“Aunt Margaret, Jane and I were wondering if the ruin has a bad smell on purpose, or if it’s by accident.”
“Don’t scrape about with your spoon; it’s unsuitable behavior for a marquis,” said Margaret coldly. “And are you referring to Miss Kent?”
“Yes.”
“That is how you should address her as well.”
Jane was nodding her thanks at the footman who had just given her a second helping of custard, but quickly said:
“Oh, ma’am, I told Wakefield to call me that.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes,” put in Wakefield, “because Jane and I are schoolfellows, Aunt Margaret, and also because we’re great friends already. She gave the Duchess some blancmange, and she likes Snuffles, too. Yes, please, Marner,” he said to the footman, who had come to stand next to him with the custard bowl, and watched with approbation as Marner gave him a large additional serving, then went on:
“So Jane and I were wondering about the smell, Aunt Margaret, because it’s atrushish.”
Even more coldly Margaret answered, “Are you attempting to say ‘atrocious’?”
“Yes, that is what I said. It’s not that we don’t like the bad smell,” Wakefield said kindly, “because we do. We just wanted to know if you had it done on purpose.”
“A marquis,” responded Margaret, “ought not to discuss olfactory matters at table.”
“Well, I wasn’t, Aunt Margaret, I was talking about bad smells.”
Anthony laughed, and accepted from Marner his own second helping of custard. He said to Wakefield, “‘Olfactory’ means having to do with scents and smells and things like that.”
“Oh, it does? Bad smells?”
“Any sort of smells.”
“So are the stables an olfactory, then? Because there are a lot of smells made in there.”
“I say, that’s clever usage. But ‘olfactory’ is an adjective, not a noun.”
“That’s good to know, Father, thank you,” said Wakefield, and scraped his spoon against the side of his bowl in order to capture a delicious blob of custard that clung there. “Jane, would you like to play billiards after luncheon? It’s all right if you tear the cloth a bit with the stick, I do it all the time. Accidentally, you know.”
“I daresay,” said Margaret, “Miss Kent will be wanted back at the Hall.”
At this Jane looked up from her bowl and at Margaret, who sat to her left. Her big gray eyes, which had been twinkling with humor just a few moments ago, were thoughtful now. “Yes, I suppose I shall be. I’m sorry, Wakefield. Another time?”
“All right, Jane,” replied Wakefield, and Margaret said, between tight lips, “Miss Kent,” and Anthony, who had been planning to spend a quiet, peaceful hour in his library delving once again into Dinkle’s Advanced Concepts in Piggery, said, rather to his own surprise:
“Miss Kent, may I drive you home?”
Chapter 5
“It’s very nice of you to take me back to the Hall.” Jane and the Duke were sitting side by side in the high front seat of his curricle, an even more dashing vehicle than the pony-cart, and as they bowled along the curving road which led between the two estates, it felt a little like they were flying. Jane was enjoying herself very much. She added: “Your Grace.”
“I was glad to, Miss Kent.”
“Thank you also for luncheon. It was delicious. Especially the macaroni.”
“Yes, I liked that, too.”
“I hope you don’t mind that I took the last of it.”
“No, not at all.”
Jane stole a glance at the Duke’s profile. He handled the reins with easy grace, but his face, which had been cheerful when he’d tendered his offer to take her back to the Hall, was now gloomy beneath the brim of his tall dark hat, and his voice was flat and even a trifle grim.
The change had occurred just as Wakefield had been finishing his custard. Lady Margaret—in a sudden shift of her mood—had brightly announced that in all the excitement of having an unexpected guest for luncheon, not, of course, that it was in any way a trouble, or an inconvenience, or unwelcome, she had quite forgotten to share the news that an express had just arrived this morning with the gratifying intelligence that her dear friend the Countess of Silsbury, accompanied by her delightful daughter, Lady Felicia, would soon be arriving at Hastings for a lovely long visit. A very, very long visit. Possibly longer than anyone could even anticipate.
And that was when all the light went out of the Duke’s expression. He had only said to Lady Margaret, in a voice so dry that all human emotion seemed leached from it, I thought the Countess was merely an acquaintance.
Lady Margaret had airily waved her hand, saying, No doubt you mistook me. The Countess is a dear friend—why, she’s practically family. I’m sure she and dear Lady Felicia will feel right at home here.
Jane now remembered Wakefield saying earlier today, When Father gets married again and has more children, I’ll let them be dukes, and the vicar looking startled, saying, I wasn’t aware that His Grace had entered into matrimonial arrangements, and Wakefield replying with casual certainty, He will. Aunt Margaret will make him. And then I won’t be the only sixcessor.
Jane glanced again at the Duke. She wondered if this Lady Felicia was his intended. He certainly didn’t seem happy about it. Or, at the very least, he didn’t seem to relish the prospect of having Lady Felicia and her mother come to stay. For the Duke’s sake, she hoped Lady Felicia liked pigs. And that Lady Felicia was a nice person, who would be good to Wakefield.
They barreled past an enormous open field dotted with cattle, beyond which lay innumerable rolling hills, in quiet shades of wintry gray and brown, stretching out into the distance, and then into a wooded area, where the shadows were deep and tranquil, the silence tempered only by the sounds of horses’ hooves and jingling harness. It was cooler here in the woods, and Jane was thankful for her warm pelisse.
She looked down at the hems of her gown and pelisse.
Pale green and cherry red, and shabby old dark boots peeping out from underneath.
In the Great Hall at Hastings, where Jane had put on the pelisse and her bonnet, she had seen how Lady Margaret was eyeing her from head to toe. And then she had sweetly said:
What a delightful color combination, Miss Kent. Red and green. One sees that so rarely. Really, you’re quite an original.
As she had been tying the ribbons of her bonnet—a light blue bonnet, borrowed from Livia, which, incidentally, didn’t match anything she had on—Jane had pondered Lady Margaret’s remark. How interesting to veil an insult through words which, on their surface, were flattering, and through a tone of common courtesy. Was that how a duke’s sister did things?
Back in Nantwich, nobody bothered trying to craftily disguise their barbs. It was all people shouting at each other things like you bloody lobcock and eh, go on, you’re nothing but a bewattled trug and say that to my face, you damned gaspy chub and so on and so forth.
Jane had finished the neat bow under her chin, tugged it tight, and merely said, Thank you, ma’am, and laughed inside herself to see Lady Margaret look so nonplussed.