Lancelot awoke early the next morning and lay a few moments thinking about the previous evening.
He was beginning to like Miss Barry more than he’d expected to. He’d only asked his mother to invite the two young ladies with the aim of putting things right, but the more he talked with her, the more she drew him.
Prickly one moment and keenly discerning the next, like a cactus in bloom. When he’d spoken of India, he’d felt for the first time real interest from a female—not the oohing and aahing of someone wanting to hear of tigers and cobras but the genuine interest of a fellow Christian.
Of course, it was because she was a vicar’s daughter, he told himself. She had grown up hearing the message of the gospel—or had she? He wasn’t sure if she had expressed approval or disapproval last night over the Clapham Sect, that evangelical arm of the Church of England, but he’d sensed a withdrawal in her at that point. She had not gone into detail about her father. He sounded like a pious man, but was he of evangelical leanings? Some of the strongest resistance he’d encountered from the pulpit both in an English village and among the English settlements in India was to the message of salvation and God’s grace through the suffering, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
The church he’d grown up in was a comfortable place of tradition, where the church calendar was celebrated every Sunday with its cycle of holidays sprinkled throughout—Epiphany, Easter, Whitsunday, Trinity Sunday, Advent, Christmas . . . No rousing sermons were accustomed. Instead, edifying homilies were read from the pulpit and the Eucharist celebrated at certain services.
But did it mean anything? When he’d administered the bread and wine, did the people understand anymore the meaning behind them?
Lancelot had not realized how cold and indifferent he’d become to the meaning of the gospel until he’d gone one Sunday on the advice of a college mate to hear Charles Simeon preach at Trinity Church.
For the first time in his life, he’d been confronted with the message of a personal salvation and with his own inability to save himself because of his shortcomings and inherent sin.
What he’d scornfully dismissed as the emotionalism of the Methodists, Baptists, and other radical dissenters was coming from one of his own Anglican priests.
Lancelot had left that church service convinced he would not come back. But he’d returned Sunday after Sunday until he’d fallen on his knees in his room, asking for that salvation Jesus had bought for him on the cross.
There followed a period of euphoria and such peace as he’d never known in his life. For the first time he’d felt a sense of being justified—his life with the potential for true purpose and meaning.
New and deep friendships had arisen with the Reverend Simeon and those close to him—deacons, curates, and fellow divinity students of Cambridge, all like-minded men because they’d experienced the same transformation in their own lives.
They’d had ambitious dreams to preach salvation through grace alone from the pulpits across England and to win the heathen across the seas. Up to then the Church of England had not considered its mission to take the gospel to far-off lands the way the Baptists were beginning to do.
But he and his fellow students were filled with zeal and saw no limitations to the harvest field.
But once he’d been ordained and served, first as a deacon and then as a vicar in a country church, he’d been confronted with the reality of complacent congregations resistant to any kind of change. They did not want their lives turned topsy-turvy. Those who did had already left for the Methodist chapel at the other end of town. They did not want that kind of emotional preaching in their own sanctuaries.
It had been a difficult and lonely time for Lancelot, his only support the letters from his old mentors and fellow students now scattered about the British Isles.
It had been one of those friends, who’d left as a chaplain for the East India Company, who had written asking him to come, telling him there was a massive field to sow in India. As soon as his curacy period was over, Lancelot had applied to the London Missionary Society and, to his amazement and awe, had been accepted, certain it was a sign of God’s will.
The voyage was long and arduous and fraught with dangers. Once he landed, he’d confronted a land so different from everything he’d ever known; he’d been overwhelmed.
How could a few men and women ever hope to change the hearts and minds of these people with their innumerable gods, their temples and pagodas dotting the countryside and cities, their slavish adherence to sometimes barbaric rituals?
Sickness and fever had plagued him almost from the first day and driven his spirits even lower.
He’d had to rely on God as never before, his soul frequently weak and despairing. Thankfully, he’d found sweet fellowship in the small community of other Christians. Most surprising and eye-opening had been the community and collaboration among those sects viewed with disfavor back home. He’d worked closely with Baptist missionaries, traveling through the countryside, preaching the gospel and establishing Bible colleges.
He’d been forced to return after the last bout of fever had almost finished him. He doubted he could go back. The doctor had bluntly told him it would be the end of him. Neither would the missionary society accept him if his health was not good.
Since his convalescence he’d been waiting for a position to open somewhere in England. It could easily take years. In the meantime, his parents were pressuring him to marry.
He remembered his mother’s words last evening when the dinner guests had departed.
“Well, Lancelot, those were a pair of sweet young ladies you had me invite. No portion either of them, I’m sure,” she added in a dry tone, “and you with a vicar’s living will be as poor as church mice, but I’d prefer you choose one of them than remain a bachelor.”
“Since I have no plans to marry either of them, I have no idea what their portion is.”
She heaved an impatient sigh. “But you must marry someone, and as long as she is respectable, your father and I do not care if she is indigent or plain—only healthy and young enough to bear children.”
His father, who had said nothing until then, spoke up, “Your brother and Rosamunde are in their thirties.” He stood before the mantel in the drawing room and stared up at the portrait of the late baronet. “After ten years, I doubt they’ll begin a family now.” He looked at Lancelot over his shoulder. “All I know is God had the grace to spare you. Now it is your responsibility to beget an heir for this family.”
Before Lancelot could make a suitable reply, his mother added, “I shall endeavor to introduce your misses—what were their names?”
“Miss Barry and Miss Phillips,” he answered automatically, his heart still heavy with his father’s pronouncement. It was not that he didn’t wish to be married. Many times he’d yearned for a companion and helpmate. He’d seen with almost envy the strong partnerships some of the missionaries overseas had enjoyed with their spouses. But the life had been hard on the women, and he couldn’t have brought himself to ask a woman to sacrifice her life so. Thus, he’d chosen the single life throughout that time of seeking God and living for him. He hadn’t yet met the woman who shared his dedication in that area.
But now that he was home for good, he’d begun to reconsider his bachelor state. Yet, he didn’t wish to be pressured into a hasty marriage just because his parents were afraid they would be left without an heir.
Marriage was too sacred a covenant for Lancelot to go into without the certainty that God had chosen his mate for him.
“Yes—Misses Barry and Phillips—to the right circles,” his mother continued. “This will give you the opportunity to pursue an acquaintance and determine which one you prefer.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said quietly. He hated the whole business, but as he’d found with his mother over the years, it was easier to agree with her when she had made up her mind to something, and then simply go one’s own way.
It had been what he’d done when he’d decided to go to India.
In this case, he realized, it was in his interest to have his mother introduce Miss Barry and Miss Phillips to society, where he could continue his acquaintance with Miss Barry and see if she continued to interest him. Or if he could ever interest her—a much more daunting thought.
Jessamine sat at the breakfast table with Megan and Lady Bess, only half listening to them go over last night’s dinner party again. It was all they’d talked about on the ride home, past midnight.
As she buttered her toast, she ignored the names of the important members of society Lady Bess had spoken to, hadn’t seen in an age, and whose lives—births, deaths, weddings—she’d been able to catch up on during the evening.
But Jessamine’s thoughts had been fixed elsewhere ever since the dinner party. She’d thought long and hard about the lady who’d spoken to Megan about Brussels. Jessamine had continued to observe Lady Angelica Dawson when the ladies rose from the table, leaving the men to their port, and afterward when the men rejoined them in the drawing room.
Jessamine had found a seat closer to Lady Dawson. Even her name—Angelica—sounded French, like Céline. As soon as the gentlemen joined the ladies, she never had fewer than three gentlemen around her.
“Jessamine, are you all right? You’ve been awfully quiet since last night.” Megan’s voice intruded her thoughts.
“What?” She looked over the piece of toast still held at her lips unbitten. “Yes, I’m quite all right,” she assured her friend.
Lady Bess smiled. “Are you so wrapped up in thoughts of Mr. Marfleet that you aren’t hearing a word that goes on around you?”
Jessamine blinked, hardly remembering the vicar. “Mr. Marfleet? No—of course not.” She determined to nip that notion in the bud. “In fact, I thought it was Megan he took an interest in,” she added, hoping to turn the focus from herself.
Megan held up a hand to her breast, her gray eyes wide. “Me? I think you are being too modest. Mr. Marfleet sat with you at dinner after fobbing me off on Mr. Emery, a very pleasant though dull individual,” she said with an impish smile.
“Well, whoever Mr. Marfleet fancies is no concern of mine, since I don’t fancy him,” Jessamine replied with firmness. Mr. Marfleet might be the worthiest of young gentlemen, but she was no longer interested in impressing a worthy gentleman. She was interested in being a Lady Dawson, with a gaggle of men fawning over her.
“You don’t?” Lady Bess looked crestfallen beneath her lacy cap. “But he’s such a nice young man, even if he is a redhead.”
“If he is such a nice man, he will have no trouble at all in snagging any of the numerous young ladies out this season.”
“Are you sure you wish to relinquish him so quickly, my dear? He’s a most eligible young man, though he hasn’t much as a vicar.” Lady Bess’s face brightened. “But he is a baronet’s son. A pity there were not more eligible young men at Lady Marfleet’s dinner. But perhaps we’ll receive another invitation.” She tapped a finger to her lips, thinking aloud. “I could drop a line to one or two of the guests I spoke with last night.” She drew in another long breath. “There was a time when my drawing room was full. Alas, what age and a loss of fortune can do.”
She put on her reading glasses and picked up the Morning Post. Megan and Jessamine ate in silence while she opened the paper.
“Let me see if there is any mention of last night’s dinner.” She flipped through the pages and began to peruse the society columns. “There was a rout at Lord and Lady Brougham’s last night . . . the Duchess of Stathemore was seen at the Drury Lane in company of—” She cleared her throat and didn’t read on. “Oh—here it is. ‘A distinguished and lively gathering was seen at Sir Geoffrey and Lady Marfleet’s Grafton Street residence. A line of carriages lined the block into Bond Street.
“‘Lord Palmerston’s crest was spied on one carriage; Lord Grey walking up the steps in company of his wife the countess; and the divine Lady Angelica Dawson on the arm of Richard Cavendish, lately of Kingston, West Indies. We are sure the most scintillating conversation took place around her as she holds court wherever she goes.’”
Even the gossip columnist knew this!
“Who is she?” she ventured to ask Lady Bess.
Lady Bess lowered the paper to peer at Jessamine. “Who, my dear?”
“Lady Dawson? She’s a widow of the late Sir Dawson, a baronet. He left her immensely wealthy and with entrée into all the best places. She was nothing when he met her but a young, penniless miss from the country. He was besotted when he first beheld her in a London drawing room and married her almost immediately. He was quite some years older and died a few years later. They had a child, a son, who is being brought up by a governess on their country estate.”
Lady Bess shook her head at the vagaries of the nobility. “Lady Dawson pursues a life among the ton in London and Brighton. I wouldn’t be surprised if she dashes off to Brussels as she said last night.” She glanced at Megan. “It was quite a compliment she paid you to take such an interest.”
Her words brought to mind the other thing that had kept Jessamine awake long after Megan had fallen asleep. “I didn’t know your brother was in Brussels.”
Megan colored. “Yes. A letter came only yesterday,” she hastened to say. “The congress received news of Napoleon’s escape almost a fortnight after he’d sailed from Elba. Rees writes of the great disarray this news put the members of the congress in.”
She turned to Lady Bess. “It was more than a week after Bonaparte’s landing in southern France that they were informed of his escape. My brother writes that everyone is in a panic. His letter is already a few weeks old. He sounded quite rushed. Wellington has just received orders to leave the congress and join the allied troops in Belgium when the congress hasn’t even concluded its business!”
“Goodness gracious, what is the world coming to?” Lady Bess clucked her tongue.
Megan kept her eyes fixed on Lady Bess as if unwilling to meet Jessamine’s gaze. “Rees sounded concerned in his letter. He said no one trusts Napoleon—neither the Prussians nor Austrians nor Russians—and they want to be prepared to stop any ambitions he may still harbor.”
“Do they really expect war?” The whites of Lady Bess’s eyes were visible all around her aqua-green irises above her spectacles.
Megan gave a helpless shrug. “Rees doesn’t say. He only wrote that the congress passed a resolution before he left Vienna declaring Napoleon an ‘international outlaw.’ That was the wording he used.”
Lady Bess fanned herself with one of her letters. “So many years of war to face the possibility once more. I don’t think I could bear it!”
Megan sat back, her expression troubled. “My brother’s biggest concern is his wife, Céline. You see, she’s in a . . . in a family way.” She stumbled over the words, her glance flickering to Jessamine and away again.
Jessamine’s world collided in on itself. Rees and his French wife were expecting a child! She gazed down at her plate, everything blurring.
Lady Bess’s exclamations of delight and Megan’s quieter replies swirled around her.
Why was it so shocking? People married and babies followed. That was how it went. Jessamine clenched her fists under the tabletop, willing herself to calm, but her insides felt twisted. For a moment she was afraid she would be sick.
“Jessamine, are you all right?” Lady Bess’s solicitous voice came to her as from afar.
She stood, finding it hard to swallow, much less speak. “I’m sorry, I—I don’t feel well.”
Ignoring their expressions of concern, she hurried from the room.
She ran up the stairs to her room and flung herself across the bed. Please, God, don’t let Megan follow me! I don’t—can’t—see her right now. She curled into a ball, rocking back and forth, a fist to her mouth, a pillow clutched to her breast, wanting only to blot out the image of Rees and his beautiful French bride.
Jessamine moaned, imagining his tender concern for her now that she would bear his child. That woman should have been Jessamine.
Why had he stopped loving her? She knew he had been fond of her—no, it was stronger than fondness. The last times Rees had visited her, he had shown a distinct preference for her company. He had sought her out. He had made his intentions clear by the look in his eyes, by his warm words. If not expressly those of a suitor, then certainly those of a man singling her out with that purpose.
Even her mother and Megan had remarked upon it. They had all been so happy with the thought of the two families joining through marriage. Jessamine had been content to wait until Rees felt able to marry. She had heard him say more than once over the years that he wouldn’t think of marriage until he had enough saved up to take care of his mother and Megan’s coming-out. But in that last year before he’d met that Frenchwoman, he had told Jessamine that he had saved enough money to think about settling down very soon.
Then everything had changed. He’d gotten an assignment in Lady Wexham’s household and ended up falling in love with her—a woman who had more than likely been a spy against the British even though nothing had ever been proven.
The tears came hot, squeezed from her eyes and running down her cheeks, soaking her pillow. All the tears she had suppressed since that last visit of his when he had gently killed all Jessamine’s hopes and dreams.
How her heart had soared when he’d asked permission of her mother to take Jessamine out for a turn in the garden. There was only one reason for a gentleman to speak alone to a lady. But his words had sounded so strange. “I know that someday . . . soon, I imagine, a young gentleman is going to come along and . . . desire you for his wife.” As his gray eyes regarded her, she had felt puzzled at first, but as his gaze continued to pierce her with its intensity, fear had mushroomed in her chest as the meaning of his words had penetrated.
He was telling her there was no hope for the two of them. If she had been left in any doubt, his next words sounded the death knell. “I thought for a while that I might be that man.” He’d drawn in a breath as if seeking courage to continue. “But I am not that man.”
He had gone on to tell her how deserving she was, but she had not let him continue. No pretty words could erase the fact that he didn’t want her. That she was not good enough, that somehow, somewhere, he’d fallen out of love with her and his affections had been replaced by pity and compassion. She hadn’t realized then that his heart was now filled with thoughts for someone else.
That had come later, almost a year later, after the peace had been declared and Rees had found his French love across the channel.
The sobs racked Jessamine’s body. She clutched her pillow tighter. And now they would have a baby, and the portrait of a loving, happy family would be complete. Jessamine would never be that woman to Rees. She would never bear his children and watch them grow up with him as their father.
The door opened quietly and the next second Megan was behind her, wrapping her arms around her. “Please don’t cry, Jessamine, please don’t cry.” She rocked her, repeating the words. Jessamine tried to shake her off, but Megan held her fast, her words soothing.
“I-I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry,” Jessamine sobbed. “I k-know I sh-should rejoice for h-his happiness,” she said with a hiccup, “but I love him so, and now—now I know I can never have him.” Somehow the fact of a child added a finality to Rees’s new life without Jessamine. As long as he’d been far away in Vienna and she had never seen his bride, there had been an unreality to his love story.
“I’m so sorry too,” Megan said with feeling, smoothing the hair off her brow. “Mama and I wished for the two of you to be together, but it was not meant to be—”
Jessamine pushed away from her, turning to stare at her. “What do you mean, not meant to be! It wasn’t Rees’s fault. It was that woman—she ensnared him.”
Megan looked troubled. “I don’t know. Until I meet her and see how she and Rees are together, I can’t judge her.”
Jessamine lay back, staring at the ceiling, wiping her nose and eyes, too spent to hang on to her outrage. Emptiness filled her. The rest of the season in London held no pleasure for her. Their plans to visit the zoo today, the theater tonight . . . All she wanted was to lie there and not have to do anything ever again.
She sniffed and turned her head on the pillow to look at Megan. “What else did he write?”
Megan was silent a moment. “Not much else. He is worried for Céline’s safety but otherwise busy with diplomatic affairs. So much was still unsettled in Vienna, so he is sorry to be called away so suddenly but is happy to be on Wellington’s staff. He has found much favor with the duke and the others he worked with in Vienna, including Lord Castlereagh.”
She fell silent again. Jessamine thought how it would have been. All Rees’s hard work as a clerk in the Foreign Office was finally bearing fruit. With all that had happened during the Congress of Vienna, he would be promoted, and his career in diplomacy was all but assured. He could have married her now.
Before the tears could begin to fall anew, Megan said, her words hesitant, “He said that he hopes—depending on what transpires in Brussels—to see us soon in person here in England.”
Jessamine’s body tensed at the words “see us.” “He is coming here?” she whispered.
“Yes. He said if there’s the least sign of war, he wants to bring Céline to England, though he added that she wouldn’t want to leave him, but for the sake of the baby, she could probably be prevailed on to come here.”
The baby. A woman so in love with her husband she didn’t want to leave him despite the dangers, who now carried another life, a precious unborn life, within her.
Another tear slid from her eyelid down her temple. She brought her handkerchief up to her face.
As if sensing her distress, Megan put her arm across her, hugging her to herself. “I know how much you cared about him, dear, but perhaps you’ll meet someone else someday.”
“That’s what he said! I’ll never meet anyone like Rees.” She sniffed again. “It’s been over a year and a half, and I still feel the pain of that last interview.”
Megan’s eyes were filled with sadness and compassion. “He’s my brother and I love him, and I understood why you should love and admire him too, but Jessamine, what if the Lord has someone better for you?”
At those words, well-intentioned but so hurtful to hear, Jessamine sat up. “Then why did He have me wait so long for Rees?”
“I don’t know. Yours is a faithful nature. God made you so, but perhaps you fixed your affections on the wrong man.”
“So it’s my fault!”
“No, dear Jessie. I know we can’t control with whom we fall in love—”
Jessamine glared at her friend. “I had a father who instilled me with the notions of patience and resignation, and you and your mother encouraged me in my affections to your brother.” She knew her words were unreasonable, but she couldn’t help herself. For too long, she’d kept everything bottled up inside, putting on a brave face to her family and Rees’s mother and sister, who all meant well. But all it had meant was keeping the bitterness brewing inside her. She knew Megan and her mother must be overjoyed to finally see Rees and his bride, and now a grandchild.
Megan flushed. “Perhaps Mother and I did wrong, but you two seemed so right for each other. We felt keenly how much Rees had sacrificed all these years in order to provide for us. We knew how lonely he must be. We hoped so much for a woman as faithful and true as you for him. You seemed God-ordained for him, apart from the difference in your ages.”
Jessamine blew her nose again. “If I had only been born a few years sooner, or he a few years later, perhaps we would have been married before he ever met that—that Frenchwoman!”
Abruptly, she turned away from Megan and swung her legs off the bed. “Well, we were all wrong about ‘God’s will.’ I sometimes think God must be laughing at all our petty hopes and schemes.”
“Jessamine!” Megan sounded truly shocked.
Jessamine did not take her words back, although they shocked her as well. It was the first time she expressed aloud what had simmered below the surface all these months. The thoughts that had plagued her the night before resurfaced. “I can tell you this,” she said, standing and facing her friend. “I will not make the same mistake again. I will not pledge my heart to a man who gives nothing in return. The next time a heart is broken, it shall not be mine!”
She crossed the room to her dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. The face staring back at her looked awful—eyes swollen, hair tumbling down, nose red, skin splotchy.
She yanked at the rest of her hairpins, allowing her hair to fall down past her shoulders, then grabbed up her hairbrush and pulled it through her locks, welcoming the pain.
Feeling calmer with her resolution taken, she sat at her dresser and twisted her hair into a knot. As she held it up in one hand to repin it, she paused, picturing Lady Dawson’s fashionably cropped curls.
“I am going to cut my hair.”
“What?” Megan scrambled off the bed and came to stand behind Jessamine, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
“Do you remember Lady Angelica Dawson last night?”
“The lady you were asking Lady Bess about?”
“I want to fashion my hair like hers. She looked very smart.”
Megan nodded slowly as if afraid that disagreeing with her would bring on a new storm of tears. But Jessamine could have told her the time for crying was over.
“It did look nice on her,” she conceded.
“Do you think the style would suit me?” Jessamine looked at herself in the mirror again.
Megan took up her hair from her, considering. “I think so. Your hair is so pretty, it seems such a shame to cut too much off.”
Jessamine loosened her hair. “Well, I think it’s time for a change. High time for a change.”