Page 67 of The Favourite

She had no sooner settled herself in front of the fire, than Robert appeared at her elbow, bearing a packet of letters addressed to her. “For you, milady,” he announced, offering it to her with a bow.

“Thank you, Robert.” She took them and was surprised to recognize her mother’s wavering handwriting, despite the fact it was now Jane’s turn to write. Neither one of them was a keen correspondent, so it seemed strange to receive a second letter from her now.

Once she had untied the string, a bunch of folded papers and two small packages fell out. She realized with a sinking heart that this must be a collective effort from her various maternal relatives. Most of them lived with her mother, so it made sense they would all have sat around the oak table writing their epistles as one. Jane thrust down the impulse to consign the whole lot of them to a deep cupboard, unopened.

Such thoughts were unworthy of her. Her mother’s relatives might not be as loathsome as her Cecil ones, but they were just as tiresome in their own way. Having shaken the dirt of Mertford from their shoes, neither she nor Helen had felt the smallest impulse to return there.

Still, ever the dutiful daughter, she had written home once a month, with little expectation of much by way of return. Certainly, she had received very little news over the last three years. When she did hear from them, it was usually a litany of complaints about conflicts with their neighbors and petty quarrels amongst her various aunts.

Her widowed mother lived in what would have been a vastly pleasant country house if only she had not filled it with all her awful relatives. Jane pulled a face. Still, they must have all been a good deal shocked to have heard, first news of Helen’s death, and then her own subsequent marriage all within a matter of three weeks.

She picked up the first of the letters and squinted at the inky scrawl. Aunt Maud, if she was not mistaken. Some sort of dried herb seemed to be sticking out of the folds of her letter. Jane did not have the heart to start with Maud’s eccentric vagaries, so she set that one aside for later.

Next was Aunt Thomasina’s letter. Jane broke the seal and scanned the opening lines impatiently. She could almost hear her aunt’s unbearably pompous tones. As her mother’s oldest sister, she liked to think herself head of Mertford Manor now. This, despite the fact the property was nothing to do with their side of the family. The property had been settled on Jane’s mother after her husband’s death.

Out of six sisters, only Jane’s mother had ever married. The rest of them viewed this as a great act of sacrifice on her behalf, as indeed did Jane’s mother. She spoke of her late marriage in long-suffering terms, as though it had been a terrible ordeal she had endured, purely for the sake of putting a roof over her family’s head.

Perhaps it had been, Jane reflected fairly. She could not remember her father, but if he had been anything like Sir Phillip, then he would have been hard to put up with. Her aunt’s tone grew very stern in the second half of the letter, and Jane collected her nose was out of joint. It seemed she mistakenly thought that permission ought to have been sought from her before Jane’s marriage.

This was nonsense of course. If she had been going to apply to anyone, it would have been to Sir Phillip, but as a matter of fact, the Queen’s support trumped both of them. The final paragraph seemed to be some sort of demand as to how much recompense they could expect from her husband, on the occasion of Jane leaving their family for a new one.

Trust Aunt Thomasina to extend the begging bowl, thought Jane, casting aside her letter to pick up a slim, ancient-looking volume that had a piece of paper wrapped about it, inscribed briefly with “For your edification, niece.” The spiky writing, if she was not mistaken, looked a good deal like her Aunt Gregoria’s.

Manifold Instruction on how to be a Guid Wyfe was the unpromising title of the tome. The pages smelt rather musty, and Jane wondered where on earth her vehemently maiden aunt had obtained such a book. Inside seemed to be a list of exhortations to serve both your husband and the gods with honor. Jane’s nose wrinkled at the odor and likewise, set that aside, possibly never to look at it again.

Her mother’s letter filled her with the usual sense of mingled irritation and guilt that any interaction between them caused. When she had sent the news of Helen’s passing, she had included the fact she had been there at the last. Her mother made precious little reference to this and did not seem to derive much comfort from it either.

Where, Jane wondered, were her mother’s lamentations over the death of her youngest child? None were to be found within the pages of her letter. Instead, she congratulated Jane on having the sense not to send for her, because “she could not possibly leave her home right now, when such delicate negotiations were taking place between them and their neighbor, Squire Blewit, over a right of way.”

Her Aunt Thomasina, she wrote, had been “a tower of strength” in this difficult time for she had thought of many ingenious ways to deal with the villainous Blewitt. This included reporting him to the sheriff for letting his wife and daughter “flaunt themselves in fur tippets.”

Jane’s mother included many lines painstakingly detailing that Thomasina believed the squire’s womenfolk were wearing weasel fur instead of squirrel or rabbit fur, as they ought to by rights—weasel fur being prohibited to their station.

Jane lowered the letter, feeling her bosom swell with indignation. She had known for many years that her mother was a petty woman, but she had never before realized quite how callous she was, or how indifferent she really was to the fate of her children.

Jane’s eyes smarted. Their mother wrote of Helen’s death as though it were a minor inconvenience she could not be troubled with. She made no mention of the child at all. Gritting her teeth together, Jane finished the final few paragraphs which were taken up bemoaning the fact that Jane’s husband was a “foreigner.”

“If you must bring him to pay his respects,” her mother concluded, “then for goodness sake, do not let it be before the feast of St. Diamanda, for at present we have no time to spare for visitors as our efforts are all diverted elsewhere.” Yes, fretting about what the squire’s womenfolk were wearing, Jane thought darkly. Her mother seemed to have forgotten her own origins as the daughter of a mere squire.

Jane had just flung her mother’s missive to the far side of the table when the door opened, and her husband returned. “My dear, I have returned,” he said dramatically. “I find myself at a loose end for a half hour and thought I would check all is harmonious in our little home. But what is all this?” He eyed the scattered surface of the table with interest.

“I received a package from home,” Jane admitted after a moment’s silence.

“Home?”

“My childhood home,” she explained reluctantly, “in Mertfordshire.”

“Ah,” he said, sitting down opposite her with his usual flourish. “Your mother’s people.”

“Yes,” Jane agreed hollowly.

His eyes traveled over the eclectic collection of items. “Bridal gifts?” he hazarded with a lift of his eyebrows.

Jane gave a mirthless smile. “I think so,” she agreed. “Or their approximation of them, at least. My mother’s family are … somewhat eccentric.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he said, tilting the book so he could see the title. He smirked. “And who sent this exhortation?”

“My Aunt Gregoria.”