The Hemingford Scandal. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
boots shone and his hair had recently had the attentions of a barber. ‘My carriage is outside, ladies,’ he said. ‘The horses are a little restive, so if you are ready…’
He escorted them out to the carriage, helped them into their seats, climbed in facing them and ordered the coachman to drive to Hyde Park.
It was, as Lucy had intimated, a very warm day and the park was crowded as it had been all Season. Whenever anything out of the ordinary took place in the Royal family, the whole haut monde converged on London and this Season was no exception. The King’s doctors had finally decided he would not recover from his madness sufficiently to rule and the previous February the Prince of Wales had at last become Regent. If those involved in the government of the country had expected sweeping changes, they were disappointed; the Regent carried on much as his father had before him, except that his love of pleasure meant there were even more balls and banquets.
Jane sat stiffly beside her aunt, facing Mr Allworthy, seeing and yet not seeing all the hubbub about her. Every sort of carriage, from high-perch phaetons to gigs, from grand town coaches to curricles, was there, getting in each other’s way as they stopped for the occupants to exchange gossip and scandal. Aunt Lane was in her element and commented on everyone they saw. It was astonishing the number of people with whom she could claim a connection.
‘There is the Countess,’ she exclaimed. ‘Mr Allworthy, please stop so that I may present Jane. Her ladyship has a particular interest, you know.’
Donald’s coachman skillfully avoided a collision with an oncoming tilbury and drew up opposite the Countess of Carringdale’s coach. ‘Countess, we are well met,’ Harriet called out. ‘Allow me to present Miss Jane Hemingford. You remember, we spoke of her.’
‘So this is the gel.’ The Countess peered closely at Jane through her quizzing glass. Jane was annoyed enough to look her straight in the eye and saw a very old woman in a dark purple coat and a turban of the same colour, which had three tall plumes dyed to match waving from the top of it. Her deportment was regal, her pale blue eyes taking in every aspect of Jane’s dress and demeanour.
‘Very pretty,’ she said at last. ‘Too thin, though what can you expect from young gels nowadays, always rushing hither and thither, enjoying themselves?’
Jane thought that remark uncalled for and opened her mouth to protest, but her aunt quickly intervened. ‘My lady, may I also present Mr Donald Allworthy.’
The Countess moved her examination to Donald. ‘Mr Allworthy and I are already acquainted. Good day to you, young man.’
‘Countess, your obedient.’ He smiled and bowed stiffly from the waist.
‘Harriet, I shall expect an accounting,’ she said to Aunt Lane, and waved a peremptory hand to tell her coachman to proceed. ‘I shall wish to be informed if an announcement is imminent.’
Jane was seething and her aunt knew it. ‘Do not take her remarks to heart, Jane, dear,’ she said as they drove on. ‘She is only thinking of what is best for you.’
‘I shall decide what is best for me, Aunt,’ Jane said. ‘And I hope you will tell her so, when you see her.’
‘But should you be so adamant, Miss Hemingford?’ Donald said and, though his tone was mild, Jane detected an undercurrent of concern, which surprised her and added to her vexation. ‘Her ladyship is surely worth cultivating? She is wealthy and your kinswoman and I have always believed that family comes first.’
‘There, Jane!’ Mrs Lane said, triumphantly. ‘Have I not always said the same thing, times without number?’
‘Yes, Aunt, so you have, but the relationship is so distant, I would not presume—’
‘Fustian! If her ladyship chooses to take you up, then you should be grateful. She has no children of her own, you know, and approbation from her will ensure a place in Society for you and your husband. You will have an entrée to all the best drawing rooms.’
Jane had no intention of toadying to the Countess, even if her aunt, and Mr Allworthy too, thought she should. He was looking pensive, as if he would like to add his arguments to her aunt’s, but she forestalled him. ‘Mr Allworthy, do you think we could drive somewhere else? I find the park too crowded for comfort.’
‘As you wish, of course,’ he said. ‘We will leave by the next gate and drive back up Kensington Road to Park Lane.’
Jane was silent as they drove along; she was so put out by the top-lofty behaviour of the Countess and Mr Allworthy’s condoning of it that she could hardly speak. He seemed to sense her displeasure and leaned forward to murmur, ‘Miss Hemingford, I beg your pardon, I was only thinking of our…your interests. Lady Carringdale can make or break…’ He paused, as if realising he might make matters worse if he went on. ‘Please do not let it make any difference to us.’
She looked up at him. ‘Us, Mr Allworthy?’
‘My hope. You did say I might hope, did you not?’
She smiled a little woodenly. ‘How well do you know the Countess?’
‘Only slightly. My goodness, you did not think I connived…? Oh, my dear Miss Hemingford, I can fight my own battles.’
‘Is it a battle?’
‘A battle, to win you? Yes, but it is one I take pleasure in fighting, hoping for a happy outcome.’
She did not know what to say to that and sat back in her seat and put up her parasol, to shield her from the sun. It was as they were passing Knightsbridge barracks that she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure, disappearing through the gates. The set of the shoulders, the dark curly hair, the jaunty way his arms swung as he walked, stopped her breath. With an effort, she managed to stop herself from crying out, glad that her parasol hid her face. As the carriage passed the gates, she leaned forward to look again, but whoever it was had gone.
It could not have been Harry. The man had a kind of lopsided gait that was not at all like Harry’s quick stride, and he had looked older. Besides, Harry had resigned his commission and gone into exile; he was no longer a soldier. Her imagination was playing tricks on her. She had been reminded of him so many times in the last few days, she was seeing him everywhere.
‘What is it?’ her aunt asked her.
‘Nothing, Aunt. I had something in my eye, but it has gone now.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes, Aunt, I am quite sure.’
The rest of the ride back to Duke Street, the smiles and gracious thanks to their escort, the promise to go to a musical rout somewhere or other the following evening, passed in a blur. Jane’s head was full of memories, memories she could not erase, not even when she slept. She had said it was all in the past, dead and gone, and something had to be done to make sure it stayed that way.
Chapter Two
I t was two weeks since Jane had seen the figure entering the barracks, two weeks in which she expected to come across him round every corner, two weeks with her heart in her mouth. She had not dared to visit Anne in case he was there, though she told herself a dozen times a day she had imagined him. And even if she had not, if he really had returned, did it matter? She had sent him away, told him she never wanted to see him again and had meant it.
And there was poor Mr Allworthy, still doing his best to win her, escorting her to functions, taking her out in his carriage, even walking with her to the library when she wanted to change a book and helping her to choose ribbons for her new bonnet. She did not think she needed a new bonnet, but Aunt Lane had insisted that if she was to be seen out and about with Mr Allworthy, who was always in prime rig, she must dress accordingly.
Often she had no chaperon apart from Hannah, dawdling several paces behind them, and when they were out in the carriage there was only Mr Allworthy’s coachman to give lip service to propriety. No one could fail to see that the gentleman was seriously courting Jane