The Westerby Inheritance (22 page)

Lady Jane shot a desperate look at Lord Charles, but he was looking at Mrs. Campford. “As you wish,” he said indifferently. “We have refreshments here. Bella, please offer the ladies a glass of ratafia.”

Bella handed Mrs. and Miss Campford their glasses as if she wished they contained poison. Jane approached Lord Charles and tried to say something to him in a low voice, but he walked away from her and stood looking down at the fire.

Mrs. Campford placed herself strategically in the middle of the room, where she could watch everyone, and remarked insouciantly, “How pretty this room is, my lord, and so
clean
! I declare, your servants must be hard workers. Apart from this woman”—she flashed a smile at Bella, baring all her teeth—“I do not seem to be aware of any other servants…?”

“Day off,” said Lord Charles, kicking a log in the fire savagely with his boot.

“
All
at once!” exclaimed Mrs. Campford. “How odd! Were it not for the presence—or rather the
late
presence—of your aunt, one would think this place perfectly arranged for an assignation.”

“You forget I’m here,” put in Bella stoutly.

“You just dropped in, as it were, and good servants should be seen and not heard, woman.”

“Let me put this straight,” said Jane in a chilly voice. “You are hinting that I came here with Lord Charles Welbourne for immoral purposes.”

“Never!” cried Mrs. Campford. “Oh, forgive me if anything I have said should give you such an impression. Mrs. Wortley is all the chaperon that is necessary. Ah, my wicked tongue. How I do run on! There! I declare I have given you a disgust of me!”

“Yes,” said Jane moodily.

“La! How you do fun! I am quite ready to leave, my lord, and as soon as we are in London, I shall put your mind at rest over the condition of poor Mrs. Wortley!”

On the journey back to town, Mrs. Campford gave her present prey a respite and entertained the company with several anecdotes of the London
ton
, amazing in their spite and horrifying in their malice.

Jane’s heart sank lower and lower. Lord Charles suggested that Lady Jane and Bella be escorted home first, but Jane stood firm. She decided that if Lord Charles was going to lose his reputation over the nonexistence of his aunt, then she would stand by him. She accordingly said that she was dying to meet his aunt as well, and Lord Charles thought she was suddenly hell-bent on ruining her reputation and loved her and hated her the more.

By the time the carriage stopped in Hessel Street, Jane was pale but brave, Bella sad and apprehensive, Lord Charles cursing the whole race of women, and Mrs. Campford and her daughter strung up like war horses before the fray.

To do her justice, Mrs. Campford was a very good gossip and went to endless lengths to verify the truth of her malicious stories. It was all the more fun humiliating people when the things you said about them were true.

Mrs. Campford champed at the bit as Anderson let the party into the hall. Before anyone could speak, she cried to him, “Where is
dear
Mrs. Wortley? Take me to her this instant!”

Janes closed her eyes.

“Certainly, madam,” said Anderson.

And opened them wide again in shock and relief.

“Ah, yes,” said Lord Charles smoothly. “Where is my—er—aunt, Anderson? Gone to bed after her journey from Hampstead?”

“No, my lord. Mrs. Wortley is lying on the day bed in the drawing room.”

“Very good, Anderson. I will show the ladies the way.
This
way,
if
you please, Mrs. Campford.”

Mrs. Campford, already feeling the first twinges of disappointment, entered the drawing room.

A great, hulking fat lady with a heavily painted face and enormous powdered wig was reclining on a day bed by the window. She wore a long white flannel nightgown and an enormous white flannel wrapper. On top of her wig was placed a tiny black tricorne such as ladies were beginning to wear on their afternoon promenades. On most ladies Jane had seen, the fashion looked saucy. But it made this lady look for all the world like a hanging judge about to pronounce the death sentence.

“Lady Jane!” cried Mrs. Wortley in a high, strangled voice. “Come and kiss me, my pet.”

Jane, wondering how Mrs. Wortley knew her, tripped forward to kiss the old lady on the cheek and found instead that she had been seized in Mrs. Wortley’s strong hands and kissed resoundingly on the mouth.

“And who are these other people?” asked Mrs. Wortley. “You shouldn’t ought to plague me with strangers, Charlie.”

“Ah, but this is no stranger,” said Lord Charles. “Don’t you recognize your old playmate, Mrs. Campford?”

“How are you, Mary?” said Mrs. Campford, heartily wishing herself elsewhere. It was all too respectable for words. “I hear you were took ill at Hampstead.”

“Course I was,” said Mrs. Wortley. “I’m better now. It’s my spleen. East wind affects it something awful. I never thought to see you again, Creepy Crawly—that’s what we used to call her, Charles, always sneaking and gossiping, and she hasn’t changed.”

Mrs. Campford turned a dull red. “You are the one who has changed, Mary,” she countered shrilly. “You used to be such a pretty little
delicate
thing. Now you’re as delicate as a
whale.
”

“I’d rather look like a whale than a horse. That your gal? Ugly little thing, ain’t she?”

Mrs. Campford decided to retreat. She took her daughter firmly by the arm and marched her out of the room, looking neither to right nor left. She would not be able to gossip about any of this without making herself look like a fool. She would need to forget about the whole thing.

But there were two angry spots of color burning on her cheeks as her carriage drove away. She had never liked Mary Wortley anyway, but who would have thought she would have grown into such an enormous, ugly old woman!

After Mrs. Campford had left, Jane looked curiously at Lord Charles. He simply bowed and offered to escort her home, as his aunt was tired.

Then Jane realized he could not explain the strange collusion of his aunt in front of Bella. He must have sent a letter to his aunt, asking her to help with the deception. But what an unconventional old lady she must be, to play such a role and not ask any questions or voice any censure.

Jane dropped Mrs. Wortley a curtsy and said she hoped the old lady would soon be recovered to perfect health.

“Why, I declare, I am restored already by the sight of your sweet face,” said Mrs. Wortley heartily. “Come and kiss me good-bye.”

“No,” said Lord Charles gently. “I think not. You may have some infection, and I would not like Lady Jane to contract anything. I shall escort Lady Jane and her maid home, and then I shall return and
give you your medicine.
”

Jane hoped that Lord Charles would ask to see her alone so that he could explain about his aunt, but he refused to enter the house in Huggets Square and drove off. He had not said anything about seeing her again.

Lord Charles strode into his drawing room and glared at his aunt.

“I ought to run you through, you old lecher,” he snapped. “‘Come and kiss me!’ Faugh! You made the most of it!”

Mrs. Wortley tossed her hat and wig into the corner and began to scrub the heavy paint from her face with a towel. Then she divested herself of her voluminous nightclothes to reveal a very elegant suit of brocaded satin. Sir Anthony Blake was himself again!

“Had to get something for my pains,” said Sir Anthony unrepentantly. “Is it any use asking why you send me a letter asking me to masquerade as your aunt because Mrs. Campford is on the warpath and I’m to lay up and say I was in Hampstead but went home on account o’ poor health?”

“No.”

“Thought not. By Jove, that Lovelace girl is a fine filly. Her lips taste just like—Zounds! Put up your sword! I shall not mention her name again, on my honor. But I felt like exacting
some
payment for my services. Come, my friend, ’tis not like you to be always so black-visaged. What’s amiss?”

Lord Charles gave a reluctant smile, the anger dying out of his face. “I think the weather has addled my wits, Anthony. Let’s to the play this evening and forget our troubles. I do not wish to stay for the farce, however. I have been living in one this past few days!”

Lady Jane lived in a mixture of fear and elation, waiting to hear from Lord Charles again. But as she set out for Vauxhall Gardens the following evening, that revengeful gentleman had been strangely silent.

The downpour had ceased late on the previous evening, as a warm, drying gale swept over London, roaring in the chimneys and sending slates hurtling down from the roofs.

By midday on Saturday, the high winds had departed, leaving London spread out to dry under a blazing sun and cloudless sky. Hetty had been all set to accompany Jane to Vauxhall, but a letter had arrived from the Marquess, a very disturbing letter indeed. He wrote in an insanely cheerful manner that divine retribution had finally overtaken him. He had succumbed to the lusts of the flesh, and, since he considered himself unfit for this world, he was preparing himself for the next and felt quite excited and happy as he considered the great step he was about to take. He was sure Hetty and Jane would be happy for him and would pray for his soul. He then went on to describe the building of the east wing in quite a sane manner, and to say that Farmer Mannering’s prize pig was in farrow.

“Odds bodikins!” exclaimed Hetty, reduced to antique oaths by sheer exasperation. “What has your pa been about? Farmer Mannering’s sow, indeed! It’s what else around Westerby that’s in farrow that interests me. Who do you think it was, Jane? That slut Peabody—you know the one—Bessie?”

Jane blushed. “Perhaps he had not been philandering, Hetty, but considers something quite innocent to be a crime of the flesh.”

Hetty snorted. “Well, he says all this stuff about preparing himself for the next world. I don’t like it. I’m agoing to Westerby drecktly.”

“Of course, Hetty,” said Jane warmly, “and I shall accompany you.”

“No,” said Hetty. “I would rather deal with this alone. You stay with my gels, Jane. Miss Armitage can look after ’em while you’re at Vauxhall, and Bella can accompany you. And why not choose one of your
other
gallants—other than Welbourne, that is?”

Jane flushed slightly but said, “Of course. Which one shall it be?”

“Lud!” exclaimed Hetty. “Any of ’em. What about young Felix Beaton?”

Sir Felix Beaton was a small, neat young gentleman who had to date been the most persistent caller.

“Oh, very well,” sighed Jane. “I suppose he will do as well as any of them.”

And so it was that Hetty went to Eppington Chase and Jane and Bella and Sir Felix took a pleasure barge to Vauxhall as the sun burned down low on the Thames, turning the water to blood. Jane was not overly worried about her father. She put his odd letter down to his strange humor. She firmly believed that when Hetty arrived, the Marquess would be cheerfully quoting the Bible and would have forgotten whatever it was that had caused him to think he had sinned.

Sir Felix’s neat little features were composed in a look of fashionable adoration. He did not really have much interest in anyone or anything outside himself, but he considered it fashionable to be struck by Cupid’s arrow, and Jane’s very lack of interest in him made her, in his eyes, a safe lady to worship.

He thought her a very restful girl, not given to being coy or missish. He would have been amazed had he been able to sense one-tenth of the boiling, burning, yearning feelings in Jane’s breast.

Her longing for Lord Charles was now like a sickness. She was afraid that the next time he made an assignation with her, she would be unable to resist him, that he would know how much she loved him.

Almost the first person Jane saw when she alighted from the barge was Mr. Braintree. He was talking to a knot of elderly fops who seemed to be competing for the interest of a slender, pimply youth. He turned as she came along the walk and gave her a lizardlike look of venom. He whispered something to his cronies, who turned and stared insolently at Jane and then sniggered awfully.

Then, as Sir Felix led Jane under the hundreds of lanterns strung through the trees to their box, she saw Mrs. Bentley and Fanny. Jane had sent a note round to Mrs. Bentley that morning, informing that lady of Philadelphia’s forthcoming visit. She wondered if Mrs. Bentley had received it. Then Mrs. Bentley looked across and saw Jane. Her face was tight with fury. Yes, she had received it!

Bella stood behind Jane’s chair, as she had stood behind Lady Comfrey’s for so many years. She turned over the events of the day before in her mind. What an exhausting journey she had given herself, going all that way to Hampstead. All to find out that his lordship had had his aunt with him all the time. Perhaps Lord Charles was not so black as he had been painted, and he was still one of London’s most eligible bachelors, after all. The Marchioness of Westerby was all very well in her way, thought Bella. But she wasn’t the right person to chaperon such a young and innocent girl as Lady Jane, whereas she, Bella was. Bella adored playing the roll of chaperon and relished bragging about it to her friends among the upper servants of the mansion on Huggets Square.

Jane’s mind seemed to be composed of layers of problems. Was Miss Armitage a good governess? Was the Duchess of Ruthfords a good influence? Coarseness was acceptable in a duchess, but not in two budding debutantes whose manners were vulgar in the extreme. Betty’s were not so noticeable, because she was quiet and reserved, but Sally had all the ebullience and spirit of her mother and obviously missed her old country freedom. And what was there about Eppington Chase which created this passionate sense of ownership?

There had been Lovelaces there back in the mists of antiquity. But they had all seemed to have a passion for building, until the family first ran out of money in the reign of the Stuarts, and so house after house had been pulled down and rebuilt. It was rumored to be on the site of an old Saxon monastery, and perhaps it was haunted by the ghosts of the monks, who thought the Lovelaces had desecrated hallowed ground. The Jacobean structure, with its great gloomy hall and ugly leaded windows, did not seem capable of arousing admiration in the cultured breast.