Chapter Three
There was only one man, one topic of conversation, in Newport: the Duke of Trent. And Jane was heartily sick of the man before she even set eyes on him.
She climbed higher along the Cliff Walk, up to her favourite view of the sea.
At her back were glimpses of grand mansions, but she loved the sea and sky.
The Atlantic stretched before her in brilliant blues and greens that shifted with the light and tide.
She revelled in the dramatic rock formations, tidal pools and the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore, never ending.
Seabirds glided overhead, soaring free, as she couldn’t.
The scent of wild roses perfumed the air.
Newport was certainly not all terrible. Jane did love the water, the salty coolness of the breeze after the sticky onset of summer in New York.
She loved swimming in the rushing waves, even at rocky Bailey’s Beach, loved her long walks and the beautiful gardens she could peek into past bronzed gates.
She could browse the shop windows, the brilliant colours at the florist, the elaborate creations of the milliner, the bookshops and confectioners.
It was all so pretty, clean and shiny, not like the world where she’d grown up—those tiny, dingy rooms devoid of light and fresh air, smelling of boiled cabbage.
She wished the girls at the school where she volunteered could be there in Newport, that they could see the endless blue skies, the white-tipped waves and the way the world opened up beyond the crowded streets and tiny rooms of their lives.
Not that Jane wasn’t still confined to a smaller space too.
Her world had expanded immensely, thanks to her brother’s gift for business, thanks to May’s family connections, and she appreciated every bit of that.
She loved her comfortable rooms, her clean sheets and piles of books; she loved her pretty clothes, and she really loved being able to help others.
But she was indeed still a woman, still locked into tiny choices: wife and mother; that was it, really.
But she needed more. Coming from where she had, seeing all she’d seen, she couldn’t be like other girls now.
She couldn’t shake away her loneliness. Feeling a surge of longing, of the need to run and escape, Jane climbed up onto a wide, flat boulder near the path and kicked off her shoes to swing her silk-stockinged feet under the frothy lace of her hem.
She tore off her straw hat and let that delicious salty breeze catch at her hair.
Surely there had to be something else in the world?
Something beyond that hazy blue-sky-sea horizon?
She didn’t know what, yet there did have to be something out there.
In the meantime, she did have this glimpse of water, this fresh air.
She leaned back on her palms and watched the yachts bobbing in the shimmering water.
She wondered idly if one of those vessels belonged to the duke everyone talked about so gleefully.
What was his life like? She’d never met a real duke, though there were plenty of them in the novels and poems she loved to read.
Most of them seemed to be knights of the Middle Ages or the Tudor court, and they spent most of their time jousting, feasting, going to war with France and romancing fair maidens.
Jane was quite sure dukes didn’t have quite so much scope for adventure.
So what did they do with their days? No one really seemed to know, despite all their speculation.
All they talked about was his estate, Rollston Court, how he knew the Prince of Wales and how his family went back hundreds of years.
‘A single man in possession of a large fortune must be in want of a wife,’ she whispered, and laughed.
Or a man in possession of a vast, ancient estate.
She knew very well from her own life that everyone seemed obsessed with marrying everyone else off.
Maybe she should give up charity work and open a matchmaking service.
She heard an echo of voices, laughter caught on the wind, and quickly shoved her shoes back on her feet and smoothed her hair.
Whoever it was seemed to be walking on the lower path, under the ledge where Jane sat, but the ladies of Newport had sharp eyes for any transgression, no matter how distant.
She tried to pin her hat back on, but the wind had tangled the dark waves of her hair.
She peeked over the ledge and saw it was the trio of Regina Van Joort, the reigning deb of New York, and her friends Florence Livingston and Beryl Van Der Lan.
Jane sighed. Regina never missed a chance to snipe at Jane, or anyone else she deemed beneath her old family name, and she and her friends were very tiresome.
‘If he chose me!’ Florence said with a happy little skip.
‘Or me!’ Beryl added. Poor Beryl, the middle and plainest of three sisters, always striving so hard for attention.
‘Why would he?’ Regina said with contempt. ‘You are much too short to be a duchess. You’d look terrible in the velvet robes.’
‘I am not short!’ Beryl protested. ‘I am delicate. Better than being a galumphing heifer like some people I know.’ Florence, who was indeed quite tall, gave her a shove.
Regina laughed. ‘And you are much too large, Florence. No family would want that in their descendants. Such shoulders!’ Florence just took the barb from Regina and nodded. No one went against Regina.
Jane was very glad that New York society still didn’t know quite what to do with her, so she needn’t put up with ‘friends’ like that trio.
Real friends, though, would be nice to have.
People who understood her, who shared her thoughts and concerns.
People she could have fun with. Meeting Amy Van Der Berg had shown her that, but she feared meeting the wrong people and ending up talking to a Regina instead.
‘I have the perfect height and profile for a duchess, everyone says so,’ Regina said.
She gave a little twirl in her pink-spotted white walking dress, her golden hair gleaming.
It was really infuriating that she was so pretty as well as so mean.
The duke probably would like her. ‘And I have more of the most important thing they say this duke needs.’
‘What is that?’ Beryl said.
‘Over-weening pride?’ Florence snorted, and Jane almost laughed aloud. She wouldn’t have thought Florence had it in her.
‘A dowry,’ Regina said. ‘The Duke of Trent is here looking for an income, haven’t you heard? My cousin was in England last year and visited Rollston Court. She said the roof was patched and the gardens shamefully shabby. The duke needs a wife who can set it to rights.’
‘Like you?’ Florence sniffed.
‘Exactly. I have the breeding and the dowry.’
Jane sighed in disappointment. So much for jousting, chivalric dukes; they all just needed money and had no time for chivalry. But that was the way of the world, wasn’t it? Money meant everything.
‘But you don’t have the greatest of the latter, do you?’ Florence said slyly. ‘And that is the most important.’
‘What do you mean?’ Regina cried. ‘My father is head of the family shipping business!’
‘Doesn’t Evelina Goelet have a larger dowry?’ Florence said with a spin of her parasol. ‘And she has that lovely Titian hair.’
‘There is Gertie Vanderbilt too,’ Beryl said. ‘And don’t forget that Miss O’Neill. Dripping in stocks and shares, I’d say.’
Jane was shocked to hear her name mentioned by these girls. She didn’t realise they even knew who she was. It was not a pleasant sensation, cold and startling.
Regina laughed. ‘The one with the Irish mother? She’d never know how to be a duchess. Her manners are appalling! And she is certainly much too tall.’
Jane bristled. Her manners were impeccable! Her mother and May saw to that. She certainly was tall, Regina had that right, but surely Jane’s manners were far superior to this trio’s?
‘And her Irish brother has millions,’ Florence said. ‘More than any Vanderbilt, they say! More than enough for roofs and gardens, and velvet robes and tiaras.’
‘She’s rather pretty, too,’ Beryl said shyly. Jane wondered if she’s misjudged her. ‘In an Irish way.’ No, she hadn’t misjudged her.
‘No duke, no matter his financial needs, would ever stoop so low,’ Regina declared. ‘And her family will never be in the real four-hundred, no matter what the Van der Bergs say.’
The trio walked on, their voices fading on the breeze as they no doubt started twittering about someone else.
Jane took a deep breath, trying to stop trembling.
Surely she should be used to such snobby tittle-tattle by now?
She’d heard it ever since Connor had married May: a jumped-up Irishman; how does he think he can move in real society?
Jane usually didn’t care. She loved her family, was grateful for their circumstances in the world, and had her work to keep her busy.
Yet she could never quite shake away the little sting.
Then she remembered—the duke was coming to May’s party.
Surely Jane could at least get the man to dance with her?
She’d love to see Regina’s face then! She imagined spinning across the parquet floor in the faceless duke’s arms, laughing as he told her how beautiful she was, how elegant and refined, while Regina turned red and puffy with fury.
Jane laughed as she stood and shook out her skirts. That would be a fair sight indeed! And she could tell people for years that she had danced with a duke. The girls she taught at the charity school would love it.
She hurried down the path as seabirds wheeled over her head, glimpsing gleaming roofs above the trees.
She actually felt rather sorry for the duke now.
It wasn’t his fault his ancestors had built such vast houses and now their roofs were falling down!
She could pity him having to marry someone like Regina Van Joort.
Jane’s life might be more restricted than she wished, but at least she would never be forced to do that!