The Rebel (21 page)

It was more than the scandal of her past
that would keep the baronet and Jane apart. It was more than his
own order to hang that presumptuous papist boy nine years ago that
kept the wedge solidly between himself and Jane.

There was, indeed, much more.

At first, when he’d become aware of her
coming in and going out at all hours, he’d been fool enough to
think there was another man involved. Soon after, he’d started
studying her paintings and watching her carefully. I had not taken
him long to realize that his own daughter had taken up the cause of
her dead lover. Jane was now supporting the Shanavests.

Sir Thomas moved away from the window and
sank heavily onto the edge of the bed. It was to protect her that
he had remained magistrate for so long, hoping that she would tire
of the foolishness of the movement. He himself would not move
against the rebels again while Jane was involved with them, but she
was the reason he continued to harp at Musgrave to take stronger
actions now to capture and hang the local leaders. The old man knew
that with the ringleaders gone, there would be little fight left in
the rest.

Only then, Thomas knew, he’d have a chance
of removing the wedge. Only then, he prayed, he might have his
daughter back.

The small workroom Catherine Purefoy used as
the center for running her household was abuzz when Jane poked her
head in the next morning. There were four servants already standing
in a line before her mother and taking a variety of directions from
their somewhat hysterical leader. Meanwhile, Clara stood by the
single window of the room, staring sullenly out, and totally
unaffected by the madness in the room.

A sharp needle of guilt immediately pricked
Jane as she saw the gloominess in her sister’s face, but just as
she’d done a thousand times during the sleepless night, she shut
the door firmly on the image of Nicholas and herself standing
together in the night. Bitterly, she pushed the image deep in the
bottomless well of mistakes she had made.

Just as Jane was considering if she should
give this lunacy an hour or two to settle down, her mother’s
victims began to disperse. Two upstairs maids practically tripped
over each other in their haste to escape. One of the kitchen
servants stormed out muttering a profane curse in Gaelic. Fey, to
her great misfortune, was the solitary victim left behind. The
mistress’s voice rose in excitement as she fired a dozen directions
pertaining to a dozen different tasks at the red-haired woman. It
was upsetting for Jane to see that even the housekeeper’s usually
calm demeanor was affected by her mother’s ongoing harangue.

As Lady Purefoy paused to take a breath,
Jane seized the opportunity and stepped in.

“I need a moment of your time, Mother.”

“It shall have to wait, Jane. Not now.”

“But it cannot wait.” She walked in and sat
comfortably in one of the two available chairs. She was relieved to
see Clara give her a side glance and a smile before returning her
attention to whatever she was so consumed with outside.

Her mother gave her an exasperated glare.
“Well then, what is it, Jane? Be quick about it.”

“I am planning to visit old Mrs. Barry…in
Dublin. I shall be taking a coach from Cork and will leave in about
nine days.”

“And how long will you be gone?”

“A fortnight, perhaps a few days more.”

“Very well. I shall tell Sir Thomas about
it.” Lady Purefoy turned back to the housekeeper.

All as Jane had expected. With very few
exceptions, she had not spoken directly with her father for years.
Everything he needed to know could be communicated through her
mother. And now that she knew of the trip, there really wasn’t any
reason for Jane to remain. Curiosity, though, held her in her
seat.

“Oh, yes. The seamstress we used before our
trip to London,” Lady Purefoy said, recalling her instructions to
Fey. “I want Paul to send a groom with you to Cork City and bring
the woman back. Now, I told you what to buy as far as fabrics and
colors. Make sure whichever groom Paul chooses to send, he must
understand he is not to hurry you.”

“I’ll not be rushed, m’lady.”

“But I want you back immediately. Do
dallying in the city, mind you. There’s much to be done, Fey.
Much
to be done!”

“Preparing for a party, Mother?” Jane asked
good-naturedly, trying to gain moment’s respite for the
housekeeper.

“A ball,” Lady Purefoy corrected
immediately. “The grandest we’ve ever had at Woodfield House.”

Catherine leaped out of her chair and
scurried behind a writing table, scowling at a neat stack of
papers.

“I thought you were planning to help me with
these invitations Clara?” She stared at her young daughter’s
troubled profile for a moment. “You have to start these now so we
can have them delivered
today
.”

Jane watched her sister, obedient as always,
leave her place and sit behind the desk. She was an angel of the
household, trained to dutifully follow their parents’ orders.

“Is this the engagement party…er, ball that
has…that everyone has been waiting for?” Despite what he’d said to
her, Nicholas Spencer was here to marry Clara and everyone knew it.
Everyone had accepted it. She had no right…no reason to feel this
hot iron that had suddenly pierced her chest.

An uncomfortable silence descended over the
room. Her mother and Fey were both staring at her. Clara, though,
was continuing to scratch the pen across the paper without
pausing.

“Miss Jane has just come down.” Fey gently
reminded Lady Purefoy. “She does not know yet.”

“If you were not sleeping half the day away,
as you do, then you would know what is happening around here.”
Jane’s mother turned her back and moved the wax and seal closer to
Clara on the desk. She picked up a list and started to complain
about all that needed to be done.

“Well, does anyone care to tell me what is
going on here?”

Clara put down her pen and spoke. “There is
no offer of marriage. Sir Nicholas told Father last night that he
does not wish to marry me.”

“There is no need to state it as if it were
final,” Catherine protested immediately. She moved behind her
daughter, placing her hands protectively on her shoulders and
glaring at Jane. The younger sister simply returned to writing the
invitations. “He is obviously not ready to make a decision, but his
intentions are very clear. He and his family are planning to stay
for another fortnight as originally planned.”

“So you are giving a party…pardon me, a
ball?”

“Why not?” Lady Purefoy took an invitation
that Clara had finished and carefully folded it. “A young woman’s
advantages are best displayed on such occasions. There is nothing
like good food and drink and dancing to open a baronet’s eyes to
what he will be missing. I predict he’ll be asking for our Clara’s
hand the day after the ball.” She nodded to Fey. “You can go now.
And do not forget what I told you about the dallying.”

Fey hesitated before leaving. “Now should we
not be planning for a dress to be made for Miss Jane, as well,
m’lady? If she has no plan of leaving for nine days and the ball is
in six…” Fey gave Jane a gentle smile. “—Do you not think, miss,
that ‘tis high time you gave up wearing black? ‘Tis been…”

“Be on your way, Fey.” Lady Purefoy cut in
sharply. “Jane is too old to reap any benefit from any of this. And
besides, you know as well as I that she does not care for this sort
of thing. She never has. Do you, Jane? In fact, what is the
difference between nine days…six days…or two days? Why not plan to
leave for Mrs. Barry’s right away? You shall be much happier there,
anyway, while all this activity is taking place here. I shall tell
Sir Thomas to allow you to go immediately.”

“No, Mother,” Jane protested. She rose to
her feet as Fey disappeared out the door. Lady Purefoy had stung
her. In spite of the difficult state of affairs at Woodfield House,
it was still rare to hear her mother openly assert that Jane wasn’t
wanted. But that was enough to make her stay. “I shall be leaving
in nine days as I told you.”

Catherine looked mildly annoyed when Jane
stopped at the door and turned to face her. “And Mother, for
Clara’s sake, please think before you talk. I do not believe you
even know how hurtful you can be sometimes.”

Jane glanced at Clara, who looked up from
beneath hooded eyes only for an instant before silently and
diligently going back to work on the invitations.

***

Patches of thin forests snaked through the
worn hills. A solitary trail wove in and out of the wood and
disappeared over the crest of next rise. Alexandra Spencer lifted
the charcoal off the paper as a patch of gray cloud moved across
the sun. She turned her attention to the east and studied the
contrast of shadow and light as it slipped over in the sweeping
panorama of foothills, forests, and pastures.

Looking at Jane’s work the day before had
stimulated that old, familiar thirst in her again. Alexandra needed
to draw and paint. She needed to create.

She also needed to talk to Jane and
congratulate the young woman on her work. She doubted that Jane got
much encouragement, living with the dull rustics who were
supposedly her parents. She couldn’t help but wonder if the older
sister hadn’t been a foundling, after all.

The sun reemerged, but as Lady Spencer
readied the charcoal over the paper again, another shadow moved
over her. This one belonged to her own daughter, who now stood
directly beside the garden bench, effectively blocking her light.
The artist’s complaint, though, was silenced when she looked up
into Frances’s tearful face.

“Oh, Fanny. And what is wrong now? Is
Nicholas not back yet from his ride with Sir Thomas and the
trainer?” She pressed a comforting hand to her daughter’s and
pulled her down beside her on the stone bench. She had heard
Nicholas and Frances exchange a few words this morning at
breakfast. She wasn’t about to side with anyone over a petty
dispute, but all the same she’d thought her son’s temper had been
shorter than usual. In fact, he’d been quite impatient even to hear
what Frances’s request was. “He was right about not wanting to take
you along. They are looking at horses—talking business—riding
through pastures and walking through stables. Why, they’re probably
knee-deep in manure as we speak. Now what enjoyment would a young
woman like you get out of something so appalling?”

“I am not angry with Nicholas.” Frances
dabbed at the wetness on her face. But fresh tears were soon
coursing down her pale cheeks again.

“Then why are you so upset, my dear?”
Alexandra put aside her artwork and took out a handkerchief. She
handed it to her daughter. “There is no reason to be bored. Lady
Purefoy tells me that they are planning a great party for the end
of this week. I am certain she could use some help if you were to
offer.”

The young woman shook her head. “I am not
bored, Mother. And I was…I was planning to be of some help…but when
I heard the story…” She hiccupped. “Oh, Mother…it is
so
sad…so sad…poor Jane.”

Before Alexandra could say a word, Frances
had laid her head on her mother’s chest and was sobbing
wretchedly.

“What happened to Jane? Is she unwell? Did
she have an accident?”

It took a few moments before Frances finally
began to explain.

“No, she is well now…I mean on the
surface…this happened some time ago…but still…”

A dull ache had begun to eat away at Lady
Spencer. In the short time they had been at Woodfield House, she
was already beginning to care for Jane, and all this puzzling talk
was too worrying.

“Frances Marie. You start explaining to me
what…”

“I found out why…why the family treats her
so…so poorly.” The young woman straightened on the bench and used
the handkerchief to blow her nose. “They…are ashamed of her…I
think.”

Instant objections arose in Alexandra, but
she bit them back as Fanny turned her watery gaze on her.

“It is true, Mother. These people never told
us about Jane…until we arrived. And…and…” She waved an impatient
hand toward the house. “They care nothing for her. Last night…no
one asked where she was. Did you notice? And this morning…did
anyone inquire after her even once?”

There was a great deal about Purefoy
household that Alexandra didn’t understand. “Each family has its
own little eccentricities. Just because we have not seen much of
Jane, that certainly does not mean…”

“But it does!” Frances clutched her mother’s
hands. “It does if they believe her reputation is ruined and they
consider her a disgrace.”

Alexandra kept silent. She knew her
daughter. She knew that as distraught as Frances was, everything
she must have heard would spill out.

“The problem is that I think Jane is a
tragic victim. Mother, I had to question
two
people before I
had all of it.” Frances’s blue eyes narrowed and her voice lowered
as she glanced back at the house. “And that’s another thing. I
think they planned this whole thing out. I mean, letting us know
about Jane’s past.”

“Really, Frances…”

“Honestly! Thinking me a simpleton or
something, they sent a maid in to tidy my bedchamber. And while she
was there, she just
happened
to tell me all the gossip about
the older daughter. I hardly think it a coincidence, Mother. I
believe, after they saw how Nicholas last night was not happy with
Jane’s absence, they wanted to make sure that we all think the
worst of her.” She looked into her mother’s eyes. “I might be only
sixteen, but I have been brought up to know what is what. As soon
as that girl started prattling on about how
horrible
it was
for the family when Miss Jane eloped nine years ago with a poor,
good-for-nothing papist, I knew something was wrong. Naturally, she
went on to tell me that—despite the disgrace—generous Sir Thomas
and Lady Purefoy were quick to take her back.”