The Spring Bride (17 page)

Yet he had no doubt every word was true, and not just because of the passionate conviction in her voice. The inconsistencies he'd noticed about her, they all made sense now.

She'd known poverty. Serious, frightening poverty.

No wonder she wanted a rich husband. And a home of her own. He couldn't blame her.

Once or twice he found himself smiling, thinking of the way she'd ripped into him. Little vixen. He'd deserved it too. It had been the kick in the pants he'd needed.

As twilight fell, and the coach stopped to light the lanterns, he reflected that she'd be preparing for her very first ball. He recalled the way her whole face lit up with excitement as she'd told him about the lessons she'd been having, the dress she was to wear, which she hadn't even been allowed to see properly yet . . .

Small, innocent pleasures. She took nothing for granted.

If he hadn't been such a fool, hadn't enjoyed playing the gypsy, hadn't listened to the lawyer's idiotic advice about lying low, he might have been there tonight to lead her into her first waltz.

There would be other balls, he told himself.

It didn't help.

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

—JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

J
ane held her breath. “Ta-da.” Daisy whipped off the cover she'd draped over the long cheval looking glass and Jane saw for the first time what her dress looked like on.

“Oh, Daisy . . . Oh, Daisy . . .” Jane twirled around slowly, gazing at her reflection in the looking glass. The fabric swirled gracefully around her body as she moved, flowing like water, like mist. The gauzy white silk had a subtle and delicate cross-weave that threw up the palest pink shadows in the folds of the skirt. A specially imported fabric, compliments of Max and Flynn. The bodice was decorated with hundreds of tiny pink crystals, which winked in the gaslight.

“It's the most beautiful dress I have ever, ever seen,” Jane breathed. “Oh, thank you, Daisy. It's . . . oh, I cannot think of the words to describe how I feel.”

“You look like a princess in a fairy tale,” Abby said, blinking back tears. “Oh, Jane, you're the very image of Mama. I wish she and Papa could see you now. Oh, dear, oh, dear, I think I'm going to cry.”

“Oi! Stop that now,” Daisy interrupted. “We don't want nobody drippin' tears all over my good silk, now do we? If I'd wanted watered silk, I'd'a used it.”

Laughing and crying at the same time, Abby stepped back. She turned to her husband and said helplessly, “I'm not sad, truly. It's just that she's the image of our mother. And it was always Jane's dream to make her come-out, as Mama did. But we never thought it would h-h-happen.”

“I know, love,” Max said gently, and passed his wife a pristine white handkerchief. Then he handed Jane an oblong box covered in white brocade. “A small token from your sister and me, in memory of your first ball.”

With shaking hands, Jane opened it. It contained a necklace of pearls and crystals, and a pair of pearl drop earrings. She gasped and looked at Abby.

Abby nodded. “It was as close as we could get to the necklace Mama described. But we thought you'd prefer pink.”

“Oh, I do. Thank you so much, I love it. I've never seen pink pearls before,” Jane murmured, taking the necklace out of the box and holding it up against herself. “Can you do it up for me, Abby?”

“South Sea Island pearls,” Max told her.

Abby fastened the necklace, then when Jane had donned the earrings, she hugged her. “Enjoy your first ball, little sister.”

“And you enjoy yours, big sister,” Jane responded happily. It wasn't right that all the attention was on her—it was the first ball for all three of them—Abby and Damaris too. She wished Daisy would come too, but she'd refused.

“Don't crush the dresses,” Daisy warned. Abby was dressed in vibrant green silk, the hem of which was embellished with delicate swags of gold net, held up by tiny gold embroidered tassels. Around her neck she wore a magnificent necklace of emeralds.

“Quite right,” Lady Beatrice said, appearing at the door. “The gel looks lovely—well, both of them do, but Jane especially. You've done a superb job, Daisy, m'dear. The choice of that fabric is a triumph.”

“Yes, Daisy,” Abby agreed. “And the one you made for Damaris is stunning. So original, and so very modish. You're going to have people lining up with orders after this.”

“Are you quite sure you won't come, Daisy?” Lady Beatrice asked her. “I did arrange it with the duchess—she said I was welcome to bring you—and you ought to be there to witness
the sensation your dresses will cause. It's your first ball too, you know—y
our
dresses.”

Daisy shook her head. “No time. I got work to do. Them—
those
dresses is launchin' me business tonight. I don't need to be there.”

“No, not if you're as stubborn as a mule,” Lady Beatrice muttered.

Everyone was quiet in the carriage on the way to the ball, Abby no doubt thinking of Mama and Papa—as was Jane, in a way.

This was always Jane's dream
, Abby had said.

Jane thought of Mama's story, and a small part of her wished that the man waiting for her on the other side of the ballroom would be tall and dark with gleaming silvery-green eyes.

No, that was nothing but a foolish fantasy, she told herself firmly. An impossible dream. She had a very nice, very suitable man waiting for her and he would give her everything she'd ever wanted.

She looked across at Abby and Max, sitting opposite, and caught them in a burning exchange of glances. Abby, whose arm was linked through Max's, sighed happily and snuggled closer to her husband's big body, not caring in the least whether she crushed her gown. Max covered her hand with his, and looked down at his wife with an expression so intimate, so intensely private and loving, that Jane had to look away.

She swallowed. Everything she'd ever wanted.

Almost.

*   *   *

T
he Duchess of Rothermere's majordomo stood at the head of the stairs leading down into the ballroom and announced each person as they arrived. Lady Beatrice came first, wrinkling her nose at being called the Dowager Lady Davenham, then Max and Abby—Lord and Lady Davenham, and finally Jane, a mere Miss Chance.

Lord Cambury was waiting and came forward as they were greeting the duke and duchess. In formal ball dress, he looked quite distinguished, though it had to be said that black satin knee breeches and white silk stockings were not the best design for a man of his figure.

Jane smiled warmly at him. He scanned her appearance critically, then gave her a little nod of approval. He stepped forward and presented his arm to Jane, who accepted it at Lady Beatrice's gracious permission.

The others went inside, but Lord Cambury stood chatting a moment longer, accepting the duke and duchess's felicitations on their betrothal and talking of this and that, apparently oblivious of the delay he was causing to the line of others waiting to enter.

It was deliberate, Jane realized; he wanted to make an entrance. Their first appearance as a couple since their betrothal had been in the papers. Finally he left the duke and duchess and led Jane to the other side of the ballroom, where Lady Beatrice, Abby and Max had already joined Damaris and Freddy.

As they crossed the dance floor, a hush fell. Jane, who already had butterflies in her stomach, felt them intensify. Had she made some mistake? Was her gown caught up at the back? What were they all looking at? Why was nobody talking anymore? She kept walking, head high. Lady Beatrice had trained her for this. The old lady's voice rang in her head:
If anything goes wrong, ignore it. Pretend it's perfect. Attitude is everything.

She was halfway across what now seemed an immense expanse of dance floor when suddenly there was a loud gasp on her left. Jane paused, glanced over.

A plump, elderly lady stood stock-still, staring at Jane as if in deep shock. She held out her hand to Jane, took two tottering steps toward her and fainted.

Jane, horrified, moved to help the lady, but Lord Cambury tugged her back. “Come along. Not our business. Plenty of others here to help.” And it was true; the lady was immediately surrounded by people producing smelling salts and calling for burned feathers.

Jane hesitated. “I think she wanted to speak to me.”

“Possibly, but no state to speak to anyone now,” her betrothed pointed out. “Now come along. All in hand, see?”

Jane glanced at Lady Beatrice, who beckoned her forward.

“What do you think happened?” Jane asked when she reached the others.

Lady Beatrice shrugged. “Probably had herself laced in too tight. It happens, even in these benighted times when women barely know what a corset is.”

“She seemed to want to tell me something.”

“Probably just gasping for air,” Lady Beatrice said. “Don't worry yourself, my dear, the duchess herself is attending to her.” The opening bars of a piece sounded from the orchestra. “Ah, excellent, the music is starting and here is Lord Cambury all eager to lead you out for the first dance of the evening. Off you go and enjoy yourself, there's a good gel.”

Jane did as she said, but though she danced every dance, and lacked no choice of partners, she became increasingly aware that something was not right. Abby and Lady Beatrice seemed to be deep in conversation with Max, and not dancing at all. Damaris and Freddy too were close by, also not dancing.

But each time she returned to them, between dances, they were full of smiles and denied anything was the matter and sent her off to dance and enjoy herself. But she was sure something was wrong. They were treating her like a child.

It became clear to Jane that a little subterfuge was required. When the next dance was about to begin, she excused herself apologetically to her partner and disappeared into the ladies' withdrawing room. A few moments later she threaded her way back to where her family was gathered.

Hidden behind a large potted palm, her arrival went unnoticed. Abby was saying distressfully, “No, I won't have Jane upset at her first ever ball.”

Max's deep voice rumbled, “It's your first ball too, my love.”

“Yes, but I never dreamed of balls and pretty dresses the way Jane did. I won't let that woman ruin it for her.”

Jane stepped forward. “What woman, Abby? The one who fainted? But I've never seen her before. Who is she?”

There was an awkward silence, then Abby said, “It's nothing, love—go and dance.”

Jane didn't move. “I'm eighteen, Abby. I'm not a child anymore, to be protected from the truth.”

“She's right,” Max said.

“Can't we tell her about it later?” Abby pleaded.

“If you don't tell me, someone else will,” Jane said. She turned to Damaris and Freddy. “Do you know?” Damaris gave Jane an apologetic look. Freddy just shrugged.

“Then, Abby . . .” Jane turned to her sister and waited.

Abby, clearly upset, shook her head. Max put his arm around her. To Jane, he said, “The woman who fainted is Lady Dalrymple.”

“
Lady
Dalrymple?
” Jane stared at Abby, wide-eyed.

Abby nodded. “Our grandmother.” Her lips tightened. “The one who left us to starve in the gutter.”

This was a letter to be run through eagerly, to be read deliberately, to supply matter for much reflection, and to leave everything in greater suspense than ever.

—JANE AUSTEN,
MANSFIELD PARK

A
long with the flowers, gifts and flattering notes from gentlemen admirers that were delivered to Jane at Lady Beatrice's house first thing the next morning, and invitations to even more parties and balls, there was one note that threw Jane's emotions into even further turmoil.

She knew whom the note was from, even before she opened it, for it was sealed with a wafer that said simply
Dalrymple
. She broke it open and read the short message in a kind of daze. In sloping copperplate handwriting, it said:

My dear Miss Chantry,

I hope you do not mind me addressing you thus, and forgive me if I am mistaken—but I believe you to be my granddaughter, the child of my beautiful, beloved daughter, Sarah, who was tragically lost to me five-and-twenty years ago. You are so very like her, my dear girl, that last night, when I saw you cross the floor at the Duchess of Rothermere's ball, time might have stood still.

I do not pretend to understand how you have come to be making your come-out under the auspices of the
dowager, Lady Davenham, I suppose because your older sister is married to her nephew. When I saw her with you, I knew at once she must be the older sister I knew you had—she is unmistakably a Chantry, whereas you, my dear, take after your mother's side of the family.

I would very much like to meet you, my dearest granddaughter. I have written to your sister too. I do not know by what miracle I have found you girls at last, but it seems that God has finally consented to answer my prayers.

Your loving grandmother,

Louisa Dalrymple.

Ten minutes later Abby arrived, waving a similar note. “Did she write to you? I assumed as much. How dare she?” Abby was shaking. “How
dare
she?”

Jane held her note out to Abby, who read it furiously. Jane read Abby's. It was almost the same.

Abby flung down the note, sat down, then jumped up and paced around the room. “
Her ‘beloved daughter'
?
‘Tragically lost' to her
?” Angry tears ran down her cheeks. She dashed them away. “How
dare
she say such a thing when she left Mama to die in slow agony in that filthy, squalid, horrid little place!”

She picked up the note, scanned it again, then flung it back down. It fluttered to the floor. “Do you see? She
knew
about us—‘
I knew at once she must be the older sister I knew you had'
!
And now she wants to see us. Now! The hypocrisy of it sickens me! We could have died for all she did for us.”

Jane bent to pick the note up.

Abby paced back and forth. “I don't know how many letters we sent, telling her of our desperate situation, and asking for her help. I know Papa wrote to her—several times—when Mama first became ill—and had she received the proper treatment in time, she might still be alive today.” She dashed hot tears aside.

“And after he was killed, Mama wrote to her parents, and to Papa's parents as well, asking for help, since she was so ill and could not provide for you and me.” She wiped her cheeks with shaking hands. “She asked them to take the children—us!—if they still did not wish to have anything to do with her,
because they—we!—at least were innocent. Not that I would have left her, but you were so little and sweet and helpless.” Hot tears poured down Abby's cheeks.

Jane was shocked. She hadn't known. Some of it, yes, but not that Mama had offered to give them up. To protect them. Leaving herself to die alone. Tears prickled at the back of her eyes. Poor, desperate Mama.

“And you know I wrote to them after Mama died.” Abby added bitterly, “I suppose we must be grateful that the Chantrys are dead, that they at least will not come out of nowhere to fawn so sickeningly on us.”

“Are they dead?” Jane looked up. “I didn't know.”

Abby made a dismissive gesture. “It was ten years ago. Influenza, I think. Max told me some time ago.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Abby looked at her in surprise. “Sorry, I didn't think. What would have been the point?”

“I would have liked to know,” Jane said. “They were my grandparents too.”

Abby hugged her. “I'm sorry, love. I didn't think of it. Max told me on our honeymoon, and then it was Christmas and . . .”

“Damaris's grandparents came to Christmas,” Jane said quietly. She'd only just discovered them too. And they her.

Abby looked at her, dismayed. “It never occurred to me to tell you. I didn't think you'd care. We haven't exactly been blessed with our grandparents, have we?”

Jane looked at the note still in her hand and bit her lip. “What are we going to do about this?”

“Burn it,” Abby said. “If that woman thinks she can crawl into our lives now—she's widowed, you know, and no doubt wants granddaughters to tend her in her old age.”

“She's widowed?”

Abby nodded. “Max found out all about her last night, after we left the ball. She must have been finding out about us at the same time, for how else did she discover our address? Max told me her husband—”

“Our grandfather.”

“Yes, apparently he died just over a year ago. And Lady Dalrymple has remained at her country estate—the dower
house—for the last year, but she's out of mourning now and has returned to society.”

Jane considered that. “So we're bound to see her at other events.”

Abby gave an indifferent shrug. “We might. So what? I don't intend to recognize her.”

Jane chewed her lip.

Abby frowned. “Jane? You're not thinking of seeing her!”

Jane sighed. “I don't know. I'm confused.”

“What's confusing?” Abby exclaimed incredulously. “She left Mama to die, and us to starve. And now, when it is convenient for
her
, she wants to claim us!” She stared at Jane, shocked. “You can't want to see her, surely?”

Jane's emotions were in turmoil. She didn't know what she felt or thought. It was all too much to take in. She loved Abby dearly and owed her everything for her care when Jane was a child, but Jane was a child no longer, and she would decide for herself what to do.

She rose and hugged Abby. “Hush, love, I don't know what I'll do yet—I need to think.”

“You can do what you like,” Abby said, “but I want nothing to do with her.”

*   *   *

Z
ach drew his horse to a halt and gazed down at his childhood home. It looked achingly familiar, and yet somehow not what he'd expected. He'd remembered the building as big and cold and stark, but now, looking down at it, and having experienced European architecture at its finest, he was surprised to find it elegant, even graceful in its simplicity. Almost modern, and yet it had been built in the seventeenth century.

The absence of the firm hand of his father was in evidence: The drive needed raking, the lawn was in need of a trim, and the flower beds looked forlorn and rather weedy, but it was spring, after all, and the mullioned windows gleamed in the pale spring sunshine. He could see no people, though, which surprised him.

Jane Chance claimed a house was not the same as a home. He remembered Wainfleet as a house, despite the people—or maybe because of them. His father had insisted on rigid
formality, so few of the servants had any time for a small boy. Zach had sought his entertainments elsewhere.

He looked at the lake where he was supposed to have drowned Cecily and remembered house parties in the summer with boating on the lake, ladies in wide-brimmed hats and light summer gowns being rowed by gentlemen. And picnics set up by the lakeside. He was never allowed to participate—such events were for adults, not small boys. He'd watched from his room.

Today the surface of the lake gleamed like polished pewter. It could do with a good clear-out too; those reeds were starting to take over.

His horse shifted restlessly, tossing its head, and Zach moved on, moving away from the house. He had no plans to get any closer. He doubted many people would remember him, let alone recognize the man he'd become, but if anyone did, there was bound to be a fuss and he didn't want to be bothered with all that just yet.

Besides, it was the estate he was interested in, not . . .
feelings
. He had no interest in wandering down the unpleasant byways of his childhood memories.

He rode around the estate, coming across familiar landmarks with unexpected pleasure, noticing changes. But the more he saw, the more disturbed he became. He'd come here just to remind himself what he'd left, to see what was to be done—but mostly just to get away to think.

He'd never seriously thought about marriage before, had, in fact, assumed it wasn't for him. But Miss Jane Chance had him thinking all sorts of things he'd never before considered.

The more he saw of Wainfleet, the more he noticed things that needed doing: fields lying fallow that should have been plowed and ready for spring planting—if not already planted—swampy areas that should have been drained, coppices and orchards that needed attention now, before the spring growth, fences that were sagging and ought to be repaired; all small things on their own, but adding up to a pattern of neglect that concerned him.

His father had, he thought, been a good steward of the land—old-fashioned, and hardheaded in his opinions, but responsible. He'd drummed into Zach the duty the younger generation owed to those who came before.

His father had been dead a year. And since then, it looked as though nothing had been done.

Zach's fault. He'd assumed the estate manager, whoever it was, would simply continue on as before.

There was work for him here. Not just repairs and the restoration of order, but new possibilities, new methods of farming that could bring prosperity to tenants and landlord alike. A chance to build something fresh and new and good out of something old.

Grow up
,
she'd told him.

His mind spun with possibilities.

He rode on, circling around the estate, and came to the edge of the forest at the rear of the house. He'd spent many hours of the day in this forest. A faint, overgrown path wove through the trees. Just past there was a stream where he'd fished sometimes, and a clearing where the gypsies used to camp each year. He'd haunted their camp as a boy, absorbing their lore without realizing it. It had helped shape his life, and on occasions to save it.

He dismounted, tied his horse to a tree and followed the little path.

And heard a crash and a sharp, sudden cry. He raced toward the sound and found, beneath a large spreading oak, a small boy of about seven or eight, lying on the ground, still and unmoving in a tangle of small branches.

He bent over the boy. To his relief, the child's eyes were wide and aware. One arm was bent at a slight angle. Broken, Zach thought. The boy stared up at Zach with a panicked look on his face, his mouth moving like a beached fish, unable to breathe.

“It's all right,” Zach told him in what he hoped was a calming voice. He hadn't had a lot to do with children. “You've had the wind knocked out of you. It'll come back in a min—ah, there you are,” he finished as the boy sucked in a desperate lungful of air.

The boy said nothing, gasping in air until the panicked look faded. He tried to sit up, but fell back with a cry of pain. His face turned a greenish white; his skin looked clammy.

He cradled the injured arm up against his chest and looked at Zach. His lips were clamped together in a desperate attempt not to cry. He looked sick with pain and utterly miserable.

“I think you've broken your arm,” Zach told him. “Hurts like the very devil, doesn't it? Now, just lie there a moment and we'll see if you've done any other damage.” The boy lay back, gritting his teeth, his face pinched with pain, dead white and clammy.

“I'm Zach,” he told the boy as he tested the child's other limbs. “Fell out of the tree, did you? I've done that before.”

The child said nothing; clinging to his dignity—and the contents of his stomach—Zach thought. He flinched and gasped when Zach felt his ankle, but he never uttered a sound. Brave little chap. Stoic. A farm boy by his clothing.

“Can you wiggle your toes on this foot?” He touched the lad's knee.

The boy tried it, winced and nodded.

“Good, then it's not broken, though I'm sure it hurts like fury as well. So a broken arm and a sprained ankle, eh? And a good few bruises and scratches. But don't worry, we'll get you fixed up,” Zach said in as soothing a voice as he could manage. The boy looked sick as a dog already. No use adding worry to the mix. “So what's your name, lad?”

“Robin,” the boy whispered. “Robin Wilks.”