Devil Water (82 page)

“My dear lass,” said Mrs. Potts, biting off a thread. “Ye’ve plenty o’ woes, so I’ve not spoke, yet sur-rely ye know ye’re breeding?”

“Breeding?” Jenny repeated blankly, she put her hand to her slightly rounded belly. “Oh no, it’s
impossible!”

“Have ye had your courses regular?”

“N-no. It’s the ‘change,’ I suppose. I’m old enough.”

“I tak’ leave to doubt that,” said Mrs. Potts tartly. “And if anyone knaws breeding signs, ‘tis Bella Potts. Ye’re not expecting me to think ye a virgin, I trust!”

Jenny flushed scarlet. “No,” she said. “I’m married, and was for twenty years.” She sat down abruptly on the bed.

“Weel -- ” said Mrs. Potts, considering, and believing Jenny as she would not one of the other maids, who were often caught in trouble, “if ye’ve a husband, when did ye last lie wi’ him?”

Jenny stared at her landlady. The painful color burned brighter in her cheeks. Years ago in another world she had been with Rob. What need to remember it now? What right had Mrs. Potts to force an intrusion, to be sitting there with her practical penetrating gaze.

“I hate him,” Jenny cried. “And he hates me. I want never to think of him again!”

“Wey aye, na doubt,” said Mrs. Potts calmly, squinting at her needleful of thread. “But when did ye last lie wi’ him?”

“I didn’t!” Jenny cried. “He forced me and hit me. And he let me go without even a farewell.”

“He roughed ye up a bit, when ye were leaving him fur your faither, I presume,” said Mrs. Potts shrewdly. “And when was that?”

“Late July.”

Mrs. Potts nodded. Four months was about what she had figured it to be. With all the rest she had to bear, it was a pity the lass couldn’t have her husband at this time, but obviously she couldn’t. And many another woman had gone through it alone. It happened every day. What didn’t happen every day was to have a father in the Tower, sentenced to the vilest death man could devise.

“Ye can stay here, Jenny,” said Mrs. Potts, taking another quick stitch on the loosened seam. “Ye can have your babby here. I don’t care what Potts says. I’ll handle him.”

Jenny murmured thanks from inbred politeness, yet she did not, would not, believe in the child.

The church bells rang eight o’clock in the morning when Jenny started off through the London streets towards Grosvenor Square in the sedan chair which Alec had hired. He had taken great pains to find a smart chair and two liveried chairmen. He had also, by the simple expedient of standing drinks in the ordinary nearest Lord Chesterfield’s house, struck up acquaintance with one of the Earl’s footmen. From this encounter he learned something of the Earl’s habits. At nine, after breakfast, his lordship was always alone writing letters, before he dressed to go to Whitehall, or St. James. After that no telling when he’d come home.

Alec was as gratified, as anyone in his state of apprehension could be, by the elegance of their turnout and of his lady. A lady she was today, and no mistaking it. He glanced through the chair window. She sat erect and dignified, her face in profile, her gloved hands hidden in a muff.

They had hired a crimson velvet mantle edged with black-flecked white rabbit, which only an expert might tell from ermine. The pearls too, earrings and necklace, no casual eye could distinguish from the real. And at six this morning Mrs. Potts had summoned a
coiffeur
to do up Jenny’s hair in all the puffs and rolls and curls fashion demanded. The elaborate result was then powdered, topped by a small ostrich plume and a flat blue bow. The
coiffeur
finished by applying touches of rouge to her cheeks and lips, darkened her eyebrows with burnt cork, then, carried away by his achievement, vowed that for beauty and elegance even the famous Duchess of Queensborough in her prime would have had to yield the palm.

Alec quite agreed, and it made him sick to think how brief a time this transformation could last, while his heart swelled with hatred against the pitiless fate which was forcing degradation on all Radcliffes.

The chairmen bearing Jenny went the quickest way to the West End, along Holborn, and then on to what was beginning to be called Oxford Street and was amazingly built up, since the old days when there were open fields everywhere. It was still, however, a famous road for highwaymen and pickpockets. Alec kept a sharp lookout.

There was little danger in daytime, yet you could hardly call “daylight” this murky dark November morning. There were wisps of fog to mingle with the pall of coal smoke, and it was hard to see a block ahead.

When they left Spitalfields and again on Oxford Street, Alec had the impression that they were being followed. He turned quickly each time, to catch a distant glimpse through the mist of a tall male figure walking behind them, keeping at an even pace. Alec fingered his pistol, and said a quick Hail Mary for protection. When he looked around again the figure had disappeared.

They hurried on, the chairmen loping along, crowding what pedestrians there were, against the wall, and shouting, “Way there! Give way to her ladyship!” They had agreed on this. For the last time, Jenny was to be a “ladyship.” Alec knew how much a title bettered chances of running the gantlet of servants who protected a great nobleman.

Jenny had been very nervous earlier, now she was calm. The fine clothes gave her assurance. She put away from her the gestures and slips of speech which sometimes conflicted with Lady Betty’s teachings and example. She thought poignantly of Lady Betty, who had once gone on an errand of this kind to the then Princess, Caroline. Wherever you are, dear foster mother, she thought, help me now!

The chairmen deposited their chair before the steps of the Earl’s mansion. Jenny waited until the bowing Alec had handed her out. She settled her hoops, and lifted her chin while Alec dealt with the porter, feeing him ten shillings and whispering that her ladyship had come on a most important errand. The porter shrugged and stepped aside, leaving Jenny free to mount the steps, where the second footman opened the door. She must now fend for herself. Alec had to remain by the chair.

“I wish to see my Lord Chesterfield,” Jenny said haughtily to the second footman. “I am Lady Jane Wilson, and have urgent business with him.”

“He don’t see nobody at this hour, m’lady,” said the footman, eying her with respectful admiration.

“I trust he will,” said Jenny smiling. She put her white gloved hand into her purse, then nonchalantly proffered a guinea. The footman pocketed it. “Please to step into the reception room, m’lady,” he said. “I’ll fetch Mr. Portman.”

Jenny’s appearance and her bribe had procured her direct access to the house steward instead of the next ranking footman.

The house steward presently appeared, bowing deeply, but said it was as much as his place was worth to disturb his lordship at this hour.

Jenny gave him her enchanting wistful smile, and tendered two guineas. “I
pray
you,” she said, “to arrange an interview. I can see you are the sort of man in whom his lordship would have confidence. If you succeed in having me admitted, I shall prove my gratitude again when I leave.”

Portman bowed, and went in some trepidation through the stately halls and drawing rooms to his master’s French morning room. Once inside, he waited some time before Lord Chesterfield noticed him. “What is it, Portman?”

“A young ladyship, m’lord, to see you. She’s
very
urgent.”

Chesterfield frowned. His small froglike body was clothed in a brocaded dressing gown, a red silk turban was perched on his big shaven head. At a Louis Quatorze porphyry table he was writing his daily letter of precept and guidance to his illegitimate, though beloved son, and his orderly mind disliked surprises.

“Did you not tell the lady, that I
never
receive at this hour? She can come back some other time, if she must!” Chesterfield picked up his pen, and returned to his letter.

“My lord,” said Portman, hanging on to his courage. “I believe this lady’s really in distress, and she’s -- uh -- beautiful, m’lord, and her face so proud and yet so pleading, if she could see you but a moment, m’lord!”

The Earl put down his pen; from his dark, slightly malicious eyes he gave his steward a look of amused exasperation.

“This mysterious female certainly must have a generous purse. I’ve never knew you to be lyrical, Portman! What’s her name?”

“Lady Jane Wilson, m’lord.”

“Never heard of her,” said the Earl. “For that matter I never heard of a Wilson in the peerage. Must be an impostor.”

“I -- I don’t think so, m’lord -- she has quality,” said Portman nervously.

The Earl snorted. “Merciful heaven! One way or another she’s bewitched
you.
You end by intriguing me. Let her in, and if she isn’t the paragon you say, you’ll suffer for it.”

After depositing her mantle and gloves with the footman, Jenny was ushered into the morning room, where a huge fire sparkled off brass, gilt, and the many
objets d’art
which the Earl collected. He rose and gave her a courtly graceful bow despite his dumpiness and the dressing gown and turban.

Jenny executed a slow, stylized curtsey in return. “This is very good of you, my Lord Chesterfield,” she said, low and quiet, in the unmistakable accent of breeding.

Chesterfield noted this at once and sent her a smile which had charm even though some of his teeth were brown or missing. “Pray sit down, Lady Jane,” he said indicating a gilt armchair upholstered in rose velvet. “You will forgive my deshabille. I am not accustomed to entertaining pretty ladies at this hour, and I confess to slight curiosity as to why you were so -- shall we say, importunate?”

She sat down. He continued to stand, his back to the fire, watching her narrowly. He had a vast experience of women, and had enjoyed many amours, though never among the lower classes. The Earl was fastidious and would brook no vulgarity. He was accustomed to place-seekers, which he assumed this lady to be, yet he was puzzled. Her clothes, bearing and voice were excellent; nor had Portman exaggerated her beauty; but he did not fail to note the quivering of a pulse in her long white throat, the desperation, not quite hidden, in the gray eyes she finally turned up to him. It was one of his maxims that when people sought favors, one should let them speak first and declare themselves. So he waited, and amused himself with interior speculation.

She wanted a Court position for her lover? The lack of wedding ring precluded husband. Or one of the political blocs now out of favor had sent her to wheedle a promise of influence? No, neither would explain her tension. She was in trouble herself, more likely. A gaming loss? Or even pilfering, at which she’d been caught? Women often committed follies when their silly heads were turned by finery and jewels.

“I don’t know how to begin, my lord,” said Jenny abruptly. “I find that I’m very afraid.”

“My dear lady,” said the Earl kindly. “You needn’t be. I’m no ogre, and I assure you
nothing
shocks me. You’ve come here to ask a favor, and I suggest that you do so promptly.”

“A
favor!”
she repeated with such sad bitterness that the Earl was startled. “Aye -- ” she said. “I suppose it is by
favor
that a man might be saved from torture and infamous death!”

The Earl was too skilled a diplomat and courtier to show surprise, and reluctantly discarded his former theories.

“What man do you refer to?” he asked.

Jenny breathed hard, she twisted her fingers tight together and said, “Charles Radcliffe, the titular Earl of Derwentwater.”

“Ah . . .” said Chesterfield. So that was it. An unsavory case from every angle, and one which he had been very glad had not concerned him. “Why do you trouble yourself about this traitor?” he asked sternly.

“Because he is my father, and I love him.”

Chesterfield raised his eyebrows. He was almost certain that Charles Radcliffe had no mature daughter by Lady Newburgh. “Forgive plain speaking, my dear. But are you legitimate?”

“Yes. ‘Twas long ago when my father was sixteen, a forced marriage in Northumberland to a Border lass, a farmer’s daughter.”

“I see,” said the Earl. A
mesalliance,
naturally concealed. He thought of his own son, and wished that he, who also was the product of a mismating, might achieve the elegance and charm that this lady had. “You were not reared by your own mother, I judge?”

“No, my lord,” said Jenny. “By Lady Betty Lee, my father’s cousin.” And what difference did it make? she thought, biting her lips against agonized impatience.

“Ah yes,” said the Earl. “To be sure. I remember her. A delightful woman. You are well connected on one side, but my dear madam, you must be aware that you have no legal right to a courtesy title?”

“Oh, I am, my lord,” said Jenny. “It was only to get in here.”

The Earl surveyed her with approval. Such candor was refreshing, and he was diverted at the way she had got past his usually impregnable servants. By fees, of course, and they must have been large, yet there was more than that, a winsomeness, a naiveté, mixed with poise, a curious mixture of the voluptuous, and yet the childish. Beauty too -- fine bones. If I hadn’t been ill so recently, he thought, if I were a trifle younger --

“My Lord Chesterfield,” said Jenny in desperation. “I came here to beg of you to help my father!”

The Earl’s heavy eyelids hooded his brilliant dark eyes. “Why should I do aught for Charles Radcliffe?” he said judicially. “I detest the Jacobites, I detest traitors, and here is a man who had twice been justly condemned. What reason can you bring forth?” He sat down in the chair opposite, and waited with an air of quizzical patience.

Jenny immediately stood up. She threw her head back. Strength flowed into her, and, gazing directly at her questioner, she spoke in a controlled voice. “The first reason is that you, my lord, are now minister for the Northern counties, and Charles Radcliffe comes from them.”

“That is scarcely pertinent,” said the Earl, waving his hand in dismissal.

“And the second is that common Christianity demands -- ” She stopped as the Earl shook his head sharply.