The Valentine's Day Ball (11 page)

He promised, “Cross me ’eart an’ spit in yer eye.”

Chapter Four

J
ane’s life slipped into a tranquil routine. Mornings were for rides and household duties. Afternoons were for estate business or receiving and making calls.

In the weeks since her aunt and Cherry had departed for London, there were no more anonymous notes or gifts. Jane was glad of it, for it proved that Cherry had been behind it all along. With this little annoyance out of the way and her new spinster status firmly settled, Jane would be much more content.

Jane avoided confronting certain facts, however, when she told herself how happy she was. No matter what she did, the viscount was never far from her mind. The most frustrating occasion had been when she visited the ruins. The abbey had always been a source of solace and peace for her. But her mind had betrayed her. Her eyes saw only his face when she walked among the fallen stones. Even her remembrances of her father couldn’t erase Devlin’s image for long. It had been more than a month, and she could not bring herself to return.

Many of her neighbours had left for London for the Season, so there were few dinners or country balls to attend. This suited Jane at first—she was tired of the rush and inconvenience. Still, she was female, and she longed to show off her new colourful gowns now that her period of mourning was at an end.

She dined with the rector and his wife, and she attended a small card party at Lord Pierce’s house—his mother and sisters hadn’t gone to London yet. But she couldn’t bring herself to attend the assemblies in Bath alone. Tucker urged her to go, but the thought of arriving alone was daunting. She supposed Cherry’s presence hadn’t been all negative.

But the first of May was rapidly approaching, and the Ashmores were giving their yearly breakfast, a curiously named event that began at three in the afternoon and ended in the small hours of the next morning.

Jane planned to wear an apple-green gown with a lace overdress. It was cut more daringly than most of her gowns, but now that she was well and truly on the shelf, she could dress as she pleased. She had experienced some doubts about the neckline, which seemed to show an alarming amount of bare bosom. But Mrs. Warner had declared it was quite high compared to other ladies, although other ladies hadn’t Jane’s generous cleavage. Still, Jane had allowed herself to be persuaded.

The chip straw bonnet with matching green ribbons gave her a girlish look that belied her advancing age. She planned to change the bonnet for a dainty pearl and emerald headpiece before the dancing began in the evening. And Jane planned to dance—even if she was not a good dancer, she would enjoy herself.

Finally, the first of May arrived, a beautiful day for the traditional May Day festivities. It was also Jane’s birthday; she was five-and-twenty. A quarter of a century. Jane grinned and stuck out her tongue at the impish image in the mirror.

“Happy Birthday, Miss Jane,” said Tucker, entering through the dressing-room door.

“Thank you, Tucker. What a beautiful day it is!”

“Always is for your birthday, miss. There are flowers and baubles all over downstairs, Miss Jane.”

“Then let’s make me presentable and get on with it. No, just leave my hair down this morning. I want to act like a girl today.”

“Too bad Miss Cherry and Mrs. Pettigrew couldn’t be home for your birthday.”

“True, but l shan’t pine, not with the Ashmores’
al fresco
breakfast and all my friends around me. And of course, you, Pipkin, and Nana are family, too.”

Tucker took a deep breath and said softly, “Thank you, Miss Jane. You’re that kind, you are.”

Jane squeezed the maid’s hand, then Tucker set to work to ready her to face the day. Jane stopped by each bouquet of flowers, carefully reading the cards. How wonderful it was to have so many friends—one didn’t have to be married to be happy. Beside her plate at the breakfast table was a small mountain of packages—a shawl from Lady Tarpley, handkerchiefs from the Ashmores, a porcelain bird from her aunt, and…Jane blushed and quickly stuffed the pair of pink silk pantalettes back into the box. Cherry! Would she never cease to be a source of embarrassment?

Jane was down to the last box. There was no card on the outside, and Jane opened it, her curiosity piqued.

Inside lay a slim leather-bound volume. She turned to the title page.

“
She Stoops to Conquer
” she breathed, and read the scrawled inscription:

I have taken the liberty of underlining two passages on page 22--would that I possessed as much audacity as brave Marlow.

Ever Yours

Hastily, Jane turned to the page.

By coming close to some women they look younger still; but when we come very close indeed… (Attempting to kiss her) I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at this distance how is it possible you and l can be ever acquainted?

Underlined twice were the stage directions, “Attempting to kiss her.”

“Pipkin,” said Jane sharply and the butler appeared at her elbow. “From whence did this package come?”

“A clerk from Duffield’s on Milsom Street delivered it this morning personally, Miss Jane.”

Jane pushed away from the table, and a footman leapt forward to remove her chair. With book in hand, she entered the morning room and sat down by the window.

Obviously her surmise had been incorrect. Cherry was not behind the mysterious notes.

Then who was?

She knew of no one who would wish to pull such a prank on her, except Cherry. But Cherry would never go to such lengths to continue it when she was in the middle of her first Season in London. It had to be someone else, and since no one else had reason to try to trick her, the notes must be sincere. But who could have formed such a strong and peculiar attachment to her? And why not come forward?

There was no one…Well, there was Mr. Primrose, the shy curate. Still, she hadn’t seen him since dining at the rector’s.

Unable to answer her own questions, Jane rose and wandered out of the room, ascending the stairs slowly. She stopped in the corridor leading to her room. Turning, she opened a door and revealed the narrow staircase leading to the nurseries.

Her old nurse greeted her warmly. “So, you’ve turned a year older, m’dear.” The shrivelled old lady cocked her head to one side, studying Jane carefully. Jane knew what was coming—Nana had said the same thing every birthday since Jane could walk. “You don’t look any different from when I saw you yesterday.”

They both laughed at her familiar jest, and Jane sat down on the edge of the feather bed.

“What did ye come to see yer old Nana about, love?”

“I can never keep my thoughts from you, can I? Still, I’ve no desire to, for the truth is I need your help.”

Her old nurse gripped the arms of her rocker, her wrinkled face pursed attentively.

“Do you remember the valentine I received that wasn’t signed?” Nana nodded. “I received several afterwards. I showed you one or two, remember?”

“Yes, and ye was convinced they were from Cherry or that she was behind it.”

“I was, and when they stopped after Cherry left, I felt positive I had been correct.” Jane held out the leather book. “This arrived this morning—delivered personally from one of the local booksellers.” Jane read the note and the passages to her.

Nana shook her head thoughtfully. “Tha’s not from yer cousin, missy. Just like the others. ’Tis from some man who’s too shy or backwards to speak for hisself, so ’e writes down what ’e thinks. Why ’e can’t even think for hisself. ’E lets some book say what ’e means.”

“I just don’t know. If you’re right then which gentleman of my acquaintance is so awkward?”

“Why d’ye care, missy? That’s what I’m wonderin’.”

Jane was annoyed. “I want these silly notes to stop, and that’s all I want. I’m quite happy the way I am, and I certainly wouldn’t be interested in someone so strange.”

“Then it’s not romance yer searchin’ for?”

“Certainly not!”

“Hmm. I’ve an idea who it is! There’s only one man who could write such nonsense, and that’s that silly Mr. Primrose.”

“That’s who I thought of, too. But remember, Nana? Mr. Primrose sent another valentine on the night of the ball. Why would he have sent two?”

“Just t’ keep ye wonderin’.”

“He does often seek out my company, but it is always about some church project.”

“Just an excuse.”

“I suppose.” Jane stood up.

“What are ye goin’ to do about ’im, lass?”

“I must talk to him to be certain he is the author of these aggravating notes, and then I shall insist he stop.” Jane bent to kiss Nana’s wrinkled cheek, but her mind was already wrestling with the task ahead.

b

Jane stood on the edge of the Ashmores’ terrace overlooking sloping green lawns. The Ashmores were relatively new to Bath, having lived there only fifteen years. They had built the house in the style of an Italian villa with a large quantity of open spaces, columns, and smooth marble.

Mrs. Ashmore had declared she was tired of the huge open tent they had erected in the past for the breakfast, so her amenable husband had ordered large circular umbrellas in rainbow colours. Mrs. Ashmore had arranged these in groups of two or three with seating for a dozen or so under each.

The result was quite inviting. The colourful gowns of the ladies added to the beauty of the scene. In the background was the River Avon. Two or three punts had already been launched with gallant, if unskilled, gentlemen rowing their ladies.

“So good to see you, Jane dear, and many happy returns,” said Mrs. Ashmore as she toddled across the terrace, looking rather like a spinning top as she rolled along. But no one dared belittle Mrs. Ashmore’s appearance. The lady was one of the truly sincere people in the world. Jane could not recall ever hearing so much as a mild rebuke cross Mrs. Ashmore’s lips.

“I want to thank you for the lovely lace handkerchiefs. And I must compliment you, Mrs. Ashmore. You have outdone yourself this year. The gardens are beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so. Mind you, Mr. Ashmore said I had windmills in my head when I told him no big tent, but he is such a dear. Spoils me dreadfully! Now, come along, we’ll see who we can find.” She reached up and took Jane’s arm and led her down the broad steps, talking all the while.

“Lady Pierce is here with her girls. They leave for London in a day or two, but they are always so obliging to stay for my little breakfast.”

“They wouldn’t wish to miss the best entertainment of the year!”

“Best in the spring, perhaps.” Mrs. Ashmore laughed. “We all know Heartland’s Valentine Ball is the central entertainment of the year. Only think of all the little romances that begin that night! Why, even this year, Mr.—oh, but I am being premature.” She winked at Jane. “I shan’t say another word!”

Jane shot her a puzzled frown but didn’t have time to comment as Mary Aubrey greeted her.

Mrs. Ashmore excused herself, and Mary took over as Jane’s guide, strolling aimlessly among the other guests.

“We leave in two days’ time,” said Mary with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

“Don’t you want to go?” Mary was hardly a social butterfly, but she had never avoided doing the Season.

“Let us say that I am not anxious to exchange Bath’s quiet round of family and friends for the tedium of hourly social obligations. Surely you can understand that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Unfortunately, Mama can’t.” Mary looked around, spotting the shy Mr. Primrose, and they moved to join him beneath a large pink umbrella.

“Ladies, I am honoured,” he announced breathlessly. He returned to his own chair after seating them, his eyes straying to Mary occasionally, but he restricted his conversation to Jane.

Amos Primrose was aptly named. He had blond hair and a pale complexion, and the least attention made him blush a bright pink. But he was a man of strong convictions, and the few times he had delivered a sermon in the village church, his passionate words had stirred the congregation. Socially, however, his conversation was stumbling and awkward, as it was with Jane and Mary, but he seemed to find safety in conversing about church matters, and to this end, he addressed Jane.

“I shall send you a note about the Spring Bazaar. You organized it so well last year, I hope we may count on you again, Miss Lindsay.”

“Yes, I’d be happy to do so.”

“You know I would help, Jane, if I were going to be here,” said Mary wistfully. Jane was about to make a sympathetic rejoinder when Mary’s seventeen-year-old sister hurried up to them.

“Mary, Mama needs your help.”

“In a minute, Margery.”

“She said
now
.” Margery, who was trying very hard to sound sophisticated, only managed to appear a tale-bearer.

“Very well, if you’ll excuse me.”

Mary departed, leaving Jane alone at the table with Mr. Primrose. Despite her resolution to discuss with him his peculiar note-writing habits, Jane was distracted by his agitated manner. He began drumming his fingers on the wood.

To end this irritating noise, Jane asked, “What is it, Mr. Primrose?”

“I…uh, that is, I…” She smiled at him, and he plunged ahead. “It is unbearable that it should continue as it is, Miss Lindsay.”

When she didn’t reply he put his head in his hands then sat up and looked around self-consciously. “I fear I owe you an apology.”

“So it
is
you,” said Jane, glad to have her suspicions confirmed.

He frowned. “No, that is, I did tell Mary, Miss Aubrey, to fetch you here that there could be no occasion for gossip if the three of us were together.”

“Mr. Primrose, I should tell you that I guessed your secret some time ago. I wasn’t certain, mind you, but today has proven my suspicions correct.”

“You did? But how?”

“There are not many other people who would have resorted to…” Jane paused. She had been about to say
subterfuge
but that was, perhaps, too harsh. “Shall we just say writing instead of calling?”

“But I wasn’t allowed to call—except on church business.”

Now it was Jane’s turn to frown. “Who told you not to call? I’m certain I never said such a thing, Mr. Primrose. And I assure you, though I cannot return your regard, your suit would have been looked on with the greater respect had you but spoken.”

Mr. Primrose was obviously baffled.

Then his face cleared and he said, “So perhaps you would be willing to intercede with Lady Pierce for me?”

Jane’s mouth dropped open. The awful realization hit her like a blow, and she sat back too stunned to speak.

“I realize I am being presumptuous, asking too much, but…” His blush deepened as he looked up to discover another guest standing close by, evidently awaiting the end of his conversation with Jane. “But here is Lord Devlin. I’d no idea you were returned to Bath, sir. Welcome back.” Mr. Primrose stood up and bowed deeply, his usual pale colour returning.