Chapter Six

Jasper began to question his plan to get himself into Lady Jemima's box so that he might have an opportunity to apologize. It had seemed a good idea, and Lady Thurston had thoroughly approved.

But now that he'd sat there for a while, it began to seem a terrible idea.

He'd spotted Lady Jemima and her parents as soon as they walked in. They'd gone to the sideboard and then stood talking with their glasses of wine.

The lady had been smiling and seemed in very good spirits, which had been encouraging.

Then he'd watched Varnay approach the party. Smarmy Varnay, looking as smarmy as ever.

Jasper had a great wish to leap out of the box and drive him off, but of course he could not. It would appear too ridiculous. Further, his whole plan was to be in the box already when they arrived to it.

He could not hear what was said, but as Varnay talked, Lady Jemima's countenance appeared to darken.

Then she'd searched the room. Her eyes had landed on him and she had positively glared.

That was not a good beginning.

Her father, on the other hand, had waved. Presumably, he was unaware of his daughter's recent contretemps with the Duke of Barstow.

Her mother was likely a different story. The duchess appeared concerned and whispered something to her daughter.

Then Varnay had laughed and strolled away.

Now that irritating gentleman and his irritating friends were sitting behind him.

"Gentlemen," Varnay said, plenty loud enough for him to hear, "the show is about to begin. One of the shows, in any case."

The snickering was intolerable, and Jasper began to think how he might get them all thrown out of White's.

It would probably be impossible though. They were, down to a man, keen gamblers with a terrible propensity to wager far above their means. Too many gentlemen of the club had their pockets nicely lined with Varnay and his friends' foolishness—they would be sorely missed at a card table, if not missed anywhere else.

Jasper turned his attention to the task at hand. Lady Jemima and her parents approached, and the lady looked dark as thunder.

His apology would have to be a very good one.

"Barstow!" the Duke of Eddelston said, "very well met, Duke."

"I pray you do not mind the intrusion?" Jasper said, certain that the duke did not mind, but Lady Jemima did.

But even with her face almost gone purple, she was lovely. No lady in the room could compare. The stupid pitter-patter his valet was always going on about had started in his breast again.

He'd hoped to sit next to Lady Jemima, so he might whisper his apology. That was not to be.

Eddleston tried to arrange it, but Lady Jemima said, "Papa, that would not be appropriate," and promptly sat between her mother and father.

He found himself to the right of the duchess. This was not going to be easy.

Jasper leaned forward and said, "Lady Jemima, I understood you left the prince's party because of headache."

"Pounding," she said flatly.

Jasper ignored the snorts coming from the box behind.

"If I played any part in bringing it on, I extend my most heartfelt apology."

As the duchess did not look at all surprised that he may have played a part in the headache, Jasper presumed she knew all about it.

"I was attempting to be helpful, but I see now that I was out of bounds. Very out of bounds."

Lady Jemima shrugged. Why was she always shrugging at him as if he were neither here nor there?

"I trust the headache was not long lived," he said.

"Oh no," Lady Jemima said, "once I was away from the cause, it quite disappeared."

The raucous laughter behind him was entirely too much.

He turned and glared at the gentlemen in the box behind him. All but Varnay appeared abashed and looked away. Varnay just smirked.

A hush fell over the audience as a lady took to the center of the ballroom. She was dressed in billowing white muslin and looked a little ghostly.

"Lady Burberry," the duchess whispered to Lady Jemima.

"Ah, here we are once again, my lords and ladies," Lady Burberry said, looking very pleased at all the filled boxes. "The moment has come, as it does every season, when my dear friend Lady Thurston reveals to the world the poetical tableau that has kept her busy all year. I see many of you sitting at the edges of your seats, so with no further adieu, I give you, Downtrodden, or: the feelings of a lady denied suitable pin money."

Jasper did of course instantly remember why he'd not attended one of these tableaus since the first one he'd accidentally come to. Lady Thurston was primed to rant about her pin money amount. He'd give her some of his own money if it had any chance of stopping her.

Two footmen struggled with the curtains hanging above the stage and Lady Thurston was off to the races. Or wherever she was off to.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jemima had been determined to ignore the Duke of Barstow. He'd attempted some sort of apology, though it was not exactly as heartfelt as he claimed it to be. He said he was "out of bounds." The truth was, his highhandedness and opinion of himself knew no bounds.

She found herself a little mollified by the snorts of laughter behind her, which were clearly at the duke's expense. Lord Varnay was very naughty, and she did not mind it.

Now she put her concentration firmly on the tableau—Downtrodden, or: the feelings of a lady denied suitable pin money, was set to begin. It seemed Lord Thurston was on the verge of paying for his matrimonial crimes once more.

The footmen valiantly struggled to get the curtains opened and it did take some minutes, but it was well worth the wait. Lady Thurston sat on a bedstead that was piled high with pillows. She had thrown off the velvet pelisse she'd worn at the door and was in a white nightdress. Her hand was gently laid on her forehead and she peered at the ceiling of the ballroom.

Three other ladies were similarly garbed and stood round the bed holding candles to illuminate the scene.

Jemima did not know what she'd expected, but she had not imagined four ladies in their nightdresses. She supposed it was not a thing one might see at staid old Almack's. The idea of the patronesses wandering round in their nightdresses made her smile.

Very suddenly, Lady Thurston's voice rang out through the ballroom.

"The darkest hour of the night descends upon me," she shouted. "Ghostly white figures, why do you haunt me with memories of my deprivation?"

Lady Thurston's friends then made a great show of drifting round the bed. Haunting her, Jemima presumed.

"Vast waves of thoughts come upon me as I lay in the dark, willing the dawn to rescue me," Lady Thurston cried. "The richly appointed images from my youth, when nothing was denied me! And then the remembrances of the hardships that have followed—the no and too much expense and don't ask me again! Every other lady is showered with jewels, is my future to be only in paste?"

At this question, Lady Thurston's friends all clutched at their necks, as if they were wondering who stole the jewels that had been showered upon them.

"Is a personal modiste at my beck and call so out of reach?" Lady Thurston shrieked.

Lady Thurston's friends all gazed down at their nightdresses as if shocked over their current attire and blaming it on the lack of a personal modiste.

"Is a fine new carriage with velvet seats in navy blue too much to ask?" Lady Thurston cried.

Lady Thurston's friends all shaded their eyes and looked into the distance, as if searching for the fine new carriage with navy blue velvet seats.

"Has any person in the world suffered as I have?" Lady Thurston screamed, holding her arms up to the heavens.

Lady Thurston's friends all shook their heads, indicating that they, at least, were not aware of such a person. Jemima thought they might wish to arrange a carriage ride to the neighborhood of St. Giles and then revisit that opinion. Aggie had told her that the inhabitants of that rookery were in such a deprived state that if a person wandered in they might never be seen again.

"At last, the dawn breaks," Lady Thurston said in a quieter tone. "I lay here, gloomily watching the work being done to ready me to face the day."

At this prompt, Lady Thurston's friends all ran round the stage, looking as if they were doing something, though Jemima did not know what.

"My fire is lit, my covers straightened, my curtains drawn, and my maid brings a cold compress for my head and hot tea to warm me," Lady Thurston said languidly.

Ah. So that was what they'd been doing.

Lady Thurston, arms akimbo, raised herself to her knees. "I soldier on through my pauperish and desolate existence. It is only strength of will that gets me through—the world does not comprehend my struggle!"

The lady fell back dramatically, as if the weight of her sorrows had overcome her. Jemima wondered what had happened to the phantom cup of tea she'd been holding.

Someone in the audience, and Jemima guessed it might be Lord Thurston, said, "For the love of heaven."

That comment seemed to relay to the audience that the poetical tableau had come to an end. The applause struck up, and it was quite enthusiastic.

Jemima clapped with enthusiasm too. She had never witnessed a poetical tableau. It was a perfectly hilarious way to spend an evening.

Her father rose. "Well that's done. We'd best head in or we will not get a spot seated together."

There was to be a supper after the performance of the tableau and it was Jemima's understanding that it was to be conducted as if it were a supper at a ball. One would sit where one could.

"Duke," her father said to the Duke of Barstow, "you will join us?"

Before he could answer, Jemima said, "I am certain the duke has other plans. He will wish to see his friends. You do have friends? Or a friend?"

The laughter from Lord Varnay's box was distinct enough to catch the ear of her father and he turned and stared at the gentlemen until they all looked elsewhere.

Diabolically, the duke ignored her jibe and said, "I'd be delighted to join you."

Jemima stared at him with an expression meant to indicate her entire lack of delight over the idea. Why was he so insistent on it?

She did not like that she must be looking at him all the time. It was the one thing that managed to shake her resolve. He was so compelling to look at and it kept giving her ideas she did not wish to have. She did not wish to wonder what his arms would feel like. Or his lips. Or what he might look like disheveled in the morning.

She wished he would stop putting ideas in her head!

They made their way to the dining room and the next minutes were a frantic and disorganized minuet to determine who would sit where. Her father guided them to near the head of the table. Jemima worked to seat herself between her mother and father, but her father nearly pushed her round him and now she had the duke on her other side. Her mother was on the Duke of Barstow's far side and gave her a warning glance.

Jemima knew very well what the warning was—wait until she got home to rave.

Fortunately, a footman arrived and filled her glass with a very lovely Riesling wine. She drank some gratefully.

Other footmen came round, each with a platter of meats and side dishes. It was a confounding thing that she had to nod at what she wished for and then have the duke serve it to her.

At home, she would just take what she liked herself.

In any case, she was starving. Eating would give her something to do other than speak to the Duke of Barstow.

She would need something to do, as her father was on her other side and ignoring her in favor of Lady Thurston at the head of the table.

She'd just heard him ask the lady where she found the inspiration for her poetry. Did he not pay attention to the tableau? Her inspiration was feeling her pin money was insufficient, wishing for more jewels and a new carriage, and preferring to have a personal modiste.

Lady Thurston explained that true poetry was formed when one reached for the agonizing emotions of one's own life.

Lord Thurston was at the other end of the table, and Jemima thought he'd be grateful to have missed that comment.

A footman came by with a delightful looking platter of sliced roasted beef. Jemima nodded, though there was not much room on her plate left. Or any room.

The duke stared down at the plate, looking positively alarmed.

She used her knife to move the ham slices over the boiled potatoes. "It will fit, Duke."

He nodded and placed two slices in the space she had created. He gazed at her now entirely full plate as if he'd never seen anything like it.

"I must suppose," she said, "that you are well acquainted with Mr. Henry Gamon."

"Mr. Gamon?" the duke asked.

"Yes, Mr. Gamon. He was equally shocked at my propensity for food. According to him, a lady ought to appear to live on air, starve herself, and then eat biscuits in private while nobody was looking."

"Did he?"

"Oh yes," Jemima said. "He also thought my laugh too loud, my speech too forthright, and my hair too forward a color. Naturally, with that meeting of the minds, I presumed you must be acquainted."

Jemima suppressed the urge to laugh. The duke had clearly not expected to hear anything like it. She'd put him on his back foot, while at the same time not raving, which she would do at home.

"If this Mr. Gamon made any derogatory comment about your hair," the duke said, looking at her intently, "then he is a madman."

Jemima nearly choked on a bite of roast beef. She had just congratulated herself on putting the duke on his back foot and now it was she on the back foot.

"Who is this person, anyway?" the duke asked. "I've never heard of him."

Jemima put her chin up and said, "He was hired by my father to turn me into an abashed and weak-minded lady."

The duke suddenly laughed. "I see. Poor Mr. Gamon, I presume he crept out of the house defeated."

Jemima was not altogether clear if that were an insult or a compliment. She said, "Abashed and weak-minded and starving might be the fashion, but I refuse to pretend at it. If I end a spinster, it matters not—I've already plans to take Bellview Cottage and live perfectly content in the forest."

"A cottage in the forest?"

"Indeed. My maid and I have quite a few plans about it. On cold and rainy days, we will not even get dressed and will toast bread on the fire."

Her father suddenly turned away from Lady Thurston. Jemima probably should not have mentioned Bellview Cottage within his hearing. He was very against the idea.

"What's this about Bellview Cottage?" he asked. "You are not still going on about that? Ignore the notion, Duke. I have told her mother that idea is firmly out."

"We'll see," Jemima said softly. She did not wish to have an argument with her father in public, but why was he sticking his nose in? It was true that she'd mentioned Bellview Cottage several times and each time her father had said he absolutely would not give it to her and no daughter of his would live some sort of eccentric life in the middle of a wood. Still, she thought if it came to it, he would give over.

Lady Thurston dinged her spoon against her glass and rose. "My dear guests," she said, "I have arranged a special surprise for your entertainment at supper. Mr. Wordsworth joins us and will read from Lyrical Ballads."

Jemima supposed the poet's appearance was well-timed. She had claimed to herself that the duke could not discompose her, but he had.

The next three quarters of an hour found the room filled with Mr. Wordsworth's sonorous reading, as he strolled the room with book in hand. He paused on occasion to make some remark about a particular poem—what had inspired it or the feeling he'd been looking to evoke. Then he'd spent quite a bit of time discussing his friend Coleridge and their ideas of how language ought to be employed.

Personally, Jemima found Lady Thurston's style of poetry far more entertaining.

On the other hand, it gave her ample time to eat and she really had been starving. If the duke was shocked by her appetite, it was no matter. He might just add it to the list of her attributes that he found shocking.

The thing he'd said about her hair though…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jasper's apology had not gone over at all how he'd planned it. He supposed it was one more reason to not ever care to apologize.

Lady Jemima was so unaccountable. One could not guess what the lady would say next. Or eat next, for that matter. He'd never seen a plate piled so high outside of a gentlemen's hunting party after a long day of shooting.

Was there something to know there? She'd said this Mr. Gamon fellow had advised starving and then eating biscuits in private. Could that be true? Could all of the women he'd ever known been starving all along?

Randolph hurried into his bedchamber and handed him a glass of brandy. He would drink it down before retiring, as he never could seem to get any sleep otherwise. His thoughts raced too much.

"I ought to ask you how you fared at the poetical tableau," Randolph said, "but I find myself too pressed with the news I have discovered this evening. News about Lady Jemima."

Jasper set his glass down. He was almost afraid to ask. What had she done? What had she said? It could be anything—even now, the ton might be condemning her for something or other. Perhaps the news of her alarming appetite was traveling round already.

And what would she do in response? Dig her heels in and eat even more, if his observations of the lady's temperament were at all correct.

"Well?" he said, making a very great effort to appear unconcerned.

"It seems that Lady Jemima's various…unusual aspects, may have an explainable cause."

Randolph allowed that statement to hang in the air, as he always had a flair for the dramatic.

"Get on with it," Jasper said, though for the life of him he could not think of an explainable cause other than her own hardheadedness and inexperience.

"Over the summer," Randolph said, clearly relishing being able to relay the tale, "Lady Jemima was in a rather terrible carriage accident and received a serious blow to the head. She was, in fact, unconscious for some days. When she awoke, she was found to be prone to outbursts."

"Outbursts?"

"Yes, she would say horrible things to people and would have a tantrum if she did not get as much food as she wanted which was always far too much, and she did very strange things. Now, the outbursts have mostly abated, but there are still some lingering effects from the blow."

"So, you say her odd propensities are a result of a carriage accident?"

"Indeed. In fact, I am told that before the accident she was exceedingly gentle and embodied all the feminine graces. She is coming back to her old self, but she is not there entirely."

"No, I should say not. She taunted me this evening with my similarity to a Mr. Gamon and she ate like she had not eaten in days."

"Ah yes, Mr. Gamon. He and two ladies were hired by the duke to hasten her recovery. I understand they did make great strides, but there are still some remaining symptoms."

Jasper was silent. It was quite a lot to take in. He had no doubt the story was true, as it included this Mr. Gamon character, who Lady Jemima had mentioned herself.

"You see what this means?" Randolph asked. "She is not, at this very moment, the lady who fills your list of requirements. However, she will be. I am told she makes small improvements day by day. Keeping things calm appears to be the ticket."

Jasper felt waves of guilt washing over him. He was awful, he was a beast. He'd lectured and disapproved and all along the lady suffered from an injury!

"All you have to do is wait," Randolph said. "Now, I reckon that earth-shattering piece of information has earned me a glass of the good port. Or three."

Jasper waved him off. "Yes, yes. I will undress myself."

Randolph hurried from the room and Jasper was well aware that his decanter of port would be empty by morning. He did not particularly care. There was too much to think of.

He took his brandy to the window that overlooked the private square. His grandfather had built Barstow House as a hollow rectangle, leaving the middle open for a small park. The former duke had stayed in such a house in Spain and thought it a fine idea. It was private and peaceful and nobody could get into the park without going through the house. It was not overlarge, but it was probably the one park in London where one was not in danger of being robbed after sunset.

Of course, it did mean there were four wings to the house—north, south, east, and west—and some of the rooms were rarely used as they were a very long walk. On the other hand, it also meant that his staff was not relegated to the attics. The north wing was divided in two by a heavy locked door, the butler's quarters on one side and the housekeeper's on the other. The junior staff were sorted into both, according to their sex.

Just now, his butler, Jacobs, strolled the paths with a lantern in hand at this dark hour. He always did so unless it rained, and Jasper had asked him about it once. Jacobs had said he preferred to gather his thoughts at the end of the day, so he did not have to gather them in the morning. Further, Jacobs allowed the staff to think he was reflecting on their performance that day, which he said struck just the right amount of concern into their hearts. Jasper supposed that was right, he saw the occasional curtain flutter, as if the staff were looking out to attempt to parse his expressions.

Jasper drained his brandy. Lady Jemima had been in a terrible accident. From what he gathered from Randolph, she was lucky to have survived.

She was unscathed, but for the blow she'd taken to the head.

He really was a beast for not seeing that something must be wrong. Why had he jumped to conclusions as he had? She was a duke's daughter, how had he possibly believed that her behaviors were actually her own?

Randolph had mentioned calmness being the thing that was needed. Well, he had not helped there, had he? He'd poked and prodded and then been surprised at the result.

The poor lady. She would, of course, know what had happened to her. She would try to control her actions and words, but he'd pushed her into several outbursts!

That pouring of the lemonade on cake at Almack's—he should have seen that as a clue. It was too odd to be anything else.

What was he to do now, though? He'd worked at cross purposes to the lady's good. Randolph supposed he ought to simply wait.

That was not possible. He must repair what he had done.

On the morrow, he would send an arrangement of purple hyacinths to indicate his sorrow and regret. Then, and from now forward, he would never criticize or otherwise stir the lady to an unfortunate outburst. He would somehow work to surround her with peace and tranquility, thereby hastening her recovery.

"Yes," he said, leaping from his chair. "That is what I will do. It will be no time at all before I begin to become acquainted with the real Lady Jemima Fornay."