Page 27 of Jillian’s Wild Heart (Ladies of Munro #4)
J illian had been practicing the names and order of use of the multitude of dinner knives and forks with Lewis. She had promised to be a lady when necessary, and Sunday family dinner was definitely going to be one of those occasions.
Lord and Lady Bradford must have been practicing too, of a kind—whether it was as a result of Penelope’s urging, or because, as with their allowance of Pen’s eccentricities, they had made peace with their remaining son’s odd choices.
They were definitely more subdued and civil.
And conversation was able to proceed rather more pleasantly than it had at the last meal they had shared.
“My mother sends her best wishes,” Jillian told Lady Bradford as they waited for the soup to be served.
“That is very kind,” said her ladyship before nodding to the butler.
“And she sent a jar of her special ointment for your gout, sir,” said Jilly to Lewis’s father. “It works wonders. She could sell it and make a pretty penny, but most folks back home just repay her kindness with some eggs or whatever they grow in their little piece of garden.”
Lady Bradford sucked in her breath and exhaled it again in a controlled manner.
“Jillian, dear,” she said as calmly as possible, “we do not mention people’s personal health at the table. Nor do we discuss money unless it is in reference to the greater economic situation of our country.”
“Oh,” said Jilly. “Oh, sorry. I shall try to remember that.”
“Please do,” her ladyship replied firmly. Then her face softened a little and she added, “Although it was kind of you to think of Lord Bradford’s well-being.” She ignored the hmph that marked his lordship’s opinion on the matter.
“Of course. I would not want him to suffer needlessly.” Jillian shot a quick smile at her father-in-law before returning her attention to Lady Bradford. “Er, what would you recommend as appropriate subject matter instead?”
“Well, the men—if we let them—will spend most of their time discussing politics, as many of them attend Parliament and carry the cares of our great nation upon their shoulders.”
Jillian tried not to pull a face. “And if we don’t? Let them, I mean.” She caught sight of Lewis hiding a grin behind his wineglass before he took a sip.
“Then one might have the opportunity to speak of the theater, or the latest betrothal among families with whom we are acquainted. Anything civilized, really.”
“She means ‘boring,’” Penelope remarked. She may have said a lot more, but her father cleared his throat loudly and Penelope subsided into silence once more.
Jillian agreed wholeheartedly with the comment. She had the distinct impression that she and Lady Bradford also did not share the same concept of what was civilized. Nor did she think her mother-in-law had considered their own betrothal to be suitable for dinner conversation.
She sipped a spoonful of her soup. It was very fine soup. This seemed to be a safe and civilized topic.
“This is very fine soup,” said Jilly to the table at large.
“I am glad you like it,” answered Lady Bradford. “Our cook has been with us many years. I do not doubt there are other households who have tried to steal her from us, but she is deeply loyal, for which we are, of course, thankful.”
Jillian paused her spoon mid-sip. “People try to steal each other’s staff?”
“Oh, yes! It is a compliment, really. It means they do their job better than most. Of course, if they actually leave your service when another offer is made, it reflects very poorly on how you have treated them.”
Jilly couldn’t help thinking she might have fared better at Oakwoods as a servant rather than the supposed interloper. Then again, none of the staff had tried to marry the Bradfords’ son.
“Do you think Mrs. Johnson would teach me how she manages a gentleman’s home?” Jillian asked, keen to find common ground. “Or is she not as excellent as your own housekeeper?”
Lady Bradford spluttered as her spoonful of soup went down the wrong way. A little of it dribbled onto her chin and she hastily wiped it off with her serviette.
“Are you all right, my dear?” her husband inquired with a frown.
Lady Bradford waved her hand as she attempted to regain her dignity. Two delicate coughs later, her serviette was back upon her lap and she turned to Jillian, her eyes closed as if she were seeking inner peace.
When she opened them again, they focused on Jilly with what seemed to be a very tenuous grip on patience.
“Mrs. Johnson,” she said slowly, as though to an errant child, “may be newly in our employ, but her qualifications are not lacking in any way. However …” And now Lady Bradford’s tone became quite stern.
“We do not , under any circumstances, allow the staff”—here, she visibly shuddered at the thought—“to teach us anything . You need know nothing of managing a house of any proportion. You simply say what it is you want, and it is their task to see it done. For example, you select a menu for dinner, and the housekeeper instructs the staff accordingly. You may entertain, or embroider, or take the air. Perhaps you might learn the piano or paint. We also have a large collection of books in the library. I assume you can read.”
“Mother!” Lewis cut in.
“What?” Lady Bradford replied. “How am I to know what your wife can do when so much of her education has been neglected? I cannot know if I do not ask.”
“I can read,” Jillian said calmly. “But I prefer to be doing something useful. I would just as soon be cooking as reading about cooking, or tending to a garden rather than painting a pretty landscape.”
Lady Bradford considered Jilly’s words with gravity. “I take it you think a lady’s life is rather a passive one, and not equal to your cause?”
“To be honest, yes.”
Lady Bradford lifted an arm bent at the elbow and wrist as if she were about to deliver a line of poetry. She waved it in small circles as she spoke, the gentle rhythm of the gesture matching the measured tone of her speech.
“Just because a lady does not need to perform the menial tasks of a working-class woman does not mean she has no purpose. It is her duty to bring beauty and elegance to her husband’s home.” The hand now waved more broadly to encompass the room and, by implication, the whole house.
“Guests must know what quality of person they have befriended. Everything—from the upkeep of the house to proper dinner conversation to the fine presentation of self—is our domain. We might not labor physically, but our responsibilities touch upon all aspects of life. We are what lifts our husband’s reputation from the superficialness of the bachelor to the substantial prestige of the established man. Do you understand?”
Jilly did not. Frankly, it sounded ridiculous.
If a woman’s only purpose was to make her husband appear remarkable, it didn’t say very much for the husband.
Should he not be maintaining his own reputation?
Lewis certainly did not need her help in this.
He had made a name for himself, both as a barrister and a gentleman.
Surely, she should bring something more—something new and fresh—to the union?
Jillian would love to have spoken freely, to have her new family see what greater worth she might have by adding her own strengths rather than being yet another pretty prop in the theater of their lives.
But she must not rush in where fragile peace existed.
Her answer could not be too honest, lest it stir up displeasure.
Lady Bradford had managed to refrain from insulting her—at least, not intentionally. She must show similar restraint.
“I confess, what you describe is an alien concept to me,” she said.
“But I have never needed to understand it before. Just as you cannot fathom a role in which the appearance of things would be unimportant, I struggle to fathom a role in which it is so central.” Jillian lowered her gaze, a promise that her intention was not to offend.
Then she added the only words that could match that promise.
“I shall, however, pay attention to your example and learn what I can from it.”
“I suppose that is a start,” conceded Lady Bradford.
Peace had been established. Dinner could resume without incident.
Penelope piped up. “I have an idea.”
Her parents looked at each other and placed their spoons within their bowls as if readying themselves for whatever might follow. No doubt Pen’s ideas had caused much consternation in the past. Running off as a footman to attend her brother’s wedding was only the most recent example.
“If we are going to show Jillian what the mistress of a fine home can do ,” Pen said, “we should host a ball! What better way to show her all the aspects of planning and entertaining?”
“Absolutely not!” came the sharp retort from her father.
“Have you lost all your bearings, Daughter? Philip has not been gone even a two-month and yet you would have us dancing and feasting? I know you like to test the boundaries of what might be expected from a lady, but you will certainly not shame the memory of your brother by pretending he did not exist!”
Penelope’s bright smile fell at once. “I did not mean… Oh, dear… I was not thinking. I am very sorry. Of course, the time is not right for receiving guests en masse .”
Lord Bradford glared at her. “Nor was it right for a wedding, or running off to attend the same. But my children seem to lack all sense of duty.”
The convivial atmosphere that had reigned over the soup collapsed into a stony silence all through the next course. Jillian was of the opinion that fish was a most unfortunate dish on the Bradford menu.