"Jane and the Stillroom Maid" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barron Stephanie)

Chapter 11 Enter the Usurper

28 August 1806, cont.

“GOOD GOD, HART, WHAT IS IT YOU HAVE SAID? WHAT can you have been thinking?”

Lord Hartington wheeled around and stared at the woman standing just beyond our circle, her figure indistinct in the heavy shade thrown by the Spanish chestnuts. The Marquess’s pallor was suddenly dreadful and his features worked furiously; then, with a strangled word that might have been an oath — or a cry of despair — he ran to his horse and sprang into the saddle.

“Hart!” cried Lady Harriot.

He hauled savagely on the reins, pulled the animal’s head around, and, with a kick to the horse’s flanks, cantered off in the direction he had come.

“I shall follow him.” Andrew Danforth pressed Hary-O’s hand and made for his horse.

“You shall do nothing of the kind, Mr. Danforth,” ordered the lady who had caused the Marquess’s flight. “Hart is master enough of himself and his mount; he cannot possibly come to harm at Chatsworth. He will enjoy his fit of the sullens, you know, though it be at the expense of those dearest to him in the world! Never have I seen the boy so blue-deviled as this summer! Canis and I agree that nothing he says should be taken in the least account. I do not regard his ill-behaviour towards myself, I assure you.”

“You were always the best-tempered creature in the world, Bess,” said the Duke with fondness. “And what have you found to occupy yourself this morning?”

“I have been perusing dear Georgiana’s letters.” Her voice faltered, and she stepped forward into the last rays of sunlight.

She was a frail, fine-boned creature with a heart-shaped face, a cascade of pale curls, and large eyes deeply set. The inky black of her clothing threw the translucent skin of her face into ghastly relief; but one might almost declare that mourning became her. Lady Elizabeth Foster, I should judge, would never allow herself to appear to disadvantage, no matter how real her grief, or how deeply felt her loss.

“How pretty you all look!” she cried, as she surveyed our party. “Such colour! Such gaiety!” One speaking, long-fingered hand carried a piece of silk to her eyes. “Had I known you were all to be so happy, I should have forced myself to leave my little room, and sought some comfort here. But alas …”

“Dear old Racky.” The Duke rose and went to the lady. “Have you been moping yourself again?”

“Do not regard it,” Lady Elizabeth returned with apparent effort. She fluttered her delicate hand and again pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. “When I gaze upon Hary-O, the merest girl, flush with all the dreams and hopes of a girl’s heart — I might almost think myself transported, to those happy days of old! But they are gone — gone, Canis, with our dear one, into the grave!”

Lady Harriot rolled her eyes towards Heaven with an expression of intense irritation. A faint smile played about Andrew Danforth’s lips; but I noticed that he had not returned to his horse. Lady Elizabeth’s injunction, it appeared, would be obeyed.

“Lady Elizabeth,” said Lord Harold, “may I intrude upon your cares long enough to present a very great acquaintance — Miss Jane Austen — to your notice?”

Lady Elizabeth’s gaze strayed over me, and she attempted the faintest curtsey; but fell almost into a swoon, so that the Duke was forced to support her rather heavily. With an exclamation of concern, Charles Danforth seized a chair, and set it close to the swaying pair. His Grace disposed of his fair burden, and Miss Trimmer — sensible, forthright Miss Trimmer, who had followed in Lady Elizabeth’s train bearing a remarkable encumbrance of fringe-work, sketching book, and circulating library novels — produced a bottle of hartshorn, and waved it under the lady’s nostrils. A start — a failing cry — a dramatic lifting of hands to eyes — and Lady Elizabeth was once more among the living.

“And so, while I had descended into the tenderest reflections in the world, you have all been enjoying a social call,” she murmured, as one amazed. “No, no — do not think to offer an explanation, Hary-O. It is exactly as your mother should have wished. I, who knew the smallest concerns of her excellent heart — who cared for her as a sister even unto death — I must comprehend better than anyone that Georgiana would not wish you to repine.”

“Indeed,” I said hastily, “I have no wish to intrude upon your privacy, Lady Elizabeth, and duties of my own call me immediately back to Bakewell. I shall take my leave, and offer deepest thanks for the hospitality of all at Chatsworth.”

“Well …” Lady Elizabeth inclined her head and summoned a smile. “Now that you have paid this first call, pray do not hesitate to come often. I am sure the Duke will join me in assuring you, Miss Austen, that we do not begrudge our Hary-O her little pleasures. She is very young, after all, and cannot always be expected to conduct herself with the propriety of her elders.”

“No,” Lady Harriot murmured ironically, “that would be unthinkable.” Her countenance had acquired a markedly set expression; and I observed that both the Countess of Swithin and Lord Harold had moved closer to the Duke’s daughter, so that they were arrayed as one against the lady enthroned near His Grace.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed the Duke. “Should be passing strange, Bess, if the chit didn’t enjoy her pleasures! Not an old shade like ourselves! Girl wants dissipation — life — a home and family of her own! Only natural. Not getting any younger, what?”

“I ask for nothing more than the home I have known all my life, Father,” retorted Lady Harriot. Her lips were compressed into a thin line; she was checking her temper with difficulty.

“And how fortunate you are that such a home is open to you!” observed Lady Elizabeth faintly. “I was not so happy in my own situation in life, dear Hary-O. I rejoice to see the case is different for you. Could I prevent you feeling one-tenth of the suffering I had endured by the time I was your age—”

“You shall achieve that prevention, madam, by ceasing to speak of it. And now, pray forgive me, but I should be remiss in my duties did I not conduct Miss Austen to her carriage.”

Lady Harriot moved to my side as though we were already the greatest of friends and slipped her hand through my arm. Lord Harold followed a few paces behind; his niece impulsively kissed my cheek in farewell.

“I rejoice to see you in such health, Jane, and shall call upon you in Bakewell at the first opportunity,” she whispered.

Charles Danforth bowed low, his expression correct; his brother’s was more satiric; but both remained, like Mona, with the Duke and his lady. I curtseyed to the entire party, and allowed myself to be drawn across the verdant lawn towards the flag terrace.

“Insufferable presumption!” Lady Harriot burst out when we had achieved the Painted Hall. “To condescend, in my presence, to offer me a place in my own household! When it is I who should be suffering her to remain! I, who should assume the role of hostess now in my father’s home! Good God, could my mother only see it! Can His Grace be so miserably blind to the insults that are daily offered me?”

Lord Harold placed his hands on Lady Harriot’s shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

“She is no longer young, Hary-O, and she is very much afraid of losing all that she possesses. Consider how precarious is her position! While your mother lived, she might remain here as the bosom friend of a Duchess. But now? She has no position, no protection, no tacit veil between Society and herself; all the world must know what Lady Elizabeth is, and comment upon her indelicacy. Do not allow such a woman to drive you to the gravest error — an error you might regret all your life! You cannot flee one misery by choosing another. Do you understand me?”

Lady Harriot glared into his face rebelliously; she started to speak, and Lord Harold laid his finger against her lips.

“Quell your delicious temper, my sweet, and play the pretty to your father’s guests. The duties of a hostess fall to those who seize them. Every notice you desire, Hary-O, is within your reach. It is Lady Elizabeth who exceeds her grasp.”

Lady Harriot took Lord Harold’s hand, planted a kiss in the palm, and then turned hurriedly to me. “We are to have a trifling dinner on Saturday, Miss Austen, in respect of my twenty-first birthday. Do I presume too much — or may I beg you to make another of the party?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” I replied. I was sensible of the signal honour Lady Harriot thus did me, in extending the invitation to a relative stranger; her warmth must be all on Lord Harold’s behalf.

“Until Saturday, then.”

She moved swiftly back towards the terrace and the waiting Danforth brothers without another glance at Lord Harold; and so I was free to witness the expression that swept across his countenance. It was hollow, and yearning — the palm she had kissed still cupped at air — and I recognised the look for what it was: the pain of a man denied his very breath of life.