Free My Dear Jenny by Madeleine E. Robins

duties,
characterized herself roundly as a greater fool even than Emily, and went in
search of her shawl.

Chapter Six
    The fortnight which followed Ratherscombe’s attempt upon the
peace of the Pellering household was mercifully undisturbed by any further such
incidents. Emily, and Jenny in her wake, settled into a round of parties and
visits, punctuated by the occasional calls of the Teverley men, and by what
seemed to Jenny to be interminable hours spent at Emily’s mantua-maker’s
warehouse. Finally an afternoon did come when Jenny was able to persuade her
friend that she truly did not care to come once more to New Bond Street to
inspect the stuffs for Emily’s court dress, and when Emily and her mother had
departed and Lord Graybarr had taken himself off to his club, she was able to
remove to the library with pen, ink, and paper, to write some hopelessly
overdue letters.
    She had finished the first, a letter to her aunt Winchell,
and begun on a second, addressed to the nursery inhabitants of Winchell house,
when a noise in the hallway distracted her from her writing. Aside from a mild
surprise that Emily had dispatched her errands so quickly (for so she supposed
the case to be) Jenny paid no attention to the bustle until it forced itself in
upon her. The door was opened, and a frail, pretty, and very grim old lady
entered the room.
    “Yes, ma’am?” Jenny laid aside her pen at once and rose to
meet the older woman.
    “Yes.” The word fell cold and harsh from the visitor’s
gentle mouth, and warred with her saintly mien: she looked like an angel in
lavenders and grays, and sounded like a disgruntled governess. “Well,” the
voice prodded.
    “Won’t you sit, ma’am, and I will ring for some tea—”
    “No need to do so, girl. I will be leaving presently. I am
Lady Teeve.” The woman announced herself in such tones of portent that Jenny
knew the name was meant to mean something to her, perhaps even to strike terror
into her heart; even when Jenny recalled who Lady Teeve must be, she could
recall no reason for fearing her.
    “You’re Domenic’s mother?” She smiled with more warmth. “I
am so pleased to meet you! We count Dom as an especial friend here. I am—”
    “I know precisely who you are, girl. I wonder that you are
brass-faced enough to own it—nay, to crow it at me in such a fashion.”
Lady Teeve favored Jenny with a particularly cutting and distasteful glance,
and continued, almost as if she were alone in the room. “Older than I had
thought. I don’t know whether that means that you are a sensible sort of thing,
or merely desperate.” Her tone denied either possibility or any hint of
compliment. “I don’t much care. This thing will be put to a stop immediately.”
For emphasis she tapped the floor with her stick.
    Jenny was entirely at sea by this time. Unless Lady Teeve
had heard some ridiculous story, or was completely about in her head (a theory
which Miss Prydd gave no little credence) then there was no reason—but
then Jenny recalled Domenic’s words on the occasion of his first call. “If I
want something, Mamma will be against it.” And it began to occur to Jenny that
perhaps Lady Teeve did not know to
whom it was she spoke. A few more words from the visitor convinced Jenny that
she had it right.
    “My boy will be a viscount someday, as I am sure you are
aware. Of yourself, aside from the fact that you’re too old, and nothing at all
to look at! (for I take pride in plain speaking, missy!)—a fact that I
had not apprehended before now, which makes me the more worried on poor Domenic’s
account—” The lady drew a breath, hopelessly entangled in her sentence. “I
will not have it, do you hear? There is nothing to be said in great objection to your family, I suppose, although your mamma’s father was in trade,
so you need not try to conceal it from me. But you are not suitable for
my son. Aside from which, I have other plans for him. He will marry a
suitable girl.