Lord and Lady Jardine were waiting in the sitting room. So were the three daughters. Jane must learn their names soon. She could not keep referring to each as ‘Miss Jardine’, as only the eldest turned when she said that.
Two footmen stood to attention each side of the dining room door. One of them was Mr Foote, and Jane took extra care not to look at either of them, for fear of giving away her … quite bewildering … secret.
Lady Jardine had the babe in her arms again. Lord Jardine was perusing a news sheet, which had to be several weeks old. Jane could not remember the last time the staff had brought one in. Now that she was married and no longer needed information about the season, she felt no need to read news sheets. A stricken pang shot through. The Baron would want updated news! Oh, what a silly mistake to not think of that! She would speak to Mister Foote about making sure fresh tidings continued to arrive in order to keep up appearances that her husband avidly kept track of … whatever it was men kept track of. Politics, most likely, although she could not discern much difference between … what were their names? Wigs and Ponies? No, that could not be right. Perhaps she should read the news sheets as well? She had heard whispers that Lord Byron had fled the country in disgrace, but Mama would never fully explain why. And she wasn’t permitted to read his work, lest it ruin her modesty. Surely now she was married she could?
The only news that had affected her life was that the war with Napoleon was won. It was cause for double celebrations: no more war and no more income tax. Mama was able to divert the money she would have sent to the exchequer to the modiste, for Jane’s season.
The Baron’s butler entered the room and announced supper was served. Viscount and Lady Jardine walked into the dining room first; Lady Jardine holding the infant boy in her arms, as was her habit.
The daughters looked at Jane and then the butler, to see who he would nominate next. It was merely a meal, not a state function. With a wave of her hand, Jane ushered the daughters ahead of her, because if they stood out here too long, she would become ravenous and begin eating her own hand. Who knew the marriage act made one so hungry after the fact?
And tired!
Thankfully Mister Foote did not make eye contact with her either as the Jardines took their seats. Nobody needed to know what she and the footman had done. She and he had secured everyone’s continuing employment, residency and safety with this one act. Well, acts plural, if truth be told. Once they had begun, it had seemed prudent to complete it more times, if only to ensure she could be with child in the very near future.
Jane took an empty plate from her husband’s setting, then moved about the table placing his favorite morsels on it.
“What are you doing?” Lady Jardine cried out. “His Lordship has not started!”
“Thank you, Lady Jardine, but My Lordship desires a meal, and he is unable to bring himself to the dining room.”
“And why is that? Are you poisoning him to keep him bedridden, so you can take over the Barony?”
Jane stopped ladling food and put the plate down. “He is tired from his exertions, My Lady, and as his wife, it is my duty to make sure he is sated in all matters.”
There, that should shock her into silence.
It did not.
Lady Jardine said, “How do I know you speak the truth?”
Jane had had enough of this. “Lady Jardine, you already have an heir for the Viscount. I would have thought it would be in my interests to keep the Baron hale and hearty and full of … vigour … so that I may produce an heir for him. Otherwise your son inherits it all anyway, as you have already indicated in the many ribbons and cards you have placed on so many items in the estate.”
With that, she left the spluttering Lady Jardine and took the plate to the sideboard. Then she called on the Butler and asked him to get the footman to take the meal to his lordship.
She took a seat with her back to the sideboard, so that she would not be tempted to look up when Mister Foote did her bidding. She would not be able to school her features. If Mister Foote was anywhere near as hungry as she, he’d fall upon the meal the moment he was safely up the stairs.
Lord Jardine took four spoons full of broad beans and put them on his plate. Then he reached for the duck. Lady Jardine followed with a smaller serving of the same dishes. The daughters chose other items, piling their plates high. Interesting. Jane adored broad beans, but there were only three shrivelled legumes remaining by the time she came to serve herself. She had to hand it to the Jardines to notice which foods she favoured, as the asparagus spears were not touched. Despite her aversion to them, she was indeed hungry, so she feasted on those, along with the celery.
As she ate, pretending to enjoy her meal, she noticed Lord Jardine wince as he swallowed each mouthful of beans with an accompanying belt of wine. It served him right to be so greedy and take her favourites, especially when he didn’t even like them. The daughters, despite taking so many, were not even touching theirs. What a waste!
Lady Jardine, however, mashed hers with a fork and made a paste of it, then spooned some into the infant’s mouth. The babe’s eyes became round with delight as he swallowed the delicious new experience. His hand waved towards Lady Jardine’s plate, clearly indicating he wanted more.
Well, at least one of the Jardines wasn’t wasting the delicious beans!
For the rest of the meal, Lord Jardine pushed his vegetables around the plate, here a carrot, there some potato, but it was obvious to everyone that he could not disguise that hill of beans. Even when he accidentally pushed one and then three more off the plate, with a cry of “slippery coves!” it was obvious he couldn’t stomach them.
There were more growing in the kitchen garden, Jane was sure of it. She would visit the terraces in the morning and see to the crops personally.
After the meal, Lord Jardine did not wait for the ladies to withdraw. He took himself to another room, presumably to sit by himself and smoke a pipe or cheroot. Jane did not care which. She guessed he would, in ordinary times, have a glass of brandy with Baron Ealing.
Would there be a way to facilitate that in some form?
“I must see to the Baron,” Jane said. Excusing herself, she headed to his rooms. Every now and then, she would stop to admire a painting on the wall. Another relative - another ribbon attached as well. Another head of black hair. Goodness but the colour was strong. In each Ealing son, down the line, there was the coal black hair. Even the Baronesses appeared to have been chosen for their matching tresses. Nary a ginger to be seen. How very interesting.
In his rooms, she found Mister Foote finishing a mouthful of her husband’s meal. She shrugged internally. The Baron wouldn’t be needing it anymore, and Mister Foote would be hungry. As was she, and there was half a potato remaining.
She picked it up with her fingers and finished it.
Heat stole through her when Mister Foote acknowledged her presence with a silent nod.
“I’d best take this plate back to the kitchen,” he said.
“I’ll take it back to the dining room. They’ll think I’m the dutiful wife tending to my husband.”
“That would give a good appearance,” he agreed.
“While I’m here, I need to ascertain if there is a way that, ahh, that the Baron might be partake in a Brandy with Lord Jardine?”
“I would not advise it,” Mister Foote said. “It’s one thing to use bellows to make him appear to breathe whilst in the bed, but this would be another matter entirely. We got away with it in the garden as he was facing the other way, but having a brandy by the fire would be nigh impossible without discovery.”
“Oh,” Jane nibbled at her top lip. “Is there anyone in the estate who bears a resemblance? Who might, in perhaps poor lighting, appear to have a likeness?” It was clutching at the flimsiest of straws, she knew.
“Has Lord Jardine requested an audience?”
“Not precisely. He appears bored and restless. No doubt being surrounded by women is trying his nerves, poor chap. Mama has attempted to strike up diverting conversations, but to no avail.”
“He misses his own set, no doubt,” Mister Foote said. “Perhaps this is for the best. His boredom could hasten the Jardines’ departure?”
Jane moved to the fireplace, which was sputtering its last. Possibly for the best, as the chilled room kept the aromas from growing too radiant.
Grabbing the poker, she let her frustrations reign free. “Stupid interfering Jardines. Why couldn’t they simply leave us alone? I wouldn’t have known anything was wrong, wouldn’t have dragged you into this and they would have inherited it all anyway.”
“Do not blame yourself,” Mister Foote reached for Jane’s hand to ease her attack on the remaining fuel, “I was a most willing participant.”
“This is all their fault,” she pulled the poker back. At the same time, Mister Foote reached for her hand and the edge of the poker caught on his sleeve buttons.
She pushed the poker free, but it did not let go. His arm moved with the poker, closer to the coals, as if he were a marionette and she a puppet master.
“Wait!” Mister Foote called out, as he pulled his arm away from the modest heat. The poker came with him. “It appears wedged in the button hole.”
Perhaps it was the frustration of their predicament, but Jane could not stop jabbing the poker up and down controlling his arm. “The intensity of our situation is indeed becoming too much,” she added with a giggle. “Wait a moment! This has given me an excellent idea. I do believe the Baron will drink Brandy with Viscount Jardine after all, right here in this very room!”
* * *
Trembling, Jane crouched in the shadows beside the Baron’s wheeled chair, a thin dark blanket covering her entire body. Should she send up a prayer that this farce would work? No, best they not trouble fate with drawing any further attention to this scheme. The banked coals in the fireplace gave little light, and even less direct heat, although that didn’t stop her perspiring profusely from a serious case of nerves.
“Welcome, My Lord, The Baron is glad to see you,” Mister Foote said as the Viscount entered the Baron’s rooms.
Jane could not sit up or twist her neck to see, so she listed for the sound of approaching footsteps. Somebody sat in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. It would be Jardine.
Liquid lolloped from a bottle into a glass, which would be Mister Foote pouring their drinks. A moment later, she felt the fire poker in her hand shift slightly. Peering through the weave of the blanket, Mister Foot secured the drink in the Baron’s hand, then looked to where he imagined Jane’s eyes must be. “All good, Sir?”
Jane made a deep sounding ‘harrumph’ and hoped it sounded manly enough. It hurt her throat and she began to cough.
She’d give it all away before they even started.
“I shall move your chair further away, Lord Jardine,” Mister Foote offered, “I’ve had this chin cough before, and it stays for nearly one hundred days. You’d do well to keep your distance.”
“Chin cough?” Jardine moved his own chair away, rather than wait for the footman to do it. “Nasty stuff. Best keep it away from my son.”
“Definitely,” Mister Foote said. “It’s why we’ve been keeping his lordship isolated. Your daughters are hale enough to fight this off, but not an infant.”
Jane stopped coughing enough herself to inwardly gasp at the brilliance of Foote’s suggestion. What a clever man. Keeping her voice low and deep to sound like her husband, she said, “Don’t want this, ‘specially a babe.”
“To your continuing good health,” Lord Jardine suggested.
Now it really was time to put their plan into action. Raising the fire poker, which was jammed into the Baron’s buttonhole at his wrist, Jane lifted the Baron’s hand in a salute. It was working! They were truly going to get away with this!
She angled the drink closer and closer to the man’s mouth, her hand shaking all the way. The drink splashed out of his glass on the way to his mouth. If Jardine noticed, he said nothing.
Then again, her husband had slopped his tea at their wedding breakfast, and nobody had said a word.
Mister Foote attended his master, dabbing at the droplets and blotting the spills. “May I refill your glass, My Lord?”
Jane made the deepest ‘Harrumph’ she could manage, and Foote interpreted it as a yes.
Jardine, meanwhile, began talking of his favourite things. Despite the weather, the cattle were doing well, although feed prices were draining their treasury. He was looking forward to the next sitting of parliament, where he would join the Tories.
Ah yes, she knew it wasn’t ‘Ponies!’ Jane made mutters that could be a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ depending on the answer she thought Jardine would want. All the while, her perspiring hands slipped on the poker handle.
If she could get the glass to The Baron’s lips again in a convincing display it would - damn! The poker slipped from her fingers and the glass crashed into the Baron’s nose. Jane coughed and coughed and coughed.
Mister Foote scurried over and tidied his master up as best he could.
Lord Jardine said, “I do appreciate your time, Ealing, but I’d best leave you to it.”
He clearly didn’t want to pick up whatever Baron Ealing was sharing around. Good!
Mister Foote stepped ahead to get the door for him, but Jardine said, “No bother, I’ll see myself out.”
Jane kept coughing for good measure as both sets of doors closed with a firm click. She stayed huddled under the blanket until Foote lifted it up and smiled down on her.
“Did he believe it?”
“I’d say so,” Mister Foote said, extending a hand to help her up.”
Cramps and pins beset Jane as she extended her limbs. She sat down in Jardine’s chair and Mister Foote rubbed the circulation back into her legs.
Warmth and a very different kind of heat spread through Jane. “I guess we’d best move Ealing back into bed?”
Mister Foote looked back to his master. In this low light, with the fading embers, he was the epitome of an old man sitting by the fire. He truly looked like he was merely resting.
“Or we could leave him where he is and …”
Mister Foote looked to Jane, a hint of mischief on his face. “And? My Lady?”
Jane found herself wanting to clear her throat or cough or something. “I would never presume, but, perhaps …” Did she have to spell it out?
“My Lady, do you … require my services?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”