The Education of Joanne

  THE EDUCATION OF JOANNE

  Joan Vincent

  Chapter One

  “It shall not be tolerated,” roared the Earl of Furness, his pallid, powdered complexion highlighted by dulled patches of anger. “This time she has outdone the extremes of folly! Was a father ever more cursed with such a vexatious child?” he asked, turning to Lady Evelyn.

  In answer his timid sister ventured nothing despite the multitude of words rioting to break the barricade of her lips. She was accustomed to her brother’s outbursts in regard to his only daughter. Instead she chose to inspect the puffs of her polonaise gown.

  “What can be done with her? What action have I not tried?” Lord Furness continued, his ire growing. “I shall seal her in her chambers for this. She shall not flaunt...

  “Dear brother,” Lady Evelyn interrupted, “calm yourself before you bring on apoplexy. Surely Joanne’s behaviour cannot—”

  “Cannot! Exactly,” he thundered and waved the missive in his hand. His lace cuff brushed his sister’s face. “She has undone all my efforts. None in the realm but riffraff and scum will have her after this becomes known. Even they will succumb only if the temptation is generous enough.”

  His port-laden breath assured Lady Evelyn that her brother’s ravings were just a continuation of the usual tone regarding his daughter.

  “Have you nothing to say? You could have aided me with this child,” he baited as he meticulously arranged the ruffles of his shirtfront.

  “I was repulsed in my offer to do so,” she said angrily. She jumped up, her ire roused at so unjust a charge. “I told you I would raise the child as my own—see to her education. Butt you protested. Now live with the results of your education of Joanne.” She regretted the words as soon as they were said. Not for any element of untruth, but for their effect on her brother.

  “Damn the whole bloody business,” said Furness in a much milder tone than Lady Evelyn had braced for. The touch of despair in his voice drew her eyes to his face. Troubled, pained, his eyes burned into hers. She was lost for words of comfort, consolation, or confident solution.

  The eyes, she thought, how like the daughter to the father? Would either ever be free of anguish?

  Lord, that I might help them both, Lady Evelyn prayed. The prayer was instantly crushed by her acknowledgment of her habitual submission to her brother. The time for correcting the wrong had long since passed. She had not been able to withstand his decision to isolate his infant daughter upon the death of the mother.

  Nor had she been able to take hold when she had visited Furness House and seen the child, then only seven years of age and already filled with a growing bile. At so young an age, the child was already tormented by the realization that her father begrudged her life. There had been no way to help her. Lady Evelyn’s timid soul shrank from the memory of the child’s unharnessed hostility. How her hostility must have grown in the three and ten years of continued neglect.

  Lost in these thoughts, Lady Evelyn had not followed her brother’s mumblings.

  “Her education lacked for naught. The best governess to be had. Why you even recommended some that were used over the years.” He strode to the slab table at the side of the small sitting room and poured a glass of port. Downing it, he refilled and emptied the glass once again. Furness mused in gentler tones when he turned back to Lady Evelyn.

  “If only Joanna had not died... The gentleness, peculiar to any thought of his wife, flitted across his features. They altered forcibly a moment later. “Or at least if it has been a son who had caused her death,” he ended bitterly.

  Lady Evelyn sighed hopelessly. Her brother had never reconciled himself to his wife’s death. Joanna had survived the childbed only six months, her frailty tested too far by the difficult birth.

  “What is it she has done?” she asked, absently wondering about the cause of his verbal violence this time.

  Anger creased his face. “She has poured a vase of putrid flowers on the Viscount of Fordingham and told him he was lucky she did not crack his skull with it,” Lord Furness said as if a magistrate citing a death-warranted offence. “This after he had offered for her hand in marriage.”

  “Fordingham—Blayworth’s son? That spindly, balding fop?

  “There is no wonder. I dare not comprehend how he had the courage to approach Joanne. They say he will not even put a hand to the reins,” Lady Evelyn noted. Suspicion entered her voice. “How—”

  “Well you are to wonder how. For months I plied that snivelling coward—endured his presence and worse, his discourses. What is the reward for my labours?

  “This,” he again waved the missive, “is from Fordingham withdrawing his offer. I should never have permitted him to see her until the day they were to wed. If all the land and wealth I have will not induce him to tolerate marriage with her, not even one of convenience, who am I to find?”

  “Why, I had no idea you intended her to marry. You have never even brought the child to London, never given her a ball. Never let her go beyond the grounds of Furness. Your behaviour regarding the child has not prepared her for…

  “But, why not find a genteel woman to educate Joanne in the finer arts of society. Prepare her for a London season? Next spring would be the time—shortly before she gains one and twenty birthday.

  “A bit old, I must say so myself,” she said, fanning herself with her bejewelled, painted fan, “but some rumour can be put about—ill-health mayhap.

  “This woman could teach Joanne the manners of the beau monde since you feel she is lacks gentle womanly qualities. She would refine her and teach her how to dress.”

  Lady Evelyn gave a trill of false laughter. Her tall periwig of massive curls swayed as she offered, “I—I would be willing to sponsor her.”

  “When did you last see the child? Ten, four and ten years past? You would not believe—I myself was astounded upon my last visit to Furness to see what my daughter had become. Admittedly it has been over a year, perhaps longer, but...” A tremble ran through him.

  “It is as if she were a changeling and no daughter of my Joanna. A coarse, fat bull ready for market. Why the animals of my poorest tenants surpass her cleanliness and her manners are those of a—” He shuddered.

  “The servants shun her and her chambers.” Furness turned back to the decanter and quaffed three more glasses of port in quick succession.

  “I must be off to White’s,” he stated abruptly as he thumped down the once again empty glass. With a stiff bow he departed as quickly as he had entered, leaving his sister in unhappy contemplation.

  Joanne was nearing her majority. Some solution must be found before then, Lady Evelyn realized. A shiver ran through her as she thought of both father and daughter in London. If half the tales concerning the former and all Furness said of the latter were true, London—certainly she, herself—would have a stormy season.

  But it would relieve the dreadful news of the rebellion o£ those bothersome colonies, she thought, and stepped to the looking glass above the slab table. The heart shaped patch on her left cheek was not placed to her liking.

  * * * *

  The evening had grown quite late and neither drink nor gambling had freed Lord Furness’ mind from the problem nagging like a nipping hound. Thumping his hand unsteadily upon the table, he motioned for another bottle of port.

  The pounding roused Lord Blottal from his drunken slumber. “Wash ye so long in the jaws, fer, Furnesh,” he asked. Forcing his bleary eyes to focus, Blottal mumbled, “Ye been no bloody good sport this eve, non ’tal. Mush go.

  “Come, Fontaine.” He mauled the man seated next to him, who had also succumbed to the several bottles of port each had imbibed during the evening.

  “Fon
taine,” Blottal said again and pummelled him until the man jerked upright. With merely a haphazard salute, they stumbled away. The two men who remained at the table took no notice of them.

  Leonard, Marquess of Wiltham, eyed Furness. A casual observer would have claimed the marquess had drunk as much as the others, perhaps more by his looks and movements. However his clarity of eye showed a carefully husbanded sobriety.

  It had taken Lord Wiltham many months to enter Furness’ circle of intimates. Seeing the state of the man now, he wondered if the time had come to make his move. Certain of him plan however, he decided to restrain his impatience this close to his objective. An impromptu display of his hand must not destroy what he had worked so diligently to achieve.

  “My lord, you do appear distressed.” He leaned toward Furness. “May I not ease your mind? Speak of what troubles you. All that is mine will I press to your aid,” he told the other earnestly. Ironically he had been busily avoiding duns for weeks.

  Furness looked at the marquess over his glass. He struggled to sort the man’s words into some meaning in his present pickled state. “Education,” he finally managed.

  “It is important, I suppose,” Wiltham noted warily.

  “Failed to educate properly.”

  “Who failed, my lord? Surely not you? Your life is ample proof you have not.”

  “Education,” Furness mumbled again.

  At a loss, Wiltham asked, “What education, my lord? There are many kinds. That proper to the gentleman, to the soldier, to the gentlewoman. Of which do you speak?”

  Sitting bolt upright, Furness stared at Wiltham. His eyes focused sharply. “Many kinds of education. Quite right, you are! The education must suit the purpose,” he continued, an idea forming steadily.

  “Unusual situation calls for unusual solution! Capital, my man. You have solved my problem.” The excitement slowly drained from Furness’ eyes.

  “But no. Who should do it? Someone fast and hard on the reins. Strong in discipline—mayhap harsh, but effective and most important of all, willing to deal with the problem.”

  Perplexed, Wiltham could do naught but agree while he tried to sort out what the man meant.

  A brief disturbance drew both men’s attention. They watched a club member, drunken and suddenly destitute, had become unruly and was “escorted” from White’s.

  Furness’ gaze wandered from the scene. He noticed a table where a group of men quietly played whist. “Whittle,” he breathed.

  Wiltham turned in his chair to see what had captured his interest. “Ah, yes, the Duke of Whittle. I did not realize you were acquainted.”

  “We are—but vaguely so. I am more known to his brother, Lord Jason Kenton.”

  “Kenton? Lord Jason Kenton? I do not recall the name or even of hearing of the man.”

  “There is no wonder in that as he is seldom to London. Keeps to himself. Stays in that manor of his in Devon most of the year. Has quite a large holding. I heard he has turned into a gentleman farmer.”

  “Nicely done by those who have naught else,” quipped Wiltham with a meaningful wink at Furness. “Let us drink to the man,” he added and refilled their empty glasses. “Then let us go on to better entertainment. This has grown too quiet by far.”

  The earl took his glass in hand, but did not drink. “I had not thought of Kenton for some time. Been years since I’ve seen the man. Must be nigh on four and ten years since Warburg.”

  “Warburg?”

  Furness’ face relaxed into a smile of remembrance. “Back in ’sixty against the French at Warburg. What a day for the cavalry. Proved they were up to snuff.

  “Kenton was a young lieutenant in Granby’s regiment—the Blues. Never was a battle more bloody well fought. Kenton was wounded; shipped back to England shortly after that.”

  “Sold out after being wounded, eh?” Wiltham sneered.

  “Not right away. I think his wound left him unfit for service. Married, I think. I’ve not seen him for four—five years at least.

  “His men had tremendous respect for him and he was a young man then. Always had instant obedience.

  “Yes, instant obedience.” Furness mulled the thought.

  “You were there, my lord, at Warburg? I had no idea you had served in the army,” Wiltham said. He hoped he wasn’t overdoing the awe and that he could distract Furness from Kenton.

  “Tried my hand at it for a time after my wife died—too dull when the war was over,” the earl said.

  “Kenton had this idea that I saved his life. Yes, I recall how he promised to repay the favour.” Furness slowly sipped his port. “Methinks the time has come to lay claim to the debt. Why not?” Quaffing the last of his drink, he rose.

  “But, my lord, may I not do what you would have this man do?” Wiltham asked.

  “Good of you to offer, but no—the more I think on it the better I like it. Must go now; matters to attend.”

  “My lord.” Wiltham scrambled to his feet, “Certe I shall see you tomorrow at Lord Gurley’s?”

  But Lord Furness did not reply. He had walked away engrossed with his new scheme for the education of Joanne.

  Chapter Two

  The Earl of Furness set his face into a disapproving mask quite unknowingly, straightened his shoulders, and strode into his daughter’s bedchamber. He did hide the quiver of disgust at the sight of her from Joanne.

  She answered it by plopping two more rich sweets into her mouth.

  “I have had word from Fordingham.”

  “To hell with him,” she retorted coldly.

  Tightening the checkrein on his temper, Furness advanced to the far side of the bed and surveyed his daughter. A double chin and heavy jowls, both smeared with sweets and grime, gave her face the piggish look he despised. Her hair, matted and tangled, was a vague brown vermin’s nest. The once-rich dressing gown, wrapped haphazardly about her bulky frame, was stained irrevocably.

  Furness could not help thinking of her tiny, delicate mother. The girl was so unlike Joanna and he had never liked the squalling brat in infancy.

  Even then Joanne had been more a piece of inconvenient property than a child. As his neglect and abuse took their toll on her, his disgust had grown.

  Joanne had not seen her father for the first four years of her life. When she finally had, it had set the two on a path that had dominated their lives ever since.

  At four Joanne had not been the tiny reproduction of her mother that Furness expected. He would not allow the child to touch him, and sent her out of his sight after a scorching invective against her looks and being. Scarcely able to understand this encounter then, Joanne had learned its meaning well in the years following.

  “I have decided you are to leave Furness,” her father spat.

  Joanne eyed him belligerently, suspiciously. She had never been allowed to leave the estate and had long ago grown accustomed to this imprisonment. The certainty of the routine comforted in its own manner. Change was not to her liking.

  “I shall have your things packed and arrange for one of my travel coaches to take you—with proper escort, of course.”

  “Damn to you. I will not leave.”

  “You have no choice. You will go if I have to have you trussed like a mad dog.

  “You will be taken to Kentoncombe in Devon. Once there, you will be under the authority of the Honourable Jason Kenton— the brother of the Duke of Whittle. Lord Jason to you.

  “He is to see to the correction of your defects—if that is even possible. I have written him an explanation of what I wish. He has authority to do as he sees fit with and to you.

  “If you cooperate and are moulded into some semblance of decency, your aunt, Lady Evelyn, has generously offered to sponsor you for the Season in London. You shall have that one season to achieve a match. I have done all I will in that regard. If Kenton fails to take you in hand or if you fail in your season, I shall be rid of you.”

  “I’ll not leave, damn you.” Hatred edged her words.
br />   “This last chance I owe to the memory of your mother.”

  “Mother!” She spat the word venomously.

  In an instant he hurled coverlets, sweets, and books aside and slapped Joanne repeatedly with brutal force. Shaking, he stepped back. “You depart on the morrow. I shall accompany you.” As he stepped toward the door Furness added, “Nothing would please me more than your defiance.”

  Joanne swallowed deeply as the door slammed shut. Lowering her arms from her face, she gulped. Hatred and anger pressed the tears back. She heaved her bulk from the bed and gobbled sweets as fast as she could gather them. These finished, she yanked the bell cord to summon more but no one answered.

  Stomping to the door ready to loose her pent-up feelings on the first servant she could find, Joanne found the door locked. A fear of old clamped about her heart. Wildly she glanced about the room, her halted upon a heap of books. With a shaking hand, she grabbed one and plopped onto her bed. Opening it, Joanne read hungrily as she fled into the safety of the world of words.

  * * * *

  “This is the most amazing dispatch I have ever received,” Jason Kenton expostulated. “It would be laughable but for Lord Furness being in earnest,” he mused aloud.

  Four and ten years had dulled the impetuosity of youth. At five and thirty, Lord Jason no longer viewed the Battle of Warburg as he had at the time of its occurrence.

  Sitting now in his quiet Devon manor gazing at the sombre wooded slope through the window of his study, Jason Kenton had no wish to recall the smoke of cannon fire or to see the human cannon fodder he, his men, and their horses had trampled over to reach the French.

  The day had ended in victory and in a permanent, if slight, limp for him. He placed the letter upon the desk before him and gave a wry chuckle. The joke must be on him. He could not recall what Furness had to do with that day so long in the past. Now the man wrote to say he found it necessary to lay claim to the debt owed him. In return for his life, Kenton was to educate Furness’ only child in the ways of obedience, politeness, and society.