Authors: A London Season
Jane did not have the kind of personality that appealed to everyone. The more frivolous members of the dandy set melted away before the scornful look in her eyes, and there were some who found her obvious boredom with most of London's famous Season rather daunting. But several of the town's most desirable men were very interested in this slight, proud young girl with the extraordinary blue-green eyes.
Jane, to the intense irritation of her uncle, developed a definite partiality for the company of the Earl of Bocking. They shared an interest in horses; the Earl did not have a racing stable of his own, but he spent many hours at Newmarket, Epsom, Cheltenham, and other race courses around the country. He was an inveterate gambler and delighted in picking Jane's brain about what horses she thought would be worth watching at upcoming meets.
Lord Bocking also was a great art collector. Jane had been invited to view his collection of Roman marbles and Italian masters. “A fellow I knew in Rome sent me all these things before Napoleon moved in,” he told Jane. “What do you think of this da Vinci, eh?"
Lastly, they shared a similar sense of humor and a similar intolerance for the frantic pursuit of pleasure that was the chief hallmark of Regency society. “Most of these people,” Jane said scornfully to Lord Bocking, “tinkle, they are so empty. Nothing matters to them except the cut of a coat or the way a neckcloth is tied. And the women are just as bad. Who danced with whom and how many times is all they worry about."
Lord Bocking was a great comfort to Jane, so she couldn't quite understand Anne's reasoning when she remonstrated with Jane for spending so much time with him. “He is perfectly respectable, Anne,” she said in a genuinely puzzled voice. “I like him. Why shouldn't I spend time talking with him?"
"I agree with you that he is perfectly respectable, if a little odd,” Anne responded. “But he is sixty-two years old, Jane! You sat out two dances at Lady Cowper's ball the other night talking to him. And you let him take you in to supper! What about all the
young
men who want to talk to you?"
"They aren't as interesting,” Jane said simply, leaving Anne almost at the point of grinding her teeth.
The Marquis had thrown up his hands in despair when Anne related this conversation to him. “She is impossible,” he said. “All of London—or at least an impressive part of it—is ready to fall at her feet and what does she do? She spends her time hobnobbing with an eccentric old man who could be her grandfather, for God's sake."
"She feels comfortable with him, Edward,” said Anne. “She understands him. She does not understand many of the other people she has met. They live by a code that is foreign to her."
The Marquis rubbed a hand across his forehead. “You mean they enjoy parties and she does not.” He looked at Anne somberly. “Jane is by nature the most unsociable being I have ever met. I've often thought it was my fault. After all, I was responsible for bringing her up. She was probably allowed to be too solitary as a child."
Anne had learned a great deal about Jane in the six months since her marriage. “It isn't your fault, Edward,” she said firmly. “In fact, I think you were the best thing that ever happened to her. You gave her room to breathe. A conventional childhood would have driven her wild."
The Marquis frowned. “What is the matter with her, Anne? Why is she always so difficult?"
"I think, Edward, that Jane is an extraordinarily talented painter.” Anne spoke slowly. “I told you that Mr. Turner was very impressed with her work. He has given her a great deal of time, and I understand that such interest on his part is quite unusual."
"Very few painters look like Jane,” his lordship said cynically.
"That's not it,” Anne replied seriously. “It is her work he is interested in."
"It is good,” his lordship admitted. “That painting she did of the Heathfield stables is as good as anything I've ever seen."
Anne smiled at him affectionately. “You would think any painting of your precious horses was magnificent."
He grinned. “True."
"But to get back to Jane,” she sighed. “She is beginning to rebel about going to all these parties. She hasn't time to work, she says."
"Every other young girl her age is working at getting a husband,” he exploded. “I would have an artistic genius for a niece, who acts as if she never heard of the word."
"Now Edward,” Anne said soothingly. “You know you love Jane. You would hate it if she changed."
"I'm not so sure about that,” he said, his face grim. “I'd live a lot longer, that's for sure."
"Well, I wouldn't despair just yet. She seems like Mr. Wrexham. At any rate, she never looks bored in his company, as she so regrettably does with a great many other of her admirers."
The Marquis raised an eyebrow. “Wrexham, eh? He has a reputation for being a difficult fish to land, Anne."
"Jane is not fishing for
him,"
said Anne primly.
"True. He might even find that intriguing.” He looked thoughtful. “You think she likes him?"
"Apparently. How much she likes him, Edward, is quite another matter, though."
"I know.” He brightened as a thought struck him. “I haven't heard her mention David lately. Surely that is a good sign.” The Marquis had shared his fears with Anne by now.
"One would think so,” she replied in an expressionless tone. In fact, Jane's uncharacteristic reticence about David made her anxious, but she did not want to worry the Marquis.
He mistook her tone. “I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean to tire you out.” Anne was pregnant and feeling it occasionally.
She smiled at him, pleased by the concern in his eyes. “You haven't tired me, my lord,” she answered softly.
"Is Jane too much for you? If she is, just say the word and I'll send her home.” A rueful smile crossed his face. “She'll be only too happy to go."
"Nonsense,” Anne said with a briskness that was contradicted by the tenderness of her mouth. “I am perfectly fine. You are not to worry about me."
He bent to kiss the top of her head. “All right, but let me know if it becomes too much for you. If it does, we can all go home to Heathfield together."
"I hope when we do Jane will be suitably engaged,” said Anne. “We all go to Carlton House tomorrow night for Prinny's reception. Julian Wrexham will be there. Perhaps you could talk to him, Edward, and try to fathom what his feelings are."
"All right,” the Marquis said gloomily, “but I know what Jane will be doing."
Anne laughed. “Of course. She will be looking at the pictures."
Jane was indeed anxious to see Carlton House. The Prince of Wales had refurbished it at enormous expense and it held one of the greatest art collections in Britain. Prinny, as the Prince was called, although not to his face, held no great interest for Jane. She had seen him numerous times at Newmarket, although she had always been too young to be presented to him.
There was a large gathering of people at Carlton House. The Marquis, who did not often frequent governmental circles, was a little perplexed as to why he had been invited on this particular occasion. The rooms were filled with cabinet ministers and ambassadors. His puzzlement cleared, however, when the Prince himself came over to speak to him. “My dear Rayleigh,” said His Royal Highness with all the charm for which he was so justly famous, “I am so glad to see you. You must present your niece to me. I have heard a great deal about her.” He turned to Jane, who was looking as demure as it was possible for her in a dress of white gauze.
The Marquis presented her and she sank into a graceful curtsy. “I have heard you are an art lover, Lady Jane,” said the Prince jovially. “You must let me show you my collection."
Jane did not appear to be at all overcome by this honor. Her eyes, candid and brilliant, met his directly. “I should love that, Your Highness,” she said sincerely and, taking the arm he offered, let him walk her off.
The Marquis turned to find his wife had arrived back at his side accompanied by Julian Wrexham. “I'm not sure I like this,” Anne said a trifle uneasily. “You know what his reputation is."
The Marquis looked amused. “I shouldn't be concerned, my dear. Jane isn't at all his type. She's much too young. And I have every confidence in her ability to control his—er—wayward passions."
Anne need not have worried. Jane and the Prince of Wales were getting along famously, but amour was very far from their minds. The Prince knew quite a lot about the art he had collected and Jane listened to him intently, occasionally asking a pertinent question. They were very pleased with each other when they returned to the main reception room, where they were immediately joined by a group of men who included the Home Secretary and the First Lord of the Treasury. They stood gathered together in front of the marble fireplace, talking and laughing, and the Prince made no move to return Jane to her aunt and uncle. In fact, she appeared to be the center of the conversation.
"I hope she is not telling them about her admiration for pure democracy,” murmured the Marquis.
"Does Lady Jane favor democracy?” asked Mr. Wrexham coolly.
"I'm afraid so. She is very fond of Rousseau, at any rate."
"She sounds well educated."
The Marquis laughed. “You wouldn't say that if you'd seen the way she cheated on her Latin translations."
Mr. Wrexham turned to stare at Jane's uncle. “Latin?” he said incredulously.
"Latin,” the Marquis said mournfully. “Jane never does anything else other young girls do, so why should her education be like theirs? She studied Latin."
"I see.” Wrexham's eyes were on the slight black and white figure so effortlessly dominating the scene by the fireplace and his face was inscrutable. “Lady Jane is, as you say, unique,” he murmured. But whether or not he meant it as a compliment was something the Marquis could not decide.
Tell me daughter Juliet,
How stands your disposition to be married?
—William Shakespeare
Julian Wrexham was a connoisseur of fine things and in Jane he recognized the quality of wife he was looking for. He was not a man to be satisfied by the usual; he wanted a woman of beauty and birth, of course, but she must have a distinction beyond that. There was a look of flawless pride about Jane that had attracted him from the first. It was the right look for the future Countess of Wymondham. Jane would suit a great role in society, which always admired an air of superiority. And she would be a fitting complement to the beauties of Hawkhurst House and Wymondham. The more Mr. Wrexham thought about it, the more he became convinced that this would be the kind of marriage suitable to his cultivated aestheticism.
"The betting in the club is heavily in favor of your making Lady Jane Fitzmaurice an offer before the end of the summer,” Wrexham's friend Mr. Court said one afternoon as they shot billiards at White's.
Julian Wrexham looked up. “Where does your money lie, my dear Court?” he asked pleasantly.
"Oh, you'll make her an offer,” his friend replied. “She is the only girl you have ever seen who was not dying to marry you. The temptation must be irresistible."
Wrexham lined up a shot and made it. “It is, rather,” he murmured.
Mr. Court shook his head ruefully. “She's a beauty, I grant you, but she'll make you a damn uncomfortable wife, Wrexham. Too independent. You'll never be able to count on her doing the expected thing."
Julian Wrexham looked amused. His egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife. “Lady Jane has the distinction of being intelligent,” he said. “It is a quality rare among the young ladies I have met."
"It is not just that,” Mr. Court said soberly and with some insight. “Most girls are brought up to think that a woman's first duty is to please a man. The little Fitzmaurice doesn't think that at all. She had intentions of her own quite apart from any of us. One gets the impression she feels she is meant for more than a woman's usual lot in life. It is what makes her so interesting, but one has to question how desirable that quality would be in one's wife."
Wrexham smiled. “I don't pretend to know what other people are ‘meant for,’ Court. I only know what I can do with them. Lady Jane is the sort of wife who will suit me. She does what no other woman has ever done; she satisfies the imagination."
Mr. Court looked somewhat dubiously at his friend. “She's not a piece of art, Wrexham.” There was a small silence, then he said, “Well, don't ever say I didn't warn you."
"I take due notice of your warning, my dear Court,” Wrexham replied gently. “I take due notice."
The next day Julian Wrexham called at Grosvenor Square to see if Jane wanted to go driving with him. He found only Anne at home; Jane and the Marquis had gone to a luncheon party at Lady Carisbrook's. Civilly, Mr. Wrexham sat down to talk a few minutes with Anne and while he was there Jane and the Marquis returned.
They came into the room, both faces alight with laughter. “How do you do, Mr. Wrexham?” Jane said, sinking gracefully into a gold wing chair. Her voice was breathless with mirth.
"What is so funny?” Anne asked, looking inquiringly at her husband's flushed face.
The Marquis, an uncertain tremor in his voice, began to relate the tale of the luncheon party. It involved a drunken butler, a spastic footman, and Lady Jersey as chief guest. In the middle of Lord Rayleigh's recital, Jane leaped up and began to act out the tableau, all the while keeping up a mercilessly accurate mimicry of Lady Jersey's monologue as catastrophe succeeded catastrophe. Her audience was crying with laughter by the time she had finished.
"Oh Lord,” Mr. Wrexham said when he had gotten his voice back. “How I wish I'd been there."
"It was the best party I've been to in London,” said Jane. “When I think of how Lady Carisbrook looked...."
"Don't, Jane,” Lord Rayleigh begged. “I can't stand it."
Anne wiped streaming eyes. “Poor Sophia Carisbrook. She will never live it down."
"Well I, for one, shall make a point of attending every party she invites me to.” Jane rose. “If you will excuse me now...."