything is a little more regular. Sir John can find some intelligent, younger woman with the energy to manage this great house, and his lady can be free to lavish attention on him and her child."
"You are too good. John has given us a standing invitation to make long and frequent visits here, and of course that will be very pleasant, and give us a good share of country life. My profession, however, currently demands that I reside in London. I have something further that I should tell you. My mother's health continues to fail. Elliott thinks that her heart is diseased. John and I have seen her will. In it, she leaves the Mortimer Square house to me. I had put off telling you, knowing that you might have taken against the place."
Jane was silent, thinking. Being far from Lady Cecily had enabled her to forgive her husband's mother somewhat. The lady was ill, after all: ill with a horrible disease that was robbing her of her wits. It was impossible to guess how she would have treated Jane had she been in perfect health. Jane could only judge her as a sick woman, a woman wronged by the husband she had once loved. It was a great mitigation, and Jane knew it was wrong to hate an invalid for things that were not within that person's control.
She finally said, "I am very sorry that your mother suffers so. It must all be very difficult, especially for your sisters who are so devoted to her. It sounds horrid of me, but one could wish that her sufferings not be—protracted."
"Not horrid at all," Tavington replied, feeling depressed again. "I pray for a quick and painless release for her every day. But Jane, the issue before us is the house. I know that you were not happy at Mortimer Square, but when it comes to us, will you consent to live there, or would you wish to sell it and find another house? I confess that I was very surprised. I always assumed that the house would go to my sisters. My mother's will is not generous to them, I fear."
"That is unfortunate, but I see nothing wrong in leaving you the house. From what you have told me, your sisters at least have their fortunes. Your brother has the Wargrave estate. Your father left you nothing. It actually seems quite fair to me."
"I feel I must consider my sisters in this. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Jane agreed. "I do understand that. For them to lose their lifelong home would be very painful—and needlessly so. Besides, I love your sisters, and would be delighted to have such friends always near at hand. Yes. I would be willing to live at Number Twelve. It is a beautiful house, and I would be proud to be mistress of it." She splashed her hand in the bath water. "Is it getting cold?"
"A little. Is there more hot water?"
She brought the pitcher over, and poured it carefully into the bath. Tavington sighed with pleasure, having no desire to ever leave this heavenly bath. He really did not deserve Jane.
He asked, "Would you not consent to visit soon? The smallpox alarm seems to be winding down, and was mostly confined to Spitalfields and parts east. As to—well, Mamma almost never leaves her rooms, and it could be assured that she would not while you were there. It would not be desirable for her to see you, any more than you wish to see her. She might or might not remember who you are. She does not always remember who I am."
Jane pushed his smoothed hair aside, and began to wash his back. "That is very sad, and I am sorry for it. I admit I would like to return to London—at least briefly—when Letty returns from her wedding trip. She seems very happy. I have just received another letter, full of her adventures. She has taken up astronomy, of all things!"
"Ha!" The thought of it was so unexpected that Tavington laughed out loud. "Astronomy! What next?"
"She met the philosopher who has discovered that new planet named for the King. I blush to admit I knew nothing of it until her letter, and then I found mention of it in some old newspapers from earlier this year. Herschel—William Herschel. I suppose I was otherwise occupied last March!"
"We both were," he agreed wryly.
"Anyway," Jane said, "She and Lord Fanshawe visited the man and looked through his telescopes. Letty was quite delighted with the views of the heavens. Her letter was so sweet and naïve. I did not know that she was ignorant of the fact that the Earth goes about the Sun. How many things I took for granted, and how poorly I educated her! I shall certainly do better with our own children."
"So she is becoming a woman of parts. What else is she doing in Bath? Attending every rout and revel, no doubt."
"Oh, no doubt at all. She has been to plays and balls and concerts, and is thoroughly enjoying herself. It would seem—I think Lord Fanshawe is very kind to her. She very nearly gushed over the Roman antiquities, and expressed great interest in Old Wargrave Hill. Perhaps—someday—your brother might see his way to inviting Lord and Lady Fanshawe here."
"I daresay. If Fanshawe lives that long—"
"Don't tease! Now that is a horrid thing to say. I miss Letty dreadfully, and she says she misses me, too. I do wish to see her as soon as I can, and I suppose London would be the place for it. She will be back in early January, around the time that the King and Queen return to London. She is going to be presented at Court during one of the Queen's Drawing Rooms."
Tavington shifted restlessly in the water, slopping some onto the polished wooden floor. "And so you should be, as well! That's a very good thought. We will get you back to London. By the end of December we shall all be in improved funds. We shall order you a wonderful Court dress, and you will be presented. I shall probably have to order a new uniform, for I ought to wear one on such an occasion. The King and his party will be under attack, and I want to show my support to all my comrades in the army, whether here or across the sea. And you—a Colonial lady, showing proper attention to your Sovereign—that sets a noble example of loyalty to those wretched Whigs!" His face fell. "But I shall only ask it of you, if the idea truly pleases you. I have done with consulting only my own wishes."
Very moved by such a considerate speech, Jane clutched at her husband's shoulder. "Of course I want to see the Queen. I want to see Letty, too. Yes—at the New Year, I should be glad to come back to London for a time. I shall order a grand, absurd Court dress, and bow and simper and play the fine lady until you all shout me down in utter boredom! All I ask—William—you must never flirt with other women in front of me—it hurts me, and makes me so aware of how plain I am."
"Well-" he burst out, half glad at part of her answer, and half exasperated at the rest. "—If you don't like the way I act, you will have to say so. I cannot always know you are unhappy if you don't tell me! I'm just a rough, uncivilized soldier, after all, with no subtlety and no imagination. Treat me as the blockhead I am, and just tell me what it is you want!"
"I am," she replied, with a touch of asperity, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "Don't flirt with women—I mean by that, of course, pretty, young women—in front of me. You can be charming to old ladies and little girls to your heart's content!"
"Oh, Jane!" he laughed, shaking his head. "What else does my lady command?"
"Don't go off and ignore me completely when we are in company." She pushed him back again, and her hand reached lower.
"All right. I shall harass you with discreet leers." He arched a wicked brow, enjoying the feel of her hands on him as she cleaned him meticulously. "You do that so well."
"Biddy taught me, when you were wounded. She said I must learn to wash a man there properly."
His eyes closed with the pleasure of her touch. "You do it—quite properly. I think I'm beginning to be extremely clean." He cleared his throat. "What else can I do to make you happy, Jane?"
"That's really all I ask. I shall have to take thought about the house. It really is a splendid place. I have everything else I want—our darling little son, our kind sisters, a good brother, and your attentions—" she blushed and looked up him meaningly—"which are so precious to me."
Reflexively, she had grasped him a little tighter, and he groaned, suddenly and completely aroused.
"The towel, Jane!" he croaked.
He stood, gesturing impatiently, while she patted him dry—or at least drier. He could not wait, and was still very damp by the time she was undressed and welcoming him into her arms. It lasted only a few minutes, for each was fiercely ready for the other, but it was very sweet.
Jane lay quietly afterwards, feeling very relaxed. So the splendid house in Mortimer Square would be hers. Despite the unhappy moments she had endured there, she thought she would be fortunate to be its mistress. It was a beautiful home. Jane had learned enough about London rents in her time in England to understand that they never could have afforded a similar residence. To own such a home outright was uncommon, and a great advantage. She considered the matter, and spoke her thoughts to her equally relaxed husband.
"We ought to do as Lucy as done, and make certain that all our servants have had the smallpox—or that they are inoculated. It was not all that expensive in South Carolina. What do you think?"
"A good idea. Some of them are quite young, so I don't know —Mamma often hires servants directly from the Female Orphan Asylum. They are bound apprentices, and thus are not paid wages for their first seven years in service. Mamma generally dismisses them at the end of that period with a good character."
"I don't—never mind. I'm not going to say anything about that. However, I do not wish to continue the practice. Perhaps that is something that Penelope can start looking into. I would hate to dismiss any servants, or force them to be inoculated against their will, but it really is safer for William Francis. Safer for them too, really." Another thought crossed her mind. "Where will your brother and wife live in town? He cannot mean to give up his seat in Parliament?"
"No. Certainly not. John is talking about taking a house of his own in the spring and fitting it up for his bride. He is quite enthused about it. He just received a great deal of money, and is—" He remembered what John had told him. "I'm sorry—this horrible surrender business has put everything else out of my head. John just received several thousand from that fellow in Cheshire who had dealings with Porter. It's not all the man owes him, but it is a good part of it. He paid me back the money I lent him. I'll be able to pay off Reynolds when my portrait is complete—"
"Oh! Is it almost done?" Jane asked.
"Very nearly—and more to the point, if you've contributed any money of your own to Wargrave, jot it down and John will repay us as soon as I'm back in London. Do you need any money, by the way?"
"I've spent very little on myself while I've been here. There might have been a trifle. I'll take a look at the account books later—"
"Do. We seem to have the money situation under control, unless some new creditor surfaces. It was quite horrible for a few weeks, but with John's sudden windfall—well, it's a shame so much of it had to go to pay Mamma's debts, but he's the only one in the family with the means of dealing with them all at once. I certainly could not have done it. Mamma owed a thousand pounds alone to Sir Barnaby Parrott! A thousand pounds!"
Jane laid a soothing hand on his chest. "I take it he is paid off now."
"Yes, by God! He can put another thousand into his daughter's fortune, in hopes that someone will be desperate enough to take her."
"William."
"What?"
"Don't criticize a young woman for being plain and well-dowered."
"Oh—very well. But it's not at all the same thing. You've met Miss Parrot. She's appallingly false and empty-headed."
"That I can agree with. I doubt the family will continue to visit."
"Oh, Lady Parrot has tried. She tried to bully Penelope into letting her see Mamma. Caroline backed Pen up, though, and they got rid of the wretched woman. If she had been a true friend—but Caro thought she only wanted to gawk and then gossip about her. There have been some others, who have been better-natured. The vicar and his wife have visited, and been very kind. Mamma was almost herself with them, though particularly condescending. Caro was not sure who Mamma thought they were. When you come back to London, you might want to have a look about the house, and see what you think wants doing. It's in nothing like the bad condition in which you found Wargrave, but there was some damage from those ghastly gaming parties, as you know."
"We mustn't do anything too obvious right away. I promise to think about it. We have plenty of time. I had not thought to ask what you might like to do while you are here."
"I have already done it," he smirked.
"Yes, but afterwards?" she said, rolling over and propping herself up on her elbows. "You need to do something to amuse yourself. How long can you stay?"
"I need to be back by Friday afternoon."
"Not long, then."
"No, but I have a few commissions from John. Cobb Jeffreys needs a horse, and I'm to see if the old pony cart is worth refurbishing. If so, John wants me to find a suitable beast or two. If not, I am to contact the carriage maker in Chelmsford and order something."
Jane smiled. "He's thinking ahead; planning for the time when his wife will be here."
"Well, yes—but he also means for you to use it while you are in residence. You could at least visit locally, though I wouldn't attempt the trip to Colneford in such an equipage. I should visit my uncle. Have you seen him lately?"
"Yes. He called last week. He is very kind with his visits, and understands that I cannot return them."
"I must call on him tomorrow. Perhaps I'll do some shooting early in the morning, and then you and I can see him in the afternoon. What else would you like to do tomorrow?"
"Sleep late."
He smiled, and then stroked along her spine. "Anything else?"
"It depends entirely on the weather. If it is as cold as it is, then let us stay in tomorrow morning. We can read to one another, or play backgammon."
"Do you play chess?"
"Very badly."
"Good. Then I'll win. Is there any hot water left? It seems to me that you might like a bath yourself."
-----
Tavington rose early the next morning. It was cold but clear, and he went out with Moll and Tom after pheasant. Tom was not much of a shot yet, but was rapidly improving. They had a respectable bag in a few hours, and were back in out of the cold by nine.
Meanwhile, Jane had fed her child, ordered the day's meals, seen to the accounts, and sent a note to Mrs. Porter, putting off calling on her until after William was gone. She had even written her latest letter to Bellini--asking about his experiences at the court of the King of Sicily, and was ready to have a late breakfast with her husband.
He was in better spirits today, though now and then a shadow crossed his face. He was, at least, attempting to master his painful disappointment. There was a beautiful chess set arranged on its own inlaid table in the library. Tavington won two games handily, and was even more heartened. Jane practiced being a good loser, not much caring about such games anyway. She knew little about chess, but it was clear to her the intricacies of the game could afford a lifetime of study, if one desired to spend one's life thus. She did not. It had amused William for an hour, and that was enough.
They rang for Moll, who brought the baby down, and then vanished, glad for an hour to herself. William Francis was placed on a moth-eaten tigerskin rug in the library, and rolled about on it, highly entertained by the feel of the fur against his skin.
"How did your family come by that rug?" Jane wondered. "Did one of your relations go to India?"
Tavington shrugged. "Not as far as I know. I believe it was a gift to my grandfather, early in the century." He smiled fondly at his little son, who was patting the fur in curiosity.
"I wonder what India is like," Jane murmured. "Have you even wanted to go there?"
"Not without lavish pay and the rank of general," Tavington scoffed. "As hot as South Carolina, and a longer voyage!"
"It sounds so exotic," Jane said dreamily.
The baby's good humor abuptly changed, and he began to wail for his mother. Jane picked him up, and blushed at her husband's expression as William Francis reached greedily for a breast that her low cut gown left half-exposed.
"A gentleman of exquisite taste."
Jane clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. "Don't just sit there. Read to me."
"All right." He rose from the floor by the rug and walked over to a table, studying the titles of the books stacked there. "Is this what you're reading now?"
"Yes. I've finished Candide. Voltaire certainly has no use for mindless optimism."
"Neither have I. What is this?" He paused with a look of disbelief and then picked up the volume. "Fanny Hill? Where did you find this?"
Jane was terribly embarrassed, but decided to brazen it out. "In the library at Number Twelve Mortimer Square, behind Francis Bacon's New Atlantis," she informed him crisply.
"Oh."
"It's very—informative."
"I daresay."
Astonished and amused, he opened a page and declaimed: "'--but presently the transport began to be too violent to observe any order or measure; their motions were too rapid, their kisses too fierce and fervent for nature to support such fury long: both seem'd to me out of themselves: their eyes darted fires: 'Oh! . . . oh! . . . I can't bear it . . . It is too much . . . I die . . . I am going . . .' were Polly's expressions of extasy:'"
"Stop that!" Jane cried indignantly. "Don't read that in front of the baby!"
"My dear Jane, he doesn'thave the faintest idea what is going on, and he's entirely intent on gorging himself with milk! What difference can it make what I read? '—his joys were more silent; but soon broken murmurs, sighs heart-fetch'd, and at length a dispatching thrust, as if he would have forced himself up her body, and then motionless languor of all his limbs, all shewed that the die-away moment was come upon him; which she gave signs of joining with, by the wild throwing of her hands about, closing her eyes, and giving a deep sob, in which she seemed to expire in an agony of bliss.' It sounds rather like you, my dear."
She narrowed her eyes. "It sounds perfectly ridiculous when you just stand there reading it!"
He laughed. "It does, doesn't it? Very well, I shall take it upstairs tonight and read you choice passages in our bed."
Jane blushed, but then said, with a show of indifference, "If you like."
He stole another amused glance at her, and then looked for something more to his wife's daytime tastes on the shelves. "Have you ever read Johnson's Rasselas?"
"No. A copy never came my way."
"Nor have I. Let us try it."
He began, in his lovely voice, a story that charmed her from the first: "'The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia. Part One: Description of a palace in a valley.
"'Ye who listen with credulity to the whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms of hope; who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow; attend to the history of Rasselas prince of Abissinia…'"
Jane was sorry when it was time to stop and prepare to go out. The baby was kissed and cuddled, and returned to Moll and the nursery. Jane summoned Pullen, who was having a remarkably pleasant day herself, to prepare her.
Her green habit had been turned, and Jane thought it as nice as ever. Pullen thought so too, since she had been given a free hand to make some minor alternations that seemed essential to current fashion.
"I do like that color on you, ma'am. When there's a bit of money for a new habit, I should like to see you in that color again, but in a silk gabardine, trimmed in gold lace. Or perhaps an apple green. Or perhaps a blush rose with green facings. That would look very well. We should make the jacket lapels wider, and trim you up a hat to match with more feathers than Lady Fanshawe's."
"I should look like a goose, with so many feathers!" laughed Jane. Knowing that their financial situation had improved put Jane in a better mood to hear about clothes. She would be calling on number of people when back in London. A handsome visiting habit was a good idea. Perhaps green with rose facings.
"You would look a grand lady, which is what you are, ma'am," the loyal Pullen stoutly affirmed. "If I may, ma'am, we shall have that pearl brooch with the pendants pinned to your hat, so-- You look vastly fine, ma'am. Good enough for any Earl of our acquaintance! The pearl earbobs are very well, too."
Her face, her hair, the set of her hat: all were put in order, and Jane felt that she looked as she should, when she left her dressing room to join her husband. He was in the bedchamber, already groomed and dressed by the meticulous Doggery. The green of her husband's coat blended perfectly with her own habit. Jane glimpsed their reflection in the long looking glass and was pleased and surprised to see how well they looked as a couple.
William gave her his arm, and she went downstairs, feeling quite confident about this latest trip to Colneford. It was much shorter than her first, to begin with. Jane quite liked traveling in their coach, thinking William really had very good taste in choosing vehicles. A good judge of horses, too, of course.
Cold as it was, it was rather pleasant to be out and about. In less than an hour, they were driving through the archway into the inner courtyard. William had grown silent, obviously dreading sharing his news with his uncle.
Jane patted his arm. "It is possible that rumours, at least, have already reached him."
"I suppose so," he sighed. "But he should know the truth as well. Perhaps he will return to town and attend the Lords, as he ought."
They were greeted very kindly by Lord Colchester, who was delighted to offer them every comfort.
"And you'll be happy to hear that Anne and Trumfleet are back!" he told them, overjoyed himself to have so many loved ones in the same room.
Both Jane and Tavington were displeased at the news, and both equally concealed their reactions. Daughter and son-in-law came soon, greeted the arrivals civilly enough, and then Tavington gave his uncle the terrible news.
Lord Colchester was sorry to hear it—sorry indeed—it was very bad—very disappointing, he was sure, after all Will had borne in the Colonies. It would be bad for the King's Friends, too. Colchester was not a very political man, but it was clear to that a storm was on the horizon.
"I daresay every vote will be needed in Parliament," Tavington hinted broadly.
Even Lord Colchester could not miss his meaning, and seemed resigned. "I suppose I shall have to go to London," he considered. "Pity, though. We had a jolly time out with the guns today, Trumfleet and I—didn't we?" he boomed at his son-in-law, who looked half-asleep.
"Oh—certainly!" Trumfleet agreed, yawning. "Bagged any number with that new over-and-under of mine. You should see it, Tavington—it's really—"
And the conversation quite departed the Americas and arrived in the oak hangers around Colneford Castle, with the two men eagerly informing Tavington of their splendid shooting that day. Tavington, when asked, admitted that he had been out that morning as well, which delighted his uncle. In fact, the disaster in the colonies was a little effaced by the regret that Tavington had not been with him when he had been shooting today, and was quite submerged by his disappointment when he found that his nephew and nephew's wife would not be joining them for dinner.
"We did not bring the child out, in this cold," Tavington explained to his uncle, "and Jane cannot be gone from him so long."
"Oh, very well, another time, my boy," replied Lord Colchester. Always ready to find something good about any situation, he complimented Jane. "That wife of yours is a good mother—a splendid mother. Sets a good example for the entire family!"
He went on, talking about local concerns, leaving Tavington very dissatisfied. It was only natural, he supposed, that his uncle and other relations should be more interested in their own affairs than in the fate of a faraway British army, but it made him feel that no one in the room understood him but Jane. He was very glad that they could not stay to dinner, which would have further distressed him.
His uncle's lack of interest in affairs of state did not, however, mean he was uninterested in his nephew. Tavington was asked about his plans for the next few days, and the conversation digressed into horses, and available horses, and who might have a nice pair of ponies for Mrs. Tavington.
"Really getting too cold for an open carriage, anyway, my boy," his uncle advised. "Best to leave it for spring, and get the ponies then. Save yourself the feeding of them over the winter. Take care of the cart business first. Either you'll have to see to the old one, or get a new one built—a neat little phaeton would be more the thing for a lady--and by the time that's done, it'll be the dead of winter."
Tavington felt his uncle had made a good point, and the talk went back to the day's shooting. Lord Colchester praised his favorite retriever, Maisie.
"Cleverest little bitch you ever saw, Will! She can find my birds wherever they fall—" His face lit up. "You still haven't any dogs at Wargrave, have you?"
"Well, no, Uncle. I haven't had time—"
"Let's go out to the kennels!" his uncle cried. "Maisie had a litter awhile back. Some are likely fellows. Come on, my boys!"
Bounding up, he made their excuses to the ladies. "Anne, my dear—my dear Mrs. Tavington—Pardon us for deserting you even for a moment. We'll just have a look-in at the kennels, and be back very smartly."
Tavington discreetly rolled his eyes at Jane, who smiled back, relieved that she would not have to walk through the leafless gardens to see a pack of smelly dogs.
"We seem to be quite abandoned, Mrs. Tavington," Lady Trumfleet remarked airily. "Not very gallant of our lords and masters, I declare! How are you finding Wargrave Hall? I heard it was the most forlorn old place in the world!"
With a limpid smile, Jane shook her head. "I cannot imagine where you might have heard such a thing. Sir John has not lived at Wargrave for some time, but it has been easily put in order. The process is quite absorbing, in fact. I have greatly enjoyed my time there."
"How fortunate." There was a silence. Lady Trumfleet studied the young woman sitting beside her on the sofa. "I have heard that my aunt is ill. I wrote to her, and received a reply from my cousin Caroline. What she suffers from is unclear."
"I believe my husband told his uncle that is a combination of old age and melancholia. She is being given every attention by her children."
"How sad. I shall call upon her, when next I am in town."
"That would be most thoughtful of you."
"Will you be remaining at Wargrave, or will return to town yourself?"
"At some point, I shall, I suppose, go to London. I am in the country largely due to a rumor of smallpox, and wished to protect my child from infection."
"How maternal of you."
Jane smiled her contempt at such a petty attempt to devalue her. "You have children, I believe. I hope they are well."
"Thank you. They are in perfect health. My servants know their business."
"I did not for a moment imagine you would subject them to incompetent care." Jane smiled again, and let Lady Trumfleet make what she would of it.
That lady studied her fingernails, and then remarked, "Your sister is married, I understand. To old Beau Fanshawe!"
Expecting an attack from this quarter, Jane replied, "Yes, I have heard from her. She is blissfully happy, and has enjoyed seeing the beauties of his lordship's estate at Salton Park. They are now in Bath, and having a delightful time."
"Such a lovely young woman. A pity she did not wait for the Season! Some young ladies think they must snatch at any opportunity that comes along. I am surprised that you can be so calm, considering that gentleman's reputation."
"I would be most remiss of me to criticize my own brother-in-law," Jane gently observed. "And your aunt was so very much in favor of the match…"
Foiled, Lady Trumfleet subsided into silence. Jane wished she had brought a workbasket with her, for Lady Trumfleet had taken out some embroidery and was plying her needle, in deep concentration. After some time, she spoke again.
"I have heard from my dear sister Lady Sattersby. She is rather melancholy herself these days."
I knew she would mention her, Jane reminded herself, and kept her public face intact with a mighty effort. Casually, she replied, "I am sorry to hear it. I hope she feels happier in short order."
"I am so glad I have never suffered a miscarriage myself," Lady Trumfleet purred. "It must be so disagreeable."
"A miscarriage."
"Oh, yes. It was very early, and so she did not suffer physically very much, but it has left her very low."
Jane grew grave, and swallowed the loathing she felt for a woman who would use the death of a child to score a point.
"I am very sorry for her. Such a loss must be unspeakably painful. It is fortunate that she has such a friend as you. One would not wish to confide such a personal and intimate sorrow to anyone else."
Lady Trumfleet fell silent, sensing a rebuke. She returned to her needlework, and after another few minutes, the men returned, talking loudly. Lord Colchester's voice, as always, was loudest.
"I'll send him over tomorrow. You can surely find a boy able to look after him."
"No need to trouble yourself, Uncle. He can ride in the carriage with us. It was generous of you."
"Tosh! A trifling gift. Gave you better things when you were a boy. What's a dog? Good stock, though, and he's been well trained."
"Thank you all the same, sir."
"I say, Tavington," Trumfleet broke in. "I heard the Three Farthing Wood was absolutely stuffed with game. How about hosting a shoot?"
"It's really John's, Trumfleet. I'll suggest it to him for an amusement when next he's in the country. I'm sure he'd be very glad to see you."
"Ah!" cried Lord Colchester, "Our fair ladies have been awaiting us so patiently. I hope you've had a nice chat."
Jane answered easily, "Oh, very nice, my lord."
"Yes," echoed Lady Trumfleet, her voice cool as silver, "I have just been telling her about poor Kitty's troubles."
She glanced at Tavington, with a glint of amusement. Tavington assumed a look of mild curiosity, and refused to say anything at all. No doubt she would tell everyone everything in her own time. But there was not long to wait.
"A shame, that!" Lord Colchester shook his head, with real compassion. "Poor Kitty lost a child not two weeks ago. Damned shame! At least it shows there's hope. I wrote and told her to take care of herself."
Tavington said only, "I am sorry for her loss."
Lady Trumfleet studied his face, and was satisfied. "I am told they are remaining in the country indefinitely—" she lowered her voice, "—pour faire un enfant." Condescendingly, she explained to Jane, "that means—"
"Je vous comprends parfaitement, Madame," Jane replied, condescending in her turn. "Frenchmen have made an appearance from time to time in the Americas."
"Damned Froggies," agreed Lord Colchester, oblivious to the crossed swords hidden beneath the ladies' spoken words. "Anyway," he continued, all innocence, "Bill and Kitty are staying in Dorset for the near future. Bill swears they're not going anywhere until they hold a christening. I'll have to go out to see them. In fact, I might go there for Christmas. I hate the thought of the two of them feeling all alone and forgotten, especially after such a misfortune!"
Touched by such honest concern and affection, Jane said, "I am sure you will be a great comfort to them. Lady Sattersby will be diverted from her loss, which must make her recovery the more rapid."
The Earl smiled back; thinking once again what a nice little girl his nephew had married.
-----
The dog's name was Rambler. He was not much more than a big puppy: a handsome gundog of the variety known as Red Setter.
"Or sometimes Irish Setter," Tavington told Jane, as he smiled down on the docile animal lying on the floor of the coach. "But considering what most around here think of the Irish, Red Setter is the favored appellation."
"He's quite--pretty," Jane considered. She was not much interested in dogs, but she knew a good gundog would be a great help in shooting birds. Lightly, she teased him, "Perhaps your uncle chose him because his russet coat appears so well against the green of ours!"
Tavington rolled his eyes, knowing he was being teased. "An excellent reason for choosing a dog! He's a fine animal, though. I chose him because he came to me first of all his litter mates, and seemed to like being around me. We shall have to keep an eye on him at first to prevent him from finding his way back to Colneford. He'll settle down at Wargrave soon enough."
"Is he—housetrained?" Jane asked anxiously. "Are you going to permit him into the Hall?"
"Of course he's house-trained. You know how Uncle lets his favorites romp about the Castle. Or perhaps you don't. When company comes, he's fairly scrupulous about confining the dogs to the kennels and his own study. You never saw that room, I think."
"No," smiled Jane. "I did not penetrate into your Uncle's secret hideaway. I can well imagine it, though. Not many books, and a great many guns and greatcoats and boots."
"That's it to the life!"
The dog sat up, and gazed at Tavington with brown and loving eyes. Tavington leaned over to rub the long ears. "We shall go out tomorrow, Rambler, and introduce you to all the best-smelling corners of the estate!" He patted the dog, and settled back onto the coach seat, frowning thoughtfully. Rambler rested his jaw on his new master's knee.
Tavington said abruptly, "Anne is an odious creature. When we were children, she would constantly dare us to do outrageous things, and then she would tattle on us afterwards."
Jane saw no reason to defend Lady Trumfleet. "Perhaps talking of dogs has caused you to think of her."
Tavington snorted a laugh, and then said seriously, "She wrote a letter to my mother. I saw it—the way she speaks of other women…I saw how she was to you today, trying to torment you. You dealt with her superbly, and trounced her as no other ever has. What she said—"
"What she said," Jane interrupted, "was unforgivable. To use Lady Sattersby's heartbreak to embarrass us shows that she has no decency and no conscience. I would prefer to see as little of such a disgusting woman as possible."
"I think we can limit any contact to those times when they are with my Uncle. If they are guests of his, we must invite them along with him."
"Oh, of course. I know that. I just don't plan to see any more of them than the absolute minimum. If I continue to treat her as I did today, I don't think she'll be eager to exchange calls, whether in London or in the country."
"I confess myself disappointed. I thought Uncle would be more concerned about the disaster in the Colonies. He was sympathetic, but—I don't know. I suppose it seems as remote as China or the Indies to him."
Jane, thinking of her own dislike of politics and war, felt a certain understanding of Lord Colchester. "I don't think he meant to dismiss the subject, William. He doesn't know much about it, and did not know how to discuss it with you intelligently. I believe the dog was meant as a consolation. Your uncle is very good-hearted."
"Yes," agreed Tavington, scratching the dog's ears. Rambler closed his eyes in happiness. "He's very good. I see what you mean about the dog. He was always giving us toys when we were children, especially when our parents had quarreled. I love him dearly, but I can see his faults. He is too inclined to retreat from the world and its responsibilities, and play the lord of the manor at Colneford, hunting and shooting and laying down the law to his tenants. It's a good life, in its way, but not a complete one. A man in his position, given all the blessings of life—wealth and title and great estate—should take part in public life, and work for the common good, not just his own."
"He's like Lord Fanshawe, in a way." Seeing her husband's doubtful look, Jane held firm. "Yes—I know they are not friends, but they both have followed their own interests to the exclusion of politics. Lord Fanshawe with his objets d'art and his Epicureanism, is also a man who has lived his life for himself. From what I gather, they are both men of family, though your uncle seems fonder of his than does Lord Fanshawe. Letty told me—between us—that the younger grandchildren are horribly spoiled and vicious. They even attacked her—throwing chestnuts at her until she bled. They were punished for it, of course, but what nasty little ruffians!"
"How did the son and daughter-in-law treat her?"
"With cold civility. Letty clearly has no desire to see more of them than absolutely necessary."
Tavington hesitated, and then told Jane, "In her marriage settlement, Fanshawe has made me the guardian of any children Letty might have, were he to die. From your description, it sounds sensible. Protheroe, too: Protheroe and I would be joint guardians."
"I suspect Letty would like a child, but the thought of that old man—it makes me shudder."
"My poor Jane—you must resign yourself to it. When we meet again, you know you must be friendly to Fanshawe, if you wish to keep Letty."
"Yes, I know. But I reserve the right to complain of it to you!"
He smiled. "Fair enough!" His smile faded. "And I reserve the right in my turn to talk about the awfulness of Cornwallis' surrender to you."
Jane laid a comforting hand on his arm. "All you like. I hate to think of those brave men suffering so, as well. Surely we will have more news, very soon. And perhaps Lord Rawdon will be back from his captivity. What a tale he will have to tell!"
"At least he will have escaped the rebel's noose," Tavington agreed, very distressed. He talked on for awhile, remembering all of his officers and speculating on their future prospects. After some time, he mentioned one that Jane knew better than the others. "Remember Wilkins? That distant relation of yours? If he lives, he must be with the army. What will he have left? I cannot think what I would do in his place!"
Rambler whimpered in sympathy, which made his new master smile again, and give the dog a reassuring pat. "Enough of that for now. There is something else I wished to speak of. John has been talking about having Christmas at Wargrave. Do you think it feasible?"
Jane considered the idea, and liked it. "It depends on how many are invited. Of course there is room for Sir John, and the Print Room is now in order, so if your sisters were willing to share—"
"I'm sure they could be prevailed upon. What about having Lucy and Protheroe?"
"Well—I did not want to move Moll out of the room next to me just yet, but if I can get the carpenters to devote themselves to the room opposite the Great Chamber, there would be a place for them. We cannot offer them each a separate room yet."
"I don't think they would expect it."
"Would—Lady Cecily? I mean--would your mother be coming?"
"No. It would be too much for her, and she never liked Wargrave. She would stay at Number Twelve with Mrs. Watkins."
"Do you really think your sisters would leave her alone at Christmas?"
He sighed. "Probably not. John will invite them, all the same. My mother hardly knows one day from another."
"Then—yes, I do think it feasible. I think it might be a very happy Christmas for us all, even with all the terrible things happening in the world. No matter what else, we can hold fast to one another."
Tavington kissed her cheek, very moved. "My dear Jane."
She smiled back, and asked, "The captured officers—once they have given their parole, where will they go? I mean-- immediately? Would they have ships to return to England directly?"
"I think not. More likely they would go to New York. Perhaps they will have their Christmas there."
"And we shall hope it is a happy one. At least they will be free."
As soon as they were home, Tavington went out to the tumbledown carriage house to see what was there. Rambler padded after him, sniffing with cheerful curiosity. Cobb Jeffreys uncovered the pony cart. It had been scrupulously cleaned and polished, but it hardly seemed worth the purchase of a pony. As the weather grew colder, Tavington could not see what use Jane could actually make of it.
Jeffreys agreed. "Not much more than a seat with wheels, you see, Colonel. It carries but one, and no room for a parcel bigger'n a cottage loaf. No top to put up 'gainst the rain, neither. Don't suppose your lady would want to put the Little Master there, even tied up fast. More for sport on a fine summer's day, like. A lady might drive it, but if she wanted company, 'twould be a tight fit."
"My uncle thought a phaeton would be more appropriate for a lady: a phaeton with a pair of ponies. He saw no point in it until the spring."
"A wise gentleman, the earl, and no mistake. Has a weather eye, his lordship. On the other hand," Jeffrey grinned conspiratorially. "A good pair of ponies wouldn't go amiss—not if it snowed. I well remember how well all your family loved a sleigh ride."
Tavington considered the matter. A pair of ponies could be gotten cheaper this time of year than in the spring. They would give Jeffreys occupation. Tavington could not see John thinking the little pony cart a suitable equipage for the new Lady Tavington. He was not sure Jane or Emily could drive the cart safely anyway; but Jane, at least, might enjoy riding a gentle pony in good weather. He could talk to John about Uncle's idea of a phaeton. Jeffreys could drive it, and Emily and Fanny could ride about to the estate and the villages—even to nearby towns—in comfort. And then there was the sleigh—and Christmas was coming…
He returned to the house and Rambler paused on the doorstep, overwhelmed with all the interesting odors. "Come on, Rambler."
It was nice to have a dog again, but Tavington was not sure what to do when he returned to London. Better to leave the dog here. Moll could make use of him when she went shooting, and he would be company for Jane.
She was not in the drawing room. He looked into the library, and found her with Nemesis in her lap. Rambler uttered a deep, menacing, "Ooof!" and made a dash for the cat. Jane glanced up in surprise, and Tavington called out, "Rambler!" in his most commanding voice.
The dog skidded to a stop on the polished floor, looking confused. The cat had pricked up her ears, but had not moved from the comfort of Jane's lap. Rambler took a tentative step closer, and lifted his nose to take the measure of this mysterious creature. As Jane smiled in amusement, Nemesis daintily sank a claw into the offending muzzle. Rambler retreated in indignant disorder.
Tavington caught him by the collar. "That will teach you to meddle in ladies' affairs."
----
After dinner, they read more of Rasselas to each other. Sitting by the warm fire, Jane was transported to Africa, and the adventures of the prince and his sister the princess who wished to escape from the boredom and luxury of the Happy Valley. That morning, the adventures had taken them to Cairo.
Now the story continued, as the adventurers and their attendants sought for the best "choice of life." Everywhere, they found no perfect happiness: a wise philosopher's peace was destroyed by the death of his daughter; a prosperous and generous nobleman lived in fear of the envy of the Bassa; the Bassa himself lived in fear of the displeasure of the Sultan. Whether marriage or celibacy was to be preferred was debated, and then, just as it was becoming all too philosophical, there was an excursion to the Pyramids!
"How I should love to see them!" Jane exclaimed, petting Nemesis. "I don't care if Doctor Johnson thinks it was futile of the Pharaoh to build them. There is a real pleasure in seeing new things! And such a marvel. I wonder if the good Doctor could be so philosophically dismissive if he saw them for himself!"
"I don't believe he's ever been beyond Paris," Tavington set the book aside, and leaned down to scratch Rambler's ear. "I trust that if we saw them, you wouldn't be as timid about going inside as poor Pekuah!"
"Oh, no, indeed! And now she is carried off. I wish it were not so late! I hardly know how I shall sleep tonight."
"I know how you shall," said her husband with a smirk," and I'm quite sure Pekuah will not mind if we leave the rest for tomorrow."
In the end she slept very soundly, after a few pages of Fanny Hill, and the activities inspired by it. She awakened to a morning of novelties and amusements in a town, even it was but Chelmsford, and not Cairo.
Tavington set off to meet with a horsedealer, and Jane, accompanied by Pullen, was left to examine the shops on the High Street. The two women found them well stocked and the merchants respectful. Jane had not had such an excursion since she left London, and now that she had a little money, she enjoyed it the more.
The bookshop had some slim volumes of stories and fables for children, charmingly illustrated with woodcuts. There was a short history of Rome. The shopkeeper, seeing where her interests lay, found for her an ABC better than her own.
Jane and her maid moved on to a draper's shop. Jane had not meant to order any new clothing until her return to London, but some remarkably fine black bombazine caught her eye.
Lady Cecily may die, and then I shall need mourning. William thinks it could happen at any time. "I shall need black ribbons, as well," she said, thinking out loud. Making up her mind, she ordered yard upon yard of the cloth.
"'Tis fine stuff, to be sure," Pullen protested softly, "but 'tis tempting Fate to order mourning before the time."
"Nonsense, Pullen," Jane insisted. "I shall be sorry if I pass this by, and at such a good price, too! I know you have little free time, but I would like you to make this up for me—quite plainly—a simple round gown. No doubt I shall need other things, when the time comes, but I don't like the idea of having to hide away until I have something to wear. Yes," she told the draper's assistant. "Wrap it up and put it in our coach. I should like to take it with me. Now Pullen, let's go back to that nice milliner's for the black ribbons!"
Time passed pleasantly, until William sought her out, flushed with his victory over the forces of evil, as personified by Mr. Hagglesworth the horse dealer.
"A sound gelding, and fairly young," he enthused to Jane. "Jeffreys needed a horse. He can't always be borrowing from the Home Farm. And I found two matched ponies that should please even his sharp eye. John talked about greys, but these blacks are handsome and strong. Scoggins thought they were very fine. One of them might do for a saddle pony for you, if you feel like riding. There are plenty of ladies' saddles in the stables, and Jeffreys would be glad to help you. The cart is all wrong. John would prefer---"
Jane let him ramble on, pleased that he had had such a good day, pleased that he was distracted from his great unhappiness, pleased that he had come, and wishing that he could stay longer. He will return before long, she thought. After all, Christmas will soon be upon us…
Notes: Jane quotes Antony and Cleopatra, the scene in which Cleopatra is informed of her lover's marriage to the virtuous sister of Octavius Caesar.
Pour faire un enfant—To make a baby.
Je vous comprends parfaitement—I understand you perfectly.
I would have liked to have made Rambler a Golden Retriever, but that breed did not exist until the 19th century. Irish Setters are one of its ancestors, however.
A Phaeton was a chic open carriage—not as large as a barouche, but lower, and very nice for an airing.
A round gown was a gown that was not split up the front, showing the petticoat.
Thank you, all my reviewers.
Next—Chapter 47: Debts Unforgiven