Mrs Newnham had been only too delighted to pass on the organisation to Violet, reserving to herself the pleasant responsibility for thinking up endless tasks for other people to do and changing her mind three times a day about he
r own gowns. Jane suspected that she was also scouring the Peerage to trace every one of Ivo’s illustrious connections so she could boast about them to her long-suffering acquaintance.
Jane had expected that the Marquess would want to keep the marriage in a very low key. He had recently lost a son and she would have thought that the new bride was far from being a trophy to be celebrated, but he had been quite clear about his wishes.
‘It is not what people might expect, so we must avoid any suspicion I do not entirely approve. There will be no undue haste—six weeks will be adequate, I believe—and the guest list will be...comprehensive.’
‘Comprehensive?’ she had wavered.
‘Very.’ He had given her a stern look as though she might have been about to protest that two witnesses would be all she wanted. ‘It will be spoken of far and wide and my approval will be clear to all. However, the fact that it will not be in London will limit the numbers, I fear. I trust you will not be disappointed at perhaps two hundred guests, Jane?’
‘Oh, no,’ she had managed to say. ‘Two hundred? Goodness, no, not disappointed. Not at all.’
Terrified.
The acceptances had come flooding back. The Marquess had despatched a clerk to assist Violet while his own secretary dealt with the far greater number of responses to the Tower for the Mertons’ family and acquaintances. Meanwhile Jane searched for a modiste who would provide her with the gown she wanted—simple, elegant and economical. She had the ‘diamonds’ that she had inherited and those, despite being merely paste, would distract from the fact that Papa simply could not afford the kind of trousseau Mama thought she should have.
Anxious, Jane had asked Ivo and to her relief he had been very understanding. ‘We have time before you will be making your appearance in London society and I can buy you just what you need then—do not let your parents worry about it.’
So Jane had edited down the extensive lists her mother sent her—all but the nightgowns. Verity had emphasised the importance of elegant naughtiness in nightwear for married ladies and had sent a box of outrageously pretty garments as an engagement present. Jane had tried them on and had been startled and surprised at the effect. But men, Verity had explained, liked such nonsense. Jane reasoned that, as the man in question was not already blinded by love, every little effort would help in making the wedding night go well.
She hid her blushes at the thought of it by pouring herself another cup of coffee.
It is too late now. You cannot change your mind. Then, Admit it—you do not want to change your mind.
After her parents had returned to Dorset Jane went into Bath escorted by Charity, the maid, and had her jewellery cleaned. On the way back they had driven past the little shop near the Abbey and it made her think again about the choices she had made.
Ivo had not been patronising her when he had told her that her dream was impractical, he had been correct. It was a hard truth to swallow but it made her respect him more, both for caring that she should not suffer the consequences of her impetuosity and for taking her ambition seriously in the first place.
I can trust him, she thought as the carriage had rattled out of the City. Trust seemed a good basis for a marriage.
‘Lord Kendall, Miss Violet,’ Albert announced. He had become almost blasé about the comings and goings of the aristocracy by now, even unconventional ones who arrived while his mistress was taking breakfast.
Ivo appeared, apologetic about disturbing them. Violet dimpled at him, Jane blushed, which was, disconcertingly, all she ever seemed to do these days when they met. She supposed it was a combination of the fact that she was beginning to find Ivo decidedly attractive and the realisation that the wedding day—and the wedding night—were coming rapidly closer.
‘I am sorry to call at such an hour, but it occurred to me that you might wish to tour the house with Mrs French, our housekeeper,’ he said to Jane once he had accepted a cup of coffee. ‘If we leave it much longer, Mrs French will be wrestling with all the arrangements for the wedding and I thought you might feel more comfortable if you had a better idea of the place before you move in and take over.’
‘Take over?’ It came out as a squeak. ‘But Mrs French—’
‘As housekeeper she will be a great support, but you will be the mistress of the house.’
Jane swallowed a jagged piece of toast. Surely she recalled him soothing her worries with the mention of the competent housekeeper? She had not questioned the arrangements at Merton Tower when she and her parents and Violet had paid a formal visit after the betrothal. Her mother had been in a tizzy because she had no clothes she considered adequate for a marquess’s home and so they had made the excuse that they could not dine and stay because they had to travel back to Dorset to make arrangements there. But, of course, the Marquess was a widower and Ivo had no sisters or sisters-in-law who might take the place of the Marchioness.
Ivo had given them a brief tour and Jane had stared at the single central medieval tower that was all that remained of the castle, had blinked at the number of windows in the flanking wings, built in the early eighteenth century, and had brought away an impression of acres of gleaming wood and costly draperies formed through a haze of nerves. If she had been asked afterwards to describe the public rooms that they had seen—the entrance hall, the great hall in the tower, the drawing room and dining room—she doubted she could have done so. But she did recall the portraits, ranking from stiff Tudor panels to lush Georgian groups.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said now. ‘How thoughtful of you, Ivo.’ She owed it to him to make a good impression on the staff.
He gave her a sudden smile and she wondered if he guessed just how anxious she was. It was good to see him smile because she had seen little of that side of him lately, she thought as she went upstairs to put on her best spencer and bonnet and to find a respectable pair of gloves. Was that why he had appeared so serious, the last few times she had seen him? Concern that he had done the right thing in marrying the daughter of a country gentleman?
She had been raised as a lady, she knew she could hold her own in polite society, could dance and make conversation and display the proper manners in most formal situations, but she had never attended more than local dances and Assemblies, never been invited to a London party. She knew how to keep house, of course—provided the house had a mere six bedchambers and a handful of servants.
Jane came downstairs with the lowering feeling that the unknown Mrs French would despise her. The upper servants in great houses could be as snobbish as their employers, Verity had told her. She fixed a cheerful smile on her lips, waved Violet goodbye and let Ivo help her up into her seat in the phaeton.
‘What is wrong?’ he asked quietly, the moment they were in motion and the sound of the wheels on the road surface masked their conversation from the groom up behind.
Clearly her acting was worse than she imagined. ‘Why, nothing at all. What a lovely morning it is!’
‘Jane, I can read you like a book,’ Ivo said.