Dark Season (41 page)

And what incredibly poor taste she had, to jest at a funeral, to disrespect the dead. She felt so far away now from the woman she’d been just nine months ago. Was that why he’d come? For a moment’s amusement, to see a lesser being laid low? To marvel at the depths to which mere mortals could plummet? Didn’t he have a party to attend or an innocent to seduce? According to rumor, he excelled at that, too.

But he merely gave her a sad smile and said, “I am sure it is the rain that has kept others away.”

“I am sure it is not, but how polite you are to say so.”

The minister cleared his throat then, apparently freed from his Marworth-induced bemusement. “May he rest in peace,” he said, before ducking away and heading for cover. Determined to move quickly, the gravediggers punched their shovels into the dirt—thick mud now—slopping it into the pit, her father’s final resting place, where she doubted there was any peace to be had. Marworth clasped her gently by the elbow, perhaps to move her from the sad scene and towards the carriage.

“You needn’t witness this.”

But she would not move till it was done. She stood firm until he released his hold. Then she reached down and took a fistful of the mud, and then another, throwing them onto the simple pine casket, which was rapidly vanishing beneath the muck. “My father left me alone to clean up the mess he made of things,” she said, hearing the bitterness in her voice. “This is as good a place as any to start.”

• • •

Much later, Jane was once more in the home that was no longer to be hers. Gerard, her cousin and Father’s heir, had sent a note that his family would be moving into the house on Curzon Street by the month’s end. Supposedly, little Violet, his daughter, loved the view from Jane’s bedroom window, with its small, enclosed garden filled with roses. So, quite simply, she would have it, along with the bedroom Jane had slept in since she was a child. They would tolerate her as a guest, but not for long. It was the way of things. No matter how unfair.

The house felt so empty now. When they’d been consigned here together, Father had at least been company, despite his misery. She was eternally grateful to Thompson, their longstanding butler, for staying on despite the fact that his wages were overdue. And also to his wife, Bess, who served as cook and housekeeper. Jane was struck again by the irony of it. She was gently bred, of course, but as poor now—if not poorer—than the pair of them. If anything, she should be the one cooking and cleaning. But it was not the way of things, so they would not hear of it.

Really, there was so little she was suited for now. She was more than well-enough educated to be a governess, but who in Society would hire her? And while she could probably give a lecture on Britain’s parliamentary system, having learned it at her father’s knee, she had no other discernible talents. She painted watercolors insipidly, desecrated any tune, and couldn’t stitch a straight line, despite her best efforts. She’d never be hired at a dressmaker’s, that much was certain. The one thing she excelled at was being a lady in the strictest sense. But that did not feed you. And how she loathed her self-pity, even though she couldn’t seem to suppress it.

All of a sudden, however, a solution presented itself. Thompson entered Father’s study and announced a visitor. Sir Aldus Rempley.

Willing away the indigestion the announcement prompted, she took several calming breaths. Because there could only be one reason he was here. She’d turned down his previous proposals of marriage, but she no longer had the luxury of choice. And really, she should be thankful for his offer. He’d come to rescue her from a fate unknown—and likely terrifying.

She ran quickly to her bedroom via the backstairs and rinsed her mouth out with a brush and powder. After a glance in her bedside mirror, where she smoothed her hair and pinched her cheeks, she descended the front stairs with as much dignity as she could muster, to find him waiting, hat in hand, in the drawing room. With a smile at Thompson, indicating they would be fine alone, she sat upon Mother’s favorite settee and waited for her future to unfold.

“May we speak privately, Miss Fitzsimmons, or if I may call you so, Jane?”

“Of course,” she said, even though her smile was forced. Didn’t he realize they were already alone? Their union would be truly tedious if he hadn’t wits enough to discern that. It was unkind to think it, but he was grey-haired and paunchy, when she’d once hoped for so much more. This would likely be the man to bestow her first kiss. To introduce her to the intimacies of the marriage bed. A remarkably depressing thought.

“You are looking unwell, my dear. Understandably so, given the shock you have suffered, but you owe it to your looks to take better care.”

“Burying one’s father in a storm does make appearances difficult to maintain. Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Aldus?” Dear Lord, had she really voiced it aloud? When had she become so flippant? Surely, he expected better manners in a would-be wife. Even in the face of a comment bordering on the obnoxious.

He flushed an unbecoming shade, embarrassed perhaps. “One does not wish to speak ill of the dead,” he continued, “but your father has left you in a vulnerable position. Alone and without the funds to support yourself.”

Really, had it been necessary to remind her? Did an intelligent person ever have to state the obvious? According to Father, Sir Aldus was a man entrusted with state secrets, for goodness’ sake. A bit of subtlety should come naturally. But she held her tongue. The one that suddenly wanted to run away with her mouth, contravening their longstanding peace. “May I thank you for your help with his funeral and for your attendance? It was an affirmation of the friendship the two of you shared, and I am sincerely grateful.”

“It was but a small thing, the first of many I hope to do for you, Jane,” he replied, his gaze disconcerting. “Can you guess why I am here?

“I think so,” she said, with what she hoped was becoming modesty, even as her stomach roiled. She could do this. She knew she could. She had no other choice.

“I have a very personal question to ask, an offer to make,” he said, smiling intently, looking quite old and oily. Old, she’d reconciled herself to, but oily was another matter. She decided to be bold, though, because the quicker this was settled, the better.

“My answer is yes, Sir Aldus.”

She’d expected a smile and a small expression of affection. That dreaded kiss, perhaps. Instead, there was only a look that struck her as sly, lascivious even.

“Do you know what you are saying yes to?”

“I was foolish to refuse your proposals of marriage before. I can see that now,” she said, as discomfort settled upon her. “However, I know we will deal well together. Our lives intertwined will be happy ones.”

“Jane, you do understand I no longer offer marriage? Your reduced circumstances and reputation don’t support that possibility.”

Over on the mantel, the clock struck, its clang a dull thud echoing in the room. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Could you please repeat yourself? I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Even though she suspected she did.

“If only you’d not spurned my last proposal, when I was still willing to protect you from all this.” His eyes were harder now. “But I can offer carte blanche. A small home of your own, a carriage at your disposal, a lady’s maid, a butler, and a modest clothing allowance. I’d prefer a bit more color on your person, however, and necklines that showcase your assets.”

She was dizzy with mortification, and for the briefest of moments, she wondered what the members of The Ladies Auxiliary to Improve Manners and Morals would do in this situation. Politely decline? Offer tea and a tract on the unfortunate diseases associated with indiscriminate sexual congress? If only she could be Shakespeare’s Ophelia in this moment and get herself to a nunnery, sidestepping the need to reply at all. Although, wasn’t a nunnery actually a brothel in the Elizabethan era? She’d read that somewhere. Perhaps a brothel was more appropriate after all.

All the while, he sat watching her, that sly smile on his face, hat in hand, oozing expectancy. He had a bulbous lower lip. If she pulled on it hard enough, could it be swept up over his face and secured at the back of his head with a spike? How tempted she was to try. “Is this how you repay my father’s friendship to you, Sir Aldus?” she asked, ice in her veins and voice. “By shaming his daughter?”

“I should think you’d be honored by my willingness to see you set up in a house of your own. I understand you won’t long be welcomed in this one.”

“You do me no honor. When have I led you to believe such an offer would be welcome? I’ve been raised as a lady, and despite my reduced circumstances, a lady I will remain.”

“Always so proud, Jane. On the contrary, I do you a great honor. You have your mother’s beauty, which I greatly admired, but none of her zest. It’s unfortunate she died so young. She might have loosened you up a bit.”

This was all so hideous it couldn’t possibly be happening. And how dare he mention her mother, who’d died when she was only twelve.

“I insist that you leave.”

“There are things I can show you, Jane, and pleasures to be had. Better me than a stranger on the street.”

“You are a disgusting individual.” It would serve the man right if she vomited upon him, for she was distinctly nauseous now. He’d donned his hat and eyed her up and down in the most outrageously insulting fashion.

“I will give you a week to understand just how desperate your situation has become, and then I will return. I sincerely hope we can come to the point that very day, so to speak, because it’s better for you to know how it will go on between us, don’t you think?”

“Nothing will go on between us,” she seethed. “Of that, you may rest assured.” But dear God, he was right. Her situation was far worse than she’d allowed herself to believe. And he knew it. He’d discarded all pretenses of gentlemanly behavior.

“If you choose the streets over me, Jane, your fine manners and lofty pretensions will hardly protect you.” He turned to the door but stopped before opening it, looking back at her. “Then again, it might be exciting to see you brought low and not quite so proud.”

And with that, he departed, as her horrified gasp echoed in the room.

• • •

After the frightening encounter with Rempley, Jane returned to the library, her feet unsteady. Everything in the room was several degrees off center, as if distorted in a poorly crafted looking glass. Or was she the one off center? She’d always been so proud of her place in Society, confident her breeding would protect her. She’d just learned otherwise. None of her etiquette books would offer a way out of this fix.

She sat behind Father’s desk, withdrawing a piece of parchment and a quill to write out a list of her options. She was very fond of lists, which were so orderly and concise, after all. Once she’d mapped everything out, things would seem far less bleak.

Which she refused to do. Better to take up holy orders, even though she wasn’t much in charity with the Lord right now. And given her behavior this morning, He’d probably spear her with a lightning bolt if she dared to try.

When the scope of Father’s misdeeds had become public, Alec and Annabelle, the Earl and Countess of Dorset, had invited her to stay at Arbury Hall in Nuneaton, away from the palpable disaffection that followed her in the City. But, any day now, Annabelle would give birth to their first child. And besides, one could only tolerate so much marital bliss. When she was feeling less than charitable, their love bordered on the nauseating.

There was also Sophia Middleton, the Countess of Marchmain. An eccentric with a spotted reputation of her own, Lady Marchmain was planning a European tour and had claimed she’d be lonely without Jane’s accompaniment. A bold lie, of course, though an appreciated one. But the countess was in Nuneaton, as well. Annabelle was her niece, and while it was difficult to imagine her bearing witness to the birth, Lady Marchmain would certainly be the first to toast it with a glass of brandy. Not that she would stop at one.

She chewed on her lower lip, because that small bite of pain sometimes sparked inspiration. So did drumming her fingertips on the surface of the desk. She also stroked the quill against her cheek and moved the inkwell precisely two inches to the left, because it looked better there.

Unfortunately, Option Three was not making itself readily apparent. Perhaps answers lay elsewhere? Her eyes swept the room, falling to the sideboard not far from the fireplace. Upon it sat the last bottle of Father’s prized French cognac, a short glass beside it.

She promptly looked away. She’d never indulged in spirits, and now was no time to start. The very idea!

Then again, Father had always claimed it made a bad day brighter. She’d need a vat of the stuff to improve this one. Setting aside her list, she walked over and uncorked the bottle, pouring a small measure and lifting it to her mouth. Its wafting smell was enough to make her eyes sting. Best to get it down all at once then. Offering a silent apology to
A Lady of Distinction’s Guide
—which glowered from the bookshelves in condemnation—she closed her eyes and swallowed. The cognac burned, nearly curdling the contents of her stomach, but she’d not let weakness defeat her. She was far too determined.

Luckily, the second glass descended more easily.

And the third? Well, it was very nearly bliss. No wonder Father had liked it so much. Ladies of Distinction did not know what they were missing!

She’d read that the excessive consumption of spirits led to very bad things … bilious features and fevers, degenerative illness, and atrophied body parts. But none of that seemed consequential at the moment. She was so glad she hadn’t saved the cognac for her cousin, Gerard. He was a bit of a bastard and hardly deserved it.

Dear Lord, just a few small tipples and she was swearing like a docker. Not that anyone could hear her. And wasn’t that a marvelous thing to realize? She could think all sorts of shocking, scandalous thoughts. She just couldn’t say them aloud. The rule to which she’d always adhered—be ladylike in thoughts as well as deeds—had just been shattered by the lovely haze of her insobriety.