Page 132 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
"And that is to the bad?" Tarkington asked quietly, not looking at her, his attention ostensibly centered on the glass he rolled between his hands.
Lady Maybrey reached out from the small sofa where she sat to grab Jocelyn's hand and pull her down to sit beside her. Jocelyn looked quizzically at her mother. Lady Maybrey shook her head, warning Jocelyn against curiosity.
"It is lamentable, particularly as you have a young daughter to coach in the ways of society and her proper place in it. This morning I saw you running about the garden with her like a peasant with his child." She shook her head sadly. "Most distressing. You have your station to consider."
Jocelyn could scarcely countenance what she was hearing or that the dowager countess and her mother should remain so silent!
"And my station would suffer from giving my child some small moments of laughter?" Tarkington asked quietly.
"Yes. Such things are cumulative. You must realize that, Tarkington. When your people see you without your dignity, they lose respect for you and fail to do their proper duty."
Tarkington laughed. "If that were all it took to reduce their opinion, then I'd say their opinions are well past redemption, for I've done more than play in the garden, Aunt Clarice."
"This levity of yours is unseemly," she said severely. "You are a widower, after all."
"And I should still be in mourning? If that is your contention, Aunt Clarice, I will have you know, and be done with it, that I disagree. It is nearly Christmas! This is not the season for morose introspection. But what of you?"
"Me?" Mrs. Bayne looked up at him, and Jocelyn thought she saw a fleeting expression of hate cross her pinched features.
"Yes. Is it proper, since that is what you think I should be, that you should ignore the guest who entered the room with me, not encouraging an introduction?"
She laughed. " 'Twas not necessary. I know who she is. She is the woman my Charles is to marry," she said with great complacency.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bayne, but nothing has been voiced to that effect," Jocelyn burst out, thoroughly annoyed with this woman. Lady Maybrey frowned at her.
Mrs. Bayne smiled, her narrow face now condescending in its expression. She nodded toward Lady Maybrey. "A most proper observation, Lady Maybrey. You are to be commended for your daughter's delicacy of spirit. It is regrettable that Charles did not accompany you. My son is a man of great responsibility, else I am certain he would not have let you come here alone. He understands responsibility."
Tarkington slammed his glass down on the credenza. "Does he, Aunt Clarice? Does he know what responsibilities a father owes his daughter? Does he know what a landlord owes his tenants? Does he know what it is to have a thousand souls dependent upon him? Does he know what it is to be so consumed with politics that family and estate are forgotten? Does he know what it is to miss seeing his daughter take her first steps, say her first words? Does he know what it is to arrive at his wife's deathbed only in time to say goodbye? Does he know what it is to love?"
"You are overwrought, Tarkington," Mrs. Bayne snapped, all semblance of kind patience flying away. "I suggest a laudanum dose. You are exhibiting proof that you are no longer capable of running this family."
"Ah, I see how it is. You think as Prinny has become regent for his father, so Charles could for me? Perhaps you had rather I be assigned to Bedlam?"
"There is no need for an emotional display, Tarkington. That will be quite enough," Mrs. Bayne declared. "Really, Martha, you are entirely too weak. To allow him to digress to this extent! Have you called in Dr. Linden to consult? Well, I hold myself accountable as well. I should have insisted on removing Lady Anne from his influence as soon as I detected this change in him."
"No!" Jocelyn cried out. She surged to her feet, her body quivering with anger.
Four pairs of eyes swiveled in Jocelyn's direction.
"I have spent time with Lady Anne and Lord Tarkington. Theirs is a loving relationship! That we all should be so fortunate. How much time have you spent with either of them, Mrs. Bayne? You say you do not countenance gossip, yet I perceive it is the gossip you are creating that guides you!"
"Jocelyn!" protested Lady Maybrey.
"No, Mother, I shall not be hushed. I understand from all I have seen and heard here that the marquess is not the same man he was prior to his wife's death. He has changed. But not, to my observation, for the worst!"
"Young woman, how dare you speak to me in that manner! I shall have to talk to Charles!"
"Do that!" Jocelyn countered, burning with anger.
"Er, my lord, dinner is served," intoned the butler from the doorway.
"I'm sorry. I find I cannot join you for dinner. I seem to have developed a splitting headache!" Jocelyn said, twirling around to run from the room.
"Miss Maybrey!" the marquess called after her.
She ignored him, fleeing up the stairs and down the long carpeted corridor to her room. She slammed the door closed behind her and collapsed into the chair before the fire, feeling suddenly and inexplicably chilled.
The next morning oppression lay heavily on Jocelyn. Listlessly she allowed Miss Barnes to dress her, voicing no protest when the woman added more jewels to her toilet than was seemly for day attire. She stood like a doll, her mind whirling from her previous evening's idiocy. She wished she could spirit herself back to London, back to the world she understood, to the formal rules, the little plays, the shallowness of communication. It was not a world that required—or even liked—sincerity and love. It was a safer world. She could see that now. With leaden feet, she left her room and went downstairs for breakfast. And that was nearly beyond her ability. It was only the knowledge that her mother and Lady Tarkington would still be abed and that Mrs. Bayne would be back at her home that gave her the strength to venture down to face the marquess and her own folly.
