Somewhat distraught from her two very different interviews that afternoon, Jenny had hoped to make her way to her room and change without attracting any notice. This plan was scotched immediately she entered the house: Emily met her as she started up the stairs, with an air of distress poorly masked by her own curiosity.
“You said that you were writing letters this afternoon, Jen. Where on earth have you been this hour and more?”
“I finished two letters most dutifully, and then decided it was high time that I called upon Maria Bevan. Am I terribly late?”
“No, no, certainly not.” Emily assured her distractedly. “But had anyone, I mean, did anyone call before you left?” The question was tendered in tones of portent; Emily raised dark, turbulent eyes to Jenny’s in a pleading silence. Unsure as to what any of the servants might have said about Lady Teeve’s call, Jenny hesitated a second. “Jenny, were you here when Mr. Teverley called?”
“Mr. Teverley?” Jenny breathed with relief. “No, dear. No, Mr. Teverley had not called when I left the house. Did he call after?”
“And you weren’t out riding with him—or walking, or anything?” Emily pressed.
Jenny viewed her friend with a little alarm. “Certainly not, Emmy. In the first place, you know how I feel about horses! Riding? And in any case, had I gone anywhere with Mr. Teverley, though heaven knows why he would ask or I accept for such an outing, I would have told you. Don’t you know by now that he and I cannot help but clash when we meet? A fine, comfortable way to spend an afternoon that would be!” Emily slumped against the stairpost. “Did Teverley call while I was out?” she asked more gently.
“I don’t know!” Emily wailed, and Jenny guided her up the stairs and into her own room. “All Feabers will say is that a gentleman called while we were out, and declined to leave his card, but said he’d be back some other time. Jenny, you would tell me if he had called, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course I would, love. What earthly reason should I have to do otherwise?” Jenny spared a curious glance for her friend before returning her attention to her wardrobe, where she was searching out a gown to wear to the opera that night.
“Well, Feabers won’t say any more, and I swear it begins to feel as if there is a conspiracy to keep us apart!”
Jenny turned to Emily, consternation warring with amused sympathy. “Emily, even for one of a romantic nature, that is doing it altogether too brown. Who on earth would take part in such a conspiracy?”
Emily studied her hands intently. “I’m sure I don’t know, but Jen, if Mamma and Papa have asked you not to encourage me...”
“Or Mr. Teverley, perhaps?” Jenny murmured irrepressibly, instantly repenting at the reproach in Emily’s eyes. “Look you, Emmy, I will not, now or ever, keep anyone’s whereabouts a secret from you unless that person has specifically asked me to do so. No, Mr. Teverley has not. But do please bear in mind that he is twice your age—”
“Not at all! He is four and thirty, and I am eighteen. Almost.”
Jenny saw no point in continuing to argue that point. “Then remember also that it is not at all proper for a young lady to think seriously of a gentleman until she has had some positive signs of a returned interest.”
Emily looked as though she would dispute this, or even bring forth her evidence of Mr. Teverley’s interest in her, but some vestige of discretion made her say, instead: “So no one called by when you were here?”
“No gentleman, Teverley or any other, called when I was here.” Jenny evaded cheerfully. “Did the man leave no card?”
“Only the message that he hoped to have the happiness to find me here at another time. Isn’t that the most remarkably romantic thing you ever heard?”
Jenny was strongly tempted to answer that it was not, by any means, and to further add that it did not sound like Mr. Teverley in the least, but kindness won over common sense and a growing headache. “I suppose you will have to wait until your unknown caller calls again. But please don’t be too disappointed if it was only Dom, forgotten his cards, or Sir Andrew Mallory, and Mr. Prinkle, or your uncle Millington.”
“Uncle Millington is known to Feabers, as is Sir Andrew, and as for Mr. Prinkle”—Emily cast this would-be suitor to the dogs with cheerful malice— “I doubt he has ever had the imagination to forget his cards! Let alone refuse to leave one, should he have had it to leave. Well,”—she abandoned her mystery suddenly— “what do you wear tonight?”
Jenny eyed the two dresses she had finally settled on with a critical eye. “Either the amber or the gray silk-muslin. Which do you prefer?” She held them out. One was made of satin; its lower skirt and bodice were a deep amber color, with an overskirt of gauze in a slightly lighter shade. It was laced and tucked at the wrists and throat. The other, a pale blue and gray silk-muslin, was neither as modish nor as becoming as the amber, but was somewhat more to Jenny’s taste and her idea of what was consonant with her position in the household.
“Jenny, please, the gold. You’ve not worn it since it was delivered, and it is so fine!”
“Perhaps a little too fine for a country wren, Emily. Well, it is one or the other; I suppose it might as well be the amber.”
“Jenny, will you let me dress you tonight? Just this once?” Since their arrival in town, Emily had begged that Jenny let her lend some small gold ornaments and oversee the arrangement of her hair. Up to this evening Jenny had demurred, certain that Emily would dress her up absurdly, and make, all unwittingly, a game of one with pretensions neither to beauty nor to youth. But tonight, still inwardly shaking from Lady Teeve’s onslaught, and feeling that perhaps Emily needed the diversion as much as she did, she agreed.
“But I reserve the final judgment, do you hear?”
“Absolutely, dear, sweet Jenny! Quickly, then, into your petticoats, and I’ll send Maggie in to you.”
Miss Prydd’s notion of dress and Emily Pellering’s were not very much alike; however, at the end of half an hour under the hands of Maggie and Emily, Miss Prydd pronounced herself satisfied, if a trifle startled. After vetoing several small brooches that Emily wished to scatter on her shoulder, Jenny remained some few minutes at the mirror, wondering if, had she been born to wealth, the reflection in the mirror would have been her own. She remarked wryly to Emily upon the changes a few geegaws and a fearless heart could wreak, then sent her friend down the hall to hurry with her own toilette. Emily skipped out of the room, her earlier suspicions quite forgotten, leaving Jenny to wonder if she ought, after all, to go abroad dressed in such a fashion. Staying behind a moment, Maggie made so bold as to reassure Miss in common but cheering tones that she looked entirely splendid, but very proper as well. Jenny, trusting Maggie’s judgment a little more than Emily’s, had to take the pronouncement of such a stalwart, and made her way to the stairs, abandoned to her appearance. “Although, only for tonight, of course.”
Fifteen minutes later Emily arrived in the library, charmingly decked out in pink-sprigged muslin with black ribbon. Lord Graybarr, who had promised his escort as far as Mrs. Temple’s house on Wimpole Street, said that he was proud to have such a pair of pretty chits to escort. Lady Graybarr, after frowning at her husband’s jocularity, was brought to admit that the girls looked very nice indeed.
Delivered to Wimpole Street, Jenny would have found time to worry again over her appearance, had not she had to take over the task of amusing Mrs. Temple, a plump, indolent, agreeable person who was easily pleased, and only wanted the latest gossip—which Jenny sadly lacked—or the chance to tell it herself, to make her happy. Emily had begun immediately to chatter in mysterious tones with Mirabelle Temple, the daughter of the house. By the time the four had dined and were installed in the Temples’ box at Covent Garden, Jenny had forgotten—almost—her unaccustomed finery, and Emily and Mirabelle entirely renewed their old friendship. Mrs. Temple nodded amiably for a time, and slipped with equal good cheer into a light slumber. The opera was, of course, dreadful, but only Jenny had had any idea of listening to the music; Emily and Miss Temple were still whispering and giggling when the curtain rose, and Mrs. Temple’s gentle snores indicated that she was not likely to pay the least attention to the plot. When the ramblings of the soprano had become unbearable, Jenny turned her attention to the audience, hoping to find a familiar face or to catch sight of someone famous in the audience. After a moment, however, she wished she had not.
First she saw Domenic Teverley, awkward in evening dress that was obviously too new for comfort. Then the sweet, virulent glance of his mother came into focus; behind Lady Teeve there was the shadowy, vague form of her companion, and, she rather thought, of Mr. Peter Teverley as well. While she thought their attention on the stage, she was glad for a moment to examine all three Teverleys; but when Dom’s eye caught hers, then jumped to his mother, and Peter Teverley indicated by a nod that he had also noticed their party, Jenny thought she would die of mortification.
At the intermission— “And about time, too,” Mrs. Temple yawned—Jenny noted unhappily that the Teverley men had absented themselves from the Teeve box. Praying that Lady Teeve had not noticed their party, Jenny turned her attention to Mrs. Temple, who had been joined by a corpulent gentleman in creaking stays who came to practice his gallantry on an old flame and to ogle the young ladies present. A shuffling in the back of the box, and Peter and Domenic Teverley were standing there, Peter smiling unreadably, Domenic standing with the air of someone about to go to the scaffold bravely, if a little reluctantly.
Shuddering at the inopportune timing, Jenny rose to make the Teverley men known to Mrs. Temple and her daughter. Emily, with no knowledge of Lady Teeve’s visit that afternoon, was quite happy to see both gentlemen, and forgot her devotion to Mirabelle Temple as her eyes went to Teverley with a look of kittenish devotion that was as charming as it was absurd. After the first civilities had passed, however, Peter Teverley adroitly left Emily and Miss Temple to Dom’s attention, and chose to speak with Jenny.
“Why is it I sense you are not overly pleased to see me?” he murmured mildly over her hand.
“I cannot imagine how you came to that conclusion,” Jenny said with asperity, heartily wishing he had decided to visit any other box in the theater; she was certain that she could feel Lady Teeve’s red-hot glance at her back.
“You are particularly decorative tonight, Miss Prydd. Or may I truly call you Jenny? I did not mean to tease you into a familiarity with which you are not comfortable.”
“At this point, Mr. Teverley, I hardly think it matters.” Then, to change the subject, “I let Emily supervise my dressing tonight, and the result is as you see.”
“Very fine, and exceedingly becoming, but, I think, a little uncomfortable?”
“I am far too plain a churchmouse to dress up in such a fashion,” Jenny said candidly. “But it made Emily happy to use me for her doll—”
“Neither a doll nor a churchmouse. But I agree that this sort of thing is not quite your style. A little more simplicity, I think. A deep blue or red, in velvet, with thin gold banding. I do admire the topazes at your ears.”
Jenny stared at him in astonishment.
“My dear Prydd ... that is, my dear Jenny, pray do not believe that because I am a man I know nothing of female fashion.”
“I am perhaps startled to find you know so much of proper female fashion—” Jenny admitted. “No, see, you have me brangling again, without the slightest intention to do so. When you have been so pleasant, too. I think.”
“A touch!” Teverley grinned. “Jenny, you are becoming a wit!”
“You are the second to say so today, sir, and I must say that I think you are both sadly mistaken,” Jenny replied, and was joined in her protest by Emily, who had forcibly removed Domenic from an admiring Mirabelle Temple and brought him over to his uncle’s side.
“Next thing you know, you will be pronouncing my poor Jenny a bluestocking!” she sniffed in disgust.
With a careful, delicate nudge, Emily pushed herself to the front of the box, nearest Teverley, and pushed Jenny back with Dom. Teverley, with equal aplomb, turned himself so that he was again, in the main, addressing Miss Prydd. A moment’s irritation crossed Emily’s face, but she restrained from pushing any further. In the meantime, although she had missed none of the machinations in her own party, Jenny was increasingly aware of Lady Teeve’s gorgon glare aimed at her shoulder blades. Partly in compassion for Emily, partly in an urgent wish to speak to Domenic, Jenny turned the boy to the back of the box and drew him aside.
“I was visited by your mother today,” she began.
“The devil! What did she say?”
“Well, first off, she took me for Emily. No, Em don’t know of it—” She pushed him further back in the box, out of Emily’s earshot entirely. “Nor am I of a mind to tell her.”
“Was m’mother brutal, ma’am?”
“That may be putting it too strongly, but she was rather—well, yes. I do think you might be a little careful of what you do, for Emmy’s comfort if not for mine or your own; if your mamma so dislikes the idea of Emily—of course, she thought I was a shameless older woman, twining my desperate toils about you, and I know not what else, but even so...”
“But you, ma’am? She thought you was Emily? I beg your pardon, but Mamma surely knows better than that! Why, you’re old enough to be my—my—” here he foundered, embarrassed.
“Your older sister?” she suggested evenly.
“Exactly!” Dom missed the irony of her tone. “I’m sorry if Mamma was a plaguey nuisance, but I’ll see to it that it don’t happen again.”
Jenny smiled, wondering how Dom intended to accomplish this feat. “It isn’t myself I would worry for, Dom. I shall be out of London and back at my aunt’s house sooner or later. But Emily is a part of this life, and your mamma could make it most uncomfortable for her in London. I should hate to see that happen.”
“Well, so should I,” Dom agreed stoutly. “But I say, Jenny, don’t you think you might pretend to be Emmy for a little, so that Mamma won’t realize that Emily is Emily and you are you?”
Jenny congratulated herself silently: She had neither laughed at this absurd proposal, nor at Domenic’s complete seriousness in making it. “Even if I could, I would not. I’ve already informed your mother of her mistake. Granted she don’t know who Emily is, but she does know that I am not her. All I say is that you must act with a little more thought, or Emily might be hurt, and I know you cannot want that.”
“No, Ma’am. Not at all. I’ll try, then, although I’m not sure what I am trying at.”
“Well enough for now, my dear.” Jenny reached out and patted the boy’s hand. “Just try not to antagonize your mamma where Emily is concerned.” Dominic blushed, thanked her, and was about to inquire as to the particulars of his mother’s interview with Jenny when Peter Teverley appeared at his shoulder.
“I think, from your mamma’s glances, that we are desired back in our seats. You will pardon us?” They made their farewells and left.
Emily and Mirabelle, returning to their whispers, had a whole new field of conversation: Mirabelle questioned Emily closely about Domenic, whom she regarded as delightful, and Emily demanded of her friend whether Peter Teverley’s attentions to her had not seemed most marked. An altercation seemed about to transpire when Mirabelle announced that she hadn’t seen anything of the sort, and if it had not been for the beginning of the farce, they might well have come to blows. Jenny turned her attention with relief to the travesty on stage.
When all the possible cast had been married off, the curtain had fallen, and the diva had returned to the stage for one last, quivering bow, Mrs. Temple shook off her lethargy. She suggested that, in hope of avoiding some of the crowd, they leave before the musical selection was played. With that conservation of motion practiced only by the very lazy, she herded her flock out of the box and through the already filling hallways. Jenny, a few steps behind—in consequence of retrieving a shawl and two reticules left by the girls—was separated from the party and heard only Mrs. Temple’s assurance, over the heads of the crowd, that they would wait for her below. After that she gave her attention to maneuvering her way out of the theater.
She had begun to think that she might, after all, make it down the stairs with her property intact—for there seemed to be hundreds of little boys picking pockets in the hallways—and without undue injury, when she was confronted by Lady Teeve, who had deliberately cut off her exit.
“A companion?” Lady Teeve sneered. “A fine companion you look in those feathers and stones, miss! I can almost understand how you bewitched my poor boy. And I can see that Peter is head-over-ears as well. That serves him right, I must say. Well, it won’t wash. I was ready to believe you this afternoon, but I will not be bamboozled again. You are not to entice my son, do you hear me?”
Jenny, white with shock at the public attack, forced herself to choose her words with caution, lest she ruin not only herself but Emily—and her family as well, perhaps.
“Lady Teeve, I was not lying to you this afternoon, nor am I lying now when I swear to you that I am not who you believe me to be, and that I have no designs of any sort upon your son. He is a dear, sweet boy, and thinks of me as an older sister or an aunt. As for his feelings toward anyone else, I cannot believe that they can be, at his age, more than merest puppy love, which will, without interference, probably die of itself. I can assure you that you have nothing to worry over from me—or from Miss Pellering, who thinks him an agreeable friend and nothing more. And I suggest that we end this discussion now, before we cause a scene.”
Lady Teeve glared at Jenny. “My reputation can stand a scene, girl. Can yours?”
Jenny cast an eye at the growing crowds, then at Lady Teeve, who remained planted directly in her path.
Finally, with a deadly calm, she spoke between her teeth. “Madam, since you force me to it, I must reveal myself to you: I am a woman of no fortune, no beauty, and no youth, with only the blessing of a respectable family behind me. I have no reputation with the ton. Indeed, I am like all of those ciphers who linger on the fringes—the companions and the governesses. I am sure that were I to vanish at this moment from the face of the earth, only my cousins in the nursery of my aunt’s home would seriously miss me. For the friendship I bear Mr. Domenic Teverley, and the affection I owe to Miss Pellering and her family, I had rather not cause a scene here. But my friends are waiting me, and I will pass.”
Lady Teeve bridled. “You will? I’ll see you in Newgate if you lay a hand on me, you cheap, lying little—” She raised her stick with a gesture almost unbelievable in one of her delicate appearance, and seemed to have every intention of using it, only a hand came from the crowd which grasped the stick, then the lady’s arm.
“Quite enough, Aunt. I am sure that my uncle would not be pleased were you to cause a scene here, to say nothing of Domenic and myself. To which add that there are several of the Royals here tonight, and I doubt that they would approve of your making a scene with a young lady who has made plain her determination to quit this quarrel.” He took Jenny’s hand. “May I take you to your friends, Miss Prydd?”
“Thank you, sir,” Jenny whispered.
Lady Teeve backed away from them as if both man and woman had the plague, her mouth drawn into a tight, disagreeable knot.
“Come along, then. I’ll rejoin you and Domenic in a moment, Aunt.” Tucking her hand into his arm, Teverley led Jenny down through the crowds and to Mrs. Temple’s side. “Good night, Miss Prydd,” he said formally.
“Good night, sir. And thank you,” she whispered.
“You have my word that you will hear no more of this from my Aunt Teeve. I shall see to that myself. Ladies.” He made a general bow to the party and took his leave.
Mrs. Temple, unaware of any of this, made speed to the carriage nonetheless, already thinking of a cup of chocolate and her bed. Emily and Mirabelle continued to talk, but not with the same giddy abandon as before. Emily, in fact, seemed somewhat subdued and answered Mirabelle’s comments—mostly about Domenic Teverley—in monosyllables.
At home at last, Emily and Jenny trudged upstairs side by side. As was her custom, Jenny walked her friend to the door of her bedroom, and was about to turn down the hall towards her own, when Emily’s mournful voice stopped her.
“Jenny, Mirabelle said—Oh, I think she said it more to be hateful than anything! But she said that she didn’t think Peter Teverley had any more interest in me than he has in flying. Of course, she’s only jealous because she liked Dom and he paid her hardly any notice,” she admitted with glum satisfaction. “But I must, that is, he must ... oh, Jenny, he has to notice me!”
“I should say that he has given you considerable evidence of his notice, starting from the moment when he decided we really couldn’t let you ruin yourself on Ratherscombe,” Jenny said dryly.
“That isn’t what I meant,” Emily insisted. “I expected ... I want him to—”
“Emily, I am tired.” Jenny, speaking again through clenched teeth, realized how true this was with every word. “I am probably more tired even than I think. I suggest that you go to sleep, and perhaps things will seem brighter to you in the light of day. And you might give a thought, in passing, to those of us who are not in a position to want or to expect. Good night.” And without another word Miss Prydd turned and went toward her own room.
“Jenny? Oh, Jenny darling, was I unkind? I truly didn’t mean to be. I’m just a stupid, silly chit, and I say things ... Please forgive me, love. I’m the most selfish wretch on earth, and—”
“You are forgiven, love,” Jenny said, goaded into good humor by her own fatigue and Emily’s earnest distress. “But I need my rest, and I think you need yours as well. Shall we talk more in the morning?”
Emily agreed rapidly, a little mawkishly, and at last left Jenny alone.
Without the luxury of a lady’s maid, Jenny forced herself to undress, hang away her clothes, and make her ablutions, when all she really wanted to do was to collapse upon the bed and cry for an hour At last, climbing into the bed, she tried, despite her busy brain, to sleep. But it was not until light had begun to show in her window that Jenny, having resigned herself to a night awake, drifted into an uneasy, heavy slumber, which nothing could disturb, not even the startling conclusion that she was as much, and as foolishly, infatuated with Peter Teverley as ever Emily was, and that, just the same as her friend, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.