The fortnight which followed Ratherscombe’s attempt upon the peace of the Pellering household was mercifully undisturbed by any further such incidents. Emily, and Jenny in her wake, settled into a round of parties and visits, punctuated by the occasional calls of the Teverley men, and by what seemed to Jenny to be interminable hours spent at Emily’s mantua-maker’s warehouse. Finally an afternoon did come when Jenny was able to persuade her friend that she truly did not care to come once more to New Bond Street to inspect the stuffs for Emily’s court dress, and when Emily and her mother had departed and Lord Graybarr had taken himself off to his club, she was able to remove to the library with pen, ink, and paper, to write some hopelessly overdue letters.
She had finished the first, a letter to her aunt Winchell, and begun on a second, addressed to the nursery inhabitants of Winchell house, when a noise in the hallway distracted her from her writing. Aside from a mild surprise that Emily had dispatched her errands so quickly (for so she supposed the case to be) Jenny paid no attention to the bustle until it forced itself in upon her. The door was opened, and a frail, pretty, and very grim old lady entered the room.
“Yes, ma’am?” Jenny laid aside her pen at once and rose to meet the older woman.
“Yes.” The word fell cold and harsh from the visitor’s gentle mouth, and warred with her saintly mien: she looked like an angel in lavenders and grays, and sounded like a disgruntled governess. “Well,” the voice prodded.
“Won’t you sit, ma’am, and I will ring for some tea—”
“No need to do so, girl. I will be leaving presently. I am Lady Teeve.” The woman announced herself in such tones of portent that Jenny knew the name was meant to mean something to her, perhaps even to strike terror into her heart; even when Jenny recalled who Lady Teeve must be, she could recall no reason for fearing her.
“You’re Domenic’s mother?” She smiled with more warmth. “I am so pleased to meet you! We count Dom as an especial friend here. I am—”
“I know precisely who you are, girl. I wonder that you are brass-faced enough to own it—nay, to crow it at me in such a fashion.” Lady Teeve favored Jenny with a particularly cutting and distasteful glance, and continued, almost as if she were alone in the room. “Older than I had thought. I don’t know whether that means that you are a sensible sort of thing, or merely desperate.” Her tone denied either possibility or any hint of compliment. “I don’t much care. This thing will be put to a stop immediately.” For emphasis she tapped the floor with her stick.
Jenny was entirely at sea by this time. Unless Lady Teeve had heard some ridiculous story, or was completely about in her head (a theory which Miss Prydd gave no little credence) then there was no reason—but then Jenny recalled Domenic’s words on the occasion of his first call. “If I want something, Mamma will be against it.” And it began to occur to Jenny that perhaps Lady Teeve did not know to whom it was she spoke. A few more words from the visitor convinced Jenny that she had it right.
“My boy will be a viscount someday, as I am sure you are aware. Of yourself, aside from the fact that you’re too old, and nothing at all to look at! (for I take pride in plain speaking, missy!)—a fact that I had not apprehended before now, which makes me the more worried on poor Domenic’s account—” The lady drew a breath, hopelessly entangled in her sentence. “I will not have it, do you hear? There is nothing to be said in great objection to your family, I suppose, although your mamma’s father was in trade, so you need not try to conceal it from me. But you are not suitable for my son. Aside from which, I have other plans for him. He will marry a suitable girl. Is that clear?”
“Abundantly, ma’am.” Jenny returned Lady Teeve’s glare with a calm regard, which appreciably wilted that lady’s battle mien. For the first time since she had entered the room, Lady Teeve’s face settled into what Jenny hoped was her more usual aspect: that of a sweet-tempered, affable older lady.
“Well, then, my dear. You will see that I can be a good friend to one who obliges me. If you will persuade Domenic to cease his hanging about this house, I will endeavor to help you in what little ways I may.”
“Ma’am, may I ask who it is you think I am?”
Lady Teeve looked sharply at the younger woman. “I thought we were done with this! I warn you, I will not be trifled with! Nor shall my son be trifled with.”
“Nor should he be, indeed, ma’am. Not by me, certainly. Nor anyone else that I can think of—not in the manner which you evidently suppose.”
“Miss Pellering...”
“Lady Teeve, my name is Prydd. lphegenia Prydd. I am a friend of Miss Pellering, and I have been trying to figure out this misunderstanding for these five minutes. I am terribly afraid that you have been in error, or misled by someone—”
Lady Teeve drew herself up to full height—still half a head smaller than Jenny. “I will not permit this! I will not be played with! Why did you not tell me who you were?”
“Because, ma’am, if you recall, you specifically forbade me to do so. Miss Pellering is not at home at the moment. However, I think that you are very much deceived if you have cast Emily as some sort of enchantress who has thrown a spell over Domenic; why, she is two years his junior, and—”
“When they met she was engaged to run off with some fortune-hunting rascal! A fine match for my son, missy. Well, you may give my message to Miss Pellerlng, if you please.”
“If you please, ma’am,” Jenny broke in smoothly, “I shall not do so. It is hardly my place to do so. Aside from which, I do not believe that any serious harm can come to Dom in this house. He comes, after all, in the company of his cousin, Mr. Peter Teverley, and so far from encouraging his tendre, Emily has shown Dom no partiality at all. She looks upon Dom as she might a brother. They—”
“She has entrapped my son,” Lady Teeve stated implacably. “I will not have him in her company.”
“Then is it not your responsibility to speak with Domenic rather than to come and attack Emily Pellering? I give you my word that she has made no move to attach his interest, and his affection for her is brotherly—” Lady Teeve sniffed. “And perhaps a little calf love in it, as well, which will not last, nor root itself unless he is greatly opposed in it.”
“Do you say that my son isn’t good enough for a tradesman’s daughter?” Lady Teeve asked with more indignation than accuracy. “I tell you, Miss—whatever your name is! I will not have Domenic dangling after your little Miss Pellering. I came in a civil fashion to discuss this, and I was prepared to be helpful.” Jenny repressed a strong urge to opine on Lady Teeve’s civility of manner and helpfulness. “You will tell Miss Pellering what I said.”
“I would suggest again that you speak rather to Domenic, or failing that, to Mr. Peter Teverley, since it is in his company that Dom visits the house. In either event—”
“Peter is no help at all. He simply ignores everything that I say. He’s as bad as Teeve in that. As for Domenic, you know as well as I that he is bewitched. Told me to mind my own business, quite as if I had not been the most affectionate and careful of mothers! I will not be so treated by my son, Miss Smith.”
“Prydd, ma’am,” Jenny corrected levelly. “And if you have nothing further to communicate, I suggest that we terminate this interview.”
“Are you dismissing me?” Lady Teeve hissed, outraged.
“No, but I cannot see any point in prolonging a discussion wherein both parties are so clearly divided.”
Lady Teeve rose and collected her reticule from the divan where she had dropped it. “You are entirely right, Miss Prynne. I will not stay in this house a moment longer. And you shall never see my son again, I assure you.”
“We would miss him, ma’am,” Jenny said sweetly. “He has been a good friend to us here. Not so good as you would have it, of course. But he’s a prettily behaved boy, and will be a fine man when he grows up.”
Lady Teeve was entirely at a loss. Either she was being insulted or complimented, but as to which—and as to which would have bothered her more—she was at a loss to say. Taking up her shawl and her dignity, the lady swept daintily from the room, favoring the startled footman outside the door with a singularly venomous look. Jenny stood where she was until the outside door had closed behind Domenic’s mother, then sank dazedly into her chair again. “Good Lord, when all I wanted was a quiet afternoon in which to write my letters!”
Favoring the door with a look of dislike meant more for her departed guest than for Corinthian scrollwork, Jenny resumed her letter to her cousins. It was difficult to continue in her usually animated style, for between each detailed description of muslin flounces and high perch phaetons—for she had promised her audience a diligent report of all the wonders encountered on her travels—thoughts would surface irrepressibly. Ought she to tell Emily of what had passed? Or Domenic Teverley? Or Peter Teverley? Clearly, Lady Teeve was not disposed to listen to any but her own opinions, but Jenny did not relish the thought of another such interview. Indeed, she mused, until this day she would not have imagined she could have gone through such a scene without emerging in hysterics. I must be stronger-minded than I knew; and what I said to her... This was such an arresting thought that Jenny gave up for once and all on her correspondence, brought her letter to a quick and disjointed close, and went in search of her pelisse and bonnet. She enlisted the company of a maid and set out for Lady Bevan’s house.
Fortunately, Maria Bevan was at home that afternoon, feeling elegantly and somewhat boringly fragile and planning colors for her nursery. Lord Bevan, after putting up with his wife’s notions for as long as he could, had fled the house muttering something about the sane company of the fellows at Manton’s. It was only half an hour after his disgraceful retreat that Miss Prydd’s card was shown to Lady Bevan. Maria, who had had neither time enough to become contrite, nor to have fully thought out the subject, was in the midst of a splendid feeling of ill-use, and welcomed her friend with a comic confusion of tears, joy, and wrath, all of which were confounded by her resolve to play as fragile a dame as any on the stage—when she recalled her part.
“Dearest Genia!” She jumped up from her divan and began to flutter toward her friend. Then dropped back as she recalled her delicate condition.
“Jenny now, Mary. I find I prefer it so.” She eyed her friend dubiously. “You know, if you are as ill as you seem—”
“Not ill, Ge-Jenny. Simply—” She paused. “Well, you know—that is, no of course, you cannot know! I cannot think how I could have said such a thing! But I am—” She broke off, confounded by her own words.
“I know it is a wise thing to care for yourself when you are enceinte. But really, Mary, hartshorn and vinaigrette in the middle of the afternoon? Indeed, I have heard that it does a baby no good if his mamma has been too quiet during her confinement, but only makes him fat and slow.”
Lady Bevan had never entertained the notion of a fat baby. “I will not have a pudgy child! I will not have a fat little brat like that ... what was her name? Amanda Weatherfair, at school.”
“Lord, I’d not thought of her in years, Mary. What became of her?”
“What might have been expected,” Maria said callously. “She became a companion to some dreadful old woman, and is still there, I suppose, fetching shawls and combing out pug dogs and heaven knows what else.” Maria shuddered deliciously at the thought.
“She is hardly to be condemned for finding a situation in which she is no burden on anyone, Maria. At least she is working for her living, and in an honest household.”
“As if she would be accepted to work in a dishonest one!” Maria crowed. Then, taken aback by Jenny’s look of reproach: “Am I being impossible again, Jenny? I am sorry, my love. But you must tell me what you have been so busy at, all this time, that you have not called upon me.” She rang for wine and biscuits, settling herself and her friend down for a comfortable coze with instructions to the butler that they were not to be disturbed.
“Actually, I have been accompanying Emily practically everywhere; not to Almack’s, of course, but to all manner of routs and suppers and balls.”
“Why not to Almack’s?” Lady Bevan asked curiously.
“Just a little high-flying for me, I think.”
“Nonsense!” Maria snorted. “If Lady Graybarr don’t get you a voucher, I shall do so.”
“She offered it, indeed, but I thanked her and said no, Mary, what sort of game would I look, little and poor and thin as a pole, and plain as Sunday to boot, in that company? I’ve no fortune, no brilliance, and no beauty to recommend me, and aside from taking notes to send to Annabelle and her sisters—”
“Who on earth is Annabelle?”
“One of my aunt Winchell’s children. A dear little girl, with a powerful love of finery! I vow I have described every gown I have encountered this month and more, and have the most peculiar notes in my diary: ‘Wednesday, dined out, Emily in mouselline de soie, in a pretty shade of pink; myself in mauve gauze and ribbons. Met Lady S, who wore green with silk ruches and a wreath of silver roses,”’ she recited solemnly.
“Very well, but you shall not put me off. I think your scruples ridiculous, but if it will make you uncomfortable—”
“Very much so. Mary, had I a great fortune, I could set myself up as an eccentric and go about where I liked, and people would only be amused by my oddity. But to go to Almack’s without a fortune! I would be set down immediately, and very properly, too.”
“Piffle, Jenny. You are too hard on yourself. Granted, should you appear in that gown, no one would ask where you had it from, but you are always neatly dressed, and appear to advantage—”
“With dark hair, a dark complexion, dark eyes, a mousy little figure, and no fortune ... you needn’t put a pretty picture on it, Mary. I have known since I was twelve that I was plain as the day, and what my future must be: precisely that which you described for Amanda Weatherfair. I don’t dwell upon it too much, and, indeed, consider that I have been extremely lucky.”
“I see no point in continuing,” Lady Bevan said stiffly. “You are determined only to think ill of yourself.” Then tactlessly, “I promise you that Ally looked a thousand times worse when she appeared at my door. Why, she had on an innkeeper’s wife’s dress, and such dirt! I do hope Tracy will keep her in hand.”
Jenny thought of asking why Lady Bevan’s sister had arrived in such disarray, and further, why she would now require such supervision, but thought better of it, knowing full well her friend’s rattlish tongue. Maria had found another tangent, and was off to pursue it.
“The last time you were here you spoke of a man, you sly thing, and it has taken me till now to recall it. What became of him? Does he call? Has he shown an interest in you?”
“If you mean Peter Teverley,” Jenny said directly, with as much composure as she could muster, “why, yes, he has called several times. Only, I think, because his cousin Domenic has a powerful infatuation with Emily—the merest puppy love—and his visiting gives Dom a chance to come in his company to visit as well.”
“And what excuse does Mr. Peter Teverley use?” Lady Bevan asked archly.
“I doubt that a man of his years and superior command needs any excuse at all. And even did he feel the need of one, it would be the merest civility.”
“How often has he called?” Maria asked pointedly.
“He may call two, perhaps three times in a week although we by no means are always in.” Jenny reflected silently that it was remarkable how often they were at home when the Messrs. Teverley called.
“And if he hasn’t a tendre for you, why does he call?” Maria continued impatiently.
“He might have a tendre for Emily, but somehow, I cannot believe it so.” Jenny offered judiciously. “She’s pretty enough to break all manner of hearts, certainly, but I think—I hope!—that a man of his wit looks for more than mere prettiness. Not that Emily isn’t the dearest and sweetest of girls, but she sometimes puts me forcibly in mind of—” Jenny broke off, horrified realizing she had been about to indict her hostess. “But then, I am not too sure—perhaps he does have a tendre for her,” she finished lamely, well aware of Maria’s unsatisfied look.
“Jenny, you disappoint me. Here am I, determined to find you a romance, and at every possibility you shy away! It is the most fatiguing thing, and exceedingly unkind as well. And you still have not told me about your Mr. Teverley.”
Jenny stated mildly that she was under the impression that they had talked, of little else for the past five minutes. Maria, in her turn, warned her friend that if she did not take care, people would accuse her of being a wit. Jenny denied this vigorously.
“I meant,” Maria insisted, “that you have not told me why you and he come to blows.”
“Mary Ervine, I have never heard anything so shocking in my life! I may have said that we were like to come to blows, and certainly there have been moments when it would have pleased me greatly to box Peter Teverley’s ears for him, but all that has ever passed between us are words—a few sharp words, once or twice—”
“And this from Genia Prydd, who never said boo to anyone? The same girl who let the curate tread steadily on her toes for an hour and a half in church one day because it wasn’t her place to scold him for it? Jenny!”
“Maria,” Miss Prydd mimicked. “What a child of sixteen will put up with and what is acceptable to a woman past her prime are two entirely different things. Mr. Teverley has a peculiarly free and easy manner. Not unpleasant, mind, but he comes so close to doling out set downs now and then that it seems inevitable that he should receive some himself.”
“I don’t know, but the only people I have ever seen who deal that way are Althea and Calendar, and they’re so besotted with each other that it’s hard to get one to say a word without the other.”
“That is hardly the case with myself and Mr. Teverley,” Jenny said drily. She was wondering what new, fascinating topic she could introduce to make her friend forget the rather painful subject of Mr. Peter Teverley. “Mr. Teverley comes to visit us because he wishes to pay his respects, and to see how Emily is fairing; he has an interest, a fatherly interest, in her, and helped us both when she was being plagued by a dreadful—uh—problem—”
“Adrian Ratherscombe,” Maria supplied helpfully.
“Yes, Mary, but how did you know of it?”
“Why, la, dear, this is London! Her family covered it nicely, but these things will out, and since there was no damage done, and Emily was punished by her own stupidity—and yes, I will call it that, for what a silly, green thing to do! But you see, she is accepted again at Almack’s, and everywhere else—although I imagine that it was something devilish for her mamma to procure that voucher at first!” She broke off. “This is hardly to the point. Is your Mr. Teverley any relation to Lord Teeve?”
“Maria, this is growing exceedingly tedious,” Jenny murmured in tones of despair. “I will tell you everything I know of Mr. Teverley: he is unmarried, was an India merchant for some few years—”
“Perhaps he’s a nabob! Oh, Jenny, how splendid for you if he were to offer—”
“Maria, this is not becoming talk, and I will not have it! Peter Teverley would no more look at me than the man in the moon. I have grown used to the fact that I am an old maid, and I do not intend to spend my life repining. But I neither intend to spend it in fruitless daydreams.”
Lady Bevan’s delicate lower lip trembled. “Jenny, my love, I had no idea that you had a tendre for him.”
“Mary, Good God! What could give you that idea? You have been throwing the man at my head since I entered your door, and despite my assurances that he has no interest in an—an—ape-leader!—you continue to do so.”
“I’m sorry, Jenny,” Lady Bevan sighed meekly. “But is he related to Teeve?”
“Yes, Mary.” Jenny sighed with wry exasperation. “He’s some sort of cousin to Teeve and Domenic Teverley, who is Teeve’s heir. Mr. Teverley was in the army after he left India, and is only now returned to the country. And that, I swear, is all that I know of him. Will it do?”
“I wonder which one he was.” Maria muttered abstractedly. “He wasn’t the rakehell one, was he?”
“The what?”
“One of Teeve’s cousins, or brothers, or nephews or something, was a dreadful rake some years back ... I suppose that we were both in the nursery then. He eloped with someone, or seduced her, or some such thing. And was a terrible rabble-rouser, always wanting to make speeches to the crowds. And gamed horribly. And was expelled from university. Or something like that. But one of them was a terrible loose-screw.”
Some perverse notion made Jenny agree that it might have been the Teverley with whom she was acquainted, although in truth, anything less like a loose-screw than Peter Teverley she could not imagine. Aside from the fact that the whole thing sounded very much like poor melodrama, she had to admit that Maria was prone—very prone—to exaggeration.
“In any case, my dear, it was long ago, and who knows but what he may have reformed himself. But do have a care in any attentions that he shows you, Jenny love, since he—”
“Maria, I give you my word that Peter Teverley sees nothing more in me than a convenient chaperone for Emily Pellering. Indeed, if anyone should be wary of his attentions, it is Emily, for she has the most dreadful schoolroom infatuation with him. Indeed, your story might be the way to dissuade her from it, for I am sure the there is nothing in it.”
“I don’t understand,” Lady Bevan said bewilderedly. “I am at sea now, when I thought I would understand everything, and if you do not make this clear to me I shall think you a very poor sort of friend.”
“In truth, Mary, I’m not altogether sure myself. But just now, I see, I am a very late friend indeed,” Jenny cried ruefully, neatly distracting Maria’s attention. “Look at the time! And we are engaged to dine out this evening. Mary, I vow and swear that I shall return in short order to visit you. Please give my love to your sister, and to your Francis as well—do you know, I have never even met him?”
She reached for her pelisse as Lady Bevan broke into a paean of praise for her absent lord, ending with the solemn vow that, if her dearest Jenny would go, the next time, she would come to see Lord Bevan and his wife both.
“You must come and visit more often, my love. You’ve no idea how unpleasant it is to sit and do nothing all day long!” Jenny refrained from reminding her that Maria Ervine had been celebrated as the Laziest Girl on Earth when they attended school together. “Pray give my respects to Miss Pellering. And, Jenny?” Maria smiled awkwardly. “Think more kindly of yourself. You are a good friend.”
With mutual exchanges of affection and an embrace that perilously endangered Jenny’s second-best bonnet, the two parted and Jenny joined the maid who was waiting to accompany her to the Graybarr household.
Thinking idly as they walked, Jenny realized that Lady Teeve might be in a position to do greater harm to Emily than she had thought—should that lady hear of the affair at the inn! It was not to be thought of. For Dom won’t stop visiting, and Teverley will not listen to reason, and—no, but perhaps I can persuade him that it might hurt Emmy’s reputation to be seen so often with an older man. Nonsense! And he’ll know it. What on earth am I to do. “I almost wish that I had caught the measles!” she announced aloud, to the considerable astonishment of the maid at her side. But if she had never stopped at the Green Falconer, think of the excitement she would have missed. I shall never see half this sort of excitement again when I return to Winchell House; at least, not until Annabella is of courting age. And by then I shall be safely past thoughts of—of anything!
And with this grim comfort, Jenny entered the Graybarr House and scurried upstairs to change for the evening.