Free My Dear Jenny by Madeleine E. Robins Page B

Teeve rose and collected her reticule from the divan
where she had dropped it. “You are entirely right, Miss Prynne. I will not stay
in this house a moment longer. And you shall never see my son again, I assure
you.”
    “We would miss him , ma’am,” Jenny said sweetly. “He
has been a good friend to us here. Not so good as you would have it, of course.
But he’s a prettily behaved boy, and will be a fine man when he grows up.”
    Lady Teeve was entirely at a loss. Either she was being
insulted or complimented, but as to which—and as to which would have
bothered her more—she was at a loss to say. Taking up her shawl and her
dignity, the lady swept daintily from the room, favoring the startled footman
outside the door with a singularly venomous look. Jenny stood where she was
until the outside door had closed behind Domenic’s mother, then sank dazedly
into her chair again. “Good Lord, when all I wanted was a quiet afternoon in
which to write my letters!”
    Favoring the door with a look of dislike meant more for her
departed guest than for Corinthian scrollwork, Jenny resumed her letter to her cousins.
It was difficult to continue in her usually animated style, for between each
detailed description of muslin flounces and high perch phaetons—for she
had promised her audience a diligent report of all the wonders encountered on
her travels—thoughts would surface irrepressibly. Ought she to tell Emily
of what had passed? Or Domenic Teverley? Or Peter Teverley? Clearly, Lady Teeve
was not disposed to listen to any but her own opinions, but Jenny did not
relish the thought of another such interview. Indeed, she mused, until this day
she would not have imagined she could have gone through such a scene without
emerging in hysterics. I must be stronger-minded than I knew; and what I
said to her... This was such an arresting thought that Jenny gave up for once
and all on her correspondence, brought her letter to a quick and disjointed
close, and went in search of her pelisse and bonnet. She enlisted the company
of a maid and set out for Lady Bevan’s house.
    Fortunately, Maria Bevan was at home that afternoon, feeling
elegantly and somewhat boringly fragile and planning colors for her nursery.
Lord Bevan, after putting up with his wife’s notions for as long as he could,
had fled the house muttering something about the sane company of the fellows at
Manton’s. It was only half an hour after his disgraceful retreat that Miss
Prydd’s card was shown to Lady Bevan. Maria, who had had neither time enough to
become contrite, nor to have fully thought out the subject, was in the midst of
a splendid feeling of ill-use, and welcomed her friend with a comic confusion
of tears, joy, and wrath, all of which were confounded by her resolve to play
as fragile a dame as any on the stage—when she recalled her part.
    “Dearest Genia!” She jumped up from her divan and began to
flutter toward her friend. Then dropped back as she recalled her delicate
condition.
    “Jenny now, Mary. I find I prefer it so.” She eyed her
friend dubiously. “You know, if you are as ill as you seem—”
    “Not ill, Ge-Jenny. Simply—” She paused. “Well, you
know—that is, no of course, you cannot know! I cannot think how I could
have said such a thing! But I am —” She broke off, confounded by
her own words.
    “I know it is a wise thing to care for yourself when you are enceinte . But really, Mary, hartshorn and vinaigrette in the middle of
the afternoon? Indeed, I have heard that it does a baby no good if his mamma
has been too quiet during her confinement, but only makes him fat and slow.”
    Lady Bevan had never entertained the notion of a fat baby. “I
will not have a pudgy child! I will not have a fat little brat like that ...
what was her name? Amanda Weatherfair, at school.”
    “Lord, I’d not thought of her in years, Mary. What became of
her?”
    “What might have been expected,” Maria said callously. “She
became a