My Dear Jenny (8 page)

“Yes, ma’am?” Jenny laid aside her pen at once and rose to
meet the older woman.

“Yes.” The word fell cold and harsh from the visitor’s
gentle mouth, and warred with her saintly mien: she looked like an angel in
lavenders and grays, and sounded like a disgruntled governess. “Well,” the
voice prodded.

“Won’t you sit, ma’am, and I will ring for some tea—”

“No need to do so, girl. I will be leaving presently. I am
Lady Teeve.” The woman announced herself in such tones of portent that Jenny
knew the name was meant to mean something to her, perhaps even to strike terror
into her heart; even when Jenny recalled who Lady Teeve must be, she could
recall no reason for fearing her.

“You’re Domenic’s mother?” She smiled with more warmth. “I
am so pleased to meet you! We count Dom as an especial friend here. I am—”

“I know precisely who you are, girl. I wonder that you are
brass-faced enough to own it—nay, to crow it at me in such a fashion.”
Lady Teeve favored Jenny with a particularly cutting and distasteful glance,
and continued, almost as if she were alone in the room. “Older than I had
thought. I don’t know whether that means that you are a sensible sort of thing,
or merely desperate.” Her tone denied either possibility or any hint of
compliment. “I don’t much care. This thing will be put to a stop immediately.”
For emphasis she tapped the floor with her stick.

Jenny was entirely at sea by this time. Unless Lady Teeve
had heard some ridiculous story, or was completely about in her head (a theory
which Miss Prydd gave no little credence) then there was no reason—but
then Jenny recalled Domenic’s words on the occasion of his first call. “If I
want something, Mamma will be against it.” And it began to occur to Jenny that
perhaps Lady Teeve did
not
know to
whom it was she spoke. A few more words from the visitor convinced Jenny that
she had it right.

“My boy will be a viscount someday, as I am sure you are
aware. Of yourself, aside from the fact that you’re too old, and nothing at all
to look at! (for I take pride in plain speaking, missy!)—a fact that I
had not apprehended before now, which makes me the more worried on poor Domenic’s
account—” The lady drew a breath, hopelessly entangled in her sentence. “I
will not have it, do you hear? There is nothing to be said in
great
objection to your family, I suppose, although your mamma’s father was in trade,
so you need not try to conceal it from me. But you are
not
suitable for
my son. Aside from which, I have other plans for him. He
will
marry a
suitable girl. Is that clear?”

“Abundantly, ma’am.” Jenny returned Lady Teeve’s glare with
a calm regard, which appreciably wilted that lady’s battle mien. For the first
time since she had entered the room, Lady Teeve’s face settled into what Jenny
hoped was her more usual aspect: that of a sweet-tempered, affable older lady.

“Well, then, my dear. You will see that I can be a good
friend to one who obliges me. If you will persuade Domenic to cease his hanging
about this house, I will endeavor to help you in what little ways I may.”

“Ma’am, may I ask who it is you think I am?”

Lady Teeve looked sharply at the younger woman. “I thought
we were done with this! I warn you, I will not be trifled with! Nor shall my
son be trifled with.”

“Nor should he be, indeed, ma’am. Not by me, certainly. Nor
anyone else that I can think of—not in the manner which you evidently
suppose.”

“Miss Pellering...”

“Lady Teeve, my name is Prydd. lphegenia Prydd. I am a
friend of Miss Pellering, and I have been trying to figure out this
misunderstanding for these five minutes. I am terribly afraid that you have been
in error, or misled by someone—”

Lady Teeve drew herself up to full height—still half a
head smaller than Jenny. “I will not permit this! I will not be played with!
Why did you not tell me who you were?”

“Because, ma’am, if you recall, you specifically forbade me
to do so. Miss Pellering is not at home at the moment. However, I think that
you are very much deceived if you have cast Emily as some sort of enchantress
who has thrown a spell over Domenic; why, she is two years his junior, and—”

“When they met she was engaged to run off with some
fortune-hunting rascal! A fine match for my son, missy. Well, you may give my
message to Miss Pellerlng, if you please.”

“If
you
please, ma’am,” Jenny broke in smoothly, “I
shall not do so. It is hardly my
place
to do so. Aside from which, I do
not believe that any serious harm can come to Dom in this house. He comes,
after all, in the company of his cousin, Mr. Peter Teverley, and so far from
encouraging his
tendre
, Emily has shown Dom no partiality at all. She
looks upon Dom as she might a brother. They—”

“She has entrapped my son,” Lady Teeve stated implacably. “I
will not have him in her company.”

“Then is it not your responsibility to speak with Domenic
rather than to come and attack Emily Pellering? I give you my word that she has
made no move to attach his interest, and his affection for her is brotherly—”
Lady Teeve sniffed. “And perhaps a little calf love in it, as well, which will
not last, nor root itself unless he is greatly opposed in it.”

“Do you say that my son isn’t good enough for a tradesman’s
daughter?” Lady Teeve asked with more indignation than accuracy. “I tell you,
Miss—whatever your name is! I will not have Domenic dangling after your
little Miss Pellering. I came in a civil fashion to discuss this, and I was
prepared to be helpful.” Jenny repressed a strong urge to opine on Lady Teeve’s
civility of manner and helpfulness. “You will tell Miss Pellering what I said.”

“I would suggest again that you speak rather to Domenic, or
failing that, to Mr. Peter Teverley, since it is in his company that Dom visits
the house. In either event—”

“Peter is no help at all. He simply ignores everything that
I say. He’s as bad as Teeve in that. As for Domenic, you know as well as I that
he is bewitched. Told me to mind my own business, quite as if I had not been
the most affectionate and careful of mothers! I will not be so treated by my
son, Miss Smith.”

“Prydd, ma’am,” Jenny corrected levelly. “And if you have
nothing further to communicate, I suggest that we terminate this interview.”

“Are you dismissing me?” Lady Teeve hissed, outraged.

“No, but I cannot see any point in prolonging a discussion
wherein both parties are so clearly divided.”

Lady Teeve rose and collected her reticule from the divan
where she had dropped it. “You are entirely right, Miss Prynne. I will not stay
in this house a moment longer. And you shall never see my son again, I assure
you.”

“We would miss
him
, ma’am,” Jenny said sweetly. “He
has been a good friend to us here. Not so good as you would have it, of course.
But he’s a prettily behaved boy, and will be a fine man when he grows up.”

Lady Teeve was entirely at a loss. Either she was being
insulted or complimented, but as to which—and as to which would have
bothered her more—she was at a loss to say. Taking up her shawl and her
dignity, the lady swept daintily from the room, favoring the startled footman
outside the door with a singularly venomous look. Jenny stood where she was
until the outside door had closed behind Domenic’s mother, then sank dazedly
into her chair again. “Good Lord, when all I wanted was a quiet afternoon in
which to write my letters!”

Favoring the door with a look of dislike meant more for her
departed guest than for Corinthian scrollwork, Jenny resumed her letter to her cousins.
It was difficult to continue in her usually animated style, for between each
detailed description of muslin flounces and high perch phaetons—for she
had promised her audience a diligent report of all the wonders encountered on
her travels—thoughts would surface irrepressibly. Ought she to tell Emily
of what had passed? Or Domenic Teverley? Or Peter Teverley? Clearly, Lady Teeve
was not disposed to listen to any but her own opinions, but Jenny did not
relish the thought of another such interview. Indeed, she mused, until this day
she would not have imagined she could have gone through such a scene without
emerging in hysterics.
I must be stronger-minded than I knew; and what I
said to her...
This was such an arresting thought that Jenny gave up for once
and all on her correspondence, brought her letter to a quick and disjointed
close, and went in search of her pelisse and bonnet. She enlisted the company
of a maid and set out for Lady Bevan’s house.

Fortunately, Maria Bevan was at home that afternoon, feeling
elegantly and somewhat boringly fragile and planning colors for her nursery.
Lord Bevan, after putting up with his wife’s notions for as long as he could,
had fled the house muttering something about the sane company of the fellows at
Manton’s. It was only half an hour after his disgraceful retreat that Miss
Prydd’s card was shown to Lady Bevan. Maria, who had had neither time enough to
become contrite, nor to have fully thought out the subject, was in the midst of
a splendid feeling of ill-use, and welcomed her friend with a comic confusion
of tears, joy, and wrath, all of which were confounded by her resolve to play
as fragile a dame as any on the stage—when she recalled her part.

“Dearest Genia!” She jumped up from her divan and began to
flutter toward her friend. Then dropped back as she recalled her delicate
condition.

“Jenny now, Mary. I find I prefer it so.” She eyed her
friend dubiously. “You know, if you are as ill as you seem—”

“Not ill, Ge-Jenny. Simply—” She paused. “Well, you
know—that is, no of course, you cannot know! I cannot think how I could
have said such a thing! But I
am
—” She broke off, confounded by
her own words.

“I know it is a wise thing to care for yourself when you are
enceinte
. But really, Mary, hartshorn and vinaigrette in the middle of
the afternoon? Indeed, I have heard that it does a baby no good if his mamma
has been too quiet during her confinement, but only makes him fat and slow.”

Lady Bevan had never entertained the notion of a fat baby. “I
will not have a pudgy child! I will not have a fat little brat like that ...
what was her name? Amanda Weatherfair, at school.”

“Lord, I’d not thought of her in years, Mary. What became of
her?”

“What might have been expected,” Maria said callously. “She
became a companion to some dreadful old woman, and is still there, I suppose,
fetching shawls and combing out pug dogs and heaven knows what else.” Maria
shuddered deliciously at the thought.

“She is hardly to be condemned for finding a situation in
which she is no burden on anyone, Maria. At least she is working for her
living, and in an honest household.”

“As if she would be accepted to work in a dishonest one!”
Maria crowed. Then, taken aback by Jenny’s look of reproach: “Am I being
impossible again, Jenny? I
am
sorry,
my love. But you must tell me what you have been so busy at, all this time,
that you have not called upon me.” She rang for wine and biscuits, settling
herself and her friend down for a comfortable coze with instructions to the
butler that they were not to be disturbed.

“Actually, I have been accompanying Emily practically
everywhere; not to Almack’s, of course, but to all manner of routs and suppers
and balls.”

“Why not to Almack’s?” Lady Bevan asked curiously.

“Just a little high-flying for me, I think.”

“Nonsense!” Maria snorted. “If Lady Graybarr don’t get you a
voucher, I shall do so.”

“She offered it, indeed, but I thanked her and said no,
Mary, what sort of game would I look, little and poor and thin as a pole, and
plain as Sunday to boot, in that company? I’ve no fortune, no brilliance, and
no beauty to recommend me, and aside from taking notes to send to Annabelle and
her sisters—”

“Who on earth is Annabelle?”

“One of my aunt Winchell’s children. A dear little girl,
with a powerful love of finery! I vow I have described every gown I have
encountered this month and more, and have the most peculiar notes in my diary: ‘Wednesday,
dined out, Emily in
mouselline de soie
,
in a pretty shade of pink; myself in mauve gauze and ribbons. Met Lady S, who
wore green with silk ruches and a wreath of silver roses,”’ she recited
solemnly.

“Very well, but you shall not put me off. I think your
scruples ridiculous, but if it will make you uncomfortable—”

“Very much so. Mary, had I a great fortune, I could set
myself up as an eccentric and go about where I liked, and people would only be
amused by my oddity. But to go to Almack’s without a fortune! I would be set
down immediately, and very properly, too.”

“Piffle, Jenny. You are too hard on yourself. Granted,
should you appear in that gown, no one would ask where you had it from, but you
are always neatly dressed, and appear to advantage—”

“With dark hair, a dark complexion, dark eyes, a mousy
little figure, and no fortune ... you needn’t put a pretty picture on it, Mary.
I have known since I was twelve that I was plain as the day, and what my future
must be: precisely that which you described for Amanda Weatherfair. I don’t
dwell upon it too much, and, indeed, consider that I have been extremely lucky.”

“I see no point in continuing,” Lady Bevan said stiffly. “You
are determined only to think ill of yourself.” Then tactlessly, “I promise you
that Ally looked a thousand times worse when she appeared at my door. Why, she
had on an innkeeper’s wife’s dress, and such dirt! I do hope Tracy will keep
her in hand.”

Jenny thought of asking why Lady Bevan’s sister had arrived
in such disarray, and further, why she would now require such supervision, but
thought better of it, knowing full well her friend’s rattlish tongue. Maria had
found another tangent, and was off to pursue it.