Читать книгу: «The Hemingford Scandal»

Harry was smiling down into her face.

Jane could not maintain her animosity. She found herself smiling back at him.

“Oh, do stop acting the fool, Harry. If you are referring to your behavior when I broke off our engagement, then of course I forgive you. It was a long time ago and we have both grown up since then.”

“So we can be friends again?”

“We can be friends.”

“Thank you.” He bent and brushed his lips lightly against her cheek.

It was only a featherlight pressure, but it sent a surge of heat flowing right through her to her very toes. Her breath came out in a gasp and her hands rose and then fell uselessly to her sides. She stepped back from him, away from whatever it was that held her in thrall.

MARY NICHOLS

was born in Singapore, and came to England when she was three. She has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children and four grandchildren.

The Hemingford Scandal
Mary Nichols

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter One

1811

J ane Hemingford was writing letters at her escritoire in the small parlour on the first floor of her London home, when her great aunt came bustling into the room in a fever of excitement. ‘Jane, Mr Allworthy is here.’

‘Mr Allworthy? You mean Mr Donald Allworthy?’

‘To be sure. Who else should I mean?’ Harriet Lane was a dumpy woman and the speed at which she had climbed the stairs had made her breathless. Her black lace cap had fallen over one ear and she straightened it as she spoke.

‘But it is barely ten o’clock, too early for morning calls. I am not dressed to receive him.’

‘Then you had better change at once. He has gone into the library to speak to your papa and then I have no doubt you will be sent for.’

‘Speak to Papa? You surely do not mean he has come to offer for me?’

‘That is precisely what I do mean. Now make haste and pretty yourself up. I doubt he will be talking to your papa for long, there is nothing to dispute. He is very eligible.’

Jane was thunderstruck. Aunt Lane, who had been widowed many years before and had ever since lived in seclusion in Bath, had suddenly taken it into her head to pay a visit to her great-niece to ‘take her in hand’. ‘It is time you got over that old nonsense and began to think of finding a husband,’ she had said.

‘That old nonsense’ was a previous engagement to her second cousin, Harry Hemingford, which had ended in the most dreadful scandal that she did not even want to think about, much less discuss. It had been two and a half years before and she had put it behind her, but that did not mean she was ready to plunge into a new engagement, just because her aunt thought she should.

Since her aunt had arrived at the beginning of the Season, they had been out and about, going to routs, balls, picnics and tea parties, it was at one of the latter that she had met Donald Allworthy. She had seen him several times since in company with other young people and found him attractive and attentive, but never so attentive as to suggest to her that he was seriously considering proposing marriage. ‘But, Aunt, I hardly know him. I certainly had no idea he was thinking of offering.’

‘Why should you? He is a perfect gentleman, he would not have spoken to you without your father’s permission.’

Not like Harry, in other words. Donald Allworthy was, Jane conceded, quite a catch, so why had he chosen her? She was not particularly beautiful, she decided, her nose was a mite too large and her brows were too fair. She had brown hair which in certain lights was almost auburn and a pink complexion which became even pinker when she was angry or embarrassed. She was not exactly angry now, but certainly disconcerted. ‘I do not have to receive him, do I?’

‘Oh, Jane, do not be such a goose. You are not a simpering schoolgirl, you are twenty years of age and should have been married by now…’

So I would have, she told herself, if I had married Harry. Aloud, she said, ‘I know, but that does not mean I should jump into the arms of the first man who offers.’

‘He is not the first man to offer, is he?’

‘Oh, Aunt, how could you speak of that, when I so much want to forget it?’

‘I am sorry, dearest, but I must say what is in my mind. You did not choose very sensibly before, did you? Now you are a little older and wiser and, with me here to guide you, you are doing wonderfully well.’

Jane longed to tell her aunt she did not need that kind of guidance, but she was a tender-hearted, obedient girl and could not bear to hurt anyone’s feelings. ‘I am very sensible of your concern for me, Aunt Lane, but I had no idea Mr Allworthy wished to marry me. Are you sure that’s what he has come to see Papa about?’

‘Oh, I am sure. He spoke to me at Lady Pontefract’s ball, asked me if I thought Mr Hemingford would agree to see him and naturally I said I was sure he would. But I gave no such assurance on your seeing him. That is your decision, of course.’ She sounded hurt, as if Jane’s refusal would be a personal slight on the efforts she had made to bring it all about.

Jane sighed. ‘Then I suppose I must speak to him.’

‘Good girl. Now go and change into something bright and cheerful.’

The house in Duke Street was in the middle of a tall narrow terrace. The ground floor was little more than a hall, dominated by a staircase and a small reception room with the library behind it, where her father spent much of the day writing a philosophical tome which he hoped would make his reputation as a man of letters. The kitchens were in the basement, the parlour, drawing room and dining room were on the first floor, and above those the bedrooms. Higher still were the servants’ sleeping quarters. As the household consisted only of Jane and her father, there were few servants: a cook-housekeeper, Hannah, the housemaid, and Bromwell, who acted as butler and footman. They did not keep a carriage and so did not need outdoor servants. When Aunt Lane visited, her coach and horses were kept in a nearby mews and her coachman, Hoskins, boarded out.

Jane had never had a personal maid and relied on Hannah to help her with fastenings and pinning up her hair. ‘At your age you should not be without a maid,’ her aunt had said when she had been in residence a few days. ‘I shall speak to your father about it.’

Jane had begged her not to. ‘I do not need someone to wait on me,’ she had said. ‘My needs are simple and she would not have enough to do and we cannot afford to pay servants for doing nothing. Hannah does me very well.’

But she couldn’t stop her aunt from sending Lucy, her own maid, to her when she considered the occasion important enough to warrant it. And it seemed today was important, because the young woman was already in her room when she went to change. She chose a muslin gown in palest green. Its skirt was gathered into a high waist and it had little puff sleeves over tight undersleeves. The neckline was filled with ruched lace edged with ribbon. ‘I don’t know that there’s time to do much with your hair, Miss Jane,’ Lucy said. ‘I do wish the gentleman had given notice he was calling.’

‘So do I, Lucy. Just brush it out and tie it back with a green ribbon. He cannot expect a full coiffure at this early hour.’ Would that put him off? That thought was followed by another. Did she want to put him off? It was a question she did not know how to answer. He was, as her aunt had pointed out, eligible, and though she was not quite at her last prayers, ought she to be particular? After all, her previous sortie into the matrimonial stakes had been disastrous. Left to herself, she had chosen very badly.

She was slipping on light kid shoes when her aunt knocked and entered. ‘Are you ready, dear?’ She stopped to appraise her. ‘Very nice, a little colourless, but perhaps it is best to be modest, until you know your husband’s tastes.’

‘Husband, Aunt?’ Jane queried. ‘You are a little beforehand, don’t you think? He has not asked me yet and I have not accepted.’

‘No, but he will and I am sure you are not such a ninny as to turn him down flat.’

‘I shall listen to him, that is all I can promise,’ she said, following her aunt down to the beautifully proportioned drawing room which had been furnished in excellent taste by Jane herself when she and her father first moved to London. Her father and Donald Allworthy were standing by the hearth.

Donald was tall and lean. His impeccable coat in dark blue superfine and his biscuit-coloured pantaloons, tucked into brilliantly polished Hessians, denoted a man of some substance, though certainly not a dandy. He wore a diamond pin in his meticulously tied cravat, a fob and a quizzing glass across his figured brocade waistcoat. He smiled as he bowed to her. ‘Miss Hemingford, your servant.’

‘Mr Allworthy.’ She dipped a curtsy, but she could feel her face growing hot and quickly turned to her father. He was a good head shorter than their visitor and was clearly not particular about his dress. It had been different when her mother was alive, but now he put on whatever came first to hand when he rose in the morning. On this occasion, he was wearing dark blue trousers and a brown coat with darker velvet revers. His white cravat was unstarched and tied anyhow; his grey hair, thin and wispy, stood out all over his head as if he had been running his hands through it. ‘Papa, you sent for me?

‘Indeed I did.’ He was beaming at her. She felt a shiver of apprehension as she realised he was pleased with himself. At last he had managed to find someone to take his foolish daughter off his hands. She knew she had been a great trial to him, becoming engaged to Harry and then breaking it off. Not that it was the breaking off that had caused the scandal; that had come before and left her no choice in the matter. Papa had not blamed her; he had simply accepted the fact and left her to make what she could of her life. But he must have been worried. Poor dear, it was unfair of her to make difficulties for him.

‘Mr Allworthy wishes to speak to you,’ he said. ‘I know you will listen carefully to what he has to say.’

‘Of course, Papa.’ She dare not look at the young man, but she could not but be aware of him; his presence seemed to fill the room. There was an air of expectancy, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for a pause in time before it resumed ticking away in a different rhythm.

‘Then we will leave you.’ He beckoned to Aunt Lane and they left the room.

The clock ticked louder than ever. Or was it her heart pumping in her throat? ‘Mr Allworthy,’ she said, sitting on the sofa and placing her hands in her lap. ‘Won’t you be seated?’

He came and sat beside her, perching himself on the edge of the seat, half-facing her, and doubling his long legs under him, so that she was afraid he might fall to the ground. ‘Miss Hemingford, I trust you are well?’

‘Very well, Mr Allworthy. And you?’

‘I am in the best of health, thank you, but as to my mental state, that is not so sanguine. I have never done this before, you see.’

‘Done what, Mr Allworthy?’

‘Proposed marriage.’ He paused, smiling. ‘I have reached thirty years of age and never found a lady that I felt I wanted to marry, until now, that is…’

‘Are your standards so exacting?’ She was teasing him, which she knew was unkind and she had never knowingly been unkind. ‘I am sorry, sir, I interrupted you.’

‘Yes, you did, but I am not to be put off, you know.’ He seized one of her hands in both his own. ‘I have formed a deep attachment to you, very deep. In short, I admire you greatly and would be honoured and privileged if you would consent to be my wife.’

‘Mr Allworthy!’ She tried to retrieve her hand, but he held it too firmly. Rather than tussle with him, she let it lie.

‘Do not tell me you did not expect it.’

‘I did not, not before today. I do not know what to say.’

‘Say yes and you will make me the happiest man in the world.’

‘But we hardly know each other.’

‘Oh, I think we do. I know you well enough to be sure that my future happiness lies in your hands. I believe I recognised that the first moment I saw you at Mrs Bradford’s a month ago. You are so exactly my vision of a perfect wife, well bred, beautiful, intelligent and honest and yet you are no milksop. As for me, I am in possession of a small estate in north Norfolk. The house is not especially large, not what you might call a mansion, but it is well proportioned, and there is a small park and a farm. I am not, I confess, as rich as Golden Ball, but I am certainly not without funds and I have expectations—’ He broke off as if he had said too much, and then continued. ‘You would never want for comfort. I am persuaded we could be very happy together.’

It was a pretty speech and the fact that he could not command the wealth of Mr Edward Ball mattered not one jot, but she was sure he did not know as much about her as he claimed, for who would want to marry someone who had broken off a previous engagement? ‘Oh, dear, this is difficult. Mr Allworthy, there are things you should know about me. I am not in my first Season. I am twenty years old and I must confess that I have been engaged before…’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Your papa told me of it, but he assures me it is all over and done with.’

‘Indeed, it is.’

‘Then it is not an impediment, not if you love me.’

‘I cannot say that I do.’

‘But you have no great aversion?’

‘Oh, no, sir, no aversion at all.’

‘Then I shall do everything in my power to make you love me.’

‘Can one make someone do something like that? I mean, is it not something we cannot help, that is beyond our power to command or deny?’

‘Perhaps, but perhaps the feeling is already there, hidden inside ourselves and simply needs bringing to the fore and acknowledging. Do you understand me?’

‘Oh, perfectly, Mr Allworthy.’

‘Then what do you say?’

‘Sir, I cannot give you an answer today. Marriage is an important step for anyone to take and I need to think about it.’ She smiled. ‘I was too young before, carried along on someone else’s enthusiasm. I did not know what I was doing. I do not want to make the same mistake again and it has made me cautious.’

‘I understand, indeed I do. I shall not press you for the present.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. His lips were cold and dry on her skin. ‘But allow me to hope. In your kindness, allow me that.’

She looked into his face. It was a handsome face, squarish, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes were dark, unusual for someone with fair hair, and his brows were straight and thick. As far as she could tell, his expression was one of deep sincerity. ‘I cannot forbid you to hope,’ she said, rising to her feet to bring the interview to an end.

‘Then that is what I shall do.’ He rose too, many inches taller than she was. ‘I should like to invite you and your papa to Coprise Manor for a short stay. I am sure when you see it, you will love it. And if you want to change anything, you have only to ask.’

‘Mr Allworthy, you go too fast. I am quite breathless.’

He looked down at her; she was blushing prettily. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Hemingford, I am too impatient, I can see that. But perhaps I may have the pleasure of taking you and your aunt out in my carriage this afternoon? The weather is set fair and it will give us an opportunity to learn more about each other.’

‘I am afraid I must plead a previous engagement,’ she said, smiling to mitigate his disappointment. ‘Tomorrow, perhaps?’ She moved to the hearth and tugged at the bell-pull.

‘Indeed, yes, I shall look forward to it. Will two o’clock suit?’

‘I shall expect you at two,’ she confirmed as Bromwell arrived to show him out. He bowed and was gone.

She sank back onto the sofa and let out her breath in a long sigh. It had all been very formal, very correct. There was nothing about his behaviour with which she could quarrel, nothing at all. And yet… She did not want to think about Harry, but this proposal had brought it all back. Harry, boisterous, jolly, teasing Harry, whom she had known almost all her life, had kissed her, a long bruising kiss that left her shaken and exhilarated, and then had said, ‘You’re the one for me, Jane, no use denying it. We were meant for each other, so shall we announce our engagement?’ She had been so sure of herself and of him…

Her melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the return of Aunt Lane, rushing into the room, her small dark eyes alight. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Are we to felicitate you?’

‘Not yet, Aunt. You did not expect me to agree on the first time of asking, did you?’

‘Oh, you naughty puss, so he is to be kept dangling, is he?’

‘He may dangle if he wishes, but I rather think he has more spine than that. Besides, I have told him he may hope.’

‘Oh, that is as good as a yes! Now, we must make plans, organise a party—’

‘Hold your horses, Aunt, I cannot see that letting Mr Allworthy hope is the same as saying yes, truly I cannot and there will be no announcement until I do. And you cannot go organising parties before the announcement, can you?’ She smiled and bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek. ‘I’m sorry to spoil your fun.’

Aunt Lane wagged a black-mittened finger at her. ‘You are a dreadful tease, Jane. It is to be hoped you will not roast him too, for I do not think he will stand for it.’

‘He understands that I must have time to consider his proposal and is prepared to wait for an answer. Are you free tomorrow afternoon? He has asked us to take a carriage ride with him.’

‘Even if I were not free I would make myself so.’ She paused. ‘Oh, Jane, I am so pleased for you. I was beginning to despair.’

‘But why should you despair, Aunt?’

‘I should have come before. I should have helped you to get over that disgraceful business sooner, but I thought no, let her come to it in her own time. I should have known you had no one to take you out and about and make sure you were seen. James always has his head in his books and hardly knows what day it is; I should not have left it to him.’

‘Oh, do not blame Papa, Aunt, I told him I wanted to live quietly. I did not want to be seen out, it was too mortifying, and I have been able to help him with the copying. Everything he writes has to be copied, you know.’

‘Yes, I do know, and I do not blame him, I blame myself. It was the Countess who pointed it out to me. “That gel needs taking out of herself, or she will end up an old maid,” she said. “It is your duty to do something about it.” And she was right.’

The Countess of Carringdale was one of the many aristocratic connections of whom her great-aunt boasted. She never tired of speaking of them. ‘All on the distaff side,’ she told anyone who would listen. ‘My mother was the Countess’s cousin, which makes her your cousin too, Jane, seeing as your mother was my niece, though I cannot work out how many times removed.’

Jane did not care a jot for aristocratic connections and she certainly did not like them interfering in her life. Her great-aunt she could tolerate because she was kind and affectionate and had comforted her when her mother died. Fourteen years old, she had been, bereft and bewildered, and Aunt Lane had wrapped her plump arms about her and let her cry on her shoulder. And when she had broken off her engagement to Harry, Aunt Lane had been on the doorstep as soon as the news broke, and told her cheerfully that she had done the right thing, no one could possibly expect her to stay engaged to that mountebank after what he had done.

Persuaded that Jane was not going into a decline, she had gone home and they had kept in touch by correspondence. Until this year, when the Countess had told her Jane was mouldering away in obscurity, though how her ladyship knew that neither Harriet nor Jane knew.

‘Aunt Lane, you must not blame yourself; besides, two years is not so long to recover…’

‘But you have recovered?’ her aunt asked, looking closely into her face.

‘Oh, yes, Aunt, I am quite myself. My hesitation has nothing to do with the past, that is dead and buried and I do not want to speak of it again. I simply want to be sure, to take time making up my mind. Mr Allworthy is fully in agreement with that.’

She was not sure that the gentleman was as complacent as he pretended, but she could not rush headlong into an engagement that might not be good for either of them. How could she be sure that old scandal would not touch him? How could he be so sure she would make him happy? She was no catch, she had no fortune and hardly any dowry because Papa had never earned a great deal with his writing and there was very little left of the money her mama had brought to their marriage. It came to her, then, that perhaps Papa might be low in the stirrups and needed to see her provided for. If that were the case, had she any right to prevaricate? If she said yes, she would make everyone happy.

‘Then I suggest you go and acquaint your papa with your decision. He has gone back to the library.’ Her aunt sighed heavily. ‘I wonder he does not take his bed in there.’

Her father spent nearly all his waking hours in the library and only came out to eat and sleep and consult books and manuscripts in other libraries. Since her mother had died, his writing was all he cared for. Jane suspected that only while immersed in work could he forget the wife he had lost. As a fourteen-year-old and now as a fully grown woman, she had never been able to fill the gap in his life left by his wife. Oh, he was not unkind to her, far from it; he loved her in his way.

He had given her an education to rival that of many a young gentleman and an independent mind which those same young gentlemen might find an encumbrance rather than a virtue, but it was his great work, a huge treatise comparing the different religions of the world, which came first. She dreaded to think what would happen to him when it was finished. But she did not think it ever would be; the writing of it had become an end in itself. He did not want to finish it and therefore was constantly correcting and rewriting it, adding new information as he discovered it until it was now large enough to fill several volumes.

When she knocked and entered he was sitting at his desk, which was so covered with papers and open books the top of it was quite obliterated. He looked up at her over the steel rim of his spectacles. He looked tired. ‘Well, child? Has he gone?’

‘Yes, Papa.’

‘And?’

‘I am not sure how I feel about him, Papa. I told him I would think about it.’

‘You are not still wearing the willow for that rakeshame cousin, are you?’

‘No, Papa, of course not.’

‘What have you got to think about then? Mr Allworthy comes of good stock and he is a scholar like myself and not a poseur, nor, for all he likes to live in the country, is he a mushroom. There is not a breath of scandal attached to him and he seems not to mind that you have no dowry to speak of.’

‘That is something I cannot understand, Papa. Why offer for me when I have nothing to bring to the marriage? He does not seem the kind of man to fall headlong in love; he is too controlled. So what is behind it?’

‘You are too modest, Jane. And what has falling in love done for you, except make you unhappy? Better make a good match and let the affection come later as you grow towards each other. That is what happened with me and your dear mama.’

‘I know, Papa,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I will give Mr Allworthy an answer soon.’

‘See that you do, it is not fair to keep him dangling. Now, if you have no pressing engagement for the rest of this morning, I need some new pages copying.’ He held out a handful of sheets covered with his untidy scrawl, much of which had been crossed out and altered between the lines and up and down the margins. He had once had a secretary, but the poor man had been unable to make head or tail of the way Mr Hemingford worked and did not stay long. Only Jane could understand it because she had taken the trouble to do so.

‘Of course, Papa.’ She took the sheets to a table on the other side of the room and sat down to work, just as if she had not, only a few minutes before, received a proposal that could alter her whole life. Aunt Lane was busy making extravagant plans and her father had dismissed it as of little consequence. Both were wide of the mark. She needed to talk to Anne.

Anne was Harry’s twin, but that made no difference; she was Jane’s oldest and dearest friend. Anne had been overjoyed when Harry and Jane announced their engagement and bitterly disappointed when Jane called it off. Several times she had tried to plead on Harry’s behalf. He had been foolish, she said, and it had cost him his reputation and his commission and caused an irreparable rift between him and their grandfather, the Earl of Bostock, whose heir he was, but it was unfair that it should also cost him Jane’s love, especially when he had only been thinking of their future together. Jane’s reaction was to quarrel with her friend so violently they had not spoken to each other for months.

They had been rigidly polite when they met in company and that had been unbearable until one day, finding themselves in the same room and no one else present to carry on a conversation, they had felt obliged to speak to each other. And talking eased the tension. Having few other friends and certainly none that was close, Jane had missed Anne, and it was not long before they had buried the hatchet, but only on Anne’s promise never again to mention Harry and what had happened.

When she told Mr Allworthy that she had an engagement that afternoon, nothing had been arranged, but she must have known, in the back of her mind, that she would go to see Anne. News as stupendous as this needed sharing.

Although she could have borrowed her aunt’s carriage the Earl of Bostock’s London mansion was just off Cavendish Square, near enough for her to reach it on foot. The Earl was extremely old and rarely left Sutton Park, his country home in Lincolnshire, but Anne, who had made her home with him ever since both parents had been killed in a coaching accident when she and Harry were very young, had come up for the Season, as she did every year. The amusements on offer afforded her a little light relief from being at her grandfather’s beck and call, gave her the opportunity to renew her wardrobe and spend some time with Jane. His lordship did not deem it necessary to surround her with retainers and so, apart from the usual household servants, she lived with her maid-companion, a middle-aged sycophant called Amelia Parker.

Jane had no qualms about coming across Harry while visiting her friend because he had left the country almost immediately after the scandal. If Anne knew where he was, she had never told Jane, perhaps because Jane had assured her she did not want to know and would not even speak of him.

She was admitted by a footman and conducted to the drawing room where Anne was dispensing tea to a bevy of matrons who seemed to think that just because she had no mother, it was their duty to call on her and give her the benefit of their advice, notwithstanding she was twenty-four years old and perfectly able to conduct her own affairs. ‘Such a dutiful gel,’ they murmured among themselves. ‘She is devoted to that old man and stayed in the country to look after him when that scapegrace shamed him and ruined her own chances doing it. Now she is too old. We must go and bear her company.’ Anne knew perfectly well what they said and often laughed about it to Jane, but there was a little hollowness in the laughter.

She came forward when Jane was announced and held out both her hands. ‘Jane, my dear, how lovely to see you.’ She reached forward to kiss her cheek and added in a whisper, ‘Give me a few minutes to get rid of these antidotes and I shall be free to talk.’ She drew Jane forward. ‘Do you know everyone? Lady Grant, Lady Cowper, Mrs Archibald and her daughter, Fanny?’

‘Indeed, yes.’ Jane bent her knee to each of them and asked them how they did, but though they were polite and asked after her father, they had no real interest in her doings and the conversation ground to a halt. Not long after that, they gathered up parasols, gloves and reticules and departed.

‘Now,’ Anne said, as soon as the door had closed on them. ‘I shall order more tea and we may sit down for a comfortable coze.’ She turned to ring the bell for the maid, then took Jane’s hand and drew her to sit beside her on the sofa. ‘You look a trifle agitated, my dear, has something happened to upset you?’

‘Not upset exactly. I have received an offer of marriage.’

‘Oh.’ There was a little silence after that, as if Anne was cogitating how to answer her. ‘Who is the lucky man?’

‘Mr Donald Allworthy.’

‘Goodness, not that sti—’ She stopped suddenly.

Jane laughed. ‘That stiff-rump, is that what you were going to say?’

‘Well, he is a little pompous.’

‘Only if you count good manners and courtesy as pomposity. And I am sure he is very sincere when he says he has a high regard for me.’

‘Oh, Jane, you are never thinking of accepting him?’

‘I have said I will consider it.’

‘But, my dear, you can’t, you simply cannot.’