social club, known irreverently as the marriage mart. There was a solid core of bachelors who spent a great deal of time dancing with her, driving her in the park, and fetching her glasses of punch.
Jane did not have the kind of personality that appealed to everyone. The more frivolous members of the dandy set melted away before the scornful look in her eyes, and there were some who found her obvious boredom with most of London's famous Season rather daunting. But several of the town's most desirable men were very interested in this slight, proud young girl with the extraordinary blue-green eyes.
Jane, to the intense irritation of her uncle, developed a definite partiality for the company of the Earl of Bocking. They shared an interest in horses; the Earl did not have a racing stable of his own, but he spent many hours at Newmarket, Epsom, Cheltenham, and other race courses around the country. He was an inveterate gambler and delighted in picking Jane's brain about what horses she thought would be worth watching at upcoming meets.
Lord Bocking also was a great art collector. Jane had been invited to view his collection of Roman marbles and Italian masters. “A fellow I knew in Rome sent me all these things before Napoleon moved in,” he told Jane. “What do you think of this da Vinci, eh?"
Lastly, they shared a similar sense of humor and a similar intolerance for the frantic pursuit of pleasure that was the chief hallmark of Regency society. “Most of these people,” Jane said scornfully to Lord Bocking, “tinkle, they are so empty. Nothing matters to them except the cut of a coat or the way a neckcloth is tied. And the women are just as bad. Who danced with whom and how many times is all they worry about."
Lord Bocking was a great comfort to Jane, so she couldn't quite understand Anne's reasoning when she remonstrated with Jane for spending so much time with him. “He is perfectly respectable, Anne,” she said in a genuinely puzzled voice. “I like him. Why shouldn't I spend time talking with him?"
"I agree with you that he is perfectly respectable, if a little odd,” Anne responded. “But he is sixty-two years old, Jane! You sat out two dances at Lady Cowper's ball the other night talking to him. And you let him take you in to supper! What about all the young men who want to talk to you?"
"They aren't as interesting,” Jane said simply, leaving Anne almost at the point of grinding her teeth.
The Marquis had thrown up his hands in despair when Anne related this conversation to him. “She is impossible,” he said. “All of London—or at least an impressive part of it—is ready to fall at her feet and what does she do? She spends her time hobnobbing with an eccentric old man who could be her grandfather, for God's sake."
"She feels comfortable with him, Edward,” said Anne. “She understands him. She does not understand many of the other people she has met. They live by a code that is foreign to her."
The Marquis rubbed a hand across his forehead. “You mean they enjoy parties and she does not.” He looked at Anne somberly. “Jane is by nature the most unsociable being I have ever met. I've often thought it was my fault. After all, I was responsible for bringing her up. She was probably allowed to be too solitary as a child."
Anne had learned a great deal about Jane in the six months since her marriage. “It isn't your fault, Edward,” she said firmly. “In fact, I think you were the best thing that ever happened to her. You gave her room to breathe. A conventional childhood would have driven her wild."
The Marquis frowned. “What is the matter with her, Anne? Why is she always so difficult?"
"I think, Edward, that Jane is an extraordinarily talented painter.” Anne spoke slowly. “I told you that Mr. Turner was very impressed with her work. He has given her a great deal of time, and I understand that such interest on his part is quite unusual."
"Very few painters look like Jane,” his
Jane did not have the kind of personality that appealed to everyone. The more frivolous members of the dandy set melted away before the scornful look in her eyes, and there were some who found her obvious boredom with most of London's famous Season rather daunting. But several of the town's most desirable men were very interested in this slight, proud young girl with the extraordinary blue-green eyes.
Jane, to the intense irritation of her uncle, developed a definite partiality for the company of the Earl of Bocking. They shared an interest in horses; the Earl did not have a racing stable of his own, but he spent many hours at Newmarket, Epsom, Cheltenham, and other race courses around the country. He was an inveterate gambler and delighted in picking Jane's brain about what horses she thought would be worth watching at upcoming meets.
Lord Bocking also was a great art collector. Jane had been invited to view his collection of Roman marbles and Italian masters. “A fellow I knew in Rome sent me all these things before Napoleon moved in,” he told Jane. “What do you think of this da Vinci, eh?"
Lastly, they shared a similar sense of humor and a similar intolerance for the frantic pursuit of pleasure that was the chief hallmark of Regency society. “Most of these people,” Jane said scornfully to Lord Bocking, “tinkle, they are so empty. Nothing matters to them except the cut of a coat or the way a neckcloth is tied. And the women are just as bad. Who danced with whom and how many times is all they worry about."
Lord Bocking was a great comfort to Jane, so she couldn't quite understand Anne's reasoning when she remonstrated with Jane for spending so much time with him. “He is perfectly respectable, Anne,” she said in a genuinely puzzled voice. “I like him. Why shouldn't I spend time talking with him?"
"I agree with you that he is perfectly respectable, if a little odd,” Anne responded. “But he is sixty-two years old, Jane! You sat out two dances at Lady Cowper's ball the other night talking to him. And you let him take you in to supper! What about all the young men who want to talk to you?"
"They aren't as interesting,” Jane said simply, leaving Anne almost at the point of grinding her teeth.
The Marquis had thrown up his hands in despair when Anne related this conversation to him. “She is impossible,” he said. “All of London—or at least an impressive part of it—is ready to fall at her feet and what does she do? She spends her time hobnobbing with an eccentric old man who could be her grandfather, for God's sake."
"She feels comfortable with him, Edward,” said Anne. “She understands him. She does not understand many of the other people she has met. They live by a code that is foreign to her."
The Marquis rubbed a hand across his forehead. “You mean they enjoy parties and she does not.” He looked at Anne somberly. “Jane is by nature the most unsociable being I have ever met. I've often thought it was my fault. After all, I was responsible for bringing her up. She was probably allowed to be too solitary as a child."
Anne had learned a great deal about Jane in the six months since her marriage. “It isn't your fault, Edward,” she said firmly. “In fact, I think you were the best thing that ever happened to her. You gave her room to breathe. A conventional childhood would have driven her wild."
The Marquis frowned. “What is the matter with her, Anne? Why is she always so difficult?"
"I think, Edward, that Jane is an extraordinarily talented painter.” Anne spoke slowly. “I told you that Mr. Turner was very impressed with her work. He has given her a great deal of time, and I understand that such interest on his part is quite unusual."
"Very few painters look like Jane,” his
Similar Books
