Chapter 14
Despite Jane and Cassie doing everything to make me as comfortable as possible on the sofa, I had a fitful night, tossing and turning—at once too hot and flinging the blanket off, then shivering with cold and unable to get warm. My ankle throbbed relentlessly, a persistent reminder of Mr Fitzroy and his disastrous visit.
I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, exhausted, only to be plunged into an intense dream where I was running and calling after a gentleman dressed in black. It was to no avail, and he disappeared into a thick fog. Then I looked down, and I was thigh-deep in mud. ‘It’s no use trying to run,’ said a voice. ‘You’re stuck well and good.’ Slowly, I turned and saw Mr Humbleton with a self-satisfied look on his face. He was dressed in nothing but a white shirt, which he started to unbutton ...
I woke in a fright, my armpits sweaty and my throat dry. But although I told myself it was just a dream, it took some time for my heart to calm and stop thudding against my breastbone. I didn’t attempt to sleep again.
When dawn broke, Jane came tiptoeing into the parlour, yawning. She was still in her nightgown with a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.
‘Good morning!’ she sang cheerfully upon seeing I was awake.
‘Morning,’ I replied listlessly. Her eyes flicked over me, but she didn’t press me for details of how I’d slept as it was obvious my answer would be ‘not well’. She silently wet a cloth from a basin of water, wrung it out, and passed it to me so I could wipe my face and neck.
‘After breakfast, I will ready the carriage to take you home,’ she said.
I sighed inwardly. Part of me was hoping I could stay at the Austens’ for the rest of the week and avoid having to cope with Mr Humbleton, but it was not reasonable to expect that.
Just as I’d finished dressing, with Jane supporting me with her arm, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in!’ Jane called out, thinking it was Amy. But Harriet walked into the room, her expression grave. She was wearing her dark-blue riding dress with a matching hat and gloves.
‘Oh, hello! What are you doing here?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Papa sent me in the buggy to collect you. However, I had a lot of trouble with George. He wouldn’t obey me. He’s as stubborn as a mule. He only listens to you.’
I stifled a grin. Good old George. ‘ He does, but barely,’ I said. ‘All right, I’ll drive on the way home. I don’t need my ankle for that.’
She nodded and remembered her manners. ‘Hello, Jane. Thank you so much for looking after Fliss.’
‘It was no trouble at all. Would you care for a cup of tea or ...?’
Harriet shook her head. ‘Thank you, but we should be on our way.’
We proceeded slowly down the stairs and outside, with Harriet and Jane supporting me and Cassie hovering. My ankle felt better than it did yesterday, but it was still too tender to put my entire weight on it.
‘Write to me and let me know how it goes with Mr You-Know-Who,’ Jane whispered as Harriet was untying George’s reins.
I wasn’t sure if she meant Mr Humbleton or Mr Fitzroy, but either way, I now knew after reading her scribblings that she was eager for more anecdotes to further her story.
‘Of course,’ I said, hugging her. ‘You will be the first to hear.’
George was a right royal pain on the journey back, and it took all my powers of concentration to keep him moving along the road. I was tempted to use the whip on him, but from experience, it usually made him play up more .
‘He is worse than usual,’ I said. ‘When my ankle has healed, I’ll take him for a ride. He has been cooped up too long in the stable.’
Harriet didn’t reply, and I glanced at her. She was sitting ramrod straight, staring fixedly into the distance. ‘I have made up my mind. I will marry him,’ she murmured.
‘There’s no need to go to that extreme,’ I scoffed. ‘I’m sure we can find him a willing mare.’
‘Not George—our cousin!’
I stared at her in shock. ‘What?’
Her lips pursed. ‘I will marry Mr Humbleton, if he will have me. I see now that Mr Pringle is delaying because he does not feel that way about me. So there is no reason why I shouldn’t—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Harriet,’ I ground out.
‘But it will secure our home.’ Her voice quivered. ‘And after all, I was his first choice.’
‘Neither of us should be marrying him,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘Poverty isn’t romantic, Fliss. It is frightening. I have no wish to see either of us ... lose our way.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I have been reading a novel that goes into some detail about what happens to girls like that.’
‘Indeed, I assume it did not come from Mr Austen’s library? ’
‘No, cousin Erica sent me her friend’s copy of Fanny Hill , and I have spent the last few days perusing it. It is shocking. Worst of all, there is even a character called Harriet.’ She let out a shrill mirthless laugh, which made George toss his head around.
I shushed him and tightened the reins. I hadn’t read Fanny Hill , but I knew the gist of what it contained since it had been banned. What was Erica thinking sending her that!
‘I doubt Aunt would let us become prostitutes, dearest,’ I said gently. ‘Even if we had to reside with her and live on bread and gruel, it would be better than marrying Mr Humbleton.’
I felt more hopeful on both our behalves. Perhaps we wouldn’t thrive in the future or achieve our wish of marrying for love, but at least we wouldn’t sink to selling our bodies on the street!
***
The next few days were horrible. Papa and I were hardly speaking, which made for tense mealtimes, and Mr Humbleton redoubled his efforts to woo me. I started receiving badly written poems pushed underneath our bedroom door three times a day. In fact, I started being able to tell the time by them .
‘Look, another one,’ I said to Harriet, brandishing his latest artistic effort posted on the dot of seven in the evening. The verses were usually short and to the point and consisted of him trying to rhyme ‘Felicity’ with different words and phrases. So far, there had been ‘will you be’, ‘beautifully’, ‘uncommonly’, ‘you and me’, and ‘dreamily’. But I didn’t find it clever. Instead, it was rather creepy.
Harriet read it and winced. ‘Hardly lyrical,’ she agreed.
After her willingness to sacrifice herself to Mr Humbleton on my behalf, I’d wholeheartedly forgiven her, and we’d formed an alliance against the men in the household. As she said, we were both in the same boat, unprotected and in peril, so we had to stick together. She’d taken to reading me particularly appalling passages in the well-thumbed copy of Fanny Hill , ones that highlighted Fanny’s vulnerability and servitude. So we were in a constant state of mental aggression towards the male sex. It was a good thing that Mr Pringle or Mr Fitzroy did not write or visit during this time as they may have been subjected to our ill temper.
However, a letter for Harriet did duly arrive from Ashbury Manor, but it was not from Mr Pringle. It was from his cousin Rosalind Whiteley, inviting us for afternoon tea two days hence. It was obviously the work of Mr Fitzroy dutifully conveying Harriet’s wish to become better acquainted with the lady.
‘What do you think, Fliss? Is your ankle strong enough?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I can walk quite well now. But we should take the buggy to save our strength ...’ For the ordeal , I added privately.
‘I shall write to her forthwith,’ said Harriet, dimples appearing in her cheeks. ‘What fun!’
Fanny Hill was put away, and Harriet commenced reading a much milder romance while I grappled with an ever-growing pile of poetry. When my cousin had finally taken himself back to Hertfordshire, single and unattached, I would burn them in the back garden and consider myself blessed for escaping his clutches. Until then, I dreaded the sound of folded paper scraping under the door.
It was with a large helping of trepidation, but also a pinch of gratefulness for an escape, that Harriet and I set off to Ashbury Manor in our best day dresses and bonnets. Mr Humbleton offered to drive us over in his carriage, but I knew he’d invite himself to join us, and Rosalind would have no choice but to grudgingly accept. So we evaded him, not directly, but by telling him we were leaving at two o’clock and then leaving ten minutes before he was ready. I felt no guilt. A poem was sure to be posted under my door at seven o’clock with the word ‘miserably’ rhyming with my name, I had no doubt.
The day was fine and clear, and George was behaving himself for once by not pulling at the reins and moving faster than a snail’s pace, so I was enjoying the outing.
As we clopped into the drive that led to Ashbury, Harriet said breathlessly, ‘Do you think the gentlemen will be there?’
She’d voiced the question I’d been wondering myself. ‘No clue,’ I said nonchalantly. ‘Even if they are, it is of no concern to us.’
But the rapid escalation of my heart as we came to a stop in front of the manor said otherwise.
Rosalind greeted us cordially when we were shown in by the footman, enquiring after our health and our journey. But as she swept us efficiently along to her private parlour for tea, I sensed there was an ulterior motive to her invitation. Of Mr Pringle and Mr Fitzroy, there was no sign; the house was strangely silent and bereft of their presence. Had she cleared them out on purpose? I didn’t trust her one jot, and I braced myself for some kind of unpleasantness.
‘You can tidy up over there.’ Rosalind waved a hand to a small alcove that held a coat rack, a mirror, and a shelf with several bottles of scent. Harriet and I obediently shrugged off our pelisses, untied our bonnets, and checked our hair in the mirror. I sniffed the bottles and spritzed some jasmine scent behind my ears. Why not indeed?
Rosalind’s parlour was a lovely room, well appointed for a lady to receive visitors. I particularly liked the flowered meadow wall mural, the twin turquoise-and-gold-striped settees, and the white gossamer curtains, which billowed in the afternoon breeze. I could quite happily spend a lot of time in a room like this. I guessed Harriet could too as I heard her sigh enviously as she looked around.
‘Which tea would you like?’ asked Rosalind. ‘I have congou or lapsang souchong that I brought with me from London or chamomile and mint if you prefer herbal.’
The first two sounded exotic and, as we drank common black tea at home, unfamiliar. ‘Um, mint would be lovely, thank you,’ I said, deciding to play it safe. Harriet murmured that she would have chamomile.
Rosalind pulled on a bell cord and ordered a teapot of boiling water and a ‘selection of petits fours’ when the servant appeared. ‘I have my own cups and saucers here,’ she explained, gesturing to a sideboard where a delicate bone china tea set was laid out.
To my mind, she seemed very settled at Ashbury, having brought a tea set with her. But perhaps that’s what upper-class ladies did when they travelled because they could not trust the quality of teacups in the country?
After the business of pouring the tea and choosing from a plate of petits fours was done, Harriet and I perched on one settee, and Rosalind on the other. I bit into my small iced cake with a sugar rose. It had an apricot filling and was delicious, but tiny. I eyed the rest of the plate and wondered if it would be rude to ask for another, but I didn’t want to appear greedy as Rosalind was having only one. Instead, I concentrated on sipping my tea, which was very good—smooth, piquant, and delightfully ... minty.
‘Well, isn’t this lovely? Thank you both for coming. I was starting to feel quite bored here with no other females to talk to. So when Max told me you wished for a proper introduction, I was delighted.’
She smoothed her turquoise silk dress, which I noticed happened to perfectly match the settee. Perhaps she’d got a batch deal, I thought a touch snidely.
‘It is our pleasure,’ said Harriet politely. ‘I am sorry that we didn’t get a chance to meet at the ball. Your cousin kept me too occupied with dancing. I had very sore feet at the end of the evening.’
Rosalind’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Indeed,’ she said dryly. ‘I shall scold him for that.’
‘Oh no ...’ Harriet began, but Rosalind’s lips curled in the semblance of a smile, and it was apparent she was only joking. My sister sipped her chamomile tea and stayed quiet. Good girl, Harriet , I thought. Keep your feelings for him in check .
The lady turned her attention to me. ‘I do believe congratulations are in order, Felicity,’ she said, smiling and tilting her head.
I stared at her blankly. ‘Pardon?’
‘Your recent engagement? To Mr Humbleton? Ma x mentioned it after his visit the other day. Poor dear, he seemed rather in a state. Apparently, he’d dropped cream sponge on his trousers. Most unfortunate.’
My mouth dropped open slightly. What?
Rosalind glanced at my left hand and tsked. ‘But no ring? Shame on your fiancé for neglecting that!’
I managed to collect my wits before she could continue further in this vein. ‘But I am not engaged, madam. Mr Fitzroy is very much mistaken about what he heard.’
Rosalind looked astonished. ‘Not engaged? But Max told me you were, and he has perfect hearing.’ She looked enquiringly at me, and I fumed.
Oh, this was too bad of him! Why had he said anything to her at all? Had he been in a fit of ill temper when he’d returned?
I tried to speak calmly. ‘What he heard was Mr Humbleton saying he was my intended husband, which does not mean the matter has been settled—far from it.’
Rosalind tilted her head the other way. ‘So it is just a matter of negotiation?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, gritting my teeth.
‘Perhaps we should change the subject,’ murmured Harriet, sensing by my tone that I was becoming upset.
‘Of course,’ said Rosalind, widening her eyes and looking at each of us in mock alarm. ‘Please do have another petit four. They will be discarded if they’re not eaten. Cook makes them fresh each day.’
She proffered the plate, and silently, I took two of the tiny cakes. Popping both of them into my mouth, I chewed angrily, the sugar doing nothing to sweeten me up to Lady Whiteley. Is that why she’d invited us here, to grill me on my supposed engagement? Or to find out how Harriet felt about Mr Pringle? It seemed she’d achieved both goals before we’d even finished our first cup of tea.
‘Well,’ she said, seemingly recovered from her faux pas, ‘it appears I shall have to scold Max too for spreading false information.’ She gave a tinkling laugh.
‘Do not trouble yourself on my behalf.’ I swallowed quickly, imagining his irritation at being reminded of that Blackburn girl flinging cake at him. ‘It was just a misunderstanding.’
‘Are you worried he might get angry? He may look fierce, but I can handle him. Besides, he tends to make special allowances for me.’
She smiled secretively and looked down at her slim white fingers. Her right hand was adorned with a delicate silver signet ring. Her left hand was bare.
I understood instantly what this was. Rosalind was conveying in no uncertain terms that she was the lady Mr Fitzroy was interested in, not I.
My spirits deflated because, of course, I could not compete with her. I was a drab bird. The expensively decorated room began to feel like a gilded cage, and I decided I needed some air. ‘Madam, forgive me, I ... I need to use your privy.’
‘Of course, mint tea has that effect on me too. That’s why I chose the congou. Go through the small door on the left, and that will take you outside to the shack. I apologise in advance—the plumbing facilities here are medieval.’ She shuddered. ‘That is part of the reason I am going back to London shortly.’
‘When do you leave?’ enquired Harriet, sounding none too bereft about her new friend going.
‘In a few days,’ she said. ‘I believe Max intends to accompany me.’ I couldn’t miss the supercilious glance she shot my way as I got up to leave the room.
I stood in the hallway outside, taking some deep calming breaths. The woman was pure poison! But my sense of humour returned, and I had to laugh at her not-so-subtle attempts to warn me off Mr Fitzroy. He made ‘special allowances’ for her? He had called on me and made no mention of being intimately acquainted with her, so it was more likely he was politely putting up with her for his friend’s sake.
But if it was true that he was leaving for London shortly, then that was that. There was no point thinking or dreaming about him anymore. Strangely, though, I fancied I could smell his deliciously spicy male scent wafting past my nose. Bah, it was probably just furniture polish!