The Westerby Inheritance (3 page)

“He is a child!” thought Jane despairingly. “Hetty is all very well, but she cares nothing for appearances.”

As if to confirm her thoughts, Hetty produced that instrument which is euphemistically called a back-scratcher and is in reality for scratching your head without disarraying the hairdresser’s art, and applied it vigorously.

They were approaching Hoggs Bridge. Not very far to go now.

The bare branches of the trees glimmered with a dusting of snow and rattled mournfully in the rising wind. It seemed as if spring would never come. For months now, winter had held the land frozen in a steely grip, freezing hopes and ambitions and youth in Jane’s immature breast.

The carriage swung round between mossy gateposts crowned with their stone griffins, and bowled up the drive bordered with conifers and laurels. Eppington Chase had a handsome Corinthian portico and a new wing of spacious rooms and galleries tacked onto the original Jacobean structure. They had been added by the Marquess of Westerby in his heyday, when he still possessed money, his beautiful, domineering first wife, and a fine collection of Italian pictures and statuary collected on the Grand Tour.

It was into this new wing that the Westerby party was ushered. The main saloon on the first floor, which Jane remembered as being an enchanting place full of marble statues and
objets d’art
, had been changed completely. Mrs. Bentley had fallen prey to the current rage for chinoiserie. Everything in the apartment was Chinese—frames of glasses, chairs, and tables. The walls were covered in Chinese paper filled with figures of little Oriental people endlessly marching over bridges with no beginning and no end.

A wit of the time had suggested that a prudent nation should prohibit such wallpaper, if only for the sake of pregnant women, for, as everyone knew, if a woman looked at any sort of picture long enough, her child would be born in that image. And although Mrs. Bentley’s penchant for the Oriental had been of recent date, one would think, looking at her daughters, that it must have always been there, somehow.

Fanny, the eldest Bentley girl, was twenty years of age, and the delicate prettiness of her looks was marred by an unfortunate yellowish complexion. Since, however, she wore a great deal of white lead on her face, it was not often noticeable, and several London gallants had been known to compare her to a Dresden shepherdess, unaware that, without her white paint and corsets, Fanny, in the bedchamber, looked more like a small Buddha. The fact that she was not yet married was a source of wonder to all and to Fanny herself. Even her devoted gallants would be hard put to it to explain why they would never consider marriage, although Fanny was well dowered.

Frederica was five years younger and although her skin was fair, her eyes were small and narrow, giving her an unappealing look of Oriental cunning. It was all very strange, for both girls were completely unlike their parents.

Mrs. Bentley was a fine-looking woman. Her face, under its towering wig—delicately dusted with blue powder and supporting a miniature galleon under full sail—was smooth and unwrinkled. Her eyes were wide and brown, and her small mouth was perpetually curved in a little smile, like the smile one sees on Greek statues.

Mr. Bentley was very tall and thin and prodigiously elegant in his dress, but there was always the suggestion of the gawky clerk about him. He had a habitual stoop, and his bony wrists always seemed to protrude noticeably from the lace at his cuffs. He was wearing his own hair, powdered and confined with a black silk ribbon at the neck. His eyes were pale and watchful and guarded, as if he felt himself surrounded by enemies—which, perhaps, he was, having fleeced most of the young blades of London at cards.

“All in pink!” drawled Mrs. Bentley by way of greeting. “I recognize your handiwork, Jane. Quite good. Perhaps I shall give you some of the girls’ sewing. I am sure you are sore in need of pin money. Pray be seated, Lady Hetty, and tell me how you go on.”

“Very well,” said Hetty carelessly, digging at her scalp with the back-scratcher and sending a little cloud of powder flying up into the scented air. She plumped down on a sofa in front of the fire. “I’m froze,” she remarked to all and sundry. “Have you got any caudle?”

“You may have a glass of ratafia,” said Mrs. Bentley in repressive tones.

“Ratafia! In this weather?” laughed Hetty. “Something stronger to warm my bones. Here, fellow—brandy, I think.”

The footman she had addressed cast a cautious look toward his mistress. Mrs. Bentley gave a small nod. The Marquess of Westerby watched the footman leave the room and then turned to Mr. Bentley.

“Have you pensioned off
all
the old servants?” he asked.

“Not pensioned off, dear coz,” corrected James Bentley. “Simply dismissed.”

“Gads ’oonds! Why?” demanded the Marquess testily.

James Bentley gave him a pale, considering look and then replied, “Because old servants become too familiar. I like deference, obedience. They are not
my
family servants, after all.”

Fanny, the eldest Bentley daughter, gave an irritating titter, and Jane glared at her.

“Our little Jane,” cooed Fanny. “You look very well, remarkable in fact, considering your straitened circumstances. La! Don’t it feel sad, Jane, not to be able to go to London? We was there during the earthquake last year, and it was tremendous fun. We sat out in the parks all night, playing brag, even Frederica, and we wore earthquake dresses—wool, you know, for wearing out of doors.”

“Why out of doors?” asked Jane.

“So that the buildings should not fall on us, silly.”

“I would have thought it to have been very frightening,” replied Jane.

“Pooh!” Fanny tossed her powdered ringlets. “’Twas nothing, although people were fleeing out of London. Some others expected a volcanic mountain to spring up in Smithfield! And ’Tis said they were laying bets in White’s as to whether it was an earthquake or the powder mills. A parson was quite scandalized and said, ‘I protest, they are such an impious set of people, that I believe, if the last trumpet was to sound, they would bet puppet-show against Judgement!’”

“Talking of parsons,” said Mrs. Bentley, “I believe you gave the living to Mr. Syms.”

“You know I did,” replied the Marquess testily.

“He does not suit me,” said Mr. Bentley, staring at his glass. “Not at all. Proses on too much about the Bible.”

“That is his job, after all,” pointed out the Marquess, gulping down a full glass of brandy.

“His job is to furnish me with an amiable dinner guest,” said James Bentley. “I do not wish to be preached at by one of the inferiors of the parish.”

“That reminds me of a poem,” said Jane icily. She cleared her throat and stared full at Mr. Bentley.

“Except,” she added thoughtfully, “you are not a lord, Mr. Bentley, nor are like to be.”

“The low upbringing and surroundings which you impose upon Jane,” said Mrs. Bentley to the uncaring Marchioness of Westerby, “are becoming apparent in the girl’s behavior. Mr. Syms does not agree with Mr. Bentley, therefore Mr. Syms must go. The Westerbys have no say in the matter. They no longer have any say in anything.”

Hetty’s stomach gave a deep and loud rumble. “I’m starving,” she announced cheerfully, as if the very room were not humming with seething hates and resentments.

“Mr. Syms,” said the Marquess, his voice beginning to shake, “is a gentleman of undoubted character and was handsomely recommended to me.”

Mr. Bentley surveyed the Marquess’s trembling hands and smiled a thin, slow smile. “He was not recommended to
me
,” he said softly.

The Marquess’s hand flew to his sword hilt, and Mrs. Bentley hurriedly stood up. “Your arm, my lord,” she said firmly. “Mr. Bentley, pray escort Lady Hetty. The girls can follow.”

“Don’t, Father,” whispered Jane. “Please don’t.”

The Marquess stared down into the elfin face of his daughter and then shook his head like a horse being tormented by flies. “Very well,” he said under his breath. He allowed Mrs. Bentley to place the tips of her fingers on his arm, and he led her toward the dining room.

The dining room was mercifully lit by few candles, Mrs. Bentley having reserved the evening’s blaze to show off her new chinoiserie in the saloon. In the dining room, however, the customary Bentley parsimony had reasserted itself. The table was meagerly furnished with four scrawny fowls, some athletic gamecock, a few frizzled smelts, and an ancient pike. Unfortunately, peas were served with everything, and Jane writhed in embarrassment as she watched the antics of Hetty and her daughters as they tried to trap the peas with their two-pronged forks. Hetty at last gave up any pretensions to gentility and scooped them up with her knife, as did Sally. But little Betty was too much in awe of Jane and manfully tried to handle the dreadful instrument until one tough pea escaped her stabbings and hit Mrs. Bentley in the eye, whereupon little Betty slid under the table and stayed there for the rest of the meal.

Jane was too preoccupied in worrying over the future of the Syms family to care about her little stepsister. In her mind, Jane killed all the Bentleys. In her mind, she stood at the graveside as the four coffins were being lowered into the ground. Mr. Syms would, of course, perform the burial service, which would be poetic justice indeed. Jane could hear the clatter of the dry earth as it fell on Fanny’s coffin.…

“Jane!” Jane realized she was being addressed by Fanny and nearly fell from her chair. She had, after all, just buried her. “Have you heard of Lord Charles Welbourne?”

“No!” said Jane crossly, pushing her plate away. She felt quite upset. It had been so pleasant having Fanny dead for at least a few moments. She was not anxious to resurrect her.

“Oh, he is splendid,” sighed Fanny, casting languishing eyes to the ceiling. “I wish Papa to try to arrange a marriage.”

“Won’t do,” said her father with a fond smile. “He’s too rich to be bribed by a dowry, and he’s the best card-player in London.”

“Better than you?” asked the Marquess curiously.

“Even than I,” smiled James Bentley. “But I still would like to cross swords with him. I am not of his company. My good wife would not let me visit the hells he frequents.”

“He does not sound like a suitable beau for Fanny,” commented Jane.

“I
like
a rake,” said Fanny with a shrill giggle. “He is montrous handsome, and all the ladies sigh after him.”

“Lord Charles,” said the Marquess, his voice slightly slurred, “is three and thirty and not yet wed. Three and thirty is too old an age to be racketing around the town,” he added with all the pomposity of the drunk.

“Fie!” snickered Fanny. “You are as arrogant as Jane’s godmama.” Fanny then bit her lip and colored up under her paint and exchanged a nervous glance with her mother.

“Godmama?” cried Hetty, giving a discreet belch. “I never heard nothing nohow about Jane having a godmother.”

“Oh, that’s Lady Harriet Comfrey,” slurred the Marquess sleepily. “She is related distantly to the Lovelaces.” Lovelace was the Westerby family name, which was why Jane had the title of Lady Jane Lovelace. The Marquess had been Simon Lovelace before he became the Earl of Castleborough and then Marquess of Westerby. Sally and Betty, his stepchildren, also carried the name of Lovelace, such being the intricate ramifications of the British aristocracy.

“Why have I never heard of her?” cried Jane.

“Oh, she don’t want to know us,” mumbled the Marquess. “Pity! She’s very rich. Tried writing to her last year about you, Jane, but she never replied.”

Fanny let out a little sigh of relief. She had been worried that a Jane Lovelace with a rich godmama might turn out to be her, Fanny’s, rival in the London drawing rooms, and had not wished Jane to be reminded of Lady Comfrey’s existence. But it seemed as if she had nothing to worry about. Lady Comfrey was certainly not going to do anything for Jane.

Jane sat with her head in a whirl. A godmother. And rich! Philadelphia would know what to do. That is, if she could find the opportunity of discussing it with Philadelphia before Mr. Syms lost his living. Philadelphia would surely help her pen the right type of letter. If only this godmother would invite her to London for the Season. Perhaps she, Jane, could find a rich husband. Jane did not think much of her appearance but decided that perhaps an elderly gentleman of means would be prepared to have her.

The Marquess’s eyes were drooping, and a gentle snore from under the table informed Jane that her smaller stepsister had fallen asleep. Sally had been mercifully quiet during the evening but had eaten so much that her eyes were almost popping out of her head. Frederica, the younger Bentley girl, had also been silent, but in a sly, sort of sniggering way which was just as maddening as if she had spoken.

James Bentley rang a small bell on the table. “I shall have the carriage brought round,” he said. “It is beginning to snow and, reluctant as I am to hasten you on your way, I feel obliged to inform you that we have not sufficient rooms prepared to house you all. Redecorating.”

Jane heaved a sigh of relief. Eppington Chase no longer seemed like her home. The chinoiserie had crept into the dining room in the form of hideously carved screens and Buddhas. It would not be such a wrench to leave it this time.

Frigid good-byes were said as the Westerby party arranged their hoops and hairstyles in the carriage. The snow was indeed beginning to fall in dizzying, dancing swirls. By the time they reached their own home, great white sheets were blocking everything from view. The Marquess had fallen asleep and had to be helped from the carriage.

Hetty threw some logs on the parlor fire and proceeded to empty the pannier pockets of her gown, producing a greasy brace of woodcock, a dozen walnuts, ten sugarplums, a box of snuff, and a bottle of port.

“How could you!” cried Jane her face flaming.