Chapter Five
Jane’s fingers shook so hard she could barely hold her quill. The neat handwriting her tutors always used to praise when she was a girl would have won no awards now, the scrawl she’d made across the parchment in front of her rendered almost illegible by despair.
Her packed bag stood beside her bedroom door, dimly visible in the light of the single candle guttering on her desk.
All that remained was to leave the note she was writing on the post tray for the servants to find in the morning, and then she’d slip out of Mrs Fitzjames’ house before anyone awoke.
The night-time darkness would cover her flight and by the time her absence was noticed it would be too late for anyone to try to stop her from collecting the rest of her possessions from Maybury Place and boarding the first coach that could cut through the melting snow, bearing her away to Bristol and leaving Duncan behind to appreciate his lucky escape.
Her eyes clouded with tears but stubbornly she blinked them back.
It’s for the best. I know it is.
Creeping away in the middle of the night was a discourtesy she had apologised for in her note, but it was infinitely better than the alternative.
If she tried to leave during daylight Duncan would doubtless feel honour-bound to try to make her stay and she couldn’t allow him to make such a mistake.
She had been carried away by a fantasy, almost letting herself believe that her future could be happier than she’d ever thought, but the mortifying encounter in the park the previous afternoon had forced her to confront the truth.
She signed her name at the bottom of the page, hardly recognising her own signature. It was little more than a squiggle but that was all she could manage, and she hoped Duncan would be able to read it as she folded the letter and sealed it with a smear of wax.
She stood up. Her knees ached from sitting still for so long in the cold room as she’d agonised over what to write, but the pain would be worth it.
After her explanation Duncan would finally understand everything: why she’d had to turn down his first proposal as well as why she thought it necessary to run from the possibility of a second, and although she knew he’d feel some misplaced disappointment she would not be changing her mind.
With quiet steps, she crossed to the door.
The house was reassuringly silent. Not even a servant stirred at this hour and with her throat as raw as her red-rimmed eyes she made herself pick up her bag and tiptoe from the room, taking great care not to glance towards Duncan’s closed bedroom door as she crept out onto the landing.
She stole down the stairs, listening hard for any movement. Her heart was beating far too loudly but nobody appeared as she reached the hall. The post tray stood in its place on the sideboard and she dropped her letter into it, determined not to allow herself a moment to reconsider.
Her insides clawed at her, the pain making her wince, but she didn’t falter. Every time she was tempted to hesitate, she thought again of the two women in the park, who in their unwitting cruelty had given her a glimpse into the future she’d tried to deny.
Duncan deserves more than a wife who’ll be whispered about wherever she goes. He might not mind so much now, but as time goes on…
Her lower lip tried to tremble and she clamped it firmly between her teeth.
Crying would solve nothing. Action was what was needed—when she reached Maybury Place she could weep as much as she liked; but she had to get there first, and so with one last burning glance around the holly-laden hall, she reached down her bonnet and veil from their hook beside the front door and, bag in hand, slipped out into the night.
‘Damn it—damn it all!’
Duncan hadn’t meant to shout but boiling frustration made it near impossible to hold himself in check. He’d read Jane’s letter twice now and the second scan didn’t make it any less infuriating, although the growl it tore from him did succeed in bringing his mother into the hall.
‘Duncan. I don’t think the girls need to overhear that.’
She came towards him, her eyebrows knitted into a frown. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you bellowing and pacing about like a lion in a cage?’
Unwillingly, he halted his stride. He had absolutely no desire to tell her why he was uttering profanities in her entrance hall for the whole house to hear.
The contents of the letter cut too close to the bone and he didn’t wish to share it while confusion and dismay ran riot, although he had to say something to stop his mother from peering at him with such growing concern.
‘Miss Stockwell has gone back to Maybury Place,’ he answered shortly. ‘She left in the middle of the night, apparently without a word to anyone.’
‘Did she?’ Mrs Fitzjames’ eyebrows raised upwards from their frown. ‘I assume that note in your hand explains why?’
It was too late for him to hide it, but all the same he found himself flattening the folded piece of parchment against his leg. Whatever mess was unfolding with Jane was no one’s business but his and hers, although the sudden roll of his mother’s eyes suggested she disagreed.
‘For goodness’ sake, Duncan. Do you take me for a fool?’
At his look of bemusement, she pursed her lips. ‘I’ve known you were head over heels for her since the first day you met. If there’s trouble between you now, you might as well tell me. I may be able to help.’
Duncan stared at her. ‘How did…?’
‘One only has to look at you. And at her, for that matter, to see she feels the same.’
Mrs Fitzjames smiled. It was the same shrewd one she’d worn when he had left the parlour for his walk with Jane the day before and he could have kicked himself for not realising what it had meant.
Torn, he distractedly folded and unfolded the paper. Part of him wanted to keep his counsel as he always had, not in the habit of confiding the inner workings of his mind to anyone, but another acknowledged he was in desperate need of advice.
With a sigh that held both trepidation and regret, he handed his mother the letter. ‘I’m not so sure of that.’
Mrs Fitzjames took the sheet without a word. A large, comfortable chair stood in one corner of the hall and she retreated to it, sinking down into the cushions as Duncan resumed his restless pacing at the foot of the stairs.
There was a period of torturous silence as she read.
With nothing else to do, he tried to concentrate on slowing his breathing. It had sped up when he’d first seen the letter and was still fast now, anger quickening his pulse.
If those busybodies at the park had just held their tongues…
His jaw hardened. Why had they felt it their place to comment on Jane’s appearance, or the entirely fictitious effect it might have had on his opinion of her?
She had clearly been upset as he had guided her and the children back to his mother’s house, but any attempt to talk to her had been politely rebuffed and he’d resolved to try to speak with her again once she’d had time to gather herself.
He’d been so sure he could comfort her by and by, not for a moment suspecting she might think the gossips spoke truth, and it had certainly never crossed his mind that such outright nonsense would cause her to flee—
‘Oh.’ His mother’s voice cut through the silence. ‘Of course,’ she murmured, more to herself than to him. ‘How stupid of me—and Deborah too, come to that.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mid-stride, Duncan wheeled round to face her. ‘What do you mean, you were stupid?’
Mrs Fitzjames’ eyes were still on the letter. She looked as if she was realising something important for the first time, understanding beginning to dawn.
‘Both Deborah and I knew there was something between you,’ she said slowly, still studying the page.
‘Neither of you openly admitted it, but there was no need. We were certain there would be an engagement before you went back to Southampton, but when you left without Jane we thought we must have been wrong about your intentions towards her. I had no idea you’d proposed and she had turned you down, and apparently neither did Deborah. ’
Duncan held back a grimace. It wasn’t pleasant to have his past pain revealed; the day Jane had rejected his proposal was one he’d rather forget and he didn’t relish his mother learning of it now.
It was an unavoidable discovery if he wanted her advice, however, and he tried not to notice the intense sympathy in her gaze as she peered up at him.
‘My poor boy. And that poor, poor girl!’ Mrs Fitzjames tutted pityingly.
‘She was utterly miserable after you left, you know. We thought she was disappointed you hadn’t asked for her hand, but now I can see her heart was breaking at having to let you go.
If Deborah had suspected she’d rejected you for her sake she would have insisted Jane go after you…
which, I realise, is the very thing Miss Stockwell wanted to avoid. ’
She got up from the chair, the letter still in her hand. Her face was pallid, the after-effects of the influenza lingering, but he could tell it wasn’t only her past illness that made her look so grave.
‘I had no idea about any of this. I’m so sorry you’ve been hurting all this time, bottling up your suffering, and I didn’t see it.
’ She held the letter out to him and when he took it, she laid her hand on his arm.
There was guilt in her eyes and it pricked at his conscience, aware that any failings were his alone.
He patted her hand with rough tenderness. ‘It isn’t your fault, Mother. I didn’t want you to see. I didn’t want anyone to. But however I felt then doesn’t matter. What concerns me is what I should do now.’
He glanced down at the paper, uncertainty and unhappiness clouding his mind. Jane’s signature peeped out from under his thumb, so uncharacteristically untidy he knew she must have scrawled it while in great distress.