The Heart's Companion

The first rays of afternoon sunlight that struck the tall west-facing Gothic parlor window cut a knife-edged swath across the brilliantly colored carpet. Motes glittered and danced in the sun like a sprinkling of fairy dust in the air. There was a lazy stillness to the house, to the room. Indeed, for Jane, such calm was a long forgotten treat, redolent with memories.

Sir Helmsdon was gone, the Willoughbys off jaunting, Mr. Burry napping, Millicent still keeping to her room, and Lady Serena somewhere, anywhere, it didn’t matter, but in Jane’s vicinity. The children had coaxed Cook into preparing another picnic. Nurse Twinkleham was resting easily while Elsbeth worked in the stillroom. The marquis and the earl were closeted in the earl’s room playing cards and blowing a cloud.

A sense of peace settled into Jane, smoothing the faint traces of tension in her brow, at the corners of her lips, in the set of her shoulders. She sat on one of the long settees, her shoes off, her feet drawn up under her, an open book lying forgotten under her hand. She savored the stillness for its implicit, ephemeral nature. It gave time and space for her thoughts to settle and expand. Since she’d heard Lady Serena and Millicent were to visit, her mind had been buzzing and darting about, frantically and to no purpose, a bee seeking nectar from all the wrong flowers.

For almost three years they have been manipulating her life. Three years! Not directly through explicit actions, but by the continuing canker on her soul; the canker formed by her naiveté and their deceit.

She leaned her head back against the upholstery, willing her body to relax. She let her thoughts melt and flow.

The manipulation of her life had begun with David Hedgeworth.

Or had it. Had it actually begun then, or with the death of her mother? Yes, the history of their interference went back further.

She remembered herself as a fragile child, burdened with myriad uncertainties, which were fed by Lady Serena and dear Cousin Millicent. Then, as she grew older and began displaying a sense of her own self, there were the carefully contrived insults and snubs followed disorientingly by warm solicitation and advice. Lady Serena often told Jane that she could not be blamed for her defects. Serena’s actions and words were all so insidious—wispy, like smoke in the wind. There was not a specific action or set of words that could be pointed to and declaimed. That was why the history of their influence in her life eluded Jane so. That, and the lack of motive. Why?

Somehow, by clinging tenaciously to her mother’s memory and hearing again her words, even if only in her own mind, she'd matured. If not unscathed, then honed. She was the quintessential homely child turned beautiful on maturity. More importantly, she grew strong, though not, she ruefully conceded, necessarily any smarter.

Then there was Mr. David Hedgeworth. She remembered she met him at eccentric Lady Oakley’s annual ball. It was early in the season. He was new in town, returning to England after two years spent between the West Indies sugar plantation he stood to inherit, and traveling about the Americas. The War of 1812 with the United States had brought him back to England.

He was a tall, slender young man of some five and twenty years. An easy smile and a chivalrous nature made him popular throughout London. It was odd, but all she could distinctly remember was his distinctive lopsided smile. She supposed, when she thought of it long and hard, that his hair and eyes had been brown—light brown. But she could not conjure a face to put with that hair, or to his name. It made her feel oddly guilty. She shook her head bemusedly.

That season, Jane was often in his company. Their interests had ostensibly been the same. They visited London like tourists, she with guidebook in hand, dutifully reading some historical or architectural note while her companion trailed after them, muttering of her blistering feet. Theirs was a comfortable relationship and she, with the ice of aloneness still in her soul, craved—nay, loved!—comfort. Dreams of a lifetime of comfort began drifting, like gossamer threads in the wind. It was mesmerizing. She began mental plans, gentle dreams, for their future.

Then came the Bridlingtons’ house party.

It was held at the end of the season, and she stopped there on her way home to Speerford Hall. Mr. Hedgeworth was to accompany her. It was understood between them that he would speak to her father before making his declaration to her. That was why he was coming to Speerford, to catch Sir Grantley while he yet remained in England, and secure his consent before he approached Jane. Mr. Hedgeworth was a stickler for conventions, for adhering to society’s rules. Once, when she’d made some mention of that fact, he answered solemnly that he liked order in his life. After experiencing the disorder of the Americas, he craved England’s ordered life.

He was not a man society gossiped about. There was nothing in his nature that would generate gossip. He was a quiet, comfortable man. Excesses of emotion were alien to his nature. Jane smiled in remembrance. He certainly was not one to drive her to the anger the Earl of Royce could engender. Nor, that she recalled, had she felt any of the strangely exciting prickly tingles she experienced in the earl’s company.

Perhaps Millicent had not been so fortunate, after all.

The thought drifted, unbidden into Jane’s mind. Annoyed, she angrily shunted it aside. It was beneath her! Mr. Hedgeworth was everything she had desired in a man.

Once, amended that gentle voice.

Perhaps Mr. Hedgeworth’s staid disposition (for there could be no other word to describe it) was the reason Millicent now pursued livelier game. Jane squirmed and shifted in her seat, her thoughts embarrassing.

Lady Serena considered Mr. Hedgeworth a good marital catch. She early identified his passion for propriety, his abhorrence for romantic intrigue. She decided to use his characteristics to her and her daughter’s advantage. Her first effort was to compromise Jane with another man. Failing that, to arrange for an embarrassing situation that would give Mr. Hedgeworth a disgust of Jane. In that she all but failed.

Serena arranged for an inebriated young man to take a wrong turn down the rabbit warren halls of Bridlington House and to find himself in Jane’s room. The plan was that she would discover him there and raise a hue and cry. Fortunately for Jane, she’d been sleeping restlessly. Finally in disgust she rose and, putting on her wrapper, descended the great staircase to the ground floor. She made her way soundlessly to the library. She stayed there an hour, perusing the Bridlingtons’ books and mementos. Finally, chosen book in hand, she turned to go back to her room.

The sound of shouting voices echoed in the Great Hall, their words indistinct. She hurried upward. Outside her room stood Lady Serena, Millicent, Mr. Hedgeworth, and some others Jane did not know. She remembered her aunt’s words.

"He’s in there! I tell you, I saw him go in there as bold as brass not five minutes ago. My poor niece, she’s ruined!"

The door to her bedchamber opened then, and out stepped the inebriated gentleman, swaying gently. "That’s not my room," he lisped softly.

Lady Serena wailed at Jane’s misfortune. She turned to Mr. Hedgeworth, offering sympathy for his ill luck. It was then that Jane made her presence known by requesting to know what was happening. Millicent shrieked, as if she were seeing a ghost. Lady Serena demanded to know what she was doing there. Confused, Jane told them of her lack of sleep and her trip to the library over an hour ago.

"And you’ve been there ever since?" queried Lady Serena.

When she responded affirmatively, she noted her aunt’s dissatisfied expression. Mr. Hedgeworth, after only a moment’s hesitation, came over to her to squeeze her hand and tell her how glad he was. Catastrophe averted and no spice for the scandal broth, everyone wandered back to their own rooms. Jane locked her door.

Later in the night, Millicent found herself in Mr. Hedgeworth’s room. Claiming and cursing sleepwalking, she began sobbing hysterically. He tried to soothe her and shoo her out of his rooms. He was too late. Lady Serena flew in, dressed in affronted matronly dignity. So Millicent won Mr. Hedgeworth by arranging a compromising assignation with him for herself. Horrified at the gossip and rumors that would circulate society, he quickly proposed marriage. Instead of traveling to Speerford Hall with Jane, he left the Bridlingtons’ for London to place a notice in the Morning Gazette and to arrange a suitable and proper wedding. His chief concern was to scotch talk.

He scarcely said another word to Jane, for he said it wouldn’t be proper.

The Honorable Miss Millicent Tipton and Mr. David Hedgeworth were wed less than a month later. Out of duty, Jane attended the ceremony. She attended it swathed in her new society cloak designed to protect her from harm. It was not long afterwards that the sobriquet Ice Witch began to circulate polite society.

Ice Witch. Lady Elsbeth was correct. That name represented society’s love for rumor and scandal. They could make scandal out of less than whole cloth. Jane pulled her cloak of icy mien tighter around herself. The rumors grew more pervasive.

Rumors. Scandal. Gossip. She was caught up in the whirlwind. And as she was a part of it, so she became a part of it. She questioned and speculated on everyone’s behavior, offering her own insights, her beliefs. Hers, like everyone else’s, entered the vast vat of idle words and came out with knife-edged "truths." She never questioned the accuracy of society’s tales. She took them as truth and reacted accordingly, as society took her sobriquet as truth and treated her accordingly. She was guilty of a gross perpetuation of lies.

A frown pulled at the corners of her lips. That was not a flattering nor pleasant realization to make about oneself. But was totally ignoring all tales proper, either? For the past two days she’d refused to listen to anything that smacked of speculation and gossip. What was the name of that strange bird discovered in Africa? The one that hid its head in the sand at the approach of danger? As if denying the danger would make it nonexistent. Yes! It was the bird all the beautiful feathers came from. An ostrich. Was she behaving like that ostrich? Was she hiding her head in the sand by refusing to listen? If she was, then could she be wounded by complete inattention. Furthermore, if she was playing the ostrich, neither would she be able to defend the hapless subject of the gossip if she did not hear the tales. In the future she vowed she would learn to question, to evaluate. Gossip mongering was not stopped by inattention. It was defeated by the light of truth.

And what was the truth regarding the Earl of Royce? Any gentleman who could enjoy her nephews’ company, as he genuinely appeared to, could not have been cruel to another child, no matter the circumstance. Perhaps his sobriquet was as false as her own.

She considered that a moment. She’d used the name as a shield between them, something to keep him from getting close to her, something to block the strange attraction she felt. If she were to remove that impediment, what would happen?

A surge of prickly tingles swept her blood, then faded only to remain in the pit of her stomach. She raised her hand and placed it on her waist, awed by the lingering echo. A slow smile pulled her lips wide, her cheeks flushing delicately, and her eyes sparkling like cut emeralds.

She hugged herself excitedly, then picked up her discarded novel and tried to immerse herself in the story in an attempt to curb her burgeoning anticipation.

The faint rumble of deep voices from out in the hall pulled Jane’s attention away from the book in her hand. It wasn’t a difficult task. She doubted she could relate the events of the last five pages. She had been daydreaming, waiting for the stillness to break.

The door to the parlor opened to reveal Lord Royce, leaning heavily on Lord Conisbrough’s arm. Instantly Jane was on her feet and running to his side.

"My lord! Should you be up? Your ankle!"

"My ankle would do well for a little exercise, as would my body and mind. Besides, if my company is to continue to be limited to Conisbrough, I’ll go mad!"

"I’ve beaten him eight games out of ten and his pride’s hurt," drawled the marquis, turning his head to wink at Jane.

"Pride! I thought it was my pocketbook," Royce said with asperity, hobbling over to one of the matched settees. He stood by it. Jane looked at him perplexed. "Miss Grantley," he said with strained patience, "I cannot sit before you, and as the ankle is throbbing, I do so wish to."

Jane blushed, then bristled. "Fustian, my lord. To be thinking of silly conventions when one is injured is the height of—of—"

"Of?" he repeated.

"Oh, I don’t know. Just sit down."

A small smile captured the earl’s lips. He bowed his head in thanks and sank gingerly down on the settee. Jane was beside him in an instant, offering to help move the injured member on to the length of the broad cushions. Her hands burned when she touched him, the sensation traveling rapidly throughout her body. She stepped back hastily.

"Can I order any refreshments for you, my lord?"

"No, thank you. Just your company as a change from this fellow’s ugly phizz."

"Don’t think you’ve been the only one to suffer," quipped the marquis easily. He turned to Jane. "Where might I find Lady Elsbeth this afternoon?"

"In the stillroom."

"More herbs?"

Jane laughed. "I’m afraid so."

He sighed lugubriously. Then he cocked his head and looked at Jane. "Tell me, Miss Grantley, why has your aunt never married?"

She looked at him steadily, uncertain what to say. "For as long as I can remember," she said slowly, "Elsbeth has devoted herself to the care of others. "

The marquis raised his eyebrows.

"Not long ago I teased her for allowing the family to take advantage of her. Her response was that it was not something one planned. It begins either from the notion of being helpful in times of need, or, as I thought she was referring to in my case, as an escape from society. Now I wonder if she was strictly referring to me. I know she has long shunned society; but I believe her reasons to be complex and convoluted. Perhaps not even properly understood by herself. "

The marquis nodded. "Thank you, Miss Grantley, for your honesty. Now if you two will excuse me." He turned to go, then stopped and looked over his shoulder at Royce, a slight smile on his lips. "Should I best leave the parlor door open?"

Royce looked at him with feigned innocence. "And what of the stillroom door?"

"That, my friend, is none of your concern."

"I perceive that the wrong one of us has an injured ankle. "

"The wrong one of us?" repeated the marquis, looking askance at Jane, though a smile lingered on his lips. Then he bowed and left the room, closing the door with a distinct snap.

The earl scowled after his retreating back, then glanced at Jane. "Conisbrough is reliving his youth," he said sourly. He shifted in his seat, ostensibly to ease his ankle.

"Does it hurt much?" Jane asked, uncertain whether to stay or go.

He looked up at her and smiled. It eased the sharp creases in his brow and between his eyes, making him appear younger. "No. Your aunt’s salve has done miracles. But it is still tender and I’m cognizant of the fact it will heal faster if I pamper it. There was a time, I suppose," he went on reflectively, "when I would have refused to grant it rest and suffered in silence. Stoic heroism."

"Sounds more like fool’s business to me."

"Precisely, but oh, for the false pride of youth!"

Jane sat down on the edge of a chair set at right angles to the settee. "What do you mean by that, my lord?"

He looked at her levelly. "I believe, Miss Grantley, you are no more an Ice Witch than I am the Devil’s Disciple."

"You aren’t?"

A tiny smile curled at the corners of his mouth. "No."

"I know," she sighed with a rueful smile of her own.

An arrested expression shone in his eyes. "How do you know that?" he asked, carefully watching her.

She slid back in the chair and cocked her head to the side. "When I first met you, you played the unrepentant rake. And may I say, you play it very well. Nonetheless, it is not intrinsic to your nature. "

The earl slid his hands behind his head, thoroughly enjoying himself. "It’s not? How can you be so certain, Miss Grantley? You have heard my story."

"No, that’s exactly what I haven’t heard. I’ve heard society’s story. I’m convinced there is a significant difference."

"You have me intrigued. How so?"

"Really, my lord, this is not a subject we should be discussing."

"Why not? If society finds it a fit subject, why should you not?"

"It is not something a woman discusses alone with a man, particularly the man in question. It’s embarrassing."

Jane refused to meet his gaze as she worried her lower lip between her teeth. When she looked up, she straightened. She turned her eyes from his. "It is said you convinced a young woman of good birth to run off with you by false promises of marriage. Afterwards, when she was ruined, you kept her as your mistress. When she presented you with a son, you threw her out, but kept the child, though you never claimed him. It is said the child died when he was three due to abuse or neglect. There. That is the sum and total of it," she said quickly. She looked back at him tentatively to gage his response. He nodded.

"A fairly concise accounting of society’s tale. But you, Miss Grantley, don’t believe it? What part don’t you believe?" A cynical sneer twisted his lips.

She pressed her own lips tightly together, wishing to be anywhere but in this room with this enigmatic man. "I don’t know what the circumstances were with the young woman, so I will not venture a hypothesis."

"Coward," he murmured.

She flashed him an annoyed glance and breathed deeply. "I don’t believe you mistreated or neglected that young child. Whether he was your own or not. I believe, my lord, that you like children, despite the facade you present to the world. It is not fashionable to notice the existence of children. You ignore that dictum, but not from any perverse desire to thumb your nose at society. You couldn’t care if society notices or not. You do it for yourself, and you derive enjoyment from children for yourself. You would be incapable of hurting a child in the way gossip would have you. Furthermore, your gambling rampage did not start until after the child died, almost three years after the mother left him in your care."

"Peter."

"I beg your pardon, my lord?"

"The child’s name was Peter. And you are correct. I would never have harmed that child, even though he was not my son."

"What?" Jane’s head flew up, her gaze locking with the earl’s.

He waved his hand airily. "That is just one of several small details society mistranslated. First, I wanted to marry Vivian Montrechet, and I thought she wanted to marry me; however, when we arrived in Europe she let me know quite firmly that she would prefer to remain my mistress. At that time I accepted her decision without question. Naive, on my part. For Vivian, I was merely a stepping stone. She hungered for gaiety and glamour. When she found herself pregnant, she came and told me. I knew immediately it was not my child and she knew I knew. It was evidently the result of a liaison she regretted, particularly as she had recently caught the attention of a certain German princeling. She allowed him to believe it was my child she carried. He accepted that. However, after she bore the child he invited her to live in one of his castles as his mistress, if she left the child behind. She agreed. She’s still there, as far as I know. "

"So you were left quite literally with babe in arms."

"Yes. Peter was a delightful child, and even though I would not claim him as my own, I did everything I could for him. Unfortunately I was not the wisest in choosing those to care for him. One day the maid who was watching him while he played outside became more interested in flirting with the groom. Peter decided to play in the fountain in the garden."

"Oh no!" Jane gasped, knowing what he would say next, yet unable to stop listening.

His voice continued in a neutral, dispassionate manner, as if he were relating the time of day. "He was discovered later floating in it, face down. I blamed myself for his death. You are correct, Miss Grantley. It was then that I went on a wild gambling rage. As if by losing all, or nearly all of what I had, I could in some way atone for the child’s death." His voice trailed off on the last, as if he were no longer talking to her, but talking more to himself.

"You loved that child," Jane said softly.

He looked down at his hands and shrugged. "In my fashion. As much as I am capable of loving anything, I suppose."

"Oh, stop it! Stop it right now! That arrogant coldness is all an act with you. It’s what you feel society wants. Well, I’m not society. I’m Jane Grantley, and I won’t accept that behavior from you!"

The parlor door opened suddenly and two pairs of eyes swiveled around to see who was there. Millicent Hedgeworth slid into the room.

"Well, you will not get any argument from me that you are not society," she drawled.

A brilliant blush swept up Jane’s neck and face. She glanced at Jeremy, who was still standing by the open door. He shook his head slowly, indicating that Millicent had not had an opportunity to overhear her conversation with Royce, and backed out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Relieved, Jane collapsed back in her chair, but she noticed the earl made no move to rise to his feet.

She glanced back at Millicent and noticed that she was coloring furiously. She approached Jane with an unusual mincing step, as if she were half afraid.

"Wha—what I mean is, if all society decided to leave the season as early as you, Jane, London would not be worth a visit," she stammered, looking anxiously from Jane to the earl and back. "Am I correct? I mean, there would be no one to give parties, or meet at Günter's, or drive in the park with. What would be the use of a London season?" she asked with a shrill laugh. She sat in the companion chair to Jane’s, smiling tentatively at them.

Jane and the earl exchanged quizzical glances. Millicent was not acting in character.

"Do you feel all right, Cousin?" Jane asked.

"I am much better, thank you. Um, ah—Aunt Elsbeth feels I should get outside today for some fresh air. Avoiding the sun, of course. Ah, I was wondering, Jane, if you might join me in a little spin around the neighborhood? Mama tells me you are an excellent four-in-hand whip. Oh, dear, that does sound awkward, doesn’t it?" she said with a sharp, nervous laugh. "Here I am asking you to join me in a carriage ride, and practically in the same breath requesting that you drive us! It’s just that I’m a stranger in this neighborhood and would no doubt get lost if I drove myself. "

Jane didn’t know how to respond. Spending time alone with Millicent was not her idea of a pleasant way to pass an afternoon. She knew her peace would not be of long duration. "What time?" she asked, resigning herself to her duties.

"Now, in a half hour, an hour." Millicent shrugged delicately. "It won’t make any difference."

Jane looked at her silently, weighing the benefits and consequences of accepting her cousin’s invitation. She decided it would be best to accept, for the sake of future harmony.

"I can be ready in half an hour," she said.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Millicent, jumping to her feet. "I shall meet you in the Great Hall then." She turned to leave. At the door she stopped, turning around to address Royce.

"I beg your pardon, my lord. I fear I’ve been rude. Will you forgive me?" She smiled sunnily, her confidence returning.

Royce, still on the couch, bowed at the waist in a parody of the formal action. Millicent, glowing as if she’d received some precious gift, hurried out the door.

The earl shook his head at the closed portal. "I know she is a relative of yours, but I cannot say I like the woman. She has the most grating manner I’ve encountered in years."

Jane laughed. "Ah, then be forewarned. She has her marital eye on you."

The earl feigned an abhorrent shudder. "Then I shall look to you to protect my good name, Miss Grantley," he said teasingly.

"Which name?" she countered, rising to go and change. "Royce, or the Devil’s Disciple?" She hunted around for her shoes.

The earl, finding her shoes under the settee, gently threw them at her as his answer. Jane’s laughter seemed to linger in the parlor long after she’d gone.