Chapter Five
As far as her father knew it, Jemima had been taken home early from the prince’s party because of a headache. The duke had not minded it, as he said that the year before Lord Worther had made a speech that went on for a half hour and would no doubt do so again this year. The fellow talked about his boat as if he were married to it.
Since she was meant to have a headache, Jemima had gone right to her bedchamber and Aggie had brought up a tea tray.
She had curled up in an oversized chair with her tea and gloomily watched the activity on the square.
“As you never sit up when you have a headache,” Aggie said, fussing with Jemima’s hastily abandoned gloves, “I’ll lay bets you don’t have one.”
“I ought to, though,” Jemima said. “If anybody in the world should have a headache just now, it is me.”
Aggie paused. “Ah, but the why of the phantom headache is hanging mysteriously in the air.”
“The why is that the Duke of Barstow is a horrid and insulting creature who ought not be allowed in public. I despise him.”
“And another why hanging in the air.”
Jemima set her tea down and turned in her chair. “It seems the duke has noted several deficiencies about me. It seems I ought not say what I think if I am outside of my own house and I ought not pour lemonade on wretchedly dry cake. Oh, and my laugh is too forward, which I presume means too loud. I can only wonder what he thinks of my hair. Mr. Gamon called that forward, the duke would probably call it ‘screaming like a banshee.’”
“Has he gone and said all that to you?”
“Oh yes, but he did offer to guide me to proper behavior.”
“And here you were, hoping he’d be a bit more fun. He sounds just like Mr. Gamon.”
“Yes! That’s what I thought too, and now you see why I ought to have a headache.”
Aggie nodded sympathetically. “Put it all out of your mind. The duke is simply not the fella for you. What about the other one? The one you thought was fun?”
“Lord Varnay,” Jemima said. “I almost forgot—the duke has warned me off him, all for being a rogue because he didn’t read all the rules of the regatta.”
“I reckon the duke doesn’t know you very well, else he’d know you wouldn’t have read the rules either.”
That did make Jemima laugh. It was a relief to talk to Aggie. Her maid had known her long and she understood her inside and out.
“He even had the gall to condemn Miss Pickering too, though he freely admitted he could say nothing against her.”
“It seems that duke don’t like a lot of people, so you are in good company.”
“It is no matter what he thinks, Aggie, I’ve told Mama that I really must have Bellview Cottage as there is every chance I will become a spinster.”
“Well, it’s something to look forward to,” Aggie said. “If it comes to pass, I was thinking that in really bad weather nobody will venture out to the cottage. We might stay in our robes all day and toast bread on the fire, just like the duke does on Christmas Eve when the servants have the day off.”
“Very good notion, Aggie,” Jemima said, trying not to laugh over the picture of her father attempting to toast bread on the eve of Christmas. It aggravated him every year that the entire household staff must have the day and night off, but Mr. Harkinson had assured him that all the best houses were doing it.
The door opened and the duchess came through. “I thought I would come to check on your headache. Aggie? You may go.”
“Aggie can stay, she knows all about it,” Jemima said.
“Indeed, well I am not sure I know all about it. What happened?”
Aggie busied herself with Jemima’s things so it would not appear as if she were listening, though of course she was listening.
Jemima listed all the duke’s comments, much to her mother’s amazement.
“Are you certain he said all that? In that way?”
“Certain.”
The duchess sighed. “I can hardly believe it of Barstow. What on earth was he thinking to tell a lady what he finds wrong with her?”
“He needed to point it out because he would be pleased to guide me,” Jemima said. “He had a notion of being my mentor, is what he called it.”
“I shudder to think what you said to him in answer to that idea,” the duchess said.
“I said I had lost my thirst and now I will happily lose him and hurried away. Mama, I was so angry I almost cried! You know how I dislike anybody seeing me cry.”
“It is a shame all round. I did have hopes in that direction—he is a fine-looking specimen.”
Jemima did not answer, as that was the one thing she could not dispute. He was a fine-looking specimen. If only his temperament was as engaging as his person! Looking at him nearly stole her breath, thinking about his arms and lips, well…
Of course, all of that was doused with cold water when those lips started talking.
“Gracious, I had always viewed Barstow as steady as a rock.”
“He’s got the liveliness, temperament, and humor of a rock, in any case,” Jemima said.
The duchess was pensive for a moment. Then she said, “I wonder if you have had some miscommunication? Sometimes, a person may say a thing one way and the person hearing it takes it a different way.”
“His words were clear as a clanging bell, Mama.”
“Hm. Time will tell. Now what of tonight? Will you be all right left alone? Your father and I are meant to go to Lord Reston’s card party. It is to be a small affair and he would be put out if we canceled, but I could always write that your headache had turned to fever.”
“I will be quite all right,” Jemima said. “I am rather glad I have nowhere to go this evening and perhaps I will even stay in on the morrow too.”
“I am afraid not, though I would join you at it if I could,” the duchess said. “The morrow brings Lady Thurston’s poetical tableau—a ridiculous evening but the lady has been a friend of your father’s since they were children. We will all go.”
“Well then, I can only hope the horrid duke will not be there,” Jemima said.
“Barstow? No, he never goes.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The butlers had all settled into their respective chairs in the league’s headquarters in Cheapside. Mr. Harkinson shifted uneasily. He was not altogether clear what had occurred at the prince’s party.
He had returned home from the regatta, delighted to be on dry land once more though less delighted at how he had acquitted himself on the barge. He supposed he ought to be grateful he’d not chosen a career in the navy, as he was not cut out for it. If he had sea legs somewhere, they’d not come with him on that diabolically rocking boat.
The family had dressed for the prince’s party and set off, but then returned surprisingly quickly because Lady Jemima had a headache. Mr. Harkinson had been sure that all the unnecessary boat-rocking had caused it.
But then in the servants’ hall, he’d been apprised by Aggie that Lady Jemima had never had a headache at all. It had just been the excuse to get away from the Duke of Barstow.
Who needed to get away from a duke? People were always rushing toward dukes, not going the other direction.
He’d questioned the lady’s maid, but she refused to give out the details. She said they were private between a maid and a mistress. He really did not think anything should be kept private from a butler, but the stubborn lass would not be prevailed upon.
Now, Mr. Browning shook his head sadly. Mr. Harkinson well knew what that head shaking meant. He’d heard something.
“Well, Mr. Browning?” Mr. Wilburn asked. “We can all see you’ve got something to say.”
“Indeed, I do,” Mr. Browning said gravely.
“I was afraid of that,” Mr. Rennington whispered.
“Really?” Mr. Feldstaffer asked. “I was rather expecting it.”
Mr. Harkinson had been afraid and expecting it too. What had Lady Jemima done? He’d heard no news of a fire, so he presumed she’d not burnt Carlton House to the ground. But Mr. Browning’s expression indicated it was something just as bad!
“One of the prince’s footmen at Carlton House is the brother of one of my own footmen,” Mr. Browning said. “He saw it all.”
Saw it all? There had been an all to see?
“Naturally, my footmen could hardly wait to share the information at my servants’ table.”
Mr. Harkinson clutched the sides of his chair. Out with it, Browning! Say it, whatever it was that was “all.”
“Very unfortunate,” Mr. Browning said.
“Come now, Mr. Browning,” Mr. Penny said jovially, “this is all too mysterious.”
“And very terrible, if I have to guess,” Mr. Feldstaffer said.
Mr. Harkinson ignored Mr. Feldstaffer. The fellow was always predicting disasters and things gone wrong. In this case, he was probably right, but still…
Mr. Browning leaned back in his chair, looking oddly satisfied to be the bearer of bad news. “It seems that the Duke of Barstow very kindly offered to mentor Lady Jemima.”
“But that is excellent news!” Mr. Penny said.
“Better news than I was expecting,” Mr. Feldstaffer muttered.
“It does show a real interest,” Mr. Wilburn said.
Where was this going? Where was the disaster in it? Mr. Harkinson could not be sure where the disaster was, but he was sure it was coming.
“Unfortunately,” Mr. Browning said, “the duke’s kind offer caused the lady to have one of her blow-to-the-head outbursts.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Rennington said.
“I knew it,” Mr. Feldstaffer said. “I did say it would be bad.”
“But why?” Mr. Wilburn asked.
“Perhaps the emotion caused by such an honor was simply too much,” Mr. Penny said. “She was overcome by the sentiment, and it caused an outburst.”
By blow-to-the-head outburst, Mr. Harkinson could only presume that Lady Jemima had gone about the party being herself and saying something untoward. Or inappropriate. Or shocking. He did not know why she would have been affronted by the duke’s kind offer, but that was neither here nor there. He was determined to put a good face on it.
“Now gentlemen,” he said, “we cannot fault the lady for it, she is injured. When emotions run too high, it can cause an outburst.”
“I suppose then, in a way,” Mr. Penny said, “this must be cause for celebration. The duke is clearly interested in Lady Jemima, and the lady’s own feelings were overcome. I believe we might congratulate ourselves for our astute matchmaking abilities.”
Mr. Harkinson suppressed a sigh. If there were ever a person who could make sweet wine from sour grapes, it was Mr. Penny. Though, for himself, he did not think eternal optimism was always very helpful.
“But does the duke know of Lady Jemima’s injury and what the true severity of it has been?” Mr. Rennington said. “That seems very important. We wish him to know what she was before the accident—embodying all the feminine graces. I know we’ve put the news of the accident around Town, but can we confirm that both the blow to the head and its symptoms have reached the duke’s ears?”
The six gentlemen considered this idea.
“I know what we ought to do,” Mr. Penny said. “We will simply make certain that the lady’s current state is known to the duke. I will mention it to the grocer who comes to us on Mondays, as I happen to know his very next stop is the duke’s house. That fellow will tell the duke’s cook, who will tell everyone, including that valet. Randolph is the valet’s name. Everybody knows Randolph and the duke are thick as thieves.”
“Ah yes,” Mr. Wilburn said. “I had heard that. Apparently, they’ve been together since the duke was a lad. I cannot approve of such an informal relationship between master and servant, but it may well serve our purpose in this case.”
“Perhaps we should add to the story,” Mr. Browning said, “the fact that Lady Jemima is to be kept very calm. To avoid another outburst.”
Mr. Harkinson nodded eagerly. He had not the first idea whether it would make anything at all better, but it was a lifeline to a drowning man. At least for now, his story of a carriage accident resulting in a blow to the head would hold.
And then, might it not hold forever? After all, could it not be said that Lady Jemima had been made permanently strange by the blow to the head? That she had embodied all the feminine graces before the accident, but sadly those graces had all fled? Permanently? That there was to be no chance of a further recovery?
It was something to hope for, in any case.
The alternative was that he would be exposed as an impostor and a liar and a fraud. It was too terrible to think of.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Though Jemima had claimed she might not mind spending two nights in a row at home, by the time the second night arrived she was glad to be going out. She had done an excellent job talking herself round about the Duke of Barstow and had cheered up immensely.
After all, why should she give a toss for that duke’s opinions? They were not suited and that was that. In any case, there were piles of single gentlemen wandering around London and it was only a matter of time before she’d spy one just as handsome as Barstow.
Perhaps even more handsome, though she could not quite imagine it.
Both her mother and father had been moaning about having to attend Lady Thurston’s poetical tableau, but Jemima looked forward to it. It sounded rather droll.
Apparently, Lady Thurston would have composed some poem or other and then she and her friends would act it out on a raised stage. The entertaining part was in wondering who was to be skewered in the process. It seemed Lady Thurston used her poetry to scold a person she was annoyed with, it usually being her husband.
Lord Thurston, by all reports, put up with it. Or as Jemima’s mother said, “If marriage is a battlefield, one must carefully decide when to send in one’s troops.”
Her father had laughed and said, “That’s right—his battle will last a lifetime and his wife’s awful poetry is only a skirmish.”
Jemima had no idea what any of that was supposed to mean, but she would be delighted to discover what complaints Lady Thurston had composed for this season’s entertainment.
She had hoped that Miss Pickering would attend and they might laugh together over it, but the lady had sent a note saying that her brother had assured her it would be too startling for her nerves.
Though Jemima was disappointed that she would not see Miss Pickering, “too startling for her nerves” did hint at something rather exciting.
They had just gone inside, and Jemima had executed her very low curtsy. Lady Thurston, cloaked in a voluminous velvet pelisse, had been all graciousness. The lady raised her up and pronounced her charming. Then, she’d said, “A surprise awaits you all.”
Jemima took that to mean her poem was surprising, which she was very much hoping was the case. But then, when they entered the ballroom, she was not so sure. The set up of the room itself certainly was surprising.
The space had been transformed into a 2-level theater, with boxes built round a common area that was meant to be the pit, and a curtained stage at one end of it.
There were two rows of boxes and wood steps leading up to the ones situated above the lower. The boxes themselves all housed four red velvet chairs and were fronted by the names of the parties they were assigned to.
Whatever Lady Thurston’s complaints, they could not be about the expense her lord had allowed for the construction of a theater inside her ballroom.
“There’s the sideboard,” her father said, motioning to a very long table at the bottom of the room. “We’d best fortify ourselves with a glass of wine. I always do find it smooths out whatever jarring thing we are to witness.”
The room was filling quickly and they made their way over. Jemima chose a glass of Canary, which was always her favorite.
She felt herself in very good spirits. There was something lively about Lady Thurston’s ideas of entertainment. It was if Jemima fit in better here, rather than the staid environs of Almack’s and Carlton House.
Looking round, all she saw were cheerful faces and she realized that not all the ton were grim-visaged and serious. All of these people had come out to view and appreciate an absurdity. She liked that very much.
Out of the crowd, Lord Varnay suddenly appeared. Of course he would come, he would not miss the fun.
“Your Graces, Lady Jemima,” he said bowing.
“Varnay,” her father said, and none too enthusiastically.
“Lord Varnay,” Jemima said. “I must suppose you have been to Lady Thurston’s tableaus before?”
“I would not miss it,” the lord said. “My friends and I consider it a highlight of the season.”
“I was sorry to hear that Miss Pickering would not attend,” Jemima said.
“Ah, my sister has a very delicate temperament. As her brother, I shield her from anything that might be too stimulating.”
“That is very kind. Though, I will miss her company.”
“I will tell her so at the earliest possible moment and she will be gratified to know it.”
“Have you found your box yet?” Jemima asked. “We have not had a moment to look for our own.”
“Indeed,” Lord Varnay said. “As it happens, I was delighted to discover that my box sits right behind your own. Naturally, I was somewhat less delighted to discover that you have brought a guest.”
“A guest?” Jemima asked.
“You are mistaken, Varnay,” the duke said. He turned to his wife. “He is mistaken, is he not? You did not invite someone to our box?”
“I did not,” the duchess said. “I am afraid you must be mistaken, Lord Varnay.”
With a small smile, Lord Varnay said, “If there has been a mistake made, it is not my own. It is the Duke of Barstow’s.”
Jemima was momentarily frozen. What did he mean?
She searched the boxes. Her eyes landed on the Duke of Barstow, sitting in a box and staring straight ahead. Glumly, as usual.
Squinting, she said, “Mama, that cannot be our box.”
“I cannot see from here.”
“I can assure you, it is your box, Your Grace,” Lord Varnay said.
“Barstow? Well!” her father said cheerfully. “I suppose he wishes to assure himself that you have recovered from your headache, Jemima. Well done. Well done, indeed.”
Well done? There was nothing well done about it. What did the duke mean by crashing into their box? He was not even supposed to be here! Her mother had assured her that he would never come.
Jemima felt a fury rising in her breast. If that man thought he was to deliver another lecture, well, she would ask him to stand and then she would push him over the railing. He could then proceed to lecture the floor he’d landed on.
She was aware of the heat on her face and knew very well from past experience that it would not be a delicate and charming blush. It would appear as if she were ready to go up in flames.
“Ah!” her father cried, “she blushes! Come now, my dear, no time for bashfulness.”
Jemima sometimes wondered at how little her father understood her. She turned to stare at her mother. The duchess shrugged and whispered, “There’s nothing to be done about it. Hold your temper in check, if you please. You can rave about it when we get home.”
“Who’s raving?” the duke asked.
“Nobody, my dear,” the duchess said. “Nobody is raving.”
Lord Varnay looked exceedingly pleased with the whole thing. He bowed and said, “I will leave you now, having relayed the wonderful news that the Duke of Barstow awaits you.”
“Well said, Varnay,” the duke said, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Finally, you talk sense.”
Nobody talked sense at the moment, least of all her father.
Jemima was so angry she wished to stomp her foot or pick up a plate and hurl it at the Duke of Barstow’s head.
She would not, though. As her mother had counseled, she would rave when she got home. She would not allow that duke to see that he had discomposed her.
He was nothing to her, so why should she be discomposed by anything he said?