12 #3
The girl hastened to pull the cloak back around her, almost glaring at the pity in Jane’s voice.
She had been reluctant to approach any of the Darcy family once she heard they were in London.
The same pride that had led her to believe Edmund Avery’s honeyed words during the weeks he stayed at Pemberley, that she was as good as any of the cousins who visited the family, that had let her think that allowing him to use her as model for some of his more salacious paintings would guarantee her a place in his heart, had almost stopped her from asking for help, now she needed it so badly.
She had been begging on the corner of Oxford Street when she had seen Jane and another young lady step down from the Darcy carriage, with James in attendance.
If it had been Mrs Darcy or the horrible Miss Anne, she would have walked in the other direction, but Miss Jane had always been kind, a soft-hearted girl, only too happy to pass on little items of clothing she no longer had a use for. Surely she would offer some help.
“It’s a long story, Miss Jane. Life has struck me a cruel blow.
I thought I was secure in a certain gentleman’s affections, but when I told him about—” she gestured at her stomach—“this, he laughed, said it was nothing to do with him, that I was no better than a common … person … and threw me out of the house.”
Jane closed her eyes as the Arcade spun around her: she felt faint and would have given a gold guinea for a glass of water. Then she forced herself to look at the poor girl in front of her, defiantly clutching the edges of her cloak together to hide her shame.
But why was it just her shame, she found herself thinking?
Surely Mr Avery must take his share of responsibility?
Jane was not completely sure exactly what happened between two people to make a baby, but having lived in the countryside all her life, she was more aware of the facts involved than many of her town bred friends.
“Mr Avery must listen to reason,” she began, “perhaps I can get my papa to speak to him, to provide for you and the child.”
“No! I want no one else to know what has happened. It is enough to bear as it is without knowing that everyone at Pemberley, people who think that I am living a good life here in London, would know it has all turned to dust and grief.”
“But Grace—” Jane hesitated, bewildered. “Money—is it a question of money? But where will you go? Where will you live until … until …”
“The baby comes?” Grace laughed bitterly.
“You can say the word. That’s the one thing that I do know is going to happen.
There’ll be a baby. And yes, Miss Jane, it is a question of money.
I have an aunt who lives on a farm down in Devon—she has agreed for me to go there but she wants twenty guineas.
I have saved ten, but there is no way I can find the rest before I am unable to work or beg in the streets. ”
“Twenty guineas!”
“We will need to pay the midwife when the time comes, and then there’s my keep when I can’t work, but I will gain a position as soon as I possibly can. There is a very fine family who live in the same valley as my aunt’s farm. I am sure they will have use of a good maid.”
“Grace, surely it will be far better if you go home. If I remember correctly, you have a family in a village near Pemberley. Go to them, explain what has befallen you, they will surely take you in.”
Grace shook her head. “No, I will never shame them in that way. That is one thing I can do right. No, I’m going to Devon and only hope you can see your way to letting me have some money from your own funds, Miss Jane. And to promise me not to tell your parents or sisters what has occurred.”
Jane hesitated: she knew she should not promise anything of the sort, but Grace looked so unhappy. As an unmarried mother she would now be cast out of decent society. “Do you intend to keep the child or give it up?’’
Grace tossed her head and for a second, the old, arrogant expression she used to wear crossed her face. “I am keeping it, Miss, I’m not putting it in some workhouse orphanage. We’ll manage somehow. My aunt will care for it whilst I work, but only if I can give her the twenty guineas now.”
Jane nodded reluctantly, torn as to what was the right course of action.
“I’ll keep your secret, but I do not think that is the right thing to do.
I wish you would let me tell my mother—no, do not get distressed, I can see you would rather I didn’t.
But I do not have that amount of money with me.
Where are you living, Grace? I will send it round to you within the next few days. ”
Grace’s hand shot out and clutched Jane’s arm.
“No, tonight, I must have it tonight. There is a fruit wagon heading down to Devon from Covent Garden tomorrow and I can travel free if I’m there early enough.
Here!” She pushed a grubby piece of paper into Jane’s hand.
“I share a room in this boarding house. ‘Tis the other side of Westminster Bridge. Not far. Please, Miss, please try and bring me as much as you can spare. For the baby’s sake.”
And with a swirl of scarlet cloak, she turned and vanished into the crowds of passers-by.