found she could not forget those fleeting shadows of sorrow she detected in the earl’s dark eyes, nor the slight edge to his voice when he spoke of the past. But if she was to mercilessly throw Millicent at his head, then she must not feel any sympathy for the man. He had to be the villain he was painted, else she could not in clear conscience maneuver him into Millicent’s noisome web. She acknowledged the uncharitable nature of her thoughts and wished they could be otherwise. But where she could hold a doubt as to Lord Royce’s perfidy, she could not do the same for her aunt and cousin.
Lady Elsbeth briskly finished bottling her herbals, but her movements were automatic, her thoughts more than ten years in the past. She, too, once believed the tales society told. She listened, believed, and acted properly affronted at all the scandalous whispers. She didn’t know how she came to be so naive. Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of seven children and accustomed to her elder siblings directing her actions and thoughts. Or perhaps it was because there was some measure of truth in the tales.
It was a truth that had knifed her heart and bled her dry. At eighteen she had loved a rakehell; but she turned her back on him when he’d extended his hand. Her family, her position as daughter of the Duke of Ruthaven, her moral priorities—they all weighted her down. Often she was haunted by that last meeting with him. It took place on one of the more private walks at Vauxhall Gardens. It was a beautiful night, clear and fragrant. The sounds of music and voices and laughter wafted through the air. She confronted him with the truth of the tales she’d heard. He countered with words like love, trust, and honor while bitterness etched his moonlit face. He swore that he never lied to her and would never do so. He left belief and acceptance in her hands. To her everlasting regret, she believed the scurrilous tales before him.
In retrospect, she acquitted herself due to youth and unworldliness. But it made no matter. The damage was done, and fifteen years later she was an imprisoned spinster. She would not have that be Jane’s fate. It was not that she thought the Earl of Royce a match for her niece, for truly she did not. Nonetheless, if Jane accepted society’s tales without question now, she may well do so on other, more important occasions. No. Jane must be made to evaluate Lord Royce freely, without prejudice. Whereas Jane planned to throw Royce and Millicent together, Elsbeth would work to see that Jane also spent time with the earl. And remembering his easy camaraderie with Bertram and Edward, that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. She would have to do something about her sister though. That would take some consideration.
She stacked her dirty bowls, bottles, and utensils on a wooden tray and placed it on the end of her workbench. Becky could come by later to see that they were cleaned. She dipped her hands in a bowl of tepid water, then wiped them on a scrap of cloth tacked at the end of the workbench. She untied the large, canvas apron and slipped it over her head, hanging it on a peg embedded in the whitewashed wall. Then she laid a gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder.
"Do not brood so. Your face will set like a pudding," she admonished fondly, inexplicably feeling decades older than her niece, though only thirteen years separated them. "Come, let’s go for a stroll in the garden. This may be one of our last days to enjoy it in peace before Serena’s party descends upon us with all their concomitant noise and bother."
Jane smiled, tucking her notes under her arm. "An excellent suggestion. While we walk we can discuss the guest list, too." She linked arms with her aunt. "But if you tell me we must invite the Biddulphs, I shall squirm and turn recalcitrant on you. A more pious, dull group I have never encountered. I’m amazed they aren’t avowed evangelicals."
"I should think better of them if they were.
Lady Elsbeth briskly finished bottling her herbals, but her movements were automatic, her thoughts more than ten years in the past. She, too, once believed the tales society told. She listened, believed, and acted properly affronted at all the scandalous whispers. She didn’t know how she came to be so naive. Perhaps it was because she was the youngest of seven children and accustomed to her elder siblings directing her actions and thoughts. Or perhaps it was because there was some measure of truth in the tales.
It was a truth that had knifed her heart and bled her dry. At eighteen she had loved a rakehell; but she turned her back on him when he’d extended his hand. Her family, her position as daughter of the Duke of Ruthaven, her moral priorities—they all weighted her down. Often she was haunted by that last meeting with him. It took place on one of the more private walks at Vauxhall Gardens. It was a beautiful night, clear and fragrant. The sounds of music and voices and laughter wafted through the air. She confronted him with the truth of the tales she’d heard. He countered with words like love, trust, and honor while bitterness etched his moonlit face. He swore that he never lied to her and would never do so. He left belief and acceptance in her hands. To her everlasting regret, she believed the scurrilous tales before him.
In retrospect, she acquitted herself due to youth and unworldliness. But it made no matter. The damage was done, and fifteen years later she was an imprisoned spinster. She would not have that be Jane’s fate. It was not that she thought the Earl of Royce a match for her niece, for truly she did not. Nonetheless, if Jane accepted society’s tales without question now, she may well do so on other, more important occasions. No. Jane must be made to evaluate Lord Royce freely, without prejudice. Whereas Jane planned to throw Royce and Millicent together, Elsbeth would work to see that Jane also spent time with the earl. And remembering his easy camaraderie with Bertram and Edward, that shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. She would have to do something about her sister though. That would take some consideration.
She stacked her dirty bowls, bottles, and utensils on a wooden tray and placed it on the end of her workbench. Becky could come by later to see that they were cleaned. She dipped her hands in a bowl of tepid water, then wiped them on a scrap of cloth tacked at the end of the workbench. She untied the large, canvas apron and slipped it over her head, hanging it on a peg embedded in the whitewashed wall. Then she laid a gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder.
"Do not brood so. Your face will set like a pudding," she admonished fondly, inexplicably feeling decades older than her niece, though only thirteen years separated them. "Come, let’s go for a stroll in the garden. This may be one of our last days to enjoy it in peace before Serena’s party descends upon us with all their concomitant noise and bother."
Jane smiled, tucking her notes under her arm. "An excellent suggestion. While we walk we can discuss the guest list, too." She linked arms with her aunt. "But if you tell me we must invite the Biddulphs, I shall squirm and turn recalcitrant on you. A more pious, dull group I have never encountered. I’m amazed they aren’t avowed evangelicals."
"I should think better of them if they were.
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