Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Jillian should have known, the moment she opened her eyes to a pale band of winter light struggling through the curtains, that Fairhaven would never allow so scandalous a scene as the previous afternoon’s forfeit to pass quietly into memory.
She had slept badly, drifting in and out of dreams in which rooms full of people watched her every move, in which mistletoe migrated of its own accord and disembodied aunts’ voices whispered approving commentary.
Worst of all were the moments when she dreamt of stepping toward Miles with far less reluctance than she ought to have felt.
When she finally admitted defeat and rang for hot water, she did so with the resigned awareness that she would be stepping out of her chamber into a house vibrating with speculation.
Fairhaven might be stately, but it possessed all the discretion of a market stall when presented with such a morsel as an unexpected kiss between long-standing adversaries.
Her maid confirmed as much without saying a single improper word.
The girl’s hands fumbled twice with the pins, her eyes darting to Jillian’s reflection with poorly concealed curiosity.
A blush crept into the maid’s cheeks whenever their gazes met, and though she did not ask the question plainly—Did you really…
with Mr. Fairfax… in front of everyone?—Jillian could feel it hovering in every too-brisk movement.
It was enough to know that whatever had happened in the drawing room was no longer confined to the drawing room.
It had seeped into every corner of the house, the gossip bridging the chasm between the classes of master and servant.
By the time Jillian stepped into the corridor, she could hear the difference in tone.
Conversations faltered as she approached, then resumed in voices pitched a fraction too bright.
Guests found sudden, implausible interest in the weather.
A pair of housemaids straightened to adjust a garland that had not required attention in days.
A footman passed with a tray and looked straight ahead with such fixed solemnity it might as well have been painted on.
No one said anything to her directly, but the air felt thick with unspoken commentary, by turns curious, amused or disapproving.
She told herself, as she descended the main staircase, that she would simply endure breakfast with what passed for equanimity, then retreat to the library.
Books did not whisper. They did not make knowing remarks about forfeits or observe that one’s long-standing antipathy toward a certain gentleman appeared much less certain and permanent than it had once seemed.
The library would be safe. She clung to that hope as she turned toward the smaller of the morning parlors to pour a single cup of tea before fleeing to solitude.
The hope died the moment she stepped inside.
Lady Beatrice sat near the hearth, wrapped in a shawl of triumphant violet. Her expression bore the unmistakable satisfaction of a general whose strategy had been vindicated before an appreciative audience. She turned at once when Jillian entered, her face alight.
“There you are, my dear girl,” Beatrice exclaimed, as though Jillian had been missing for weeks. “I was beginning to fear the spirits had carried you off entirely after yesterday’s triumph.”
Jillian made for the tea table with cool deliberation. “Good morning, Aunt Beatrice. The house seems particularly lively today and not at all the purview of spirit activity.”
“The house is jubilant,” Beatrice corrected, flicking her hand to indicate the crackling fire, the windows bright with winter sun, the faint stir outside the door. “One can feel it. Fairhaven has not been so active in years, so bestirred to action!”
“How terribly unfortunate for Fairhaven,” Jillian said, steadying the teapot before her hand could betray her. “I hope it will recover.”
Beatrice leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Pishposh! It has no need to recover, my dear. It will only be inclined to press its advantage. Yesterday was a sign. The spirits are quite fixed upon you and Miles. Firmly, even.”
Jillian added cream to her tea with unnecessary force. Fairhaven was fixed on nothing. Beatrice was the one utterly imprisoned by the notion. “It was a game which ended in a meaningless forfeit. Nothing more. It alters nothing.”
“My dear, that is precisely what people say before everything changes,” Beatrice replied serenely.
Before Jillian could marshal an appropriately scathing response, the door opened again.
Mrs. Hartington entered with Arabella at her side, the former’s expression sharp and composed, the latter’s pinched and wounded.
Both curtsied, though the stiffness of the motion rendered it more a declaration of battle lines than a courtesy.
“Good morning, Lady Beatrice,” Mrs. Hartington said with brittle politeness. “Fairhaven is very animated this morning.”
“So it should be,” Beatrice answered, folding her hands. “It has been wonderfully entertained.”
Mrs. Hartington’s gaze shifted to Jillian. Her smile thinned. “ Lady Jillian.” There was no additional greeting with the acknowledgement.
Jillian turned from the tea table, cup in hand. Their rudeness and obvious discomfiture would only draw attention to any failing on her part, so Jillian determined to behave with all politeness. “Mrs. Hartington. Miss Hartington. I trust you are well.”
Arabella’s fingers tightened around her handkerchief. “I do not think one can be entirely well,” she said, her mouth trembling, “when one finds oneself made… ridiculous.”
Jillian’s brows rose. “Ridiculous?”
Mrs. Hartington’s eyes hardened. “Yesterday’s spectacle with the forfeits has given the entire house something to talk about.
My daughter has been the subject of a great many pitying looks this morning, Lady Jillian.
As everyone knows you have no interest in Mr. Fairfax, and he certainly has no interest in you, those inclined to speculate feel perhaps it was an ungenerous effort on your part to embarrass Arabella…
envy is such an ugly emotion, after all. ”
“Envy?” Beatrice all but crowed.
“Indeed, Lady Beatrice,” Arabella replied. “Envy. After all, I will be embarking upon my first proper season when we go to town. And poor, dear Lady Jillian… is this your fifth, I think?”
“Seventh,” Julian replied, bemused by the kittenish claws. “Though, I think we are not so many years apart in age as that. You are nearly one and twenty, after all…. Unfortunate delayed to your debut withstanding.”
Mrs. Hartington’s face went nearly purple with anger. Her eldest daughter’s scandals had nearly ruined them, after all.
“Regardless, hat is very unfair to Miss Hartington,” Jillian continued smoothly, striving for patience. “No one has any cause to pity her.”
“On the contrary,” Mrs. Hartington said, “she was quite plainly supplanted. In full view of everyone. A more deliberate insult could not have been arranged.”
Jillian set her cup down. “If you are referring to the kiss, I acted only to spare your daughter being placed in an uncomfortable position. Public dares of that sort can be terrible for someone of so…. Delicate sensibilities. I thought it better to divert attention.”
Arabella flushed. “I would not have been uncomfortable at all,” she insisted. “I am perfectly capable of comporting myself with dignity. It is what I have been prepared for.”
“I do not doubt it,” Jillian said, honestly enough. “But you are still very young—in social experience, of course. I am not. If someone must do something foolish, it might as well be the person who is best prepared to weather the storm.”
“You are practically on the shelf,” Arabella agreed, with rather too much eagerness. “It does not signify so very much what people say of you.”
The words struck more deeply than Jillian cared to admit. Her jaw tightened. “Precisely,” she said evenly. “I knew we would agree on something eventually.”
Beatrice made a small sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.
Mrs. Hartington was not amused. “From where I sat,” she said, “it appeared less like noble self-sacrifice and more like a determined effort to put yourself forward. One might almost think you were attempting to secure Mr. Fairfax’s attention in quite a calculated fashion.”
Jillian stared at her. A muscle flickered in her cheek. “If I had ever desired Mr. Fairfax’s attention,” she said, “I assure you, I should have chosen a method that did not involve public humiliation for us both.”
Beatrice clapped her hands together. “Humiliation? Nonsense. The two of you behaved beautifully. It was a lovely sight to behold. There was an air of inevitability about it.”
“Inevitability,” Mrs. Hartington repeated, her lips thinning. “We shall see what is inevitable. Gentlemen can be very easily misled when their names are suddenly linked to a lady’s in such a conspicuous manner. I do not doubt you are very clever, Lady Jillian.”
Jillian’s patience frayed. “I am clever enough to know,” she said, “that Mr. Fairfax is not a stray dog to be whistled to heel by any woman who manages to stand near him at the right moment. Not by me. Not by anyone.”
Her temper showed in the quickness of the words, but she held Mrs. Hartington’s gaze steadily. The older woman colored and drew herself up.
“I am only concerned,” Mrs. Hartington retorted, “that my daughter’s prospects not be damaged by… theatricals.”
“If anyone’s prospects are so fragile that a moment’s foolishness at a parlor game can ruin them entirely,” Jillian replied, “then I suggest they are not worth much to begin with.”
Arabella made a small, wounded sound, and for a heartbeat Jillian regretted the sharpness of her tongue. Then she caught the younger woman’s expression—a twisting mixture of hurt and resentment—and steeled herself. It would do Arabella no kindness to pretend this all meant less than it did.