The Hemingford Scandal

‘I know. Will you take me to the theatre tonight? That is, if you are not too fatigued.’

‘I will gladly take you, if my evening coat still fits me, but have you no beau dangling after you?’

‘Oh, Harry, do not be so foolish, I am long past marriageable age.’

‘Humbug! I think I will find you a husband while I am in town. In fact, it is my duty.’

‘It is not! You look to your own affairs, Harry Hemingford.’

He knew she meant Jane, but that was entirely out of the question.

Not for a minute did he think that agreeing to take his sister to the theatre would have such a profound effect on his mind and heart. Jane was there with her new love, sitting in the box opposite theirs, accompanied by an elderly lady in a hideous mauve-and-lilac striped round gown, whom he recognised as her great-aunt. And he knew with a certainty that almost unmanned him that he had been lying when he said he had moved on.

Jane was in amber silk, almost the same colour as the highlights in her hair. It heightened the creaminess of her shoulders and neck, the softness of her complexion and the brilliance of her eyes. Looking through his opera glass, he could see her quite clearly. She appeared to be watching the stage, but he was sure she had also seen him and was looking away on purpose. Was she afraid he might see what was written in those eyes? He had known her since she was a small child, knew her every mood, had seen her eyes full of mischief, teasing, laughing, crying and furious with indignation. He had seen them sad and he had seen them happy. He could not make himself believe she was happy now. And he could do nothing to remedy it. He had forfeited the right.

Jane knew perfectly well she was being watched. She had seen Anne and her brother take their seats before the curtain rose and, though she had turned to talk to Donald while the rest of the audience filled the theatre and, when the performance began, had concentrated on watching the stage, she was aware of Harry’s scrutiny. He had no right to look at her like that, no right to make her feel discomfited. She made herself angry; it was the only way she could go on.

She was still angry when the intermission brought the curtain down and everyone began moving about, waving to friends in other parts of the theatre, visiting other boxes. It made her a little sharp with Donald when he asked her if she would like some refreshment, but she immediately regretted it and smiled sweetly at him. ‘A cordial would be very nice, please. It is warm in here, is it not?’

He left on his errand and Jane turned to talk to her aunt about the play. Aunt Lane, who had her opera glasses to her eyes and was surveying the other boxes, did not appear to be listening. ‘Why, there is your cousin, Anne,’ she said. ‘And who is that with her, surely not a beau? My goodness, I do believe it is that rakeshame brother of hers. I wonder where he has popped up from.’

Jane had no answer, not having had the presence of mind to ask him that morning. ‘I am sure I do not know,’ she said.

‘Did you know he was back in town?’

‘We met him this morning while we were out riding.’

‘You did not say.’

‘I did not think anything of it. We exchanged greetings, no more.’

‘He looks much changed.’

‘I believe he is.’

‘My dear, what will you do?’

‘Do, Aunt? Why, nothing. If I meet him again, I shall be civil for Anne’s sake, but that is all.’

‘Very wise.’ The old lady paused, still looking through her glass. ‘But I admit to being curious. I wonder what he has been up to for the last two years? Not with the beau monde judging by his evening coat—it is at least three years out of date. Oh, my goodness, he has seen us and pointed us out to Anne. They are getting up. Do you suppose they are coming here?’

Anne and her brother arrived at the door of the box at the same moment as Donald returned with Jane’s drink. They greeted each other coolly and Aunt Lane, whose curiosity was overwhelming if she thought there might be a titbit of gossip worth passing on to her cronies, invited Anne and Harry into the box with something akin to cordiality.

Anne kissed Jane’s cheek and sat down beside her, depriving Donald of the seat he had had. He gave Jane her glass of cordial and sat himself on the other side of Aunt Lane. Harry, smiling, pulled a chair round to face the ladies. Aunt Lane leaned forward and tapped him on the knee with her fan. ‘Tell me, young man, where have you been hiding yourself these last two years?’

‘He has not been hiding,’ Anne said before he could reply himself. ‘He has been serving his country in the Peninsula, and though he will not tell you so himself, for he is far too modest, he distinguished himself with great courage.’

‘Is that so?’ Mrs Lane queried, smiling.

‘My sister was ever my champion,’ he said, but though he was smiling at the old lady, his eyes were on Jane. She was looking a little taken aback. Did she find it so difficult to believe that the man she had known and professed to love could behave with merit? Or was she simply discomfited that he had had the effrontery to invade her box?

Given his way, he would not have come, but Anne had insisted. ‘Jane is my friend,’ she had said. ‘If you were not here, I should go and have some discourse with her and I do not propose to change my habits because you are. It would be as good as cutting her and that would give the scandalmongers fresh ammunition and I will not give them the satisfaction. Besides, you have done no wrong and I will not have you ostracised. Better to let people think we are all friends together.’

He had smilingly given in, knowing she was right; politeness decreed they should acknowledge each other or have everyone talking about that two-year-old scandal all over again. Besides, although he could not and should not attempt to wrest Jane away from Allworthy, which would damn him all over again in the eyes of the world, he could not resist the temptation to speak to her again, if only for a few minutes. He might discover if Anne had been right when she said Jane had been coerced.

‘I thought you resigned your commission,’ Jane put in tentatively. She had noticed how tired he looked, and that, when he came in and took his seat, he limped. In spite of his smile, there was pain in his eyes and she wondered why she had not noticed it that morning. Her anger gave way to compassion.

‘So I did, but that did not mean I had finished with the army or they with me. I enlisted.’

‘Enlisted!’ Aunt Lane was shocked. ‘You mean you became a common soldier?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I was not prepared to wallow in my disgrace or hang about waiting for someone to take pity on me. And as I did not have the blunt to buy a commission in another regiment, I decided to serve my country in the only other way open to me.’

‘How brave of you,’ murmured Jane. This was not the blustering rakeshame she had sent away, this was a man who had taken his courage in his hands and tried to redeem himself.

He laughed, not sure she wasn’t roasting him. ‘Not brave at all, but once I had done it, there was no undoing it and in the end I did not regret it.’

‘He was soon promoted,’ Anne put in, realising that Aunt Lane did not see the common soldier as a being to be admired, rather the reverse. ‘He is Captain Harry Hemingford now.’

‘Congratulations,’ Jane said. ‘I am very pleased for you.’

‘But a private soldier!’ Aunt Lane protested. ‘How could you bring yourself to associate with the riffraff in the ranks?’

‘Ma’am, they are not riffraff, they are the men standing between you and Bonaparte, keeping this country safe from his tyranny, and a finer bunch of comrades I never met. I am proud to have served with them.’

‘I do not think Aunt Lane meant to denigrate them,’ Jane said quietly. ‘She was only thinking of your sensibilities.’

He turned towards her, looking directly into her eyes. ‘I could not afford to have sensibilities, Jane.’

‘Oh.’ She squirmed inwardly with embarrassment, but she had, in the last two years, become adept at hiding it. ‘I admire you for it.’ She spoke quietly, but he was immensely comforted.

The orchestra had begun to play for the second act, calling everyone back to their seats. Donald, who had remained silent all through the encounter, rose as Anne got up to take her leave. Reluctantly Harry stood, bowed over Mrs Lane’s hand, then Jane’s and, murmuring, ‘Good evening, Allworthy,’ disappeared after his sister.

‘What a strange fellow,’ Donald said, resuming his seat beside Jane.

‘I do not find him strange.’

‘No gentleman ought to enlist as a private soldier. It is degrading. Their vulgar behaviour and speech are bound to rub off.’

‘I saw no evidence of that.’

‘No doubt he was being particular tonight.’

The curtain was rising, revealing the next scene in the play, and Jane turned towards the stage, glad to bring an end to the conversation. But she could not concentrate. Seeing Harry twice in the same day had unsettled her. And he was so changed, she could hardly believe he was the man she had sent away. She had been the one to send him away, not only from herself, but from his country, his family and his friends. He could have lived down the scandal over Mrs Clarke, everyone else concerned had soon done so; it was not necessary to exile himself for that. He had gone because she could not forgive him and railed at him that he had betrayed her trust, going behind her back and visiting that demi-rep. How top-lofty she had been!

And now he was back and she was likely to see more of him. She could not avoid him unless she cut Anne out of her life and she could not do that. She and Anne were as close as sisters and shared all their secrets; without Anne she would have only an increasingly preoccupied father and an eccentric great-aunt for company. And Mr Allworthy, of course, but she could not imagine herself giggling over the latest on dit with him.

The performance ended amid wild applause and they found themselves leaving the theatre alongside Anne and Harry. Jane realised, as they shuffled out in the crowd, that Harry looked pale and drawn and his limp was more pronounced. ‘You have been wounded,’ she whispered.

‘Not worth mentioning, nothing but a scratch.’ He grinned to prove it. ‘A sympathy wound, you might call it. You’d be surprised how many expressions of compassion, how many offers of nursing, how many bowls of beef tea and posies of sweet-smelling herbs it has attracted. I put it all on, you know.’

She did not believe that. Not even the old Harry would have stooped so low and the pain she had seen in his eyes was real. ‘But you will make a full recovery?’

‘Oh, do not doubt it.’

They were outside in the street where rows of carriages and cabs waited. The two parties bade each other good night and parted: Jane, Donald and Aunt Lane made their way to the Allworthy carriage while Anne and Harry called up a hackney.

‘Well, that was a surprise, I must say,’ Aunt Lane said, as they were driven towards Duke Street. ‘I doubt the Earl will take him back now.’

‘Why not?’ Jane demanded. ‘I would expect him to be proud of his grandson. Anne said he was recommended for bravery in the field.’

‘I think your aunt meant enlisting as a common soldier,’ Donald put in. ‘It is not the sort of thing a member of the ton ought to do. His family must see it as a shabby thing to do, almost as if he had denounced his heritage. But then he had already been disgraced, so perhaps it is not to be wondered at.’

‘I hope he does not expect to introduce any of his rough friends to us,’ Aunt Lane added. ‘For if he does, I shall give them the cut direct and I hope you would do so too, Jane.’

‘I cannot conceive of an occasion when I am likely to meet his friends,’ Jane said sharply. ‘We do not move in the same circles.’

‘Quite,’ Donald said. ‘But you are his sister’s friend.’

‘Yes, Jane,’ Aunt Lane said. ‘I think, while he is staying with Anne, you would be wise not to call.’

Jane was about to retort angrily that unless her father specifically forbade it, she would see whom she liked, but thought better of it. She had already decided not to put herself in a position where she was likely to meet Harry, not because she frowned on what he had done since they last met, but because she did not want to be reminded of her heartache of two years before. It was over and done with and she wanted it to stay that way.

‘I go home to Coprise tomorrow,’ Donald said, changing the subject in his usual fashion.

‘So soon?’ Jane queried.

‘Yes, I must. But I go in the expectation of a visit from you very soon.’

‘In the circumstances, I think the sooner the better,’ Aunt Lane said.

Jane knew very well what she meant; it did not take a genius to realise Aunt Lane intended to keep her apart from Harry. As if anything on earth would make her go back to him! She smiled. ‘If Papa agrees, we could go a week from now.’

Her father had refused the invitation for himself, saying his work was at a critical stage and he could not leave it, but Jane could go if her aunt agreed to chaperon her, which, of course, the good lady was more than prepared to do. Jane could get his copying up to date before she left and he would save the rest for her when she returned two weeks later. He could not sanction a stay longer than that or he would be lost under the weight of paper on his desk. The suggestion that he should employ a secretary had been brushed aside as an unnecessary expense.

‘But, James,’ Aunt Lane had said, ‘what will you do when Jane marries?’

‘Oh, the work will be finished by then. I am near the end.’

Jane had smiled at that. The great work had been near the end for years. But he always found some alterations he wanted to make, some new information that must be included and, before Jane could take a breath, he had torn up pages and pages of her neat script and was busy scribbling again.

He had already retired when they reached home, and so it was arranged that Donald should call next morning before he left town, to learn exactly when he could expect his guests.

‘I am quite looking forward to it,’ Aunt Lane told him, as she left the carriage. ‘We shall come post-chaise.’

This was a shocking expense and Jane said so, but was overridden. ‘I am an old lady,’ her aunt said. ‘I need to be comfortable and I shall bear the cost.’

‘Dear lady, allow me the privilege of paying,’ Donald said. ‘I would gladly expend more than the price of a post-chaise to have Miss Hemingford in my home.’

He turned up while they were breakfasting the following morning and, once all the arrangements had been made, begged to speak privately to Jane. They retired to a corner of the room where he picked up one of her hands. ‘My dear, I shall be on hot coals until we meet again in one week’s time. Pray, do not forget me.’

‘Mr Allworthy, how can I possibly forget you in a week?’

‘You know what I mean. There will be distractions, temptations, pressures…’

She knew perfectly well that he was referring to Harry, though she did not think he posed a threat. Her erstwhile fiancé had been polite the evening before, but cool, talking about the army as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If she were subjected to pressure, it was more likely to come from her aunt bidding her make haste and accept Donald. She smiled. ‘Rest assured I shall ignore them all,’ she said.

He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Then I bid you au revoir, dearest.’ He released her hand and turned to her father and aunt, who had been listening to the exchange with satisfied amusement. ‘Mr Hemingford, Mrs Lane, your obedient.’ And then he was gone, leaving Jane feeling as though a whirlwind had taken her up and whisked her about hither and thither and set her down in a different and unfamiliar place.

‘Well,’ her aunt said, as they finished their breakfast, ‘we have a week to kill.’

‘It will pass soon enough,’ Mr Hemingford said. ‘I have a mountain of copying for Jane.’

‘James Hemingford, you should be ashamed!’ Aunt Lane protested. ‘Working that poor girl as you do. She is young, she needs amusements; besides, we have shopping to do—she must be at her best for Coprise.’

‘Oh, Aunt, there is nothing I need. I am sure Mr Allworthy will take me as I am.’

‘Oh, so he might,’ her aunt said airily. ‘But he has a house full of servants and it is always wise to impress the servants, particularly if you expect to become their mistress one day. They must respect you, not look on you as someone’s poor relation the master has been so foolish as to take pity on.’

Was that how her aunt really saw her? A poor relation whom it behoved her to pity? Was that why she had encouraged Mr Allworthy, because no one else would have her? Was she still shackled by the old scandal? But Mr Allworthy had said he admired her, that he paid no attention to gossip and he was a good man, if something of a sobersides. Perhaps that was what she needed.

‘I won’t have you saying Jane is a poor relation,’ her father snapped.

Her aunt laughed. ‘I did not say she was my poor relation, I only meant we did not want Mr Allworthy’s servants to have grounds for criticism. You are a man, you cannot advise the dear girl on her dress, now can you?’

Jane smiled. ‘Papa, I understood Aunt Lane very well, there is no need to refine upon it. I need very little, you know, just fripperies.’

‘Which I can pay for,’ he retorted. ‘Go shopping, buy whatever you need, but never say Jane is to be pitied.’

And so they went shopping and returned in the early afternoon with Aunt Lane’s carriage seat loaded with parcels and more to be delivered in the coming days, which her aunt had insisted on buying, leaving only a few small things to be set to her father’s account.

She was sitting on her bed surrounded by them, wondering how she was going to cram all those new clothes into her trunk and if she really needed them, when Hannah came to tell her Anne had arrived.

Jane tidied her hair and straightened her skirt before going down to the drawing room. Anne was sitting on the sofa, glancing at the latest Ladies’ Magazine when she entered. She was alone. If Jane had nurtured a hope that her friend would be accompanied by Harry, she refused even to acknowledge it, and smiled a welcome. ‘Anne, I am so glad you have come. There is so much to tell you.’ She rang the bell and, when Hannah came, asked her to bring refreshments. ‘I have had an exhausting day.’

‘Preparing for your visit to Coprise, I collect,’ Anne said drily.

‘Yes.’ Jane chose to ignore her friend’s tone. ‘Aunt Lane has insisted on buying me a whole new wardrobe. I think she must have been thinking she was buying a wedding trousseau.’

‘Perhaps she was.’

‘No, indeed. I have made no promise. But come upstairs and I will show you.’

They went up to Jane’s room where the purchases were laid out for her inspection. ‘I had such a job arguing with Aunt about colours and styles,’ she said. ‘But luckily the costumier agreed with me and so I have nothing too outrageous.’

‘Jane, are you sure you are not being persuaded into something you do not truly wish for? Once you have been to Coprise Manor, it will be assumed that you will have him. It will be difficult to turn back.’

‘I might not want to turn back.’

‘But supposing you do? You know nothing about this man or his background.’

‘That is what I am going to Coprise to discover. And if I find we do not suit, I shall simply say so.’

‘Oh, Jane, surely you are not such a ninny as to think it will be as easy as that? You will never be able to extricate yourself without a dreadful scandal. I am afraid for you.’

‘You have no need to be. Aunt Lane will take care of me.’

Anne felt like weeping. As far as she could see, her friend had been manipulated in the most disgraceful way and she could cheerfully have throttled both Mr Hemingford and Mrs Lane. ‘I wish you happy, I really do, but forgive me if I do not stay to take tea. I think it would choke me.’

She got up and left Jane surrounded by her new finery, bewildered and tearful. She had only once before quarrelled with Anne and that had been over Harry. And so was this. Anne was like a dog with a bone, but was she right?

Chapter Three

J ane spent the next few days tormented by indecision. Anne’s words had sunk deep and though she continually told herself that her friend had an axe to grind, she did not think that was the whole of it. But it was too late to say she would not go—her aunt talked about it endlessly, even so far as calling on the Countess, obeying that lady’s instruction to keep her informed.

‘Her ladyship tells me Mr Allworthy is related to Viscount Denderfield,’ she told Jane on her return. ‘He has a modest estate and an income of twenty thousand a year. The match has her blessing.’

Jane could not see how a modest estate could bring in that income, but she supposed he had inherited some of it. ‘Aunt, how could you discuss my affairs so openly with someone I have only seen once in my life and that for no more than five minutes?’

‘But, Jane dear, I have always done so; she is family, after all. And you must acknowledge Mr Allworthy is a great catch, better than I could have hoped for you.’

‘Why? Am I monster? Do I have two heads? Do I eat with my fingers and never wash? Am I mad?’ She was fiery with passion.

‘My dear Jane, there is no need to fly into the boughs. You know I did not mean that you were not good enough for him. After all, you come from aristocratic stock on your dear mama’s side and you have inherited her looks, nothing wrong there. It is only that you have left it so late and everyone of your age, including most of the eligibles, except widowers and old fogies, are suited. It is only because Mr Allworthy has spent most of his time buried in the country that he was overlooked.’

Jane laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. Mr Allworthy had been overlooked and forgotten in the country while she was being tainted by scandal and ostracised by the haut monde because she had dared to break off her engagement to one of their number. And now it looked very much as if it was all going to be raked up again. Harry was back and not only back, but had returned a hero. She was glad she was leaving town, very glad indeed.

But she was to see Harry once more before she left. Since she now had a fashionable habit and knew the stable from which Blaze had been hired, it was not difficult to go riding. The same groom whom Donald had employed was designated to ride behind her, to protect her from the villains with which London abounded and to act as an unofficial chaperon. Jane did not see the necessity for either role, but she consented to his presence to please her aunt. But it was not a sedate walk or trot she had in mind, but a full-blooded gallop, and once in the park she ordered her escort to wait for her by the gate and trotted off on her own.

Although it was early in the morning, it promised to be a warm day. The sun was a brilliant orange ball in a sky of cornflower blue, with not a cloud to be seen. Her problems were pushed to the back of her mind as she rode away from the usual bridleway where everyone was more concerned with how they looked, whom they might meet, the gossip they might hear and pass on, than with the business of exercising their mounts.

Gradually she became aware that she was not alone; there were other hoofbeats gaining on her and she was reminded that London was not a safe place for a lady on her own, not even Hyde Park in broad daylight. She spurred the little mare on, but the harder she rode, the nearer her pursuer came and she knew that Blaze was tiring. She was obliged to pull up or wind her horse completely. The other rider pulled up beside her.

‘My God, Jane, you gave me a fright. I thought you were being carried away.’

She turned to confront Harry. He was wearing the same riding coat he had worn when she had encountered him in Green Park. It seemed too tight for him. She leaned forward to pat Blaze, who was blowing hard. ‘Carried away, Captain Hemingford? It was you who taught me to ride, if you recall.’