My Dear Jenny (21 page)

Emily, in that fashion, remained completely unaware of how
much information she gave to her hostess during the course of three days.

Certainly Emily felt no complaint of her treatment by Lady
Teeve or her lord. She did have many complaints, however, which she could voice
only to herself, regarding Peter Teverley’s treatment of herself.

She had begged for, and received, his assurance that he did
not blame her for Jenny’s accident. But she had received very little attention
from him after that assurance. Domenic, Emily thought bitterly, was happy to
spend an hour doing her errands. Sir John Brickerham was pleased, if a little
amused, by her kittenish, pretty manners toward himself, and could be counted
upon to say something gallant. Even Lord Teeve, whom she regarded as
practically as old as mad King George, was kindness itself to her, and laughed
at her only in the kindest fashion. It was only Teverley, whose cool amusement
and casual treatment of her had once seemed brooding and romantic, who
frustrated her beyond endurance. And so Emily decided to embark upon a course
of desperate flirtation.

Deciding upon such a course and following it through are two
different things, and Emily spent the better part of a night awake, trying to
think of whom she might flirt with. Lord Teeve was immediately rejected as
being too old, aside from being married. Domenic was, of course, too young, too
callow, and too much a boy in her eyes to constitute any threat to a man of the
world such as Teverley. Remained only Sir John. Emily would not have chosen him
for her target had fortune offered her another, for she thought him a kindly
bore and singularly uninteresting. But Brickerham, for lack of another, it was
to be. And once set upon her course, Emily followed it with determination.

Sir John Brickerham was startled, to sat the least, to be
joined the next morning by Emily Pellering at the breakfast table, and even
more so when she solicited his company for a walk through the court garden. Miss
Pellering claimed that the thought of snakes had kept her from exploring this
pretty walk, and begged that Sir John accompany her, “for I should not be
afraid with you, sir.” Brickerham was not a very analytical fellow, and
although the question of what the minx was up to occurred to him, he did not
bother to follow it through. He gave his consent, and she professed herself
delighted, although privately she felt that the scene would have been better
played had Teverley been there to witness it.

By dinnertime the flirtation was over. Sir John was
perfectly willing to enjoy Miss Pellering’s company, to laugh at her
witticisms, and to make witticisms of his own. Emily found that he was even,
for such an ordinary man, rather good company. But
he
did not flirt with
her
, and the effect of their companionship seemed, to her, curiously
flat. One of the Teverley men was reacting just as she might have hoped,
certainly, but it was Dom, not his cousin; Peter Teverley had been gone from
the house all that day on his uncle’s business, and all of Emily’s hard work,
as she thought of it, was for naught. Dom looked unhappy with the turn of
events, but Emily was beyond caring what her former hero felt, and was
conscious of only the smallest glow of pleasure in the fact that Domenic
glowered at Sir John through the first and, indeed, halfway through the second
course of dinner.

Teverley remained unmoved.

It was, she thought later, the longest evening she had ever
spent, chatting idly with Lady Teeve and the Misses Brickerham while Peter
Teverley read
Joseph Andrews
, Lord Teeve and his son played backgammon,
and even Sir John deserted her to wind wool for Miss Quare. As Emily neared the
top of the stairs when she left the drawing room, she thought for a moment of
going in to talk with Jenny. Fleetingly the thought was a comfort to her. Then
the resentments of the past days returned. And something new, an idea planted
by Lady Teeve, recalled itself. Absurd as it seemed, Domenic’s mother had
hinted that Jenny had a
tendre
for Teverley herself. Even if it were
true, Emily reasoned, it could only be viewed as pathetic, in view of Miss
Prydd’s advancing age. But it was another block in her progress to Jenny’s
door. And finally there was the suspicion that Jenny would calmly and soundly
knock holes in all Emily’s carefully wrought schemes, and possibly even scold
her for playing the coquette with Sir John. She decided against the visit. In
fact, the more Emily considered her own behavior all through the week, and the
more she dwelt upon her sulks and her flirtation, the less she wanted to talk
to Jenny.

“After all,” she said to herself, resolutely passing Miss
Prydd’s door despite the fact that candles still burnt within, “I needn’t go in
to talk with Jenny if all she intends to do is scold me. I am far too old to be
scolded in any case, and besides that, who is Jenny to preach to me?” A vision
of Lady Teeve and Miss Quare occurred to her, and, as much as she disliked the
companion, she found she liked the picture. That was how a
dame de compagnie
was supposed to act! With respect. Not talking her around when she had to do
something. “And I
must
do
something
!” She said to her mirror. “If I only knew what!”

The rest she found that night was not peaceful.

o0o

When Miss Prydd was awakened the next morning, the day of
the party, the sun was dancing in the curtains, the girl lighting her fire had
an unusually sweet smile even for one who habitually smiled, and the sound of
songbirds insinuated itself into her hearing. It was clearly too lovely a day
to spend in bed.

“I defy the doctor! If I am well enough to attend the party
this evening, I
must
be well enough to spend some part of the day below,”
she cried to the maid, who smiled yet more broadly and, in dipping a curtsy,
nearly unbalanced Miss Quare as she entered the room.

Miss Quare, when apprised of these new plans, at first was
adamantly opposed. When, by dint of much argument, Miss Prydd drew from the
companion an acknowledgment that she would not be in the way of preparations
should she join the party—for the family was gathered in one of the small
salons—Miss Quare still would only say, “I will ask my lady about it.”

Lady Teeve did not approve of Miss Prydd’s admission to
company before the doctor’s permission was granted, but she did not forbid it
either, only sniffing and calling it foolishness. So when some of the party had
gathered in the rose-garden salon at the rear of the house, Jenny descended to
join them, equipped with a shawl and a book.

At her entrance, Emily jumped up guiltily. “Had I known you
were to come downstairs, I would have come to help you.”

“Nonsense, my dear Miss Pellering,” Lady Teeve cooed. “Your
friend feels she is capable of joining us, so she must find out how she fares
for herself, mustn’t she? I do not believe in pampering invalids.”

“Nor do I, my lady,” Jenny agreed equably, and settled
herself far from most of the others in a deep wing chair which would
successfully hide her from drafts, and from all but the most persistent of her
fellow creatures.

Seeing that Miss Prydd did not intend to make an interesting
invalid of herself, Lady Teeve returned to her conversation with Miss
Brickerham. Emily, rather desultorily sorting yarns and chatting with Sarah
Brickerham, avoided looking toward Jenny, a fact that Jenny apprehended at
once, but did not understand. Miss Quare, sullenly working over her tambour
frame, ignored everyone in the room except her mistress. Lord Teeve, the only
other member of the party present, was immersed in the sporting pages, and only
emerged when his wife addressed a comment to him that could not be decently
answered by a “Hummphr?” They sat so for an hour, until Sir John Brickerham and
Peter Teverley entered the room, returned from errands in the village. They
informed the company that Domenic had remained there, awaiting the arrival of
three of his best friends from university who had been invited to the party.
Having made their announcement, Sir John and Mr. Teverley immediately joined
Miss Prydd to express their pleasure at her recovery; but when Sir John joined
Lord Teeve for a discussion of the favored nags to run that year, Peter Teverley
remained at Jenny’s side.

“If you stand here too long, your aunt is certain to think
of an errand to do, and send you about it,” Jenny said at last, somewhat
sardonically.

Teverley ignored her immediate look of contrition and
answered her in kind. “But you see, my aunt is quietened by the presence of my
uncle, and won’t dare dispatch me on any trumpery errand while he stays.” He
settled himself comfortably in a chair nearby. “And should he leave, and my
aunt demand my services, why, I shall respectfully inform her that my—my
foot has gone to sleep, and I am entirely unable to move from the spot.” Jenny
laughed. “There, I like that better. How do you do?”

“Quite well.” Jenny smiled brightly. “Oh, a little knocked
up, still, but really quite the thing.”

“Fit to dance this evening?”

“I had not planned to do so—” she began uneasily.

“For the sake of your health?”

“Better say for the sake of my peace of mind.” Jenny glanced
briefly at Lady Teeve. Teverley nodded.

“You needn’t worry over my aunt. I shall keep her in hand,
and if I do not, rest assured that my uncle shall. She is not really so much to
be feared.”

“Feared?” Jenny asked lightly. “Oh, not in the world. But I
have a great
respect
for your aunt, Mr. Teverley.”

“And have you no respect for me, Prydd?” He smiled the
particular smile that turned Jenny’s heart over.

“Yes, of course I do—” she began in confusion, aware
that Lady Teeve had noticed their conversation at last.

“Peter, what are you discussing?” the lady asked.

“
Joseph Andrews
, Aunt,” he lied smilingly. And was
spared the necessity of further explanation when Domenic entered the room, followed
by three unexceptional-looking young men in the first stages of dandyism, with
high shirt points, delicately colored pantaloons, and some of the most
elaborate, if slightly grubby, cravats to grace the garden salon in a
twelvemonth.

They were introduced as Mr. Willson (the reddish-haired
fellow with the enormous sugarloaf hat); Mr. Keally (plump, with an agreeable
smile); and Mr. Authernot, who was entirely unremarkable except that he
rejoiced in the peculiar name of Froggie, although he could not have been said
to resemble a frog in the least. The party became more animated as the young
men made themselves agreeable to their hosts and set about wooing Emily and
Joanna Brickerham, the prettiest girls in the room, from Lady Teeve’s
chaperonage.

“Well, that will give Aunt Teeve something to think of “
Teverley smiled as his gaze met Miss Prydd’s. “She will be intent upon finding
a wife for each of those unsuspecting puppies, and will quite forget that you
are in the company.”

“I wish that might be so,” Jenny muttered, unconvinced. “She
is as likely to remember that you were speaking to me when you might have been
attending upon Miss Brickerham, and it will never occur to her to remember that
I would have been entirely happy to sit in this chair and read. Or think. I
begin to have the notion that I will not dance at your aunt’s party after all,
Mr. Teverley.”

“I think you underestimate yourself, Prydd my dear. And I am
quite sure that you underestimate me.”

“Mr. Teverley, I long ago realized that with you almost
anything may be possible. But still I doubt that I will dance this evening.”

“Shall we let it wait until that time?” Teverley asked
diplomatically.

“Certainly,” Jenny answered, with a calm almost equal to
his.

By that evening the infectious cheer of the household had
raised Jenny’s spirits to a point where she thought that, if someone
did
ask her, she would dance after all. Lord Teeve had downplayed the size of the
party when talking with her that afternoon, declaring it “a few dozen families
from nearby, for dancing and supper,” but for a modest country entertainment
there had been a remarkable amount of scurrying and polishing belowstairs. It
had been confided to Miss Prydd by the maid who brought her hot-water can and
lit her fire that cook had been making sauces to dress the pastries and meats
since dawn, and that the pastry chef had been assigned two helpers, put on for
the day only to assist in removing things from the oven and arranging them upon
platters. Jenny, impressed as she had been by the scope of Lady Teeve’s
ordinary dinners, was appalled when she tried to imagine the feast that supper
would be. Although she determined not to go down for dinner, in order to
conserve her strength somewhat, she made a long toilette, humming as she did
so, and permitted herself to think of enjoying the party inconspicuously.

Emily, her spirits raised again by the flattering interest
of Dom’s three school friends, was looking forward to the party with the rude,
boisterous enjoyment of a pretty young woman who expects—demands—that
she will have a delightful time. Secure in the admiration of Mr. Willson, Mr.
Keally, and Mr. Authernot, Emily told herself to forget Peter Teverley’s
inattention, Miss Quare’s sniffs, and Jenny’s scolds. Jenny had not scolded
her, had hardly had a complete exchange of words with her in three days, but
Emily felt more comfortable forgetting about Jenny. By the time the guests were
beginning to arrive she barely remembered to look in on her friend.

“Do you mean that I am ready before you are?” she cried in
amazement.

“Why yes, love, I suppose so,” Miss Prydd said awkwardly,
coiling her hair one way and then the other. “No matter what I do with it, you
see? It only appears to advantage in the same old way. What can I do?” Jenny
wore another of Lady Graybarr’s gifts to her, a deep blue silk over velvet,
with a plain bodice and matching ribbons; all about her was complete but for
her hair. Emily felt a moment’s remorse: poor Jenny, old and plain and poor
(although she did look rather well in the new gown.)