Plain Jane (16 page)

Jane made her curtsy to Lord Tregarthan. There was a roaring in her ears. She realized Mr Bullfinch was asking her whether she had enjoyed the Quesnes’ ball. With a great effort, she pulled herself together and answered that she had.

‘I have not seen you about,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘I sat through Mrs Gulley’s musicale and I went to Summerses’ rout, but never a sign of you, although I did see your sister.’

‘I have not been out at all,’ said Jane, gratified that he had missed her.

Mr Bullfinch smiled at Jane. Jane blinked up at him in surprise. He had a delightful smile, a warm smile, which lit up his face and gave him great charm. ‘Perhaps I may persuade you to come driving with me, Miss Jane,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Mr Bullfinch,’ said Jane.

‘But not tomorrow,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘Tomorrow is mine, is it not, Jane? Do remember you promised to allow me to take you out.’

He smiled down at her in that new caressing way of his, and Jane felt her knees turn to jelly. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, dropping her fan, and then bumped her head against his as they both stooped to pick it up.

‘Your roses have slipped,’ he said, gently touching her hair and straightening a battered blossom. ‘There! Now you look like the gypsy princess again.’

Mr Bullfinch looked curiously from one to the other, bowed and walked away, and was soon engaged in conversation with Euphemia. The Marquess of Berry had not yet arrived.

‘What is Tregarthan about?’ hissed Mrs Hart behind her fan to her husband. ‘He cannot want her himself so why does he not leave her alone? I only invited him to annoy that cat Mrs Wentworth, who is trying to secure him for one of her pasty daughters.’

‘Mayhap he wants to marry her,’ said Mr Hart curtly.

‘Nonsense. He is merely amusing himself.’

‘I do not think he is such a fool,’ said Mr Hart. ‘He would have a warm, loving wife in Jane, which, believe me, is far better than being married to a discontented fashion plate.’ This last was said with considerable venom, but Mrs Hart had noticed the arrival of the Marquess of Berry and had fluttered off in his direction.

‘You had not said anything about taking me driving,’ said Jane shyly to Lord Tregarthan.

‘Ah, but I meant to. I should have realized you would be kept prisoner. Do you not wish to go driving with me?’

‘I should like it above all things. You see, I have something important I must tell you . . .’

‘Dinner is served,’ said Rainbird from the doorway.

The company, which consisted of six guests and the Harts, moved into the dining room.

Lord Tregarthan was seated opposite Jane with Euphemia on one side and an elderly lady on the other.

Jane had Mr Bullfinch on her right and a Mr Woodforde on her left.

Chambermaid Jenny had been exalted to the dining room in order to help Alice and Joseph. Beautiful odours rose from the side dishes placed before them. MacGregor had excelled himself.

Now although Mrs Hart’s faith in Lady Doyle was waning fast, old habits and loyalties died hard, and Lady Doyle had told her that all the
ton
complained about their servants and it was accounted a fascinating topic of conversation.

Mrs Hart was taste deaf as some people are tone deaf. She picked gingerly at a dish of plaice covered in a delicious sauce
à la Matelote
. She all at once assumed that MacGregor would not know how to make French sauces, so she gave a shiver of disgust and looked behind her for Rainbird, who had gone to fetch a cordial for one of the elderly guests. She called Joseph.

‘Take these side dishes back to the kitchen.’ Then, raising her voice, added, ‘My cook is a Scotch savage and has no idea how to cook French dishes. But you will find his plain cooking very good. Of course, our own staff in the country, which is
very large
, is very well trained.’

Lord Tregarthan raised his eyebrows and waved Joseph away as the footman tried to remove two of the side dishes at my lord’s elbow. ‘I must have a debased palate,’ he said, ‘for I swear your chef cooks like an angel.’

Mrs Hart hesitated. But it seemed such a grand,
tonnish
thing to do, to complain about one’s cook, that she gave a brittle laugh and said, ‘Well, we shall leave those beside you, Lord Tregarthan. Joseph, take the rest away immediately.’

Joseph piled up the dishes and carried them out.

Mr Bullfinch was talking to Jane about the horrible winter they had all endured. ‘Ice everywhere,’ he said with a shiver. ‘I became tired of having to crack the ice in my water cans before I could wash in the morning.’

Jane saw her opportunity. ‘That reminds me of something I read,’ she said. ‘“The ice is now frozen on the ponds and lakes, hard and glittering in the sunlight, hard and glittering like your beautiful eyes when you look upon this, your devoted slave.”’

And then she shrank back before the blaze of anger in Mr Bullfinch’s face. Lord Tregarthan tensed in his chair, watching them curiously.

‘Miss Jane,’ said Mr Bullfinch in a low, urgent undertone. ‘You have obviously found some letters I wrote to Miss Vere-Baxton. How
dare
you read my personal letters? How dare you!’

‘I am sorry,’ whispered Jane, all at once appalled at the enormity of what she had done.

‘Was it not enough,’ went on Mr Bullfinch in that dreadful undertone, ‘to lose the only woman I ever loved without having some
child
read my letters and then mock me?’

Tears welled up in Jane’s eyes. Lord Tregarthan was about to break with convention and address a remark to her across the table when the door of the dining room opened with a crash and MacGregor stood bristling on the threshold.

Had Rainbird returned with the dishes, he would have known how to placate the fiery artist of the kitchen.

But Joseph, whose feet were hurting him, had merely thumped down the tray and said, ‘Mrs Hart don’t like your cooking.’

MacGregor had begun to tremble with rage. He tore off his apron and skull cap and headed for the stairs.

Now, still shaking, he glared at the assembled guests and finally focussed on Mrs Hart at the end of the table.

Rainbird appeared behind him, alerted by Joseph, who had rushed to tell him that MacGregor was on the warpath. ‘Now, Angus . . .’ he began, but the cook was beyond reason.

‘Whit was the matter wi’ thae dishes?’ he demanded.

Mrs Hart glared back. Like many of the English of the period, Mrs Hart hated the Scotch with a passion. Bigotry and bad temper raged in her bosom.

‘Leave the room this minute,’ she said. ‘Your cooking was returned because it was disgusting.’

‘I am an artist,’ howled MacGregor. ‘An artist, do ye hear . . . you great, pudding-faced harridan?’

Captain Hart’s wooden face cracked into a rare smile.

‘
You
,’ said the cook with loathing, ‘are the commonest old frump I have ever wasted ma art on. Upstart
mush-room
. The hell wi’ ye.’

‘Take him down to the kitchens and bind him. He shall be horsewhipped,’ shouted Mrs Hart.

Euphemia burst into tears and cried to the Marquess of Berry for protection.

Lord Tregarthan rose easily from his seat. He signalled to Mr Bullfinch and both men took the quivering cook gently by an arm apiece and hustled him out and down the stairs.

MacGregor sank into a chair at the kitchen table and burst into tears.

‘Do we tie him up?’ asked Mr Bullfinch, looking at the sobbing cook as Joseph and Rainbird came into the kitchen.

‘No,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘I cannot understand Mrs Hart. My own chef is a volatile gentleman and I treat him with kid gloves. This man cooks like an angel. Listen, MacGregor, I shall find a place for you.’

The cook dried his eyes and looked miserably round the kitchen. He saw Rainbird and held out his large red hand like a child holding out its hand to its father. Rainbird took the cook’s hand and sat down at the table beside him.

‘Better take my lord’s offer and leave now before you’re whipped,’ said the butler.

‘I cannae leave ma family,’ whispered Angus MacGregor. ‘You know that, John. Ye ken fine what it’s like.’

‘Oh, don’t leave, Angus,’ cried Joseph. ‘I’ll take the beating for you. I’ll say it was all my fault.’

Joseph turned white as he realized what he had just said.

He turned to escape from his new knight-errant self and bumped into Captain Hart. Joseph turned even whiter. He had said he would take the beating meant for Angus. He would need to stay.

‘A word with you, Tregarthan,’ barked the captain. ‘In private, if you please.’

‘Please, sir, Mr Hart, sir,’ gabbled Joseph. ‘Itwasallmehfault. I shall take the beating.’

‘What, heh! Oh, the cook,’ grinned the captain. He threw a guinea on the table in front of the astonished MacGregor.

‘Great pudding-faced harridan,’ said the captain.

Then he began to laugh, a grating, rusty sound.

‘Come along, Tregarthan,’ he said.

‘No beating?’ quavered Joseph.

‘No, lad. No beating.’

Joseph put both hands up to his mouth, mumbled something, and fainted dead away. Lord Tregarthan caught him before he hit the floor. The dining-room bell began to ring noisily. Lord Tregarthan eased Joseph onto the floor while Lizzie rushed from the scullery to sink down beside the footman and pillow his head on her lap.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Mr Bullfinch. ‘What is going on here? Family? Are they all related?’

‘Better return to the dining room,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘What did you say to distress little Miss Jane?’

‘She distressed me,’ snapped Mr Bullfinch. ‘A private matter.’

‘Come along, Tregarthan,’ said Captain Hart.

Upstairs, the guests had fallen silent. Alice and Jenny passed round the dishes. Mrs Hart was shaken. It was decidedly bad
ton
to have only female servants waiting at table. Where was Rainbird? And Joseph?

At last Rainbird appeared and, leaning over Mrs Hart, said, ‘Captain Hart presents his compliments and says MacGregor is not to be either chastised or dismissed.’

Mrs Hart seethed inwardly. What had happened to the husband who used to obey her every whim?

Soon Mr Bullfinch returned and took his place beside Jane. Jane was suffering agonies of remorse. Where was Lord Tregarthan? Why did he not return? Summoning up her courage, she turned to Mr Bullfinch. ‘Mr Bullfinch, I must explain what happened about . . . about the letters.’

‘Yes?’ said Mr Bullfinch, pushing away his plate. ‘Go on.’

In a faltering voice, Jane described how she had become interested in the death of Clara, how the letters had been found by accident, and how she had read them to make sure they were not just old letters left in the desk by someone long ago.

‘So having become convinced that I murdered my fiancée,’ said Mr Bullfinch dryly, ‘you quoted from one of my letters hoping to see me turn white with guilt.’

Jane hung her head.

‘Return the letters to me and we shall say no more about the matter,’ said Mr Bullfinch. ‘I should never have accepted your mother’s invitation, but a longing to be inside this house again, where I spent so many happy times with Clara, was too strong for me. It was a mistake.’

‘But . . . but are you not
curious
as to how she died?’ ventured Jane timidly.

‘Can you not realize my agony on learning of her death, or how I closely questioned both doctor and coroner? And mine,’ he went on bitterly, ‘was not the idle curiosity of a spoilt child, but of a bereaved lover.’

Jane was being made to feel smaller and grubbier by the minute.

‘I shall return your letters after dinner,’ she said.

‘And you will leave the matter alone?’

‘Yes,’ said Jane miserably.

Lord Tregarthan entered the room and, murmuring an apology to his hostess, took his place at table.

The dining-room door opened and Dave, the pot boy, popped his head round and signalled to Rainbird.

Rainbird left, only to return a few minutes later to call Joseph.

Mrs Hart set her lips. There had been enough fuss and scandal for one evening. She would
not
ask what was going on.

Conversation died. The sound of masculine voices came from outside the dining room, and then a grunting and panting and footsteps. Someone was carrying a heavy load past the door.

The guests had given up any pretence of making conversation. Everyone was listening to what was going on outside the room.

The street door banged and there was the rumble of carriage wheels outside.

Unable to bear it any longer, Mrs Hart rose, went to the window, and drew aside the curtains.

Rainbird and Joseph were strapping her husband’s large sea trunk on to the back of a hackney.

The captain himself climbed into the carriage and said something to Rainbird. The hackney moved off.

‘What is it, mama?’ asked Euphemia.

‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Hart, letting the curtain fall. ‘Nothing at all.’

Afterwards, in the drawing room, Lord Tregarthan noticed Jane slipping quietly from the room.

She returned a few minutes later with a package of letters, which she passed to Mr Bullfinch, who seized them and thrust them into his pocket.

Lord Tregarthan wanted to speak to Jane to find out what had happened, but Mrs Hart commanded her to entertain the guests.

He joined her at the pianoforte and turned the music for her. She played indifferently, her fingers stumbling over the keys. At last, he covered one of her hands with his own and said quietly, ‘Enough. You must tell me what is distressing you.’

Jane looked around quickly. Her mother was chatting to her guests, breaking off only to say good night to Mr Bullfinch. Euphemia was talking in a low tone to the Marquess of Berry.

Hanging her head, Jane mumbled her folly in baiting Mr Bullfinch with the contents of the letters.

‘I shall speak to him,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘Do not look so distressed. We are become so absorbed in the mystery, we have forgot we are dealing with human beings with feelings. I am to blame as much as you. Come, smile at me, Jane. Mr Bullfinch will forgive you.’

Jane smiled at him tremulously. He caught his breath, amazed at his sudden desire to protect her, to kiss the distress from her eyes.