Ruined (8 page)

Jessie sighed. ‘My hostess is—’ She hesitated, not wanting to be disloyal to someone to whom she would soon be related. ‘She is very busy, so I am left a good deal to my own devices,’ she said
eventually
. ‘I was looking for writing paper. I must not neglect my correspondence.’

‘Long can supply you with what you need,’ the earl told her. ‘In the meantime, don’t come into town alone again. I’m sure Henry Lusty would not appreciate your destroying your reputation within days of your arrival in the capital.’

Jessie lost some colour. ‘It cannot be as bad as you say,’ she began, before Ashbourne interrupted her.

‘My God, he’s coming in here,’ he exclaimed, his urgent tone far removed from his usual society drawl. ‘Long, take Miss Warburton into the back, and remember you’ve not seen her in here, particularly in my company. Jez, stay with Long until I come back with a sedan chair.’

Jessie allowed the earl and the shopkeeper to hustle her into the back room. Moments later, they heard the door of the shop open, and then the voice of a newcomer saying, ‘Well met, Ashbourne. You’ve not seen a wench in here, have you? Nice looking piece, tall, elegant, all on her own, so I thought my luck was in.’

‘Wiley,’ the earl replied. ‘I take it you lost sight of her.’

‘Exactly so. Blasted cart came down the road, and then when it was gone, so was she. Thought she might have come in here.’

Jessie could imagine Ashbourne shaking his head. ‘I’ve been here for some time with Long. I’d have seen if anyone had come in.’

‘Pity. She quite took my fancy. Good figure and pretty hair. Walk with me to Brooks’s. I’m told they’ve had a delivery of some rather palatable wine.’

The door closed behind the two men, and Jessie heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you, Mr Long,’ she said gratefully.

‘It was my pleasure, miss.’ He was a well-spoken, neatly dressed man in a brown wig. ‘What part of the country are you from, if I 
may be so bold as to ask? I may have some books that will interest you.’

‘I live in Derbyshire, not far from Ashbourne,’ Jessie replied.

‘Then if you’d like to take a seat here, I’ll see what I can find.’ He carefully dusted a chair so that Jessie could sit down, and soon returned with several volumes. ‘No doubt you will have read Mr Defoe’s
Tour
, but Misson’s
Memoirs and Observations
may not have come in your way. There is also a diary of a gentleman from Chapel–en-le-Frith which you might find interesting.’

Jessie thanked Mr Long for his thoughtfulness and, for the sake of courtesy, opened one of the books in front of her. In fact, her mind was elsewhere. Part of her was very annoyed that she had chanced to meet Ashbourne. Had she not done so, then she could have continued with her expedition, none the wiser about the
construction
that some might have been placing upon her solitary expedition. On the other hand, had Raphael not been around, then Mr Wiley – and how appropriate
his
name was – would undoubtedly have pursued her into the shop and made himself obnoxious in some way. Raphael was right about her reputation, too. A clergyman’s wife, like Caesar’s, must be above suspicion. She had to admit, though, that she was rather flattered by Mr Wiley’s interest, however unwelcome. She knew that she was tall, but she had never seen herself as elegant, with a good figure and pretty hair!

She glanced anxiously at the clock in Mr Long’s office, and wondered how soon Lord Ashbourne would return from drinking with Mr Wiley. When would Mrs Machin start to worry about her? Jessie had always been accustomed to thinking of Ashbourne as a rake. Would his ‘raking’ involve feeling obliged to sit drinking with Mr Wiley for the next hour or two? Would he even forget about her completely?

She was just wondering how much she ought to pay Mr Long to close his shop and escort her home when she heard the sound of the shop door, and moments later, Lord Ashbourne strolled in. ‘Your chair awaits, ma’am,’ he said, with a sweeping bow. ‘Long, thank you for your help in this matter. Did you have the chance to peruse those books, Jez, or would you like me to purchase them for you?’

She was about to say that she had no particular desire for the books, and already had a copy of Defoe’s account, when she realized 
that this would be Ashbourne’s way of thanking the man for his assistance. Accordingly, she nodded. ‘If you please,’ she said.

‘It has been a pleasure to serve you, miss,’ said the bookseller, as he handed her the parcel of books neatly tied up with string, together with an ample supply of writing paper. ‘I hope I shall be able to do so again whilst you are in London.’

‘Thank you. You have been very kind,’ she told him, as she prepared to get into the sedan chair. Lord Ashbourne had already asked for her direction and was giving it to the chairmen.

It was only when they were halfway back, Ashbourne walking alongside the sedan chair, that Jessie wondered how her hostess would react to the sight of her guest being escorted home by one of London’s notorious rakes. Would she feel it incumbent upon herself to tell her brother? After her threats to do so when Jessie had entered the book-room, it seemed quite possible.

There was nothing wrong in her accepting Ashbourne’s escort, Jessie told herself stoutly. After all, she had known him for nearly half her life, and had been companion to his sister for eight years. It would have been far stranger if he had
not
offered to escort her home. Nevertheless, she could not help remembering guiltily that she should not have been in town alone in the first place; and she was old enough to have known that.

She was still rehearsing the various arguments when the chair stopped outside Mrs Machin’s house, and one of the chairmen opened the door at the front so that she could step out. While the earl was paying the men, the front door opened, and Dilly stood on the threshold. She looked a little flustered. ‘Please, miss, missus said to ask his lordship inside for some refreshment, as she’d like to thank him for bringing you home.’

Jessie looked at the maid, unable to conceal her expression of astonishment. Given the earl’s reputation, and Mrs Machin’s close relationship with members of the clergy, it seemed to her that it would have been just as likely for that lady to throw open her doors to Beelzebub himself. Then she reflected with a sinking feeling, that the invitation would very likely be in order to warn the earl not to come near the house or its occupants ever again. Quite how Ashbourne would respond to such a command she could not imagine. 

She was just beginning to wonder what her own feelings would be in such circumstances when the earl turned towards Dilly with Jessie’s books under one arm and said, ‘Thank you, I would be delighted.’

‘But surely, you need to get back to Brooks’s,’ Jessie protested, as the chairmen left.

‘Not at all,’ he responded with a smile. ‘I can think of nothing that attracts me more at this moment than meeting a new connection of an old family friend.’

Mrs Machin’s house was neat and well-kept, but not fashionable in its appointments, and Lord Ashbourne, in this modest exclusively female establishment, somehow looked more fashionable and more masculine than ever. Dilly, clearly quite overwhelmed at admitting such a well-dressed, titled gentleman, became more flustered, took the books from him, attempted to take his hat and cane, which he had intended to retain as was proper for a brief visit, then released them. In the confusion, his cane fell to the floor and Ashbourne bent to pick it up. Dilly suddenly realized that she should not be
permitting
a visitor to do this, and bent over herself in order to get it. In so doing, in Mrs Machin’s small hall, she found her face rather close to his. Quite forgetting all her training, she gave a little scream and ran back to her own quarters.

‘I did nothing!’ protested Ashbourne, opening his free hand in a disclaiming gesture. ‘You saw that I did nothing.’

He didn’t have to do anything; he just had to be, Jessie reflected ruefully as she ushered him into Mrs Machin’s presence. That lady was seated with a piece of embroidery on her knee, but at their arrival she laid aside her work and stood up. On her face was an expression of outrage.

Chapter Seven

‘M
rs Machin,’ said Jessie tentatively. ‘I must beg leave to
introduce
Lord Ashbourne to you. Raff, this is Mrs Machin, my kind hostess.’

‘Your servant, ma’am,’ drawled Ashbourne, bowing with
consummate
elegance.

Mrs Machin took a deep breath. ‘Lord Ashbourne, I cannot say when I have been more shocked,’ she said, causing Jessie’s heart to sink into her boots. Then, to her visitor’s relief and surprise, she went on, ‘That foolish girl! She has no notion of how to behave! To go off to the kitchen without announcing you!’

‘Think nothing of it, ma’am,’ answered the earl, taking his hostess’s hand and raising it to his lips. ‘She was surprised, that is all.’

‘You are very generous, my lord,’ replied Mrs Machin, positively bridling. ‘Pray be seated, and tell me how it is that you have come to meet my sister-in-law-to-be this morning. Miss Warburton, will you be so good as to see if Dilly is getting wine, or if she has neglected her duties in that respect as well?’

As Jessie left the room, she heard her hostess bemoaning the fact that she had no butler who would doubtless have taken the visit of a nobleman in his stride. On her arrival in the kitchen, Jessie found that Dilly was already preparing a tray, so she went back to Mrs Machin’s neat drawing-room. Mrs Machin was sitting upright, an air of suppressed excitement about her. Jessie now noticed that although she was dressed in her most usual attire of grey silk, the 
gown that she had on was embellished by a rather frivolous pink shawl that Jessie had not seen before. Ashbourne was sitting very much at his ease, his hat and cane on the floor next to his chair, one leg crossed negligently over the other. At Jessie’s entrance he rose fluidly to his feet, and placed a chair for her, so that she might be part of the conversation.

‘My dear Miss Warburton, you should have told me how
negligent
I was being,’ Mrs Machin said reproachfully. ‘I have been so involved with my work that I have not thought about your
entertainment
as I should. Lord Ashbourne has very properly reminded me of my duty.’

‘He has?’ questioned Jessie, unable to imagine the earl ever doing anything properly.

‘Most certainly. What a blessing that he chanced to encounter you this morning. You will always be welcome in this house if for that reason alone, my lord,’ said Mrs Machin, beaming. ‘And here is Dilly with the wine. Will you pour for us?’

As the earl did so, Jessie tried to work out whether her hostess, the widow of one clergyman and the sister of another had really just invited a notorious rake to run tame in her house. She came to the conclusion that the nature of the day’s events so far must simply have addled her wits.

The conversation that followed did nothing to change that impression. Mrs Machin seemed eager to find out all that she could concerning fashionable London society, and once she had asked Ashbourne a question, she waited avidly for his answer. So
enthusiastic
was she about obtaining information that Jessie felt strongly tempted to ask if she would like to take notes.

Lord Ashbourne stayed for only twenty minutes, then announced that he had engagements in town. ‘I hope that your stay will prove to be agreeable,’ he told Jessie before he left. ‘Indeed, I cannot see how it could be otherwise, with such a kind hostess.’

‘You are too generous in your praise, my lord,’ said Mrs Machin, beaming. ‘Pray return at any time. We shall be more than happy to see you. Our door will always be open.’ After he had gone, she added with a sigh, ‘What a charming man. He is just as I imagined him to be.’

Feeling very much like saying waspishly that she wondered in that 
case why Mrs Machin had not asked him to come and live with them, Jessie merely remarked, ‘I had no idea that you had ever given Lord Ashbourne any thought.’

Mrs Machin turned bright red. ‘I … that is to say, he is often spoken about, you know.’ Then, in a condemnatory tone that was quite at variance with her manner during Ashbourne’s visit and since his departure, she said, ‘Such a wicked man!’

‘In that case, I wonder that you made him so welcome,’ answered Jessie angrily. She knew that she ought to put the earl out of her mind, but she could not stand and listen to him being traduced,
especially
when the lady who was criticizing him had been fawning over him five minutes before.

‘What else could I do when you came dancing in on his arm?’ demanded Mrs Machin defensively. ‘I do not know what Henry would say if I were to tell him that you were bringing rakes into the house.’

‘My dear Mrs Machin,’ said Jessie, wanting to remain civil but determined not to put up with this slander, ‘you must know very well that I did nothing of the sort. I was quite prepared to say goodbye to Lord Ashbourne at the door. It was Dilly who came scurrying out and, at
your
behest, ma’am, invited him in.’

‘I considered it to be my duty to discover what kind of company you were keeping,’ said Mrs Machin, her chin lifted high, but her tone more than a little defensive. ‘I thought it best to warn him off for the future …’ Her voice tailed away towards the end of her speech, and her expression became more than a little hunted.

Jessie stared at a her for a moment, then said incredulously, ‘Warn him off? You all but invited him to run tame in this house. What would Henry say to
that
?’

With that, Mrs Machin’s outraged façade disappeared completely. Her figure began to droop, and she seemed to lose at least six inches in height. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she murmured. ‘What on earth am I to do? Henry will be so angry.’ Her voice suddenly took on a note of panic. ‘You won’t tell him
really
, will you?’

‘I haven’t yet decided,’ answered Jessie thoughtfully. ‘You will have to tell me what it is you are about, though.’

‘About, my dear?’ said Mrs Machin in a quavering voice.

‘It is of no use to pretend to be so innocent because I am convinced that you are concealing something,’ said Jessie firmly. 

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Mrs Machin again. ‘I feel a little faint. Might I have a drink?’

‘I will send for some tea at once,’ answered Jessie.

‘Actually, I was thinking of something stronger,’ confessed the other lady. She paused. ‘There is some brandy in the tall cupboard in the corner of the book-room,’ she said at last. ‘My husband used to recommend that I take it – purely for medicinal purposes, you
understand
.’

With one puzzled look at her hostess, Jessie left the room and found the brandy without difficulty, where Mrs Machin had said it would be. There were no glasses immediately visible, but she soon found them. It was while she was putting the brandy on a tray that the door-bell rang. Reluctant to take the strong drink through to her hostess without discovering the identity of the guest at the door, she left the book-room in time to see Mr Hinder disappearing into the drawing-room. Glad that she had waited, she approached the door in order to discover whether Mrs Machin might want some tea brought now that she had a visitor. She was in time to hear Hinder say, in excited tones, ‘I have finished the tract on the evils of drink, and what a bore
that
was! I have earned my fee for that one, I assure you. Have you got any further with the latest chapter? The last one had me on the edge of my seat!’

Quite forgetting to consider the propriety of commenting upon a conversation that did not include her, Jessie entered the room, saying, ‘Please explain, ma’am. What are you really writing, and how is Mr Hinder involved?’

The two occupants turned to look at her, their faces wearing
identical
expressions of dismay. Mrs Machin, who had stood up to greet Mr Hinder, sank back into her chair. ‘There is nothing for it,’ she said despondently. ‘I shall have to tell you, I suppose, but I must beg you, please do not tell Henry. What I am doing makes no difference to him, you know, and he really would not understand. Then of course, because of his exaggerated sense of honour or piety or whatever, he would feel bound to tell the bishop, and his chances of preferment would go completely out of the window. Promise you will not tell?’

‘My dear ma’am, I have nothing to tell at present,’ said Jessie with a touch of humour.

‘No, of course not,’ agreed Mrs Machin in accents of relief. There 
was a sigh from Mr Hinder who, while the ladies were talking, stood looking like a rather badly executed statue.

‘
But
,’ Jessie went on firmly, ‘unless you tell me what all this is about, I will inform Henry that I am convinced that you are concealing something.’

Mrs Machin peered over first one shoulder, then the other, as if someone might have sneaked into the room while they had been speaking. She nodded to Mr Hinder, who tiptoed over to the door, flung it open and looked outside. ‘Very well,’ she said in a low tone, after Hinder had nodded to signify that the coast was clear. ‘I have to admit that it will be a relief to tell you. I am writing a novel.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Jessie, startled. ‘What about your husband’s sermons – his life’s work?’

‘That was a ruse,’ said Mrs Machin proudly. ‘Hector, I believe that Miss Warburton was getting some brandy from the book-room. Will you fetch it if you please?’

‘What do you mean, a ruse? Are there no sermons, then? What will you do when the time comes to take them to a publisher?’

‘That will be quite easy,’ answered Mrs Machin. ‘The sermons have always been there, written out neatly in my own hand and tied together in order.’

‘You acted as his scribe, then?’ Jessie surmised.

‘Oh no. I wrote his sermons,’ Mrs Machin responded with a note of modest pride. ‘Percival was not a very good preacher, I’m afraid. Do you not agree?’ she added in Mr Hinder’s direction as he came back in with the tray.

‘I beg pardon, ma’am?’ he replied, as he set the tray down.

‘I was telling Miss Warburton that Percival’s sermons were not good.’

‘Yes, they were complete nonsense from beginning to end,’ the young man agreed with cheerful disregard for the reputation of the deceased clergyman. ‘Are we all having brandy?’

Jessie saw that he had put enough glasses on the tray for all of them. She made no objection when he poured brandy into three glasses. She did not normally consume strong drink, but today she felt in need of it.

‘How did you come to write your husband’s sermons?’ Jessie asked curiously. 

Mrs Machin took her glass and leaned back comfortably in her chair. It occurred to Jessie that almost for the first time, this lady seemed to be at ease in her presence. ‘It began soon after we were married,’ she said, smiling reminiscently. ‘Until our marriage, I had never heard him preach, you see. My father was a clergyman and always spoke very well, so I was used to a high standard. Then I married Percival.’ She paused. ‘The shock to my system was severe. I knew that if I had to sit listening to him for the rest of our married life, I would either strangle him or expire from boredom.’

‘So what happened?’ asked Jessie, fascinated.

‘When we were first married, he used to spend hours and hours in his study writing his sermons. It always astonished me that so much time and energy could be applied to so little effect. Then, a few weeks after our wedding, he became ill, and although he made a good recovery, he had very little energy. In order to help him, I offered to write his sermons. He was very surprised to discover how quickly I could accomplish what had often taken him half a day at least. When he was fully recovered, I encouraged him to use his time in ways that yielded positive fruit, and benefited his health such as fishing and gardening, and with his willing acquiescence I continued to write the sermons myself. They were very well received, if I do say so.’

‘How remarkable,’ commented Jessie. ‘Did no one ever suspect?’

‘Never. Well, Hector discovered the truth, quite by accident.’

‘I come from the same village, you see,’ Hector interrupted eagerly. ‘And we had already found that we enjoyed the same kinds of books. One day I visited the vicarage unexpectedly in order to borrow some poetry and found her in the throes of composition.’

‘The problem came when Percival died,’ Henrietta went on. ‘I no longer had an outlet for my creative talents, you see.’

‘Was that when you started writing tracts?’ Jessie asked.

‘Yes; but I got so bored with them,’ complained the other lady with a sigh. ‘I blame it on Henry. He is for ever sending me ideas for new ones. It seems to me that he only has to think of something that is pleasant, and he instantly has to be disapproving of it. Really, he must be a terribly depressing person to live with.’

It did not seem to occur to her that she was commenting on Jessie’s future. Jessie had no desire to embarrass her by reminding 
her, so she said quickly, ‘Did I understand Mr Hinder to say that he is writing tracts as well?’

‘Not “as well”, but “instead”,’ put in Mr Hinder. ‘That’s why I took lodgings in this very street as soon as any became available.’

‘We work together, you see,’ said Mrs Machin.