Chapter 32
Jane stood alone in her room, flustered, her agitated hands revealing her discomfort. It embarrassed her that her countenance fascinated so many. She despaired of how men ogled her, the things they said thinking she could not hear them, or not caring if she did.
Standing several feet from her dressing table, Jane stared into the tarnished mirror, her features satisfactorily blurred. She tilted her head a bit left, then right, and then repeated the activity several times. She knew not what she sought, but the movement soothed her melancholy.
“I am Jane Lily Bennet.” She took a step forward and sat. “I am a lily,” she voiced to the emptiness.
Closing her eyes, she thought of the stillroom at Longbourn and her mother’s book of pressed flowers and horticultural etchings. She mentally turned page after page. She stopped upon some sketches of flowers with six petals, each a different colour.
“I am a white lily.”
Uncertainty swept over her. “Or am I The Scarred Lily, as they say of me?” You are what they say you are.
Jane chose not to yield, although her self-doubt left an ashen taste in her mouth. Minute turns of her chin allowed the sunlight to highlight her stigmas—her facial imperfections, her now undeniably renowned scars. She decided she must no longer allow them to define who she was.
It was but a moment’s contemplation to decide she desired to walk amongst the gardens at Kew. She recalled the pamphlet Aunt Gardiner had given her of the attractions—the Orangery, the Great Pagoda, and the domed rotunda. So much to enjoy! It was just what she desired to bolster the doldrums in which she felt herself mired. After suppressing her apprehensions, she made her way downstairs.
“Uncle Gardiner, may I have a word?”
Gardiner welcomed Jane into his study.
“Uncle, I would like to spend the day amongst the gardens at Kew. Will you allow it?”
He studied Jane before giving his answer. It was daunting for him to protect his nieces. Elizabeth was a pleasant handful, with her constant rambles and desire to enjoy the open air. Her curiosity, sparkling eyes, and zeal for life made her a delightful addition to the household. She was an uncomplicated yet complex young lady.
Jane was another matter. Before the carriage accident—if that is what we have named it—she had been a beautiful, serene, gently bred young lady. Her injuries had altered a masterpiece into a torn canvas. As the years passed, the portrait not only recovered its appeal, but had become more alluring, leading to disquieting consequences.
Although Jane would not speak of it, he knew from his wife and Elizabeth that the fairer sex refused to acknowledge Jane, most seeing her through a competitive eye. A drawing room invitation was a rarity, and upon the acceptance of one, malicious gossip preceded her presence. A fifteen-minute parlour visit would many times conclude early. Social isolation was now Jane’s constant companion. Her placidity both pleased and baffled her aunt and Lady Matlock.
It was a more dire situation amongst the male population. She could not venture outside without being approached, even when accompanied. There was always someone—a garrulous gentleman, a resolute rogue, an unwavering widower—who importuned Jane for her direction. With Legget gone back to Longbourn, she and Elizabeth were protected by his footmen; still, few of these pursuers failed to walk away from Jane’s demure refusals. But that was changing. The public interactions had become increasingly hostile.
Of course, when not carrying out Lord Matlock’s business, Roark hovered as well. Gardiner worried that stubborn, drunken men would lead Roark to use physical restraint; violence inevitably followed.
As he was accountable for Jane’s welfare, her outings and security were no small expense—not that he begrudged a farthing; he was pleased to allow her a moment of entertainment outside their Gracechurch Street home. When he shared his apprehensions with his wife, specifically with regards to Jane’s future, she failed to soothe his fears but reassured him their niece was aware of his concerns. He remained unconvinced.
Jane interrupted his musings. “I promise to adhere to your instructions,” she said earnestly. “I know how you worry about Lizzy and me.”
“I would suspend no pleasure of yours, my dear niece. Nothing less than your angelic smile should ever complement our discourse. Let us work to recover your serenity as we endeavour to buoy your spirits. To Kew, you ask? I daresay we could entertain a novel experience such as this. Let us have a footman, in addition to your maid, accompany you, shall we?”
Jane inclined her chin in accord. Shaking off a sense of foreboding, he would remember to discuss his rekindled fears with Roark. Gardiner glanced at Jane briefly again and surrendered to his worries. “One moment, my dear.”
He wrote a short missive, pulled the bell cord, and handed it to his man. “Matlock House. Make haste,” he whispered.
He hoped Jane did not discern the stress in his voice. Turning back to her, he immediately amended his provision. “Matthews and Stokes will accompany you, if you will indulge me.”
Jane acknowledged his request, seemingly understanding it was, instead, a requirement.
Later that afternoon, Jane strolled along the garden paths at Kew. She moved about in no discernible pattern; whatever struck her fancy received her attention. As the day progressed, her steps lightened, and her body relaxed. Her posture remained ladylike, but in an easier way. She wore a fashionable day dress in Saxon blue. Her full-brim hat kept off the sun; the beaded veil masked her features. She was anonymous, as much as a fine-figured, well-clad gentlewoman could be.
Molly walked a few feet behind, carrying Jane’s reticule. Mr Stokes trailed her by several yards; his companion in livery, Mr Matthews, who led the procession, constantly peered back over his shoulder, checking her safety. The day passed with greater agreeability than it would have shut away in her bedchamber on Gracechurch Street. Jane found great tranquillity in nature’s bounty. Then, as they exited the gardens, she heard a rumble of voices.
“The Scarred Lily!” someone shouted.
Jane looked left and right. What is this? Her breathing increased. A parade of footfalls grew louder. What am I to do?
She sought her uncle’s men. Mr Matthews was moving towards her, trying to elbow past a trio of male gawkers. Jane turned to find Mr Stokes pulling on the shoulder of a man far larger than he; the man pushed him and Mr Stokes fell to his knees.
“Molly?” Jane held her arms tightly against her sides. Save me. Save me. Save me. She gasped for breath; unlike in the fragrantly floral gardens, the air was now redolent of tobacco, sweat, and horse. Suddenly, her hat and veil were pulled from her head. “Do not touch me!” she hissed.
Jane watched in wonder as the crowd backed up in haste; the air freed up about her. A veritable mountain of a man, clad in livery she recognised as Matlock, stepped next to her. He blocked the sun, and a silhouette was all she could perceive. No one present seemed to doubt the threat he implied and they quickly dispersed. His rasp rent the air. Jane recognised that timbre and smiled faintly.
“Are you well, Duchess?” Bill asked with surprising gentleness.
She turned back to her fleeing tormentors. Her laugh sounded unforgiving even to herself, but she cared not. “I am now.”
Gardiner followed Madeleine into the parlour. Where he usually took pleasure in the warm setting—pale green and cream walls and complementary Chippendale stuffed furniture pieces—he instead focused on his wife’s mood. The events at Kew Garden had infuriated and shocked them, but since Jane’s message had arrived, alerting them to the events and her removal to Matlock House, she had been uncharacteristically quiet, responding in a perfunctory manner to his conversation.
Madeleine sat next to him on the settee. A moment later, she rested her hand upon his forearm. “Forgive me, my dear,” she said softly.
“There is nothing to forgive. Like you, I am sorry for what transpired this afternoon.”
She paused. “It was terrible, and I am not happy that Jane has chosen to remain at Matlock House for the nonce.”
“That may be to all of our advantages for the Season.”
His wife turned to him with flashing eyes. “Perhaps, but I do not like the manner in which her decision is based.”
Gardiner held up his hands, palms out. “What would you have us do more than we have? If she feels a greater measure of safety there, and less a burden on our household, so be it.”
A knock on the door forestalled her response. “Sir. Madam. Mr John Smyth to see you.”