Chapter 60: Of Funerals and Other Family Gatherings
Possibly she should be disappointed in herself. Yes, Jane supposed, it was wrong to care so little about Lady Cecily's death. The excuse that she had been ill, and that this must be a blessed release for her was just that—an excuse. Jane was keenly aware that if she had been fond of Lady Cecily, if her mother-in-law had made the slightest attempt at befriending her, then Jane would have been feeling very differently as she waited at Wargrave for the funeral party.
It was disgraceful, indeed, but Wednesday through Friday morning was a very merry time. She and Harriet were in and out of each other's houses, cementing a friendship that promised to be one of the best and happiest of Jane's life. Harriet thought so much like Jane herself—her interests were similar, and she found humor in the same things. Jane had never had a woman friend like her. She had been close to some of her female relations in South Carolina, and of course loved Letty deeply, but those were bonds of blood. Jane had never imagined how delightful a friend could be whom she could choose for herself.
Ash was happier, too: now beginning to believe Jane's promises that he would never be sent away among strangers again. He was so little that she was surprised at how strongly the upheaval of the past few months had affected him. She had always heard that children could adapt to anything. Guiltily, she remembered that Biddy had shaken her head at that, and remarked that what children liked was things to be the same: meals at the same time, bedtime at the same time, familiar people about them when they ought to be.
So she kept another promise, and brought him with her to call on Moll at Ironsides Cottage late Thursday afternoon. Tom Young had come to the Hall on Thursday morning, to help prepare for guests, and Moll would be back in the nursery on Friday. Nonetheless, Moll had wanted Jane to see her cottage "with all the things laid out."
Taking Ash by the hand, Jane walked the short distance to the pretty thatched cottage, very conscious of her pistol in her pocket. She had promised herself never to be without it again. Today, she had not only herself to think of , but Ash to protect. The little boy toddled along slowly, but refused her offer to carry him. Had the Colonel been there, Jane knew, he might have been willing. Ash seemed to like William: and William, for all his complaints about Ash's tantrums, was very kind to her brother.
Perhaps Ash had needed a father. However proud Papa had been of his son, he had never appeared in the nursery, to Jane's knowledge, and had never asked that Ash be brought down for a visit. Jane wondered if her brother had known their father at all. Had he been older, she might have asked, but Ash was too little for such conversations. She wondered what he would remember of these strange events, when he grew up.
Jane's own earliest memory was of a children's party for her cousin Polly Middleton, and how struck she had been by the beauty of the little cakes that had been served them: heart-shaped cakes sprinkled with colored sugar. Polly had worn a little yellow gown embroidered with butterflies that Jane had gawked at in wonder and delight. She could not have been more than three, but Jane could picture it to this day, and recall her first acquaintance with pretty things. It was always coupled with a certain melancholy, for Polly had died young, struck down by a fever before she turned fifteen.
"Here we are, Ash!" she said. "This is Moll's new house. Isn't it pretty?"
Ash liked it, after a critical look. He trotted ahead of her, and grinned back, getting ready to knock with both hands as hard as he could. Before he could, the door opened inward, and Moll bent down to sweep him off his feet and give him a kiss.
"Well! Look who's here! Mr. Ashbury Rutledge, come to call! You come right on in, sir! Glad to see you, Mrs. Tavington! Seems like I couldn't wait 'til you were here! Come in! Come in! Sit yourself down by the fire, and I'll bring you a cup of tea!"
Rambler, lazing before the kitchen hearth, got up to give them a friendly greeting. Ash put his arms around the shaggy neck and giggled while his face was thoroughly licked. He clung to Rambler's collar as the dog followed the two women wherever they went. Jane admired the big, clean kitchen and the tiny parlor, and accepted tea in one of Moll's prized new cups gratefully. Moll gave Ash a Carolina-style biscuit, baked in the little oven at the side of the kitchen hearth, slathered with some bottled rose-hip preserves she had bought in London.
Ash munched and shared some with Rambler, and then wanted to get into everything, and so they kept an eye on him as they walked all over the cottage. Jane sighed to herself, with each bit of evidence that Moll was to some degree now her own mistress. It was for the best, of course. There was a cradle in one of the little upstairs rooms, and Moll was piecing a tiny quilt for it. The baby who would live here in Ironsides Cottage would inevitably pull Moll further away from Jane, but Jane hoped the child would be healthy and strong and a joy to his mother and father.
She briefly pictured his happy life here: loving parents; a few years at the village school; perhaps an apprenticeship in Chelmsford (Jane could picture Moll's son as a master blacksmith or wheelwright); or perhaps going into service at one of the family's houses in town. If he were as handsome as his father, he would be much in demand as a footman. Perhaps he might even be trained as a gentleman's valet. That sounded odd to her, and she then imagined him staying at Wargrave, perhaps becoming head gamekeeper. It would be a fine thing if Moll could pass on her woodcraft and marksmanship to her child. These pleasant thoughts filled her mind as she and Ash walked home later.
While the servants finished making all the beds and seeing that there was enough to feed the coming mourners, Jane spent a quiet evening. She dined alone, stuffed pigeon on toast on a tray in front of the fire in her room. She went upstairs and helped with the children until they were all safely tucked in their beds. An early night seemed wise, since this was the calm before the storm tomorrow.
It was very uncertain when the family would arrive, so Young had some boys posted to bring him word of the funeral cortege as soon as it was in sight. Jane bustled about, seeing to the last details, greeting Moll happily when she walked over from her cottage. The time passed quickly, and at two in the afternoon she was very startled to be told that a visitor had arrived. Amazed that they could have arrived so quickly, she went down and found a very dirty and rumpled woman, whom she would not have recognized as a lady, save for the name by which Young announced her.
"Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe," Young proclaimed, a little doubtfully.
It took Jane a moment to decipher who this might be. Ah, yes. This was Lord Colchester's younger daughter, arrived from the north. . Neither of the two ladies had ever met, but Jane had heard the name, and greeted the women kindly for her father's sake. She showed her to a room on the second floor, where she could change into clothing unstained by travel, and invited her to join Jane for refreshments downstairs.
Knowing Lady Trumfleet, she was taken aback by Lady Sarah. She had been expecting the same sort of handsome, supercilious fine lady. Instead, Lady Sarah was a small, thin, energetic woman, shorter than Jane, with a smudged face and out-of-date clothes very much the worse from her rapid journey. She might have been younger in years than her sister, but looked much older, with a weather-beaten look and unfashionably brown skin. Evidently she spent long hours out of doors. Though she did not have her father's big bones, she curiously had his big voice, very incongruous in such a small woman, and she heartily declared herself very obliged to Mrs. Tavington for receiving her at Wargrave.
"Haven't been here in forever," Lady Sarah boomed. "Always liked it. How was the huntin'?"
"Lord Colchester hosted a hunt that went very well. The gentlemen did more shooting, however. The game was wonderfully plentiful."
"I'm glad to hear it! How is Will? I hope he hasn't lost his looks! Word was that he got himself sliced up in America!"
"He is very well. He was indeed badly wounded, but he has a very strong constitution, and has completely recovered. He is very happy to back in England, of course."
"Do you like it, Mrs. Tavington? I mean, is it to your taste?" She gave a self-deprecating shrug, and asked, "I mean to say, do you hunt, or are you all for gossip and accomplishments, like my sister Anne?"
Unsure how much she should say, Jane temporized. "I did not hunt with Lord Colchester's party, as there was no time to find a mount for me. I do ride—but I had not ridden in some time. I hope to improve in the warmer weather. As to the other, I confess I am not much for gossip, but I am very fond of music and enjoy playing."
"Well," Lady Sarah answered, determined to make the best of it. "I'm glad you're willin' to ride. Anne goes out for an hour or so and then lollops on home and eats cake. Exercise is as good for a woman as it is for a man!"
"I am sure you are right," Jane agreed.
Lady Sarah, she found, could be entertained by a tour of Wargrave, and a discussion of the recent renovations. She shook her head over the sorry state of the stables and carriage house, and advised Jane as to how to proceed there. Jane tried to engage her in conversation about the Bilsthorpe's little girl. Lady Sarah told her absently that the girl's name was Emma, and that she was six years old and had a good seat on her pony—and then broke off, for they took a brief walk into the dormant gardens.
Jane discovered her companion's grand passion was not for motherhood, but for gardening. Once started, Lady Sarah was very difficult to stop. After a dissertation on roses, and another on why flowers of scarlet and yellow look demonic together in an English garden, Jane had to plead cold feet in order to persuade Lady Sarah back into the house.
"I'm glad you like it here." Lady Sarah confided to the estate in general. "I love England myself. Not London, of course—who could? I love the country. Bilsthorpe and I have the prettiest place. He couldn't get away, but I couldn't let Father be alone right now. He and Aunt Cecily had their differences, but he can't help but feel it, now that she's gone."
Jane looked at her companion approvingly. She was much more appealing than her sister, despite the unfashionable clothes and the traces of dirt under her fingernails. Jane let Lady Sarah go on about her horses and her rhododendrons, and the time passed not unpleasantly.
There was a shout and a whistle a little after half-past four. The message passed quickly up to the Hall, and Jane, who had been dressed for the occasion since noon, set out for the church with Lady Sarah, at the head of a little company of servants and retainers who could be spared from preparing the Hall to attend the funeral.
There were those who held that women ought not to attend funerals. Jane was aware that in certain circles it was not the done thing: a lady should instead stay at home, grieving in private. Jane wondered if the fashion had come about because women could sometimes not get their elaborate mourning costumes finished by the time a burial became imperative. At any rate, it was clear that Lady Cecily's daughters wished to attend their mother's funeral. If they so wished, then Jane would come too and lend her support.
Bordon was prepared for the funeral party, and it had been determined to have the ceremony as soon as they arrived, while there was still light. The villagers of Wargrave Cross, and also many from Larrowhead and High Wargrave turned out to see Lady Cecily interred beside her late husband. Somerville, the new steward, and Strakes the schoolmaster were both present, as well. When Penelope stumbled over the threshold of the church, a lean black-clad arm shot out and righted her before she could fall.
"Thank you, Mr. Strakes," Penelope whispered. The schoolmaster nodded without speaking, his face settling back into its usual grim lines.
Jane was glad she was there, for her sisters-in-law were overcome with grief, and tears glistened on the heavy mourning veils covering their faces. She sat between William and Caroline, and listened to the soft sobbing, feeling very sad and uncomfortable. Both John and Lord Colchester rose and gave eulogies. John's was short and serious, and he spoke of Lady Cecily's great devotion to her family. Jane knew that he had long ago ceased to love or respect his mother, but it was proper that her eldest son speak at the funeral, and John did not wish to hurt or scandalize the rest of his family.
Lord Colchester rambled, very affectionately, his speech often broken by long pauses, during which he sought to collect himself. His children sat together. Lady Trumfleet looked very bored, but the others behaved decently, Jane was glad to see.
The service itself was not long, but before it was all over, the candles were lit, and the lanterns too, which many of the congregation had brought with them. The men of the family, and the sexton and his helpers, carried the coffin down into the deep shadows of the crypt. The opened tomb was filled, and resealed, and Lady Cecily and her once beloved Sir Jack were again united.
The good people who had come bowed and bobbed, and touched their forelocks very dutifully, though none cared a pin for the old lady, whom none of them had seen in over a decade. Lady Cecily had not endeared herself to the village folk during her residences. It was felt that respect was due to the Master and his family, however, and the turnout was quite large.
The family climbed back into their carriages, to make the short trip up to the Hall. There was a dinner ready, and Jane led them all inside, concerned for their long journey in the cold, in such low spirits. Bordon was asked to join them, and while he wondered if the family really would not rather keep to themselves, Jane convinced him that his presence would be comforting to Mrs. Protheroe and the Misses Tavington. As Jane suspected he would, Sir John pressed his uncle and the rest of the mourners to stay the night at Wargrave, not wanting them to chance the rough roads in the dark. There was not even a moon up yet to light their way.
"Better to stay. There is plenty of room for you all. Mrs. Tavington has seen to it herself."
Lord Colchester seemed willing, and John whispered to Jane that his uncle was to have the Great Chamber.
"I can make do with my old room on the second floor—the little one next to the nursery."
"Oh, dear. That room is still not quite—"
"It's all right. I can make shift well enough. Uncle Colchester should have every attention."
There were certainly beds for everyone, though not necessarily the beds they would have wished. Jane suspected that Lady Trumfleet would be vexed to have to share a bed with her husband, but the Tapestry Room was very fine; and if the Lady wished to banish her husband to the day bed in the nearby dressing room, that was between them.
The Protheroes, she knew, were happy to share a bed. About the Sattersbys she had no idea. She assigned them the Print Room, as it was one of the best in the house, and it was not next door to her own. The rest of the party was on the second floor. Caroline and Penelope grew quite sentimental over sleeping in the rooms that had always been theirs. They too were not perfectly restored, but they were adequate for ladies who would not take delight in finding fault.
The servants were probably not quite so well satisfied, but there was room. The male servants could use the quarters vacated by the roofers, and another room had been prepared for the influx of ladies' maids.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Lord Colchester was very pleased with Lady Sarah, and as he had not seen her in months, they chatted together, telling one another all their news. John exerted himself as host, and Protheroe and Bordon between them did much to get the Tavington sisters through the meal without breaking down. Jane suspected it was they who did not allow the gentlemen to sit long over their wine. Instead, the men came into the drawing room to join the ladies very soon.
Music was unthinkable at such a time, but Lord Colchester expressed a wish to see "that fine little fellow of yours, Mrs. Tavington. I heard that Lucy's son is here, too. Children are the best comfort when one is low. They are here, are they not?"
"Of course, my lord. They are in the nursery along with my two brothers, who arrived from America last month."
"Really? How old are they? Bring them down, too, then! Bring them all down! I should like to meet the lads! Sarah, why didn't you bring my little Emma?"
"She had a cold, Father. It would have been too hard on her. I hardly stopped for a bite on the road—only long enough to change horses. You should come up to the Abbey and spend a month or two."
Jane sent for the children, and settled down near her husband and Lord Colchester. There was more chat about the family, and Trumfleet persuaded Sir John that a quiet game of cards would not be disrespectful. Lady Trumfleet was eager for any sort of diversion on such a dreary occasion, and called her brother Sattersby to join them. A card table was set up for them at the end of the big room.
Protheroe and Bordon talked quietly together. Lucy, Caroline, and Penelope urged Lady Sattersby and Lady Sarah to join them, and Lucy and Kitty discussed their health and their hopes. Lord Colchester wanted to know more about Jane's brothers.
"Such little fellows! The younger not a year old, you say! And to undertake the voyage across the Atlantic! We live in desperate times. Ah! There they are!"
Lucy rose to bring Ned over to meet his great-uncle. The little boy's wide eyes showed that he did not quite know what to make of this very big, booming stranger, but he bowed shyly and then was persuaded to sit by Lord Colchester and watch the other boys being introduced.
"Ash, come here and meet the Earl of Colchester. Make your little bow, Ash. Very nice. My lord, this is my brother, Ashbury Rutledge."
Ash was shy as Ned at such a crowd, but to Jane's surprise took to Lord Colchester quite readily. He was on the old man's knee and talking about "Wambler" almost at once. The story was told of Rambler's adventures. Moll was greeted as an old friend, and congratulated her on her marriage. Lord Colchester took William Francis from her and sat the baby on his other knee.
"Growing into a lad already! And who is this young gentleman?"
He smiled broadly at little Thomas, whom Jane had taken from the other maid's arms. Thomas was in a good mood, and smiled back. Lord Colchester was not a naturally suspicious man, or a man who examined the world with a analytical eye. He was, however, a man who loved his family, and was intensely observant of resemblances. He took a second look at little Thomas. His eyes widened, and he glanced at his nephew William with a hint of reproach. Tavington met his uncle's look with some embarrassment. He grimaced, and then attempted an uneasy smile. Jane, however, saved him the necessity of speaking.
"My brother, Thomas Rutledge. He is our little William's senior by three months. He is very dear to me."
Jane gave Lord Colchester a calm, candid gaze that told him that she knew everything. The old man understood, and longed to hear the entire story. That would have to told in private, but he was determined to know everything. Clearly this was William's natural child, but Mrs. Tavington had been so good as to accept him into the family. Very kind of her. His liking for Jane increased the more.
"Such a handsome rascal! You'll be put through your paces, Mrs. Tavington, caring for all these lads!"
He patted Ash, who slid off his knee and tried to look through Tavington's pockets. "At least they won't be lonely! Playmates and companions always at hand! Did I ever tell you about the time Cis and I took it into our heads to ride to Scotland? She was eight and I was seven, and we nearly—"
He talked a little longer, telling of their childhood escapades. Ned was warming to him, liking to hear about the ponies, and clambered onto his great-uncle's knee in Ash's place. Ash was trying to get Tavington's attention. Tavington did not quite understand the question, and lifted the little boy to sit beside him.
"What did you say, Ash?"
In a very small voice, Ash asked again, "Izzat your Papa?"
Lord Colchester chuckled, amused and pleased.
Tavington answered, "No, Ash. The Earl is my uncle. He is the brother of my mother."
"Did your Muvver die?"
"Yes, Ash. My mother died and we had her funeral today to say goodbye to her."
Ash stood up on the sofa and gave Tavington a light kiss on the cheek. "I'm sowwy your Muvver died, Kernah."
Lord Colchester's eyes grew moist again, "Kind-hearted little man," he muttered.
"Thank you, Ash," Tavington told him. "I appreciate your sentiments." He could see that this was incomprehensible, so he added, "You're a good boy."
Lucy smiled, and whispered to Jane that is was time to take the children to bed.
"I shall take them," Jane whispered back. "Why don't you stay with the party? Your sisters seem calmer with you there."
"Thank you. I shall give Ned a kiss—and then they should be off. Say goodnight to the Earl, children."
"G'night, Mr. Earl."
"Goodnight, Mr. Earl."
"No, Ned," Lucy corrected softly, "He is your uncle."
"Goodnight, Uncle Earl."
The Earl laughed heartily, and shook each tiny hand in his own huge paw. There was a rustle of amusement throughout the room. The babies were gathered up by the servants, and Jane gave a hand each to Ned and Ash. The Tavington ladies wanted to kiss the boys goodnight, and were permitted the liberty without much fuss. As she left the room, Jane overheard Kitty compliments on the "pretty little boys."
With Jane's departure, the party began to break up somewhat. The card game ended, and some of the party were ready to retire for the night, weary with grief and the rigors of a long carriage ride. Bordon spoke briefly with Lady Cecily's daughters, and they thanked him for his kind attentions. He bowed his goodnights to the party, and Tavington walked him to the door, feeling grateful for his calm manner himself.
Lords Trumfleet and Sattersby were falling asleep in their chairs. Lady Trumfleet was dozing as well, snoring daintily, much to everyone's amusement. Lady Sarah took pity on her sister, and gave her a shake.
"Anne! Go to bed!"
"Wh—at?" Lady Trumfleet saw them all looking at her. "I must have fallen asleep—"
Her sister attempted to lower her voice to a whisper. "Yes, and you were snoring! Go to bed before everyone bursts out laughing!"
Injured pride made the older sister waspish. "I shall. I only wanted to remind my father to give you your bequest. Papa, did you remember to give Sarah the brooch Lady Cecily intended for her in her will? You are to have the amber and pearl brooch, Sarah. Do you remember?"
She saw that Lucy could hear and raised her voice a little more. "It is the one my aunt wore a great deal when we were children. Do you remember how Cousin Lucy liked it? Well, you are to have it. Give it to her directly, Father. I long to see it again. It is so charming."
Lord Colchester pulled the box from his pocket with a long-suffering air. "Here, my dear," he said in a low voice, for him. "Don't make a fuss over it. Cis was hard on Lucy in the will, and didn't leave her anything."
Her mouth open, Lady Sarah took the box, having known nothing about the matter. "Well—I—that's very nice, but—"
Lady Trumfleet could not be silenced. "Kitty was left her ruby ring, and I received her black pearls. I would have put them on directly, but they might need restringing. I have them here. Don't you want to see them? Our aunt was so good to remember us, but then, she was always generous to the deserving—"
"That's enough!" Caroline jumped to her feet and stalked over to her cousin. "You are being perfectly odious, Anne. Odious and ill-mannered to gloat over your booty! How dare you hurt Lucy, who never harmed you? Take your pearls and may they choke you!"
The rest of the gentlemen were awakened by Caroline's angry reproaches.
Lord Trumfleet grinned to himself, and then rose in the appalled hush to retrieve his wife. "Anne, you must be exhausted. Perhaps you should retire. Come along, Madam. It is fatigue that makes you go on so."
"Yes—fatigue," mumbled Lord Colchester, rather dazed at the scene.
Anne could not believe she had been so rebuked, but Trumfleet was practically pushing her out of the room. Sir John put an arm around Caroline, and ushered her over to the sofa. Lucy was crying on Protheroe's shoulder, and he said something to the effect that they would be off to bed themselves, soon.
Lord Sattersby remarked sourly under his breath, "But not so soon as to meet Anne on the stairs. What a damned bitch she is, anyway."
Kitty wanted only to be invisible, hating the mention of that opulent ring. Caroline apologized to Lord Colchester.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper, Uncle. It just seemed so unkind—"
"Think nothing of it, my dear," said the Earl, trying to pretend nothing had happened. "We're all tired and cross. Funerals are always hard on the nerves. We'll all be better for a good night's sleep. Come here, Lucy, my dear. Don't you mind Anne. She's a bit silly about jewelry, poor thing. Always has been. Protheroe, your servant, sir. Take good care of my niece. I hope to see more of you, and that nice little lad of yours too. Can't wait to see how he shapes up a-horseback."
Lucy and Protheroe left the room, accompanied by Lady Sarah, who said she needed a good night's sleep, too. Caroline and Penelope bade everyone goodnight, and their Uncle told Caroline again not to worry. In fact, while he hated confrontations as much as his nephew Sir John, he had thought Anne needed a set-down for some time, and was very glad that he had not had to do it himself.
"It's only ten o'clock," Trumfleet yawned. "Ridiculous to go to bed at such an hour. Couldn't we have another hand of whist?"
"I'd like that, actually," Sattersby agreed, "but Kitty should go to bed."
"Yes," declared Lord Colchester, very solicitously. "Kitty, dear, you must have your rest."
Unable to contradict such authorities, Kitty rose and said her goodnights. She tried to catch Tavington's eye, but he was lost in thought, wondering what to do for Lucy. Frustrated, she left the room.
"Are you in, Tavington?" Trumfleet called.
"Not I, unless Uncle does not wish to play. What do you prefer, sir?"
Lord Colchester was unsure, until it seemed that dear Will really was inclined to go to bed. That settled, he sat down with his nephew, his son, and his son-in-law, and Tavington left the four of them to their game. Sattersby glanced after him, feeling that he should keep an eye on his cousin, but there was no escape from the card table.
"One hand only. Kitty and I will need to make an early start in the morning," he remarked casually, hoping that a brief game would give his wife no time for serious indiscretion.
-----
Tavington had not expected the ambush. Kitty called out softly to him as he walked by her room.
"Tavington!"
He stopped, rather horrified. Anne was in the room across the hall, Lucy and Edward only a few yards further. Jane was beyond them. Any one of them might suddenly pop out and surprise them. The thought of Jane seeing him in a tete-a-tete with Kitty froze his blood. He did not want to quarrel with Jane about anything, and certainly not over a woman who no longer charmed him. He bowed, and made to pass.
"Lady Sattersby. Good night to you."
"Wait!" she pleaded, clutching at his sleeve. "I've been dying to talk with you. It's been so long. I haven't seen or heard from you since October. Those few moments at the ball were nothing. And you did not ask me to dance. How could you be so cruel?"
"Cruel, Madam?" Tavington wanted only to be rid of her, but he did not want a scorned woman shouting the house down. "With your husband on the watch, it would be cruel to pay you attentions that could only lead to unhappiness for you. I know of no other way to protect you from his anger than by showing perfect indifference."
"I knew it!" she cried. "I knew you were only ignoring me because of Bill. He is so jealous! But now—with the baby—"
"May I presume to wish you joy?" Tavington said smoothly, with a bland smile. "I am certain you will be an excellent mother, and I trust your child bring you the greatest happiness."
"How good of you to think of it! You are such a kind parent yourself—quite devoted. Oh, I wish—I wish—Tavington, I was so wretched when I lost—dare I speak of it?" She whispered, "I lost the other child--the child of my heart! It pains me whenever I think of it—"
"Then you must not!" Tavington urged her. "It profits nothing to dwell on the past. The child you are now carrying binds you to the future and to happiness, and to the esteem of your husband and father-in-law. It is for the best. I could never have forgiven myself, if I had been the cause of your ruin."
"Oh, Tavington!"
Instantly she was in his arms, kissing him passionately. Tavington felt a moment of panic, and only just refrained from thrusting her away. Instead, he allowed her to kiss him, but after a short and pleasant interlude, he broke the kiss, and gave her what he hoped was a kind smile.
"A sweet farewell. That must be the last."
"Oh, Tavington! How can I bear it?"
"You must bear it for your child's sake." He smiled again, waiting for the perfect moment to let go of her hands and escape. She was not finished with him, however.
"Have you ever thought—of running away?" she breathed.
Tavington frowned. It was one thing to be a lost love. This, however, was a line of thought he could not countenance.
"Run away? Never!"
"But we could! We could run away to the Continent, and live for love, always!"
"Only cowards run away, Kitty. I am a soldier. I have never run, and I never will."
"Not even for me?"
He smiled again, trying to get his hands away, but she was clinging like a limpet. "Not even for you, Madam. 'I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.'"
"That is so beautiful. What a pity we did not meet before. Bill is so cold! He does not understand me, Tavington! And you—I pity you with all my heart!"
Tavington's smile froze. "Pity me, Madam?"
"Oh, yes! It must be so difficult for you. Mrs. Tavington may be a good mother and housekeeper, but she is so prosaic, so humdrum, so utterly without passion! Whereas I—"
Tavington dropped Kitty's hands. "Do not presume to criticize Mrs. Tavington. She risked her life to save mine. She has endured adventures and hardships you cannot imagine. I owe my life and fortune to her. I will never leave her. To do so would be vile and despicable. Surely you must see that a man who left her would be unworthy of your own trust."
Kitty plainly did not see it, and her beautiful eyes filled with tears. Tavington felt he had hazarded enough trying to talk to her, and simply took her hand and kissed it.
"Honor binds us both. I truly wish you happy, always." Feeling like the most horrible hypocrite, he turned on his heel, and made his escape.
Doggery was not waiting for him, since Tavington had previously told him not to sit up. The bedcurtains were drawn, and the room was lit only by the fire and single candle. Tavington threw off his clothes and climbed gratefully into bed, trying to be quiet. He hoped he was not disappointing Jane, but in fact the days of little sleep and coach travel had taken its toll, and he longed for the simple comfort of sleep beside her in that broad bed. He curled up behind her and draped an arm over her, but sleep did not come. His body was exhausted, but his mind was racing with the changes a few days had wrought. Jane turned on her side, and Tavington wondered if she might be awake enough for conversation.
"Jane?"
"Ummmm?"
"Thank you for putting up with my family. I know it cannot be easy. It is not easy for me. There was a bit of a contretemps between Anne and Caroline. I'll tell you about it in the morning."
"Oh—really? Most of them are quite all right. I enjoyed talking with Lady Sarah. She is something of an original. Besides, I love your sisters, and Lord Colchester is a very good man. He is so kind to the children."
"Yes. He's such a good old fellow. It makes me happy, somehow, knowing he's under the same roof, even for a night."
He began to relax, but wanted to tell Jane more of the news in the privacy of their bed.
"Mamma had a bit of money left. I was very surprised, all things considered. She left a pension to her maid, and a few other odd bequests, but after everything is paid, there will be over three thousand pounds left, which goes to me."
"Hmm?" Jane woke a little. "That is good news. What do you want to do with it?"
"I hadn't thought about it. Perhaps I should settle it on you."
Jane woke up a little more. "Let's talk about this tomorrow morning. I'd really rather you settled it on William Francis. Three thousand pounds! That is very fine. Were it well invested, it might be near to ten thousand by the time he is of age. Let me think about it a little more. Very good news. I am concerned about your sisters. They are taking your mother's death very hard."
"I don't know why. It should be a great relief to them, but they seem beset by guilt, each in a different way. We must keep them occupied for these few days."
"Yes, indeed, but I'm so tired, William. Don't you want to sleep?"
"I suppose so. I had to tell you about the money. I never thought I'd inherit a penny from my family. It's not much, I know, but it's something."
"Yes. It's wonderful," she mumbled. "Shut your eyes and sleep now, or I shall be forced to use desperate measures on you."
"I just thought you should know—"
"Shhh."
-----
Breakfast seemed to last the entire morning. People were in and out of the dining room. True to his word, Lord Sattersby arranged to leave early and return to London. Jane saw the Sattersbys off with kind words and a feeling of deep relief. William had been very good about not even speaking to the lady. Tavington's relief was even greater.
Lord Colchester did not want to desert them, and decided to stay a little longer. Since they were returning to London on Monday, he would stay with them until that morning, and then go to Colneford. Lady Sarah would travel with him. She was still trying to persuade him to accompany her north for a long visit. Jane was glad of their company, since she was expecting an onslaught of sympathy calls in the afternoon. With so much of the family present, she would not have to deal with them single-handed.
The Earl agreed to be available for visitors in the afternoon, but could not be distracted from his main purpose that morning, which was to drag Tavington in some place fairly private and get the complete details as to who little Thomas actually was. If he were a blood relative, as it appeared, Lord Colchester wanted to know exactly how the child was related to him.
"He's your son, isn't he?"
Tavington knew it would be foolish to lie. "Yes, he is."
"Not that I wouldn't like the lad for his own sake—fine little fellow as he is! But, really, Will my boy, when it is a question of one's own flesh and blood—"
"Yes—yes—Uncle, I understand you. I'll tell you everything."
Tavington did not intend to really tell his uncle everything, but he would tell him enough of the truth to satisfy one so devoted to family. They were in the sunlit end of the library, far from eavesdroppers.
"The mother of Ash and Thomas was the young wife of Jane's father. Ashbury Rutledge was a rather appalling man. I know little of the facts of his marriage to Jane's mother, as she died bearing Jane. I do know he was quite unkind to Letty's mother, as he was to both of his daughters." There, that was the truth, if not quite the whole truth. "When Ash was born, the father disinherited his daughters, which was of no great moment for Jane, since she inherited her mother's fortune. This young wife, Selina, is a cousin of Jane's, so Thomas is indeed her blood relation, if not her brother. I confess I had a brief connection with Mrs. Rutledge when I was first billeted at their plantation house. She was, I suppose, unhappy. These things happen."
His uncle was frowning at him, and Tavington shrugged. "I broke it off once Jane and I became engaged, but the damage was done. I don't think Rutledge ever suspected anything. It seems best to let sleeping dogs lie."
"I think your Jane is a very generous and dutiful wife to accept her husband's bastard in her own nursery! I hope you are cognizant of your good fortune."
"Indeed I am, Uncle. I—"
"And I hope you never put her good nature to such a test again! Of course, what could the girl do? The poor little fellow was here. It's not as if she was given a choice. You are very, very lucky, William. Many women would have insisted the boy be raised under another name, out in some distant cottage in another part of the kingdom—"
"I assure you, Uncle, I have expressed my profound thanks to Jane. She loves children, and has accepted Thomas as a part of our family. I still think passing him off as Ash's brother is for the best—"
"We'll see," interrupted his uncle, rather skeptically. "If the boy continues to resemble you as much as he does now, no one is likely to be fooled. And what about the lad? As he grows older he's bound to hear gossip and speculation. He's bound to wonder every time he looks in a mirror. I think you should tell him, when he's old enough to understand why you've been discreet about it."
It was quite cold, and the gentlemen went out only briefly for a walk to the stables to discuss their needed improvements. Lady Sarah went with them, careless of the hems of her habit. Lady Trumfleet did not appear until after eleven. Jane had seen her husband go out with the other men after nine. Trumfleet appeared contented to the point of smugness. Jane wondered how often he shared his lady's bed.
Protheroe felt he must return to London immediately, but Lucy would stay and return with her sisters on Monday. She came to Jane later in the morning wanting a private word.
"Jane—look!"
She showed Jane a lacquered jewelry box. Inside was a large brooch of amber and pearls, made in the shape of a grapevine. The pearls were arranged as bunches of grapes. The leaves were gold and green amber. The whole was set in pure and massy gold. It was a very unusual and artistic piece of jewelry, and Jane exclaimed over it in admiration.
"Yes, it's gorgeous," Lucy agreed. "And I love it. Sarah slipped it to me this morning with such kind words. I did not mean to sulk and pout until I got my way. How can I possibly keep it? My mother expressly meant it for Sarah. I hate to bother Edward over something he must think trivial."
"Family jewelry is never trivial," Jane affirmed stoutly. "There is a whole world of memory and meaning in every piece. It was very kind of Lady Sarah. You must allow people to be kind. When you and your sisters divide your mother's jewelry, you could set something nice aside for her then."
"I suppose so. She told me that she couldn't possibly keep the brooch after the way Anne went on last night: she would never be able to wear it or even look at it without feeling like a—'pig,' she said. Yes—she really said 'pig.'"
Jane laughed. "I do see her point. How could she find any pleasure in being party to keeping it from you, unless she were as malicious as her sister, or—" Jane stopped herself from commenting on Lady Cecily. "You must keep it and enjoy it. It would look lovely with your golden gown. Lady Sarah seems very amiable."
"Yes—we've never had much in common, but she has a good heart. All my uncle's children are so different. Sattersby is not so bad, either, when you spend time with him. He was just so bullied by Anne when we were children, and of course he was always terribly jealous of Will."
"That I gathered. 'The grass is always greener.' I suppose Lord Sattersby has never considered how little he might have enjoyed campaigning in the Carolina swamps to earn his living."
Note: There does seem to have been a fashion in the eighteenth and early nineteenth century of funerals being attended only by men. For example, Queen Victoria's mother, the Duchess of Kent, was not permitted to attend her husband's funeral. Obviously this custom did not last long among the Victorians, who loved nothing more than a good, morbid funeral. I have not been able to determine what exactly was the rationale behind the exclusion of women, and imagine that, however it was phrased, it probably had some reason behind it that we would find bizarre. The problem of having elaborate mourning costumes ready in two or three days I find as good a reason as any.
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Next: Fortune's Fools