Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [79]
“Oh, that she did,” Martha declared stoutly. “Always goin’ on about ‘ow flash he were, and ‘ow ‘e'd bring ‘er things that were that costly when she saw ‘im again.” She set the tray by the fire and poured out a cup.
“So it was an affair of some duration,” I mused. “I had supposed her young man only recently encountered—since her coming to Scargrave.”
“Oh, Lord, no! She was ever givin’ ‘erself airs, sayin’ as ‘ow she weren't likely to be in service no more when ‘er ship come in, and ‘ow we'd all ‘ave to call ‘er Miss Marguerite.” Martha thrust her nose in the air and shrugged her shoulders, affecting Marguerite's haughty disdain. “Showed us a gold locket she'd ‘ad off ‘im, that she kept real close-like, and wore under ‘er shift. Thought ‘e'd marry her; she did—or worse.”
I threw back the covers and reached for my dressing gown, my eyes on Martha's tray. “Perhaps it was a fellow from her native island, encouraged through steady correspondence? “
Martha looked doubtful. “I don't think as it was a ferriner, miss, but I can't rightly say.”
“I suppose she might readily have formed an acquaintance during her months in London.”
“Come to think on it, miss, she did say as he'd took ‘er strollin’ of an evenin’ in Covent Garden.”
I took a sip of tea and studied the maid over the rim of my cup. “I wonder her mistress the Countess did not know of it. The entire affair is curious, Martha. As curious as Marguerite's friendship with Lizzy Scratch.”
“Old Lizzy's ‘avin’ the time o’ ‘er life,” Martha averred with scorn. “If she were any friend to the girl, I'm yer widowed aunt, I am. You ask anyone, you'll find that woman was chargin’ Margie dearly for ‘er keep when she took ‘er in. She's a warm woman, is Lizzy.”
I BREAKFASTED WITH FANNY DELAHOUSSAYE, ARRAYED THIS morning in a dove-grey gown and lace collar that gave the barest nod to the conventions of mourning, but appeared to decided effect against her blond curls and blue eyes. My own brown muslin looked as dull as clodded earth by comparison, and made me feel just as heavy. I sought refuge in silence and Mrs. Hodges's excellent chocolate, but peace was not a quality Miss Delahoussaye prized, and so I was soon forced to all the tedium of an early morning tête-à-tête. For Fanny was up early, impatient for her return to London, and possessed of complete equanimity as to its cause.
“For,” said she, turning a gold bracelet idly upon her wrist, “I cannot abide the ennui of a country existence. One's circle is so fixed, so little varied, that one might complete the sentences of one's neighbour with very little thought or effort. When I am married, I shall suffer myself to spend as little time as possible at my husband's country seat.”
“Then perhaps we should wish you the wife of a man who has none,” I replied, with perhaps more of acid in my tongue than I intended.
“How you do tease, Miss Austen!” Fanny cried. “What is a man, without an estate of his own? A poor sort of gentleman, I declare.”
“Perhaps—but he is very often a soldier, you know; for though it is the profession you prefer above all others, it is generally the province of second sons.”
“Oh, piffle,” Miss Fanny said, returned to her good humour. “What is country life in any case, but shooting and billiards and the coarseness of country neighbours? An establishment in Town, such as an officer possessed of a truly good commission might claim, is far to be preferred. I long to be returned to Hyde Park, and the shops of Bond Street, and the theatre, and a hundred delightful schemes, even if London will be rather thin—until Easter at least. “
My patience for such a rattle was at an end. “I think it likely that we shall be so engaged, when in London, by matters of a sober and troubling nature,” I said stiffly, “that we shall have very little time for diversion.”
“One cannot be always going about with a long face,” said Fanny, intent upon adjusting her bodice. “It behooves us to meet adversity with a certain style. I intend to find Madame Henri—she is quite the most fashionable modiste, my dear Miss Austen—as soon as