The meeting with Sir Edward Claypoole proved a protracted one. After a good night's sleep, and time to consider their options and the various wrongs their family had suffered due to the King's indiscretion, the Tavington brothers were not inclined to simply hand over the documents. Their days of unquestioning service were past: now they were prepared for hard bargaining.
"It's not blackmail, John," Tavington told his brother firmly. "It's only just to receive reasonable rewards for loyal service."
John, to Tavington's surprise, was quite agreeable. Something had changed in John. He spoke often of Emily. It was not surprising that he would want a reward that would benefit her as well as himself. They talked quietly together and composed a short list of demands. Then they made the list rather longer, in order to have some room for compromise.
They met in the Queen's Palace, in a splendid parlor clearly meant to intimidate. Neither Tavington was in a mood to be intimidated. The splendor only recalled the wealth of the Crown and its nearly infinite resources—and that the rightful heir to all this was living somewhere in anonymity, probably forever. It roused feelings of indignation, rather than feelings of insignificance.
Sir Edward was disappointed in them, and said so. The King had been very generous to the Tavington family. "Twenty thousand pounds, gentlemen, is no trifle!"
The Tavingtons were unmoved. Had Sir Edward been more communicative, he might even now have had the documents in his hands. In the meantime, their families had been threatened—Mrs. Tavington had nearly been killed—and worst of all, perhaps their mother had been killed.
"It was strange, Sir Edward," Tavington remarked carelessly. "We believed the Venable woman was an agent of the fellows who attacked us, but they seemed never to have heard of her!"
"Many people were interested in the documents, gentlemen," Sir Edward replied blandly. "The sooner you are rid of them, the safer you and your families will be!"
Sir John stared hard at him, and growled in a voice that startled his brother, it sounded so unlike him, "If any more come to threaten us, we'll serve them as we served the last!"
"I see." There was a long silence. Then Sir Edward smiled at them. "The King has always rewarded his faithful friends."
"We're very glad to hear that," Tavington informed him. How often had a prize dangled before him, only to be snatched away? This time would be different. "We think we've been remarkably faithful. We shall welcome our just rewards. You have our terms. It lies with you and with those for whom you act. We shall return to London in one week. Take a week to decide. Take two, if you like. Good day to you."
They returned to Wargrave, once again in a rather roundabout way, both heavily armed. It was nearly dark by the time they arrived home. They changed hurriedly for dinner, and spent a pleasant evening amongst family and friends.
"What happened in London?" Jane asked, late that night in the privacy of their bedchamber. "And don't try to hide things from me!" It would be so easy to be distracted. Her husband was padding about the room, entirely naked, winding his watch, looking back over his shoulder at her with a sly smile. His long legs and lean hips were quite perfect. His back and muscular buttocks were unscarred. He was altogether alluring, and clearly knew it.
Tavington, for his part, thought Jane very much deserved everything they might wring from Sir Edward and his master. Jane had borne so much and been very brave. She looked young and spirited, sitting up in bed with her keen eyes on him. He might have some rewards for her, himself.
Sliding into bed beside her, he plucked that silly nightcap from her head and held her close. "Many things happened in London. We went to see Pitt, and he confirmed that the signatures were his father's."
"Then it's all true?" she whispered into his shoulder.
"Very much so. If we had doubted it, Sir Edward's anxiety to obtain the documents would have told us everything. He pretends to be indifferent, but he clearly is not. And with the vote coming up in the Commons, the King's Friends are desperate to avoid anything that would damage the reputation of the Crown."
Jane nestled closer. William had a very nice chest. She liked the silky skin, the hard muscle underlaying it, and how the soft black hairs felt beneath her fingers. There was more black hair on his arms and on the strong wrists. She could breathe in his distinctive, warm, musky scent, the essential William-scent that in bed meant pleasure. He had said he loved her. It ought to satisfy her every dream, but she acknowledged she was only human, and would always want something more. "I hope the King is grateful to you for returning his papers and saving him from the consequences of his wicked foolishness! What did you ask for?"
"Never you mind," he laughed, rolling her gently onto her back and nuzzling her throat. "If I get what I asked, I want it to be a surprise!"
-----
The week at Wargrave did them all good. The weather continued pleasant, and much time was spent out of doors. Jane went riding with William—he on his big hunter, she on the pony Midnight. The pony was quick and sure-footed enough to take her down across the barrows, exploring all the mysterious monuments of ancient Wargrave. Sometimes they were alone. On other days they were accompanied by John and Bordon. On the next to last day, Emily came with them, on a lovely chestnut mare that John purchased from Joseph Charteris.
Staggle was recovered enough to travel. John did not want the events of the attack in the church to be canvassed in court, and so put the man on the post-wagon bound for the north, with a sharp injunction never to show his face in Essex again. Staggle's right arm was bandaged heavily and might never be of much use, but he was allowed to keep the money that had been found on his person.
"If you want more," John suggested, "apply to Lord Torrenham!"
Other things were accomplished. The revision of Tavington's book was completed to the last full stop, and he sighed with relief at the end of so much work.
"I hope Tregallon is pleased with it. I'm so tired of the business I don't want to look at it again!" he grumbled.
Jane's hand was sore from writing, but she was rather proud of what they had accomplished. "Well, we'll find out when we get back to London. Caroline is anxious to go. Her book has been delivered to the shops and she is wild to see it for herself."
"No doubt she'll drag us all to the booksellers so she can see it in the windows."
"And soon thereafter you will drag us to the booksellers to see your own book there!"
He laughed. "No doubt!"
Despite his laughter, there were some concerns. The servants, the cottagers—everyone in the village of Wargrave Cross, in fact—had been told to keep a sharp lookout for strangers and ruffians. The people were on edge, feeling very put upon by the outside world. First there had been that bad business in January when a man attacked Mrs. Tavington—and now there had been grave robbers in the church, troubling the dead! People peered anxiously from their doors and windows at dusk. Barking dogs were heeded: a flutter in a chicken coop was instantly investigated. The ladies were encouraged not to go walking or visiting alone.
But within these constraints it was a pleasant time. The children played together happily, Jane and Harriet practiced duets, Letty read and embroidered. Emily and the Tavington sisters received callers, usually accompanied by Harmonia, whose first visit to the country was a time of great enjoyment.
"But of course it would be more enjoyable were I not in mourning," she confessed to her dear friend Christabel. "Lord Fanshawe had planned a ball for me to celebrate my coming-out, but of course all that ended when he died. Does anyone ever dance here in the country?"
"Oh, my, yes, my dear Harmonia! There are the assemblies in Chelmsford the first Saturday of every month. The whole of the country 'round comes—sometimes even the Earl himself. And then one can always hope for a private ball. Mrs. Tavington ended her dinner last Christmas with an impromptu little dance. It was so delightful. I danced every dance. Mrs. Spottiswoode played all the best country-dances, and everyone had a wonderful time. I hoped we would dance after dinner the other night, but I supposed she thought it wrong, now that nearly all of you are in mourning, one way or another."
"I suppose so. It is very hard, being in mourning."
Christabel was very kind and sympathetic about it. They soothed their mutual disappointment with a stroll across the lawn.
Jane also spent a great deal of time with Moll. While Mrs. Young was only five months gone with child, she was already growing great with it. Jane was concerned that climbing the stairs at the Hall and chasing after the children might be too much for her.
"Keeps me from running to fat, ma'am," Moll disagreed. "Don't want to lie about, having the vapors."
"Just don't overdo, my dear Moll, " Jane begged her. "What would I do if you fell ill?"
"Don't you worry none about me. I'll be fine. When I had Charlie, he popped out in no more than an hour or three. My Ma said it was a downright miracle."
"Well, it doesn't do to expect miracles all the time. I nearly gave Thomas a whack on the bottom today when I saw him kick you."
"It didn't hurt me none. He's just getting used to being up on his little pins. I never did see a child his age take to walking so fast. He's going to be a mighty strong man one of these days."
"I suppose so."
"'Sides, you need me, with all the young 'uns running wild. That Sally don't pay no mind to anyone but Miss Fanny—and maybe Susan, when she's here. Rose is right run off her feet."
"I know. In London, I have Jenny help her in the nursery, but she was left at the house."
"Jenny's a nice little lass. I think Rose's Ma was hoping you'd take her next girl on as well. I was cool to the idea, since I think young Damaris just wants a free ride to London!"
"You don't recommend her, then?"
"Not until she mends her ways."
"Are you still happy at Ironsides Cottage, Moll?"
A huge smile, beaming like the Sun. "That I am! 'Tis the finest, coziest, and best house in England. Not that your London house ain't fine and all," she added hastily "—but Ironsides is mine—and it's got everything a body could want."
"Well, I do miss you, but I'm glad you're content and comfortable here. But you are getting so large! Are you sure there's just one child there?"
"If there's more'n one," Moll said, quite undaunted, "we'll just have to knock together another cradle!"
-----
They were very busy, the Monday of their return to London. The Tavingtons waited to hear from Sir Edward, but decided to go about their business in the meanwhile. Tregallon called, bringing Caroline copies of her novel, and looked quickly through the manuscript of the memoirs.
"I shall have the galleys to you by Wednesday morning," he promised. "I want to have the book out as quickly as possible. With the great vote coming up in the Commons, there is great interest in your work."
Tavington saw no reason he would not succeed. The book was short, and would probably come to no more than a hundred pages when printed. Tregallon had done a great deal of work ahead of time. A printmaker had rendered the Reynolds portrait for a frontispiece and a map of South Carolina for the appendix. The type face and the binding were resolved upon. It should indeed go to print quickly, unless Tregallon found some new flaw, or there were outrageous errors in the galleys.
The house was even more agog at the kind reception given Caroline's novel. Caroline was still determined to remain anonymous, but within her close family, she was happy to revel in her success. Tavington wondered how long her anonymity could be preserved. The book was the main topic of conversation, that first night at dinner. Caroline and Penelope had run out to the nearest bookshop, the moment they arrived at home, to see the book displayed. Caroline was mortified when Penelope bought a copy, volubly praising it to the entire clientele of the shop.
Altogether, Tavington was glad that the excitement of publication gave Jane a distraction, for Letty was moving to her own house the following day. On their arrival in London, she had sent Dunner to the house on Half Moon Street. With him had gone all her servants but the Maupin sisters, and the house was to be prepared, provisions were to be purchased, the beds made, the dust covers removed. Despite all Jane's anxieties, and Tavington's uneasy warning, Letty could not see that she was in any particular danger any more. She wanted to be in her own house.
The barouche appeared at the door punctually at nine the next morning, and Letty was handed into it by her brother-in-law. Harmonia joined her, and then the maids. Jane smiled encouragingly, trying not to sob and ruin Letty's special day.
"You must come on Wednesday!" Letty cried as the carriage moved away. "Come and have tea! The house should be ready by then!" She sat back, smiling at Harmonia, who was very happy and excited herself. In only a few minutes, they had arrived. The footman escorted them into the house, and the coachman turned the equipage, preparing to take it back around the house to the mews.
The house was as beautiful as ever—perhaps even more beautiful than she had remembered. The Maupin sisters assessed it with cool approval, withholding their heartiest admiration until they had seen their own quarters. Letty, now so much stronger, walked from cellar to garret, seeing everything, noting what she wanted changed (which was very little), and reveling in those things that pleased her most. The servants had done their best to make the home inviting. The house was polished like a diamond, and glowed with the cheerful fires in the grates.
"Dunner," she said, "have Annie help Miss James unpack. Harmonia, I'm going to look at the upstairs first. Then I'll change and be in the morning room."
"I shall be down soon," Harmonia promised, hardly able to restrain herself from running to her lovely room.
Letty had not had the energy to inspect the servants' quarters upstairs on her last visit, and was very pleased with the arrangements there. Rising from a door in her dressing room was a small staircase leading up to a bright and well-furnished chamber that Dunner had set aside for Julie and Veronique. A convenient bell rope would enable Letty to ring for her personal maids when necessary. It was far more pleasant and private than having them sleep next door in the dressing room. The Frenchwomen themselves looked about, nodded, and were satisfied. In the dressing room, they removed Letty's heavy hat, and helped her change into the plainest black gown she owned. They were left to unpack Letty's things and then their own.
How large and empty the house seemed! Letty walked downstairs, feeling very odd. This was all hers. It had seemed a dream before, but it was really all hers to keep forever. She could live however she liked: have meals at whatever hour she chose, order for dinner whatever she pleased, go to bed when she was tired, stay up if she wished. She sat down suddenly on the stairs, overcome with a frightening sensation of unfettered freedom. No one could tell her what to do, ever again. On the other hand, she must make her own decisions. What a daunting prospect that was!
"I must make a schedule," she said aloud. She was already composing one in her mind as she walked down the wide, white steps and entered her morning room.
Oh! Her own morning room! It was so beautiful! Letty wandered aimlessly, admiring, soaking up the various prettinesses of this special place of her own, thinking what a wonderful house she had—what a wonderful place for her child to live. She must decide about the nursery, but not today. Her fingertips skimmed the blush-peach of the smooth, cool walls. She sat on a luxurious sofa, gazing at her very own fire. The picture above the chimneypiece was of the Three Graces. It must be—there were three young women, in scanty Classical dress. She could not remember their names, but she could find them in the Mythology. It was quite a nice picture. She looked around the room, and decided that the empty walls could use some filling. The rest of the house, too. What if she were to hire a painter?
"Next year," she told herself, "when I am out of mourning, I shall have my portrait painted." It was a daring thought—it was putting herself on the level of the Colonel. But why not? She was a noble lady. Sir Joshua wanted to paint her—he had said so himself. Very well. Next March, I shall have my portrait painted, and I shall hang the portrait in the drawing room or the ballroom—or even in the entry hall. Why not? It is my house!
There were other painters, too—the ones who made the little miniature portraits Letty thought were so pretty. It would be nice to have pictures of her sister and the Colonel. They were her only family, now. Harmonia would make a pretty picture, too—and to finish out the set—someday—there could be a picture of her little baby.
The fragile escritoire beckoned. She opened a drawer and found fine writing paper. Dunner had been at work here, for there were quills and fresh ink, sand and sealing wax and everything necessary. She took out a clean, creamy sheet of paper and stared at it. She dipped her pen into the inkwell and began to write.
Eight o'clock-- Rise and Dress. I shall have a plain gown of black bombazine made for the morning. It is silly to dress up like a doll all the time.
Half past eight—Breakfast. I shall not need longer to dress in the morning. I shall not be receiving guests when I rise, the way Lord Fanshawe did.
Nine o'clock-- Meet with the housekeeper and cook.
Ten o'clock-- Write letters and practice music. I should buy a small instrument for the morning room, so I can keep the drawing room shut up until I have guests. It will save fuel. Besides, I like the morning room.
Eleven o'clock-- She paused, pen poised over paper. I can do whatever I like. In good weather I can go for a walk. I can visit the shops. I do not have to tell anyone where I am going, or when I shall return.
Noon –A lesson of some sort. I would like Mr. Bellini to come at least twice a week. More often, if he does not think it demanding of me. I shall sing if I like, and learn Italian and talk about Italy.
One o'clock--A light meal on a tray.
I like sandwiches, especially cucumber sandwiches with cream cheese. I
never ate cream cheese before I came to England. It is very nice.
Thinly sliced ham goes well with cream cheese too. And a dish of olives
or some rare fruit like pineapple.
Two o'clock—Dress to go calling on the days that I go out. I shall only call on family and close friends while I am in mourning. Drive to the shops. NOTE—Make a list of the things I want.
Three o'clock—Morning Calls or Visiting Shops. My sister is home on Thursday. I shall visit her then. I do not know if I want to be at home to visitors now. It will only encourage those silly men.
Four o'clock—A dish of tea.
Half past four—I can do whatever I like. I can read books or practice music or sew. I can lie down on a sofa and do nothing.
Half past five—Dress for dinner. I do not need any new mourning gowns. I can wear the black silk damask at dinner. I can wear the Virgin's Tear every night at dinner because my sister said pearls are acceptable mourning jewelry.
Six o'clock—Dine with Harmonia or family or friends. If there are no men present, I do not need to sit in the drawing room all night. We can talk or read or play music or cards or do anything that suits us.
I shall go to bed when I like. Harmonia ought to go to bed by ten.
On Sunday I shall go to church. My sister and I are in the same parish, so we shall see each other there. That will be nice. Sundays will be very quiet. My sister will invite me to dinner often. Harmonia must come with me. I should invite my sister here too. I should invite all the Tavingtons very soon, but not anyone else.
I must do something for Harmonia. I am her stepmother, after all. We can visit her school friends. Or she can visit them while I go the shops for an hour. She should have lessons too. I should ask her what she would like to study. She should study Music and a Foreign Language. Maybe we could both study drawing. I wonder what sorts of drawing tools I would need. I should have Mr. Protheroe come every week to help me understand business, for he is my lawyer. He can bring Mrs. Protheroe too, because I like her.
THINGS TO PURCHASE
A small pianoforte for the morning room
Harmonia can play the harp a little. Should I get a harp too? They are very costly. If Harmonia says she will work at it I will, but otherwise not. I do not think I will try to learn any more on the harp. Learning to play the spinet is hard enough, and I will never be very good at it. I wish I could have started when I was seven the way my sister did. I wish my mother could see my house.
Letty stopped writing a moment, a fully formed vision of her mother in her mind. She could imagine her sitting at the end of the sofa nearest the fire, serene and comfortable. Her fancy dressed Biddy in a soft, well-fitting gown of silver-grey silk broadcloth. A lace-trimmed cap of the finest gauze was on her head. Her skillful hands were embroidering a child's smock. The image was so strong that Letty could almost see the gentle smile on her mother's lips. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, and she began writing again.
Nursery furniture when I choose my nursery. I should order it soon, for I want it to be very beautiful. My baby linen is ready, but I would like to make a few more things.
Black bombazine for simple gowns. My servants need mourning wear too.
Drawing tools for learning drawing.
Books. I shall purchase my own copy of Miss Tavington's novel tomorrow. Then I would like to read a book about a famous woman or about Africa. I wonder if there is a book about Africa with coloured pictures.
A Telescope. Or would it be useless because London skies are so smoky? I can write to Mr. Herschel and ask him to make me one. I can write to anyone I like.
More black silk thread for my workbasket.The cook wished to speak to her then, and distracted her from list-making. Letty had approved menus before, but had never actually ordered a meal conceived of by herself. She felt a little nervous, but tried to make the cook understand that when she and Miss James would be dining alone, she would like simple meals. The cook, trained in Lord Fanshawe's kitchens, and Letty, once lucky to dine off boiled greens and sidemeat, had very different ideas of what "simple" meant. Eventually, they met rather in the middle, and Letty had to be satisfied that such dinners would be of one course only, and perhaps only five or six dishes on the table—though always beginning with soup, and finishing with pudding. She had thought of having them served in the breakfast room, but the cook's expression was such that she dropped that idea hurriedly. She was still the Viscountess Fanshawe, and had a certain position to maintain. Besides, she did understand that what she did not eat constituted the servants' dinner, and she did not want them to think that she meant to stint their meals. She set about making a list of favorite dishes that she would encourage the cook to serve often.
They did not go out again that day, but they had one visitor. Bellini arrived, and was admitted (after some chaffering) by Dunner, who thought her ladyship too tired for guests. Letty decided she needed to make yet another list: a list of those people who must always be admitted: Bellini, her sister, the Colonel—all the Tavingtons and the Protheroes, she supposed, since they were very nice to her.
After that would be the list of those to be admitted at certain times and on certain days—and then the list of those to whom she would never be at home. The Prince of Wales, who had written her that horrid, silly letter, would be at the top of that one. Her sister might have to be polite to him, because of the Colonel's profession, but Letty saw no reason why she herself needed to put up with him. She would have to present Harmonia at Court, next year, but that was the Queen's business, not the Prince's. She had no reason to have anyone in her own house that she did not like.
But Bellini was a true friend, and as such, would never be turned from her door.
"Oh, Mr. Bellini! I am so glad you have come!"
She was very glad. Harmonia came down, happy to have a visitor, too; and Bellini was given a tour of the public rooms of the new house. Since he was there, and disengaged for the rest of the day, the drawing room was opened and there was a long and pleasant session of music-making and singing, of talking in English and Italian, and much admiration of Lord Fanshawe's portrait and the other fine pictures in the house. Letty mentioned her desire for more pictures.
"There is Sir Joshua, true," agreed Bellini. "But also the wonderful Angelica Kauffmann. She is a splendid artist and a charming woman. If it would please you, I shall ask her to call upon you."
"A lady painter?" Letty asked. "Oh, yes! I remember Lord Fanshawe mentioning her. I should like to know a lady painter very much. Perhaps she could recommend a good teacher of drawing, also. I should like to learn it."
That raised the whole question of lessons in general. Harmonia, when applied to, swallowed hard, and then agreed that she would practice faithfully if a harp were to be purchased. She had thought about it herself. Men always liked the harp best. Harmonia could sing, but she knew Lady Fanshawe would always overshadow her in that accomplishment. She could not play the spinet as well as Mrs. Tavington, who would be often present. Playing the harp well offered the best opportunity to excel in this household, and Harmonia wanted very much to distinguish herself at something.
After Bellini had gone, Letty pursued her ideas further. "And would you like more drawing lessons? You draw very well already, Harmonia."
"I suppose—yes—I would like it. What I would really like is to learn to paint on ivory, Lady Fanshawe. It is more interesting to work in color. Of course, you must learn to draw with pencil when beginning, but I think I am ready to do more. Yes! I would like that. When I was at school the master was beginning to teach me how to take a likeness. I would like to do that again." She found herself growing more excited at the idea.
Letty was very pleased with her, and as a reward, said, "I know you miss your friends from school, Harmonia. Why don't you write a note, telling them that you will visit on Friday?"
-----
Emily had agreed to stay with the Tavingtons until the matter of the King's documents was settled. It should not be much longer, and the visit had been projected to last at least a month, anyway. The Tavington ladies visited the house John had taken in Berkeley Square, and saw what was being done with it. John had got it at a good price, since the last tenant had been a foreign diplomat who had held some entertainments there that had somewhat damaged the place. Freshly painted and plastered, it was a very attractive dwelling. John had allowed Emily to suit her fancy. Jane liked the house very much, especially the dining room. Emily had been very inventive with the decoration there. Instead of plain paint or silk covering the walls, they were adorned with designs of trailing vines and flowers. The room that John would use as his study also captured her imagination.
"Oh! An octagonal room! How interesting! I like the way the bookcases are set into the walls there."
She also admired the nursery. Instead of the usual plain arrangements, the walls here were painted as well, with strange trees and exotic birds and monkeys sporting on the branches. It must have been quite expensive, Jane thought, but she knew that John would indulge Emily and Fanny. And it was very, very bright and pretty.
"What a darling little bed!" Penelope cried. "Oh, look, Caro, how charmingly it is painted. Fanny will be so delighted. I wish we had brought her!"
Emily smiled. "She will see it when the house is perfect, on the day that John and I are married and we come here to live."
Jane squeezed her hand. "That will be a happy day indeed, though we shall all be sorry you do not live with us!"
In the drawing room, Caroline noticed the empty wall above the chimneypiece. "Do you plan to buy some pictures, Emily?"
Emily blushed. "Oh, yes! Sir John has contracted—well, as soon as we are married, he wishes us to be painted together—all three of us!"
This news was greeted with enthusiasm. Jane thought what a sweet picture of family affection the three of them would make. John was a model stepfather, Jane thought. Little Fanny would find a true father in him.
She shoved aside the little green flicker of jealousy she felt sometimes when she thought about the marriage. As it stood now, her own William Francis would someday inherit Wargrave Hall and all its income. If however, Emily were to bear John a son, William Francis would be just another son of a younger son. It was so difficult to be honorable about it. She tried very hard to repress the hope that Emily and John would have no children—or at least no sons. Then she tried harder, and put the matter from her mind altogether. There were better, more unobjectionable things to think about.
Tavington's book first appeared in the bookshops three days before the great vote in the House of Commons. A slender volume, bound in green. The first printing sold out quickly, since many wanted to hear the confessions of a man with such a brutal reputation. Tavington's unflinching description of combat placated those readers—though the Whigs would have preferred more tales of British atrocities. Instead, Tavington gave the world the tale of the rebel Benjamin Martin: his sordid past as the mutilator of French and Indian prisoners; the mayhem he and his savage tomahawk committed on brave British soldiers; his comeuppance during a vicious attack on a group of women—a group which included Tavington's wife. Described in such a way, his fate at Tavington's hands seemed divine justice.
There were other dark chapters. The hideous aftermath of King's Mountain, where Ferguson and his American Volunteers had been massacred by rebel militia, made gruesome reading. And then there was the story of one of Rawdon's Negro spies, tortured and beheaded --and the head put on display in a swamp.
His style was judged sound, and the matter interesting. The lighter anecdotes amused the readers: the plight of the dispossessed troops stirred their compassion. The day the book came out, the Tavingtons hosted a dinner party to mark the event.
It was a particularly pleasant party. Tavington made a point of inviting Rawdon and Tarleton, his special comrades from the days in the Carolinas. St. Leger and Tazewell and his wife were to come, along with others of Tavington's military set. A few literary types would come too: his—and Caroline's-- publisher Tregallon, of course; Mrs. Montagu and a few more of her Bluestockings. Tavington agreed to invite John's friend Pitt, Whig or not. If the current government fell, Pitt was likely to be in the Cabinet, and Tavington's hopes for his soldiers would come to naught without sympathetic Ministers.
Letty begged to be excused, since she felt uneasy at the idea of so much talk about the Carolinas in the presence of Lord Rawdon and Banastre Tarleton, who had known her when she was neither a lady nor free. Harmonia moped, but Letty told her firmly that even if she had been out, Letty would not want to expose her to the flirting of a man like Tarleton, who lived in sin with another man's wife.
"He's charming and immoral, Harmonia," Letty declared. "That's a very dangerous combination. And he's a gamester and a spendthrift to boot."
"Yes!" Harmonia agreed. "I have seen him at the bookshop. I think he is very handsome in a boyish way. It is hard to believe some of the stories the Colonel tells of him."
"They are all paler than reality," Letty said repressively. She was the closest thing to a real guardian Harmonia had, and Letty did not intend her charge to be tricked and disgraced by a rapscallion like Banastre Tarleton. Harmonia's future fortune was not to enough to tempt him—or at least not enough for him to have honourable intentions. Letty knew too well from her days as a slave what it was like to have men single a girl out as prey.
At Jane's dinner, the absence of the lovely Lady Fanshawe was noted and deplored.
"I hope she does not intend to eschew all company while she is in mourning," Banastre Tarleton said. "That would be positively cruel!"
Tavington winced. He hoped Jane had not heard. Futile hope. Jane looked up quickly, eyes narrowed with anger.
"You know—" Jane began, "when men speak of the cruelty of women, it always makes me laugh—"
Tavington tried to catch her eye, desperately hoping she would not say something unforgivable. She saw him looking, and stopped. Then she smiled, very saucily. There was a ripple of rueful chuckles from the men at the table. Tavington sighed with relief, and smiled back at Jane.
Perhaps neither of us is entirely tamed, but together we have rubbed a few of our roughest edges smooth.Lord Rawdon had heard a bit of gossip.
"You remember that ass Torrenham who called you out in January?" he asked Tavington.
"I have some recollection of the incident," replied Tavington, to the amusement of the guests.
"Well, the fellow must have made himself odious elsewhere. I heard at Brook's that he's rusticating in the country after getting himself stabbed! The whole family—mothers, sisters, and all—have decamped with him to Shropshire, no doubt to tend his hurts. There's a man who should learn to pick his quarrels!"
"How right you are," John agreed. A few discreet glances were exchanged. Jane heartily hoped Lord Torrenham would stay in Shropshire until he dropped dead of old age—and that friend of his, too…
"Do you know if Mr. Catesby is traveling with him?" she asked. Rawdon seemed surprised that she knew the name, but Jane told him. "He was Lord Torrenham's second. I understood they were particular friends."
Ban Tarleton answered for him. "Catesby's gone to France, Mrs. Tavington. He had some business there."
"How nice for him."
The celebration was also—somewhat discreetly—in honor of Caroline's efforts. The Stepdaughter had been selling well in the first ten days of its appearance, and had received yet more favorable reviews. Tavington thought Caroline was spending much too much time talking to Tregallon. He wished that Jane had not placed them together at dinner. The man was a reputable publisher, but Tavington did not like the extent of the friendship that was developing there. Penelope's interest in Strakes was more understandable: the man was a scholar and a gentleman; but Tavington was not sure that Tristan Tregallon--who it transpired was the son of the owner of a tin-mine in Cornwall—could actually be described as a gentleman at all.
The talk, of course, was mostly of the war, of the current armistice, and what would become of the colonies if they were left to themselves. Of greatest moment was the expected no-confidence vote in the Commons. That was discussed very cautiously, comments prodding the issue gingerly, since there was a great diversity of political opinion seated about the table. Jane did not want conversation to descend to debate and then to argument.
"I don't suppose your book will change many votes," Pitt commented, "but perhaps it may cause a few men to think what many people have endured as a consequence of the war."
"That's all I can hope for, I suppose," Tavington agreed.
Tarleton laughed, remembering. "And you absolutely had to put in the bit about that silly Mrs. Mackey pulling me off my horse!"
"It was very amusing," John grinned.
"And it shows your kindness and forbearance towards the fair sex," Tazewell added, smiling himself. "Who hasn't had to deal with persistent country women, one way or another? It was a good story. The book is full of them," Tazewell said to Tavington. "A very fine effort. I only skimmed over it, you understand—just got the copy today, and my dear wife—" he nodded at his pretty lady—"managed to get it away from me and spent the afternoon reading."
"I have been enjoying it greatly," Mrs. Tazewell confirmed. "Such an intriguing mix of the comic events of life with the most tragic suffering. What you have endured, Mrs. Tavington! And all those poor faithful women with their husbands! One can only view it with respect."
"It's a face of war that is too little understood or considered," Mrs. Montagu spoke up. "I think it is very important to look at war, not simply as the movements of armed men in the service of political ideas, but also as a powerful force that involves a land and all its people. Even stories like that of one single countrywoman—" she turned to Tarleton "—put a human face on war."
"And Tavington did include your escapade imitating Willie Washington!" Rawdon pointed out.
Tarleton laughed out loud. "The summit of my theatrical career! Yes—I enjoyed reliving that, I confess. I think the whole Southern campaign deserves a book, of course."
"Then I leave it to you, Tarleton," Tavington said. "I didn't see the whole Southern campaign."
"It would be quite a different book, of course. I have quite a few of my notes." He looked up, thinking it over. "Yes! You have quite inspired me, my good friend. I shall write my own history of events. And I shall say what I think! You are too soft on the blunders of our commanders."
Rawdon shook his head. "I'd advise you to be very careful of whose toes you tread upon, Ban. Generals have long memories when they are challenged in print."
"It would be inevitable," Tazewell agreed. "Touch a man's pride, and you could easily be embroiled in public controversy. It's best just to tell the tale and let the readers come to their own conclusions."
"We'll see," Tarleton answered, looking unconvinced. "In the meantime, readers will have been taught to be interested in the subject because of Will Tavington's adventures!"
"I felt sorry for the poor slaves, too," Penelope was saying to Mrs. Montagu. "To be in the middle of a quarrel not their own, but to be in constant danger, all the same. It is so unfair!"
Jane took the opportunity to urge Lord Rawdon to have more pudding. Hearing the English speak about slavery always made her very uncomfortable. She had owned slaves, and lived among slaves and slaveowners all her life until this past year. To see it as it appeared in others' eyes was unpleasantly enlightening. Not that all the English were opposed to the institution. To her dismay, a debate was brewing at her table, and it was not over the war.
"—and slavery leads to every sort of atrocity, like that massacre on the ship Zong." Mrs. Montagu was agreeing with Penelope. Jane's heart sank. Sure enough, Banastre Tarleton, whose family had made a great deal of money in the slave trade, had heard the remark and was taking it up.
"Not a 'massacre,' my dear Mrs. Montagu," he disagreed civilly. "Slaves are property, after all, and not to be considered people. The captain was simply considering the safety of his ship and the rights of the shipowners. An unfortunate affair, but everything was perfectly legal."
Mrs. Montagu drew breath, and with forced calm said, "It is a sorry thing, when the murder by drowning of over a hundred souls is perfectly legal!"
Tavington had heard the exchange, and wondered how soon he could change the conversation. The "Zong Affair" was much in the papers at the moment. An overcrowded slave ship, and a ruthless captain. No doubt such things happened often enough.
"I don't understand," Emily Martingale asked timidly. "Why did Captain Collingwood throw the poor creatures into the sea? Why did he not allow them to die in peace on the deck, if they were sick and starving?"
"For the insurance," Pitt explained, attempting to put what he considered a vile rationale as objectively as possible. "As Tarleton says, the slaves were not considered people in law, but cargo. If they died on deck, the loss would be considered bad cargo management by the insurers, and they would not reimburse the shipowners. However, because they were put over the side, they could be deemed as lost cargo, and thus are covered by the policy."
"I see."
Jane felt it incumbent on her to say something. "It is hard to imagine something of the sort in Carolina. Even though slaves are considered property in law, they are very valuable property, and every attempt is made to take care of them. And they are not simply killed without trial."
"Yes," Rawdon added, trying to help her. "I have seen how loyal the slaves there are to masters who treat them well. Even on the other side! Think of Willie Washington's servant boy, who defended him with a pistol!"
"I shall never forget it!" Tarleton groaned. "Nearly blew my head off at the Cowpens."
"It seems to me," Tavington remarked, wanting to put paid to such a prickly topic, "that Collingwood was not just a heartless man, but a foolish, improvident one, too. The whole thing was badly managed, even from a strictly economic viewpoint. He greedily packed his ship with too many people, and had not thought ahead to provide for their care. I cannot blame the insurers for balking at paying for that kind of stupid cruelty."
Jane thought this a good time to leave the table. She smiled at the ladies, who for the most part seemed glad to withdraw. Near her she heard Mrs. Montagu mutter to Penelope. "At least that vile Collingwood died on the voyage, too. That at least was justice!"
Jane sighed, and began to speak very industriously of The Stepdaughter and its success.
"Oh, yes!" agreed the distracted Mrs. Montagu. "A great success! Will you be at home this Thursday, Mrs. Tavington? Miss Fanny Burney would very much like to make your acquaintance."
"We shall all be at home, and would very much like to see her."
The ladies, at least, had no serious political differences to make conversation hazardous. Copies of both The Stepdaughter and the memoirs were produced, and bits read aloud. Mrs. Tazewell quickly realized that Miss Tavington was the author of the novel that had recently so entertained her, and was made to understand that it was something of a secret.
"But how well you write!" the lady exclaimed. "Do you think you will write another novel? I am sure I would enjoy anything from your pen."
"You are very kind." Caroline smiled. "I confess that I would like to write more. I thought I was done with it, but now I find that I miss the occupation of writing in my room at night."
"Have you the idea for a new plot?' Jane asked.
"Well—I've had a few ideas. Perhaps I could write about a young woman who comes to England from the Colonies, and what a time she has dealing with the natives!"
A burst of laughter. Jane joined in. "Oh! You wouldn't!"
"Don't be too sure—I think it would make a wonderful story—a sort of combination of Evelina and The Expedition of Humphry Clinker! I could call it 'A Natural History of the English People as seen by an American Lady.'"
"Oh!" Penelope considered. "You would have to give it a girl's name, like Belinda or Clarissa or Evelina or Pamela! What is a good American girl's name, Jane?"
Jane shrugged. "Well, 'Jane' is best, I suppose—"
There was more laughter.
"—but why not call her Carolina?—or Virginia or Georgia—if you don't want to be too explicit."
"What a delightful idea," Mrs. Montagu agreed. "And so very timely. It would be an opportunity for so many observations about society and the oddities of people and their customs!"
"But she cannot be married," Caroline considered. "She must be a young maiden, come to live with relations in England after the death of her father." Her face brightened. "I shall speak to Mr. Tregallon about this!"
That particular gentleman came soon, and was quickly engrossed in conversation with Caroline. The rest of the gentlemen trailed in, rather merry from their wine. Tavington joined Jane, and frowned when he saw his sister and Tregallon in animated discussion.
"Perhaps you could ask the ladies for music, Jane," he said in an undertone. "Ask Caroline right away. I don't like to see her carrying on with Tregallon!"
"She has just had the idea for a new novel. Of course she is excited about it."
"All the same, it looks likes she's flirting with him. It won't do for her to be seen acting so."
"But I thought you liked him!" Jane said in exasperation. "You like him, and I like him, and if Caroline likes him, what harm can it do?"
"I do like him, " Tavington said, rather defensively. "That does not mean I think him a proper match for Miss Tavington, the daughter of a baronet and the granddaughter of an earl! He's not even the eldest son. He used his family inheritance to come to London and set up in business as a bookbinder and printer. He's a widower, Jane, and he has three children!"
"Marry him?" Jane echoed in disbelief. "I don't think that is on her mind at all, unless you put it there. She wants to talk about writing with her publisher." Mischievously, she pointed out, "Caroline loves children. She loves books and literary evenings and good talk, and he is a pleasant man. If she likes him, the best thing to do is not to make a fuss, but to accept it all with good breeding. I cannot believe it will come to anything, really. Caroline is very happy here, and does not appear to be pining after Mr. Tregallon the way Penelope is over Mr. Strakes!"
There was music, and more talk, and more admiration for Tavington's memoirs.
And early the following day, they received a note from the palace, requiring their presence to discuss matters 'of mutual importance.'
Next: Honours and Appointments
Notes: I am thinking about baby names. It would be fun for me to read your suggestions. As some of you have surmised, if Letty's child is born a girl, she's considering Diana—which would go well with De Vere.
If Moll has a daughter, I think she'll name her after Jane, and the girl would go by 'Jenny.'
If it's a boy, I haven't decided. I don't think they'll name him after his father—and Charles is out, for obvious reasons. Any suggestions will be listened to.
Lucy is expecting a daughter in June. She is considering the name Eleanor, after Protheroe's mother. (And Ned and Nell would be cute nicknames, and in period, for her children)
Jane—beyond the scope of the story—will have at least one other child. They might name a boy John (if John has no sons). Richard is also a Tavington family name. A daughter, however, opens all sorts of possibilities. Jane might choose her name from the standard names of the period (you can consult Jane Austen's and Fanny Burney's works for ideas). The other sources for names would be literary (Shakespeare, predominantly) or Classical (historical or mythological) It's just possible that Jane would have a Medieval fit and come up with the name of some Merovingian queen, but that's not likely. The name will certainly not be a fashionable moniker from the 20th or 21st centuries. Almost certainly not Celtic, for while the Ossian poems were in vogue, the families involved were not of Celtic descent and would find such names very odd. She would also never consider giving a girl a boy's name.
Some of the names under consideration include Juliet, Aurora, Belinda, Isabel, Olivia, Rosalind, Cassandra, Helena, and Portia.