Lord Lansbury's Christmas Wedding. Helen Dickson
a spectacle for Jane when she stepped out of the glass doors which opened on to a broad terrace. Octavia in her pretty pink dress, her pretty bonnet held in place by a wide band of embroidered pink ribbon loosely knotted under her chin, held her hand tightly, an anxious look in her eyes. Jane knew she was always uneasy when in the company of so many people and she had promised not to leave her side for a moment.
The scene that confronted them was a kaleidoscope of colour. The gardens were ablaze with blossoms and islands of rhododendrons and azaleas, the air heady with the sweet fragrance of magnolia. Hanging flowers and a profusion of roses and laburnum climbed and trailed over a covered walkway. Elegant sculptures were set against dark green yew trees and an Italian fountain discharged water into a giant lily pond.
Rising above all this was Chalfont House, standing like a magnificent work of art, the brilliantly lit stained-glass windows of the seventeenth century glinting as they caught the sun. The effect was stunning.
Set against this background of unashamed opulence, the lawns and terraces were swarming with titled, wealthy and influential guests, their beautiful gowns, jackets, bonnets and parasols competing with the flower-filled beds. Lady Lansbury presented an imposing figure in a high-necked gown of eau-de-Nil shot silk with a matching turban trimmed with plumes of a moderate height.
Into this select assembly the proud figure of Lydia Spelling stepped on to the high terrace to make her grand entrance. This was the first time Jane had seen her close up and her heart sank at the exquisite picture of fashionable sophistication she made.
Miss Spelling was sandwiched between the Earl of Lansbury and her father, a short, portly man with mutton-chop whiskers, his face carved in hard lines. With her dark hair perfectly coiffed beneath a plume of tantalising white feathers, and a fitted, high-necked jacket of quilted deep-rose satin that hugged her body and accentuated the full swell of her breasts, Lydia Spelling’s appearance was dramatic and could not be faulted. She was not beautiful, or even pretty, but alarmingly arresting.
A hush descended as conversation petered out and every head turned in her direction. Chalfont’s gardens offered the perfect stage on which an ambitious young woman might make her mark, but it was a world in which Lydia Spelling’s place was already secure. It was a grand entrance carried out as only Lydia Spelling could, with enormous panache, and Jane was grudgingly forced to admire it. She saw before her an experienced woman of the world, at ease with men and determined in her goals.
Watching her, Jane was both resentful and fascinated. Whatever she had expected of Miss Spelling, nothing had prepared her for the remarkable presence of the American woman. Jane remembered everything she had heard about her from the servants and now she could believe it all. Miss Spelling had the magnetism and the power that Jane could never possess.
Jane felt strangely inadequate, knowing she could never compete with the worldly experience and fascination of Miss Spelling. She felt vulnerable and gauche.
Lord Lansbury fixed his steady gaze on the figure of his mother seated in a high-backed chair beneath a large parasol, presiding over her birthday party. Accompanied by Miss Spelling and her father, he made his way towards her. Without exception the guests stepped aside so that their progress was unimpaired and before the three of them had reached the Countess of Lansbury conversation had resumed.
Octavia immediately grasped Jane’s hand and pulled her in the direction of her brother. They were both breathing heavily by the time they reached the group.
On reaching his mother, Christopher bent his head and kissed her cheek before drawing Lydia forward.
Lady Lansbury smiled as her eyes settled on the woman who might well become the Countess of Lansbury, her daughter-in-law. ‘Lydia, my dear. How charming you look. I am so pleased you and your father are here to enjoy my birthday party. I am sorry your visit to Chalfont will be brief, although I am certain you will enjoy your trip to Paris.’
‘I’m sure we will, Lady Lansbury. We leave tomorrow, but we were keen to attend your party.’
‘I hope you have a pleasant few weeks. You will miss her, Christopher.’
‘I’m sure I shall,’ he replied, smiling at Lydia.
‘Perhaps you will appreciate me all the more when I return,’ Lydia remarked, trying to catch his eyes, but his attention was caught by Octavia practically jumping up and down to get his attention, bringing a frown of disapproval to Miss Spelling’s brow.
Jane thought Lord Lansbury seemed taller and more elegant than ever. Trying to still her racing heart, not wishing to intrude on the group, she hung back, reluctant to put herself forward. Lord Lansbury received her with polite courtesy and Miss Spelling, with kid-gloved hand placed in a possessive manner on his arm, with a practised smile and noticeable coolness.
Laughing gaily, Octavia wrapped her arms about her brother’s waist, much to Miss Spelling’s annoyance. She took a step back as if she’d been stung when the child reached out to touch one of the flounces on her skirt.
‘Please don’t touch my dress, Lady Octavia,’ she snapped.
Octavia snatched her hand away and stared up at her before sending Jane a look of piteous bewilderment, not liking the tone of Miss Spelling’s voice and not knowing what she’d done wrong.
Seeing the hurt and distress on Octavia’s face, Jane took her hand and drew her to her side. ‘Lady Octavia was only admiring your dress. She has done no harm so please don’t shout at her.’ Looking down at Octavia, she smiled. ‘Don’t be upset, Lady Octavia. You have done no wrong.’
Taken aback by the sharp firmness in Jane’s voice, Miss Spelling stared at her with severe reproach. ‘And why should she not be reprimanded? Spare the rod and spoil the child is what they say, is it not?’
‘They can say what they like,’ Lord Lansbury said with a deadly calm. ‘We like spoiling Octavia.’ Turning from her and looking fondly at his sister, he stroked her cheek. ‘Are you all right, poppet?’ She nodded up at him and he smiled tenderly, hoping that what could have turned out to be an awkward situation had been averted. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Miss Mortimer, Lydia,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe the two of you have met.’
Miss Spelling looked at her with a mocking air, making no attempt to hide her scrutiny. Her eyes were hard as she looked Jane up and down that was only a shade away from insolence. She assessed Jane in a manner suggesting she thought she must have fallen on hard times.
‘Do come closer, Miss Mortimer. There is no need to be so ill at ease, I assure you. I bark, but never have I been known to bite. Lady Lansbury has told me about you. You are Lady Octavia’s governess?’
In that intense moment, surrounded by the opulence of Lady Lansbury’s guests, Jane felt some emotion from Miss Spelling, pressing in on her, squeezing her with icy, inflexible fingers. The woman was striking, secure in her own strength and sure of her own incomparable worth.
‘I suppose Miss Mortimer does hold the position as Octavia’s governess, but she is more of a companion to her,’ Lord Lansbury provided. ‘We met on the ship when we were returning from France. Her quick actions saved Octavia’s life. We have much to be grateful to her for.’
Miss Spelling gave Jane a look which suggested that her presence devalued the occasion, shaking her head as if pondering what the world was coming to when the upper classes entertained their servants.
‘You have been abroad, Miss Mortimer?’
‘I have lived abroad almost all my life,’ Jane answered. ‘My father was an historian—a writer and collector of antiquities. We travelled extensively.’
‘Really?’ Miss Spelling replied, seemingly unimpressed. The full red smile never wavered, but her eyes were cold. Everything about her was precise and impeccable. ‘How very odd.’
Jane managed to retain a cool and unruffled expression as she watched Miss Spelling’s diamond earrings flash against her cheeks. She looked in vain for some trace of softness in her, but she was as hard as the trunk of the stout oak tree