Chapter Eleven

Mr. Harkinson had of course heard of people experiencing apoplexy and dropping dead where they stood. Now, he very much feared he was on the verge of it.

His heart raced at an alarming speed, his brow dripped with perspiration, his insides were in knots, and his eyes felt as if they could not focus—the great hall he stood in was swimming before him.

Lady Jemima had just marched past him and shouted, "Tell my father that I absolutely will require Bellview Cottage!"

She'd then run up the stairs weeping.

If only he did not know the cause of the upset. When she'd been a young child, Lady Jemima was known to shout such a threat because someone had insulted her pony. That diabolical equine was always doing something to incur ire, most particularly throwing Lady Jemima to the ground and then attempting to stomp on her for good measure. Still, she would defend the beast in the strongest terms and swear she would leave forever if anyone said another word about her beloved Pansy.

Oh what sweet days those had been, when all one had to fret over was a bad-tempered pony and Lady Jemima's threats of going off with the creature to live in the forest quite alone. The duchess would console her daughter and point out that while she might not mind living in a wood, Pansy was very fond of the oats to be found in the stables.

He did know what had caused this latest upset, though. He knew every horrifying bit of it and it had nothing to do with a bad-tempered pony.

First, there had been the shock of overhearing Lady Jemima tell her mother that she would accept the duke if he asked. In fact, both she and the duchess were both hoping he might ask on the morrow at his garden party. That idea had resulted in him dropping a vase that was perhaps more valuable than he'd let on to the duchess.

Lady Jemima and the duke could not wed! If they did, all would come out. She had never had a blow to the head and would never return to all the feminine graces she had supposedly lost. The duke had never had an accident either and would never become less disapproving.

They'd discover it in time, and then if they did not kill one another first, they'd wish to get to the bottom of it and discover who they should kill.

He, Martin J. Harkinson, was at the bottom of it. He was the one they'd be looking for. He had caused the whole shambles by beginning with one ill-advised lie.

He was such a fraud!

After he had almost recovered from the shattered vase, he felt he must take action. He must do something! But what?

All he could think to do in that moment was to eavesdrop on Lady Jemima and Miss Pickering. Would Lady Jemima tell her thoughts about the duke to her new friend? Might there be a piece of information given that would somehow give him a clue as to how to extricate himself from this ghastly situation?

How hopeful he'd been in that moment that there was a way out.

After Miss Pickering was seated, the duchess had gone above stairs. He'd chased the maids into the duke's library, as His Grace was not at home, and he demanded they do a top to bottom cleaning. Then he'd sent the footmen to the kitchens for cups of tea.

He was alone. He stood by the drawing room doors and listened.

How was it possible that the situation grew even worse?

Lady Jemima had been informed of the carriage accident she'd never had. Miss Pickering told her that the duke was eagerly awaiting Lady Jemima's return to all the feminine graces she'd never had! And then! Mr. Penny's story about the duke having been in his own accident completely fell apart. Who was this Lord Bellam who'd had the accident instead?

The only sliver of light in the whole thing was that these various revelations would surely stop an engagement at the garden party.

The rest of the situation was dire, though. Lady Jemima was in a right temper over it.

The whole thing had gone too far for anybody to come out of it unscathed, including himself.

What would Lady Jemima do?

That was the thing to worry over. What would she do?

The only thing he could positively say she would not do was nothing. Since her very early days, Lady Jemima had answered any supposed insults that had come her way. Defense of the pony had been a recurring theme, but that had not been all. No, that had not been all.

Various scenes of Lady Jemima wreaking retribution passed through his thoughts. The time the vicar advised her to stay quiet when another older child was talking. At seven years old, she'd had the audacity to tell the vicar that if she should stop talking, then he should stop staring at Miss Wendham when he thought nobody was looking.

The village had a very good time retelling that story for months on end.

And then, what about the stolen cat? Lady Jemima heard somewhere, probably from one of the servants, that the grocer only kept a cat to keep away mice and did not particularly like cats. Well, she'd managed to slip away from her governess, cross the wood into the village, tiptoe into Mr. Ranker's establishment, and take his cat!

That near-feral feline had lived in her room a week before it was found.

She had even, at nine years old, attempted to usurp his own authority. He'd been lecturing an exceedingly lazy housemaid. Lady Jemima had been hiding underneath a desk in the library through it all. She'd leapt out and claimed she'd help Clara with the dusting herself and she was disappointed to find out how mean he was.

There had been nothing she would not dare. And now, she was older. What she might dare had grown in proportion.

She might do anything at all. She would be in the duke's house tomorrow night. There would be lit candles on hand. Should he send an anonymous warning to the duke that he was to keep an eye out for fires, lest his house go up in flames?

Lady Jemima was unpredictable. Anything at all might happen.

What could he hope for? What would be the best outcome?

As he thought that through, all he could conclude was that it would be best for the duke's house to collapse in a fiery blaze rather than be found to be the instigator of the whole mess.

And why? Because he was a fraud!

Or perhaps the best outcome would be that he dropped dead on the spot, which he felt he might very well do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper knew that there had been more than one engagement made between a couple at the garden party he hosted each year. He had decided when he'd first taken over the house that he'd rather host a party in his small park than a large and formal dinner.

It had turned out to be very popular, as it was a different sort of thing to do. Naturally, other people had garden parties, but they did not have an enclosed park in Town. There was a novelty to it.

Jacobs would see that the paths were all lit up with transparencies, each with their own unique design. The footmen would circulate with trays of champagne and there would be multiple sideboards on the veranda and indoors. For all intents and purposes it was a rout, but somehow original because of the park.

Couples would slip away from their minders and stroll down the paths, pretending to be engrossed with looking at the designs on the lanterns. Something would be said, an answer would be given, and then the couple would dash up the steps of the veranda looking for a mother or father so they might impart the news.

This year, perhaps his own engagement would take place. The duke and duchess and Lady Jemima had accepted the invitation at the beginning of the season. He had already ordered that there be plenty of good Canary wine on hand, as that was what Lady Jemima preferred. They might stroll down a path. He was certain her father would not mind it.

Varnay would be nowhere in sight and have no ability to cause any trouble. That rogue had never set foot through his doors and he never would. He felt a momentary guilt for punishing Miss Pickering on account of her brother, but he'd not issued an invitation to her either. Varnay was her escort so it could not be done.

In any case, though he could not pin down his mild dislike of Miss Pickering, there was something about her he did not trust. She seemed to work too hard to please.

Jasper laughed to himself. He was likely only comparing poor Miss Pickering to Lady Jemima, who did not work too hard to please. Who would guess he would prefer it?

No matter—Varnay and his sister would not be in anybody's thoughts and he would take Lady Jemima for a stroll. Her hair would glint in the moonlight and she would speak to him in that lively way she had and he would say something.

What exactly he'd say, how he would phrase the thing, he'd not yet worked out.

He would work it out though.

How odd that things had come round in this fashion. He had been so sure of his ideas of what he'd been looking for. Then, he'd found what he was looking for and she was not at all what he'd thought he'd been looking for.

That was no matter either. He had found her and that was all that did matter.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jemima's mother had, very predictably, heard her shout at poor Mr. Harkinson that he was to inform her father that she required Bellview cottage. Then, of course, the duchess had heard the slam of Jemima's door when she went to her bedchamber. Her mother had not been long in coming to see what was the matter.

The duchess had been told all, as Jemima had never been very good at keeping things from her. Especially not when she was in a state of upset.

Her mother sat back in the chair she had occupied as Jemima poured out the disjointed story, to which she'd liberally added complaints and insults to.

"Let me clarify this," the duchess said. "Miss Pickering is under the impression that the duke thinks your mind was damaged from an accident and that he awaits your recovery to….to what?"

"To Mr. Gamon's idea of the perfect lady—quiet, reserved, never daring a foot out of place."

"Mr. Gamon," the duchess said softly. "I did tell your father he'd never get anywhere with that gambit."

"You see, though? All those…those, well the duke would call them hints but I call them insults, they were all to help along a lady with a damaged mind!"

"But Jemima, the duke stuck by your side all evening last night. He could not be put off by your way of going on."

"Yes, he could, and he is. He feels sorry for me and excuses me because he thinks it's all to do with my mind that is hopefully in recovery."

"And Miss Pickering said the duke himself had not had an accident? You had an accident, he did not have an accident, though you did not have one either."

"Exactly."

Aggie hurried into the room and the duchess said, "Not now, Aggie, if you please."

"Aggie, stay," Jemima said. "Mama, you know perfectly well I will tell her everything anyway."

The duchess sighed. "And we all wonder how it is that servants gossip—where do they get their news, I wonder?"

Aggie looked at the duchess with wide eyes, as if she did not know the first thing about it.

Jemima ignored the comment, as her mother had told her no end of times that she ought not tell Aggie absolutely everything. "Aggie," she said, "you are to know that Bellview Cottage is now a certain thing."

"It surely is not," the duchess said. "Now, I do not know what to make of this tangled web of information, but I suspect whatever the truth about the duke's feelings and views, we shall find it out on the morrow."

"On the morrow?" Jemima said incredulously. "You cannot imagine that I will attend the duke's garden party?"

"Of course I imagine it. We cannot beg off now—your father would pry into it, he very much likes the duke and has certain hopes in that direction."

"Papa must not hear any of this," Jemima said. "He would be humiliated to discover that the duke has only been kind to his daughter because he thought her damaged in the mind."

"I agree, therefore we must go as if nothing at all has happened. In any case, you should wish to go for yourself, Jemima. You should wish to go and hold your head high, as if nothing at all has affected you. You are a duke's daughter, after all."

Jemima considered that. The argument did have its merits. She would not like the duke to guess that he had affected her in some way. Or made her cry, of all the stupid things to do.

"Very well," she said. "But if that duke is expecting some mild-mannered ninny to appear, he shall be disappointed. I will bring all of my temperament with me and good luck to him making me feel bad about it."

"Wonderful," the duchess said. "Just do not rave, you can do that at home."

"I will go and be entirely myself," Jemima said. "I have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Of course you do not," the duchess said.

The idea did fill Jemima with a new sense of purpose. She was poised to throw off the shackles of worrying what anybody else thought of her. It had been foolish to allow such thoughts to take root, she'd known that all along. "Aggie," she said, "I will require whatever of my dresses is the closest to black in color. To match my mood."

Over the duchess' long sigh, Aggie nodded. "The violet silk, I think. In low light, you might wear it to a funeral."

The duchess rose and kissed the top of Jemima's head. "This may not be your season, Jemima, but there is always next year."

"Or Bellview Cottage," Jemima said.

"Nonsense, girl. You would never be happy off on your own, living in a wood."

"I might be," Jemima said stubbornly, though she could see how it could get lonely, even with Aggie by her side. And then, she would never have children, which she had always assumed she would.

The duchess smiled and did not argue the point. She knew very well when a debate was devolving into nonsense, and so did Jemima though she would be loath to admit it.

The duchess left her with her maid. After the door closed, Jemima said, "Aggie, the Duke of Barstow had better hold on to his hat—the real Jemima Fornay is coming to his garden party."

Aggie snorted. "Aye, we'd all best hang on to our hats then."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper had done everything possible to prepare for Lady Jemima's arrival to his garden party. He'd ensured that a good Canary wine was on every sideboard and the footmen were instructed to offer it to her in lieu of champagne.

He had not, before this year, interfered with Jacobs' selection and placement of the lantern transparencies that would line the paths in the park, but he did this year. He'd met personally with the artist and laid out what he wished to appear at the end of his favored path in the park.

The artist would treat paper with mastic and turpentine and then hand draw and color his designs. The result would be mounted on a post, a candle burning behind it to provide the illumination.

The designs Jasper chose were meant to prop up whatever words he could muster in declaring himself. There would be an elegant lady with vibrant auburn hair, another with two hands entwined, and the last his ducal crest.

He would lead Lady Jemima down the path to the ironwork bench and fountain that sat at the end of that particular direction. The fountain had been designed by his father, made in bronze and now taking on a green patina. Its pool was deeper than a usual fountain and lined with dark blue ceramic tiles. The old duke had been known to put him in it when he was young, to counter the heat of a sweltering day.

There, they would come upon his designed transparencies, and there he would say his piece.

It all felt a bit awkward; he could not help but notice that fact. He supposed that all along he'd imagined some lady he'd chosen being entirely grateful for the honor. It had not seemed as if he would need to put much effort into it beyond pointing at the lady and dispensing the honor.

But this was Lady Jemima Fornay. He did not imagine any abject gratefulness would be coming his way. Or any gratefulness at all. He only wished for an acceptance.

Jasper stood on the veranda and looked over the scene. His park had been transformed. The lights winked and blinked as a soft breeze moved the foliage along the paths. A restrained quartet on the veranda provided music to enhance the atmosphere, but not overwhelm conversations.

His sideboards were spectacular—the finest cheeses, meats, and fruits had been brought in. His cook had created tarts, cakes, jellies, custards, and preserved fruits, as well as ices of every type. Perhaps the most interesting were a pineapple tart and a pineapple, lime, and rum punch. The Duke of Barstow did not set out pineapples only for decoration and he certainly did not rent them. His house was one of the few places where a guest could actually taste a pineapple, rather than just stare at it.

Several sideboards throughout the house and on the veranda were heavily laden with wines and liquors. There was a particularly fine Tokay on hand, as well as a selection of brandies and ports. There was, of course, a tea and coffee service, though historically very little had ever been drunk of either of those.

The whole of the arrangements amounted to something seeming as if it might harbor some magic in it.

That was good, he suspected he'd need some magic on his side.

His butler joined him. "We are ready, Your Grace," Jacobs said, "and the first carriages begin to arrive."

Jasper nodded and followed Jacobs to the front doors to begin the tedious process of welcoming guests. He'd do it because it needed to be done, though he always found it a stupid tradition. Why could not guests just come in and say hello when they had a moment, especially for a party of this size?

The bright spot, though, is that he would be on hand to greet Lady Jemima and her parents. He had a footman standing by for the moment, carrying a tray of two glasses of champagne for the duke and duchess, and a glass of Canary for Lady Jemima.

An hour later, he began to wonder where she was.