Page 50 of Miss Determined
“I will never forget how to give commands in German,” he said, ushering Jeanette into a comfortable parlor.
Ann’s influence was evident here. A sampler on the wall held not some old quote from Proverbs, but a quote from the Bard:Love comforteth like sunshine after rain.Another hung beneath it:When love speaks, the voice of all the gods makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Potted herbs basked on the windowsill—thyme, tarragon, basil—and a letter from the great Carême complimenting one of Anne’s sauce recipes had been framed under glass and hung beside the quotes.
On the opposite walls were sketches of children, ranging in age from toddlers to adolescents. Rye’s urchins, many of whom were on the way to self-sufficient adulthood thanks to positions at the Coventry.
Jeanette had been estranged from her brother for years, but Sycamore had given her back her family, that family being Rye and some cousins plus the urchins, the staff at the Coventry, a forest of Dornings…
The list grew year by year.
“Please read this,” she said, extracting a folded letter from her reticule. “I’m fairly certain of the meaning, but I want confirmation from somebody whose skill with languages exceeds my own.”
Rye gestured to the sofa and took the place beside her. He withdrew a pair of spectacles from an inside pocket and examined the letter. The moments ticked by, and Jeanette prayed her German had misconstrued the letter’s contents.
Rye folded up the missive and passed it back to her. “Jerome Vincent has apparently gone to his reward.”
“Oh blast. Jerome was no prize, but he was Trevor’s heir and something of a friend to him.” And a burden and a vexation. Jerome was also—had also been—the only other Vincent male and thus a theoretical buffer for Trevor against sole responsibility for the marquessate. If nothing else, Jerome had been able to commiserate with Trevor regarding the old marquess’s many shortcomings.
“What else does it say?” Jeanette asked.
“Jerome was engaged to be married to the widowed Countess of Raffensburg. She writes that she had never been so happy as she has been for the past half year. They went out riding. Jerome’s horse spooked at a rabbit, and he took a tumble and smacked his head.”
The rabbit part had eluded her. “I got most of that, but the rest of it…?”
Rye rose and crossed the room to pour two servings of brandy. He passed one to Jeanette and resumed his seat. “To Jerome’s memory.”
Jeanette sipped, because she appreciated good libation and because she needed the fortification.
“I have so much family,” she said. “Sycamore got you back for me, and you have added Ann and your urchins to our lives. I have the Dornings—a veritable army—and through them so many friends and in-laws. Trevor ran off to France as soon as I married, and somehow, my family has not become his family. Jerome was, in a way, all he had.”
“He will be comforted to know Jerome didn’t suffer.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t pay as much attention to the rest of the letter. What does she say?”
“He seemed fine at first. Laughed at his mishap, got back on, rode home all in fine spirits. By suppertime, he had a headache, and he seemed tired. He was lapsing into English when he couldn’t recall a German word or phrase. He went to bed early and did not rouse when the countess joined him. By morning, she could not wake him, and he expired peacefully while she and a physician kept vigil.”
“He died in his sleep. Who could have predicted that?”
Rye took a sip of his drink. “Damned head wounds. They are notoriously fickle. A fellow can think he’s fine, and three hours after the mule kicked him or he got tossed into a ditch, he drops into a coma, and that’s the end of him. I’ve seen it a dozen times.”
“Why did the countess contact me rather than Trevor?”
“Because you would know where Trevor was, while Jerome might well have professed to have lost track of him somewhere along the Rhine.”
Jeanette sipped her brandy and considered what she knew of young men, and of Trevor and Jerome in particular.
“Jerome was dodging Trevor’s letters, and for some reason, he didn’t want the countess to be able to contact the head of his family. I do believe Jerome managed to die before he grew up.”
Rye crossed his legs at the knee. He was not an elegant man to appearances—he was too scarred, craggy, and worn for that—but he was mannerly, tidy, and at ease with himself in a way Jeanette associated with Frenchmen.
Sycamore had some of the same quality, as did—oddly—Trevor.
“Perhaps,” Rye said, “Jerome did not want Trevor telling the countess the old stories, about that time Jerome lost his first pony in a schoolyard bet, or that time Jerome had to catch a ride out of London on a fishmonger’s cart, or that time Jerome lost his membership in some club. If the countess was in love with Jerome, he might have wanted to keep that joy private for a time.”
Jeanette studied the letter, though penmanship told her nothing. “She loved Jerome. That’s good. He was charming and shrewd, and I’m sure Trevor will grieve at his passing. Trevor perfected the art of being friendly without forming friendships, and I think Jerome was a sort of exception to that rule.”
“Trevor is no longer a schoolboy longing for a basket from home, Jeanette.”
