Page 29 of The Favourite

“Did you dress my sister’s hair?” Jane asked.

“On occasion.”

“Very well.” She watched the girl’s face in the mirror as she pinned her tresses into place. “I do not wear my hair as high as Helen did.”

Beth paused and duly adjusted the height of Jane’s arrangement. “How is this, my lady?”

“Much better, thank you.” Jane selected a small pearl brooch to pin to her bodice as Beth deftly worked on her hair.

“Will you wear a veil today, or your velvet hood?” Beth asked, glancing down at Jane’s accessories.

Jane turned her head to look out of the window at the bare trees and gray morning light. “The hood, I think,” she answered after deliberation, for it would keep her neck warmer.

Her toilette was completed, and she made her way out of the dressing room without returning to the bedchamber where she was sure Viscount Bardulf stilled lolled abed. She wondered if she would ever find it easy to think of him simply as Alisander, which still seemed shockingly informal. Even the thought of it caused her cheeks to redden now as she crossed the landing, striving for composure.

Jane paused at the head of the staircase, swallowing hard and smoothing her russet brown skirts. I must be calm, she told herself firmly. She must start as she meant to go on, and no one here at Kinnerton must ever realize how sadly rattled the events of the past few weeks had left her. Helen would never have paled and quaked at facing down a hall full of curious stares.

Starting a slow and stately descent, she realized that several heads were turning to watch her progress and marveled at the sheer number of servants about the place. Was it because they were all hoping for a glimpse of the new master and mistress, that they now found an excuse to loiter in the Great Hall? she wondered.

As she reached the bottom step, they seemed to quickly disperse and melt away and Jane glanced around at the large, cavernous room. The high table at the dais was not laid, but there were some plates set out at the table nearest to the fireplace. Without anyone to direct her, she simply made for that and sat herself down with her back to the blaze of the fire.

Someone would appear to wait on her presently, no doubt. For the moment, she would simply appreciate the warmth at her back. Jane let her eyes travel over the high vaulted ceiling with its many beams, the handsome arched and mullioned windows, and the sumptuous tapestries which adorned the walls.

Over the fireplace was an elaborate over-mantel with scrolling plasterwork depicting three red chalices surrounding a white glove. Now whose coat of arms would that be? She leaned back on the bench to try and make out the scrolling motto beneath it. The writing was in a faded red paint, and she was just narrowing her gaze in concentration when a ringing voice proclaimed, “In Life, fail not the Friend.”

Jane started and righted herself, throwing an accusatory look over her shoulder at her husband.

“Curious is it not?” he mused, descending the last few steps of the staircase and strolling across the hall. “I noticed it last night. It must be the motif of the fallen Barons of Kinnerton.”

“The Barons of Kinnerton?” Jane repeated, eyeing him warily as he joined her at the table, sitting directly across from her.

“They were once masters here, by all accounts,” he continued airily. “Their line died out, sometime in the last century. Wymer’s mother, Etheldreda, was apparently some distant connection of the family, and thus the property became part of her bride settlement.”

“I see.” Jane glanced back at the over-mantel. “It is a nice motto,” she ventured.

“Nice,” her husband repeated with distaste. “Heavens preserve me from such a dull epitaph. One can see why they failed to thrive.”

“I should not worry if I were you,” Jane replied with asperity. “I doubt very much anyone would ever ascribe you with such a virtue.” He smiled so widely that Jane was forced to look away. Why, oh, why did her tongue keep running away with her like this? She could not remotely understand it, for she had never suffered such an affliction before.

“Well, this is all very informal,” he drawled after a moment of Jane staring fixedly at the opposite wall. “Are we expected to toast our own breakfast on the hearth?”

Jane pursed her lips, but as they had been supplied with neither bread nor meat, let alone a toasting fork, she knew he was being facetious. He leaned back in his seat, glancing to the left and right of him. “How long have you sat here unattended?”

Jane flushed. “Not above a couple of minutes, I assure you.”

He pulled a face and swiftly rose from his seat. “I will return. Do not move.”

Jane turned her head and watched him as he made for the screen beneath the gallery and ducked around it. She felt a moment’s panic, but after all, what was the worst he could do? Doubtless, the kitchen deserved a scolding, though strange to say, she could not imagine Viscount Bardulf delivering one.

No, he was more likely to be scathing in the extreme, his words dripping with sarcasm. She only hoped he would not put too many backs up. Not until they had found their bearings at least! He reappeared only a few minutes later, and Jane felt herself relax when she saw his unruffled expression. He could not have done anything too dreadful, she told herself as he approached his step unhurried.

Before she could prevent them, her thoughts returned to the murky wood last night and the body slumped against the tree trunk. Jane drew in a sharp breath before reproaching herself fiercely. She was being quite ridiculous. He would hardly assassinate the kitchen staff for mere tardiness!

“Why Jane,” he said, resuming his seat opposite her, “I believe you are sat too close to the fire; you look quite flushed.”

“No, no, I am fine,” she replied quickly, and luckily at this point, two manservants appeared bearing bread and butter and a pitcher of ale.

“Apparently, Uncle Phillip does not rise until noon,” her husband commented loudly, “whereupon he falls upon three courses with a monstrous appetite. Doubtless to dispel his morning fog.”