Summer. Warm, beautiful summer. Jane had forgotten the pleasure of the sun's heat soaking through to her bones. She might protect her complexion with a broad-brimmed hat and a sunshade, but while at Wargrave, she spent much of the time outside, strolling through the gardens, playing with the children, or riding in Emily's pretty little pony-cart. Jane's proposal of a horseback party was met with horror by everyone else: they were too frightened for her, in her current condition. She resigned herself to riding next year. She could bear up well enough, considering all the other things there were to do.
Lucy had been delivered of her little girl on the sixth of June, and had had a difficult time. She and little Eleanor seemed out of danger, but Mrs. Protheroe needed rest, the man-midwife in attendance declared. Jane offered to take Ned to Wargrave, and the suggestion was looked upon favorably.
They traveled slowly, so many women and children--and two of the women with child. Lord Wargrave, knowing that Jane would not want to leave her sister at such a time, had invited Lady Fanshawe and her step-daughter as well, happy to have a full house. He and Emily had gone to Wargrave a week after their marriage, and were delighted to open the Hall to their family.
It was not as crowded as the last family gathering, for of course Penelope was not there, but at her home at Templar's Grange, some five miles away. Caroline was spending the summer there with her, and was at work on a new novel, but the two sisters visited at Wargrave Hall often. Strakes was at Old Wargrave Hill nearly every day. He and Bordon and John had found some remarkable relics, and every Sunday saw the entire party gathered for dinner, followed by a presentation of the week's discoveries. As each layer was delicately examined, Wargrave Hill was yielding up its secrets.
"If we go too fast, we'll miss some real treasures," Bordon advised.
Strakes had reluctantly agreed. He longed to reach the Roman remains, but they had found much of interest in the medieval miscellany: coins, of course; a brooch of reddish gold, a cracked stone carved with the Tavington arms, as they were described in the fourteenth century. In a corner, sheltered by ruined masonry, they had found an old book, nearly illegible, but with its colored illuminations still bright. They agreed it was a missal, but were divided about its exact date.
Jane thought Strakes seemed happy enough, in his grim, undemonstrative way. He was certainly properly attentive to Penelope, and unfailingly civil to Caroline—as indeed he was to them all. Perhaps "happy" was not exactly the right word, Jane decided. "Content" was more accurate. Strakes seemed to have found deep peace with his new, modest fortune, and the acquisition of a pleasant home and a devoted wife.
Whether Penelope was so completely content was different question. Jane could not bring herself to ask about the couple's intimate relations. Watching them carefully, she decided that was not the rub. Penelope seemed physically fond of her husband: she touched him gently, seemed to be comfortable in his presence, pressed close to him when he offered his arm. She was restless, though, when anything was said of her previous charities in London, wondering if people were suffering because she was not there, wondering if things were not getting done because she was not there to do them. Jane guessed that the life of a country lady was proving an awkward fit, and suggested Penelope interest herself in the parish and its school. Mrs. Hindley was a nice enough woman, and Christabel was a sweet girl. The two of them would be good, daily company for her sister-in-law. Lord Wargrave might be Larrowhead's squire, but he was not much there, and Mr. and Mrs. Strakes would serve well enough as representatives of the gentry.
Jane liked Templar's Grange. It was a pretty house, rather than a grand or imposing one. The yellow color gave it a cheerful aspect, as they approached it through an inviting avenue of elm trees. More importantly, Jane saw that Penelope was pleased with it—even to the little pianoforte in the old-fashioned square drawing room. They were invited to dinner, and Jane admired the low, beamed ceiling and alcoved windows. The gardens were very neglected and overgrown, and the newly hired gardeners had much to do.
"We should have Lady Sarah come down to supervise," Jane laughed. "She would be mad with joy to have new gardens to oversee!"
Strakes had smiled slightly, but assured Jane that he had the project well in hand. "I have considered the matter for years, and have given the men precise diagrams as to plantings and locations. In a year—or perhaps three—the gardens will be as they ought."
"Of course."
It was at after that dinner that Penelope had hesitantly, fearfully confided to Jane that she thought she might be expecting a child. Jane took her aside, as the others enjoyed Caroline's performance on the pianoforte, and asked her brief, pointed questions, and then assured her that she was correct. Penelope was more alarmed than pleased.
"Jane—I am nearly forty years old! It is difficult enough for you young women! I confess that I am a little frightened. I suspect that my dear Oliver will be pleased, of course. He has said little about it, but I believe he has always wished for a child of his own—even if only so he could teach a child as he thinks one ought to be taught! But how will I manage?"
A quiet discourse on pregnancy and its demands followed. Jane spoke of the need for good food and exercise, for calm and comfort and cheerfulness.
"It is useless to be frightened. You are a healthy woman and will be well cared for. It is in the hands of God. Think of a little one of your own! Would you like a boy or girl?" Jane asked.
"Oh! I really cannot say! Little girls are so enchanting—dear little Fanny, and now Lucy's little Nell! I suspect that my dear Oliver would prefer a son, though, and perhaps that would be best—yes—I think a son would be most to him. It is a noble thing to educate a son and give him his chance in life. I look at your fine little boys and see such shining futures for them. Well, as you say, it is in God's hands. I shall look to my baby linen and accept what is to come. Is it terribly painful?"
"Well—no one can say that it is a pleasure, but it is over and then one has a child to show for it, dear Penelope! It is not like the headache, or the toothache, or catching a fingernail on the keyboard! One suffers with a purpose, and then one forgets the discomfort almost immediately. What I was not prepared for was how tired I was afterwards. It is important that you find a trusty nursemaid. And, of course, you must set up your nursery. A child will give yet another worthy villager employment, remember!" Jane laughed at the idea, knowing that it would please Penelope to know that she could offer wages to needy people. She did not want to talk much more about childbirth and its terrors. Letty was close by, and within two months of her time. She would not have gone out at all, except to a family gathering, and was looking as if she regretted the exertion a little.
Harmonia was disappointed that the Hindleys had not been invited, but consoled herself with the knowledge that Lady Fanshawe would allow her the use of the carriage to call on the Larrowhead vicarage whenever Harmonia liked. She was enjoying her time in the country. She was learning to ride, for Lady Tavington was not able to make use of the ponies. Harmonia, instead, was taken out by Lord and Lady Wargrave themselves, and put on adorable little Midnight. The exercise was delightful to her, and she longed to venture farther every day. Five miles was no great distance: perhaps when she was a more practiced horsewoman, she could ride all the way to see Christabel by herself!
-----
Jane had her correspondence, of course. Miss Gilpin wrote often, and this summer was full of news about her nieces' doings. Deborah Porter was spending the summer at the vicarage in Biggleswade, and Miss Gilpin had written of the girl's remarkable improvement. Jane was unsurprised: Deborah's letters were becoming a real pleasure to read. Briefly, Jane considered inviting the family to London in the coming winter. The Gilpin girls would enjoy a taste of town diversions. The house in Mortimer Square was certainly big enough to receive them all comfortably.
Another of the pleasures of Wargrave was that of spending time with Moll. Mrs. Young seemed to have been the model from which the term "great with child," was coined. Her belly was much larger than Letty's, though they were both due to bear their children in August. There was some speculation from the local midwife, Mrs. White, that Moll was indeed carrying twins. Moll's belly was listened to and rubbed, and the old woman narrowed her eyes and nodded sagely. Moll was perfectly calm about it, and told Jane that she would just as soon have a pair of children as not.
"Give me a head start making a family!" she declared. She was very happy these days. She had received the first payment of her pension, and no newly-made lord could have been happier with his lot in life. "Look at me! A fine, cozy house of my own, handsome clothing, hand-painted crockery, a good-looking man. And now some money of my own—enough to live on comfortable for the rest of my life! I tell you, ma'am, there's many a lady in this kingdom not as well off as me!"
Jane freely admitted that was true. Moll's situation was the envy of the village. With her pregnancy, she had withdrawn from active work at the Hall. Between them, Jane and Moll had agreed it was for the best. Lady Wargrave was the mistress here now, and she had installed her own Sally as head of the nursery. Moll did not wish to cause trouble. Their own Rose was there, and would look after the boys with the help of her sister Damaris, newly employed in the Wargrave nursery. Moll was content to accept visits from her favorite little ones in the comfort of her own kitchen. Jane, sensing Moll's special fondness for William Francis, often gave him to her to cuddle. Tom, more active and inquisitive, would toddle about the cottage, watched by Jane.
Ash would come too, and give Moll a kiss, and then run out again to play with his friends. Lord Wargrave had furnished the West Pudding House as a play-place for Fanny and the rest of the mob of children. With a little table and chairs, a box of toys, a cupboard with a dainty tea set, it made a palace and a paradise for the children. It was their headquarters every fine day, and even when it rained, they begged to have their dinner there. The servants found it no more trouble to take trays out to the Pudding House than to take them all the way up to the second floor, and so the children were indulged with good-humoured affection. At Lord and Lady Wargrave's pressing request, Harriet visited nearly every day, bringing Susan and Robin. A visitor would have been hard put to discover whose children were whose.
Jane studied her own boys with care. Ash was blooming, recovered from his grief at the loss of—well—what to call him? That was a problem in itself. Ash had always called William, "Kernah," but William was no longer a colonel. He had become a general too recently for the title to mean anything to Ash. Jane had explained about the knighthood, and suggested that Ash call his brother "Sir William," now. Ash scowled, as annoyed by the change of name as he was by the man's absence, but finally agreed that "Sir William" would do. In the first weeks, he had asked Jane repeatedly when said "Sir William" was coming home, but now he had stopped talking about him. He and Ned and Robin were thick as thieves, romping on their stick horses and running races. Robin would soon be breeched, but for now, the three of them were still in children's petticoats. Rose would be happy when Ash was trained thoroughly enough to be dressed as a little boy. John had proclaimed that when the boys were breeched, he would consider them old enough to begin learning to ride a-horseback.
Jane sighed to herself. A little boy. When William returned, Ash would certainly greet him in the jacket and breeches of a little boy. Another rite of passage that her husband would miss.
Tom was getting about well, now, and even saying a few words. He was a remarkably strong, fearless child, much bigger than her own William Francis. It was not surprising, since Tom was older by three months, and older yet, if one considered that William Francis had come a month early.
Her own son, however was holding his own. He was weaned now, drinking industriously from a cup, and using his spoon. He could toddle about—perhaps not as quickly as Tom, but he was certainly walking sturdily.
And he was talking. He had first said "Mamma" clearly in April, and Jane's heart had leaped at the precious sound. She had always talked to him quite a bit—even sung softly to him. Now he was picking up words every day—very, very quickly. Jane had suspected he was a clever child. She was certain now. His speech was easily equal to Tom's—better in fact, for he was beginning to use sentences, and it seemed Tom was learning from him, as well as from all the other children.
For Tom had called her "Mamma" too, following the smaller child's lead. Jane heard Rose try to correct him, and intervened. "Let him call me 'Mamma' if he likes," she ordered. "He is too little to understand all these complicated relations." She hoped she was doing the right thing. Ash always called her "Sister Jane," but that seemed too much to expect of a toddler. Considering her real relationship with Tom, she could not quite see allowing him to call her "Jane," as Ash had when he was tiny. If Ash asked her about it, she would tell him that Ash had always known Jane as his sister, but that Tom was too little to know the difference. When William came back someday, they would have to decide if the family should be informed of Tom's real parentage. As the months passed, and Tom continued to resemble his father, it seemed to her that it would be best to tell the truth and bear the scandal at once, rather than to have people whisper and speculate behind their backs. It would be best for Tom, certainly.
-----
It was no great surprise when Moll delivered early, on the eleventh of July. Even Jane, accustomed to South Carolina, acknowledged it was a miserably hot day. The heat did not improve the situation for Moll. She suffered a protracted, painful labor, and was exhausted and sweating by the time a tiny girl made her appearance. Mrs. White passed the baby to Jane, who glanced briefly at the red, wrinkled mite and promptly handed it off to the midwife's assistant to bathe and swaddle.
"You have a beautiful little daughter, Moll. She is healthy and perfect," she whispered in her friend's ear. Moll shut her eyes, breathing heavily.
"Not done yet, am I?" she grunted between clenched teeth.
"I'm afraid not, dear Moll. There is certainly another child about to come out."
Jane thought a second child should come sliding out directly, following the path the first had made. It proved rather more complicated than that. This child was in the wrong position, and the midwife had to move it. Jane held Moll's hand while the laboring woman screamed aloud. After a half-hour of blood and anguish, the second child emerged, feet first.
There was a moment of alarm, when the baby did not appear to be breathing. The midwife rubbed the tiny back, and there was a cough and a thin wail. Jane took a deep breath and told Moll that her son was alive.
-----
"Of course I will stand as a godmother!" Letty assured Jane. Bordon had previously explained to Moll that in England, a child would need three godparents. If a girl, two godmothers and a godfather, and the reverse if a boy. Moll had immediately begged Jane to be the first godmother, and asked if Lady Fanshawe would do the honour of serving as the other. Moll very much wanted her own Colonel to be godfather, and it was agreed that he would be recorded as such, though Lord Wargrave would stand as his proxy at the christening, and would be the little boy's second godfather himself.
Letty was very sorry not to have been present at the birth. "When I think of all that Moll has done for us--"
"It was for the best, dearest," Jane assured her. "It would only have distressed you. She had a very hard time."
"Twins! I thought bearing one child was bad enough. How she must have suffered."
"She now claims it was a mere nothing, but you know her. Mrs. White says she should recover, but it is very likely she will have no more children. The babies came early, being twins, and I think she was a little frightened for them." More cheerfully, she added, "Still, William Francis was an early baby too, and now no one can tell."
"Are they both red-haired?"
"Hardly any hair on their heads at all—though I think I saw a wisp of ginger on the girl's head. They are very fine, healthy children. I am informed they are to be christened as Jonathan and Jane, though Moll is already calling the little girl Jenny."
"Jane!" Letty smiled. "That is lovely!"
"The boy is named for Young's father, but as his mother was named Hepzibah, and Moll's mother was named Abishag, the two of them agreed on something else. I am touched, nonetheless."
"Jenny is a sweet name. I think that Sir William was right, suggesting it for you."
"Certainly not! Moll can have it and welcome!"
They were taking tea together in Letty's comfortable bedchamber. Jane was very glad that she had made this room pleasant in her days as Wargrave's chatelaine. Letty found it difficult to manage the stairs, and came down only for dinner and the family time in the drawing room afterwards. She was still glad she had come, though: glad to have the peace of the country; and very glad that Harmonia was happily occupied. She missed her friends in town—especially Bellini—but that gentleman wrote every few days, keeping her amused and informed.
Letty frowned. "I do want to attend the christening. Will it be very improper? I want to see Moll and the babies. I will walk very carefully."
"If you really want to go, we will go in the carriage, of course. In fact, I would prefer to drive Moll and the babies to the church, for that matter. She is a strong woman, but I see no reason to risk her."
The post arrived, and their share was brought up to them.
"Oh! Miss Burney's new novel!" Letty exclaimed, "Cecilia! I cannot wait to read it. And here is another letter from Mr. Bellini. I shall read that first. He was going to tell me about some songs by Mozart that had come to him."
She took a sip of tea, and opened the letter, lounging comfortably on the daybed. A little table beside her was stacked with books, mostly about Italy. Letty was talking about taking a journey next year. She had written down her plans and shown them to Jane. Once she was out of mourning, there would be the Season. Harmonia could come out, but since Harmonia could not possibly marry for a few years, there was no reason the girl could not join her in seeing something of the world.
"Young men go on Grand Tours all the time. Why shouldn't young ladies? I long to see all the art and the historic sights, and I'm sure it will be good for Harmonia, too."
That was the plan. After the Season, she would take Harmonia and Mr. Bellini and set off to see France and Italy. Letty had a map that she was marking with a possible route. Calais, Rouen, Paris, Lyons, Nice, Genoa, Leghorn, Florence, Rome… she had lists of things to see, list of inns and interim stops, lists of things she would need, list of things she should know.
Jane had mildly reminded her sister of the problems of traveling with a baby. Letty had shrugged. "I shall have nursemaids to help me. I shall purchase a very large, very comfortable closed carriage. If I nurse her myself, I need not worry about exposing her to impure food and water. I should think it will easier while she is so tiny, than when she is Ash's age and wanting to run about!"
It would be better not to argue, Jane decided. She would have to leave the decision to Letty. Perhaps a trip to Paris would be enough for her—and she would discover by that time how awkward the journey would be. Jane wished she could go to Paris herself, but shuddered at the image of three howling small boys, all requiring fresh linen at the same time. And now there would be another baby…
Impossible. Utterly and completely impossible. She put it from her mind when she saw that she had a letter herself.
It was lodged under the novel, and a very stained object it was. Jane hoped it was from William, but saw immediately that it was in a hand she did not know—the hand of an uneducated woman. She broke the seal, wondering what it could be.
"Good God!" she shouted, glancing over the contents.
Letty was startled, and nearly dropped her tea cup. "What is wrong!"
"It is that poor woman, Mrs. Watkins! The one who disappeared along with her sister! Listen to this!"
"--We were tole we were to receive an Inhairitance from our Uncle the Draper in Bristol, but that we must be quick, or it would be taken for Taxes. So we left and gave a letter to the Gentleman who had brought the News, and he said he would frank it for us, and see that it was sent, but he was a Liar before God, and he will be judged on the Day. We were driven at great speed in a Carriage and given some Warming Drink, but it did put us fast asleep, and when next we opened ar eyes we were at See.
Oh mam if you new how we have suffered, you wood weep Tears for Pity. We had weeks of bad Air and food not fit for Pigs, and we come at last to the Island of Jamayky, with scarce a Penny in ar Pockets. We pray you mam to releeve us and to deliver us—""Oh, the poor creatures!" Letty cried. "How horrible!"
"They are not without skills," Jane reminded her. "Perhaps they have been able to find employment. I shall send a letter with money for passage to them immediately." She read the rest of the letter, and frowned. It looked to have been sent sometime in early April. The poor women were in dire straits. It would be likely be another two months before anything from Jane would reach them. She hoped they could survive that long.
"Perhaps Lord Wargrave could do something?" Letty wondered.
"Yes-- that's a good idea! I'll ask Lord Wargrave to write to the governor of Jamaica. Perhaps the governor can find and assist them." She blew out a breath. "At least they were not murdered. As cruel as the trick was that those wicked men played them, they at least spared those innocent women their lives."
Letty understood her well enough. Protheroe had made very discreet inquiries over the past few months. Mrs. Venable had had many names over the years, but in the end only one life to lose. Dead women were found in the Thames fairly often, and Protheroe had obtained intelligence of at least four who matched Mrs. Venable's description—very roughly, considering the condition of some of the bodies. Very probably, someone had not wanted to trust her tongue.
Jane's news, predictably, caused a great stir at dinner. John promised to send the letter at once, and told Jane to give her letter to him, so that everything would go to Jamaica with the rest of the official correspondence. He was in great spirits these days, not only because of his marriage, but because of his new political connections. His friend Pitt was the newly-appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer, and it was growing more and more likely that John himself would be given a post of some responsibility.
"I'd like to talk to those women on their return," he remarked. "Like to ask for a description of the blackguard who gulled them."
"Perhaps, my dear," his wife suggested mildly, "it might be best to let the matter go."
John shook his head in denial. "Can't, my love. Can't let it go. I might not have liked the old woman—my mother, that is—but it's my duty to try to find out what really happened."
Emily sighed. "I just don't want anyone else to suffer, my dear. Sometimes it's simply better not to know things one can't do anything about."
-----
All in all, it was the loveliest summer that Jane could remember. She looked at her little portrait of William from time to time, sorry that he was not here to enjoy it with her. She had had the miniature mounted by a jeweler very elaborately, in an oval frame of gold set with a single band of seed pearls. William gazed at her directly, his handsome face composed and serious. She had known she could not expect a letter before late July. As July turned to August, she became impatient, wondering if he had forgotten her.
Moll's children were duly christened, and given presents reflecting the affection Jane and Letty—and many others—felt for their beloved Mrs. Young. Moll recovered gradually, taxed by caring for two babies. Jane, knowing exactly what that was like, felt for her, and saw to it that a village girl came to help her every day. Two weeks passed, and one day Jane was startled, on her daily visit, to see Moll on her knees in her kitchen garden, telling the carrots what she thought of them. The babies were in baskets, shaded by a tree.
"Moll! Should you be doing that?"
"Oh, good day to you, ma'am. Couldn't hardly stand lying there like a slugabed. This garden's about to go to seed. Nothing like a little pottering outside to set a woman up."
"I suppose." Jane relented and sat on the grass to admire the babies. The boy was a little larger than the girl, but not by much. They were still very much new babies, pink and wriggling, their eyes the dark blue that gave no hint of their ultimate color. The wisps of hair on the girl's head were a pale reddish-blonde. The boy had even less hair, but that appeared to be dark like his father's.
"They are beautiful children."
"Well," Moll said grimly, tugging at another carrot, "They're likely the only ones I'm going to have, so I'll do my best for them!"
"Oh, Moll—"
"No, ma'am. I told Mrs. White to tell me the honest truth, and I can bear it. I'd have liked to have filled the house brimful, but it's not to be. I've got these two, and I reckon there's some good in that, for what Tom and I have will go farther if we've just the two. I'll look after them like no woman's ever looked after her young'uns. We've got a good home and a bit of money, and there's no reason these two can't make their way in the world just fine." She chuckled, tossing another carrot on the heap. "They'll go to school, too—which is more than I ever did—right here. Mighty convenient to have a school just down the lane. My boy might even be a clerk someday, and sit in an office writing papers. My girl won't have to learn her letters catch-as-catch-can. They'll have a good life, and I reckon it's mostly due to you, ma'am."
"My dear Moll," Jane said softly. "You saved my life. And more than once! I'm your children's godmother. You know that I'll always do whatever I can for you and these little ones. If your son applies himself, of course he can have a decent education. We'll just have to see. Perhaps he'll be as big and brave as his mother, and nothing will suit him but to go for a soldier!"
Moll grunted, "I'll give him a thrashing if he so much as breathes a word of it! I reckon the only thing worse would be him wanting to go to sea."
"I thought you liked being at sea."
"Doesn't follow that I'd want my son to do it! No, ma'am. There's plenty to do here—he could 'prentice a trade, or learn to write for his living. No more soldiering in my family!"
-----The heat moderated, and the weather was splendid: a pearly blend of warm sunshine and gentle rain in due measure. The Tavington family heard the news of the outside world with some detachment. A rapturous letter came from the Earl of Colchester, announcing the birth of his long-awaited grandson, named, not surprisingly, William. Kitty was as well as could be expected. Jane wrote the proper letters of congratulation, and returned to her own concerns. On the eighteenth day of August, the sky's zenith was the blue of precious sapphires. A light breeze carrying the fragrance of the rose garden wafted gently into the open casements of Letty's bedchamber. On that fair day, her daughter was born.
Her labor was not as wretched as Moll's, though eight hours seemed quite long enough to Letty. Jane sat with her, and read to her, and the children were taken to visit Mrs. Bordon, who kindly stayed home from church that Sunday to care for them. There was a picnic on the grass, and afterwards the men attempted to teach the children the rudiments of cricket. As the afternoon wore on, tired boys and girls were allowed to nap on blankets wherever they liked.
Mrs. White came, and declared it was all going well. Letty's maids hovered. Emily spent a great deal of the day with them, and was present to witness the arrival of the last child of Viscount Fanshawe.
"Now, Letty," Jane coaxed, as she laid the precious bundle in her sister's arms. "Have you changed your mind about her name?"
"No. She is Diana." Letty whispered back. "She is to be called Diana, like the goddess."
"The Honourable Diana de Vere," Jane repeated, liking the sound of it. "Lovely Diana de Vere, my dear!" She laughed, admiring the tiny rosebud face.
"A beautiful child!" Emily said warmly. "Not wrinkled like so many. I am certain she will be a beautiful woman one day. What enormous eyes she has!"
Letty smiled too, very tiredly, her fingertip touching a minute nose. "She is lovely. Altogether lovely," she whispered, remembering briefly a compliment Lord Fanshawe had once paid her. "She must have more names. I shall add my name—and Mama's name, too—all fancied up so she wouldn't recognize it." A little sadness crept into her voice. "'Biddy' de Vere wouldn't do, I know. No one would understand it. 'Bridget' is a very old-fashioned name, but it isn't unknown, and if I say it is for her grandmother, that will explain it."
Jane considered, remembering her beloved Biddy as well. If anyone had every truly been Jane's mother, it was she. "I wonder what Lord Fanshawe's mother's name was."
"I really do not know," Letty blinked, realizing it. "He never spoke of her. I suppose I could ask."
"I hardly think you need to trouble yourself," Emily smiled. "Diana Laeticia Bridget de Vere is name enough."
Jane agreed. "Moll would say that it's a mighty long name for such a little mite! She'll have plenty to do to live up to it!"
"And born on a Sunday!" Emily laughed. "You know the old rhyme:
Monday's child is fair of face;
Tuesday's child is full of grace;
Wednesday's child is full of woe;
Thursday's child has far to go;
Friday's child is loving and giving;
Saturday's child works hard for a living;
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay."
This bit of poetry was much discussed: Letty enjoying the prognostications for her own little girl; the others discussing Lucy's daughter being someone who was "loving and giving," and Moll's children having "far to go."
Letty was tired, and fell asleep quite suddenly. Emily left to announce the birth to the rest of the party. Jane found a chair in the corner, and allowed Mrs. White and the maids to put the room in order. Little Diana was placed in her pretty cradle, for Letty wanted her near, and not banished to the nursery. All things being equal, and with no husbands in the case, Jane agreed that a newborn would be better off far from the noisy nursery.
Jane was tired too, and dozed in her chair. The baby squeaked faintly, and Jane's eyes opened wide. Diana was quite all right.
"I think I shall nurse her after all. For a little while, at least. She is so sweet." Letty was awake, and propped up on an elbow, looking down at the baby with tender pride.
"Would you like to hold her?"
"Oh, yes! Where is Mrs. White?"
"Gone to get a bite to eat. She'll return soon. I'm glad you've decided to nurse her. I'm sure it will do you both good."
"I might as well, especially since she's the only child I shall have," Letty agreed quietly.
"But Letty!" Jane objected. "You are still young. Once you are out of mourning you will be much sought after. I suspect you could find a very nice husband—possibly—" Jane blushed a little "—someone younger—more appealing—"
"No," Letty answered, in the same calm way. "I shall never remarry. No man will ever be my master again. I am free now, and I shall be free for the rest of my life."
"You may fall in love," Jane pointed out. "It's not something that can be controlled."
"I may," Letty agreed, "but I hope not. Or if I do, I hope I can keep it pluton—what is the word?"
"Platonic?" Jane asked.
"Yes, platonic," Letty agreed. "That would be best. I should like to have a good, trusty friend, but I don't want to be ordered about any more, and if one marries, one is going to be ordered about."
"William doesn't order me about!"
"Oh, yes, he does!" Letty declared. "He's always telling you what to do, and where you're going to live, and that he's going away, and that you must put up with whatever he does. That's perfectly all right, since you haven't quarreled in some time, but I want to live exactly as I like now. A husband would not let me go off to the Continent whenever I liked."
"That is certainly true."
Jane's long-awaited letter arrived five days later, the day after The Honourable Miss Diana Laeticia Bridget de Vere had been christened in Wargrave Church. Jane was again a godmother, and Lord and Lady Wargrave stood for the child as well. Now named properly, the other children were permitted to gather round to admire. Susan and Fanny wanted to make a pet or plaything of the baby girl, and Ash grew very loud and excited when he understood that the baby was his niece.
"I'm an uncle!" he shouted. "Uncle Ash! She's my little girl, since she doesn't have a Papa anymore." He could not be persuaded that Thomas was also an uncle, since it was patently ridiculous that a baby like Tom could be anybody's uncle.
When the letter came, Jane was in Letty's room, admiring the baby, so distracted by the sweet little girl she hardly had time to look at the missive in her hand. Then she looked again, saw who had sent it, and sat down to read it at once. Everyone in the house would want to know every detail of the letter, but Jane wanted to read it herself—just once—just to have the words for herself a little while.
Letty was asleep, her beautiful face grave, her black hair spread out on the pillow. Nemesis came stalking through the slightly opened door, and then jumped up in Jane's lap. Jane stroked the cat's silky ears absently as she read.
July 5, 1782
New York City
My dearest Jane,
Perhaps it was cruel of me to wait nearly a week before writing to you, but I needed to look about before I could describe my situation. I miss you, and think of you often. Thank you for your foresight in providing me with your delightful picture. It is before me as I write, looking at me saucily, wondering what I am about!
I am well and safe. The voyage was—well—like a voyage—dull and monotonous, when not stormy and alarming. You have crossed the Atlantic and know all I would say. My cabin was adequately comfortable and the ship's officers well-conducted and gentlemanly. I spent a great deal of time studying my maps and books. I hope to prove a competent surveyor, in time. You laugh, no doubt, and applaud my zeal in learning a useful trade at last!'
St. Leger bore up fairly well. He is something of an arithmetician, which may prove useful later on. Lilly and Speke were wretchedly sick. I wondered for some days if Lilly would actually die, but he adjusted to the ship's movement at length, and began to be able to keep down food and water. My dragoon guard dealt better with the hardships of sea travel. One of them, Trooper Randall, I discovered, was a man of some education.
Let me not mince words. Randall is a ruined gentleman. One finds them in the ranks sometimes. Usually they are the bane of a regiment, but Randall's situation is not entirely his fault, and he has endeavored to make the best of things. Ordinarily, he would have a good chance of rising to officer, but the army is shrinking these days. If Randall continues to prove himself worthy, I will recommend that he apply for a commission in one of the West Indies regiments. They are always in need of officers. It's a risk, as so many die of disease, but it would give him a chanceto rebuild his life.
I arrived: with not a great deal of eclat, alas. Sir Guy received me very suspiciously, as he wonders if I mean to try to traduce and replace him. I presented my commission from the King, and he grunted in response. I was sent to Long Island to be out of his way, but that was quite all right, as it allowed me to see the men I have come to assist.Some of them are not present, of course. A number of the provincial troops are being held prisoner in Pennsylvania, and have no hope of release until a final settlement is made. I have now a comprehensive list of them, and of the officers who sacrificed themselves to stay with them. Of my old Green Dragoons, it was decided among the officers to draw lots.
I was told this by none other than your distant cousin and my old officer, James Wilkins! He was there when I visited. He is as enormously tall as ever, but rather thinner. It is clear that he has suffered a good deal.
My dear Jane, I cannot describe my touching reunion with my old regiment. How happy the men were to see me, expecting me to see justice done them! At least I could tell them of their new situation and the increase in pay. Very welcome news it was, too!
I dined with Wilkins and with Hangar of the British Legion. Of the two, I prefer Wilkins, but Hangar knows what is afoot for the Nova Scotia settlement. I think I must go there myself, and see the lands that the governor there has agreed to be set aside for the Loyalist settlements. When I was in London, I was warned that the quality of the soil varies greatly throughout the colony. I would not want my men to receive barren rock as their reward.
Wilkins was disengaged, and so I have added him to my staff at my own expense. He has been able to tell me all the details of the Southern Campaign (the ones that Tarleton has not deigned to mention) and about the general misery of the surrender. The men's morale is not good, as you can imagine. However, they are billeted decently, though many long to see their wives and children, all of whom were left in South Carolina.
Of course, you already know that. When Cornwallis moved north, he left everyone else at Camden, and they evacuated south with us. To my surprise, I met one of those women. I do not know if you remember Nan Haskins, who was a companion of Moll in those days? She married a Sergeant Grant of the Charlestown garrison, but the man died in battle some months ago, and Mrs. Grant decided to return north to her family in New York. She has a babe in arms, and both managed to survive an arduous journey. She now lives with her aged mother and a younger brother and sister. She once again works as a regimental laundress. The family farm north of the city is lost, and her family's only hope is starting anew in another colony. You may tell Moll that Mrs. Grant is well, and is living a life of unexampled virtue. I am aware that there was talk about her in the Carolinas, but here the woman has a character to lose, and she has quite devoted herself to her little son and the rest of her family. When I go to Nova Scotia, I am considering taking them along as servants, and then seeing that they are provided for. Her deceased husband's share as a sergeant comes to some five hundred acres, which is three times the size of their stolen farm.
Do you remember young Harry Nettles? He is as pleasant and sensible as ever. He asked after you particularly, and so I granted him a favour I allow few others: I showed him your picture. He admired it for some time, and said, "I shall never forget her. She is the most remarkable lady of my acquaintance." The 17th is rather bored and restless with the present stalemate. Very likely they will see the war through to its official end. They have managed to keep themselves well supplied with horses, and I obtained some from them. I plan to leave for Nova Scotia in a fortnight, and will write again when I arrive.
In short, my Jane, I am very busy indeed. The town is anxious, ill at ease, in suspense, wondering when the word will come that they are to be sent into exile. So many rumors are rife here: rumors that the King will keep some sort of sovereignty over the colonies; or that the conflict will flare up again. I will take what comes.
New York City is a grubby place of little distinction and no beauty. Harriet will have told you of the charm of the Hudson Valley, and all that is very true, but the valley is in rebel hands, unfortunately. Long Island has some natural attractions, at least. The sea view is fine in places, and the farmland is green and pleasant. The little villages here are much like little villages in England, only newer and rawer. Most of the folk are civil enough to a soldier, though I find that many wish to be paid on the spot. Wilkins tells me it is because of Ban Tarleton and his friends, who left America with nearly all their bills unpaid. Luckily, I am not in British Legion green, which seems to be notorious in these parts, not as a sign of a "butcher," but as the sign of a thief!
I am billeted in a rambling old house, rather decayed by years of little attention. Doggery sneered at it, but it was the best to be had. Unsurprisingly, he is well and a true stoic through all our adventures. Never having been to America, he was rather dismayed by the scarcity of everything. I explained that New York was generally civilised enough, but that the war has made necessities hard to obtain, and luxuries nearly impossible. Thank you for sending me out so well-supplied.
By the time this letter reaches you, so much will have happened. I am no doubt entirely behind the times. Send your letters through army channels to Headquarters in New York: that will be the quickest way. Tazewell will put them in the correspondence for you. This, of course, is a broad hint that I wish to hear from you soon. Tell me every bit of the family news: all the marriages and births first of all. I am very worried about Pen. If that fellow abuses her, I shall break every bone in his stork-like body. Describe John and Emily's happiness, I pray you. May they live long and prosperously. I daresay they will have a half-dozen children in the next ten years! I confess I feared for John's health. He was not caring for himself in the years of my absence. A well-ordered country life with a loving wife, not too much drinking-- and no late hours at the club-- are just what my brother needs.
Keep up Caroline's spirits, especially. I daresay she feels deserted by Pen's marriage. She has you and her writing and her nephews to comfort her. I know that you, too, are discontented by a sister's departure, so you can best understand her. And I shall write to Caroline, asking that she do the same for you! I assure you that I shall write to everyone next week, so eventually everyone will have a letter of his own and will not have to hound you to read this one aloud.
I say this, because this portion of the letter is for you alone, my Jane. I have been spoiled, I find: spoiled by the constant presence of your wit and spirit and affection and music. It is very disagreeable to become a temporary bachelor. I walk the muddy streets of New York, wishing I had you on my arm. At night, in my large, clammy, and rather unclean bed, I think of you, and miss a small, warm body curled insistently beside me. There seems little hope of a bath here, or at least the kind of bath that you know I prefer!
Your own spirits concern me, too, dear Jane. I know that you were not happy when your sister decamped for her own house. It is hard for you, I know, but life is full of upsets and changes, and I trust in your courage and adaptability to deal with this newest challenge. Two months gone! I wonder if you have weaned the boys. They are leaving off being babies, and becoming little boys, and I am missing it. I must not dwell on things that make me feel rather low. If I compare my own situation to that of my poor soldiers, I am very fortunate.
--in everything but for being without you! I know that we will be together again, Jane. I know it. Perhaps it cannot be soon, but the day will come when you hear the wheels of a carriage outside Number Twelve, Mortimer Square. Rivers will open the door with a surprised exclamation. You will come—from the morning room, I think, or quickly down the steps from the drawing room, your petticoats billowing, your eyes alight. I shall seize you in my arms and kiss you until you gasp for breath. Ours has become a true marriage, my Jane. We need one another to be the best in ourselves.
You have been kissed. Did you feel it? Your portrait is amused, at least. I must not kiss it often, or I shall kiss you out of existence, and then I should be quite overthrown. Have I told you how much I love this picture? We shall have an enormous portrait of you painted when I return, to keep my portrait company in the ballroom. I wonder what you shall wear in it? Somehow I picture you in white. Yes, in white, with ribbons of rosy silk fluttering lightly in the painted air. To be sure, I would prefer a painting of you in your nightdress—or without—in my current state, but I shall simply have to use my imagination.
If you have my picture about you, take it out now and look upon it. Do I not appear an honest man? I have not always been so, I confess: foolish and faithless I have been, but no more. You are my lady, my own Lady Tavington, and believe me, my Jane,
Your own true knight,
William Tavington-----
I won't try to answer it now, Jane thought, scanning each paragraph, hardly able to take it all in. I'll read the parts I can to the family, and then I'll keep the rest to myself.
Was it impossible for life to be perfect, even for a moment? There was always something amiss, it seemed. First she longed to escape her family; and then she did, but her husband had been unkind. Now at last, when he seemed fond enough, he was half a world away. Even the pleasure of titles and wealth were mixed with the sorrows of exile. She had brought Letty and Moll with her to England, expecting to have a pair of permanent companions. Now they had lives and homes and children of their own.
She had always put off being happy, she realized. There was always something far off on the distant the horizon that was needed to satisfy her. From the days she had waited for Ralph to come home and take her away, she had been waiting for someone to make her happy. And now, would it be the same? Was happiness to be secured when her child was born, or the boys were breeched, or William had returned?
Nemesis yowled, demanding her attention. The cat settled more comfortably on to her lap as she stroked it, and began purring. A sensible creature, to enjoy the moment to the fullest. A furry tail waved saucily, tickling Jane's nose.
"Stop that, you impudent puss!" Jane laughed.
"Is it the baby?" Letty murmured, her voice muzzy with sleep.
"The baby is perfectly fine." Jane said, leaning over to pat her sister's hand. "I was talking to the cat."
"Talking to the cat!" Letty laughed softly. She saw the papers in Jane's hand. "A letter?"
"Yes. William at last. He's very well, New York is very grubby, and he has much to do. And he had a few sweet nothings for me." she added, growing slightly pink. "Nemesis was explaining to me that I should be happy."
Letty reached for the tiny girl in blankets lying beside her. "It would be silly and ungrateful if I were not happy. Sometimes I feel like my life is a fairy-tale."
"If it were really a fairy tale we would be married to handsome princes."
"Well," Letty pointed out, not unreasonably, "we did marry handsome princes, in a way. Mine was already old," she whispered, "but he was still as good as a prince, and still handsome if you looked at him carefully. And your husband is as handsome as any could ask—"
"But he is far away," Jane finished. "Nevertheless, I am resolved to be happy—to be happy today. I am no weak vessel, and shall not put it off. I shall play with the children and make music with Harriet. I shall smell the roses in the garden, and savor Maggie Jeffreys' joints and puddings. I shall be happy today. And I shall write to William, and tell him so."
"My compliments to him," Letty said absently, too engrossed in Diana's minute perfection to pay much attention to anything else.
Jane smiled at her sister, and thrust the letter into her pocket. She rose from the chair, carrying the complacent cat in her arms. Her petticoats rustled crisply, trailing on the ancient oak floor. She would keep her sister company, and later John would want to hear William's news. Then she would have a long walk about the Hall. Through the open, diamond-paned window, the lawn of Wargrave spread out before her, green and sumptuous. The breeze was redolent of summer blossoms and tilled earth. Carried on it were the high, piping voices of children at play—her children and her friends' children. Beyond lay the lane, the green woods, the church spire white in the confident sun. She loved this place, and she was happy.
Thank you to all my readers. This is indeed the end of Tavington's Heiress. If you have enjoyed reading it, I would very much appreciate you leaving a review, even if it is very brief.
Of course, life goes on, even in fiction. Tavington did not come home until November of 1783, by which time his daughter Juliet Aurora was nearly a year old, having been born December 28, 1782.
Many things happened in the meantime. Sebastian Strakes was born February 18, 1783. Penelope never quite recovered from the birth, and only lived another seven years. Sadly, she was predeceased by her sister. Caroline did indeed publish another successful novel in 1785, Carolina, the History of an American Lady, but developed bone cancer later that year and died in January of 1786.
John and Emily had another daughter, Sarah, born May 19, 1783. John died in 1788 of a heart attack. He was at his club, White's, and had just won seventy thousand pounds. The money allowed the Dowager Lady Wargrave and her daughters to live very well, and for the girls to have rich dowries, but Emily would rather have had John than the money, and was heartbroken. Tavington, too, would much rather have had his brother than be the second Lord Wargrave.
Lucy and Protheroe, on the other hand, lived to be very old indeed. Bordon and Harriet also lived very happily, especially after Bordon was appointed Bishop of Ely in 1791.
Sebastian Strakes was something of a prodigy. His father began teaching him Latin and Greek when Sebastian had just turned five. He became a famous scholar, translator, and antiquarian.
Diana de Vere was a spectacularly beautiful girl, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and broke any number of hearts in the course of her life. Her mother never remarried (or rather, did not marry publicly. There is some speculation that she married her close friend Bellini in a private ceremony, but kept her title and her independence. She had no other children.)
The adventures of the boys at school would be a story in itself, but you can read Tom Brown's Schooldays or Stalky & Co. instead.
Ash became a lawyer and later a Member of Parliament. Thomas Manigault Rutledge (later Tavington) became a soldier, fighting in the Napoleonic Wars., and was very much loved by his father, whom he so closely resembled. Neither of Selina's children ever saw their mother again.
William Francis Tavington's relationship with his father was not so smooth. He was never his brother's equal as an athlete, and his bookish nature was a puzzlement to his father. The Latin and mathematics prizes were all very well, but Tavington sometimes felt he was not able to communicate with his son. Even more incomprehensible was the boy's desire to learn music. Matters came to a head when young Will finished his degree at Cambridge and refused to join the army. William Francis was deeply hurt that his father did not understand what an accomplishment attaining Senior Wrangler (top prize in mathematics) really was. He turned to his mentors, Bishop Bordon and Uncle Strakes, for affection and counsel. Will remained at Cambridge to finish his Master's, and then left for a three-year voyage to the Southern Hemisphere to study astronomy. He had plenty of adventures himself, and proved to everyone else's satisfaction that he was a brave and resourceful man, though quicker with a plan than a sword. He became Lucasian Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge, and was for many years the President of the Royal Society.
While Jane always championed William Francis to her husband, her own relationship with her daughter Juliet was complicated in its own way. Juliet was not quite as plain as her mother, but nowhere near as lovely as her cousin Diana. The girls were always expected to be best friends, but somehow that never quite worked out. Juliet much preferred the company of Jenny Young and her brother Jonathan, and the three would go riding and exploring and fishing together. Juliet read Mary Wollstonecraft's Vindication of the Rights of Women,and grew very vocal in her opinions about the silliness of traditional ladylike accomplishments. Between William's excellence on the pianoforte and flute, and Juliet's grasp of Latin, Greek, and algebra (taught to her secretly by her big brother), relationships within the family were sometimes quite strained.
After suffering a distressing series of miscarriages and the death of a baby daughter, Jane had another child, John, who grew up to be a successful diplomat, writer, and man about town. He very sensibly married a very wealthy heiress, and was much seen in the company of the Prince of Wales and his brothers.
Jenny and Jonathan Young indeed had far to go. I could write whole stories about them. Jonathan was a bright boy, and instead of being apprenticed, was sent to the cathedral school of St. Albans, and then spent a year as a sizar at Cambridge. He hated it, and tried to run away to the army. Tavington caught up with him, and finally made arrangements for the boy to join the East India Company as an officer. He was a great success, and eventually made a huge fortune in India. He returned, married a charming childhood friend (I won't say who), and supported his mother and the rest of his family in luxury.
His sister Jenny had no desire to be a servant or a village housewife. She was an active, healthy girl, and as beautiful in her very different, tall, red-headed way, as Diana de Vere. When she turned sixteen and was about to be trained as a lady's maid, she ran away to the theatre. Her godmothers, Lady Wargrave and Lady Fanshawe, knew that there was no sending her back to Wargrave, and so she lived with Lady Fanshawe for a time, under her protection. She had a very successful stage career for ten years, until she married a gentleman: a young heir to a title. She lived happily ever after, and in her later years was much admired by the young Queen Victoria.
What of Tavington and Jane? He stayed in the army, hating the idea of retirement. He would have been nearly seventy by the time of Waterloo, but Field-Marshal Bluecher was seventy-two at the time of the battle. Tavington was indeed governor of Gibraltar for a time, and then commanded cavalry in the Peninsula. He also found himself sent on missions from time to time, the purpose of which was often a matter of some secrecy. These missions took him to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, to Russia, and to the Levant. Jane kept the home fires burning, but also accompanied Tavington on a few of his adventures. Very sensibly, she kept her pistol with her.
I have hardly scratched the surface of the eventful lives of my characters. I have no time, for example, to write about the harrowing adventures of Deborah, Fanny, and Susan, when they were separated from the rest of their party in Paris in September of 1793. They survived. Thousands didn't.