Page 1 of Holding Onto Love

Part 1

Time to Move On

November 1812

London

Chapter One

Dearest V.—My father had another apoplectic fit—we think—so I must return to Chaumbers. Leaving tonight. The devil—I dashed out of Lady Andini’s ball like some sort of reverse Cinderella. I’ll write as soon as I know more.—J.T.

Darling—I am so, so sorry. I pray it isn’t that. Or if it is, that he recovers quickly. The earl is a good and gracious man. Is Reginald with you? Have you sent for Crispin? Oh, I don’t mean to fire questions at you. I’m concerned is all, and I feel so for your worry. God bless.—V.

Dearest V.—The earl is very ill. Reginald is here, thank God. Crispin has been sent for. The physician is being very guarded. Father fooled him last time, so he doesn’t want to say. I’m afraid I won’t be back to London anytime soon—I’m sorry to abandon you—again—with the social Season getting underway. I know how uncomfortable it is for you.—I wish I’ll write more soon. Father has left a devil of a mess.—J.T.

Jasper, dear—Don’t worry about me. For Heaven’s sake. I’m fine. I’m sorry your father is suffering. Surely Reginald is a comfort? What do you mean by a mess?—V.

Dearest V.—Reginald tries. God—I mean, yes, he’s a great help—more practically than spiritually, but in truth, I need the practical more. The mess is my fault, not my father’s. I thought him better recovered from his last attack than he was. Moreover, the steward was ill and now has passed. The accounts are a jumble. There are stacks of correspondence my father never even opened—the tenants rightly have been feeling neglected—this must all sound so cold. I’ll write a better letter when I can think straight. I am missing you so.—J.T.

Dear Jasper—I miss you too. You don’t sound cold. You sound overwhelmed. Please remember that you don’t have to fix everything all at once. Cherish this time with your family. And please don’t worry about me, about writing “better” letters to me. Darling, I know how your mind works. Don’t put writing to me in that “duty” pile. This is a terrible time for you, and you know I understand that. All my love, V.

Mrs. Vanessa Wardrip handed her coat to the butler, took a deep breath, and joined Mrs. Lowry’s party’s receiving line—a sad collection of almost-acceptable ladies of gentle birth and cast-off once-acceptable ladies. They were the unchosen and their desperation was palpable. This ill-furnished townhouse, leased for the Season by the widowed Mrs. Lowry, depressed Vanessa as much as the guest list. She wouldn’t have come, except that she wanted to be able to tell Lord Jasper Taverston that she was not hiding away like a hermitess. Last year, after the earl’s previous attack, when Jasper had spent so much time at Chaumbers, she had done just that. Jasper had enough to worry about without guiltily envisioning her sitting at home lonely and bored. An invitation to Mrs. Lowry’s musicale might not be anything to boast about, but Jasper would see she was still being included, at least on the fringes.

Naturally, Vanessa could never attend high Society’s more exclusive balls and parties. Held during the height of the Season, those events were meant to bring out debutantes and to reinforce connections between aristocratic families by facilitating advantageous marriages. Vanessa didn’t care that she was excluded. She had never wanted to claw her way into places where she did not belong. The trouble was that Jasper did belong. He enjoyed the company of his peers. And when the debutantes and their mamas surveyed those exclusive balls and parties seeking out eligible gentlemen, they saw Lord Jasper Taverston, heir to the Earl of Iversley—a very eligible gentleman indeed.

Mrs. Lowry, a lowly second cousin to someone important, was trying to scale society’s ladder and had no doubt invited Vanessa in order to weasel her way into Lord Taverston’s good graces. Vanessa did not like the woman, a conniving gossip, but with Jasper away, invitations were few and far between. She had hoped at least one of her London friends would be attending, but saw none in the reception hall.

She reached the front of the line.

“Mrs. Wardrip,” Mrs. Lowry said, opening her eyes wide. The woman did not only powder her face but painted it. “I am surprised you’ve come!”

“Did you not receive my card? I’m so sorry.” How awkward. Her invitation had only arrived that morning, but she’d sent a response at once.

Now other ladies were staring. Vanessa heard a few giggles. A few snickers. Just like this afternoon at the milliners, though she had convinced herself then that she was imagining things. She forced a smile. She was here now; she would have to make the best of it.

“I’ve heard a great deal about the harpist you’ve hired.”

Mrs. Lowry lifted her chin and looked down her nose. “Hmm, well, do take some refreshment before going to the music room. The program will begin in a quarter hour.” She turned to the next woman in line. “Lady Grayson! I’m honored you’ve chosen to attend.”

Vanessa moved on. She didn’t know Lady Grayson. She recognized several of the others—she’d seen their faces in shops and occasional drawing rooms. She could put names to a few of the faces. She ought to approach someone. She wasn’t afraid to do so, not exactly. After all, it had been more than three years since anyone had given her the cut direct. But it was not her imagination to think ladies were sliding their eyes toward her and whispering behind their hands.

Too uneasy to eat, Vanessa avoided the refreshments and went straight to the music room. Several rows of rosewood saber-legged chairs, five to a row, had been arranged facing a large bay window, in front of which sat a harp and a pianoforte. There were other guests, but no one with whom Vanessa could claim an acquaintance. She chose a seat alone in the middle row.

Almost at once, three overdressed matrons entered the room, dragging daughters. The girls wore pale-colored frocks and insipid expressions. Debutantes. They sat in the row behind Vanessa.

“Oh!” one of the women exclaimed. “For pity’s sake. Adela, come.”

Startled, Vanessa glanced over her shoulder to see the plumpest matron rise, clench her daughter’s shoulder, and move another two rows back.

“What is it, Mrs. Greaves?” A second woman stood, hand on her fleshy neck, to look around in confusion. “Are we…?”

She looked so confused and so out of place that Vanessa was ready to pity her. Until the first woman said, in a whisper that could have been heard across the room, “That is Lord Taverston’s lightskirt.”

“Good Heavens!” the woman cried, aghast.

Vanessa’s face flushed hot. She looked forward and sat rigidly while the women and their daughters scrambled to distance themselves from her, gabbling all the while.

“She must know, don’t you think?”