Shady Lady (3 page)

C
hapter
3

T
he
Journal
’s offices were still busy when Jo left to go home for dinner. Usually she worked only till noon, but Thursday was their busiest day.

It was raining when she stepped out, but not heavily, and anyway, she’d come prepared. She unfurled her umbrella and struck out briskly toward Holy Trinity Church on the bank of the river Avon. There were a few stragglers going her way, pilgrims mainly, who wanted to pay homage to Stratford’s bard. Shakespeare was buried in Holy Trinity’s chancel. Jo did not enter the church. The grave she wanted was in the churchyard, by the south wall. The inscription on the headstone was simple:

Sacred to the memory of

John Saxon Chesney

1783–1814

In God we trust

This was the third anniversary of John’s death.

Here, in the lee of the church, the air seemed warmer, the rain less driven. There were clumps of daffodils massed along the walls. John would have liked that—shades of Wordsworth, his favorite poet. She’d preferred Shelley, until he ran off with some woman and broke his wife’s heart. After that, much to John’s amusement, she refused to read Shelley.

There were no other Chesneys buried here. John’s family came from Bath, and his only surviving brother was in America. The reason he’d made his home here was because an uncle had left John the house on Church Street. And the
Journal
. That was the draw.

John wouldn’t have appreciated her marking his passing in this way. He was the least sentimental person of anyone she knew—no tears, and no maudlin sentiments.

She swallowed and said, “The
Journal
is doing really well. At this rate, we’ll soon have the funds to buy one of those Stanhope presses that you always wanted.”

John would have a chuckle over that.

The rain had stopped. She was struggling to let down her umbrella when something slammed into her back with enough force to make her stumble. She righted herself and turned quickly to see a towheaded boy of about seven or eight summers disappearing around the corner of the church. She knew who he was. He was Eric Foley, and he lived with his grandmother in a cottage not far away on Orchard Street.

She looked down at her feet. He’d thrown an onion at her. Last time, it had been an egg. At least he hadn’t taken to throwing stones yet. Horrid, horrid little boy!

Her troubles with Eric started almost from the day he arrived in Stratford, about a month ago, and she knew who to blame for that. Mrs. Foley, his grandmother, had taken a dislike to Jo just because the vicar had asked her to act as convener for the altar guild. It seemed that Mrs. Foley thought the position should have gone to her. In Jo’s opinion, it was a fuss about nothing. All her little guild had to do was arrange for fresh flowers in the sanctuary every Sunday. She would gladly have relinquished the position, but in a fit of pique, Mrs. Foley retired from the guild and that was that.

All this happened years ago, when Jo came to Stratford as a bride, but Mrs. Foley had never forgiven Jo for usurping her position on the guild. And now it seemed that Eric was taking up cudgels on his grandmother’s behalf.

Jo’s first encounter with Eric was when she found him in the
Journal
’s offices at one of the presses. He wasn’t too thrilled when she’d shown him the door. Her second encounter was after she’d spoken to his grandmother about his behavior. Little boys and printing presses were a dangerous combination, she’d told his grandmother. Next day, her front door was splattered with an egg. There was no sign of Eric, but she knew he was the culprit.

His grandmother had no control over him.

The blasted rain had started again! Jo now struggled to get her umbrella up. This done, she picked her way around gravestones and made for the church porch. Having spoken to the boy’s grandmother to no effect, she decided to have a word with Mr. Sutherland, the vicar. Maybe he could succeed in checking the boy’s waywardness before it landed him in serious trouble.

She left the church feeling thoroughly chastened. The vicar had told her that Eric’s grandmother, who had a weak heart, had taken a bad turn. A neighbor was looking after Eric in the meantime, since Eric was an orphan and there were no relatives to take him in. On the following morning, Eric would be leaving for a school in Barnet.

In spite of everything, Jo’s sympathies were stirred, and she ended up offering to help the unfortunate family in any way she could. The vicar thanked her for the kind thought but said that it wasn’t necessary. He had everything in hand.

When she arrived home, her widowed aunt, Mrs. Daventry, was waiting for her in the morning room. “Come and warm yourself by the fire,” she called out.

Mrs. Daventry was plump, good-natured, and an agreeable companion. She kept her own house in London, and she had one married son who lived close by in Oxford. From time to time, she would go there for a visit, but not for long since her daughter-in-law did not go out of her way to make her feel welcome. Jo, on the other hand, was always glad to see her aunt.

While Mrs. Daventry poured the tea, Jo helped herself to a macaroon. She felt a twinge in her back and winced. “Eric Foley again,” she said in answer to her aunt’s questioning look.

Mrs. Daventry sipped her tea while she listened to Jo’s story. Finally, she said, “I’ve heard about the school Eric is going to. It’s very strict. They say that Mr. Harding, the headmaster, is a fiend for discipline. Poor Eric.”

Jo said, “I’m sure the vicar would not be sending him there if it was so bad. And there’s nothing wrong with discipline. It’s just what Eric needs.”

Her aunt nodded. After a moment, she said, “Where is the money coming from to send him to school? It’s not a charity school. Someone must be paying the shot, and I don’t think his grandmother is well off.”

“The church.” Jo tried to recall what the vicar had told her. “I’m sure that’s what the vicar said. I offered to help, but he said there was nothing I could do now.”

Mrs. Daventry’s cup rattled in its saucer as she set them on the table. “Nothing you can do!”

“He said he has everything in hand and that Eric leaves for school tomorrow.”

“Well, he hasn’t left yet, has he? We still have time to make up a parcel for him, don’t we?”

“What kind of parcel?”

“The kind of parcel a boy looks forward to receiving from home when he’s away at school. Treats, Jo. You know what I mean—cake, sweets, sugarplums, jams, jellies. School fare can be pretty monotonous, and I don’t suppose Mr. Harding indulges the boys.”

“Isn’t that rewarding Eric for bad behavior? That’s what he’ll think. Next time he’ll throw rocks at me, hoping for a bigger and better parcel.”

“Nonsense! You’re not giving him a hundred pounds. Cake and a few sugarplums—you’re laughing at me!”

“No. I’m laughing at myself. I don’t even like the boy. And he certainly doesn’t like me. Besides, I’m not sure that he’ll accept anything from me. What I had in mind was to give the vicar a sum of money to use, anonymously, as he sees fit for the boy and his grandmother. I don’t want anyone to feel beholden to me.”

“The boy needs more than material things. He’s an orphan, Jo. He needs a friend.”

“Fine. Then you be his friend.”

“Jo—”

“No.” She sighed and gave a tiny shrug. “Aunt, you know me. I feel awkward around children. I never know what to say to them. And they take advantage of me at every turn. I don’t find them innocent and sweet. I find them devious and mischievous. I’m sure the fault is in me, but there it is.”

When her aunt’s brows rose fractionally, Jo was sorry she had said so much. They both understood what the real problem was. It wasn’t that she was awkward around children. The problem was that when she lost John, she’d lost her chance to have children too.

She and John had both wanted children. In fact, the first thing they did when they moved into the house was furnish the nursery. Then they’d settled down to wait for the arrival of their first child. And they’d waited and waited. They hadn’t given up hope, or so they told themselves. They were still young. But after four years, the unthinkable happened.

Suddenly, the pain she thought she’d locked away flared up as though she’d lost John yesterday. This shouldn’t have happened, not to John. He was a good man, good and decent and honorable. The world was full of scoundrels. Why was he taken?

She couldn’t remember clearly the weeks that followed. She stopped eating. She didn’t go out or have friends in. She knew that her friends and family were worried about her, but she couldn’t seem to care. All she wanted was to be left alone.

The turning point came when the
Journal
’s managing editor gave notice six months after John’s death. Without John at the helm, he said, the paper was failing and he had decided to move on.

When Jo couldn’t find anyone to replace him, Chloë encouraged her to take over. Everyone else was shocked at the idea. Respectable ladies did not soil their hands with commerce. That was a man’s job.

Thank God she had listened to Chloë. The
Journal
had given her a purpose. She hadn’t had the time to wallow in self-pity. But as much as she loved what she was doing now, it could never take the place of John.

She stirred when her aunt got up. “What did you say?”

Mrs. Daventry’s eyes were soft with understanding. She spoke gently. “Cook can help me put the parcel together.”

Jo hastened to add, “And I’ll give the vicar the sum of money I promised.”

And that’s how it was left.

While Mrs. Daventry went to confer with Cook, Jo went upstairs to change for dinner. After washing her hands and face, she studied her reflection in the mirror. Uncle Daventry had once said that she was the image of her mother, but Jo couldn’t see it. It was true that they had the same gray-green eyes, but Mama’s hair was as dark as mahogany. Her own hair was the bane of her existence. Not only could she do nothing with it, but she hated the color, neither red nor blond but something in between.

Her mother was an accredited beauty; everyone said so. Jo didn’t want to be beautiful. What she wanted was to look intelligent. She wanted to be taken seriously.

It was the truth, but it wasn’t the whole truth. What she didn’t want was to be compared to her parents.

Her father, Sir Vivian Moore, was a celebrated playwright. Her mother had, at one time, been an actress. Their lives had never been settled, so Jo was passed from one relative to the next as they pursued their careers.

She had never forgotten Uncle Daventry’s remark when, at six years old, she’d been introduced to him. “Good Lord! She’s Gertrude’s image! Let’s hope that’s where the resemblance ends.” Aunt Daventry had shushed him, but the words had stuck in Jo’s mind, words that were reinforced by other comments she’d overheard about her parents as she grew to womanhood.

At eighteen, she’d gone to live with her parents, and what a disaster that turned out to be. She’d learned that it wasn’t only their careers they were pursuing, especially in her father’s case. Women were attracted to him like bees to honey, while her mother found consolation elsewhere.

She’d returned home to her aunt Daventry’s house much wiser than her eighteen years. She loved her parents, but she never wanted to be like them, or live like them. She wanted the settled life she’d never had as a child; she wanted stability and security, and she’d found those with John.

Since this was the anniversary of John’s death, and she and her aunt would not be going out or receiving guests, she simply brushed her hair off her face and tied it with a fresh ribbon.

She was looking forward to spending an evening quietly at home. Her social engagements were becoming something of an ordeal, largely because her friends were determined to see her married again. At almost every function she attended now, there would be an unattached male, usually a widower, who was invited only because he might be induced to offer for her hand in marriage. Her friends meant well, but it was humiliating. It made her feel like a piece of merchandise in a shop window. And there never were any buyers, which was fine by her. If she couldn’t have what she’d had with John, she didn’t want anything.

When she came downstairs, it was to find a fresh pot of tea waiting for her. The servants were spoiling her today. They knew it was the anniversary of John’s death.

Her maid had left the day’s post beside the pot of tea. There were two letters. She sat down and opened the one with her mother’s handwriting on it.

Sir Vivian and Lady Moore were visiting friends in Waterford and were evidently enjoying themselves immensely. There followed a list of the names of their new friends, whom Jo’s mother described in rapturous terms. Jo could have quoted the last few lines of her mother’s letter by rote, she’d heard them so often. There were so many young, smart gentlemen going about, her mother wrote, eligible gentlemen who knew how to charm a woman, and if Jo would only put her mind to it, she could be married within the month.

This put her in mind of Waldo Bowman, and she wondered what her mother would make of him. She’d probably try to add him to her list of conquests. Mama still thought she was the beauty she’d been thirty years ago.

There was more to him than one would have known from Chloë’s description. His trademarks were supposed to be his whimsical humor and effortless charm, but he certainly hadn’t bothered to waste them on her.

He’d invited her to make up a party to go to the theater, no doubt thinking he could worm Chloë’s name out of her. Was he hoping that his charm would work where his threats had failed? She wasn’t such a simpleton.

The next letter was from Lydia Langston. Jo had never met Lady Langston, but she was familiar with the name. Her ladyship attended many of the events Chloë attended. They were both keen gardeners, and they had become good friends.

Jo scanned the letter quickly, then read it again more slowly. The gist of it was that no one knew where Chloë was. Chloë was known to be unpredictable and she might have met up with friends and gone off with them. All the same, one would have thought she’d send word to her servants—and they were the ones who had suggested that her ladyship write to Jo. To set all their minds at rest, her ladyship wrote, if she knew where Chloë was, would she please reply by return post? And if she didn’t know, what should her ladyship do next? All things considered, maybe Jo could come up to town and sort this out?