Her Heart's Captain (27 page)

From the moment she arrived, Jenny realized that Andrea had been right—it
was
Jenny whom Lady Rowcliffe wished to see. Not only was her ladyship's welcome sincerely warm and affectionate, but she showed, in a dozen small ways, how delighted she was to have Jenny's company. She'd prepared her bedroom with brand-new bed-hangings and draperies, filled the wardrobe with gowns and clothes that fit Jenny to perfection, provided her with her own abigail, kept fresh flowers by her bedside and inquired, daily, before making any plans, just what it was that Jenny would prefer to do. Never before had Jenny been made so much of.

But the moment that most touched her heart was her first glimpse of Lady Rowcliffe's private sitting room. There, hanging in a gilt frame over her ladyship's little Sheraton writing table, was Toby's sketch. “Why, that's … that's
me
!” she exclaimed in amazement.

“Yes, it is,” Lady Rowcliffe said, smiling. “I had it framed as soon as I returned from Wyndham. I love to look at it, you know. Whenever I sit down to do my accounts, I find myself gazing up at it. It never fails to give ma a lift.”

The two women got on famously. It was a delight to learn, as they visited the theaters, opera houses, museums, libraries and shops, that they both had similar tastes. They discovered that they liked the same sorts of plays, that they both preferred orchestral music to opera and that, when possible, each would rather walk to a destination than call for the carriage. It was not surprising, therefore, that they soon became comfortably intimate and that, one rainy evening, Jenny revealed to her new friend the whole story of her association with Lady Rowcliffe's son.

Lady Rowcliffe listened to the tearful recital with rapt attention. The irritation she'd felt toward Jenny for misjudging her son's character was soon forgotten in her sympathy for the girl's pain. When Jenny's account was concluded, Lady Rowcliffe said very little. Even though she'd learned enough to realize that only a minor misunderstanding now stood between her son and this girl who was already like a daughter to her, she did not intend to interfere. It would be more satisfying, she decided, for the lovers to find their own way into each other's arms than for her to push them. Tris would be back in a few months—not too late for them to rediscover each other and settle their differences.

It was clear to Lady Rowcliffe that Jenny was suffering, and she determined to do everything she could to ease the girl's pain. She took her to the theater, the shops and the exhibits. She held three small dinners at home and invited Toby Boyce to insure that the shy girl would have one familiar companion to talk to besides herself. And she took Jenny with her to two parties, where she watched with interest as various young men tried to make an impression on the reserved but interesting new female who Lady Rowcliffe had taken up. She was relieved to see that Jenny showed no more than a polite interest in any of the gentlemen who came her way. Lady Rowcliffe would not be serving her son a good turn if she were the instrument through which Jenny found herself another man to love.

For Jenny, the London visit was a strange mixture of joy and pain. Bereft of both a lover and a friend, Jenny could not be happy. And although Lady Rowcliffe's devoted attentions did wonders for her self-esteem, Jenny found that living in the house that was Tris Allenby's home was a constant reminder of the wound in her heart. There was a painting of a young Tris standing with his mother in a garden which hung over the fireplace in the drawing room. Though the boy in the painting was only eight, the features were instantly recognizable, and the painting drew her eye like a magnet whenever she was in the room. His bedroom was just down the hall from hers, and every time she passed it she felt a little spasm of pain. On a shelf in the dining room was a model of his first ship, and the stairway wall was covered with pictures and mementos of his voyages and battles.

But the ache of these constant reminders was a small price to pay for what she received from Lady Rowcliffe. Their association was a revelation to Jenny. Every remark she made was appreciated, every mood acknowledged, and every wish respected. Jenny could tell even from the attitudes of the servants that in this household she was of first importance.

Lady Rowcliffe encouraged Jenny to play the piano as much as she wished. The music room was situated in the back of the house, and Jenny went there every morning after breakfast to play. Lady Rowcliffe often sat and listened, working on her embroidery or merely leaning back in her chair with eyes closed and lips smiling in pleasure. It was a favorite time of day for them both, for her ladyship loved having her house filled with music, while, for Jenny, it was the one time of day when the pain that always pressed upon her chest would momentarily recede. Her playing required her utmost concentration. When her mind was engaged in the challenges of harmony and counterpoint, she couldn't think of other things.

One morning, about a week after Jenny's arrival in London, the two ladies sat lingering over their breakfast coffees. Although almost eleven, they seemed unable to shake themselves from a rather pleasant lethargy. The rain was pattering upon the windows, which made the warmth of the breakfast room even more inviting than usual, and neither of them wished to unsettle the cozy atmosphere. But at last, Lady Rowcliffe roused herself. “I ought to do some work on my household accounts this morning, my love,” she said with a sigh. “Why don't you spend the time going through the contents of the chest in the music room? My late husband was very fond of playing the pianoforte (though he was not as talented as you are), and he collected a great number of piano compositions. I refer to the chest under the far window. Perhaps you'll find some pleasant surprises among the collection. I think Rowcliffe's taste, if not his technique, was very good.”

Jenny went off with an eager step, as if to explore a treasure. Lady Rowcliffe smiled as she watched the girl disappear down the hall, and then she turned in the other direction to the stairs. She had mounted the fourth step when she heard a key rattle in the lock of the front door. She stood still, transfixed in surprise. Only Tris had a key to her door, and, as far as she knew, he was far out to sea.

But it
was
Tris who opened the door. He was disheveled, spattered with rain and breathless. “Mama, there you are. Good! I have only a moment, and I must see you.”

“Tris! Good God, is anything amiss? Why haven't you sailed?”

“We don't sail until tomorrow.” He pulled out the key, closed the door and came to the stairs. “You'll think I've taken leave of my senses,” he said sheepishly, looking up at her. “In fact, I'm not sure I haven't.”

“You've left the ship?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes. I put the first lieutenant in charge. Naturally, this is the worst time to take French leave. I feel like a fourth form schoolboy cutting class.”

“But what's happened?”

“Nothing, really. A change of heart, perhaps. I don't know. I had a talk with Robbie Garvin yesterday, and something he said … Do you think, Mama, that I'm unhinged to wish to make one more attempt to talk to Jenny?”

“You want to talk to Jenny?
Today
? But you're
sailing
tomorrow.”

“Yes, but somehow I couldn't face waiting three months or more before …! Dash it all, you
do
think I'm unhinged.”

“I don't know if I'd go so far as to call you unhinged, love, but you're certainly not very coherent. Are you intending to ride all the way to Wyndham in one day?”

“And return to the ship tonight, yes. Unless you convince me that I've lost my mind. You see, Robbie told me that she slapped him that day … right after we had our talk. I don't know why I find that fact so significant, but it seems to me—”

From down the hall came the unmistakable sound of the piano being played. The notes were faint at first, and somewhat hesitant, but they soon became more firm and sure. The music itself was unfamiliar to Tris, but the style of the playing …

He stared up at his mother, his face growing pale. “Mama,
who
—?”

She looked down at him and shrugged, her lips curving in the very slightest smile. He stared at her for one more moment in frozen astonishment, and then, with a gasp, ran down the hall.

Lady Rowcliffe pattered down the stairs and peered after him, her heart pounding in excitement. Then, with a youthful skip, she went to the bell-pull near the door and rang for the butler. He came running up from below to find his mistress prancing about the hallway in a delighted dance. “Ah, Lockhurst,” she said in a sort of whisper, gliding to a stop and taking a more dignified stance, “do you remember those bottles of Montrachet that I hid away for a special occasion?”

“Yes, my lady, I do,” he answered, whispering in return.

“Well, then, I'd like you to get them out at once. How quickly do you think you can have them chilled? In half-an-hour, do you think?”

If the butler was puzzled by the whispering, he made no sign. With a bow, he turned to do her bidding, but the door knocker sounded at that moment. Lockhurst opened the door to Toby Boyce. “Good Morning, Mr. Boyce,” he whispered, putting a finger to his lips.

“Good morning,” Toby answered, lowering his voice obediently. “Ah, good day, your ladyship,” he greeted her cheerfully. “Why are we whispering?”

“Can't you hear? Jenny is playing,” Lady Rowcliffe murmured. She seemed to be listening avidly. “I wonder why she's still …” She frowned worriedly and shook her head. Then, looking up at Toby as if she found it difficult to concentrate on his presence, she asked, “What are you doing here at this hour? Shouldn't you be working? Is no one in the world where he's supposed to be this morning?”

Toby handed his hat to Lockhurst, who took it and went off. “Mr. Fuseli is in one of his pets today, having had a terrible argument with someone at the Academy last night. And after cursing and ranting for an hour, he threw me out for the day. I was wondering if you and Jenny would like to go with me to—”

The music ceased abruptly. Lady Rowcliffe's breath seemed to catch in her throat. “Hush, Toby dear, hush,” she hissed excitedly. “I don't want them to hear us. We mustn't do anything to disturb them.”

“Them?”

“I can't explain yet. You'll learn all about it in due course. But I'm much too nervous to discuss anything now.” She took a few steps toward the stairs on tiptoe and peered down the hallway. Satisfied at what she saw, she tiptoed back to him. “I don't want to do anything but sit here on the stairs and wait. You may sit with me if you wish, but you must promise not to make a sound for—let me see … what would be a reasonable time?—for a quarter of an hour. Yes, the passage of a quarter of an hour should give us ample evidence of satisfactory progress. If no one emerges from the music room by that time, Toby, I shall feel confident enough to take a deep breath.”

Tris didn't really believe his eyes or ears. He stood motionless in the music-room doorway gazing at the girl playing the piano as if she were a manifestation of the supernatural. But she looked real enough. She was leaning toward her music sheet, her eyes intent on the page while her fingers moved with firm assurance over the keyboard. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and her mouth slightly open. Her hair was braided and twisted into a knot at the back of her head, just as it had been when he'd last laid eyes on her, the grey light from the window behind her accenting the little tendrils which escaped from bondage and made a soft frame around her face. Yes, he realized as his mind recovered from the shock, she was very real indeed.

He couldn't bring himself to interrupt her. Not permitting himself even to take a deep breath, he stood watching her, letting his eyes drink in every detail of her face. He had no sense of the passage of time. The music flowed around him, seeming to encircle them both in a world of their own, in which there was no time, no distance and no possibility of invasion from outside. He felt content, at peace and without any urge to do anything but stay just where he was.

But suddenly, for no apparent reason, she looked up and met his eye. Her hands froze in the air, and for a moment she remained as motionless as glass, except for the dilation of her eyes. Then she gave a gasping breath. “
Tris
!”

He didn't know that he was moving toward her or that he'd lifted his arms. All he knew was that she rose from the bench and flew into them. Their arms tightened about each other, and, when he could think, he realized that she was sobbing into his shoulder. “Jenny,
don't
,” he murmured into her ear. “I'll do whatever you say, be whatever you wish! I'll open the brig, throw the lash overboard, even make your blasted brother an admiral, if only you'll have me!”

She gave a bubbling sort of laugh and tried to speak, but he lifted her face and kissed her with such burning intensity that she gave up the struggle. There would be time later for explanations, apologies, confessions and declarations. There would be time later for all the words. But for now, this closeness, this warmth, this heady joy was quite enough.

After ten minutes, Lady Rowcliffe could bear no more suspense. She jumped up from the stair and tiptoed down the hall, Toby, burning with curiosity, following at her heels. When she reached the open door of the music room, she hid behind the doorpost and cautiously inched her head forward until she could see inside. What she saw caused her to wave an arm trumphantly in the air. When she'd seen enough, she tiptoed away, and Toby took her place. He would have gasped aloud if she hadn't clapped a hand over his mouth.

She took his arm and pulled him away, back down the hall and into the dining room. She carefully closed the door and then gave a loud crow of triumph.

Toby, flabbergasted, fell upon a chair. “Captain Allenby and
Jenny
? I never
dreamed
—”