Chapter 68: An Earnest of Their Intentions

While Number Twelve, Mortimer Place was not a palace, it was a very large house. A fortunate happenstance, since at the moment it was home to a great many people. Four grown siblings always take up considerable space; but when one of the siblings has a wife and children, and the other an affianced bride and child, and the sibling's wife has a sister and her companion and her household—well, that makes for a rather lively dinner table.

Letty was only just now coming down to meals. She had slept nearly two days, only waking when there was yet another cup of broth or bowl of milquetoast or dish of sweetened tea with bread and butter. Jane had never spent much time in Lady Cecily's apartments, and so the rooms did not really disturb her much. They were beautifully furnished, and with fresh hangings and bedclothes, recalled no more of her departed mother-in-law than any other large suite of rooms in Mayfair might. She had her little spinet moved into the bedroom, for music soothed Letty and gave her something pleasant to think about. Letty would hum along, or whisper her songs, still not able to sing full-voiced after her ordeal.

The little curtained alcove in the boudoir, which Lady Cecily had used to lounge in during the day, provided the Maupin sisters with sleeping quarters. They were strong young women, and were soon themselves, and eager to help Jane tend to Letty. Jane tried to remember everything she had learned from Biddy about the proper care of wounds. Letty's cuts were carefully washed with wine and bound in clean linen. Weakened as she was by loss of blood, they could not risk any of the wounds becoming infected. Despite the Tavington sisters' pleas, Jane could not be persuaded to call in Sir John Elliott or any other of the fraternity of prominent London physicians. It would frighten Letty too much, and she herself did not see any value in their opinion. Instead, she compromised by permitting the attendance of a well-known fashionable midwife, who examined Letty and pronounced that she could not see that child had taken any permanent harm. There had been no sign of a miscarriage, and thus the plump and comforting woman recommended rest and good food and perhaps a glass of claret in the evening.

Tavington had been vexed, when Jane had taken him aside and broke the news to him that Letty's return involved the addition to their household of Harmonia James. He thought the girl irritating—mostly because of the stories he had heard from his wife and sisters—and he was not pleased to have to give up his own room entirely to their unexpected guest. Jane thought it would be mean-spirited and unkind to relegate Miss James to a chamber in the servant's quarters at the top of the house. He did not object to sharing a room with Jane—in effect, he was already doing so. It rankled, though, that he no longer had a room that was his, and that he had had to tell Doggery to move out his clothes and toilet articles. They had not finished some of the renovations at the end of their hall, and Tavington decided that he must have a dressing room, at the very least—even if it were no bigger than a water closet.

While everyone was concerned for Lady Fanshawe, each resident still had his or her own concerns. Tavington had been working for months on his book of memoirs, and it was complete enough that he had shown it to their publisher friend Tregallon. "Tregallon wants the book ready in ten days," Tavington told Jane, looking very young and happy. "Do you think it possible?"

"I can write very, very fast," she assured him. "I can have the fair copy done in three days, but there are still a few passages to correct. I have marked them, and you must have a look at them directly."

She and William had worked hard on the Memoirs. It was not meant to be a heavy tome, but a thin, readable volume of anecdotes and reminiscences and tales of high adventure. The story of brave Corporal O'Lavery was there; the story of Moll fighting the rebels on the retreat from Camden was there. At the same time, Tavington had included the story of Tarleton's impersonation of William Washington and Parkhurst's exploits with their Cherokee scouts. Of course, Tavington had much to say about himself, writing at length about the charge at the Battle of Camden, his campaigns in the swamps—which were vividly described--and the horror of his wounds at the Cowpens.

It was a book that even ladies might read with interest, for he had included a very much edited and romanticized version of his first meeting with Jane and their courtship and elopement. Jane blushed as she read the draft of his description recounting her daring journey to the backcountry to nurse him. He had much to say about her hardships and dangers—and about with what good humor she endured them. Her dreadful attempt at squirrel stew, once one was in no danger of ever having to eat it again, somehow became amusing. He was forced to mention Letty, but by being no more specific than referring to her as "my wife's sister," he hoped to avoid gossip.

Tavington was extremely careful in his assessments of his superiors. Sir Henry Clinton and Cornwallis were treated distantly, but with respect.

"You see," Tavington told Jane, as they worked together in the library. "I don't really care much about them at all. Sir Henry's career is utterly destroyed already. He was good to me in the past, and I do not wish to seem ungrateful. Cornwallis—well--Cornwallis has managed, despite losing an army, to keep a great deal of influence with the King. I'm not sure he deserves it, but since I intend to stay in the army, I cannot risk making an enemy of him. Of course he'll spend the rest of his life explaining himself, but that is his misfortune, not mine. At this point, with the peace not yet settled, I simply want to talk about our loyal people and what they are facing if we desert them."

So there were more tales of camp life: how the provincial regiments were not so much composed of men, as of dispossessed families.

Before Jane began copying the final version, she and Tavington had a discussion about what to call the enemy.

"If there is to be peace, you cannot call them the 'enemy.' If they are to be given independence, you cannot really call them 'rebels.'"

"What am I to call them, then?" Tavington asked impatiently. "Not all of them were Carolinians—and some were North Carolinians, and some were South Carolinians, and I simply don't know what to call that lot from Delaware—"

"You must call them Americans, Will." Jane sat still, thinking it over, silenced by a sharp pang of homesickness. Quite vividly, she saw in her mind's eye the massive Exchange, the narrow streets of Charlestown, St. Michael's Church, The Rutledge House on Queen Street—now lost to her forever. She felt the air and space of her beloved room upstairs, and heard Biddy's footsteps treading the floors of long-leaf pine. For a moment, in the chill and rain of a London March, she could smell honeysuckle and mimosa carried on a hot breeze; the smell of cornbread and sugar-cured ham and molasses; voices talking and shouting and murmuring and singing in the slow, beloved Carolina drawl. Her pen lay dripping on the blotter, forgotten. She had not seen a rice field or a live oak bearded with moss in over half a year—and very likely she would never see them again. Tears burned her eyes. Only a few seconds had ticked away. She repeated, more softly. "Yes, they are all Americans, just as I am."

"Nonsense!" Tavington scoffed. "You're an Englishwoman by marriage now!" He looked at her more keenly. "Are you all right, Jane?"

She wiped her eyes, and laughed at herself. "Yes, quite all right. But you must call them Americans. And I am one by birth, and always will be. I was just wondering what Cousin Mary was doing now—at this very moment. I hope I hear from her soon. I have been counting the weeks."

"You cannot reasonably expect a letter to reach us until April, Jane. The very end of this month at the earliest. No doubt you are a little downhearted at the cold and dark."

"Yes, that is it, I suppose. We always had such lovely flowers in the garden at Cedar Hill. Camellias and bougainvillea, and of course delicious honeysuckle. I missed them just now."

"I shall order something from a nurseryman to cheer you. American, indeed! Your sister now sounds like she has lived in Mayfair all her days."

"Letty has less to feel nostalgia for than I, naturally. Does my accent trouble you?"

"No—it's very charming. It's hardly noticeable now, anyway. It's been fading for some time."

"Really!" Jane was conflicted: she had sometimes been ashamed of the sound of her own provincial voice; but losing her distinctive speech would be like losing part of herself. "I suppose it is inevitable. I've noticed that the way Ash speaks is changing, too."

Tavington laughed. "Yes! He's starting to make sense!"

-----

Despite the number of inhabitants—a growing number, since some of the servants from Fanshawe House had appeared on their doorstep, soliciting for work with "that sweet Lady Fanshawe"—their home was a comparative island of peace and security. Outside, the tempest of gossip swept through London.

"Is it true, then, that the new Lord Fanshawe and his lady are fled?" Penelope asked, when Sir John came home that afternoon. Rumors had reached them, but John was their most reliable source.

"Yes," he answered briefly, smiling as he sat down on the sofa beside Emily. "And that madman Malahyde with them. I suppose it was to be expected. Gold is a great lubricant when one is under arrest. The two of them escaped from custody, and de Vere's wife had already made arrangements. I suppose they did not want Malahyde left behind, blabbing the story to whole of London! A coach took them to Dover, from whence they departed on what their family and friends are describing as 'an extended tour of the Continent.' I'm not sure they would actually have been convicted of anything serious, but they knew public opinion was heavily against them, and decided to lie low. I have no idea how long they'll endure of company of Malahyde, but the lot of them are out of England for the time being."

"For the rest of their lives, I hope!" Jane remarked acidly.

John nodded agreeably. "It would probably be for the best. Fanshawe has that great fortune now, as well as his own money. He and his lady could take one of those palaces in Venice, say, and live royally! Luckily, the family lawyer is a sensible man, and Protheroe says he is giving no trouble about the Dowager Lady Fanshawe's jointure. He'll bring over the key to that house she inherited, and it will all be hers without a struggle."

"I am sorry for their children," Emily put in. "Poor little innocents! To lose their grandfather and their parents! Who will care for them?"

"The eldest is at Eton and the next oldest boy is being sent to join him there. The two younger lads will stay with a relation of their mother's."

"Not at Salton Park?" Caroline wondered.

"Well, not now, not until the matter of temporary guardianship is resolved. It might be that the lawyer will appoint a tutor to care for the boys there—or the estate may be let. It is all very unsettled right now, but it's not as if they are being put out in the street."

Harmonia, sitting at the instrument, turned red, and her shoulders slumped. Those horrid little boys—her nephews!--were going to be all right. They had houses and money and lawyers and parents—even if the parents were hundreds of miles away. At the moment, Harmonia had nothing but the possessions stowed away in an upstairs bedroom and a tenuous hold on the good will of Lady Fanshawe. The will had been read—Colonel Tavington and Mr. Protheroe had attended on Lady Fanshawe's behalf. It had been a complex, detailed document. Lord Fanshawe had been generous to all of his old friends and servants. The valet had been left a goodly pension to provide for his old age. Nor had Harmonia been forgotten. She had been acknowledged as Lord Fanshawe's natural daughter, and bequeathed five thousand pounds. Not a great sum, but not a pittance, either. It was the way it had been left that grieved her.

Harmonia was to have five thousand pounds on the day of her marriage to any man approved by Lord Fanshawe or by her legal guardian. To her horror, she discovered that her new guardian was her half-brother, the new Lord Fanshawe, now in exile. Given the level of rancour between the parties, it was impossible that he would approve any suitor who would present himself. If she had not married by her twenty-first birthday, the money would revert to her control at that time, but that seemed to Harmonia an event as distant as the Second Coming. Four years! She had only a little over fifteen pounds-- money that Mr. Protheroe had retrieved for her--until then. If she married without her guardian's consent before her twenty-first birthday, she had better make certain her bridegroom was disgustingly rich, for the five thousand pounds would be lost to her, and go into the coffers of Lord Fanshawe instead.

The funeral would be held at the church in St. James Square in two days time. Obviously, there was no possibility that Lady Fanshawe could attend, even if it had been proper. Colonel Tavington and Sir John would go, and bring back what scraps of gossip men were capable of gleaning. Harmonia's mourning clothes had just arrived today, and the girl put them on with a sense of despair. Mrs. Tavington had gone ahead and ordered them from a capable seamstress she knew. It was assumed that Lady Fanshawe would pay for them. Harmonia had never felt her dependent and penniless condition more than at that moment. She let Mrs. Tavington choose what she would. Mourning clothes were hideous, anyway. At least she would have clothes would that allow her to be seen by guests and leave the house with propriety. Two gowns of black bombazine, a black broadcloth visiting habit, a black woolen cloak, a black hat, two pairs black kidskin gloves, plain black shoes and stockings: such would be her wardrobe for at least the next six months, and very likely longer. Gone were the dreams of her ball—her very own ball, where she would be in white, dancing with the noblest in the land! Tears of self-pity welled in her eyes, and she reached for her pocket-handkerchief again. She must make herself agreeable to those willing to take her in. It was that, or four years of penury, possibly working as a governess or companion or a teacher in a school—if she could get a position. No—she would do nothing that would cause her to lose her prospect of a home with Lady Fanshawe!

The room upstairs she had been given was nothing compared to her lovely primrose chamber at Fanshawe House. It was smaller, and the windows looked down at the back of the house over the stables and carriage house, and then further on over a maze of dirty alleys and byways. The fireplace was pretty, though, in an old fashioned way, all lined with blue and white Delft tiles. The bed was comfortable. It was nother room, though, and she felt it keenly. The only consolation was that it was Colonel Tavington's room, and the comfortable bed had the added spice of having been slept in by that handsome and heroic man. He had saved Lady Fanshawe, just as she had knew he would. He did not seem to think much of Harmonia, though, which made her a little sad.

-----

John Tavington was not as easily offended as his brother. Perhaps that is why he was not instantly indignant when, as he left the church following Lord Fanshawe's funeral, a stranger slammed into him, shoulder against shoulder, nearly knocking him down the steps.

"John!" Tavington called, catching his brother by his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Nothing, dear fellow, nothing! Fellow gave me a good knock---over there—no, I don't see him. Must have been in a hurry. Stay—what is this?" A piece of parchment was thrust carelessly into a pocket of his greatcoat. John pulled it out, and found it was a folded note. "Ha! A petition or something of the sort, I suppose—but—"

He read it and raised his brows. Tavington looked at him in puzzlement. John frowned and pulled his brother along, down the stairs and out of the way of the crowd.

"Here. You may as well read it for yourself."

Sir John—

Our patience has its limits. Having failed in an application to your brother, we turn to you, hoping that you will prove more prudent. We are prepared to be generous if you deliver the papers to us forthwith. Send your answer to the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese no later than midnight tonight, or we shall be forced to offer you an earnest of our intentions.

Harmodius

"Bloody hell!" Tavington exclaimed, "It's that Harmodius fellow again. The impudent rascal, to threaten us!"

"And that's not all, old fellow," John told him. "Sir Edward Claypoole as good as dressed me down today on my way to the Commons. Said it would be a pity if we disappointed our Sovereign. Wondered where our loyalties lay! I tell you, Will, we have got to find these papers, or we'll never have a moment's peace!"

"I wonder if we should simply lay our cards on the table, and tell both parties that we don't know what they're talking about, and ask them to give us at least a hint!"'

John winced. "And that is why you are such a hopeless card-player, Will. They wouldn't believe us for a minute—not a minute. They'd think we were angling for a higher price. No. Mamma had a box and some papers, and I believe we shall find them yet. Once in our hands, we can decide what we ought to do with them."

Tavington lowered his voice. "The King seems an honest man. If it's his son plaguing him, I think we should turn whatever it is over to him at once."

"Oh, yes! No question. Blackmailing the King of England—hardly to be thought of!"

They drove immediately to the coffee house known as "The Cheshire Cheese," and demanded to see the landlord. He claimed he did not know the source of these letters. He often received letters for gentlemen, he told them. A fellow came by, now and then, asking for anything addressed to "Harmodius." The landlord's description conveyed nothing to either of the Tavingtons—a scrawny little fellow, dressed as a laborer. Someone's flunkey, obviously. Nor did he come by regularly, which would have allowed them to lie in wait. There seemed little to be accomplished by remaining.

They went home instead, to describe the funeral to the ladies in the drawing room. Letty was able to dress and join them now, though she still looked unnaturally pale. The ladies had their own news. Bellini had come to visit and pay his compliments. He was the only visitor outside the family Letty wished to see—and she wished to see him very much. Letty expressed her gratitude for his help once more, and said that she was looking forward to resuming her music lessons. A little later, Edward Protheroe had made a brief call, and presented Lady Fanshawe with the key to the house of Half Moon Street. Letty was wild to go and see it, and Jane was concerned that she was not yet well enough. The Tavington sisters took Jane's part, Emily silently sympathized with Lady Fanshawe, being herself a woman who had had and lost a home, and longed to have one once more. Harmonia, who was just as anxious to see the Half Moon Street house as Letty, was chary of putting herself forward.

"You know you can stay with us as long as you like, dearest," Jane assured Letty feelingly. "Stay forever—make this your home. There is plenty of room. You could let the house on Half Moon Street and enjoy the income from it, instead of spending money on a household—"

Letty smiled and shook her head. Tavington felt immediately relief. He was fond of Letty, but he thought that upholding the position of Lady Fanshawe as well as that of his own wife and sisters and children was likely to be an expensive prospect.

The dowager Lady Fanshawe said, "You are so good, sister. I love being here and I love being with you, but I must have my own home, if only for my child. I have such plans. We can visit back and forth every day if you like, but I long to have a house I can decorate and furnish and play with. I have no idea if the house is in good condition, or not."

"It is true," agreed Emily, "that visiting a new house and planning how to make it one's own is so delightful. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years as when Sir John and I go to the house on Berkeley Square. I know that Lady Fanshawe will find putting her own house in order equally enjoyable."

Tavington gave Jane a private, amused look, and she returned it with a sour scowl. He understood that she wanted her sister close to her, but he would have to make her see that a five minutes' walk to Half Moon Street was quite close enough. Letty was a viscountess, and a wealthy woman. She was a widow, and soon to be a mother, and naturally she wanted a life of her own.

And that is what he told his wife in bed, a few hours later. Jane scowled again, and rolled away from him. He was having none of this and spooned himself behind, wrapping her in his arms. "And besides," he added. "I don't really think you want years of Harmonia James, though the girl seems well-behaved enough to me. A bit of a sycophant, but I suppose that's understandable. Probably afraid she'll be put out of the house, with nowhere to go."

"I suppose," Jane replied dully. "I just thought that when Lord Fanshawe died, Letty could come home."

"My dear—Letty has changed. She still loves you, but she is her own woman now."

"You don't understand. You don't know how terrible it was for her. She's told me what that old lecher made her do—it's just sickening. She needs time to heal from the de Veres' abuse and recover from Lord Fanshawe's depravities."

"I see," said Tavington, hoping she would tell him about the depravities in detail. When she did not immediately continue, his curiosity could not be brought to heel, and he asked, "What exactly did he do?"

"I cannot speak of it. Letty told me in confidence," Jane said shortly.

"Jane—" he whispered, nuzzling her. "Perhaps you could show me?"

-----

The following day brought its own troubles. Just a little after noon, a party of gentlemen came to call. Jane's first impulse was to say they were not at home.

"But Madam!" Rivers was red with embarrassment. "It is the Prince of Wales! We cannot just—turn him away!"

Jane could have cried with exasperation. It would be rude and impolitic to refuse entry to the heir to the throne and his companions. They were here to see Letty, of course, and Jane now decided the Prince of Wales was the rudest man on earth. She hissed angrily at Caroline, "Her husband is not dead a week, and she is expecting a child in August! What kind of man would imagine himself welcome in such circumstances?"

"A man who believes himself above the rules restricting mere mortals," Caroline whispered back, equally indignant.

The Prince of Wales strolled in, followed by a few friends: Sir Edward Claypoole, Colonel Lake, and William's second-in-command, Lord Alan St. Leger. He, at least, had the grace to look a little ashamed.

"Your Royal Highness; gentlemen," Jane said in greeting. "You do us honor."

There were smiles all around which faded a little when Jane told them that Lady Fanshawe was unable to join them. She was ill: too ill to come downstairs and receive visitors. It was a slight exaggeration: aside from a special friend like Bellini, Letty wished to be only with family at the moment..

"Too ill," Jane added firmly, seeing the hopeful look in the Prince's eye, "to receive guests in her apartments. It would agitate her dangerously. Will it please you to take some refreshment, sir?"

The Prince and his friends stayed over an hour, irritating Jane even more. They laughed and talked and drank a great deal of tea. Jane might have to endure this kind of behavior from the Prince of Wales, but she gave Alan St. Leger a stern look, as the time passed and the Prince showed no intention of leaving.

Lord Alan sat by her, and whispered, under the cover of Penelope's harp performance. "He," he said with a nod to the Prince, "would have it so. He wanted to see Lady Fanshawe. Perhaps if she could come down briefly, he would be satisfied."

"She will not come down," Jane declared grimly. "She is ill, and it would make her even more ill, and her health shall not be put at risk for anyone's whim, be he Prince or private gentleman!"

"I know," St. Leger murmured, looking frantically about to see if she had been overheard. "I understand. I am here at the Prince's behest, but I can well comprehend that she is still unwell after the shock of Lord Fanshawe's death. I have always admired the lady. I pray you, convey my compliments. I wish her only to know how many good friends she has—friends who will not forget her during the time of mourning."

Jane smiled and nodded, but understood him perfectly. Letty, the newly rich and propertied Dowager Viscountess Fanshawe, was something of a catch now, even for the younger son of a marquess.

St. Leger diminished himself further in her estimation by saying, "Of course, Lady Fanshawe is quite right to be selective in her companions. I hope, however, when there is a family gathering, she will relent."

How this handsome young man could imagine himself to be part of Letty's family circle was not entirely clear to Jane. He was the second cousin, once removed, of Letty's sister's husband. Jane was amused at the tangle of relationships in London—so like the complicated family ties of South Carolina. Still, his claim would have been a little far-fetched, even there. She gave him a bright, artificial smile, and said nothing.

Once the gentlemen finally left, Penelope proposed they go out and see some friends she could no longer put off visiting. Jane did not want to leave Letty, and Letty was not prepared to chat with women she had never met, five days after her husband's death. Jane was busy with her husband's book, and was glad to have some quiet time to work in the morning room. However, shortly after the two Tavington sisters and Emily Martingale had left to pay their calls, Letty became restless, and finally insisted her barouche be summoned.

"I have just got to see the house, sister!" she fretted. "I can't stop thinking about it! Please come with me. I promise not to stay long, but I must have a peep inside. Harmonia, don't you want to see the house?"

Harmonia desperately wanted to go—anywhere—but did not want to irritate Mrs. Tavington. "Only if you're sure you're well enough, Lady Fanshawe. You must take great care."

Jane, seeing how unhappy Letty was, agreed that they could go for a little while. It was a short journey, after all, and the barouche could wait while Letty inspected her property. Who knew what it would be like? If it were in poor condition, it would be some time before Letty could live there.

They dressed quickly. Harmonia thought they looked like a trio of black crows. The top of the barouche was put up, since a widow ought not to be traveling in an open carriage, and very soon they were outside and in the coach. Dunner rode up in front with the coachman, since Letty felt he should have a look as well. A man was always useful to have about.

They turned into Mayfair Row and Lettylooked eagerly about. "Is that it?"

"No, that is Clarges Street, dearest. There is one more. Ned Protheroe said the house sits on the corner of Mayfair Row and Half Moon Street."

"Oh, I cannot wait!"

They were moving at a brisk trot. The air was cool but refreshing, the light breeze sweeping away the worst of the odors. Dunner and Letty's coachman were muttering together, pointing out the way, and nodding in approval of the neighboring houses. "—very respectable appearance—"

"This must be Half Moon Street! That must be the house!" Harmonia cried, and then put a hand over her mouth.

The coachman executed the turn carefully and the horses stopped before a tall house of brick and stone. It was not as large as the house on Mortimer Square, but it was far from the narrowest on Half Moon Street. There was a wide door, and deep windows on either side. The house had three rows of windows above the ground floor. The door, the lantern, the area: all were well kept-up. Letty glanced at Jane with excitement, as Dunner handed the ladies down.

"Oh! I hope I have not forgotten the key!" Letty worried.

"It is right here, dearest," Jane said patiently. "You gave it to me, remember? Here, Dunner, take the key and open the door."

The butler stepped smartly to the threshold. With a brief rattle, the door was open, and the three ladies crowded eagerly inside.

"It is dark—" Letty murmured.

"Beg pardon, my lady," Dunner said. "The windows are shuttered and locked. I shall open them and let in a bit of light."

"Oh, yes, do," Letty urged him. "This is nice," she said, turning all about to see the entry hall. One shutter opened, and then another, and the space was flooded with sunshine.

"Oh, what a pretty colour!" Harmonia declared. "Just look! It must be freshly painted!"

In luscious contrast to the brilliant white of the elaborate plaster work, the wall were tinted in a delicate peach—neither a true pink, nor the yellowish color of an apricot, but something just in between. It was a soft, lovely, feminine color, warm but refined. The staircase was white marble, with balusters of black ironwork. Dunner moved about quickly, opening doors and shutters. Soon they were glimpsing tantalizing corners of the rooms leading off the hall, all painted the same lovely color.

"It doesn't smell very strong," Jane said, shaking her head. "Not within the past month, at least, but it does look very clean and fresh. Letty!" she said, startled. "There is a letter for you on the table here in the hall!"

"For me?"

"There is no other Lady Fanshawe present," Jane laughed. Letty took the letter, and looked at it, her face growing grave.

"It is in Lord Fanshawe's handwriting," she told them. Quickly she broke the seal, and read aloud.

"My dear Lady Fanshawe—

Alas. If you are reading this, then I fear I have gone to my reward—whatever that might be. I took the liberty of setting this charming nest in order for you. It is better to be prepared, in case you might someday need a refuge. I hope the color is agreeable to you. I pondered the matter at some length. It is just the shade of your blushes. No doubt you will make alterations to suit your own admirable taste, but the house stands ready for its mistress. May this prove a place of rest and delight.

Allow me the honour of once again expressing my gratitude for your presence at the end of my life. Would it have been earlier, but we cannot cavil at Fortune's finest gifts, even if they arrive rather tardily.

I am, Madam, your most admiring, fortunate, and devoted husband,

James de Vere, Viscount Fanshawe"

"That was very kindly thought of," Harmonia said solemnly.

Jane grimaced, annoyed to see Letty's softened expression. Now she will think of him fondly, the awful old man.

"Yes, very kind," Letty agreed. "Lord Fanshawe was always very generous. How beautiful everything is! There is the dining room. Let us go in. Oh, sister! I can invite you to dinner! How exciting!"

They wandered happily over the ground floor, admiring the handsome furniture and the beautiful, well-chosen colors. Down the hall from the dining room was an enchanting morning room, furnished with a pair of luxurious velvet-covered sofas. There was a dainty escritoire to write upon, and a pair of tall bookshelves, with the beginnings of an interesting library. Letty was pleased to see that there was plenty of room for the books she had bought herself, and more space yet for the books she could select as she liked. Already the shelves boasted an illustrated mythology, a large atlas, a row of histories, and some novels, all elegantly bound in buttery-soft leather…

"I shall spend a great deal of time here."

There was a little parlor near the front door, which Jane thought, from its more sober appearance, to be intended as a place to receive men of business and tradespeople. There was a charming breakfast room—a pleasantly intimate place for private meals.

"I want to go below stairs," Letty told Dunner. "I must make certain that the servants have decent quarters, too."

The kitchen, the servants' hall, some small rooms for the cook and the menservants: everything was in perfect order, if very plain. A door let up the stairs to the area in front, and another behind to the mews. Jane persuaded Letty that she really did not have to explore the coachman's quarters that very day. Instead, they went upstairs to admire the public rooms: a creamy white ballroom, with a fantasy of plaster gods and goddesses promenading across the ceiling; an exquisitely civilized drawing room, with large murals of garden scenes inset in gilded recesses. A very striking portrait of Lord Fanshawe, painted when he was many years younger, hung above the magnificent chimneypiece.

"He's right here, watching you," Jane protested.

"Oh, sister!" laughed Letty, "I can't complain. This is all his gift, anyway. I ought to remember him. What a nice picture! He is so handsome. I wish I had known him then," she added, rather wistfully. "Besides, it is nice to have a picture of my child's father. Look at this mantel! I love it, with the beautiful nymphs holding it up. See the musical instruments carved along the top. What a gorgeous room. Dunner, remove some of the dustcloths. I want to see how the chairs are covered. And what is that?"

It was a grand pianoforte. Letty and Harmonia and Jane all exclaimed at once, and hurried to admire it. "How very modern!" Letty said. She struck a few notes. "I can have it tuned just before I come here to live. How nice everything is!"

Harmonia was looking about, bright eyed. It was not as grand as Fanshawe House, but it was very up-to-date and elegant. She was glowing with hope, after having seen the ballroom. Last night, Miss Penelope had taken her aside, and told her that she and her sisters had not been allowed to come out until they were eighteen. It was very common. She must mourn for a year, of course, but then she would be eighteen, and Miss Penelope was sure Lady Fanshawe would bring her out in some fashion or other.

"And you will have a year to improve yourself," Miss Penelope had added encouragingly. "A year to refine your accomplishments. It is so much easier to do that with private masters, than in the crowding and noise of a school! After the first few weeks of mourning are over, perhaps Lady Fanshawe might begin going out and seeing the picture galleries and the museums, and hearing the concerts. She shall no doubt take you along, even though you are not out. You can dine with us here, of course, and you will meet many interesting people that way. Perhaps she might even take you to call on your old friends at school."

These were all very exciting prospects. Harmonia expected that living with Lady Fanshawe—who was so sweet and obliging—would be much nicer than living with Lord Fanshawe. It would be just the two of them, after all, until the child was born. Harmonia sighed, thinking of the child. It would be horrid if Lady Fanshawe no longer cared to have Harmonia about after the child was born. Harmonia vowed to be very nice to the Tavington children, and show Lady Fanshawe that she would be no trouble, even after the arrival of her son or daughter.

"Would you like to see the bedchambers, Harmonia?" Lady Fanshawe was asking.

"Oh, yes!" she cried, and ran up the stairs, dying to see what there was. Since the house was on a corner, there were additional windows on the north side of the house. One brightened the upstairs hall. There appeared to be an oculus skylight over the staircase, but it too was shuttered, and Letty did not want Dunner to go to the trouble of climbing up to the roof. There would be time enough when they moved in.

The next highest hall led them to four large bedchambers, and a maze of smaller rooms. There was a very modern and convenient water closet. Harmonia ran ahead, opening doors eagerly ahead of the butler.

"Oh!" she cried. "This must be meant to be your room, Lady Fanshawe! It is the biggest, and has a magnificent bed!"

Letty was growing tired, but was not ready to leave without seeing where she would lay her head. Dunner bustled to open the shutters, and dustmotes danced in the cool sunlight. Letty took a deep breath, and then another.

"Well," Jane remarked. "This is very fine!"

The room was very fine—stupendously fine, in fact—but not garish. The blue of the silk-covered walls and the hangings draping the windows and the bed was a soft sea blue, restful and dreamy. The "magnificent" bed was just that: with a carved and gilded tester of splendid workmanship. There were graceful, inviting chairs, and tables whose tops were astonishing pictures of marquetry and inlay. A long pier glass reflected the splendour. Through a door was a large, charming dressing room, with a silken daybed and a large, well-appointed dressing table. Letty sighed with pleasure at all the comfort and beauty that were to be hers.

"Let us find a room for you, Harmonia," she suggested.

The girl ran across the hall to the opposite side, hoping for the room that faced the street. It was in darkness, and she called impatiently, "Please, Dunner! I'd like to see this one!"

Jane snorted, knowing and cynical, but Letty only smiled, and waved Dunner on.

Light shone through the tall window, and Harmonia nodded seriously. It was a large, sunny room, in a brighter yellow than her room at Fanshawe House. The bed was tall and wide, and hung with draperies the color of ripe wheat. Even without a fire, the room seemed pleasantly warm. Jane thought it very nice, and said so, and but refrained from saying that it was nicer than the girl deserved. Letty waited patiently, and Harmonia said, "Yes. This is just right. May I have this room, Lady Fanshawe?"

"Yes, of course. Oh, look, what a nice writing table! Is there anything you would like to change?"

"Oh, no! Nothing! It is quite perfect. Thank you very much for permitting me to stay with you, Lady Fanshawe, in your beautiful house. I shall be no trouble, I promise you!"

Jane rolled her eyes, but not so the other two could notice. If the girl was showing herself grateful, that was only proper. She only hoped this proper behavior would last. "I think we should go now, Letty darling. You look tired. We can inspect the upstairs maids' quarters another day."

"Just a little longer, please. I need to see which room I shall have for my nursery. Do you think it should be down here, or is there one upstairs?"

Jane lowered her voice discreetly, so that Harmonia, who was eagerly examining every detail of her own promised room, could not hear. "It depends upon whether you mean to nurse the child or not. If you do, then you will want the little one close by. You can always move him upstairs to a regular nursery when he is weaned, or you employ a wet nurse."

Letty looked uncertain. "Mama would have wanted me to suckle my own baby."

"Well, that must be your decision. You have seen how much time and trouble it is, from watching what I go through! I can never be gone long from the children, and I have to pad my clothing to keep it dry, and sometimes I am very sore. On the other hand—"

"—on the other hand, it is better for the child."

"As I say, you must decide. Letty, we can come back another day. Let us go home and have a good hot cup of chocolate to warm you. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Reluctantly, Letty let herself be persuaded. She was really quite tired of walking and climbing stairs. Dunner was told to lock the shutters, while they went down to sit in the adorable morning room. Jane put her arm in Letty's to steady her on the stairs, and they walked down slowly, admiring as they went. Once seated in the morning room, Letty stroked the velvet of the sofa, thinking the blush-peach one of the prettiest colors she had ever seen. She might embroider some cushions for the sofa and the chairs…perhaps a garland of roses on pale green silk…

She nearly fell asleep in the barouche during the short drive home. Dunner helped her out rather anxiously, and they moved into Jane's morning room almost before she knew where she was. There she saw the blue damask of the sofa and laughed.

"I can tell where I am by color!" Secretly, she thought her own house a thousand times prettier than Jane's, for all that the house of Mortimer Square was so much bigger. Hers was the prettiest house in the world, prettier even than Fanshawe House, which had been the epitome of elegance and taste. Her morning room was just as nice, in its own way, as the Painted Parlour. A little instrument would be just the thing, to make it the perfect sitting room. Yes, it was a pretty house, indeed: certainly prettier than Salton Park, which was ridiculously huge and pretentious. Her house was just the right size, and full of lovely things. She had a house of her own…

Jane put a cushion under her head. "Let us let her sleep until the chocolate comes," she whispered. Harmonia nodded, rather nervous at the prospect of a tete-a-tete with the fearsome Mrs. Tavington.

"I hope you and my sister will find each other's company agreeable," Jane said softly. "She is a sweet soul, and has suffered a good deal."

"Oh, yes," Harmonia whispered back. "Lady Fanshawe is lovely. I think I shall enjoy living with her very much. We both like music and we shall have each other to talk to. Isn't the house marvelous?"

Jane agreed, and they conversed quietly and civilly while they waited for the hot water and the chocolate set to be brought in to them. Jane liked to make the chocolate herself, and wanted to make enough that her sisters-in-law could have some when they returned.

The tray was just set before them, when the front door was opened to loud, frightened female voices. Caroline, Penelope, and Emily had returned, and from the sound of it, they were very upset. Letty awakened at the noise, and looked about. Jane rose and hurried to the hall to see what was the matter.

"Oh, Jane!" Caroline cried. "A man tried to force his way into the carriage! He spoke to us so coarsely, and thrust a letter for John and William upon us!"

"Who was he?" Jane asked, shocked. "Was he some sort of petitioner?"

Caroline was trembling, but answered, "I cannot think so. His behavior was not such to dispose our brothers favorably toward him."

"He actually declared that if his letter was not answered, we would suffer worse, and that we had best keep watch on our children," Emily cried, terrified. "What dreadful wickedness, to threaten little children. He said 'I know where you live!' in the most sinister way! Please, Rivers," she called to the butler, who looked at her in bewildered alarm. "Please lock the door very tightly and send for Sir John!"

"I have never been so frightened!" Caroline told Jane, leaning against her as Jane led them quickly into the morning room.

"You all need a good hot drink," Jane said briskly. "I was just making some chocolate for us. Yes, Rivers, lock the door. It will make us all easier. The gentlemen will be home soon—at least Sir John will be—"

In fact, the brothers arrived together, in a jolly mood, laughing together, wondering why the door had to be unlocked before they could come in.

"Think we're the bogeymen, eh, Rivers?" John smiled.

Rivers lowered his voice. "The ladies had a fright when they were out today, gentlemen," he warned them. "They are in the morning room, talking it over."

"Good God!" Tavington was alarmed. "What has happened?" He hurried down the hall, anxious to see them.

John was beside him, and asked the butler over his shoulder, "Is Mrs. Martingale all right?"

There was no time for Rivers to answer, for the men were in the room in an instant, and were just as instantly assailed by their ladies, all telling the story at once. The women stopped almost immediately, abashed, and looked at each other, until Jane looked her encouragement at Caroline, as being the most likely to tell a coherent tale.

"We were coming back from the Pagets: Penelope, Mrs. Martingale, and I—"

"Jane was not with you?" Tavington asked.

"No—she and Lady Fanshawe stayed behind—" Caroline shivered, and went on, "—we were coming back, when suddenly a great brute of a man, with his face muffled by his cravat, leaped onto the side of our coach and clung there, leering at us. He threatened us, and told us he knew where we lived, and that "Sir John and Colonel Tavington had better reply to this letter," or we would suffer worse, and that we should keep a watch on the children! Good old Roberts tried to hit him with the coach whip, but before he could, the man threw a letter at us, and told us to see that you read it, and then he uttered some coarse words and jumped away and fled."

Tavington took a deep breath, and in a terrible voice, asked, "Where is the letter?"

Penelope handed it to him. John crowded close beside his brother. "Pen! You didn't read it?"

His sisters looked at him, astonished. "It is not addressed to us, John." Penelope told him indignantly. "I would no more read your private letters than I would pick your pocket!"

"Yes, yes, very commendable, my dear Pen," Tavington said impatiently, cracking the seal open without delay.

Deliver the documents by noon tomorrow or suffer the consequences.

Harmodius

"Infernal impudence!" shouted Sir John. "I won't have it!"

Tavington snarled. "This has gone too far!"

"What does it mean?" begged Emily.

The two men looked at one another. Tavington gave his brother a nod.

Sir John said, "Our mother seems to have had some valuable documents. She mentioned them in her will, but we have not been able to produce them. A number of people seem very interested in them, and this is not the first threat we have received."

"But what kind of documents could they be?" Caroline wondered, distressed.

"We don't know, Caro," Tavington told her gently. "We know only that Mamma had them in what she described as a box of ivory and ebony. Do you recall? She said we could make what use of them we could, but we cannot find them. We have looked everywhere."

Letty had a horrible, sinking feeling. How could she have forgotten? "Oh! The ivory box! Lord Fanshawe told me all about it!"

Everyone turned to her, bewildered.

"What do you mean, dearest? Jane asked her. "What do you know about the box?"

"I am so sorry! With all that happened to me, I forgot all about it! He told me just after he was so horrid to all of you, and made me promise never to put the information to paper, but—" her face lit with joy-- "he did not make me promise not to tell you about it!"

"Lett—Lady Fanshawe," Tavington said with forced calm, "if you know something, tell us now."

"Well, when I told Lord Fanshawe that you were looking for the box, and worried about it, he thought it very amusing. I reproached him for laughing, but he told me that you would never find it, because you were looking in places where Lady Cecily might have hidden it. He said that she had not had the box since---1765, I think—"

The two brothers exchanged a quick, surprised look, already rearranging their assumptions about the contents.

Letty paused, struggling to remember the conversation accurately. "She did not have it, because your father took it from her. He told Lord Fanshawe that he did not want Lady Cecily to profit from it, and that he wanted Lord Fanshawe to take the box and keep it so she could not lay her hands upon it. Lord Fanshawe never looked inside himself, and your father took sick and died before it could be returned to him—"

Tavington interrupted in smothered excitement. "The box is at Fanshawe House? Have you seen it?"

"No!" Letty said, wanting to finish her story. "Lord Fanshawe tried to return it to your father when he was sick, but was never given any time alone with him. He said--" here Letty felt very uncomfortable. "He said that on the day of your father's funeral, he slipped it into the coffin just before it was closed."

A stunned silence. The Tavingtons were uniformly horrified. Emily was shocked. Jane was disgusted. Harmonia James had never heard such a gloriously Gothick tale.

"He said the box was in our father's coffin?" John repeated, trying to take it all in.

"So he said," Letty said, feeling very sorry she had failed to tell them before, and more gently. "I think he was telling the truth, for he did not expect me to be able to tell you about it. He thought it so amusing. He said he was still considering telling you, just to see what you would do."

"Why—that—" Jane stopped, knowing her opinion of Lord Fanshawe was not fit for her sister's ears.

"Exactly," Tavington agreed sardonically.

"The box is in Papa's tomb at Wargrave?" Penelope quavered, looking helplessly at Caroline.

"What are we going to do?" Jane asked.

"You are going to do nothing," Tavington snapped. "John and I shall ride to Wargrave this very night and retrieve the wretched object!"

Every woman in the room protested at once. A shrilling noise of outrage and fright fluttered up like the calls of hunted birds.

"Oh, no!"

"Will! John! Do not, I pray you!"

"You cannot leave us!" Emily cried. "Oh, please, John! Don't leave us! That man was so cruel-looking! Fanny—"

John sat down by her, and took her hand, utterly miserable. He raised imploring eyes to his brother.

Letty was shaking her head, and Harmonia could hardly wait to hear what would be said next.

Jane spoke up, frowning. "If you go, we should all go. We shall be safer together. After the villains have shown they do not hesitate to threaten women and children, it would be unsafe for us to be left alone. Or do you wish me to defend the house?" she asked her husband, her brows raised in challenge.

Tavington growled, and kicked his way to the window. He stood staring outside, not trusting himself to speak.

"We must go as soon as possible," John objected weakly. "We cannot take the carriages in the dark all that distance. It is a four-hour journey if we go by coach. Lady Fanshawe could not endure it—"

"Of course I can—" Letty said, trying to be brave. "My sister would be unhappy to leave me behind. Harmonia and I shall go with you. And who can say that if you left, we might not find ourselves the targets of these wicked men? My sister is right. We should all go."

"We shall leave tomorrow as early as possible," Jane declared, pressing her advantage. "We shall call the carriages in the morning, and not tell anyone our plans. We can be at Wargrave by noon." She tossed her curls triumphantly at her husband. "You shall just have to put up with us!"

Tavington growled again, hating that she was right.

Next: Shadows in the Crypt

Note: Mayfair Row is now Curzon Street

Thank you to my reviewers! Your support has helped me produce fanfic. I have now posted over one million words as of this chapter.