The Hemingford Scandal. Mary Nichols
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had never had a personal maid and relied on Hannah to help her with fastenings and pinning up her hair. ‘At your age you should not be without a maid,’ her aunt had said when she had been in residence a few days. ‘I shall speak to your father about it.’
Jane had begged her not to. ‘I do not need someone to wait on me,’ she had said. ‘My needs are simple and she would not have enough to do and we cannot afford to pay servants for doing nothing. Hannah does me very well.’
But she couldn’t stop her aunt from sending Lucy, her own maid, to her when she considered the occasion important enough to warrant it. And it seemed today was important, because the young woman was already in her room when she went to change. She chose a muslin gown in palest green. Its skirt was gathered into a high waist and it had little puff sleeves over tight undersleeves. The neckline was filled with ruched lace edged with ribbon. ‘I don’t know that there’s time to do much with your hair, Miss Jane,’ Lucy said. ‘I do wish the gentleman had given notice he was calling.’
‘So do I, Lucy. Just brush it out and tie it back with a green ribbon. He cannot expect a full coiffure at this early hour.’ Would that put him off? That thought was followed by another. Did she want to put him off? It was a question she did not know how to answer. He was, as her aunt had pointed out, eligible, and though she was not quite at her last prayers, ought she to be particular? After all, her previous sortie into the matrimonial stakes had been disastrous. Left to herself, she had chosen very badly.
She was slipping on light kid shoes when her aunt knocked and entered. ‘Are you ready, dear?’ She stopped to appraise her. ‘Very nice, a little colourless, but perhaps it is best to be modest, until you know your husband’s tastes.’
‘Husband, Aunt?’ Jane queried. ‘You are a little beforehand, don’t you think? He has not asked me yet and I have not accepted.’
‘No, but he will and I am sure you are not such a ninny as to turn him down flat.’
‘I shall listen to him, that is all I can promise,’ she said, following her aunt down to the beautifully proportioned drawing room which had been furnished in excellent taste by Jane herself when she and her father first moved to London. Her father and Donald Allworthy were standing by the hearth.
Donald was tall and lean. His impeccable coat in dark blue superfine and his biscuit-coloured pantaloons, tucked into brilliantly polished Hessians, denoted a man of some substance, though certainly not a dandy. He wore a diamond pin in his meticulously tied cravat, a fob and a quizzing glass across his figured brocade waistcoat. He smiled as he bowed to her. ‘Miss Hemingford, your servant.’
‘Mr Allworthy.’ She dipped a curtsy, but she could feel her face growing hot and quickly turned to her father. He was a good head shorter than their visitor and was clearly not particular about his dress. It had been different when her mother was alive, but now he put on whatever came first to hand when he rose in the morning. On this occasion, he was wearing dark blue trousers and a brown coat with darker velvet revers. His white cravat was unstarched and tied anyhow; his grey hair, thin and wispy, stood out all over his head as if he had been running his hands through it. ‘Papa, you sent for me?
‘Indeed I did.’ He was beaming at her. She felt a shiver of apprehension as she realised he was pleased with himself. At last he had managed to find someone to take his foolish daughter off his hands. She knew she had been a great trial to him, becoming engaged to Harry and then breaking it off. Not that it was the breaking off that had caused the scandal; that had come before and left her no choice in the matter. Papa had not blamed her; he had simply accepted the fact and left her to make what she could of her life. But he must have been worried. Poor dear, it was unfair of her to make difficulties for him.
‘Mr Allworthy wishes to speak to you,’ he said. ‘I know you will listen carefully to what he has to say.’
‘Of course, Papa.’ She dare not look at the young man, but she could not but be aware of him; his presence seemed to fill the room. There was an air of expectancy, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for a pause in time before it resumed ticking away in a different rhythm.
‘Then we will leave you.’ He beckoned to Aunt Lane and they left the room.
The clock ticked louder than ever. Or was it her heart pumping in her throat? ‘Mr Allworthy,’ she said, sitting on the sofa and placing her hands in her lap. ‘Won’t you be seated?’
He came and sat beside her, perching himself on the edge of the seat, half-facing her, and doubling his long legs under him, so that she was afraid he might fall to the ground. ‘Miss Hemingford, I trust you are well?’
‘Very well, Mr Allworthy. And you?’
‘I am in the best of health, thank you, but as to my mental state, that is not so sanguine. I have never done this before, you see.’
‘Done what, Mr Allworthy?’
‘Proposed marriage.’ He paused, smiling. ‘I have reached thirty years of age and never found a lady that I felt I wanted to marry, until now, that is…’
‘Are your standards so exacting?’ She was teasing him, which she knew was unkind and she had never knowingly been unkind. ‘I am sorry, sir, I interrupted you.’
‘Yes, you did, but I am not to be put off, you know.’ He seized one of her hands in both his own. ‘I have formed a deep attachment to you, very deep. In short, I admire you greatly and would be honoured and privileged if you would consent to be my wife.’
‘Mr Allworthy!’ She tried to retrieve her hand, but he held it too firmly. Rather than tussle with him, she let it lie.
‘Do not tell me you did not expect it.’
‘I did not, not before today. I do not know what to say.’
‘Say yes and you will make me the happiest man in the world.’
‘But we hardly know each other.’
‘Oh, I think we do. I know you well enough to be sure that my future happiness lies in your hands. I believe I recognised that the first moment I saw you at Mrs Bradford’s a month ago. You are so exactly my vision of a perfect wife, well bred, beautiful, intelligent and honest and yet you are no milksop. As for me, I am in possession of a small estate in north Norfolk. The house is not especially large, not what you might call a mansion, but it is well proportioned, and there is a small park and a farm. I am not, I confess, as rich as Golden Ball, but I am certainly not without funds and I have expectations—’ He broke off as if he had said too much, and then continued. ‘You would never want for comfort. I am persuaded we could be very happy together.’
It was a pretty speech and the fact that he could not command the wealth of Mr Edward Ball mattered not one jot, but she was sure he did not know as much about her as he claimed, for who would want to marry someone who had broken off a previous engagement? ‘Oh, dear, this is difficult. Mr Allworthy, there are things you should know about me. I am not in my first Season. I am twenty years old and I must confess that I have been engaged before…’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Your papa told me of it, but he assures me it is all over and done with.’
‘Indeed, it is.’
‘Then it is not an impediment, not if you love me.’
‘I cannot say that I do.’
‘But you have no great aversion?’
‘Oh, no, sir, no aversion at all.’
‘Then I shall do everything in my power to make you love me.’
‘Can one make someone do something like that? I mean, is it not something we cannot help, that is beyond our power to command or deny?’
‘Perhaps, but perhaps the feeling is already there, hidden inside ourselves and simply needs bringing to the fore and acknowledging. Do you understand me?’
‘Oh, perfectly, Mr Allworthy.’
‘Then